#let him doodle his husband and him being in love in the corner of his draft of a treaty

[nibbelraz]

These are the types of 'notes' Shang Qinghua is doodling during court and passing to Mobei

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I feel like, Young!Pathetic!Konig would do REALLY well with a Older!Lady-Cougar!Reader, She's maybe been divorced twice and looking ta maybe become widowed this time? May-haps her current hubby has wealth and power but is a few screws short of being a good man towards our poor reader, and there's that Pesky prenup that makes it so she won't get ANYTHING in a divorce...buuuttt if the bastard has a bit of an....*Oopsie doodle*.... Maybe she's looking for someone to take care of her problem, and maybe she likes this young soldier boy, whose all too happy to help with *whatever needs* she might have? Likes how desperate he is for just her hand on his arm, likes how he's on his need begging for just a *taste* Likes that she can teach him how to please a woman, how to make her moan like no lover before....Likes how willing he is to kill the man she's married too...

Asfdf my brain short circuited ❤️ I know I said somewhere that I don’t write cheating but if it’s cheating a bad man with an even worse man König….

CW: 18+ MDNI. Age difference, F!dom/M!sub undertones, praise kink, cheating (your husband is an old dick), mating press & other shenanigans, murder & mentions of blood, König is a lovesick yandere in the making.

It was just one night.

Just one night to satiate your needs because your husband for sure never takes care of them.

But then the young pup you picked off from the pub pops into your workplace next week... With a large bouquet of flowers in his hand and a box of chocolate in the other, your desperate little “detour” looks like a boy who just got laid for the first time in his life.

“König…” you sigh and pull him to an empty breakroom before all your colleagues see you’ve cheated on your beloved husband with a man at least ten years younger than you.

“You can’t be here,” you start, trying to ignore the happy, greedy stares this little—big—soldier gives you.

He’s all the equal to his alias, looking like a king in the making with those wide shoulders and that fierce stare. But his hands are shaking, he guides those eyes to the floor as he puts the gifts on the table littered with crumbs and coffee stains, switches his weight from one foot to the other once you start to tell him how it is.

He listens dutifully as you try to explain how it was only one night, that he was incredibly lovely and you had so much fun but that you can’t see each other anymore. It was wrong of you to do so in the first place, you’re married, and you’re so, so sorry... You were just so sad and lonely.

You tell him he’s a good man. That he’ll find someone special, some lovely girl to call his own. He will find someone who can give him what he wants, someone who will cover him with kisses for bringing her flowers and sweets.

You try to explain it to him even as you get slowly chased into a corner, you try to tell him what a catch he is even when you get pinned to the wall by a hard, lean chest.

You try to tell him that he’s the perfect man for some other girl even when he pulls your strings aside and bullies his cock inside you.

One minute is all it takes as he huffs and groans and fucks you against the wall, your moans and his grunts barely muffled by shirts and fists and lips and skin. There’s lipstick on his clean, white shirt after he’s done with you, teeth marks where his shoulder meets his neck, a spittle of cum on your skirt as he pulls it down with shaky hands.

“Sorry,” he murmurs in your ear. “I just had to see you. I missed you so much...”

Your cunt is what he missed, any woman could see that. Got a taste of it last weekend and wouldn’t let you leave his place at all; a small, miserable flat of 25 square meters, with burned rice on the stove and a thin, cum-stained mattress on the floor. He fucked you on that mattress, four times because on the fifth attempt to part your shaking thighs, you told this horny lad you need to go home.

“I know, big boy. I missed you too. But you need to go now,” you say to your pretty lover. Ugly but pretty, in his own way, his utter lack of cruelty is what makes him beautiful in your eyes.

“I don’t want to,” he dares to argue back and claims your mouth, kisses you like you’ve never been kissed before.

“You have to,” you moan. “König–”

“I love you.”

You’re huffing, panting into each other’s throats as you realize he’s even younger than you thought. Fell in love with your cunt so easily, this big runt, thinks it’s meant to be just because you’re wet and he’s hard.

“Don’t be silly,” you huff and look at the drowsy smile, the messy state of this lovesick man before you fight your way out of his lap.

You want to cry, wail, scream from the injustice. Where was this silly young golden retriever six months ago? Why didn’t you meet him when you were single and sweet? Now you’re trapped in an unhappy marriage with some old fool who was cunning enough to trick you into a ludicrous deal with him. The prenupt you discovered only later, after he swore that you wouldn’t have to work a day in your life and that everything that belonged to him would be yours one day. In reality, you’ve had to beg for every crumb, act the part of a trophy wife who also has to work herself to death. And he won’t even fuck you, only wants you to massage his back and his cock while you’re left all alone without love, without a single kind word.

But König never lets you go: not in a way you beg him to, no, he always shows up at your door. Sneaks into your lonely room from the window, licks you to ruin while you laugh and tell him no, fucks you three times a night, crawls under the bed when a cleaning lady almost catches you two. He shows up at cafes, restaurants, conferences, parties, everywhere where you go but your husband won’t.

He’s so reckless that you have to teach him to be more patient, more gentle. You guide his fingers and his head, even his cock, while locking your eyes with his so that he knows when he’s doing it right. You praise him for a good, unhurried fuck, cup his face and kiss him when he gives it to you nice and slow. Anyone can see he'd want to ram it in until there’s nothing left of him and you, but you kiss and kiss and kiss him until the poor boy moans and cums without permission, just from that tiny taste of intimacy and love.

He gets pets, smooches and caresses, blowjobs that leave him shaking and breathless on the bed. He looks like he has no brains left after you’re done with him, looks a little helpless when you climb on top of him and help yourself with his cock after he only just came.

He’s always up in no time, especially if you tell him he did well. Stares at you and your breasts like you’re a vision from heaven, drools on them once when you won’t let him have a lick. Mopes when you laugh at his predicament, and won’t stop brooding even when you give him a kiss on the tip of his nose.

But he’s never mad at you for long, not if you call him sweetie or your silly apple crumb, not if you let him fall asleep in your bed, partly on top of you. There’s always a wet spot on your back if he’s the big spoon, he begs you to sleep naked as he does, says it’s better for your health and then teases you with his fingers come morning, probably thinking he’s so very clever. Takes you to the theater and offers you expensive port wine and cake, tells you how to steal a car, how to shoot any gun. Gives you a hungry kiss in public when you tell him he has to act like he’s your cousin from abroad, vanishes for weeks to his training, sends letters instead of texts, and tells you he’s going to be a big boss someday.

It’s hard to imagine this serious but silly mess as an intimidating officer, not even when you know he has the size and looks for it. He’s too innocent and needy, doesn't know how the real world works yet. Thinks he’s immortal just because he’s young...

There’s a certain darkness in him, and you mistake it for the remnants of some turbulence of his teenage years, just some wrath of a boy who never got what he wanted. Who wouldn’t be a little pissed and impatient in their twenties? He probably doesn’t even know what he wants: hell, you don’t know what you want.

“Like this...?” He asks demurely when he lifts your knees to your ears and sinks his cock into you inch by inch, carefully as if it’s the first time you’re making love.

“Just like that,” you whisper as he spreads you so wide you can’t even breathe, fills you up deliciously, like no one else before. His eyes never leave you, not even when he uses your hole as a place to bury himself and all his bad memories, not even when he makes you squirt like you’re nothing but an oasis in a desert that never ends.

But you know he comes to you for other things than just that.

He comes to you for kind words, breathy praise, soft touches and ruffles of his hair. He comes to you for practice and to get his sense of self in order. He’s your pretty knight in shining armor when others have called him ugly, he’s your strong bull when others have ridiculed his disproportionate limbs. He’s your safe haven, your sunshine, your crazy, silly man, your soldier and your savior, and he soaks up your love and attention like a sponge: every drop gets gulped down like he’s a man dying of thirst. He doesn’t take sips, he doesn’t know how to, and you on the other hand don’t know how to quench the raging drought inside him, long after yours has been satiated.

You sleep like Romeo and Juliet just before their death, and fuck like rabbits in the spring. He takes you in the car, in the closet, in the toilet, in other people’s beds, even at the alley one night.

“I love you,” he always says after he has spilled his cum – it’s like a ritual or a prayer, and you always reach for the baby hairs of his neck in return, and give them the gentlest caress.

“I love you too,” you whisper one night – it just slips when you stroke his cheek. It never comes as a surprise that he gives you the most miserable pair of puppy eyes you’ve ever seen.

He knows about your situation, knows enough that you’re trapped and unhappy. But you never knew he saw you as a victim. If anything, you feel like he’s the victim here. Poor boy, saving what little he has for a future with some woman who knows nothing about true love... You’re not the one for him, you’re not even a silly little sex kitten any young soldier would want to play with. You’re just some bored, abandoned wife who wants to feel something, mean something to someone. But you love him enough to know that you’ll let him go when he wants to move on. As bitter as it makes you feel, you know you’ll give him to someone younger and more beautiful, someone who will love as passionately as he does. Anything to make him truly happy.

But the next evening, König doesn’t climb in through your window. He uses the door, the inside door, and you jump from the bed and hurry to him in your nightgown, the only gift your husband ever gave you.

“I killed him for you,” he says, your soldier boy from Austria, your good, good boy with a good, big cock.

You only now see that his hands are stained in blood, and nothing shakes anymore: your wannabe sniper is as calm as ever when he confesses he’s murdered someone.

“...What?”

He comes to you and cups your face, the blood on his hands both wet and cold. You’ve never seen him so peaceful, not even after he’s had a good fuck. The boy who no one ever loved has turned into a man, but what kind of man… You shiver in his clutch, unsure if you’re about to suffer a heart attack from fear or love.

“He didn’t suffer... Much,” he says, his cracked lips only a breath away from yours. “Knives can be messy…”

You gulp while staring into the deep, dark abyss of his eyes, the innocent baby blue nearly swallowed by the darkest of all loves.

This is not how you thought things would go… You were supposed to give the old man the finger and divorce during the summer. Put your finances in order so that you can escape. Maybe fuck König on the side and see if he’s still the man of your dreams once you’re happily divorced.

Now he’s telling you you’ll marry as soon as possible, or that if you want a summer wedding, he can wait a few months… He tells you you have nothing to worry about, he won’t go to jail, not this time. He’ll take care of you now; he just got promoted. You don’t ever have to be sad again.

“Don’t worry, my love,” he says when all words have finally escaped you. “Now we can be together. Forever…”

[berenwrites]

Quiet - Stranger Things - Steddie - G

Rating: G | cw: none | tags: D&D, future fic, Corroded Coffin made it, Eddie lives, fluff

Prompt: Love is sitting in comfortable silence together doing their own thing (@steddieasitgoes)

A/N: Written for @steddielovemonth day 6. I love the idea of Corroded Coffin being a big name, but still being nerds at heart, so this is what I went with.

Also on AO3 | All My Other Stranger Things Fic

Quiet: But Far From Idle

Eddie tapped his pen against his lips as he tried to come up with a dastardly trap for the D&D campaign he was writing. He could use the laptop, but he’s old school and he likes to write things out by hand. It gave him a chance to doodle at the same time.

The fact D&D had made Corroded Coffin relevant to the youth of today rather than finding them via their music was ironic, but he was not arguing with it. It had been Steve’s idea to record one of the band’s campaign sessions and put it on YouTube with clips on TikTok because D&D had become popular again. The band were still touring, still releasing albums, but the social media thing had brought in a whole new generation of fans.

Their new album was nearly ready for release, so Eddie was writing a campaign that incorporated some of the themes from it. Part fun, part advertising. Their record company had been thrilled by the extra attention and had even planned time into their upcoming tour for filmed D&D nights to keep the fans happy. Writing D&D campaigns was now almost as important as writing new music.

Eddie was having a ball.

He glanced over to where Steve had the other end of their dining room table with various large pieces of paper spread everywhere. Steve had a pink hairband pushing his silver-fox hair back to keep it out of his face and his glasses were perched on the edge of his nose. There was a red pen behind his ear and a green one in his hand, and his tongue was poking between his lips as he concentrated.

It was all utterly adorable.

While Eddie planned fantasy, Steve was going over venue security for the beginning of the tour. Steve took the band’s security very seriously. They had a professional team these days to handle everything, and Steve let them do their jobs, but he always insisted on checking. Gone were the days when their only security was Steve in the corner with his baseball bat. However, Steve couldn’t let it go. It was a hang-up from the Upside Down days when they had had no one to rely on but themselves.

They had both almost died, so Eddie could very much understand Steve’s need to make sure those around him were safe.

Steve liked to go old school with paper and a pen as well, and from the looks of it he had found quite a few things wrong with at least one of the venues. The printed plan was covered in red notes. Eddie smiled to himself, knowing that nothing would ever get past Steve.

“Need anything, Sweetheart?” he asked as Steve changed pens while glaring at the venue plan right in front of him.

His husband looked up, blinked, and then smiled.

“No, I’m good, thanks,” Steve said. “How’s the campaign going?”

“They will not know what hit them,” Eddie replied with his best evil grin.

“They never do,” Steve said, glancing back down at the sheet of paper he was currently studying. “You should have a t-shirt made with the old hell-fire logo to make sure everyone knows you’re a demon,” he added as he circled something in red.

Eddie laughed as he lost his husband back to his self-appointed task. He took out his phone and made a quick note to ask Liz, his assistant, about t-shirts before focussing down on his notes again. Steve always had great ideas. It was one of the many reasons Eddie loved him with all his heart. He counted himself one of the luckiest guys on the planet as he went back to quietly planning how to put his best friends into mortal peril.

All My Other Stranger Things Fic

[lil-gae-disaster]

FREDDIES SELF ISSUES BECAUSE I CANNOT LET THAT MAN REST FOR EVEN A SECOND!!

A while back at the beginning of Freddies existence, like, neither Gilroy nor Henrietta were a concept yet, I mentioned how Freddie takes after his mom in looks but his dad in personality and how he doesn't like it

NOW WITH MORE KNOWLEDGE I WANNA CIRCLE BACK TO THIS

He's not 100% a male version of his mother, even in looks. His hair and eyes are darker and he inherited Gilroys shine in the hair.

But he looks like her. At least in color scheme. (Blond hair blue eyes.)

But in personality, he's almost entirely his fathers son. A few examples:

Both can't handle failure

Both are happy to help in any scenario and/or problem

Both are smug little shits who tease their significant others

Both put others before themselves even though they know it's a bad habit to have

Both are overly ambitious

Both are born dads

Don't get me wrong, Freddie loves his dad very much. BUT!

His grandparents, whenever he exhibited a sign of not being Henriettas exact clone, would shame him for it. "You are so much like that little slob your mother calls her husband, it is disgusting. You are a Schmidt, act like one! None of that pathetic farm boy behavior, you are truly an abomination, you and your mother should be ashamed of yourselves!" <- kinda treatment.

Frederick was taught that any of his fathers traits were bad, so he tried to act the opposite of it to evade a lecture from his grandparents and a beating session and to keep his bed + food privileges.

And Freddie was a mamas boy. Unintentionally. Gilroy pulled away from his father duties when the shame of having failed as a father became too much. Henrietta was his only pillar of hope during his time in Germany.

His grandparents were horrible, he and his father only coexisted and his little baby brother got taken away.

Freddies Grandparents also seperated Gilroy and Henrietta since they didn't want her to lay with him again and "produce another testiment of their shameful whore daughter", but they kept her from sleeping in an isolated room, thinking she'd sleep in their room or in the living room, where she can be controlled, but they underestimated her motherly love and they reluctantly let Henrietta move into little Freddies room.

Frederick wanted to be like his mother, because she was the only one who was there for him when he needed it. She held him and reassured him that everything would be fine. She let him cry without beating him and keeping water from him for that day. She held him in her arms in a loving embrace, she was the only one who did it.

He wants to be his mom, be like his mom, because else he feels like he's loosing her.

But what he doesn't see is that he is like his mom. They have the same quirks. Examples:

They both dance a little in the kitchen while they're cooking

They both chew on their quills (something both Gilroy and Jonathan disapprove of)

They both tug at their hair in their neck when they're nervous

They both doodle some in the corners of their letters when they forget a word

They both jump in one place when they're excited.

And more but I'm uncreative atm 😀😀

But yeah Freddie defo has some issues

(@hamalicious-soup @unicornsaures @marsfingershurt @paradox-complex @toastmrlord

@papers-pamphlet)

[greenieflor]

Eddie doodles. Not specific drawings, but little shapes. Just dragging his pen across paper as he thinks. He's usually good at keeping them off of “important” papers these days, that used to be a point of contention between him and Steve. Steve would be getting ready to go to class and see that his essay he stayed up all night working on had a collection of little scribbles in the corner. Now Eddie’s doodles are mostly covering his d&d notes or the little pad of paper they keep by the phone. Steve loved Eddie's doodles. He thinks they are so perfectly Eddie, the physical manifestation of what his mind was doing at the time. 

So Steve starts to hold onto them.

It started with a page of the phone notepad, just a little geometric figure with a note about Robin being late for movie night this week. Then it was a vaguely floral looking one on the corner of a character sheet Eddie did for Steve for a one shot they put on when the kids came home to visit for the holidays. It keeps going like this, Steve nabbing pieces of paper before Eddie can toss them or file them away. 

Eddie doesn’t just doodle on paper, though, he traces shapes into Steve's skin all the time, when they are watching tv together- something like a sun on Steve’s arm. Smoking with Jon and argyle? Swirls on his thigh. Steve is covered in invisible doodles, ones he wishes could come up to the surface of his skin and show themselves, show the evidence of Eddie's wandering mind on his skin. 

So Steve pays more attention to his collection. There are shapes he recognizes, ones he's felt traced over and over into his hip or hand or shoulder. Eddie knows Steve holds onto old papers, but he starts getting very protective of one notebook in particular. Steve doesn’t think much of it, figures it's something for a new campaign or song and Eddie will share when he's ready. 

Except its been two years now with that notebook and Steve still doesn’t know what the big secret is. 

He finds out on their wedding day. 

Eddie Munson marries Steve Harrington on a Friday in May. He has been preparing his vows for three years, even before he proposed. He knew they needed to be perfect. So when the time came, Eddie pulled out that same notebook he’d been drafting them in all these years and Steve let out an exasperated sigh and an “of course”. Eddie still didn’t know what he was going to say. Hge decided to go with what he wrote first, when he knew he was going to spend the rest of his life with this man before him. In the top corner of the page, Steve spots a doodle, spiky and big and beautiful. 

Robin stole Steve away for three days after the Munsons returned from their honeymoon-citing unfair custody before she pulled him out of the house. Steve managed to convince her to go to the tattoo parlor Eddie went to with the newest, yet most important, piece of paper in his collection folded in his pocket. At first he was going to get it over his heart, but realistically Eddie sleeps on Steve's chest enough that healing it would be too difficult. He decides on his thigh, right where Eddie's hand falls when they curl up on the couch. 

Steve comes back home in shorts reminiscent of his scoops days, showing off the freshly inked mess of lines decorating his upper thigh. Eddie has to physically stop himself from jumping on his husband and biting at his thigh- but it was a close thing. As soon as Eddie realizes what exactly Steve chose, he starts openly weeping in the driveway. Through tears, Eddie walks Steve through the proper tattoo care (this is far from Steve's first tattoo. They do this every time. Tears and all.) Robin ushers the two inside and kisses their cheeks goodbye. Inside, Eddie grins through the last of his tears and reveals his own fresh tattoo. A constellation across his ribs and hip, dotting the scar tissue with stars. It takes Steve a moment to realize why the constellation looks so familiar, he sees it every day dotted across his own body. 

[avastyetwats]

Treasured

Continued from here. @izzyeffinhands

The sight of his husband sleeping so peacefully underneath the warm glow of the sun was breathtakingly beautiful and Stede just needed to take a moment to take him in. He looked so serene anytime he slept, but in this particular moment, far more so. It’s what he deserved, after all. To feel at peace, to be free of any worries and troubles, and Stede hoped he provided him with that. Comfort, happiness, and love. All of that and so much more. The love of his life deserved only the best and nothing less, for what’s exactly what Israel made him feel.

And today, he was determined to do just that. He may have had some surprises in store for his love, and it was all laid out in the treasure maps he made. Quite literally made himself. With his own drawings and doodles - dotted lines for the paths they were to take and the little x's for the treasures. The first X being Israel Hands himself, still laying down in their bed, though awake now thanks to Stede entering the room, or perhaps he had woken up after Stede left. Neither men could sleep all that comfortably or happily when the other was one, if at all. Stede loathed being without him. It was always so cold and lonely and he hated not having his hairy chest to lay his head on. And speaking of hairy chest... gods, Stede's eyes were glued to his torso when he turned onto his side and sat up, finding great difficulty in resisting the powerful urge to bury his face between those wonderful tits. He needed to stay focused. He was on a mission.

"Si es usted." Stede confirms with a soft hum against his lips as he kissed him again... and then once more before he nuzzled his nose against his. "Good morning." He murmurs in return, keeping his voice barely above a whisper since his love just woke up and he didn't want to ruin the sweet and peaceful moment. He lowers the treasure map onto the bed as he climbs onto it to sit beside him for a moment, his hand finding Izzy's and lacing their fingers together before he brings it to his lips. He presses a soft kiss to the back of his hand, letting his lips linger there for just a moment before he's kissing him on the lips again, still soft and still so sweet. "You're so beautiful, Israel," he sighs dreamily against his lips, kissing him once again before he starts to pepper his face with featherlight kisses. His cheek, his temple, his forehead, below his eyes... "I've a day planned for us... for you," he kisses just below his left eye. "A day full of treasures," Another kiss, this time to his cheek. "No work, no stress.." He kisses down to the corner of his lips. "A day for just us..." He smiles. "A day where you are to be spoiled, my Darling." Another kiss to his lips, his free hand moving up and down his back like he knew Izzy loved.

"And it starts with a delicious, and filling, breakfast..." He nuzzles his nose again. "When you are ready."

[your-old-sins-tournament]

12 YEAR OLD OCS; SIDE A

Aldara [@kozzax]

I've carried her with me as long as she's existed. Even just doodling her in the corner of a notebook has gotten me through some of my roughest days. She's everything to me. Her story and world have developed so incredibly far from her original creation-- which, for the record, was for a school assignment --but she's always, always been here for me. Yeah, she's changed over the years as I've grown as a storyteller and artist, but the thing about change is that it's not always bad. She's still Aldara, she'll always still be Aldara at her core. When I draw her as a comfort for myself, it's like a piece of me from a time when everything was just that little bit easier has come up to the present and told me that everything's going to be alright. When I work on developing her story, it's a gift to that younger version of myself. A promise that we can grow and develop and change and yet we can still keep the parts of ourselves that are the most important. She means the world to me.

As for propaganda about her, on her own-- she was originally meant to be a "little sister" sort of character. Kind and caring and bubbly and happy, with a naivety that followed everything she did. Her original story had her simultaneously being the protagonist of the story who couldn't read, when everyone else could, and being old enough to have had kids that were stolen from her by her ex-husband. She's never been an active player in the plot, which is now an intentional choice but in my childhood was very much not.

Back when I was twelve, she'd been part of a group trying to free a bunch of cats who had been experimented on by humans, except her group just kind of naturally had magic powers as well. While her powers were never overly powerful, she was always good enough to stand alongside people with far more training than her and who were objectively more powerful than her without much, if any, consequence.

I've refocused her, now. She's kind, still, and she cares about people in a way that a lot of my other characters just don't quite reach. She's still naive, and still a sweet person who lights up any room she walks into. At her core, she hasn't changed. All that's changed is that the world she exists in suits her better, and the role she fills in it makes more sense for her.

I don't think she'll ever change, at her core. Her design changes on a regular basis, but the core concept will always remain the same. Her personality has never changed, not as long as I've had her, besides fleshing it out further. She'll always be Aldara. She'll always have the bits of myself that I put into her when I was twelve, and I'll always love her for that. She's maybe the best thing I ever started creating, and I will always consider her and her story to be a love letter to my childhood self and the way the creativity that poured out of me at that age let me develop into who I am today.

Description: No matter how long I've had her, she's always kept the same set of colors. She's always kept the way her tailtip is colored, and the arrows on her forehead and chest. She's always kept the colors on her wings, though they have changed locations over the years, and she's always kept her ear tufts. While her design may have grown more complex over the years, I've fought hard to keep the essence of what makes her recognizable as herself. I don't want to erase the character that I created when I was twelve. I never want to erase that character. She holds the shards of my twelve-year-old heart, and I will never let myself forget that.

Dan (Hanson Ōkami) [@cabincryptid51]

My trans awakening. I played as him in a Maximum Ride Amino even though I didn't know anything about it! My friend made me join so I could play their love interest and Dan is who I made. He already had a name in the lore but I didn't like it so he ended up having about 20+ secret identities. At some point his evil brother kidnapped, making everyone believe that he was dead and then the role play group stopped. But my friend and I had lore that continued because we wanted to have an arc were he died then came back to life where he would loose his arm and get dragon wings (I have a picture of this but I literally have no idea where it went). Anyway, I love him <3 My silly goofy himbo boy!

[celestexzhao]

☆ NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO, CISFEMALE, SHE/HER ☆ CELESTE ZHAO the TWENTY-SEVEN year old has been trapped here since 2000. We heard the BARTENDER AT LYNWOOD TAVERN made themselves at home in SUMERSET APARTMENTS. While others around town have gossiped that they are FRIENDLY and DISTRUSTING but maybe that’s what helps them survive here. 

bio:

Celeste was raised by her single mother, the two moving to Holbrook when she was just four years old. Her entire life she’d only been told one thing about her father: that the man had cheated on her mother and had abandoned them. And with that being the main focal point of Cel’s relationship with men, she grew up not really trusting them, her mother’s bitter voice always ringing in her head: giving your heart away will always lead to heartache. 

But even her mother’s bitterness couldn’t fully shake how sweet of a person Celeste turned out to be. She was one of the friendliest girls in school growing up, always willing to help someone with their homework or give a hand in studying (and sometimes that kindness was used against her, people taking using it to their advantage and making her outright do assignments for her) but as someone who grew up being told she’d been given up, Celeste was willing to take any sort of ‘friendship’ or validation, willing to be a people pleaser if it meant having people in her life. 

Especially since her life back home wasn’t exactly as pleasing.

Her mother had turned resentful at losing her husband and her life ending up going nowhere, and at times she even put the blame for it all on Celeste, saying she was to blame for her father leaving them since she’d never been a planned pregnancy. So whenever she was at home, Cel stayed in her room, turning to art as her comfort. What started as doodling as a child turned into a full-on love for all things art. She had a canvas in the corner of her room, paintings and sketches strewn throughout. She’d never be caught without a sketchpad, or without paint stains on her clothes. It was an escape and something that she was truly good at and was hers.

It was last year when she met Campbell--or at least, that she really met him. It’s impossible not to know everyone in such a small town, and know of their reputations. She knew Campbell had been popular in school, knew he had money...and knew he had lots of girls in his life, so really...she should have known better. But Campbell had been nice to her..he’d been sweet and caring. And even though Celeste had only been on casual dates and never really had a boyfriend for more than a couple months as she still had her mother’s warnings stuck in her head, she couldn’t deny the pull she felt towards him. And for the first time, Celeste felt truly wanted. More than that, she actually felt loved and loved him in return. She trusted Campbell with knowing about her life, about her parents, and he accepted all of it- just making Cel fall for him even more.

But despite all her mother’s faults, her words ended up being true. She gave her heart away...and it ended in heartache. 

Celeste had been working at the bar one night over the summer when another girl in town (another girl from his past) casually let slip that she’d slept with him. Recently. And despite all she felt for him and how much she wanted to deny it....her mother’s voice was louder in her head, and the fact that her father had done the same to her mother after years together...

The fallout had been ugly, and the way Campbell reacted..how hurt he’d been at her words... But they had to be true...right? 

...But even if they weren’t, Celeste hadn’t spoken to Campbell since, the man effectively breaking them up and leaving her. Which..maybe was for the best. Even if she still loved him--and even if she slowly feared that she was just going to end up like her mother: bitter and resentful and alone.   

extras:

birthday- september 26th

nicknames- cel, celly

began doodling as a child and it all spun out from there

she often paints at night as the house is quiet. big moon lover

is fluent in mandarin along with english

big believer in crystals and the properties they wield

aesthetics: napkin doodles, worn-in converse, moonlight reflected on the water, sleepless nights lit by candlelight, red wine splatters on hardwood, hair picked up by a paintbrush, crystals hidden in pockets

appearance: 

long dark hair almost always picked up

height: 5′5

eyes: dark brown

usually wearing paint-stained clothes (jeans, converse, plaid shirts over tank tops)

she wears glasses to read or when painting.

links:

connections

pinterest

[steele-soulmate]

Tattooed Wings Kinktober 10, Writing on Skin

WORDS: 1186

“Hold still now, my love,” Mary Claire cooed as she began writing on Peter’s chest with a green permanent marker.

Peter obeyed his wife, forcing his hips still as her warm, velvety pussy fluttered around his stiff cock. He supported his weight off of her smaller, more delicate body by holding himself in a perverse plank position, one hand wrapping around her, keeping his physically smaller wife cuddled in close to him, his other hand was supporting himself by her ear.

 “There,” she hummed, finishing off her words with a tender little kiss pressed to his pectoral. She thrusted her hip up, meeting Peter’s manly hips and that was honestly all that he needed. He growled, pumping his cock in and out of his soulmate’s tight little cunt, the delicious little sounds she was making running straight down to his groin.

 “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK…” Peter snarled, gasping when she wrapped her legs around his waist, hooking her ankles behind the small of his back, pressing him in impossibly close to her.

 Peter released with a loud grunt, his cum filling up the latex condom he wore, he pulled out before inserting his fingers to take his now limp cock’s place, pressing his thumb into her little gummy love button.

 Mary Claire came with a low scream, her juices spilling out onto Peter’s hand as he held her close to him, working her through her orgasm. When at last, she went limp, Peter grabbed a hot pink permanent marker and began writing on her upper thigh.

 Mary Claire let out a soft coo, blinking her heavy eyes as she placed a sloppy kiss to the corner of his mouth. Peter chuckled as he finished up writing, capping the marker and sticking it in with it’s friends as he hugged Mary Claire, his sweetheart- his woman- his wife­- close to his frantically racing heart.

 “I love you,” he mumbled, closing his eyes as he snuggled up close to his sweetheart. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

 The next thing Peter knew he was being jolted awake as something collided with his cheek, snapping him out of sleep instantaneously.

 “PETER THOMAS RATAJCZYK!”

 For a moment, Peter thought he was a little boy again and that it was his mother or one of his older sisters scolding him. He shot up in bed only to see that it was his wife, looking pissed as all hell as she glared at him.

 “Good morning, sweetheart!” he chirped, trying to figure out why she was so upset.

 “Papina malen'kaya shlyukha?” she hissed, showing him where he had written his message on her thigh the night before.

 папина маленькая шлюха, it read in messy Russian.

 “I am NOT getting ‘daddy’s little cumslut’ tattooed on me!” she hissed. “I am fucking revoking this tattoo, and to think I wrote something sweet on you!”

 Peter looked down at his chest and saw upside down words. He reached over to his bedside table and picked up his phone to snap a picture of his soulmate’s doodles.

 My love

Mon amour

Mo grá

Meine Liebe

Amore mio

Lubirea mea

моя любовь

Mi amor

 “The words my love in English, French, Irish Gaelic, German, Italian, Romanian, Russian and Spanish,” she explained shortly, glaring at her thigh where the offending words were written. “I was thinking of adding the hand sign for my love in ASL, but I can’t art at all.”

 Peter knew he had fucked up major time and so he resorted to groveling for his sweetheart’s forgiveness.

 “Sweetheart, can you look at me?” Peter asked her, sinking to his knees on the bed, adding in a soft “Please?” She huffed and turned her angry eyes onto her husband, getting a noticeable hard flinch from him. “I am so sorry-”

 “You should be,” she huffed, not moving out of Peter’s touch when he dragged her into his lap and wrapped her muscular arms around me, relishing in her womanly warmth. “I am not an inanimate object for you to lust over!”

 “I know that sweetheart, and I am so fucking sorry,” he apologized, tucking his nose into her mermaid tattoo that ran behind her left ear. “I wasn’t thinking-”

 “Clearly,” she snorted before going silent once more.

 “I wasn’t thinking, I well- I was wondering how you felt about being degraded during sex?” Peter winced at his shit apology.

 “If you do decide to degrade me at any given point, I’ll divorce you,” she promised him, pulling away to stare into his eyes. “I mean it, Peter- I respect myself too much to not react violently when I’m called something like that. I have spent many years trying to build up my self-confidence to a point where I could leave the house feeling pretty about myself. My mom did a lot of damage on myself.”

 Peter let out a protective snarl, clutching his woman close to his chest as his brain raced through all the horror stories that she had told him about growing up with the Bitch of Cherry Tree blvd, as Mary Claire had once causally compared her to German Nazi Ilse Koch, famous for allegedly using the skins of Holocaust victims as lampshades.

 “Sweetheart,” Peter choked back the tears that were threatening to fall. “I’m so sorry.”

 “I forgive you,” she whispered, pressing a forgiving kiss to his cheek. “But I’m still mad at you.”

 “I can live with that,” Peter smiled, grabbing a blue permanent marker and flipping her onto her back. “Since you branded me in your talented tongue, it’s now my turn.”

 He carefully wrote his nickname for her in Russian on the back of her shoulder, directly underneath her sun motif from Disney’s Tangled, in tiny, spiky lettering.

 моя возлюбленная

 Peter decided that it was only fitting as how she had marked in in all the languages she spoke.

 “What did you write?” she murmured, clearly coming down from her angerhigh.

 “Moya vozlyublennaya,” Peter murmured softly, placing a loving kiss over her new tattoo. “My sweetheart,” she quickly translated. “I like it- no, I don’t like it.”

 Something in Peter’s throat jumped.

 “I love it,” she hummed, stretching her ass up into the air. “Now fuck me.”

 “As my woman commands me,” he growled, reaching into his bedside table and pulling out a foil packet.

  Mon amour, my love, French

Mo grá, my love, Irish Gaelic

Meine Liebe, my love, German

Amore mio, my love, Italian

Lubirea mea, my love, Romanian

моя любовь, my love, Russian

Mi amor, my love, Spanish

папина маленькая шлюха, daddy’s little cumslut, Russian

Papina malen'kaya shlyukha, daddy’s little cumslut, Russian

моя возлюбленная, my sweetheart, Russian

Moya vozlyublennaya, my sweetheart, Russian

 TAGLISTS ARE OPEN/ ASK BOX IS OPEN/ REQUESTS ARE OPEN/ PLOT BUNNIES ARE WELCOMED

 If you liked this, then please consider buying me a coffee HERE It only costs $3!!!

 PETER STEELE TAGLIST

@rock-a-noodle​

@ch3rry-c01a​

[spooky-luvur]

Oh, Arthur

_______________

“How much we got?”

“Less than a rabbit.”

“The hells that mean?”

“It means, we need somethin’ else or we’ll have to start eatin’ each other!”

Pearson laughs, and (M/n) starts too as well but a sharp look from Miss Grimshaw quickly turns it into a cough.

He clears his throat, “someone ‘otta go out and hunt. I’ll do it.”

A heavy hand lays itself on the man’s shoulder, and he turns his head to meet his husbands disapproving look.

“Naw, you ain’t. There ain’t a rabbit or a deer left in this forest. I’ll go to town and buy somethin’ from the butcher.”

(M/n) snorts and pats Arthurs hand, “Thought you was against wastin’ money.”

“It ain’t wasting if it means we eat.”

“It’s wastin’ if I can just go out a few extra miles and bring back a deer or two, free of charge,” (M/n) waves his hand at the tree line.

“That’ll take days.”

“I’ve been gone longer.”

Arthur sighs and rubs a hand down his face. His husband, bless him, is very stubborn. And very eager to help his family. Even if that means running straight into gunfire to grab a sack of vegetables (yes that actually happened. Arthur wouldn’t even let him go to town for days after that).

But he supposed (M/n) was right. Not that he could have said no to him in the first place, he admits that taking a few days to bring back food that’ll last them weeks would be worth it. Especially if it’s still in this region, and not out in the deserts of New Austin or something else real far away.

He would do the same. He has done the same. Plenty of times.

So, looking into his expectant eyes, Arthur nods. “Okay.”

It’s quiet, showing he doesn’t like the idea of (M/n) going into potentially dangerous territory. He didn’t know what he would do if he lost the love of his life to a rival gang.

By god, Colm would have hell to pay.

“Great. I’ll talk to Dutch about it. Meet me by the horses in a few.” (M/n) pats Arthur’s chest before tipping his hat at Grimshaw and starting off in the direction of Dutch’s tent.

———

“I don’ know, darlin’. What if there’s a bear?”

(M/n) rolls his eyes but smiles as he fastens his horses saddle.

“Then I’ll pretend I’m you. All big and mean and scary.” He moves his hands to the straps over Arthur’s shoulders, lightly tugging at them. The man huffs softly.

“I ain’t that scary.”

“No,” he takes his face in his hands and presses a kiss to his bearded cheek, “you ain’t.” He pulls back and looks into Arthur’s sea-green eyes. He loves those darn eyes.

“I love you, Mr. Morgan. I’ll be back before you know it. Keep the bed warm for me.”

Arthur’s eyes soften as he pulls his husband close. He brings the hand with the gold wedding band up to his lips, kissing the warm metal.

“Of course, Mr. Morgan.”

——

Everyone in the camp is buzzed with excitement; the thought of fresh, warm deer (or other) meat is enough to make them push through a day without eating. The second day is a bit harder, especially on little Jack, but Charles finds some berries for the boy to have.

Arthur sits on his cot as he thumbs through his journal. His fingers brush over the newest page, from yesterday.

(M/n) has gone several miles out to hunt. I do not like him being out in a foreign forest for that long. But, being the stubborn fool he is, did not let anyone have second thoughts on the matter. He would not have listened to them anyway

In the corner of the page is a soft doodle of the man’s hat. Arthur brushes over it, and the edges smudge just a bit. He sighs and stands, shutting the book.

“Arthur,”

the man pauses in his tracks.

“if you are coming to tell me how worried you are once again, son, I must ask you to bring your worries to someone like Hosea.”

“Dutch, I just-“ Arthur wipes his hand on his arm, though it’s clean. “I just-“

Dutch sighs and sets down the antique he was examining. He approaches Arthur and sets a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Arthur. Your husband, my brother, is a very capable man.”

“I know that, Dutch.”

“So you must have faith in him that he will return soon and safe. (M/n) wouldn’t let anything happen to himself.”

But Arthur knows Dutch. He sees the creases in the man’s forehead, the pinch in his face. He’s worried too.

“It’s only been a day and a half, Arthur. Give him some more time. He would ask it of you as well, I’m sure.”

He’s right. (M/n) would.

He nods. “Alright. Couple more days.”

Dutch pats him on the back. “Good man.”

———

They gave it a couple more days. And then a few more. And when it reached four days of (M/n) being gone, Dutch was the one to come to Arthur and tell him he had sent Charles out to see if he could find him.

“Just let me-“

Dutch holds his hands up before he can finish.

“Arthur, I know you want to go out and look for him but right now I need you here. Charles is the best tracker we’ve got. If (M/n) is in the area, he will be found- I can promise you that.”

Javier tugs on Arthur’s arm.

“C’mon compadre, come sit by the fire.”

Arthur relents and follows him, taking his hat off as he sits on the log and runs a hand through his hair. It’s silent for a few moments before Bills scoffs, a scowl on his face.

“There ain’t no way the man’s gotten himself in trouble. I’ve seen him wrestle a cougar!”

“You sure it wasn’t just a really big cat?” Javier snickers, getting a mean look from Bill.

“Ain’t that what a cougar is?” Arthur raises a brow.

“I reckon he’s in a ditch with a hole in his head.”

The chatter stops and all attention turns to the man whittling a hunk of wood at the end of the log. Micah glances up at Arthur and smirks, spreading his arms wide.

“Might want to get on your horse and go get some food, cowpoke.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, but he can’t hardly do anything about Micah at the moment.

But Grimshaw can, given she grabs the blond man by the back of the coat and drags him away from the fire, spitting curses at him all the while.

Arthur sighs and Javier sends him a sympathetic nod.

“He’ll be back. He always comes back.”

———

Javier’s words run through Arthur’s head even three months later as he stands in the forest a long ways away from camp, rifle clutched in his trembling hands.

His husbands sweet golden horse, Lasso, lays dead at his feet. The once shiny coat is matted and almost brown with dirt and mud.

And caked in dry blood. It covers the entire side of the horse, along with some of its rear. There’s a smear on its neck that Arthur can make out as a hand.

Charles slowly stands from his crouched position by the poor creature. He rubs his face after wiping his hands off.

“Arthur-“

“It his?”

Charles stands as still as possible, keeping his eyes on the rifle in the other man’s hands.

“The horse starved, Arthur. The blood is (M/n)‘s.”

Arthur can’t even nod. His shoulders shake after a moment, and his grip loosens enough for Charles to carefully take the gun from him, hanging it over his own shoulder.

Arthur heaves, bending over and bracing himself against a nearby tree.

Charles shakes his head before taking a step away to search the nearby area for a body.

Arthur sags against the tree, hand covering his eyes, heavy breaths making his chest hurt.

The presence of the horse covered in his husbands blood is heavy, and even thinking about it drains him so much that he stumbles when he straightens back up.

Arthur doesn’t know how long he stands there against the tree, but eventually Charles returns. He’s silent, standing there a moment before meeting Arthur’s wet eyes.

“I didn’t find him.”

He doesn’t dare reassure Arthur that (M/n) might be alive. He wouldn’t ever forgive himself if he gave his friend that kind of hope if it turned out to be false.

Charles closes his eyes as Arthur begins to sob.

———

He has not had to lay in a cold bed in a long time.

Usually, (M/n) would make sure the blankets are up to their chins on cold nights, and around their ankles on hot ones. Either way, Arthur would still be warm because of him.

But now, although it’s humid, Arthur feels the chilly absence of him. And not just in the bed. It’s apparent around the camp, too.

Arthur had not seen Dutch in anything but simple pants and his union suit in weeks. His hair was hardly slicked back, and instead was tousled from him constantly running his hands through it. He spends most of his time in his tent, now. Never enjoying a moment or two on the edge of the camp enjoying the view.

Arthur isn’t any better. If anything, he’s worse.

He doesn’t eat unless one of the ladies begs him to. Even then, he can’t hardly keep anything down. He’s lost so much weight that he feels ashamed of it. (M/n) loved his belly, and now if he presses lightly he can feel his ribs.

He only “shaves” by chopping a few inches off his hair and beard every several weeks. It gets itchy, but he can’t muster up enough energy to actually do anything about it.

He’s awful.

And he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep doing this without him.

———

-nine months later-

“Mornin’ Arthur.”

“Mornin’ John.”

John yawns, the scars on his face stretching with the movement, and pours himself a cup of coffee.

“Dutch call you over yet?”

Arthur rubs his chin. “Naw. What’s he want?”

“Somethin’ about a map Javier found,” he takes a swig of the bitter drink, “was too damn tired to listen to much of anything else.”

After a few more minutes of standing there by the pot, Dutch calls Arthur over to his tent. The man is bent over the table, a dirty parchment spread out on it.

“Map?” Arthur asks.

Dutch nods, making another mark on it with an ink pen.

“Damn O’Driscoll’s slipped and left it behind. It marks their hideouts, Arthur. Their safe houses. Do you understand the edge this could give us?”

Arthur nods smoothly. “Sure. We goin’ to take a look?”

“Yes. You and John will go to this one,” he taps a place on the map as Arthur leans over to look, “outside of Strawberry.”

Dutch, as most of the rest of the gang, had eventually kind of recovered from the death of (M/n).

Kind of, because he had gotten harder on everyone. More tired, and less willing to deal with things he would have put up with before his brother had disappeared. But he still loves the gang, even if he doesn’t express it as much as he used to.

It had been a year, after all.

The two men ride silently beside one another. They had been riding all day, and there was nothing else to talk about at the moment, so they somehow settled with silence.

Arthur wasn’t too fond of it.

He’s looking down at his hands which are loosely holding onto the horses reigns. His thumb rubs over the bare spot on his ring finger.

After a while, it had become far too painful to look down at his hands so many times a day for so many things and see the golden band. He had wrapped it in a soft cloth and tucked it into a small pocket in his satchel. He hasn’t even looked at it since.

They’re coming up to the shack as the sun is coming down, taking its glow with it. John lights a torch after he gets down off his horse, since the moon was covered by the tall trees and provided little to no light. He holds it a ways in front of him, and if the two men squint, they can make out a couple guards casually sitting on crates in the front yard. Rifles are propped up against the sides.

“Alright. I’ll go up, distract ‘em. Then you can come in and take ‘em out quick.”

Arthur snorts quietly. “Distract ‘em how? With your naturally good looks?”

“Please,” John scoffs. “I’m not (M/n).”

Arthur had time to heal, of course. Had time to warm the bed by himself again, to relearn how to wrap his hands after he messes them up too bad, to stop grabbing two cups instead of one out of habit.

But it stings when he still thinks about it. About him. Brings tears to his eyes more often then not, but he can see the regret on Johns face quicker than they can spring up and begin blurring his vision. Neither of the two say anything for a moment before John nods and straightens up. He heads into the clearing without another word.

Arthur rubs the back of his neck, sighing deeply. Then he grabs his gun and follows him.

The two guards are taken out quickly enough, thanks to John blabbering off a distracting story about losing his gimpy horse. ‘Silver as gold, you see him?’ ‘Um-‘

The ruckus causes the front door to bust open, a few more guards spilling out. John’s hat is shot off his head but that’s as close as either of them get to having an injury.

Sighing, Arthur keeps his pistol in his hand and pushes open the broken door, peering inside. All he can see from this angle is a dirty table with trash on it, so he pushes it open all the way and steps inside. John grabs his hat, grumbling about the hole in it, and takes the torch he had stuck in the ground before the shooting started.

“I’ll check up,” he nods toward the rafters and hands Arthur the torch before grabbing onto the latter, hoisting himself up.

Meanwhile, Arthur examines the room he’s in. It’s single, given that it’s only a small shack, and has nothing but a torn cot in the corner and a table with some chairs. He wipes a finger on the table and it comes back caked in dust which he wipes off on his pants. He takes a step forward to look at the cot when his shoe catches on something.

Looking down, he sees a tiny rug barley covering what is obviously a hatch in the floor. He moves the rug aside with his foot and crouches down. Tugging on the latch, he can see that it’s unlocked and he can pull it right open. He can’t see anything besides a foot or two past his face thanks to the darkness, so he knocks on the wooden floor to get the attention of anyone that might be hiding.

He hears some shuffling, so he frowns and carefully descends down the short latter, keeping a tight grip on his gun with his other hand.

Now that Arthur is in the cellar, he can hear soft noises which he can only describe as someone crying. Hell, did the O’Driscoll’s have some kind of hostage? Bastards. The scar in his shoulder aches with memories.

The light of the torch allows him to make out a pitiful shape of someone huddled in the corner of the cellar, pressed so close to the wall you’d think they’re trying to melt into it. Their side is facing Arthur, and he can see that their head is tucked tightly into their arms which are shackled to the wall.

“Damn-“

As soon as the word leaves his mouth, the person flinches so harshly it makes Arthur jump too.

“Please!”

The voice trembles so badly that the word is barely there.

Arthur looks at them, sees their bare chest and back, their ripped canvas pants stained in old blood, their dirty hands clenched into fists, and he halts.

“No more, please!”

The man sobs, pressing himself tighter into the corner if possible.

The word is heavy in Arthur’s mouth, and it tingles on the tip of his tongue. But he forces himself to utter it. So quietly he can hardly hear it himself.

“(M/n).”

The man doesn’t stop trembling, but his face is now more visible to the point where Arthur can see a cloth tied around his head to cover his eyes. He’s breathing so heavily Arthur fears he might pass out, so he sticks the torch in a pile of rocks and takes slow steps forward.

“Hey- shhh. It’s okay.”

(M/n) pauses, and his breathing hitches, but that might just be a hiccup in his crying. He shakes his head as Arthur comes closer.

“No, don’t touch me!”

He thrashes once he realizes Arthur is in touching distance, and it isn’t until he reaches forward to tear off the blindfold that he freezes, eyes as wide as a does.

He blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Then his face twists into the most painful expression Arthur has ever seen on him and he starts sobbing again.

“Oh, Arthur…”

The man manages to pull (M/n)’s bony wrists from the heavy iron cuffs, and pulls him to his chest as he sits back against the dirt wall of the cellar. He holds his dear husband as close as physically possible while they both cry.

“Arthur, I-“

(M/n) takes a deep breath to steady his voice.

“I was only a few days in when they got me and Lasso. Brought me to one of their safe houses. I tried to escape after a while, but…we didn’t make it very long. My poor girl.” He moans in sorrow, burying his face in Arthur’s chest.

“I know, darlin’, I know. I’m so sorry.”

Arthur’s voice is gruff with emotion as he leans to kiss his hair.

(M/n) sighs shakily. “I missed you, Arthur,” he pulls back enough to look his husband in the eye, smiling for the first time in a long time, “did you miss me?”

Arthur smiles back, smoothing a thumb across a dirt-covered cheek.

“More than you think, darlin.’”

[wafflesandkruge]

One Early Morning in Os Alta

Nikolai accidentally drinks one of David's experiments and becomes obsessed with solving the mystery that is Zoya Nazyalensky. The Triumvirate is his most unwilling audience as he attempts to piece together where she goes at night with nothing but his caffeine-fueled brain and a chalkboard.

Written for the @grishaversebigbang mini bang! Thank you so much to the amazing @kolarpem (x) and @denndrawings​ (x) who created beautiful art for this fic 🥺 ❤️  

ao3

In their three short years of marriage, Genya and David had developed a morning routine. David, eager to get to the labs early so he could have the room to himself, would wake at the crack of dawn like clockwork and share a few sleepy kisses with her before getting on his way. After a few more hours of much-needed beauty sleep, Genya would commandeer some breakfast and find him tinkering away at whatever project Nikolai had put him to. It was a comfortable rhythm, a familiar constant in their otherwise hectic lives.

But today, Genya was just drifting off to sleep again after being woken by her husband when the door to their bedroom slammed open to reveal a very disheveled David. His glasses were slightly more askew than usual and his kefta rumpled. Genya let out a small yawn.

“David? What’s wrong?”

“There has been a development.” He didn’t elaborate further as he strode over to their wardrobe and pulled out her kefta. She tugged it over her head without question and followed him sleepily out of the room. They’d been together long enough that she’d learned not to try to get him to elaborate. He’d either clam up for hours trying to find the right words or talk in circles trying to fully explain a very easily explainable situation. Only the Saints knew what it was this time. She just hoped it was something easily resolvable so she could go back to sleep. Perhaps a puppy running loose in the labs, or an Inferni who’d burned off their eyebrows and wanted her to Tailor them back. Simple things.

But instead of the labs, David pulled her into Nikolai’s bedroom and Genya knew it was going to be a long day. Tamar and Tolya were already seated on a sofa, both with their arms crossed and similar scowls on their faces. Zoya was absent. And Nikolai was animatedly scribbling on a large blackboard that had been wheeled to the front of the room, “ZOYA NAZYALENSKY” scrawled at the top in large letters and circled three times for emphasis. The rest of the board was covered in near incomprehensible writing and doodles.

Genya frowned as David pulled her down into the seat next to him. “Did you steal that from the Little Palace, Nikolai? How will the children learn?”

Her king didn’t answer. He seemed busy working on a doodle of what looked like a five legged tiger on a corner of the board. David patted her hand absentmindedly as he opened his notebook and started scribbling as well.

“Is anyone going to explain this to me?” Genya asked mildly as Tolya slid a cup of tea towards her. She supposed the Triumvirate had seen worse, and their king acting like a man possessed didn’t rank particularly high on their list, but she still didn’t appreciate being woken up early for this. If anything, the twins should have just knocked him out and then everyone could get their well deserved rest.

Tamar crossed her arms. Her short hair stuck up in every direction as if she’d just rolled out of bed. “Well, your genius husband over there,” she starts, her tone not quite complimentary, “was working on one of his little experiments again.”

Genya nodded distractedly as she removed a small mirror from the inside of her sleeve. David took it from her obediently and held it up as she began Tailoring away the dark circles under her eyes. It wasn’t a substitute for her lost sleep, but it’d have to do for now.

“Coffee with a mild strain of parem in it for an extra stimulant,” David explained as she moved on to bringing more color into her cheeks. “Since you’re always complaining about the Little Palace’s coffee leaving you groggier than before.”

Genya’s hands stilled as she offered David a small smile. Even after knowing him for this long, his kindness never failed to surprise her. “That’s lovely, dear. But how does that relate to Nikolai acting like...this?”

Both of them jumped when Nikolai let out a rather concerning cackle. He had moved on from the deformed tiger to a caricature of someone who looked alarmingly like General Pensky. Genya scanned the board, barely able to decipher his scribbling. Secret lover...treason...illicit rendezvous? She furrowed her brows.

Tolya glowered at them from his spot next to his sister. “Nikolai drank David’s experiment. And now he refuses to administer the antidote because he wants to observe his behavior for the sake of science.”

“That’s not strictly true,” David said as he handed the mirror back to Genya and picked up his pencil again. “I don’t have an antidote ready. Instead of taking the time and labor to manufacture one, we might as well just wait for it to wear off naturally.”

Tolya opened his mouth again to argue, but then a piece of chalk flew by, barely missing Genya’s nose. Nikolai slammed his hands on the table and her tea splashed out of its cup. 

All four of their heads turned towards their king. His shirt was buttoned incorrectly, his hair wild, and a distinctly unhinged look in his eyes. His jacket was tied around his shoulders like a cape. It had to be the worst Genya has ever seen him, though there had been that time when Kirigin had convinced him to do a few shots of that whiskey from the Wandering Isles and he’d been convinced he was a saint—

“Friends!” His voice was entirely too loud for the intimate setting. “I have gathered you here today to solve one of our most pressing problems.”

“Our empty coffers?” Genya asked with a yawn.

“Impending war on three fronts?” offered Tolya.

“My brother’s incurable love for five hour poetry recitations?” 

David continued silently taking notes in his book.

“No,” Nikolai declared with an empathetic shake of his head, “we’re here to discuss the mystery of...Zoya Nazyalensky.”

He stepped to the side and for the first time, Genya was able to see the entirety of the blackboard he’d been writing on. Not a single inch of it had been spared from his rather enthusiastic scrawl and doodles like he was preparing to give them the world’s most fascinating lecture on the enigma that was Zoya. Genya felt a headache incoming.

“Perhaps we could do this at a more reasonable hour,” she began, but Nikolai smacked his hand against the blackboard which sent up a giant cloud of chalk dust.

“Nonsense! There’s no time like the present, and Zoya is away so it’s the perfect time to speculate upon her true intentions.” He waved his arm towards a bullet point at the top of the board, but in his eagerness, nearly knocked the entire board over. Genya let out another yawn and sank back into the couch. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if she dozed off.

“Where does she go at night?” Nikolai demanded as he began pacing furiously. The papers pinned to the board fluttered in his wake. “About once a week or so, the palace guards tell me she’s seen walking on the grounds late at night, alone. She’s almost certainly meeting with someone. But who? And why?”

“Are you sure you don’t have an antidote?” she whispered to David.

“Positive.” He scratched his ear, a sure sign he was lying. Genya sighed. She supposed she’d have him make it up to her later. She knew better than to talk him out of one of science moods. 

“A lover!” Nikolai continued. “She has a secret lover!”

Genya knew for a fact Zoya had no one in her heart other than their king as much as she liked pretending she hated him and his entire existence. In her own opinion, it probably had something to do with the very expensive gifts Nikolai routinely offered because Zoya was nothing if not a creature of luxury. Still, she took a sip of her tea and raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Do go on.”

“At first I thought it was General Pensky, but he’s been stationed at the border for over a month and the night walks haven’t stopped. So that leaves no other option than…” Nikolai’s eyes narrowed. He executed a sloppy about-face that any army commander would have had him running laps for and pointed an accusing finger at Tolya. “You’re Zoya’s secret lover!”

Tolya frowned and crossed his arms. “I would rather go back to Novyi Zem and become a jurda farmer. Less chance of sudden death.”

Nikolai grabbed at his hair. “But if you’re not seeing Zoya...and Tamar isn’t– you’re not right?”

“I’m married, Nikolai.”

“Right, right, right,” he muttered. He turned back to look at his board. “Then there’s only one other answer.”

“We all go back to bed?” Genya suggested.

Nikolai turned to her, an oddly intense look in his eyes. “How could you suggest we all retire when Zoya is plotting against the throne?”

Genya blinked. “How exactly did you get there?”

“It all makes sense!” Nikolai babbled excitedly. He waved his arms in excitement. “The late night walks. The secrecy. Why she’s always so mean to me—”

“She’s mean to everyone,” Tamar interjected.

“She’s working with the Fjerdans! Or the Shu! Of course, I should have seen it from the start…”

Genya tuned him out again as he went back to drawing on the board while muttering to himself about how the Fjerdan’s diabolical plan to have Zoya seduce him was working too well. She put her head on David’s shoulder and focused on the page of notes he was working on. Except instead of notes, it was a sketch of a woman’s face. Her face. As she watched, his pencil scratched out the curve of her lips, one corner lifted in a half smile. “What are you doing, dear?”

“Studying something beautiful,” he answered without a moment of hesitation. 

Genya’s lips curled into a smile as she let her eyes shut. “You’re sweet today. Maybe we should let Nikolai poison himself more often.”

“There’s a seventy percent chance his heart would give out if we attempted this more than once a week.”

“Regicide,” Genya said with a sigh, “How romantic.”

[fanficwriter284]

Looks Good.

Authors Note: This was inspired by an Asktherays comic! Go Check out her blog it's amazing!!! And thank you to @gcatmsg for suggesting this!!! Go check out their awesome blog as well!!!

Chucky was at his desk and was doodling. He never really drew much anymore but once in a while when he was in the mood he would whip out his sketchbook and decide to draw something. Mostly Tiffany and his kids. This time it was his wife. He was lost in the drawing and just let his hand flow along the page and created art. When he was younger he would mostly just draw still-lifes or just his surroundings. It wasn't till he met Tiffany that he started to draw people more, and he was considered quite good at it. Very good as a matter of fact. But normally he preferred painting. He was normally very protective of his artwork and didn't let anybody see it. Only now did he begin to loosen up.

Tiffany was in the corner watching her husband draw. She loved it when he drew or painted something since it always seemed to bring him into a calm and peaceful state. It always relaxed him. She approached her husband and sat next to him smiling. Her presence next to him brought Chucky out of his hypnotic trance. His eyes were now removed from the page and looked over at his wife. He was about to hide it away but instead just decided to let her see it. Tiffany blushed once she saw who he was drawing. It was her. The attention to detail was on point and this amazed her. The older he get's the better his artwork gets.

"Looks, good" She didn't wanna overpraise his work even though she deeply wanted to since whenever she did it would normally cause Chucky to stop and hide his work away.

Chucky chuckled a bit, grinned and looked up towards her.

"You're just saying that Tiff," He responded.

"No, I'm being serious. I love it!" She said giving him a peck on the cheek.

"Thanks" He smiled

Tiffany hugged him and left him to continue working on his drawing.

[fruitcoops]

Hi!! This is based on a reddit post I saw where a woman found her husband's "secret stash" of all the love letters/cards/post it notes she had written for him through all the years that he kept!! (🥺) and I would love to see it rewritten with Coops, if you want! Thanks for all the stories you write. I v much appreciate u

Okay so I looked up the story you’re talking about, and that’s the cutest thing I’ve ever read. My god. I’ve mentioned that Remus leaves notes in a  couple of past fics, so this was just a perfect ask! Coops credit goes to @lumosinlove, but Hattie is mine!

For the anon who watched a sad video in their class: Have some coops fluff to dull the pain!

Remus sneezed as he shifted the nightstand a smidge to the left, exposing a dozen dust bunnies that were starting to look more like dust rhinos. He pulled and rocked and pushed, but the small table refused to move far enough for the vacuum cleaner head to fit through. “We need to clean this more often,” he muttered, opening the top drawer to unload some of the weight from inside.

Three books, a handful of pens, a spare toothbrush, a waterbottle…Remus shook his head at Sirius’ collection of oddities, smiling to himself. The nightstand moved a bit more when he wiggled it, but not quite to the point he needed it.

The lower drawer was bigger, and scattered with whatever Sirius had left in his pockets at the end of the day—Remus found three different packs of gum and laughed a little at the knickknacks they hadn’t been able to fit on their dresser. Part of him wanted to put everything back and ask Sirius to go through his own shit, but it was kind of neat finding souvenirs of their everyday lives.

Remus paused when his hand hit something solid and smooth before the back of the drawer. He felt around blindly, then carefully pulled it out. A box? His curiosity got the better of him before he could debate the nosiness of opening it; he lifted the shiny lid, tingling with anticipation, then frowned.

Paper. The box was full of slips of paper.

Lined, colorful, plain white, even some of his old PT stationary—everything Remus could think of, including a few cards at the bottom. He took a piece off the top and unfolded it, then nearly dropped the whole container when his own handwriting stared back at him.

Left @ 8 to see Leo. You were still out cold—sorry for wearing you out (not😊). Will be back around 4-ish. Love you! <3

Remus blinked at the note in shock for a moment. He remembered writing it on the old bookmark the morning after they went to the trampoline place and spent five hours jumping until they could hardly feel their legs. “But this was last summer,” he said aloud. “I—what?”

He poured a few more into his palm and set the box down gently, then sat back against the side of the bed and began to read.

Crock pot turned on. Pls remind me to take it off @ 5 pm. If I’m not home, pls unplug it @ 4:45 was written on a corner of printer paper.

Happy birthday baby! You are wonderful in every way and I love you so much <3 Here’s to hoping all your wishes come true! Love, Re, on a birthday card he had picked out because the dog on the front looked just like Hattie.

An entire conversation, complete with doodles and sarcastic comments from both of them, written on a piece of lined paper from one of the many conferences they had attended together.

-          Eggs

-          Chicken

-          Bread

-          Sweet tarts (for my sweetheart)

-          Oreos (there’s a sale this week, coupon under note 😊)

-          Pasta (twirly kind)

Love you <3

in his loopy half-cursive, with the shape of a fridge magnet still indented at the top near the crumpled edges from being shoved in Sirius’ back pocket.

“Well, shit,” Remus said, sniffling despite the fact that no tears dampened his eyes. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Dozens, if not hundreds, of little papers stared up at him from the open box and he blew out a slow breath, pressing a kiss to the one in his hand. He hadn’t realized just how many notes he had written over the course of their time together, and he skimmed his fingers through the rest before carefully putting the ones he had taken back in and closing the lid. The box fit into the drawer with ease and he leaned his head on the wood for a second to slow his heartbeat.

The nightstand moved the last few inches once the rest of the clutter was strewn across the floor and Remus quickly vacuumed the dust elephants before dumping it all back in. As much as he itched to throw some of it out—the empty wrappers and pen caps didn’t seem to have a use—he was afraid he’d accidentally toss an important memento. Hell, the note box had looked like a pile of confetti at first.

The front door opened just as he began lugging the vacuum cleaner downstairs. “Re, I’m home!” Sirius called, then broke into a bright smile when Remus appeared in the stairwell. He was soaked in sweat and Hattie was breathing hard; she collapsed on her bed with a dramatic groan after drinking a few mouthfuls of water, too exhausted to do more than thump her tail on the floor.

“Heya, handsome.” Remus’ heart picked up its pace again. You kept all my notes, it shrieked happily, doing its best to break right out of his chest with affection.

Sirius tilted his head when he saw the vacuum and the dust on Remus’ pants. “Were you cleaning?”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to get under the bed for a while, and I didn’t have anything else to do.” He shrugged. “You’re welcome to do it next time, if you like.”

“I’ll do the dishes to make up for it,” Sirius said as he leaned in for a kiss.

“No, you won’t.”

“No, I won’t. But I will dust the bookshelves and wipe down the kitchen.” They both laughed and Remus stood on his tiptoes for a second kiss, sliding his teeth over Sirius’ lower lip and drawing a noise of surprise from his mouth. “Hi. What was that for?”

“Love you.”

Sirius glanced down at himself, then raised an eyebrow. “…because I walked the dog? Or is it the sweat?”

“It’s definitely not the sweat,” Remus snorted, smacking his rear as he passed. “You can take yourself right upstairs with that. Where did you even go?”

“Around the neighborhood, then to the park. She grabbed my hat and we played keepaway for a bit.”

Remus hummed as he bent down to plug the vacuum into the wall socket. “How the hell did she—oh, ew!”

“What?” Sirius asked with mock-innocence as he lifted Remus higher off the ground and tucked his gross, sweaty face into his neck. “You don’t want cuddles?”

“You are literally dripping! Get the fuck off,” Remus said around his laughter, swatting at his shoulder when Sirius started swinging him back and forth slightly. “Sweat monster.”

“C’est vrai.” Sirius kissed the hinge of his jaw and set him down, then headed toward the stairs with a final grin. “Thank you for cleaning, mon loup.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Remus said, rolling his eyes playfully. A soon as he heard the bathroom door close, he let go of the vacuum and did a happy dance in the kitchen, much to Hattie’s amusement. He would have to remember to leave notes more often.

[salemwritesxx]

lycoris radiata

↳ pro-hero bakugou x pro-hero reader

summary: The myth around red spider lilies, lycoris radiata, is that, when you see someone you may never meet again, these flowers will bloom along the path. Thus, when Y/n and Katsuki depart on the morning of their 6th wedding anniversary to walk to their respective agencies and spider lilies bloom along the path Bakugou is walking on, Y/n gets an uneasy feeling, unaware that the legend surrounding these flowers may have a germ of truth to them after all.

w.count: 2k

content warning: angst, major character death, which leads to reader committing suicide, afterlife happy ending

“Okay, hey-“, you grinned and pulled him back one last time to peck his lips, “-don’t forget our rendezvous tonight, yeah?”, to which Bakugou only rolled his eyes – in a playful way though as he immediately pressed a soft kiss onto your mouth once more, not caring that you two stood in the middle of the streets.

“Don’t worry, I won’t forget.”, and with that, you finally let your husband go, though as he walked away from you, you couldn’t help but witness red spider lilies blooming along the pathway, hence you yelled after him, “Babe? Be careful, okay?”

“Ha?”, when he turned around and you pointed to the flowers, Katsuki only laughed and gestured a ‘whatever’ and saying a “Don’t be so superstitious, Y/n. It’s just a myth!”

Even though you both chuckled as he turned around and walked away for real this time, you still felt a slight uneasy feeling in your stomach, though you simply thought it was because you were excited to celebrate your 6th wedding anniversary with your husband.

--

“KATSUKI!”

You screamed as if you were the one being impaled, your knees were shaking, feeling like the ground was opening up underneath your feet and you fell into a dark, black hole any second.

Coughing up blood, he was hanging on the villain’s arm which was weirdly transformed to look like a lance – Bakugou hadn’t seen it coming, if he would have, he…

“Pathetic.”, the villain almost spit into his face before dropping him onto the pavement like some sort of trash, only to jump back immediately when other heroes already attacked him again.

You were rushing to your husband’s side who was coughing up more and more blood while squirming in pain, his “Y- Y/- Y/n…” being interrupted by his coughs, though you were already dropping to your knees to hold him.

“It’s okay, Baby, I’m here. Everything’s gonna be okay! Don’t worry, everything will be okay!”, you cried and sobbed, tears already streaming down your face while pressing him against your side and one hand against his wound where the villain impaled him.

Bakugou knew though. It’s why he was clawing at your hand so much, both of them soaked with his blood that just wouldn’t stop – he knew he wasn’t going to be okay. As he almost couldn’t speak anymore, because his lungs filled with more and more blood, he still grasped your hands as tightly as he could, smearing his own blood all over your arm in an attempt to stay.

“Y/n-“, gasping for breath, he was almost completely over the bridge as his tight grip slowly softened.

“I love you, Baby. I love you so much! Katsuki please, don’t go!”, not being able to suppress your desperate sobs, you barely choked out a “Please.” again as his grip loosened more and more around your own hand.

“I … love… y..o…u…”, were his last words, a single tear trickling down his cheek as his ruby eyes lost that sparkle you fell in love with the very first time you looked into them.  

“Katsu… No….Kat… Nononono please! PLEASE!”, literally begging him to not go, you hugged his bloody, heavy body so close against your chest while you cried, not caring about the explosions from further back into the streets as other heroes still fought against the villains, while rescue heroes only gradually managed to get through the wrecked buildings.

You shouldn’t even be here. Bakugou and you had been in two different agencies, it only should have been a calm day at your respective work places, wanting to be done quickly so you could enjoy your wedding anniversary tonight, but then, all available heroes were called up when the villain went on a rampage.

How…? How did it turn out like that? A harmless villain turned out to be so strong? How… could have anyone guess that? How could have anyone seen that coming?

So, it was true. Walking along a path where red spider lilies bloomed meant you wouldn’t see each other again…

Rescue heroes tried to calm you down and get you to let go of Katsuki’s lifeless body, but you just yelled at them, your voice high-pitched and so full of pain, and cried and held him tighter, not caring that you were full of his blood as you still couldn’t process that this wasn’t a dream, but it was reality… Harsh reality.

Your husband was dead.

And with that, your soul and heart shattered into million little pieces, unable to be whole ever again.

-------6 weeks later--------

You sat in front of Katsuki’s grave.

It was a cold spring night, though to be honest, you hadn’t been warm in the last weeks ever since that accident – the coldness you felt was never going to leave ever again.

Your fingers were softly playing your guitar. Making music had always brought peace to your husband’s mind, whenever he felt angry, frustrated, anxious or any other negative feeling, he would flop beside you and make you play the guitar for him. It calmed him and sometimes, you would both sing crookedly to get him back into a better mood – very fond memories indeed.

Tears were blurring your vision, even though you shouldn’t have been able to cry anymore with how many tears you had shed in the last weeks, but it still felt surreal. Knowing he was never going to come back again – never.

Slowly, your fingers stopped as you stared onto his gravestone. There were red spider lilies planted around – how ironic. Though they weren’t blooming as it was now spring.

Was is really just superstition? Or should you have been warned that day? That uneasy feeling you had felt - it wasn’t excitement, it was a sense of foreboding, and you had ignored it…

Putting your guitar, that had stickers with his hero name and your own, as well as stupid little things like a dick doodle on it, to the side, you sighed and rubbed your red, swollen eyes. You did have this guitar since your middle school days after all. And you remembered when all these things happened oh so vividly. Still hearing the giggle and laughter of your, back then in high school, boyfriend, while you yelled at him for being an idiot. Being angry over a dick doodle seemed so petty now.

Taking your permanent marker, you opened the cap with your teeth, before leaning in and doodling a broken heart onto the surface with the date of your husband’s dying day on it. Spitting out the lid of the marker, you put the pen onto your guitar, before staring back at Bakugou’s grave.

“Please tell me.. Who should be my soulmate now? Who will hold my hand while I drive? Who will hold me when I can’t sleep at night? There is nobody like you out there, Baby…. so please tell me…”, you were crying again as you sobbed and rubbed over your face, “Tell me, who could possibly take your place? My first and last love. I won’t be able to do anything without you…”

Your heart was hurting so much, you couldn’t take it. You knew he was irreplaceable, there was no one out there that could ever give you what he gave you all those past years.

Bakugou was sitting beside you, though you didn’t know – of course you didn’t, was he a mere spirit now, never leaving your side as his translucent hand touched your own.

“Please, you need to go on. Don’t do it…”, tears were in the corner of his eyes, wishing he could talk to you, wishing you could hear his desperate attempts to keep you from committing suicide. Katsuki loved you, he wanted to be with you, but he couldn’t be selfish anymore – you couldn’t throw everything away just because of him.

Though, as he was a mere ghost sitting beside you, he couldn’t do anything but watch.

With a shaking hand you then reached for the gun you had purchased today on the black market – to think, at last, you were doing illegal stuff even though you were a hero – before coming here and sitting in front of his grave for hours. You couldn’t possibly be alive without him beside you. It just hurt too much. You didn’t care about anything, you had no one besides him. Katsuki was your everything and all you wanted to do was finally meet him again.

Sobbing quietly, you then held the end of the gun against your temple, your e/c still staring at his gravestone, before you whispered one last time, “I want to meet you again. Please. I miss you so much.”

“I promise, I’ll be there.”, Katsuki whispered.

For the first time in weeks, there was warmth surrounding your heart and with a smile you barely mumbled “I know you’re waiting for me.”

And then, a loud bang echoed through the silent night and the cemetery, cherry blossom petals, that were in full bloom now, swaying in the wind and slowly falling down and onto your lifeless body.

-

“Y/n…Y/n…”, the familiar voice made you gradually open your eyes – above you, it was an ocean of pink and white cherry blossoms. But then, as you looked further back, you saw directly into Katsuki’s face, his smile making you feel so warm and fuzzy instantly. It was in that moment you realized your head was resting in his lap.

“Katsu…”

“You should have lived a long, happy life…”, his voice was so soothing and calm as he combed through your hair, though you just shook your head, tears already welling up in your eyes.

“I was already dead inside the moment you were gone.”, and then, you finally sat back up to connect your lips, Bakugou immediately slinging his arms around your neck and pulling you in closer as you both fell back into a pile of cherry blossoms.

“I love you. I love you so much. And now we’re together again.”, you whispered against his lips, lacing your fingers together and Katsuki squeezing your hand tightly, the sparkle in his ruby eyes back as tears shimmered in them as well.

“And we will never be apart again.”, he barely mumbled back, before you hugged each other tightly as your lips melted together tenderly.

--

Katsuki and you were sitting on the gravestone together, it was the day your lifeless body joined Katsuki’s in the shared grave. Watching your family and Katsuki’s once more crying so much, it really did break your heart.

“I wish they wouldn’t have to go through that again.”, he said and sighed, though also squeezing your hand tightly.

“Mh… But it was inevitable… I know they know that, too…”, since you and Mitsuki were quite close, she, of course, knew how badly Katsuki’s death affected you, even though she tried to help, the moment you were alone, you knew you couldn’t take the loss of someone so precious to you.

“Y/n… I know your pain was immense… I just hope you are both happy now wherever you are…”, Mitsuki quietly cried as she stood in front of the grave with your coffin in it, joining Katsuki’s, Masaru holding her close by his side, both of them a red spider lily in their hands that weren’t blooming.

Looking at each other for a moment, you both stood up from the gravestone and walked towards his parents, softly touching the flower, making them bloom in their hands.

“Let’s go. We are free now. Let’s see the world - together.”, Bakugou smiled and you chuckled and nodded, “Yeah.”, only to pull him closer and softly kiss him and whisper, “Together forever.”, which earned you Katsuki’s soft giggle and him pulling you closer to connect your lips once more.

Mitsuki and Masaru were both completely astonished when the red spider lilies in their hands started blooming, as if it was your answer to their question if you were both happy now, making Katsuki’s Mom smile and cry a little harder.

Though, once she looked ahead, she thought it was probably because she was sleep-deprived and in so much emotional pain, but… she saw you and Katsuki holding onto and smiling at each other. His mind must be playing tricks on her and yet, it was bittersweet to witness you two like that…

“They are happy…”, she wiped away her tears and with a smile on her lips, Mitsuki threw the blooming spider lilies into the grave eventually, knowing that her son and son-in-law were now happily dancing in the cherry blossom trees.

@salemwritesxx || do not repost, edit, modify or translate my works

writer’s note: ya boy literally chickened out the last minute and made it a somewhat happy ending instead of leaving it sad… idk i kind of just want them to find their happiness again in their afterlives 💌 my first idea was to make Y/n sing his heart out on like a roof and then jump, then I wanted him to sing his heart out in front of katsu’s grave and in the end, we just have some soft guitar play and a gun… but while I listen to the song I had playing on repeat while writing this, I still imagine Y/n singing loudly for his Baby and grieving terribly 💔

[luvnami]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 - happy birthday you sexy beast. inspired by that one chapter in horimiya where sengoku confesses to remi lol

𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 - @sugawaaras​ @dearkodzuken​

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 - fluff/angst

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - apocalypse au, death

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 1445

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 - matsukawa issei x reader

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 - the day on which the world is to end just happens to be matsukawa’s birthday

7.01am. 

The sun burns through the morning mist, though the numbers in the sky above you do not disappear. 12 hours and 59 minutes left until the end of the world. 

Despite this impending catastrophe, the world itself does not seem grieved. You still walk amongst the hundreds of students that head to school, employees board crowded buses as they are ferried to work, and housewives and husbands still vacuum the floor while a variety show plays in the background.

You would think that there would be something special about death, about the end.

Matsukawa Issei catches up to you. “Hey,” he greets, and nudges you in the side with his arm.

“Happy birthday,” you return. “Isn’t it weird to have your birthday before we all die?”

“Don’t think about it so depressingly,” he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s still a normal day.”

What defines normality? Everyone dies at some point. Shouldn’t it be a momentous occasion, however, that the entirety of humanity will be wiped out tonight? Some will be sleeping, some will be awake, watching the earth consumed by the great cosmos beyond.

You shelf the thoughts for another time. A minute, an hour later.

School goes by as normal. Lessons are conducted, albeit with the nagging feeling of this being the last class that one might teach or attend. You wonder if half the students are even paying attention. Your open notebook is filled with scribbles and doodles.

By the time lunch break rolls around, the pages are torn out and crumpled at the bottom of your bag. Matsukawa and Hanamaki come over to your table with bento boxes in hand. 

“Octopus sausages still? What are you, 5?” you tease Hanamaki, who responds with a kick at your shin, leaving you to howl in pain. 

“Not like you’re any better,” Matsukawa remarks at your store-bought onigiri and packet milk.

The three of you sit and eat, exchanging jokes and comments on the previous lessons. You’re surprised that Oikawa and Iwaizumi haven’t appeared from their classes just yet. Perhaps they’re still caught up with the brunette’s fangirls — that’s normal. 

“Is there any place you want to head to, birthday boy?” Hanamaki asks.

Matsukawa swallows his mouthful of food before replying. “Not particularly.”

“Are you going to go for volleyball training?”

“Yeah, of course. Iwaizumi would kill me if I skipped, even if we can’t play for nationals now,” he laughs.

“I’ll meet you afterwards, then?” you say.

Matsukawa looks at you, his gaze softening. “Yeah.”

The bell rings. You return to class, tossing your empty milk packet and onigiri wrapper into the trash. 

It’s evening by the time volleyball training ends. You wait for Matsukawa by the school gate. The weather is still a little chilly, and you shove  your hands deeper into the pockets of your jacket.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Matsukawa’s low voice startles you, before he lets out an amused chuckle at your shocked face. 

“Didn’t have to scare me like that,” you mutter.

He smiles and takes your hand in his. You let him pull your hand out of your jacket, before pushing your connected ones into his own pocket.

Dinner is fast, slurped ramen combined with antics from their last training session makes you choke on your hot tea a few times. Matsukawa almost pukes his food from laughing too hard. By the time you’re done, your belly is full and your cheeks ache from smiling so much.

The walk home is much quieter.

“Did you say bye to everyone?” you question.

“Yeah. Oikawa was crying like a baby,” Matsukawa says.

“I would’ve guessed that much.”

You reach out for his hand. He lets you take it, enveloping you in his warmth. 

7.25pm. Two hours and thirty five minutes until the end of the world.

It’s already 8pm when you rush over to Matsukawa’s house, fresh out of the shower with a bundle of photo albums and games to spend the time. He pulls you into his arms when you step through the door. 

He smells fresh, not like the horrible 3-in-1 soap that he uses when he’s rushed. You relax against his soft hoodie, letting him press you to his chest and kiss your forehead tenderly. It’s a minute worth of time that you wouldn’t ever give up.

Matsukawa leads you into his bedroom, where you open up scattered albums to revive forgotten memories. There are photos of you when you were a baby, chubby and waving fists around you. You giggle at a picture of toddler Matsukawa only in a diaper, and he cackles at you, aged five, dressed in the ugliest tutu he’s ever seen. There’s a photo of you both on your first date, awfully awkward, and another of Matsukawa trying to balance a pen on his nose.

Afterwards, you go through a few games of Stress and snack away, guessing what the other third years are doing right now. 

Matsukawa lays on your thighs as you play with his hair, his eyes closed. The time is currently 9.50pm. Ten minutes left until the end of the world.

“Hey, Issei?”

He responds with a drawn out hum.

“Happy birthday.” “Why are you wishing me that again? Weirdo,” he jokes.

“You didn’t even get a birthday cake or something this year. No presents, no party, nothing at all. Don’t you feel a little sad about it?”

“It would all be gone the same day if anyone gave me something. That sounds like a waste of money.”

“Weirdo,” you tease back, and he opens his eyes just to roll them.

“Hey, Issei.”

“Yeah?”

“What would you do the day before you die?”

At this, he laughs and you can’t help but crack a smile as well. He stares off into the corner of his room.

“Well… I would celebrate my birthday. I would go to school and volleyball training as usual, and then spend the rest of the night with you.”

“Aw, how romantic.”

“What would you do?”

“I’d eat all the candy in the world.”

Matsukawa glares at you. “And not spend time with me?”

“I’ll share the candy with you.”

“That’d just give us stomach aches. I don’t want to die while shitting my guts out, you know.”

The room falls silent. Matsukawa glances at his clock on the wall, and the second hand ticks by, counting down to the very moment of his death. It’s strange, that he isn’t scared. What happens after death, why he’s never questioned the existence of the numbers in the sky, Matsukawa doesn’t really care.

He laces his fingers with yours. 9.57pm. Three more minutes. 

You grip his hand tightly. 

“What do you think will happen when it reaches 10pm? Will the earth blow up? Will we all just drop dead?” you whisper.

“I hope we turn into zombies. I’ll stagger over to Hanamaki’s place to freak him out and then eat his brains.”

“Ew, that’s so nasty, Issei. Even if I was a zombie, I wouldn’t eat any brains.”

“Not even mine?”

“Do zombies have brains?”

Matsukawa smiles fondly at you. He sits up and interlocks his arm with yours, before laying his head on your shoulder. The curls of his hair tickles your cheek.

9.58pm.

“What kind of sweets would you eat before you die?” Matsukawa asks.

“Strawberry shortcake. Cheesecake. Tiramisu. Creme Brulee. Macaron.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Well, it would be my last time eating them.”

“Should we have gotten sweets today, then? From that bakery near school, I heard they were having a sale today.”

“Maybe. But it’s too late to regret that now.”

9.59pm.

You close your eyes, tilting your head back so it rests against the wall. Your heart jumps in your chest and you will it to slow down, to fall behind the flow of time. As if it could do that.

Matsukawa readjusts your hands so that your fingers are intertwined. He’s silent, stroking your knuckles with his free hand. 

Each second passes like a grain of sand falling through an hourglass’ waist, landing on an uncountable bed of other seconds that have passed. There’s thirty left, now twenty nine, now twenty eight. It’s an undeniable fact that you’ll be unable to turn time back. 

“Issei,” you whisper so softly, Matsukawa has to strain to hear you.

You lean down, tilting your chin to press your lips against his. His eyes flutter shut. His lips are chapped, rough against your soft ones as you kiss. 

Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen. 

You don’t separate. 

Eight, seven, six.

Matsukawa pulls away briefly. “I love you,” he breathes.

Four, three, two.

“I love you too.”

Zero.

[browniefox]

The One with the Motorcycle

@wrightfamilyweek day 4 - Free day! Which I took to mean 'shove my headcanon here'. At first I wanted to do something with Ryuunosuke, but I still haven't finished tgaa so uhhhh sorry my boy. Also, you can find this on AO3 here.

In which Trucy and Phoenix decide they need to find a more reliable method of getting around. Luckily, Phoenix already has a vehicle registered under his name.

oOo

“Does this mean that when I turn sixteen, I’ll get a motorcycle license?”

Trucy skips alongside her Daddy as they walk through the aisles of the storage facility. They pass locked garage after garage. Trucy has always known that her Daddy had somewhere he stores a bunch of stuff that doesn’t fit in the office, the stuff he used to keep in his apartment back when he had one, but this is her first time coming along with him.

There’s been a lot leading up to this. Now that Trucy’s getting a little older, there’s more things she wants to do, or go to, and Daddy seems to be getting a little busier too. He’s started going down to the library more often, and having some kind of meetings for lunch, and getting calls by people Trucy doesn’t know. They’re both getting busy, and buses and taxis only get them so far. Daddy had declared, in an almost resigned-sounding voice after they missed a bus and had to wait underneath the bus stop in the pouring rain for another thirty minutes, that perhaps it was time to find a more reliable method to get around.

“Dessie says she’s running a little late, but she’ll be here soon.” Trucy is in charge of the phone while Daddy frets over the pieces of paper in his hands, crinkling the edges up in his nervous hands.

Daddy doesn’t reply to this either, just keeps walking forward. Trucy frowns to herself. Daddy’s been kind of weird about this whole thing. From getting the Learner’s Permit, to the practice drives and lessons with Desiree, to his final test, but now if anything he seems at his most awkward and strange as they approach the storage unit.

They final come to a stop, and Daddy pulls up the metal door.

If old case files in the office were little glimpses into who Daddy was before Trucy knew him, this place was an in-color photograph.

There’s cardboard boxes with ‘sketchbooks’ scrawled on the front. There’s a dead plant in the corner. There’s a stack of picture frames, an old couch shoved into a corner, and a small wood table with rings from the ghosts of old drinks, a few splashes of paint marring the surface. There’s some art supplies shoved off in a corner that Trucy immediately goes over to, and piles of books Trucy hasn’t read before, and Trucy wants nothing more than to stay here all day and look through everything and anything in sight.

In the middle of the storage unit, however, is what they’ve come here for.

It’s a lilac-colored motorcycle. There’s an unhealthy-layer of dust on it - there’s a layer of dust on everything in the room - and Daddy brushes his hand over the seat and handles, sending a plume of the dust into the air. He starts sneezing and coughing over it and Trucy laughs a little at that. She stops in a moment, though, because of the almost-grim look on Daddy’s face as he stares at the bike.

They’ve been building up to this for months, in reality. Trucy realizes this now, that everything up to this point has been to get this motorcycle out of the garage and back onto the streets, because it was a vehicle Daddy already owns, and he wouldn’t have to go through the hassle nor money involved in getting a new one. But it’s also all conflicted with Daddy’s attempts to distance himself from the past.

Daddy wants to move forward in life, she gets that, but it makes Trucy sad anyway to see how nervous and resigned he’d looked about so much as calling the Delites for help. Like doing that much is losing something.

“So this is Aunt Mia’s bike?” Trucy asks, going over to it as well. She doesn’t know anything about things like this, but it looks like it’s in okay condition. It’s certainly not as shiny as Desiree’s, but it’s not bad.

“Yeah, it’s been a while. Sorry I haven’t by.” He says, and she can tell he’s not talking to her. His eyes are fixed on the bike like sometimes he’ll stare at Charley for what seems like hours on end; it’s never for that long, but it feels like it might be at times. He tilts her head to Trucy and explains, “I used to come by and try to keep it clean and stuff, but things have gotten… complicated. I’m sure Mia’s upset I haven’t done more to maintain this since she’s been gone.”

Ah, it’s one of the days where he’s talking about Aunt Mia in the present tense. It’s hard to tell if that’s ever a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe it’s just A Thing he does sometimes. Even after four years, there’s still so much Trucy hasn’t figured out about her daddy. Sometimes, he talks about Aunt Mia as the dead person she is, gone and out of this world, a deceased but loved person, just like Trucy’s mommy was talked about. Other days, though, it’s like he expects Aunt Mia to walk through the door any minute.

“Alright, well, let’s see what we can do before Desiree gets here.”

Daddy’s temporary license, the edges of which are almost torn up by his worrying hands, is set aside on top of the sketchbook box and he grabs a towel from one of the other boxes, setting to work on a more thorough dusting. Trucy searches through Daddy’s phone for the list of what to check for that Desiree had texted him and passes it over to Daddy.

Trucy picks a stool out from the mess of things and rifles through the sketchbook box, finding one and flipping through it. There’s mostly little doodles and the like on the pages, or realistic portraits of faces Trucy doesn’t recognize. She wonders if, were Daddy not so determined to distance himself from the past, she’d know any of them. There is a picture of Miles, and she knows him, so she smiles at that picture and lightly brushes her hand over the pencil markings. Miles looks really angry in the picture, and scribbled right next to him is ‘I’ll save you’.

And Daddy did.

“Alright, let’s see what we have to work with today!”

Desiree announces herself, carrying her own box of tools

“Thought you might not show up for a moment.” Daddy jokes, but it’s one of his hollow-sounding jokes. Desiree laughs anyway.

“Oh please, I’ve been waiting to get a look at this beast for myself ever since you told me about it!” Desiree says and starts going over the bike. She talks about oil and gas and spark plugs and batteries, looking over everything and digging through her stuff and checking things. She says they’re going to need a new battery, and definitely replace just about all of the fluids. Luckily, Desiree is well-capable of doing all of that, she assures them, and they’d be able to get it up and moving enough to get it to her shop where she could do some of the rougher things to do.

“How much do I owe you?” Daddy asks, and Desiree waves her hand.

“We can discuss that later, let’s focus on getting this beauty out of this dusty-old place and back here she belongs, huh?”

Desiree has said that every time, so far, that Daddy asks about price. Trucy can see that it means Desiree doesn’t really want to make Daddy pay for any of it, but it seems to put Daddy more and more on edge every time Desiree says it. He’s waiting for something bad to happen, and his tension over it bleeds into Trucy, even though she’s not worried. Desiree is a nice lady who likes to chat to Trucy and can talk a mile a minute about motorcycles. When she’s not talking about them, she’s talking about her husband, Ron

They walk the bike out of the storage facility, Desiree filling the space with chatter about what the make and model of Aunt Mia’s motorcycle is, and the pluses and minuses of it, and how it’s lucky that it already has a backseat for Trucy. Daddy says that he used to ride with Aunt Mia sometimes, eyes trained on the bike still, as if he expected it to fall apart at a moment’s notice.

Desiree’s red-hot bike is parked out front and she tells them to meet her at her shop. She’ll be able to finish up there, where the rest of her supplies is.

“Don’t worry, she should be able to get you there just fine. And anyway, you can tell me if anything starts sounding worrying!” Desiree says as she climbs onto her bike. It’s been what Daddy has been practicing on, what Daddy even passed his driving test on just yesterday, and the rumble of it had just started to become familiar. Trucy feels like she’s going to miss it, but she’s excited to see how Aunt Mia’s bike works out.

Desiree peels out and leaves Daddy and Trucy standing on the side of the road, Daddy regarding Aunt Mia’s bike like it’s a python that’s going to bite them.

“... maybe this was a bad idea.” Daddy says five months too late.

“You worry too much! C’mon, Dessie’s waiting for us!” Trucy hops next to him, excited to get on the bike. Daddy sighs, turning his helmet over and over in his hands. Trucy has her own, bought a couple months ago, but she hasn’t been allowed on a bike yet. ‘Not until I get my official license’, Daddy had insisted. Now is the time, though.

“But what if something happens? What if I crash, and you get hurt?” He says. Trucy feels a ripple of shock run through her and she looks at Daddy’s face. His expression is grim and an open wound of his emotion. Of worry and fear, “What if I crash and I ruin her bike? What if-”

“Daddy, you’re being dumb” Trucy informs him. Daddy looks at her, and she can already see him starting to close off again, but she steals the last few moments of honesty she can, desperately, “Daddy you can do this, okay? We’re going to be okay. Even if we have to go five miles an hour to get there.”

“I think I’m actually worse at driving slow.” Daddy grumbles. Trucy grabs his hands.

“Then we’ll go really fast. We aren’t giving up on this just because you’re scared.”

Daddy sighs and then ruffles her hair.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. It’d be stupid to give up right now. It doesn’t matter how long it’s going to take.”

They put their helmets on and climb onto the bike. They both hold their breaths when the engine first starts, and then it roars to life. It’s different than Desiree’s although exactly how, Trucy isn’t sure. She wraps her arms around her daddy’s stomach as they get going, keeping her eyes open. She isn’t scared, she can’t be. She needs to seem sure and trusting over this, for his sake, for their sake, so that they can make it through here together.

Things don’t change a lot with Daddy. They’ve lived in the same place for all this time, and Daddy’s worked at the same bar, and Trucy’s worked at the same bar, and they have the same routines day to week to month to year. This is new, this is change, but it’s a good thing.

They roar down the streets for the first time, Daddy is shaking, Trucy can feel it with how tightly she’s holding onto him. The air roars past them, chillingly-cold.

He did this for me, Trucy thinks, and then, no, he did this for us. For family, so that we can keep moving forwards .

If they had stood still, they would’ve been alright with buses and taxis and rides from friends. But they are moving forward in life, they need the ability to do more, be more independent, further their own things.

And help, here they had help, from Desiree, and from the thoughtfulness of Aunt Mia to leave Phoenix to her bike, and Ron had told Trucy before that Phoenix had helped them (Trucy had already known this, she’s read that case and every other case what feels like a thousand times over, her illicit self-read bedtime stories) and that they’d been wanting to do something for the man ever since they heard about The Disbarment.

It’s sort of funny, how independence and getting help seemed to go hand-in-hand.

Trucy and her Daddy roar down the streets, and her grip loosens as she gets more comfortable, and Daddy stops shaking so badly as he gets into his groove, because he’s done this before and has been training and practicing, and he knows how to ride a bike now, and Desiree has taught him how to maintain it, and now, now they are going towards a new normal, a new schedule, a second half of the darkest time of their lives (of course, Trucy doesn’t know this, and neither does her daddy, and now it seems like the shadows is simply where they will always be living) and they prepare to meet it together.