#opening the door without checking

[rosestarlightkatarina]

Someone must do this

In Coffeewoman we trust!

Tap for better quality

[trekkerac]

Ok I'm the anon who asked how he got shot and I almost did specify that I haven't watched the actual show in ages so that might've been a dumb question (turns out, yes, it was)

not to worry i also misremembered it, this made me go rewatch that bit and

he actually for a second checks who it is first before slamming the door the whole way open and pointing the crossbow. this whole time i thought ihe immediately pulled the crossbow out.

[pilonciillo]

lol didn’t think someone giving money would give me anxiety

[gemharvest]

How many times can I go "I feel like ass but it's fine I'll be fine" until it becomes hollow to everyone around me. BHASJGFNJFGNK

[paperconsumption]

not a single person in this school knows elevator etiquette i’m sick to my stomach

[widowshill]

[liebelesbe]

somebody locked him into the garage and ever since we got him out he's always sitting right next to us 😭

[ID: A brownish grey tabby cat sitting right next to my legs. End ID]

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[sinfulnoodle]

To add to this tho.

Good things can be behind the door too

often horror will ask the question “what if there was a strange man outside your door?” and my answer is Well i would not like that very much. real life is like this, too

[this-doesnt-endd]

okay i lost all ability to pay attention to my homework time to get buzzed and watch lost highway

[therealbeachfox]

Twenty years ago, February 15th, 2004, I got married for the first time.

It was twenty years earlier than I ever expected to.

To celebrate/comemorate the date, I'm sitting down to write out everything I remember as I remember it. No checking all the pictures I took or all the times I've written about this before. I'm not going to turn to my husband (of twenty years, how the f'ing hell) to remember a detail for me.

This is not a 100% accurate recounting of that first wild weekend in San Francisco. But it -is- a 100% accurate recounting of how I remember it today, twenty years after the fact.

Join me below, if you would.

2004 was an election year, and much like conservatives are whipping up anti-trans hysteria and anti-trans bills and propositions to drive out the vote today, in 2004 it was all anti-gay stuff. Specifically, preventing the evil scourge of same-sex marriage from destroying everything good and decent in the world.

Enter Gavin Newstrom. At the time, he was the newly elected mayor of San Francisco. Despite living next door to the city all my life, I hadn’t even heard of the man until Valentines Day 2004 when he announced that gay marriage was legal in San Francisco and started marrying people at city hall.

It was a political stunt. It was very obviously a political stunt. That shit was illegal, after all. But it was a very sweet political stunt. I still remember the front page photo of two ancient women hugging each other forehead to forehead and crying happy tears.

But it was only going to last for as long as it took for the California legal system to come in and make them knock it off.

The next day, we’re on the phone with an acquaintance, and she casually mentions that she’s surprised the two of us aren’t up at San Francisco getting married with everyone else.

“Everyone else?” Goes I, “I thought they would’ve shut that down already?”

“Oh no!” goes she, “The courts aren’t open until Tuesday. Presidents Day on Monday and all. They’re doing them all weekend long!”

We didn’t know because social media wasn’t a thing yet. I only knew as much about it as I’d read on CNN, and most of the blogs I was following were more focused on what bullshit President George W Bush was up to that day.

"Well shit", me and my man go, "do you wanna?" I mean, it’s a political stunt, it wont really mean anything, but we’re not going to get another chance like this for at least 20 years. Why not?

The next day, Sunday, we get up early. We drive north to the southern-most BART station. We load onto Bay Area Rapid Transit, and rattle back and forth all the way to the San Francisco City Hall stop.

We had slightly miscalculated.

Apparently, demand for marriages was far outstripping the staff they had on hand to process them. Who knew. Everyone who’d gotten turned away Saturday had been given tickets with times to show up Sunday to get their marriages done. My babe and I, we could either wait to see if there was a space that opened up, or come back the next day, Monday.

“Isn’t City Hall closed on Monday?” I asked. “It’s a holiday”

“Oh sure,” they reply, “but people are allowed to volunteer their time to come in and work on stuff anyways. And we have a lot of people who want to volunteer their time to have the marriage licensing offices open tomorrow.”

“Oh cool,” we go, “Backup.”

“Make sure you’re here if you do,” they say, “because the California Supreme Court is back in session Tuesday, and will be reviewing the motion that got filed to shut us down.”

And all this shit is super not-legal, so they’ll totally be shutting us down goes unsaid.

00000

We don’t get in Saturday. We wind up hanging out most of the day, though.

It’s… incredible. I can say, without hyperbole, that I have never experienced so much concentrated joy and happiness and celebration of others’ joy and happiness in all my life before or since. My face literally ached from grinning. Every other minute, a new couple was coming out of City Hall, waving their paperwork to the crowd and cheering and leaping and skipping. Two glorious Latina women in full Mariachi band outfits came out, one in the arms of another. A pair of Jewish boys with their families and Rabbi. One couple managed to get a Just Married convertible arranged complete with tin-cans tied to the bumper to drive off in. More than once I was giving some rice to throw at whoever was coming out next.

At some point in the mid-afternoon, there was a sudden wave of extra cheering from the several hundred of us gathered at the steps, even though no one was coming out. There was a group going up the steps to head inside, with some generic black-haired shiny guy at the front. My not-yet-husband nudged me, “That’s Newsom.” He said, because he knew I was hopeless about matching names and people.

Ooooooh, I go. That explains it. Then I joined in the cheers. He waved and ducked inside.

So dusk is starting to fall. It’s February, so it’s only six or so, but it’s getting dark.

“Should we just try getting in line for tomorrow -now-?” we ask.

“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.” One of the volunteers tells us. “We’re not allowed to have people hang out overnight like this unless there are facilities for them and security. We’d need Porta-Poties for a thousand people and police patrols and the whole lot, and no one had time to get all that organized. Your best bet is to get home, sleep, and then catch the first BART train up at 5am and keep your fingers crossed.

Monday is the last day to do this, after all.

00000

So we go home. We crash out early. We wake up at 4:00. We drive an hour to hit the BART station. We get the first train up. We arrive at City Hall at 6:30AM.

The line stretches around the entirety of San Francisco City Hall. You could toss a can of Coke from the end of the line to the people who’re up to be first through the doors and not have to worry about cracking it open after.

“Uh.” We go. “What the fuck is -this-?”

So.

Remember why they weren’t going to be able to have people hang out overnight?

Turns out, enough SF cops were willing to volunteer unpaid time to do patrols to cover security. And some anonymous person delivered over a dozen Porta-Poties that’d gotten dropped off around 8 the night before.

It’s 6:30 am, there are almost a thousand people in front of us in line to get this literal once in a lifetime marriage, the last chance we expect to have for at least 15 more years (it was 2004, gay rights were getting shoved back on every front. It was not looking good. We were just happy we lived in California were we at least weren’t likely to loose job protections any time soon.).

Then it starts to rain.

We had not dressed for rain.

00000

Here is how the next six hours go.

We’re in line. Once the doors open at 7am, it will creep forward at a slow crawl. It’s around 7 when someone shows up with garbage bags for everyone. Cut holes for the head and arms and you’ve got a makeshift raincoat! So you’ve got hundreds of gays and lesbians decked out in the nicest shit they could get on short notice wearing trashbags over it.

Everyone is so happy.

Everyone is so nervous/scared/frantic that we wont be able to get through the doors before they close for the day.

People online start making delivery orders.

Coffee and bagels are ordered in bulk and delivered to City Hall for whoever needs it. We get pizza. We get roses. Random people come by who just want to give hugs to people in line because they’re just so happy for us. The tour busses make detours to go past the lines. Chinese tourists lean out with their cameras and shout GOOD LUCK while car horns honk.

A single sad man holding a Bible tries to talk people out of doing this, tells us all we’re sinning and to please don’t. He gives up after an hour. A nun replaces him with a small sign about how this is against God’s will. She leaves after it disintegrates in the rain.

The day before, when it was sunny, there had been a lot of protestors. Including a large Muslim group with their signs about how “Not even DOGS do such things!” Which… Yes they do.

A lot of snide words are said (by me) about how the fact that we’re willing to come out in the rain to do this while they’re not willing to come out in the rain to protest it proves who actually gives an actual shit about the topic.

Time passes. I measure it based on which side of City Hall we’re on. The doors face East. We start on Northside. Coffee and trashbags are delivered when we’re on the North Side. Pizza first starts showing up when we’re on Westside, which is also where I see Bible Man and Nun. Roses are delivered on Southside. And so forth.

00000

We have Line Neighbors.

Ahead of us are a gay couple a decade or two older than us. They’ve been together for eight years. The older one is a school teacher. He has his coat collar up and turns away from any news cameras that come near while we reposition ourselves between the lenses and him. He’s worried about the parents of one of his students seeing him on the news and getting him fired. The younger one will step away to get interviewed on his own later on. They drove down for the weekend once they heard what was going on. They’d started around the same time we did, coming from the Northeast, and are parked in a nearby garage.

The most perky energetic joyful woman I’ve ever met shows up right after we turned the corner to Southside to tackle the younger of the two into a hug. She’s their local friend who’d just gotten their message about what they’re doing and she will NOT be missing this. She is -so- happy for them. Her friends cry on her shoulders at her unconditional joy.

Behind us are a lesbian couple who’d been up in San Francisco to celebrate their 12th anniversary together. “We met here Valentines Day weekend! We live down in San Diego, now, but we like to come up for the weekend because it’s our first love city.”

“Then they announced -this-,” the other one says, “and we can’t leave until we get married. I called work Sunday and told them I calling in sick until Wednesday.”

“I told them why,” her partner says, “I don’t care if they want to give me trouble for it. This is worth it. Fuck them.”

My husband-to-be and I look at each other. We’ve been together for not even two years at this point. Less than two years. Is it right for us to be here? We’re potentially taking a spot from another couple that’d been together longer, who needed it more, who deserved it more.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Says the 40-something gay couple in front of us.

“This is as much for you as it is for us!” says the lesbian couple who’ve been together for over a decade behind us.

“You kids are too cute together,” says the gay couple’s friend. “you -have- to. Someday -you’re- going to be the old gay couple that’s been together for years and years, and you deserve to have been married by then.”

We stay in line.

It’s while we’re on the Southside of City Hall, just about to turn the corner to Eastside at long last that we pick up our own companions. A white woman who reminds me an awful lot of my aunt with a four year old black boy riding on her shoulders. “Can we say we’re with you? His uncles are already inside and they’re not letting anyone in who isn’t with a couple right there.” “Of course!” we say.

The kid is so very confused about what all the big deal is, but there’s free pizza and the busses keep driving by and honking, so he’s having a great time.

We pass by a statue of Lincoln with ‘Marriage for All!’ and "Gay Rights are Human Rights!" flags tucked in the crooks of his arms and hanging off his hat.

It’s about noon, noon-thirty when we finally make it through the doors and out of the rain.

They’ve promised that anyone who’s inside when the doors shut will get married. We made it. We’re safe.

We still have a -long- way to go.

00000

They’re trying to fit as many people into City Hall as possible. Partially to get people out of the rain, mostly to get as many people indoors as possible. The line now stretches down into the basement and up side stairs and through hallways I’m not entirely sure the public should ever be given access to. We crawl along slowly but surely.

It’s after we’ve gone through the low-ceiling basement hallways past offices and storage and back up another set of staircases and are going through a back hallway of low-ranked functionary offices that someone comes along handing out the paperwork. “It’s an hour or so until you hit the office, but take the time to fill these out so you don’t have to do it there!”

We spend our time filling out the paperwork against walls, against backs, on stone floors, on books.

We enter one of the public areas, filled with displays and photos of City Hall Demonstrations of years past.

I take pictures of the big black and white photo of the Abraham Lincoln statue holding banners and signs against segregation and for civil rights.

The four year old boy we helped get inside runs past us around this time, chased by a blond haired girl about his own age, both perused by an exhausted looking teenager helplessly begging them to stop running.

Everyone is wet and exhausted and vibrating with anticipation and the building-wide aura of happiness that infuses everything.

The line goes into the marriage office. A dozen people are at the desk, shoulder to shoulder, far more than it was built to have working it at once.

A Sister of Perpetual Indulgence is directing people to city officials the moment they open up. She’s done up in her nun getup with all her makeup on and her beard is fluffed and be-glittered and on point. “Oh, I was here yesterday getting married myself, but today I’m acting as your guide. Number 4 sweeties, and -Congradulatiooooons!-“

The guy behind the counter has been there since six. It’s now 1:30. He’s still giddy with joy. He counts our money. He takes our paperwork, reviews it, stamps it, sends off the parts he needs to, and hands the rest back to us. “Alright, go to the Rotunda, they’ll direct you to someone who’ll do the ceremony. Then, if you want the certificate, they’ll direct you to -that- line.” “Can’t you just mail it to us?” “Normally, yeah, but the moment the courts shut us down, we’re not going to be allowed to.”

We take our paperwork and join the line to the Rotunda.

If you’ve seen James Bond: A View to a Kill, you’ve seen the San Francisco City Hall Rotunda. There are literally a dozen spots set up along the balconies that overlook the open area where marriage officials and witnesses are gathered and are just processing people through as fast as they can.

That’s for the people who didn’t bring their own wedding officials.

There’s a Catholic-adjacent couple there who seem to have brought their entire families -and- the priest on the main steps. They’re doing the whole damn thing. There’s at least one more Rabbi at work, I can’t remember what else. Just that there was a -lot-.

We get directed to the second story, northside. The San Francisco City Treasurer is one of our two witnesses. Our marriage officient is some other elected official I cannot remember for the life of me (and I'm only writing down what I can actively remember, so I can't turn to my husband next to me and ask, but he'll have remembered because that's what he does.)

I have a wilting lily flower tucked into my shirt pocket. My pants have water stains up to the knees. My hair is still wet from the rain, I am blubbering, and I can’t get the ring on my husband’s finger. The picture is a treat, I tell you.

There really isn’t a word for the mix of emotions I had at that time. Complete disbelief that this was reality and was happening. Relief that we’d made it. Awe at how many dozens of people had personally cheered for us along the way and the hundreds to thousands who’d cheered for us generally.

Then we're married.

Then we get in line to get our license.

It’s another hour. This time, the line goes through the higher stories. Then snakes around and goes past the doorway to the mayor’s office.

Mayor Newsom is not in today. And will be having trouble getting into his office on Tuesday because of the absolute barricade of letters and flowers and folded up notes and stuffed animals and City Hall maps with black marked “THANK YOU!”s that have been piled up against it.

We make it to the marriage records office.

I take a picture of my now husband standing in front of a case of the marriage records for 1902-1912. Numerous kids are curled up in corners sleeping. My own memory is spotty. I just know we got the papers, and then we’re done with lines. We get out, we head to the front entrance, and we walk out onto the City Hall steps.

It's almost 3PM.

00000

There are cheers, there’s rice thrown at us, there are hundreds of people celebrating us with unconditional love and joy and I had never before felt the goodness that exists in humanity to such an extent. It’s no longer raining, just a light sprinkle, but there are still no protestors. There’s barely even any news vans.

We make our way through the gauntlet, we get hands shaked, people with signs reading ”Congratulations!” jump up and down for us. We hit the sidewalks, and we begin to limp our way back to the BART station.

I’m at the BART station, we’re waiting for our train back south, and I’m sitting on the ground leaning against a pillar and in danger of falling asleep when a nondescript young man stops in front of me and shuffles his feet nervously. “Hey. I just- I saw you guys, down at City Hall, and I just… I’m so happy for you. I’m so proud of what you could do. I’m- I’m just really glad, glad you could get to do this.”

He shakes my hand, clasps it with both of his and shakes it. I thank him and he smiles and then hurries away as fast as he can without running.

Our train arrives and the trip south passes in a semilucid blur.

We get back to our car and climb in.

It’s 4:30 and we are starving.

There’s a Carls Jr near the station that we stop off at and have our first official meal as a married couple. We sit by the window and watch people walking past and pick out others who are returning from San Francisco. We're all easy to pick out, what with the combination of giddiness and water damage.

We get home about 6-7. We take the dog out for a good long walk after being left alone for two days in a row. We shower. We bundle ourselves up. We bury ourselves in blankets and curl up and just sort of sit adrift in the surrealness of what we’d just done.

We wake up the next day, Tuesday, to read that the California State Supreme Court has rejected the petition to shut down the San Francisco weddings because the paperwork had a misplaced comma that made the meaning of one phrase unclear.

The State Supreme Court would proceed to play similar bureaucratic tricks to drag the process out for nearly a full month before they have nothing left and finally shut down Mayor Newsom’s marriages.

My parents had been out of state at the time at a convention. They were flying into SFO about the same moment we were walking out of City Hall. I apologized to them later for not waiting and my mom all but shook me by the shoulders. “No! No one knew that they’d go on for so long! You did what you needed to do! I’ll just be there for the next one!”

00000

It was just a piece of paper. Legally, it didn’t even hold any weight thirty days later. My philosophy at the time was “marriage really isn’t that important, aside from the legal benefits. It’s just confirming what you already have.”

But maybe it’s just societal weight, or ingrained culture, or something, but it was different after. The way I described it at the time, and I’ve never really come up with a better metaphor is, “It’s like we were both holding onto each other in the middle of the ocean in the middle of a storm. We were keeping each other above water, we were each other’s support. But then we got this piece of paper. And it was like the ground rose up to meet our feet. We were still in an ocean, still in the middle of a storm, but there was a solid foundation beneath our feet. We still supported each other, but there was this other thing that was also keeping our heads above the water.

It was different. It was better. It made things more solid and real.

I am forever grateful for all the forces and all the people who came together to make it possible. It’s been twenty years and we’re still together and still married.

We did a domestic partnership a year later to get the legal paperwork. We’d done a private ceremony with proper rings (not just ones grabbed out of the husband’s collection hours before) before then. And in 2008, we did a legal marriage again.

Rushed. In a hurry. Because there was Proposition 13 to be voted on which would make them all illegal again if it passed.

It did, but we were already married at that point, and they couldn’t negate it that time.

Another few years after that, the Supreme Court finally threw up their hands and said "Fine! It's been legal in places and nothing's caught on fire or been devoured by locusts. It's legal everywhere. Shut up about it!"

And that was that.

00000

When I was in highschool, in the late 90s, I didn’t expect to see legal gay marriage until I was in my 50s. I just couldn’t see how the American public as it was would ever be okay with it.

I never expected to be getting married within five years. I never expected it to be legal nationwide before I’d barely started by 30s. I never thought I’d be in my 40s and it’d be such a non-issue that the conservative rabble rousers would’ve had to move onto other wedge issues altogether.

I never thought that I could introduce another man as my husband and absolutely no one involved would so much as blink.

I never thought I’d live in this world.

And it’s twenty years later today. I wonder how our line buddies are doing. Those babies who were running around the wide open rooms playing tag will have graduated college by now. The kids whose parents the one line-buddy was worried would see him are probably married too now. Some of them to others of the same gender.

I don’t have some greater message to make with all this. Other then, culture can shift suddenly in ways you can’t predict. For good or ill. Mainly this is just me remembering the craziest fucking 36 hours of my life twenty years after the fact and sharing them with all of you.

The future we’re resigned to doesn’t have to be the one we live in. Society can shift faster than you think. The unimaginable of twenty years ago is the baseline reality of today.

And always remember that the people who want to get married will show up by the thousands in rain that none of those who’re against it will brave.

[thewingedwolf]

our elevator wasn’t working yesterday and a lady got shitty with me over it and i was almost like lady i put my lunch in the BASEMENT on thursday when i left. we are on the second floor. i have to do FOUR flights of stairs in half an hour today. and i have arthritis so don’t fucking snap at me about when they’re gonna get it fixed i guarantee i want it fixed more than you. i didn’t say that though, i just said they were working on it but it was turning out more difficult than they expected. anyways i hope it got fixed today 😭

[valiasims]

Cozy Cabin Collection - Bedroom

Hey everyone!

The final part of the Cozy Cabin Collection is here! It is a bedroom set and includes a modular closet with items to fill them up with.

I'm a little sad to say goodbye this cabin theme because I gained a lot of followers through the time I was making these sets and I also learned a lot of new skills and techniques. When I came up with the idea of a large collection to guide us through autumn and winter, I hadn’t expected it to become so significant in terms of sentimental value. I was always thinking about the next idea to bring to life and living in a cabin in my mind. Despite this being a sad moment, I’m so excited for what’s next! I’ll be creating a set for a commercial lot, and I’ve had this idea for about a month and a half. After seeing what the next expansion pack will be, I’m even more excited because I think it will complement it well.

A bit more about this set: It started as a bedroom set but somehow turned into a closet set with bedroom items. At first, I only wanted to add two closet pieces with the door, but I figured it would be more versatile (and not too much extra work) if I included the corner piece as well. A little info on how the door works: You can slot the door onto the closet pieces, with three slots available on each piece. It only makes sense to use the side slots if you have two or more pieces placed next to each other. I added multiple slots for hanging clothes so you can use the in-game clothes (or other CC ones) that are grouped together, but also place individual items without using the TOOL mod.

The wicker basket, folded sweaters and the hat box are stackable.

For the curtains, I made a curtain rod that, for some godforsaken reason, looks completely different in-game than the rod on the curtain items themselves, despite them having the same texture and everything. This was the reason I couldn't include them in the last set—I just couldn’t get them right no matter how hard I tried. I even checked out other CC that does the same thing by separating the rod, and they all had the same problem. Somehow, the lighting on them looks different, and I couldn’t find a solution. So sorry for this issue but hopefully it's not too noticable.

I think that’s all! I’m really grateful for all of you being here—thank you, and I hope you’ll like this set as well. Let me know if you have any issues, and feel free to leave your thoughts below so I can see what you like and what you don’t.

The Set Includes

Wooden Bedframe

Bed Mattress

Decorative Pillows

End Table

End Table Lamp

Wooden Bench

Closet (3 types+corner)

Closet Door

Hanging Elegant Coat

Hanging Jacket

Hanging Puffer Jacket

Hanging Tops

Wicker Basket

Designer Hat

Fluffy Hat

Folded Sweaters

Decorative Footwear (3 styles)

Hat Box

Makeup Bag

Curtain Rod

Closed Curtain (3 heights)

Opened Curtain (3 heights)

Antler Wall Lamp

-DOWNLOAD HERE- Public release on the 15th of March 6PM CST

[aleksatia]

You had an argument, and in the heat of the moment, you took on a secret mission—disappearing without a trace or warning for six days. He won’t let that slide, will he?

(⚠️ Warning: Slightly angsty and dramatic) 🔥 UPD: Guys, I hear you loud and clear about Xavier, and I'm already working on his full story. Let me know if you want more about the others (or any specific one).

🖐️💥😈 Sylus 

You don’t even make it home.

One second—you’re stepping toward your door. The next—you're grabbed.

A sharp yelp leaves your lips, but it’s already too late.

One hand clamps down on your shoulder, the other hooks around your legs, and suddenly—you're airborne.

"Cargo secured."

A second voice. Muffled. Hollow.

You twist wildly.

Two figures in black masks, sharp beaked visors, curved horns on their hoods.

Luke and Kieran.

You thrash. “Put me down—”

"No can do, Miss," Kieran hums, flipping you upside down just slightly.

"Our Boss gave very strict orders," Luke murmurs.

Your stomach sinks. The car door swings open—

And you’re shoved inside.

Kieran and Luke plop down beside you, silent as shadows.

Then—

Luke sighs. Long and exaggerated.

"Such a shame," he muses. "She was so pretty."

Kieran hums. "So full of life."

Your eyes narrow. “What.”

They tilt their heads in unison. Luke’s fingers drum against the seat.

"He was so worried."

Kieran exhales. "On the first day, he simply waited."

Luke nods. "Second day, he sent people out. Checked hospitals. Crime scenes."

Kieran’s head tilts. "By day three… well, we all knew something had to bleed."

Your stomach drops.

Luke stretches, relaxed. "Four syndicates fell in one night. Just in case one of them had you."

Kieran sighs. "On the fourth day, he realized that wasn’t enough."

Luke hums. "So he started getting creative."

Your breath hitches. "Creative?"

Kieran taps his chin. "That warehouse in N109 Zone? The one that burned to the ground?"

Luke leans closer. "Day five. Still no sign of you. He collapsed an entire district."

Kieran shrugs. "Nothing personal. Just a message."

Luke tilts his head. "And then day six came."

A beat of silence.

Kieran chuckles. "You know, Miss… If you hadn’t shown up today, N109 Zone would’ve been repainted in blood by sundown."

Luke sighs dreamily. "It still might be."

Your blood turns to ice.

And then—Luke’s head tilts toward you.

"Now…?"

Kieran completes it, a beat later.

"Now he has you."

The car slows. Your chest tightens. And then—you realize where you are.

N109 Zone. His estate.

The car door swings open—

And you’re hauled out like luggage.

"Handle with care," Luke hums.

“I am handling with care," Kieran murmurs.

They carry you inside. Set you down with eerie gentleness. Smooth out your jacket. Brush imaginary dust off your shoulders.

Then—they step back. Bow, deep and slow.

“Welcome home, Miss.”

And then—they’re gone.

You whirl after them. “HEY—”

A quiet sound.

Fabric rustling. A slow, deliberate exhale.

You freeze.

And then—you turn.

Sylus is standing across the room. Calm. Collected. Expression unreadable.

But his eyes. They burn.

You swallow.

“What the fuck was that?” you snap, motioning toward the door.

Silence.

He just… watches you.

Then—slowly, smoothly—

He shrugs off his jacket. Lets it fall onto the chair. His fingers move to his cuffs. Undoing them.

One. Then the other.

Rolling his sleeves up, inch by inch.

Your stomach twists.

“Sylus.”

He doesn’t answer. His hands move to his belt. He unbuckles it. Pulls it free.

And you—

You fucking run.

You BOLT.

Straight toward the door. It’s locked.

You curse.

Behind you—he clicks his tongue.

“Oh, Kitten,” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused.

You spin, darting behind the desk. He follows. Casually. Slowly.

“You disappear for six days,” he murmurs, voice smooth, mocking, deadly.

You sidestep. He matches you.

“You ignore my calls.”

You swerve left. He steps right.

“I tear this city apart looking for you.”

You dodge back. He adjusts effortlessly.

“And now,” he exhales, tilting his head, smirking lazily, “you’re running.”

You hurl a stapler at him. He catches it. Drops it. Sighs.

Then—his patience snaps.

A sharp pulse of red energy explodes outward. The desk flips. The chairs crash against the wall.

And suddenly—

You are out of places to run. Before you can move—

He has you.

A sharp yelp rips from your throat as he grabs you, spins, and drops into his chair—

Bringing you down over his lap.

Your breath catches. “Sylus—”

"Ah, ah, ah.”

His palm glides down your back. Teasing. Amused. Smug.

"You made a very poor choice, Kitten."

Your heart pounds. His fingers hook into your waistband. And in one sharp motion—

He pulls your pants down.

Your entire body jolts. “Wait—”

The first smack lands. Sharp. Stinging.

You jerk violently.

Then—the second.

Then—the third.

“Sylus—you absolute bastard!”

A low chuckle vibrates through his chest.

“Six days, Sweetie.”

Another smack.

“You think you get away with that?”

You snarl, thrashing. “You—I’ll kill you!”

"Oh?" His hand presses against your lower back, keeping you pinned.

Then—lower now, smooth as silk, dripping with mockery—

“You sure you can handle that right now?”

You growl.

And then—

You bite him. Hard. Right on the thigh.

His breath hitches. Then—a slow, dangerous laugh.

He grabs you. Turns you over, setting you between his legs, hands gripping your chin—forcing you to look at him.

And then—

You see it. The rage is gone.

And in its place—

Something raw. Something wrecked. Like he’s aged years in just six days.

His voice—when it comes—is low. Hoarse. Unsteady.

“…I thought Ever carved you up for spare parts.”

Your stomach drops.

"You really think," his fingers twitch against your skin, "I was just waiting?"

His eyes flick over your face, scanning, memorizing. And then—softer now, almost broken—

"If you hadn’t come back tomorrow, I would’ve wiped them off the face of the earth."

Your eyes sting. Your hands reach for him, trembling.

You slide forward, onto his lap.

His breath stutters.

And then—you kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Unyielding.

He shudders.

Then—his hands clench around your waist, crushing you to him. When he pulls back—forehead pressed against yours, breath uneven—

“…Next time you disappear,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, voice shaking with something terrifyingly real, “I’m not looking for you.”

Your heart cracks. You shake your head. You cup his face. Hold him there.

“…You won’t have to.”

Silence.

Then—

His grip tightens. And just like that—

He is never letting you go again.

❄️🩸💔 Zayne

You already know where he is.

Zayne isn’t home. Of course, he isn’t.

So you do the only thing that makes sense—you head straight for Akso Hospital.

By the time you step through the pristine glass doors, you’re already talking.

“I know how this looks, but I can explain—”

And then—you see him.

Standing near the nurses’ station, uniform crisp, posture rigid, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat like he’s carved from ice.

For a second—just a second—his breath catches.

But then—

A switch flips. His entire presence shifts.

Cold. Professional. Untouchable.

His eyes meet yours. And he says nothing.

No relief. No anger. Nothing.

Just pure, hollow emptiness.

You swallow hard. Force yourself to continue.

“Zayne—”

“You need medical attention.”

His voice is calm. Impersonal. A doctor speaking to a patient. Not the man you know.

Your stomach twists.

He doesn’t ask where you’ve been. Doesn’t ask why you disappeared. Instead—he starts listing symptoms.

“You’re pale. Have you lost blood?”

You inhale sharply. “Zay—”

“Concussion?”

“No—”

“Fever? Infection?”

His eyes flick to your scraped knuckles, the dried blood on your sleeve.

And you realize—

He’s not angry. He’s protecting himself. He’s shutting down. Like he already convinced himself you weren’t coming back. Like he already mourned you.

And something inside you breaks.

Your legs wobble.

You sway—

And then—

You collapse.

The reaction is instantaneous.

A sharp inhale. A rush of movement. A sudden, firm grip catching you before you hit the ground.

Zayne’s arms lock around you. One around your back, one under your legs, holding you effortlessly. His breathing is uneven. His fingers tremble against your skin.

“Hey—!” His voice is no longer detached. It’s urgent. Terrified.

He tilts your face up, eyes scanning for injuries, pupils blown wide with panic.

"You—" His breath shudders. “Shit, you're—”

But you don’t answer. Because you keep your eyes closed. Because you know exactly what you’re doing.

And for a moment, it works. For a moment, he’s yours again. For a moment, his walls are completely, irreparably shattered.

Then—

His steps slow. His breathing evens.

And suddenly—

He stops. And you feel it. That one single, damning second of realization.

Your eyes are closed, but you can hear it. The sharp, cold click in his mind as he figures it out.

His arms loosen. Too loose. Too fast.

And suddenly—you're falling.

You gasp sharply, hands instinctively grabbing at him—

But he catches you at the last second, lowering you onto the cold, sterile floor of his office with just enough control to keep you from truly getting hurt.

But barely.

His jaw is tight. His nostrils flare. His hands press into his thighs like he’s physically holding himself back from losing control.

Then—flat, quiet, lethal—

“You lied.”

Your stomach drops. You open your mouth—and then you feel it.

A sharp, aching throb in your knee. It hits all at once—the pain, the exhaustion, the weight of everything that happened.

Your throat tightens.

And then—before you can stop it—

Tears prick at your eyes.

Your voice comes out small, weak, broken.

“Zayne… my leg hurts.”

Everything stops. The air in the room shifts.

And suddenly—

The rage is gone. His walls crumble.

His gaze snaps to your knee—swollen, bruised, torn fabric revealing skin already darkening with a deep, painful contusion.

And just like that—he’s on his knees. The doctor in him takes over.

His hands tremble as they press to your leg, fingertips ghosting over the bruised flesh like it physically pains him to touch.

He leans down. And presses a soft, lingering kiss to the bruised skin.

Your breath catches.

His forehead presses gently against your knee. And then—a whisper, barely audible, like he’s afraid of his own voice.

“…I lost you.”

Your heart cracks wide open.

He inhales sharply, his fingers tightening against your leg, like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real.

You slide off the chair. Sink onto the cold, sterile floor. Your hands come up, cup his face.

His breath stutters.

You press your forehead to his.

Hot. Unwavering. Eternal.

“Only death could take me from you.”

His eyes squeeze shut. And when they open again—

There’s nothing left but raw, agonizing devotion.

Then—

His hands reach for you. And this time, he doesn’t let go.

🪑🍎🎖️ Caleb

The door clicks shut behind you.

Something feels wrong. The air is too still. Too perfectly controlled.

And then—you see it.

The chair.

Placed dead center in the room.

The apartment is spotless. Too spotless. Like someone scrubbed it raw, wiped away every trace of warmth, every sign of life.

Your stomach tightens. And then—a voice.

Cold. Measured. Absolute.

"Sit down."

You turn sharply—

And there he is.

Colonel Caleb. Not your Caleb.

Not the man who kisses your forehead every morning. Not the man who makes you breakfast even when he’s running on two hours of sleep.

No.

This is the soldier. The commander. The man who could level entire cities with a single order.

And you are his captive.

Your jaw tightens. “Caleb, what the hell—”

"Sit. Down."

Your spine stiffens. “No.”

A flick of his fingers. The chair scrapes forward, slamming into the back of your knees.

You stumble, cursing—

But before you can react—a force clamps around you. G-forces shift. Gravity bends. The chair drags you back to the center of the room.

Then—weight locks around your limbs. You can’t stand. Can’t move. Your pulse spikes.

His face is unreadable. His eyes—stormy, dark, endless.

Like he hasn’t slept in six days.

A tablet activates in his hand.

Several floating screens appear around you, flickering with surveillance footage.

And then—his interrogation begins.

His voice is calm. Clinical. Devoid of warmth.

"In the hours before your disappearance, this man entered your building. Do you know him?"

You blink. “What—?”

He gestures at the screen. A blurry security cam shot.

You squint. “That’s—a fucking courier.”

"Interesting."

A swipe of his fingers. Another screen appears.

"You placed an order at a bookstore six days ago. Three books were delivered. For what purpose?"

You stare. “...For reading?”

His brows twitch.

"Curious. You spoke to the courier for over five minutes. What was discussed?"

Your hands clench into fists. “How the hell would I know?”

A beat of silence.

Then—softer now, dangerous in its evenness—

"You really expect me to believe you don’t remember?"

Your blood boils. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

He swipes again. More footage. More records. More evidence that means nothing.

And you snap.

"You are losing your fucking mind."

His jaw tightens.

And then—

The gravity releases.

You lurch forward, finally able to move—

But before you can get up—

he’s already there.

A single step. One hand gripping the back of your chair, tilting it back—

His face is inches from yours. His gaze burns.

"Are you fucking someone else?"

Your breath catches. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

And then—

You laugh.

Sharp. Bitter. Furious.

You gesture at yourself—the dirt, the bruises, the blood still crusted on your sleeve.

“Look at me, Caleb.”

He doesn’t move.

“Does this look like a woman having an affair?”

His fingers twitch against the chair. His voice drops to a whisper.

"I’m on the edge of it."

Your chest tightens.

“I don’t doubt that, you psychopath.” You shove against his arm, but he doesn’t budge. “Now let me up so I can strangle you.”

His fingers loosen.

And then—

"Six days."

Your breath hitches. His hand moves. Curls around your jaw, firm but careful.

"Six days. Eight thousand six hundred forty minutes."

His thumb brushes over your cheekbone.

"I couldn't breathe without pain."

Your throat tightens. Your rage collapses into something else entirely.

“Caleb—”

"I searched. I traced every lead. I turned this country inside out."

His voice wavers.

And then—softer, rawer, almost desperate—

"If you hadn’t come back, I would have burned everything to the ground."

Your chest aches.

“…I had a mission. It was classified.”

His jaw twitches.

"Then tell me—" His voice turns sharp, edged with something almost pleading. "Tell me you weren’t running."

You exhale shakily.

“You’re so obsessed with losing me, Caleb—maybe that’s why you always do.”

Silence.

Something in his face breaks. He straightens. Turns away.

Leaves.

The door slams.

And you collapse to your knees. Your hands come up—cover your face—

And finally, finally, the tears fall.

But then—

A soft creak. A shift in the air. Warmth.

Arms wrapping around you, pulling you into a crushing embrace.

You freeze.

His voice is hoarse, quiet, trembling with something raw.

"You’re the only one who can destroy me without lifting a hand."

Your breath shudders. His grip tightens.

"One word from you," he murmurs, "and I’m gone."

You shake your head.

“Caleb…”

His forehead presses against your shoulder.

"I tried. Every day. Every second. I tried not to hold on too tight." He exhales shakily. "But I can’t."

Your heart clenches.

“Caleb, I always come back.”

He flinches.

You pull back just enough to cup his face. His eyes are stormy, desperate, flickering with pain.

"You have to trust me."

His lips part, but no sound comes out.

Then—barely above a whisper—

"I can't lose you."

Your fingers tighten against his jaw.

"You won’t."

Silence.

Then—

He kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Devouring. Starved.

His hands tangle in your hair, holding you to him like he’ll die if you pull away.

A single tear escapes down his cheek. And you catch it with your lips.

“…I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Caleb, I’m so sorry.”

His breath shudders. He shakes his head. 

“No.” His voice breaks. "You don’t apologize to me." 

Your brows furrow. “Caleb—” 

He swallows. 

"If you’re better off without me—" 

Your hand flies up, slaps over his mouth. He freezes. Tears well in your eyes. 

“Don’t. Say. That.” His chest rises sharply. You lean in, press your forehead to his. 

“…You are my universe,” you whisper. 

His hands shake against your back. 

“No matter what we do, no matter what happens—” You press your lips to his, slow, deep, endless. “I will always come back to you.” 

His breath shudders against your lips.

And then—his voice drops, quiet but unshakable. 

"You will never disappear on me again without warning. Not now. Not ever."

🗡✨🌥 Xavier 

The door clicks shut behind you.

You barely take a step inside before a voice cuts through the air—

Calm. Measured. Unshakable.

"Ah." A quiet exhale. "Look who finally remembered they have a home."

You freeze.

Xavier is already there.

Sitting in the living room, one leg crossed over the other, a book balanced in his hand—like your sudden reappearance was nothing more than an interesting plot twist.

He doesn’t look up immediately. He finishes the sentence he’s reading first.

Then—calmly, unhurriedly—he turns the page.

And finally—his gaze lifts to yours.

Cold. Slow. Too calculating.

"Six days."

Your stomach tightens. "Xav—"

"Mm. No." He holds up a single finger.

The room falls silent. And somehow, that’s worse.

You watch as he closes the book. Carefully. Precisely. Then—without breaking eye contact—he sets it aside.

And then—a small smile.

Soft. Almost friendly.

Which means you’re in deep, deep trouble.

"You look tired," he murmurs, tilting his head. "Traveling, were you?"

You exhale. "Xavier—"

"Oh, no. Let me guess." His fingers tap idly against the armrest. "You were simply busy."

A pause.

"Too busy, in fact, to answer a single message."

Your jaw tightens. "It wasn’t—"

"Ah," he interrupts softly, as if realizing something.

His eyes flick over your torn sleeve, the faint bruises on your arms. Then, slowly—he smiles.

"Or," he murmurs, "did you lose your phone again?"

Your stomach drops. Because he knows.

You inhale sharply. "Xav—"

He shakes his head.

"No, it’s alright. I understand." He leans forward slightly, resting his chin against his knuckles. "I’m sure you had an excellent reason."

A beat of silence. Then—mild amusement, carefully laced with steel:

"Would you like to tell me what it was?"

You hesitate.

Because you were on a mission. A classified one.

Because he wasn’t supposed to know. Because you work together.

And yet—he knew nothing.

You try anyway.

"I had a—"

"A mission?" His brow lifts, a polite flicker of curiosity. "Fascinating."

His tone is smooth, unbothered. And that—that is when you know how angry he really is.

He gestures vaguely toward the stacks of reports on the table.

"Tell me, darling, which mission was it?"

You swallow hard. "I can’t—"

"Mm. Right. Classified."

Another small nod. A slow, deliberate blink.

"As are all major operations within the Association."

His fingers drum lightly against the armrest.

"And yet, strangely—" He tilts his head. "Not a single record of your assignment exists."

You say nothing.

Xavier exhales through his nose—almost disappointed.

"And here I thought," he murmurs, "we were supposed to trust each other."

You flinch.

His gaze softens. Not with kindness. But with something far worse.

Pity.

"You must have had your reasons, of course," he muses.

A small sigh, like he’s humoring a child.

"I imagine you thought it was necessary. Sensible, even."

His fingers lace together.

"Just as I found it necessary to send out a search party on day three."

Your breath catches.

"You what?"

He hums.

"By day four, I expanded my resources. You'd be surprised how quickly information spreads when you know where to look."

Your hands clench.

"Xavier—"

"Day five, I began considering alternative outcomes. Some of them, admittedly, rather unpleasant."

A flicker of something colder in his expression.

"Ever been forced to sit in a room full of people trying to convince you that your partner is dead?"

Your stomach turns.

"Xavier, I wasn’t—"

He clicks his tongue.

"Day six, I received word that you had finally resurfaced."

He leans back. Folds his arms. And then—a soft chuckle, utterly humorless.

"Imagine my relief."

Silence.

You exhale sharply. "Xav, I—"

"Did you know," he interrupts, voice light, conversational, detached, "that people tend to avoid looking a grieving man in the eye?"

Your throat tightens.

"Not that I was grieving, of course." He taps a finger against his chin. "I don’t make a habit of mourning people until I see a body."

He tilts his head slightly, studying you.

"But I imagine it must have been quite the inconvenience, being dead for six days."

Your chest tightens.

"You think I wanted to—"

"Oh, I know," he murmurs. "You didn’t want to disappear."

His voice lowers.

"But you still did."

And for the first time—he is no longer smirking. His blue eyes bore into yours, steady, sharp.

"You made a decision that left me in the dark."

A long, slow breath.

"And I need to know," he says softly, "if you would do it again."

Silence.

You don’t have an answer. You don’t think there is one.

He exhales.

Finally, he leans back. Gazes at you for a moment longer.

Then, calmly—he stands. Smooth. Effortless. Precise. And then—he walks past you.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

"Xavier—"

He doesn’t stop. You push to your feet.

"Xavier, you’re coming back, right?"

Finally—he pauses. Turns his head, just slightly.

And then—

"Ask me again in six days."

The door closes behind him. And this time—you’re the one left behind.

🧜🏻‍♂️🧑🏻‍🎨🌊 Rafayel 

You are exhausted.

Every part of you aches. Your body demands sleep, warmth, peace.

Instead—

You come home to chaos.

Loud music. Laughter. The scent of wine, perfume, candle wax, and indulgence.

And then—the sight of him.

Rafayel.

Lounging near the pool, half-leaning against an ornate chair, a glass of red wine dangling lazily between his fingers.

His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to hint at toned muscle beneath, his sleeves rolled up, his perfectly tousled hair falling over his forehead in an effortlessly careless way.

And surrounding him—beautiful women.

Drinking, laughing, leaning toward him like he’s some fallen deity of temptation and excess.

Your stomach twists. A tight, burning rage coils in your chest.

And then—

He sees you. His eyes widen—just slightly. And then—a slow, almost lazy smirk.

"Ah." He lifts his glass dramatically, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Look who's finally returned!"

You tense.

He rises to his feet, arms spread as if welcoming royalty.

"My muse. My inspiration."

His voice carries over the music, over the murmurs of people starting to notice the tension.

"The very heart of my art!"

A sweeping gesture.

And then—

He motions toward the canvas-lined walls.

Your breath catches. Because they’re all of you. Dozens of paintings.

But—ruined.

Slashes through the canvas.

Paint smeared and splattered over your likeness like an artist in rage, in agony, in heartbreak.

The fury in you erupts. Your voice cuts through the music.

"What the actual fuck is this?!"

He gasps, mock scandalized.

"Oh, you don’t like them? What a tragedy!"

He downs the rest of his wine in one smooth gulp, tossing the glass aside with a careless flick of his wrist.

Then—he grins.

Crooked. Reckless. Infuriating.

"And here I was, drowning in sorrow, channeling my unbearable suffering into art."

A sigh.

"But alas." He shrugs dramatically. "Seems the muse herself has returned."

You march toward him. He tilts his head.

"Careful, cutie. You seem upset."

"You’re a fucking disaster."

He laughs.

"You’re six days late to that realization."

You grab his wrist, yanking him toward the exit.

“We’re talking. Now.”

His body moves, but his feet don’t follow. Instead—he pulls against your grip.

His smile widens.

"Oh?" His voice drips with amusement. "Dragging me away already? Jealous, cutie?"

Your jaw clenches.

"This is pathetic."

Another laugh, lighter this time.

"Ah, but it was all I had!" He places a hand over his heart. Theatrical. Overdramatic. Perfectly insufferable.

You snap.

And shove him into the pool.

He barely has time to react—water crashes around him, drenching his white shirt, dragging him under.

And for a brief, glorious second—silence.

Until—

His hand grabs your wrist. You yelp, but it’s too late.

He pulls you down with him.

Cold water engulfs you, shocking your senses.

When you resurface, gasping, furious, he’s already brushing his hair back, blinking at you through wet lashes.

And suddenly—

The playfulness is gone. The crowd has vanished. Thomas made sure of it.

And now—it’s just you and him.

And for the first time tonight—he’s quiet. His voice is lower, slower.

"You storm into my house. Onto my estate. Into my party. And then..."

He gestures lazily toward the water.

"You throw me in my own fucking pool?"

You pant, teeth gritted. “Your—house? Great! I’ll leave you in your fucking house—”

You turn to climb out—

And he grabs you again. A firm grip. Unshaking.

His eyes—darker now. Sharper. Focused.

"Make another move, cutie." His voice is dangerously low.

"And we’ll have problems."

You glare. "Let. Go."

He doesn’t. Instead—he pulls you closer.

“You’re not walking away from this.”

Your pulse spikes.

"Rafayel—"

"Do it," he whispers. "Say it to my face."

Your breath catches.

"You want to leave?" His hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer, forcing you to feel the heat radiating from his soaked body.

"Then say it."

Your hands shake. You flick water into his face, desperate to break the tension.

He doesn’t even blink. Instead—his eyes drop.

To your clothes.

Soaked. Clinging. Revealing everything.

His pupils darken. And then—his jaw tightens.

"You left me for six days," he murmurs.

Your breath stutters.

"I left for work, not you, you hysterical maniac."

He tilts his head.

"That’s the same thing. And your phone?"

"A Wanderer shattered it!"

He lets out a sharp, bitter laugh.

"Ah, yes. And I suppose you were also too busy fighting for your life to send me one. Single. Fucking. Message?"

You exhale sharply. "Raf, you’re insufferable. A party? Seriously?"

"How else am I supposed to handle soul-crushing heartbreak?"

His voice drops.

"Tell me, cutie." His fingers skim your waist, trailing fire in their wake. "How else was I supposed to drown my suffering?"

He leans in, breath hot against your lips.

And then—

He kisses you. Desperate. Possessive.

Your legs wrap around his waist, instinct taking over.

His grip tightens.

"You threw me in a pool," he whispers against your lips.

"You deserved it."

His fingers dig into your hips.

"You waltz in after six days and just—throw me?"

"Maybe I should throw you again."

He grins against your skin.

"I should make you pay for that."

"Raf—"

"Mm. Shh."

His hands travel lower, pressing you harder against him.

Your breathing turns shallow.

"Your paintings," you murmur.

"I’ll paint more."

"You hated me for six days."

"Endlessly." He kisses your throat, voice dropping further.

"You didn’t want to see me again?"

He grins against your collarbone.

"Try leaving me again, cutie."

His grip tightens, unshakable.

His breath is hot against your ear.

"And I promise—"

His hips press forward, slow and deliberate, sending a sharp jolt of heat through you.

"You won’t be able to walk for a week."

[cursingtoji]

summary: clan leader!gojo needs a favor from your clan but as the leader you refuse, so he proposes to give you a child since your husband is unable to.

"and what am i to do when the child comes out with a white head of hair and blue eyes?"

“if that happens…” he undoes the knot that holds your kimono together and pushes the material down your arms with no resistance from you, “…then i’ll kill your husband myself and marry you.”

nsfw ahead cw: historical au, infidelity, pregnancy, creampie, child birth, satoru is pathetically in love. featuring samurai bodyguard geto and toji.

“i thought we had solved all our business with the gojo clan” your husband says from the door he leans on.

“and i did” you emphasize the i since the head of your clan is you and only you went to the clan meetings that got things solved. you tapped your lips a little bit more to place the reddish pigment looking at the mirror, “but satoru summoned this meeting and gave no details.”

“satoru huh?” your husband points, not letting go unnoticed the fact you used his first name without formalities.

“all right” you take one step back checking if your kimono is proper, “see you tonight” you peck his lips lightly to not ruin the tint on yours and proceed to the carriage outside.

for years the gojo clan and yours avoided each other due to some very old beef that no one remembers or even was alive when it happened, so when your mother passed and you assumed as the new head you soon decided to reach out to make peace with the current head of the rival clan and a friendly relationship was restored. more often than not you two met, sometimes with other clan members or even other clans when necessary, but today gojo insisted on being just the two of you.

toji, your bodyguard, opens the carriage door when you arrive and give you his hand for you to step out.

to avoid any issues the place of the meeting was always the temple middle way your residences. from time to time your families attended the prayers there, that’s when your husband saw satoru for the first time.

“where’s his wife?” he asked the first time you pointed the white-haired man as the clan head after you made peace.

“he doesn’t have one.”

“fiancée then?”

“i don’t think so” you both watched discreetly as he greeted the monks.

“i find that quite odd. what about the black-haired man?” he pointed to geto, gojo’s bodyguard, “could they be involved romantically?” geto leaned to whisper something to his master, a little bit too close if you might add, a few more inches and his lips would be touching satoru’s ear. his romantic life was no business of yours but you didn’t like the idea of him having any partners, didn’t seem right, though deep down you knew it was very unlikely for a handsome man like him to be alone. both men somehow found your curious gaze.

“geto” you greet the known bodyguard as you enter the temple, and he bows to you, your bodyguard nods at him as well and you’re guided to the secret room.

the conversation went on for almost an hour, satoru served you tea when he noticed you finished yours, which was unusual for a clan head to do such a mundane task but he always insisted no servant join on your private meetings. you always thought he was particularly paranoid about spies, but that suspicion was dismissed when you had your first meeting with other clan heads and he didn’t oppose the people that stayed in the back of the room waiting for their master’s orders.

“satoru we went over this on the last meeting, why am i here?” you are getting impatient, satoru always seemed relaxed when he was at the temple like it’s the one place people don’t come to him with problems, so he tended to do things without any rush at all.

“so impatient…” he smirks, “i was getting to the point but fine. i need your doctors for a few weeks.”

because of the many wars and the necessity to heal mainly the samurai your clan became specialized in healing techniques and remedies instead of combat.

“is someone injured?” you raised your eyebrow, it wasn’t likely for satoru to ask for something like this when he could’ve sent a letter.

“no. but we are expecting a conflict soon and—”

“let me stop you there satoru” you raised your hand and for a second you saw a glimpse of annoyance cross his features, “we don’t get involved with battles anymore, the healers go through extensive training and i can’t risk losing them in battle.”

“so instead of putting their knowledge into practice you rather keep them locked in a room reading books?”

“they are busy with research at the moment” you raise your chin unwilling to budge on the matter.

“is that so?” he tilted his head smiling “and how many people does it take to figure out your husband is infertile?”

you widened your eyes, this is way too personal of a matter for someone else, especially another clan head, to know.

on the other side of the door, geto and toji guarded the room, they were close enough to listen to the conversation and without turning his head geto looked at toji with his eyebrow raised, to which toji only nodded confirming the rumors.

“you’re not the only one with little birds across territories, sweetheart” his smile only seems to grow.

“that is no business of yours. besides, lending you my healers will only harm my clan and, as i said, put them at unnecessary risk” you managed to find your composure back and avoid the infertility topic.

“don’t you trust i have the best warriors? you seemed to when we came to your aid” he reminded a time you asked for their men.

“i paid for that.”

“and what makes you think i won’t?”

“we don’t need money.”

“i’m not talking about money” he drops the volume of his voice.

“listen, satoru—” you rise to your feet sensing the tone of this conversation is off.

“i’m listening, for a very long time i’ve been listening” he rises as well and takes a few steps in your direction, “you know what i listen to? the rumors about your family threatening to make your brother head of the clan if you don’t bear an heir soon.”

you take a step back.

“or the resources you’ve been spending to research a treatment for your husband. tell me, darling, can he even get it up for you?” he is too close now, you can see all the details of his insanely blue eyes.

“he— that’s not a problem” you accidentally confess.

“of course it’s not, look at you” his finger brushes your cheek and the touch makes you burn under your skin, “i could give you a child” he lowers his head to your ear, running his lips on it, “a healthy, smart, beautiful child” he presses his hand on your belly over the thick material of your clothes, “and it wouldn’t even be an effort” he presses his hardened member on your hip.

“and what am i to do when the child comes out with a white head of hair and blue eyes?” you look into his eyes challenging him to a solution.

“if that happens…” he undoes the knot that holds your kimono together and pushes the material down your arms with no resistance from you, “…i’ll kill him myself and take his place as your husband.”

you gasp, not expecting such an answer from the man you always watched trying to find a way to avoid violence.

satoru kisses your jaw then your cheek and when he gets close to your lips you turn your head, your conscience only now, in this intimate act, attacking you.

“he’s not fulfilling his duty” he whispers, letting go of the knot on his kimono, taking your hand and putting it on his chest. you open your eyes, not even aware you had closed them, and see his sculpted torso, so close to you, so warm…

“it’s not your fault, can’t you see?” he raises your chin, “it wasn’t meant to be, unlike us” you know he’s just telling you what you want to hear, but in his voice everything made sense.

“you’ll see” he picks you up and lowers his body with you back to the mat in the middle of the room, his kimono is still around his arms while yours was forgotten somewhere else, leaving only the very thin, dress-like, white undergarment that pretty much showed everything.

satoru lowers his head to your chest, his tongue wetting your nipple over the material, “i bet you’ll become even prettier” he replaces your breast with his hand, big and hot, and goes to the other nipple, “with your breasts heavy and a big belly” he sucks on you, hardly, you put your hand over your mouth.

satoru raises your legs over his shoulders, “your feet will get tired” he kisses the inner thigh, “but you’ll still come and see me” you thought it sounded like a question, it was a statement.

his head goes down, as he kisses your folds your back arches, he licks a stripe ending on your clit and flickering it.

satoru starts to lose himself, he gets too intoxicated by you, almost forgetting time is running against him here. he doesn’t have much longer until your bodyguard gets suspicious and calls for you, and by the way your hand is tight against your mouth he doubts you’ll be able to give a proper response.

he wants to make you cum before he shoots his load, suguru’s intel told him you asked one of the doctors if the woman needed to come to increase the chances. it doesn’t take much medical knowledge to interpret that question.

you cum on his tongue pulling him out of his dreams where he imagined himself doing that every night after those boring fucking meetings he has to attend at every slight inconvenience in his clan.

“it’s gonna be okay, just relax for me” he pushes his length slowly before you get the chance to see his size. you whisper his name behind your hand and he can’t stand not seeing your whole face, so he takes your hand out of the way and kisses your wet lips pushing his tongue and swallowing your moans as he goes deeper and starts to pick a pace.

satoru holds back a curse, reminding himself he’s in a sacred place and although anyone would say that’s ironic given what you’re doing in the temple he would argue that’s even more sacred than what most people prayed for.

you start to feel his weight down on you as he trusts get sloppier, he’s still kissing you, holding your lips with his when he twitches and fills your insides, in your drunk mind you think it’s so much more than what you’re used to.

after he catches his breath he pushes himself up and out of you, you allow yourself to close your eyes for a brief moment but you open them wide again when satoru pushes his cum back into you with his finger, “keep it deep and warm for me, yes?”

one hour later you pass through the door your bodyguard slides open for you to enter your chambers. on the way there you realized there’s no chance he and geto didn’t grasp on what was happening inside the room.

“toji?” you call before he can close the door and go to his personal room, he stops, indicating he listens although he doesn’t respond with the formality others usually do, “i trust you won’t share with anyone what happened today” you speak firmly looking the tall man behind you over your shoulder, his scar stretches slightly with his smirk, the man bows and closes the door.

they said it was a road accident, the horse got spooked and ran, by the time they found it there was no rider so they searched your husband and found his body down the mountain.

the ritual was long, you wore the traditional widow clothing, accepting the kind words of the clan members and the prayer of the monks. though you really were sad, all this pity was making you sicker than…

“at least you didn’t have kids, no child deserves to grow up with a dead father” an old lady says to comfort you while holding your hands.

“excuse me” you turn around walking slowly to not raise suspicions and as soon as it is just you on the other side of your home you bend your torso and throw up all you’ve eaten before the funeral.

you cough and when a tissue enters your field of vision you immediately take it and clean your mouth.

you feel your stomach empty but the light volume below it reminds you of whose fault it is.

you raise with the tissue on your lips to say thank you and the sight of the white-haired man makes you choke.

“shh, it’s okay, i’m here as an ally, to give my condolences to a friend in grief” there’s absolutely no seriousness in his tone.

“what about the war?” you ask through heavy breathing.

“that was child’s play, don’t worry, your healers will return safe and sound in a few days” he puts his hand on your shoulder to calm you down, you do.

satoru takes a second to drop his sight to your belly, it has been a month since your last encounter, and by your sensitive stomach he knows that one time was enough for you to get pregnant.

“do you think you can hide it for another month until the wedding? then when the child is born we’ll just say it was a premature birth” god, your former husband’s body was barely cold and gojo is already planning the wedding and what to say about the baby.

“why now?” you look up at his mischievous eyes, he knows what you’re asking truly.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about, it was an accident right?” he touches your face, brushing away a tear that came out, more of a natural body reaction of your gagging than a sadness reaction.

“satoru, tell me” you demanded.

“i just reflect a little you know? when i said i would kill him you never asked me not to. besides, i don’t want another man to think they own what’s mine” his eyes are darker, you think he’s talking about the child in your womb but by the intensity of his gaze, you realize he’s talking about you. “if you need anything tell suguru, i’ll have him staying in the village until we announce the wedding.”

“no, i have toji, don’t want anyone suspecting geto’s intentions” you defend.

gojo doesn’t seem to like it, but he doesn’t argue either, “either way, i want to see you. meet me at the temple in five days, we’ll talk about the arrangements” he leans in and kisses your forehead before turning away and then back “i almost forgot” he reaches for something inside his sleeve and pulls out a shiny golden bracelet with gems and puts it on your palm, you know you can’t wear it now but god it’s gorgeous, “came from the west especially for you” he puts his hand on top of yours and leaves it there for a long moment as you look into each other's eyes. satoru is fighting the urge to kiss you, if someone catches you he can’t say he’s comforting his recently widowed friend, so he forces himself to let go of you and go head back to his village.

the midwife instructs you to push harder as her helper dabs a wet cloth on your forehead. you’re squatting, on your knees giving your all to push the baby out.

finally one last push is all that it takes for the little one to come out, you want to lay down and close your eyes, but you need to see the baby first so you mumble something with your arms open, the midwife cleans baby’s face through crying and screaming.

“it’s a boy” she whispers putting him in your arms. satoru enters when he hears the cries and kneels in front of you. behind him are both suguru and toji, who aren’t allowed to enter but the men are also very eager to see the child they can’t help but try to peek.

you balance the boy in your hold for a little bit till he stops crying and when he opens his eyes you see the blue sky.

“give him to the father, we’re not over” the midwife says.

“what?” you, satoru, toji and suguru ask. the last two get an angry look from the midwife and remove themselves from the scene.

“the next one will come out soon” she puts new towels below you.

“two children? at once?” you ask in disbelief then look at satoru who can only smile apologetically.

after god knows how long you’re finally allowed to rest as the babies were cleaned and fed. the second one was a girl, with identical blue eyes as her brother and father.

“i can’t believe you put two kids in me” satoru is outside the wooden tub, breaking all tradition by helping you bathe after the birth.

“can’t say i’m sorry for that” he rubs your shoulders, “you were incredible” he confesses now that there’s only the two of you. satoru refuses to even let your feet touch the floor, he takes you out of the tub once the water starts to cool down, placing you on a dry surface and getting on his knees to dry your feet, you reach out to touch his face.

“i love you, satoru” you blurt, overwhelmed by your feelings for the man who was once your rival.

he looks up from his position, taking the hand on his face and kissing your palm, then your pulse, he kisses inch by inch of your arm until his lips are on yours, “i love you.”

"pay up, pretty boy" toji approaches geto.

"excuse me?" suguru looks up from the sword he's polishing now that gojo dismissed him for the rest of the night.

"i said it was gonna be a boy."

"yeah and then a girl came out right after so the bet was invalidated."

"there's no such a thing, the boy will inherit it all anyway" toji crosses his arms, geto laughs, fishing a coin from his pocket since he knows toji will say anything to win the bet.

"and what makes you say that? there's two clans and now two heirs" toji snatches the coin as soon as he sees the silver glow.

"that's just how it has ever been" he turns his back to geto who drives his attention back to his sword.

"things are changing old man.”

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[apatheticsunday]

Single Dad Dead on Main

AKA "Danny is the ghost-equivalent of a foster parent for de-aged Dani and Dan. Jason's just wondering who the hell these two feral meta children are." prompt idea!

Danny thinks he's doing an okay job at being a single dad of two. They're living in a quaint two bedroom apartment in Park Row, he's managing his Ghost King money well, and the kids haven't died (again). (He's definitely not getting a "World's Greatest Dad" mug anytime soon, but, hey, at least the house hasn't burned down yet!)

...Until he wakes up from his nap to an eerily silent apartment.

If there's one thing he's learned over the last few months, it's that silence is not good. He's scrambling off the couch fast enough to give himself a headache, practically flying down the hallway so he can get to the kids' room. Ellie is wedged halfway under her bunk bed. Dan's also squished under the bed but quickly squirms out when he realizes Danny's standing in the door way. He's holding... a socket wrench??

"...do I want to know what you two are doing?" Danny deadpans.

Ellie scrambles out as well, smears of something oily on her cheek. For a seven and eight year old, they have surprisingly convincing I'm innocent! expressions.

"I dunno," Ellie singsongs while Dan simultaneously barks, "Nothing!"

Danny squints. The kids squint back. Yeah, there's definitely something under the bed that's not supposed to be there. Since Dan's holding a wrench (and where the hell did he get that?? Danny doesn't even own any tools aside from maybe a little rubber mallet he found in the hallway closet), Danny hopes thinks it's not an animal.

It takes a minute of arguing in which Danny promises not to be mad, let them eat ice cream, and let them stay up an hour later than curfew for the kids to even let him near the bed without biting him. (Jokes on them, the ice cream is sugar free and Danny's going to reset the clocks to an hour before. Check and mate, bitch! Parenting is so easy.)

And then Danny pulls out... a tire. No, a rim. Two tire rims. Oh, Ancients. Engraved on the tire rim is a red Bat symbol. His stomach nearly drops to the floor; everybody in Crime Alley knows what the Red Hood's symbol looks like. "Eight Heads in a Duffle Bag," Crime Prince of Gotham with a gang big enough to take over all of Park Row. And yeah, Danny could easily beat the guy, but that doesn't mean he wants to. He doesn't want to uproot Dan and Ellie from their schools, move cities, run from yet another organization that wants them dead.

"How did you get this?" Danny asks, utterly dumbfounded.

"I dunno," Ellie says, just as Dan's saying, "Nowhere."

(Danny takes it back. Parenting is definitely not easy.)

"Danielle. Daniel. Where did you get these tire rims?" Danny asks again, more stern this time, to which he only gets shrugs. And that's when he notices the window is open and the screen his missing. "You're kidding me. Did you climb out the window? We're on the third floor!"

"We flew, duh." Ellie rolls her eyes, only shooting a wide-eyed, guilty look to Dan when he elbows her with a vicious shuddup!

"I-okay. Here's what we're going to do. We'll... just return the rims. It's not like the Red Hood saw you two steal them-," Danny stops when Ellie and Dan give each other a side-eye. He knows that look. It's the same look he and Jazz used to give each other when they had a silent agreement about something. Oh, no. No, no, no.

"...he didn't see you, did he?"

Another side-eye look. Oh, Ancients. At least there's no way the Red Hood knows where they are, right?

(Jason stares at the kids playing with his bike. He's not stupid enough to think they couldn't have been paid to sabotage it, but the way the little girl hikes herself up onto the seat and pretends to rev the engine makes him think otherwise. It's cute. The boy mostly seems interested in the engraved bat symbol on his tire rims, scraping at it like it's a 3D decal.

"I wanna be a bicycle-rider when I get bigger. I'll wear the jacket and everything!" The little girl laughs, deepening her voice before saying, "I'm a bicycle-rider! I'll beat you up!"

Jason snorts. He's leaning against the fire escape balcony overhead and it's dark enough for them not to see him, but they both freeze at the soft sound. When nothing happens, the kids relax again.

"It's a motorist, stupid. C'mon, help me take this off and I'll build you one."

"You wanna take the tire? Why?"

"'Cus of the symbol! It's the Batman symbol, do you know how scared people are of 'em? Show 'em this and nobody'll mess with us."

The kid's got a point. Crime Alley knows Red Hood's symbol like the back of their hand, but somehow Jason doesn't think rolling around a tire rim is going to have the same effect. Jason's about to step in when the kid bends the fucking metal with his bare hand. His fucking bike. It looks like the kid barely broke a sweat, too; just wiped his hands on his jeans and started prying apart front of his motorcycle.

Jason's voice is more biting than he means for it to when he shouts, "Hey!" He swings over the fire escape, landing with a heavy thud, before hauling ass towards the kids. Almost immediately the boy yanks the girl behind him and snarls... and his eyes go Lazarus-green. Jason stops abruptly. His voice is softer, gentler, when he tries again.

"Hey, kid. Don't you know not to go tearing apart people's bikes? C'mon, at least do it the right way."

That makes the boy pause, looking momentarily baffled and the green turning into bright blue. Jason takes that as an in and says, "Y'know, it's a lot faster when you use tools. I've got a wrench in my bag. If you use it like this..."

Jason spends the next thirty-five minutes helping the kids steal his own damn rims. He shouldn't. But he's curious about who these meta kids are and they're almost painfully easy to talk with, they just blabber like they've never heard of keeping a secret before in their lives. They talk about their dad, school, their favorite tv show. And then they talk about "the bad men" and Jason's stomach drops. "The bad men" who drive white vans, capture people, and experiment on them. And that sounds an awful lot like a meta-trafficking ring in his city, dead set on coming after the kids and their dad.

Then he's very, very grateful he's letting the kids take his rims home. After all, what Bat doesn't put GPS trackers in their symbols?)