#wooden engraving near me

[classicmemorialbenches]

What is the best wood for an outdoor bench?

When it comes to selecting the best wood for an outdoor bench, several factors need to be considered. Outdoor benches are exposed to the elements and can be subject to moisture, UV rays, and temperature changes.

Oak is a durable and hard-wearing timber that is well-suited for making timeless outdoor furniture.

Oak has a lively grain pattern, which can cause some fine hairline cracks on the surface of the wood due to expansion and contraction in varying weather conditions.

[helenanell]

A Breath Of Life || Part Two

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 Part One 

Pairing(s) :  Reader x Art – Reader x Tashi - Reader x Art x Tashi

CW: MDNI - Smut. Infidelity (kind of?). So much love and lust. ANGST. Manipulative behaviour. 

Notes: Fem!Reader, No use of y/n. This is really just me exploring my own bisexual panic some more.  Spoilers for the film.

Wordcount: 4.2K

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The moment you won the match that sealed your victory at Wimbledon,  the applause was rapturous.

And yet, Tashi’s triumphant shout was louder to you than hundreds of clapping hands. 

The sound of her celebration became yours, and when you let out a yell of your own, your racket falling from your hands, you became one with her. 

After that, her eyes did not leave you. You didn’t look but you knew it to be true, just as you knew the sun was shining onto your shimmering skin; Tashi was an incomprehensible being bearing down on you. 

When you lifted the Venus Rosewater Dish above your head–the silver trophy given to the women’s single’s winner–your smile was beatific. Not because of the rush of adrenalin, or the way your spirit had been buoyed by finally achieving what you knew you could, but feared you wouldn’t, but because you knew that in your victory Tashi had found her own. 

It had taken over a decade, but together you’d realised your dream. 

You knew deep down that you could have made it without her, but it would have been tasteless; a honeyed feast turning to ash in your mouth.

Achieving the title with Tashi by your side had turned everything technicolour. All of your senses were heightened and your sense of self revitalised. 

You lived for tennis and Tashi had helped that life become something glorious. 

When you stepped off the court it felt like a kind of conquest: your domain now stretched beyond the white lines that had so far confined you. You had taken more than a trophy, you had stolen space in people’s consciousness.

 You would not fade into the annals of time because your name had been recorded- it was to be engraved in metal which would be buffed into an unmissable shine. 

Even as you stepped into the plush locker room, you knew the winning moment was already being replayed and analysed. It made you smile to think that as commentators noted your form, they were publicly voicing the effects of Tashi’s coaching on you, to the entire world. 

You felt burned by her, but not as if she had branded you, rather that she had subjected you to such heat, that the very makeup of your body had been altered. 

Now, you're sitting on the wooden bench in the locker room with your head hanging low, sweat still dripping from your face when the door opens. 

You shoot to your feet, your beleaguered body screaming at you to slow down.

When you turn, you find Art standing in front of the now closed door. 

The sight of him takes away your breath. 

He is here too. 

In your greatest moment of euphoria, when you’ve never felt more tangible–more real–you get to be near him. Suddenly, all of the time that had passed between you didn’t matter.

He's with you now. 

Art leans back against the door, hands going into the pockets of his immaculate navy pants. A matching blazer that has been left unbuttoned stretches across his muscled torso, his sunglasses hanging from the neck of his white shirt. 

His cropped blonde hair is messy enough that you know he's been running his hands through it; with anxiety and elation he’d been dragging fingers through the blonde locks as he watched you play.  

Art has become something beyond handsome to you. Retiring has returned his vitality and it has been a stunning metamorphosis to witness. 

But it's change you’ve made yourself witness from a distance. The two of you have not been in a room alone together since he’d hidden in your bathroom as Tashi had convinced you to let her become your coach. 

For the first few months, things had felt far too fragile to acknowledge what had happened between the two of you. You and Art had come to a silent understanding that you needed the time to build back up a foundation with Tashi. 

If you were to remain in each other's lives, you needed solid ground.

But you had just won Wimbledon. You had just given Tashi a victory. Did either of you have the fortitude to go on denying yourselves? 

It has been a solid minute since Art entered the room and neither of you have shifted so much as an inch.

You’re fixed on the spot, watching him as he drinks you in. His gaze is laying possessive claim to your body, noting all the places the white vest and skort are clinging to your sweat-slicked curves. 

But it is when his eyes settle on your face, that a sort of peace soothes his expression.

“You were amazing.”

You can’t help but smirk, allowing yourself to feel cocky for once. “Of course I was, I won.” 

Art’s cheeks dimple with the strength of his grin.

“It’s not about the win. It’s how you moved when you played- like you could bend the whole world to your will. It was so beautiful. And you…” He pushes off the door and walks right up to you, chests almost brushing as he nudges your chin up with his finger. “You are so, so stunning.”

As he leans in, even though you don’t try to stop him, words of weak protest pour out of you.

“Art we shouldn’t. Not here-“

He cuts you off with a taunting kiss, his tongue trying to prize your lips open as his arm wraps around you.

His hand shifts up the sweaty material of your vest and lays his palm flat against the heated flesh of your lower back, all while his other hand trails up your outer thigh and beneath your skort to grab your ass.

You lean into him, hands wrapping around his neck and only when he draws back to kiss his way along your jaw, do you have a chance to speak again.

“Art, Tashi will be here soon. If she sees-“ 

“She won’t care.” 

Your brow furrows, but the confusion isn’t enough for you to stop his lips moving over your neck. “What?” 

As Art answers, his hand leaves your rear to dip beneath the waistband of your skort. You shiver as the pads of his fingers tickle all the way down, toying with the top of your underwear.

“You are all Tashi sees now.” Art clarifies, proceeding to nip at your exposed shoulder with his teeth. “You’re her everything. She could walk in on us right now and it wouldn’t change a thing.”

That gives you pause, indignation spiking at his easy dismal of Tashi.

You pull away from Art and he groans quietly but lets you go, his expression remaining completely content. 

“How can you say that?” You ask, growing irritable even as you let him take your hand in his.

“Because you’re everything that I couldn’t be for her.” He says. 

You sigh exasperatedly. “What does that mean, Art?” 

You don’t know why you’re asking, as you’re certain you already know the truth of it.

Art smiles, his other hand lifting to smooth a few sweat slicked strands off of your forehead. When he’s finished, his fingers settle with running over your cheekbone.

“It means…that you are all of her dreams realised. She resented me because every time I played, no matter how well, she knew it was nowhere near as important to me as it would have been to her had she never been injured. She hated me for not wanting it more….but, you have enough passion for tennis to play for the both of you. I never had that much to draw from. So, as long as you keep winning like you just did, she’ll love you. She’ll love you because you’re doing her justice.” 

After giving that insight that rang so true it almost hurts your ears with its incessant clamouring, Art leans in to kiss you again. You place a hand on his chest, gently pushing him back. 

“You felt like you were playing for her and it made you miserable.” You argue, hurt by the thought that his behaviour towards you is just rooted in gratitude that you have lifted the burden off of his shoulders. 

“It was different for me.” He answers simply. “I was miserable because I knew none of what I did was enough. I was still failing her. Tashi wants to watch great tennis and I didn’t give her that. You will. You are giving her that.” 

The way Art was speaking was producing within you a burgeoning unease; he was steady and assured, like he’d spent a long time thinking about this. And there was an undeniable undercurrent of pleasure to his speech.

A large part of Art was elated that the burden had been shifted onto you. 

But could you really hold that against him? You had seen how he was bending and breaking under the weight, it was why you’d told him to retire.

It was now your job to keep Tashi’s heart beating, you had known that the moment you’d agreed to let you coach her. That had been your choice and one freely made. 

So Art was right, you had to keep winning and you had to do so spectacularly. 

This was not a fresh revelation of course, but the possibility that Tashi wanting you close to her was entirely contingent on tennis, began to terrify you.

 You estimated you had a good five years left before you’d likely be forced to retire, but then what would become of you? Would Tashi even care to have you in her life after that? You were not bound to her like she was to Art by their daughter.

As if he can feel how your mind is whirring through the skin of your cheek, Art tips up your chin again and claims your mouth for another kiss. 

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing. 

“When I think about all that you are, tennis doesn’t even register.” He says sincerely, placing a sweet peck to your lips.

You cherish his touch and ach for more, but it isn’t quelling the panic ripping into your insides like wind whipping up in preparation to become a storm.

“Art, I can’t- I need to tell Tashi what happened with us.” 

No anger or irritation appears on his face at your blurted words, but his other hand falls onto your back so he can pull you closer and you can tell he’s definitely upset about something. 

“What happened?” He rasps. “You’re placing what we have in the past tense. Is it not still happening” His fingers press into your skin proprietorially. 

“I can’t lose her, Art. But I also can’t lose you.” 

“Then tell her.” He says,  bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it. 

“You’re agreeing just like that? It’ll ruin your marriage.” 

His lip tugs up in the beginning of a bitter smile. “Tell her. It won’t change how she sees you.” he affirms “Then you should ask her about Patrick.”

You barely have time to process his implication when the door opens.

 The two of you pull apart as Tashi’s head pops in. She looks entirely unbothered as her eyes glance off her husband before settling squarely on you.

“Get in the shower, we’ve got to get moving.” 

And just like that she’s gone again.

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“Do you need him?” 

Tashi’s question catches you off guard.

You’ve both been sitting in silence- her nursing a glass of wine and you with herbal tea as you both look out across the London skyline. Lights of skyscrapers are strung out across the black like fairy lights. 

You know who she’s talking about, but you’re terrified to acknowledge it.

You stop yourself from giving into the instinct to peer back through the open sliding door and into the hotel room where Art is watching TV. 

“In what way?” You ask, fiddling with the handle of your mug, still looking forward. 

Tashi huffs, putting her glass down and then turning to you, kneeling beside you on the outdoor couch. She takes the mug out of your hand, setting it on the nearby table before curling her fingers around your chin and forcing you to meet her unflinching stare. 

“Will Art improve your game or will he wreck it?” She sees your eyes widen and shushes you, stymying the words that had been gathering on your tongue. “This isn’t about me. I’m your coach, so I need to know that you’re going to keep giving this your all.” 

“I will.” You nod furiously, still held in her grip.

Tashi’s eyes flicker down your lips before finding your eyes again. Her hair is loose and being blown into your face. 

“I need you to tell me that if he’s watching you in the stands, that you won’t choke.” She says. “What the two of you have needs to light a fire in you, or it fucking dies. Do you understand me?” 

“I won’t choke.” You insist, your tone hard.

Her full lips press into a pleased line. “So are you going to keep dominating?” 

Slightly breathless, your eyes fall to where your fingers have been absentmindedly brushing her knee. You let your digits outstretch and as your eyes return to Tashi’s, you tentatively run them over her scar. You feel her shiver. 

“I’m going to keep dominating.” 

You both go still, and just as the corner of her mouth tugs up, she’s leaning in. You inhale a sharp breath as her lips just skim yours. She holds there, not pressing any further. 

When Tashi speaks, you feel her lips form the words against your own. “Then you do whatever it takes.” 

You truly couldn’t say which of you closes the distance, it feels more like an external, undeniable force driving the two of you to converge.

 When Tashi begins to move her lips against yours, her hand cradles the back of your head, twisting into your hair and pulling. You can’t help but let out a soft moan into her mouth, a hand landing on her waist and digging into the thin fabric of her silk shift.

Tashi draws back first, her hot breaths on your face as she presses two fingers to your throbbing lips. 

The question that comes out of your mouth has no malice or jealousy behind it, just an aching curiosity: you want to know her completely, in the way that you used to, and Art’s words from the locker room told you there was something you don’t know. 

“Tashi, what happened between you and Patrick?” 

She doesn’t rear back, she doesn’t slap you like she might have, she just lets out a slow almost contented breath.  

“I slept with him.” She admits calmly. “A few years ago in Atlanta, and the night before the Challenger match against Art.” 

All at once the visceral passion of that match makes so much more sense and even though you’re aware how twisted it is, you laugh. 

“You forced them to have the best match of their lives.” You say, your tone warring between disbelief and awe. 

Tashi answers with another brief, but ardent kiss to your lips, before she’s rising to her feet, her demeanour steady. Her expression is already returning to the stern set of your coach. 

“You need to get to bed. It’s a busy day tomorrow. Your physiotherapist is here at eight am. Nutritionist at eight-thirty.” 

You nod in agreement, lips still tingling as you rise to your feet. 

The night breeze stirs your hair and the thin fabric of your robe. Only when you turn do you see Art leaning in the doorway, his arms crossed against his chest, the fabric of his grey shirt strained against his muscles. 

When you meet his gaze he smiles so fondly that, combined with the residual heat of Tashi’s contact, you’re set ablaze. 

Right now you have both of them.

“Stay here with us.” Tashi asserts, running a hand over Art’s arm as she passes him to head inside the room.

“No need for you to go wandering down the hall in your nightgown again.” Art continues, the corner of his lips lifting as he holds a hand out to you.

You take it, letting him draw you inside. 

When the two of you reach the massive Queen bed, Art pulls back the sheets and you crawl happily into the middle of the mattress. 

All at once your exhaustion hits you, the softness cradling your aching form both lulling you into drowsiness and making your limbs remember each strained movement of the day.  

Your eyes fall shut, so you’re not sure who it is who causes the bed to dip, but you lean into the warmth irregardless. 

Art’s toned arm wraps around your torso as he draws the back of your body to be flush with his front.  He’s already pulling hair away from your neck and laying lingering kisses there, when movement in front of you causes your eyes to flutter open. 

Tashi’s standing in the bathroom doorway opposite you, her form backlit by the warm light as she finishes rubbing lotion to her arms.

 She watches Art holding you and she notes how he’s kissing you, a frenetic vibrancy takes over her expression. 

You hold her gaze as she switches the bathroom light and walks over. When she crawls under the covers, one of Art’s hands is moving past the neckline of your robe, his thumb running over your nipple. 

You sigh, your head falling back against Art’s chest, but your hand is moving forward across the mattress, searching for Tashi. 

It’s such a terrible idea-  an act that will join you all in another irrevocable way, but you have to have it. You have to have them. 

If you’re going to play tennis with Tashi as your coach and Art still in her life…you can’t choose. You can’t separate yourself from either of them. 

Your hand makes contact with Tashi’s as she lays herself right in front of you. She intertwines your fingers and leans down to kiss your chest, her lips skimming your collarbones. 

Art draws his hand away from your breast and his touch travels down your body, between your legs. 

You moan as Tashi’s mouth explores your chest, her tongue brushing over the swell of your breasts all while Art is pressing his knees between yours from behind. Now more open to him, he bunches your robe in his hand and rucks it up until it’s gathered at your waist. He pulls down your underwear.

When Art’s fingers begin to tease your centre, your gasp is lost as Tashi covers her mouth with yours, her free hand threading into your hair. 

Between the two of them, you find security in the ecstasy they draw out of you. Your entire body is flushed and sweating, cheeks red and chest heaving.

You’re beyond overwhelmed, but you try to savour every small touch and shift of their bodies.

Mostly you’re trying to remember the sensation of Tashi, because you have a feeling this may never happen again with her: even in your addled mind as Art begins to roll his hips, a finger pressing inside you, you’re aware that for Tashi this could simply be a form of motivation. You know that if she thought you needed this now, in order to keep playing the way you had today, then she’d do it without question. She’s motivating you.

 But is that all this is for her? It certainly means a lot more to you.

Tashi was the first woman you had been attracted to, the first person to make you question the limited nature of your desires as a young woman. And then she’d been your best friend, you’d loved and wanted her…and then you’d lost her. 

You both knew this wasn’t a sustainable dynamic, it would likely never be repeated, but for now you would savour being desired by the woman who had awoken yours so long ago. 

Right as Art presses another finger into you, plunging them the two in almost lazily, as if he has all the time in the world, he whispers in your ear: 

“Are you okay?” 

Tashi is still kissing you, but draws back when she hears the question, her lips plump and glistening. She’s giving you the chance to answer, you realise. 

The glorious tightness inside you worsens, friction growing as they stop touching you. 

“Yes.” You whine impatiently.

Art chuckles into your neck as you grab his wrist and guide him back into you, his fingers curling inside your warmth. 

But Tashi’s lips don’t return to yours, instead she leans down and presses them to your forehead before she’s crawling out of the bed.

You’re not worried by her retreat because you’ve always been able to read her face. As she backs away, your orgasm drawing closer as Art fucks into you with his fingers, you see that she isn’t regretting anything. In fact, she’s pleased. Not necessarily with what’s happening in front of her, but because Art–someone she has loved and still loves in her own way–can give you the intimacy she can’t quite bring herself to. 

You play tennis for Tashi and Art loves you for both of them. You think you can live with that.

 Even though you know you could, you don’t begrudge Tashi for any of it. She’s given you this. She’s given you Art and in as much as she can, she’s given you herself. 

As she slips out of the room, no doubt to go to her Mother’s suite and to her daughter, you are entirely content. 

Once you’re alone, you buck up into Art’s hand, your ass grinding against his hardness. He groans deeply against your neck and you almost cry out in protest as he pulls his fingers from right when you’re so close to release. 

But you are not left bereft of him for long. His arm moves beneath you, bracketing your chest with his hand and settling with a soft grip against your throat. He pushes down his pyjama pants.

It’s all too much when he begins to tease his hardness against your core. 

“Art. Now.” You reach down and dig your nails into his now bare thigh with force. 

As his grip on your throat tightens ever so slightly, Art complies and pushes himself into you from behind. He sounds drunk as he whispers into your hair:

“This will never be enough.” He thrusts into you with sweet slowness, letting you feel every tiny thing. “I’ll never have enough of you.” 

So lost in the pressure of him moving inside you that you’re alienated from your capacity for speech, you can’t find the language to tell him how this feels for you; you can’t tell him how much it means. 

Then he speaks again, his movements becoming more forceful: “I’ll never have all of you will I?”

You whimper as his hand that’s not on your neck dives between your legs, adding pressure with his fingers even as he fucks you.

“You do have all of me.” You answer raggedly, relinquishing free movement entirely as he cradles your body so restrictively.

He’s like a snake, tingling around your form before consuming your entire being.

“Tell me it wouldn’t change anything if it was just us.” Art begs, his breath catching in his throat and body shaking. “Tell me I’d be enough for you.” 

He thrusts again and you almost break with your shuddering release. You don’t try to remain quiet, crying out into the night. Art continues to move in you, desperate in more ways than one. 

“I can’t Art.” You admit, tears of pleasure and a sweet sort of pain gathering in your eyes. “I can’t tell you that. We need- we need them. B-both of them.” You stutter out, relinquishing yourself to your euphoria. 

Them. Them being Tashi and Patrick.

 You don’t understand Art without either of them. You don’t understand yourself without them. 

Everything was in relation to them, even the sex you and Art are having right now isn’t just about the two of you. And you both know it.

An indecipherable noise comes from Art as he pulls out of you, and in a blink, he’s rolled you onto your back and is pressing himself into you again.

His pace becomes rapid as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, hips snapping against yours.

You wrap your legs around him, driving him deeper as his body begins to tremble.

When Art comes apart, draping himself over you as he gathers himself, a tear of utter confusion rolls down your cheek and falls into his hair. 

Whatever comes next, at least you know you’ll never be alone. Art is a part of you. Tashi and Patrick are part of you. 

Without each other, there is no survival.

[mydearesthrry]

trinkets on tour — H.S.

hi angel pies this one is very self indulgent!!! i hope you enjoy <3

🎀 warnings/cw: none, fluff, swearing maybe?, kisses, harry being a sweetheart tbh

🐇 pairing: famous!bf!harry styles x fem!reader

💐 wc: 1.3k (short cute little baby!!!)

summary: a few different occasions with harry and your trinkets.

“Ow, fuck,” Harry muttered under his breath, something sharp poking in the skin of his foot. Moving his leg, he finds a small bunny figurine, the ears animated and floppy, wearing a pink dress with a small basket full of strawberries in its arm. “Y/n? Is this yours?”

The girl comes walking around the corner, seemingly doing her skincare in the hotel bathroom if the headband and glowy face had anything to go by. “Oh! Yeah, it is!” A small smile covered her face.

“It’s you, bun! I found it at a small corner store in Horsens and meant to give it to you. I thought I’d lost it since it wasn’t in my purse when I checked for it last night, but you found it! Isn’t it so cute?” She grins, walking over to her boyfriend to slip it from his fingers and roll it around in hers.

Harry had just about melted. She went to a shop and found something that reminded her of him, and just because of that, she bought it? God, was he in love.

“That’s s’ sweet, m’heart,” Harry pulls her into his side, pecking a few kisses to the top of her head, “thank you, sweet girl.”

She looks up from where her head is tucked into this side, wearing a pretty smile and bright gleam in her eyes. Harry looks on at her in awe, entranced by her beauty.

“Of course, H. Think about you always, all the time. Think I’d be broke by now if I bought you everything that reminds me of you that i’ve seen.”

—

“Harry! Harry, look!” His girl comes running to the stage, interrupting his phone time as he waits for soundcheck to start.

“What, wha’ is it?” Harry’s brows furrowed, locking his phone and placing it next to his legs that swung over the edge of the stage.

“I found this in the green room, you haven’t even fully looked in there yet! It’s you!” She carefully tosses a small item onto the stage, not being able to reach up and place it due to how much shorter she was compared to the stage.

“‘S a— strawberry? ‘M a strawberry?” He says confusedly.

“I mean- okay its not you, but it reminded me of you! It’s a gold strawberry ring, and I have a gold strawberry ring too! Look, I’m wearing it right now,” She brings her left hand up to rest on his knee, showing a small dainty ring on her pinky finger, “We can match!”

He looks down at where her hand was placed on her knee and smiles. “Okay, m’love, we can match.”

Hearing her soft giggles, he knew he just couldn’t say no now. There was absolutely no way he could say no.

“C’mere lovie, there’s stairs right there,” With a soft gleam in his eyes, he points to a different area on the floor, “Jus’ wanna hold y’for a bit before the show.”

She squeaks out a little ‘okay!’ and runs over to the stairs, taking longer strides to get to her love faster. Plopping down next to him, she twists in her spot and scooches forward a bit, laying her head on his lap. She plucks the small ring from his hands, pointing at details in it that he hadn’t— and probably wouldn’t have noticed otherwise.

Despite not looking at the ring, and staring at her instead, he memorizes every detail of the ring, while engraving every small peep and barely noticeable rasp in her voice into his brain.

Come showtime, the fans immediately notice a new addition to his ring collection, a small strawberry ring that adorns his right pinky finger.

—

“Oh shit!” A shout followed by a small crash catches Harry’s attention, raising him to his feet in record speed as he nearly flies out of the bedroom and to the living area of the hotel.

“Honey, y’okay?” He says hurriedly, rushing over to where his sweet girl was.

She spins on her heel immediately, a broken wooden box in her hand, a small light purple unicorn in the other. Behind her near her heels laid almost a dozen other little trinkets, some scattered farther away from her feet than others. A sad look glazes over her features as she nods softly.

“Yeah, I’m okay, I accidentally dropped my Love On Tour trinket box, and now I’m a little sad,” She places the box and tiny unicorn onto the table, taking small steps to get to him, resting the side of her head on his chest, “I even decorated it! I’ve been getting small things from every stop on tour and the box I’ve been putting everything in broke!”

Harry’s heart ached for her, knowing how sweet and sentimental his girl was and knowing how much the box probably meant to her. Not saying anything for a few beats, he wraps his arms around the girl and runs his hand up and down the length of her arm. “Hm, m’heart. ‘M so sorry, can I see it?”

She nods, stepping back to go retrieve the box from the table, going back to Harry with it in her hands.

“M’kay, I think I can fix this up for you just right, want me to?” He says, assessing the damage, handling it carefully.

Her eyes light up as soon as the words leave his lips, a soft gasp falling from her lips. “You can?”

“Of course I can, y’gotta give me a couple of days though, Lovie. ‘M sorry.”

“It’s okay!” She chirps. “‘S okay even if you can’t, but if you can, that would make me so happy, thank you, H.”

“I’d do anything f’you, but for now, I think I have a small jewelry box y’can put it in until I fix it. Sounds good?” He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead at her graciousness.

“Sounds amazing, thank you, Baby.”

—

“Lovie? C’mere for a sec, baby.” Harry calls from yet another hotel bedroom, smiling softly as he heard a sweet ‘coming!’ followed by small steps on the floor.

“Yes?” Her head popped into the doorframe, a small furrow in her brow.

“Got a surprise f’you,” He smiles, hands behind his back.

“For me?” She walks over to him slowly, a suspicious look on her face.

“It’s nothing bad! Jus’ a quick something before we leave for the venue.” From behind his back, he pulls out her (now fixed!) box, placing it in front of her on the white duvet.

A gasp falls from her lips, followed by an excited squeal. In gratitude, she cautiously jumps onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, placing her lips onto his. She places small ones on his lips first, before pressing them together in an elongated, sweet kiss.

“Wait, wait Lovie, there’s another surprise inside the box.” Harry laughs, muttering the words against her lips to keep her close.

“Another?! You’re spoiling me now,” Grabbing the box, she opens it before gasping in shock.

“Always spoil you, don’t I?” He chastises, plucking the trinket out of the box.

A small, red convertible keychain lay flat in his palm, another small charm of a white daisy on it.

“Harry-“ She starts, pulling his hand closer to her face to look at it in closer detail. “Thank you, s’much.”

She turns her head to him, now teary eyed. She knew the sentiment behind both items, making the experience all the more emotional.

“The car, from our fifth date, where I asked y’to be m’girlfriend, and then the daisy from-“ He drawls, a soft and sleepy lull in his voice.

“From the field in Holmes Chapel, where you first told me you loved me.” She giggles breathily, sniffling to contain her emotion. “They’re perfect, baby. Thank you, thank you s’much.”

Twisting around in his lap, she wraps her arms around his shoulders, burrowing her face into his neck. He reciprocates the hug, wrapping his arms around her waist as he lays soft kisses on the side of her head.

“‘S perfect, you’re perfect.”

“Oh shut it, Lovie. Jus’ can’t believe I’m now contributing to your trinket collection.”

[sugar-plum-writer]

The Serene Peony Of Winter

Paring: Sukuna!King of Curses x Fem!Geisha Reader

Tags: Slight! mention of violence; Fem!reader; Sukuna!imagines; will be 18+ as more chapters come; slow!burn, [I want to have a good build up!], an ancient Japan romance through time with darling reader~, A chapter by chapter series, It will be a bit long maybe 10 chapters. So~ enjoy~

[If you all like it, please heart and reblog the post! to know you want to read more~ and follow for chapter updates! or leave a comment to tag you when I put out new chapters~ I will do my best to roll out UPDATES ASAP!]

New chapter update! @naoyagasm @janeaugustine @teonawrites @periwinkless-universe

CHAPTER - 2

The array of lamps and candles illuminated the beautiful room, like the night of a banquet, the wooden carvings engraved the room-like the hand bearing a legacy of love. Silk scrolls, delicate picturesque vases sat. As the scent of rosemary lingered, in prayer.

He sat as he gazed at you, looking into your eyes into your soul

Suddenly snapping back to reality― You closed your eyes and bowed your head, looking at him as if you just weren't about to run out screaming

"You, flatter me", a soft smile donned your face as your sleeves rustled― the grinding of tea leaves resounded― a perfect tea ceremony, it had been ingrained into your bones, even in death you could do it flawlessly

"I pray you like the tea I have prepared, especially gotten from the first harvest my Lord", placing the piping hot porcelain cup of tea in front of him as you looked him in the eyes

It is okay, it is fine, I will be fine, deep breathes, Y/n, treat it as any other, oh god why can't my heart calm down- oh how hard you tried to convince yourself

"Flattering?"― he laughed, taking up the cup of tea in his hands- holding it near his face, inhaling the aroma as his lips touched the rim

"You know, for a mere human, you sure look quite calm― by now 1 out of 2 would have fainted" he placed the cup down, and before you knew it―

you felt a great force grabbing your jaw, forcing you to look up, eyes widened in terror as you looked into the blood-red eyes illuminated by evil, fueled by desire, and― living in a world beyond yours

"Look me in the eyes when I speak to you woman, it's your face I want to look at"― devilish grin dripped from his eyes to his lips, forming a smirk on his face, a color― unfamiliar

Pulling you close― his hot breath on yours, Inches away― the poor porcelain tea splattered across the mat, spanning to the silks drenching the precious fabric― leaking to the tatami mat― As a gust of wind made all candles fade out not daring to light up.

Eyes locked into yours― burring holes into your skin, so deep your heartfelt dug out from the depths of your chest―

"I have been very patient", his hands going down from the wisps of your hair to your earnings brushing it― untangling it, as his lips kissed the lock of your hair

"Tell me, what's your price woman?"

"Afterall I didn't expect- to see such a beauty tonight"

Heart pounding― breathing shaking, not an inch of your muscle moved because of the sheer terror you felt, a terror digging― clawing deep into your very bones, you felt you had 1000 swords around, glistening, near your neck, threatening to perforate it mercilessly

"I-"

You dug out from every nook and cranny of your existence― Every ounce of strength you had― and looked him in the eyes

"I, Y/n do not offer such services Ryomen Sukuna-sama, for I am a Geisha"― freeing yourself from his grasp, you lowered your head onto the ground, joining your hands in front― you bowed deep on your knees, head lowered enough to snap your neck

"I have no price- for, the Sakura have not bloomed yet, and my Peony's have not wilted-,

Taking a sharp breath- piercing your lungs, your voice louder

not wilted enough to be thrown away as an arrangement of a Higanbana", with a solemn tone, the last words rolled out your tongue- into an air sharp enough to cut lives, you raised your gaze again looking into his

Silence

Utter suffocating silence

Chuckle― no rather a cackle echoed throughout the room

"Really? How amusing, even after knowing who I am, How I can rip your skin to shreds, dig out your pitiful guts, and throw them to dogs", his sharp nails grazed your cheek, and it stung as crimson blood dripped down your cheek to your chin

A crimson rouge of a unique kind, a rouge he loved to see, a rouge of death- as red as death

"Yet, you said no, not screaming, rather, in a way I Sukuna have never been spoken to, quite a woman you are", resting his chin on his hand, his legs crossed

"Is that mere dignity of yours― worth more than that pathetic life of yours woman? Should I call you a fool or an insane fool", looking down at you condescendingly, how pathetic you are

"For too many―their lives sure are worth it, but to me"

"Is life worth living as a person with no dignity? Even if I die, it is fine, for, I think― I have lived long enough. I don't wish to give away the last part of me that I have left", voice cracking as a stream of sorrow started to roll down your cheeks, only it knowing the pain― the horror you bear

"My face, my voice, have already been tailored, my Lord. Who am I? I do not know, but, until my dying breath I wish to keep this pathetic dignity of mine, I am foolish, maybe the biggest fool in the world"

The sadness in your soul, the tragedy in your heart, that circulated through your veins, all black like ink dripping from your eyelashes down your cheek gently falling down your neck

"Please, if you wish― if it will satisfy you", taking the last hairpin from your hair, raised it holding it between your palms as you lowered your head

"End me"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Your mind does not remember what happens next, for your emotions were too much all over the place, but what you do remember is― the words that shook you to your core

"Didn't you say- you aren't to be thrown away as a dry arrangement of Higanbana? Raise your head"

Vision hazy, clouded by tears, not even able to make out your own hands, you looked at him

"You won't be, For I Ryomen Sukuna, am interested― what your story is woman, I will make sure―

His devilish eyes glistened as if he found a new toy

"To taste the tragedy in your heart, the piercing pain― Let me eat it, swallow it down my throat into my veins, into my brain forever as I live Y/n, to make it mine"

Footnotes:

>Peony: It means bravery and honor. Today it is used in decorations at weddings to promote good fortune for the bride and groom. It is referred to as "the king of a hundred of flowers"

>Sakura: It represents a time of renewal and optimism, as in Japan during the blossoming of Sakura- it marks the end of winter and beginning of a new start.

>Higanbana (Red-Spider Lily): A flower of death and sadness

Hence-

"I have no price- for, the Sakura have not bloomed yet, and my Peony's have not wilted-

not wilted enough to be thrown away as an arrangement of a Higanbana"

Means:

"I have no price- as, happiness has not bloomed, a new start has not arrived, my dignity and honor have not wilted- not wilted enough to be thrown away as an arrangement of death and sadness."

I hope you like the explanation~ <3 Footnote: Check out masterlist for all chapters!

[macbethsymphony]

The Swordsman and the Blacksmith | Chapter 21

Roronoa Zoro x Reader

Chapter wc: 6.3k

Chapter rating: NSFW-ish

Content/Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Fem!Reader, Enemies to lovers, SLOW slow burn, Eventual smut

Summary: Your skills as a blacksmith have made you desirable to both the government and pirates. You know you have to leave this island if you want to escape your fate, but that doesn't make the choice of leaving any easier. Roronoa Zoro is intrigued by your skills as a blacksmith. Your work is like nothing he's ever seen before. Unfortunately, you're hot-headed and he's rude and you both definitely hate each other.

Chapters [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20]

Masterlist

Slowly crossposting from AO3

Chapter 21: Shusui

Roronoa Zoro was already in your forge when you got there. Standing amidst the dancing flames, the heat radiating from the blazing fires was casting flickering shadows on his sweat-dampening skin, emphasizing the hard lines of his physique. For a moment, you couldn’t help but pause, drawn to the raw power exuding from him as he sifted through the array of objects scattered across your workbench.

He picked up one of the kitchen knives you had been crafting a few days prior, his focus intense as he examined the half-finished blade with a critical eye.

"They're for Sanji," you interjected, your voice slicing through the sound of crackling flames as you finally approached him.

His brows furrowed slightly, a hint of irritation passing his stare. “The cook?” He twirled the steel in his fingers absentmindedly. The unpolished metal glinted mesmerizingly before he returned it among the others. “He’s peculiar about his tools.”

You hummed in agreement as you joined his side. “You’re right, it was an unexpected request. I guess he really liked the first one I made.”

A faint scowl flickered across Zoro’s features at your words, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. You watched as his hand reached within the leather bag on the wooden top, taking out a few small black balls of steel.

“Those are for Usopp,” you explained. “We’re working on a prototype together.” Your gaze lingered on his fingers as he rolled and observed the projectiles. You pointed at a black guitar pick and an engraved money clip. “And these are for Brook and Nami. I’m also working on a surgical set for Chopper.” You chuckled before continuing. “Luffy asked for a bracelet and I’m working with Franky for improvements on the ship. Robin still insists on not wanting anything… but I’ll find something.”

He scrutinized you for a moment, a subtle intensity in his gaze as he contemplated something, his fingers lingering on the leather bag as he put back the small spheres into it.

There was a palpable tension in the air as he shifted, settling himself half-sitting on your workbench. “You’ve been busy,” he observed with a hint of stiffness in his voice.

You met his gaze, your eyes tracing the lines of his features, heart skipping a beat at the proximity. It was a rare moment for Zoro to be almost eye-level with you, and the subtle difference in perspective sent a thrill coursing through you.

"I suppose I have," you admitted in response to his observation, you gave a satisfied nod as you looked over the objects.

The heat of the forge swirled around you both. His hand reached out, fingers intertwining with yours as he pulled you closer, the sudden movement catching you off guard. You found yourself standing before him, his touch sending a flutter in your stomach as he brought your hand near to his face.

Your breath hitched in your throat as his gaze roamed your hand, his fingers tracing the rougher patches of skin, the tiny scars, the marks of your hard work with a gentle curiosity. You felt a rush of self-consciousness wash over you, a flush creeping into your cheeks as you tried to pull away, but his grip remained firm.

“What about me?” he couldn’t help himself but ask, his eye meeting yours. His voice was low and husky, a hint of something indiscernible lurking in its depths. Was that a hint of jealousy you detected? Or something else entirely?

You met his gaze in a teasing look, your lips quirking up in a smirk. "What about you, swordsman?" you echoed, your tone laced with amusement and a touch of mischief.

Zoro's stare narrowed, his grip on your hand tightening ever so slightly as he held your eyes, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his lips. The subtle shift in his expression hinted at a challenge, as if he were daring you to continue the path you were going towards.

"You know what I mean," he replied, bringing your palm to his lips in a soft kiss, before moving on to the pads of your fingers, to the healed scars.

Your heartbeat quickened at the intensity of his gaze, the warmth of his breath against your skin was electrifying, igniting a fire within you that blazed at a far higher temperature than the ones of your forge, threatening to consume your senses.

With each gentle caress, you felt yourself surrendering to the magnetic pull between you, drawn inevitably closer to him. A gasp escaped your lips as his lips trailed down toward your wrist, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. He bit at the hem of your long sleeve, dragging it down before placing a soft kiss on your pulse. The sensation was intoxicating.

"You're not going to make this easy, are you?" he muttered against your skin, sending waves of desire crashing over you.

You couldn't help but smile at his words, the teasing shimmer in your eyes mirrored in his. "Right, where would be the fun in that?" you replied, your voice barely above a whisper as you leaned into the game you were playing, your free hand going to his jaw, down his jugular.

Zoro's grip on your wrist tightened, his tongue met your skin, followed by a soft bite, his gaze never leaving yours in a silent dare. You whined at the sensation. Your touch descended to his collarbone, to the expanse of flesh visible in his open overcoat. The tips of your fingers traced the scar on his chest before they found the small crescent marks you’d left the night before, almost unnoticeable but definite under your touch.

"Is that a challenge, witch?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that reverberated under your palm, his breath hot against your skin.

Your heart pounded in your chest as his words sent a thrill coursing through you, igniting a fierce desire in your core. With a mischievous look, you leaned in closer, your lips hovering provocatively near his ear.

"What if it is, swordsman?" you whispered, your breath hot against his skin, it was his turn to stiffen subtly beneath you. 

Something akin to a rough moan left him as his hand left yours and went softly to your nape, directing your lips towards his. There was an amused glint in his eye, a contented smirk on his features. “Always so defiant,” he commented hovering at the edge of a kiss.

"Oi! Firecracker, did you see my hammer?" Franky's voice boomed, reverberating through the walls of your forge before he inevitably appeared in the doorway.

You jumped back, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks at the realization of what you were doing. Zoro's frustration was palpable as he let out a low groan, his hands clenching the workbench’s edge until his knuckles turned white, his nails digging into the wooden surface. His head fell back, a muttered curse slipping past his lips, barely audible but laden with exasperation. Something suspiciously resembling ‘this fucking ship’ reached your ears. You weren’t entirely certain if it was an echo of your own thoughts or something the swordsman whispered.

The cyborg stopped in his tracks, his gaze travelling between the two of you, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he leaned casually against the frame of the door. "What were you brats doing?"

You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the suggestive undertone in Franky's question. "Your hammer, Franky? Let me find it…" Your eyes scanned the cluttered workshop, searching for the misplaced tool.

Franky's eyebrows arched in amusement as he pushed further, undeterred by your attempt to redirect the conversation. "Were you guys doing something inappropriate? Should I have knocked first?"

Spotting the damned hammer, you seized the opportunity to change the subject. "The idiot owes me a sword," you replied tersely, your words curt.

Zoro chimed in, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "And the witch is supposed to give me a sword."

"Swords, huh? Sure," Franky drawled, his suggestive tone adding a playful edge to the exchange.

Ignoring Franky's insinuations, you quickly retrieved the hammer and handed it to him with a forced smile. "Here you go, Franky. All set?"

He accepted the tool with a grin, his mechanical fingers wrapping around the handle. "Thanks, Firecracker," he smirked, his eyes darting over to Zoro. “Don’t let me interrupt you brats,” he teased before sauntering out of the forge. His laughter echoed through the space as he left. There was a silence for a moment until you heard the inevitable hearty cackles start again. “Oi, Robin! You won’t believe what I have to tell you.” The words barely reached your ears in the distance, but they still made your eyes roll.

You leaned heavily against the wall, an involuntary groan escaping your lips as you regarded the swordsman. A palpable tension hung in the air, a silent standoff between wills, neither prepared to yield nor acknowledge the unspoken undercurrents swirling between them. Your egos struggled quietly, each refusing to concede an inch of ground in this battle of pride and desire. Your stare oozed with irritation and a hint of a challenge. His smirk widened at your defiance, a playful glint dancing in his gaze as he pushed himself off the workbench, moving with the grace of a predator, swift and purposeful.

The bastard was clearly enjoying this. You couldn't help but inwardly curse as you observed his smug demeanor, a frustrating mix of annoyance and begrudging yearning stirring within you. 

Closing the distance between you with long strides, he exuded an almost suffocating presence. Standing before you, he paused, his hand rising to caress your cheek, the warmth of his touch reigniting the simmering heat in your veins. His thumb brushed gently against your lips, a silent invitation you didn’t take hanging between you.

"So?" he asked, his tone laced with amusement as he watched you struggle to gather your thoughts. "What's that new condition you want to add for Yokubari?"

You stumbled over your words for a moment, feeling the weight of his gaze bearing down on you. With a scoff you tried to pass as nonchalant, you pushed him back a step, your hand finding purchase against his chest.

"Right," you began, your voice firm despite the chaos swirling within you. "No unsheathing Yokubari unless we're on solid ground," you declared, moving to fetch the said sword. "And always under my supervision."

You watched his features transform into a confused frown. Watched as his gaze became sharper as he considered your words.

“Why?” He asked finally.

Your expression remained serious as you discussed the sentient blade. “Because I say so,” you replied, your tone unusually firm.

Zoro’s brow furrowed further in frustration at your response, his jaw tightening with barely contained annoyance. “That’s not a reason,” he retorted his voice tinged with impatience.

You shrugged his vexation away, it was a condition on which you refused to back down. “Yokubari is hard to master, consider it a condition for my peace of mind.”

He let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his unruly hair in frustration as he stalked to where you were standing with the sword in hand. “Are you underestimating me, witch?” he asked with a note of anger threatening to come out.

It was your turn to frown at his tone. “I think you’re conveniently forgetting how close you came to dying the last time you held it, swordsman,” you said stiffly as you remembered your deadly blunder.

"I was perfectly in contro-" he started to protest, but halted at the look that flashed in your eyes. "Fine," he conceded, his hand reaching to grab Yokubari.

You didn’t release your grip as his fingers wrapped around the hilt, your jaw clenched, a hesitant look in your gaze.

He gave you a quizzical look, sensing the unease emanating from you.

“Promise me you won’t let it change you,” you said under your breath, your voice barely audible over the crackling of the fires.

"Huh?" he responded, his brows furrowing in confusion at your request.

You raised your tone slightly, the urgency clear in your words. “Promise me you won’t let it consume you, that you’ll still be the same person afterwards.

His gaze softened, a hint of understanding dawning in his eye as he studied your face.

"I won't change," he assured you, his voice carrying a note of confidence. Yet, despite his conviction, your anxiety remained unabated, gnawing at the edges of your resolve as you grappled with the idea of leaving Yokubari in someone else's hands.

You gritted your teeth as you remembered the impact it had had on the people who had tried to wield it in the past. You looked up at the swordsman, gauging if you could trust him. Your grip tightened for a moment before you finally let go.

You watched as he clearly itched to unsheathe the blade, his fingers resting on the guard, but he honored your request. Instead he simply added it to the complex array of knots at his side.

“Get used to holding it,” you said, your tone still tight. “You’ll find that it’ll challenge you at the most unexpected moments.” 

He quirked an eyebrow at that. “How so?” he asked as he undid the knots keeping Shusui at his waist. You couldn’t help the chuckle that left your lips as you thought it over, the tension in your shoulders releasing slightly. “Depends if Yokubari likes you or not,” you admitted. “Though this trouble making blade doesn’t tend to like a lot of people.”

He smiled at that, the upcoming challenge something he already relished. He finished taking out Shusui. “So just like you, witch,” he said giving his sword a final casual twirl before handing it to you.

You ignored his taunt, your fingers reaching excitedly towards the legendary blade. You allowed the thoughts of Yokubari to fade to the back of your mind in the presence of the black sheathed blade. He let go, the sword falling in your palms. Your hands fell at the sudden weight, you stumbled forward, your balance shattered.

“It’s so much heavier than I thought,” you said in excited surprise, childlike wonder etched on your face as you looked up at the swordsman.

Zoro couldn’t help but chuckle at your reaction, a fond smile softening his features as he watched you marvel at the sword in your hands.  "Can I watch?" he asked, his gaze curious.

His request caught you off guard. "It might not be very exciting for you," you replied, clearing your workbench, and setting Shusui in the center. "Studying a sword isn't exactly riveting to the observer."

"So? Can I watch?" he stubbornly reiterated, tilting his head slightly as he awaited your response.

You couldn't help but chuckle at his persistence. "Sure, you can watch," you relented, a hint of amusement tugging at the corners of your lips. You grabbed at the roll of linen on the wooden top, your fingers deftly wrapping the cloth around your hair. "After all, it's your sword we're talking about." With a casual shrug, you gestured for him to come closer, inviting him to observe the process of studying Shusui. “I will be taking breaks to temper Sanji’s knives though, do you mind?”

"I don't," he replied, joining you at your side as you set up the tools you’d need for your observations. You waved towards a nearby stool, wordlessly offering him a seat, but he remained standing. "Does it take long?" he inquired, his gaze fixed on the glowing embers of the forge.

"Tempering?" you echoed, moving to place the first knife into the burning charcoal.

"The quenching doesn't take more than a minute, but the blade needs to heat up for around two hours," you clarified, your movements precise and practiced as you worked. “This forge is small, so I can only really do one blade at a time.”

He hummed noncommittally, watching you grab your notebook and a pen as you made your way back to his side.

You sat down, a thrill coursing through you as you let your hand graze along the scabbard. "Did you tie the sageo?" you inquired, your fingers delicately tracing the intricate knots near the guard. The rope was meticulously tied, each loop and twist a testament to the care and precision put into its creation.

You felt him tense behind you, a fleeting moment of uncertainty crossing his features. "I did," he admitted, his voice carrying a rare hint of hesitation, as if unsure how you would react to his admission.

You nodded, a flicker of surprise dancing in your eyes. "It's impressive," you remarked, your tone genuine as you continued to examine the knotwork. "You have a knack for it. The color is nice, it highlights the details of the scabbard well and the knots are precise," you opened your notebook, pen in your mouth as you considered where to start your observations.

He shrugged nonchalantly, though a hint of pride you didn’t see glimmered in his eye at your praise. He crossed his arms, standing tall behind you as he continued to watch your unwavering attention on the sword. “Tell me what you see,” he demanded.

You tossed your head back, the wrappings of your hair brushed slightly over his abdomen in the movement. You regarded him curiously, noting the shift in his eye. “I didn’t know the great Roronoa Zoro was so interested in sword making,” you teased, with a smile. He raised an eyebrow but before he could retort something clever at your taunt, you continued. “Fine, if you’re going to be hovering over me the whole time, you might as well learn something, swordsman.” 

He took an imperceptible step forward as your fingers grazed down the scabbard. Even through the heat of the fires of your forge you could feel the warmth of his body radiating from behind you.

“The saya is rather standard,” you began, your voice steady as you recorded your observations in your notebook. “It appears to be crafted from magnolia wood, which is the typical choice for a katana scabbard.”

With practiced ease, you lifted the sword into your hands, your eyes tracing the intricate details of the handle and guard. “The tsuba is stunning,” you murmured, barely audible above the crackling of the flames, as your gaze lingered on the delicate flower pattern etched into the golden guard. “Its simplicity complements the blade perfectly.”

He leaned in closer, his interest mirroring yours as he followed your examination with rapt attention.

“Silk is an excellent choice for the handle wrapping,” you continued, your voice growing more animated as you delved into the intricacies of the sword’s construction. “Although it lacks the immediate grip of a round cord, the twists provide a secure hold. Additionally, silk gains traction with moisture, making it ideal for use in damp conditions and prolonged periods of use.”

You paused for a moment, taking an expectant breath in as you drew the blade from its scabbard, anticipation tingling in every fiber of your being. As the gleaming metal emerged into the light, your eyes widened in awe, beholding its magnificent form.

"Oh, you beautiful blade," you  breathed out, your voice hushed and reverent, a declaration to the profound admiration you held for the sleek black steel.

You ran your fingertips along the edge, marveling at the smoothness of the grain beneath your touch. Every curve, every line seemed to whisper secrets of its craftsmanship, a testament to the skill and dedication poured into its creation.

The steel beckoned to you, its presence demanding worship from you. A demand which you happily obliged. A smile graced your lips, a silent acknowledgment of the blade’s satisfaction.

With a mixture of curiosity and respect, you extended your senses, allowing your haki to intertwine with the essence of the blade. The black tendrils of your energy danced delicately along its edge, a harmonious exchange between two souls. It was a sensation beyond words, an intoxicating blend of power and finesse that left you momentarily breathless.

Reluctantly, you withdrew, releasing the connection with the blade but retaining the lingering imprint of its presence.

A soft exhale brushed against your neck as the swordsman drew closer, his breath warm against your skin. "What do you see?" he inquired, the question cutting through the reverent silence that enveloped the forge.

Your heart skipped a beat at the proximity of his voice. Instinctively, you leaned back, seeking a clearer view of the blade, only to collide with the solid warmth of his chest.

For a fleeting moment, you froze, caught off guard by the unexpected contact. Yet as you retreated forward, his hand trailed up your arm, finding its place over your heart in an almost tender touch, drawing you back into his embrace.

“What do you see?” he repeated the low timbre of his voice reverberating through your being, his breath warm against your ear.

Despite the quickening of your pulse, your gaze remained ensnared by the allure of the black steel before you. "It's magnificent," you uttered, your index finger tracing the sinuous wavelike pattern adorning the edge. "Flawless, truly."

Zoro responded with a hum of agreement, his eye following your movements with a quiet intensity.

"Do you see the hamon here?" you asked, pointing to the faint purplish line that delineated the transition between the obsidian hue of the blade and the deep red of the wave following the deadly sharp edge.

"The pattern?" Zoro inquired, his curiosity piqued.

"Not precisely," you clarified, your voice tinged with a hint of scholarly enthusiasm. "While the term 'hamon' is often used to refer to the pattern, it specifically denotes this hazy line formed during the hardening process."

As his hand left your heart to join yours against the blade, you continued to explain the intricacies of the forging process.

"To achieve a pattern like this," you elaborated, "layers of clay are meticulously applied and shaped to create the desired design. The application of more or less clay along the blade's spine regulates the cooling rate during the quenching process, allowing the steel to maintain its resilience while showcasing the distinctive pattern. It's a technique that requires precision and expertise, often serving as trademark identifications between swordsmiths."

Zoro listened intently, his gaze locked on the blade as you delved into the details of its creation. 

"And just as I'm tempering knives today," you concluded, "the blade then undergoes heat treatment to achieve the desired balance of hardness and flexibility."

You guided both your hands near the guard. “See how the line doesn’t stop before the tsuba. It means the clay was applied to the entirety of the steel, which makes it less prone to breaking at the hilt but also more flexible. Both techniques offer their pros and cons but they’ll greatly affect how one uses the blade.”

"I see," he murmured, his hand drifting away from yours, its path tracing an intricate pattern along your arm before venturing upward, his movements gentle against the curve of your neck. Meanwhile, you remained engrossed in your note-taking, your focus unwavering despite the tantalizing distraction of his touch.

He waited with quiet patience, his gaze fixed on the pages of your notebook as you diligently transcribed each detail you had just shared. The rhythmic scratching of your pen against the paper joined the sound of crackling flames, a soothing backdrop to the otherwise silent forge.

Suddenly, your head snapped up, a look of realization crossing your features as you remembered the knife heating away in the charcoal. With a gentle yet absentminded motion, you removed his hand from your neck, the warmth of his touch lingering even as you rose to your feet.

His eye followed you with unwavering attention as you approached the glowing steel, your movements fluid and practiced. With a swift yet deliberate maneuver, you retrieved the knife from the searing heat of the forge, the intense orange of the blade casting a soft light across your face.

Without missing a beat, you plunged the heated blade into the waiting oil bath, the sharp hiss of metal meeting liquid echoing through the forge. Your actions were precise, a well-rehearsed dance born from years of experience and dedication to your craft.

Once the blade had cooled, you removed it from the oil, setting it aside with practiced efficiency before turning your attention to the next knife. With a deft hand, you added it to the glowing charcoal, the flames eagerly engulfing the metal as you began the familiar routine once more.

You eased back into your chair, the worn leather embracing you softly as you leaned back, your eyes scanning over the meticulous notes sprawled across the paper.

He leaned closer, his presence looming over you as he rested a hand on the edge of your workbench, his gaze following the movement of your pen with unwavering attention as you added missing specifics. His earrings clinked imperceptibly near your ear, his breath tickling your neck.

"What now?" the swordsman inquired, his voice low as you swiveled to face him.

Your breath caught in your throat at the unexpected closeness, your pulse quickening at the sight of him mere inches away. Every detail of his features seemed to come into sharper focus, from the faint freckles dusting his cheeks to the curve of his lips as they broke into a grin, a mischievous glint dancing in his eye.

You gestured towards the stool, your tone firm as you commanded, "Sit down. You're getting a bit too close for comfort."

“Wouldn’t want that,” he said with a cocky tilt of his head but, still, he complied without protest. He settled onto the seat, his gaze fixed on you with unwavering intensity as he awaited the next step in your observations, the tension between you crackling like static in the air.

"Better?" he teased when the silence dragged on, a devilish grin curling at the corners of his lips as he leaned back comfortably.

With a playful roll of your eyes, you couldn't help but return his grin. "Much better," you admitted, amusement lacing your words as you yourself reclined in your chair, the heat of the forge casting a warm glow over the scene.

As he watched you, his gaze gleaming with mischief, you reached behind you to retrieve Shusui. With a fluid motion, you tossed it to him, the blade glinting in the firelight as it spun through the air.

"Show me how your haki interacts with the steel," you instructed, your tone tinged with curiosity.

He caught the blade deftly, his movements smooth and practiced. "Why? Shusui likes you enough for you to use haki with it," he stated casually although the comment was laden with implications.

"I'm well aware that Shusui has taken a liking to me," you remarked proudly, a hint of satisfaction in your voice. "But, right now, I'm more interested in seeing how its rightful owner interacts with it."

His stare narrowed slightly at your confidence towards Shusui, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eye as he regarded you. "Curious, huh?" he said, his words carrying a note of intrigue as he continued to twirl the sword absentmindedly.

You met his gaze head-on as you shrugged nonchalantly. "Call it professional curiosity," you quipped, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips. "After all, understanding the bond between a swordsman and their blade is crucial for crafting the perfect weapon."

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, as he shifted in his seat, the sword held loosely in his grasp. "You're not wrong," he conceded, a hint of admiration underlying his words. With a deft motion, he adjusted his grip on the sword, his focus intensifying as he prepared to demonstrate the connection between himself and Shusui.

You watched with rapt attention as he began to channel his haki, black coating the tips of his fingers before reaching the steel.

You glided your chair closer to him, bending down to look at how the haki interacted with the wave like pattern. “Do that again,” you demanded excitedly, entirely fascinated by the display.

He obliged, time and time again.

“Does it feel different, coating a black blade with haki, compared to a regular blade?” you asked after you took a quick break to temper the second knife.

Zoro paused for a moment, considering your question as he twirled the sword in his hand, the faint aura of haki still lingering around it. "It does," he admitted, his voice tinged with thoughtfulness. "Coating Shusui with haki feels... different. There's a sort of resonance, like the blade comes alive in my hands."

You leaned in closer, captivated by his explanation. "Resonance?" you echoed, your curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"

He shifted his stance, his grip on the handle tightening slightly as he struggled to articulate his thoughts. "It's hard to explain," he began, his brow furrowing in concentration. "It's like... the haki becomes an extension of the blade itself. The steel feels more responsive, more... in tune with my movements."

You nodded, understanding dawning in your eyes as you absorbed his words. "So, it's not just a matter of coating the steel with haki," you mused, your voice thoughtful. "It's about forging a connection between yourself and the sword, channeling your energy into it."

He hummed in agreement. “What about your haki? How does it feel when you interact with black blades?” he inquired with a cock of his head, handing you Shusui, a silent demand for you to show him.

There was an unmistakable heat in the swordsman’s gaze as he watched you handle his sword, extend your haki along the edge of the steel.

"The interaction between my haki and these blades is almost methodical," you began, your voice carrying a tone of careful explanation. "When permitted by the sword's soul, my haki tends to seek out the core of the blade first, then traverses through its various layers of steel." With deliberate intent, you projected the dark tendrils of your haki through Shusui, each filament tracing the subtle intricacies of the steel with a crackling energy. To the untrained observer, it might appear as random movements, but now that Zoro understood, he could discern the faint traces of the blade's composition.

"This is how I can discern with such precision the techniques employed in crafting each sword," you continued, delving deeper into the explanation. "Yet, there comes a point where it becomes perilous. The haki of a black blade can sometimes begin to demand more, drawing upon my own life force. The interplay, the tug-of-war, is undeniably intoxicating, but it's a risk not worth indulging in," you concluded, releasing your haki as the exhilaration began to prick at the edges of your consciousness. 

You gazed up at him, the remnants of the high still evident in the dilation of your pupils. "Shusui may like me," you admitted, "but it doesn't yield to my will as it does to yours. It truly is a weapon of lethal prowess." 

You turned back to your notes, diligently recording the last of your observations. He leaned on the desk, gaze observing you silently. You eventually closed the notebook with a satisfied sigh before getting up to quench the last knife. When you returned to your desk, you sheathed Shusui in a reverent motion before going to stand before the still seated swordsman.

You returned the sword to him, your gaze lingering on the blade for a moment longer before shifting to meet his eyes. As your fingers released their grip on the hilt, a sudden impulse overtook you, drawing your hand toward the glinting earrings adorning his ear.

He looked up at you, an eyebrow quirked in mild amusement as he felt the gentle brush of your fingertips against his skin. In that moment, you couldn't help but marvel at the raw beauty of the man before you, his features soft yet sharp and defined. Gods, he was pretty.

Your touch traced the outline of his jaw, your thumb coming to rest against his lips in a gesture both tender and provocative. The realization hit you like a bolt of lightning – was this what he saw when he toyed with you? The thought sent a thrill coursing through your veins, igniting a fire in the pit of your stomach that threatened to consume you.

Fuck.

This was intoxicating.

With a boldness born of lust, you pressed your thumb more firmly against his lips, the soft flesh yielding to your exploration. Mischief glinted in his eye as he met your gaze, a silent challenge passing between you. Without hesitation, he complied, parting his lips to allow your fingers entry, his tongue meeting the tips in a tantalizing dance of heat and desire.

You pushed further. A low, guttural sound rumbled from his chest as Shusui clattered to the floor, his hands pulling you to stand in between his legs before they roamed up your thighs, your hips. Fingers wandering under the hem of your shirt, flesh meeting flesh as his hands explored.

You let your fingers fall out of his mouth, dragging heavily against his lips before you moved your hand to the back of his head as you leaned down lips meeting his softly. He let you lead, let you discover at your own pace. You tenderly bit on his lip before deepening the kiss, tongue tangling with his.

You felt his fingers travel up your spine before they left the warmth of your skin to settle on your nape. As the kiss intensified, a primal urgency coursed through your veins, a hunger that demanded to be sated. His hands worked deftly to unravel the bindings of your hair, the locks cascading around you like a waterfall as the band of fabric fell to the ground, forgotten alongside Shusui.

He slowly got up from his seat, his hands finding purchase on your thighs as he lifted you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist, the heat of his body sending sparks flying through you as he pinned you against the wall.

Breaking the kiss momentarily, his lips trailed a leisurely path from your jaw down to the hollow of your throat before reclaiming yours with a fervor that sent shivers down your spine. Your hands wandered, tracing the contours of his chest, lingering over the rugged terrain of his scar, and exploring the sinewy strength of his shoulders beneath the weight of his overcoat.

A knowing smirk danced across his lips, but you paid it no mind, lost in the electric current that crackled between you. With a newfound determination, he pressed you more firmly against the wall, his body a solid anchor against which you could surrender completely.

With a swift, graceful motion, he shrugged off the confines of his overcoat, the heavy fabric cascading to his waist, held in place only by the belt cinched around his hips. A muffled moan escaped your lips as his hands returned to you, hungrily exploring the expanse of bare skin under your shirt. Each touch was a revelation, igniting a firestorm of sensation, leaving you gasping for breath and begging for more.

As the kiss broke, your gaze met his, the primal desire reflected in your eyes an echo of his own.

Shit, this was a dangerous game you were playing.

This. Whatever this was… it was more than just fucking around.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to stand still as you contemplated the consequences of your actions.

“We should go eat,” your voice sounded distant, as though someone else uttered the words.

His lips lingered on your skin as the words sank in. He pulled away slowly, his gaze studying your face. “You can’t be for real,” he muttered under his breath in disbelief. But as he noted the hint of uncertainty in your eyes, his grip loosened on your body, letting you fall back on your own feet softly.

“Fuck, woman, you’re going to be the death of me,” He groaned, tossing his head back in exasperation.

He took a step away as he observed your bruised lips, your flushed cheeks. He passed a hand in his hair, a heavy sigh escaping him.

You leaned back on the wall, not trusting your knees quite yet. “We should… We should definitely eat,” you repeated, your words still struggling to feel like your own.

He watched you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before finally nodding. “Yeah, food sounds good,” he agreed.

He stooped down, retrieving Shusui before making his way toward the door, and you followed suit, the weight of the moment still lingering between you. But just as you were about to pass through the doorway, he halted abruptly, his hand gently grasping your arm to halt your progress. Lowering himself to your level, he tenderly pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Next time, I'm not stopping," he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of both promise and warning.

You met his gaze, a playful smirk playing at the corners of your lips. "Who says there'll even be a next time?" you countered, your tone laced with teasing ambiguity as you stepped out onto the deck.

A soft chuckle escaped him, his amusement evident as he followed you. Who were you kidding? Of course there’d be a next time.

"You're impossible," he muttered almost affectionately, shaking his head in exasperation.

As you reached the door leading to the galley, you paused, rising onto your tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

"I'll consider making something for you too, swordsman," you whispered softly, your breath mingling with his before you reluctantly drew back and disappeared into the bustling warmth of the kitchen.

For a moment, he stood there, his composure momentarily shattered as a blush crept up his cheeks. "For fuck's sake," he muttered to himself before finally gathering his resolve and following you inside, the promise of whatever lay ahead hanging tantalizingly in the air.

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Masterlist

[ayanominitrash]

ᵈⁱᵈⁿ'ᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ᵏⁿᵒʷ? Gojo x reader

♡

“What is this? ”

You hold up the thin silver ring Gojo-sama tossed into your hand. It shines as you twist and turn it to inspect the minimalist lines engraved on its outer ring. It didn’t have any diamonds or stones, but it was still pretty.

The two of you stand in the hallways of Jujutsu High Tokyo Branch, just near the training grounds. It was a quiet trip to the fields to check on the other students up until this point. You raise an eyebrow in question at the tall man with the white bandages for a blindfold, but he only gives you a small smile. With that, you decide to ask him again.

“Did you steal this on one of your missions or something? ”

With that, his faint smile disappears into a disappointed frown. He puts his hands in his pocket. “Who do you think I am? Of course I bought that for you.”

You shoot him a scandalized look while gripping the ring in your fist. ”What the hell is this for? ”

You are genuinely confused at his sudden gift—or whatever this is—that you couldn’t give yourself time to blush at the implication the ring brought. The two of you have known each other since high school, with him being a year above you, but you only interacted with him after he graduated first, when the two of you would go on occasional missions together.

You’d think you’d consider yourselves acquaintances.

“I’ve been thinking." He finally speaks, breaking your thought process. “Even though I am the strongest sorcerer, it’s generally known that sorcerers don’t live that long. Whether it’s from a battle or just natural causes, who knows why? But that’s just how it has been. So, I’m thinking… With the little time I’d have left, I’d like to marry you soon.”

You sputter and stagger back a bit. You can feel your whole face burn bright red. "What are you talking about? Is this one of your insufferable jokes? It’s not funny.”

“I’m serious.”

The tone in his voice sounds final, and he doesn’t have a smile on his face. You try hard to read his expression despite his blindfold—to see if there are any giveaway signs he’d start laughing or make fun of you after a few seconds.

There weren't any.

Realizing this, you try to fix your composure and open your palm to look at the ring. "So, are you asking what I think you’re asking?"

“Consider this more of a promise.” He leans his back against the wooden walls of the hallway, the sun's rays bathing him in radiant light. “Hang on to that for me, will you? And when you’ve thought about it—about us—come to me. But don’t make me wait too long, of course.”

You’re silent, still staring at the ring. Then, “Why me? ”

“Hm?”

“Why me? We aren’t even dating, let alone ‘that close’ for you to even ask me this, to give me this.”

“I've liked you since high school; did you not know that? ”

You gape at him, blushing, “No! We barely even talked back then. I didn’t. . I wouldn’t even imagine. . .”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to accept my feelings,” Gojo-sama reaches a hand out towards you. “You can give that back to me. No hard feelings."

You look up at him, and he just has that same faint smile on his lips, waiting for you to hand the ring over to him. Damn, you wish you could see his eyes to make it easier for you to read him.

You have eyes yourself, and you’d be lying if you said that this tall man before you was unattractive. or that you hadn’t had a crush on him at some point in your life. But he seemed so far away and way out of your league that you didn’t give in to your delusions about the thought that you could date him.

So you close your hand, containing the ring, back into a fist, retracting your arm closer to your chest, shyly looking away from him.

Gojo-sama quietly chuckles and puts his hand back into his pocket. “That settles it then, y/n.”

At the sound of him saying your name, you can only blush harder. He pats the top of your head. ˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

(❀❛ ֊ ❛„)♡ reblogs and comments are appreciated//do not repost my work anywhere // This was supposed to be part of a series I was planning on doing but of course, I never got around writing it. Maybe I'll post a mini version.

[caffieneaddictt18]

Life, Death, and Destiny

Prompt: Witch!Reader keeps giving Geralt weird little trinkets and crystal necklaces saying that this one protects you and this one keeps the bad feelings away and this one will call good spirits and wisdom upon him, and he doesn't believe her until one time he's fighting this monster and somehow, he keeps dodging this monster perfectly without even needing to drink his elixir. He kills the beast, and goes back to Witch!Reader, demanding her to explain how this works when he knows for a fact, she doesn't have magic like a mage or a druid. She simply winks and leaves him curious, so he stays with her and figures out how she is somehow unintentionally magical.

I'm not gonna lie, I did not stick to this prompt. It went a little sideways and flopped. So, my apologies! It is not false advertising, I swear.

As Geralt was walking to Roach, his mare, he heard his name called... It was faint but grew louder as the person shouting his name got closer.

"Geralt!"

Geralt rolled his eyes, thinking it was another townsfolk wanting him to go kill something.

"Geralt, wait!"

But then he recognized that voice...

"Geralt! Would you stop for a minute?"

He stopped. The Witcher slowly turned around and saw y/n. They were panting, keeled over.

"Before you leave, take this." They reach out and in their hand is a little charm that can be added to the strap of leather that keeps his hair up. "It's for battle wisdom. Knowing you, you'll need it. I hope it keeps you safe on your travels." Y/n stands up, and composes themselves.

"Well, I can see you are wandering towards Roach... where will you go next?"

Geralt took the charm slowly. He didn't trust anything magical. Especially when it came from someone that he had never heard was magical beforehand. Nevertheless, he took the charm and clamped it around the leather holding his hair back.

"There was a monster sighting near Waterwood. The locals regularly use the water for business, so they need me to come clear out whatever monster lies in the river." He gruffly divulged the details of his departure.

"Well... if you ever wish to come back, you know where I am." Y/n skipped off down the stone path to the cottage that sat on the edge of the wood, surrounded in wildflowers and other magical plants.

Geralt grunted before stalking back to Roach, mounting her, and taking off into the night.

______________________________________________________________

Y/N woke to a banging on the wooden front door. The type of banging on hollow wood that gave you chills. Especially after being chased from town for giving Geralt a charm. This specific town doesn't necessarily take too kindly to witches and magic.

The banging lessened to a knock. Y/N quickly extinguishes all the candles before slowly opening the door and hiding in the nook between the wall and the door. Waiting for anyone...

someone...

The person walks in slowly, sword in hand, and eyes seemingly glowing in the dark. The stock build of his shoulder balancing out the slender legs of pure muscle. His footsteps silent, but hers are gone.

Y/N makes no noise as they scampers across the floor of grass and behind a chair. A chair made of engraved wood and hide from a monster, if you can believe it. Absolutely beautiful.

Y/N gently whistled a tune... a tune used when Geralt and them went on a small stroll through the woods. Y/N insisted that it would help Geralt ground himself before the hunt he was about to embark on.

Immediately, he stopped and put the sword away before casting Igni on a candle near him. He carried it to the chair and saw a head of hair peeking out from behind the arm of it. "Y/N?"

"Geralt!" Y/N stands from the crouched position on the ground and goes around to hug Geralt. He accepts it before lighting the fireplace filled with charcoal and adding new wood to keep the old burning.

"Why did you hide? Monsters don't knock. Mages don't bother people in their homes anymore." Geralt was ticking things off a list that might make them be wary of anything.

"Were you... were you scared of me?"

Y/N, who was first scared that Geralt might go on a rage like the one in Blaviken, was now flustered. "Oh no! Oh goodness, no!"

"So why were you skittering around like a mouse, trying to find warmth?"

"I... I was chased out of town..." Y/N can see Geralt tensing, becoming physically angry, "Don't worry about it though! It allows me to become one with nature. I forage all my food now and the butcher is kind, giving slices of meat no one else would want. I have deepened my relationship with magic and peace. I am happy. Don't worry about me."

Geralt was trying to slow his breathing and be rational, staring into the fire. How could they do this to you? You had done nothing but help them, and they turned on you. You had provided them with medicines that don't poison and trinkets that you can only find in the forest.

"Why?"

A simple question that held so much power. The power to anger or calm. The power to cause action or stop it. The power of chaos or peace.

And so, Y/N chose peace.

"I assume they finally decided they didn't like me anymore," Y/N smiled.

"That's a lie. You provided them with medicine. Small villages don't just abandon their healers." Geralt moved, gently pinning Y/N to the monster-leather seat.

"So tell me... why did they do it?"

Y/N looked into his eyes, marveling at how their reflected the flames to look like pools of lava themselves. Y/N knew that their response was too late when he furrowed his brow. Y/N looked down.

"They... they saw me give you that charm..." Geralt quickly got up and leaned against the stone mantle that looked like it had been there forever, made by Gaia herself. A sanctuary for the weak, weary and, what others would call, weird.

"They don't take kindly to magic folk around here, Geralt. It's why I have placed wards around the cottage."

Geralt was surprised. An actual ward? He knew that you liked to do everything yourself, if you could. Wards required mages and you were not a mage.

"A ward?" You nodded, "And who did these wards?"

"I did!"

To him, you sound childish. A person with no real magic was somehow placing wards around their home...

But somehow, the house seems untouched by the outside world. The hurtful one of torches and pitchforks.

"Alright... well, I have a monster hunt nearby. I'll stay here. Just for some extra protection." Geralt announced. There was no turning back or denying him this.

______________________________________________________________

As Geralt was walking out of the cottage that was surprisingly not attacked by townspeople the entire time he was there, Y/N called to him.

"Is something wrong?"

"Nope!" Y/N holds out a small necklace with a complicated charm strung onto it. "Just wanted to give you this."

Geralt gently took it into his hands. "And what does this one do?"

"It's a protection necklace. I know you will inevitably find danger, so this should help keep you on your toes and safe for your also inevitable return," Y/N proudly announces to Geralt as he kept a straight face. He had no real belief this would do anything for him, but he put it into a pouch near his chest.

"Alright. Stay safe, Y/N"

"You as well, Geralt. Blessed be, my friend."

______________________________________________________________

Geralt rode upon the cottage that had a plume of smoke exiting the stone chimney and candlelight coming from the kitchen. It was an exhausting monster hunt and all he wanted to do was rest.

Once he had tied Roach to the small stables that Y/N kept up, he walked to the home. Before Geralt could knock, the door swung open.

"Geralt!" was all that was said before a flurry of greens and browns flooded his sight. He was encompassed with the warmth only you could provide. A hug... something he hasn't felt in a while.

You slide off of him and out of his arms. "How are you, my friend? Why don't you come in?" Y/N opens the door for him to enter and beckon the large man inside your cozy home.

The smell of rosemary and chicken flood his nose. The warm glow of the fire in the living room flickered across the walls and seeped into every crack, spreading the softness that Y/N carried. Geralt walked slowly into the home and sat down on one of the chairs you have. It was soft, like from a castle, but not quite as tall or luxurious looking. He wondered where you got it from.

Over the fire, a soup of chicken, carrots, potatoes, and herbs brewed in a cauldron that seemed to magically hang from the ceiling, even though it was directly under the chimney stack.

"So... how are you, my friend?" Y/N's gentle voice entered Geralt's mind. It's like you were allowing him space to take in the home as he wishes instead of flooding his senses with everything all at once. A nice change of pace of the monster hunter, the White Wolf.

"I am... good. I was surprisingly not hurt on my last hunt. This striga seemed... slower than normal, though..." Geralt contemplated on his latest hunt, mulling it over in his mind, "Must not have been at full strength."

"Would you like some mead?" You offer the Witcher some of your honey wine. A delicacy was not often seen in common households, but you have never been part of the common folk. Plus, you tended to a honey bee hive in a tree near the cottage.

"Why not?" Geralt takes the mug of mead from you as you walk to the cauldron where your stew was done cooking. You ladle the chicken soup into wooden bowls you once bought from a traveling merchant and add a slice of bread to it. It had not been the first time you opened up your home to the infamous White Wolf... and it certainly won't be the last.

"Well, eat up. You are welcome to stay as long as you like." You offer a safe night's sleep before finishing your bowl of soup and putting the bowl in a basket of other dirty plates and bowls. You take the cauldron of soup and take it outside, where you can feed the hungry children of the village. The only people who dare to come near...

Before you can lug the pot of wonderful healing stew outside, Geralt notices. "What are you doing?"

You stop, setting the cauldron on the floor for a rest. "Well... the children of the village have not been eating as much and I feel bad... their parents cast me out, not them. Why should they have to suffer for a choice they had no choice in?" Y/N looks at Geralt in confusion before shaking their head and picking up the cauldron again.

Geralt stands and before you can walk with the heavy pot, he takes it from you. "If they catch ypou doing this... you could be killed."

"I would rather die doing something good than nothing at all." You skip happily besides Geralt as he carries the pot with way less effort than you have to.

As you approach your normal spot to feed the children, you can see the dozens of eyes that hide in the woods. They are scared...

"You have nothing to fear, children. The Witcher will never hurt you."

First, nothing happens, but after a minute, a thin girl walks to you. You kneel, handing her a bowl of the chicken stock. You know this one. This girl has been sick since she came from the womb of her mother, who died during childbirth.

A boy, a bit stockier than he was a month ago, came up to you, slightly avoiding the Witcher's gaze as he also grabbed a bowl from you and started drinking the contents of the soup. You gave him bits of chicken and vegetables, knowing that he won't be full unless the boy has them. He has grown since you first saw him.

One by one, the children gained confidence in you and lost their fear in the monster hunter who was leaning on a tree behind you.

Eventually, you ran out of mouths to feed and food to give, so you grabbed the bowls the children used, put them in the cauldron, and walked home with the pot in hand.

"Well, Geralt, what brings you around this time?"

"Just a reprieve. I needed some... how do you say it... grounding."

You drop the cauldron by the door & clap, "Perfect! I'm going to the well now to grab water. It is chore day. What would you prefer to do?"

As Geralt looked around, he noticed the various plants that were hanging in your window and drying in the sun. And then he noticed the weeds that had begun to grow in your garden.

"Let me grab the water and prepare the pot for another meal," Geralt wanted to take the heaviest thing off you. It would not be too hot weeding the garden considering the time and season.

"I can weed the garden and wash the bowls & cutlery. Fantastic! Make sure to rub the inside of the pot with tallow before hanging it up to dry."

Geralt grunts and walks to the well, buckets in hand.

This is going to be the longest day in a while...

______________________________________________________________

You prep Roach before Geralt is scheduled to take off into the horizon once more.

As you finish getting the saddle tied down, you look around for any peering eyes. Not finding any, you pull out a Rune for speed and chant a small & simple spell before tying said rune to the inside of the saddlebag.

You hurriedly make yourself seem busy by packing his saddlebag with all the necessities, including a jug for water and a fresh loaf of sourdough bread wrapped in some parchment that you covered in beeswax.

Geralt exits the cottage, strapping the last bit of armor down to himself, walking towards you and Roach. Before he can reach you, you walk to Roach's front and say a quick prayer and chant for speed and health. That they may get to wherever they must be, right when they must be there and not a moment too late.

As Geralt approaches, you give him one last hug. And a warning...

"Save the apple bread for when you need it most."

Geralt, understandably confused, watches as you skip towards your cozy home. Before you make it even halfway, the White Wolf shakes his head as a method of clearing it before mounting Roach and taking off into the distance.

______________________________________________________________

You are calmly knitting while waiting for the loaf of bread in the fire to cook when a banging erupts from your door. You are immediately apprehensive, as banging is not usually a good sign anymore.

Before you were chased out of the town banging meant someone was hurt. Also not good, but treatable.

Banging now... that's nothing good.

"Open your door or I will kick it down!" Geralt's gruff voice was muffled by the door, but you could tell he was yelling.

You hurriedly put down your knitting project and let Geralt in. He walks in and turns rather smoothly however quick, effectively shutting the door and trapping you between him and the thick wood the door offered.

"What are you? Are you a sorceress?!" Geralt questioned you with intense yellow eyes. The type of eyes he saved for people who have used him and lied to him.

"No, Geralt... I am not a sorceress. Why do you ask?" You gently take one of his arms down from its tense position leaning against the door to massage his hand in between your fingers. You gently guide him to a chair and sit him down before asking once more...

"What has made you think that I am a sorceress, Geralt?"

He grunts and looks into the dancing flames of the fire that licked the stone and left black soot marks.

"I was faster, stronger... more insightful... Roach rode like the wind and we got exactly where we needed to be just in time, even early. This didn't start happening until you started giving me things. And don't think I didn't notice the rune in my saddlebag. You may be a witch, but you are no sneak. So, what are you?"

A pregnant pause filled the space and time had eaten away at it.

You needed to tell him eventually. Now was as good a time as ever.

"I... You're right. I am a witch. But I am not a sorceress or a mage! I do not dabble in chaos. I am an omnist. I believe in the existence of every god. I also bend and use energy at my will. The thing people call 'Destiny' can be written, but then erased & rewritten. That's what I do. A 'narrow miss' suddenly becomes an 'easy dodge.' I take Destiny... and I manipulate her for my desired outcome. And if my desired outcome just so happens to be a few kids fed and the Savior of the people of the Continent, so be it."

It felt as though the energy had moved from this feeling where something was violently poking and stabbing to try and get out, to absolute stillness.

An eerie calm after a storm.

The sort of calm you feel right before a bomb goes off...

Except...

No bomb went off.

No storm flooded the room.

Geralt could only feel awe.

Not at just your power but how you chose to wield it.

You had the power of Destiny at your disposal, and you chose to help a few kids whose parents banished you from their town.

You had the power of Destiny... eating out of your hands... and you chose to help him...

The last time he felt this... loved... was Yennefer. But even Yennefer's love wasn't baselining love. She was lust. A poor foundation of love.

What is Geralt even thinking?! Love? He couldn't love. No... His path was a lonely, treacherous one.

But it was one many others have joined him on...

Maybe it wasn't as bad as he is thinking...

Maybe...

Just maybe....

A little bit of love is okay.

The White Wolf doesn't howl his praises or paw for attention. All he does is kneel.

Kneel in front of the most powerful, lovely, deadly person he has ever known... and hold them.

"Thank you... for protecting me..."

"Anytime, Geralt."

______________________________________________________________

Thank you for reading! I really appreciate it and I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. If you have any requests, please feel free to ask me. Also, I know I made this one non-binary after editing, and I know what I said before I posted anything. Have a great night! Bye!

[randomwriteronline]

"How does it feel?" Irida asks.

After a beat of silence she adds: "Homesickness, I mean."

The answer fails to be delivered in the next few agonizing minutes.

"Forget it," she says hastily, "Forget it, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It was terrible of me to ask. It's been a while now, but you - I - forget it, forgive me, please, I didn't--"

"I would like for it to stop." Ingo answers.

His voice is alarmingly flat.

Irida turns to him, blinking fast a couple of times.

His fingers play with his wooden bracelet very carefully, very slowly.

"You are a young woman," he states matter-of-factly, taking only the slightest second of pause before somewhat reconnecting himself to his previous reply: "So you are familiar with more or less cyclically recurring pains."

She nods even though his eyes point elsewhere.

"Despite my tendency to speak at length and fluorishing my statements with as many words as I see necessary, I find myself unable to explain how homesickness feels in detail."

She watches him trace the Sneasler head engraving, over and over and over and over.

"I can tell you that like any other sickness it is painful, discomforting and uncomfortable, and that it hurts. I cannot describe what sort of pain it is, or what I could compare it to. If you had asked me when you first found me, perhaps I would have been able to analyse it and give you a more precise answer."

His shoulders hunch forward a little more.

"It returns to me at sudden intervals. It weighs down my chest so that I struggle to raise myself from the bed, but I do so regardless, for I must. It simply stays there, waning or intensifying based on where I am, what I see."

His shining eyes close.

"I am just tired, Irida," he confesses. "I have felt like this for two years, and it shows no sign of stopping."

They allow the snow to fall between them for a moment.

The fire crackles behind them gently.

The silence soaks into them.

"I would just like for it to stop."

Irida scoots near him, headband in her hands; carefully, slowly, she leans her head towards his shoulder, closer, closer, closer, until she is hovering above it, barely even grazing it. The tips of her hair brush the fabric of his coat like the leaves of a thin pitiful branch bent from the weight of its fruits brush the ground to which it offers them.

Ingo inhales; his exhale is a long sigh. Hat carefully taken off he leans his own head towards hers, making sure to copy the minuscule distance she's put between them.

The weight in his chest shifts a little across his body.

It doesn't disappear, of course.

But it's a bit lighter.

[mania-sama]

leviathan, the tyrant, and the horse and rider

Where Is Your Rider - The Oh Hellos

➼ information ❧ Bungou Stray Dogs ❧ Pairing: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya ❧ Additional Characters: Mori Ougai, Kenzaburo Oe (Original Character) ❧ Tags: angst with a happy ending, dazai-typical suicide mentions, threats of violence, threats of suicide, non-graphic gun violence, post-dead apple, explosives, mild hurt/comfort, mentions of cannibalism (unaffiliated with the cannibalism arc), canon-typical violence ❧ Summary: Chuuya shows up at the Armed Detective Agency threatening suicide under the pretense of taking a walk with a suicidal maniac. Mori pulls the strings on his puppet. Yet somehow, no one ends up committing suicide. ❧ Word Count: 6,077 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own ❧ Original post date: 25 February 2023

Nakahara Chuuya had been walking for a long time.

He had stayed away from the main roads. The people that he did pass chose not to bother him, but he had seen their stares, worried whisperings, and faltering strides. He had not spoken to them, but he wished he could’ve.

When Chuuya stopped walking, he planted his feet carefully, side by side, both balancing inwards on his soles. He stared at the building complex, his heart beating so erratically in his chest that he was almost sure that it would throw him off balance, that it would cause his teeth to unalign and his fingers to twitch.

Slowly, as if his ability manipulated time and not gravity, he knocked on the door. On any other day, he would’ve walked inside without knocking because that was what any normal person would do. Unfortunately, Chuuya had been specifically told that he couldn’t set off the metal detectors just beyond the Armed Detective Agency’s beautiful wooden doors. So he knocked and waited.

He had blocked out the bustle of the street behind him. The longer he thought about it, the more the idea of screaming and running for help sounded appetizing. Thus, he redirected his mind to focus full-heartedly on tracing the intricate patterns engraved in the wood, ignoring his heart as best as he could while maintaining a steady breathing pattern. It was damn-near impossible.

It’d been a while since he’d been properly scared.

He had been at an interesting curve at the top of the double doors, his eyes straining upwards since he’d kept his head completely level, when it fell away to reveal a young woman dressed in the agency’s clerk uniform on the other side.

Appropriately, she shrieked. “S–sir! What are you doing? Please, don’t! This is not—”

“I want to talk to Dazai Osamu. Bring him to me, or I’ll pull the trigger.” His hand was trembling, but he pushed the handgun harder into his own temple regardless.

Her eyes were wide-open, showcasing the electric blue color that matched with her stunned expression. She nodded, taking a small step backwards into the lobby. “It— It’ll be a moment, sir.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he said, straining to keep his voice level. Normally, he would never wait for Dazai to come to him first. Yet most of the time, it was Dazai who was holding the gun to his own head. Suicide wasn’t really Chuuya’s thing, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

The door was propped open with a wooden stopper, leaving Chuuya to be ogled at by the two poor souls in the lobby of the agency. Obviously they weren’t very busy, meaning it was possible Dazai wasn’t in the office at all.

Chuuya adjusted his grip on his handgun, his palms sweating underneath his gloves. His hair stuck unnaturally to his face. The boss said Dazai would be in office today, but if Chuuya knew anything about his old partner, it was that he could make himself scarce if he wanted to.

He would have to pray that Mori’s intel was correct. It was rather unfortunate that Chuuya wasn’t really the religious type, save for the god that lingered in his body.

A part of him didn’t want Dazai to comply with his demand, that the clerk had alerted that Nakahara Chuuya, a Port Mafia executive, was a threat and needed to be quickly neutralized. All of this waiting and wishful thinking that Dazai would somehow come up with a plan to get Chuuya out of this situation was killing him faster than the gun at his temple.

But there was only one other thing he knew better about Dazai than anyone else; if Chuuya wanted something, Dazai would do everything in his power to prevent him from getting it.

The demon himself ambled leisurely into the lobby, hands in his trench coat’s pockets and body relaxed. He turned to make eye contact with Chuuya, a cheerful smile on his face. His shoes clicked on the floor. “Chuuya! Have you finally taken a lesson from my book?” His lips tightened a little as he stopped in front of the executive, as though disappointed. “I have to say, shooting yourself is the least creative way to go. Though, I couldn’t expect more from someone like you.”

To the bystanders in the lobby, the detective was rambling nonsense to the suicidal man in front of him without a care in the world. To most people, Dazai looked just as insane as Chuuya did. However, nobody knew Dazai like Chuuya did. His life was resting in the detective’s hands, and it wasn’t for the first time, either.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t scared.

“You will follow me, Dazai, or I’ll shoot,” he said in response. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to be there at all , standing before the person that his heart couldn’t decide what it thought about him. Chuuya was afraid his heart wouldn’t have to make that decision anymore.

Dazai cocked his head. His gaze was intense, guarded and analyzing while keeping up the aura of complacency. Chuuya struggled to keep eye contact with him, but he kept his head level and kept his body as still as he could.

“Where would you take me? It’s too early for a nice dinner,” Dazai said smoothly. He was waiting for a signal, but Chuuya had nothing to give him. He didn’t have time to wait for Dazai to realize this.

He swallowed, carefully avoiding jostling the pill tucked against his molars. “When I start walking, you’ll be beside me. If not, my brains will be out on the street.”

They’ll splatter on the civilians around them. Dazai will watch as Chuuya commits suicide in the most unimaginative way possible. 

He turned around, counting in his head the amount of time it takes to reposition his feet. He paced his breathing evenly. Chuuya didn’t look at the people’s faces, nor at the sidewalk or at the skyline. He unfocused his sight, losing himself in keeping his feet titled in his soles and walking at the correct tempo.

He was aware that Dazai was keeping pace beside him on his right side, coincidentally the same side that Chuuya was holding the gun to his temple. He could sense the attempt before Dazai had time to do it.

This much he could tell his old partner. “If you remove the gun from my head, I’ll swallow the cyanide pill in my mouth.” It felt incredibly heavy against his teeth despite its small mass.

“That’s a little more creative than using the gun, but still not particularly creative and suffering-free. Tell me, Chuuya,” Dazai asked, his voice dropping an octave, “how did you get yourself in this predicament?”

That wasn’t something he could answer directly. The story wasn’t very exciting anyway—he simply hadn’t expected his own boss to use him like this.

Chuuya couldn’t see Dazai very well from where his arm was blocking most of his peripheral vision. It was hard to tell if Dazai needed the information to configure a plan to help Chuuya escape, or if he was only asking to help alleviate some of Chuuya’s trepidation.

The Port Mafia executive almost appreciated the incentive. Almost. His anxiety wasn’t cleared so easily. “If you’re thinking of touching me,” he started, because there were only so many words he was allowed to say. Warning Dazai of the things he couldn’t do in order to keep Chuuya alive made up three quarters of those words. “I will kill myself. No Longer Human won’t work.”

Chuuya held his breath for a count of three, approximately the amount of time it would take from the bombs in his shoes to detonate. On three, he released slowly. He hadn’t revealed too much information.

Beside him, the detective hummed a familiar tune. “Who said anything about touching you? I’m sure if I did so, I would contract the suicide germs that have infected you.” He paused, and then: “Maybe only short people can contract it.”

Silence greeted the unimpressive insult. Even if he could’ve responded appropriately, Chuuya couldn’t find it in him to take it seriously in the slightest. Gruesome images were running through his head, and all of them ended up with his own bloody death in one way or another. If he misstepped in any of his responses, those would be his endings.

He wondered if the boss was wrong. Mori’s assumption was that Dazai cared too deeply about Chuuya to let him die, leading them to their current situation. Chuuya had a hard time believing that Dazai had cared about anyone since Oda’s death. He’d left behind Chuuya in the Port Mafia; who was to say he wouldn’t do it again?

But even so, Dazai trod alongside Chuuya like a loyal dog. “Nothing to say back? Tough luck.”

The executive bit his tongue, cringing as the bottom of his feet pressed a little too hard on the C-4 packets. Dazai would’ve noticed his odd gait by now, but there was nothing the two of them could currently do about the explosives. The detonation device was remote, located with the boss at their final destination.

One wrong move. Chuuya straightened his back, breathed properly, and stepped accordingly. There was no room for error or miscalculation.

Chuuya turned into a side alley, getting away from the main streets where the police have likely already been alerted. A suicidal man and a suicidal maniac walking side-by-side in a congested sidewalk was sure to spell trouble, and any forward-thinking individual would’ve thought to get the proper authorities involved.

Dazai sighed. “You’ve got me stumped this time, Chuuya. At first, I was sure you weren’t being serious, but…” he trailed off. “I can see you mean it.”

What would kill him faster? The gun, the cyanide, or the explosives? He wanted to ask Dazai because surely he, of all people, would know. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and walked.

He’d been doing so for a very long time. His mouth was dry and his stomach hurt from anxiety and hunger.

“We have a long way to go.” His feet were hurting from the precarious position he had to keep them in so he didn’t prematurely detonate the C-4.

“I have no doubt about it,” Dazai said, the frown evident in his voice.

It was selfish of him, but he wanted Dazai to keep speaking, spouting irritating nonsense like he always did before he abandoned the Port Mafia. His voice was soothing, moreso in the dire situation they were now in. Chuuya wanted to look at him and drink in the waves of his hair, the shades of his eyes, and the stature of his body.

He wanted to lie down with his head on Dazai’s lap as he ran his fingers through his hair, just like he did after the chaos of the apple suicides. Chuuya would use Corruption a thousand times if it meant he could experience that euphoric tranquility each time.

If he used Corruption now, what would happen? The bombs at his feet would detonate, but his control of gravity in that state could swallow the blast. He would toss the gun or turn it on Dazai, but it was incredibly unlikely that he’d pull the trigger on himself. Corruption caused him to lose his mind, not become intentionally suicidal.

None of that mattered, anyway. He would chomp down on the cyanide pill in a heartbeat. It was tucked too far back for it to spit out quickly, and his Corruption form would mistake it for a piece of regular food. He could recognize a gun, not a pill.

There wasn’t any peace for him. His arm was hurting from how long he’d kept the handgun held in the air. Corruption wasn’t an option if the plan was for Dazai to come up with a solution to this mess.

‘You’ve got me stumped this time, Chuuya.’ Dazai had to have been lying through his teeth. Chuuya wouldn’t know what to do if he was telling the truth.

The quiet was worse than the nervous energy of the crowded streets. He could hear his and Dazai’s shoes echoing against the buildings’ exterior walls, the thumping of his own heart, and his breathing. Occasionally, Dazai would hum some familiar tune. It was an old song from the second world war—his old partner had mentioned in the past that he’d loved that time period’s music the best.

“People were scared during that time. The War to End All Wars had only just concluded, and a new one had already started?” Dazai said with a light chuckle, breaking his humming and startling the Port Mafia executive. He almost tripped. “The songs of the time were born of depression and dismay. They showcase a certain desperation that is hard to find in modern-day songs.”

Hope— it was all he had to stave off the pit of dread that had already enveloped his stomach. By showcasing his practical mind-reading capabilities, he was giving Chuuya that terrible hope. It did little to settle his nerves, for the more Dazai talked, the more chances that Mori would detonate the bombs increased.

“My favorite is There’ll Be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover,” Dazai continued in Chuuya’s silence. “It’s English, but fittingly so. They’d been the only major world power fighting the Axis at the time."

They were desperate. Dazai sang softly, his voice winding its way through Chuuya’s heart like a stitch. If he closed his eyes for just a second, he could pretend the barrel at his temple was Dazai’s chest, and he could feel the rhythmic rumble of his vocal chords as his old partner crooned.

Then Chuuya stumbled over his feet, and his world went white.

With one hand grasping at the dark wall of a building to keep his weight up, and the other desperately pressing the weapon to his head, Chuuya heaved with a bright spark of horror. “I tripped! I tripped, I swear! It was an accident!”

One. No, God, please no. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare look anywhere besides the dirty floor of the alley. For how long they’d been walking, they couldn’t be far now. He’d been so close. Two. Mori had to have heard his plea through the tiny microphone on his collar. He had to have.

He squeezed his eyes shut as if it would save him for his burning demise. Three.

A count of three, a count of thirty, and there hadn’t been a detonation. It took him a half a minute to fully comprehend he was still alive, that he was still bracing himself against the wall and his heart was still beating in his chest. It tried desperately to escape its cage made of bone.

Chuuya blinked and looked up, finding Dazai studying him with an indescribable expression. His hands were still tucked into his pockets, but his muscles were taut like guitar strings. Lips drawn tight together, the detective took a dangerous step towards Chuuya.

“Stop moving!” Chuuya shouted. It was impossible to keep the shake out of his voice, given how it was no longer concealed in his body, either. Dazai halted with his hands up in surrender.

The executive pushed himself off of the wall, breathing heavily and keeping his head level with his direct line of sight. All of a sudden, he became acutely aware of the dryness of his mouth and the lack of food in his system. His tremors increased tenfold.

But Nakahara Chuuya walked, just like he had been, with bombs in his shoes, cyanide in his molars, and a handgun on his temple. Dazai walked beside him.

The detective wasted no time, recovering faster than Chuuya ever could’ve. “Where was I? Oh, yes; Tomorrow, when the world is free… ”

The Port Mafia executive stared straight ahead and let Dazai’s voice ease his trembles. He abandoned the useless fantasies, even if living in the present was harder. If he stayed in the daydream, he could make another mistake. It wasn’t worth it to risk the chance of never waking up again.

His finger twitched on the trigger. He’d almost pulled it when he fell.

Dazai had moved onto a new song by the time Chuuya stopped in front of a small warehouse. He hadn’t bothered to mention the name, but at least it was in the native tongue. His voice slowly lowered until it was nothing but an old sound on the wind. Chuuya inhaled shakily.

“Open the door and walk straight forward. I will follow behind,” he said. “Try anything out of line and I will kill myself.”

“You know, you don’t have to keep reminding me. The mantra gets boring after a while,” Dazai replied. Irritation laced his words, but he unlatched and pushed up the door without any unnecessary force. The screeching metal pierced through the executive’s ears, a sound familiar for a reason he couldn't put his finger on.

The cyanide pill made itself known, then, and he clamped his jaw firmly shut.

Walking through the dimly lit warehouse, Chuuya could hardly see Mori standing near the back. The boss had set up a meager stand consisting of a dark wood desk with a candelabra to illuminate the area. Once his eyes had fully adjusted, he noticed the men dressed in black surrounding the interior perimeter.

Chuuya would need a miracle to make it out alive. He glared at the back of Dazai’s head. If anyone could accomplish such a feat, it would be that bastard.

“Welcome, Dazai. It’s nice to see Double Black together again,” Mori said, lifting one hand in the air. Chuuya halted immediately, and so did Dazai.

“Mori,” Dazai greeted in return. His stance shifted to be more relaxed as if this was a game he’d been born to play. “I recognize this warehouse. It's one of the many places you forced Chuuya and I to train together. I hated every moment of it.”

Now that Dazai was saying it, Chuuya could barely glimpse the vague dark splotches on the wall behind Mori, and if he strained enough, he could spot them underneath his feet. Old blood. Despite it all, a grin threatened to spread across his lips. He didn’t have much time to reminisce on his first year in the Port Mafia, but he knew most of his memories were contained in this room.

Double Black may have formed during their first job together, but this was where they were honed into a perfect blade.

“Of course. You never stopped complaining about it,” the boss said. “But look where it has taken you now. I do say that I made you two a fine pair.”

It was rather unlucky that their blade had been fitted to Mori’s palms.

Dazai tilted his head back to Chuuya. His eyes flashed brilliantly, and Chuuya spent too long in this warehouse to not know what that meant.

Just how exactly Dazai wanted him to use Corruption was the issue. That’s what the executive had always hated most about working with the detective—if they weren’t in the thick of battle, he never knew what to expect next.

“I left the Port Mafia a long time ago and broke apart Double Black. Your craftsmanship could use a little work.” Dazai took his hands out of his pockets and absently picked at his nails. “I’m getting real tired of your voice, Mori. The sooner you tell me why you went out of your way to test your alliance with the Armed Detective Agency, the faster I can try this new method of suicide I’ve been looking at.”

Suicidal maniac. No matter how hard Chuuya had tried, he’d never been able to convince Dazai off of that shit. The agency hadn’t seemed to help, either. What a shame.

Mori laughed. It was a sick, cruel sound. Somehow, with the gun pressed to his head, Chuuya felt like he was fifteen again. “I want you to come back as an executive of the Port Mafia.”

Chuuya was fifteen. Mori told him the only way he could access the files on the experiments run on him when he was younger was to become an executive of this wretched organization.

Dazai was twenty-two. Mori told him that he wanted the youngest executive in Port Mafia history to return to his station, or else—

“At the threat of Chuuya’s life. Is that it?” His old partner scoffed. “It takes two to form Double Black.”

The executive narrowed his eyes. If Mori wanted the old Double Black back, then he would never detonate the bombs. Was he lied to so bluntly, and it just slipped right past him? Did he comply with Mori's demands like a brainless dog, thinking that his life was on the line when in reality, it was never really in danger?

Chuuya and Dazai were dealing with the Port Mafia boss. While it may be easier to fool Chuuya, the same couldn’t be applied to the prodigy of the mafia. There had to be something deeper at play. The power simmering beneath his skin was quickly shut down, violently shushing the ancient god stirring in his mind. Even though his anxiety and fear were quickly fading, he kept the gun to his head.

He couldn’t risk it. Not while Dazai was still making moves on this dark chessboard.

“I don’t recall a requirement for both the parties to be alive. It’s time you met a dear friend of mine. Kenzaburo,” Mori called, motioning with his other hand—the one with the accursed detonator—for the individual to come forward. “Please, join us.”

A man stepped out from the crowd, his stature rather unassuming and face particularly uninspired. What separated him from the rest, outside of his choice of a deep mahogany suit in comparison to the black ones surrounding him, were his eyes.

To put it simply, he didn’t have any. Bandages were wrapped around his head, but when it went over the sockets, the pure white was disrupted by a color the same shade of his outfit. Covering his eyes didn’t do anything if everyone could still tell he was missing them.

A strained hissing sound came from everywhere in the room, bouncing off of the warehouse walls until it came to a head by the man’s side. The vulture preened with its ugly, featherless head stuffed into its brown wings. It made another hissing noise, which sounded more akin to a cat than a bird.

Dazai startled backwards, landing himself close to Chuuya’s gunless side. His old partner’s face was an oil painting of consternation. The executive felt his heart drop in his chest.

He didn’t need to have a future-seeing ability to tell this wasn’t going to end well. Fear sweltered back into his body like a fire that couldn’t be doused. 

“It seems you’ve heard of him. Or at least, you’ve heard of his ability,” Mori said, stepping around his desk in perfect confidence.

Dazai panted heavily and clearly struggled to regain his own self-assured composure. Shit. “He was— he should be locked up! What have you done?”

The missing eyes and preening vulture were bad enough, but to have Dazai sputtering and stumbling over his words like a school boy with a crush was all he needed to know to feel terror. Along with that familiar spark of anger.

“It seems Chuuya here is uninformed. Dazai, would you inform him of his near future?” Mori was enjoying this far too much.

“Kenzaburo’s ability, Lavish Are the Dead, in… simple terms, allows him to control the dead and their ability if they have one.” Dazai wasn’t looking at Chuuya, but instead kept his gaze trained on the vulture. “When someone dies and his vulture consumes their flesh, he has to eat the regurgitated version of that flesh to gain control.”

“But you’re missing one part,” the man rasped. His voice was that of sharp nails on a chalkboard. If he listened to it for long enough, he was sure a migraine would kill him before Mori had the chance. Kanzaburo’s stringy black hair bobbed with the slight movement of his jaw. “The control goes to whoever consumes the regurgitated dead first.”

More grinned. “Dazai, you will be the one to necromance Chuuya.”

Oh God, he was going to throw up. From the looks of it, Dazai was no better off. He looked two seconds away from either hurling or killing the boss right where he was standing.

“You shouldn’t have released him from prison. He’s going to betray you, Mori,” Dazai’s voice quavered from a mixture of fury and fear, “You’ve doomed us all.”

“No, Dazai. I’ve saved the future of the Port Mafia.”

It was a losing battle. Chuuya couldn’t use his ability or Mori would detonate the bombs. Corruption would swallow the cyanide pill. His handgun was the most painless way to go out. He could see now why Mori ever handed him the gun in the first place. It wasn’t a matter of intimidation to get Dazai to come quickly and quietly–he’d given mercy to Chuuya.

There had never been any intention of letting him survive the day. Dazai slumped suddenly, all of his rigid tension dissipating from his body to display absolute defeat. He must’ve come to the same conclusion as Chuuya had.

Perhaps there wasn’t a way to save Chuuya, but he had no doubt his old partner would find a way to escape the Port Mafia without using Kenzaburo’s ability. It was the only solace he could carry with him to have peace in death. Although, it was hard for him to believe his soul would ever truly rest.

“I see,” the detective mumbled, his wrapped arms now hanging loosely out of his trench coat’s pockets. “If this is how it is, may I have a final word with Chuuya?”

Mori nodded, his lilted smile never fading. “Go ahead.”

Dazai turned to Chuuya, his lips downturned and eyes lacking the spark of ingenious it had before. They were replaced by a grief Chuuya had seen the day before Dazai had disappeared from Port Mafia and became completely untraceable. Except, it wasn’t really the same if one paid attention to the right details.

This warehouse had once been their whetstone. Chuuya began to understand Dazai a little better while standing over their cemented blood.

“I regret leaving you behind in the Port Mafia. I wish…” he choked behind his bandaged hand. “I wish I could’ve made different decisions. Things could’ve turned out differently for you. For us.”

The detective stepped closer, now invading Chuuya’s personal space. It was hard to keep his arm in the air due to the way it trembled from hunger, exhaustion, and worry. The hand that was at his mouth reached out and touched the executive’s cheek ever-so-gently, as though he was holding the stem of a flower covered with thorns.

“Take this as my apology, Chuuya.”

Dazai’s eyes fluttered shut and his hand wound its way through ginger hair. Chuuya froze as Dazai took his lips into his own.

It was nothing like how he’d imagined it would be. Mainly because almost as soon as it started, Dazai deepened the kiss and transferred a small object into Chuuya’s mouth, then almost immediately used his tongue to pilfer the cyanide pill from where it was tucked in his molars. It wasn’t romantic in any sense of the word.

Dazai was a real asshole for kissing Chuuya—for the first time, no less—like this. The familiar flame of anger, a fire so easily ignited by its predecessor called fear,   burst in his stomach and licked his lungs, and the god beneath his skin hummed in delight.

The hand that wasn’t in his ginger hair was gripping Chuuya’s collar, and with a crack broke the little microphone resting out of sight. Gently, as though he hadn’t violently oral-switched two pills without any help, Dazai pulled back and gave Chuuya a sinful grin.

“Go easy on the warehouse,” Dazai whispered. His eyes were alive in the way the only ever were when blood was going to be shed.

“I’m going to kill you, bring you back to life, and kill you again, bastard,” Chuuya whisper-yelled back, but Dazai was already moving. He twisted his fingers through Chuuya’s glove, pulling off the cloth and throwing the handgun at the same time. With his other hand, gone from the executive’s hair, yanked off the other glove.

“I’d like to see you try, hatrack.”

Chuuya let go of his tight control. The god awakened, and the last thing he witnessed was an explosion with Mori staring wide-eyed through the blaze.

Corruption.

Smoke clouded his vision and his ears rang something awful. He collapsed forward, blinking away the sting of tears from the smog. Instead of landing on the hard floor of the warehouse, his face collided with a body. This was all-too familiar.

“Rest. You’ve done well, Chuuya,” Dazai said softly, his digits carding through Chuuya’s hair. His scalp tingled with his touch.

His scalp . “Where’s my hat?” He mumbled against Dazai’s chest.

The detective sighed. “You’re more worried about that tacky thing than whether or not Mori lived through your rampage.”

“It’s not tacky. You’re the tacky one,” he said, weakly pushing himself off of Dazai’s chest. At first, all he could think was that he was already missing the feeling of his hands in his hair. Then he looked up, saw the bloody gash that extended from the top of his forehead and over his nose—narrowly missing his right eye—and the gloves and hat neatly set on the ground next to them.

Chuuya narrowed his eyes and attempted to kick Dazai’s knee in. The detective sidestepped, blood dripping into his innocent smile.

“How long did you know?” Chuuya yelled while swiping up his missing articles of clothing. “Stupid bastard, embarrassing and kissing me like that in front of the boss!”

“I had an idea of what was going to transpire a few days ago when Mori broke that ability user out of a high-security gifted prison unit,” Dazai rubbed at his new wound with his bandaged arm, staining its pristine color. “I knew about the cyanide and explosives when the clerk told me you were requesting for me under the threat of suicide. Each weapon checks out for the other, and your gait confirmed that for me when we walked together. I am curious though; how did Mori manage to force your hand?”

“Everytime you ask me a stupid question like that, a dog dies. I know you already figured it out, ” the executive said, annoyed. With his hat and gloves safely returned to his person, Chuuya felt his control tighten over both the old god and his own thoughts. 

Dazai shrugged, moving towards the entrance they came from. Now that the smoke was clearing, Chuuya could see the dead mafia members riddling the scene. Neither Mori nor the necromancer were amongst the observable casualties. “It would’ve sounded better coming from your lips,” he responded dejectedly. “Let me see— you were unknowingly drugged yesterday during a Port Mafia executive meeting. When you woke up this morning, the bombs and pill were tucked into their respective places. Mori was by your side with the detonator, and you were given the ultimatum to bring me to the warehouse or face certain death.”

Turned out that ‘or face certain death’ had really been ‘and face certain death.’ Chuuya knew, as soon as Dazai kissed him, that Dazai had known all of the details from the motion and weight detector attached to the microphone on his collar to the meeting point in the warehouse.

“I wish whoever gave you that wound had finished the damn job,” Chuuya muttered. He kicked out again while Dazai was reopening the metal door, but it was to no avail. “Would’ve done me a great favor.”

“Who knew vultures were such good fighters?” Dazai chuckled, but it contained none of the mirth that was supposed to accompany it. “Mori and Kenzaburo got away. Our trouble has only just begun.”

The path of a Port Mafia member consisted of only blood and human entrails. Chuuya was not unaccustomed to gruesome death in a variety of inhumane ways. But there was something particular about Kenzaburo’s ability that made him want to empty out his stomach’s contents until there was nothing left but acid. 

Cannibalism and necromancy. What a pain in the ass.

“How did you do it?”

Dazai looked at him curiously, playing the fool’s card. The glare Chuuya returned to him could’ve cut diamond if it were a blade. The detective put his hands in the air in mock surrender. “I was careful, but the reality of the matter was that Mori didn’t put all of his efforts into finding and silencing me.”

“He was afraid of what you would do. One bastard scared of another,” Chuuya supplied. If there hadn’t been a god in his veins, Chuuya probably would’ve been scared of Dazai, too. Perhaps not during the first team-up, but definitely afterwards, when the Sheep and GSS were manipulated into casting out Chuuya by that little bastard. 

“Yes, and no. It was in his best interest to let me go at the time.” The demon prodigy’s voice was clipped. It was a change in tone that nobody but Chuuya could hear. “Your ability will make it easier for you, but you won’t know a single moment of rest until you get your ass out of Yokohama or they decide it isn’t worth chasing you anymore. The Armed Detective Agency won’t be a haven for you, either.”

“I never implied—”

“You wouldn’t pass the entrance exam.” Dazai said, eyes glinting in the sunlight cast over the buildings of the city. Chuuya almost retaliated that yes, he could pass any exam he so wished, shitty mackerel, if it weren’t for what he tacked on: “Not yet, anyway.”

Smoke followed them well out of the warehouse. They were headed the exact same way they came from. The Armed Detective Agency.

Chuuya had no interest in saving people like they did in their organization. At one point in time, Dazai had been the exact same way. Then something changed for him. He disappeared off the face of the Earth for two years, showed up as a new member of the Armed Detective Agency, and began helping innocent people.

“I have no place in the Port Mafia anymore, but that doesn’t mean I wanted to go running with my tail tucked in my legs to your sorry lot,” Chuuya bit back. But there was a request in his words. His pride would never allow him to say it directly, but he needed Dazai’s help if he wanted to leave the Port Mafia as easily as possible.

From the expression on Dazai’s face, it already looked like he had a plan. Chuuya had no doubt the next year or two of his life was going to consist of one migraine to the next.

“How about this: we stop to eat at the café on the bottom floor of the agency’s building, you pay for the meal and my currently existing tab, and I’ll help you retrieve your belongings from the Port Mafia before they burn it all. Deal?”

Chuuya could already feel the first migraine of his new life on the run begin to form. “You make me sick, old snake. ”

But Chuuya was starving. Not only had he not eaten all day, his Corruption form had consumed any last morsel his body had been saving from the other night’s dinner. Chuuya also happened to have eaten at that café before, and he knew just how good their food and coffee were. He didn’t argue against the deal Dazai had proposed.

And if he broke one of Dazai’s toes when he stomped on it after seeing the tab he’d built up in said café, well, it was nobody’s business. Neither was the kiss that still lingered in his mind after he’d found sanctuary in an abandoned warehouse just outside of the city’s limits, nor the personal belongings he’d stored around numerous other safehouses in Yokohama.

Whether or not he dreamt of old war songs sung by an old friend—someone that Chuuya wished was more—wasn’t anyone’s business, either.

[classicmemorialbenches]

Techniques we use to depicting images on memorial bench designs

At Classic we have a number of techniques we use to depict images on our memorial bench designs and one of our favourite things to do is the colour resin inlay. There are several techniques that can be used. Here are,

✅Preparing the artwork

✅Carving the shapes into the wood

✅Pouring all of the colours

✅Skimming off the excess glue

✅clamped

[the-desilittle-bird]

Author's Note- I am back after a while! And this turned out more like Daemon x Daughter!Reader but I love the short interaction between Aemond and (Y/N).

Thank you and Enjoy your reading!

Rage of a Mother

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary- (Y/N) was Daemon's eldest daughter, married to Aemond Targaryen to ease the conflicts going on between the Blacks and the Greens. But only did the start of Civil War broke her more and more...

Tag List- @eliseline, @little-moonbeam-666, @blackhoodlea, @omgsuperstarg, @shopping, @lizlovecraft, @dayane, @bbgmonsay, @michelle-26, @all-things-fandomstuck, @hc-geralt-23, @chevelledahuman, @morganastrucker, @shrexy, @helloitsshitzulover, @daringboba, @minaxcarter, @b-tchymoon

GIF Credits to @laenasvelaryon

The rain was heavy, even in King's Landing. The restless winds could be heard in the thick walls of Red Keep. The shadows of the curtains moved with the hard winds.

(Y/N) leaned back in the rocking chair, hugging herself while waiting for her husband to return from Storm's End. She felt nausea while waiting for Aemond to return.

Her family is going on a civil war. Her father and stepmother and step-siblings were in Dragonstone, while she sat here, surrounded by her good family and her husband and her daughter.

Only Visenya was the light of happiness in the present darkness of (Y/N)'s life. A child of 6 moons, she loved to be by her mother's side, giggling and brightening up (Y/N)'s days.

(Y/N) could hear the heavy steps and the opening of their chambers' double door. Knowing who it was, (Y/N) decided not to move from her place near the fireplace, instead caressing her daughter's silver hair.

Aemond moved silently, placing his dark coat on the chair near his study table, he moved to sit beside (Y/N). He placed a careful hand on Visenya's back, while rubbing soothing circles on (Y/N)'s forearm.

"What happened in Storm's End?" She voiced her thoughts, a fraction of them at least. She saw Aemond take a deep breath, the gears of his mind churning. "Aemond, what happened?" She asked strictly.

"Vhagar did it," Aemond said, absent-mindedly. (Y/N) blinked blankly, frowning slightly. "Vhagar did what?" (Y/N)'s anxiousness was reaching the skies as Aemond's silence prolonged. "Aemond, are you going to answer me?" (Y/N) whisper-yelled.

"I killed Lucerys."

The ground beneath (Y/N)'s feet slipped away. Her lilac widened as she stared at her husband with shock. Tears brimmed in her eyes, her grip on her daughter tightening protectively.

"Rhaenyra will not let us live in peace anymore," she whispered silently. Her eyes scanned the entire room, trying to tame the storm in her body. She stood up and walked to Visenya's crib, carefully placing her in the crib.

"You don't know what you have done, Aemond," (Y/N) said, panic taking over her. "They will not harm you, my love. Neither will they hurt Visenya. I will make sure of it," Aemond said, walking to embrace (Y/N).

"Rhaenyra would stop at nothing, now," (Y/N) whispered into Aemond's tunic. "I will protect you and Vis at any cost."

Only that Aemond didn't know what was yet to come for him and his wife.

The castle was in chaos, knights running around, trying to find the assassins of the young princess. Guards were positioned to guard Prince Aemond's chamber where all the royals sat in a complete silence.

(Y/N) sat beside the wooden coffin which held the dead body of her daughter. A single, crystal tear had slipped down her eyes, staining her pale skin. Her hands curled up in fist, sitting on her lap as she looked far away at Visenya's crib. Only physically there, while her mind wandered somewhere else.

Aemond sat beside her, a hand on the hilt of his sword while the other rested on the wood. His keen eye was fixed on the coffin, rage swirled in him. Rage directed towards the Blacks and more towards himself.

Helaena sat on a chair nearby the pair, cradling his youngest born while a solemn look was engraved on her face. Aegon, for a first time in a while, looked a bit sober as he sat four chairs away from Helaena.

Alicent sat behind Aemond, a hand on his back in a way to provide him some sort of comfort in this moment of sorrow.

"It is time for her to go, my children," Alicent spoke up after a while, her voice lowered than usual. Aemond nodded, his jaw tightening as his eye watered.

"(Y/N)," Aemond called softly, his voice cracking slightly as he took in his wife's appearance. Empty eyes, pale skin, deadpan face. (Y/N) blinked once, for the first time moving her gaze from the crib to something else; or someone else.

"You go," (Y/N) said, her voice rough after not speaking anything for a whole day. Before Aemond could argue, (Y/N) stood up, dusting off her black dress. "I have another important thing to attend to," She said blankly.

More important than your own daughter's funeral?

Both Aemond and Alicent wanted to ask this but both were aware of the consequences of asking it. Aemond wasn't sure how (Y/N) was feeling on the inside. Meanwhile, Alicent was silent because in a way, she knew what important thing (Y/N) had; and truthfully, if anything like this would have happened to her she would have done that as well.

(Y/N) leaned down to place a kiss on the coffin, a final goodbye to her 6½ moons old daughter. Caressing the wood, she whispered her goodbye and a promise.

(Y/N) watched as Aemond and Ser Criston carried the coffin on their shoulders, walking down to the shore to burn her body with dragon fire. Alicent and Helaena hugged (Y/N) before leaving to follow the coffin.

Once everyone were gone, (Y/N) changed into her riding pants and tunic. Strapping the small sword her father had given, (Y/N) walked to the Dragon pit. She could hear Daehna's growls as she closed towards her den.

In the darkness, Daehna's gold toned scales shone dauntingly in the torch's fire. The black slit of her eyes, surrounded by the brightest of fire, narrowed in rage.

She let out an angry growl, clearly in agony of her rider's pain. She lowered herself to let (Y/N) step up on her, sitting down on her.

Daehna spread her wings, walking out in the clear sky. "Sōvegon nyke naejot Zaldrīzesdōron," (Fly me to Dragonstone) it was a simple command, followed immediately as Daehna rose up in the air, already flying towards her rider's desired destination.

Daemon stood on the shore of Dragonstone, the coast clean with only him in attendance. The news had traveled to Dragonstone from King's Landing and Daemon was left in agony, for his daughter.

He had commanded the death of the King's son but instead, those assassins mistook his own granddaughter for the King's offspring.

Daemon heard a familiar growl of dragon, Daehna. He had expected (Y/N) to show up, either in rage or in pain, and he was about to find out which side of his daughter had come back.

He turned around to find his daughter walking towards him, her hand clutching on the hilt of the small sword he had given her when she turned ten and six namedays old.

"(Y/N)," he called, only to be met by a glare. "Why?" She asked instead, stopping a few meters away from her father. "I apologize for your daughter's death," Daemon said softly, taking a few steps toward her.

"Murdered. You ordered her death. You murdered my daughter," (Y/N) hissed, eyes watering as she thought of her daughter's bloodied body, throat split opened mercilessly. "It wasn't supposed to be Visenya, daughter. It was supposed to be one of Aegon's," Daemon said, instantly regretting it as he saw (Y/N)'s hand clinched in fist.

"Out of anyone in our family, I had least expected you. I feel disgusted to call you my father now." Each word which left (Y/N)'s throat was a stab to Daemon's heart.

"Lucerys was killed by your husband, (Y/N). Rhaenyra grieved her son," Daemon said softly, trying to place his hand on her elbow but she stepped back, repulsed. "And I grieved him. But I see no grief in your eyes for your granddaughter; for your blood," (Y/N) growled, turning around on her heels.

Daemon saw Daehna move, lowering down her head to align it parallel to the ground. She opened her mouth, making Daemon close his eyes. If it was supposed to be his death than he won't fight it, not after what he had done, but he felt no fire only a threatening roar.

"Now, there will be a war, Daemon," Daemon flinched at his name, while (Y/N) continued. "And I will make sure your wife will regret every bit of it; even if it means my death."

Daemon watched as (Y/N) and Daehna disappear in the skies, leaving him behind with tears and pain. His favorite child had announced a war against him and his family, clearly announcing her fidelity.

Daemon kneeled down, letting the waves wash away some of his sorrows as he cried, grieving both the death of his granddaughter and the death of (Y/N)'s innocence.

Gone was his daughter and gone was their bond.

[mamirhodessxox]

Dead Witches Wish

Vampire!Cody Rhodes x Fem Witch!OC Reader

(Evara Barker)

Desc: Evara Barker has a family history of her family living in small towns right near the Appalachian Mountains which is a place known to hold mysteries, but one of the towns take place in Salem Massachusetts which is right by the mountains, she & her bestfriend Renna decided to move there after she started to have cryptic dreams of a woman giving her signs that she is destined to be in that exact town that is known for many disturbing things involving the Salem Witch Trials. (This story will be inspired by The Salem Witch Trials, The folklore & creepy stories on the Appalachian mountains.)

Contents: Violence, Death, Marijuana, Alcohol, Disturbing descriptions of certain paranormal creatures, Smut in later chapters, Arachnophobia, Stalking, Knife kink/play, Blood kink, masturbation, use of sex toys, ETC.

🏷️ list: @alyyaanna @ginswife @coolpastelartshoe @greatkoalawizard @cokolin044 @kotoriarlert @alicerosejensen @bunnybot55 @agent-dessis-posts @adollonyourshelf @mini-rhodes @southerngirl41 @harmshake @femdisa @kabloswrld @claymoresofinfamy23

{~I'm very serious with you guys interacting with my writing!!!! it would make me so happy & excited, the more comments & reposts the more inspiration i have to write :) likes and comments are strongly appreciated so please COMMENT COMMENT COMMENT COMMEENNTTT the more comments the more content <3!!!~}

Ever since Evara was a young girl she always had an eye on the spiritual world, she was strongly fascinated with the Paranormal, the spirits of others & the practice of witchcraft, she didn’t know why until the recent few months where she began having nightmares. Horrifying ones, mainly of her great grandmother who was dead way before Eve was born, She stood in a forest that was deep within the mountains as she wore a grey night gown covered in blood,

her eyes not to be seen in the dark holes of her eye sockets, her hair hung low around her face, her lips chapped to the point where her mouth was covered in dry blood & every single time Evara saw the horrific sight of her great grandmother in these nightmares she would always be pointing at a sign that had the words “Salem Massachusetts, home of the infamous Salem Witch Trials.” Engraved into the wooden sign before she awoke.

Every single night she had the same dream for months that she made the ultimate decision in late September to Move to Salem Massachusetts which was right by the Appalachian mountains that were known for holding dark secrets & hidden creatures behind the dark forests. When Eve had made this decision her best-friend Renna decided to move along with her and be by her side but once they got to the house they both purchased they had an eerie feeling crawling up their skin.

The Appalachian mountains were in view & many forests laid behind the eerie house. Renna leaned against the truck they both took turns on driving on the way to Salem. The sun was still up but yet the day seemed so gloomy & chilly, gusts of wind ran through Eves body causing a shiver to run down her spine as she looked around observing the neighborhood before turning to her best friend “Well, It’ll do for now.”

Eve sighed out while Renna quirked up her eyebrows sarcastically before unlocking the door. Eve has turned for a moment as she felt the sudden fear of being watched before rushing inside. “It’s not too bad!” Renna cheered out as she turned on the lights and looked around. The pair stood in the house in. Silence for a moment & looking at each other smiling before running off to pick out their rooms.

After spending the day unloading their moving truck and help furnishing up the place & decorating it the house soon felt like home, Renna had already went to bed meanwhile Eve had went to the bathroom still feeling the odd hunch that someone was watching her. She took off her clothes & submerged herself into the hot water as she scrubbed her body clean with soap and washed her hair, while she shut her eyes she had sudden images flashing through her mind imaging a dark brunette man was in the shower with her mumbling something.

Eve gasped opening her eyes and flipping open the shower curtain checking her surroundings before shutting off the water and wrapping herself in a towel. She lurked out of the bathroom and soon felt her feet slowly patter against the cold wooden floor “hello..?” She quietly called out making sure she wouldn’t wake Renna. She soon realized nothing was in the room with her and walked off into her bedroom, she had made the ultimate mistake of leaving her curtains open leaving no imagination to lurkers and creepers.

She had slid on her underwear and sighed as she was still naked in her upper body, she brushed out her wet hair and applied lotion to her breasts down to her stomach. She put on a large t shirt & laid in her bed sighing softly as she felt her stomach pit as the feeling of homesickness washed over her for a split second before she shut out the light & went to bed..

She opened her eyes & saw her great grandmother once more but even bloodier then the last dream, her grandmother stood outside of the house before soon turning to walk inside, the horrifying woman searched throughout the house & soon went into Eve’s bedroom standing over her bed giving her own self s clear space to see her own self but asleep.

The next morning she sprang up and heard chatter in the kitchen & ran her hand down her face before she walked out into the kitchen after putting pajama pants on & saw Renna standing in the kitchen speaking to 2 men, 1 with dark brunette hair that was short but also slicked back, the 2nd man with black hair a beard & a slight blonde streak passing by, Renna looked over towards Eve’s direction and smiled

“This is Evara! The best friend I had mentioned.” Eve blinked in shock and smiled nervously when her friend grabbed her by the shoulders showing her off to the strangers in the kitchen, The man with dark brown hair had took a glance at her with his sharp blue eyes before holding out his hand “Cody, me & my friend Seth here saw you two move in yesterday, another friend would be here too but he’s probably out and about town.” He introduced himself to Eve & smile in a charming manner while she shook his hand followed with her moving onto seth.

“Well it was a pleasure meeting you ladies, but Cody & I need to start heading out. We’ll be sure to i bite you go social occasions.” Seth breathed out as he stood up making Cody move his stare away from Eve to his close friend before standing up aside him “I’m the house next to yours doll, feel free to borrow anything.” He winked before walking out the door as Renna snickered and looked over at Eva

“Talk about hot right? Did you see how Brody or whatever the guy’s name is look at you?!” Eve furrowed her brows and poured herself a cup of coffee “First it’s Cody, Second I’m not..following, No..?” Renna huffed and rolled her eyes as she hopped on the counter “He was giving you the fuck me eyes.” “The fuck are the fuck me eyes?” Eve questioned before taking a large sip of her coffee while her roommate entertained the question “It’s where someone looks at you in a way that shows they want you to fuck them.” Eve glared and set down her coffee “Your disgusting.” “I didn’t come up with it this time c’mon!!!”

Renna & Eve cleaned the kitchen & dishes that were used during this morning & Eve let out a quiet sigh as her roommate looked over in her direction and gave her a comforting hug “Another dream?” Eve frowned pulling herself away & nodded “Yeah, it’s strange, it’s like every time I do something I’m being watched but there’s nothing here.” Renna smiled and shook her head “I think your just freaking yourself out.”

Throughout the day the girls relaxed but eventually Renna went out to grocery shop & Eve stayed home decorating and hang up paintings & lights until she heard banging on the front door.

She turned her attention to that door & became a little scared when there was banging due to it becoming louder & louder.. eventually she moved out of the kitchen & opened the door only to find nothing but a piece of paper lying on the porch. She looked around & picked the paper up & saw rules written on it

“What the hell…?” She breathed out before looking around & quickly shutting the door and putting the piece of paper onto the counter before grabbing her phone dialing Renna but unfortunately no answer.

She waited & waited but recieved no luck on her best friend replying to her call or texts, and then got that feeling again, like eyes were on her, Eve breathed heavily & shook her head & looked around the house.

Eventually she noticed her best friend still hadn’t called or texted back yet so she made the ultimate decision.

Evara stared at her neighbors house from the window & soon looked at the paper as she snatched it and went out of the house all the way to theirs and started banging on the door until Cody answered “Is everything alri-“ she shoved the paper in his face glaring.

“What the fuck is this??”

xtripleiiix’s Masterlist

[kakashixhatakesxwhore]

The Sound of Gladness

Pairing: Umino Iruka x GN!Reader

Summary: Iruka thinks that, because you're his best friend, you're essentially his girlfriend - spurred by a moment of jealousy, he professes his feelings.

W/c: 2.3k

Warnings: Swearing, brief jealousy (and trashing on Kakashi (in a world where he is a whore)), sexual toward the end (mentions of masterbation and heated kissing)

Notes: this fuckass ask had me in stitches, so here you go. you guys are about 19/20 in this. also, lmk if this sucks.

Masterlist💿

Iruka always loved the way you laughed. He would listen to you laugh all day long, if he could. No music, from lute nor lyre, could compare to the silver touch your laughter held. Not even the most charming bird's song could hold a candle to the beguilement that accompanied your joy. He had always loved your laugh, even more so when it was of his doing, be that from a tickle, from a joke, or even from his embarrassing mistakes.

When he first heard you laugh, every single intonation had burnt into Iruka's brain forever-more. That was the first time he distinctly remembered thinking, everything's going to be okay.

It came from a distance, then your sweet melody neared, still indiscernible from an angel's hymn. With the softest chuckle, closer to him than Iruka had thought, you asked, "What are you doing out here?"

Slowly, Iruka opened his eyes, only to be met with the breathtaking twinkle in yours. As he lay in the tall grass, hands behind his head, all he could see was your gorgeous, young face, looking down at him. You smiled wider as he smiled up at you, and Iruka couldn't believe his luck. What ever had possessed you to wander so far into the forest that day, Iruka had always been grateful for.

"Watching the stars behind my eyes," he murmured, taken by your beauty. Iruka's mind had quieted for the first time in a long time, and he didn't want to disrupt the peace. He sat up as he added, "But I'd much rather watch the stars in yours instead."

To Iruka's immense pleasure, you widened your eyes and sat on the grass beside him. "We should be friends."

He agreed wholeheartedly, and that was that.

The two of you became attached at the hip, the best of friends.

You would come with him the monument where his parents' names were engraved, and you would take him to your house, where your parents would be waiting with open arms, always wide enough for Iruka too. Each Saturday, you two would spend the mornings in the hot springs, the afternoons tucked away in one of your bedrooms, and the nights meandering the streets and the forests of Konoha.

Eventually, the two of you were promoted to Chunin in the same exam, and the Third Hokage noted your chemistry - he began sending the two of you on missions together, exclusively, and Iruka couldn't have been happier. As you both aged, you grew together, closer than atoms.

Being your best friend in the entire world, Iruka got almost every perk of a relationship with you. Almost.

Your voice came from his kitchen, keeping his thoughts in check. Over the sounds of sizzling, you called out, "Iruka!"

"Yeah, sweetheart?" He called back with a grin, the pet name rolling off of his tongue as easily as it had for years. He stood up from his desk and drew to the kitchen.

Iruka came in, immediately affronted with the decadent smells of spices and vegetables, and he saw you standing before the stove, moving the stir-fry around quickly with a wooden spoon. The grin on his lips only stretched when your turned your head to look at him. A beautiful glint occupied your eyes as you smiled back at Iruka sweetly, beckoning him with your wordless spell.

It was all very domestic. You two were practically married.

"You're up to serve," you said kindly, moving away from the pan after you flicked off the burner. Given Iruka had drawn so near, you bumped against him, stumbling and stepping on his foot as you moved to get the plates from the cabinet. Iruka's steady hands came to your hips, pulling you flush to him, ensuring you wouldn't fall. Your face tinted rose and you squeaked, "I'm sorry."

"It's quite alright," he mumbled, absolutely taken by the fragrance that occupied his nose. "Did you get a new perfume?"

"N-no," you stammered, getting warm under Iruka's touch. "It's two of the regulars, layered."

He should have known. Now that you confirmed it, Iruka could make out one of his favourite scents of yours. The sweet floral you were wearing consistently made Iruka's mouth water, but his absolute favourite perfume of yours was one a tad more citrus.

"Iruka."

"Yes, my sweet?" He inhaled deeply, eyes heavily lidded. The way you squirmed against him made Iruka's knees weak, but he stayed strong, pressing you infinitely closer to his body.

"Dinner."

"Okay."

Iruka relented, allowing you to get off of his foot. You got the plates out while he got behind the pan.

Everything Iruka wanted, he had in Spades, thanks to you. Well, almost everything.

You went to sit at the table that he had set a few minutes ago, while Iruka doled out the food and brought out the plates. He slipped back into the kitchen to get two glasses of water before, finally, sitting down with you.

Tucking your chairs behind Iruka's small table, you and he sat on opposite ends to indulge in the meal that smelled so decadent. As you inhaled deeply, Iruka sighed heavily, and looked at you as you took in the setting of the table. Goodness gracious, were you ever a sight to make Iruka's heart swell.

"This smells so rich," he hummed, making you look up at him with appreciation. "I must be crazy, 'cause I swear I can smell saffron."

"Mhm, I went to the spice trader today," you admitted. Iruka's eyes widened and he looked down at the golden-brown hued dish before him. You giggled, reassuring him, "Don't worry, I only got a hundred yen's worth. I didn't drain my cheque-book for a spice."

While he knew extremely well that a hundred yen would only translate to a pinch of saffron, Iruka couldn't help but to simply smile. You were laughing, and you had made a special effort, for him.

"So, what did you do today?" You asked, picking up your chopsticks.

Mirroring your movement, Iruka smiled and told you, "Absolutely nothing."

"Piss off," you grinned, shaking your head as your nose scrunched a little bit. "What about the mission report for Lord Third?"

"Handed it in this morning," he replied casually, waving his chopsticks a little. "So I got to laze around, until you came to brighten my day."

The way your cheeks tinted and you dipped your head drove Iruka crazy. It was like you didn't know what kind of effect you had on him. But there wasn't a way in Hell that was the case, not when the two of you were so domestic. You knew that you were biding time until-

"I wish I would have known you were home all-day; you would have loved the spice dealer, Kakashi definitely did."

"Hm?"

"I said I wish-"

"No, no, I heard you," Iruka said, feeling his heart threaten to stop beating. "What... what are you talking about Kakashi for?"

"He came with me today," you answered, seemingly unsure. "It wasn't planned or anything, we just met on the road, and we were going to the same place."

"Oh." Nothing to worry about. "Okay... well, what did you guys get, other than saffron?"

"Mm, I got some paprika, cumin... some cardamom, and then parsley, oregano and thyme," you listed, eyes traveling to the ceiling as if it would help you think. "And then Kakashi got... well, nothing."

"Nothing?"

You shrugged, returning your eyes to the meal, grinning a little as you said, "Yeah, I guess I was dragging him around too quickly. But... ah, never mind, I'll just have to take him back as an apology."

No, no, no. You didn't have to do that. Not at all. Kakashi knew goddamn-well that you were Iruka's soulmate. Who the fuck was he? Cripes, the village bike, the man who strikes fear into the heart of every boyfriend within the leaf. And Iruka wasn't even your boyfriend.

Kakashi was such a good friend of Iruka's, which was how Iruka knew, for a fact, his intentions were likely less than saintly.

"You two aren't... y'know..."

"What...?" Then realization washed over your face and your lip curled in disgust. "You must be joking. Seriously, that better have been a joke."

"I'm not," Iruka hummed, tilting his head to the side.

Putting your hands flat on the table, you looked deeply into Iruka's eyes. So deeply that he could feel the rest of the world melt, if only a little. Your face was dead serious, and there wasn't a trace of laughter in your tone as you said,

"Kakashi is my friend, and a very, very good friend, at that. Just like you are."

There it is.

Carefully, Iruka asked, "So, you hold me and Kakashi on the same level? There's not even a slight difference?"

"Of course there is, Iruka," you answered quickly, though it brought him no swift relief. "I've known you since we were fourteen, and I just gotten to know Kakashi. The thing is that Kakashi just left the ANBU, and needs a friend right now, and you've had me... aren't you a little sick of me?"

"Fuck no, I'll never be sick of you." Iruka could have overdosed on you and been happy. "You can't leave me for him."

"What are you talking about?" You laughed. "Leave you? How could-"

"You'll start spending more time with him, and he'll start taking you on nicer dates than I could ever afford, and you'll forget-"

"Dates? Iruka, what are we talking about right now?"

"You'll forget about me, because he'll be everything you want-"

"That's not true-"

"Yes, it is. Kakashi-"

"Shut up! Just shut up!"

Both of you stared at each other, lips drawn together. You were breathing quickly, while Iruka hardly felt like he was taking in air at all. He didn't want to.

After a moment, that stretched into eternity, you took a deep breath and said, "Let's start over. Today, I-"

"I love you."

"I love you too," you responded, dipping your head as if Iruka had just apologized. "So, today-"

"No, I love you, love you."

Your head tilted back, eyes widening crazily. Fuck it, he was already in the hole. It was a great seven years. With a breath that took up his whole chest, Iruka confessed what he had, stupidly, assumed was shared knowledge.

"I have since we were fourteen... I've only ever imagined marriage with you, sex with you... everything with you. It's always been you, always, always, always, and I kinda... just thought you knew it, and you were with me."

Your silence was like a bed of roses.

Sure, he got your beauty, for a few seconds longer, but the thorns were impaling him without discretion.

"I love you," he whispered, just happy to finally feel so very light. Iruka looked at the table and chewed on his lip. "If you want to go, I get it."

"I love you too."

Cripes, maybe he had passed out in the exhilaration.

Iruka couldn't believe you, not immediately, he had to remember how to breathe first.

"Have you ever touched yourself to the thought of me?"

That breath was ripped clean out of his lungs.

His head snapped up. Iruka couldn't tell where the question was coming from, but the embarrassed smile on your face eased him considerably. But, as eased as he was, Iruka stammered, not wanting to tell you his most well-kept secret.

Before he started choking on an answer, you pursed your lips and looked down, before mumbling, "I have, to you."

Hhhhhhhhhh. "What'd'y'think 'bout?"

"Sucking your cock, all the time," you admitted without reservation. Fuck. Iruka was rock hard under the table. "I know your cock is huge, and I really, really wanna know how much I could fit in my mouth."

Fuck. This had to be a dream. Or an inhumane prank. He took a shaky breath and hummed, "How d'y'know that?"

"'Cause a woman can tell, Iruka." You sounded hungry. Starving. "And," you continued with a shy giggle. "We've had our sleepovers, I've woken up to your morning wood a few times."

That should have been mortifying. But it wasn't. It just made Iruka's cock throb beneath the table.

"I love you, love you, too," you grinned, taking Iruka's hand over the table. He could have melted then and there, and you only made him hotter when you added, "Let's go to your bedroom, I want to love you, love you."

Your wish was his command.

Neglecting to ever have a bite of the wonderful dinner that you had done so much to prepare, both you and Iruka stood.

For another heartbeat, the two of you stared at each other, and Iruka felt as if he woke up from the dream. Everything became real, tactile, and he needed to ensure that it was.

Taking a step so swift your eyes didn't even catch him, Iruka came to you and pulled you in by the waist. You didn't stutter for a second as your soft hands came up, one on Iruka's neck and the other cupping his check.

Immediately, you leaned in, but Iruka held you back, just observing you with a grand smile etched into his face.

You pouted, "Please, please, kiss me, at least. You've made me wait so long."

"I'll do more than kiss you, and I've waited just as long," he reminded you in a hum, one of his hands traveling down the small of your back. "I want to savour every second of right now, every star in your eye."

"You're so fucking cute," you chuckled before widening your eyes comically. "How's this? Can you see the twinkle of arousal?"

Your goofy ass, goodness gracious - Iruka loved you so fucking much. Damn it, yes, he could see the twinkle of arousal in your eyes.

He couldn't resist any longer, crashing his lips to yours so suddenly that you let out a small exclamation. Quickly, you filtered yourself into the kiss, and a distinctly spiced taste overtook Iruka's senses, giving him an insight into the dinner that was about to be abandoned. You were such a good cook.

Craving your taste, Iruka's tongue swiped across your bottom lip and you graciously parted your lips. Your tongue tasted so savoury, of cardamom and saffron - so expensive, so divine. He had to have more. More, more, more.

Without much experience, sexual or romantic, apart from his dreams of you, Iruka did as his instincts instructed. And he couldn't have been more glad that he had.

[mafiasliege]

The Proposal, Part 1

(hey guys! So I randomly had this idea of the JamesonAvery proposal so I thought to share it here. This is my first time writing a fic btw. Let me know how you feel about it. Also, it's in 2 or maybe 3 parts.)

--------------------------------------------------

Present Day

Jameson Hawthorne never gets nervous.

Almost all the time.

Almost.

"What did you do now?" Nash said, walking the line between his usual drawl and slight accusation. Apparently, he was the first one to have gotten Jameson's 911 and come to the tree house.

"What makes you think I did anything?" Jameson replied, but he knew why Nash would say so.

"We know you, and right now you look like you haven't slept in days." Xander said as he climbed in from the window. His brothers knew him too well. Even from behind him, Nash could immediately tell something was going on. Xander too.

"That's because I haven't." It was true. He was too excited in the plane back from Paris to sleep. And scared. The world was changing.

"Did sun rise from the west today?" Grayson said. His carefully calculated mask fell, he seemed too puzzled by Jameson's expression and continued, "you look... nervous." Jameson didn't bother replying. Everyone was here now.

He was going to tell them. Now. It seemed simpler in his mind.

Clearly not.

"Before you say anything, Jamie, this time, whatever you're about to tell us is not something that's going to stay in the tree ho-" Xander came to a halt abruptly when Jameson plunked down a ring box on the wooden table. Simplest way of getting it done was to rip the bandaid.

Either Jameson's brother were too shocked or they'd died standing.

"Is-Is that what I think it is?" Grayson was not-yelling by the difference of a hair. Jameson just nodded.

"Oh my god. Oh my GOD!" Xander tackled Jameson. Soon Nash and Grayson joined. The tackle hugs never got old. And something told Jameson that some things would never change.

Like his brothers.

They'll be here forever.

"You haven't even seen the ring!" Jameson said as Grayson pulled him up. He opened the deep green velvet box. Inside was a beautiful oval-shaped Emerald- a shade of green so captivating, as though it was daring you to try to look away. They couldn't.

It looks like Jamie's eyes, Grayson thought suddenly. Something told him Avery would think so too, afterall she'd probably spent ages looking at his eyes.

"It's gorgeous, Jameson" Nash said. "But you know I have to ask, do you think you're ready to get married? You're 22."

"Who said anything about getting married? Avery and I could stay engaged till we're ready."

He shot back, and realised too late what Nash had meant to ask.

Are you sure she's the one?

But Nash was smiling. They all were, actually. He'd said it so easily. So easily, it was like breathing. That's how certain be was about Avery. Nash had gotten his answer.

"Jamie…" Xander was looking at the ring. The inside of the ring. "It's engraved-"

"I know."

Nash and Grayson moved to Xander's side to see the ring.

SMG • AKG

"Where'd you get the ring?"

--------------------------------------------------

The day before

It was 9 pm. Nine in the cold, cold night of Paris. Jameson had waited seven months for this. Seven months of secretly tracking one small ring- a ring more valuable to his beloved heiress more than almost anything. It was a miracle that he'd been able to hid all of it from Avery. Tracking and finding the ring was hard enough, let alone getting the owner to sell it to him. What if they didn't. Luckily, it had ended up in an auction house.

First it went to Layla's pawn shop in Connecticut, then to a buyer in Washington, whose wife sold the ring during their clearly shitty honeymoon in Italy. From there it moved all across Spain, Scotland and finally, an exclusive auction house in France.

He could still remember their conversation during their second vacation to Tahiti all those months ago, sitting near his heiress on Te Pari, a cliff jumping spot.

She'd told him about what she read in one of her mom's letters, about an emerald ring her mom gave her on her 15th birthday. With their initials engraved. Apparently Toby had given it to Sarah as a gift when Avery was just a baby. He'd asked her to give it to Avery when she was old enough.

Of course, when she was old enough, her mother was dying of a rare disease, one that required very expensive treatment. So, poor 15-year-old Avery had to sell the ring in a pawn shop.

He remembered feeling like someone had stabbed him in the heart with a dagger. Avery could practically bathe in emeralds now, she even owned diamond and emerald mines. But she'd never get that ring back.

That's what she thought.

"Mr. Hawthorne" a very French voice snapped Jameson or of his thoughts.

"Mr. Laurent" Jamie shook the middle-aged, suit-clad Frenchman's hand. He handed Jameson a green velvet box, and Jameson handed him a balck envelope with a cheque.

"I'm surprised you came all the way here to get the ring. We could have brought it to you" Mr Laurent said. But then Avery would've known. He'd told her he was taking her plane to Scotland to check in on the upkeep of Vantage- his paternal family's castle that he'd won. Jamie checked the inside of the ring.

SMG • AKG

Yes. Yes yes YES.

"Worry not. I'm just glad to have it."

And he was. So much, he could only imagine how happy Avery would be.

Now the hard parts.

-------------------------------------------------

Present day

Grayson was the first one to break the silence after Jameson finished telling his story.

"When are you going to do it?"

"The day she came here,"

Jameson shot his brother the most Jameson Winchester Hawthorne smile.

"Tomorrow"

--------------------------------------------------

(Part 2 will come up soon. Hope you enjoyed it! Thanks!! :))

[evermourning]

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 - lee minho

pairing: lee minho x reader (bewitched series part. 8)

genre: established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, comfort, slice of life

wc: 1.4k

warnings: language, mention of bugs, lowkey crack moments, if you don't know how to tie a tie delude yourself, mentions of alcohol, not proofread

a/n: and here we are! the final part to my first series. thank you so much for the love and support! i've had so much fun <3

you were embarrassingly infatuated with your boyfriend.

as your fifth text to him went delivered and not read (he was busy grocery shopping), you flopped onto the couch, sighing loudly. the house was so quiet without him here. you could hear every little sound - the rattle of the air conditioner, the creaks in the wooden floor, the lovely aria of the birds outside, the soft chatter of the streets from your perch near the window.

the cats were usually much louder, too. but now, soonie was curled into your side, a low purr emanating from him as he slept happily. the other two were nowhere to be found. if minho was here, he'd sit next to you, one long arm wrapped along your waist while his non-occupied hand gently stroked one of his cats' fur. but...he wasn't. he wasn't and you wished with all your being that he was. you didn't care he was literally ten minutes or so away and literally doing something as simple as shopping. you missed him so bad.

it was such a funny feeling to you, being in love after avoiding it for so long. you believed that you weren't going to find love, that you were falling behind your friends, but all of that changed completely when you met minho. it only took you three nights to fall in love with him. three whimsical and delightful nights, forever engraved into your memory.

night i: you were on your way back from work when you noticed something. an old lady, probably in her early eighties was taking bags and suitcases out of her car. however, she was on the smaller side and was struggling significantly. you immediately rushed over to help...but even you couldn't carry everything. embarrassing. really embarrassing.

"do you need any help?" a masculine voice asked. you turned around and fought insane urges to drop your jaw in shock. was that really the lee minho standing in front of you? after you nodded, still in some state of shock, he grabbed the boxes and bags you couldn't, and as a team you worked together, being thanked profusely by the old lady. as you were leaving, you called after him.

"you're lee know, from stray kids...right?" when he nodded, you had to do a double take. "i um, just wanna say hi. i'm a fan."

"you're a really lovely looking fan," minho replied, smiling at you. you felt your cheeks heating up. "are you in a relationship or anything like that? i don't really want to overstep your boundaries."

"oh, no. i'm not in a relationship, trust me." you shook your head frantically, mentally cursing yourself for it.

"good! then...can i take you out on a date? how about...tomorrow?" he asked, grinning. you accepted graciously, the realization that the lee minho asked you out. you felt like a giddy child for the first time in years.

that night, you did not sleep.

night ii: you sat at the table, one leg crossed over the other, frantically checking your phone to make sure you got the time right. minho was nowhere to be found, and you'd been sitting at this secluded restaurant for a good fifteen minutes. you'd already ordered yourself a drink. you figured if he was a no-show, you could get something nice before going home and getting drunk as hell.

all of a sudden, minho practically dashed in, his tie askew.

"i am so sorry, yn. my practice ran a little late, i ran over here so fucking fast you don't even know." you chuckled at his words, before motioning to his tie.

"may i? your tie being untied is making me relatively annoyed." he nodded, laughing at your comment. you leaned over and put your nimble fingers to work, tying his tie expertly and quickly. you were so goddamn close to him, you could feel his breathing just barely on your cheek. when you looked up, meeting his dark, beautiful eyes, you noticed he sported rosy cheeks.

the date was a massive success. you'd hit it off with him instantly, having both many things in common and very interesting differences. as he was walking you home, chatting amicably about something jisung had done the other day, you mustered up the courage to ask him...

"would you like to stay the night? i've got an extra room, and you're probably not too close to where you live." you looked away, flustered after that. but he reached out a hand to gently steer your face back to his.

what you saw next was forever engraved into your hippocampus.

the golden rays of the setting sun reflected in his chocolate brown eyes, like a mosaic of umber and carob with spattered flecks of california gold. the corners of his (very kissable) lips were turned upwards as he thought about your rash offer. your hair blew slightly in the chilly wind, causing you to shiver slightly. minho noticed this almost instantly, taking off his jacket and wrapping it around your shoulders.

"let's get you inside, okay? it's really cold out here."

once you were inside your house, you handed him back his jacket, when he shook his head.

"keep it."

"what?!" you shrieked. "this is probably so expensive..."

he shrugged. "i'll just buy a new one." minho giggled at your incredulous look. "if you keep it, i'll stay here tonight.

you grabbed the jacket quickly, eliciting a roar of laughter from minho.

"then it's settled. lead me to the spare room?"

night iii: you woke up the next morning to the smell of freshly cooked pancakes and bacon, which was really weird because you lived alone. and then suddenly, you remembered there was a man in your house. opening the door with a yawn, you saw minho making breakfast, wearing your apron.

"what do you think you're doing?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. minho turned, smiling at you.

"good morning. i was a little hungry, so i was gonna make myself something small to eat, but then i thought you must be awfully hungry too." he handed you a plate, stacked with heavenly-looking food. you thanked him, sitting down and taking a bite.

"holy shit. this is the best pancake i've ever had."

minho blushed at the compliment. "you really think so, hm? try some of the bacon."

each bite you took was like ascension to the heavens as you scarfed down the food. once you were done, you started washing the plates. when minho tried to help, you swatted his hand away.

"you made me breakfast, which was just so incredibly generous of you, so i'll clean up. it's my house, anyways."

minho stayed for an hour or so longer, until he had to leave to get to his building. as you were walking him out, something moved in the corner of your peripheral vision. you screeched, hiding behind minho when you realized it was a cockroach.

"don't piss your pants, it's just a cockroach." he teased, laughing.

"i don't give a rat's ass what type of bug it is!" you said, eyes squeezed shut. "please tell me you're good at killing bugs..."

"i am, i assure you. i'm experienced." he winked, and grabbed his shoe to ruthlessly smash the poor bug into the floor.

you did not feel bad.

after he cleaned it up, you gave him a huge hug, thank yous and please do that everytimes spilling out of your mouth. he sighed, smiling with that look that made you want to go feral.

"should i just give you my number in case those scary little cockroaches come back?" he asked.

"please do."

...

that was almost a year ago. now, you and minho were happy together, this relationship marking the beginning of your healing phase. now, he was on your mind 24/7. the memory of his lips pressed against yours, how his hand just fit into yours like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. these and many more memories swirled together as if they were a chorus - each memory, the good and the bad was a different vocal part, blending seamlessly until they had created a new sensation - your burning love for your boyfriend.

you were utterly, truly lovesick.

@evermourning, ©2023. all rights reserved.

[presumenothing]

so we all know the drill, yeah? my keyboard slipped etc etc and thus i present: 吉祥纹莲花楼 aka LOTUS CASEBOOK (the novel) CHAPTER ONE: TASTER EDITION further aka "the first chapter, but minus the Case Exposition bit because wow noooope". note also that this is not as serious nor thoroughly-edited as some of my other TLs (nif fandom alumni may remember me from known, unknown aka this absolute unit/research spiral of a post-canon fic; this is Not That and also, hi!!). and now with that out of the way, enjoy! ETA: fixed some missing bits that got eaten while posting to tumblr + only maybe 30% on-topic footnotes over here

PART THE FIRST: A GHOST, MURDER, IN THE GREEN GAUZE WINDOW

Changzhou City, Xiaomian Inn.

The seventeenth of the sixth month, just around midnight.

It had been two days since Cheng Yunhe, the head convoy of Hexing Convoy Company, started escorting these sixteen boxes of precious goods. Though all had been well so far, he felt tight-strung with exhaustion, and despite having fallen asleep he woke up without quite knowing why.

Silence permeated the dark room.

Outside the window… there was singing.

Faint waves of sound, barely discernible, as if someone was singing; and apparently quite in earnest, too, but in an incredibly odd tone… just as if… someone was singing with their tongue cut out. 

He opened his eyes, and looked at the window directly across from his bed.

Amidst the darkness, green flecks flickered dim and sudden across that window, now far then near, and only on this one window across from him.

Outside the window, the faraway song continued, that broken tongue singing a tragic melody that no-one living could possibly understand…

He’d already practised almost forty years of martial arts, and though his hearing and sight might not be the top in the jianghu, it could hardly be weak either, but he… could not make out the sound of anything human.

As the wind whistled through the slightly-ajar window, he stared at that window with its flickering green shadows – and for the very first time in his life, he thought of a word – ghosts?

–

ONE: LUCKY PATTERN LOTUS PARLOUR

The broad daylight of a sunny day.

Bingshan Town was not a remarkable place by any means; it had neither rare treasure nor great legends, and just like the vast majority of places in the jianghu, its denizens were a little boring, its crops a tad skinny, its rivers a tinge dirty, and its post-meal conversational topics a touch lacking… far too lacking, actually, so whenever there was something everyone had to delight in it for the longest time – not to mention how that recent happening was an odd one indeed.

The tale so far: on this day, the eighteenth of the month, when the people of Bingshan Town opened their doors to sweep their stoops, they abruptly found that their only-too-familiar main street had suddenly sprouted a two-storey wooden building. This building was hardly a short one, either, fully capable of housing people inside, and in spacious lodgings no less; it was made fully of wood, and engraved with patterns unusually fine and ornate, that even a blind person could recognise by touch – none other than lotus flowers and auspicious clouds.

After a good half-day’s worth of discussion, some eagle-eyed people recognised at last how this building had “suddenly appeared”: though its structure was that of a building, it turned out that it was not connected to the ground… at any rate, this building had been pulled by someone with a cart, here to the main street of their Bingshan Town, and put it there. Everyone expressed their amazement at this, but nobody could comprehend why anyone would bother dragging over such a large building in the dead of night just to leave it on the street, or what it could possibly be for. Perhaps as a shrine for their town god? Though speaking of which, their local shrine had indeed fallen into disrepair and gone unworshipped for many years now…

Such debate continued for three days straight, up until an express convoy working at some company who happened to be coming home was struck dumbfounded upon seeing it, screeched “The Lucky Parlour!” and there and then turned to run madly away without even returning home, still yelling “Lucky Parlour!” along the way – and thus the building abruptly became a haunted house, that would drive anyone who saw it right mad.

Only seven days later, when that express convoy suddenly brought the entire convoy company back to Bingshan Town, did the masses discover that said building was not in fact some haunted house. 

Not only was it not a haunted house, it was actually an auspicious building, a super-duper auspicious building. 

The “Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour” was a medical clinic.

Its master was of surname Li, named Lianhua.

What kind of a person was Li Lianhua? As a matter of fact, nobody in the jianghu knew either. Whether his master, his background, the level of his martial arts, his age, or even the matter of his looks: all of it was unknown. Six years had passed since this person appeared in the jianghu, and in total he’d done only two things, but just these two things alone had been enough to turn the “Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour” into the single most fascinating legend in the jianghu.

The two things Li Lianhua had done: the first was bringing back to life the martial scholar “Lifelong Learner” Shi Wenjue, who’d been buried for many days after dying from major injuries after a decisive duel. The second was bringing back to life “Ironflute Hero” He Lantie, who’d also been buried for many days with all his bones broken after dying from a cliff fall.

Just these two incidents alone had already made Li Lianhua the one figure in the jianghu that people most wanted to acquaint themselves with, but there was also the matter of his strange house that he always brought along with him – this only made Li Lianhua more of a legend amongst legends.

The head convoy of Hexing Convoy Company led every last one of his men on swift horseback to Bingshan Town, and after three days of clean baths and devout incense, finally delivered on great tenterhooks a letter of greeting to that building carved of precious softwood: Cheng Yunhe of Hexing Convoy Company wishes to consult on an important matter.

Said letter was pushed in via a window gap.

All forty-odd men of the company waited alongside Cheng Yunhe, as if it was the King of Hell inside of that building, passing judgement––

Soon after, that building that had been so silent as to seem unoccupied let out the faintest of creaking sounds. All of Hexing Convoy held their breath, and even the rubbernecking passers-by caught theirs, too, widening their eyes to better await whatever creature could possibly emerge from this building.

The door swung swiftly open, and not in the slow swing of everyone’s imagination.

A large cloud of dust burst forth with a bang, blowing all over Cheng Yunhe, and the figure in the door made a sound of dismay, saying with great apology: “I was tidying up odds and ends, and didn’t even realise I had guests, my apologies, apologies indeed.”

All of Hexing Convoy, now covered in dust and sawdust, stared in astonishment at the one who’d opened the door with a broom in one hand; the very same broom where that bright red greeting letter was now stuck on. He looked very young, no older than twenty-seven or twenty-eight, and perhaps even a little younger than that if not for the much-mended grey robes he was wearing; his skin was fair and his looks refined, but neither was he so beautifully handsome as to be unforgettable from a glance. He held the broom in his right hand and a dustpan in his left, and looked out at the dozens-strong line outside his door with a face full of apology.

Cheng Yunhe gave a heavy cough, and saluted in greeting: “I, “Thousand-Mile Crane” Cheng Yunhe, humbly greet Li-xiansheng of the Lucky Parlour; may I perhaps request that you pass a message to him that there is a matter I wish to consult him on?”

“Ah,” said the grey-robed young man. “A message?”

Cheng Yunhe spoke gravely: “I fear we must meet with Li Lianhua, Li-xiansheng himself, for there is crucial business to discuss.”

The young man set down the broom. “I am indeed Li Lianhua.”

Cheng Yunhe’s eyes widened abruptly, mouth falling open, and in that moment every last bystander wanted nothing more than to toss three or five eggs into his mouth. Very swiftly he shut it again, and gave another heavy cough. “Your good reputation precedes you, Li-xiansheng…” 

And then he found himself at a loss on how to continue, for he had already detailed the ins and outs of the matter on the greeting letter, but that same letter was now stuck on Li Lianhua’s broom.

Li Lianhua said: “Apologies, apologies… my residence is covered in clutter at the moment…”

He raised a hand to invite Cheng Yunhe inside.

The Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour was indeed covered in assorted junk; from nails to hammer, saw to axe, dustcloths to broom, sawdust and dust everywhere, and a few boxes holding who-knew-what. The front room held only one table and chair each, both made of bamboo and not worth even twenty bronze coins. Cheng Yunhe felt heavy doubt in his heart, but what with the sheer reputation of the Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour, and this grey-robed man to be sitting in it, he dared not to suspect him to be a fake, either; and thus he was left with no choice but to sit respectfully across from Li Lianhua and recount every part of those fearsome events he’d encountered a half-month ago.

[––CASE EXPOSITION CUT FOR SANITY––]

Such was the tale of the “Green Window Ghost Murder” that had thrown the martial world into heated debate over the last half a month. Yu Mulan, heartbroken over the senseless death of his beloved daughter, flew into a rage and commanded the death of all the swordsmen who had been escorting Yu Qiushuang that night, alongside a kill order for the entirety of Hexing Convoy Company. Cheng Yunhe, pushed to his wits’ end, had been about to bring his family and disband the company for a scattered escape when he heard the news of the Lucky Parlour.

Li Lianhua could bring the dead back to life – and so Cheng Yunhe suddenly thought: if Li Lianhua could resurrect Yu Qiushuang, wouldn’t that resolve everything? Resurrection was not something he would have ever believed in, just a half-month ago, but with matters the way they were now he could only work with what he had, dead or otherwise, and since the heavens had seen fit to let him come across Li Lianhua, why not give it a try? After all… if the legends were true, all could not but be well.

But even until he’d finished recounting the “Green Window Ghost Murder” incident, he hadn’t heard any startling insights out of Li Lianhua, only an ah and a nod of his head.

After finishing his tea, Cheng Yunhe had no choice but to leave. He truly could not think of any good reason to remain any longer in that empty building of Li Lianhua’s, full of assorted junk and Li Lianhua’s expression full of gentle incomprehension. 

Cheng Yunhe departed.

From the second storey of the Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour, someone said, leisurely: “Even five years later, you’re still plenty famous, aren’t you…”

Li Lianhua sat on the chair, drinking tea. “Ah…”

Who even knew what he was ah-ing about.

“Actually I’ve never been able to figure it out.” That figure descended slowly from the second storey. He was thin and pale, all skin and bones, and perhaps if he gained twenty pounds he’d be a elegantly beautiful young man, but as it stood he mostly just resembled a victim of starvation. Yet this particular hungry corpse also happened to be wearing a set of rich white robes of particularly meticulous workmanship, with the tassel and jade ornaments favoured only by those fine young masters untouched by worldly troubles, and a long sword with an unusually elegant shape to its hilt. “How could anyone in this world possibly believe in something like resurrection? It’s been five whole years, and yet nobody has forgotten those two scandals of yours…”

“Because none of them are as smart as you.” Li Lianhua smiled faintly, stood up to stretch, then picked up his broom and resumed sweeping the floor.

“Can you not sweep the floor?” The hungry corpse from the upper storey suddenly glared. “How can you possibly keep sweeping when I, the great Fang-dagongzi, am here right in front of you? Do you realise that if Cheng Yunhe had known I was in here just now, he’d definitely kneel down and beg me too ask that old geezer Yu not to slaughter his entire family? You have a young master of my handsome looks and eminent status in front of you, and yet you’ve been doing nothing but sweep the floor?"

“I can’t.” Li Lianhua said: “I haven’t cleaned and repaired this building in too long. It’s very dirty, and leaks when it rains, too.”

The white-robed corpse kept up the wide-eyed glaring for many moments longer, before suddenly letting out a sigh. “Someone like you who can’t fight and can’t treat diseases, who doesn’t plant crops or commit theft either – how have you even managed to survive all these years in such fame? I really don’t get it.” 

This white-robed hungry corpse was “Melancholic Young Master” Fang Duobing, the eldest son of the of the Fang martial family. He’d known Li Lianhua for an entire six years, long enough that he even knew exactly how this same person had come to fame – Shi Wenjue had suffered major injuries in his duel and used the Turtle’s Breath method to close his qi and recover, the local villagers had taken him for dead and buried him, Li Lianhua had gone to dig him up, and thus Shi Wenjue had naturally come back to life; He Lantie, on the other hand, had staged an entire cliff jump after failing in his pursuit of a wife, played dead and buried himself in the ground, and Li Lianhua who’d just happened to be passing by dug him out yet again. The whole world was wondering how Li Lianhua had managed to bring the dead back to life, while all Fang Duobing wanted to know was how he knew where on earth (or under it) there’d be a live person to dig up.

“I did still have some silver coins, a while ago.” Li Lianhua carefully swept the front room, then put away the dustpan. “As long as you plan well, you can still make do.”

Fang Duobing rolled his eyes. “And how much silver do you have now?”

“Fifty taels.” Li Lianhua smiled faintly. “That’s enough to use for a lifetime, to me.”

Fang Duobing tsked. “To think that there’s losers like you in the martial world, who only plan to spend fifty taels in their whole life, it’s practically a shame upon the jianghu. Had Cheng Yunhe known what kind of person you are, I’d like to see whether he still would’ve come asking for help… heh, asking a ‘miracle doctor’ who doesn’t know a drop of medicine and has to go everywhere with his house on his back because he’s too stingy to stay in an inn, to go treat the dead, I can’t believe he thought of that.” Fang Duobing rolled his eyes again for good measure, and eyed Li Lianhua up and down. “Though I can’t actually tell whether you are going to help him go treat the dead or not.”

Li Lianhua sat on the chair, fingers still meticulously fiddling away with the interlocking joint on that squeaky bamboo table of his, and gave a small smile upon hearing this. “Why wouldn’t I go? After all, I don’t know how to plant crops, or sell vegetables, and I’m not in want of coin. Wouldn’t life be incredibly boring if I didn’t have something to do?”

“When that old geezer Yu finds out that you’re a fake miracle doctor and decides to kill your entire family, Fang-dagongzi is absolutely not going to save you,” Fang Duobing said, leisurely. “Go on then, don’t expect this young master here to see you off.”

And so it was that Li Lianhua spent a whole three days tidying up inside the Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour, packing who-knows-what into that small parcel of his, and after meticulously writing a lengthy missive temporarily entrusting the parlour to the care of “Lifelong Learner” Shi Wenjue, he set off at last.

He was headed to Yu Fortress, to see the corpse of Yu Qiushuang.