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prentissluvr · 8 months ago

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three seconds — sam winchester

for : 200+ followers event [ closed ] ➖⟢ pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader ➖⟢ genre : fluff ➖⟢ cw : light swearing, accidental cuddling, casual mention of marriage between sam and reader (it's just dean teasing tho lol), idiots friends to lovers, kissing, barely edited ➖⟢ wc : 1.2K prompt : sleeping in the same bed, as they’d often do, but one morning waking up cuddling

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

to be truthful, this isn’t the first time you’ve woken up with yours and sam’s limbs entangled with each other’s. it’s just far less common for his hand to be so gloriously attached to your waist or his face to be tucked all sweet and warm into your neck. your own hands are placed in his hair and on his broad shoulder blade.

waking up like this is heaven; first, in the moments before you can process exactly what is happening, and second, once you realize and can bask in the splendor of having him so intimately close and vulnerable with you. then it comes crashing down as you remember that this isn’t quite how it’s supposed to be, and that you’ll never, not for a moment, be able to get this feeling out of your head, your body.

which means every moment after you untangle yourself from him will be full of a pure, undying, taunting want, maybe even need, to have him like that again. such a feeling is a general inconvenience as one considers that sam is your best friend, that he and his brother are just about all you have, and that you’d rather die than lose them to the fact that you’re in love with him. so clearly, it’s better he never knows, it’s just that constantly thinking about cuddling with him tends to lead to you making heart eyes at him or your cheeks flushing hot when he looks at you a moment too long.

then there’s the realization that sam is still asleep, the steady rhythm of his breath tickling your neck is both comforting and terrifying all at once. what if he wakes and jerks away, uncomfortable with your proximity? should you push him away before he even realizes the position you’re in? it’s not as if sam doesn’t enjoy physical affection; he pretends he doesn’t, but you’re convinced that he’s a cuddlebug at heart. maybe that’s an overly cute way of putting it, but you can feel how much he loves hugs, how much he enjoys having his head in your lap when you get a rare movie night. you’re just worried that this is too much, too close for even him.

and yet, you’re feeling selfish, because what if you never get him like this again? so you close your eyes again and just revel in the way it feels to have the tip of his nose pressed to your neck and his forehead against your jaw. his hands on you, so steady and sure in his sleep. his hair, soft between your fingers and the muscle of his back under your palm. his leg, tucked between yours. just the weight of him, pressed against you all solid and real and almost immovable until he wakes.

you hear dean stir a few feet away and you pray he won’t be able to tell you’re not asleep. breath even and eyes still gently closed, you hear dean move about, mumbling to himself. he’s digging around in a bag, pulling something out. then you feel him move closer and you swear he’s hovering at the foot of the bed.

then you hear a click, like that of a camera shutter, and you realize dean’s taken a picture of the two of you like this. pictures of the three of you are rarer, and dean being the one to take it means it’s special. you suppose blackmail is special in its own way and beg to no one that dean didn’t hear your breath hitch as you realize this moment is now immortalized by a picture that dean’ll print out someday and shove in your faces to make fun.

then dean’s mumbling to himself again, now close and loud enough for you to make out his words. “these two,” he sighs, tone practically chastising as if he sees something glaringly obvious, but the both of you can’t seem to quite get there. “i swear, the heart eyes from across the room, the longing gazes. god, they’ll be the death of me.”

he really, truly thinks you’re asleep. he talks like this when he doesn’t know you can hear him. though usually not about you and sam, not like this. “they’re both such idiots. idiots in love,” he laughs humorlessly to himself, then turns away, stuffing the camera back in the bag he dug it out from. “maybe i should lock them in a closet,” he considers, voice so low you can barely catch his words, “see who caves first. then they’ll probably only thank me for that or the puke-inducingly cute photo once they’re married, those ungrateful asses. kids these days.” he lets out a huff of breath as he heads to the bathroom, seemingly done with his ranting about … about what? you and sam being in love with each other? what the hell was he saying, married? you and sam? you have to hold back from letting out a lovesick sigh.

you’re so caught up turning dean’s words over in your mind that only sam’s hand lightly squeezing your side brings you back to the present. your eyes shoot open and you pull your hand out of his hair. sam parts from you, barely. how long has he been awake? you’re almost too scared to look at sam, who hasn’t even attempted to untangle himself from you. he’s still got his hand on your waist and his leg tucked between yours and your eyes catch his without you meaning to. it’s always like that; your eyes will wander until they find his face, every time. it’s habit, instinct, unavoidable.

he looks at you long, and something about his pretty eyes turned green from the morning light and the color of the sheets keeps you holding his gaze, taking him in as he does you.

when sam finally speaks, his voice is hushed, but there’s this barely contained joy to it, begging to be released. “think we should save him the trouble?” the playfulness in his voice tugs at the corner of your lips. when he sounds happy, you can’t help but feel that way.

“of?” you ask, thinking you know what he means, but wanting to be sure.

“of locking us in a closet. sounds like a bit of a hassle, if you ask me,” he smiles at you, and his words plus the sight of his dimples has got you grinning without restraint. you wonder again how long sam was awake, but completely without apprehension this time. all the two of you needed was a few playful words exchanged, and now you know. though you wouldn’t have without dean’s unwittingly overheard grumbles, so you supposed you will have to thank him after all.

“i don’t know,” you say with a false air of careful thinking, “seems like it could be fun, y’know? it’s been too long since we’ve played a good trick on dean, don’t you think?”

sam doesn’t have an answer for that because he’s been too busy staring at the way your lips move, still pulled into a smile as you talk. you take another good look at him and wonder, how in the world did i miss it? the way he looks at me?

if he doesn’t kiss you within three seconds flat, you’ll do it yourself. it takes him those three seconds exactly, and you move in such synch it’s possible that your lips meet right in the perfect middle of the barely-there space between you.

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solxamber · 1 month ago

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Pomefiore, 7, Comedy/Fluff

everytime i see a pomefiore request, an angel gains its wings

Always Watching || Rook Hunt

For the Holiday Event! || Prompt: "For you, anything" ; Genre: Comedy/Fluff

You slumped against the bed, your head drooping as you let out a pitiful groan. Rook sat beside you with a concerned expression, holding your hands gently in his own.

"Mon amour," he said, voice dripping with theatrical worry, "you look as though the very life has been drained from your enchanting form."

"That’s because it has," you muttered. "Crowley’s got me running around like his personal errand mule. I’m doing everything except polishing his tailcoat at this point. I’m so tired, Rook. I think my soul is trying to escape my body."

Rook's eyes narrowed, and a dangerous glint flickered behind the veneer of his charming smile. He tilted his head, his golden hair catching the dim light. "Ah, such a grave injustice cannot stand."

You sighed, too exhausted to argue. "Unless you’ve got some magic solution to deal with Crowley, I’m just gonna have to suffer until I keel over or he decides he’s bored of me."

Rook’s smile sharpened. "Leave everything to me, ma chérie. For you, anything."

You didn’t think much of it. Rook often said dramatic things, and you figured he was just trying to cheer you up. You kissed his cheek, thanked him, and promptly fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow.

The next day, Crowley summoned you to his office. Expecting another list of unreasonable tasks, you dragged yourself there, only to be greeted by something completely unexpected: a visibly nervous Crowley.

“Ah, prefect,” he said, wringing his hands. “Good news! I’ve decided there’s no need for you to handle all those tasks. I realized that as a benevolent and magnanimous headmaster, I may have been… overly reliant on you.”

You stared. “...Really?”

“Yes, yes,” he said quickly, waving his hand. “Go, enjoy your youth or whatever it is students do. No need to thank me. Now, off you go!” He ushered you out of his office, looking pale and slightly sweaty.

You blinked in confusion but decided not to question it. After all, a reprieve was a reprieve. And who were you to argue with divine intervention?

Later, you met up with Rook in the woods. You relayed the strange encounter with Crowley, still baffled. "It’s so weird. He looked… spooked, almost. But hey, I’m not complaining. It’s about time he stopped using me as his personal assistant."

Rook chuckled, his emerald eyes sparkling with mischief. "Ah, ma douce étoile, perhaps the universe has finally decided to grant you mercy."

You raised an eyebrow. "You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?"

He leaned in close, his cryptic smile widening. "Moi? I am but a humble admirer of beauty. How could I possibly influence the decisions of our esteemed headmaster?"

You squinted at him. "Rook—"

Before you could press further, he grabbed your hand and twirled you dramatically. "Come, my love! Let us revel in the splendor of the forest! The beauty of nature is calling, and I refuse to let you waste another moment thinking about mundane matters."

And just like that, you were whisked away into another one of Rook’s adventures. His enthusiasm was infectious, and soon you forgot all about Crowley’s odd behavior.

Unbeknownst to you, Crowley had indeed woken up the previous night to find an arrow lodged inches from his head, attached to a note written in elegant, looping script:

Mon cher directeur,

While I greatly admire your leadership, I must request that you cease overburdening the prefect. I have many talents, as you know, and it would be a shame for them to be used against you.

Always watching.

Crowley had nearly fainted. By morning, he’d resolved to do whatever it took to stay on Rook’s good side—even if it meant giving you the break you deserved.

And Rook? He kept his secret, because in his eyes, what mattered most was your happiness.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #rook hunt x reader #rook x reader #rook hunt #rook #𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 holiday event

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thirdeyeblue · 8 months ago

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☝🏻☝🏻☝🏻exactly what @bronzeagepizzeria said

Does it need saying?

#never not reblogging #doctor who #tentoorose #tenrose #I don’t know why people talk smack/turn their nose up proudly because they just don’t get tentoo #and this gorgeous conclusion (slash BEGINNING) to the most wonderful love story #I literally got into DW when I was a heroin addict and making the universe’s worst decisions #and even my strung-out trainwreck self ‘got’ Tentoo #when I found out all the shit Julie and RTD and David said about JE I was like well duh - of course #he’s the Doctor and he loves her and Rose CHOSE to be with him #fuck #why do you people just love being miserable #we’re over here celebrating love as the writers intended it #rejoicing and shit #you too could have this power #and share the splendor #JOIN US and be happy or for god’s sake #guaranteed to add years to your life through direct hits of oxytocin to the dome #it’s a beautiful and special place to be #how anyone could look at the joy this brings us and be like ‘lol idiots’ is beyond me #do you just wake up every morning looking for reasons to be miserable? where is the love #I’ve never said this before ever but CHOOSE LOVE ffs #at the very least be fuckinnnn nice to people #don’t celebrate the fact that you’re a jerk with zero chill #people just out there flaunting bad head-giver energy

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emmg · 6 days ago

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He wrestles with a feverish appetite, this crude and uninvited urge that intrudes at its own whim—though, really, when would such thoughts be welcome? It is not refined, not proper, to sit opposite her and let his mind wander to the gloss of her lips, to wonder how she might taste, to wish that the mascarpone she savors so languidly were his own flesh, heavy and impatient.

He despises himself for it—wants to be better, finer, something more than hunger in its basest form. And yet, he wants. Sweetness, yes; kindness, yes; love in all its quiet splendor—but also salt and sweat, the lush, slippery heat between her legs, his or hers or both, some mingled thing he might catch on his fingers, press back inside her, trace along her trembling thighs as he coaxes her to completion.

But it is not only this. No, his disease is greater, more humiliating still. He thinks of grand, maudlin absurdities. Of flowers left on windowsills, of rings slipped onto fingers, of days spent making memories out of nothing. And it is this, not lust, that he fears might truly appall her. Because hunger, after all, is easy to satisfy. It is love, foolish and relentless, that tends to send people running.

You mustn’t be so sentimental, someone had murmured that to him once. He can no longer summon the speaker’s face, nor their voice, nor even their gender, only the ghostly trace of the words themselves, breathed or sighed, said once or, more likely, many times.

It became, in those gauzy, amber-lit years of his youth, something of a running jest. An affectionate, exasperated refrain, volleyed at him with the regularity of a well-worn melody.

"Don’t fucking propose to the waitress, Volkarin. She’s bringing you a beer, not subtly signaling that she wants to die in your arms," Johanna would mutter, leaning back against the sticky wood of some dimly lit tavern, where they debated spirits over spirits.

"They’re funding your research, Emmrich, not secretly applying to be the mother of your children."

"Your new assistant is very handsome. Try not to hyperventilate when he hands you a quill."

He laughed along. It was funny, after all. Until, inevitably, it wasn’t. Until the joke, fossilized through sheer, relentless overuse, lost its shape and became a dull thing, something to stub his patience against. Until his forced little chuckles gave way to eye-rolls, to abrupt departures, to a growing sense that he was, in fact, trapped in some long-running farce penned by a particularly untalented playwright.

They were all married now, every last one of them—the tireless jesters, the committee of mirth who, years later, still found delight in flogging the same long-dead horse. And he wasn’t. Not that he was alone, of course. He had his affairs, his amusements, his charming little entanglements. But still, from time to time, a most delicate and specific malice stirred in him.

He wanted to dig up some particularly malicious little corpse, whisper something truly awful to it, and dispatch it to haunt them. Not in any grand, dramatic fashion. No moaning, no rattling of chains. Just a gentle, relentless nuisance. A ghost of mild inconvenience. A door that won’t quite shut. A draft they can’t find. A whisper when they’re shaving. A misplaced document on the morning of a big presentation.

The sort of thing a petty man might dream up. And he has, after all, always been petty.

He tried, though. He tries still. To smooth the edges of his affections, to hush the operatic swell of his heart, to trade grand declarations for something gentler, something more palatable. Not entirely, of course—self-betrayal is a vulgar thing. But enough. Just enough to keep from frightening them, from scattering them like startled birds.

For Rook, mostly. Because Rook is not like him. Rook does not do sentiment. Rook has the supreme, indifferent ease of someone born beautiful, the kind of beauty that turns heads and opens doors without so much as a sidelong glance of acknowledgment. Rook has never had to earn affection—it accumulates around her the way cigarette smoke clings to velvet. Rook rolls her eyes at poetry. Rook, with her lazy smirk and her miraculous ability to construct entire, fully functional sentences composed exclusively of obscenities.

He loves Rook very, very much. He suspects Rook loves him too, in her own peculiar way. She smiles, she laughs, she allows him his embarrassing little effusions, even kisses him for his trouble—then, with perfect timing, calls him a dweeb and steals the last sip of his drink.

It’s fine. He’s learned to translate. In Rook’s private dialect, dweeb means yes, fine, I suppose you amuse me, a kiss means I would be inconvenienced by your untimely death, and drinking the last of his whiskey? That, of course, is a vow of eternal devotion. Or something like that.

It all collapses into a feverish, tangled catastrophe one evening. A breathless, ill-advised implosion of longing and lust and something dangerously adjacent to reverence. She is so, so beautiful, and he wants to touch her, of course, but also—he wants to read to her. Not the dull, airless sonnets, no, but the real poetry, the ones thick with scandal, with sin, the ones that might cajole that sharp little smirk from her lips. Maybe while his fingers are inside her. Maybe precisely then.

He wants to coax pleasure from her, whispering thick, illicit syllables against her skin, punctuating each lewd phrase with the curl of his knuckles, just to see how the two mingle, just to see which makes her gasp first. To see if she’ll arch into it, if she’ll moan, if she’ll laugh. Because of course she’ll laugh. She always does. Even when he licks his fingers clean, even when he settles between her thighs, even when he finds his own satisfaction in the aftermath of hers, she will be laughing.

It happens like that, and yet, not like that at all. Because as he collapses against her, boneless and spent, something dreadful and unmistakable unfurls in his chest—too late, of course, always too late. His sentimentality, that incurable affliction, has caught up with him at last, threading itself through his ribs, pressing its damp, foolish hands against his throat.

He bows his head to her chest, breathing her in, willing himself to contain it, to gather the wet, trembling edges of his absurd little heart and tuck them out of sight. Perhaps she will not notice. Perhaps she will feel only the smile he presses into her skin, as if that might smother the rest.

A silence—brief, terrible, perceptive.

"Oh no," she says, and he feels her fingers weave into his hair, loose and lazy and terribly knowing. "What the fuck did I do?"

He shakes his head—not much, nothing at all, everything. Just a little.

"Nothing, my darling," he says, only slightly unsteady. "Nothing at all. I am—" a soft exhale, an almost-laugh, "—very happy." He swallows. Feels the first pangs of self-reproach begin to bloom, acid-sweet. "Only… allow me a moment to gather myself. It will pass."

A brief caress at the base of his neck. Then, just as he begins to sink into it, she shifts, shoves, displaces him. He rolls onto his back, compliant, expectant, and she follows, settling astride him, her thighs bracketing his ribs, her cool hands framing his face.

"Happy?" she confirms.

"Yes, happy."

"Hm." A small, satisfied noise. "Good. Happy and pretty. You’re so very pretty."

She does not elaborate—she never does—but she kisses him. Thoroughly. His cheeks first, then his chin, the arch of his brow, the slow, methodical placement of lips upon skin, like affixing wax seals to letters never meant to be sent. His eyes, last. She drags a fingertip down, drawing his lids closed as if dimming a lamp. Then, the press of her mouth, warm, dry, familiar. And then—oh.

The flick of her tongue, feline and quick, slips between his lashes, parting what she has only just sealed, grazing the raw, unguarded wet beneath. He flinches; she giggles, breath skimming his cheek, unreasonably pleased with herself.

She does it again, slower this time, the tip of her tongue tracing the curve of his eyelid. Then once more, lower now, across the ridge of his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. A methodical, absentminded mapping—kisses pressed to skin with no particular urgency, a grazing of teeth when the impulse strikes her. He lies still beneath her, utterly at her mercy, though she is hardly in a hurry to exploit it. She seems content merely to taste him, her breath leaving damp traces that cool, then tighten, then disappear.

Chocolate, yes, still lingering from earlier, something dark and rich that settles at the back of his throat just from breathing her in. Salt, too, a faint sting where sweat beads along the curve of her upper lip.

Finally, an exhale. A minute adjustment of her weight as she lifts her head, pleased, apparently, with whatever inscrutable calculation she has been making. A kiss, light as a comma, stamped onto the very center of his mouth.

“There you go,” she announces, stretching her arms overhead, yawning into her wrist, smiling that slow, pleased smile of hers. “All cleaned up. Not a tear in sight, since you seem to find your own emotions so mortifying.”

"Thank you," he says, and, disastrously, feels like he might start crying again.

"Mm-hm." A pause. Her fingers tapping absently against his cheek. "There’s a joke in here somewhere."

"Is there?"

A frown, thoughtful, exaggerated, her brows knitting together in careful concentration before giving way to a terrible smile. "Yes." A beat. Then, the telltale flicker of something truly indecent behind her eyes. "Something about staying hydrated. Or maybe—" a pause, as if she is weighing her options "—eating out your third eye."

He laughs then immediately chokes as she presses her hand to his throat for balance, the casual weight of it cutting off just enough air to send his body into brief, ungraceful revolt.

"Never short on dreadful puns, I see." His voice, when it returns, is slightly hoarse.

"Never," she agrees. Then, with a flourish of indulgence, she leans down again, kissing his eyelids one by one. “So you continue doing this—” kiss, kiss, kiss “—and I'll continue doing that.”

Disgracefully, absurdly, he cries again, even as she laughs, even as her laughter spreads like ink in water, pulling him under, until the whole thing disintegrates into some ungovernable mixture of mirth and misery. He is laughing too—helplessly, wet-faced, ridiculous—and she, entirely unbothered by his descent into sentimentality, licks at the salt on his cheeks like a cat, or perhaps some particularly devoted dog, calling him pretty, pretty, pretty in that lazy, drawling way of hers, as if the word itself were a charm, a refrain, a verdict.

He wants to ask her why—why this word, why now, why, of all possible things, she has settled on this ludicrous, ill-fitting descriptor as he lies before her, blotchy and unsightly and utterly, embarrassingly undone. But she only snorts into his collarbone, her breath warm, unbothered, and the chant continues, pretty, pretty, pretty, until he is left with no choice but to accept it.

In the morning, his eyes are red. Lucanis notices. Davrin notices. The two, incapable of letting a thing be, set about turning his misfortune into sport, taking turns to see who can unearth the most appallingly indecent explanation.

He feels a migraine approaching.

And then Rook arrives, deposits a cup of coffee into his hands, and, without so much as a glance at him, declares, “He snorted too much powder last night. Leave him alone.”

Ah.

Oh.

He sits there, staring at her, vaguely appalled, impossibly infatuated, hopelessly starry-eyed. Very well, then. She has let sentiment in—however unwittingly, however carelessly—and now she will drown in it. And then, once she is thoroughly waterlogged, he will buy her all the gold in Nevarra.

#just liberating my writing folder from these emmrich character studies that no one asked for lmao #this man cries a lot and often #this is a hill i'll die on #he's cried after sex so many times he stopped counting #he just has feelings ok and wants to bake cupcakes #emmrich volkarin #emmrich x rook #emmrook #rook x emmrich #dragon age the veilguard #datv #my stupid writing #shortstories

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rahuratna · 10 days ago

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Synopsis: Love brings its fair share of sweetness and desire. Headcanons for the companions, on the occasions that Tav charms them quite thoroughly.

Featuring: Headcanons for Tav/Reader x Halsin, Tav x Gale, Tav x Karlach and Tav x Astarion.

Contents: Romance, humour, suggestive language.

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics

(Here I am readers, with more companion romance headcanons. They just keep coming. I am cringey. I embrace it.)

Halsin

"There, more to your left. Yes, that. Careful now. The footing's slippery, this hour of morning."

Elated, you placed your prize in your small satchel. The medicinal moss Halsin had taught you to identify and harvest would work wonders in creating more potent healing draughts.

Yes, they were found in the rather treacherous upper branches of the trees in this particular forest, but the hazard was well worth the -

Your triumph morphed within seconds to a sickening lurch in the stomach region, your foot sliding precariously along the branch you were perched on. You let out a decidedly undignified yelp as you struggled to find purchase and failed.

Halsin was shouting something up at you from where he stood at the base of the tree. Fingers scrabbling for a crevice, you managed, somehow, to cast an almost bungled spell of feather fall before you tumbled down through the foliage.

The effects of the spell took hold, not quite as effective as you'd hoped, somewhat slowing your descent. You braced yourself for the inevitable hard stop, only to find your shoulders and knees caught by a pair of the sturdiest arms you'd ever had the delight of reclining in.

Halsin offered you a reprimanding look.

"Didnt you hear me? I said I'd catch you."

"Ah ... well. Panic had me for a moment there."

The breadth of his chest against your side was warm, heavenly, on the verge of overwhelming. He shifted slightly, his expression turning amused when you showed no signs of wanting to get down.

"Am I to carry you back to camp then? While your delicate nerves recover?"

Amusement now foremost, you pressed a spontaneous kiss to his cheek, inhaling the scent of sunlight on grass, the fresh earthiness of meadowsweet in his hair.

Pulling away, you saw how the light dappled his skin in motley splendor, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the slightly rougher patches of skin from long exposure to sun and wind.

Tracing a finger over the line of his jaw, you wondered at how the weathering of time and the elements could carve, with such grace, the story of a life well-lived.

"Carry me? Why, yes, that would be most welcome. Of course, you could change to a ... larger form if you wanted to make things easier."

You could feel the quiver of laughter, and the suppression of it as he pretended to consider your proposal.

"Hmm. I take it you refer to the boar? I'm not so sure that you'd find a comfortable seat on my back."

"I clearly wasn't referring to the boar."

"Ah."

He nodded sagely.

"The bear, eh?"

"Nothing else but the bear."

"You're rather ... enamoured of the bear, I take it?"

"I could be persuaded to admit it."

"Well, today won't be the day I persuade you with any other form. Rather ... "

Before you had a chance to protest, he'd tossed you gently over his shoulder, one large hand coming to rest your behind. He patted you firmly.

"Now this is fairly easy."

"Halsin, please - "

"You don't want to be carried? You were quite eager a minute ago."

"Well, yes, in a position that leaves my dignity intact."

He turned slightly, allowing you to see his mischievous smile.

"Ah. Dignity. Quite like clothes. We can do without them at times, don't you think?"

Gale

"Is there something on my face?"

You glanced up teasingly, taking in his slightly flustered expression. Gale lowered the tome he had been 'absorbed' in, clearing his throat. Gods, you loved when he was visibly collecting himself. He didn't quite meet your gaze.

"No, not at all. But sometimes ... reading the countenance of someone dear to you is ... slightly more fascinating than academic pursuits."

Leaning back in your seat, you folded your arms.

"Gale. I never thought the day would come when you - "

"Please don't."

Mouth twitching in silent mirth, you take mercy on him.

"Fine. But you know, if you do want to perform a more ... thorough reading of my countenance, you're most welcome."

He set down his book with an audible thump.

"Ah. Hmm. That's very - "

"Oh, Gods below."

Standing abruptly, you leaned across the table and hoisted him toward you by the collar. The surprised huff that escaped him blew warm across your face, before you tugged him against you, lips moving firmly over his.

It doesn't take him long to find his confidence. It never does, once things have been initiated. Soon, you're the one being pulled forward across the wooden surface, sliding slightly awkwardly into his embrace.

Breaking away long enough to register that you are now practically on top of him, you glance down at the book, teetering precariously on the edge.

"Gale, it's going to fall off the - "

The breath is abruptly knocked from your lungs as he draws you even closer, disregarding your warning entirely. The scrape of his beard against your lips, your chin, your neck, is intoxicating.

"Gale, wait - "

He hums, voice suddenly pitched lower, and you're reminded immediately of rainy days, closeted in his tower, your body arched beneath the lowering curve of his.

In spite of this highly distracting thought, the fate of the book nags at your mind. If anything, Gale was certainly rubbing off on you.

"The book - "

"I've got it."

"Where?"

Pressing lightly on his shoulders you glance around. The book had indeed fallen ... into the grasp of a ghostly hand, its outline barely visible, shimmering faintly.

The corner of Gale's mouth curved.

"Right there. Just so you know, I've written a dissertation on all the potential uses of the mage hand. Would you like me to demonstrate the parts that didn't make it to publication?"

Karlach

For a woman who embodied all that was vibrant and good-natured in the world, Karlach was certainly skilled at playing you like the proverbial fiddle when she put her mind to it.

Sometimes, you wondered whether she'd been taking tips from Astarion, but the manner by which she applied her charm was far too spontaneous to have originated from any advice he could have provided.

After it had been established that you were together, she'd made a habit of turning your cheeks a decidedly duskier shade whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Just yesterday, you'd gone out to collect firewood and she'd insisted on accompanying you. She'd selected suitable trees, lopping off branches with practiced strokes, muscles bunching and coiling as she swung the huge weapon with breathtakingly effortless ease. It didn't help that you'd been caught staring and she'd shot you a cheery wink.

This woman would be the death of you.

Today, it was the wagon.

Halsin had roped in some of his contacts in the locality to trade with you on occasion. These were trusted allies of his, and could be given the location of your camp without much worry.

The road getting here was rough going, though, and by the time the wagon of goods had trundled in, the wheels were decidedly worse for wear. As a gesture of goodwill, your companions had volunteered to replace them, Karlach eagerly taking the lead.

At first, you'd put it down to her ever-present desire to be of as much use to others as she could. When, however, she'd shrugged off her tunic, limbered up as if about to jump into battle and shot you a tell-tale glance before she lifted the cart right off the ground so that Wyll could slip the wheel off and replace it, you knew you were done for.

Feet braced, the tendons of neck and arms standing out, Karlach lifted her lambent eyes to yours and shot you that easy, charming grin, the one that had all too often haunted your more ... impure thoughts.

Oh, she was in for it. Two could play at that game.

Approaching the cart, you casually made your rounds, before sauntering over to her. Karlach's grin had grown noticeably wider with your proximity.

Stopping right beside her, you kept your gaze on the wheel change while your fingers danced lightly up the inside of her elbow. The wagon lurched a little and Wyll cleared his throat in warning.

Appearing the very vision of innocence, you smiled up at her, your touch inching further in, curling around her bicep. Heat flared to life beneath your delicate exploration.

"You really are something, Karlach. No wonder lifting me is such a breeze for you."

The comment was fully loaded with intent. The last time Karlach had lifted you had been against the door of a room in an inn, and the circumstances had been ... less than chaste.

Glancing up, you saw that she was no longer smiling. She was now giving you that look, the soft, kindling, fire-bright sweetness that told you all too well that you'd better seek out some private nook, and soon.

Wyll cleared his throat.

"Karlach? The wagons tilting again."

"Eh? Oh, sorry."

Her head snapped forward and you took the opportunity to raise yourself slightly higher on your toes, pressing your lips, swift and intimate, to the corner of hers.

"See you later, soldier."

And by the Gods, did you feel her gaze scorch along your back as you strode away.

Astarion

You still had no idea why you'd agreed to this. You knew how it played out, every time, and yet, here you were, being positively demolished at game night with Astarion.

Since committing himself to you fully after Cazador's defeat, the proverbial floodgates of Astarion's long-suppressed nature had been dashed open.

He hid notes containing badly composed romantic poetry all over the camp for you to find, flung himself dramatically into your lap after a hard days grind, conspired with Scratch to hide your boots, sang loud, bawdy love songs with your name inserted when he helped with the washing up and forced you to wear matching colours when you went out into the city together.

He was lovely, your rogue who'd worn a thousand faces, but now he had regained so much more of himself. And as much as you appreciated every inch of him, he was a handful.

Especially on occasions like tonight.

You scrubbed a hand through your hair in frustration, shooting him an accusatory glance over the game board where your pieces told the sad, sad story of repeated defeat.

He examined his fingernails.

You growled.

"I told you that you weren't allowed to cheat."

"Cheating? Me?"

His artfully startled expression quickly morphed to one of mischievous glee.

"All right. Maybe I am. A little."

"Astarion."

"My dove, consider it training, of a kind."

"Training?"

"I'm exceptionally skilled at sleight of hand. If you can learn to keep up with me, then it'll take a fantastic rogue to pull one over you."

He spread his hands and leaned back in his chair, infuriatingly handsome (and smug) as ever.

"Besides, you're so pretty when you're ... frustrated. Reminds me of how you mewl when I - "

"I have never mewled. Or made any sound close to that."

"I beg to differ."

Your eyes dropped to the board, considering your next move, when something occurred to you.

Astarion had always been the one to fluster and flatter with his honeyed words in the past, none of which had been truly sincere.

Now though ...

If the kindling of his heart had showed you anything, it was that even he could be susceptible to the charms of someone he truly cared for.

You decided to put it to the test.

Drumming your fingers on the table top, you nodded slowly.

"I agree with you on one thing, at least. You are very skilled at sleight of hand."

He opened his mouth to reply, confidence in the set of his smirk, but you interrupted him.

"Similarly, I am skilled at certain things. Maybe even more so than you."

Oh, now you did have his attention. He paused and arched an eyebrow.

"Well, I won't argue with that. But ... what skills are you speaking of, exactly?"

You briefly lifted your eyes from the game board, fixing him with a penetrating stare.

"I'm a ranger by profession, a hunter through and through. Once I set my sights on a target, there's no getting away."

He was leaning forward now, intrigued.

"Hmm. I've seen that, yes."

"And even though I knew you were not all you appeared to be when we first met, I did set my sights on you."

Nonchalantly, you threw the thought out before returning to the game, offering no further elaboration. Astarion shifted in his seat slightly. You held in your smile.

Eventually, he cleared his throat.

"What do you mean by ... set your sights on me?"

You glanced up, earnestly taking him in.

"I knew you were special, I suppose. My instinct told me so. I learned your scent, as well as you knew mine. I learned your gait so that I always knew where you were, even in the dark. I noticed how you styled your hair, because it told me the kind of mood you were in that day. I studied your drinking patterns, so that I could offer you my blood before you grew truly hungry."

Astarion's eyes were widening slowly. You pretended not to notice as you continued.

"Oh yes. There were many things. Most of all, though ... "

And here you placed a hand gently under his chin, tilting his head to admire him better in the dim light of the camp lantern.

"I learned that you like your name on my tongue, in all its variations."

His voice was positively faint now.

"Variations?"

You offered him a radiant smile, one that drew on every ounce of affection you had for him.

"My sweet star. My unruly nightingale. My beautiful shadow. My bewitching blade dancer. I'll praise you in every form."

And there it was.

Maybe it was only possible due to the fact that he had fed on you a short while before, but the faintest of russet hues, delicate and fleeting, had appeared on the elegant bridge of his nose. You smiled, pressing your lips gently to the tip of it.

"Shall we say I win tonight?"

He let out a shaky breath.

"The victory is yours, my darling."

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inflamedrosenkranz · 25 days ago

Text

Imagining Mage Viktor kneeling every day before Jayce's mummified corpse in his post-apocalyptic future, reciting ineffable odes of splendor and wonder to him, telling him and showering him with all the words of love he'd never dared say to him while he was alive, then snuggling up to him every night, sighing in his melancholy, struggling to find sleep, a sleep without images or memories, he hopes, without dreams to come and haunt him, wishing and praying only that he'll wake up in the morning and a living Jayce will stand before him at last, coming from an unknown timeline to save him, to save them both from this long love curse.

#jayce #jayce arcane #jayce talis #viktor #viktor arcane #viktor talis #jayvik #jayce x viktor #viktor x jayce #arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane lol #arcane netflix #arcane season 2 #arcane s2 #Rosa Ignea

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midnight-shadow-cafe · 1 month ago

Text

The Emperor's Soft Spot

Pairing: Emperor Geta x Maid! reader

Warnings : Fluff

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy!

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The grandeur of the Roman palace was overwhelming to most, with its marble columns stretching toward the heavens and gilded mosaics adorning every corner. Yet for you, the splendor had long since dulled. Day after day, your life revolved around quiet servitude—polishing brass, sweeping floors, arranging flowers. You were just another cog in the great machine of the Roman Empire.

But all of that changed on a crisp morning in the early spring.

The air was filled with the faint scent of jasmine as you placed the last of the roses in a vase perched on a side table in the Emperor’s private chambers. You had heard stories of the young Emperor Geta—his ruthlessness in court, his sharp wit in battle. But to you, he was a distant figure, one you had no reason to encounter. Until now.

As you adjusted the vase, the heavy oak door creaked open. Startled, you froze, your heart leaping into your throat. You turned to see him—a tall, imposing man dressed in the deep crimson and gold of imperial garb. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his sharp, piercing eyes locked onto yours.

You dropped into a hurried curtsy, the vase forgotten. “Forgive me, Caesar. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze fixed on you as though studying a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. Finally, his lips quirked into a small smile. “Intrude? You are precisely where you’re meant to be.”

Your cheeks burned under his scrutiny, and you ducked your head. “I was only finishing my task, my lord.”

“And what is your name, little dove?” His voice was softer now, almost curious.

“Y/N,” you answered, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Y/N,” he repeated, as though testing the weight of it on his tongue. His smile grew. “I’ll remember that.”

---

Weeks Later

The encounter should have been forgotten—a fleeting moment in the endless expanse of your days. But Geta seemed determined to ensure it wasn’t.

It began with subtle glances in the hallways, his eyes lingering on you a second too long. Then came the questions, casually slipped into conversations with the head steward. “How is Y/N finding her duties?” or “Ensure Y/N is assigned lighter work today.” The servants began to notice, their whispers following you like shadows.

One afternoon, as you scrubbed the steps of the western courtyard, a shadow fell over you. You looked up to see him standing there, dressed in simpler robes than usual but no less commanding.

“Caesar,” you stammered, quickly rising to your feet.

“Geta,” he corrected, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Must I remind you again?”

“I couldn’t possibly address you so informally,” you replied, your hands twisting nervously in your apron.

“Then you must,” he said, stepping closer. “For it is my wish.”

You swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. His proximity was overwhelming, his presence like the sun—impossible to ignore. “As you wish, Geta,” you said at last, the name foreign yet strangely natural on your tongue.

His smirk softened into a genuine smile. “Better.”

---

The garden was your sanctuary, a rare place of peace in a world that rarely offered any. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, you knelt among the herbs, carefully plucking sprigs of basil and thyme for the evening meal.

You were so lost in your work that you didn’t notice him until his shadow stretched across your path. Startled, you turned to find Geta standing there, his arms crossed and an amused expression on his face.

“Do you always work so diligently?” he asked, his tone teasing.

“My duties require it,” you replied, rising to your feet and brushing dirt from your skirts. “Why are you here, Caesar?”

His smile faltered, and for a moment, you saw something vulnerable in his eyes. “Because I tire of being ‘Caesar.’” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “In your presence, I am simply a man. Do you understand?”

You didn’t. Not fully. But you nodded anyway, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I find myself thinking of you more often than I should,” he continued, his gaze never leaving yours. “Your kindness, your grace—it is a rare thing in this palace.”

“Geta,” you breathed, his name feeling both intimate and forbidden. “This... this isn’t right.”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. “But I care not for what is right. I care for what feels true. And this”—his fingers lingered against your cheek—“feels true.”

Before you could respond, he closed the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both commanding and tender. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the weight of the empire momentarily forgotten.

---

The palace buzzed with whispers of the maid who had captured the Emperor’s heart. Some were scandalized, others intrigued. But Geta paid them no mind. He openly courted you, defying tradition and expectation with every stolen moment you shared.

Late at night, in the privacy of his chambers, he would recount tales of his childhood—of the weight of the crown he had never wanted, of battles fought and victories that felt hollow. And in return, you showed him the beauty of a world beyond marble walls and golden thrones.

“You have given me something no one else could,” he said one evening, his voice soft as he held you close.

“And what is that?” you asked, your head resting against his chest.

“Freedom,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Freedom to be myself.”

Though the road ahead was uncertain, you knew one thing for certain: you had claimed the heart of the Emperor of Rome, and in doing so, he had claimed yours in return.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

#x reader #geta x you #emperor geta x female reader #emperor geta x y/n #emperor geta x you #emperor geta x reader #geta x reader #emperor geta #geta #joseph quinn geta #gladiator 2 x reader #gladiator ll #joseph quinn gladiator #gladiator x reader #gladiator movie #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #gladiator fanfiction

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justgiulia · 2 months ago

Text

Divine obsession.

Obsessed!Sunday x gn!reader

content warning: obsession, religious themes, sexual fantasies implied, self-punishment.

author's note: Please go easy on me, this is my first time writing a fanficition. I've only written headcanons until now :( also English is not my first language.

With that being said, enjoy this!

The sound of soft humming filled the dimly lit room. A dozen candles were positioned on what seemed to be an altar and, approaching them with light and cautious movements, the man with the halo began to light them one by one as per his daily routine.

Sunday, takes a box of matches from his pocket. The box is small, rectangular, with the edges worn from countless uses, evidence of matches lit in the past. With a fluid gesture, the thumb pushes the internal drawer, making it slowly slide out. Fingers grasp a match carefully and with a firm but controlled movement, the match is brought to the side strip. Then, with a sharp snap, the wrist moves: the match is dragged along the rough surface. The head catches fire in an instant, releasing a small flame.

One...

The number One is the divine principle. The One is the all, the Eternal Infinite Being, which has no form and possesses all forms…

For the first meeting and the first time the light shone on him. The first tim e Sunday was truly intrigued by someone. From the way they acted to the way they looked like, to the way everyone looked at them.

"My liege appears so noble and honest, when they greet people, so much so that everyone is silent and the eyes do not dare to look at them".

Two...

Two derives from the division of unity and is the symbol of separation, because from a sacred point of view, unity is essentially one and unique...

He remembers the pain of separation, a powerful pang in his chest when he had to stop looking at you, dragged by his sister to fulfill his duties as part of one of the most renowned families. Oh, How he wished he could continue listening to the conversation you were immersed in with your friends. Your laugh and your look, your modest manner in response to the praise of your traveling companions

"They proceed, hearing praises, with the outward appearance of courteous benevolence and they seem to be a descended creature from heaven to earth to show divine power".

Three...

The combination of three perfect elements: wisdom, intelligence and love. You represented all of them.

"They appear so beautiful to those who look at them, which through the eyes transmits a sweetness to the heart that those who don't experience it can't understand...".

Four...

The perfect number.

Watching you from afar, Sunday had come to the conclusion that you represented everything perfect in this world.

"...and it seems to come from their face a sweet spirit of love which says to the soul: breathe".

Five...

The number Five symbolizes universal life, human individuality, will, intelligence, inspiration and genius…

The first time you spoke to him he felt that his life in the universe had a specific purpose, to be at your side. Not to mention the fact that you got along extremely well with his sister...Your happy smiles as you spent time together...Your involuntary and affectionate touches. They made him think, perhaps your fulfillment in earthly life was to be part of his family... and perhaps this had been written in the stars years, centuries, millennia before your births. It was fate.

"I saw the bright morning star that appears before the day dawns, and who took human form ; more than any other it seems to me to give splendor"

Six...

Six is a mystical and ambivalent number in its meaning, as it is the number of balance and perfect order...

But perhaps the fulfillment of your life was not on earth, he thought, such a perfect being, endowed with such a pure soul. Sunday knew that to limit your existence and confine it, to simply associate it with a body as an object was considered heresy to him. No...your fulfillment went far beyond worldly life, you were destined for what was defined as metaphysical that the mind cannot understand, but for the gaps that reason cannot fill; the heart and faith take its place.

And Sunday believed.

He had faith.

"Their face, eyes bright, cheerful and full of love ; I don't think there's someone in the world so full of beauty and value."

Seven...

Seven expresses globality, universality, perfect balance and represents a complete and dynamic cycle...

And then his cycle of worship began. Poems, sonnets, prayers, texts proclaimed sacred by Sunday himself... The mind has no limit to creativity when a merciful and grace-filled being is at its guide.

"And I am assailed by their value with such a cruel battle of sighs...".

Eight...

The Eight is the symbol of infinity, the reflection of the spirit in the created world, of the immeasurable and the indefinable...

Sunday punished himself, he had to.

He had sinned.

A lash on his back accompanied by a "Shame" from his lips for every vile and vulgar thought he had.

He began to imagine a more intense bond.

The sound of a whip.

"Shame".

Your body on his.

Another firm sound.

"Shame".

He imagined what the eyes could not see.

He felt his skin burning for his sins, for you.

He could start to feel blood gushing from his wounds.

Drip.

One drop of blood after another, One sin after another.

"Shame".

Sinning had never felt so sweet.

"...that I wouldn't have the courage to speak in front of them".

Nine...

The number Nine is the overcoming of creation and infinity, represented by eight.

Because if the divine possesses all the positive qualities of this world and beyond it, then they must necessarily also possess that of existence and infinity. This is the explanation of their divinity.

"Oh, if only they knew of my desires!"

Ten...

Symbolizes perfection, as well as the annulment of all things. 10 = 1+0 = 1 illustrates the eternal starting over…

Everyone called him crazy but limited and closed minds like those couldn't understand. They had not been illuminated by the light. Once you are exposed to light you can't go back, you don't want to go back. In order not to be contaminated by the foolishness of other human minds, he therefore took refuge in his safe place.

Nothing can make him go astray from the right path.

"Because, without saying, I would be rewarded by them for the pity they would have for my sufferings".

The candles cast flickering light upon an altar meticulously arranged with objects they had unknowingly blessed with their touch and that were carefully arranged by Sunday's trembling hands.

He knelt before the altar, his gaze never leaving the central object—a photograph of the reader. Their smile radiated warmth, like sunlight piercing through clouds, and He could almost feel their presence enveloping him.

Sunday clasped his hands tightly.

“Oh, divine one, guide me”.

He whispered, his voice shaking.

“Your light blesses this wretched world. Let me be worthy to serve you”.

The faint sound of a knock startled him. Sunday scrambled to extinguish the candles, his movements frantic yet deliberate. He couldn't let the sanctity of his ritual be disturbed by prying eyes.

“Sunday? Are you there?”

It was them.

His heartbeat thundered in his chest. For a moment, he stood frozen, his mind racing. What had he done to deserve their presence? Were they here to deliver a message? Or a command?

“I—just a moment!” He called, hastily adjusting his hair before opening the door.

They stood there, their usual serene demeanor making his knees weak. Their presence suddenly illuminated the sacred room.

“Hey... I wanted to check in on you. You've been keeping to yourself a lot lately,” they said with a gentle smile while entering the room, noticing the lack of light of the place.

Sunday's breath caught. Every word they spoke was divine scripture in her ears. He bowed his head slightly, his voice reverent, shaking and not daring to look in their eyes. “I… I am unworthy of your concern. But thank you, truly, for blessing me with your attention.”

They blinked, a bit taken back. “Uh, you don't have to talk like that, Sunday. We're friends, remember?”

His body went stiff and his eyes widened. “Friends?” The word echoed in his mind like a sacred hymn, over and over. “You honor me beyond what I could ever deserve. To be your friend… it is a privilege I could never repay.”

They huckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of their neck and Sunday could not comprehend how a simple gesture could hit him so deep, but then, again, it's you. No being could ever make him feel these sensations, the feeling of salvation. “You don't owe me anything, you know. Just… make sure you're taking care of yourself, okay?”

“I will, as you command,” Sunday said fervently, clasping his hands together.

“Command? Sunday, I'm not—”

“Every word you speak is a gift,” He interrupted, his voice trembling with emotion. “A light in the darkness of this world. You are the reason I rise each day, the reason I strive to better myself. I live to follow your will.”

“Sunday…”

His gaze locked onto theirs, his eyes filled with an almost unsettling intensity. “Please, if I have done anything to displease you, tell me. I will repent. I will do anything to earn your forgiveness.”

They sighed, their expression softening. “You haven't done anything wrong, just...You don't need to treat me like I'm... special.”

“But you are special,” Sunday whispered, emphasizing every word, his voice barely audible. “You are a god among mortals. Your kindness, your wisdom, your very presence—everything about you is divine. How could I see you as anything less?”

They frowned.

Why are they frowning?

“Sunday, I'm just me. I don't know where you're getting this idea, but—”

“I see it,” He insisted, stepping closer, eyes wide, hands grasping the air in front of him but never daring to reach for them. “In every word you speak, every action you take. You carry a light that others can't. I only wish more people could see it, but perhaps… perhaps they are unworthy.”

They took a step back, clearly uncomfortable. “Okay, this is getting a little intense. Maybe we should talk about this later.”

“Please don't go!” Sunday reached out, stopping himself just before touching them. “I—I apologize if I've overstepped. I only want to serve you, to be useful to you.” His voice cracked with desperation and glossy eyes. “Please, tell me how I can prove my devotion. I will do anything.”

They hesitated, their concern evident. “Sunday, I think you need to take a step back and talk to someone about this. I care about you, but this… this isn't healthy.”

His heart shattered at their words, but he forced a smile. “O-of course. If that is your wish, I will obey.”

They smiled at him before turning their back to walk towards the door and open it.

"I hope you find the light of reason again"

And a second later, silence.

As they left, Sunday sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “They test me,” he murmured to himself. “They want to see if my faith is strong enough. I won't falter. I will try it myself. No matter what it takes, I will become worthy.”

His resolve hardened. The candles flickered back to life as he resumed his prayers, his whispered vows filling the room.

“Your light guides me, and I shall follow, no matter where it leads. Even if it destroys me.”

#yandere hsr #hsr sunday #hsr x reader #sunday hsr #hsr #sunday x you #sunday x reader #sunday #yandere sunday #yandere #obsession #obsessive love #obsessive yandere #actually obsessive #obsessive thoughts #obslove #character x reader #character x y/n #character x you

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dreaisgrayte · 7 months ago

Note

Headcanons of the hashiras and their ideal weddings!!

(I WANT TO GET MARRIED :()

This is such a cute idea! The Hashiras would be such good spouses let's be honest. I wrote this as reader being a wife, I hope that's okay.

Also AHHH, I want to get married too! Then I'd have someone legally forced to help me stage fic scenarios and be a source of inspiration. That's the dream tbh

Ideal Weddings with the Hashira

Includes: Gyomei Himijima, Tengen Uzui, Sanemi Shinazugawa, Obanai Iguro, Giyu Tomioka, Kyojuro Rengoku, Mitsuri Kanroji, Shinobu Kocho Synopsis: What would your ideal wedding be like with the Hashira? (again Muichiro is my little baby and seeing him get married would be too much, but as a side part: he'd probably forget if you didn't walk him down the aisle yourself, so it would be a very wholesome event for the both of you) warnings: guys... it's up to you how you interpret what happens, but I know and you know.

Gyomei Himejima

Gyomei wants something small and personal.

The ceremony would take place at a shrine, an overall calm and peaceful event

He invites friends over for a reception in the backyard of the home you share

Gyomei, at all times, will have his hand either over your shoulder, on your thigh, or intertwined with your hand. He wants to keep you close, close enough to hug, close enough to kiss, and close enough to haul off when the party is over

The night ends with you falling asleep cuddled up next to him

Tengen Uzui

Tengen wants to go all out on your wedding dress, the decorations, the music, every little thing is amplified with magnificent splendor, thanks to your soon-to-be husband

The reception is an even bigger event, with floods of people you don’t know dancing to music just so Uzui can show you off for the night

Everything had to be perfectly glorious because that’s what you were

As the new wife, Makio, Suma, and Hinatsuru party with you all night, gossiping about how to best care for your beloved husband

Sanemi Shinazugawa

Sanemi would want just the two of you at the wedding except only those who mattered the most

The “after party” is simply a retreat for the both of you. He whispers about showing you off to the world, shouting from the rooftops about how much he loves you, but tonight you’re only for him

He takes all the time in the world to show you just how much he appreciates his newlywed wife

Obanai Iguro

Obanai is a tricky one because once he fell in love with you, he already saw you as his wife. He would just start calling you sweet marital pet names in the midst of life, taking you by surprise every time

Eventually, you’d have to tell him that you wanted to actually get married, the whole shebang, but Obanai would have you sign the papers and put on the wedding dress for only him to see

He wouldn’t be able to deal with anyone else looking at you from now on since your name and his were intertwined in eternity

Giyu Tomioka

Giyu leaves the planning to you because he can’t be trusted with making so many important decisions

He’s sure to love anything you decide

When you walk up the aisle looking the way you do, he wishes he would’ve been more involved because his face contorts as he starts to sob over how beautiful you look

At the reception, Giyu still can’t believe that you took on such a stressful job and still smile at him with all the love in your heart. At the end of the night, all he can think about is how gorgeous you are when you still love him – even after he doesn’t deserve it

Kyojuro Rengoku

Kyojuro wants a traditional wedding that makes you shine in the best way. He’s wanted to tie the knot ever since he met you so at the moment he’s as excited as a child on Christmas morning

It’s a charming wedding, one that would appear in a romantic comedy at the end with a ‘just married’ car

Kyojuro carries you through the threshold of your home and not one guest sees either of you for many days because if there’s one thing Rengoku likes calling you more than wife, is hearing you be called mama.

Mitsuri Kanroji

Mitsuri gets excited planning all the colors and ideas and together you make the perfect spring wedding with flowers and cherry blossoms everywhere.

It’s back to the quaint and romantic Japanese countryside for your wedding, friends and family gathering around to share in the bottomless love

With Mitsuri it’s like the sun has gotten married to you, her smile is enough to warm your heart and when she kisses you – the whole world falls away

It’s hard for you not to worship Mitsuri with how considerate she is every second of the day, so you end up showering her with surplus amounts of love

Mitsuri is thrilled to show you just how flexible she can be, in more ways than one.

Shinobu Kocho

Shinobu doesn’t want anyone else to ruin what little time she’ll get to spend with you, so you elope

She takes you far away from everyone else and you travel the world, collecting medicinal flora and fauna, touring beautiful villages, and holding hands the whole way

Now that you’re her wife, everything falls into place, she only wishes her older sister could’ve met you.

Shinobu whispers to you every night how much she loves you and how she’s damn sure your body could heal the world

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