#for the better now. its for the worse and that is just... ;; i'm crying screaming throwing a table BUT i hope you like this song even thoug

[lususnatura]

🎤

a song that i associate with my muse meme!

OH hey! thank you so much for the ask, venus!! so for this one... i unfortunately have another sad song but (,: i swear to god, if you've never heard this song before, it may just change your lifeee. okay — maybe it wouldn't do something that extreme, BUT it is still such a good song, IMO (an explanation will be in tags):

radiohead - how to disappear completely.

[dollfacefantasy]

dig your claws right into me ♡

logan howlett x fem!reader

logan hurts you when he has a nightmare. now you both have to deal with the fallout.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, descriptions of nightmare, injury, and blood

a/n: reader is a mutant but i didn't specify her powers so you can imagine what you want. just some sickly sweet intimacy cause that's what i was feeling tonight <3

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The words come out whispered as Logan's lips press against the three tiny bumps of developing scar tissue on your abdomen.

"I already told you that you don't have to be sorry," you say. Your voice drifts into the space between the two of you as soft as the movements of your fingers running through his hair.

"Well I am, bub. You should want me to be."

Each one of his hands rests upon either side of your waist. His fingers squish against your flesh while his eyes stare at the scars on your belly. He gazes at them like the small marks, all equidistant from one another, could be willed away by his harsh look. He hated the fact that they were there at all. Even worse, that he was the one who gave them to you.

"But it was an accident," you respond, giving one of the tufts of his hair a gentle tug.

His dark pupils flit up to look at your face. "Doesn't matter. It being an accident doesn't change the fact that you're gonna have these marks forever. I wouldn't care that it was accidental if I'd killed you."

He remembers the night it happened that seemed like a real possibility.

His light sleep had been interrupted by a nightmare. Over the time that had passed between then and now, it'd become indistinct from all the others he experiences regularly. The only difference between that one and the ones he'd had since he'd started sleeping next to you each night was the intensity. That night had been rough. Normally when he slept in your room, he seemed to be able to tone it down. Almost as if his brain knew to not act up while your relationship was still starting to blossom.

But two weeks ago, his mind didn't care. It flash-banged him with the usual images of himself in that tank. The searing, splitting pain of the adamantium attaching itself to his bones.

Usually, if he had a nightmare beside you, he'd grunt and twitch, maybe shift around a little. That night though, you got to see the whole performance. The tossing and turning, sweating and moaning, tense limbs and scrunched up face.

Poor, sweet, innocent you thought that you could just wake him up. Your hands nudged at his bicep and shoulder as you gently cooed "Logan. It's just a dream."

In the end, your tenderness didn't matter. When he actually came to, your anguished cry was all that registered. And then he felt the sharp heat between his knuckles that meant the claws were out. His heart dropped and his vision nearly blacked out. He couldn't have.

He retracted them as quickly as they'd appeared and pulled back to look at you. Crimson flooded the gray t-shirt you'd worn to bed. The three little spots spread into large blooms of scarlet. Your hands flew to the spot to clutch at it, but they did nothing to stop the warm liquid from spilling out.

"No, no, no, fuck," he'd whispered frantically as his mind raced for a solution.

Your cries morphed into whimpers. Soft and vulnerable. Like a prey animal that'd been fatally wounded but not put out of its misery. Blood seeped out onto your bedding, and it was then that he rocketed off the mattress and scooped you up into his arms.

Fortunately, Scott, Jean, and Storm were already outside the door in the hall, having heard the scream. A gathering of students lingered behind them as well. Shame coursed through his veins, albeit dulled by the panic. He remembered thinking it was stupid, but after the adrenaline left his system, it was the dominant emotion he was left with. Ashamed was the only word that could describe holding the knowledge that everyone here now saw he was capable of hurting the woman he loves. Maybe he was no better than an animal.

In truth, shame was all he felt now. So much relief settled over him since you'd made it out alive. Thanks to the enhanced physical capabilities from your mutation and Jean's adequate medical skills, these scars would be the only lasting effect of the wounds.

He'd rushed you down to the infirmary faster than he'd ever moved in a non-combat situation. His feet thundered down the stairs, a part of him withering to ash with each little whimper you let out as the motion jostled your body around.

"I'm sorry, bub. Almost there. We're almost there. You're gonna be ok," he'd mumbled out thoughtlessly, saying anything he could that would bring you even a shred of comfort.

He kept your hand in his the entire time you were down there on the cold examination table. His grip stayed firm. He wouldn't let the anxiety over your well being consume him. This was his fault, and now you needed him. He didn't get to be worried or upset or anything that wasn't in support of you.

When you howled in pain, he winced as if he was the one being treated. You cried for him, choking out "Logan" through tears over and over. It tore him apart inside. All he could do to soothe you was stroke your cheek and murmur reassurances in your ear.

"Shh, shh, shh. You're doing so good, baby. My strong girl. Being so brave."

He usually reserved affection for private moments, but in those painful seconds, it felt like you two were the only ones in the room.

These thoughts running through his head display across his face. The way his cheek squishes against your tummy and his eyes vacantly stare at the wall opposite his bed. You told him the next day that everything transformed into a blur in your mind. You remembered the feeling of being stabbed and the sight of him panicking, but beyond that nothing specific stayed. You knew he held you and talked to you even though you couldn't recall an individual thing he said or did.

That was fine with him. He listened to you tell the story from your perspective. You spoke with your normal cadence, the usual happy glow in your eyes, and the same animated gestures coming from your hands. His eyes lingered on your torso though. The bandages peeking out from underneath your clean camisole he'd changed you into.

Every last detail of the incident was etched into the deepest part of his psyche. Most likely stored away as material for future nightmares. As much as he hated it, he figured that's the way it should be. He didn't deserve the peace that comes with forgetting.

For the first week after it'd happened, he wouldn't sleep with you. He'd stay with you, cuddled against your body, until you drifted off. Then he'd get up and skulk back to his own room, leaving you cold and alone on your bed.

Eventually after a few more days, you got him to try it out again, but he'd only do it in his own room. It was hard for him to be in yours. New sheets covered your foamy mattress now since the blood wouldn't wash out of the old set. Each brush of the novel material against his skin was just a rose-printed reminder of what he'd done to you.

He's snapped out of his recollection when your voice returns to the original conversation.

"None of that stuff happened though. You didn't kill me, and you're not going to. I'll be more careful next time," you break the silence with a gentle reassurance.

Next time. That's what hurts the worst. You knew this would happen again. You'd promised that when it did you wouldn't try to wake him. Wouldn't touch him or do anything that could set him off. Just give him his space and let him work through it.

"I don't even want you worrying about being careful when you're trying to sleep," he grumbles.

Your nails scrape over his scalp, making his eyes flutter. A deep sigh leaves him. As much as he hated himself for all of this, he could never help easing up under your touch.

"You're worth it."

Three words you said so often. He never believed them, but that didn't stop you from repeating them like a slogan. Instead of arguing with you over the validity of the statement, he stays silent. Replaces any verbal response with a physical one by nuzzling into the warmth of your stomach and laying kisses around your navel.

You watch the affectionate gesture and trail your fingers down to the nape of his neck, massaging the tender skin there.

"You are," you whisper, "One mistake doesn't define you. Doesn't change how I see you."

"It's not just a simple mistake-" he starts.

"Yes it is," you interject, trying to nip his self doubt in the bud.

"It's not. It's not like I forgot your birthday or left my wallet behind when taking you out."

"It's still an accident. The severity doesn't change the intention. Would you hate me if my powers acted up and hurt you?"

God, you could be just as stubborn as him. It grated on his already frayed nerves. He shifts to look up at you fully. And some of that building tension dissolves upon seeing the earnest look on your face.

"It's not the same. Anything you did to me, I would heal," he says.

"I'm healing too. I'm just not as fast as you," you respond. You actually smile as if this is some lighthearted matter. Of course you knew it wasn't the same. You presented no danger to him whereas if he'd nicked you an inch to the left, he might be talking to your headstone right now instead of you. That wasn't the point though.

He shakes his head. "It's different, bub. But I'm not even saying you should hate me..." 

In truth, he didn't know what he was saying. If he wanted you to hate him or stay away from him, he could be the one to break things off. But he was still right here, arms wrapped around you and head hovering inches away from your body.

"I just think you should be more cautious than you're being," he finishes, "I don't want you to think you have to put up with this."

You frown and pet his hair. "I don't think that."

"I'm not trying to lecture you, baby," he sighs, "I just don't want to hurt you again."

He could certainly flaunt a pair of puppy eyes when he wanted to. The way he was looking up at you now made him seem so sad and wounded. Like a dog who can't control when he bites but gets kicked aside for it all the same.

"You're not going to. We'll be careful. It was an accident," you say, tone almost pleading, "You're still my Logan."

To go along with your words, you pull on one of his arms, beckoning him closer. He complies with your request and scales your body so that the two of you are aligned. You stare up into his eyes and the whirlpools of emotion within them. Your hand lands on his cheek, your thumb stroking back and forth in small swipes.

"I'm not gonna let you pull away cause of this," you whisper, "It wasn't your fault. You don't choose to have those dreams."

You can tell he wants to argue, but he struggles to find the words. Indirectly cutting him off, you guide his head closer to yours. His face slots against the crook of your neck, and yours does the same in his. You nuzzle him there, breathing in the rich, musky scent of him.

"You're not wrong for wanting to be happy. You don't deserve to be alone," you say and kiss below his ear.

The words make him ache from within. His metal bones vibrate with the weight of possibility of that being true while his heartbeat feels as though it stutters between his ribs. He wants to huff and say that he knows, that he doesn't need you psychoanalyzing him, thank you very much. But none of that will come out. So instead he chuckles. He tries to make it sound smooth; although, the awkwardness is apparent in each bit.

He pulls back a little and smirks down at you. "So you think I'm cut out for being gentle? Is that it?"

You know what he's doing. As closed off as he tries to be, you don't need telepathy to sense what he's feeling. You let him play it off with a joke though. If he's joking, he's not drowning in self-pity, which is all you want.

"Mhm, I know you are," you say and nose at his cheek, kissing the spot on it without facial hair, "You may have claws, but you purr like a kitten when I have my hands on you."

His eyes roll when you say that. He leans down and begins to return some of your loving gestures.

"Don't go telling people that. It's only for you," he murmurs.

"Of course, of course," you say with the same subtle playfulness.

Words die out in favor of using your mouths for better things. The kisses are lazy, built more off of love and adoration rather than lust and passion. One of your arms loops over his shoulders to keep him close while your other rubs at his side. The tip of his nose brushes your earlobe as he lowers to kiss down your throat.

His lips meet your pulse point and the divots in your neck that make you shudder when touched. He's familiar with all your secret spots by now. He plays you better than any instrument. His breath fans over your skin as his teeth scrape against the same flesh. His hands work below, squeezing your waist, fingertips leaving little bumps in their wake.

The hand of yours that had been on his side drifts further down and wiggles its way between your two bodies. Your digits stroke his pelvis above the area his cock would soon begin to harden.

A groan reverberates through his chest as his shaft rises to attention. From this angle, the pads of your fingers can reach the tip. You rub on it with light pressure, up and down. That gets him to repeat the groan, only this time the undertone of need is more prominent.

His lips latch onto your neck to work a little mark onto your skin while he pushes the waistband of his sweatpants down his thighs. You were only wearing a cropped t-shirt and panties, already easily accessible.

He nudges your thighs apart further and grinds his bulge over your mound. The heat from both your aching centers grows hotter with the friction. Arching your back off the bed, you whimper softly for further satisfaction. He presses you back down using his larger stature.

"Patience, sweetheart. Being gentle, remember?"

He only teases you with a few more grinds of his hips before his boxers vanish too and his heavy cock rests against the soft fabric of your panties. You feel the familiar thickness at first. Then his fingers swoop down and pull your panties to the side so he can slot the drippy tip against your folds. Precum smears against your slick, velvety skin.

Seconds later he splits you open. He bites his lip while you whine, his fat cock pushing further into your wanting hole. You squeeze around him. Your walls clamp and contract on his length. It doesn't push him out, merely sucks him further in. He chokes out a low moan from how tight you get.

So tight and so wet. Arousal oozes from you in no short supply. It didn't take much to get you going for Logan. A few touches alone had you leaking like a broken faucet. You whimper as he bottoms out, hips jerking as the head taps your cervix. He always gets so deep it's nearly unbearable. Even when he's going slow like he is now, he's all you can think of. He fills you up down there and occupies all the space in your head.

"Feel good, baby?" he asks.

You nod, unable to respond verbally as you adjust to the intrusion. 

He doesn't give you a prolonged period of time to adapt right now. Normally he would, but most other times, he'd be going much faster than he plans to at this moment. Typically, he'd let you get comfy with the stretch before drawing his hips back and then pumping them forward again. He'd slam in and out of you. It'd be loud with the sound of skin clapping combined with your moans and his growls. It'd be rough and quick. The bed would shake and bobble around with the force of him.

But tonight, none of that happens. He barely even pulls out to thrust. He stays nice and deep, grinding his hips rather than fucking himself in and out of you. You whine in sweet stretches of sound. He sighs and grunts against your neck. Neither of you sound like feral animals going into heat.

You loved when you fucked like that, but right now, both of you needed this. Each roll of his hips felt like a stroke of heaven brushing your insides. Your limbs curl around him tighter to keep him close. Your arms guard his neck while your legs dig into his hips. He's so lost in the feeling of you, he can't even tell where he ends and you begin.

"Tell me how it feels. Need to hear you. Wanna know I'm doing it how you need," he mumbles.

"Feels perfect," you whimper in return, "So fuckin' deep."

"Good. I only ever wanna make you feel good."

You nod, knowing it's the truth. "Anyone can hurt me, but only you know how to make me feel like this."

His eyes scrunch up at your words. He just feels lucky he has his face buried against your skin so you can't see. It had been just what he needed to hear. Boosting himself onto his knees a bit more to gain some leverage, he grips your hips and ruts against you with the slightest bit more force.

You whine at the soothing rhythm in which your bodies rock. The sense of satisfaction brought on from this took root in the deepest pit of your belly. You weren't gonna explode like you often did. Probably wouldn't scream or scratch up his back. But you could tell you were gonna cum hard.

Without saying it, he communicates he feels the same. His lack of usual dirty talk tells you everything you need to know. His cock stays nestled deep inside your pussy as he works you both to the edge. His face remains flush against your neck.

You cum first, and he follows right behind. You tighten up, toes curling and a high mewl echoing out of your throat. Your body shivers. He spills his release inside of you, his energy leaving with the sticky ropes of cum that fire.

He goes boneless on top of you, still cherishing the feeling of your skin on his. His breaths feel cool against your sweating skin.

"My baby," he sighs. His eyes flutter shut. He knows he has to pull out before he knocks out for a while, but he can do that in a second. He just needs a few more minutes of this.

You press a few kisses to the side of his head and rub his back. His hand slides between both your abdomen to touch the scars, reminding himself what he's capable of despite his current tenderness.

After a few moments, he pulls out and slumps to the side of you. You peck his lips and take the acquisition of space as a way to cool off. His eyes are drooping already. It feels good seeing him so relaxed. You kiss the space between his brows, then the bridge of his knows, and end on his lips.

"Sweet dreams," you whisper, wishing that would be enough to keep the nightmares at bay. At least for tonight.

[aurumalatus]

𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 2.5k

genre/warnings. pixelprincess!au (princess!reader x knight!kinich), one bed trope, princess is nervous to sleep alone with a man (who isn't)

summary.

after a long journey, kinich and the princess finally turn in for the night at an unfamiliar inn. the only problem? there's only one bed.

author's note. i'm finishing this at like 5am so if there's any errors i'll look over it/fix it when i wake up LOL. for now, please scream and cry about knight!kinich with me. reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!!

𝐩𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

It’s too warm.

As a princess born and raised in the land of Pyro, you’re accustomed to heat—thrive in it, even. It’s one of the reasons you dread trips like these so much. Foreign nations, even those with the mildest of temperatures, tend to feel a bit too chilly for your taste. Your father often jokes that you could withstand the heat of the Sacred Flame itself.

At the moment, though, you wouldn’t mind cracking open a window or two, even in the dead of winter.

The journey here had been difficult enough, boring as it was. Kinich had threatened to leave you alone in the woods a few times if you kept poking at him, but it was all you could do to not fall asleep. Attending foreign dinners always resulted in long journeys like these, though you know how important it is to maintain close relations with allied countries.

A few bumps in the road made this trek especially long, however—a number of bandits and blocked off paths added an irritating amount of time to your travel, until you and Kinich decided to rest for the night before heading home tomorrow. It had been difficult to even find a place—most inns had been full by this time, but you’d been fortunate to find one with a single open room.

A single, open room containing a single, solitary bed.

That aside, it’s a nice enough room, really. The dark mahogany furniture is carved with intricate nature-like patterns, flowers and leaves that crawl up the legs of the chairs and the foot of the bed. The whole place smells pleasantly of teakwood—a scent that, for better or worse, you tend to attribute to Kinich.

Your knight sits in front of the darkened fireplace, fiddling with a flint until it strikes with a small flame, then enkindles the rest of the wood. A flushing warmth instantly permeates the room. Usually, you would thank him for his efforts—he knows how cold you get—but now, you feel a thin sweat forming at your brow.

Kinich stands, brushing off his hands and admiring the firelight. The lighter strands of his hair glow in its radiance. “That should last us for a bit.”

He tugs at the clasp of his cloak, pulling the garment off and tossing it onto the chair in the corner of the room. It’s a thick fur with ornate green and gold trim; you’d given it to him as a gift during the Winter Festival a year ago. You let your eyes follow the motion, watching the dark cloth drape over the furniture—somehow, you feel too awkward to look at your companion right now. He glances at you, as if wondering what you’re doing just standing there, but doesn’t comment on it.

“Actually, I’m a bit warm,” you say, thumbing at the edges of your sleeves. Kinich raises a brow, genuinely concerned.

“...It’s wintertime,” he says, an obvious statement that seems to ask what the hell is wrong with you.

“Yeah, and I’m warm,” you retort, arms crossed. He looks at you, then looks at the fire, then looks at you again.

“Alright, but if you get cold later, don’t come crying to me,” he says, kneeling down again. Then, under his breath, he mutters, “though I have a feeling you will anyway.”

He toys with the kindling for a bit longer, until the raging flames die into smaller embers and the room cools down. As much as he gives you a hard time, he prioritizes your comfort as much as he possibly can. 

With the temperature now taken care of, there is still one other source of discomfort in the room, you think, glancing back toward the bed. It looks temptingly comfortable, with thick sheets and fluffy pillows, but you can’t fathom sleeping in it at the moment. 

“You realize that we can’t sleep here, right?” you say, staring down at your feet.

The dark-haired knight is busy rummaging through his rucksack, only half paying attention to what you’re saying.

“I don’t see why not. The bed is big enough.”

He’s right; it’s a king-size, and the two of you would have no problem fitting. Still, the thought of sleeping in a bed with him makes your face warm in a way that can’t be blamed on the fire.

“...There’s only one,” you manage.

Kinich looks up at you, deadpan. “An astute observation. Maybe you’ll be able to count to three by next year.”

“You little—”

The nervousness turns to irritation at his nonchalance—honestly, the thought of sharing a bed with a man you aren’t married to seems a bit inappropriate. And though you won’t admit it, you’re a bit offended that he doesn’t seem even slightly nervous to sleep with you. Kinich isn’t a nervous person by nature, that’s true; it takes quite a bit to get him to show any sort of strong emotion. But a small part of you is disappointed that he doesn’t seem to care about the situation at all.

“You realize it’s just us, right?” you say, urging him toward the root of the issue. Even just stating that fact makes an anxious lump form in your throat.

Kinich considers your words for a moment, pausing his ministrations, before meeting your gaze directly.

“I’m not going to do anything to you,” he says, raising a brow. 

The implication makes your face heat up, and you find it almost worse that he had addressed the elephant in the room.

“It’s not that!” you argue hastily. Kinich seems unbothered by your protests, fiddling with the intricate straps of his armor and the laces of his boots. He works about removing them in a fashion that’s so robotic that you’re sure he must’ve done this millions of times. 

“What is it then?” he retorts, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Do you snore?”

“I do not—”

“Sleep talk?”

“No, it’s just—”

“Sleepwalk?”

“No! But—”

“Great,” Kinich decides, clapping his hands together as if to end the discussion. Rising to his feet, he gestures to the bed, even going so far as to pull the blankets back invitingly. “Then sleep.”

It’s hard for you to win against him, especially at times like these—truth be told, you actually are quite tired. With a huff, you begrudgingly climb into bed, nearly hanging off the edge with the ample space you leave.

Kinich doesn’t join you yet; he’s still fixing his clothes and tidying his other belongings. He takes good care of his things, you’ve noticed, almost neat to a fault. There’s a strict routine he follows during the night; before bed, he always takes special care to maintain his weapon.

You watch as he oils and sharpens his blade, brow furrowed in concentration. He’s always been very particular about the thing, as if it was an extension of himself, as long as you've known him. His movements are notably precise and intricate, and overwhelmingly gentle. Lost in watching him, you just about jump out of your skin when his eyes suddenly flicker to you. 

“You know, most people rest with their eyes closed,” he hums, amused at having caught you in the act.

“You’re annoying,” you mumble, sinking deeper into the pillows to hide your embarrassment.

He shakes his head. “And you’re supposed to be sleeping. So I guess no one’s happy.”

You pull the blanket up until it brushes your chin. You don’t need it; your skin feels like it’s on fire, but somehow it feels too vulnerable to be uncovered right now. 

“You’re telling me you don’t feel weird about this? At all?”

He sets the sword aside and finally removes the last of his armor, simply left in his training tunic and loose pants. The shirt is tighter than you remember, you think briefly. You force yourself to look away.

“Should I?” he asks, brushing off his clothes. “Are you going to do something to me?”

The corner of his lip twitches, and you nearly roll your eyes—he amuses himself way too much.

“No!”

“Then we’ll make a deal. I won’t do anything to you if you don’t do anything to me. Then, we’ll both peacefully sleep so that I don’t have to deal with your crankiness in the morning.”

Irritatingly, he’s right about that too. The two of you will have to head out early if you want to make it home for your lessons, as well as Kinich’s other guard duties. And, truthfully, you don’t tend to be a morning person—it’s all Kinich can do to even wake you up on time.

You huff, shutting your eyes. “Fine.”

“Oh?” You can hear the mirth in his voice, and it only makes your irritation grow. “So you were planning on doing somethin—”

“I wasn’t!”

Kinich doesn’t say anything more, likely sensing that you’re on the precipice of genuine frustration—he always knows your exact limits, even when you don’t say so. 

For a few minutes, you really do try to sleep. But your heart is still pounding, and as much as you try to ignore it, it threatens to burst out of your chest. You reason that you would feel this way no matter who you were sharing a bed with—it’s just not a feeling that you’re used to. It’s certainly not because it’s Kinich.

You imagine him sleeping beside you, and your fists tighten until your nails form crescent-shaped imprints in your palms.

Definitely not because it’s Kinich.

Your stomach turns as you listen to your companion move around the room, organizing his things. Everything about him is so calm and quiet, including his footsteps—they’re barely a whisper across the floor. The anticipation nearly swallows you whole, and you wait for something to happen—the blankets to pull back, or even a dip in the mattress.

For several long, torturous minutes, nothing happens at all. In fact, you can’t even hear Kinich anymore, not even a single breath.

Did he leave the room? 

Gathering your courage, you silently will yourself to open your eyes, afraid of what you’ll see. It takes you a bit, too absorbed in the awkwardness, and three silent mental countdowns later, your eyes finally snap open. Instantly, you discover two things:

Kinich is not in bed with you.

Kinich is nowhere near you at all.

Instead, the knight is sitting across the room, back against the door, head leaned back and both eyes shut. His greatsword lays across his lap, fingers already curled around the grip—he’s always ready, as usual. 

“What the hell?”

You don’t mean for it to come out so loud or so aggressive, but your hand is too late to clamp over your mouth.

Kinich cracks one eye open, fixing you with a lazy stare.

“I thought you said you don’t sleep talk,” he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion.

“I don’t—forget it, what are you doing over there?”

He sighs, pulling a knee to his chest and resting his chin on top. He looks much softer like this, in training clothes and lacking his headband—the curtain of his hair parts a bit as he leans over, and you catch a glimpse of the scar there. It’s thin and silver, barely peeking from his forehead.

“Unless I was mistaken, you seemed uncomfortable with the prospect of sharing a bed with me. I may not have been raised a prince, but even I wouldn’t force something like that on a lady.”

Your teeth sink into your lip. The explanation makes you feel stupid and guilty at the same time. Stupid, because you’re really not sure what you’re even afraid of if Kinich climbs into bed with you. Guilty, because you’d been so argumentative with him, even when he was trying to respect your wishes.

There’s three beats of silence.

“I changed my mind,” you manage to squeak out.

“You don’t have to,” he says, tracing the blade of his sword. An expected answer. “I’m fine sleeping here, really.”

And you know he really would be—he’s certainly slept in worse places. But something about him sleeping there while you warm up under thick blankets leaves a rotten taste in your mouth.

“Well, I’m cold now,” you say, shifting under the covers, “so can you come sleep?”

He looks unconvinced by your plea, head tilted. “Weren’t you the one who said it was too warm?”

You pout in reply. “I changed my mi—”

“—changed your mind, yeah, yeah, I get it.”

Kinich rises to his feet, slow and steady. He seems more tired than he lets on, likely the result of the events from earlier—he had been the one to deal with the bandits, after all. You merely watch as he strides toward you.

“Just remember, you’re the one who offered,” he warns, crossing to the other side of the bed. “So don’t kick me in your sleep.”

You don’t say anything at all, firmly fixated on staring at the wall—you don’t think you could stand to look at him right now. When the sheets get pulled back, you suck in a breath.

To your embarrassment, something warm draws up from your quick-beating heart as Kinich lies down behind you. You chalk it up to natural human reaction—you’ve never shared a bed with someone like this, after all. He’s gentle as he lays down, the mattress barely reacting to his movement. You squeeze your eyes shut as he adjusts, shifting the blankets and pillows, hoping he won’t sense your overwhelming nervousness.

“This okay?”

You chance a look in his direction. His eyes are half-lidded, heavy with sleep, but they seem to pierce right through you. He’s being very particular about the distance between you—close enough that you can feel a bit of his warmth, but far enough that none of your limbs are touching.

This is fine, you think to yourself, drawing in a long, slow breath. This is totally fine.

You nod meekly, and Kinich sighs, shuffling into a more comfortable position as you turn away.

“Good,” he murmurs, warm breath pooling at the back of your neck. It makes you shiver, somehow both relaxed and on-edge, even as he curls slightly closer to you. “Go to sleep then, Princess.”

He’ll be awake for a while, you know. He never goes to sleep before you do—even once you do, it’ll probably be another half an hour before he follows suit. The thought leaves you hyper-aware of his every breath.

So, for the next fifteen minutes, you lie awake, hopelessly thinking of the man laying next to you. And, for the next fifteen minutes, he lies awake too. Your mind grows foggy, begging for rest, but you still feel something tugging at your chest. You wonder if Kinich feels the same way.

“Kinich?” you finally whisper.

There’s a pause, like he’s deciding whether to reply seriously or to scold you for not sleeping. His voice comes out hoarse, a deep rumble from his chest.

“Yes, Princess?”

A yawn crawls out of your throat.

“...are you warm enough too…?”

Your voice trails off as you finally succumb to the clutches of sleep. Kinich listens as your breathing turns to an even rhythm, calm and serene. For once, he’s glad that you’re not looking at him—if you did, you would see the way his skin is flushed a deep red, from his ears to his neck.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, letting his eyes flutter shut. “I am.”

[yawnderu]

cr: @ave661

Simon wasn't a stupid man. He always knew better, knew to look between the lines even when you tried your best to be deceiving. Even then, the pure rejection you showed to your newborn baby was something not even the best actress could hide. Refusing to hold her after she was born and fully shutting down on Simon, screaming at him whenever he tried to offer any sort of help and support, only getting worse if he ever tried to approach you while holding the baby.

Post-partum depression is no joke, Simon realized after doing his own research, only then realizing just how bad it can get after accidentally stumbling on article upon article of mothers getting to the point of harming their own child. You weren't like that— Simon liked to convince himself despite the growing pit of dread in his stomach, anxiety seeping out of every pore of his body when even months later you refused to hold or interact with the baby.

It all came crashing down after he came back from deployment, the nanny holding his daughter while soothing her with calm words, doing her best to console the crying infant despite the tears falling down her cheeks when she confessed to him that you're gone.

Gone without a trace, at first. Simon wasted no time using his connections to know where you were. Laswell was the most helpful, giving him all the details of the help center you were in, yet even then, Simon didn't reach out first in fear of messing up your progress, not wanting to add more stress to your situation when you were trying to get better.

Four years. For four years, Simon's life was divided in deployments and taking care of his daughter at home, never once thinking about moving on, always asking Laswell for updates— updates she was glad to give him using her own connections, wanting to give Simon some peace of mind even if it went against the rules.

“It's okay.” Simon reassured his daughter, his long sleeves wet with cola that she spilled from her little cup. His home was the complete opposite of the absolute hell he grew up in, not allowing himself to scream, hit, or take out his frustration on the little carbon copy of himself sitting on the couch.

“'M sorry, daddy.” Her sweet voice made the corners of his lips tilt up into a smile, planting a soft kiss on the top of her head, taking off his sweater and putting it away, wasting no time on grabbing a towel to clean up the now sticky mess of coke on the table.

“It's okay, love. Jus' don't tip it, 's gonna spill.” She gave him a small salute in understanding, a cheeky grin on her lips when she saw him holding in his laughter, knowing fully well she's copying him— as usual.

The doorbell ringing got Simon's full attention, giving his daughter one last look before he went to answer. His eyes widened slightly the moment he saw your shorter figure waiting for him, purposely making yourself smaller like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, a small folder held in your hands. You're both quiet for what seems like forever, the only sounds coming from your daughter in the living room, the TV displaying a kid's show Simon put on.

“I'm so so—” You don't even have the chance to finish your sentence before you're being pulled into a tight hug, Simon's burly arms wrapping around your body, every single second spent missing you, secretly hoping you'd come back one day crashes down on him the moment he feels your arms wrap around his waist, holding him as tight as possible, as if he'd disappear if you don't hold onto him for dear life.

“I got better.” You whisper into his ear, rubbing his back soothingly when he doesn't let go of you. Not yet— not when the love of his life is finally back after years. He plants a soft kiss on your shoulder before his face goes back to burying in the crook of your neck, taking in the familiar scent.

It takes minutes for Simon to finally let go, hesitation clear in his actions as he looked down at you, keeping one hand on your waist in silent fear of you seeping through his fingers. The folder in your hand gets his attention, giving you a questioning look before you offer it to him, managing to give him a small smile of reassurance despite all the anxiety and fear.

“My psychotherapist wrote it. It's... just a paper that shows the progress I've made from her perspective.” You stand awkwardly as he reads the document, taking in every single word written by the woman who has been helping your for four long years. You can hear your daughter giggling at the TV show, only making the anxiety in your stomach grow more by the second.

To your surprise, Simon steps out of the way to allow you into the home he created, his safe haven. Nothing changed from the last time you were here, other than toys scattered all over the place, likely from Simon being too busy bonding with his daughter to even clean.

You can see the little girl sitting on the couch as you walk closer, her brown eyes fully focused on the screen until she hears something from behind her. She's so much bigger now, looking like a tiny carbon copy of Simon, down to the little skull-patterned pajamas she was wearing.

She turns around after seeing you from the corner of her eye, her little face lighting up into a toothy grin as she jumps from the couch, sprinting towards you as fast as her little legs allow her to.

“Mommy!” You crouch down to her height out of pure instinct, almost being knocked off balance when she crashes into you, her tiny arms wrapping around your neck. The fact that Simon never stopped talking about you to her and kept your pictures warms your heart, being as delicate as possible as you hug her back.

“Y'look so pretty.” She has Simon's accent, making you let out a small laugh before looking down at her, cupping her cheek just to examine her features better.

“Thank you, sweet girl.” You're glad for the way she cuddles up to you again, not bothering to hide the tears falling down your cheeks at the sheer love displayed by the same girl you left four years ago. Your gaze drifts up to Simon, whose eyes are glossier than usual despite the fact that he's not shedding a tear. He gives you a small nod in acknowledgement, not daring to look away from the heartwarming scene in front of him.

“Daddy talks a lot about you.” She whispers into your ear, covering her mouth as if she's telling you the biggest secret ever. You giggle at the little gossiper, your warm hand running up and down the length of her hair.

“He does?” You whisper back, giving Simon a cheeky look at the admission, one of his thin eyebrows raising when he sees your daughter nod her head vigorously, giggling as she looks at Simon.

“Well, I'm sure he talks a lot about you too.” The pure forgiveness that comes from both of them drowns the guilt, if only for a short while.

“You're such a pretty princess.” Your arms wrap around her again, rocking her softly from side to side, allowing yourself to take in their love. It doesn't take long for Simon's resolve to falter, dropping to his knees and wrapping his burly arms around his girls protectively, planting a little kiss on your forehead.

Despite everything, there's no one else he'd rather spend the rest of his life with.

Dad!Ghost Masterlist

[tan1shere]

Scare You

Billie Eilish x female reader !

A/n: not much to say except enjoy ! I hope this is good :) (it's kinda bad I'm sorry ☹) @omwtfybbbbb

Warnings: none really ! She comforts you

Masterlist

You didn't want to be here. But yet you were forced by your friends. Claiming, "You never got out of your house." - "You're a scardy cat Y/n." - "Loosen up, Y/n." So ofcourse you wanted to prove that wrong. But you were failing. Terribly. So terribly whenever a scare actor would come anywhere near you, you'd hang onto your friends arm for dear life. Was it stupid? Maybe, but you couldn't help the fact you got scared easily. Maybe it was down to childhood trauma so when stuff like this happens it triggers you. It couldn't get worse, surely.

Yup. It does.

You were walking around and for a good amount of time, you thought you were alright. No one had come up to you. Which is why this hurt really bad. One of them, a girl. Comes up behind you grabbing your shoulders briefly and making a loud growl. Your body sinks to the floor curling up into itself as you scream. Billie had faced many people with bad reactions. But not this bad. Not one she'd truly feel sorry for. Your friends tug you up. "Come on, it's fine." But it truly wasn't, you look back at the actor. Tears brimming your eyes slightly.

Her mood changes and her heart aches. She loved her job but not at that price. Sure she loved scaring people but not to the point of tears. This hurt her deeply, and all she wanted was to comfort you. But you were sadly out of sight.

Your friends continue to drag you along until one of them realizes your tears. "Ok, guys maybe we should call it quits for tonight." One of them furrows her brows. "Oh come on, Y/n needs to toughen up a bit." Their voices become distant as they argue. You couldn't take it, standing up and walking off. "Some friends." You mutter, walking along when all of a sudden you feel a hand on your shoulder again. You screech but they shh you calmingly. You turn to face them warily. "Hey its ok. It's just me from earlier." The woman says, taking off her mask. She was gorgeous.

"Oh.." you shy away. "I was going to say it wasn't my intention to scare you but- that's literally my job. I mean-" She sighs. "I just didn't mean to scare you to the point of literal tears." You blink at her. "Are you ok?" Your shoulders just shrug. "I'm so incredibly sorry-" But your tears come again. "I- I didn't even want to come here but my so called friends made me, making me feel like I was pathetic and I just wanted to prove them wrong but I didn't because I truly am pathetic, getting scared over people pretending all because of what happened when i was younger." You sob.

All the sentences were shakily said. She softens her look, going to carefully bring you into a hug. You tightly wrap your arms around her, needing that comfort right now. "They are certainly not friends. Nowhere near that title." Her hands smooth out your hair softly. Your breathing coming back to normal. "Shhh." She gently says. Your eyes close. "You're not pathetic, I promise you angel. I'm scared of alot of things too." You pull away to look at her. "Really? But it can't be anything like this? And I doubt it's silly like mine." "Water."

You stare at her for a second. "Water?" She nods. It honestly made you feel better. "Not so silly now huh?" You give her a faint smile. "You have a beautiful smile, keep it on more." Your cheeks heat up at the compliment. "Thank you for coming back to see me." She smiles, nodding. "It hurt when I saw you were crying I had to make sure you were ok." It was sweet to you. The reassuring nature of this girl was a huge comfort.

"Hey, what do you say we give those 'friends' a run for their money. Literally." She says.

"Great idea."

[i-cant-sing]

I'm not sure what I want to write about but I have this very overwhelmingly strong urge to write about Platonic Yandere Gojo Saturo x teen/adult reader. And not like just light fluff, I'm talking about unhinged yandere Gojo- the one from the latest panels where he was fighting with Sukuna- that Gojo.

Like that Gojo just radiates "buffed up cool dad finally puts his foot down and is now actually low key scary".

Hmm, I mean I could see unhinged Shibuya arc Gojo just going absolutely feral as he drags you away from Toji (your dad) and begins to actively kill him, no matter how much you beg and grovel to spare your father's life. How you can't bare to see your dad taken from you again.

But Gojo? Nah, he doesn't care. He was serious when he took you in (kidnapped u from Naoya/Zenin Clan) and told u that he'll be the father you need.

And he doesn't even have any qualms about knocking you out either, he doesn't need u interfering mid battle and getting injured in the process. He might even hand u over to Yuta and others and cheerfully threaten them to keep you safe while he obliterates Toji, because yes Gojo is 100000% jealous of Toji and you bonding/being closer to each other than u are with Gojo. How fucing dare you??? Does he need to do the speech again?

"Through heavens and earth, I alone am tge honored one" or whatever 🙄🙄🙄

OR OR OR

Listen to me- Romantic yandere UNHINGED Gojo with reader who'd been selected by his clan, trained and raised by them for you to be Gojo's bride. Obviously, growing up Gojo was like "yeahhh, you're not good enough for me" and well treated her like absolute trash (he insulted her) which them lead the clan to be even more harsh on you because why the hell are you still not able to seduce Gojo????? So, basically poor reader is just being absolutely miserable throughout her life until one day the Gojo Clan is finally like "Alright, we gave it our best and Saturo still doesn't like u, so you can work as a maid in our house" and like instantaneously her life turns much better now that she doesn't have the pressure to be the trophy wife/heir producer for Gojo, and reader now can even leave the house to run errands.

But then Gojo notices that there is one less person who was constantly fawning over him, vying for his attention, and he's trying to figure it out who it is when he realises its you! And when he asks his clan about you, they tell him that they demoted u to a servant instead of future Mrs Gojo and Saturo is like "hm. Okay." And it doesn't exactly hit him how much this affected him until he saw you giggling away with some man.

He doesn't react immeadiately, still treating you like you're just nonexistent to him, but deep down, it eats him up the way you were touching that man's arm, the way you looked at him like he hung the stars for you.

Why tf weren't you like this with him?

Whatever. You're just... so beneath him. Why even bother thinking about you?

And then Shibuya arc happens. This man gets trapped in the prison realm and most of his thoughts are occupied by you, and how after be defeats Sukuna and the gang, he's gonna date you and you'll be touching his arm, looking at him with goo goo eyes.

Except when he comes out, for whatever fucking reason, you're fucking clinging onto some guys shoulders, acting like you're a damsel in distress, and if things weren't worse before, they certainly were when you kissed the man in front of him (okay but like u didn't know Gojo was watching u two. Like you were with your man in alley, kissing and hugging each ither lovingly after just barely escaping death from curses and then mf Gojo is just hovering in the sky above you)

Of course, now it's instantaneous death for your man, and then Gojo is just dragging you screaming and crying, and you're like "WHY? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME??" And Gojo very cheerfully tells you, as if he still wasn't covered in blood from your man-

"I don't want my wife-to-be cheating on me."

Like whoa! Where tf did that came from???? And you're all like "What are u talking about??? Your clan ended our relationship- if you could even call it that?? Besides, you're the one who always said that we're not compatible because I'm beneath you."

And Gojo doesn't even bat an eye, as he goes "doesn't matter. You were born for me. You were made for me to marry, play with, discard, do as I please. So don't you ever even look at another man again, or I will be the one to rip your eyes out." And you know that he's capable of doing that after u just witnessed the live demonstration of your man being murdered.

Anyways, jealous Gojo, be it romantic or platonic, is dangerous unhinged Gojo.

Look at him, the tiny waist, the Toji Fushiguro fit.

[insanity-all-the-time]

now i'm thinking about the banishing of the names and its making me genuinely crazy

just like imagine the creature that is literally bound to your soul, the one in the world that you are the closest too, someone you have spent your whole life with, sharing thoughts with sharing joy and jokes with. the creature that knows you better than anyone else, better than yourself, the creature that chose you, and stuck by you at your worst and your best.

imagine watching them lose themself completely, lose their name, their identity, their whole self, they're reduced to a wild animal. it's a fate worse than death and all you can do is watch, there's nothing in all your years of magic that can help you now.

your dragon isn't even dead, it's still alive it's standing right in front of you but it's wrong, the look in its eyes is blank, not the intelligent gaze you've come to expect, it's mannerisms have even changed, it holds itself differently too. it's all wrong.

and your struck with the realization that you'll never get your dragon back, even if you survive this they will never be the same, you will never fly above the clouds with them your consciousness melding together, you will never lay under their wings and be known truely, and when you try to call out their name you can't.

every memory you have of them is changed now too, a blank space in your mind and-you realize-your soul itself. maybe you let out an anguished scream but it's not right, you want to be able to call its name, to see even a flicker of recognition in its eyes.

there's nothing though, even as you scream and cry the creature shows no signs of empathy or understanding. it tears you apart, any semblance of sanity you still had is gone.

and like man i would go insane too

anyways i wrote this bc i read a good fic that inspired me so go read that i just reblogged it

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

In Love and War (6)

Author's Note: This came out angstyyyyyyyyyy, I'm sorry idk what happened. It's gotta get worse before it gets better, I guess.

Content Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Azriel using Truth-Teller, Mentions of Abuse/Death

Chapter 5/ Masterlist

-------------------------------

I can’t breathe. The walls of the tent close in, the dark leather pressing in closer and closer. If the ground were to open up and swallow me right now, I wouldn’t even have the presence of mind to scream. The fall would be a welcome reprieve from the roaring of my heart in my own ears.

What does he mean our fathers killed each other?  

It’s wrong. He’s wrong! He’s lying. He has to be lying!

I roll over so I can face him, so close on this small mat that our noses brush. His violet eyes glow in the darkness of the tent. “What do you mean?” The panic that edges my voice makes me sound shrill, even in my own ears.

I don’t want him to answer, but I desperately need him to tell me everything all at once. The wine threatens to come back up in a rush as his hand skims up my side to cup my cheek, “Tamlin didn’t tell you?”

How dare him touch me while we have this conversation; what is so broken and wrong inside of me that I let him? I know that I am shaking in his grip and when he starts rubbing calming circles into my cheek with his thumb I lean into that touch like it might give me one last life line to cling to.

“He said you killed my father.”

He stills, wings fluttering; I feel it pass through him like its own little draft, skittering across his wings. A dark mist follows, seeping from his skin. 

I know we’re not supposed to be talking about this, but the words are already out, whether from the wine or by the sheer desperation I feel crawling beneath my skin. I need to know! I need to know that everything I had believed was true. That all that I was doing this for was not based on a lie. 

He brushes his nose over mine, lips ghosting over my forehead. “When I see what they have done to you, I wish I had killed them both.”

My stomach twists. No. No. This can’t be happening!

“But no, it was my father, in retribution for what they had done.”

But I saw him holding the sword! I saw him leave the tent! I never saw his father’s body and Tamlin had always said he arrived too late to save any of them, that all he could do was fend Rhys off to keep him from slaughtering what was left of us. 

The confusion must be evident on my face, because he asks, “You really don’t know, do you?”

It’s more than a little patronizing but I don’t even have the energy to be angry about it, because my whole life is a lie! I’ve spent decades hating him. I just offered up my body and possibly my future to destroy him for nothing? For something his father, who’s long dead, did?

“Maybe we should talk about this in the morning,” he suggests and it’s definitely because I’m crying now and not because he’s trying to avoid it. 

My throat feels like it;s closing. “No!” And it’s then that I feel the faintest prick of fangs growing behind my lips. “Please just tell me.”

His thumb soothes over my cheek again, like he can feel the sudden shift in my being. I don’t know where that rush of power comes from. Maybe it is some sort of effect of being so close to him while he repairs the wards. 

“Rhys!” It’s always Azriel that interrupts us somehow, the shadowy male hurtling into the tent with that wicked looking dagger in hand. “We’ve got movement in the hills.”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! Now? Of all the Cauldron damned times for Amarantha to show herself, it has to be right now?!

Rhysand is on his feet in an instant, reaching for my discarded chest piece and ushering me into it, our conversation forgotten. “How many?”

I wish I could say I possess his ability to compartmentalize tasks, but despite the worst possible danger knocking on our unguarded and unwarded doors, all I can think about is how desperately we need to finish this conversation. 

“Five, a scout and four chargers. I’ve got Nox and Avos on their trail, but I don’t see any marks yet.” Azriel continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

Rhysand slings my quiver and bow over my shoulders again, checking all the straps to ensure they’re in place. He’d never taken his own armor off, only the belt for his sword, he uses a tendril of shadowy darkness to strap it into place while he finishes with me. “Stay with her.”

Azriel eyes me like I’m a pile of shit he accidentally stepped in, but I’m too busy trying to wipe my eyes on my sleeves to care. “You might need me out there,” he protests.

“Might,” Rhysand counters, stalking out of the tent in search of his horse. “But I definitely need you here more.” He grabs the reins on his horse, the mount still saddled, just in case we’d needed to leave in a hurry. Dinner threatens to come back up as I watch him slide into his cloak. I’ve spent my life hating that triple star pattern that will sit over his eyes, cursing his existence, wishing him every pain and misery imaginable for ruining my life and it wasn’t even his fault?

The ground is unsteady beneath my feet, I feel myself stumble and sway and I can’t tell if it’s the wine or the reality of the situation that makes my legs feel like jelly. 

I want to go home! I want this to be a bad dream. 

For a moment, I think he might simply toss the cowl over his head and mount up, leaving me to sit here in the misery of our half finished conversation, but he comes back a moment later, hand sliding into my hair as he tilts my head back and kisses me swiftly.

He should taste as bitter as the wine we’d shared. I should feel nothing but misery when he slips his tongue behind my teeth, but when he has me like this, nothing else matters. There doesn’t have to be anything between us. I do not feel like some broken, wretched thing.

“Don’t leave Azriel’s side,” he says as he pulls away. “We’ll finish our conversation when I return, I promise.” Then he mounts up, calling for half of the men as he goes. The thundering sound of the horses hooves as they race down into the grassy hills beneath us makes it feel like we’re standing in the center of an earthquake.

There’s enough moonlight to watch them go, their mounts and flowing capes in the wind making them appear like wraiths racing towards the enemy. 

With half of the men gone, and two scouting, that leaves Azriel and four other men to guard camp. None of them look too happy about it, least of all Azriel, who keeps watching me out of the corner of his eye like he thinks I might disappear at a moment’s notice. I remain next to him, anxiously shifting my weight from foot to foot, hoping the chill on the wind might wake my dull senses up.

Shadows drift off Azriel’s shoulders, but unlike Rhysand’s that always stay curled around his body, Azriel’s drift off like inky tendrils, testing the wind around him. Some slither along the ground like snakes, searching through patches of grass for an unwanted scent, others drift away, testing the wind for him. One remains perched over his ear, and I hear the faint sound of whispering like the shadows are reporting what they find. 

We can no longer see the others, and I spin slowly around in a circle, taking stock of my surroundings. We’re a little higher than the base of the mountain, perched on a cleft in the rock for a better vantage point. The ward remains behind us, I think, without the trail of Rhysand’s magic, I still can’t see or feel this one. To the left and right, the rocky base of the mountain is dotted with ancient trees, some thicker than a house, but the coming winter has stolen their leaves, no vantage point for archers to be had there without being sitting ducks. Beneath us, the rolling hills of grass stretch far out of sight. If Amarantha brought an army behind those first five riders, she’s hidden it well. Still, the thought makes a chill run up my spine and I keep a hand around the hilt of my dagger, just in case.

Azriel does nothing to quell my nerves, just stands there, still as a statue, listening to his shadows, eyes glued to the horizon. I can’t help but wonder if his shadows show him things as much as they tell him. Can he see Rhysand right now?

My stomach twists at the thought. I can’t see him. I can’t hear if he’s ok. There’s nothing in my arsenal to tell me that he’s coming back. And Cauldron boil me, I want him to come back. If he dies without finishing our conversation, I might never learn what happened. Whether it’s the truth or not is yet to be seen, but Tamlin’s account and his account are different, and I will be damned if I don’t get some answers from someone. 

The hand not holding my dagger reaches up to rub at the scar above my ear, hidden under my hair. Tam and I had been fighting that day, he’d been on edge about something and when I’d pushed too hard he’d shoved me right into the corner of a table. I’d been in the healer’s tent getting stitches; all these years I’d thought it was the Mother looking out for me, that little accident might have just saved my life. But looking at it now, I can’t help but wonder if it kept me from seeing the truth. 

I shift my weight again and Azriel’s gaze flicks back to me once more, irritated, like I’m somehow distracting him. 

“Sorry,” I mutter, locking my knees.

I can stand still, it’s fine. I force myself to focus on my breathing, but in the silence there’s one nagging thought that eats at me: Do I really believe Rhysand is telling the truth? I take him to bed one time, accept a couple gifts from him, and what? Believe everything he says as truth? Are claims of a mating bond really enough to make me believe he’d be open and honest with me? A mating bond certainly hadn’t saved my mother.

I close my eyes at the thought of her, chest aching. Did I believe Rhysand was right about that too? That my father had used her powers to try and breed powerful sons, not because he’d loved her? I’d certainly never seen my parents be affectionate towards each other, not even in the way Rhysand was with me. They’d never held hands, never ridden out together. He’d kept her clothed and fed, sure, and entertained her obsession with fairytales when it suited him. My mother told me, on one of her days of clarity, that he’d carved her rocking chair for her when he’d found out she was pregnant with Tam. But I never saw him be warm with her. I’m not even sure I ever saw them kiss, even on the cheek. But a lack of affection in public didn’t mean he cared so little about her he let her, supposed, powers drive her insane, did it?

“A scout’s coming back,” Azriel says, breaking me out of my thoughts. 

My eyes snap open as the rider crests the hillside and comes into view. Illyrian mounts really are beautiful, all sleek muscle and rippling midnight black manes. Together they make a lot of noise, but alone, they’re pretty damn quiet until their hooves hit rock.

Azriel motions me to follow him as he goes to the edge of the cleft in the rocks and waits as the scout approaches. “Well?”

“Not Amarantha,” the scout says and I let out a breath of relief. 

“Who the fuck would come out here then?” Someone behind me challenges. 

“Spring,” the scout says and all the blood drains from my face.

Azriel glances at me, but there’s pity in his hazel gaze this time. 

I swallow the lump in my throat. Not now, I’m not ready to see them yet! 

“What do they want?” I’m having a hard time processing that Tam would waste resources looking for me, especially when we’ve barely had horses to spare to move camp, let alone ride all the way out here.

“Proof you’re alive,” the scout says, holding out his hand.

It’s Azriel that smacks his hand away. “She only rides with me or Rhys.”

The mount shifts beneath the scout, his hood falling even lower down his face. Something feels off about it and I glance at Azriel for confirmation I’m not alone. He nods at me as he steps closer, hand on the small of my back as he leads me to where his own mount chews on a dying patch of grass. 

“Be ready,” he says in my ear.

The scout fidgets in his seat like he’s not used to riding in one and it’s that more than anything that has Azriel’s shadows flying off his shoulders to grab the rider by the wrist and yank him out of the saddle. He slams into the ground with a scream, the sound of bones crunching against rock so loud I wince as Azriel hoists me up into his saddle. 

I grab the reins to keep the horse steady, trying desperately to remember where Rhysand had held his hands when I rode with him. 

Azriel stalks over to the male, wings flaring as he knocks the back of the hood back with the tip of his dagger. Even in the moonlight, I know what swatch of dark hair and golden eyes. One of Tamlin’s Wolves, Andras. Of course he wouldn’t know how to ride, we’d survived a lot of skirmishes over the years because Tam had used his shapeshifting powers to change the men into beasts to fight. 

Azriel crouches in front of him as Andras grips his clearly broken shoulder. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

Andras’ gaze flicks to me first. Thankfully, Azriel’s horse is a lot more patient than the others and my own nervous energy hasn’t caused it to run off. If anything, I think the animal cares less about my presence than its usual rider, because it goes back to eating.

“Your whore of a warlord-” that’s as far as Andras gets before Azriel slams the hilt of his dagger into the other male’s throat.

“Start like that again and I’ll make sure you never use that shoulder,” Azriel threatens with so much venom, I shiver. 

Andras coughs, good hand reaching for his throat and Azriel slams the blade clean through his forearm, pinning him in place.

I look away as Andras screams. He is not my friend, I can do nothing. I have always done nothing. The males have their fights and their quarrels and I have always stood on the sidelines waiting for the violence to pass like a good girl. 

“Ok! Ok!” Andras rasps. “I had orders to get into the camp and get Y/N, that’s it!”

But wasn’t being tired of standing on the sidelines that prompted me to stay here in the first place? Wasn’t I trying to make things better for my people? How was sitting here helping them?

“What about the others?” Azriel questions. 

“I don’t know! Lucien was supposed to handle that.” Andras replies through gritted teeth.

Do I even want to help them? If Rhysand was telling the truth, whose side am I even on? My head hurts from the questions, my stomach still churning end over end. I don’t know what to do.

“Where’s Tamlin?” Azriel asks as he rips the dagger out. 

Andras screams, the sound echoing off the rocks. “There’s only five of us! Tamlin never left camp.”

Of course he would send Lucien and not risk coming out here himself. That would put him face to face with Rhysand and he’d lose. And looking at it now, I realize that he knows it. He’s always known it. I rub a hand over the scar on my hand. Did he know about the bond too? Had that been why he was always so sure that I knew Rhysand was the enemy?

Azriel raises the dagger to make another cut and Andras screams, “I swear I’m telling the truth!”

“Azriel,” my voice is steadier than I feel and all eyes suddenly turn to me. I need to get answers. I need to do something. “Take me out there please.” 

“No.”

I tighten my grip on the reins. I’ll go out there myself if I have to. “If it’s Lucien, then it’s not a fight they’re having. Let me diffuse this.” I’m not sure I mean those words; I’m not sure I have the power to do anything but watch horror after horror unfold around me, but I know that I have to try. I have to attempt to put my life back together. I have to find some bit of order or I’ll go insane. Besides, this is Lucien we’re talking about! Surely he could see reason, right?

Andras is looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. 

“Tie him up,” Azriel says to one of the others as he stands and wipes his blade on a cloth that hangs from his belt. “I’m not done with him.”

“But I don’t know anything!” Andras protests as two men haul him to his feet, wrenching his broken shoulder in the process. Blood drips from his forearm, down his fingers. Regardless of the confusion I feel swirling around inside me, he’s still a part of my people. Lucien is still family. If I can keep any more bloodshed from happening between our two people I will. 

“I can work this out. Not everything has to be a bloodbath.”

Azriel swings himself into the saddle behind me and steals the reins. “If I so much as hear an arrow being fired, we’re turning back around.” He snarls.

“Fine,” I concede, because at least it meant I tried. 

“Rhys is gonna kill me for this.”

----

I’m not convinced Azriel’s horse isn’t a wraith. It’s almost completely silent, save for the softest hint of breathing imaginable. When it breathes, little wisps of shadows escape out its nose. I wish I had time to ask him about it, but there’s none, not as we race over the hills, fast as the wind. 

No arrows rise up to meet us, so at least I’ve been, so far, correct about Lucien not leading an ambush. Their scout must have taken down one of Rhysand’s and stolen his mount and cloak to look presentable. At least, I tell myself it was just that and not that Lucien ordered a man killed to try and get to me. Lucien, who would sneak me snacks and who secretly taught me how to fish; Lucien who used to braid my hair for me while we sat on the creek bed, making jokes. Lucien who had always been a spot of sunlight in my world, who looked after me like a brother, and promised to scare away any suitors who made me uncomfortable. Lucien was a good male; the best of us, even, the thought that he might be capable of such violence makes me nauseous. I have had too many life changing questions hurled my way tonight, I cannot bear another one, especially not about him.

We crest a particularly large hill and finally get a glimpse of the Illyrian riders. They’re not fighting. In fact, they’re just standing there, in formation behind Rhysand’s horse. The warlord himself stands in front of it, shrouded in that heavy cloak, facing off against Lucien and his three dismounted riders. They’re all armed, but no one is actively fighting each other, I take that as a good sign.

Though Lucien doesn’t look particularly pleased to see me riding with Azriel, nothing but unbridled horror crossing his scarred face as we approach. 

When we get to the bottom of the hill, I jump off the horse, much to Azriel’s dismay. 

Lucien takes a step towards me, but growling, Rhysand steps in front of him. “Touch her and you’re dead, Vanserra.”

The men move to let me pass through and I focus all my energy on breathing evenly as I walk towards them. Does Lucien know? Did he hide this from me too? Or was he just as blind as I was?

“Y/N, are you all right?” Lucien asks, his metal eye whirring as he looks me over. 

My chest feels like it’s gonna rip right down the middle and spill my heart right out onto the floor. I don’t know who to believe. I don’t know who I want to believe. This is Lucien we’re talking about, he would never willingly hurt me. He comforted me when my entire world fell apart, he helped Tam and I bury them. I want so desperately for all these onlookers to leave, so it’s just the three of us and the truth, but the way they all stand there, armed and ready tells me that’s not happening. There hasn’t already been bloodshed here, because Lucien was waiting for Andras to give him some sort of signal that it wasn’t necessary. Because he was expecting to be able to just kidnap me.

Why do all these males constantly treat me like I’m just an object to be snatched up on their whims?

Rhysand’s hooded head is angled in my direction, watching my approach through the stars in his cowl. I don’t like that I can’t see his eyes. He doesn’t look like the Rhysand who’d just been holding me. He looks like the male I remember from my nightmares.

And Lucien looks like someone I don’t recognize at all.

How am I supposed to make sense out of any of this? Seeing them doesn’t make it easier. 

The Illyrians shift behind me, horses snuffing in agitation, kicking up loose strands of grass. I feel their unease as easily as I can see it in the males behind Lucien. Maybe this isn’t the time for answers, maybe all I can do right now is keep them from killing each other. Regardless of who’s right here, I don’t want to see either males hurt.

“I’m fine,” I lie as I come to a stop at Rhysand’s side. His gloved fingers brush mine like he might take my hand, but he doesn’t. 

Lucien stares back and forth between us. “I wouldn’t call being kidnapped fine.”

Rhys growls again, the sound skittering over my spine, “But you’d call letting her starve to death on a solo hunt fine?”

Lucien’s mouth pulls back in a grimace. “Tam made a mistake, he admits it-”

“He admits it?” His wings shake behind him, darkness drifting in waves from beneath them until it shrouds him more than the cloak. There’s so much of it Lucien retreats a step. “How brave of him to admit he fucked up and yet he still let it go on this long before someone came looking.”

Lucien keeps his gaze on me. “It won’t happen again. We’ve talked about it. Trust me, next time-”

“There is no next time,” Rhysand snarls. “She’s not going back with you!”

Lucien’s hand falls to his sword hilt, but his gaze remains on me. “Let her come home. Let this be settled and done. Tamlin sent money-”

A whip made of starlight appears in Rhysand’s hand, knocking the bag of coins Lucien pulls off his belt from his hand and scattering it across the grass. All of the men with Lucien draw their swords, even as the redhead tightly grips his own. Rhysand can easily kill him here and he will if Lucien keeps talking. I need to diffuse this, I need them all to leave each other alone. I’m not done here, and even if Lucien won’t understand it, I can’t bear to see him get hurt.

“He’s my mate,” I say and the words taste like a betrayal.

Lucien’s face twists in a mixture of horror and disgust.

“No one is keeping me here against my will.” Well, mostly. It’s not like I’ve put that to the test, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“That can’t be true,” it comes out like a whisper, as if he doesn’t want to believe it. I suppose, if our places were switched, I wouldn’t want to either. “You did something to her.”

Rhysand huffs, “I didn’t and I wouldn’t.”

“Like you didn’t slaughter thousands for Amarantha?” Lucien snarls.

Rhysand freezes, still as death beside me.

Azriel, silent in the grass, has come up behind me, his presence a steadying energy amidst the chaos I feel swirling around us. What does he mean he killed for Amarantha? Isn’t he trying to kill her?

“That’s enough,” Azriel hisses. “The lady told you she doesn’t want to go back with you. Respect that and go.”

Lucien doesn’t move. “He didn’t tell you that, did he, Y/N?”

“Leave!” Azriel snarls.

“I’m sure he didn’t tell you how he whored himself out to her either. Why do you think the Illyrians have so much land?”

Azriel steps around me, shadows swirling, dagger in hand, but it’s Rhysand, who’s now almost wholly surrounded by a dark mist, that puts out a hand to stop him. “Everything I did, I did for my people,” he says in a voice that’s so low I almost can’t hear it over the wind. “Everything Tamlin is doing now is for himself.”

“How noble,” Lucien snarls. “If your intentions are so pure, let her go.”

Rhysand turns to look at me, pushing the cowl off his head so I can see his face. The moonlight doesn’t hide the shadows under his eyes, or the weight I see crushing down on his shoulders. It’s impossible to miss the way his wings droop behind him. My chest aches at the sight of him, something clawing in desperation beneath my skin begging me to find a way to take that burden from him. 

“Do you want to go back with him?” He asks.

I don’t know if what he’s said tonight is true or a lie, but I know here and now that if I said yes he’d let me walk away. No strings attached, if I took Lucien’s hand and got on that horse, he wouldn’t fight me.

I don’t know what I want any more. I don’t know who I am anymore. Everything I have built my life on feels like it's crumbling beneath my feet. And everyone is just standing there watching it happen. 

No one has ever offered me a choice like this before. My whole life I have been told where to go and who to be and given one taste of freedom I had still followed exactly what was expected of me, hoping that it would finally make me feel at peace. But I haven’t felt a moment of peace in all of it, except when I was in Rhysand’s arms. It’s impossible that he of all people could make me feel like that. It shouldn’t be this way. 

And Lucien, who I always considered another brother, who shared food at my table and always made me feel like I wasn’t a waste of space, was now someone I didn’t recognize. There is no sign of Rhysand’s missing rider among them. I don’t know if he’s dead or not, probably, judging by the way Lucien keeps looking at Rhys like he’s an animal. 

It’s a startling sight, not because I would have looked at him like that myself a couple days ago, but because that’s how Tam always looked at me. Like I was some thing that was so inherently wrong; some creature that needed to be tamed and bridled. Those pointed tips of the fangs I felt try to make an appearance earlier have come back, poking into my lower lip. I feel something shifting beneath my skin, a beast awakening from some deep slumber. My hands open and close reflexively at my side. The stirring feeling is strongest in my chest, right where I sometimes feel that weird pressure that’s somehow tied to Rhys.

“No, I don’t want to go back with him,” the words are steadier than I feel, my chin raised. I do not cower from them, or the fact that I mean them. Even though Lucien looks like I’ve punched him in the gut. I can’t go back. Not until I have the truth. Not until I can make sense of all this mess I feel in my head and in my heart. 

“Tamlin won’t take me back anyway,” I pull the gaps in the arms of my sweater down, so he can see the stars inked across my skin. “Nor do I feel like being tossed out again.”

“Y/N…” Lucien shakes his head, auburn hair flying around his tan face. “It was a misunderstanding.”

Rhysand won’t stop staring at me. I think he’s waiting for me to change my mind. 

“Please leave, Lucien,” I say, only looking at Rhys. I’m a terrible person, because there is so much unbridled hope in his eyes, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, waiting for me to take my chance and run; I’d been playing games this whole time, he hadn’t.

He hadn’t been playing games. 

I’d used him, taken what I needed, and had planned to throw him out when I was done. Even if he had killed me father, I was still… I was still just like my own father. The realization nearly knocks me off my feet. What have I done?

“This isn’t the end of this,” Lucien hisses as he backs up, never leaving himself exposed, even as he reaches for his mount. The horse is old, it’s mane patchy and unkept, I’m not sure how it carried Lucien here, let alone how he expected it to carry the both of us. “Tamlin will consider this a breach of your agreement.”

“We agreed not to kill each other,” Rhysand returns. “If he comes at me now, then he’s the one that broke that agreement, not me.” 

Lucien swings into the saddle with ease, mount shifting slightly beneath him. “What of my scout?”

“What of mine?” Azriel returns.

“Food for the vultures,” Lucien snarls and my heart sinks even further. What if I’ve been wrong about everybody, not just Rhys?

“Then so is yours,” Azriel returns.

Lucien leaves with the remainder of his men, no further fight for Andras life to be had. Rhysand watches them go, wings still drooped behind them like they are impossibly heavy. I should try and comfort him, as that thing in my chest demands, but I can’t. My limbs refuse to move, feet rooted in the grass. What have I done? Where did I go wrong in all of this? I was just trying to do what I thought was right, but I’m not sure I know what that looks like anymore.

“Are you all right?” Rhysand asks once they’re gone. On instinct, he’s throwing his cloak around my shoulders again, cocooning me in that blissful pocket of warmth that smells like him. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve any of his kindness. 

“I don’t know,” the words slip out of me. I can’t think past the roaring in my ears. What have I done?

His hand falls to my back, gently leading me back to his horse. 

“For the record-” Azriel starts, but Rhysand cuts him off, “I know, Az. Thank you for staying with her.”

I think, even as we mount back up to return to camp, we would have all been better off tonight if this had been a fight with Amarantha.

------------------------------

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[anomaly-076]

Tkdb characters comforting you after finding you having a mental breakdown

‎‧₊˚✿Masterlist✿˚₊‧

♦ I've been writing a bullet-point HC style a lot recently so I decided to switch it up ^^ Reader and the character are written as friends, but can be read as dating (or more ;))... [Apologies for the differences in length, but some scenarios just came out that way U.U]♦

Characters: Alan, Sho, Haru, Haku, Jiro, Professor Dante, + a bonus secret character :D

    ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

Alan quietly enters your room to see you angrily pacing back and forth, dodging some flying object by mere inches you angrily threw without a care for where it would hit and land.

"Hey, everything okay?"

You head snaps in his direction. Angry stare ready to scorch your intruder not softening even after realizing it was just Alan. Normally you might be able to snap out of your on edge state, but not right now.

"Everything okay? You wanna know what's not okay? I'll tell you... Every. Fucking. Thing!" you spit into his face, getting so up close you can smell the sweat mixed with motor oil that seems to follow Alan everywhere.

If it were any other Vagastrom student, they'd be already thrown across the room, but in your case, Alan is even too stunned to consider that an option. This is the first time Alan sees you ready to set stuff ablaze with your sight alone. He's sure that if your stigma were related to fire, the whole dorm would be on fire.

"Hey now..." Alan finally says something after a few seconds of returning your intense eye-contact.

You don't answer and instead turn on your heel and kick something out of your way as you stomp to sit on your bed.

Only now does Alan have the chance to look around. The walls are dented more than they were before, there's pages torn from a notebook scattered all over the floor and all your stuff is a complete mess, indicating that your rampage has been going on for a quite long time.

A shaky breath coming from your slumped form draws his attention back to you. Are... Are you crying?

Alan is still unmoved from his position at the door. A weird feeling washes over him as he sees you bury your head in your hands and slide them up into your hair to pull on it. Your torso folds forward to dangle between your spread legs as you start to let out breathy sobs.

He's unsure of what to do. He's never been one to deal with emotions, let alone help someone else deal with them. A slight panic starts to take over him.

Then, as if his body moved on its own, Alan finds himself crossing the mess of a floor, stepping over anything scattered there, to sit next to you on your bed.

"Hey..." he tries to say as softly and compassionate as he's able to, but you either don't hear him or pay any attention to him.

"Hey." Alan says again, this time louder and tries to bring you back to reality by running his palm down your back.

You finally seem to snap out of the worst and your torso slightly rises for you to look at Alan from the side of your tear-filled eye.

"Hey, c'mon..." it comes out as another attempt from Alan to comfort you, but in reality he's begging for you to stop. Your crying makes something inside him feel bad, almost painful and he's begging you to stop crying so the unpleasant feeling goes away.

And you wish you could stop, but the tears just keep on coming and there's no stopping. You just shake your head and look back down on the floor, but you do try to control your sobs and reduce them to mere hiccups.

"I... S-something bothering you?" Alan is unsure how to talk to you without making your situation worse again. To him, it feels like most things he'd try to say will end up being the wrong choice.

Thankfully, you fully rise back up with a sigh and look at Alan with now fully red and puffy eyes, heavy with exhaustion.

"I'm just so fed up and tired with everything..." your voice is shaky and coarse like you've spent the better part of the past our angrily half screaming to yourself (which you did and Leo, being Leo, overheard it and sent Alan to investigate).

"Hey, I'm here... You can talk... or... not..." Alan trails off. In talking about feelings he's even more helpless than at consoling someone. So he just awkwardly puts his hand around you and pulls his closer to him so your sides are touching.

  ⋆˚✿˖°

"Hey Y/N, I got my R&R approved. You wanna go for a dri- huh?" Sho walks into your room without knocking, like he usually does, but immediately stops in his tracks once he doesn't see you any of your usual activities you'd normally do at this time. His eyes scan the room until they land on your curled up form in a corner of your room, whimpering.

"Woah... Y/N, you with me here?" he quickly makes his way towards you and falls to his knees right in front of you. From the state you're in, he's unable to tell what is actually wrong and the only way he can find out what, is by you telling him.

Your head pick up to reveal an empty stare, void of any spark of emotion, and Sho immediately understands.

"Hey now..." he pries your hands off your legs from clutching them close to your chest. His strong hands spread your legs apart to pull you into his lap and hold you against his chest, cradling you.

Reluctantly, you hands wrap around Sho's back, returning his close embrace as you hide your face in his neck. The smell of cologne and the food from his truck hits your nose and comforts you to some degree.

As his own hands roam over your back, Sho hums softly and nuzzles his head against yours. Originally, he wanted to go visit some new bike parts place since he finally managed to get approval to leave Darkwick, but now he's more than anything interested in making sure you're okay.

In his head he's already coming up with a list of stuff that you might wanna do to make you feel better from what he remembers you told him you liked. Thankfully Leo's R&R was approved too, so he won't barge in on the two of you. Sho or you wouldn't hear the end of it.

  ⋆˚✿˖°

Everything is loud. So loud. Too loud!

The sound of animals in their pens. Ren watching some movie or playing one of his games and complaining about Haru. Someone's footsteps outside your door in the common room. The banging of pots and pans in the kitchen. And the there's that damn scratching of something against a piece of wood!

That sound is about to drive you crazy in your frantic, borderline panic attack state. There's a slight pounding in your head and your breath is quick as you pace around your room like and animal in a tiny cage.

Oh great... Now the footsteps are getting louder. Just what you need...

"What is it Peekaboo? Hm?... Oh!" you can hear Haru's voice from the other side of your door shortly followed by brisk knocks on your door.

"Kinda busy..." your response comes out as a low growl, similar to some of the anomalies in Jabberwock's care.

"Ah... But Y/N, Peekaboo is worried. He says you've been walking around like that for a while now. Don't your feet hurt?" with your eyes trained on the door now, you can see the handle move as Haru tries to open the door. Luckily you locked it while your hands were still able to not shake as much as they do right now.

You ignore Haru's worried question and growl to yourself instead. He's always so cheery, it annoys you to no end right now.

Your door flies open and stops you dead in your tracks. Of course, you should've known that locks won't stop Haru.

A flock of anomalous animals flood into your room through the now open door with Haru standing in them.

"Y/N!"he exclaims in dismay upon seeing the state you're in. All the animals are around you. Some are jumping up at you and some are biting your ankles as a sign of affection, all trying to cheer you up, able to feel the mood you're in.

"Boo..." Peekaboo silently chirps in, echoing Haru's tone of voice. If you were able to look closer, you'd be able to notice he's got tears in his eyes.

"Y/N! Are you okay?" as Haru approaches you, the animals around you scatter away from you, giving him more space to assess your state.

"I- I'on... S'-s'just... Guess... I j-just..." you struggle to formulate your thoughts. They're racing too fast to be able to catch just one of them.

"Hey, hey, hey, slow down Y/N. Just breathe..." Haru guides you to sit down of the ground and takes a deep breath with you.

"Focus on me and breathe, okay?" his voice is gentle, very different from his usual demeanor while trying to advertise capybus tours.

As Haru talks you down from your frantic state and helps you breathe your way through, the animals come and join you, some trying to calm you in their own way and some resorting to just taking a nap around you.

  ⋆˚✿˖°

You've been working on your project for so long and now you're just going to ruin it with your tears. Great. Just another thing to make your mood worse. This project has been taking so much out of you, you don't even want to finish it.

"Mental health check!" Haku hums, peaking into your room. You've told him about your project and how much it's driving you insane, so he's been checking in on you the whole time.

After seeing you openly sobbing above your project you'd worked so hard on already, he's quick to slip into your room and move it away from you so you don't ruin it any further.

Before you're even aware of his presence over your tears, Haku is already picking you up and carrying you to your bed. After getting on it himself, he positions you in his lap, facing away from your desk, which would remind you of that mess that's been ruining your life for the past month or so.

"Aw, come on now... You're doing a great job. I'm really excited for it to be done and I know it'll be amazing just like everything else you've done." Haku tries to calm you down as one of his hands strokes your cheek.

"B-but i-it's not w-working... I-it sh-should, but isn't..." you sob and your upper body threatens to collapse onto Haku from the strength of them.

"Hey... Hey..." Haku brings his other hand to pick up your face and look at him, "It will work, you just need to take a break."

"N-no, it w-won't... I-i've bee working on it fo-for so long and it just won't... I'll just ha-have to cancel the-"

"No, please don't do that... I'll help you. We're all so looking for you to get it out there..." Haku tries to wipe the tears off your cheeks, but another ones are soon flowing down again.

You shake your head and start trying to turn around to look at you project again. Haku stops you and meekly smiles at you.

"Let me tell tell you what... We go out, have some ice-cream, hang out and maybe watch something in my room and then tomorrow I'll have a look at it and see what we can do... Okay?"

  ⋆˚✿˖°

"Y/N, hello?" a tired voice calls out to you.

You don't have to turn around to be able to tell it's Jiro.

"Y/N, you were supposed to come in today for a checkup so Yuri sent me for you."

You're still unmoving, just laying on your bed, on your cover and staring at the blank wall in front of you.

"Y/N?" Jiro approaches your bed and touches your arm.

You're still dressed in your dorm uniform despite it being a good few hours since your classes ended and you were allowed to change.

Jiro's gloved hand sneaks up to your neck, his two fingers searching around for a pulse point.

"What are you doing?" you say with a flat voice, almost like you're not fully present, but you sadly are.

"Making sure you're alive. Your catatonia and lack of response worried me."

You don't even answer and only hum in acknowledgement.

Jiro sighs and sits on your bed, inspecting your state.

Despite being a medical student, his studies sometimes included a psychological aspects. Based on them, Jiro was able to determine that your state must've been caused by some severe distress, forcing your brain to shut down and fully detach from reality in order to cope.

Sadly, no treatment came to his mind, so Jiro just kicks off his shoes and lies down behind you and throws his arm around your waist.

Hopefully his closeness can make you feel better. If not, he'll have to call Yuri, but now he wants to try and be there for you alone.

  ⋆˚✿˖°

Dante could swear he turned all the lights off in his private library, but apparently one of them was still on. It was always such a pain when he had to go back somewhere because of his disability.

With a sigh he opens the heavy door to find you surrounded by some of his books. You're frantically reading the contents of one of them and scribbling something on a paper next to it.

"Ah, Y/N. Isn't it rather late to be researching?"

Dante's sudden presence startles you and as you quickly move to face him, you accidentally knock over the book you were reading.

"Dante, sorry, you've startled me." you sheepishly admit, trying to hide how anxious you are.

"Tell me, what could possibly be so important at this hour, dear?" Dante is faster than you and pushes himself forward to pick up the fallen book.

You take a deep breath to seem like you have it all together, but you can't, "I couldn't sleep. My mind's just filled with all these horrible what-ifs and I couldn't stop them so I thought that maybe if I knew what to do, it would help."

"And what are these what-ifs about, Y/N?" Dante's expression softens.

"I don't know... Everything."

Dante sighs and starts pushing his wheelchair towards the sofa in the middle of the room, "Although I do believe that problems should be faced head on, perhaps you'd prefer if I read your favorite book to you as a distraction?"

  ⋆˚✿˖°

⋆˚࿔ Secret character 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

"Tough day?" a smooth voice interrupts your thoughts as you absentmindedly pet one of the mail cats, staring off into a space.

"Yeah..."

"Now what could worry a pretty little head like yours?" the owner of the voice comes closer and sits down next to you on the bench.

Your eyes are glossed over with tears so the stranger next to you only looks like a dark-grey smudge.

"Do you know what helps me, while I'm feeling down?... There's this kid, Rui, and he has all of these amazing drinks that taste like alcohol but aren't..."

"I-i know..."

"Hey, maybe if you're down, we could go together right now since my shift's ended."

"Nah thanks..."

"Oh, it's Elias, sweetheart."

[zoropookie]

WHAT YOU WON'T DO FOR LOVE (WYWDFL) — NINE

YOU couldn't be having a worse halloween night. choose your fate with your fellow readers and see if it gets better!

chapter 7.5 — chapter eight — chapter ten

soulmate!wanderer x gn!reader

You didn't think you were ever going to get an opportunity like this again.

In the midst of apprehension and fear, you stood there next to your captor stiff. Standing in the lingering shadow of your own fate, heart beating fast in your chest, the drumming in your ears getting louder with each second passing. You don't know if it was the winds shiftiness that was making you unsteady, or the sore wrists you inhabit, but something was clawing in your chest.

You couldn't let it show, not now. The car hummed lowly in front of the two, and as you narrowed your eyes towards the guy, your throat tightened. You had a window, one moment to speak up and this would probably all be over. You wanted to cry for help, as unrest clamped hard on your throat.

"I'm only checking to see if you kids need any help," She called out, her voice soft but probing, like she already knew something wasn't.

"We're fine," He said, low and controlled with a certain gravel, cringing at his pacing. You felt like you were splintering apart. "Everything's fine. We're a little tired from a show."

"A show?"

Yeah, if we're calling wild goose chases 'shows' now, I'm sure you won't tell her that, though. You could only smile with a more comfortable aura this time to mask the tension, but your eyebrows were furrowed. "College adaptation of Scream. Spooky...!" You wanted to raise your arms to do jazz hands, but you doubt that would make it look any less suspicious.

The woman's eyes lingered on you a minute longer, face creased with confusion. She hesitated, glancing at the man beside you, slowly absorbing what could be going on here. She tapped on the wheel in thought, her head tilted. "My granddaughter loves those movies, I believe," She said slowly. "Maybe you two go to the same school as she does?"

You looked at your kidnapper, to which he looked at you back, the both of you with side eyes. The dryness in your throat making it more difficult to speak. "Yeeeeah!" You both drawled.

"What a small world. Pretty sure she was the only one who at the rehearsal, we told her to get out, but she just kept insisting." He forced out, the smile on his face twisting into a little bit of a rougher one as he started becoming impatient. The laugh from his throat was hollow, almost foreign, as if it came from someone else. You were crumbling yourself, breaking down bit by bit.

"That sounds like my Julia," The woman said lovingly. "Be sure not to keep those ties on you for too long there, okay? You two are quite dedicated to the craft, I hope to see you out there!" Her voice was soft, probing, but with hardly any suspicion anymore.

It was unfortunate how bad your heart dropped in your chest that there was no. A specific feeling crawling up your spin like icy fingers, she gave you one last look, as if she was trying to find something, a little...unspoken cry for help. You stayed quiet as a mouse, still. "Have a good night, you two." She reached for the gear shift, and the car hummed softly.

She pulled away as the two of them smiled, eyes tracking the slow moving car. Her taillights casting a faint red glow over the darkening streets. She was gone, and in the moment that you two were standing there in the wake of the closest call you could muster, the brief flicker of what you thought was hope was extinguished again.

You squeezed your eyes shut in exhaustion. You were so fucking close; so agonizingly close, even. The universe was turning its back on you yet again as you stare at the distant and foggy path.

But...? For some reason, you felt relieved, too. Not with how your situation faired currently, but that you may have saved a life. You didn't have that much going for yourself right now, so it was nice to feel like you at least did something right. That feeling in your chest made you want to climb mountains, though for a brief period of time until you looked back at your kidnappers severely handsome face.

He seemed to be in thought too, but for a less innocent reason you could easily scope out. "What now? You gonna cut me up and stuff mashed potatoes in me like I'm a turkey? Do it."

"I'm glad you still have the heart to make jokes," he replied, cocking his head slightly as if trying to figure you out. "It makes me feel less bad for what's going to happen next." His fingers drummed adroitly on the hood of the car, each tap threatening your neck like a coiled snake.

"Oh, fantastic!" You threw your conjoined wrists up in defeat. "You know what? You're full of shit, right? Because you don't even know if I saw you stab your friend, and even if I did, why would I snitch you out when you're quite obviously going to come for my cheeks?! You should be thanking me that I saved your ass, but instead you're doing this bit where you act all mysterious and try to keep me on my toes. Jokes on you, I've watched Twilight before. I know what guys do to chase their toys."

"That's nice." He droned. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I have no idea why you want to kill and murder me, either, but we move on, I guess!" You spat, before sitting on the gravelly path and loosening your shoulders. "I give up. If you want to leave me like roadkill on the side of the road, do it. I don't want to go home, anyway."

He was irritatingly handsome in this light, like a villain carved from some god damn ancient myth, indifferent to your fate. Like you were just a mere mortal to him, and his lips quirked in a small and solemn smile. As per usual, he found it funny that you were throwing your hands up and surrendering. "I didn't go through the trouble to do that."

"Yeah you did. You're all the same." You shot back, your voice sulky and heavy. "It's always this fucked up game to keep you from getting bored. Until you find the next one."

He knelt down, the darkened gravel crunching under his shoes. "You don't know shit about me to even be concerned on whether you're dying today, or tomorrow, or any time soon." He said so quietly his voice was almost a sharp whisper only you could hear. He was turning your words over in his mind, shaping it himself. His face was inches from yours again, holding a long gaze. "But you're right about one thing."

Your stomach churned, and just as your fears predicted, you sucked in a deep breath, your mouth falling ajar before looking down at your shoulder. It took you a minute to process what happened before a large, crimson stain ate away at what was left of the fabric there. You felt warm, a different type of pain from what your body was already experiencing.

"I do get bored easily."

You could barely grasp onto what he was saying properly from how your shoulder screamed, excruciating lapses of pain rushing through your body so prominent that you fought not to pass out. You didn't care to try not to cry and wail in pain, you had nothing to lose.

Crimson spilled from your hands as he forced the knife out, the gushing of the liquids leaving him to marvel at your inner turmoil. Impenetrable enjoyment, as you already noted flowing through his body as he let out a resigned sigh. He lifted his hand to grab violently at your face, holding it with little regard in his hands, the metal of the ring on his thumb almost splitting a part of your chin.

"No more." He said finally, tone devoid of his previous one. "We're done playing, 'soulmate'."

no poll for this chapter! (you guys are kinda bad at this, no offense. see you next week!)

taglist ♢ @kinvasions @kazumiku @animeobsessed56 @levianamor @auroratumbles

@mellowberrie @scarawiki @xxxion @shutingstar @feikyuu

@mercy-not-merci

[lucygxybaird]

What about Billy doting over an injured reader? Or the other way around?

i'm not sure this is 100% what you asked for but i tried lol

It happens in a moment.

You’re riding home during a storm, the dirt roads churned into a river of mud by the deluge. It’s almost impossible to see, between the driving rain and your hair whipping in your face, strands plastered against your cheeks and your forehead. As lightning cracks the sky like a broken eggshell, you urge your horse faster, hoping to get home before the storm gets even worse. 

Your horse snorts in exertion, and you see her hoof plunge deep into a pocket of muck, her headlong forward rush arrested so suddenly that you both cry out, her whinny of alarm blending with your scream. You pitch forward, flying over your horse’s neck. The last thing you remember is the slate gray sky wheeling above you, spitting needles of rain, and then everything goes black. 

You don’t know how long it’s been when awareness creeps back in, heralded first and foremost by pain.  Aches thread themselves into your bones and your head throbs in time to the beat of your heart, which feels sluggish, as if it’s trapped in honey. Your arm feels strangely heavy, bent at an odd angle, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t find the strength to open your eyes. 

You feel a cool pressure against your forehead, trickling over your temples, and it takes you a moment to understand. There’s someone pressing a wet washcloth to your brow, and as your eyelids flutter, attempting once again to pry themselves apart, you hear a soft, low voice urging you to be still. 

The thing is, you’re fairly certain you would know that voice anywhere, and only its velvet-edged smoke could draw you out of the darkness weighing heavily on your mind. 

“Billy?” you croak, and this time, you finally manage to open your eyes. 

His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, with dark circles sitting underneath them like crows haunting a tree branch. Billy tries to smile, but his eyes are glassy, and he has to swallow hard before he says, “Hey, baby.” 

You swallow, too, wincing as it feels like barbed wire has wound itself around the column of your throat. You want to say that you’re sorry, but you’re so very, very thirsty. Instead, you manage to say: “W-water?”

Immediately, Billy reaches for you, helping you to sit up enough so you can drink from the cup he presses to your lips. There’s a tin pitcher on your bedside table, and the water is blessedly cold. You wonder how often Billy has freshened it, waiting for you to need it. “Here,” he’s saying, his arm around your shoulders. “Is that better?”

You nod, and then you tug on the collar of his shirt with your good hand, wanting him to lay down with you. It’s only then you notice that you only have one good hand. The other, along with your right arm, is wrapped up in bandages, a splint forcing the arm into an L-shape that’s bound to your chest with a sling.  Billy understands what you want before you can ask again, and he carefully shifts his weight onto the mattress beside you, his arm still wrapped around you.

Your body aches anew from the simple movement just required to sit up, and you sag against Billy’s chest, a little whimper catching in your teeth even as you try to prevent its escape by clenching your jaw. Billy’s forehead creases. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

“I’m—” You shake your head. “I’m okay. I’m just…sore.” 

It’s putting it mildly, but you don’t want to stress him out any worse than you clearly already have. He sighs, burying his face against your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The doctor will be back in the morning,” he says. “I’ll ask him if there’s anything stronger for your pain, okay?”

You nod, though now that you’ve settled in his arms, you feel better. Part of it is the warmth of his body, soothing away the ache, but more than that is the comfort of Billy himself: the familiar scent of his skin — the strength of his embrace, even as you can tell he’s holding you gently, carefully — the gentle carding of his fingers through your hair, an instinctive bid to comfort you. 

The two of you lay there in silence for a few moments, and you know (or, at least, you hope) that it’s doing Billy as much good as it is you, to be nestled in bed together after what happened. Which — you frown a little as your memory falters, and you realize you can’t quite recall what actually did happen. 

“Billy?”

You feel him jerk underneath your cheek, and you realize with a start that he’d probably dozed off in the cradle of silence. “What?” he says, and your guilt deepens at how groggy he sounds, and at once, how worried. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” you say, reaching up with your good arm to touch his cheek. “I just…I don’t really remember what happened.”

Billy softens at your touch, closing his eyes for a second. Your heart sinks. 

“Billy, when was the last time you slept?” 

He shakes his head. “I dunno, it doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’ve been takin’ care of you. You broke your arm, y’know, when you…when you fell. That’s what happened, you fell off your horse. I…”

You wait, pressing your lips together. You start rubbing the heel of your hand in soothing circles over his chest, where his heartbeat is pressing a rapid drumbeat against the thin cotton of his shirt. 

“I was wonderin’ where you were, and I was gettin’ worried, especially with the rain bein’ so bad, so I…I went out and tried to follow the path I thought you might have used. I heard your horse first, makin’ the most godawful racket…I followed the noise, and she was panickin’, stuck in the mud, and then I saw…” 

He takes a deep breath. “I saw you, layin’ there, and you looked so…you looked like a broken doll, and you weren’t movin’, and I thought…”

You wait again. 

“Anyway, I—” He clears his throat. “I got you on my horse, and I was able to get your horse out of the muck, and I brought…I brought you home. Your arm is broken, and you’ve got bumps and bruises just about everywhere.”

“Yeah, I know,” you mutter, despite yourself, but you’re rewarded with Billy’s dry little chuckle. 

“They were…they were most worried about your head,” he says. “The doctors say you were lucky the rain softened up the ground so much, but still…”

“How long have I been asleep?”

He pushes a ragged sigh out of the depths of his chest. “A few days.”

You can feel every bit of his worry in the tension radiating through the sinews of his body, and you nestle closer to him, despite the jostle of discomfort. “Well, now you’ll just have to wait on me hand and foot until I’m all better,” you tease. “Pretty soon you’ll get sick of me.”

He chuckles again, and this time it sounds more like him. “I can’t imagine gettin’ sick of takin’ care’a you, honey.”

Not that you really doubted otherwise, but he’s true to his word. 

The doctor has decreed that you need to stay in bed for the next two weeks, and Billy is determined that you won’t set so much as a toe on the floorboards in that time. Every meal is brought to you in bed, he  drags the big metal bathtub into your room, and when you beg him for some sunshine, he carries you out to the porch and sets you in a rocking chair, nestled in blankets. 

“Mmm,” you sigh, your eyes drifting shut as Billy pulls a brush through your hair, using long, languid strokes from your scalp to the ends of your hair. “That feels so good.” 

Billy gives a low, soft laugh. “Yeah?” he says, and you hear a smile in his voice. “I’m glad, baby. You want it done up in a braid?”

You laugh, too. “Billy, you don’t have to…”

“I want to,” he insists. “I know you like to sleep with your hair plaited up. Let me.” 

With your arm still bound up, it’s not like you can really do it yourself, and in any case, you don’t have the heart to refuse Billy — especially not when you turn your head to look at him, and he’s giving you that patented pleading look. “Yes, please,” you relent, and at once his pout melts into another smile.

You close your eyes at the pleasant tugging sensation to your scalp, a soft sigh leaving your lips. “Thank you,” you say, and you can almost sense him shaking his head. 

“You don’t have to thank me, honey,” he says. “I love takin’ care of you. And I’m just…I’m glad you’re okay.” 

He ties off your braid with a length of ribbon, giving the knot a gentle tug to make sure it’s in place. You turn in his arms, the only unwieldy thing now being your broken arm. Thanks to Billy’s dedicated care, your aches and pains have all faded away, including the pain in your head. “I am okay,” you remind him. “You’ve been taking such good care of me, Billy. It means so much to me.”

Billy kisses your forehead. “You mean so much to me,” he says. “You’re my girl. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.” 

You purse your lips thoughtfully, and he raises an eyebrow. “What?” he asks. 

Looking up at him from underneath your eyelashes, you wheedle, “Do you think you could let me make dinner tonight? I wanna take care of you for once.”

You can tell he’s actually thinking about it, wondering if you’ve regained enough of your strength. But it’s equally clear he’s going to relent when his shoulders soften. 

“Alright,” he says finally, and you beam. 

“Thank you.” 

Although you do manage to make dinner for the two of you, Billy insists on setting the table — which actually ends up being a blanket outside, under a phalanx of stars. “So I have a deal for you,” he says, after you’ve eaten. He has your head in his lap, and your good hand is combing gently through his hair. 

“What is it?”

He smiles, looking up at you. “I take care of you,” he says. “And you take care of me. Alright?”

You lean down toward him, giggling when he props himself up on an elbow to meet your lips.

“Alright.” 

[gomzdrawfr]

[oc x cannon rambles]

OKAY. Continuining from this.

New Au that originates from Royal AU -> Isekai Royal AU

more rambles/lore/fic/explanation/art below (compiled it into one post so i dont spam yall's tl with my bs LMAO:

[wARNING: big sad, MCD(Raven), angst, death, violence, injuries]

In the ending of Royal AU, King!Price married another Queen and had a kid, Royal Guard!Raven got promoted to Commander, they go their separate ways for the sake of the nation

The kid, aka the Princess, has everything Price had, the exact blue eyes and all except she was blonde like her mother.

She was rather fond of Raven, and always sneaked out to find Commander Raven despite Raven warning her not to.

Raven's still a softie though, so in the end, she ended up growing soft for her.

Until it all falls apart.

First it was a scream, and before she could register it she was bolting towards the voice.

It was the lil girl's scream.

She regretted not wearing armour that day, but somehow she managed to escape with the Princess in hand, stumbling down to the deeper part of the woods that was safe for now.

"Shhh...don't cry Princess....you're safe now"

Raven coos the trembling young Princess, her poor face pale from the shock and bruises on her delicate skin.

Lost count of how many arrows were on her back, she knew it was only a matter of time before it will take its full effect.

Poison arrows, the fletching bearing a black greenish gradient.

It was an assassination attempt on the young Princess.

"R-Raven...Raven I'm scared...."

"It's okay, it's okay...don't be scared....help's on their way..."

"Papa...I want Papa!!"

"......"

She sighs quietly, it stings, not from the arrows itself, but...from the weight of it all.

"I want your papa too....Princess"

She mumbled in a dazed, blood loss and her dizziness making it hard for her to decipher if she was thinking, or talking out loud, one thing she is certain was she can no longer hunched forward as she slumps to the ground.

"R-Raven? Raven!"

"....listen to me well...lil one..."

"...your papa....the Emperor...your majesty...is a great man..."

"he was a man who loved with all his heart...."

"your papa loves unconditionally....and the one thing he loves most in the world...is you"

More sniffles were heard from the lil girl, who were shaking worse than before, Raven reaches her hand out in an attempt to calm the young lady, only to smear some of her blood onto her pretty pink dress, she frowns at that...but...she was tired...

So so tired...but she kept going.

"....papa may be scary sometimes...and he scolds you...or punish you...but it's for your own good"

"....papa is also very kind...when he needs to...he bought you the tiara you really wanted...remember, Princess?"

"y-yes...I love it..."

"that's right...and you are a pretty girl...pretty eyes like your papa...yeah?"

Raven smiles, the pain subsiding into a blur

"and you have the brightest smile...don't cry...Princess...because a smile suits you better...please?"

She knows this is all wrong, that the poor princess will be traumatized forever because of this.

But the Princess was obedient, and smiles through the snort and tears.

Raven chuckles quietly, nodding weakly.

She'll be alright.

"...treasure your papa...Princess..."

Her eyes closed once, twice...and it was getting harder and harder to open them, or to hear anything else, not even the sound of horses gallop that was getting closer and closer

"...do it for me..."

And then she was swallowed by darkness

In her last moment, she watched a couple sitting side by side, she knew this scene.

The last time they were allowed to be with each other.

"Maybe in another life..." "I'll look for you in every single one of those lifetime" "yeah...you'd that for me, birdie?" "mhm..." "just remember...I love owls" "pretty vague if you ask me..." "you'll know it when you see me" "....that I can guarantee..."

The scene before her morphs into nothingness when she tried to reach out for it, a blinding light forces her vision to go white as she struggles to move.

When she does open her eyes again, she was heaving, sweating and....grabbing the air?

She blinks a few time, this doesn't feel like dying, wait-

She quickly sat up, and realise she was in a room, dimly lit but there were light at the balcony, she dash towards it, opening the windows only to be greeted with something she wouldn't expect.

She recognise this place...the ocean, the city, the flags, the castle- this castle-

How the hell did she end up in the Umbralis Citadel? [bear with me here i literally cannot come up with names of places LOL]

She quickly strolls back to her room, stopping before a mirror as she glanced at her reflection.

A Princess.

She has reincarnated as the Veil Princess.

=================

anywyas yeah thats sort of the fic SO the premise for the first art itself is moreso Princess Raven who managed to finally see King!Price after some careful planning and such, took the opportunity and meet him.

At first she gaze from afar, because she got emotional seeing him after...after everything they went through (she didn't even get to say good bye to him before she died).

Her attire choices was deliberate, although she was already rocking the modest, simple look since as the Veil Princess, no one really pay attention to her (she's the youngest in the royal family).

So she finally approaches him...AND THE STORY BEGINS-

[asliceofzosan]

pspsps Zeff meeting Ayari 👀👀👀

oH YOU REALLY DONE DID IT NOW

zeff knows how much sanji loves kids.

he first noticed it when he was roughly turning into a teenager. around the age of 13-14. it isn't often that families come to the baratie. but when they do, sanji actually volunteers to wait tables when on normal understaffed days, zeff would have to drag him out of the kitchen kicking and screaming. he didn't understand it until he decided to watch sanji and everything made sense.

if one is the child of a pirate or a marine, you're bound to be a little fussy (case and point: sanji). and his boy was a natural at calming down fussy babies. those chubby little rascals would immediately stop crying when sanji would pick them up and carry them on his hip, taking everybody's order like usual. the parents would look at him gratefully, even allowing him so far as to let him wait other tables with their baby in his arms.

during sanji's break, he would play with them. if they won't stop crying, he'd ask patty or carne to heat up some milk or mushy vegetables to feed the kid. and more often than not, sanji would sometimes be seen with a sound asleep baby as he barks out the orders to a bewildered kitchen.

zeff asked him once if he wanted a baby sibling. sanji just laughed until his sides hurt.

"you can barely raise me, you old coot." he said in response with a bright grin that reminded zeff how much he loved this kid. "i'm better off as an only child. trust me."

(he does. trust sanji, that is. but he will never forget how his laugh sounded pained. like an echo of a terrible memory. he'll come to realize why after a long while.)

as sanji grew up, his natural gravitation towards children never wavered. in fact, kids often flocked towards him at the baratie, following behind him like little ducklings in a row. sanji's smile was softer on those days, the sparkle in his eyes as prominent as when sanji talks about his beloved all blue. the kids would hang onto his every word.

he doesn't know how qualified he is at knowing good parenting from bad parenting. but he did raise sanji for most of his life. his little eggplant turned out pretty decent by his standards.

so of course, it's a no brainer for zeff that if sanji would one day have his own kid, he'd be the best dad in the world.

"head chef?" patty says as he enters zeff's office. "someone downstairs really wants to meet ya."

"if they want a discount they better fuckin' run." he gruffly replies without looking up from the newspaper. "customer is always right my ass—"

"sir?"

"–and you know what's real upsetting? the fact that they think they're all hot shit! i don't care who you are. you pay to eat here–"

"chef-"

"–would be nice if i didn't get some dumbass like that for once—"

"chef, it's sanji!"

zeff has fought sea beasts, marine fleets, and pirates with a worse death wish than him. he has faced starvation, dehydration, massive bloodloss without batting an eye.

but nothing. absolutely nothing makes his heart jump more than hearing that his son has come home to visit.

"well what the fuck are you doing standing there, patty?" he bellows, standing up and stalking towards the open door. "you better be preparing a feast for my boy."

"actually, he's already in the kitchen cooking one himself."

zeff laughs. that sounds exactly like his boy, alright.

it took zeff all of two seconds to notice that sanji isn't alone.

the swordsman is there, hanging off his shoulder like it's nobody's business (and he's pretty sure sanji mentioned at one point that he had gotten his head out of his ass and finally got together with him. lord was that an ordeal). and it looked normal for a few seconds until sanji turned around to face zeff.

there was a child there.

strapped to sanji's chest with some sort of blanket-like contraption was a baby. it couldn't be more than two years old. its shrieks of delight echoed in the kitchen as it drooled all over sanji's suit. its hair was green – the same shade as that of the swordsman glued to sanji's side. and it was tied up into little pigtails that bounced as it moved.

"zeff!" sanji greeted, that same bright sunny smile plastered on his face. "come meet your granddaughter!"

his... what?

then he looked closer at her and it all made sense.

the curly eyebrows.

but it also made no sense at all. because the longer zeff stared at his granddaughter, the more confused he felt because how in the love of the all blue did sanji get a child that looked exactly like him and his idiot swordsman?

he was so much in his head that he didn't notice sanji take the kid out of her baby sling and hold her out in front of him. he was brought back to reality when one small hand wrapped around the end of his mustache with a continuous giggle. zeff stared at her, his whole world stopped on its axis. he never saw sanji as a baby. he wonders if this is the closest he'll get to experiencing that for the first time...

then the baby pulled on his mustache with a high pitched shriek that could reach the heavens.

"jiji!" the little girl squealed, now holding onto zeff's mustache with two chubby baby hands. zeff stayed rooted to his spot, transfixed by the girl's mere existence. but also there's a stirring in his heart that occurs when she smiles at him. she looks exactly like sanji. though with a lot less teeth.

"would you look at that, old man." zoro laughed as he gently pried his daughter's (????) fingers off of zeff's mustache. "you get her fifth word. congratulations."

on a normal day, (but god what even classifies as normal anymore?) zeff would have probably kicked that swordsman's chest in and sent him flying into the next room. but there's something about the way sanji's smile softens as he watches zoro play with the baby. his eyes mist over and the only reason he probably isn't openly crying right now is because zeff is right there.

there are precious few instances where zeff's seen sanji genuinely happy.

now is one of them.

he coughs roughly to get their attention. all three of them look up, sanji's gaze particularly nervous. but zeff just shook his head, figuring he'll ask all the dumb questions later, and holds his hands out expectantly.

"you gonna let your father hold his grandbaby or or ya just gonna hog her the whole time you're here?"

the laugh that escapes sanji's mouth has both zeff and zoro staring fondly at him. then when sanji transfers his baby girl into zeff's arms, sanji's smile is freer and more open than zeff's seen it in years.

"zeff," sanji says, smoothing down ayari's hair down with one hand, his other hand resting on zeff's bicep. a strong grip. a grounding force. "meet ayari. our little blessing."

ayari coos up at zeff and grabs his mustache again. sanji bends down slightly to rain her little face with a million kisses. zeff just stares at this all with the barest hint of a smile on his face.

yeah. he always knew sanji was gonna be a good dad.

genuinely i am in agony i love this family 😭 do you have any idea how much i was crying while writing this??? is it possible to get baby fever from your own oc zosan baby???

[sourjinss]

⁀➷ ‎‎YOU STAY ON MY MIND

➼ PROLOGUE ⋆ did you ever? ⋆ NEXT CHAPTER

➼  PARING ⋆ tattooartist!taehyung! + bartender!fem!reader

➼ PRÉCIS ⋆  after a rough patch in your relationship you and your boyfriend are finally on solid ground but that all goes to hell when his older brother, taehyung comes to visit.

➼ CAUTION! ⋆ cheating sexual themes verbal abuse toxic relations this is pure fiction does not relate to idol physical altercations fluffy and sweet (yay) angst (boo) slow burn?? side jungkoook story?

APPLE!! - i hope you like the prologue of this new series i'm doin its gonna start off slow so give me grace itll get better pinky promise. ill update every friday if you're interested lol, thanks for reading! <3 xoxo

➼ PLAY THIS ⋆ one more shot by CIL

THE DAY you found out your boyfriend was cheating on you was the day a little piece of your heart died.

it was busy night at the bar you worked at, some old woman complained every three fucking minutes about her shriley temple, a teenage boy trying to get alcohol at the ripe age of 17 called you a slut for not going through with the transaction.

you were exhausted and all you really wanted to is go home to your boyfriend; mingyu and him to tell you did good today, that you looked beautiful despite the sticky stain on your black top and the grease in your hair.  that’s all you wanted, truly. now that you thought about it your boyfriend never texted you back when you asked him about a late dinner.

opening white gate to your home you frown when you see another car in your drive-way. your small black cat could be seen in the window by the entrance starring directly at you, tail whipping behind her almost angrily. sighing you pulled out the keys you hated when mingyu had invited friends over and not informed you.

unlocking the door, you frowned even harder if that was possible when you didn’t find him on the couch where he usually resides to jump up and greet you with so much love. “mingyu?” you called as you set down your car keys and bag slipping out your shoes grunting gently as your tired feet plants on your hard wood floor.

 mingyu didn’t answer your call which had kind of irritate you because you knew he was up he was always up at this time, walking towards your bedroom as you closed in you began to hear noises, noises that sounded like his groans when he bedded you

that's when your heart started to pound in your chest and your breathing seemed to stop you knew what was happening behind that door you but wanted to believe otherwise.  

throwing the door open what was unfolding in front of you was worse than the absolute shitty day you had it was worse than first hangover you got the freshmen year of college, worse then the day you crashed your first car it frankly made you sick.

mingyu was huffing and groaning profusely, the sweat that glistened and shined off his inked back that you loved to observe when he exercised was then twisted into the worst image that your eyes ever lied on.   

the girl who you recognized to be one of his clients, the girl who you were told to not worry about when she requested for mingyu to tattoo her where its most sensitive. the blonde girl screamed when she snapped out of the trance that mingyu put her in and that seemed to make him snap out of it as well.

“yn!” he shouted eyes widening with shock

you stood there numb, see if you could cry at the moment, you would but instead you looked mingyu in the eye and opened your mouth to say fiercely “you got two and a half seconds to get out my motherfucking house mingyu”

he looked at you and winced as if the words you spoke hurt him which was rich to say the least. and he grabbed his pants and sprinted out the door glancing down at you briefly regret written all over his soft features.

the blonde girl who name you didn’t care to knowledge followed his suite bowing quietly

just as you heard the front door slam you walked to your bathroom and peeled the damp clothes off and a part of you wanted to sleep in his hoodie but you couldn’t do it tiredly you slid onto the tiled floor and that’s when you wept you were hurt, although your pride wouldn't let you showcase it to mingyu yet you were so deeply hurt.

sobbing on the cold floor you secretly wished that you wasn't there to witness the scene because mingyu had more of half of your heart in his very own chest he was the reason why the other half was still beating. 

 but right now, you felt dead and mingyu killed you without remorse took the very light he provided in your life, in your eyes and blew it out.

youu tried your best to be his person to be his sun but you weren’t enough. and as your heavy lids fell the last thing you thought to yourself was if he was ever satisfied with you. 

the next morning, you woke up with an aching pain in your chest, which was fitting but your whole body as well. “son of a bitch” you croaked pulling yourself up you felt like you weighed twice your size, looking in the mirror you looked like you’ve been hit by a truck.

suddenly your door slammed causing you to drop your toothbrush cautiously you stalked out your bedroom to see mingyu wearing the sweater you got him a few weeks ago hands stuffed in the pockets on the back of his pants “yn-”

he started as he came closer to you. crossing your arms and sniffling you held back tears a large lump settling in your throat.

“i just don’t really get it you know? i mean, i thought we were happy?” he looked at the ground his eyes welling up as he lowered himself to his knees

“ we are happy! i’m so fucking sorry baby I don't know what came over me” you wanted to forgive him, wiping your tears with the back of your hand you stepped over him and went into the kitchen, he followed closely gripping your wrist gently “what do i need to do for you to forgive me yn..please”

you didn't pull away from his touch but it didn’t feel comforting like it used to hiding your face you sighed shakily “i don’t know” you couldn’t even face him let alone for forgive him “i’ll do anything baby” finally you turn to face him and took his hand off of

“just give me time” you say quietly as you walk to your coffee machine behind your back mingyu smiles to himself feeling hopeful sitting down at the small dinner table you had bought together waiting on you to finish

and in your head, you know forgiving him is a lost cause, but you can’t image being without him for he is all you have.

-

[seramilla]

EXORCIST AU

What has she done wrong that has led to this? She was a good soldier. Following orders like she was supposed to. Listened to every word to the D, trooped through every command, passed every judgement they decided upon. Yet... She finds herself standing on edge of Heaven's gates.

Just over the edge whole new world of destruction and suffering can be seen. Carmilla briefly glanced behind her. There stood her home... Her now ex home.

There weren't any more welcome looks. Just glares, that made her shiver to the core. The high angels of Heaven are staring daggers into her. And... She doesn't know why.

What's even worse. Her lover was there among them. Not even daring to look her in the eye. What kind of betrayal is this? She served heaven as she was supposed to, yet she was being chased away.

"Why!?", she screamed on top of her lungs towards them. They ignored her and pointed their weapons towards her. One of the higher ups, Michael stepped forward, bearing his spear.

"You know what you did. You betrayed Heaven and now must be punished by law." "But, but, I didn't... Arrrhgh", screamed Carmilla as the angel grabbed her wings, squeezing them together painfully.

"You don't deserve them."

Carmilla then felt excruciating pain spread through her spine. It made her fall to the ground as she writhed in pain, her back arching, her hands trying to find her now lost wings. Tears flew from her eyes as her screams turned into sobs.

After that, Michael grabbed her by the hair and started dragging her towards the edge. She fought as much as she could, trashing her legs around, trying to find some sort of footing, but to no avail. Clouds were always her worst nightmare, but now her only salvation.

Then, there was nothing beneat her. The last thing she sees were the angels by the gate. And her lover's tears falling down. That look of desperation and need to help, but inability die to the rules. At least she knows now that Sera wasn't against her. With that salvation, she accepts her fate as she is falling down from Heaven.

She is a fallen now.

:3

How dare you make me cry before I've had my morning coffee!!! 😭😭 (It's the ass crack of dawn at the time I'm queuing this up)

(Also, I'm so sorry, I can't remember which AU this one is for. Is it proto-Exorcist Carmilla falling??? Let me know and I'll tag appropriately)

There is just something so fraught and heart-breaking about Carmilla being paraded out in front of the elders and other angels, humiliated and defenestrated in front of her peers and fellow Exorcists, that makes even the other angels who are bearing witness to the event take pity on her.

The concept of falling is not a new one. Ever since Lucifer and his legions dared to go against Heaven's mandate, the threat of becoming Fallen perpetually sits at the back of every angel's mind. It's a parable all elder angels tell their younger counterparts, that if they deter from the path or fall out of line, they could be tossed into the pit of fire. Heaven's control over its population is absolute, and they do not hesitate to make an example of one another, to keep angels and Winners alike in line, and maintain that control.

Carmilla's sin is similar to Lucifer's. She is a dreamer, in the sense that she wants better for herself and those around her. She has never given in to the pomp and circumstance of Heaven's hierarchy, or ever hesitated to question why things are the way they are. She's a "Lucifer apologist," is what they call her. She questions why Heaven pushes such antiquated, ridiculous rules, such that an angel of her limited standing can't mingle with the likes of a High Seraphim. Why two people who are in love can't be happy with one another. It's moronic -- it's bogus -- that she and Sera can't love each other, on their own terms.

That she's being cast out, for daring to touch another angel above her station, is beyond her comprehension. Not even mentioning that the other angel is a woman, which adds yet another layer of complexity to her sentence. Carmilla can't begin to comprehend the predicament she finds herself in. None of these pointless rules even make any sense!

Michael pushes her, and she falls, and during the descent, Carmilla can only ask why? Why hadn't Sera come to her defense? Why did she just watch them force her out, without saying anything? Why didn't Sera at least try to save her? Did their feelings and declarations of love ever mean anything? Or was it all just a farce? Were they just words whispered in moments of passion, that never held meaning beyond surface level?

Now Carmilla will never know. And as she falls, her head swims with so much regret and sorrow, and she cries tears of desperate grief. She succumbs to her fate as she disappears into the void, the flames licking at her aching back.

[semi-imaginary-place]

Which characters have tragic pasts that aren’t recognized enough?

I think people don't notice because Petra is very active about her situation. She's a political hostage in a foreign land that has turned her country into a vassal state from the war that killed her dad. But she's made the most of it. Petra taught herself a new language, she trains constantly, she's made herself be involved with the politics of Fodlan, and she's always seeking to better herself and hone her skills so that she's not just a prisoner but someone useful to Brigid. Petra's the opposite of passive, she refuses to just let things happen to her, and in a lot of ways she doesn't have a choice either she is an active participant in her life or she will just be shuffled around as a political pawn and hostage against the country she loves. We don't know the specifics of the international agreement about Petra but I can easily imagine it being something like "give us a hostage as a guarantee you won't attack us or we'll continue the war we won, raze you to the ground, kill all of you, and take your land".

Claude's backstory isn't tragic and uh... at least half the cast if not more has had it worse than him but I do want to talk about it since I never see people talk about the struggles Claude has had. I think a large part of it is that like Petra, Claude doesn't show the struggles he's been through nor does he really talk about himself or his past. They both show a strong front and face forward in their lives.

Claude's spent his entire life being alienated, in Almyra for being too foreign and not Almyran enough and then in Fodlan for being too foreign and not Fodlan enough. He's faced multiple childhood assassination attempts just because of his parentage and at least some of these have come from family members. Claude is a rarity among the cast in having not only both parents but having 2 parents that love him. However his parents are of the tough love approach, that what doesn't kill will make him stronger so they offer him little support, protection, or help in a world that is hostile to him at every turn. And so Claude grew up with everyone against him, with his every action used as justification that he's weaker and lesser than a full Almyran. And this has destroyed his ability to trust or be open with people. Claude is very insecure in his interactions with other people because he's used to every slip of information given being used against him. You see this in his supports with Marianne where he sees any information about himself as possible leverage against him so it has to be exchanged like a commodity so that they both have equal leverage against the other. And yet he does genuinely want to help people and cares about those around him as clumsy as his attempts are at making friends. Claude's backstory is not nearly on the level of say Edelgard's or Lysithea's but it's a shame no one is talking about it at all.

Dimitri stans screaming and crying about poor Dimitri and yeah he's had it rough (a lot of 3H characters have traumatizing backstories) but Dedue is right there, what about his pain! The hypocrisy! The Tragedy of Duscar led to the massacre of his family and not only that but he's now a genocide survivor since Faerghus decided to wipe out Duscar, take over their land, rename and settle on it. Not to mention they were wrongfully scapegoated for it. Dedue has had everything taken from him so he doubles down on this life debt to Dimitri because it's the one thing he has left. It's a trauma response coping mechanism that he's rather override his will, opinions, and personhood for Dimitri's sake. And the of course Faerghus hates him and reminds him of that every day.

At this point I'm wondering if its a racism problem that it's Petra, Dedue, and Claude whose struggles are most often overlooked.