#i really wanted to try steamed eggs...

[automatisma]

Went to bed thinking about steamed eggs, dreamed of steamed eggs, woke up and went to buy some eggs to make steamed eggs, actually tried to make steamed eggs for lunch and got hit with the fact that without a steamer you won't be able to cook them decently.

[kuromi-hoemie]

i can't believe i used all my tags on this. i have MORE TO SAY. honorable mentions i will not elaborate on: pikmin, runescape, OG animal crossing.

the reason for all my tags is because there's a difference between "most fun" and "most important" and feel like if they're important u should at least say why :3

[chlorinecake]

— YOU'RE RIGHT, BABY | 𝐂.𝐁𝐂

▹ PAIRING: soft!dom fiancé bangchan x f. reader

▹ SYNOPSIS: Chan gets a little upset upon realizing that you weren’t wearing your engagement ring, but you make it up to him by letting him fuck you in his studio after a long day of work…

▹ WARNINGS: KINKTOBER SPECIAL, swearing, kissing, teasing, dry humping and heavy petting, mentions of food, breeding kink + cream pie (chan’s a possessive freak and in love with the idea of getting you preggers lol), dirty talk, light breath play (f. receiving), pet names (good girl, baby), that’s about it

▹ WORD COUNT: 1.8k — DAY 2

BEING THE AMAZING partner you are, you decided to stop by the studio where your fiancé was working and bring him some dinner, and by dinner, I mean a box full of his favorite takeout foods:

Grilled beef, steamed rice, broccoli teriyaki, and a chicken egg roll…

He was working a few hours overtime that day, and aside from the fact that you wanted him to have something good to eat after expending such efforts, you really just missed his presence…

You missed looking at his gorgeous face and hearing his adorable voice while he did absolutely nothing but vibe with you… you missed having his hands on you and your hands on him as you both got lost in the lusts of your own hearts—

“Chris,” your voice came out gently as you stood behind him, caressing over his tense shoulders while he remained seated in his desk chair, “just rest your little head, baby… you worry too much…”

“I do… you’re right…” he sighs deeply while leaning his head back against the headrest to look at you, the smell of takeout distant in the room.

His eyes are clearly tired as you know he’s been overworked lately, but you hold yourself from bringing it up to him, placing a gentle kiss to the center of his forehead instead.

“Thanks for stopping by, though, princess,” he went on, and you already feel like he’s trying to push you away, despite how you literally just got here, “I have to get back to work now, though—”

“You’re always getting back to work, Channie…” you chuckle slightly, and his eyes flutter shut as your thumbs come across a particularly tight muscle in his left shoulder…

Digging in, you massage the knot gently, but the pressure you apply doesn’t feel so soothing at first—

“Ouch, that hurts!” Chan exclaims with a wince, and you simply smooth over his skin with your touch, massaging a different area instead as you decided to give that spot time to heal on its own.

“Look… your body’s aching as if you’ve been working in a field all day… that’s why I’m here to make you feel better,” you return, and his body is clearly starting to relax the more and more your fingers smooth along the base of his neck and back down his shoulders again, soft hums coming from his throat at the sensation.

“But you don’t have to, love…” he says, voice a little weak as the warmth of your touch reeled him into relaxation, “just having you around is making me feel better already…”

“Aww,” you pout facetiously, even though he can’t see it from where he’s sitting, “You missed me, Channie?… Your very own nagging fiancé?…”

“Nooo,” he corrects, turning in his chair now to get a proper look at you, “I missed my beautiful wife to be, and my adoring partner in crime…”

Reaching out a hand, the veins in his arm appear highlighted under the dim studio lighting as he guides your face into his before giving you a kiss that you both smile into… weakly though, considering how it’s literally 4 in the morning...

Breaking from the contact, you tug at his wrist slightly, not letting go until he finally gets up from the chair, letting you lead him to sit on the couch.

The look on his face now very clearly lets you know what’s on his mind, but you simply decide to sit on his lap in a straddle position, wanting him to make the first move from here…

And he did.

“Can I?” He asks while lifting his hands from the couch cushion, hovering them over your hips and being careful not to touch until you allowed him to.

“Of course, silly,” you chuckle, making him blush slightly at your brief fit of laughter.

“It’s not like anyone’s here to tease us for it,” you went on, thinking back to the countless times that your fiancé’s friends (specifically Minho and Han) would outwardly gag whenever you two publicly display affection—

“You’re right, baby… no one’s around to bother us,” Chris breathes in agreement, finally letting his eager hands rest at your hips before adding a bit of pressure as he caressed up your waist and along your thighs, “The two of us could practically get away with doing anything we want for the next few hours in here…”

You didn't even have to ask to know what he was specifically implying, but you decide to play dumb anyway, just because you absolutely loved hearing his strong Aussie accent come out whenever he was sexually worked up with you…

“Takeout’s still waiting to be opened, Chris,” you whisper, letting your nails gently drag against his scalp as he melts into your touch, his silky curls looping around your fingers, “we shouldn’t keep it out for too long or else it might spoil…”

“Well I’m not in the mood to eat anymore,” he whispers back in a raspy voice, and you let your weight sink further into his lap, your bottom resting right above the spot his true hunger was pulling him most.

“Use your words, baby… tell me what you want,” You press, leaving a kiss along his clenched jawline… and another one on his pretty thick lips… and a third one against his Adam’s Apple that makes him groan out loud…

Or maybe his groan had more to do with the way you were also rocking your hips against his clothed hard on, making his hands slightly grip at the fabric of your jeans for any sort of leverage.

“Why… of all the bottoms that you own, did you close to wear tight, denim jeans at a time like this?” He asks with frustration, making you giggle a bit at the way his chest rises and falls every time you circle in his lap, the rough material tantalizing him…

“Don’t you think they make my ass look good, though?” You tease with a pout, watching as he smirks at your question, only to hiss at your movements again.

“They make your ass look great, babe… but they also make it impossible for me to touch you properly…”

He was doing it again, you thought to yourself… That thing where he gets you to do what he wants without specifically asking.

Yes, Chris was a typically a pretty confident guy, but sometimes, you had a way of bringing out his shy, reluctant side when it came to sexual things, but you still found it cute nonetheless.

“Fine, then… since you’re too shy to ask for it properly, I’ll just do it myself,” you say in a bratty tone while getting up from his lap, and he visibly scoffs at the way you stood before him now, fingers meddling with the buckle of your jeans until he stopped you.

“C’mere,” he huffs, pulling you close to him by the belt loop of your jeans until you fall into the couch beside him with a gentle plop.

His smirks again once he finally unzips the rough fabric just enough to see a leak of what’s beneath, and the expression is so wide that his dimples come through…

At first, you’re not sure why he’s a grinning mess, but you understand once his fingers run over the lace of your black panties, the same pair that he brought you a while back on one of his tours cross-country.

“I’ll take a wild guess and say you wore these for me, huh?” He asks with a husk to his tone now that you’re bumping your knee against his clothed hard-on, and his hips subconsciously chase the friction.

“Mhm,” you hum softly, lifting up on your elbows now to look at him better, “I just didn’t expect you to take so long to get ‘em off me…”

“How cute,” he returns, and your eyes follow the veins trailing his forearm, his flexed fingers hooking at either side of your hips before tugging your jeans the rest of the way down and past your ankles with your panties, tucking them under the couch cushion for his private use later…

“Cute?” You repeat with a raised brow, spreading your legs before him as you both watched each others cores intently, practically itching within yourself for him to finally untie his sweatpants.

“Yup. Love it when you get in your little attitudes,” he says plainly, but his smile is half-hearted now as he leans over you, bracing himself with his hands before kissing your forehead.

You try to follow where his eyes are looking, but his bangs are in the way, and you can’t help but ask him what the matter is…

However, he doesn’t answer immediately, simply taking your hands in his and placing a kiss to l the closed knuckles of your left hand, right before pinning your wrist at either side of your head on the couch.

And that’s when it hits you… the reason behind his sudden change in aura:

You forgot to put your engagement ring on…

You had only taken it off for a second before coming to meet him in the studio because some oil from the takeout bag had spilled on your hands… while washing up in the bathroom, you had put the ring in your purse and simply forgot to put it back on…

Though, you knew at this point it’d be worthless trying to get that story through Chan’s thick skull, as he had already made up in his mind that you were playing games with him…

“Where’s your ring, baby?” Your fiancé asks while shimmying down his boxers and trousers with one hand, and you near choke on air at the sight of his glossy and girthy tip springing out before you, red and angry with need.

“I-it’s in my purse,” you stammer, almost feeling guilty now that you had even forgot to put it back on in the first place, “I can go and get it—”

“No need,” he interrupts you, lining himself up with your entrance as the depth of his voice equally catches you off guard, “just make sure you put it back on after this, yea?”

You winced at the sudden stretch of his cock filling you up just right, and your hips are already trembling at the delicious fullness.

“Channie… it slipped my mind, baby… please,” you say, and you’re not quite sure what it is that you’re begging for, but you always had a habit of going dumb around his cock, even if it’s just resting inside you.

“I gave you a simple order, love… now, do you understand me, yes or no?” He asks more sternly this time, thrusting into you with a sharp hit of his hips, and you internally cringe at yourself for hiccuping at the force.

“Y-yes, I understand,” is all you manage to say as he continues slamming his hips into you at a painfully slow pace, looking you dead in the eye as you crumble beneath his intense gaze.

“Say it again,” he orders, and you listen, gripping at his biceps and biting your lip as an attempt to keep your moans in, but the little whimpers and whines end up spilling out anyway.

You can feel Chan's cock twitch inside you every time you say yes for him, especially with the way your walls are throbbing around his length as he groans the words “good girl” in the midst of it all.

“So so good for me,” he continues, grinding his hips in a way that makes his pelvis graze your clit rythmically, and you’re sure you’re seeing stars once his hand finds your neck, just resting it there to get your attention.

“Good enough to let me cum in you, huh?” He questions, but it’s more so of a suggestion than anything, and you oblige to it, nodding your head in desperation as your hips start to follow the movements of his.

“Yes, baby… w-want you to fill me up so bad,” you whimper, and he lets a groan out right after you… one that makes your stomach flutter with emotions given how beautiful it sounded.

“Gonna put a baby in your pretty little stomach,” he huffs in between fucking you open with all his strength, “and at that point, who cares if you don’t have your ring on? Everyone will know who you belong to once your tummy’s all swollen because of me… tell me who this pussy belongs to…”

“Y-you, Channie,” you blabber out pathetically, your own mouth filling with saliva at how amazing he’s making you feel right now.

“Louder…���

“It’s all- fuckkk… yours, b-baby,” you cry out, and it’s a weak cry at that given the way his hand is tightening around your throat, but you don’t mind… not one bit when it feels THIS. Fucking. Good…

He finally lets his lips find yours in a needy kiss, and a string of spit keeps y’all together as he break away to let out a moan of his own, but you’re pulling him back into you, wanting him to be as close as possible to you in this moment.

The couch starts to creak to the rhythm of his movements, and you couldn’t be more thankful for the large cushions it was made with, otherwise you’re certain the both of you would’ve been on the floor at this point.

“Feels so fucking good inside you, baby… sooo fucking good,” he grunts, and you know he’s almost close just from the way his eyebrows are screwing into adorable little crinkles, his thrusts becoming sloppier and sloppier by the second.

“F-fuck~” you mewl against his lips, feeling the knot in your own stomach tighten as his cock hit mesmerizing places inside you.

He keeps his hand snug around your neck while looking into your eyes, and his hips can’t bare to piston into your cunt any longer once your walls clench around him, making him feel dizzy in the head.

“Cum in me,” you plead with a soft voice while, lips puffy from how hard you’d been biting them, and Chan finally lets himself go, barely getting any extra thrusts in before painting your walls with his hot release, groaning shamelessly like a porn star.

“Oh my God,” he grunts with a strained voice, using his last bit of strength to prevent himself from collapsing on top of you given how spent he is now.

“Wait, Channie,” you say, thighs still trembling a bit as he pulled out of you, a bit too early though for you to remind him that his cum would only spill out—

“Shit,” he swears under his breath upon realizing, rushing to catch the fluid spilling from your cunt now with his fingers, trying not to get it on the couch, but to no avail.

He instead lets his fingers push the cum back into you, holding his wrist there until he’s able to reach for a napkin off of his desk to help clean you up.

“Stop that, baby,” he says with a mischievous smile, but only because your walls were sucking his digits in, preventing him from taking them out to clean them off, “give me some time to recharge and then we can go again, okay?…”

All you can bring yourself to do is hum at his words, and he in turn offers you another gentle smile.

Applying light pressure to your lower stomach, he finally gets your walls to release his fingers from the confines of your sloppy hole, wiping the residue off with the napkin.

“Didn’t expect you to cum this much,” you say in a sleepy tone while reaching for your jeans to slide them back on.

“Me neither,” he chuckles, readjusting his pants before getting up to toss the soiled napkin in the bin nearby, “but uh... just know that if in three weeks, we find out that our first future child was conceived on this couch, never tell this story to anyone…”

⋆♱✮ Huge thanks to everyone who made it to the end of this fic, concluding DAY 2 of my Kinktober Event !! This was also my first time publishing any written work for Stray Kids (my ult group XD) so feel free to tell me how I did in the comments !! Finally, if you're interested in reading more works like this, check out my main enhypen masterlist or my kinktober masterlist here by clicking one of these links !!

⋆♱✮ PERMANANT TAGLIST:

@squoxle, @nishiimuranights, @ashgonedash

@yourmomscuntis2tighy, @wonbinisbabygurl

@watamotee33, @addictedtohobi, @ot7sevenlvr

⋆♱✮ KINKTOBER TAGLIST:

@pasteltheghost16 @fawnpeaks @melonvrs

@mheretoreadff @skzfelixlove @inishij

@yaorzu-blog @andromedawillburyyou @ramyeonzprincess

@zaihypen @simjaeyunns @gardenwonnies @hynier

@idontknowhowtomakeusernames @enhymeowz @minhosimthings @stormy1408

also, check out THIS fic NEXT if you're interested in more...

[genderqueerdykes]

had the consult for my gallbladder surgery. the doctor told me i need to "lose 10 - 15 pounds" before they'll perform the surgery on me, and that I would need to wait 2 - 3 months before they would schedule it. i told her i have PCOS which makes it difficult to lose weight. she told me that does happen, and offered to refer me to a bariatric surgeon who is used to bigger bodies who could perform the gallbladder removal instead. i asked her for the referral to them instead

i was very angry at her for this, as 10 - 15 pounds do not make any difference when you are 300 lbs. my weight fluctuates between 280 - 340 lbs depending greatly on what i've eaten, how much i exercise, and so on. this will also vary greatly depending on if the stone is blocking my gallbladder completely or partially- if it's fully blocking the neck of my gallbladder, i cannot get enough digestive juices into my stomach to properly digest my food, so i will begin violently vomiting to get the undigested food out, and to get bile flowing into my stomach again. i begin to lose tons of weight when this happens, and i put it back on during the periods where i can get enough bile in my stomach to properly digest my food.

i can't digest my food properly. eating "healthier" will not change this- i can't digest food at all, period. healthy or unhealthy, i can't digest anything, because a good half of my digestive juices are completely missing from my guts. there is a functional issue with the way my guts work, of course i will lose weight drastically and put it back on at times. of course the issues will be episodic.

both her and the student that was working with me kept assuming that i said that my pain got worse after "high fat" meals. both of them put this in my mouth-

the student did it first. she asked when the pain gets worse and i said sporadically, but sometimes after i eat. she literally asked me "so you said it gets worse after fatty meals, right?"

i got frustrated and said "no, it's really random." i didn't get to tell her that raw leafy vegetables and lightly steamed or cooked vegetables make me vomit. broccoli and cauliflower that aren't heavily cooked, salads, raw vegetables, lightly cooked carrots, applesauce and apples in general are all problem foods.

the doctor then came in and said "it gets worse after high fat meals, right? you said that" and i went, again, "no it just kinda happens."

i don't even eat a high fat diet. i cook at home now for every meal now that i have all the tools i need to do so. i make rice, fish, pasta, and certain vegetables that i can digest like potatoes, sweet potatoes, onions, mushrooms, and so on. i eat bread, seeds, nuts, dried fruits, and drink oatmilk. i don't eat land meats, eggs, or dairy. i don't have any of those things. i do eat french fries and fish sticks, but not for every single meal. i don't eat chips because they're too salty and irritate my stomach. i don't eat candy or sweets unless the food bank delivers them to me. i don't eat much sugar other than pancakes and certain fruits

she wouldn't listen to me and went "well when you eat fatty meals, your gallbladder has to contract more and it can cause you a lot of pain." you would not believe how many times she came back to "you need to eat a lower fat diet." "the pain gets worse after you eat a high fat meal, so eat lower fat meals and your pain will go down." "just eat a lower fat diet and it'll help."

i just kind of sighed. there were tears in my eyes. i felt defeated. they made a bunch of assumptions just because i was sitting there, being fat. i was wearing long sleeves due to it being cold and they didn't get to see that i have a lot of muscle in my body mass. quite a lot. i wanted to tell them that i'm on testosterone and physically active when and where possible, and that i frequently lift heavy objects and move, but i never got a chance. i wanted to tell them my BMI isn't what they think it is, but i just didn't bother to try

i despise that people assume that fat people are fat because they eat "unhealthy" foods. i ate high fat foods for a few months while i was homeless because i didn't have the resources to cook every single meal. it affected my liver, i'm dealing with some fatty liver. but my gallbladder has more important issues in the form of the literal stone inside. she would not stop pushing for me to eat lower fat meals. all because i was sitting there, existing, as a fat person. i wish i would've told her i can only eat fish and plant matter

i don't understand how a patient telling you they're vomiting and can't keep down certain foods does not sound like a more pressing issue than an arbitrary number. weight as a number means nothing, it tells you nothing about that person's actual body composition. i have trauma with vomiting and yet i'm going to have to keep doing it anyway despite the fact that it could kill me via dehydration or if i just. can't stop

either way i'm very unhappy with result as i already waited for a month for this consult. now i have to wait for a referral for another surgeon to go through, and to do the consult with them, too. all while being in pain and having GI issues the entire time. just because a surgeon doesn't want to take the time to learn how to operate on fat bodies. i'm tired. what a joke

[mya-valentine]

Hi! it's me again! I'd like to request a few genshin men/boys and most of them are my favs like at least like 14 of them😂 fluff please

I wanted to request a Diluc, Razor (it's fine if you don't do him, but I'm pretty sure he's at least 16 or 17) Xiao, Wanderer, Cyno, Al Haitham, Neuvillete, Kinich, Ororon (there's lack of Ororon love) and Dainsleif. I wanted the headcannon to be like:

their friends asking fem!reader: What do you see in him?

reader: he makes me laugh

i wanted to see this kind of headcannon for so long (i hope it's okay if i can request this much character😅)

Headcanon: He Makes Me Laugh

Diluc

At a cozy café in Mondstadt, you and your friends sit around a small table, sharing stories over steaming cups of tea. One of your friends leans in, eyebrows raised. “Diluc? Really? What do you see in him?”

You take a moment to think, a smile creeping onto your face. “He makes me laugh,” you finally reply.

Your friends exchange skeptical glances. “Diluc? The serious, brooding one? How does that even work?”

You lean back in your chair, recalling a recent night at the tavern. Diluc had been tending bar when a customer made a ridiculous drink request. With a straight face, he had leaned over to you and said, “If I serve one more ‘secret drink’ request, I might just invent a potion to erase memories of it.”

You burst into laughter, and he shot you a quick, playful smirk, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. The moment had felt electric, a fleeting glimpse of the softer side he rarely showed anyone else.

As you reminisce, you can’t help but grin, feeling warmth in your chest. “He’s got this dry wit that surprises me. You just have to know where to look.”

One friend rolls her eyes. “Okay, I can see it. But how do you get him to show it?”

You shrug playfully. “Maybe he just needs someone to break through the brooding exterior.”

Diluc, standing nearby, overhears your laughter and smirks, catching your eye with a knowing look, as if he appreciates the affection behind your words.

Razor

Your friends are gathered in your room, sprawled on the floor as you all catch up. Suddenly, one of them narrows their eyes and asks, “You’re with Razor? What do you even talk about?”

You can’t help but giggle at the question. “Oh, you have no idea. He makes me laugh!”

Your friends exchange confused looks. “Razor? The one who spends all his time with wolves?”

You nod, recalling a beautiful morning walk you took with him through Wolvendom. “The other day, we were watching the sunrise. He looked at it, wide-eyed, and said, ‘Looks like egg yolk spilled.’ And then he asked, ‘Why do people say ‘crack of dawn’? Dawn don’t break…’”

Your friends burst into laughter, imagining Razor’s serious face juxtaposed with his innocent, childlike observations.

“He’s not trying to be funny, but he has this way of looking at the world that’s just… refreshing,” you explain, a soft smile on your lips as you think about him.

One friend grins, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, I guess if you’re into that… unique perspective.”

Razor, who has been listening from the doorway, looks a bit confused but intrigued. “I like egg yolk. It is good food,” he adds earnestly, causing another round of laughter.

Xiao

In a quiet corner of Liyue Harbor, your friends sit across from you, disbelief painted on their faces. “Xiao?” one asks, incredulous. “But he’s so… intense and brooding! What do you see in him?”

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair. “He makes me laugh,” you respond, shaking your head at their expressions.

Your friends exchange skeptical glances, clearly struggling to understand how someone as serious as Xiao could ever be funny. “Seriously?” one of them challenges. “How?”

You remember a day when you and Xiao were training together on the mountain. As you stumbled over a loose rock, he caught you just in time, and without missing a beat, he said, “Are mortals always this clumsy?”

You had burst out laughing at his deadpan delivery, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “He doesn’t mean to be funny, but his honesty is refreshing,” you explain, smiling at the memory.

Your friends nod, starting to see your point. “Okay, I can see how that would be amusing.”

Just then, Xiao approaches, overhearing the conversation. He raises an eyebrow. “You laugh a lot around me. Is that good?”

You grin, meeting his gaze. “Absolutely! It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

Xiao looks slightly flustered but turns away, a hint of a smile breaking through his usual stoicism.

Wanderer

Strolling through a quiet clearing with your friends, one of them shoots you a concerned glance. “So… Wanderer? The same guy who’s known for his prickly attitude? What exactly do you see in him?”

You smirk, already used to the question. “He makes me laugh,” you say simply.

They look skeptical, one raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy?”

You nod, smiling at the memory of a recent encounter. Wanderer had once muttered something about the “absurdity” of people who thought they knew everything about him. He’d followed it up with, “Honestly, they know less about me than that rock does about erosion.” He’d pointed at a boulder, then turned to you, daring you to laugh. But you couldn’t help it—you cracked up, and he’d rolled his eyes, but with the faintest hint of a smile himself.

Your friends seem taken aback. “Wait, Wanderer said that?”

Just then, Wanderer appears, crossing his arms as he approaches. “Are you sharing my profound observations with these mortals?” he asks, feigning annoyance, but there’s a softness in his eyes as he glances at you.

You grin, meeting his gaze. “I can’t help it. You’re just so funny.”

He scoffs, muttering something about “annoying people,” but the faintest smile betrays him, earning a knowing look from your friends.

Cyno

After a long day, you and your friends gather at a cozy teahouse. One of them finally leans in with a curious look. “Cyno, though? Isn’t he a little… intense? What do you see in him?”

A grin spreads across your face as you think of Cyno’s well-meaning, if occasionally dreadful, sense of humor. “He makes me laugh.”

Your friends look surprised, clearly doubtful. “Cyno? Are you sure? He’s the General Mahamatra!”

You laugh at their disbelief. “Yes, that Cyno. Once, he tried to tell me a ‘joke’ about Teyvat’s elemental reactions. ‘Did you know Pyro and Hydro make steam…y results?’” You can’t help but laugh at the memory, and your friends blink at you, processing.

Then one snickers, and another gives in. “Okay, that’s actually—unintentionally funny.”

As if summoned, Cyno appears at the table. “Did I hear mention of… humor?” he asks with utmost seriousness, casting a proud look your way. “I have another one. What did the dendro traveler say to the withering zone?”

You grin knowingly, but your friends glance at each other nervously. “What?” they ask in unison.

“‘Leave it to me,’” Cyno deadpans, straight-faced. You burst out laughing, your friends struggling to hold back their smiles. Cyno raises an eyebrow, satisfied. “See? I told you humor is a valuable asset.”

Alhaitham

Gathered at the Sumeru Library, your friends can’t hide their disbelief. “Alhaitham? What do you even see in him?” one of them exclaims, shaking her head.

You grin, leaning back in your chair. “He makes me laugh.”

“Really? The stoic scholar?” they ask, bewildered.

You reminisce about a quiet evening when you found him deeply engrossed in a book. You had asked, “What’s so interesting?” He glanced up and replied, “The existential dread of characters in fiction is quite entertaining. They can’t even do anything about it.”

His deadpan delivery made you laugh, and he’d raised an eyebrow, confused by your reaction. “You find that funny?” he’d asked, genuinely perplexed, which only made you laugh harder.

Your friends start to nod, clearly amused. “Okay, maybe he has a point there.”

Alhaitham, overhearing your laughter, approaches with an amused glint in his eye. “I see you’re discussing literature. Should I be concerned?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Only if you’re worried about being funny.”

He smirks, unfazed. “Then I have nothing to worry about.”

Neuvillete

In the refined atmosphere of Fontaine’s opera house, your friends question your attachment to Neuvillette, the reserved Chief Justice. “So, what do you see in him?” one friend asks, an eyebrow raised. “Neuvillette’s so… solemn. He barely smiles.”

You chuckle, casting a glance at the grand stage. “But that’s the thing. He makes me laugh when I least expect it.”

Your friends exchange looks, clearly unconvinced. “Really? Neuvillette?”

You nod, remembering a moment from an evening much like this one. Neuvillette had been watching an opera, his typical composed expression in place, when he leaned over and whispered, “I find it curious that, despite its grandeur, this aria is about a fish lamenting her lost pond. Dramatic, isn’t it?” His understated humor and subtle wit had made you stifle a laugh, though he looked pleased with your reaction.

One friend’s eyes widen in surprise. “Wait, he actually jokes? In his own way?”

At that moment, Neuvillette arrives, having overheard the conversation. “I merely observe the world as it is,” he says with a faint, almost invisible smile. “I trust I’ve provided adequate amusement?”

You smile up at him warmly, while your friends look at each other, slowly starting to see his appeal. “Yes,” you reply, reaching for his hand. “You certainly have.”

Kinich

As you and your friends stroll through the bustling markets, one of them nudges you, raising an eyebrow. “So… Kinich? He’s got that cold, intense vibe. What do you see in him?”

You chuckle, picturing the man who, beneath his pragmatic exterior, occasionally revealed a dry, clever humor that caught you off guard. “He makes me laugh,” you reply, smiling.

Your friends blink, visibly unconvinced. “Kinich? The Kinich? The guy who talks like every word is a business contract?”

“Trust me, he’s funnier than you think.” You recall a time when you had teased him about always being so serious. He had given you a mock-stern look and said, “Seriousness is simply efficiency applied to communication. If I were to, say, laugh needlessly, it would be inefficient—unless, of course, you think I’m funny?” His tone had been deadpan, but you had caught the sparkle in his eyes, which only made you laugh harder.

One of your friends scoffs, half amused, half disbelieving. “He’s secretly funny? Now that I have to see.”

Just then, Kinich appears, drawn by the sound of laughter. He stands with his usual composed expression, his gaze steady as he glances at you. “Am I interrupting?” he asks, though his eyes linger on yours with a warmth your friends would never guess at.

“Not at all,” you reply, a mischievous smile on your lips. “We were just talking about how funny you are.”

A single brow arches, and he replies smoothly, “If efficiency in humor is what amuses you, then I suppose I’ve succeeded.”

Your friends stare, open-mouthed, as he gives a faint smile, the smallest show of his affection reserved just for you.

Ororon

Gathered in a quiet grove just outside the bustling village, your friends share stories, each of them glancing at you with barely concealed curiosity. Finally, one of them speaks up. “Ororon? Really? He’s so… unconventional. What do you see in him?”

You smile, looking down at the wildflowers in your hand. “He makes me laugh.”

They seem taken aback, sharing doubtful glances. “Ororon? But he’s so… odd. He even lives out in the woods by himself. Isn’t he a little too eccentric?”

You laugh softly, thinking of all the moments Ororon’s uniqueness had brightened your days. “Maybe. But he’s more observant than anyone I know.” You recount a day spent walking with him through the forest, where he had pointed out a bird with feathers the color of storm clouds and said, with absolute conviction, “Look at him, he’s judging us. Clearly, he’s unimpressed with our lack of feathers.” You’d laughed, and he had given you a small, playful smile.

One friend smirks, shaking their head. “You actually find him funny?”

Before you can answer, Ororon appears, emerging from the trees with his usual easygoing stride. “Are we discussing birds?” he asks, his expression calm as he settles beside you. “I could have sworn I saw a bird earlier that looked particularly snobbish. Perhaps it’s you it dislikes.”

You laugh, reaching for his hand as your friends chuckle, finally starting to understand his strange charm. “Exactly,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze.

Ororon gives a satisfied hum, his eyes meeting yours. “See? Nature understands us well.” And in that moment, your friends see how the quiet humor of this eccentric man makes him so dear to you.

Sitting on a rooftop overlooking the stars, your friends are still trying to wrap their heads around your choice. “Dainsleif? Really? What do you see in him?” one asks skeptically.

Dainsleif

You smile softly, reflecting on your experiences. “He makes me laugh.”

Your friends look puzzled. “But he’s so serious and mysterious!”

You recall a late night when you were stargazing together. He had shared tales of his travels and then abruptly said, “In the end, I find that stars are just like people. Some are bright, some are dim, and some are just… lost.” Then, after a pause, he added with a straight face, “But at least they all shine, even if it’s just for a moment.”

You had burst into laughter at his unexpected metaphor, and he’d turned to you, a hint of confusion in his eyes as he asked, “Is that amusing?”

You nod, a warm smile on your face. “Yes! It’s all about perspective with you.”

Your friends nod, starting to see the appeal. “Okay, that’s a bit poetic.”

Dainsleif, overhearing the conversation, walks over with an amused look. “If my musings provide amusement, then perhaps I should share more.”

You grin. “Please do! We could all use a little more humor.”

.

.

.

Masterlist

[msriri030]

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Depressed! Reader

cw: suicidal thought

You stared out your bedroom window, your gaze following a house sparrow as it flitted across the blue sky. Its wings cut through the crisp morning air with ease, yet all you felt was an aching emptiness. A quiet sigh escaped your lips as you peeled yourself away from the cocoon of your bed, the warmth fading the moment your feet met the cold, unyielding floor.

“Maybe a shower will help,” you murmured to no one in particular.

The bathroom felt smaller than usual, the walls closing in as your depression gnawed at the edges of your protective shell. The air seemed heavier, thick like water pooling in your lungs. You turned the shower knob, listening to the rhythmic patter of water as you stripped off your pajamas, waiting for the steam to creep up the glass and warm the room.

When you stepped under the stream, the water kissed your cold skin with a burn that was almost too sharp but just gentle enough to be bearable. The heat wrapped around you, a temporary refuge from the storm raging inside.

You hoped—desperately—that the water would wash it all away. The weight, the melancholy, the intrusive whispers that never seemed to quiet. Even as your mind raced, you tried to anchor yourself. You repeated softly, almost like a mantra, “It’s okay. I… I love myself.”

The words felt hollow.

Or maybe they were a lie.

But it was a beautiful lie, and maybe that was enough. Maybe believing it, even for a moment, was worth it.

You scrubbed at your skin as if trying to care for yourself in the way you knew you deserved, but the tears betrayed you, slipping silently down your cheeks. They blended seamlessly with the water streaming over your face, hidden but not unnoticed by you. You paused, letting out a shaky breath as you leaned against the shower wall, eyes closed.

When you finally turned off the water, the bathroom was heavy with steam, the air damp against your skin. As you reached for a towel, your gaze landed on the neatly folded clothes on the counter—clothes you hadn’t left there.

Your breath hitched, a flicker of warmth breaking through the fog.

Your husband.

He’d left them for you, anticipating the small comforts you might need. As you picked them up, you noticed they were warm, the heat still lingering as if he’d just taken them out of the dryer. A soft smile tugged at your lips despite the tightness in your chest.

He always noticed, didn’t he? You could never truly hide your feelings from him.

You held the clothes to your face, inhaling their warmth and faint scent. The gesture felt almost instinctive, a small attempt to ground yourself. But the tenderness of his act overwhelmed you, and tears welled up again, threatening to spill over.

You sniffed, swallowing hard to push them back. You didn’t want to cry. Not now.

You scolded yourself silently. I shouldn’t cry. There’s no reason to cry. I need to suck it up. The words echoed from years of conditioning, the lessons drilled into you by your parents. But the tears didn’t care. They hovered there, a testament to the feelings you tried so hard to suppress.

Taking a deep, centering breath, you blinked them away, the threat of breaking down receding slightly. Once you felt steady, you dressed slowly, letting the warmth of the clothes wrap around you like an embrace.

Once you were dressed, you shuffled your way to the kitchen, the faint smell of breakfast guiding you. There it was, laid out neatly on the counter—a plate of fluffy pancakes, golden eggs, and homemade hash browns. The meal was carefully wrapped in plastic, a thoughtful touch to keep the food fresh and free from any pests.

You approached it slowly, almost hesitant. You weren’t hungry, not really, but you knew better than to skip a meal. It wasn’t about hunger—it was about taking care of yourself, even if you didn’t feel like you deserved it.

Sliding into the chair, you unwrapped the plate and began eating in quiet bites. The food was good, warm and comforting in a way you didn’t quite expect. Still, the act of eating felt mechanical, your movements slow and deliberate.

The familiar lump in your throat threatened to rise again, and you sniffed, willing yourself not to break down. You closed your eyes for a moment, grounding yourself. One step at a time, you thought, echoing the mantra that had carried you this far.

When you opened your eyes again, you noticed the small card tucked to the side of the plate. It hadn’t been there before—or maybe you’d been too caught up in your thoughts to notice. Picking it up, you read the simple, scrawled phrase:

You got this, Doll!

A soft smile tugged at your lips, fragile but genuine. Simon. Even when he wasn’t there, he had a way of finding the cracks in your armor and mending them, piece by piece.

You sighed, setting the card aside and finishing your meal. Once you were done, you stood and set about tidying up the house. It wasn’t much, but it felt like progress. Small victories against the weight pressing down on you.

You turned on some music, letting the sound fill the spaces in your mind that the dark thoughts so often claimed. The steady rhythm of the songs became a lifeline as you moved from room to room.

By the time you started washing the dishes, your chest felt a little lighter. But then, without warning, that heaviness crept back in. Like a sudden wave, the weight in your chest pushed down, stealing the air from your lungs. Your breaths grew shallow, rapid, the world closing in around you.

Not now. Please, not now.

You gripped the edge of the sink, trying to steady yourself, but the panic clawed at your mind, refusing to relent. The thoughts came flooding in—your failures, the unresolved problems that loomed over you, the insecurities that whispered lies in your ears.

You tried to focus on the running water, the feel of it splashing over your hands, anything to anchor yourself. But it wasn’t working. The pressure was too much, and the voices in your head grew louder, urging you to succumb.

And then your eyes landed on the knife you were washing.

It was so simple, so easy, the voices whispered. It could all stop. The pressure, the pain, the endless fight—it could all fade away.

Your hand trembled as you held the blade. Tears blurred your vision as you fought against the pull of those dark thoughts. The voices were deafening, the weight suffocating.

“Doll?”

The voice cut through the noise like a beacon, grounding you. Your head snapped toward the doorway, where Simon stood. His broad frame filled the space, his face shadowed with concern.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice calm but firm, his sharp eyes taking in the scene—the trembling in your hands, the knife clattering as you dropped it into the sink, and the way you stumbled back like you needed to put distance between yourself and the thoughts that had almost consumed you.

You couldn’t find the words to answer him, your throat constricted with the weight of everything. Tears threatened to spill.

Simon didn’t press you. He crossed the kitchen in a few long strides, his movements deliberate but gentle. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand explanations. Instead, he reached out, his warm hands steadying you as he guided you to sit at the kitchen table.

“Breathe, Doll,” he murmured, his voice low and steady as he crouched beside you. “You’re safe. Just breathe.”

You nodded shakily, focusing on his voice, his presence. Slowly, the storm inside began to settle, the waves receding enough for you to catch your breath.

Simon stayed by your side, his hand never leaving yours, as though anchoring you to reality. His thumb traced small circles against your skin, a quiet reassurance that you weren’t alone in this fight.

Finally, when your breathing evened out, he tilted his head to meet your gaze. His eyes were soft, filled with a quiet understanding that made fresh tears spring to your eyes. But this time, they weren’t tears of despair.

“I’m here,” he said simply, his voice a promise.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the tears began to fall again. “I tried to hold it together, but I couldn’t. I feel… angry, and hurt. And I don’t even know why.”

The words tumbled out between sobs, raw and unfiltered, like a dam breaking under the weight of everything you’d tried so hard to suppress. You wiped at your face with trembling hands, trying to stem the flow of tears, but it was futile.

Simon sighed softly, his expression unreadable for a moment before he leaned in, wrapping his strong arms around you. His embrace was warm and steady, grounding you as you crumbled in his hold.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Let it out, Doll. You don’t have to hold it all in.”

His words were a balm, allowing you to fully release the emotions that had been suffocating you. You buried your face against his chest, your sobs muffled by the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, he held you tighter, one hand gently running up and down your back, the other cradling the back of your head.

Simon didn’t rush you, didn’t say anything more. He just listened, his steady presence a reminder that you weren’t alone in this, even if it felt like it.

You cried until there was nothing left, the tension in your body slowly melting away as the storm inside you quieted. Your breaths were uneven, but the tightness in your chest had eased.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, your voice hoarse as you pulled back slightly, though Simon’s arms stayed firmly around you.

He shook his head, his thumb brushing away a tear that lingered on your cheek. “Stop that,” he said gently. “You don’t need to apologize for feeling. It’s not weakness to let it out.”

“But I—”

“No ‘buts,’” he interrupted, his tone firm but kind. “You’ve been trying to carry too much on your own. You don’t have to do that anymore. You’ve got me, Doll.”

His words struck something deep within you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to believe them.

“Thank you,” you said softly, leaning into his chest again.

Simon rested his chin atop your head, his arms still holding you securely. “Always.”

And in that moment, as his steady heartbeat thrummed beneath your ear, you felt a fragile sense of peace beginning to take root—a small but vital reminder that you didn’t have to face this alone.

Simon guided you to the couch, his hand resting gently on your back as he steered you. When he sat down, he pulled you onto his chest, his arms wrapping around you like a fortress. You protested at first, mumbling something about being fine, but he wasn’t having it.

“Lay down, Doll,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You sniffled, giving him a pout that you knew usually worked in your favor, but not this time. His lips twitched into a rare smile, and a soft chuckle rumbled through his chest.

“It’s not funny,” you grumbled, crossing your arms in mock defiance.

“Sure thing, Doll,” he teased, clearly unfazed by your attempt to sound serious.

Before you could fire back, Simon grabbed the remote and put on your comfort show—the one he always claimed was "mind-numbing" and “rotten for your brain.”

Your eyes widened, and you looked up at him, surprised. “You’re really putting this on?”

He shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You like it. That’s all that matters.”

Warmth spread through your chest at his unexpected gesture. He wasn’t the kind of man who did things halfway—if it made you feel better, he’d endure just about anything, even a show he despised.

Before you could thank him, Simon laid down with you, his lips capturing yours in a passionate kiss. It was unhurried yet intense, a silent promise wrapped in affection. When he finally pulled back, your cheeks were burning, and you quickly buried your face in his shirt to hide the blush.

His arms tightened around you, his hand coming up to gently stroke your hair. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” he murmured, the teasing lilt in his voice making you nuzzle into him further.

For the first time in what felt like ages, you felt the weight on your chest ease. As the show played in the background and Simon’s steady breathing mixed with the sound of his heartbeat, you found yourself slowly relaxing.

“Thank you,” you whispered softly against his chest.

He pressed another kiss to the top of your head. “Anything for you, Doll.”

And as his warmth surrounded you, you realized that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay—because with Simon by your side, you knew you wouldn’t have to face your struggles alone.

[sosa2imagines]

Hii, Dad Bucky ask🫶🏼

What would he do with a few months old twins or triplets? And maybe it was mother's day so he wanted to make something really special for reader as it was her first🫶🏼

Hi, thank you so much for this lovely ask. Bucky would absolutely make sure to make Mother's day very special.

Warning- Pure fluff.

The first rays of dawn were peeking through the curtains when Bucky woke up. He turned his head to look at you, still sound asleep, a peaceful expression on your face. For a moment, he stayed still, memorizing the sight.

Today was special. It was your first Mother’s Day, and Bucky was determined to make it perfect.

Bucky slowly sat up, being careful not to wake you up, and smiled to himself, thinking about today and how it would all go. He softly stroked your hair before slowly climbing out of bed, making sure the comforter was wrapped tightly around you and wouldn't wake you up. He quietly walked out of the bedroom, closing the door to make sure that his movements wouldn't wake you up.

The real challenge, however, lay in the next room.

Samuel Steven Barnes and Natalia Anthony Barnes, your beautiful twins, were already awake and babbling in their cribs. Bucky smiled, running a hand through his hair as he prepared for battle. “Alright munchkins...” he whispered. “Let’s do this for Mommy.”

Dressing the twins was no small feat. By the time Samuel squirmed out of his onesie for the third time and Natalia decided to try her best impression of a gymnast, Bucky was sweating. But he persevered, and finally, both babies were dressed in matching outfits that read ‘World’s Best Mom.’

“Mission accomplished!” he muttered, placing them gently in their bouncy seats. “Now for phase two.”

Breakfast wasn’t exactly his forte, Bucky was grateful for the help from Steve, who had dropped off your favorite dishes from a local breakfast diner. Steve also had given Bucky an apron with the slogan, ‘World’s Best Dad, give Me a Kiss, Mom!’ on it. Bucky laughed as he tied the apron, appreciating Steve's humor, and thinking about how you would appreciate the gesture too.

When everything was ready, he returned to your shared bedroom with the twins in his arms. “Doll…” he called softly. “Wake up.”

You stirred, blinking your eyes open to find Bucky standing there, a baby in each arm and a sheepish smile on his face. Your gaze shifted to the twins’ outfits, and tears welled up as you read the words. “Oh, Bucky…”

“They insisted on dressing up for you,” he said with a grin, carefully handing Samuel to you while Natalia remained cradled in his metal arm.

You kissed each twin on the forehead, your heart swelling with love. “You did all this?”

“Of course!” he replied, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips. “But we’re just getting started.”

He led you to the kitchen, where breakfast was waiting. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fresh fruit. You raised an eyebrow, and Bucky gave you a sheepish smile.

“Fine, I didn’t make it. But I did make the coffee!” He gestured to the steaming mug sitting on the table, pride evident in his tone.

It was no secret that learning how to use the coffee machine had been a two-month ordeal. You took a sip, smiling up at him. “It’s perfect.”

After breakfast, he handed you a piece of paper. It had the twins’ tiny handprints in bright colors, alongside a handwritten note:

Doll, I know this journey hasn’t always been easy, but you’ve faced every challenge with care, kindness, strength, and so much love. Watching you with our kids has shown me what it truly means to have a family. Thank you for everything you do, for them, for me, for us. I love you more than words can say. —Yours always, Bucky

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you hugged him tightly. “You’re incredible.”

You couldn’t stop admiring the tiny, colorful handprints on the card. You traced the edges of the prints with your fingers, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you glanced at Bucky.

“Okay,” you said, looking at him with a curious smile. “How on earth did you get the twins to do this? I know they don’t sit still for more than two seconds.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “It… uh… wasn’t exactly easy, doll.” He leaned back in his chair, the memory of the ordeal making him chuckle.

“First, I had to find non-toxic paint that they wouldn’t try to eat. That took me, like, a solid hour. I kept hearing Sam’s voice in my head lecturing me about safety.” he added with a smirk. “Then I thought, ‘How hard could it be?’”

You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a laugh. “Famous last words.”

“Exactly.” He shook his head. “I spread out an old sheet in the living room and put them in their high chairs. I figured it would contain the chaos.”

“And?”

“And I was wrong.” he admitted, rolling his eyes at himself. “Sammy decided paint was better on his face than the paper. I turned around for one second, and he had a red handprint right in the middle of his forehead. Talia, on the other hand…” He paused, groaning. “She somehow managed to grab the paint cup and fling it across the room. The wall might still have a little blue on it.”

You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach. “Oh my god, Bucky!”

“Yeah, laugh it up,” he said with a mock glare, though his lips twitched in amusement. “By the time I wrestled the paint cup away from her, Sammy was clapping his hands together and splattering paint everywhere. I looked like I’d just come back from an art war zone.”

“Please tell me you took pictures?” you teased, wiping away tears of laughter.

“Absolutely not!” he deadpanned. “I was too busy trying to keep them from eating the paint or smearing it in each other’s hair. But eventually, I got them to cooperate. I held Sammy’s hand over the paper and pressed it down while humming to him and he loves that, you know.”

You nodded, your heart swelling at the thought of Bucky patiently singing to your son.

“And Talia…” He shook his head fondly. “That little troublemaker fought me the whole time. She kept trying to grab the paper instead of pressing her hand down. I think she was offended I wasn’t letting her ‘help.’”

You laughed again, picturing your strong-willed daughter glaring at Bucky with her tiny fists covered in paint.

“But after a lot of trial and error…” he continued, “and a lot of cleaning up, I finally got it done. I think I scrubbed paint off my arm for a full hour last night.”

You reached out and placed a hand on his cheek, your smile softening. “You went through all that just to make me feel special?”

“Of course,” he said, his voice tender. “You’re the best mom in the world, doll. You deserve it.”

Tears filled your eyes again as you leaned in to kiss him, your heart full of love for the man who’d gone to such lengths to celebrate you. “Thank you, Bucky. For everything.”

“Anything for you,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “And, uh, by the way…”

“What?” you asked looking at him.

“There’s one more thing,” he said, pulling out a small box. Inside was a delicate gold necklace, the locket engraved with his and the twins’ initials.

Your hand flew to your mouth as you admired the thoughtful gift. “Bucky…”

“Happy Mother’s Day, doll,” he murmured, wiping away your tears before kissing you gently.

You spent the rest of the day in a blissful haze, playing with the twins, laughing with Bucky, and feeling more loved than ever. It was a day you would never forget, a perfect celebration of the family you’d built together.

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[leonw4nter]

A Dinner For Three

Husband!DI!Leon x F!reader

“Honey, it’s time for dinner. Time to get up,” your husband’s soothing voice gently tugs you away from the prying hands of a deep sleep. You slowly drift back into consciousness but you don’t open your eyes just yet, trying to linger in the border between sleep and the waking state for just a little longer. His calloused yet careful hands gently brush the strands of hair that veiled your eyes and nose away before moving to rake his fingers through your hair, trying to get you to finally get up and join him for a meal. You feel the couch dip around your waist area, prompting your lids to lift open. Your drowsy gaze falls on Leon who is now sitting beside you, a large hand placed on your leg as he gives it gentle squeezes in the way he knows you like while a pleased grin curls the tips of his lips skyward.

“Can’t I have dinner later? I still wanna sleep,” you drowsily mumble as you scratch at your arm, a little itch bugging you.

“I made you kimchi fried rice with two fried eggs and some boneless fried chicken with snow cheese,” he responds in an encouraging tone as he takes your hand and presses a kiss to the back of your hand.

At the mention of these meals, your mouth watered and you shot up. Well, as much as you can sit up with an eight-month old baby bump and the world suddenly spinning at the sudden movement of your body. Leon rushes to be closer with you, helping you sit up as he scans your face and body. He knew that you easily get dizzy now that you’re eight months into the pregnancy so he made sure to move you as slowly and carefully as possible so as not to trigger your nausea, helping you sit up while propping up some pillows behind you to give you time to regain your bearings before fully standing up.

“Someone got a little too excited,” he chuckles as he helps you sit up and recline into the pillows he placed behind your back. “Thought you wanted to sleep a little more.”

“Not when there’s a promise of fried rice, egg, and chicken,” you weakly chuckle while caressing your bump as you try to get your vision to stop spinning. Leon stayed by your side, observing you if you needed anything. After asking and then confirming that you didn’t need anything from him, he got up and walked over to the dining room. A few minutes later, he came back with placemats to place on the coffee table in front of you. He decided to bring along plates of dinner with the utensils to you, not wanting to make things more difficult or tiresome. Dinner was still steaming and the delectable aroma wafted through the air, your stomach grumbling in response to the feast in front of you. Tears sprung to your eyes, unable to hold back on the strong emotions brought about by raging hormones. A soft sniffle and a faint ‘aw’ catches Leon’s attention, turning his head to you. He quickly puts the plates he brought down, moving towards you and kneeling in order to look at you. His hand wipes a tear from your eye, a tender smile of his own playing on his lips though he looks worried.

“Something wrong?” he softly asks. “Why’re you crying?”

He moves in towards you, enveloping you in a delicate hug as he carefully sways you back and forth while he rests his head on your chest, his ears picking up the faint beats of your heart.

“Sorry,” you apologize. “My emotions are just… everywhere. I’m like– really hungry, happy, sentimental, and- and the fact that you moved dinner here instead of making me walk t-to the dining room– and also because I love you so much and you love me too,” you rambled with a sniffle in between.

He pulled back and peppered your tear-streaked face with kisses, his prickly stubble brushing against your cheek with each kiss planted before taking his time to admire his glowing wife, wondering what the hell he did in his past lives to deserve someone like you. “Must’ve stolen from the rich and given to the poor to have the greatest wealth in the form of her love,” Leon thinks to himself.

“I love you too, sweetheart. Very much,” he quietly tells you as he presses your foreheads together. “So, how about we have dinner now?”

You nod enthusiastically, smiling and chuckling as he helps you get down from the couch and into the floor, the ground beneath you lined with a soft towel laid on a pillow. He also got another pillow from the couch, placing it behind your back so you can recline and ease the weight you’re carrying. He gently rubs and presses on your lower back, letting you move into a much more comfortable position for eating. He takes your plate and adds in food, occasionally looking towards you as a way to silently ask if the servings he plated is enough already. You nod and take the plate from his hands, only to add in a few more servings to your plate as an excited gleam sparkles in your eyes. He chuckles and fills his own plate, his gaze occasionally flitting towards you. He takes his own spoonful of rice but not without shamelessly gawking at his wife sitting beside him; the way she lets out little happy squeals and does a pleased little dance is a sight he could watch forever. With each savory bite of the meal she so enjoys, Leon realizes that his life is similar to the dish in some form– a blend of different flavors, textures, experiences, and emotions elicited that led him up to this pure moment.

It occurs to him that this is their first dinner in their new home, having moved out of an old duplex due to safety concerns. The inside of their home is still unfurnished, boxes full and empty in every nook and cranny; the rooms would be void if not for basic furniture like chairs, tables, and their shared bed in the bedroom. This dinner would be their first and hopefully not the last to come in the years that this house will serve as a shelter to Leon’s family. He smiles at the realization, looking to his right to see his wife coming back for more. It warmed his heart to see how something simple and mundane like a warm meal satisfied you, your eyes all dewy and your soul satisfied by the good food. He couldn’t help but inch closer to you, bringing a hand to your growing bump and gently patting it.

“I’m glad you’re eating well, hon.” he softly whispers. “I’m happy that the little one is eating well too. I’ll continue to cook good food to keep you and our child happy, my dearest. Even when our baby grows up, I’ll continue to make sure everyone’s happy with the food they’ll be eating.”

You turn to him and grin, cheeks puffed up and full of rice and chicken. Even in this state, when you look funny and maybe even a little disheveled with your hair sticking out in all directions, he still looks at you like you’re the most marvelous view he’s ever had the chance of stumbling across. He opens his mouth as you move a spoonful of fried rice towards him, closing his lips around the spoon with a pleased hum.

“I know I look gorgeous, Leon, but you gotta get some bites in. Continue staring later,” you sweetly tell him.

He can’t wait for the moment when he’ll be able to do the good ‘ol “here comes the airplane” feeding trick for his baby.

NOTE - Will make note pretty short coz I'm eepy and wanna go to bed :)) Grades tomorrow morning, very terrified hopefully my grades aren't super low👍This fic was not proofread and was done in a cafe while waiting for my ride (finally understand the appeal of doing work in cafes; felt smart). EDIT: It's now the morning after I uploaded this and I decided to fix some things coz I feel like something was lacking and turns out I forgot to give credits, so I added that one right away. I'll try to write something a lot longer soon because my fics have been short lately 😭😭 I also watched a few clips of 'Welcome To Raccoon City' and now it's one of my comfort crappy movies. Like it's bad and that makes it GOOD. Anyways, thank you for reading my fics, I appreciate it very much :)) I <33333 UUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!! The heart dividers were made by @firefly-graphics , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

[missszena]

Sorry if the shading looks a bit meh I started losing steam but also really wanted to actually post this instead of letting it get lost in the folder of WIPs lol I am gonna do more with this eventually hopefully art gods be willing

transcript below the cut

Kallamar: Ugh, what on earth is that awful smell? Shamura: I smell nothing past the viscera. Describe it for me.

Kallamar: Hm, one moment... Kallamar: Smells like...spoiled produce? Perhaps meat and eggs? It may be sulfer.

Kallamar: It may be another fool trying to settle in Anura. Found by the toads no doubt. Shamura: Hm...yes...I smell it. There should be no produce here...how strange. Shamura: I think it is coming from...there...

Kallamar: Wh- HEY! Where are you going?! Kallamar: Have you lost your mind?! You can't just- Kallamar: Leave me...like...that...

Shamura: Ah, a shame. The heretics found this one before us. Kallamar: Oh, they did more than that! Kallamar: They've smashed the brood, too. They're thorough, even if its sloppy! Shamura: Hm...Unfortunate.

Kallamar: I'm surprised this bothers you, Shamura. After all, you hold the Crown of War. Shamura: I understand the thrill of battle, but why them? Why the Brood? They pose no challenge! No threat!

Kallamar: Eh, its effective population control. I have done it myself before. I have crushed quite a few apple sn- Shamura: Kallamar! I have found something! Come here! Quickly! Kallamar: Of course you weren't listening...

Kallamar: Alright, alright! What is it you've found? Shamura: Look at her, Kallamar... Shamura: Look at this little miracle...

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 6: Bloodstone]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus @chattylurker, more in comments 🥰

💎 Only 1 chapter left!!! 💎

You must not have heard him correctly. Down by the bow, third-class passengers are still laughing as they kick pieces of ice back and forth. Children who have been shaken awake are giggling as they dash around in their worn, patched coats. On the Promenade Deck, tycoons and aristocrats are flagging down stewards to fetch them fresh drinks. There is no more humming of the ship’s engines, although no one else seems to have noticed; they have quit and will never work again. In a few hours, they will be resting on the bottom of the North Atlantic Ocean. It’s just barely April 15th, and half the passengers aboard won’t live to see the sunrise.

Kill Daemon??

You’ve never even hit anybody, not unless they struck you first. “I can’t kill someone.”

“Yes you can,” Aegon insists. His tone is urgent; there isn’t much time left. “And you won’t have to do it alone. Like I said, I’ll help you.”

A drop in your stomach, a chill down your spine, wide-eyed primal fear like a prey animal’s. “Even if I wanted to, Daemon can’t be killed.”

“He’s not a monster. He’s just a man. He has blood and organs just like we do. I promise you, if we cut him he’ll bleed.”

“He’ll hurt me,” you whimper. “He’ll know what I’m trying to do and he’ll break my neck or push me overboard. You don’t know him, he’s…he’s…he’s relentless, he’s cunning—”

“We can have what we want,” Aegon says, grabbing your face with his hands, fingertips callused from years of playing viola on streets, in pubs, in small rented rooms, on the decks of ships. “We can leave Titanic together. We can stay with my family for a while in New York, and then we’ll go back to Ireland so you can be with yours, and when my father dies we’ll spend half the year in England and the other half with your parents, and you’ll get to keep Draco, and Daemon will never touch you again. You’ll be free, Petra. And you deserve that. But no one is going to give it to you. You have to fight for it.”

Is it possible? Is it really? You imagine having breakfast with your parents in Lough Cutra Castle, the table full: you, Aegon, Draco, Fern, everyone smiling over plates of fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, and white pudding, cups of tea breathing steam into the cool morning air. Are you willing to fight for that? Are you willing to murder? At last you say: “Daemon isn’t the only problem.”

“Who else?” Aegon asks, demanding, impatient, though his hands are gentle. “Rhaenyra? And the old woman, right? Draco’s governess. Dagmar.”

“And Daemon’s bodyguard Edward Rushton, we call him Rush. He carries a pistol.”

“Okay.” Aegon nods, his eyes distant, his thoughts whirling like Titanic’s colossal propellers once did and never will again. You know he’s devising a plan. We only have an hour or two.

“Aegon…I have to get Draco into a lifeboat first.”

“Right.” He kisses you, a quick brush across your cheek like a dusting of snow, and you think: I can’t lose him. “Over a thousand passengers are going to die tonight. Let’s make sure four of them are people who deserve it.” Then he takes your hand and together you descend the steps to B-Deck.

~~~~~~~~~~

Scarlet fever is named for the distinctive rash that marks its victims, tiny red dots like blood blisters, so itchy they are soon scratched raw, raised bumps of braille in the shape of ominous omens, corporal constellations of bad stars. Dagmar was reminded of them the first time she ever saw bloodstone, a dark green crystal freckled with red, a pendant that Dameon sent her from across the world where he was opening a new mine in Australia.

Valentin was the first one to get sick. He was the youngest, the only boy, and while perhaps mothers are not supposed to have favorites Dagmar knew in her bones that she did. She held him—three years old, white-blonde hair, loud and wild—as he grew quiet and weak and hot with fever, and then he was gone. After Valentin was Juni, and then Karin, and then Mikele, and finally Gunnar, a lumberman who worked hard and never complained, not even when he was dying of kidney failure. Dagmar was once a woman with four children and a husband, but then she was no one, untethered to the earth, unmoored from everything that had been, and people left adrift in the ocean are likely to drown and spend eternity in the crushing, sunless abyss.

She wandered for a while, too old to fathom a new life, too young to simply wait to die herself, and of course suicide is a sin. To keep from starving she took jobs as a governess; the only thing Dagmar knew how to do was raise children, and she was good at it. With each new household she found herself searching for Valentin’s eyes and hair and spirit, for a child that could make her believe he was alive again. But none of the temperate, blue-blooded little boys or girls of England—where Dagmar had fled to escape the memories of her homeland—came close to filling his footsteps, his handprints, the hemorrhaging puncture wound he left in her chest.

Then one brutally cold winter, Dagmar was referred to the 8th Duke of Beaufort Baelon Targaryen, deep in mourning for his wife Alyssa who had recently perished in childbirth and at a loss to handle his two sons. Viserys, the heir, was already eight years old and too set in his ways to ever see Dagmar as a mother. But Daemon, only four—so much like Val, Dagmar had thought as she lifted him from the floor—was sad and needy and vicious, furious at the world for stealing his mother from him, and this was something Dagmar could understand. She became his new mother. He became her reason for living.

Daemon grew up, as all children do if they are not preserved forever in youth by untimely deaths, and Dagmar drifted away to other castles and mansions, other families, other attempts to silence the ghosts that rattled doors and windows as she slept. But no one could replace Daemon, and each time she received a letter or a gift from him—photographs from his mining expeditions, bracelets and hair combs, taxidermied foreign beasts—Dagmar would write him a thank you note and always include the same postscript: Daemon my dear, my brave rogue prince, it would be the greatest joy of my life to one day help look after your own child. And at last, when Draco was born he summoned her, and little Valentin was alive once again.

Now unlike Daemon, Draco did have a mother, but she was young and easily managed, inexperienced with babies, eager to please her husband. Daemon was so sage and charismatic and renowned, and she faded into his shadow until all her colors were gone and she was black and white like a photograph, never knowing what to do or say, staring inanely from doorways. This was just fine as far as Dagmar was concerned. She could pretend that Daemon’s wife was dead like poor Alyssa Targaryen.

Here on Titanic, the baffling shockwave yanked Draco out of his dreams. He’s crying, soft disoriented whines, and Dagmar soothes him and reads him The Little Mermaid and tells Fern—also awakened by the shudder and now pacing restlessly around the staterooms—to make some tea. Just as Draco is finally dozing off again, there is a loud knock at the front door. Dagmar brings Draco out into the sitting room, leading him by one of his tiny pawlike hands, to find Fern speaking to a steward who will not come inside any farther than the doorway, as if he is in a hurry. Fern, puzzled, is clutching the white lifebelts he has given her.

The steward is explaining: “I’m sure it’s just a precaution, ma’am—”

“It’s not a precaution,” Daemon’s wife says as she sweeps into the room, and for some reason there is a man with her, a blonde man in a black wool coat. Immediately, Dagmar’s blood turns to dark viscid poison. What is she doing? Why can’t she disappear? “Thank you,” Daemon’s wife tells the steward briskly. “I’m sure you have other rooms to visit. You should be on your way.”

The steward is evidently too busy to be offended. He retreats into the hallway and vanishes, and the strange blonde man shuts the door behind him. Dagmar scrutinizes the intruder, and he glares back at her with eyes like deep water, a murky melancholy blue. He’s the same man she saw on the Boat Deck, the one who reminded her so much of Viserys when he was young, that solemn, grieving boy she could not coax into loving her.

Why can’t Daemon’s wife just die? Why should she live when so many have been lost? Why would God judge her more worthy than Valentin, Juni, Karin, Mikele, Gunnar?

“What’s going on?” Fern asks Daemon’s wife, her voice reedy and timid.

Instead of an answer, there is a question in return: “Is anyone else here?”

“No,” Fern says, perplexed. “Why? What’s happened?”

Daemon’s wife holds out an empty hand, not to Fern but to Draco, who Dagmar is still grasping with bony fingers gnarled by arthritis. She says: “Draco, please come with me.”

“Why?” he asks, but he has already taken a step towards her, tiny bare feet. Dagmar does not surrender him. She will not, she cannot. He stops when his arm is fully extended and then looks back to his governess, his surrogate mother, his pale eyes full of doubt.

“We have to go somewhere,” Daemon’s wife says. She is still reaching for him. “Draco, please. I need you to listen to me, we don’t have much time.”

“No,” Dagmar sneers. “You don’t know how to take care of him. You never have.”

“Can I go?” Draco asks softly, and Dagmar pretends she has not heard him.

“Draco,” Daemon’s brainless young wife pleads. Her eyes flick up to Dagmar’s, and there is a moment of terrible understanding between them, as if they are mirror images: neither can try to force him without driving him into the embrace of the other. He is not a child who is easily tamed; he is a wolf, he is a dragon.

“Dagmar?” Draco says, peering up at her, and he’s asking for permission but in another minute he might be stomping his feet and screeching loud enough for the entire hallway to hear.

Dagmar glances at the lifebelts Fern is gripping tightly. What’s wrong with the ship? Is it sinking? But no, Dagmar cannot believe this. Titanic is unsinkable; everybody in the world knows that. She tells the boy: “She’ll take you away from me. She’ll steal you. But she won’t keep you safe and warm and happy like I would.”

“I’m your mother,” Daemon’s wife tells Draco, and now her voice is choked and there are tears glittering in her desperate eyes. The blonde man looks at her like he would carry the weight of her anguish if he could, every last pound. Who is he? Why is he here? “I know it might not feel that way sometimes, but I am. And I love you more than anything. I would never hurt you. I’m trying to protect you. Draco, I need you to come with me right now.”

And horribly, unthinkably, he yanks his little hand out of Dagmar’s. She claws for him and he spins around to face her. “No!” Draco shouts. “I decide! Me! Not you!” She is stunned into silence. She watches him careen across the sitting room, and Daemon’s wife scoops him up as if he belongs to her. She holds him for a while, a minute or more, before she sets him down on the floor and quickly helps Draco get his socks and shoes on. The boy does not complain. Then she lifts him again and—with what appears to be great effort—passes him to Fern, who while bewildered accepts this task, now carrying both the boy and the lifebelts. Daemon’s wife grabs all the coats hanging from the coat rack and piles them into Fern’s already full arms.

“Fern, take him upstairs to the Boat Deck. Get to a lifeboat, do not wait. They will be launching them soon if they haven’t started already.”

“Lifeboats?” Fern repeats, blinking, stymied.

“Yes,” Daemon’s wife says, and she and the maid share a long, silent, meaningful look. Draco gazes worriedly around the room, gnawing on his fingernails. The blonde man watches Dagmar, his expression severe, hateful.

Fern asks: “How much time until Titanic…?”

“An hour or two. You won’t be in the lifeboat for long, a ship called Carpathia is en route. But she’s not close enough.”

“Oh,” the maid exhales numbly. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…”

“Stay with Draco. Don’t leave him for a second. Get into a lifeboat, keep him warm, wait for Carpathia. I’ll follow you as soon as I can, but…there are some things I have to do first.”

“Like what, ma’am? What could be so important? You shouldn’t wait either.”

Instead of answering, she says, low like a dire warning: “If you happen to see them, do not speak to Daemon, Rhaenyra, or Rush. Don’t tell them what’s going on.”

“Yes ma’am,” Fern replies quietly, and nods like she suddenly understands. She takes Draco and hurries out of the room. Now Dagmar is alone with them: Daemon’s idiotic little girl of a wife, her inexplicable companion.

“This ship can’t sink,” Dagmar says; but is the floor tilting? She has only just noticed it.

“Of course it can,” Daemon’s wife counters. “Any ship can. I kept telling everyone how terrified I was of the voyage and you all treated me like I was insane. But I was right. I wasn’t a coward and I wasn’t stupid. And you can’t make me believe that I am anymore.”

Dagmar is about to reply—something cutting, something cruel—but then her steely Scandinavian eyes snag on the stranger and all at once it hits her like a man’s knuckles. She gasps, shocked, ferocious. Aegon. Viserys’ son. A villain, a traitor, an unworthy beneficiary of a grand inheritance. “I know who you are. How the hell did you get here?”

The man grins menacingly. “Fortune brought me a ticket. Best luck I’ve ever had.”

Dagmar screams, hoping he will hear her: “Daemon?!”

Aegon lunges, catches her around her long thin waist, wrestles her towards the door to the private promenade deck. Dagmar isn’t strong, but she is fierce; she scratches at his eyes and bites his hands when they try to smother her howls. They stumble together through the doorway and out onto the pine planks, knocking over lightweight wicker furniture. When her teeth close around Aegon’s fingers, Dagmar tastes blood like warm copper.

“A window!” Aegon is telling Daemon’s wife, but she’s already there after slamming the door to the sitting room shut, franticly turning the hand crank under the nearest window. The glass opens, and freezing night air pours in.

They’re trying to kill me, Dagmar realizes. They’re going to throw me overboard.

She jabs a bony elbow into Aegon’s throat, and he collapses to the deck, wheezing and helpless.

“Daemon!” Dagmar shrieks again. If he hears me, he’ll save me. My savior, my son. “Help!”

But it’s his wife who arrives instead. She collides with Dagmar, strikes her with two open palms, shoves her through the window. Dagmar’s hipbone cracks against the windowsill, a dry brittle snap, and then she tumbles out into the darkness.

Her last thought as she sees the stars—before she hits the frigid water and is knocked unconscious, then dragged under by the merciless weight of gravity—is that if they were red they would look like the dots on the skin of a child with scarlet fever, like the crimson flecks in a bloodstone.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh my God, I…we…” You stare down into the black waves that swallowed her so effortlessly, a flash of her long silver hair as it came undone and then nothing. “She’s gone. She’s really gone. We killed her. We’re murderers.”

In reply, Aegon coughs and gasps for air, still crawling around on the deck. You run to him and help him stand up.

“Thanks,” he croaks.

“Are you alright? What can I do?”

“I’ll be fine,” he rasps. “Just need a minute.”

You look down to see blood dripping from his fingers, thick beads of crimson like teardrop-shaped rubies, like oil paint. You ache for him, you feel his pain as if it is your own. “Your hands, Aegon, your hands…”

“I’m okay,” Aegon assures you, smiling. “The bitch chewed me up, but I’ll live.”

“I want to save your paintings,” you say. “We can’t let them go down with the ship. We’ll take them to the Boat Deck and give Fern your portfolio, make sure she and Draco get safely into a lifeboat, and then…then we’ll…” We’ll finish what must be done. We’ll free you and me and Draco.

Aegon is nodding as he rubs his throat, already bruising. “Any idea where Rush might be? The guy with the gun?”

Before you can answer, you both hear it: the sound of a door swinging open and heavy footsteps inside.

~~~~~~~~~~

He likes that Daemon calls him Rush. It’s better than Eddie, which is who he was when he was a boy being kicked and backhanded by his stepfather, and laughed at by the other kids at school for not having shoes to wear. Now he is someone brand new, and that boy Eddie could be a character in a book or a song, vaguely familiar but not real.

Daemon has never hit Rush, never even threatened him. He has never stolen his laborers’ promised wages or cornered maids to violate them, impregnate them, ruin their lives. He goes into the mines he opens and periodically travels the world to inspect, descending into clouds of dust and chipping gemstones from the walls with his own tools. He is kind to his son Draco. He is brave, he is brilliant, he knows how to have a drink with working men and captivate them with his stories. Rush would do anything for Daemon, who saved him from a life of obscure, powerless poverty. He would overlook any number of sins.

Rush gusts into the bedroom and sets about gathering up valuables and stuffing them into a suitcase: business correspondence, jewelry, sketches of designs, bundles of cash from the safe. Daemon will regret having to leave the taxidermied tiger head, but it’s simply too large and heavy to bring with them. Rush hasn’t located Daemon and Rhaenyra yet, but this isn’t so unusual; they are always sneaking around, evading being found purely for the sake of it, the deception, the thrill, ravaging each other in ever more inventive places. God knows where they were when Titanic struck the iceberg, or if they are aware of the impending sinking. Rush is not panicking yet; there’s still time, though perhaps not too much of it. With each passing minute, the ship lists further towards the starboard side. He is just about to get Daemon’s dagger from the writing desk when he hears the door open to the private promenade deck. Rush turns to see Lady Targaryen peeking in from the threshold, pale blue dress, white coat.

He has never felt any loyalty to her. She is a thoughtless, mollycoddled girl, raised in a castle with parents who loved her, and what would she know of what the world was like for everyone else? Daemon only roughed her up when she deserved it, when there was no other way to make her listen, and never too badly: no split bones, no scars. In Rush’s opinion, it was just enough to give her a taste of adversity.

He sighs. “Well, unless you plan on drowning or freezing to death tonight, you might as well follow me up to the Boat Deck. I’m just here to collect some things. They’re only putting women and children in the lifeboats now, but I’m sure first-class men won’t be far behind.”

She says nothing, only watches him from the doorway. The old witch Dagmar isn’t here; she must have already taken the boy to the highest level of the ship, where affluent passengers are waiting impatiently and still in denial that Titanic will soon disappear beneath the waves, asking stewards to fetch them drinks and cigars, calling out song requests to the string quartet.

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen Daemon or Rhaenyra, I assume?”

“I thought they were with you.”

“No,” Rush says, smirking. “I seem to have lost track of them. They’re not in either of their staterooms. But don’t fear. Daemon is more than capable of looking after himself. He’ll turn up soon enough.” Perhaps I missed them up on the Boat Deck; it was crowded, it was chaos. Perhaps Daemon is already helping Rhaenyra into a lifeboat, his large rough hands steadying hers as she steps inside. He would save her first.

“I’ll help you pack the valuables,” Lady Targaryen says suddenly, and starts towards Daemon’s writing desk.

“Just keep out of the way,” Rush snaps; and then he sees something and stops dead.

A painter’s easel has slid halfway out from beneath the bed as the floor tilts. This is a peculiar enough item, but the paper clipped to it is stranger. The image is of Lady Targaryen, that is certain, but she isn’t alone; there is a man with her, and while nothing is shown below the collarbones, the activity in which they are partaking is unmistakable.

If she’s found a lover, Daemon really will kill her this time.

Rush gapes at the painting for several long seconds and then looks up at Lady Targaryen. “What the fuck is that?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your hand hovers on the handle of the desk drawer. You can’t open it and take the dagger while Rush is watching. You know that beneath his coat he wears a shoulder holster containing a Colt 1911. Even with a blade, you are outmatched.

Aegon appears in the doorway to the private deck with a wicker chair. He hurls it at Rush as hard as he can, and as Rush curses and fumbles for his pistol, you seize Daemon’s dagger from the drawer and plunge it into Rush’s back, once, twice, three times, many more. You can’t help but scream as you stab him, because it’s horrible beyond description: the resistance of gristle, the muffled popping of organs, kidneys or a liver or a spleen, and Rush is groaning and contorting, dark blood spilling across the slanting floor. Aegon struggles with him for the gun, ultimately wrenching it out of Rush’s weakening, shaking hands. He’s dying, and while you harbor no affection for him and never have, you remember the children your parents lost. Life is not something to take carelessly. It is already so fragile, and each death creates mourners like heads springing from a hydra.

Over a thousand people will die tonight. Is that really possible?

Rush has stopped moving. You are kneeling with the gold hilt of the dagger in your fist. The gemstones are splattered with blood: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire.

“Here,” Aegon says, trying to give you the pistol.

You recoil. “I don’t know how to use that.”

He laughs, a half-hysterical little cackle. There is a smudge of Rush’s blood across his cheek like a stain of lipstick. “I don’t either!”

“Keep the gun. I trust you.” You turn to the easel that has slid out from beneath the ruffled bed skirt—once white, now speckled with red—and realize that stray blooddrops have been flung across the painting, dots of red turning tacky on the thin layer of oil paint. “I ruined it,” you say, soft and mournful.

“No,” Aegon disagrees, smiling. “You just added some more color.”

You use the bedsheets to wipe the worst of the blood off your hands and the dagger. Then you pull Aegon’s leather portfolio out from underneath the bed, open it, and store the new painting safely inside. In the meantime, Aegon rolls Rush’s body into the closet and entombs him in a heap of gowns you’ll never wear again. You stand, pick up the dagger, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the oval-shaped mirror…and instead of looking away, you stay there for a while. The woman in the glass—like silver, like moonlight—has frightened eyes but a glinting blade as well. There are massive maroon splotches on the belly of your ice-blue dress; you button your coat to conceal them. Through the open door to the private deck, frigid night air floods in like the seawater slowly filling Titanic.

What does water that cold feel like? Like knives, like fangs? A thousand people will soon find out.

“Ready?” Aegon asks. He puts the pistol in the pocket of his stolen black coat.

“Almost.” You find your handbag from yesterday, green to match the emerald-colored dress you wore before Aegon painted you, before he uncovered you like a rare gemstone. Within is Aegon’s small aluminum lighter; you tuck the dagger inside as well. You yank out a handkerchief and clean the blood from Aegon’s cheek with it, then peer down at his swollen, bloodied fingers and knuckles, ravaged by Dagmar’s bitemarks. They are trembling. “Are your hands—?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he whispers, pulling you in and kissing you, touching your face and your hair, his lips warm and soft in a haze of copper-scented glacial air. Would you do this again for him? For Draco, for yourself? Yes. I’d do it a hundred times. “We’re halfway done.”

Up on the Boat Deck, people are finally realizing that the ship is in mortal peril. First-class women, shimmering in their gowns and their jewels, are being hastily loaded into lifeboats along with their maids and their children. You spot Fern in one vessel; she is wearing two coats herself, and has bundled Draco in at least four from what you can tell. She holds him on her lap, and Draco is uncharacteristically hushed, compliant, fearful, gawping with startled blue eyes beneath disorderly white-blonde hair. They are seated beside Benjamin Guggenheim’s elegant French mistress, Léontine Aubart. Ben himself is striding back and forth on the deck with a number of companions, all in pristine black suits and puffing on pipes or cigars, assisting the weeping women as they flee to the lifeboats.

“We are prepared to go down as gentlemen!” Ben is trumpeting. Nearby, a string quartet is playing not an Irish song that you have known since childhood but the mellow, merry, please-don’t-panic melody of Samson and Delilah by Camille Saint-Saëns.

“I guess my viola is long gone, huh?” Aegon tells you. “Oh well. I hope the fish enjoy it.”

Ben Guggenheim continues: “Let it be known for all time that we stayed until the end to save the lives of the innocent, our beloved women and children, and that they survived because of us. Our bodies may fail, but our Christian good deeds will last eternally.”

“Hear hear!” other men are shouting drunkenly, raising glasses of brandy. Stewards and officers cast them brief, rather impatient glances. You wonder if any of the aforementioned gentlemen have considered the women and children of the third class, many of whom must have already predeceased them as they were drowned below deck, ignoble, invisible.

You think for the first time: Are they going to let Aegon into a lifeboat?

“Mam!” Draco shouts when he sees you, reaching out with both arms. You sprint to where he is still secured in Fern’s lap and lean over the side of the lifeboat, clasping his cold little hands and kissing the top of his head. Then you give Aegon’s portfolio to Fern.

“Take this with you. Try to make sure it doesn’t get wet.”

“Are you climbing in now, ma’am?” Fern asks hopefully. “There’s room for one more if we squeeze together.” Her eyes dart to Aegon. “Perhaps two.”

“I can’t,” you reply. “Not quite yet. But I’ll be back soon.”

“No, you have to come with us,” Draco says. The ship’s officers are signaling for the vessel to be lowered into the water. You spy other familiar faces aboard: young pregnant Madeleine Astor, the glamorous Countess of Rothes, the newly-wealthy Margaret Brown. Being a first-class passenger will save her life tonight.

“I’ll get in another boat. I promise.”

“No,” Draco says, and now he’s sobbing. He can’t understand the scale of it, but he knows something is terribly wrong. “Mam, we can’t leave without you. There’s room in the boat. Please get in. Please.” And you think: Maybe he does need me after all. Maybe he always did.

“You can go with them,” Aegon murmurs through your hair. “I’ll finish this. I’ll take care of Daemon and Rhaenyra.”

But he might need your help…and you cannot leave him here alone to freeze or drown or be murdered when Daemon discovers his lethal intentions. “You’re safe,” you tell Draco, one last touch of your palm to his hair, one last reassuring smile you hope isn’t a lie. “Stay with Fern. I’ll be in another lifeboat and I’ll see you again when this is over.”

“No, no, no!” Draco cries, still grasping futilely for you; but the lifeboat is lurching down towards the water and he is soon beyond your reach. High above, a flare explodes in the inky night sky, gleaming silver rain to tell any passing ships that Titanic is doomed. The North Atlantic is like black glass, smooth and reflective. Distant constellations are mirrored there, and you remember a passage from a book you gifted Daemon for your second anniversary when you still believed he might one day love you, an ancient tale from India about the beauty of the ocean: Its huge white waves looked like clouds; its gems looked like stars; its crystals looked like the moon; and its long bright serpents bearing gems in their hoods looked like comets, and thus the whole sea looked like the sky.

“Lady Targaryen,” Ben Guggenheim says as he marches over. He is swaying like he might be drunk. If he is, you can’t blame him. The truth is cold, and poison is warm: alcohol, smoke, a lover’s hands, a gush of blood. “Do you require any assistance, my darling?”

“No, thank you,” you reply swiftly before he can inquire further, and Aegon’s arm circles your waist as you hurry towards the entrance of the Grand Staircase together. You clutch your green handbag close to your chest. Where are Daemon and Rhaenyra? When will this be over?

From back by the lifeboats you can hear Ben Guggenheim shouting: “Tell my wife and daughters in New York that I love them! Tell them that I died a hero, and that I shall see them again when one day we are reunited in heaven…pray for my soul…tell the newspapers of our courage tonight…”

You and Aegon escape into the very top level of the Grand Staircase, the dome of glass and wrought iron above, the English oak wood steps winding below. As you enter, a frenzied crowd passes you on their way out to the Boat Deck: shipbuilder Thomas Andrews, J. Bruce Ismay, a number of others. And then, just as you and Aegon are beginning your descent, you see her on the landing below, frozen in place where she gapes up at you from beside the clock. Soon its ticking will fall silent forever. It will live on only in the memories of the survivors.

Rhaenyra is alone on the staircase. She is wearing a red and black gown and a white lifebelt; she is on her way to evacuate the sinking ship. You have intercepted her not a moment too soon. But she is not looking at you. Her Targaryen-blue eyes are fixed on Aegon, incredulous. It is the first time she has truly noticed him since she came aboard, and she remembers his face from photographs, from portraits, from awkward, frosty visits when they were both children.

“Aegon?” she says. “What are you doing here?”

In response, he removes the pistol from his coat pocket. Rhaenyra screams and bolts down the staircase, Aegon right behind her, flying like a phantom, like a shadow in his stolen black wool coat.

You try to follow, but they are faster. You slip on the steps, one of your blue shoes clattering away as you grip the banister to keep from falling. You reclaim your shoe where the staircase meets A-Deck; outside the illustrious Promenade Deck encircles the perimeter of the ship. You steady yourself against the bronze cherub statue as you slide your shoe back on, then resume the chase…but you don’t know where Aegon and Rhaenyra have gone.

Farther down the Grand Staircase? Out onto the Promenade Deck? Into the maze of hallways?

You try to listen for them, but the turmoil outside is growing louder. You hear a gunshot, but you cannot tell from which direction; the sound reverberates through the steel of the ship and melds with the chorus of failing machinery: groaning joints, snapping beams, steam vented from the massive funnels. You pause in the doorway that leads out to the Promenade Deck, black freezing air drawn into your heaving lungs.

Which way?

Now there are footsteps on the Grand Staircase coming up from B-Deck. You race back to the bronze cherub, but it is not Aegon or Rhaenyra who meets you there. It is Daemon, appearing on the landing like a fogbank or a thunderstorm, black suit, glinting deep-set eyes, towering over you; and once again you are a seventeen-year-old girl climbing into the marriage bed with him and hoping he’ll like you, once again you feel yourself to be entirely at his mercy, in terror of him, in awe of him.

Daemon grabs you by your coat and pushes you against the bronze cherub statue, its edges prodding at your spine. You yelp and he chuckles, and he asks, so casually he must know nothing about Aegon or his pursuit of Rhaenyra like a hound after a fox: “And what are your plans for this evening, dear? Dinner and dancing? Or perhaps a nice brisk swim? Good for one’s health, I hear.”

You can’t find your words. Your fingers that grasp your handbag are numb and useless. Daemon is inside you again, not your body this time but your mind, snipping threads and dissolving mirages. How did I ever believe I could kill him?

Slowly, Daemon’s grin dies. He releases you, and then for some reason—a trick?? a trap??—offers you his empty hand. “Come on,” he says, as if relenting. “I’ll help you get to a lifeboat.”

You stare up at him, and the shock must show on your face, the disbelief, the cautious wonder.

“I can’t take you away from Draco,” Daemon says, answering a question you don’t need to ask. He owns all of you; you have no secrets. “He’s so young. And I know what it’s like to lose a mother.”

Draco, you think with abrupt glass-sharp clarity. I’m doing this for him, and Aegon, and me.

You don’t take Daemon’s hand. Instead, you open your handbag and rip out the dagger. You slash at Daemon’s throat, and you almost cut him deep enough, a fraction of an inch from the carotid or the jugular or the windpipe. But Daemon pulls away at the last second and you only wound him, scarlet rivulets spilling down his neck and staining the white shirt beneath his suit jacket, melting rubies, hard soulless gemstones in the sockets of his eyes.

Daemon throws you down the staircase and you hit the oak steps hard, bruising, twisting, rolling, the thoughts jolted out of your skull. The dagger is knocked from your hand and is lost. You fumble blindly for it where you are sprawled on the next landing, halfway to B-Deck. Your vision is blurred by stars like those in the mirror image on the North Atlantic Ocean.

But I need the dagger, I need it, I need it, I can’t kill him without it.

And as you lift your head you see Daemon coming down to meet you, a gemcutter here to break you over and over again, until there is nothing left but glimmering dust, until you have never existed at all.

[14dayswithyou]

💖 Slight 14DWY + Blog Changes! 💖

(16/12/23)

Leon will now move away from Corland Bay when he’s 10 years old. Originally, I never really put that much thought into it because it won't be explicitly mentioned in the game, but I figured I might as well make it more accurate now ^^;

Teo is now 26 (instead of 27). Again, zero thought went into this aside from wanting a wider range of ages for the cast — but now I want him to be closer to Jae and Violet’s age — especially considering they were all childhood friends and Violet was in the grade below them.

Elanor is now 30 and Kiara is 29. In the 2017 version, Elanor was originally the eldest sister, but it just didn't feel right to change it in the 2020 version. Day 3 will still be lore accurate, but everything on this blog will need to be retconned.

14DWY Purple (unofficial) will now be changing from #A14BF4 to #9D64FD.

Not a change, but adding more clarification: Angel will still attend university (and Jae and Teo will still be their university friend), but whether or not they enrolled will remain ambiguous! Day 1/2 kinda insinuates that they studied something ("Teo attended some of their classes"), but I wanted it to imply that they could've attended orientation and/or took "mock classes" after high school to see what it's like as well. I may change a few lines in the demo (in the future) to reflect that.

Egg

I'd like to (hopefully) try to remind everyone that whenever I write about Angel on this blog, they are gender neutral. Because if my ass had a dollar for every time someone assumed they were female because of the cutesy/pink themes or how "soft" I made the MC, I'd have enough money to fund voice actors, translators, custom soundtrack, and pay the $100 Steam fee /hj

Changed the crackpot theory tag into an actual tag!! About time sdghjdg

(07/01/24)

Also not a change, but to solidify Haruko's appearance + Ren's likeness a bit more... Haruko is supposed to be an anime character with pink/blue hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. He's a modern day "sorcerer" (a reference to JJK, not a literal fantasy wizard lmao) from an anime called "Attack on Giants" (another reference to "Attack on Titan"); and is very kind, ditzy, and empathetic. All Ren has copied is his hairstyle, vibe, and demeanour. Ren isn't outright cosplaying Haruko, and it'd take an avid anime enjoyer to notice that Ren is attempting to mimic Haruko.

I'll make a poll one day, but I might change Ren's left sleeve tattoo to the spoiler-free placeholder I used in this artwork. A lot of people seem to prefer it, but I'll wait until the poll to make any final decisions.

I might also make another poll to see if perhaps a new BGM theme would better suit the demo. Because in my mind, the "summer/beach location" = acoustic guitar (rather than piano) — and for some reason I get lo-fi vibes from 14DWY??

I don't think anyone has picked up on this subtle shift yet, but Ren will mainly use "he/him" over "he/they" now (since Haruko is a he/him enjoyer 👍). [REDACTED], however, will still greatly prefer "they/he", and will continue to use them interchangeably.

21/02/24 — or search through Obsidian. (Future Sai here.... I have no clue what this means???? What??? T_T)

I'm gonna cut down on the Teo and Ren bullying on this blog (and in general). I don't find it fun anymore, and it genuinely upsets me when people put down certain characters to make others look better (i.e. "Ren has no ass which makes Leon superior >:)" Just say you like Leon... I beg T_T). It also makes me doubt whether Ren is genuinely a good character or not, and it's gross seeing y'all tear down people who genuinely enjoy Teo. Be kind.

(11/01/24)

Eventually, I'd like to turn this meme into an event in the 14DWY Discord to help create an actual landlord for Day 3. The current landlord has always been a meme-y placeholder (I thought the idea would be funny), but looking at how the game is currently, I want 14DWY to be more "serious". The current landlord will eventually be turned into an easter egg!!

Whether or not Jae had bottom surgery will now remain ambiguous. Everyone is now free to headcanon whatever they'd like, so long as it's not offensive or too OOC.

From now on, I'll also try my best to remind everyone that Jae is gay and Kiara is lesbian. I tried not to bring it up frequently because I was afraid it'd come across like "being gay" was their only defining personality trait, but I'm tired of people sending in asks that don't apply to these characters ^^;

I might move all of the curiouscat questions to this blog and archive the account. It's becoming too much of a hassle for me to manage 3+ social media accounts sgkshjj

[mj0702]

For the mean woman. ...

“Bubs…. What are you doing at 3AM in the kitchen?” Lucy asked sleeping as she stumbled into the kitchen

“Couldn’t sleep” you mumbled concentrating on your task at hand measuring some sugar and flower

“Bubs come on” your sister tried to coax you out of the kitchen back to bed

“I need to finish this” you push Lucy to the side grabbing some Lemons and eggs

“It’s 3 in the morning Bubs… you can finish it later” Lucy tried again taking the eggs from your hands

“Gimme that” you snapped at her trying to get back said eggs “I’m in a flow”

“Flow back to bed” your sister said trying to push you out of the kitchen

“Why don’t you go back to bed and stop annoying me” you rolled your eyes

“Don’t come crying to me if you’re tired later… you have gym time with Alexia” Lucy held her hands up in surrender retreating back into her bedroom

“Why doesn’t she get it?” you mumbled to yourself starting to mix ingredients

“What on earth happened in here??” Ona exclaimed shocked seeing the state of her kitchen Lucy looking around the corner smirking

“Bubs couldn’t sleep” your sister said smirking

“And she decided to… wait… is this Coca de San Juan??” the spaniard pointed at a cake that was placed on the kitchen island

“Coca what?” your sister asked confused

“Coca de San Juan… it’s a Catalonian pastry… you had it ah one of our first dates in Barcelona… wait… are these.. Catànies?? What is going on? Where’s y/n??” Ona looked at all the pastry dishes scattered throughout the kitchen between dirty cups, mugs and bowls.

“Dunno… I tried to get her into bed at three…. Wouldn’t come with me” your sister said as she popped one of the small chocolate ball into her mouth “Shit these are good”

“Let me try” your sisters girlfriend said eagerly grabbed one of the small deserts “Ay dios… these are so good…. I can’t believe it”

“She tries to fish for brownie points… be aware… she might want something” Lucy pointed out chewing another Catànie.

“We need to find…” Ona said as you stumbled into the kitchen “… Bebita… bon dia”

You grumbled something inaudible and went straight for the coffee machine groaning even louder when it didn’t do what you wanted. You even went as far as slapping the metal container a few times before Lucy stepped in guiding your whining self away from it while Ona took the task of making coffee for you. When the blonde spaniard came into the living room a few minutes later a steaming cup of coffee in her hand you already where asleep again sitting in your sisters lap koala hugging her.

“What’s up with her?” Ona asked a little confused holding out the Mug to her girlfriend who took it gladly taking a sip before answering

“Don’t really know… but I THINK she’s still working on the aftermath of what happened in Munich” Lucy said lowly not wanting to wake you up

“That was nearly four weeks ago” the blonde spaniard said as she sat down on next to Lucy and you carefully tracing your face with her finger

“And it was nearly four YEARS of bottled up hurt and pain… Izzy on Grey’s Anatomy always baked when she was struggling… maybe Bubs is a real life Izzy” Lucy answered as you sagged even more against her a content sigh leaving your lips

“True… but honestly Luce… what she made is even better than what you get in Cafés here… I wonder where she got the recipes from” Ona mused

“Probably Google” your sister shrugged as she carefully peeled you off her laying you down on the couch so she could get ready for the day

“I swear Alexia… her Catànies are sooooo good” Ona raved and Lucy nodded along for good measure

“I believe you Ona… question is… where is she? We had an appointment in the gym” Alexia said

“Here… taste one” Ona said shoving a container under her captains nose

“Ona…” Alexia said carefully pushing the blondes hand back a little “… we’re in the middle of trai…”

“Uh… Catànies!!!” Mapí exclaimed excited grabbing a handful of the small pralines

“María León” Alexia scolded “Don’t you dare eat them in the middle of training”

“Ay dios… these are GOOD… where did you get then?” Mapí moaned happily after she shoved the whole hand into her mouth ignoring Alexia completely

“Bebita made them” Ona said happily a wide proud smile on her face

“NO WAAAAAY” the tattooed spaniard exclaimed

“WHERE IS THE CARIÑO?!!!” Alexia boomed interrupting the chit chat of her teammates

“On the couch” Lucy said as she walked passed playing upsies with a stray ball

“Why?!” the blonde captain asked

“I tried to get her into bed at 3 but she didn’t want to… so I let her be and this morning she was so dead we left her at home” your sister explained passing the ball to Keira who was on the other side of the field

“We had a gym appointment” Alexia said raising her eyebrow while she aggressively ripped the container with the Catànies out of Onas hands much to Maps disappointment

“Hey” the tattooed spaniard exclaimed trying to get the sweets back

“No… you were eating the whole time…. You’re going to be sick and then you’ll whine how bad you’re feeling and whine even more when I tell you it’s your own fault “ Alexia snapped at her friend

“Because you never have any sympathy for anyone” Mapí huffed but decided to go and find her girlfriend so she could complain about how mean Alexia was

“She was dead on her feet Ale…” Lucy said softly “… she’s still a kid who’s hurting a lot… a day off won’t change anything”

“I’m worried she’ll do something stupid if we don’t keep her occupied “ Alexia said

“I know… and I feel the same Ale… but we can’t keep an eye on her 24/7… she’s a wild one” your sister said smiling a little

“Oh I noticed” Alexia smiled back “… she yelled “Stranger Danger” at Olga the first time they met”

“Yeah… sounds like Bubs” Lucy laughed as she spotted you stumbling through the tunnel “… your date is here Capi”

Alexia turned around to see you stumbling out of the tunnel trying to get your cleat over your foot while hooping on your Jersey inside out a big Bayern Munich logo printed on the shorts you were wearing

“I’m sorry I’m late… they left me behind” you said panting hard as you reached Alexia “As soon as I get my stupid cleat on I’ll run me laps”

“Calm down Cariño…” the blonde answered grabbing your shoulders to ground you “Breath for me… good… again”

You took a few deep breaths before Alexia released her grip on you

“There we are… everything is good okay… no laps… you can go warm up and stretch – properly I might add since you like to keep that task as short as possible and then you can come in for a little kick around okay” Alexia said softly seeing how much it actually stressed you out

“I… I… I… okay” you said a little defeated walking away thinking you disappointed Alexia

“Cariño…” the blonde spaniard called after you “… back”

You immediately turned on your heels slowly walking back to her

“Yeah?” you asked carefully

“I’m not disappointed… I’m not mad… nor am I punishing you… I want you to warm up properly and then come join us at training… if you feel the need for a little gym session afterwards we can do that” Alexia said soft but firm immediately knowing where your head went

“And we’ll get you some different shorts… supporting the enemy…” she winked at you and you looked down noticing the logo

“Yeah well… I was way behind the enemy lines… had to take a trophy piece” you smirked as Alexia lightly slapped your ass signaling you to go warm up

“Come on Lucy” you yelled laughing “Even blind Grandma T would’ve made that goal… Carata Kid was WAY off her line”

“Excuse me??!!!!” your sister exclaimed shocked but everyone heard she was just playing along

“You’re shit… I don’t know why they pay you so much money” you laughed but then squealed as you saw your sister running at you

“Come here you semen demon” Lucy yelled as she was chasing after you

You where cutting through the players and staff laughing loudly even going so far playing catch around Aitana who stood there frozen in place. Everyone was laughing until Jona whistled loudly putting a halt on your little game.

“So Bebita… where did you get the recipe for the Catànies from?” Ona asked you in the locker room where you currently were changing for gym time with Alexia

“Which what where?” you looked at her confused

“The Catànies” the blonde spaniard answered

“Huh?!” you asked even more confused by the second

“The chocolate thingies you made last night” Lucy clarified huffing

“Oh… no recipe… Luce brought them Home one night and I just tried to recreate the flavor and texture” you shrugged nonchalantly pulling on your shoes before standing up and leaving

“What did she mean “no recipe”??” Ona looked at Lucy confused

“Don’t ask me… I don’t know what she’s talking about half the time” your sister shrugged

“Keira?” the blonde spaniard turned to her friend

“Bitsy is good like that… just accept it” Keira waved off

“But these are SO good… how can she make them without a recipe???” Ona tried to understand how you made something this tasty without any help

“Don’t question it Ona… Bitsy does a lot of things nobody understands” Keira said

“Buenos Aitanas!!!” you yelled happily pushing open the gym doors

“Didn’t I tell you over and over and OVER again to not call it “Buenos Aitanas also…” Alexia rolled her eyes “… inside voice”

“Someone is short of an orgasm” you mumbled to yourself pulling a face at Alexia

“Mind to repeat that so I understand it as well??” the spanish captain asked raising an eyebrow

“I said let’s get started… I have a pool and a nice bottle of red waiting for me” you smiled sweetly

“I know you haven’t said that… I also know you won’t touch a bottle of red until you’re 18 at least… I’ll make sure of it” Alexia said but pointed to the pull up bar

“Yeah well Lucy wanted me to die a virgin… didn’t work out…” you said before jumping a little bit to get to the bar

“I’m not interested in your virginity… now come on… concentrate on your breathing…. 3 sets of 10… take your time… I want you to at least take 2 seconds between each pull up… 3 minutes between every set” Alexia said firmly and saw how your energy changed immediately as you started to focus on your task

“Good Cariño… that was very good” Alexia said proudly crouching next to your head “… you want to continue?”

“Give me a minute” you panted out hard sweat covering your body “I can do more”

“Okay and we’re going to stop right here” Alexia said immediately recognizing your competitiveness

“What why??” you sat up your breathing still fast and Alexia pushed you back into a laying position

“Because your statement is acted on competitiveness and not on your health… we’re here to stabilize and strengthen your knee… not to set you back” the blonde captain said firmly her hand on your chest and with the little pressure she provided you immediately felt calmer

“Gracias mamá” you closed your eyes while your breathing calmed down – you knew Alexia was right

“I’m too young to be your mother… also… you’re an impossible task … that wouldn’t happen if you were mi niña… you would be so well behaved” Alexia chuckled

“Lucy tried her best… like with that own goal at… wherever you guys were” you waved off your eyes still closed and Alexia started laughing

[owlespresso]

dogged pursuit. dr veritas ratio. p2 of ? but you don't need to read part 1 but if you want to it's here summary: you've been appointed as the bodyguard of one doctor veritas ratio after a failed attempt on his life. he's easy to get along with, so long as you learn when to plug your ears and focus on his washboard abs. tags. suggestive content, reader insert is a bit of a freak

“You’re up early,” you remark idly as you trudge down the stairs. Because it frankly is. The sun’s barely risen. Watery light washes in through the partly opened blinds. A brief glance out the window sees the narrowed streets mostly barren, only a few comers and goers. A woman jogs with her dog. A couple in floral shirts and sandals walks by, chatting leisurely.

Ratio stands in front of the stove, spatula in hand. 

“I wake up at six in the morning every day,” Veritas informs you. On the skillet, something that looks suspiciously like bacon and eggs sizzle. The egg is a little too brown to be an egg like you’re familiar with—the ones on your home planet have a bright blue yolk. “Waking up at a consistent time each morning ensures you sleep better every night. You should give it a try. It might fix that Rube Goldberg machine you call your circadian rhythm.”

“Hmm. I’ll have to do that, then,” you say, bending over the kitchen eyeland to peer at him. He’s wearing a white apron with pale blue gingham patterning. It is, most unfortunately, not the frilly kind like you might have hoped. The tie still cinches around that pretty waist, the pearlescent fabric of his robes bunching up where it’s fastened, strings pulled into a little bow. His robes end just above his knees. Like this, you can peer down at his calves. His ankles. 

Are you really getting off on this guy’s ankles? Shit. You kick off the island and sway around it, crossing your arms and leaning up against the counter, next to the stove. 

Here, you can admire the flex of his hands, the handsome curve of his nose. His dark lashes are thick, fanning over his cheek every time he blinks. “Any other advice you’re willing to give, Doc? I’m all ears.” 

Your fingers wiggle as you exaggeratedly reach over the pan, aiming to pinch a piece of bacon off the popping, hot surface. He swats you away with a scowl.

“I did not have to make enough for us both,” he reminds you, warning you. “The least you could do is wait.” 

“You’re so right, Doc. Patience breeds success and all that,” you nod factually, attempting to look as remorseful as possible for your attempted pilfering. 

He rolls his eyes, and motions over to the sink. Next to it, two mugs are sat. Steam steadily rises from each one. You blink over at them, and then look back to your long-suffering companion. It takes a moment for you to put two and two together, utterly unprepared for him to be so kind to you. 

“For me?” you ask, unable to keep the tender pitch out of your voice because—wow, shit, he really thought about you. He’s cooking for you. It’s a heady kind of feeling that fills you, then. This kind of domesticity is so often out of reach for a person who lives your kind of life—but the esteemed Doctor Veritas Ratio is wearing a cute little apron and laboring over the stove, for you (and himself, but he’s being nice enough to share, and that’s enough to get you going).

He lifts his head from his labors, looking at you with a gauging but otherwise indiscernible expression. 

“Yes,” he says, softest you’ve heard him all morning. “Drink your coffee and sit down.” He commands, but it sounds more like he’s griping at you. 

[warlocksoup]

SLEAZE ✶⋆.˚ MIYA OSAMU

CHAPTER ONE: locked out

SOUNDTRACK: i don't know you by mannequin pussy

cw: implied ed/unhealthy relationship to food

For breakfast, she cracks an egg onto a hot pan. She ignores it, and lets it crack and bubble, turning her attention to a cold clump of white rice she pulled from the fridge. She turns on the faucet of her kitchen sink and lets the water run into the bowl before she tosses it in the microwave. Two minutes. The eggs pop and crackle in the pan.

When the microwave beeps, she grabs the bowl with her bare hands and burns them. She mumbles curses under her breath and equips herself with a dishrag before she goes at it again. Haphazardly, she slips the egg out of the pan and onto the steaming bowl of rice. She sits down at her counter, remembers that she left the stovetop on, and stands to turn it off before she gets her first bite in.

The eggs are overcooked and tough, but she likes it that way, because if the texture is too runny, it makes her think of snot, and she gets too repulsed to eat anymore. The rice is gummy and sticky. She eats about half of the egg and a quarter of the rice before she gives up, and, when she documents this failure to empty her plate, she cites her inability properly prepare food that isn’t a hot. mushy, chewy mess as the reason. She dumps the rest of it in the trash.

✶⋆.˚

She’s technically unemployed. When her mother calls her to try and rectify this, she falls back on Kenma.

“-and if you want to start auditioning again, I can call my agent friend, and we can get you set up. It’s really no trouble at all. He’d really love to see you on screen again. We all would, sweetie. It’s been so long, and you’re just so talented. Doesn’t it seem like a waste to just rot away in that apartment of yours? With the connections that you have it seems an awful shame. There are a lot of people who would kill for what you have, honey.”

There’s an unlit cigarette in her mouth. Kenma reaches out and snatches it from her mouth before she can light it. He doesn’t even look back at her as he snaps it in half.

“No, Mom, it’s okay,” she says, phone pressed between her elbow and her cheek as she shuffles to grab her pack out from her sweatshirt pocket again. “I got a lot of stuff going on with Kenma and his Bouncing Balls thing,” she pulls out the carton and flicks the lid open, “I don’t think I have the time to even prepare for an audition, and even if I wanted to,” Kenma grabs at the entire carton and forces it out of her hand. She hits his arm.

Her mother sighs wistfully on the other line. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know. It’d really make me happy to see you act again.”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. From his spot on his couch beside her, Kenma removes one hand from his phone to place it on her knee. “I know, Mom.”

“Just let me know. I’ve got to go now. I have a dinner with one of the producers of Ripple Effect. I know you don’t want me to, but I’ll bring your name up just in case. They’re always looking for guest stars. You never know, you might change your mind.”

“Yeah, I might,” she agrees, knowing that she won’t. She looks at Kenma, like she’s begging to be saved, but he keeps his focus on his phone, indifferent to her suffering. “Have fun at your dinner. I’ll talk to you later.”

She doesn’t wait for her mother’s response before she hangs up, but before she can press that red button, she can hear her mother’s half-hearted ‘love you,’ come through the speaker. She pockets her phone.

“It’s Bouncing Ball,” Kenma says, still not looking up from his phone.

“What?” She leans back against the arm of the couch, and kicks her legs out, so her calves are resting on Kenma’s lap. He used to push her legs off of him whenever she did this, but now it seems that it’s not worth the effort to him.

“It’s ball, not balls,” he corrects, and it occurs to her that this is far from the first time he’s had to do so. She can’t ever remember the difference. Ball or balls. Makes no difference to her. “And what are you so busy doing here that you can’t audition for anything?”  

If it weren’t for Kenma, she’d have to get a real job. But she has Kenma, so she was able to dish out enough of her child actor savings to throw at him, and he took it and made it so she gets a healthy paycheck at the end of every week. She doesn’t know how it works. Kenma’s explained it to her before, but she’s never really listened. Matters of money bore her. Most things bore her.

She likes to pretend that Kenma just likes spending time with her enough to pay her for it. It’s more interesting than being an investor or partial owner or whatever the fuck she actually is.

She gives Kenma a bright grin. “Keeping you company, of course.”

“You should get a real job, instead,” he tells her, shutting off his phone and tossing it on the couch cushion. “It’s a better way of spending your time than bothering me all day.”

“Stop pretending you don’t like me,” she tells him. Kenma’s indifference used to eat away at her. In high school, she would obsess over earning his affection, and it drove her insane that he wouldn’t give it up. She used to think she was in love with him, but it turned out she had just tied in her self-worth to his approval.

Turns out she does that kinda thing pretty often.

And anyways, Kenma’s indifference was never really indifference. He just took a few years to get used to.

“It’d be good for you,” he says. “If not for money, then just so you have something to do. Maybe just something part-time.”

Her eyes roll, almost automatically.  All anyone ever does is complain about the job they’ve got. Even if they love it. Even if they’ve dedicated their life to it. She has plenty of unread texts in her phone from Kuroo to prove it. “I’m plenty happy without one.”

Kenma makes some noise in the back of his throat that comes across as half disapproving and half disinterested. And the conversation ends there.

✶⋆.˚

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The wind is whipping her hair in her face and blocking the view of the inside of her purse as her hands frantically push aside her belongings. Her lip-gloss and pepper spray and loose coins knock together as she tries to find her keys.

But no matter how much she moves around her purse’s insides, she can’t find them. And in fact, she can picture perfectly where they are: sitting on the edge of the counter in Kenma’s kitchen, next to her stolen pack of cigarettes and a half-empty can of an energy drink.

The wind is getting colder and she’s starting to shiver under her thin jacket. Just behind the locked door, there’s a faux minx coat hanging up above her shoe rack, and she’s fantasizing about its warmth.

“Fuck,” she grumbles again, eventually moving past denial and giving up her search for her keys in favor of her phone. Kenma’s the only person she ever calls, so she’s quick to find his contact. She calls his number, and steps away from her front door, one arm pressing her phone to her ear, and the other wrapping around her center, pulling the jacket tighter to her.

The phone rings, and rings, and Kenma does not answer. She hangs up and tries to dial again but gets the same result. “Fuck, Kenma, I left your keys at my place and now I’m locked out. Call me back please.”

She hangs up, and scrolls through her notifications, hoping that there’s some text from Kenma saying he found her keys and is already on his way to bring them to her.

kodzuken has gone live!

She’s fucked.

Feeling defeated, she flops back against the door, and pouts. The solution to most of her problems. Kenma wouldn’t notice if she kicked down his door. She’s sure she could break in, if she tried hard enough. Though one of his neighbors might call the police if she tries to break a window in. And even if they didn’t, Kenma might not forgive her for that one. He’d probably give her a pay cut, if he could. Actually, she’s not sure he could, she’s not really sure how it works.

“Hey!”

She lifts her head. The Miya of Onigiri Miya is standing at the edge of the sidewalk, hands deep in his pockets. A car passes between them, and then it’s just the two of them. She swallows.  

She takes a step forward without really thinking about it. He looks cold, arms exposed by the short sleeves of his t-shirt, covered in nothing else but his store apron. He grabs at the brim of his cap, and then pulls it down firm. “Are you okay?”

✶⋆.˚

In front of her is her usual lunch, salmon onigiri, plated neatly on the counter of Onigiri Miya. She sits there, the restaurant’s only occupant, and keeps her arms by her side, staring down at the meal before her.

“Is everything okay?”

Her eyes flick up. Behind the counter, where he usually is, is the owner. The titular Miya. With the arms.

She looks back down at her plate. The idea of eating her lunchtime food at night makes her uneasy. There’s a cold plate of curry rice in her fridge she was supposed to be heating up instead. She doesn’t want to eat in front of Miya. She does usually, during lunch, but it’s different. He’s too busy then, hands full with tasks and customers, to notice her eating. Now, it’s like there’s a spotlight on her.

“I just made your usual lunch order,” Miya says, like he went too long without an answer and got nervous. He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask what you want, I just figured. If it’s not what you wanted, I can make you something else.”

“No,” she shakes her head, now feeling like she’s got no choice. “This is great, thanks.”

She smiles at him, and he smiles back. And he doesn’t look away as she tepidly lifts the onigiri to take a small bite out of the corner, feeling nauseous and watched as she does so.

This seems to satisfy him. “Good?” he questions.

She nods as she chews, smiling as she swallows. “Yeah, great as always,” she tells him, lying. It tastes like everything else does to her. “You make my favorite food, y’know.”

That’s at least true. It is her favorite food. She likes that he makes it, carefully, with his own hands.

He blushes at this. “Thanks. I, uh, I appreciate that.”

She’s spent a lot of time imaging him, thinking of scenarios like this one. The two of them alone, passing tension-filled words and blushing flirtations. He has been carefully constructed, pieced together in her mind.

Though, he’s not as forward as she imagined him to be, not as talkative. In her head, he is bold and gives her straightforward compliments and he fusses over her and he is smooth with his words. In her head, he feeds her with his own hands and wipes the corner of her mouth with his thumb.

But in real life, he’s reserved. Polite but not saying more than he needs to. He hasn’t professed attraction or begged her for a date or pressed her against the wall. He hasn’t done anything but give her a plate of food and a warm place to wait for Kenma.

Which isn’t as disappointing as she thought it would be. It just sort of makes her want it more.

Her phone buzzes on the countertop. She flips it over to see nothing from Kenma, but a generic ‘here’s what you missed’ Twitter notification. She hesitantly takes another bite from her meal, and it hits the pit of her stomach like a wet pile of mud.

In her seat, she feels awkward. She tries to think of something intriguing to say. Something that would make him want to see more of her. But all she can think of his how hot the lights of the store feel when he’s there, watching as she eats.

“Thanks for letting me wait here,” she says eventually. “I am sorry to keep you here past closing, though.”

Miya shrugs. “Nah, don’t worry about it. It got me out of making dinner for my brother, so it actually works out pretty great for me.”

Her phone vibrates again. Her mother this time.

Dinner went well! I got a good word in with that producer, so you might be getting a call soon!

She can’t help but make a face. She wipes it off as soon as she feels it grow.

 “Bad news from your friend?” Miya asks, reading the sourness of her expression.

“Uh, no. Just my mom,” she explains, and shifts around in her seat. “She’s trying to get me on a television show.”

Miya leans forward, resting his forearms on the counter in front of her. It makes her oddly nervous. “And it’s not going well?”

She snickers. “Actually, it’s going a little too well. I’m not really into acting. I retired when I was eight.”

“Yeah, I remember,” he tells her. “Me and my brother used to watch Family Sized with our mom every week. He had a crush on you, and he cried when you left the show.”

It’s weird for her to think that people just know. Especially him. That he can just look back at some of the worst years of her life as just as a collection of fond moments from his childhood. An hour to bond once a week with his brother and mother. To sit in front of the television and watch her suffer through her childhood.

Him, and everyone else in the goddamn country.

“Yeah, my mom too,” she says wryly. “She’s been trying to get me back in it ever since then. Unfortunately for her, I like my current job too much.”

“Yeah? What’s your current job?”

She smiles. “I’m unemployed.”

Miya laughs, dropping his head down as he chuckles, and she feels oddly proud for making him laugh. Even if it’s at her own expense. He straightens up and stands upright. “Well, if you ever do want a job, you can always try it out here.”

It’s not an invitation for late night drinks, but she takes it as an indicator that maybe he wouldn’t mind spending more time with her. She’s counting it as a win. “Yeah, if you ever want to give your customers food poisoning, I’d be a great hire.”

Another notification from her phone. This one’s from Kenma.

I sent an Uber back to your place. Just stay at my place tonight. I don’t feel great about you going back and forth this late at night.

She looks down at her barely eaten onigiri and then back up at Miya again. “Got an Uber coming my way,” she tells him. “I’ll go outside and wait for it. Thanks for letting me stay here.”

“You sure you don’t need anything else?” he questions. “Do you want me to wrap up the rest of that for you so you can take it home?”

She says yes, because she thinks it would offend him if she said no. So he places the rest of it an a paper box for her and she says thank you as she takes it from him, knowing she has no intention of finishing it off.

A car pulls up to the outside of her apartment as she’s walking out the door. She turns back to Miya, and she says, “Tell your brother I’m sorry, by the way, for leaving the show and making him cry like that.”

He waves her off. “Don’t worry about him,” he tells her. “I’m hoping he’s over it, by now.”

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[loriannbowman]

Jiyan | The Teal Dragon

A dragon is strong. A dragon is proud. A dragon is wise. A dragon is powerful. A dragon is...

Jiyan opens his eyes, the sunlight of a new day's dawn filtering through his thick lashes. He breathes a sigh, a steamy fog escaping his mouth as the morning's cold clutches still cling the dew soaked earth. Jiyan runs a hand down his face, waking up every nerve that is part of his pale, yet unmarred skin.

The Tacet Discords have been quiet for a while now, and the Black Shores give no reports of potential cases of Retroact Rain. Everything, for the most part, is calm, calm enough to be able to breathe.

Sitting up, Jiyan rolls his shoulders, shaking off the sleep from his muscles and bones. He does his best to suppress a yawn, but ends up giving in, letting his jaw stretch as he rolls his head.

Jiyan quickly gets up from his cot and grabs his greatsword and spear. On the battlefield, your weapon should always remain within reach, especially when one is under the assumed precedence of peace.

"Good morning, General Jiyan!" a chirped voice says.

Only a small handful of people are awake this early in the morning, and most of them are from the night shift, eagerly waiting for their turn to rest. There is only one person, other than the general himself, that would be awake at this hour.

"Good morning, Sergeant (L/n), you're up early today. I thought maybe I could beat you, guess not."

A bright smile shines on the young sergeant's face.

"Nope, not today, General. I've already warmed up some porridge for you," they say, a soft chuckle escaping their lips.

Jiyan can feel a throb in his chest. His hand moves before he realizes and clutches his heart. Jiyan feels a sweat build up on the back of his neck.

"General Jiyan, are you alright?" the young sergeant asks, standing quickly and rushes to Jiyan's side.

"I'm... Fine..." Jiyan pants out.

He knows this feeling, this throbbing in his chest, he's felt this same feeling for a while now, and it's all because of them.

Every time they smile. Every time they laugh. Every time they stand proud over a defeated enemy, sweat dripping down their brow with a glowing appearance. Every time... they come close to him. Every time they do a kind gesture out of their way for him. Every time... Every time...

He knows this feeling, this throbbing in his chest.

But does he really?

Is this love he feels for someone? Is this a desire to be with them? The want to protect someone and stand by their side till time's end? The longing for companionship no other person can fulfill? Or is this a carnal need soldiers often get after being on the battlefield too long; the craving for sexual intimacy with anyone you might find even slight romantic affection for? His head spun every time he thought about what this emotion might be; whenever they got too close.

"You don't look fine. Come, let's get you a seat," they says, pulling Jiyan's arm over their shoulder and leads them to where his prepared meal sits.

The scent of their skin made its way to Jiyan's senses, causing his eyes to cloud over slightly.

The young sergeant sets Jiyan down on a small stool, making sure he's well enough to sit, gently pushing him forwards to lean on the table.

Jiyan's body fills with shivers at the feeling. Their fingers, although barely, grazed lightly against his Tacet Mark, sending waves of pleasure through his longing body. Jiyan has to restrain himself from turning around and pinning the young sergeant.

It's not their fault. It's not their fault. It's not their fault.

Trying quickly to sooth his mind, Jiyan quickly starts to eat the bowl of rice porridge that sits before him, steaming.

You've got to control yourself. They're just being helpful.

Jiyan uses his utensils to pick up the egg that sits on the side and quickly swallows it, the light yolk dripping down his soft lips. Noticing it falling, Jiyan uses his tongue to swipe at the runny yellow goo.

"Are you doing any better, General? For a second, I was worried you were having a heart attack! If not, I can always wake up out healer."

"No. No... Like I said, I'm fine. I just had a minor heartache, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

"A heartache should still be looked at. You never know if it could lead to something more serious."

Jiyan looks up and makes contact with their eyes. They're bright, beautiful eyes are wide with worry. Their plush lips in a soft pout. Their hands fiddle with one another, playing with the seams of their gloves.

"Thank you, Sergeant (L/n), for your concern, but I really am alright. Trust me, if it was something to worry about, I would visit out medic without hesitation. I'm really okay, I promise."

The young sergeant hums with doubt but nods their head.

"If you say so. I have put all my trust in you before, General, and I will continue to do so until I pass."

A smile graces Jiyan's lips and a soft hum escapes his throat. It's deep and melodious, sending away the negative energy that once surrounded the two far off.

"And I put all my trust in you, too."

The young sergeant's eyes widen like saucers.

"Th-Thank you! You're trust is important to me." They look away with a sense of bashfulness in their handsome features.

That look... it's all for me... and should always be only for me...

A dragon is selfish. A dragon is greedy. A dragon is possessive. A dragon does not share. A dragon hoards. A dragon is cunning. A dragon is...

Jiyan

-----

❥ Yandere!Jiyan loves you

❥ Yandere!Jiyan always wants to be with you

❥ Yandere!Jiyan will do anything to keep you by his side

❥ Yandere!Jiyan doesn't like having to send your team off to fight Tacet Discords

❥ Yandere!Jiyan would rather have you stay as a statistical analyzer, something far away from the battlefield

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who has to hide the burning desire inside his chest every single time he comes to see you

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who's nightmares used to consist of all of his comrades dying, now consist of you and only you dying in his arms

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who hangs around your tent after you fall a sleep for only a moment, for that is all he allows himself to have

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who itches to touch you

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who doesn't know if this is love or of this is simply sexual desire built up over time

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who in the end, doesn't really care, convincing himself its the former

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who can do nothing but glare and itch at the other soldiers who look at you, especially your little team of four

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who drags his nails down his face every time the passing thought of you with someone else crosses his mind

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who can feel his heart throb and can't seem to breath when he thinks about you passing away on the field

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who manages to get you alone

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who, after sometime, reports you as missing

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who has you tied up, away from prying eyes

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who explains everything that's been happening to you. You should still be allowed to be informed as to what's happening on the frontlines

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who loves you the most, but is not cruel enough to not care for his other soldiers, he just has a favourite

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who, after finally having you broken, needing him, will report having found you

When everyone is worried and sees the state your in, they as ❥ Yandere!Jiyan to take you back home

You're forced to retire from the Midnight Rangers which brings ❥ Yandere!Jiyan so much joy. You'll finally be safe at home

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who takes you back to his home, locking you up there

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who asks to marry you, not giving you a choice to refuse

❥ Yandere!Jiyan who, once he's finally able to leave, can stay with you

❥ Yandere!Jiyan always wants to be with you

❥ Yandere!Jiyan loves you

[th3secr3th1story]

gojo when you come home from a mission injured

warnings: description of wounds, blood, more blood, just some badass y/n and gojo fluff. 1.9k words

gojo was convinced the higher ups hated him. well, he already knew they did, but this just made him all the more confident. there was no other explanation. he couldn't think of any other reason that they would assign you a mission on his first day off in months.

gojo had the best day prepared. he wanted to make up for all the lost time between the two of you, since you both were busy being the top sorcerers. you were better at making time for him, as gojo tended to get caught up in his work easily, which is why he wanted this day to be extra special. good thing he had it all planned.

he was ready to sleep in with you--and not just that...on a weekday, too!

he was going to wake up before you, cherishing a few more quiet moments with you in his arms, before silently slipping out of bed and making his way to the bathroom to freshen up.

he was going to make you the most delicious breakfast; he already had it prepared--

two eggs carefully whisked in a bowl, with just the right amount of spices and seasoning to create an amazing scrambled blend. sliced pieces of avocado with tomatoes on perfectly toasted bread. a steaming cup of tea, drizzled with honey and a small sprig of rosemary. just how you liked it.

carefully balancing the meal on a tray, he was going to walk over back to your room, placing the food on your nightstand while he climbed into bed to wake you up with soft kisses.

"g'morning, baby," he was going to whisper softly, chuckling at your groans.

"it's so early. five more minutes, please," your whines would've been interrupted as you smelled the breakfast, immediately sitting up. "is that food?"

hours later, the two of you were going to be tangled on the couch, his body sprawled on yours as your favorite show was streaming on the TV. of course, this was just his chance to appreciate you.

"satoru, you're not even trying to pay attention," you would've cried, "this is the best part!"

he would've merely hummed, the grip on your waist tightening as he continued to kiss your neck, relishing in your embrace.

"stop disturbing me, y/n!"

that night, after devouring delicious boxes of takeout, was going to end up back on the couch, but this time, your head would be in his lap, dozing off.

he was going to turn off the TV and lightly carry you back to your room, tucking you under the covers before sliding in next to you, pulling your back into his chest.

oh, what a lovely day it was supposed to be.

key word: supposed.

-

gojo was rudely awakened from his warm and peaceful slumber by your figure attempting to slide out of his arms--of course with much difficulty.

"hey, where're you goin'?" he mumbled sleepily, tightening his hold on you. "the sun's barely up."

"i know, i'm sorry, baby. i just got called in. there's a mission they want me to handle," you whispered, hoping that he'd fall back asleep.

instead, he shot up. "what? today? why?" he could already see the whole day he had planned waving goodbye as they galloped out the front door of his brain.

you merely sighed, "i'm sorry, satoru. i know it was your day off and i was looking forward to spending it with you, but i can't really get out of this."

"you could call in sick," he grumbled, pulling you back down underneath the covers into his warmth, kissing your shoulder blades softly. god, he was making this impossible. "please call in sick."

"baby, i wish. i don't want to go at all, but i still have a job to do, i'm sorry."

"you and your moral compass will be the death of me," he pouted, holding you impossibly closer.

chuckling, you turn around and kiss his forehead once, his neck twice, before sighing and lifting yourself out of his arms.

"i'll see you soon. i love you, satoru," you whispered, rubbing his side.

"i love you too. stay safe, traitor," he whined, glaring at you through sleepy eyes.

-

you were expecting to be back by 5 at the latest. it was barely dawn when you had left the house, and you prayed thought the mission would be completed soon enough to go home and be with your boyfriend on his rare day off.

unfortunately, you thought wrong.

all had been going well, and you thought the job was done, until a dark shape emerged from the shadows in the corner of your eye as you were getting ready to report back to the higher ups.

"oh, fuck me," you mumbled.

your sorcerer instincts immediately kicked in, conjuring an immense stream of cursed energy and launching it at the figure. it stumbled but continued approaching you.

its massive arms stretched out, flashing its razor sharp claws at you.

"i just want to go home," you sighed, your words directed at the curse in hopes that it'd magically drop dead for you. wishful thinking.

the fight was ferocious, possibly one of the toughest curses you'd ever dealt with. how is each strike getting faster? you thought, barely dodging its attacks.

out of nowhere, the curse let out an angry growl and charged right at you. you attempted to throw up a defensive shield, but it wasn't enough to completely block the attack.

"shit," you yelped. one of its claws managed to rake across your stomach, leaving a deep bloody gash.

you stumbled backwards, momentarily dazed by the situation, narrowly dodging its onslaughts.

with the shock having worn off, you focused your energy into hands, channeling a final, all-or-nothing attack. you released a massive burst of cursed energy, completely ravaging the monster's body by the sheer power of your strike. it was over.

you felt a particularly strong wave of exhaustion wash over you, your stomach beginning to sting with the adrenaline wearing off.

home, i need home, you thought. i need satoru.

-

a door click and your heavy sigh lets gojo know you've returned, happily skipping down the stairs, only to halt at the sight of you.

"babyyyyy, i missed you! what took you so long? it's already 9:30! how many curses were there? was it just you? are you hung-"

your body was battered and bloodied, scars from the battle still fresh and stinging. your clothes were torn, stained with dark crimson of the curse mixed with your own bright scarlet blood. your arms and face were covered in deep scratches. there was a long, ferocious gash seeping with blood across your stomach where your uniform had been torn.

however, despite your injuries and clear exhaustion, gojo looked into your eyes and the twinkle of triumph and satisfaction was so glaringly present he barely stopped himself from pouncing on you and kissing you until you passed out.

he settled with pulling you into a hug and pecking your forehead. you were already too close to fainting.

"hey," you whispered, "my body is killing me."

"let's get you fixed up, baby. you can't do anything without me, can you?"

"shut up," you attempted to push him away, but to your satisfaction (you'd never say that out loud), he just pulled you in closer, careful to avoid your stomach.

he brought you over to the bathroom, gently undressing you.

"well, this is romantic, isn't it?" he smirked, laughing at the glare you threw him.

the sight of your painful, bloody wounds covering your whole body made his heart sink a little and eyes fill with concern.

"how are you feeling?" he asked gently, the tone a stark contrast to his previous question.

"'m okay, just tired. i missed you," you smiled. "i doubt you wanted to spend your day off cleaning me up, 'm sorry."

"i'll always take care of you, y/n," he replied as he set the shower water to warm and lightly pushed you inside.

"what, a shower now? but i'm bleeding all over the place!" you argued, not feeling like standing up for a second longer.

"i know, baby, but i can't see where to patch you up if you have blood and dirt all over you. it'll be quick, i swear," he smiled with a short peck to your cheek.

he gently washed the dried blood and dirt off of your body, working carefully to avoid adding any additional discomfort. you found the water to be warm and soothing, the smell of the soap providing a temporary relief to mask the pulsing of your wounds.

once you had gotten out, put on some clothes, and had your minor cuts tended to, gojo turned his attention to the large gash on your stomach.

gojo carefully applied pressure to the cut, apologizing when you winced.

"god, what did you fight, y/n? this is insane."

"i don't even know, it had these massive claws and like, the weirdest eyes. it kind of reminds me of you, now that i think about it," you chuckled.

"wow, i'm standing here, fixin' you up, and you're just insulting me?" he whined, masking a smile.

after the bleeding had stopped, he carefully wiped the area and stitched up the deep gash, bandaging it with gentle care. he took his time, wanting to do a good job to ensure you would have a fast and safe recovery.

once he finished, his hands were stained with your blood, but he didn't seem to mind. he gave you a comforting smile, eyes filled with pure love. the same ones that made you fall for him.

but you should've known the scene was too peaceful. for a split second, you swore you saw a flicker of mischief in his eyes. that never ended well for you.

"should i lick my hands?" he questioned. oh dear.

"no! satoru, stop being such a freak. put your hand down--no!"

your eyes went wide in shock and disgust while gojo was sitting on the ground shaking from laughter.

"you--oh my god--you should've seen your face! my stomach hurts so much--well, i guess not as much as yours--okay, ow, okay, i'm sorry! stop kicking me!"

the two of you stared at each other for a few seconds before falling into giggles.

"you are the weirdest man i ever met, you know that, satoru?"

"i know. i'm honored," he winked.

after washing his hands--multiple times under your command--he turned to you, leaning on the bathroom counter, staring at you with a serious look in his eyes.

"you had me worried there, baby. it was so late and you still hadn't come home, and then you walked through the door and you were literally dripping blood. and god, for a second, i thought the worst thing had happened and my brain literally froz-"

you interrupted his rambling by pulling him into a hug, dispelling all of his fears with just a kiss to his neck.

"i know, i'm sorry. i thought the job had been done with, but then this random curse appeared as i was about to leave and it got the better of me for a moment there. but i'm okay thanks to you, satoru," you smiled. he pulled you in tighter.

"there's no way you're going to work tomorrow. stupid morals or not, you're staying here."

"but satoru, i'll just be sore tomorrow, i can still go in-"

"i don't care. i will lock you in the room if i have to!"

-

you and gojo were in bed, your bodies warm under the covers and limbs tangled. gojo held you close to him, feeling secure with you in his arms.

"i love you s'much, y/n, you know that, right?" gojo asked, turning your head up so he could kiss you. oh, how he missed you.

"love you too, satoru. thank you for taking care of me," you slurred, the exhaustion finally catching up to you after the long day.

"always, baby."