#it was only halfway through inking this that i was like. hang on. why is this setting off bells in my head.

[sforzesco]

Galeazzo and Lorenzo, checking out the Medici collection

Magnifico, Miles J. Unger

[hyacintheros]

Brand New City

3. Starman

|| (Marauders Era Characters x Fem!Reader)

Series Masterlist Previous Chapter

Pairing: Marauders Era Characters x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Rude James

Word Count: 2k

P.S: Sorry it took so long, I was a little busy, but I am back! Please enjoy doves c:

“Hey- are these seats taken?” Y/N flits her gaze to the boy in front of her, chocolate cream eyes fluttered at her with hazel lashes glistening from the sun projecting onto his face.

She’s a little confused, as the area of the library she's seated herself at is practically stuffed at the back, near the restricted section.

“No, not at all. You're looking for extra chairs, right?” The boy next to him lets out a muffled chuckle, his midnight curls swirling as he speaks animatedly. “We meant if we could study with you, doll? S'that alright?”

The girl flushes, not realising that they wanted to sit with her, assuming they were just taking some chairs. “Oh! So sorry, yeah of course.” She lets out an embarrassed laugh.

The two boys smile at her, unpacking their things onto the table. “‘D’you hear what happened in McGonagall's class yesterday? Some bloke turned his desk mate into a teapot instead of the spider!” Sirius says, trying to keep quiet as Madam Pince was on his case not too long ago.

“No way! Would have loved to be in that class” Y/N laughs, amused at the story. Remus smiles and shakes his head imagining it, refocusing on his textbook.

“Y/N, could I borrow some ink?” The hazel-haired boy asks. They've fallen into a routine over the last couple of days, Remus forgetting his inkpot during class and always sharing with the girl.

“I've got different colours today! Black, Blue, Red, and Green.. which would you like?” Remus looks at her with a shine in his eyes.

“Could I borrow the red one please?” She hands the boy the red-coloured pot. He dips his feathery quill and starts taking notes, excited at the new colour rather than boring black.

Sirius, also intrigued by the different colours, pipes up. “Is it alright if I could try the green one?” The girl gives him a smile, sliding over the green ink for him.

“Woah! This is so fun, where'd you get these? They only sell black at Diagon Alley!” Sirius asks, hoping to snag a few for himself.

“I got them at a stationary store in London when I got my letter, thought they looked really fun!” The muggle girl says to him, happy that they found her oddly mundane inkpots fascinating.

Both boys hum in acceptance, facing back to their work and making small talk here and there. Remus, halfway through studying, pulls out a muggle book, The Silence of the Lambs.

“Sorry Remus, but is that book the one about Hannibal Lecter?” Remus gives her a cheeky grin, always being a sucker for muggle storytelling.

Sirius at this point in time, has given up on studying, instead putting great effort in making little paper doves. As he folds the wings, a pat on his shoulder brings him back to reality.

“What are you lot doing hanging out with her? Don't you see her robe? Come on, we've got better things to be doing than hanging out with a snake.” James, the boy Lily was always hanging around, said to Remus and Sirius.

“Don't you worry, I'll be on my way.” She says coldly, finally understanding why he was so cold to her. She packs her books in an instant and leaves with a stomp in her step. “Y/N, your inkpots!” Sirius calls after her, being held back by James.

---♡---

‘Why would Lily hang out with a foul git like that?’ She asks herself, unsure if Lily even knows of his attitude. She bursts into the common room, the coolness of the dungeon and the view of the Black Lake sending her a wave of serenity.

“Darling? What's going on?” Narcissa, who was reading in the common room, asked. Lucius, who was sitting next to her on the love seat looking back at Y/N, instantly knew it had something to do with a few Gryffindor boys.

“Your red lions giving you trouble, dear?” He snickers, Narcissa smacks his shoulder, hushing him. Y/N gives him a sarcastic laugh, glaring at him.

“Shut up, Luci!” She picks up a decorative pillow from the couch and chucks it at him. Narcissa giggles at this.

“Let's go to the Great Hall, I'm starving.” She lets out a sigh, tired and hungry from all the studying, having skipped lunch because she was too busy writing a paper for History of Magic.

Narcissa loops her left arm into Lucius’, then loops her right into Y/N's, telling her fiance and friend about the Hufflepuff girl who was being annoying in potions today.

Lucius, ever the drama queen, was gasping and gossiping along with Narcissa. Y/N was just bouncing around as they walked, happy to be out of the library.

“I hope they serve roasted potatoes” Narcissa says as they enter the Great Hall, taking their seats at the Slytherin table. Tucking themselves in, everyone grabs a generous portion of the delicious food that surrounds them.

While she eats, a pair of eyes, or three, stabs into her back. Signalling Lucius, who sat in front of her, he peaks over her shoulder, giving a sneer then looking back at her.

“That red-haired cousin of yours and your lover lions” Lucius snickers, earning a glare from Y/N. “Finish your food before I finish you.” She says, then continues conversation with a Slytherin next to her.

‘What the fuck.’ Lucius thinks, going back to his dinner, sulking.

---♡---

“Cissa, I'm gonna head out for some air.” The girl says to her roommate. Already tucked into bed, Narcissa responds, “Don't get caught by Filch, come back in one piece please” She mumbles, falling asleep.

Y/N tucks Bella in, already snoring in bed, then tucking Narcissa, and carefully escapes the dorms.

Paintings already asleep, therefore no need to be too cautious. The sleepless girl heads up to the astronomy tower, wanting to feel the breeze on her skin without stepping out of the castle.

On her shoulder, a throw blanket to keep her warm in the stoney tower. She sets up ‘camp’ next to the balcony, meaning a blanket and a muffin she snagged at dinner. ‘This muffin mad scrumdili-icious’.

Pulling out a book from her robe, opening to the page, which was dog-eared, finding solace in the book. Every so often, she would pause, the night sky captivating her attention.

“That constellation there is called Draco.” She turns back to the entrance of the astronomy tower. The boy with curly black hair greets her, his hair arching the colour of the night sky.

She pats the spot next to her, offering up the blanket to share. He strolls over, plopping down and crossing his legs. “You fond of astronomy?” The girl asks him.

“I'd hope so, being named after a bloody star!” He sasses back, pulling some of the blanket over his legs. “What are you doing up here, dove? Shouldn't you be in bed down in the Dungeons. Mighty cold down there if you ask me!”

She shushes him as she giggles, both of them obviously being too loud for this time of night, past curfew. “Couldn't sleep, needed some air. Shouldn't you also be sleeping? What are you doing?”

The boy dressed in a red and gold sweater pipes down, a gaunt look on his face. “S'nothing, couldn't sleep either.” The boy says, a slight clench in his jaw.

Seeing that this is clearly an odd subject for Sirius, she switches it up. “What's your favourite song?”. Sirius immediately lightens up, sort of like a puppy.

“Definitely Starman by David Bowie! Something about him is so alluring. They both hum the song together, falling into comfortable silence afterwards.

“How's Lily? Didn't get to speak to her today.” The Slytherin girl breaks the slience, missing her cousin dearly.

“She's worried about you, y'know? Always saying how you should eat more and sleep, which I can clearly see now why she says you need more sleep!” He laughs, her heart warming at the thought of her cousin.

Despite being rival houses, she doesn't care about such trivial things. So what if they're different? Just means they're different people with different aspirations, but that doesn't mean they need to hate each other.

“Tell her that I'm okay the next time you see her, I'll try to talk to her tomorrow. It's hard to talk to her with James around, guarding her like a dog! When I get my hands on him I'm gonna..” The girl yaps away about the Potter boy, not impressed with his behaviour.

The boy next to her shares a great bit of laughs at the predicament. “What's that book next to you?” The boy asks, curiosity killing him.

“Oh! It's a muggle book, Pride and Prejudice. Lily recommended it to me, we're supposed to debrief about it next Friday.” She hands him the book, and he inspects the cover.

---♡---

“Severus! Have you seen Nemesis? Need to feed her before class.” The girl runs around the common room, looking for her snake. “I saw her with Lucius, think she's choking him out.”

They look to the stairs where Lucius is rushing down, Nemi on his neck, grasping him like a slinky stuck on itself. “Get. Her. Off.” He says in-between chokes and gasps of air.

Y/N gently takes Nemi back, cooing at her and giggling at Lucius, dishevelled and red for the lack of air. “Let's get you some mice darling.” She heads back up to her room, feeding Nemi and setting her free. Nemi always comes back after classes.

“Come on Severus, we're going to be late to potions.” They hurry to the class, taking seats near the back. James and Lily sitting near the front. Both Slytherins burn holes into the boy's back, though for entirely different reasons.

Slughorn walks in, starting class off with theory, focusing on how Draught of Living Death was first made and how to spot its effects, as well as the cure.

Y/N practically falls asleep on Severus’ shoulder, lesson too long for her taste. With an annoyed look, he takes notes for her, trying to hide her sleeping form with his arm.

“Y/N wake up, he's approaching.” Severus draws out, propping her up. She quickly grabs a parchment and textbook, acting like she was, indeed, studying all along.

See, while Severus covers her notes for her in Potions, she covers notes for him in History of Magic, both forming a non-spoken alliance.

Potions is over and they part ways, heading to separate classes. The day draws on like an endless loop, even lunch didn't feel as fulfilling.

---♡---

Remus stops her as she studies at the library, pulling a chair to the table and sitting with her.

“You left your ink pots yesterday. He pulls them out of his bag, setting them in front of her. She sends him a sweet smile, thanking him for keeping them safe.

Lily comes in tow, sitting next to Remus and pulls out her study materials. “The Herbology test felt too repetitive! Like we reviewed the whole chapter for it to be on literally one plant?” Lily rants, angry she wasted study time on something that didn't need it.

Lily and Y/N catch up, talking about literally anything that comes to mind while poor Remus tries his best to focus, but how could he when the girls are talking about muggle books? It's like his kryptonite!

So, instead of writing for their History of Magic essay, the three spent two hours talking about Romeo and Juliet. Even reciting quotes verbatim just for fun.

Lily and Remus pack up, needing to head back to their common room. They all bid farewell, promising to catch up soon.

Y/N stays back for three more hours, promising to finish the History of Magic essay by nightfall. It's just about 10:00pm, meaning curfew is about to hit.

She packs everything, making sure not to be left alone in the library with Madam Pince. She races down to the Slytherin dorms, only to literally run into James Potter.

Next Chapter

[mysticeclipses]

Inky Threads

Chapter 2: The Stranger's Help

Real World AU by @chez-cinnamon Welcome Home by @partycoffin

Poppy couldn’t believe what she had just heard. How did this stranger know who she was underneath her disguise? Was she not being careful enough? Would Fionn be angry that she had been found out? Had other people figured out who she was? Poppy was snapped out of her panicked thoughts by a quiet laughter, watching as the woman behind the counter covered her mouth for a few seconds before the laughter died down, a smile appearing on her face now. “You’re wondering how I found out who you are, aren’t you?” The woman asked, to which Poppy nodded slowly, unable to look away from the stranger that seemed to know who she was after meeting her just a few moments ago. The woman made her way out from behind the counter and stood next to Poppy, silently looking her up and down for a moment before speaking again. “Number one, I have never had a customer that was around seven or eight feet tall come into my store. Number two, I have never had a customer that smelled of ink and even dripped it on my floor. Number three, it was just a hunch honestly. Call it a lucky guess if nothing else, but clearly my hunch was correct.” The woman smiled as she moved to the door, looking up and down the street a few times before turning around to face Poppy once again. “Please, come into my storage room, we will have much more privacy to speak without risking someone walking in and seeing you as well.” The woman beckoned Poppy to the door she had appeared from earlier, and all things considered, it wasn’t like Poppy had much of a choice.

Stepping through the door, Poppy was in awe at what she saw in front of her. Shelves upon shelves of fabrics lines the walls, there were several sewing machines on tables, mannequins had various amounts of fabric covering them in different styles, these was a desk with multiple notebooks and pencils strewn about, and there was even a mini fridge hiding in a corner with a kettle on top. There was steam coming from the spout of the kettle, so there was likely water being heated inside, Poppy’s suspicions being confirmed as she watched the woman pour some hot water into a cup with some sort of string hanging over the edge. “You know, I never told you my name, have I?” The woman questioned as she took a sip from her cup, a strong floral scent slowly wafting around the room as Poppy shook her head no. “Well, my name is Reinassa Zakino, but most people just call me Rei. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Poppy.” The woman, or rather Rei, held out a hand for a handshake, getting a clothed feather in response which caused a barely noticeable lip twitch on Rei’s face. “Why don’t you make that phone call back here? I have some things to finish taking care of in the store, so you’ll have all the privacy you need to speak of whatever you need. I’ll knock before coming in, and I’ll wait for a response before coming in, alright?” Rei said with a smile before setting her cup down on the main table and gesturing to another rotary phone on the wall this time, heading to the door to leave only to stop halfway through. “And you can take all that...extra coverage off if you’d like as well, no one other than me will be entering this room.” She hummed before leaving and closing the door behind her, leaving Poppy in the privacy in the back room of the shop to take care of that phone call.

After standing around and taking in everything once more, Poppy slowly took off all the extra scarves and robes and whatnot Fionn had bought at the thrift shop for her to wear as a disguise, placing the pile of clothing on the table before making her way to the rotary phone that had been offered. It was a good thing that this mysterious Rei had rotary phones rather than the flip phones or weird flat landlines that Fionn had in his bungalow, as Poppy still hadn’t managed to get used to the new fangled things in this world, so anything that was reminiscent of home was a small comfort to the partridge. Slowly taking the handle into her inky wing, Poppy managed to calm her nerves enough to where she could turn the dial and correctly call Fionn’s number, hearing the normal ringing tones before that all too familiar voice came through on the other side, though it sounded significantly more frantic than usual for obvious reasons. “Hello?! Who is this?! Whoever you are, you’ll have to call back later, I’m kind of in the middle of-” “Fionn, calm down, it’s Poppy. I’m just calling from a store whose owner was kind enough to let me use their phone to contact you.” It took quite a bit of effort for Poppy to not sound nearly as panicked as Fionn was, but she managed to keep calm, if only by a few feathers that is. “Poppy?! Oh thank fuck you’ve managed to contact me! Where even are you? I turn around for five minutes in the grocery store and suddenly you’re gone? What happened?”

Oh geez, Fionn was really worked up now, and who could blame him? Trying to keep track of eight confused, inky puppets who were struggling to understand this new world that they found themselves in was no easy task, and Poppy could only imagine the stress Fionn felt anytime something bad happened, even if he rarely showed it around them. “Listen Fionn, I’m alright, I found a corner shop called Devilish Designs on Auburn Street. The shop owner let me borrow one of her phones, that’s how I’m able to talk to you right now. How soon do you think you could be here?” There was quite the long pause on the other side, only broken by the occasional muffled shouts of Fionn, likely directed towards Sally or Julie. Those two were still as energetic as ever, even in this strange world. Poppy wondered how they could stay so joyous despite everything that had befallen them. “Yeah, yeah, Auburn Street you said? I know where that is, it won’t take me long to get there, just sit tight and I’ll grab you.” And then Poppy heard a ding as the phone was hung up, leaving her in the silence of the room once more before she heard a quiet knocking at the door.

[takecareluv]

ink baby | eddie munson x reader 

word count : 708

author’s note : yes this is the same exact fic from earlier but i couldn't stop thinking about it all day and i really wanted to share it as an eddie fic as well because i honestly started to picture him in this about halfway thru writing and it just works, in my opinion. and i couldn't leave teddie bear hanging sooo here’s my first ( sorta ? ) eddie fic :3 but this can also be read as a vinnie hacker fic in another post on my blog 

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

as hard as you tried to hide the jitterbugs that were crawling through your mind, they were quick to spread throughout your entire body, causing your legs to bounce uncontrollably and your fingers to tap dance across your thighs. a dead give away you were in fact nervous. and eddie, knowing you like the back of his own hand, immediately picked up on your anxiety.

moving his right hand from the steering wheel, he placed it on top of yours, intertwining your fingers and giving them a gentle squeeze as to say i’m here and i love you.

“it’s gonna be okay, baby. there’s nothing to worry about. i’m gonna be right there with you.” he cooed, his voice instantly calming some of your nerves. “and we could always cancel if you’re not ready.”

while eddie had been a veteran to the process, and pain, of getting a tattoo, you were a total newbie. your skin like a blank canvas waiting to be inked by the needle you were only slightly terrified of.

“no, no, i’m ready. i want to do this. i dunno why i’m so nervous. i guess i’m scared it’s going to hurt a lot,” you rambled.

“it’s okay to be nervous,” eddie reassured. “i was too when i got my first tattoo. and look at me now,” he smiled, which caused you to let out a giggle.

“i’m happy you want to do this with me; that you feel comfortable enough to get your first tattoo with me.”

“of course i do, teddy. you always make me feel so safe n comfortable. there’s no one else i’d rather do this with.” you reached over the center console to press a chaste kiss to eddie’s cheek, prompting it to immediately flush a bright red.

. . .

for the remainder of the car ride, you sat in a comfortable silence; until finally, eds pulled into the first open spot in front of the small shop.

walking hand and hand into the building, you no longer felt the nerves that took over your body during the car ride over — you were ready to do this.

eddie still went first to show you how the process went, and before you knew it, he was up and done — checking out the finished product through the mirror, leaving the chair empty and waiting for you.

“you ready, baby?”  

you nodded with a small smile, “as i’ll ever be.” moving slowly into the daunting chair, you showed the artist exactly where you wanted the tattoo to go.

they quietly counted down before beginning your tattoo, as to give you a short warning.

three,

two,

one.

you let a short gasp as the needle first touched your skin — instinctively reaching for eddie’s arm to hold him close to you.  

“look at me, baby.” he pressed two fingers to your chin, turning you to face him. “keep your eyes on me, sweetheart. breathe for me.”

your eyes stayed on eddie as he used his thumb to stroke your cheek and whispered sweet praises in your ear.

“you’re doing so good, baby. you’re almost there, almost done.” ed cooed lovingly, causing you to now blush.

you continued to hold his hand as you began to play with the rings that adorned his fingers, a nervous habit of yours that eddie didn’t at all mind if it meant keeping your anxiety at ease.

a few more minutes lost in each other’s eyes, and the needle finally stopped —knocking you back into reality. “you’re all done. did good for your first time.” the tattoo artist remarked, giving you a soft smile.

"you did so good, baby! i’m so proud of you,” eddie smiled brightly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before turning to the artist who was now cleaning up the station and preparing for their next client. “it looks great, man. thanks for doing this.”

eyeing the beautiful design that was now permanently inked on your skin forever, you grinned from ear to ear. “i love it so much!" you marveled, thanking the artist as well.

after paying and bidding farewell to the shop owner, eds turned back to you, “how ‘bout we go get some ice cream, hm? what do you think, princess?”

[missiletoe]

last fill of the day for yuri shipping olympics - back to our roots, kittyuri <3

Word Count: 1022 Prompt: Flower Shop Owner x Tattoo Artist AU

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

At the ripe old age of twenty-two years old, Kitty Song Covey is the sole owner of KISS Flowers. Or at least she’s currently the sole owner, although she’s not sure how much longer she’s gonna keep that title if she keeps staring at her latest customer instead of helping her.

The customer in question has a black crop top and a sleeve of chrysanthemums blooming along her arm. The ink is a rich purple that blends into black at the edges and there’s a separate stem of smaller flowers that curl around her bicep. Kitty does not open her mouth and gawk because that would be weird.

“Hi?” the woman says, waving her hand haphazardly to grab her attention. Swallow. Kitty lets the thought do the mental equivalent of slapping herself straight across the face and remembers to close her jaw.

“Hi,” she replies and because she was an absolute mess at 16 years old and is just the same mess but with a Bachelor’s degree and six more candles on her birthday cake, her hands run absent-mindedly across the counter as she tries to figure out what the fuck to do with them. What does she normally do when there are other customers? Rest them on the register? Tuck them underneath?

She settles for wringing the stem of a rose like it’s a bird’s neck for lack of better options. The woman across the counter quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t raise a question. Kitty nearly topples from the relief.

“Is your power out?” Kitty blinks. She has a list of expected conversation starters filed away in her mind and that wasn’t in the repertoire.

“What?” Kitty replies eloquently. The woman points to the lamps they barely use, courtesy of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The plants need the sunlight and it saves money on electricity.

“The power. Is yours out too? I think it’s out for the whole street because none of our machines will start, but we weren’t sure.” 

Kitty’s brain chugs through the questions like it’s swimming in molasses. She rubs her neck and is horrified to see her fingers slick with sweat. Is that why she’s been sweating through her apron all day? She just assumed Minho had forgotten to pay the power bill again.

“I think so,” she says and kicks herself in the shin. She’s 2 for 2 with the stellar responses today. “Our AC’s out.”

The woman finally relaxes, a smile easing onto her face. She sticks one hand out over the counter and Kitty notices that her nails are painted midnight blue.

“I’m Yuri,” she says and Kitty absent-mindedly thinks me too before yelling at herself to get a grip. “I work at the new tattoo place across the street. The heat’s been killing us all week long.”

“That’s not the only thing killing me right now,” Kitty says because her mouth has always moved faster than her mind. She swallows the mortifying squeak that tries to crawl out of her throat. “I meant that I’m Kitty and that there’s been a horrible… bug infestation lately! Pesky little things keep eating all the plants before they have a chance to grow and it’s killing us–you know what that’s like.”

Yuri stares at her for a bit but eventually takes the stammering in stride.

“Well,” she says awkwardly, pushing her hair out of her face. There’s an array of stars scattered on her side and Kitty stares. “That does sound like–”

“Fireweed,” she blurts out. Yuri blinks at her.

“I’m sorry?” she asks. There’s more confusion than annoyance laced into her voice though and Kitty decides to take it as a green light from the universe.

“Your tattoo,” she says, reaching for her arm absent-mindedly. She pulls her hand back when she’s halfway there with the realization and it hangs awkwardly in the air between them. “Those are fireweed, right?”

Yuri tips her head back in a real smile for the first time–one that spans the full length of her face. It’s a beautiful sight.

“Most people can’t tell that,” she says and Kitty laughs. She shrugs half-heartedly at the plants spilling out of their pots all around them, hanging on the walls and scattered across the floor. Yuri follows the line of her hand and grins.

“Fireweed’s an interesting choice,” Kitty says. “They’re one of the first things to grow after a fire, right? And that’s the best living conditions for them too.”

Yuri smiles again but there’s something hard twisted into her eyes this time.

“That’s right,” she says. She glances back at the doorway quickly and Kitty’s overcome with fleeting panic. The cold hook in her gut feels like folding on a winning hand. “Well, I better get going now–”

“Stay,” Kitty blurts out. If she had a nickel for every time she leapt before she looked, she could retire right now. Yuri blinks at her in response. She’s been doing that a lot. “You said all the machines were down right now so you can’t work, right?”

Yuri nods slowly, like she’s easing herself into cold water. Kitty grins.

“Stay,” she says, turning up the wattage of her smile to the max. Minho likes to say that it’s blinding and she should wear a cloth over her face to spare the rest of humanity but Minho likes to say a lot of things and over half of them are complete bullshit. “Stay and tell me more about your tattoos! Why fireweed? Why chrysanthemums? Why those colors?”

Yuri nearly buckles under the barrage of questions. Kitty’s aware she’s a bundle of nerves standing across from her, a ticking time bomb about to explode but Yuri’s studying her with more curiosity than annoyance.

She spares a glance at the clock and Kitty watches the moment she caves. Her mouth twists for a few moments before it hardens into something solid and she meets Kitty’s gaze head-on, leaning against the marble.

“Well, I guess I could spare a couple of minutes. And I was about to go on lunch break anyway.”

That’s all the permission she needs. Kitty grins and pulls her behind the counter.

[ctimenefic]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to five other writers! 💗

Aaahh thank you for the tag! Okay I'm going to venture back through the mists of time here so, apologies in advance that some of these are not about the vroom vroom men. But we'll go in reverse order, so you guys can just shut your eyes halfway down when we leave the bilgewater of rpf for the filth of the MCU etc.

First off, don't like a gold rush - it was really close between this and positive negatives, and I do consider them almost sister fics, in that they are both one half of Galex going completely insane. BUT. I have this fear about being only able to write AUs. Is that a weird thing to have a hang up about? Probably. Nevertheless, I do. So writing a fic that is plausibly within the canon of, uh, real life sportspeople, is important to me. (However there is one mistake that was a failure of research which will haunt me til I die yay)

Second, Imperator - yes sorry having said I have a fear of being pigeon-holed as an AU writer, here is a historical AU I enjoyed writing a lot. However, it's a fave for me because it's just one scene, but I feel like I got to tell a whole shared life story within it. Nothing else I've published has been this neat and self-contained without feeling sparse, imo. Also, I strongly advocate for evil George as part of a healthy diet.

Third, Indelible Ink - uh oh, fandom change alert, we're in Daredevil land now. Indelible Ink is the sequel to the most popular (?) fic I've ever written. It is a work of endurance. It took me years to complete, and I finished it during the height of Covid in 2020. I have some incomplete fics on my Ao3 profile that still make me cringe with shame, but finishing this gives me hope that someday, I'll clear those WIPs as well. It's also a break up make up, which is truly one of my favourite tropes, because of the complexity of emotion it entails. This is one I look at and go, oh. A grown up wrote that. I'm a grown up.

Fourth, a question to which the answer is not - the only Merlin fic I still acknowledge don't ask about my ff.net account. Similar to Imperator, I like how neat this is – it's three scenes, a single day, there's a deliberate dramatic structure to echo the fact that they're actors. I don't think it's quite as strongly done as it could be in drawing a whole world, in part because the fanon around Merlin Modern AUs was already so pervasive and also because I at one point planned to write a prequel (lol). But it is a sweet and simple idea that I pulled off, like a well-iced cupcake.

Fifth and finally, My ear should catch your voice - back in the Daredevil fandom, this one became a favourite because of the comments I got. In fact, because of the comments I got from one single person. I hope they don't mind me shouting them out, but warmfuzzydyke, if you're out there – I think about you every single time I think of this fic. A lot of the time, I feel writers talk about what they put into a fic, and I certainly did with this one – it has a lot of my feelings, big and small, about faith and music and grief – but seeing what warmfuzzydyke was able to take away from this, god. It's why I still write.

[flyingwargle]

albedo steps off the elevator onto the balcony, lifting his head toward dihua marsh. children run around him, excited cheers infecting the air as their parents hurry to board the elevator after him, returning downwards on its path. he heads for the reception desk, identified as soon as he crosses the doorway.

verr goldet waves at him, surrounded by ledgers and papers. her feline companion is curled in a patch of sunlight by the corner of the floor, who purrs beneath albedo’s gentle strokes. he nods at her. “it’s been a while, miss goldet. have you been well?”

“yes, thank you! the daily life of an innkeeper has been relatively the same.” she gestures at her clutter with a roll of her eyes. “if you’re here to visit your sweetheart, i’m sorry to say that he hasn’t stopped by for a while. he’s investigating an unusual presence in the chasm.”

still? xiao told albedo about it over a week ago, which is why he scheduled his meeting with xingqiu today, hopeful that their paths would cross. the situation must be dire, if his prolonged absence means anything. “i see. if you don’t mind, i’d still like to take a look around upstairs.” he keeps his tone neutral, so not to betray his concern.

she nods. “of course, who am i to deny his sweetheart? the top floor is open to you, any time. oh, you might as well visit the kitchen for a plate of almond tofu, just in case xiao comes back. you’ll never know when that’ll be.”

he obliges, heading down to the basement and then to the top floor with a plate of almond tofu. there’s a stool in the corner of the balcony, hidden beneath the eaves, for the offering to wait through the night. albedo places it down and leans against the railing, body turned toward the chasm beyond the mountains.

archons, please protect him and bring him back safely. he conjures the image of a weathered gentleman with amber eyes, along with a bard clad in emerald and wind. the breeze stirs his hair, feels power surge through the earth that the inn was built upon. drawing in a breath, he turns his back, about to depart, until his eyes land on the closed door to xiao’s room. he steps toward it and opens the door.

the bed is pristine. the closet doors are closed. the desk has papers and a pen with ink dried on its tip, surely left from their last letter exchanged. a clothesline hangs above the window, where xiao has pinned albedo’s sketches, snapshots of dates, half-finished portraits, small doodles that encapsulate his daily life in mondstadt. the papers nearly obstruct the object on the windowsill, and it’s only upon closer inspection that he realizes what it is.

a potted cecilia basks in the afternoon light. the pristine petals are delicate between his fingers, soil damp. to his surprise, tiny sprouts are hidden in the flower’s shadow, signs of new life. he cannot believe that such a flower could survive in these conditions, especially with its owner absence.

unless…?

the yaksha commands anemo. he rests nightly at the inn. and it isn’t like he doesn’t know how to care for fauna, after spending so much time tending to albedo’s backyard garden. no, this has to be–

“surprised?”

albedo jumps. he whirls around, coming face to face with golden eyes that gleam with adoration. xiao steps closer to him, raises his hand to encapsulate his. albedo meets him halfway, fingers intertwining together. “hello,” xiao murmurs.

“hello. i thought you were still at the chasm?”

“i was, but when i came back, the cecilia was dying. i was trying to keep it alive.” he darts a nervous gaze at the flower. “is it doing okay?”

“yes. i can safely say that your care is exceptional.” albedo leans closer. “your care for me, on the other hand, is lacking. why didn’t you tell me that you came back early?”

“i didn’t want you to see the flower dying. i thought it’d…be a bad omen,” xiao mumbles.

“on the other hand, this simply shows your tenacity. these are far from ideal conditions for raising cecilias, yet you’ve cultivated it to the point where new life has grown. you’ve acquired quite a green thumb.”

the yaksha gives him a blank stare. “what does that…”

albedo chuckles, closing the gap between them for an embrace. xiao wraps his arms around him a moment later, head leaned against his. “welcome back, my love. i’m glad you’re safe.”

“thank you. will you tell me what that means?”

“i will, but let’s take it to the balcony. there’s a plate of almond tofu for you.”

they depart, and the cecilia dances in their wake, stirred by the wind.

[legendsgalore]

Magolor and Taranza Gijinka

So I have been thinking about what certain Kirby characters would look like as humans recently, and have been trying to sketch it out! These are just sketches for now, but I am working on color version atm, as well as full body drawings. So for Magolor, I would imagine him to have a long sleeveless coat/vest thing with a hood, to emulate his on his little, fox/cat/owl body. I would imagine this is made out a of a heavy, but not thick material. The type that drapes very well, as he uses a belt buckle around his waist to create some shape with it. This would be a white color with gold accents on it.

The reason I picked a sleeveless one, is to show off the undershirt! I imagine Magolor to be surprisingly toned, he IS a dimensional explorer afterall, he is no pushover! But as he is a mage, he is not a muscular person. So his shirt would be a fitted one over the arms, and I put some fun gear patterns on the shoulders! I imagine this as a deeper blue (you can see the color in that weird blob in the bottom right corner bleeding through the page) with the gear being a golden yellow.

Additionally, he wears a necklace that sits just above his collar bone, with an additional chain hanging from the middle bead that has a golden star at the end!

Not pictured is I imagine Magolor goes and does field research often, collecting samples, testing spells, etc. So not only is his clothing built for adventure (pockets!), but he has on a pair of good boots! They're shorter ones, and I'm leaning towards lace up style, with more gear insignia on the back. I think halfway through the adventure with Kirby, or maybe once Kirby and co get all the Lor pieces, they return to see that Magolor swapped shirts (and to return the pieces ya know). This once is a more flowy style, that drapes on his figure compared to the fitted one from before (though in my drawing it looks skintight haha). I'm unsure if I want to keep the deep blue color, or go for a lighter blue-grey here, to signify something is off about Magolor when Kirby returns.

For his hair, at first I was imagining something half up-half down, but then I remembered that is the hairstyle I always use for Meta Knight, and that was not going to cut it. This is the part I am most iffy about, but so far I have enjoyed this messy bun! I think it pairs well with him having pretty features, and a longer nose, neck, pronounced collar bone, etc. Like even though in actuality Magolor is a round little cat guy, I enjoy picturing him as an angular pretty anime boy. Kinda a heart-throb-and-he-knows-it type. Too much of an ego on him, but well earned so you can't really bash him for it. Now for Taranza, I have less pictures, but a much more solid idea of what I want him to look like. For him I think I am staying much closer to what his in-game appearance is, but with more formality and prettiness!

(Please ignore how awkward that drawing looks, I drew his head at an angle, and it looked fine in pencil, but then I inked it without giving any weight to the lines, and then I did flat colors and now he looks quite bizarre)

So he has his cape thing, which I decided was kinda a half-shoulder cape, rather than a full body one. I felt that it matched better with the idea that he works/worked for royalty. And that is reflected in how his cape is held in place by like brooches?? Idk what you actually call the equivalent for cufflinks but for a cape, but it's there.

For the rest of his outfit, I wanted it to look like a worker at the palace's uniform, but slightly fancier, so it's a fitted, collared shirt with buttons (that get bigger in the middle to match Taranza's in game design), with a belt (idk if I like the buckle or not on it), and then slightly fitted pants. He just has some slippers for now, or maybe they could be loafers, but boy is magic and flies around when he can so why need sturdy shoes?

On the same train of thought, Taranza is not very muscular, but he is quite lithe and slender. Which is part of why the formal royal uniform suits him well I think!

His hair is basically the same as his in-game, and I imagine the general shape to match Kurapika from HunterxHunter's.

[phramboise]

— heart's blood in ink :: lieutenantjohnpricexfemale reader

you’re half of the flesh, and blood makes him feel whole

tags and warnings: minors please do not interest, angst, very detailed substance use, addiction, strong language, blood, illusions of smut, descriptions of a physically weak reader. this is more of an addiction piece than it is cod fan work, this is vivid imagery. none of this is romanticising.

wordcount: 1.1k

…

“Do you mind?”

“Of course I do.”

“Fuck off then.”

Says her, pulling out the little clear zip lock out the cardholder of her wallet, turning it inside out, rubbing the empty contents pooled around the corners along her runny nostrils, and following behind him as the package slips off her hand, onto the floor.

That’s expected, and him knowing she will follow behind, his steps are slower than usual for her to catch up, looking askance at her slanky arm around his much larger one, and sighs as he wraps that arm around her shoulder, pulling her side towards his until they meet.

“Getting worse?”

Her humming yes, he breathes in her perfume as she stuffs her wallet back in her bag. He takes it off her arm to carry it himself.

Tightening his hold on her, he turns them both back over the street where they came from.

“I’ll get you a spray.”

No answer. Only a slight squeeze on his hand which holds her shoulder, walks alongside of him.

…

Never once he asks her why she snorts, or tells her to quit it, but sometimes, most times, as she cathces him siphoning the bags, and even as she undoubtedly dives her hand in the toilet to grab the pearl dust back and fails, they argue about it. Never tells her to quit it, but always telling her some way. Fuck off then! she shouts, but just like her lover, she also means things which she speaks not about.

Burnt and wet, her stillettos clack against the pebble sidewalk as a few homeless burn things to warm up in the distance. Street lights work every other day in this part of Liverpool, and there’s rust to breathe when there’s no oxygen. Perfect excuse for her. It’s this city that clogs her nasal vessels, this place is just not her lucky city. But even in summer, and even when people don’t burn synthetics, her nose is always runny.

How come you’re the only one who’s sick each season then? You’re just making that up.

Slowly pushing open the door of her maisonette, -her maisonette that he pays the rent for- her borzoi inside still sleeps soundly on her only couch. She slips out the leather jacket of his, and it falls on the dusty floor with a clanking sound of its zipper, and he makes no effort to hang it either, follows her dainty steps towards the kitchen, placing a few dabs on the sleek fur of the dog, on his way.

“Let’s see if that’s any better.”

It’s not the cold that gets your nose running.. “Here, let me…”

He leans over her to get equal on her height, but then smiles, his strong grip puts her on the kitchen table with both hands on her sides, sitting on the chair himself to look up at her face. Delicate feet land on the cushion of his chair, between his thighs as he spreads them, sliding further on his seat until her cool skin teases the stitch of his trousers. They both grin like idiots— that is, until their gaze breaks with her coughing, which makes him slide the thin pipe of the spray up her nose, spraying it through her nostrils as she holds her breath, feeling his other hand on her thigh. She rubs her nose, and he hates that such simple gest reminds him of something much more distasteful, for he always sees her do it.

It’s one of those days, where he once more realises of her frailty. The spray is halfway dripping out her nose as she wipes it away, but that’s not all, it’s not only a clear liquid that stains her hand, it’s more than that, it trails down her palm, wraps around her fingers in rivulets. Still looking at him -and because it’s not very rare now-, she does not notice her nose bleeding. His little smile dies on his face, and the chair creaks as he harshly pulls back, not in anger but in ruin, defeat. She looks down at her fingers, not even able to smell the copper, and they both know the reason of her weak sense of smell is not her “cold”.

Pinching does not help with her case, it makes it worse, for her vessels are already swollen with cocaine, pressing only hurts, makes blood gush out stronger. She only breathes in the blood, and coughs the rest on the napkin he hands her, staining the rough paper. She avoids his weary gaze as he leans back on his chair, tilting his head back up the ceiling until her troubled face exits his peripheral.

What would get her to understand? Would one day if he were to flush down all her little bags, leaving only catharsis to her get her to understand? If he were to pull out her wig, tell her somehow that even when the lights are low, she wears sunglasses for her eyes are sensitive and it pains him to not see her pupils, even when they’re dilated all black in rush, cocaine eyes, would she finally quit if he were to tell her it feels like hugging a skeleton holding her?

Do you think I want this to happen?!

She’d freeze all over, and her nose would bleed again as blood rushes to her face, crying, and some more hair would fall as she would throw her wig to some distant corner of the room. She’d cry more for that.

And as he gives her a soothing hug, why do you make me cry if you’ll hug me in the end? Fuck off, she’d say, and rub her bloody chin on his shirt. They’d make love and wake up to the next same day.

He does not ask her to quit, and she does not wait for such offer.

He rises from his seat, walking towards the little balcony, waking the dog deliberately to fill the displeasing silence. For it to run and defeat the ghosts around. It simply lays by the couch.

Night goes on so very slow, and his uncomfortable silence gets interrupted as she walks in the balcony, leaning against her arms over the railings, looking down before turning back to him.

Full moon, he’d watch her as she snakes her arms behind his neck, kissing his cheeks sorry, and he’d tilt his head for their lips to meet, she’d feel his tongue in her mouth, and his taste would suppress the ting of blood mixed with mouthwash she uses religiously. For him to not taste it too. She’d shed tears as they kiss, and he would catch them between his lips. He’d imagine her undressing, taking off his clothes later, slipping into the bed with him. An indolent sigh. She’d imagine his heat entering each nook. She’d cry, and he’d kiss each cranny where only the sun kissed. All day he’d think of her.

She’d promise to quit later in the night, as the effect wears off, but she’d always need another reminder of it’s highs, another sniff. She’d take pills to fall asleep and he’d smoke the cigars she bought for him, saying it looks better than cigarettes, I smoke them for the looks. They’d exchange the smokes between their welcoming lips, sealing it with a kiss. She’d steal it off his hand, smoking the rest as she’d sing him to sleep, some low blues. He’d let her.

They even have a sick bet between them; who’d die first? He says it’s himself to not upset her, and she says it’s him for there’s no way she’d die before a man who goes battling -and to not accept the inevitable-.

No one wins this bet.

If he were to see himself down the street one day, he would have a many few words with him. Having no lessons of what had befallen on you, isn’t it already enough to try running when this last love hasn’t died yet? Isn’t it enough ruin already? Do you not think? Do you think you can ever forget about her?

If he were to see her walking down the street on another day, he would tear the face of death after her, spinning. She would laugh at him, and walk away, away and far from him. He would follow behind.

…

If he were to ask her though, she does it because she’s done with this world, and she cannot carry him along to the world she’s running to. This fire ain’t worth accepting with open arms, thus she’d given up from this world, she’s done with it. But she’s leaving him behind, and that kills her faster than this white crap. Her only prayer would be him never dreaming of her after, she wouldn’t mind if he were to forget about her. In the lowest deep of a lower deep, the hell she suffers feels like heaven, and that’s what she would tell him if he were to ever ask.

…

Now laying under this lady with similar features she had but somehow looks a whole lot of different, he’d imagine it’s her who he just made out with, and as the lady asks so politely with her sultry voice, can I take a puff?, he’d tell her to sleep.

read part II, gold dust woman

[heich0e]

Hello!!! Merry Crisis , hope you're feeling good!

Could I request a drabble or HC with Levi (of course) and reader (f or gn) who is a scientist/medic for the scouts, similar to Hange but less chaotic?

HELLO happy crisis hope u had the best day bub!!

the lucky ones levi ackerman/reader (attack on titan) warning: mentions of injury and blood a/n: kind of a follow up to this drabble I wrote a few weeks ago! but can also be read as a stand alone

You'd never been a deep sleeper.

Maybe when you were a little younger -- a child without worry. A time whose memories seemed like another lifetime entirely now.

A lifetime before the constant thrum of anxiety under your skin, before expeditions beyond the walls, before tending to wounds, before signing the death certificates of your comrades who were beyond your help -- arriving to your medical tent having already passed the halfway mark to death, where the only help you could offer them was a gentle touch or word to see them over.

Your sleep was inked with those memories. Those faces. So you drifted always on the periphery of slumber and wakefulness, never letting sleep grip you too tightly in fear of what you might be forced to see.

But there were times where this was useful, too.

A soft knock at the door of your quarters roused you from sleep, eyes blinking slow as you sat straight up, gaze focused in the general direction of your door, though you couldn't see it too clearly. You paused, wondering if the sound was real, or something your half-conscious mind had fabricated.

A moment later you heard the gentle sound again.

That had you up properly. You quickly lit the lamp on your bedside table, kicking your legs over the edge of your bed and rushing towards the door.

You knew the soldiers would be arriving back from their latest expedition the next day, you knew the casualties were many, you knew that it would be your job to patch up the ones who were lucky enough to make it back.

Lucky.

It felt wrong to call it that.

There was one face in particular you were anxious to see file through the gates of the survey corps base. A pair of slate eyes on a pale complexion, a narrowed gaze that softened slightly when it looked at you.

You hadn't heard anything about whether or not he'd been one of the so-called lucky ones.

You crossed the cold stone floor of your room, pulling on a knit sweater over your thin cotton pyjamas as you went to protect you against the midnight chill. You had no idea what the hour was, but it was pitch black outside your window, no hint of sunlight cresting on the distant horizon, and it was so cold you were surprised you couldn't see your breath in front of your face.

You pulled open the door.

"Levi."

You might have sounded more relieved to see the man you'd spent the past week worrying about since you'd watched him leave with the rest of the troops, heading towards the wall for another damned expedition, if not for the way he was slumped against your doorframe.

He looked up at you, weary grey eyes set on a face that looked even more exhausted than he usually did. He was clutching his side, a pallor to his skin that was unmistakable even in the dim lighting.

"What are you doing here?" you asked quietly, careful not to wake any of the soldiers whose quarters were in the same corridor, ushering him into your room. He stepped through the door hesitantly, almost cautiously so.

"We got back earlier than anticipated," Levi finally spoke as you shut the door behind him. "We lost a third of the troops."

"I heard," you said quietly, eyes raking over his frame.

A quiet moment passed, the light of the lamp beside your still sleep-warmed bed flickering against you both, casting shadows in your tiny room.

"Why are you here, Levi?" you posed the question quietly, but in a way he couldn't evade this time.

His jaw set a little firmer.

"Some newbie stitched me up after we got back to the wall. Fucking butchered me. I need to re-do them," he muttered. His gaze flickered up to you.

You softened.

He was asking for your help.

He had come directly to you to patch him up.

"Where are you hurt?" you asked him, hands reaching to help him out of his cape. You unclasped it from around his neck, gently easing it off his shoulders.

"Ribs on my right side," he said hissing a little as you moved to work his jacket down his arms, the stitches clearly pulling.

"Lay down," you said, nodding towards your bed as you folded his jacket and cape over your arm.

"That's alright I'll stan-"

"Lay down, Captain." The firmness in your tone left no room for debate.

You draped Levi' discarded garments over the back of the chair at your tiny desk, grabbing the small medical bag you kept with you at all times from atop it. Supplies had been running low lately -- when weren't they, though? -- and you hoped you had everything you needed to tend to him.

You watched from across the room as Levi pulled up your rumpled bedsheets, smoothing his hands across them to neatly press them down before gingerly sitting atop them.

"Flat, please," you said, gesturing for him to lay back as you approached him with your kit.

"I'll get blood on your blankets," Levi argued, but it was weak.

"I've gotten pretty good at getting blood out of fabric over the past few years," you quipped dryly, and maybe if the lighting was better or the pain he was in wasn't so severe Levi may have laughed at that.

Slowly, Levi moved to lay back.

"Wait," you said, and he paused. "Your shirt."

He hesitated for a moment, and it didn't really make sense. Being a soldier strips you of your modesty, desensitizes you to the concept of shame. But the way Levi began slowly unbuttoning his white shirt was almost... shy.

You stepped forward, setting your medical bag by the edge of the bed, helping him slip off the creased shirt. You folded it in half, setting it at the foot of the bed while he laid back.

It wasn't hard to spot the wound he'd come to you about.

The stitches were rough, the broken skin pinched together tighter in some places than others, the lines of the thread jagged and uneven. Whoever had done them was either extremely new to the job, or so utterly overwhelmed that it was the best they'd been able to do.

"Oh," you said softly, a wince at the end of the word.

Levi let his head loll over to look up at you.

"Gruesome, huh?" he asked dryly.

"Roll onto your side," you directed him, crouching down to gather the supplies you would need. He heeded your directive, rolling onto his side so his back -- broad, with silvery scars of other wounds long-healed -- was facing you.

It wasn't easy work, or pleasant. You moved quickly to remove the sloppy sutures, cleaning the wound as best you were able with the limited supplies you had on hand before methodically sewing it shut once more.

Hange had once told you that you had the steadiest hands in all of the survey corps, but as you worked you wondered if that was true. Sure, every stitch was careful and even, but as your eyes traced the lines of Levi's body in your bed, you felt something ripple through you that threatened to quiver in your fingertips.

You finished the job, snipping off the loose end of medical thread after tying a knot to secure it, smearing a thin layer of antiseptic over the wound. Your let your hand rest on Levi's side, at the slight dip where his ribcage met his waist, for a moment longer than you probably needed to.

"Done."

Your quiet words were the first that had been spoken since you began your work. Even as you ripped Levi open and put him back together again, the only sound that had come from him were his steady, even breaths.

Levi didn't move.

You paused, rising from your bedside where you'd been kneeling while you worked, peering over Levi's shoulder at his face.

His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted, his nose burrowed into the pillow that not long prior your own head had been resting upon.

Something pulled taut in your chest.

He was asleep.

You quietly tended to the mess from patching him up, grabbing a blanket from the bottom of your wardrobe and carefully draping it over him to protect him from the chill in the air.

You were just moving towards the chair of your desk, planning to let your head rest on the worn wooden surface and hopefully get a few more hours of sleep yourself.

"Stay."

Your heart stuttered in your chest as the croaky word tumbled from his lips.

You stepped up to the bed again, and this time as you peered over his shoulder you saw his eyes were open -- just a bit, the exhaustion still weighing his eyelids down.

He looked at you out of the corner of his eye.

Slowly, he lifted the corner of the blanket you'd placed over him.

An invitation.

You crawled in from the foot of the bed, careful not to jostle him too much as you went. You settled down, head resting on your crooked arm, facing him. He let the blanket drop to cover you both, his warmth surrounding you.

Somedays you felt like your uncomfortable military-issued bed was barely large enough just for you -- but somehow it fit both of your bodies perfectly.

You peered at Levi as he lay across from you, his eyes blinking languidly -- the time between each slow flutter of his eyelids growing longer.

"Thanks... for patching me up," he rasped out, his tongue peeking out to moisten his pink lips.

"Thanks for not doing it on your own," you replied, equally softly.

You knew that this was strange. That if anyone saw Levi leaving your quarters in the morning that there would be talk. But you didn't care.

All you cared about was that Levi had made it back.

That he was one of the lucky ones.

"Welcome home, Levi," you breathed.

Levi's eyes fluttered closed, and the corner of his mouth curled upwards -- slight enough that you might have missed it were you not so very close to him.

You couldn't help but think that maybe you were one of the lucky ones too.

[roll-da-credits]

A Letter For The One I Love Most Erwin Smith 1k words

Dear Y/n,

If you’re reading this now, that means I’ve met my untimely demise. As you know I’m not one to really beat around the bush and I think it’s better to say that now than to wait until you’re halfway through the letter to know I’m never coming back. I have entrusted this letter to a couple of people, Commander Pixis of the Garrison Regiment, Captain Levi Ackerman of the Scout Regiment, and Captain Hange Zoe of the Scout Regiment. I’ve told them where this letter is kept and who to give it to when I have finally closed my eyes forever.

It probably pains you to read this, just imagining your expression causes my heart to ache. It’s truly unfair how fate places us here, within the confines of three walls, caged like prey just waiting to be devoured. But, who knows, if life would’ve been normal, I might’ve never met you that fateful day. For that at least, I’m thankful.

Thankful for you, the person who always waits on our bed, waiting for me.

I know I promised that I would always come back to you, no matter how long an expedition took or how injured I am. I promised I’d always make my way back to you. My home. My comfort. My love.

This time though, I’m not coming home. I explicitly told Hange, Pixis, and Levi to only give you this letter when there is someone to vouch that I was dead. That they see with their own two naked eyes that I was dead. Therefore, if you are receiving this letter, please rest, you might not have a body to bury and if that is the case, I’m sorry.

But please, don’t stay up late waiting for me to return, it’ll only hurt you more. And who knows? If there is life after death, I could be watching you, and seeing you hurt yourself for me would only ache my heart even more.

I tried to stay strong writing this, keep my composure, yet, the more words I lay with ink on this piece of paper. The more I realize how painful this would be. Oh, how I ache to one day be free from this world, learn why the titans act the way they act, learn why the history books seem so odd. How I ache to see the day you and I are free to roam this world, and then when everything’s done, I’ll show you this letter and laugh.

Laugh at how pessimistic I was being that I would die. Then you’d scold me, like you always did, with a smile on your face, telling me that I was preparing for the worse, thus jinxing me. Then you’d embrace me and I’ll feel your warmth, our hearts beating as one.

I don’t want to continue this letter.

I wish I could continue living in this fantasy. But I have chosen freedom and the truth over my own personal feelings. I know you’ll understand, you always did, and in time, you’ll accept it.

For the ones who lived to tell another tale without me, don’t loathe them. If I died, it would mean I sacrificed my life for the better, perhaps leading my men into battle once more. Don’t loathe the survivors, love, I know it might be hard to accept their survival when I have met my untimely demise.

I love you.

I love you more than I could ever fathom in words. I am no poet, I am simply a man that has a way with words, or so you say. It would seem years of motivating my men into battle have shaped me into somewhat of a poet.

Nevertheless, I could never find the words to express my love for you.

Every time I look at you, my heart aches as a smile twitches my mouth upwards. You looked amazing that day I met you in the bakery, even years after our first meeting you still look as amazing as you did back then. It’s ridiculous how head over heels I am for you.

I’ll serve the entire world on a silver platter if you so ask me to.

But you’ve never asked me for anything. The fact that I came home after every long mission was enough for you. Even if it was only for one night in a couple months that I shared your bed, you didn’t complain. You nagged and teased sure, but you never held any ill-intent.

I knew your only hope was for me to come home, and I hate that I might have to ruin that promise of me to you. If you have gotten this letter from someone other than me, that means I have broken it. Broken the one promise you asked me to keep. Broken the one thing you asked of me.

I’m sorry.

I love you so much it makes my chest tighten whenever you even spare me a glance.

How a deity like you could even let me get this close will always be a mystery to me. A mystery, for once, that I don’t care to solve.

I don’t want you to hold onto my death for long so I’ll end this letter in a few more sentences.

Take your time my love, take your time in grieving me. Don’t feel pressured to move on too quickly. But don’t drown in your own darkness. I know how you’ve always been the type to worry yourself half to death. So, for my dying wish, promise me you’ll continue living and move on.

Promise me that one day you’ll look at my portraits and trinkets not with regret, anger, sadness, but with a fond memory of not what was lost, but what was once there.

My love for you is bigger than this world can truly imagine, and if the unthinkable can happen, a devil such as I love an angel such as you, then you can get through this and move on. Perhaps love again?

Though I don’t know if my spirit if there does exist such a thing, wouldn’t torment whoever you chose to be your next lover.

My love, take your time.

I’ll see you on the other side.

Signed, Erwin Smith, the man who will never stop loving you

Hi there! This is a different concept then how I usually write with but I hope you guys enjoyed this either way! I know for a goddamn fact that Erwin would have thought about every single terrible way you would've grieved him but when the time comes to write the letter (cause he realized he's fallen in love too hard) he'd go blank and write what he feels instead and that... that just hurts me.

[yeojaa]

come over, pt. i

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  explicit.  tags.  this is pwp.  smut in the forms of:  kissing, oral (m/f), fingering, deepthroating, hickeys, protected sex.  use of the pet name shy girl.  wc. 6.2k.  beta reader.  @hobi-gif and @snackhobi aka the loves of my tiny life.  author note.  this is an adaption of an rp with my beloved @velvetwicebang​.  while the writing is all my own, i owe so much to loma for inspiring me and being such a wonderful partner. 💛 if you enjoy this, feedback goes a long way.  tysm for reading!  (and yes, there will be a second part.)

You’ve been friends for thirteen months, classmates for another three before that.  You’ve worked on countless projects together, watched him fall off a roof, and have had to bail him out of campus security’s grubby little hands. Your friendship is easy, based on mutual suffering in Professor Kim’s class and long study dates spent in the library.  He smuggled you chocolates in his pockets and you brought iced coffee to the 8 a.m. lecture you shared.

You’re not sure why you’re riddled with uncertainty now then, every nerve ending shot, lit up bright like the still-up mini Christmas tree sitting in the corner of your dorm room.  (You know you should take it down but it’s so cute, slouched ever with a tiny gold star-shaped bell hanging from the end.).  

Spending time with Jungkook was normal - a part of your weekly routine - but then again, you hadn’t somehow developed a weird little crush on him until recently.  

(If you think hard, you could probably pinpoint it to a night a few weeks ago when he looked particularly good, fluffy powder puff of hair stripped of shadow and gleaming gold beneath the warm lecture lights.  You’d never had a thing for blonds but he made it look good - surprising you when he’d dropped into his seat beside you and winked in response to your surprise.) 

(It’s something you can't tear your thoughts from now, that infuriatingly charming smile burnt into your retinas.  It sits at the forefront of your mind, stealing your attention from the movie that's playing on the television hung across from your bed.  One of those blockbuster flicks, because who didn’t love gratuitous action and lens flares?)

A hand reaches for the chip bowl propped between you - homemade chex mix, because you’ve been obsessed with the recipe since discovering it a few weeks ago - and you flinch away when it brushes the hand that's already in there.

"Sorry!"  You squeak before coughing, a quick-witted (but not altogether believable) attempt at hiding the sudden heat that flares across your cheeks.  The same hand disappears between your knees, fingers curling into the soft throw laid over your legs.  You tell yourself to relax at least three times before speaking, peeking at your companion from beneath a fringe of sleep-tousled strands.  “Stop stealing all my chips.” 

The boy beside you only grins, tosses that lazy smile in your direction before turning his attention back to the explosion on the screen, entire expression lit up by the fireworks that explode in flashes of colour.

You think you’ve gotten away with it - that he hasn’t noticed - and then he’s speaking again, pointedly staring forward, seemingly unbothered.  (You know better though.  Jungkook’s infuriating like that, picking up on all the little things despite the fact that he’s a dumb boy, too good at reading between the lines when he barely studies.)

“You’re blushing.”

The callout is, well, uncalled for. 

You choose to ignore him at first, opting to shove two chocolates past your lips.  They’re unbearably sweet, minty and cold - your favourite - and the richness spills across your tongue, eliciting a soft hum as your teeth buzz from the sugar.  (Note to self:  thank Jungkook for the chocolate later.)

“You’re blushing,”  you retort once you’ve swallowed, cheeks puffed out and a dent gathering between your brows.  “I’m just—“  Hand waves wildly - nearly hits him in the face with how wobbly it is - and you pretend-glare at him, faux affront laid in spades.  “—hot.”

It comes snappier than you mean it to, spoken in something close to a pout.  You aren’t actually.  The campus is notorious for having garbage heating, floorboards more akin to packed snow in the dead of winter.  It’s just annoying.  You refuse to be another one of those girls.

(Not that there’s anything wrong with said girls.  It’s more an issue with Jungkook, stupidly handsome and charming and far too popular for his own good.  People already told you all about Jungkook’s escapades - even though you often heard them from him firsthand and in gruelling detail.  One of the downsides to being friends with someone who, for all intents and purposes, carried the title of campus heartthrob.) 

“Pay attention to the movie.”  The same hand reaches for the mix again, careful to avoid brushing his this time.  You think you’ve succeeded, snatching up a piece of pretzel, morsel halfway to your mouth when it drops to your lap.

The same lap that suddenly has a hand on it, palm warm over your knee.  

If you’d thought your nerve endings were shot, now you knew they were.  Every inch of skin was on fire - heat shooting up your spine and over your neck the moment his hand comes in contact with bare skin.  Damn your need for comfort, damn your choice to wear shorts, damn his freaking hot tattooed hands—

You almost yell at him.  The sound’s on the tip of your tongue when you bite down, stare trained wholly on the movie and the blood that splatters across the screen..

Really, you shouldn't be surprised.  You’ve known Jungkook for nearly two years - okay, not quite.  You’ve heard all the rumours about him, the whispered words that sound something like playboy and flirt and be careful.  You know and yet you’ve found yourself in this situation, desperately trying to figure out what the hell is going through his mind as you stare straight ahead, refusing to move a muscle.  

His profile is picture perfect from your periphery;  he's focused too, acting like he's done nothing wrong.  Sly as a fox, as always.

“Still blushing,”  he repeats conversationally, as if he’s commenting on the colour of the sky or how cold it is in your room.  Not as if he’s got a hand where it shouldn’t be, ink spilling over his skin in pretty patterns, burning the shape of it where he touches.

"I didn't blush.”  It’s a retort made for only argument’s sake and even then, without weight.  Feather soft and feeble in an attempt to keep your voice level.  It's hard when you’re burning up, a livewire settled where you feel him.  "I'm not blushing."

It's a lie - you can feel the flush, embarrassment flooding from your cheeks all the way down over your chest.  It’s an inferno beneath your skin, lava coursing through your veins.  

It spreads further and further, blooms somewhere new when his hand drifts lower, tracking across the soft inner of your thigh.  Doesn’t cease even when his hand does, palm firm over your leg, the ghost of a touch passing so close to your core you can’t help but jolt.  It’s as if he’s rearranged your pieces, mixed them all up.  A brush of his finger over your clothed entrance feels like it hits you right in the chest, snaps your heart to attention.  It roars to life, thundering madly, pulse erratic when he repeats the gesture, with that much more pressure.

You’re dripping, you realise to your horror, cotton of your thong sticking to your skin, grey of your shorts made darker by the arousal that spills over the one not-so-innocent digit. 

A part of you wants to run from the room.  Nearly do, heart hammering in your chest when Jungkook's face is suddenly too close, the warmth of his breath stifling against your neck.  It feels good, anticipation and desire fizzing in your stomach like fountain pop.  (The movie theatre kind, that’s somehow flat and too bubbly all at once.)

"Kook."  You mean to say it reproachfully, with a hand pushing his wrist away.  Instead it comes out like a whisper, a soft sigh of his name that sounds almost needy, laced with worry and anticipation that makes you want to tear your own hair out.  Fingers remain locked around bone, other hand digging into the blanket and the linen beneath it, searching desperately for some form of composure beneath the material.  

For the first time, you hazard a glance - know it’ll be bad for your own well-being - dropping your stare to where his hand rests.  (You have to admit - you like the sight of those tattoos, a stark contrast to the unblemished softness.)

Like it almost as much as his kisses, the first of which lands exactly where you want it most.  Delicate, polite, right on the junction of your jaw.  A sigh escapes before you can help it.  "Shy girl,”  he coos, teasing in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. 

“I’m not shy,”  you huff - try to, anyway, around the kaleidoscope of butterflies that are threatening to choke you.  "We're watching a movie."  You’re trying to redirect his attention, even as you’re desperate for it, even as you think you’d give your whole heart for it. 

You’re this close to combusting, eyes widening the moment he extracts his hand and tucks it back into the bowl of chips.  A part of you wants to yell at him - for starting this in the first place but mainly for leaving you high and dry, turned on and soaking through your underwear. 

(It’s not fair, but then again, you’d never expected them to be.  You’ve seen the rules Jungkook plays by - namely those of his own creation.  Term paper due the next morning?  He’d somehow pull it out of his ass that night.  Break something at a house party?  He’d be let off with a smile and a wave, those doe eyes of his utterly lethal when paired with his pout.)

“Watch the movie then.”  He sounds almost bored, utterly unbothered as he seamlessly slips back into the proper role of friend, classmate, study partner.

"Let's."  Without tossing another glance in his direction, you stare straight ahead, own hand delving for snacks.  So what if you very purposely brush your fingers against the pieces he's just touched, popping the pieces into your mouth before slotting your thumb against your tongue, cheeks hollowing around to suck the last bits of salt and butter off.

Despite your nerves - you’re hoping he's watching - you readjust, bringing knees up, crossing legs until one is resting atop his own thick thigh.  The full of your bottom lip disappears between your teeth, worried to within an inch of its life as you shift beside him, seemingly manoeuvring your shorts into their rightful position.

(You’re not.  They’re hitched higher than they were, barely worthy of the title of shorts, more akin to a belt.  So revealing it’s almost uncomfortable, wet of your arousal sticking them to your skin.)

(Two could play this game.)

(Maybe him better than you, but still.)

You know what you’re doing and yet you’re somehow surprised when he’s suddenly disappeared from your side and situated himself in front of you, eating up too much of the space on your small double bed.  “What’re you—“  The question disappears in the same moment he does, unable to track his movements when Jungkook slips forward, pressing his mouth over yours.

You’ve kissed a lot of people.  (Okay, not a lot, but enough.)  You were a senior in college, where kissing was like talking and fucking happened more often than dating.

You’ve never kissed Jungkook before.  

Why hadn’t you?

His lips are terribly soft, pink and pouted, slanting across yours as if he’s trying to devour you.  There’s no semblance of delicacy, nothing gentle and sweet like those brushes against your neck.  They’re forceful, demanding payment in full when his tongue glides over the seam, seeking entrance despite the fact that you think he might’ve slipped in anyway.

There’s not a single wall he couldn’t break down, not a lock he couldn’t pick.  Not with how he moves, purposeful and reassured, tongue sliding over yours, sucking it into his mouth as if it’s something he does every day.  (Which it very well could be - just not with you.)

“Shy girl,”  he repeats with a mouth filled with affection, praise that pours over you honey sweet and sticky.  “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

The thing is, you’re not pretending.  You’re half-afraid this entire moment is going to explode into a thousand pieces, a dream shattered by reality.  You hope it doesn’t.  Couldn’t bear it when he feels so nice, hand spanning your waist, tucked beneath the safety of your shirt and the fleece blanket between you.  

“I’m not.”  

“Oh?”  There’s something in his eyes, something that coils heat in the pit of your stomach.  You swear you can see the devil sitting on his shoulder, gleeful little smile rearranging his features.  “Do I make you nervous, ____?”

Did he?  Of course he did.  Had, even before you’d known him.

(You’d grown comfortable, though.  Found a way to separate the popular heartthrob from your friend.)

But you’ve lost your marbles, gone certifiably insane when you make a noise that sounds nothing like you.  Because you’re once again far too interested in the way Jungkook’s touching you, manhandling you as if you’re some sort of puppet.  It really shouldn’t turn you on so much, slick coating your bare thighs when he guides you onto your back, pushes you back against your too many pillows.

He’s your friend and he’s told you all about the way he fucks girls until they can’t walk.  

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want the same treatment, though. 

The moment Jungkook’s mouth finds your skin - sensitive and soft and so close to your soaked core - you keen, hands immediately flying into his silky head of hair.  It threads between your fingers like fine silk, filaments of gold overlaid in colour by the movie that still plays.  

“Oh my god,”  you gasp, entire body arching off the back of the bed in an effort to bring some form of  relief.  You can’t help the heat that burns your cheeks or how you sound, begging and pleading as you tug gently at his blond roots.  “Don’t tease me.”

You’re not asking very nicely but you figure Jungkook will give in.  It’s his fault, after all.  

His fault - which you don’t mind when he hooks fabric aside and drags his tongue across your slit, the flat of his tongue arching your back from the bed.  Can’t mind when he does it again, rounded nose bumping against your clit.  You’re trying to stay just a little bit decent, moans soft and caught between your teeth.  You’re practically biting a hole through your lip in an effort to stay quiet, hands curled into fists.  Gold spills between them and you imagine it hurts but he doesn’t stop, only works harder to drive you crazy.

Of course he’s good at this.  Too good, if you’re being honest.

You’re dripping, legs trembling in his firm, unyielding grip.  There's molten heat building in your stomach, creeping up your spine, and with each pass of his tongue over your sensitive core, it only expands.  You want more - need it - and almost beg when he catches your clit between his teeth.  A breathy baby spills out on accident when your eyes meet, gaze half-lidded.

It’s bad for your health, how good he looks right now, chin slick, lips rubied and pretty like jewels.  “Shy girl sounds so pretty.”

There's something about his praise that completely ruins you, the words dragging a delighted, sexpot moan off your tongue.  You want him to tell you how pretty you are now and later, over and over.  

You want to be his pretty girl. 

"I want you.  I need more,"  you whine, hips rutting desperately, slick messy across your thighs and shining across Jungkook's mouth.  He smiles then - brighter than the sun, utterly radiant, so devastatingly handsome you swear your brain short circuits - and then he’s doing exactly as you’ve asked. 

He eats you out like it’s an art form, flicking his tongue over your clit with practiced precision, sucking the pearl between his lips.  When he grazes his teeth over it - just the lightest pressure - you jolt, the feeling of a finger sliding into you stealing the breath from your lungs.

He’s always had nice hands, big broad palms and long fingers.  They reach places you could never hope to, stretching you deliciously when he sinks another in alongside the first, exploring you with ease.  The sting is slight, the fullness overriding any pain, further dulled by the suction of his mouth on your clit.  

He even hums when he finds the spot he’s been looking for, hooking his fingers against it and pressing.  (You swear you see stars;  you know you feel him smile, lips spread like butter over your skin when you sob.)

You can’t help yourself, writhing and moaning, trying to ride his face with a desperation that has your chest heaving.  It feels so good to have him between your legs.  You almost miss the appearance of his other hand - in view for but a moment before it disappears past the waistband of his sweats.  Dark as they are, pitch black like most of his clothing, it’s impossible to miss the way he touches himself.  It has you even needier, pussy clenching at the thought of him fisting his own hard cock.

“Do you want a hand?”  You ask as if you’re doing him a favour and not salivating at the prospect, eyes wide, blinking down at him from behind thick lashes.  

“Fuck.”  He’s sin incarnate, undeniable when he sheds his sweats, kicks them off with just one hand, other still slotted snug against your pussy.  He never ceases his movements, fucking you on his fingers even as he sits upright, leaned back on his calves.  “You want a taste?  Shy girl wants a big fat cock in her mouth?”  

There's something about hearing him so turned on, the expletive shooting a dizzying bolt of desire straight between yours legs.  You’ve seen Jungkook worked up - he was awfully competitive, after all, dominating most intramural sports, breaking PR records in the gym - but it's something else completely when he's making you drip cum all over his hand.

"Wow.”

Jungkook's cock is pretty, flushed and glossy from the pre-cum he spreads with his thumb, massaging over the tip like it owes him something.  

You want to taste it.

A contented hum rolls off your tongue at his question, though you don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.  His ego's big enough without it and you’re much more interested in stroking something else.  Still, you lean into his palm, nuzzling your cheek against the warmth of it when he threads his hand through your hair, gathering it in his fist.

Then without looking away, your mouth falls open, tongue peeking past your lips to lick a fat stripe up the length of his cock, from base to tip.  It's hot and heavy on your tongue, the salty taste of his pre-cum better than candy.  You hum again, swirling your tongue around the head, and keep your gaze locked with Jungkook's, almost smirking when you drag your tongue over his fingers, gently grazing the edge of your teeth against the pad of his thumb. 

“Please.”  You’re usually far more reserved, not the kind to ask for more until you’re three months into dating and certain of where you stand.  You simply can’t help yourself now, the feeling of your own wetness painting your skin, making you clench around nothing.  "I need it."

The groan that comes sounds more like Christmas, a gift given by Santa Claus himself.  It filters into your ears and has you grinning up at him, not even bothering to hide the pride that flutters your lashes and has you pursing your lips around the head of his cock.  

When he speaks again, it’s dangerously quiet, low in his throat, laced with whatever same emotion that seems to shackle your limbs.  “Open up, ____,”  he instructs, though he offers little time to adjust, guiding his cock forward, stuffing your mouth full.  “Show me how bad.”

You don’t mind.  If you were to speak, it’d practically be a prayer, tongue tracing the veins that run the length.  A chorus of yes please more when he takes just as much as he gives.  You love the power that comes with Jungkook speaking so filthily, drunk on it when he continues, spewing filth in time with each rock of his hips.

Lips seal around the swollen head each time he withdraws, cheeks hollowing around the tip.  Tongue passes over his fingers again before your hand rises, fingers curling around his wrist to pull his own away.  (You probably shouldn't - it's too romantic - but thread your fingers through his in the same instant you sink down upon his cock, taking him halfway before pulling off with a pop!)

"Do you think you'll last long enough to fuck me?"  You’re pushing his buttons on purpose, just like he had yours during the movie. 

Something close to a snarl comes, a growl that reverberates out of that big cavernous chest of his, and he grips your hair tighter, tries to hold you still as he grins down at you.  The expression is so at odds with the warmth in his eyes, the boyish tilt of his head.

You repeat the motion again and again, taking him a little bit deeper until the head brushes the back of your throat, reflexively swallowing around the intrusion.  He's still so long and thick you haven’t even taken him all, drooling around his length, breathing through your nose and pushing past the desire to gag.  Then you relax your jaw just a little more, humming when your nose brushes the neatly groomed patch of hair at his base.

Your free hand slinks across his thigh, nails digging into the meat, delighted by the flex of muscle and sinew beneath your hand.  He's so hard, both on your tongue and beneath your touch.  It prompts you to shift forward just a bit more - you can feel the slick on your thighs, dripping down onto the sheets with each movement - and trace across his thigh to gently palm his balls.

If you could speak, you’d probably ask for more.  For Jungkook to use and abuse your throat as much as he wants.  As it stands, you can only moan around him, spit and his pre-cum smeared over your lips.

“Look at you.”  He’s talking to himself, lost in his own world as he fucks into your mouth, soothes the pad of his thumb over your cheek.  You adore the way he sounds now, dazed and a little messed up.  “Look so pretty with my cock in your mouth, ____.”

You can’t do much more than look up at him, batting your lashes when he compliments you, dragging your tongue everywhere you can reach as the head of his cock batters the back of your throat.  It's not an easy feat, drool all the way down your chin, trailing down your neck and staining the silk of your camisole.

At some point, you’ll need to pull off - get a proper breath of air - but not now.  Instead, you swallow around him, savouring the feeling of him filling your mouth, and squeeze gently at his balls.  When you wink up at him, it's half-hearted and with moisture in your eyes, lining lashes in the form of little gemstones.

You do it again and again, moaning lewdly around his cock before it gets too much, pulling off of him with a gasping breath and tears down your cheeks.  “Is it my turn yet?”  You’re only half-joking, made needier by the soreness in your throat, the same you want to feel so desperately between your legs.  Pressing a sweet, chaste peck to his head, tongue dipping into his slit to gather the pre-cum that leaks out, you offer the sweetest smile you can, saccharine sweet and soft.  

“Your turn?”  The way Jungkook snorts is derisive, playful.  It pulls straight off his tongue - which finds yours, swapping spit as he guides you back to the bed.  Teeth collide, lips grown swollen by the intensity of your kiss, and you startle when he nips hard at the bottom petal.  “I thought you were shy.”

“I am,”  you retort, returning the gesture, biting into the curve of his jaw with surprising repose.  Colour blooms beneath the edge of enamel, a smattering of colour that makes you smile, eager to leave more.

Which you would do, if Jungkook weren’t stripping before you, peeling his shirt from his front, tugging it over his head in that weirdly hot way that somehow all boys did.  It reveals skin in a single fluid pull, clothing discarded to the side before he levels you with a smile of his own, one that stirs to life the dimple in his cheek, eyes squinting with the intensity of his delight.  He looks deceptively sweet this way, nothing like the demon who’d just stuffed his cock down your throat.

You’re not sure which version of him you like best.

Seeing him now, dressed in nothing but that absurd, devilishly handsome grin of his, you’re not prepared.  You’re unsure where to look, gaze bouncing between the tattoos that crawl up his arms and span over his left pec, down the neatly defined ridges of his abs, and all the way back to his swollen, shiny cock.

“You’re drooling.”  Of course it’s something he’d say - because he always knows what to say, plucking perfect words from thin air.  The casual banter calms the rattle in your chest and refocuses it on his face that’s too close, looming over yours as his hands make quick work of your clothes, shedding the fabric from your form with deft, measured movements.

You’re ready to say something teasing - anything to distract from the fact that you’re still ogling him - when he catches you in another kiss, softer this time, infinitely sweeter.  Suddenly, you’re shy - which really makes no sense, given what’s transpired.

"Don't make fun of me,"  you mumble, as bashful as you were during the movie, embarrassment burning across your cheeks.  Arms rise to cover what little of your chest you can, folding around his broad palms that encompass them whole, tweaking at the straining buds.

“I’m not,”  Jungkook reassures against your lips, face dropping into the crook of your neck.  He nuzzles against you, sucking affection into the column of your throat, shamelessly laying a wreath of lust into the delicate skin.  You wonder whether he can hear the stutter of your pulse, the reaction his next words elicit.  “You’re pretty when you do it.”

You can’t quite pull your eyes away from his face, shrouded in lemon tart, so good-looking it’s unfair; his broad back and the muscle that threads it, undulating with each movement;  or the way his thighs flex between your spread knees.  You’re dragged through heaven and hell by the brush of his lips, each glide overstimulating your senses to the point of no return.  You’re still burning up, all the foreplay leaving your legs like jelly, cunt dripping with need.  "I bet you say that to all the girls."

Probably not the best thing to say with the position you’re in but the reality of the situation is hitting you and you’re feeling a little vulnerable.  Want an answer that’ll soften the sharp edges of his teeth, the intoxicating glint in his stare.

“No, just you.”  Whether it’s true or not, you can’t say for certain.  You hope it is - wish upon a star for it, laying all your hopes and dreams into the constellations in his eyes.  They’re lovely, winking down at you from the darkest depths, guiding you home.  

You don’t mean to scoff - really, you don’t.  It comes of its own accord, spilling forth like a glass too full.

“You don’t believe me?”  He sounds almost offended, the picture of innocence when he reaches down, hand scrambling about for pooled black fabric.  Comes back up with a packet between his index and middle finger, held aloft like a prize.  

How can you when he’s ready to devour you whole, primed to feast as he rolls the condom over his length, stroking himself once, twice, gaze never wavering from where it rests between your legs.

“Always prepared.”  It’s scathing but somehow tender, too mesmerised by the way he fucks into his loose fist.  You’d say more - maybe make a flippant comment about his reputation - but can’t find the words when he’s teasing you, swollen head tapping teasingly over your core.  It feels like too much, leaves you breathless when he hikes your legs up and nearly folds you in half. 

When he presses into you, the sound you make is sinful, a moan you can’t help.  Jungkook’s so fucking big you’re sure you’re about to split in half, pussy clenching tight around the sudden intrusion.  “Oh my god,”  you whine, hands coiling into his hair, trying desperately to relax, the sting of the stretch battling the pressure that builds as he sinks further in.  “You’re so big.  I c-can’t—”  You’re starting to babble nonsense and he hasn’t even begun moving yet, lips hot over the sweat-slick column of his throat when he bows, burning his presence into the grace of your neck.  A hickey of your own creation blooms right where your mouth is, right over his shoulder.  The salt of his skin distracts you, makes it easier to accommodate the fullness.  “You feel so good, Kook.”  You rock experimentally beneath him, clenching tight as if to draw him deeper.  “Please, move,”  you beg, aiming to form another bruise beneath his skin.

The first thrust chases all the breath from your lungs, a gasp ricocheting off your tongue and into the minimal space between you.  He's absurdly big, stretching you out so well that every stroke feels like heaven.  When he pushes back in, snaps his hips in that easy, effortless motion of his, you’re making the most obscene noises, words lost to his hair as he lavishes your tits with attention.

B-big! is all you manage to squeak out.  It sounds like that, anyway.  With how he's filling you, it's hard to speak coherently;  you can practically feel him in your throat.  (Or maybe that's just from choking on him earlier.  You’re not really sure.)

Hands find their way around his neck, over his shoulders, periwinkle-painted nails leaving light etchings in their wake.  They bloom colour over his back - not too hard, careful still, motor skills barely functioning - before you tangle your fingers in his hair, holding him recklessly close as the pressure builds and builds, flooding your abdomen in heat. 

There’s slick all across your thighs.  You can hear the wet sounds each time Jungkook slips almost all the way out and then rocks back in.  It's terribly messy and so hot but you’re greedy, drunk off the feeling of having this Adonis break you in half.  "Harder, p-please."  Eyes wide, you tug gently at the soft strands at the nape of his neck, meeting his with a flutter of your lashes.  "Please?"

He acquiesces without hesitation, fucks you harder, deeper, like an animal in a rut.  Grinds against you with each thrust, pushing you to your limits.  Even has the audacity to push further, until the strain in your hips conflicts with the pleasure skipping up your spine, melting you into a boneless mass.

You’ve never felt like this, stretched out and used.  You’re used to gentle lovers, sweet - if not boring - lovemaking.  The way Jungkook's pounding into you is unheard of and you’re loving it, his name whimpered on a feedback loop.  A steady Kook, Kook, Kook that twinkles in your ears, inarticulate and pleading as you rock shamelessly against him.

“You like that, ____?”  It’s a question for his own ego, something he knows but asks anyway.  (It’d be impossible not to know the answer when your cunt’s sucking him in, coating his cock in a pretty sheen.)

You’re nodding dumbly, breathless, eager to meet him each time he snaps forward.  (It’s not easy like this, practically prone beneath him, twisted into a pretzel.)  "Like it so m-much.  Feels so good.”  You can’t stop smoothing open mouthed kisses over his fluffy hair, basking in the sunshine that radiates off him. 

There's an ache starting between your legs, pussy swollen around his thick length.  You’re grateful for your natural flexibility, the hot yoga sessions you’d entertained on-and-off for years.  You’re sure you’d feel it in your legs too, knees pushed all the way up by your ears, if not for that.  

But still, you’re defenceless, made to experience each and every thing he has to offer:  every vein and ridge, the head of his cock reaching so deep it's almost too much.  With each stroke, Jungkook’s brushing against the sensitive spot that has pleasure skyrocketing, blossoming like a rose garden in spring.  "R-right there,"  you manage, rolling your hips purposefully, nearly crying each time he brushes against your g-spot.

“Right there?”  He parrots it back, infuriating and adorable, the teasing tenor dripping over you like raindrops.  They settle beneath your skin, sinking into your bones as he rears back just enough, enough to steal a kiss that’s far more tongue than it needs to be.  

It’s almost as if he’s trying to drown you, sink you beneath high tide.  

Spit descends down your chin, trails over your neck and it’s a little gross but you don’t care.  The attention he’s giving is shameless, passed over your cheeks, your throat, your breasts.  He gives and gives, both with his lips and the praise that comes unfettered.  “Perfect,”  he hums, sucking your nipple into his mouth, worrying the bud until it’s straining and puffy, too sensitive when he kisses you again and your own thigh brushes against it.  You whimper at the feeling, pulling softly at his hair, unsure whether you want less or need more.  “So sensitive.  Such a shy girl.  Such a pretty girl.”

Every word of praise has you beaming, nearly purring with delight despite the pain that comes when he puts you through the same once more, laving over the other bud with abandon.  He's sweat-slick, beads of it running down his neck, over the mosaic of bruises you’ve left behind.  It's almost embarrassing how dark his throat is coloured, a dozen reminders left all over his skin.

(You wonder how long they’ll last, how many days will pass as the colour shifts, changing like autumn leaves.  Whether they’ll still be there at your next lecture, if he’ll wear them with pride or cover up beneath one of his big baggy sweaters.)

(You hope it’s the latter.)

(Maybe he’ll let you give him more.)

(Maybe he—)

There’s a change of pace and you’re crying out, hiccupping with each thrust, the head of his cock finding your g-spot with unbearable, unrelenting precision.  Clawing at his arms, long nails digging into the firm muscle of his biceps, something between a sob and a plea rolls off your tongue, over and over.  "So big.  It's too m-much.”  And yet you don’t want him to stop, punch drunk from the way he reaches deep and pulls you tighter against him, hips risen off the bed. 

You’re begging again, eyes rolled so far back in your head you can hardly focus, the coil in your stomach pulled so tight you know it's about to snap.  When Jungkook laughs - a sweet giggle that proves his duality - you clench almost painfully, tears finally spilling over. 

One last brush against your most sensitive spot, one last thrust of that monster cock, and you’re peaking, coming so intensely you feel as if you’re soaring. Everything's suddenly so much more wet, release soaking into the linens beneath you, coating your thighs and his legs and dripping between you.

You’ve never come like this before, without some sort of direct stimulation on your clit.  It’s pleasurable in a different way, severing all your sensibilities, explosive in its magnitude.  It tingles beneath your skin, flooding all your senses. 

"Kook—please—come for me.”  You’re rocking up, forward - trying to, at least, folded as you are - singing his name, pleading for him to fuck his cum into you (momentarily ignorant to the fact that you’ve been responsible, a thin wall of latex separating you from your fucked out fantasy).  

Despite the sensitivity, you’re clenching around him, eager to bring him to his own high.  You want to feel him come apart above you, eroded into a mess like you are.

He’s just as pretty reaching his peak as he is at any other time, handsome face screwed up as if he’s reached nirvana, bliss slacking his features the longer he rides it out, bucking into you as he fills the condom and still doesn’t stop.  It’s almost unbearable, oversensitivity spilling into pleasure until he leisurely grinds to a halt, stops the inconsistent pressure against your bundle of nerves, the assault on your fluttering walls.

When he collapses against you, whole face squished between the valley of your breasts, you can’t help but laugh, the sound breathless and endeared.  “Are you okay?”  You don’t mind where he is, weight comforting, skin sticky on yours.  He’s unbelievably warm - a blanket fresh from the wash and yet so much better, lulling you into a sense of security.

“Better than okay,”  he murmurs against your chest, smothering open-mouthed kisses over skin, snickering when you jolt at the feel of his teeth over your nipple one last time.  “You’re welcome.”  It’s an indulgent, facetious expression of gratitude, one that you haven’t asked for.  You laugh all the same, ducking your head into the crown of spun gold atop his head.  

“You too.”

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @codeinebelle​

[inkyblinders]

Dancing with the Devil

Pairing: Luca Changretta X Reader

Author’s note: So excited to share my first fic on this blog! I’m still trying to figure out the ins and outs of Tumblr as it’s been a hot minute since I’ve last used it, but if you like my writing please repost and follow for more :)

The story (part one of many, hopefully) is set in early Season 4 and is in second-person, but you’re also a character with a name.

And in case you can’t tell...I think Luca Changretta is criminally underrated.

Warnings: Some mild smut.

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

There is a stranger in the Garrison tonight.

He isn’t a shipyard laborer, neither tired nor grimy from the perpetual muck that belongs to Small Heath. In fact, he is more polished and well-dressed than anyone you’ve ever seen, except for perhaps the Shelby brothers who frequent the Garrison.

But this man is no Peaky Blinder.

He leisurely surveys the customers in the pub, eyes obscured by a fedora that slants on his head. An unlit cigarette hangs between thin lips. It’s a halfhearted attempt to blend in, as if he’s doing this as a courtesy but cares not in the slightest if he rouses suspicion.

You are used to breaking up bar fights and mopping up the bloody aftermath, but this man makes you more uneasy than any roughhousing drunkard you’ve dealt with. He is too quiet, his eyes too sly.

“This must be the trouble Tommy was expecting,” you think to yourself.

When he catches your gaze from behind the bar, a hawk-like smile cuts across his face. He winks then, and you flush even as something dangerous spikes in your throat. The whiskey you hold in your hands is just like his. Another prop, another facade.

“Anything else for you then, sir?”

He looks up from beneath the brim of his hat. His face is slyly handsome, with sharp cheekbones and a striking nose you crave to run down lightly with your fingers. Now you understand why he tries to keep himself hidden.

Here is a face that, once seen, would not be soon forgotten.

A tilt of his head, a voice as like raw silk as you shiver.

A tilt of his head, a voice as like raw silk as you shiver.

“Your daddy owns this place?”

So he’s not from Birmingham, after all. Every man within a fifty-mile radius knows who owns the Garrison. They might have never met the man, but they certainly know the name of his younger brother.

“No sir, he doesn’t.” Your voice is carefully polite but clipped, praying it doesn’t betray the pounding of your heart as you watch him take off his hat and run a hand through dark, slicked-back hair. You’ve seen Tommy talk like this with men he mistrusts, and he mistrusts a lot of men. No matter what, you are not volunteering any more information than necessary.

He waits for you to say more, and his smile doesn’t falter when you remain silent. “Well then, signorita, will you tell me who does?”

The Italian. So it is him.

Fuck.

“The Garrison is owned by...a family from these parts. Do you have business with them,” You can’t help but add impulsively, “Signore?”

His dark eyes widen with pleasure at your flippant remark in his own language. He is playing a game, and you are playing along with him.

“What business would I have with Gypsy fucks like them?” He leans forward, “But sweetheart, you on the other hand...”

Working for the Shelbys means minding the pub when Arthur’s gone, and spying for Tommy when he needs intel on whoever he’s feuding with at the time. It’s more serious than simply turning the other cheek when there’s a cutting in the streets. But you are not prepared to face an enemy alone.

Even if he is as charming as the devil.

Even if he wants you, and you want him back.

For the millionth time, you silently curse Tommy for forbidding you from having a gun, a knife, anything to protect yourself while in the pub. You had asked him about it one night, afterwards, and he only replied, “It’s bad for business if a girl like you gets caught with a weapon she can’t handle.”

“Then teach me,” You had retorted, balling up his trousers and chucking it at his head, “You think you can protect me. But what about when you’re gone?”

Tommy had looked up from buttoning his shirt then, his gaze steely and blue. “I have eyes in all of Birmingham. And besides,” He smiled ruefully, “You’re never in danger unless I put you there myself.”

In the pub, the Italian watches your expression. And in a moment of madness, you almost take up his veiled flirtation.

But then there is Tommy. Tommy with his inscrutable blue gaze. Tommy with his whores. And now you are angry at yourself for thinking of him when he was probably fucking some other woman in Camden Town. For business, he would explain, avoiding your eyes.

“What business would you have with a barmaid like me?” A whisper of regret fills you as you turn to leave. You are halfway up the stairs that lead to your room above the pub when you hear a caress of a single word that turns your blood to ice.

“Isabel.”

The Italian is leaning against the banister, eyes drinking in your figure. And now he saunters up the steps. You scamper up the rest of them but he is quicker. In a flash he spins you around, his body snugly against you and the second-floor wall. An arm over your head, caging you with his tall frame.

The intoxicating scent of tobacco and roses fills the crevices between your bodies.

Your eyes flash dangerously as he bends down, daring him to force a kiss. But he only murmurs into the crook of your neck, “Where is Mr. Shelby tonight?”

You answer breathlessly into the shoulder of his freshly-pressed suit, “He could be at the betting shop. Could be with his wife at home. I don’t-- ”

“The other Mr. Shelby, Isabel.”

Maybe he already sent his men after Tommy. Maybe Tommy’s already dead in a ditch, in godforsaken Camden Town. Or maybe, just maybe, this man really doesn’t know where he is, and you are the only person who can tell him.

He has you good and compromised. No one can help you, so you must save yourself. Instincts kick in, your mind feverishly formulating a plan. It won’t be the first time you’ve done something like this, and on Tommy’s orders nonetheless.

Loose lips sink ships, and men are so pliant after a romp in the sheets. Mindful of your mission now, you angle to ask for his secrets, anything you could find out that gives Tommy an advantage.

Only this time, your heart actually catches as you gaze into the mafioso’s lethal eyes.

A pause then, wondering how much you should reveal, and you confess, “Tommy doesn’t tell anyone where he is until he’s already there.” It’s a half-truth—he told you.

“So he’s Tommy to you then?” The man is pleased with your slip of the tongue. You’ve told him a secret he already knows.

“You are his woman.” He caresses your face with the back of his hand, etched with ink. A cross. Rosary beads. And there, a black-palmed hand. Just like the ones he sent the Shelbys.

I want to see where his tattoos lead to.

“You are his woman,” he continues, and something dark and sweet fills his voice as he purrs, “And you are not afraid of me.”

“I’m not giving up Shelby secrets even if you seduce me,” You stifle a whimper as he wedges a leg between your skirts, and you think of nothing except the way you ache for him to come even closer, until there is nothing between you but skin on bare skin.

“Tommy has whores who might give him up for a pound or three. Although,” you smirk, “I won’t tell you where you’d find them, either.”

“Oh sweetheart, didn’t you hear me?” So close you can feel his heartbeat with your fingertips, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

A deathly promise.

“I’ve come for you.”

He slants his mouth, his lips pressing hotly to yours as you surrender to desire. The kiss is swift and hard. The two of you come together, again and again, like lightning and thunder. As he cradles your head with one hand, the other slips underneath your blouse to palm your breast. You arch against the wall. The onyx rings on his hand are cold, and they pucker your nipples as they bite your skin.

Somehow you find your fingers seeking him too. But it’s not enough to touch the exposed skin between the gaps of his buttoned shirt. You want more.

When you pull apart he is panting, lips apart and wet. His once slicked-back hair now mussed, you imagine yours is too. For the first time this evening, his arrogant face is a little shocked, as if the taste of you affected him more deeply than he expected. You unclench your fists from his shirt and slowly take his face into your hands. You draw a line down the bridge of his nose, feeling all its bumps and ridges.

You murmur huskily, “Why did you really come to Birmingham?”

He tilts his head expectantly, and you are lost in his devastating eyes as he replies.

“Pleasure.”

[kythed]

what love tastes like

terushima yuuji x reader

synopsis: in which you learn that falling in love tastes like monster

--

“Taste,” he says. He holds the cold rim of a freshly opened can to your lips, and first it’s metallic, salty, but then it’s sweet. 

You take a sip. 

“So you’re telling me you’ve never tried Monster before?” he asks, taking a drink himself. The two of you are sitting on a park bench across the street from a gas station. He licks his lips-- the silver ball embedded in his tongue winks at you, a shallow token of youthful rebellion that somehow seems more significant on him. 

“Never. I’m more of a Dr. Pepper girl.” You reach for the can again, letting the saccharine liquid sloshing inside coat your tongue. It’s really too much for me, you think. But of course, you won’t tell him that. 

“Not anymore,” he says, and he slips a firm hand around the back of your neck, pulling you towards him and daring you to look away with a wicked grin-- it’s attractive, to say the least. “Now you’re my girl.” 

You’ve barely parted your lips to respond before his mouth is on yours, tongue halfway down your throat, and you’re whimpering into the kiss as he snakes a hand down your back and presses your body to his. The whole ordeal tastes like Monster and feels far more energizing than the packaging promises. 

Within your first day of meeting him, Terushima Yuuji has already claimed you as his own. 

And you’re okay with it.

--

He’s about as healthy for you as the Monster is-- which is to say, not at all. 

In your next couple months of dating him, this becomes apparent. He takes you to the edge of the woods at twilight and lights your first cigarette, laughing as you take a draw and end up coughing. Plucking it from your fingers, he holds the cig high as smoke curls into the hazy sky and eventually melds with the faintly orange cumuli. “Guess it’ll take a little practice before you can smoke with the big dogs, huh?”

You flush and snatch it back, determined to prove your aptitude for defiance. By the end of the night, you can blow smoke rings-- he applauds, and for some odd reason your heart swells at his lazy grin. 

(The next kiss tastes like tobacco and novelty.)

He shows you each of his tattoos, some of which peek out from underneath his clothes, some of which aren’t exactly visible to the onlooker’s eye. There’s a tendril of ivy climbing down his forearm, a flock of wild cranes taking flight from his left shoulder. A dark silhouette is on his chest, kneeling low to who knows what. You trace the image of an unlit candle on the back of his neck, asking what it means-- for a millisecond, his mouth tightens into an expressionless line, but then he laughs. “Why, you want one too? Let’s go to the parlor then.” 

When you decline, he takes a permanent marker from his bedside table and prints a small label on your inner wrist. ‘Mine’ it says, accompanied by an oddly appropriate smiley face. “Then this will have to do.”

(This kiss tastes like ink and enigma.) 

He brings you to a decrepit manor on the outskirts of town-- legend has it a young, newly wealthy couple purchased it twenty years ago, unaware its foundations rested on a centuries old cemetery. The spiteful spirits drove them to the brink of madness. The sort of madness that could only be alleviated by the resounding finality of death. 

“They were found hanging from their bedsheets in the west wing,” Yuuji whispers to you, his breath tickling your ear. An unwanted tremor runs from your head to your high-tops. You don’t believe in ghosts, so it must be because you’re cold. (At least, that’s what you tell yourself.) “I want that kind of love.” 

You turn, surprised to see his expression remains entirely serious. “The kind where you die for one another?”

“The kind where you die with one another,” he corrects, wistfully gazing into the dingy bay windows protruding from the manor’s anterior. 

You remain silent. 

“Life is just an accumulation of bad decisions, and love is just an accumulation of bad decisions you make with another person,” he muses, still peering at the grandeur of the lonely estate. He turns to you, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Wanna make a bad decision with me?” 

The next hour is spent in the modest company of Yuuji, a couple of baseball bats, and the empty halls of a long dead house. There’s no one to witness the two of you shattering each dusty antique vase save for the portraits on the wall. Soon, their frames, too, receive a violent visit from a vindictive bat, usually accompanied by Yuuji’s unadulterated glee and a resounding whoop. 

You’re not a fan of destruction. Especially not the destruction of rare, precious items reminiscent of a life bygone. Yet, it’s exhilarating to indulge in it, to swing your bat with a meaningless vengeance and watch as whatever priceless heirloom that evoked your baseless wrath fractures into pieces. You demolish a set of fine china found in the dining room cabinet and Yuuji gathers you into his arms, kissing you fiercely (it tastes like some sort of perverse, seductive joy, rosewater mixed with ashes). He chuckles into your mouth when you push your tongue into his, retribution for your first kiss many weeks ago. It’s deliciously gratifying. 

If Yuuji is right, and love is just a mosaic of bad decisions and desire-- maybe you’re okay with that. Maybe this is all I really need, you think, watching Yuuji from the corner of your eye on the drive home. Yellow street lights cast irregular shadows on his angular features, lending him an otherworldly sort of beauty. 

“What is it?” he asks, without taking his eyes off the road. One of his hands inches up your inner thigh, giving it a quick squeeze before retreating to the responsibility of the steering wheel. 

You hesitate, just for a second. An unseen force constricts around your throat; you banish it with a hard swallow. “I love you.” 

One second passes. Then two. 

He says nothing the rest of the ride home, and you sit in mortified silence, watching traffic blur by with glassy eyes. You must’ve misread this whole thing. You’re just a fling Yuuji plans on discarding whenever he grows tired… your mouth goes dry with regret. 

When you pull up in front of your house, he walks you to your front door. You can hardly stand to look him in the eye. 

“Well, thanks for today,” you say, examining your shoelaces with false interest. “I had a lot of--”

“I love you, too.” 

Startled, you look up. “I- what?” 

“I said,” he says, stepping close, putting a hand beneath your chin to tilt it upwards. Your body is eclipsed by his larger one, and you’re overwhelmed with the sudden urge to hide from his penetrating gaze. “I love you, too.” 

A beat of silence.

“Oh,” you breathe, and, suddenly, his lips are on yours, kissing you fervently— but this time, it’s chaste, it’s… loving (and it tastes like honeyed laughter). Only for a second though.

Then his hands are on your waist, fingers gripping hard enough to leave bruises; he’s aflame with a hotblooded passion-- your body is his Holy Grail and your mouth is its rim. He leads you into the hallway, fumbling to close the door behind him. You gasp when he pushes you up against the wall and harshly sucks at the sensitive skin beneath your jaw, your nails digging into his back through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. 

“I love you,” he mumbles, painting your neck with a line of ardent kisses, trailing from right below your ear to right above your collarbone. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

--

There’s something a little too tender in the way he caresses your face the next morning to wake you after he’s slipped his clothes back on, in the way he smiles softly at your bleary eyed confusion, in the way he holds you in his embrace a fraction of a second longer than you hold him in yours before saying goodbye. 

Terushima Yuuji may play the part of a reckless delinquent, but he’s not your average troublemaker. There’s something inscrutable behind his gaze, even as he sprays obscene graffiti on stop signs and shoplifts alcohol from the neighborhood drugstore, a walking cliche of hoodlum culture. 

There’s something a little too careful about the boy who claims to be careless. 

Yuuji is still fun, of course. He takes immense pride in being fun. He invites you to one of his friends’ gigs, some sort of grunge-esque affair with a heavily pulsating bass line and a preponderance of cheap liquor in red plastic cups. The drummer winks at you during one of the songs-- later Yuuji slugs him in the jaw, taking a few hits in the process, and makes a show of kissing you sloppily while the poor drummer nurses his rapidly forming bruise with a pack of frozen peas. (The kiss, of course, tastes like blood and pride.) 

He teaches you how to use a switchblade-- “Just in case,” he says, wrapping his hand around yours in an effort to show you the proper grip. In exactly what situation you’d be forced to use a switchblade remains unclear, but when you ask he just laughs and shrugs, spinning the knife in between his slender fingers. “You never know.”

(He tells you a story of a fist fight years ago and lifts his shirt to point out a pale, faded scar-- the other guy brought a knife concealed in his sleeve. You then agree it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.)

The two of you trespass on the regular, scaling fences and picking locks to dip your feet in private pools, to run barefoot on the soft grass of a golf course late at night, to explore taped off tunnels and underpasses. 

All of it is fun, all of it depicts your relationship as something accidental, something reckless, the convergence of two beings as coincidental as the convergence of the two cells that provoked the Big Bang. 

But your intimate moments, the faintest imprints in between the lines, tell a different story. One onlookers don’t see. 

They don’t see how Yuuji places a hand on the small of your back to guide you over a crosswalk, or how he pours a coffee and carefully blows on it before bringing it to you. They don’t see how he laughs when you laugh and smiles when you smile. 

They don’t hear what he whispers to you under the sheets-- sweet nothings that would make Cupid himself blush-- as he touches you slowly, purposefully, following your curves deliberately as a sculptor molding clay. 

They don’t feel his kisses, delicately placed on your lips, your neck, your stomach and thighs. They don’t feel his eyelashes fluttering on your cheek as he allows himself to rest with you in his most vulnerable state. 

It’s during these moments that deep secrets are so shyly exchanged in the sleepy haze of late nights and early mornings. He bares his soul to you in all its imperfection (you suspect you are the only one to have ever seen it in this state). He shatters himself bit by bit like the vases you splintered so long ago, offering you the fragments so you can gradually piece together the entire portrait. 

“You know how I told you my dad taught me how to fight?” he asks one of these times. Your head is in his lap as he strokes your hair ever-so-lightly. You nod, looking up into those sweet brown eyes-- they look sad today. “That’s only half true. He didn’t teach me, but I had to learn because of him.” 

You take his hand and brush your lips over his knuckles, humming softly, and he takes this small act of comfort and stores it away like he always does. 

I’m sorry. 

“I’m scared of trying to be someone different than I am now, but I want to be. I wish I could be.”

You can. 

“I’m sorry for getting you into so much trouble these days.”

Don’t be.

“I think we should run away, just you and me. We could make it, you know.”

I know. 

Of course, all good things come to an end. You know that. 

You just aren’t anticipating something so good to end so soon-- as suddenly as Terushima Yuuji becomes yours, he disappears. 

One morning, he’s sleeping in the bed next to you, and the next he’s gone without a trace. Literally. He leaves behind no extra t-shirts, no stray sock or phone charger, no note. You pad down the hall, ducking your head into each room.

“Yuuji?” you call. “Is this some sort of joke?”

It’s not. 

You call his phone and reach his voicemail. Hey, this is Terushima. Not available right now, probably busy doing somethin’ stupid or taking a piss. Leave a message if you want. 

The sound of his voice grows more and more painful to hear over the next six months. At first, you call every day, then every week, then every month. At month six, you’ve stopped calling at all. If he wanted to answer, he would. You don’t even know why you’ve kept it up so long when he obviously left for a reason. 

So, you pick up the pieces of your broken heart and cobble them together again. It’s not a graceful recovery, but it’s a recovery, and that’s what matters. The gaping hole he left is gradually filled by your family, your friends-- you don’t go on a single date, but that’s okay. (You’re just not ready. You tell yourself that you will be, someday.)  

Soon, you’re whole again. As you discover, there are ways to find yourself other than falling dangerously in love with a dangerous boy. 

You run into him one day, eight or so months after his disappearance. You’re filling your car at a gas station, and at the park across the street, he’s sitting next to a girl you don’t recognize. She laughs at all his jokes and sips a can of Monster he offers her. As if he can feel your stare, Yuuji glances over and catches your eye. He jogs across the street, dodging traffic, and you two exchange tentative pleasantries before the conversation comes to an uneasy rest on the taboo-- why he left.

It wasn’t because of you, it turns out. At least, not really. You were just the catalyst.

“I was the problem,” Yuuji says, laughing, though the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You remember how I once told you I thought love was making your bad decisions with someone by your side?”

You nod, and the wound has scabbed over enough for you to remember it lightly, with a slight curve of the lips.

“You showed me that wasn’t true.” He tugs on the collar of his t-shirt absentmindedly, not quite meeting your gaze. “I started wanting to make good decisions instead. And that just wasn’t me. Love isn’t for me.”

“It could’ve been,” you say simply. He stares at you, momentarily unable to form a response. Then he laughs it off, a sound you used to adore that now sounds harsh and grating. 

“Maybe someday,” he says, but his expression tells you otherwise. It tells you how scared he is of ever being that person.

The thing about love is that it gives you something to lose. It gives you a reason to make good decisions. It gives you something to fear for. 

As he turns to leave, Yuuji freezes in his tracks. He throws a look over his shoulder. “Just for the record-- it hurt. Leaving. I did love you.” 

You smile. It’s a genuine smile, but it’s sad, too. “I know.” 

And the thing about fear is that some people can’t bear it well enough to let themselves love someone. 

You watch his retreating back for a brief moment before climbing into your car. It’s not until you’re halfway home that you realize you’re crying. Tears roll down your cheeks into your lap, staining your jeans. 

You hope he comes to love that new girl, the one he’s sharing a Monster with. You hope she loves him back with all her heart. You hope she spends hours and hours picking through his pieces and reassembling him from the bottom up. You hope she comes to find that his kisses taste like tobacco and novelty, like ink and enigma, like rosewater and ashes and joy. You hope that, to her, those kisses never taste like regret. 

You hope that this time, he’s scared. But not so scared he can’t let himself stay.

[mommymilkits]

ROLL OVER AND DIE INCORRECT QUOTES!!!

Flum: How did none of you hear what I just said?

Milkit: I've been zoned out for the past two and a half hours.

Ink: I got distracted about halfway through.

Eterna: Ignoring you was a conscious decision.

Milkit: Flum, I'm sad.

Flum: *Holds out arms for a hug* It's going to be okay.

Ink: Eterna, I'm sad.

Eterna, nodding: mood.

Ink: You know those things will kill you, right?

Eterna, pouring another glass of whiskey: That's the point.

Flum, smoking a cigarette: We're trying to speed up the process.

Milkit: *Nods while eating raw cookie dough*

Ink: Why are Milkit and Flum sitting with their backs to each other?

Eterna: They had a fight.

Eterna: Then why are they holding hands?

Ink: They get sad when they fight.

Eterna: Care for another sundae, weenie?

Flum: I am not a weenie!

Ink: Relax, you're among friends. *raises her drink*

Flum: My friends don't hang out at Weenie Hut Jr's.

Milkit: You tell 'em, Flum! *sips her drink*

Flum: Milkit, what're you doing here?

Milkit: I'm always here on Double Weenie Wednesdays.

Flum: There is no future. there is no past. do you see? Time is simultaneous, an intricately structured jewel that humans insist on viewing one edge at a time, when the whole design is visible in every facet.

Milkit:

Ink:

Eterna:

Everyone Else At Flum’s Surprise Birthday Party:

Milkit: All I asked was if you wanted to cut your birthday cake first.

Milkit: On the count of three, what's your favorite cake? One, two, three-

Milkit and Flum, in unison: Chocolate cake peanut butter frosting with chocolate chunks!

Ink: Our turn, Eterna! One, two, three- vanilla!

Eterna, deadpan: I've never had cake, what is cake.

Eterna: Dammit, Flum!

Flum: What?! It wasn't me!

Eterna: Sorry, force of habit. Dammit, Milkit!

Milkit: Not me either.

Eterna: Oh….. Then who set the house on fire?

Ink: *whistles*

Eterna: Have you seen Flum around here?

Ink: Ugh, yes. She made a horrible mess of the blood fountain.

Milkit: It looks fine to me?

Ink: IT USED TO BE WATER!!!

Milkit: *Trying to fill out legal paperwork stuff*

Were you guys born AMAB or AFAB?

Eterna: Bold of you to assume I was born at all.

Ink: I personally was created in a lab.

Flum: I just straight up spawned lol.

Eterna: *Screams*

Flum: *Screams louder to assert dominance*

Milkit: Should we do something?!

Ink, observing: No, I want to see who wins this.

Milkit, setting down a card: Ace of spades

Flum, pulling out an Uno card: +4

Eterna, pulling out a Pokémon card: Jolteon, I choose you!

Ink, trembling: What are we playing?

Eterna: *Gently taps table*

Flum: *Taps back*

Milkit: What are they doing?

Ink: Morse code.

Eterna: *Aggressively taps table*

Flum: *Slams hands down* YOU TAKE THAT BACK-

Milkit: Violence isn't the answer.

Flum: You're right.

Milkit: *sighs in relief*

Flum: Violence is the question.

Milkit: What?

Flum, bolting away: And the answer is yes.

Milkit, running after them: NO-

(Eterna: Violence isn't the answer.

Ink: You're right.

Eterna: *sighs in relief*

Ink: Violence is the question.

Eterna: What?

Ink, bolting away: And the answer is yes.

Eterna, running after them: NO-)

Milkit: How do I deal with my enemies?

Flum: Kill them.

Milkit: That's a bit extreme, I was hoping for a more passive solution

Flum: Kill them only a little?

Milkit: Is something burning?

Flum: Just my love for you.

Milkit: Master, the toaster is on fire.

Milkit: Remember when you didn't try to solve all your problems with attempted murder?

Flum: Stop romanticizing the past.

Flum: I think I'm having a mid-life crisis.

Milkit: You're like 16 years old.

Flum: I MIGHT DIE AT 30!

Flum: petition to remove the 'd' from Wednesday.

Milkit: Wednesay?

Flum: Not what I had in mind, but I'm flexible!

Flum: *Stubs her toe* FUCK!

Milkit: Mind your language!

Flum: What else am I supposed to say, "Woe is I"???

Milkit:

Flum: You have to accept that swear words are

necessary sometimes.

Flum: I slept for almost 12 hours but I might still be tired so lets go for 12 more just incase.

Milkit: Flum, that's a coma!

Flum: Sounds festive.

Flum: Look. I may not be a saint, but it's not like I've killed anybody. I'm not an arsonist. I've never found a wallet outside of an IHOP and thought about returning it but saw the owner lived out of state so just took the cash and dropped the wallet back on the ground.

Milkit: Okay, that's really specific, and that makes me think that you definitely did do that.

Flum: I've already sent good vibes your way. they're coming. There's nothing you can do to stop them.

Milkit: This is the most threatening way I've ever been cheered up.

Flum: You're the love of my life and my best friend, I would do anything for you.

Milkit: I want you to eat three meals a day and have a decent sleep schedule.

Flum: Absolutely not.

Ink: You love me, right, Eterna?

Eterna: Normally, I'd say yes without hesitation, but I feel like this is going somewhere and I don't like it.

Milkit: You often use humor to deflect trauma.

Flum: Thank you.

Milkit: I didn't say that was a good thing!

Flum: What I'm hearing is, you think I'm funny.

Flum: *Accidentally hits Milkit in the face*

Flum: *Trying to decide between saying “I'm fucking sorry” and “Are you okay"*

Flum: ARE YOU FUCKING SORRY?!

Milkit: What's wrong with you?!

Flum: If there's going to be a big dramatic scene, wait until I get back.

Milkit: Of course. I can't flip this table by myself.

Flum: I turned out perfectly fine!

Milkit: Master, this morning you thought a ghost made your toast.

Flum: I DIDN'T PUT THE BREAD IN! YOU DIDN'T PUT THE BREAD IN!!!

Flum: I want to wake up with you every day for the rest of our lives!

Milkit: I wake up at 4:30 AM.

Flum:

Flum: I want to see you at some point every day for the rest of our lives!

Flum, in a meeting: My policy is if you see something, say something.

Milkit: I saw a squirrel in a tree today!

Flum, with the tone of someone who is used to Milkit: Outstanding.

Flum: This is what I'm talking about people.

(Eterna, in a meeting: My policy is if you see something, say something.

Ink, if she could see: I saw a squirrel in a tree today!

Eterna, with the tone of someone who is used to Ink: Outstanding.

Eterna: This is what I'm talking about people.)

Flum: I'm a reverse necromancer.

Milkit: Isn't that just killing people?

Flum: Ah, technicality!

Flum: It's dark in here.

Milkit: Don't worry dude I got this!

Milkit: *Stomps her feet*

Milkit: *Skechers light up*

Flum: I am not out of control! I'm a law abiding citizen!

Eterna: Really? Name one law

Flum: Don't kill people?

Eterna: That's on me. I set the bar too low.

Flum: Today is a day of running through hurdles.

Eterna: Aren't you supposed to jump OVER hurdles?

Flum: Whatever. Fear is only something to be afraid of if you let it scare you.

Flum: In light of what you did for me, you can hug me for four to five seconds.

Milkit: FORTY FIVE SECONDS?!?

Flum: No! Four to five seconds!

Milkit: Too late!!!

(Eterna: In light of what you did for me, you can hug me for four to five seconds.

Ink: FORTY FIVE SECONDS?!?

Eterna: No! Four to five seconds!

Ink: Too late!!!)

Flum: I prevented a murder today.

Milkit: Really? How'd you do that?

Flum: Self control.

Milkit: You know, I'm starting to regret showing you how that blender works.

Ink, drinking toast: Why do you say that?

Flum: So what's for dinner?

Milkit, staring at the food she just burnt: Regret.

Eterna: Ink was banned from the chicken shack, so we had to go out of town to get some.

Ink: Well, they shouldn't say "all you can eat" if they don't mean it.

Eterna: Ink, you ate a chair.

Milkit, reading the paper: Someone tried to fight a squid at the aquarium today!

Flum: *walks in covered with ink* Well, maybe the squid was being a dick.

Flum: Name a more iconic duo than my crippling fear of abandonment and my anxiety. I'll wait.

Milkit: You and me!!!

Flum, tearing up: Okay.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

The General (part 4): Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: escape sounds good. but is it better than staying?

wc: 2.6k

tw: sexual assault and death

a/n: please don’t kill me. This is plot. No smut to be found quite yet. I’m really trying to save up my smut cards for something really big lol

masterlist

 Everything is on fire. Everyone is running around you, because for some reason, you’re walking toward the flames. Screams echo in your ears and the feeling of something tugging you into the burning building that looked like your home is too strong to ignore. When you push the door to your house open, your mother is hovering over your father, who is bleeding out as you watch in horror. When your mother looks up at you, she’s crying fat tears of sorrow, then she whispers:

“You did this, y/n. You let that monster into our town, and now look at what you’ve done.” 

A hand smooths over your face as you twist and turn, but you don’t realize it’s the General until you open your eyes, the light from the moon blocked by his body. “You’re okay. Don’t worry; no one’s going to hurt you here,” he whispers, despite having hurt you before. You push his hand away and sit up, clutching your knees to your chest as you catch your breath. “Nightmare?” he asks, and for a second, you’re wondering if he’s saying that he had a nightmare. But then you feel the sweat around the nape of your neck and on your chest, and remember the feeling of helplessness you just emerged from. You nod, looking around the tent at the table, papers, the ink, the discarded haori near the seat…

“You’re up late,” you mention - trying to change the subject - and the General huffs a laugh, pushing back his hair like he always did before he launched into an explanation. Why didn’t he just tie it up? 

“I do my best work right before the midnight hours. You’d be surprised at the formations I can create with just a hint of alertness left in my body.” He turns back to you, touching your foot with a broad hand. “Do you want to talk about your dream?”

“No,” you answer quickly, hoping he would drop the subject. 

“Then let me have Kaori fetch you some water for a bath. I would hate for you to remain as sweaty as you are.” You slide off the bed, walking around to the little desk area that held stacks of papers and diagrams and sliding one free from the stack. 

“You draw maps?” 

“Cartographers are not cheap, little one. I’ve canvassed a massive effort to make a map of every place I’ve been to… Nanami is very helpful with this, as well. He’s so attentive to details that I might have missed, so I rely on his help more often than not.” 

“And Haibara?” 

“Yu? He’s pretty easy to get along with as well. He’s my mentee, if you really consider it. If I have no children, he will inherit the throne after me.” 

“What about Gojo?” you question, sliding a map of the surrounding area forward and examining it carefully. As he drones on about the blue eyed man, you make sure your eyes cover every inch of the map and memorize the routes in and out of the camp. If you could just find a way to get over to the edge of the camp, you could easily hitch a ride back to your hometown and tell everyone about the General’s whereabouts. And expose Yuko for the traitor he is. 

“But do you enjoy your time with Kaori? I purposefully made her the head of maids so she would tend to you and you alone.” 

“Ah,” you push the map away and smile up at Geto, having finally found your escape route. “She’s lovely.” 

And Kaori would be even more lovely once she helped you with your plan to run away. 

_______________________________________________________________________

“How do you feel today?” Kaori wonders as you dress in your standard blue kimono.

“Quite well,” you answer, smiling back at her. She raises a brow, a grin forming on her lips. 

“Might this have anything to do with Master Geto?” 

You look back at the maid, and give her your best fake grin. “Maybe.” Kaori hums in surprise, then gathers her things up before leaving you alone again. “Oh, I almost forgot,” you begin, tying the kimono closed. “Could you bring me an extra pear or two with lunch today? I have a craving for them right now.” Kaori nods and bows slightly before walking out of the tent. 

Map? Check.

Clothes? Check.

Extra food? Check. 

The entire morning is spent pouring over the map, tracking your path in and out of the compound. You would have to walk a considerable distance, but it was perfectly fine. If you could manage to secure a horse, you’d probably get halfway home before anyone noticed you were missing, and that was a considerable head start. 

Your plan went into effect as soon as they announced dinner, and you wait patiently for Geto to come fetch you for the evening meal, laying in his bed with a pained expression. When he comes inside, he sees you clutching your stomach and hanging over the side of the bed a little. 

“Are you unwell?” he asks immediately, stooping by the bedside and smoothing your hair away from your face. You shake your head slowly, all of it an act, and he grumbles something about ‘knowing the food was undercooked at lunch’. Little did he know that you had stowed it away, along with a spare kimono of his and rudimentary copy of the map. 

You fake a cough for emphasis, and his hands fly to your face, patting the tender flesh of your cheeks and forehead. “You’re warm. I’ll have Kaori come and attend to-” 

“I don’t want her to catch what I have,” you moan, rolling over on your left side. 

“You shouldn’t be alone like this,” Geto urges, eyes frantically looking around the tent space for something. “I’ll… I’ll eat dinner here, then. I’ll stay with you.” You shake your head weakly, ignoring his panicked expression. 

“I can’t bear the smell of food right now… I just need some rest.” 

“And you shall have it,” Geto whispers, placing a tender kiss on your left hand. “I’ll be back within the hour to check on you.” And with that, he leaves you in the tent. When you suspect that he - and as a result, his friends - are all gone to eat, you slide out of the bed and retrieve your sack of things hidden underneath it. 

It isn’t escaping the camp that’s hard.

It’s running through the dead of night with only a sliver of moon to guide you that is most difficult. 

Without the daylight, you could easily mistake a patch of trees for a forest and river for a ravine. But it doesn’t matter. Your father had taught you how to tell the North from the South and the East from the West, and you relied on those skills now to guide you out of the camp. First, you have to locate the brightest star in the sky and just follow it to get on the right path. If it is directly overhead, you’d be on your way to determining which way to go. The makeshift map you have is telling you that you should wander northeast to get out of the confines of the camp, and you would be well on your way to your hometown. 

Except… 

You look back at the lights dotted around the camp behind you. 

What if you stayed? What if you stayed and made friends with the General? What if you stayed, made friends with the General, and then lured him in with a false sense of security? You adjust the sack on your back and think for a moment more.

He had let you remain in the tent by yourself. Not only was it a sign that he was finally beginning to trust you while you were alone, but also while you had all of the opportunity to escape, like you were now. Either that, or he’s more than confident that he would be able to find you and drag you back so he could execute his plan properly. 

The only thing that would come from you attempting to run away would be a chase, and you would more than likely be caught without a horse. Then, Geto would not hesitate to discipline you and make you submit to his will, and possibly never trust you again. 

“Flattery is the best persuader of people,” your father used to murmur, but you didn’t believe it back then; rolling your eyes at his old sayings. But now… perhaps you could work this to your advantage by staying. 

You trek back with the pack, dumping everything except the kimono nearby to avoid any suspicion. The kimono is placed back where it had been before, and you slump onto the bed - facing away from the tent opening - groaning with exhaustion and anxiety. 

The General returns what feels like a few minutes later and runs a hand down your back with care, humming in the darkness. He’s unsteady on his feet, it sounds like, and he anchors himself on the bed with one knee, leaning over you to brush a lock of hair away from your face. 

“If there’s one thing I know about Yuko,” he breathes, words tumbling out of his mouth like a bucket of apples. “He didn’t lie about beauty or character.” Geto slides in next you, wrapping an arm around your waist protectively and nestling his face into the crook of your neck. He places a kiss below your earlobe, then almost instantly afterward, he’s asleep. 

And although you want to squirm out of his arms and give him what-for, you don’t. The resolve in your new plan has set you on a path of compromise, and you would see this through until the end.

_______________________________________________________________________

Lips. They’re everywhere. On your face, trailing down your neck and accompanied by touches that stoke the flames of a fire you didn’t realize you had burning inside of you. 

When your eyes flutter open, it’s still night, but the General has let the wine go to his head. You let out an involuntary moan at the feeling of his fingers gripping the skin underneath your kimono before you snatch yourself out of his grasp, tumbling to the floor below and remembering how much you hated him. 

“Y/n… are you..” he hiccups a little. “Are you alright?” You push off of the ground in a fury, dusting yourself off and facing away from him as you yell:

“How dare you go back on your promise to not defile me, you filthy swine! Touching me in my sleep is low for even you, Your Majesty!” You spit the last two words at him, then stomp towards the flaps of the tent, which open with a flutter before you can get to them. 

Geto steps inside, his eyes meeting yours in a confused stare. 

“I heard you yelling and I--” He looks over your shoulder and frowns, squinting his eyes at the figure in the bed. “Get up.” When the man stumbles to the floor, Geto pulls you in behind him, shielding you from who really occupied the bed. 

“M-Master Geto, I can expla--” 

“Silence.” The deep bass of the General’s voice is unmatched, deadly, and practically telling of the punishment to come. Haibara and Gojo walk past you into the tent behind Geto, making lanterns glow and illuminate the tent space. “Do you know this man?” Geto roars, pointing an accusing finger at the offender as he turns to you, throwing daggers with his eyes. You look at the soon-to-be dead man, nostrils flaring. But you don’t recognize his face, nor his body. Nothing about this person is familiar.

“No, sir,” you state, and Geto starts a little at the sound of the formality falling from your lips. 

“Has he touched you in any way?” Your skin is crawling with what feels like a thousand little bugs, and you clutch your elbows instinctively. In one smooth motion, Geto turns to Gojo, who nods his head once and grabs the man’s hair, dragging him past you and Haibara as his screams of pain echo into the night. You feel two hands resting on your shoulders as you stare at the tent flaps, the fluttering of them barely revealing the man’s fate. It’s only when the screaming stops that you turn to Geto. “Are you hurt?” he asks, dipping his head a little to look into your eyes with his piercing black ones. 

“No, I’m fine.” 

“Where did he touch you?” You look over to Haibara, and Geto does as well, before waving the youth off. “Make sure Gojo takes care of…” 

“Of course,” Haibara replies, and with a sad smile thrown your way, he departs. Geto turns his attention back to you, taking your wrists in his hands. 

“Show me.” You move a hand across your chest and down your right thigh, grazing the spot where the man had grabbed you roughly. Then you swipe at your neck and face. “My gods,” he breathes before pulling you close. Tears threaten to leak out of your eyes, but you hold them at bay, trying to maintain the hysterics for later when you were alone. “I should have stayed.” 

“I should have let you.” 

_______________________________________________________________________

You awake enveloped in Geto’s warmth, unsure of when you fell asleep for the second time, but thankful for the body heat that wards off the night-time chill. When you move away from him, he does not awaken, but does stir a little. 

And that’s when you see it. The dragon on his arm is moving it’s head back and forth, eyes blinking lazily. At first you think you’re hallucinating, but when you rub your eyes and peer closer, it’s still moving; the entirety of its body doing a little dance side to side. 

“You should see it after a battle,” Geto murmurs sleepily, eyes trained on your astonished face. “Dancing is just how it wakes itself up.” You stare at the mythical being in silence, unsure of whether the true beast was the man before you or the tattoo on his arm. “How are you feeling?” Geto finally breaks the silence, sitting up and pushing himself out of the bed. 

“I feel alright.” He takes your hand, lifting it up to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to the back. You pause, unsure of how to respond to such a gesture, but Geto keeps moving around the tent, adjusting the sheets and running his hands through his hair. 

“Have you ever thought about braiding it?” you wonder, and Geto looks over at you with an amused look. 

“I have; but no one here is skilled enough to braid - not even Kaori.” 

Wordlessly, you trek over to him and thread the locks of hair through your fingers. 

“How do you keep it so clean when you’re on the battlefield?” you wonder aloud, and Geto chuckles. 

“Water is a resource that I take full advantage of, little one.” He instinctively stops his movements and angles his head back so you can work the strands one over the other, finally ending the long braid with a simple strip of fabric from the edge of your kimono. 

“There.” Geto pulls the braid over his shoulder and examines it carefully, humming at the sight of your handiwork. 

“This is interesting, to say the least.” 

“It will keep things from getting caught in your hair, and I’m sure it feels much less ‘all over the place’.” 

“Indeed, it does,” he breathes, then reaches a hand out to touch your cheek affectionately. Without thinking, you lean into his touch, and after taking half a step forward, Geto places a kiss on your forehead. After this signal of affection, he leaves, making you wonder what was wrong with your face and if you actually had a fever - because your cheeks felt hotter than they had ever felt before.