#life is a bed of tulips

[floralreality4eva]

Tulips in the Morning Sun - by GerdaHolla

[blooming-cecilia]

playing dress up with his favorite human

[mozart-the-meerkitten]

CW/TW- Pet Death

So last night I asked for prayers for me and my parents because we'd had a really rough and emotionally trying day. I will now explain. This is, unfortunately, also a Kitten Update on my Bengal kittens, so if you've become emotionally invested in them and aren't up for reading this right now, look away and come back to it another time. Or just don't come back to it. Alright, disclaimer over, you've been warned.

Alright, I'm going to keep this as succinct as possible to try and limit how much I end up crying.

We took the six girl kittens to get spayed yesterday.

Tulip, the littlest kitten, Leeli's runt, had a heart condition we didn't know about. It's all but invisible, there are barely any signs and there is no way to know it exists without special tests being done which we never even thought to do because we had never had an issue with it before and we have had Bengal cats for a long time.

They put Tulip under anesthesia and during the procedure her heart just... stopped. They did everything they could to revive her, they gave her CPR, they gave her epinephrine, but it didn't work. She died.

The vet said she likely had a heart condition where the heart walls thicken and it takes more and more effort then for the heart to beat. My mom looked it up and usually by the time symptoms are visible the cat only has 3-6 months to live. There is no cure, all they can do is slow it down/improve symptoms.

I realized, and shared with my parents, that Tulip was already showing symptoms. She always tired out before the other kittens, she slept more than them, when she was littler she'd come and fall asleep on me because she knew I'd keep other kittens from pouncing on her. Two days ago I'd left Madia and Tulip in my room for maybe 10-15 minutes and they were waking up from a nap, so I assumed they'd be tearing around when I got back. They were curled up on my bed again and I thought that was odd, but...

But Tulip was little, she was the runt, there was no reason to question these things because they're not uncommon behavior for runts (being smaller they have less energy/stamina). And she was as fiesty as any Bengal kitten we'd ever had. A few days ago I saw her attack Farid, her brother, who is over a FULL POUND heavier than her, and start beating him up. She gained weight, she ate well, she acted like a normal kitten!

She was already showing symptoms at 4-6 weeks old, maybe earlier. 3-6 months to live (usually) after symptoms show up. Her heart stopped when she was 4 months old.

It was basically as if we'd had her put to sleep. She felt no pain, she didn't even know. She just fell asleep.

There was no happier kitten in existence than Tulip. That little baby would purr like a MOTOR if you were in the ROOM with her, not even if you were holding her, petting her or playing with her. She just purred ALL THE TIME. She was such a sweet little bug that you couldn't get mad at her. All she knew was happiness and love, and like my mom said, there aren't many cats or people that's true of. She had the happiest kittenhood, the happiest life that any cat could ever have. Her siblings knew that their baby sister needed extra TLC so they made sure to always snuggle around her, Madia went slower so her baby sister could keep up, they loved her, they loved her, they loved her.

Tulip was going to die soon, we just didn't know it. At least this way, God gave us some answers and reasons as to why. I told my mom yesterday that this was simply her span of days, and it was short but very bright.

I named her after a spring flower. Tulips have a short season and then they fade. Tulip's season was short but vibrant and full of life. And when I thought about it today, about if I would have rather had her just not be born alive so I didn't have to go through the grief of losing her after I'd known her...

I couldn't imagine a world where I hadn't experienced that baby's life. I'd do it all over again. Her span of days was short but bright and I was with her every day of her life. I was her forever. And I loved her and I loved her and I loved her.

This was not my fault, I did everything right, I have no regrets. Sometimes things happen that are out of our control. She would never have lived long, but I gave her the best life any kitten could ever have.

Tulip is buried in my Hideout, in the Gnarled Forest, next to Dora. There is no higher honor I could give her than that.

All the others kittens came thought surgery fine and are recovering.

[bywons]

WHEN HE WALKS IN, I AM LOVED 𖥔 HUSBAND!ENHYPEN HYUNG LINE

𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗟𝗬──── 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗌𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁���𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽

❪ 𝖠𝖬𝖮𝖱𝖤 𝖬𝒾𝖮 ❫ ｡ 𝗁𝗎𝗌𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽!𝖾𝗇𝗁𝖺 & 𝖿!𝗋 1682wc 𖥔 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 ── 𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 愛 ／ 𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒

する ܃ they can slide in a diamond on my ring finger anytime :3 ( and then i wake up... )

reb𝑙ogs ꪆৎ 𝑓eedbacks

HUSBAND!HEESEUNG who comes home late at night— at that hour when the ongoing web series becomes background noise for you, and you feel your eyelids closing shut on the couch. “y/n?” his whisper is barely audible as he approaches your sleeping figure, heart wrenching as he sees you on the couch in that form, probably waiting for him. slowly, he lifts you up so as to not wake you, and carries you to the bedroom. heeseung carefully places you on the bed, tucking the blanket around you with practiced gentleness. his hand brushes a strand of hair from your face as he leans in, his lips ghosting over your forehead. “you make it hard not to love you even more,” he whispers to you, giggling, he finally presses one final kiss on your cheeks before entering the shower.

HUSBAND!HEESEUNG who nevers forgets to bring you flowers everyday. it varies everyday as well— sometimes it’s pink roses, or tulips or baby breaths or lilies. your beauty reminds you of flowers, and so you receive this gift from your lovely husband everyday. today it’s a bouquet of daisies, tied neatly with a pale yellow ribbon. he steps into the house with the bouquet behind his back, with a playful smile on his face. “for my pretty lady,” he brings the flowers forward to you, chuckling upon seeing your pleased expression. “you're too much sometimes,” you giggle, but the way your cheeks flush betrays how much you love it. heeseung grins, pulling you close. “too much? or just the right amount?”

HUSBAND!HEESEUNG who has made it a ritual to dance with you on the kitchen floors. he loves to just play jazz, pull you close and sway to the music with the love of his life. without a word, he gently takes the spoon from your hand, places it on the counter, and turns you around to face him. “what are you doing?” you ask, a laugh escaping as his hands slid to your waist. “dancing with my wife,” he says simply, pulling you closer. the cut tomatoes are long forgotten on the cutting board, as he stares into your eyes with utmost adoration and love. he finally leans in for a kiss, his softly lips touching yours and moving in sync with your dance and the music, his hands crep up and pull you closer by the waist, another hand cups your face as if he has no time. “you’re the best part of my day,” he whispers as he pulls back, out of breath but full of love for you.

HUSBAND!JONGSEONG who always makes sure that you’re pampered and spoiled by him— he wants his beautiful wife to have everything in this world. from designer brands to quality time, you just have to ask jongseong and he will have it by your feet. every day, jongseong made sure you never had to lift a finger for anything. when you mention wanting a new bag, a designer one, the next day, there it is—delivered right to your doorstep, with a sweet note attached: “for my beautiful wife, because you deserve the best.” but it isn't just about the material things. he often surprises you with romantic dinners, planning spontaneous getaways, and always carving out time from his busy schedule to spend with you. you never have to ask twice. he seems to read your mind, anticipating your every need.

HUSBAND!JONGSEONG who cooks your favourite meals for you. it’s a ritual for him to cook dinner right after he gets home, he can’t see his pretty wife overworking, besides, you love his cooking— and that's enough motivation for him to cook for you everyday. the aroma of your adored dish wafts from the kitchen as your husband appears from it soon, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up with him carrying the dish on a plate, a satisfied smile on his face. as soon as jongseong puts the plate down, you take a bite, your eyes lighting up at the familiar, comforting flavors. “it’s perfect!,” you said, voice muffled by the food. jongseong chuckles, wiping a bit of sauce from the corner of your lips with his thumb. “i learned from the best, you,” he sighs, kissing the corner of your lips.

HUSBAND!JONGSEONG who always creeps up behind you, wrapping his hands around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulders. it doesn’t matter if you’re busy with your work, if you’re baking a cake or if you’re simply standing by the window, jongseong loves back hugs, he enjoys the warmth of your body in this way. “you smell so good,” he says, burying his face in the nape of your neck while his hands snake in around your waist, pulling you closer to him. “it’s your perfume!” you sigh, lowly giggling as you return to your work on your laptop. a shiver runs down your spine as he snuggles in face further in, before lifting it to press kisses on your neck and shoulder. “it suits you best,” he hums.

HUSBAND!JAEYUN who listens intently to you, every word that occurs from your mouth, jaeyun is gulping those up. no matter if they’re the smallest rants about your day or the huge drama at your workplace, jaeyun always gets lost in your words and angelic face when you go on talking— he wishes you won’t stop so he can stare a little bit longer at you. “and then— jaeyun, are you even listening to me?” you sigh, plopping down beside him on the couch when you realise he hasn’t uttered a word since you started talking, he’s just staring at your face. “yeah, of course i am!” jaeyun defends himself, sitting up straight, “you said how your coworker had the audacity? well yeah, i hate her too,” he rolls his eyes in a playful manner, making you giggle and fall into his lap, and jaeyun immediately pulls you in, relishing the moment.

HUSBAND!JAEYUN who always notices the slightest shiver you make when the winter wind bites at your skin. you both stroll through the park, the cold air nipping at your cheeks. despite your thick scarf and gloves, you cant help but rub your arms for warmth. without a word, jaeyun stops, slipping off his coat. “jaeyun, you’ll freeze!” you protest as he drapes it over your shoulders. “i’d rather be cold than see you shiver,” he says softly, pulling the coat snug around you. his hands lingers on your arms, rubbing them gently to warm you further. your heart melts at the gesture, the oversized coat practically swallowing you whole. “you’re too sweet,” you murmur, leaning into his touch. jaeyun grins, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your nose. “only for my lovely wife.”

HUSBAND!JAEYUN who remembers the smallest details about you— to your regular coffee order to how much cheese you like in your toast, he treats everything about you like an important event. he never fails to flutter your heart when it comes to these, ever so alert about your habits. “i picked up your favorite chocolate chip cookies,” he says casually, holding out a plate to you. your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “how did you—” “i remember you told me last week how much you’ve been craving them,” he grins, watching you take a bite, your face lighting up at the taste. you smile, your heart swelling with affection. “you always know how to make me feel loved, jae.” he chuckles, sitting beside you and pulling you close. “it’s easy when someone as wonderful as you is in my life.”

HUSBAND!SUNGHOON who always offers to help you relax, by massaging your head or your legs. you deserve the ultimate care, and he’s more than willing to be a helping hand. you’re curled up on the couch, a sigh escaping your lips as you massage your sore feet, the exhaustion from work settling in. without a word, Sunghoon kneels in front of you, his hands gently taking your feet into his lap. “let me help,” he says softly, his voice calm and soothing. you lean back, surprised by his tenderness as he carefully starts massaging your feet, his touch firm but gentle. “i don’t deserve this,” you murmur, closing your eyes. “you do,” he replies, his hands moving expertly, kneading the tension out of your muscles. “you work so hard, and i want you to feel cared for.”

HUSBAND!SUNGHOON who instantly becomes a nurse when you’re sick. he’s in utmost tension and cancels all his meetings and makes sure everything at home is taken care of, from your medicine to the softest blankets, ensuring you’re always comfortable. throughout the day, sunghoon prepares warm soups with his own hands, making sure each one is exactly to your liking. he checks your temperature regularly, offering gentle reassurance whenever you feel a little colder than usual. sunghoon is always there to brush hair away from your face, hold your hand in his, presses kisses to your face and provide reassurance that everything is going to be just fine, as long as he is here.

HUSBAND!SUNGHOON who notices the smallest things that stress you out, like when your phone charger starts to fray or when your car tire looks a little low. one afternoon, you come home to find him tinkering with your phone charger, his focused expression making you smile. “hey, what are you up to?” you ask, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. he looks up, a soft grin on his face. “just fixing your charger. i know how annoying it can be when it stops working right when you need it.” you roll your eyes playfully. “you’re spoiling me, you know that?” sunghoon chuckles, setting the charger down once he's done. “anything for you. you work hard enough; let me take care of the small stuff.” you walk over, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “i’m lucky to have you.” he smiles, pulling you into a hug. “and im lucky to take care of my wife.”

© BYWONS, 2025 / do not copy or repost without permission . div ctto

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[ghostedbunnie]

little things with tf141

little domestic moments I find oddly charming about each of the members.

warnings: suggestive

SIMON: he believes he forgot how to simply be. after every messed up thing in his life, he doesn't know how to not think four steps ahead in every situation. he still double checks the windows and doors before going to bed and sleeps so light that a feather fluttering to the ground would get his attention.

but most of the tension in his muscles leaves when you are around. he sits with his thighs spread far apart on the couch, watching a movie you like even though he couldn't care less about it. what he does care about is pulling you in between his legs when you bring popcorn for your little movie night, the hold on your middle almost makes you drop the bowl. you scold him, like you would a misbehaving pet and he only responds with a grunt that you feel through your back as you it's flush to his chest.

PRICE: the biggest handyman there ever was. his pride would take the biggest hit if you needed to call someone else. some other man. usually he won't even let you know he did anything, you'll just end up piecing the information together when the light in the garage works after months of you putting it off because it's high up and you get dizzy trying to reach it or when the stair that always creaked under your foot stops making noise after you mention how it drives you crazy to him.

when you bring it up to him, he only shrugs with a satisfied smile. "i don't do it for a reward, honey." but his words don't match the glint in his eyes, like he is gonna eat you up for dinner later.

JOHNNY: very much gives off the vibes of a velcro dog. wherever you are, he is. he is always right behind you or in your way and he is absolutely shameless about it. if you're baking he sticks to your back with his head on your shoulder, occasionally nibbling at your neck or nuzzling his stubble into it for a sliver of your attention when you tell him it's ticklish. when you are taking a shower at night he is either brushing his teeth right next to the shower curtain or slipping inside because "c'mon bonnie, cannae argue wit' savin' water." as if he doesn't let the water run while he inevitably bends you over to ravage you.

GAZ: brings you flowers at least once a week when he's not deployed. always says he doesn't need a reason to give his girl flowers. at this point every time he passes by a flower shop he thinks of you and since he's been doing it for a while he has the flower language down to a t. so much so he enjoys having you realize what each of these flowers mean especially when it clicks that he used to give you flowers even before when you were only childhood friends. every time he would drop by your house after coming back from deployment he would hand you a tulip with a soft smile and mess up your hair.

his smile only widens when he sees you google the meaning of tulips in flower language. hopeless love.

[bbkoolkatz]

𝖋𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖈𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖊𝖓!

comment to be added to the taglist for this story!

»»————> presenting;

pairing: barbarian!prince! Katsuki Bakugo x chief!daughter! reader.

synopsis: an arranged marriage to the prince of the barbarian clan to save your kingdom from being wiped out... cliche innit. stem's off the MHA fantasy au!

content warnings: FEMALE READER! strangers to lovers! slow burn! MHA fantasy AU! adult themes! arranged marriage! sexual content! rough n gruff Katsuki! mentions of blood in a lot of scenes! rituals! dub-con in some scenes! (for caution, because y'all can't understand each other) if u're religious, PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION!!! angst! fluff! smut! WARNINGS APPLY TO ALL CHAPTERS!!! and are there to exercise caution!

updated on Wednesdays and Saturdays!

𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊↓; 2.5k+ words

»»————> LORE! [you can continue without reading all this]

the barbarian clan is known for conquering any village, kingdom and/or empire. they are brutes, usually settling anything by waging war and desecrating the land.

the barbarians speak in old Norse! conversing is difficult...

Katsuki is the only son and prince of the barbarian clan.

barbarians are stronger and bigger in size than regular humans.

your kingdom is ruled by your father—called cheif instead of king—who's a big softy and doesn't see the point in things like war... he prefers to talk things out and leave casualties to a zero. even if that means marrying off his only daughter...

you are the only daughter of your father which only makes you more precious and worthy of bearing the heir of both your kingdom and their clan.

tetsugami; a huge, semi intelligent crab. [there are few now as people have hunted them down to the double digits.]

crimson dragons; giant flying lizards. [they are very friendly despite their mean looking faces & their scales are extremely valuable.]

(more coming soon)

Old Norse Alphabet;

1. A/a- Pronunciation: ah as in "father."

2. B/b- Pronunciation: b as in "bed."

3. D/d- Pronunciation: d as in "dog."

4. Ð/ð (called eth)- Pronunciation: Soft th as in "this."

5. E/e- Pronunciation: eh as in "bed."

6. F/f- Pronunciation: f as in "fox." Between vowels, pronounced as v.

7. G/g- Pronunciation: g as in "go." After certain vowels, it softens to a y sound.

8. H/h- Pronunciation: h as in "house."

9. I/i- Pronunciation: ee as in "see."

10. J/j- Pronunciation: y as in "yes."

11. K/k- Pronunciation: k as in "king."

12. L/l- Pronunciation: l as in "lamp."

13. M/m- Pronunciation: m as in "man."

14. N/n- Pronunciation: n as in "name."

15. O/o- Pronunciation: aw as in "law."

16. P/p- Pronunciation: p as in "pen."

17. R/r- Pronunciation: Rolled r, like in Spanish or Italian.

18. S/s- Pronunciation: s as in "see."

19. T/t- Pronunciation: t as in "top."

20. U/u- Pronunciation: oo as in "moon."

21. V/v- Pronunciation: Often interchangeable with f, pronounced like English v.

22. Y/y- Pronunciation: Similar to ee but with rounded lips, like French u in lune.

23. Þ/þ (called thorn)- Pronunciation: Hard th as in "thorn."

24. Æ/æ- Pronunciation: ai as in "air."

25. Ö/ö- Pronunciation: ur as in "bird" (without the r).

M-LIST!

𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 1 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 2 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 3.5 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 3.5

marriage. the best thing that could ever happen to a girl. all your life, you'd imagined being a bride; delicately decorating your hair with wild tulips, adorning your body in silver and white silk. spending the rest of your life with the person you love most.

now you're here, kneeling in front of a bonfire beside a complete stranger, cloaked in boar fur and animal skeletons, as the thick, warm blood of a lamb is poured over you. your marriage ceremony... filled with unfamiliar faces—including your now-husband—and traditions. drinking, dancing, and celebrating the union.

"nú ger hana konu þína!" a spiked-blonde woman, with an uncanny resemblance to the man kneeling beside you, announced, raising her hands in the air. you looked around confused as ever, as he leaned in, blood-stained fingers pulling you in by the back of your neck. your nose scrunched at the metallic taste of blood that his tongue shoved past your teeth. you push him away, gasping at the foreign feeling.

"hvat í helvíti, kona!?" he frowned, turning away from you, mumbling something under his breath, that you didn’t quite catch. not that you'd understand what he was carrying on about anyways...

the spiked-blonde woman—whom you guessed to be some sort of priestess or elder—shot you a sharp glare, her arms lowering slowly as she spoke in a hushed yet commanding tone. her words were incomprehensible to you, but the crowd seemed to murmur in agreement. your husband huffed, his frown deepening as he looked at you over his shoulder. you were kneeling there, with eyes pressing on you from all directions. the fire crackled in the silence, and the warmth of it did little to ease the chill settling in your chest.

two women approached you, their faces painted with intricate swirls of red and black. they tugged you to your feet without a word and began guiding you toward a tent decorated with bones, animal pelts, and dried herbs hanging from the entrance. inside, it was dimly lit by a few small lanterns. the air smelled of earth, smoke, and something sweet but unfamiliar.

they gestured for you to sit on a low stool and began pulling at your ceremonial garb, their movements quick but not unkind. your protests fell on deaf ears as they stripped you of the heavy fur cloak, wiping the blood from your skin with damp cloths. one of them muttered something, shaking her head as she scrubbed at your face. it was clear they didn't understand you either, but their disapproving looks were universal.

by the time they were finished, you were dressed in a simpler gown of rough-spun fabric, a far cry from the silks you were used to and had imagined for your wedding night. the older of the two handed you a wooden cup filled with a thick, bitter scented liquid. she pointed to it, then your mouth, her expression stern. reluctantly, you sipped it, grimacing at the taste. the woman nodded, seemingly satisfied, before they left you alone in the tent.

you sat there, staring at your hands, trying to gather your thoughts, but instead, they drift back to just a few mere hours ago...

-

"arranged?" you seethed in disbelief, looking at your defeated father, seated across from you at the council table, surrounded by old wrinkled elders.

"yes, daughter," he affirmed, voice devoid of emotion. "war against the barbarian clan would destroy everything we've built—"

"so they made a proposal, a very very rare one," one of the wart ridden elders interrupted-

"to make an arrangement," another continued-

"one that cannot be broken once forged," -

"a marriage,"-

"your sacrifice would save us all, child," the eldest croaked, concluding the proposal, "and as the chief's daughter, it is your duty to your people." one after the other, they all slowly turned their heads toward you, kneeling at the center of their godforsaken grey gazes.

your eyes flickered between them, their crinkled foreheads making you feel sick to your stomach as their words wrung your heartstrings. "marriage is sacred... it can only happen once. i don't know this person that you'd like me to be bound to for the rest of my life..." you snarled, stating the very obvious to those expired raisins.

"i'm afraid you misunderstood us, girl," the eldest fumed, weakly slamming his fist down, "it is arranged. you will wed the heir of the barbarian clan. that is why you have been summoned." firmly raising from his seat to intimidate you.

"that is my daughter you're speaking to, elder... as old as you are, mind your tongue." your father shifted his attention to you. "unfortunately, he is right, my dear. it's already been arranged, and you are to be wed at sundown."

dumbfounded... that's the look on your face. they we're giving you away to complete strangers... and at sundown!? despite all the colorful words that wanted to fly out your mouth, you grit your teeth and settled with a curt nod. you do have a duty to your people.

though it wasn't supposed to happen like this. it was supposed to be the happiest day of your life. you only get married once in your entire life after all.

-

the sound of heavy footsteps outside the tent snapped you out of your thoughts. the flap was pulled aside roughly, and your husband stepped in. his presence filled the small space, his broad shoulders and wild blonde hair almost brushing the top of the tent as his crimson eyes bore into you, a mixture of frustration and curiosity in his gaze.

he said something, his voice sharp and demanding, but you could only blink up at him in confusion. "i don't understand you," you said softly, shaking your head, as your voice trembled, despite your efforts to stay composed.

he huffed, combing a hand through his hair before pointing at you and then gesturing to the pallet of furs in the corner of the tent. his tone suggested he was giving you an order. when you didn't move, he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"leggjask. sofa." he barked, his frustration very much evident. when you still didn't respond, he crossed the space between you in two long strides, grabbing your wrist and pulling you to your feet. the roughness of his grip made you wince, but he didn't seem to notice as he guided you toward the furs. he pointed again, his expression leaving no room for argument.

you hesitated, thinking that maybe he wanted you to lie down, and slowly you lower yourself onto the makeshift bed. he stood over you for a moment, his intense gaze making your skin prickle, before he turned and left the tent without another word.

you let out a shaky breath, your heart pounding in your chest. you were alone in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by strangers who you couldn't even get to know, married to a man you didn't understand. tears pricked at the corners of your eyes with the overwhelming thoughts, but you blinked them away, refusing to let yourself break down on your wedding night.

the two women that cleaned you up earlier came back with him, and they began to remove his furs. you quickly averted your eyes, feeling a heat crawling up your neck, as the thought of them removing more than just his cloak tainted your mind.

"nei!" the old one scolded, "Þú verður að líta!" ... why are they babbling their jibberish when they know you don't understand them... "she said, 'you must look'," the younger translated, seeing the confused wrinkle in your brows. oh thank the gods! you smiled briefly at the familiar words before coming back to your senses.

"must i?" you blush, slowly turning back to them.

"yes," she smiled, cleansing your huge husband before your eyes, "if you do not, you give chance for another woman," she carefully rubbed the damp cloth over his bloody forehead while you let the thought sink in.

"leave," you softly ordered, "I'll take care of my husband," and without hesitation she whispered to the old lady, they dropped everything and left. ain't no way you were about to let your husband be seduced away on the night of your union...

gently, you wrung the cloth of most of its water and brought it back up to his face, wiping away the dust and dried blood that covered little scars freckling his almost perfect face.

his eyes burned through your skull with his staring, slowly scanning over the curves and dips of your body as you moved. your finger danced over his skin, tracing the scar on his right cheekbone, moving down to brush past his thin lips, wiping away the remnants of dirt on his well built, chest. he seemed to relax against your touch, closing his piercing crimson eyes, and hanging his head back to let you do your work.

so soft... and smooth... the texture of his skin isn't what you expected. who would've thought that such a rough looking barbarian had the skin of a baby? would explain all the scars though. like this one running down his neck to his collarbone, and these over here trailing down his firm biceps. you almost forgot you were supposed to be cleaning him up... you've finished the upper half and tugged at the leather holding his pants up, struggling to get them undone.

a low chuckle rumbled in his throat and your eyes shot up up to his smirking face, "what's so funny?" you quiver, frowning, as he shifted to stand, undoing the leather and dropping his pants to the dirt floor. "þar," he rasped, smug at your flustered state.

having those women clean him up was starting to seem more and more reasonable now... nevertheless, you dippied the cloth in the bowl of warm water and squeezed it, before wiping at his lower abdomen. you're so adorable between his legs like that, avoiding his eyes at all costs, while you wipe your way down and around, to his back. again, your hands moved of their own accord, twitching along the scupletd bumps on his back.

he grunted softly as your fingers worked over the knots in his shoulders, his broad frame shifting slightly under your touch. emboldened by the lack of protest, you continued, pressing harder into the muscles along his spine. his head dipped forward, and a low sigh escaped his lips, sending a wave of warmth through you. he brought a large hand up to yours on his shoulders and guided you in front of him.

both your eyes reflected in each other's for a long moment before you tried to break the silence, your words sounding like nonsensical ringing in his ears. he pulled you into his chest, just holding you there in an attempt to shush you, closing his eyes as his brows pinched over them.

"what's your name?" you asked softly, your voice barely audible over the crackling of the distant bonfire. you paused, waiting for a response, but he didn't seem to react, his eyes still closed as if savoring the moment. you tried again, a little louder this time, "what is your name?" you pointed at his chest.

he peeped through his eyelids, a sliver of vermilion meeting yours with a flicker of confusion. "nafnið mitt?" he asked, the foreign words rolling off his tongue. he tilted his head, as though trying to piece together what you were asking.

you frowned, gesturing to yourself. "i'm…" you said your name slowly, pointing at your chest, then gestured to him, raising your brows expectantly.

he blinked, mildly confused, before a smirk tugged at his lips. "Katsuki," he said, his voice low and rough. he tapped his chest, meeting your eyes again. "Kat-su-ki," he repeated, in the same manner you pronounced yours, ensuring you understood.

"Ka-tsu-ki…" you tested the name on your tongue, the unfamiliar syllables feeling oddly satisfying. his smirk widened slightly, pleased that you had caught on.

you nodded, offering a small smile in return, then gestured to yourself again. "my name is…" you repeated your name slowly once more, hoping to bridge the language barrier. his brows furrowed, lips moving as he attempted to mimic the unfamiliar sounds. his effort was clumsy but endearing, and you couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you.

his frown deepened at your amusement. he murmured your name under his breath a few more times, his pronunciation improving with each attempt, until he finally said it with enough accuracy to make you grin.

"that's right!" you cheered softly, nodding in approval.

he held your gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before his hand came up to gently brush against your cheek. his touch was surprisingly tender, his calloused fingers rough against your skin, but warm.

"sofa," he murmured again, his tone softer this time. he gestured toward the furs, his crimson eyes watching you closely.

you hesitated, unsure if he was commanding you or simply suggesting something. this is it. you thought, heart racing, as you slowly nodded, giving him a glance over your shoulder, before crawling onto the makeshift bed.

he stood for a moment, watching as you adjusted yourself among the furs, before he joined, sinking beside your head with his weight on his palms, caging you in under him. his hair fell beautifully over his narrow, glowing eyes, his nose brushing against yours as he lowered to your quivering lips, sucking them between his, tugging at your plump bottom lip with his teeth.

footsteps thumping right outside your tent made your heart race, thinking someone was coming, but he didn't stop, nor did he care, he hiked up the thin fabric of your dress, his large hand caressing your upper thigh as he shed the leather covering his— good god... you look down and your eyes widened. he smirked and hooked the strap of your dress with a finger to pull it down, and expose your heaving chest.

"Katsuki!" the blonde woman from earlier yelled, barging into the tent, "Tak hendur þínar af henni, þú þarft at vera við ráðsafn. núna!"

"För Guðs sakar, kona!" he yelled back, moving himself off you to sit. he looked up at her worried frown... "Ek kem..." you had no idea what was happening... eyes darting between them as their words flowed out of their mouth and their hands moved in frustration as they spoke.

katsuki looked back at you, a worried expression overtaking the lustful one he had mere seconds ago. he kneeled down kissed you, then threw on his cloak and left. the woman rested a comforting hand on your shoulder, gently smiling before she too headed out, leaving you alone, following behind your husband.

»»————> 𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖘𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘; <————««

❈ "Nú ger hana konu þína." - now make her your wife

❈ "hvat í helvíti, kona!?" - what in the hell woman!?

❈ "þar" - there

❈ "nafnið mitt?" - my name?

❈ "leggjask" lie down

❈ "sofa" - sleep

❈ "Katsuki! Tak hendur þínar af henni, þú þarft at vera við ráðsafn. núna!"- katsuki! take your hands off her, you need to be at the council gathering. now!

❈ "För Guðs sakar, kona!" - for gods sake, woman!

❈ "Ek kem..." - I'm coming...

hope u enjoyed and look forward to more! don't forget to comment to be added to the taglist! mwah~♡

mlist!

[mingtinys]

what dating seventeen feels like

pairing : seventeen x gn!reader

headcanons , fluff , misc

warnings : none

word count : 1.1 k

requested ? no

a/n: just a small collection of the things i love in life that i associate with seventeen

choi seungcheol

falling asleep on the couch and waking up in bed. chocolate-covered strawberries. the kind of love found in romcoms. expensive dinner dates and champagne.

cologne that lingers on your clothes and bed sheets. tight, bone-crushing, hugs. his hand almost always under the hem of your shirt, skin to skin (it grounds him). him letting you win when you play wrestle. cute aggression victim.

having a rock to hold on to amidst a raging current.

yoon jeonghan

diving under a crashing wave to find calm, gentle, water. rollercoasters with big drops. feathers. lavender fields. leaving the theater and realizing night has fallen.

always saying the same thing at the same time (it scares seokmin). naps on the couch. sending each other pictures of weird-looking animals with the caption "you" or "us." partners in crime. braiding his hair.

having not only a boyfriend but a best friend in jeonghan.

joshua hong

warm blankets, fresh from the dryer. pancakes and orange juice in the morning. raw honey. the scent of freshly baked bread. scented candles and wax melts.

lives up to the gentleman title. opens doors, bides by the sidewalk rule, lends you his jacket, etc. acts! of! service!! fighting over who pays the bill (he's actually ambushed your waiter to pay before you can even see the check). domestic, mundane, slice-of-life type of love.

a honeymoon phase that never ends.

wen junhui

walking down empty streets without a care in the world. morning cartoons. clingy cats. ice cream for dinner. frozen pizza with red wine. airport liminal space hours.

taking pictures of sunsets to send to each other. doodling on his hand. staying up until 3am accidentally. back hugs galore. resting his chin atop your head. him getting as close as possible when showing him something on your phone (i'm talking cheek smooshed up against yours). sleepy jun asking for kisses every morning.

living life in the moment because you know the future can wait for you two.

kwon soonyoung

energetic snow days. sledding, snowball fights, building snowmen. energy drinks and all-nighters. watermelon sugar. summer bonfires. the ambiance of muffled music through club bathrooms.

zoo dates. always wins you the biggest prizes at carnivals. his favorite place to nap is your lap. sweaty post-dance practice hugs. he gets pouty if you start a tv show without him. baking brownies at 3am. talks about you non-stop to anyone who will (or won't) listen.

excitement that isn't momentary or overwhelming. excitement that makes life meaningful.

jeon wonwoo

tulips blooming in the spring. waxing gibbous moons. amethyst. resting after a long, busy day. the scent of old, yellowed books. rhythmic clicking of a keyboard. warm, smooth, riverbank stones.

re-adjusting his glasses for him after every kiss. let's you design his character's outfits in video games. tells you about the book he's reading like it's gossip. he's always taking candid photos of you. quiet mornings. elderly couples who see you two are reminded of how they fell in love.

defining love not by how much it's said, but by how it's felt.

lee jihoon

thunderstorms that lull you to sleep. shiny, red guitars coming to life with smooth melodies. the crackle of a fire. rosemary. empty highways at night. lightning that strikes twice.

morning coffee dates at home. napping on his studio sofa while he works. quality! time! absolutely spoils you every chance he gets. pretends to act all cool when you catch him staring. writing songs for you. his hand routinely finds your knee when he's anxious. he prefers intimate and private acts of affection to the alternative.

cherishing all the little things that make your relationship important.

lee seokmin

wishing on dandelions. blue skies. morning dew on grass. golden hour. that burning sensation you get in your lungs when laughing too hard. iced lattes.

always asking permission to kiss you. so, so attentive. falling asleep on facetime. pillow forts. lots, and lots, and lots of nose kisses. him never wanting to leave you in the morning. "five more minutes" type of guy. his favorite feeling in the world is making you laugh.

finally knowing what it means to love someone so much you'd give the world for them.

kim mingyu

sleeping by a window with the sun warming your skin. hearing your favorite song on the radio. silky white sheets. first date jitters. first love. receiving a bouquet of roses.

admires you so, so, much. talks about you 24/7, much to his members' annoyance. (jk, they love you, they just like to tease him about it). literally a sponge the way he starts picking up your habits and slang. he's physically incapable of rejecting your puppy-dog eyes. likes to lay sprawled out on top of you. he'll often seek you out if he needs a little extra support.

the feeling that comes with knowing you've found "the one."

xu minghao

the autumn leaves changing. winter constellations. a solar eclipse. the quiet of a house before everyone wakes. those cozy granny-square blankets. white wine. laughing at scary movies.

wine and painting nights. him always making two cups of tea. art museum dates. swaying together to music in the kitchen. him secretly being a sucker for your doting. has your mannerisms memorized and prides himself on it. somehow always knows what to say when you're feeling down.

growing, learning, and experiencing life alongside each other.

boo seungkwan

warm, summer air. mystery flavored lollipops that somehow taste like every flavor all at once. rosy red cheeks.

teasing each other and inside jokes. nicknames like loser, stupid-head, idiot etc. (affectionate). hours long gossip sessions. kisses that taste of coffee and tangerine chapstick. stars in his eyes whenever you're doing literally anything. having his undivided attention.

resident happy pill and mood-maker seungkwan knowing he can let his mask fall around you without judgement.

hansol vernon chwe

watching city lights blur past in the passenger seat of a car at night. cereal at 1am. falling asleep while watching tv. poorly handmade, yet meaningful gifts. assorted candies. buying road trip snacks.

communicating with a single look. ice cream dates in the middle of winter. speaking purely in movie and tiktok references. late-night conversations that take a weird turn. (you've once debated if aliens would like pineapple on pizza). pretending not to notice how shy he gets when initiating physical affection.

loving the strange, bad, and hidden parts of each other as much as the good.

lee chan

the comforting buzz and motion of a subway at night. toothy smiles. watching reruns of your favorite childhood show. surprise parties. the first snow of the new year. concert lights.

driving at 2am, singing at the top of your lungs. random dance parties in the living room. getting noise complaints and giggling about it. pillow fights and board games, competitive, yet both trying to let the other win cause it'll make them happy. asking him to open jars. him getting exceptionally giddy to open said jars. (you're completely capable, but know he likes to feel needed).

making each other's inner child feel safe.

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ mornings don't feel the same without you | iwaizumi hajime

wc: 3.0k

summary: ​​hajime thinks that it's been a long time coming for him to wake up with this realization.

contains: implied f!reader, lingerie, use of slut (teasingly/jokingly, not to reader), lots of suggestive stuff (touching, implied sex), so much love!!, hajime is also a wee bit sentimental here, established relationship

a/n: not a lot of plot, just a lot of love! haven’t written hajime in a while, but he’s on my mind all the time. these are the songs that inspired me: lights down low, never had you, it’s you, and forever right now. 

part of how to be your lover boy (a valentine's collab by augustinewrites & seiwas) + the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: making yourself look good to feel good (your partner has something to say to you)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Hajime thinks he’s built a pretty solid life for himself—good health, good job, good relationships; all on equal footing, in no particular order. The routine he’s built is deliberate and filled with purpose, a system diligently followed to keep himself running. 

He firmly believes that if you want to live the life you want, you have to start with yourself. A simple choice, the first step. 

And Hajime’s chosen the mornings, an old conscious effort to wake up at 6:00 on the dot now transformed into a natural rise to the softness of daylight. 

You call him a creature of habit, one that leaves no day to rest, even on Valentine’s Day. 

Sunlight trickles between his curtains, ripples of translucent white highlighting the tip of your nose. He sees you through a sleep haze, olive eyes blinking awake like the leaves on your bedside, ready to tickle your cheek and wave when you turn the other way. 

It suits you, he thinks, to be touched by light when you don’t know it. 

You’re warm under the palm of his hand, bare flesh a soft place to rest between him and your hip bone. If he focuses hard enough, he can feel the faint thump of your heartbeat, almost in tandem with the small puffs of air hitting his chin. 

He sighs, the corners of his mouth curling in contentment. 

A good life. 

Evidence of last night is strewn across the room—the red tulips on your bedside and his slacks hanging off the bed. The shirt he’d worn lies atop the dress he slipped off you, half of your black two-piece set caught in it.

The memory replays vividly—bites to his neck down to his collarbone, a pull of his hair and his lower lip caught between yours. You handle Hajime roughly because you know he can take it, know that it gets him going the more you want him. 

But with you, he takes his time—runs his fingers over every area he’s grown fond of (which is everywhere, really). He strips you down slowly, unwrapping you like a gift labeled: handle with care, open gently. 

Then, he savors it—you.

The wrapper lies next to his head, half-tucked underneath his pillow, a piece of elegant black lace you know drives him crazy. 

A perk of celebrating Valentine’s Day two ways is that one half belongs to him and the other to you—a team effort to make the day as special as it can be. 

He shifts, hand sliding up to rest on your waist. The movement causes you to stir, digging your cheek deeper into your pillow as you scrunch your brows—a sign of you coming to wake. 

Hajime immediately shuts his eyes, feigning sleep. Last night was all his—flowers, a nice dinner, and the dessert that came after it. This morning is yours, with only one instruction for him: sleep in. 

How upset would you be if he ruined your surprise? 

The bed dips on your side, no doubt you reaching for the bedside to check the time. Even with his eyes shut, he has your mornings memorized. A whispered ‘shit’ almost makes him break into a smile, but he reigns it in, expression neutral and breathing steady. 

You move again, his hand still on your waist as you turn once more, to what he can only assume is to face him. There’s a momentary pause that makes him worry you’ve found him out, but he feels your fingertips run over the crease between his brows, smoothening it out the way you always do. 

(He has a terrible habit of frowning in his sleep, he’s learned.)

It makes him nervous the longer you linger, the tips of your fingers sliding down the bridge of his nose to rest on his lips, running over it once, twice. Then you sigh, inching closer before gently nudging his nose with yours.

The small peck you land on his lips almost makes him break, but he holds it in, letting you sneak away (albeit badly) for whatever it is you’re planning for today. 

(The bed dips too deeply, comforter rustling as you untangle yourself from it. You stub your toe on the edge of your bedside table and attempt to muffle an ‘ouch’, even though he can hear you—pretty clearly actually. He has to bite his lip to stop himself from chuckling.)

If it were up to him, Hajime would just keep you here, no sneaking around or stubbed toes, no surprise or anything—just you, wrapped in his arms, under his sheets. 

.

Just as he’d promised though, he did sleep in (if an extra 20 minutes of forcing his eyes shut counts as that). 

The flowers on your bedside are gone, and so is his shirt—the sheets beside him crinkled in the shape of your haste to get up from it. He yawns, running a hand through his hair to fix up the mess you made of it last night. 

As part of his routine, Hajime stretches, first with his neck—side-to-side, up-and-down—then with his back, twisting left and right. Next, he changes, puts on a pair of gray sweatpants that you claim must be a staple in his wardrobe (you say he looks like he could fuck you up, its hem hanging dangerously low to reveal the grooves of that deep v-line leading to his pelvis).

After pushing aside the curtains for sunlight to stream through, he cleans the room, picking up the mess of clothes on the floor and making the bed; you usually do this, because you’re particular with the pillow placements, but he’ll take over for now. 

This should buy you enough time, right? An extra 10 minutes for your planned surprise.

He takes a breath, doing one last scan of the room before stepping out. 

As soon as he gets into the hallway, he smells chocolate. 

Each step he takes is consciously softened as he carries his weight, carefully making his way to the sight of you, back towards him in nothing but his t-shirt hanging temptingly high to barely conceal black lace. You seem focused, entirely preoccupied with the kitchen stove.

A familiar feeling settles into his stomach, warm and soothing, one he’s been having more and more around you lately. The corner of his lips curl up. 

For Hajime, the best way to start the day is with the morning light and you.

He sneaks up behind your back, peeking over your shoulder at the chocolate pancakes you seem to be slowly ladling into the pan. And just when you’ve formed a figure he can only assume is a heart, he takes a step closer, hands resting on your hips as he scrunches up the fabric between his fingers.

“Morning,” he whispers, chin resting on your shoulder as his lips brush the side of your neck, soft and ticklish; you shiver, just a little bit. 

The greeting comes out rough, husky, and you lean into him, your hand coming to rest over his, hiking up your (his) shirt to reveal a slight peek at the black lace hugging the curves of your buttcheek. 

“Morning.” you chuckle when you hear his breath hitch. The pancake in front of you gets flipped to the other side. 

“How’s your head?” he moves to peck your temple. Hajime knows you get the worst hangovers no matter how little you have to drink, and last night was by no means little.

You groan, turning off the stove, letting the residual heat cook the pancake through. 

“Terr–” 

As you turn to him within his arms, you pause, blinking uncontrollably at the presence of Hajime’s bare skin in front of you. Your eyes go wide, zeroing in on the full chest beneath your palms, the cuts of his shoulders, and his arms. Oh—

“Slut.” your brows furrow, lips pouting as you stifle a smile. 

Hajime laughs, olive eyes crinkling as he holds you closer, hands coming to clasp at your lower back. 

“Put on a shirt, you know I can’t focus like this.” 

He knows, because you say this almost every morning, every time. 

“I would,” remnants of his amusement linger on his lips, hand reaching to squeeze your butt as he narrows his gaze mischievously, “but someone stole it.” 

You giggle, arms coming up to wind around his neck, fingers playing with the shorter strands of his hair. Then, you tiptoe, white fuzzy slippers slotting itself between his matching green ones as you tilt your head up for a kiss. 

As it is, Hajime’s liking how this surprise is going. 

He leans in, eyes falling shut as he presses against you. His hand cradles your jaw, callused skin tickling you ever so slightly as he guides your head to turn the other way. Hajime can hardly stop whenever you get him started like this, your lower lip already caught between his teeth. 

But you nip it, right as his other hand crawls underneath your shirt, pulling away as he tries to chase for more. The frown on his face is hard to miss. 

“Gonna get dressed,” you smile amusedly, feigning innocence.

“Isn’t this already too dressed?” he raises an eyebrow, tugging at your (his) shirt. His fingers trail lower, hooking themselves into the lace of your underwear. 

“Don’t be a flirt,” you scrunch your nose, “I feel gross.” 

He squeezes your hip, “I’m gross too.” 

You give him a look. 

He gives you one back. 

If Hajime had the words, he’d tell you you’re the furthest thing from gross, making him breakfast in his clothes and that pretty black number you know drives him up-the-wall crazy.

This is the stuff of his dreams. 

But then you give him those eyes, and you know just as well he’s weak to that too. So he sighs, loosening his grip so you can slip away. 

“I’ll make you eggs!” he calls out as you disappear into the bedroom. 

Your breakfast spread for him is set up on the counter, the chocolate heart pancake on the pan the last needed addition to complete everything. It’s sweet, how you prepared a full-on chocolate feast for him: hot chocolate with chocolate heart pancakes, and butter also in the shape of a heart. The tulips he’d gotten you rest prettily inside the vase he remembers from your first anniversary pottery date.

He feels especially sentimental today taking everything in, noticing how the mug that holds your half-finished coffee matches the one that holds his hot chocolate. 

In the little over two years that you’ve been together, you’ve assimilated yourself into his space so naturally that it feels like you’ve always just been here—that it feels right how all your chips fill up the entire bottom shelf of his pantry because you love snacking on them whenever, wherever.

He cracks in two eggs. 

The throw on his couch matches the pillows all because of you, and bottles of your daily vitamins sit perfectly beside all his supplements in the spice-rack turned morning-essentials-rack (one of your so-called organization hacks). 

The pan sizzles, edges of the eggs turning crisp—just how you like it (lately, it’s how he’s been liking it too). 

When you step out of the bedroom, Hajime’s begun plating your food, pouring in another batch of coffee and preparing a bowl of fruits. 

(Today, it’s strawberries—one of your favorites. He made sure to stock up on that for today.) 

Hajime thinks he’s built a pretty solid life for himself—

He prides himself on his routine and the stability of his day-to-day: the mornings, with you raiding his closet and stealing his clothes; the late afternoons, when he picks you up from work and you crash his place because it’s begun to feel so much more like home. 

The evenings cap the day off perfectly, with you tucked under his chin and your leg slung over his hip. It’s too warm, but you get cold easily and he doesn’t mind the warmth when you’re pressed up skin-to-skin. 

And when he sees you in his sweatshirt—the one paired with the sweatpants he’s wearing right now, he smirks knowingly, setting down the utensils with a dopey smile on his face. 

This is good. 

—his life that you now also fit into. 

“Sorry you had to prep the rest,” you pad towards the counter, taking a seat on the stool as he waves it off and sits beside you, “thank you.” 

Without even a word, there’s a painkiller sitting on the palm of his hand, open and waiting for you already. 

You stare at him, puppy-dog eyes and everything, pouting as your fingertips graze his, “I love you.” 

He laughs, rolling his eyes jokingly as he hands you a glass of water, his cheeks already dusted peach.

Shyness still hits him when you’re so vocal like this, but Hajime has known he’s loved you since that day at some outdoor concert you dragged him into. The forecast was gloomy but you’d insisted it was an experience he shouldn’t miss, so he agreed—packed an umbrella and wore a jacket with a hood even, just in case. 

But there you were, in the middle of the downpour, dancing under the rain, and when you’d beckoned him closer, you had that same look on your face. 

“Love you too,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing his lips against it, “happy Valentine’s Day, babe.” 

Breakfasts with the two of you are usually rushed, but work for him today isn’t until noon and you have an entire day off to pack for a two-week business trip you’re set to leave for tomorrow.

So, this is nice. You both have time.  

You’re talking about all sorts of things—some work gossip, that nice old lady who lives a few units down from him; there’s the whole itinerary for your business trip too—meeting here, meeting there. An extra hour to kill to maybe sightsee. Evenings are usually free, and so on. 

But as he’s chewing on half of the chocolate heart pancake, he just can’t, for the life of him, stop thinking. 

The more he hears about your schedule for the upcoming weeks, the more he’s realizing that this is the longest time you’ll be apart.

And he wonders, what’s that gonna be like? 

Most of your clothes will be gone from his dresser, his bathroom counter half-empty without all your skincare. No overheating at night without your arm wrapped firmly around his spine. Just one mug during breakfast, not two, and only a single pair of green fuzzy slippers pacing around the rooms. 

It’ll be a little like how it was before you.

And he hates how that’s even a possibility.  

He takes a sip from his mug.

“So, Oikawa’s taking me out on a date. Is that okay with you?” you lean against your palm, elbow supported on the counter. 

He nods, humming as he sets down the hot chocolate. 

“Hajime.” you hide your smile. 

He snaps out of it, “Hm?” 

“So you’re okay with me going on a date with Oikawa?” 

His knee-jerk scowl is much more like it. 

“That fucker asked you out?” 

You laugh, shaking your head while taking his hand to interlace your fingers with his, “Just seeing if you were listening.” 

A pause, then a squeeze. 

“Wanna tell me what you’re thinking?” 

He tilts his head slightly; one look at you and you draw it all out of him. There’s something about this—breakfasts in his kitchen, with you wearing his clothes and the morning light streaming in. You share a joke or two (or five), a few teasing touches here and there, the mood relaxed and just overwhelmingly nice. 

Hajime is so authentically himself when he’s with you that he doesn’t want anyone else knowing the parts of him that you do—

Everyone would be surprised to find that his typically uptight self is surprisingly funny when he’s let loose; he’s made you laugh a good number of times to prove it, too. 

The boys would never let him live it down if they saw him peach-faced at the tiniest bit of your affection; and they’ll tease him for eternity if they find out that the reason he taps out so early during ‘boys’ nights’ is because he still gets so excited to cuddle in bed with you. 

This is the kind of day-to-day he wants, and he knows you’re the key to all of it. 

—so, Hajime chooses you, much like he’s chosen the mornings. 

“Move in with me,” he tells you simply, two fields of olive green sincerity. 

The words flow out of him with an intensity uninhibited, something you don’t get from him very often. Your expression shifts, breath on hold and—

“When you get back.” he follows up quickly, giving you space to consider it first, “What do you think?” 

All logic is telling him he should be nervous, that this is the defining moment of another goal he’s been working his ass off to reach, but somehow, with his hand in yours, this feels easy. Comfortable in all the good ways because loving you has always been just that. 

“Sex last night was that good, huh?” 

And this—there’s never been a problem with this too. 

He snorts, cheeks turning a deep peach. 

“Just realizing that mornings don’t feel the same without you,” he admits, pulling you closer. You hop off the stool and inch closer, standing between his legs as he rests his hands on your lower back.  

“Flirt.” you scrunch your nose, squeezing his waist. 

You say that, but he sees how your smile reaches your eyes; how it glosses over when you catch his gaze. 

“Okay, muscle boy,” your hands settle on his shoulders, fingers splayed out over every dip and curve, “better do all the moving then. Want all my stuff here by the time I get back.” 

.

And he does—

When you get back, he’s contacted his landlord to get you on the lease. Your clothes are all in his (or now your?) apartment, some still in boxes but the essentials already organized in the closet now split to house both of your things. 

There’re pieces of you everywhere now, not just touches like a person half-there. A lot of the big furniture is still at your place, but that’s really just because he wants to leave that part up to you. 

—after all, it’s your home now too.

thank you notes: @augustinewrites for loving hajime as much as i do 🥹 lights down low used to be a normal soft song for me before, now it belongs to him bc of u + @soumies @mysugu bc this is kinda really so self-shippy and every time i think of seiwa i think of you both 🥺 + @ktsumu for requesting this! i know it only slightly follows the prompt but i hope you enjoy my spin on it anyway 🥺

a/n: i don't think any amount of fic can express how much i love him 🥹 but i hope this comes close 🥹

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[starberryhwa]

right here.

pairing: seonghwa x afab!reader  genre: established relationship, smut, pwp, fluff <3 wc: 2k tags: nsfw (18+) MDNI, mentions of anxiety, reader has panic attack, angst? if you squint?, f! receiving, softdom! seonghwa, fingering, pet names (sweetheart, baby, angel, honey etc.), reader being emotionally vulnerable,,, aftercare. tulip's notes: hihi ᵔᴗᵔ so here's my first official fic! i wanted to do something short and sweet first before diving into my other ideas. i have no clue how this will be received LMAO.. but honestly, writing is pure self-indulgence. there may or may not be errors in my writing, english isn't my first language! anywho, wishing anyone reading a great day ୧ ‧₊˚ 🍵 ⋅!!

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

you had never really been one to have a quiet mind. there was always something silently bubbling away inside your head. be it school, university, friends, family, obligations, extracurriculars, your future life-- hell, even taking basic care of yourself became a ‘task’ that you constantly worried about. 

but then came along park seonghwa. 

and what followed with him was comfort; a sense of tranquility. 

your mind seemed to be more at ease, worries simmering down in all the times you were in his presence.

so, why was that familiar feeling of dread building up in your chest tonight? 

your relationship with seonghwa was of many years.

what were once stolen glances, secret letters in lockers, and shy smiles in college, soon became the most loving relationship you could ever dream of, and with the most perfect man you could ask for in your life.

he was a sweetheart. tooth-achingly sweet. he showed up at your doorstep towards the end of senior year to confess his crush on you - face hidden behind an enormous array of flowers and a toothy grin decorating his beautiful face. 4 years down the line, he, without fail, brought the same array of pink tulips at the end of each month (to your now shared apartment) saying:

"i never want to forget the day you made me the luckiest man alive"

he was perfect. your life felt perfect with him.

albeit the occasional shadow of anxiety lingering over you, threatening to spill into your body.

you had told him a few months into dating. that you were prone to worry more than the average person. that you tended to get caught up in your own thoughts and fears until it felt your heart was being suffocated.

seonghwa said nothing. he simply took your hand in his, kissed it, and placed both of your intertwined hands over your chest, where your heart was.

"i love you. what can i do to help ?"

although your worries seemed to burden you less since becoming seonghwa's, they were never completely gone. and tonight, they seemed to be encroaching your mind at a rapid pace.

all sorts of dreadful worries swirled around when you were supposed to be sleeping. your boyfriend was fast asleep next you, and not wanting to wake him, you quietly tossed and turned in bed, clutching the ends of your blanket with sweaty hands, forcing your eyes shut and hoping this would also force the thoughts away.

but nothing seemed to work. you felt your throat closing up as the minutes on your bedside clock went by begrudgingly slow. right then, a wave of dizziness attacked you, drops of sweat covering your forehead, the bile creeping up in your stomach, it's as if someone was holding you down and attempting to strangle you while all you could do was shiver and shake and-

"baby?"

you'd woken seonghwa up. "honey breathe with me please. c'mon let's count together, okay?"

you hadn't even noticed how shallow and fast you were breathing. small strangled spurts left your throat; body partially numb to the cold hands snaking around your waist and thighs to help you sit up.

"baby, focus on my voice. we're gonna count up to 3 and then down to 1, think you can do that for me?"

you mustered the little control you had left of yourself to nod.

"good, come here angel". seonghwa had somehow managed to crawl from his side of the bed to sit behind you. he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled, your back now snug against the front of his own body, his legs enclosing yours. "1... 2... 3... breathe in for me".

you managed to take in some air.

"now 3...2...1...breathe out for me angel"

you exhaled.

"good job sweetheart! you're okay now. we're okay, i'm right here with you and you did so great for me" seonghwa beamed.

you hadn't even noticed your boyfriend had his hand placed over your heart, as if an attempt to sync both of your heartbeats together.

well, it worked. your breathing now rhythmically matched seonghwa's. once again, the worries started to simmer down as you let out a deep sigh of relief and relaxed back into the arms that embraced your sides, resting your head on seonghwa's shoulder to gently look up at him.

he was so beautiful, even after being woken up from sleep in the middle of the night. his usual smooth, silky black hair now ruffled and fluffy in places, falling in separate strands across his sculpted face. the eyes that looked down on you sparkled from the lights of the city shining in through the window of the bedroom. his nose was a soft shade of red (a cute feature you noticed after he woke up in the mornings, often complaining about how his nose had become stuffy overnight). and then his lips. his pretty, pink, plump lips. how they managed to look so moisturised at all times was a secret you were yet to find out... but still, there was no doubt that the man holding you right now was the most handsome being in the whole world.

"you can't seem to stop staring baby" seonghwa softly mumbled, a small smile on the edge of his mouth at how the blush was creeping up on your cheeks.

"sorry... i just..." you were flustered. so many years of being together and this man still made you feel like a giddy teenager in puppy love.

"you're really pretty" you managed to mutter out.

"why thank you, thought you're the prettiest my sweetheart" seonghwa's small smile had turned into his signature toothy grin. you were mesmerised by how good he looked in the black tank top he had worn to bed. your body now hyper-aware that his hands were laying across your tummy, dangerously close to the area in between your thighs which felt warmer by the second. you realised your faces were so close to each other that even moving forward an inch would mean-

"kiss me hwa"

seonghwa raised an eyebrow, almost amused at your words.

"please" you nearly whined.

you pleaded. he had to give in. he'd do anything for his sweetheart.

not to mention he'd also eyed down how the straps of your night-dress had fallen down your shoulders and the way your dress was riding up your plush thighs, all while you were also busy staring at his features.

seonghwa didn't need to be told twice before closing the few inches of gap between you two, craning his neck down just slightly to kiss your pretty lips. it was soft, it was oh so sweet. your breaths mixing with each other as the kiss deepened, and out of habit, you had already opened your mouth to allow seonghwa to slip his tongue in (which drove you fucking crazy each time). his tongue explored yours as if this was the first time and you couldn't help the small whine that escaped you when he finally pulled back, a string of saliva connecting your mouths.

his hands were now resting so close, too close, to your heat. both of your faces flushed red.

“baby, we should go back to bed. you seem tired and it’s…” seonghwa looked over at the alarm clock, “3 in the morning”.

but nothing on his face conveyed that he had any intention to sleep: eyelids half closed, lips parted, eyes focused on taking in how gorgeous you looked, all hot and bothered just for him.

and his hands. oh those damned hands that were inching closer every second. his slender fingers playing with the pretty and small bow on the top your panties.

“i can’t go back to sleep so easily, you know that hwa” this time, you purposefully whined out your words while looking at him with fluttering eyelashes, so he could take the hint.

seonghwa took a few seconds to think. then a knowing smirk slowly crept up on his lips. "will this help angel?" he asked in a hushed tone. you raised a brow, confused as to what exactly 'this' meant and just as you were about to inquire, you felt his hand cup your heat.

oh.

then seonghwa's lips crashed onto yours. and at the same time, his fingers worked on applying more and more pressure in between your thighs while you unconsciously pushed yourself against his hand, grinding in order to relieve the pulsing ache in any way you could. seonghwa then moved onto using solely his middle and ring fingers to rub soft and painfully slow circles around your clit; already sensitive after your makeout session.

you could feel how your own panties were clinging onto you, sticky with arousal and in the way of what you needed.

"more, please" with no patience, your own hand took his and quickly shoved it down your panties (which you were too tired to shimmy out of at this hour).

"i need you so much. please please please hwa" you breathily moaned out. seonghwa let out a small grunt at the sudden motion of you taking his hand and making direct contact with your wetness. but he loved it. "this pussy never stops being wet for me, hm angel?" he whispered into your ear.

"n-no" you struggled to say a single word. he'd already made good on his intention to help you go back to sleep quick, and slipped two cold and long fingers inside of you, prodding that special gummy spot only he could find in a matter of seconds.

"you did so well earlier honey" he said while pushing his fingers deeper inside you, your walls fluttering at the praise.

"so strong for me, my sweet angel" seonghwa cooed as his movements in and out of you quickened their pace, your eyes rolled back at this.

"you're so amazing, my perfect baby. my perfect y/n" your boyfriend swiped his thumb over your bud again, coaxing your release faster.

already tired from before and getting more drunk on seonghwa's praises by the second, you couldn't do anything besides whimper and arch your back against your boyfriend, nails grasping his knees as both of you chased your climax.

"show me how good you are" seonghwa purred.

"come around my fingers pretty girl"

and with that, you let out a soft cry as your orgasm washed over your body. whimpering a string of thank yous to seonghwa while his fingers remained buried inside of you, finally pulling them out after you once again settled back down against his chest.

you were finally sleepy and with your eyes already half-closed, the last thing you remember before passing out was seonghwa licking his fingers clean of your juices, and happily at that. this man always made sure to show you how he thought you were the sweetest creature ever, in more ways than one.

your mind could now only think of your boyfriend as you closed your eyes, letting yourself finally drift off to the sleep he had helped you to reach.

in the mean time, seonghwa smoothed down your dress and ensured to clean away any mess in between your thighs with a warm cloth. and then, he adjusted both of your pillows once more and carefully shifted your head onto your pillow, which was the coldest side up. he quietly laid down on the bed and pulled the covers softly over both of your bodies, making sure no part of your body was peeking out of the blanket.

and then he turned to face you. a soft sigh at how your features had no traces of the previous worries but instead, a faint smile painted the corner of your lips.

seonghwa always wanted to see you happy.

he tucked a strand of hair behind your ears, marvelling at the gorgeous being in front of him. he knew you wouldn't be able to hear anything he spoke of right now but it was important to him that he say this.

"i'll always be right here" he took your pinky in his.

"i promise sweetheart"

and as morning came and the sun replaced the dim city lights, you stirred at the light streaming in from the curtains.

you woke up to your legs tangled with seonghwa's and a slightly stiff pinky. you smiled gently.

he was perfect. your life is perfect with him.

[maskedbyghost]

Stalker

ex-husband Simon, your favorite stalker, a bit possessive, part two?

You can feel it, can’t you? Someone is watching. Every move you make...someone is there, lurking. It all started a few months ago, right after the divorce. Back then, you brushed it off, thinking it was just the loneliness, your senses playing a cruel joke with you. But now, you can’t ignore it anymore.

Oh, how you wish Simon were here to chase away the lurking shadows. But he made it clear—he doesn’t care anymore. If he did, you’d still be married.

Of course, he didn't use those exact words, he didn't even have to say anything, you just knew it based on his actions. Always working, stationed at the base, or off on some long mission. No texts, no calls, no signs that he missed you or regretted leaving you alone for so long.

What were you supposed to do—wait for him forever? Sleep in an empty bed, cook meals for one, celebrate anniversaries alone? No, thank you. If he wanted to, he would. Plain and simple.

You thought about it for a long time, and when you finally sent the divorce papers, hoping for even a hint of regret, he simply signed them and sent them back. Later, he told the lawyer you could keep everything. He didn’t even call to hear your reasons, which is for the best, probably, fuck him and the years you've spent together.

But now, as you feel someone watching you from across the street, you can’t help but wish Simon was still the man he used to be—the one who would have chased away anyone who dared to harm you.

But you’re not sure if your stalker wants to harm you, at least not yet. He always kept his distance until you found a bouquet of tulips, your favorite flowers, sitting in your kitchen. That’s when the fear set in. He had been inside your house, and the cameras didn’t catch a thing.

Next to the delicate petals, you found a note. It said: ‘You looked beautiful in that red dress last night. Too bad your date didn't appreciate it.’ As you read the words, a chill ran down your spine. Your friends had pushed you into that date with a guy who didn’t even call afterward, despite the evening going well. Now, you can’t shake the feeling that this stalker of yours had to do something with that.

Did he scare the guy off? Even if that was true, why hadn’t he approached you directly?

The note and the flowers only deepened your unease. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder every time you left the house, checking for shadows or strange movements. The feeling of being watched became almost unbearable.

Days passed, and the unease settled into a constant anxiety. You started checking the security footage obsessively, but it always showed nothing out of the ordinary. It was as if he had a way of slipping in and out of your life without leaving a trace.

Every day, a fresh set of flowers awaited you after work. Tulips, daisies, roses—all your favorites. Each bouquet was accompanied by a new note, but Mr. Stalker never stepped out of the shadows, never made direct contact with you.

'Just a little something to make you smile.'

'These flowers are a reminder: I’m always watching.'

'These flowers are just the beginning.'

'You’re mine in every way that matters.'

Those are just a few notes you got over the past two weeks. You even contacted the police, but their response was less than helpful. They claimed there was nothing they could do and dismissed it as the work of a shy admirer. But there was nothing shy about stealing your underwear, you thought. And yes, you had definitely noticed the absence of your underwear since this all began.

One night, as you were trying to wind down from another exhausting day, your phone rang with an unknown number. A sense of dread washed over you as you answered.

“Hello?” you said, your voice trembling. There was no response, just silence on the other end. You repeated, “Who is this? What do you want?” but the silence remained.

The call ended abruptly, leaving you feeling unsettled and anxious. Minutes later, your phone buzzed with a new message. You hesitated before opening it, your heart pounding. The message read: 'I just wanted to hear your beautiful voice.'

And now he has your number? You wondered if this was a new tactic to unsettle you further or if it was a sign that the stalker was becoming bolder.

In the days following the phone call, the messages continued, each one more personal than the last. 'You look beautiful with your hair down.'

Along with the messages, the stalker began sending gifts—more flowers, small trinkets, and sometimes even items that felt oddly personal, like a charm bracelet with an engraving of your initials. Each gift was accompanied by a note, one note even read, 'Soon, we’ll be together.' The fuck you will, you thought.

The gifts and messages weren’t the only signs of the stalker’s presence. A few times, you noticed a shadow moving outside your window—brief glimpses of a figure that vanished before you could get a clear look.

Tonight, you decided to take a walk to clear your mind. You quickly changed into comfortable clothes, grabbed your jacket, and checked that you had your phone and keys. As you reached for the door, you took a deep breath, hoping the fresh air would help you feel better. But when you opened the door, you were met with a sight that froze you in your tracks. Standing just outside your door, barely an arm's length away, was him. His presence was both shocking and surreal. He looked directly at you, a strange mixture of relief in his eyes.

"Hello, love."

"Simon?"

[decojellyfish]

New Friend!

Hi, this is my first post! So please be nice, and if you have any constructive criticism, please comment! I hope you like it :)

------

Hybrid AU! TF141 Fancy Kitty! Reader x Rescue Dog! Ghost and Rescue Dog! Soap (Feat. a tiny bit of x Owner! Price) Reader acts fem but is only addressed with “you”

SFW ~ Fluff (Tiny bit of angst, if you squint) Warnings: Mentions of death (though, not directly)

───♡───────────── Beginning Your life was everything you could ask for. Always brushed, fed the finest cuisine a kitty could ask for, and wearing the finest items your owner got you. Your favorite was a collar that looked like a pearl necklace, similar to the one your owner wore daily. Your fur smelled like her too, vintage perfume (her favorite from when she was a teenager, though she always talked about how it was hard to come by now in the modern day), and those little strawberry bonbons she always kept in her purse. And you would always have a pretty pink bow tied around the base of your fluffy tail. Resting your head in her lap, her aged hands petting your white fluffy ears or brushing them with this one brush. A beautiful golden brush, with an ivory plaque on the back that had roses, tulips, and violets painted. It was her favorite from when she was a little girl. Life is good, life is paradise.

Until one day, she didn’t get out of bed. You were still curled up in your pink fluffy cat bed, waiting to hear her sweet voice call out your name whilst serving up your borderline gourmet breakfast. After about an hour, your confusion pushed you out of bed and made you go to your owner’s room. She was still sleeping? Maybe she had a rough time sleeping last night and just felt like sleeping in. Yeah, that was it! She was pretty old after all, why wouldn’t she want to sleep in once in a while? So you curled up atop the floral bedsheets, nice and close to your owner, and waited for her to wake up. You knew she would love to wake up to her pretty little kitty all snuggled up because you missed her so much! So you waited. And waited.

And waited.

A few days passed. Wow, this must’ve been the sleepiest old woman you’d have ever seen! She even had visitors and she didn’t even wake up. It was kind of strange though. They were crying as if they were watching one of those sad movies your owner would watch, with you curled up beside her. The day your world came crashing down would be the day these strange people came to your owner’s house. One of them guided you down to the kitchen, proceeding to feed you some random wet food they found on the counter. You hadn’t even realized how hungry you were while you were waiting for your owner to wake up. You hadn’t even noticed the other people carrying your owner’s body out of the house while this one person was playing with you. Jingling your favorite bell toy, calling you a “precious little kitty, so beautiful, yes you are!” the whole time.

That’s when he came into the picture. He came in an hour after these people arrived, it was John Price. Your owner’s son. He had come to visit her a few times, you enjoyed his presence when he was visiting. Price approached you and began to pet your silky, fluffy white hair and fur. “Hey there, pretty thing. How’ve you been holding up?” You didn’t know what he meant by that, but your purrs were all he needed to hear to not fret over you. He figured you were okay and ready to go with him. When he began to guide you out to his car, that was when you realized that he was taking you somewhere! He reassured you that your owner wouldn’t mind having you go on a little trip. You didn’t know you were headed to Price’s own house, all of your belongings in his trunk unbeknownst to you. You, in the present, wouldn’t be mad at Price for taking you home with him and becoming your new owner. No, you wouldn’t mind that at all, John Price was a lovely person! Like his mother. What made you pissed at him was the fact that he never mentioned the two dog hybrids he also had ownership of. That also lived in the house.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Price had told Ghost and Soap, his two rescue dogs, about the new arrival of a new addition to the family. That of which is a cat. Ghost wasn’t excited about the thought of a cat being in the house all day, every day. It annoyed him, he never really liked cats. Soap, on the other hand, was very excited to meet the new kitty. He had been waiting, impatiently, by the door ever since Price had gone off to retrieve the cat hybrid. Once Price had finally returned, Soap was ecstatic. He pounced on the first being that entered the doorway, licking their face all over. That first being was you. You screeched and hissed at the seemingly rabid dog that was coating you in slobber. He was mucking up your hair, too! Once Soap realized that it wasn’t Price, but, the new kitty that Price had brought home, he grew even more elated. Before he could continue any further with his slobber, Price had pulled Soap away from you, giving you time to breathe. Your tail was beyond fluffy now, you were terrified. Your claws were out and almost gripping the welcome mat by the front door. Soap was confused, Ghost’s guard was up, and Price knew in the back of his head that something like this would happen.

It took you a while to settle in, you were still frightened by the dogs and would try to maintain a distance from them. Ghost would happily oblige, avoiding you whenever you were around. Soap, not so much. He ruined his first impression meeting you! He scared you, and that is not what a good dog does. So, he spent all day and night all over you. He would tell you about his day, and ask you about yours, only for you to stay quiet, and then he would continue talking to you. Soap LOVED being around you. Why wouldn’t he? You’re such a pretty kitty, you smelled good, and your fur was so soft and silky! He loved pawing at the little bell attached to your pink ribbon collar. It was so cute! You looked like royalty with it. Ghost, on the other hand, would mumble about how uppity you seemed. Spoiled, bratty. I mean, at some points you did act like that. Whenever Price didn’t get the right food for you, whenever the sun wasn’t shining in the right spot for you to bask in it, or how loud and annoying the boys’ squeaky toys were. You and Ghost would often avoid each other. Whenever you would accidentally brush up against each other in the halls, it would result in you hissing and him growling loudly, baring his teeth. Price would have to step in and separate you two, telling you both to quit it. But back to Soap, who is an absolute lovebug when it comes to you. He would come by and curl up right next to you whenever you were curled up and lying in the sunlight. At first, you would get up and leave to a new spot. But eventually, you gave up and let him curl up as close to you as he wanted to. Through Soap’s constant yapping, you find out that both he and Ghost were survivors of illegal underground dog fighting. They were from different parts of the UK, but they both ended up at the same shelter. That’s how they met Price. Soap would point out all of his scars, telling their backstories, and talking about all the other injuries he went through. He would also compliment you, as well as attempt to pamper you. You had to give him instructions on how your owner used to do it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It smelled of overwhelming masculinity in the house. It was such a drastic change from the old lady perfume and flowers that your old home smelled like. It took you a bit to get adjusted to the lack of floral prints that your new home had. One day, you were especially homesick. Even though you were in your new, permanent, home, you still missed your old home. It was foggy out that day, the weather not helping your mood at all. You were curled up on the couch as you looked out the window with sad eyes, your fluffy tail flicking around as you were deep in thought. You hadn’t even noticed Soap and Ghost staring at you, they could smell the sadness radiating off of you. It was a slightly pungent smell compared to your usual scent that smelled of fresh flowers. It made Soap whine and quickly approach you. He curled up close to you, trying to soothe you, bring you out of your sad thoughts, with his warmth. It did help, it brought you out of your deep thoughts. But you still smelled of sadness. You would curl up against him, letting out a tiny sigh.

Then Ghost curled up next to you.

That was a first. He had always avoided you, per your request. But you didn’t mind this sudden act of affection. It was nice, you got a better chance to identify the keynotes of his scent. With Soap being around you so much, you had no choice but the memorize what he smelled like. Musk, timber wood, vanilla, and tiny hints of coconut. Part of that was because of the shampoo that Price would wash him in during bath nights. You had always kind of known what Price smelled like, what with him visiting your old owner every so often. Dirt, but not in a dirty way, an earthy way, smokey, toffee, and sandalwood. Cozy. You eventually came around and stopped being so mad at him for not telling you about his dog hybrids. Especially since you started to like them now. Kind of. Ghost, he always kind of smelled smokey. But not like Price. Price smelled smokey in a round way. Ghost smelled smokey in a sharper way. Kind of a difference between cigars and pungent cigarettes. But now that he was sitting so close to you, to wipe that sad look off your face, you could get a more clear reading of his scent. Smokey, yet bitter, musk, cedar wood, and lavender. That also must have been because of the shampoo. But they must have two separate shampoos that they picked individually. You had your own that Price had brought from your old home. It smelled of cherry blossoms.

Fast forward a few minutes, now Soap is teaching Ghost how you like your hair brushed with your favorite brush. And you’re crying and venting about how much you miss your owner and your old home.

This caused Soap to have a lightbulb moment.

A few days later, you’re napping in your cat bed when you suddenly start to wake up to a familiar scent. Rose petals, peonies, orchids, and lotuses. Flowers. You wondered if you had suddenly returned back to her old home. You open your eyes. Nope, you’re still at Price’s. But the scent is coming from a little candle, in an ivory candle holder (a favorite of your old owner), sitting on the dining room table. Price noticed you as he finished serving breakfast for you and the boys. He explained that he “found it at the shop and thought you would like it.” Actually, Soap had begged him to find a way to cheer you up because it hurt him so badly to see you cry like that! Ghost was standing by Soap, not moving a single bit. But Price could see in his eyes that he was silently agreeing. He didn’t want to admit it, but he cared for the little cat hybrid. So Price had gone out and looked for his mother’s favorite candle. He knew the one. Now, back to the present, you’re looking at the candle with wide eyes. You’re looking at Price, then the boys, then the candle, then Price again. You feel your eyes start to sting. Tears abruptly well up in your eyes. All of the men are now worried. Did they mess up? Did Price pick the wrong candle? But he was sure of it! Soap quickly got up and hugged you tightly, asking why you were crying. Ghost even got up and walked over to you, just as worried but he wouldn’t show it. You eventually explain to them through tears and hiccups, that you love all they’ve done to make this new place feel like your old home. It makes you so happy that they want to see you happy and comfortable. They’re all relieved, Price gently wiping away your tears with a handkerchief his mother gifted to him when he first went into the military, petting your fluffy ears and stroking your cheek with his thumb.

These men all love you, they would do anything to not see you in pain. And you love them just as much, knowing that they would do anything to protect you. :3

───♡───────────── End

Again, if you have any constructive criticism, please comment below!

Thank you for reading :)

[fayes-fics]

The Secrets We Keep: Pt II

<< Part I

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Knowing someone your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t surprise you… (part II, see above for link to part I)

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, loss of virginity, vaginal fingering, oral sex (m to f), cunnilingus, hand job, vaginal sex, woman on top, orgasm. Also a lot of fluff and a few dashes of angst.

Word Count: 8.5k (13.6k for complete fic, including Pt I)

Authors Note: Part 2 of 2. Part 1 linked above. My longest gestating WIP! It’s been more than 18 months since I received a request for this secret diary fic. Tulip Anon, I have no idea if you still follow me, but I hope you think I did your detailed request justice. Here is the conclusion to this Benepic! Betaed by the awesome @colettebronte, who I can’t thank enough. Enjoy! 🫶

-vii-

The first thing you feel is throbbing pain, an insistent drum in your head, mouth dry as if you have been chewing cotton wool—the instant regret of excessive drinking floods through you. However, when your eyes reluctantly peel open, your predicament escalates.

You have no earthly idea where you are. Or how you got here. The last thing you remember was Benedict kissing you; then the room was literally spinning from entirely too much brandy. 

Still in the dress you wore yesterday, but tucked under crisp white linens. A trace of a familiar scent upon the pillow that you cannot quite place in your fuzzy state. Gingerly sitting up, you try to get your bearings, not yet awake enough to have any reaction beyond puzzlement. 

The room is darkened, thankfully, save for a sliver of the rising sun that slashes across the bed through a narrow gap in the curtains. You are in a large mahogany four-poster bed; the room is decorated in rich jewel tones—heavy velvet burgundy drapes and dark blue Persian rugs, panelled walls on which stunning artwork hangs. Embers glow in a nearby fireplace as you spy your pelisse hanging on the back of a door and your shoes neatly arranged nearby.

Then you twist and see the bedside cabinet, and your stomach plunges.

There, alongside a glass of water, is your notebook. Your secret notebook. The one that should still be concealed within the hidden pocket of your pelisse. But instead, it is here. And what is worse, it is open. Open to a page with one of your favourite sketches of Benedict: his eyes crinkling against the strong rays of the sun, a carefree smile on his face.

Instantly, you grab it and slam it shut. Fingernails drumming urgently on its silken cover, now hugged into your chest. Horrified that your mystery generous benefactor, who must have seen you to bed, has also been privy to your most private thoughts. 

Galvanised by a need to solve the mystery of who, you relinquish your tight hold on the tome. It is then that a folded letter slips out of its pages and drops into your lap. Tentatively, you unfurl the paper and are aghast by the headed notepaper declaring the author and revealing your host. The worst possible person you could think of.

But then your gaze falls to the elegant script inked onto its thick parchment, and your life is indelibly altered.

Dearest Y/n

I hope you are well-rested. There are so many things I am impatient to impart, but I must begin with an explanation and, indeed, an apology.

You are in my bedroom, at my lodgings. I brought you here as I saw no other option that would guarantee your safety and welfare, which is always my utmost concern.  I made pains to ensure your arrival here was not seen, and I must assure you, in case your recall is uncertain, that nothing has happened between us beyond our kiss. 

Now onto my apology, which is two-fold, although I suspect it should contain multitudes more. Firstly, my most sincere and unreserved apologies for my ungentlemanly conduct at our last two encounters. As wondrous as those kisses were, they were nonetheless inexcusable. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive my impulsive actions.

Secondly, I must apologise for my discovery of this, your private diary. My knowledge of its existence is purely accidental; I removed it from your coat merely as a wish for your possessions to be in neat order upon your awakening. My knowledge of its contents, however… for that, I must throw myself at your mercy and beg for your forgiveness. Curiosity and liquor are not the best companions, and it seems both got the better of me. 

In what I hope is partial recompense, I will confess a secret of mine. Arguably selfish in nature and most likely the worst possible timing, too. However, given what I have now seen, I am utterly compelled to convey it….

I love you, y/n.

Most ardently and most truly. 

There is no person in the world I would rather spend time with. Whose thoughts I am always impatient to know and whose every moment I wish to be a part of. For some time now, you have occupied my every thought. 

It is why I felt compelled to act when I heard from Eloise about your impossible situation. I will do anything within my power to assist you. It is why I said that I want to alleviate your burdens. I meant every word and more. My happiness is seemingly inextricably calibrated to yours—when I see you happy, it brings me great joy, and when I see you are not, it brings a pang to my chest I know not what do with. 

I would have taken these feelings to my grave… were it not for this diary. When what I found hidden within ts pages gave me the exquisite burden of hope. Hope that perhaps you return my affections? May indeed have done so for quite some time as well? 

I must also take a moment to compliment your poetic talent, and that is to say nothing of your artistic abilities, which quite frankly are humbling. Dare I dream of a day that we could paint together? Sorry (Again! Multitudes indeed!), I am likely getting far ahead of myself.

I will not be home when you read this. Partial cowardice on my part, no doubt, but born out of utmost respect. You always deserve the right to choose, y/n, and that includes what you do with this confession. I do not wish for you to be obligated to see me or let me know your response, thoroughly eager though I am to hear of it. 

If you wish to speak to me before your wedding ceremony, please leave your hair ribbon tied to my phaeton upon your departure. I will find a way to see you. If you do not, I shall, of course, respect your decision. 

A vila mon coeur, gardi li mo: You will always have my heart; I hope you also choose to be its haven.

Benedict

You could read this confession a thousand times over and still scarcely believe it; the depth of his feelings declared plainly, boldly, and so lyrically in writing. You pour over it once more, giddily aglow, your fingers tracing across his elegant, looped script, your lips moving as you mouth his words, needing to have them within you somehow. Then, you lovingly refold and place the letter between the last two blank pages of your notebook—a more fitting denouement to its contents you could not imagine.

You put on your shoes and pelisse, still floating on a cloud. A valet meets you in the hallway and, with a wordless nod of acknowledgement, leads you out of the rear mews entrance, handing you a large silk scarf to conceal yourself under. With one final glance up at Benedict’s abode, you unfurl the ribbon from your hair and, insides aflutter, tie it in a neat bow onto his phaeton before wrapping the scarf around your head and stealing out onto the streets of Mayfair. 

-viii-

Still in a daze about Benedict’s confession, you slip into the servant's entrance of your family home, tiptoeing through the dormant kitchen and tugging off the scarf. Just as you believe yourself home-free, Mrs White, head cook and ersatz maternal figure, materialises from the pantry, nearly dropping a bag of flour in surprise.

“Lawks alive, sweet child, you gave me a fright!” she exclaims, clutching her chest. “Pray tell, why are you sneaking into my kitchen at the crack of dawn?”

You cringe and turn sheepishly to meet her gaze. “Sorry for the scare, Mrs White. I, um, indulged rather too heavily last night. I was in no fit state to return home. I stayed with a trusted friend.” The truth, albeit behind a veil of obfuscation. “Please do not tell Father!” you add hurriedly.

As she plunks down the flour and smacks her fingers together to rid them of its nascent dust, she chuckles. “I shall not divulge if you do not… for I was already under your father’s employ when I did the same many years ago, the night before I made my Harry an honest man.”

“Deal!” you giggle, clutching your notebook tight to your chest, unable to quash the ebullience fizzing in your being.

“You look as if you caught a rainbow and sold it to the sky,” she declares, crossing her arms and observing you closely. “Wedding day excitement, yes?!” she adds pointedly with a raised eyebrow, even as her tone very much suggests she suspects otherwise. 

“Of course, Mrs White…” you concur, attempting to conceal the quirk of your lip. 

She rolls her eyes and shoos you affectionately towards the hallway. “Away with you! I suspect the less I truly know, the better…”

You say nothing; just give her a nod and race up the servant's stairs, keen to make it to your bedroom unseen. 

As soon as you are safely there, you toe off your shoes and only then relinquish your vice-like grip upon your notebook to hurriedly change into your nightgown as if you had been asleep in the house all night. Enacting a plan you conceived on the brisk walk home, you grab a night bag from your ottoman. Flinging open your wardrobe, patently ignoring the wedding dress hung upon its door, you bundle the notebook with a couple of your favourite outfits and stuff them into the bag. Buckling it shut while you scoot across the room, you open the sash window and  - with a quick check of the garden below - drop the bag into the large rhododendron beneath, hopeful the dense, fragrant blooms will conceal its presence for now.

Just as you are closing the window, a gaggle of ladies descend upon your room, led by your fussing mother, your ladies' maid Rachel among them. Realising she has had to lie to keep your cover since yesterday at the modiste, you silently shoot her a brief look of reassurance.

“Rise and shine, darling!” your mother chimes. “‘Tis your most special day!”

And then everything is a blur as the preparation for your wedding starts in earnest, you still slightly detached from it all, your thoughts purely of Benedict. It is only sometime later that you get a few moments of peace with just Rachel as she puts the finishing touches to your look.

“You seem changed, my lady…” Rachel opines sotto voce, sliding a pin into your hair.

You say nothing, even as your eyes meet in the vanity table mirror, unwilling to confess details of what has transpired just yet. Unsure yourself even what it could mean until you get the chance to see Benedict yourself, your stomach in knots to do so.

“I told your family you took dinner alone last night in your room after returning from the modiste, and then you went to sleep…” she whispers, leaning in even though you are alone.

“Thank you. I am truly grateful,” you offer sincerely before adding: “I will tell you more when I am able. I do beg one more favour of you…?”

She makes eye contact again in your reflection, giving a brief tentative nod after a pause.

“If you should hear from a Bridgerton valet, please follow any directions he provides,” you implore, the image of your hair ribbon fluttering gently in the breeze emblazoned in your mind.

“A valet? Not a ladies’ maid?” she checks softly, frowning.

“Yes, just please… do as he asks?”

“Yes, my lady,” she demures before reaching for your jewellery.

It is only as the carriage you and your mother ride in shudders over the cobblestones towards St George’s church an hour or so later that reality comes crashing in. 

So engrossed in thoughts of seeing Benedict all morning, you had almost forgotten the dreadful fate that likely awaits you. A sudden spike of fear that he will not turn up, that something will prevent him from seeing you, or, heaven forfend, today’s stiff breeze has blown your hair ribbon asunder. 

All at once, your head is spinning, your dress feels too tight, and there is a plunging dread in the pit of your stomach, your skin prickling hard before your vision seems to swim with dots before narrowing to blackness…

“Y/n!? Whatever is the matter?!” your mother’s alarmed voice rings out as you woozily return.

You are slumped sideways against the glass window, its cool surface a balm on your suddenly fevered temple.

“Is it what I told you about your wedding night…?!” she frets, her laced glove tickling your forehead as she appears to be checking your temperature. “I can assure you, you will get used to it…”

You bat her away and slowly sit upright, taking a calming breath while also trying to blot out the memory of her talk about marital relations right before you left the house. Not able to confess it as unnecessary without raising suspicion, you had to endure a stumbling, unhelpful explanation of things you already know. Indeed, you have witnessed at Granville’s parties, even if you have not taken part yourself. 

But then the sudden thought of being required to do such with Lord Farringdon has you grasping the curtain, your empty stomach heaving at the mere prospect. The silent hope that Benedict can assist you at the eleventh hour is the only thing that stops you from passing out anew.

With a shaky gait and a queasy, oily feeling, you alight a few moments later, your mother lending an arm of support as your father and brothers pile out of the other carriage. This is to be the entirety of your wedding guest list. You have pulled into a side courtyard of the church, concealed behind high walls, away from the inquisitive sights of the Ton. The rushed nature of the union and Whistledown’s latest means your family has no wish for this to be a public event, keen to be rid of scandal. Only your immediate family, your husband-to-be and the vicar - a friend of your father’s - know of today’s ceremony. Well, and Benedict. You did not even get the chance to inform Eloise of this expedited schedule.

As he leads you up the stairs and into the side vestibule, your father informs you that Lord Farringdon is already awaiting you at that altar and that he will appreciate a swift ceremony. You swallow thickly and nod mutely, sensing the window of opportunity creaking closed with alarming alacrity, each incessant tick of the church clock seeming like both forever and not enough time, scrabbling for any chance to stall.

Just as you are about to lose all sense of hope, you see movement over your father's shoulder that has your heart leaping into your throat. There, through a mullioned window, you see the distorted outline of a phaeton swiftly pulling up on the other side of the church from where you entered, a palpable wave of relief and excitement washing over you. 

Benedict has come!

-ix-

“Father, may I please have a moment alone?” you rush out breathlessly, pulse-pounding hard in your ears. Hoping he will interpret your request as mere nervousness about the imminent ceremony, you add: “Before I must take this big step and become a wife?”

He reluctantly grants your wishes, brusquely telling you it should be brief before following the rest of your family through the doors into the nave. 

As soon as the coast is clear, you are darting out the entrance again and running around the outside of the church, wedding dress swishing around your legs, until you skid to a halt next to a pillar that conceals you from the street.

There, before you, arrestingly beautiful and jumping athletically down to the pavement, is Benedict—a vision in a blue velvet jacket and teal cravat. 

Your eyes meet, and your knees want to buckle; such is the magnitude of the moment. He bounds up the granite steps and crushes his lips to yours briefly.

“No time to talk,” he rushes out. “If you wish to escape, take my hand, for we must depart now!”

Your heart hammers as you do the only thing you could ever want to: grab tightly onto his proffered hand as his face breaks out into the most arresting smile. Then it's a blur as he whisks you down the steps to his phaeton, hoisting you up onto its leather bench and throwing a blanket into your lap, then clambering in himself. With a shake of the reins, you lurch and take off down an alleyway at a rapid pace. The velocity of motion, red bricks of buildings whizzing by mere feet away, has you momentarily stunned and so you almost jump out of your skin when he speaks loudly over the rushing noise.

“Cover yourself before we get to the street,” Benedict advises quick-fire, only taking his attention off the road briefly to nod to the blanket. Just as you are struggling to conceal yourself, the horses careen onto Park Lane, attracting attention for the speed you are already travelling.

“Benedict!” you chastise, your arm shooting out to grab the side of the partial umbrella-like hood that arches over you, having to cling on for dear life. “This is not exactly a stealthy escape!”

“I know,” he grimaces, not looking at you, “but we must make haste and be as far away as we can as soon as possible.”

“Regardless of destination, we will need to stop at my house!” you almost have to yell to be heard over the jostling wheels on either side of you.

“Why??” His whole face screwed up in disbelief.

“I must gather some things! I will not leave without them, Benedict!!” you warn.

“What could possibly be worth stopping for?” he decries, the whole vehicle swaying violently as he rounds another bend.

“Perchance, other clothing?!” you wither loudly, frowning that he had not considered such, before adding: “And your letter!?” 

His head whips around to look at you and there is an intensity in his gaze that has your heart stuttering. An all-consuming want to kiss his lips as his gaze falls to your mouth. Only the urgent yelp of a pedestrian you narrowly avoid colliding into rips your attention away from each other. 

He rights the phaeton, tugging the reins so the horses slow.

“Alright,” he concedes, quieter, calmer. “But please do be as quick as you are able…”

You don't get the chance to inform him you have already packed and stowed a bag because he is pulling up in the quiet mews behind your family home. You jump down and take off, sprinting through the small gate and across the lawn. Soon, you are diving into the large bushes on the side of the house beneath your bedroom window. Fumbling around, you have to wrestle your dress from a branch before you reach the wall. Emitting a muted noise of victory as you are finally able to grab your bag and out of the foliage without looking.

“Miss y/l/n!?”

You jump out of your skin, spinning to see Mrs White standing at a nearby door, wielding a rolling pin.

“Mrs White, please,” you beseech, “please, do not tell anyone!” 

She takes stock of you: your animated state, your wedding dress torn over your knee where it snagged upon that branch, a night bag grasped in your ringless left hand… and she appears to make a calculated decision.

“I fear I could not, my child,” she offers with a shrug, “I do not see anyone for me to tell of…” 

The small, sympathetic nod and smile toying her lips has you barreling towards her, throwing your free arm tight around her as flour dust puffs onto the silk of your dress. You utter your thanks, flooded with gratitude, hugging her close before disentangling, you take off sprinting before she can say anymore.

-x-

As you depart from your family home, a companionable silence settles between you—a tacit understanding that there is much to discuss, but the journey is not the ideal place to do so. Both resolute to put some miles between yourselves and your family, likely now emerging from the church and wondering where on earth you are. A flare of guilt in your belly for not informing Rachel or even your mother. You resolve to send word tomorrow that you are safe without providing details.

As the edges of London give way to the countryside, you do decide to ask one simple question. 

“Where are we headed, Benedict?”

“I have a suggested destination….” he begins enigmatically, an odd cadence to his voice, “but we will discuss that later, once we stop for the night at an inn.”

There is a little flutter behind your ribs at the thought, but it is forgotten as a strong gust of wind whistles over the carriage, making you shiver and burrow into the blanket, wishing you had grabbed your pelisse from the night bag before setting off.

You startle as Benedict pulls you snugly into his side, adjusting the carriage hood and then the blanket, too, so he provides partial shelter from the winds as they whip across the fields. 

“I am sorry I do not have an enclosed carriage for you to journey in comfort,” he winces, his speech humming into you. “But it is best we use this speedier option anyway. We will cover more ground swiftly travelling light.”

You nod in acknowledgement. “Thank you for the blanket, at least; it is very considerate,” you respond, not unpleased to have an excuse to cuddle into him as you reassure him: “I am well now.”

Indeed, the warmth of his flank on yours and the steady rocking motion of the carriage is soporific, the whirlwind of the day hitting you even though it is merely lunchtime.

“Please rest if you need to,” he intuits, “I will wake you if needed.”

And despite the elements, you find the lure of sleep inevitable.

A warm wetness on your brow stirs you.

“Y/n…”

You wish you could always be roused like this; your name a soft rumble from Benedict’s lips as they trace gently over your forehead. You nuzzle unthinkingly into the sound and feel, which has him chuckling into your skin.

“We are here, at the inn….” he murmurs, his breath hot into your hairline.

You blink awake. “We are?!’” You twist to see you are stopped alongside an elegant Tudor wood building. “How long have I been asleep?!”

“All afternoon,” he admits, a touch sheepish. “You looked so peaceful and I assume you must need the rest after a tumultuous few days.”

His touching manner has a warmth spreading behind your ribs that makes you push up and land a kiss on his jaw.

“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling away but pleased to see a dot of colour high on his cheekbones.

“‘Tis nothing,” he demures before changing the topic. “I am sure you are hungry and in need of refreshments. So we shall dine and remain here for the night. We have covered a considerable distance from London already—around forty miles.” He jumps down and stands expectantly holding out a hand for you to follow suit as he continues speaking. “To avoid attention, we should present ourselves as family relations—cousins, perhaps?” 

“I am in a wedding dress,” you remind as you wrestle your way out of the blanket and reach for him to descend.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he scans down your form, lingering slightly.

“Oh yes. Well. Umm. Perchance as husband and wife then?” he flusters as you step down with his assistance.

“Would that not draw the attention you mentioned we should avoid?” you murmur, your hands still joined even though you are on the ground now.

“Do you have another suggestion?” he queries, his breath warm on your face as you stand entirely too close, fingers flexing around yours.

“Unless you wish me to remove my dress out here…” you goad, a little crest of victory as his pupils rapidly dilate and he huffs a breath, “...then I do not.”

“We have much to discuss,” he almost growls, which stokes something low in your belly as he tugs you along towards the entrance, only stopping to nod briefly to the inn’s groomsman who emerges to take care of your horses.

-xi-

The tavern at the inn is a warm, convivial space, wood-panelled, the smell of delicious foods wafting in the air alongside the tannin of wine and the ferrous tang of dark beer as crowds of people of all walks of life gather. Benedict sees you into a corner booth away from other patrons as he orders food, then goes to secure your accommodation for the night.

As he returns, passing you a glass of wine, there is a nervous churning in your gut; this is the first opportunity you have had to talk properly since you awoke to his life-changing letter.

“I have no idea where to begin,” he confesses, looking perplexed, and it makes you reach out in reassurance over the table, pulse strong in his raised veins under your fingertips.

“Your letter was the single most wondrous thing I have ever received,” you offer honestly, his eyes softening, making your heart flutter. “Benedict,” you take a steadying breath before ploughing on with the truth you have never spoken aloud before, “I have loved you for as long as I can remember…”

His face lights up, and his hand turns under yours, your palms touching as he laces your fingers together in a tight knot, then brings your joined fists to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently. 

“Why did you never tell me?” He entreats softly.

“Why did you never tell me?” You return lightning quick, a quirk on your lips that has him chuckling.

“An entirely fair accusation,” he concedes, shuffling closer and grabbing your other hand, your heads so close together now. “I suppose I thought my feelings irrelevant, futile even, that you would secure a titled husband. Though why your father chose such a vile one confounds me, I must confess.”

“I believe that a chastisement,” you commence but are interrupted by food arriving at your table. 

So, as you eat, you explain the whole story between mouthfuls. That you were able to delay your debut last season in your father’s absence, but it meant this season, he was determined to see you matched swiftly. Recounting fondly your time spent with your Aunt Eliza, Benedict appearing impressed as you reel off all the skills you now possess. You also talk in detail about how her encouragement meant you fell into the London art scene and how you know Henry Granville. Benedict listens intently, taking bites of his dinner, but his attention never wavers from you as you recount everything. 

“So yes, I believe the match was about my father’s wish to quash a perceived rebellion more than a match society might deem appropriate for the firstborn daughter of a Viscount.” 

“An untitled second son, even less so,” Benedict muses softly, downcasting his eyes, a flare of insecurity that has you putting down your cutlery and grabbing his jaw.

“Benedict, please do not,” you petition, rubbing a thumb over his cheek. “You know me. You know that I have never cared what society might think! If I were to marry, I would only ever want it to be a love match. I would not give a damn if my husband were a penniless beggar as long as he loves and respects me.” 

You pause as he raises his soulful gaze to yours, your faces so close.

“Luckily for me, the man who stole my heart fifteen years ago is neither penniless nor a beggar. He is a wonderful, caring, handsome, passionate artist who I would indeed be lucky to paint next to,” you conclude with reference to a line in his letter, a scene you can picture so clearly it seems more premonition than a dream.

“Fifteen years?” he repeats, a look of utter wonderment as he turns his lips aside to kiss your palm where you still cup his face. You nod, a little nostalgic smile tugging at your lips as he adds: “Then I must confess… I have never been more grateful for my incessant curiosity; it led me to your diary and thus to this very moment.”

He takes your hands from his jaw, then kisses both of your knuckles again in turn, but this time, he lingers, his lips warm, damp and pursed open, and a trace of his tongue dabs your protruding bone. A shiver runs down your spine, stoking something acute, dangerous and exhilarating.

“Do you know I have kept that notebook hidden since I was fourteen? Sewing a secret pocket into all of my coats or hiding it under floorboards so it would never be found. For six years. Yet it took you less than one evening…” 

“Maybe it was waiting to reveal itself to the one person who needed to see it the most…” he muses between kisses, his breath gusting hot over your fingers. 

That seismic but simple poetic sentence devastates your ability or wish to talk anymore—a thronging need for him that you are powerless to resist any longer.

“Take me to our room, Benedict,” you command, voice tremulant with want and hope. 

His head shoots up, his face a captivating tapestry of barely bridled passion and astonishment.

“But I-I booked us separate rooms,” he stumbles, confounded, and that gentlemanly act just makes you want him all the more.

Uncaring that you are sitting in a wedding dress in a public tavern, you pitch forward and capture his lips in a kiss that instantly becomes passionate and demanding, your hand running into his hair and tugging him closer.

“You should return the key and request your money back, for that will not be necessary…” you decree, breathing the words into his mouth.

That seems to light a fire in him. He shoves back the table and sweeps you into his arms bridal style, striding out of the room purposefully, his mouth hot on yours, your pounding heartbeat almost drowning out the bawdy, raucous cheers from the drunken patrons you pass.

-xii-

Once the room door clicks closed behind you, his demeanour softens. He gently removes your shoes before setting your stockinged feet down on a plush rug in front of a roaring fire. He tugs his jacket off so he stands before you in a colourful waistcoat and ruffled shirt.

“Are you certain?” His ask is chivalrous, tinged with such delicate hope it makes you melt.

“I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life,” you declare candidly, boldly stepping towards him.

His hands encircle your waist as yours slide up his biceps, the warmth of his skin through the crisp white fabric making your blood run warm. 

“I may be chaste, but I know of what we are to do; I have been at Granville’s, remember. I also know that I want this. So very much.”

“I am the luckiest man…” he asserts in a low rumble, your honesty seeming to ignite him again as he crowds into you.

It’s an electrifying kiss that has your scalp tingling: his hands moulded to you, mapping your every curve as you take from each other as you never have before, desperation bubbling over with each parry of tongues. His fingers land on the buttons of your dress, between your shoulder blades, silently asking permission.

“Rip it off me,” you urge impulsively, chest heaving within your stays. “I want you to destroy this very dress and everything it represents….”

His responding growl inflames your core, molten liquid heat as his large hands grab the material and tear it asunder from your body so you stand before him, trembling with desire in just your stays and chemise.

He guides your fingers to his waistcoat, the crackle of the fire and the huff of his breaths the only sound in the room. His chest rises and falls steadily as you work on each button. When you reach the last one, he shucks the garment from his torso, then crosses his arms and discards his shirt in one swift motion, sailing away in a puffed arch. The broad expanse of smooth chest before you has you tongue-tied. A lean musculature and pale complexion reminiscent of Italian renaissance sculpture… but living, breathing and looking at you as if you are the most precious thing on earth. 

Long arms wrap around you, enveloping you in his warmth, fingers spidering up the notches of your spine through the thin cotton of your chemise until they reach your stays and pluck upon the laces there. He unties them slowly as his lips trail hotly down your throat. You have observed forms of intimacy but didn't expect the firsthand experience to be so rich, so all-consuming. The sights, the sensations, the scents. Like the tangy undernotes lurking beneath his woody cologne, an aroma that is all him, his bare skin. It makes your mouth water and lean into him; a want to be a part of him almost—so much heat and touch.

As your loosened stays drop to the floor behind you, a clawing need for his flesh on yours has you rapidly discarding your chemise over your head, naked now save your stockings. But before he has the chance to see, you propel yourself into him again, his solid chest colliding with your breasts, your peaked nipples trapped against his warmth. A loud groan from his lips that you swallow as you push up onto tiptoes and wrap your arms around his strong neck, kissing him ferociously. His grip slides down to grasp your bottom, pulling you into him, something rigid pressing your stomach through the refined wool of his trousers. 

“Let me look at you,” he pleads, withdrawing a half step, his eyes sweeping covetously down your body as you feel aglow in the heat of the adjacent fire. “You are so beautiful,” he attests shakily, an insistent throbbing between your legs that is all of his making, so close without any stimulation.

“Touch me, Benedict.” 

It’s equal parts order and request, grabbing his wrist and guiding it low over your belly. His elegant fingertips curl through the patch of hair before swiping between your legs, dilated pupils boring into yours as you emit a wanton moan, knees almost buckling. A strong arm wraps around you to keep you steady as he observes you up close, repeating the motion, parting your folds this time, you honeying upon his fingertips as he glances over your swollen clit. 

You whimper his name, and he claims your lips again, sliding the pad of his fingers over that spot over and over. Fingernails digging into his arm at his expert touch, the air swirling with the wet sound and scent of your arousal.

“You smell so utterly divine,” he groans, pitching forward and almost biting your bottom lip in a toothful, desperate meeting, your moans echoing over his tongue. “I need to taste you,” he stutters.

You have to shoot out an arm to grasp the mantlepiece as he suddenly drops to his knees before you and buries his face into your mound, inhaling deeply, his nose pressed onto your clitoral hood. He is so primal in his desperation as he lifts one of your legs and places it over his shoulder, diving into your folds, his tongue a wet, hot spear over your swollen nub. Your other hand burrows into his thick head of hair, scratching along his scalp as he hums his approval into your damp heat, the vibration causing sparks of pleasure to fan out.

It takes what little shred of concentration you have left to stay upright, clinging to the fireplace and him, rocketing skyward so dizzyingly fast, slack-jawed, breathless, rooted in your body as you gawk down at him. You had no idea this would be so intense, so carnal. His stare is fixated upwards on you, reading your reactions like a book, his glazed jaw moving with expert precision buried between your legs—an intoxicating sight that burns into your retinas.

“I need you to come for me, y/n,” he begs hotly into your soaked flesh, his tongue a muscular swipe greater than his fingers, his fingers plucking the ribbons holding your stockings loose so they slide down to your feet.

“I want to do so with you…” you gasp, unable to prevent whatever forms in your mouth from slipping out, leaking profusely onto his chin.

“You will; I promise,” his gravelly assurance, the permission you need to let go, riding his tongue with abandon, your body undulating, chasing that ephemeral high you have only experienced from your own touch before. But this is so much more, so wholly other, magnitudes indeed, the words from his letter never far from your thoughts even as you spiral somewhere close to bliss. His gaze locked onto you, able to read all your signs: skin flushed, ragged pants, shuddering with each quest of his tongue.

And then he gently bites your clit, and you are gone, his hands needing to clamp onto your hips to hold you upright as your body convulses. You cry out, sagging onto him as your body races with a high that fizzes in every cell, radiating in waves of pleasure that have you calling out, uncaring who may hear, incapable of anything but clinging to his hair for dear life and scrunching your toes into the thick wool rug underfoot.

You know you utter a curse, entirely overpowered by the euphoria coursing through you as he stands back up and pulls you into his arms, kissing your cheek chastely, the scent of you strong on his face. But as you come back to yourself, renewed passion stokes in you, determination to give as good as you have been given, a drive for mutual pleasure that has you shoving him backwards forcefully.

He falls back onto the bed, a look of total surprise claiming his face as you crowd over him, laying prone, attacking his trouser buttons with a vigour that has him stunned, his mouth agape. But he doesn't move to stop you, far from it. There is a flash in his eye as you grab his hands and cage them onto the sheets briefly before returning to attack his clothing. Wordlessly, he lifts his pelvis when you tap his hipbone, and then you are tugging his trousers down and off, flinging them across the room.

You are momentarily taken aback when you look down and realise he is without underwear, now as naked as you. His cock, nestled in a small patch of hair, is larger than you have seen before, tinged dark pink and leaking from the tip. It looks so good you bite your lip, a twinge deep inside that is pure want. 

His moan is beautiful as you take him in hand. He is hot and steely in your grip as you move your hand up and down, learning his contours, fascinated by the contrast of how silky his skin is.

“I am so glad you have seen things you should not have,” he groans, squirming delightfully, so very responsive to your touch. It makes you greedy always to have him like this, yearning for you as much as you do him, stuttering your name as you change your grip and move a little faster.

“Please stop…” he grits out, his hand covering yours and slowing your motions, but you can tell it is utterly reluctant. “I am too close, my love…”

That reflexive term of endearment makes something melt behind your ribs, and you crawl up over him as you release his cock, claiming his lips in a kiss, his hands encircling your waist, pulling you down so that his cock is trapped under your pubic bone.

“I love you,” you breathe quietly over his lips, holding his face, wanting to convey the depth of feelings you have for this man.

“I love you too, y/n,” he replies earnestly, his eyes glassy, a cloud of emotion claiming his expression as his hands cup your jaw as well, a profound moment of heartfelt sincerity amid this tableau of fevered physicality.

“May I?” 

Your ask is hesitant as you rearrange, sliding your legs up either side of his hips, signalling your wish to ride him, a need to be the one to give your virginity to him more than him to take it. Something achingly significant in the ability to choose.

He nods a reassuring and spellbound look, and a beguiling hitch in his throat as his tip brushes your entrance.

“It may hurt a little, my love,” he advises, wincing as if wishing that was not the case for you.

“I know,” you murmur back, grabbing his hands to aid you in sitting up so you have more range of motion. 

And then, with a steadying breath, you lower yourself onto him, mouth falling open at the invasive stretch with barely a fraction of him inside you. His face is a kaleidoscope of everything you hope for him—joy and bliss. Your fingers grasp tight around his knuckles, your joined hands a knotted fist, as you feel a pinch of pain that makes you suck air through your teeth, knowing this is the moment you become a woman. So glad it is with him, the categorical love of your life.

Luckily, the ache is fleeting, and you sink lower, him moaning your name lyrically, you puffing a breath at the complete fullness. A pressure holding you open that is so galvanic you now understand the hedonism of what you have previously witnessed—the drive to satisfy an urge that is innate and potent.  

“Oh my god, Benedict,” you stutter, as finally he is fully seated within your body, clinging to him, held open in the most arresting way.

“I know, my love, I know…” he soothes, untangling your hands to touch your skin, running his palms reverentially down your body. “You are amazing, a wonder…” 

“Guide me…?”

He smiles and whispers gentle instructions for you to push up with your thighs and then sink back down, his hands now clamped around your waist to assist you. The sensation is indescribable, the drag of his cock against your walls as you slowly ascend and descend, trying to catalogue every second as a precious memory.

Your speed increases as you get used to the physicality of movement, a cloying, dewy heat spreading over both your bodies as you move in unison. He starts to tilt his hips off the bed to assist in your strokes, pushing to a new depth that catches your breath and has you muttering a curse, your hands scrabbling his abdomen, enjoying the flex of muscles there. His grip moves to your breasts, teasing your nipples in a way that has you gasping and riding harder. His fingers snagging on your sensitive buds is a beeline zipping to your engorged clit, that mashes into his body with every downward stroke you take. Still on a high from your last orgasm, it won't take much more for you to come again; this time, you hope in tandem.

His movements become more urgent, his noises louder, his touch firmer, squeezing you, bucking up with force now, making you moan with each new plunge onto him, as if he craves to leave an imprint of himself inside you.

“Are you close, my love?” you query, borrowing his term of endearment. It has his screwed-shut eyes flying open, his hands flexing on your hips, and a ripple up his rigid cock you can actually feel.

“Yesssss,” he hisses back, “please call me that again,” he entreats through clenched teeth, a prominent vein in his neck pulsing hard as his whole being seems to tense.

“My love,” you coo, treating it like a gift to bestow, addicted already to the effect it has on him, his fingers digging into your flesh in a way that will leave marks you will be proud to wear.

You move faster now, the sturdy bed squeaking in protest, the sound of your damp skin slapping together, taking even yourself by surprise at how visceral this is, especially for a first time. Expecting it to be less somehow and enraptured that instead, it is better, burning brighter than anything you have ever fantasised of—skin and sweat, muscle and bone, heart and body in rhapsody. 

One of his hands squirrels between your legs, fingertips hooking against your clit, and within seconds, you are breaking. Your vision whiting out as you slam onto him, your pussy clenching in waves, his cock almost too much as you float somewhere that is both within you and a thousand miles above. Dimly, you sense his nails scrape your flesh as he calls out your name, loudly, debauched, wrecked, a strong pulse through his length as he shudders then goes entirely still, a warmth blooming deep inside your channel that is his seed, something about it so very primaeval. 

You slump inelegantly onto his chest, huffing breaths, altered fundamentally by this magical experience. His touch is soothing, encouraging to lay upon him as he softens within you, eventually slipping out as you lay nuzzled together, exchanging soft words of sated joy—a sudden tide of fatigue lapping your edges. Fuzzily, you feel Benedict chuckle under you and, with hushed, tender words, rearrange your pliant body, rolling you onto your side and curling protectively around you, a warming presence that has sleep seizing you almost immediately.

Awakening the following morning in Benedict’s arms is sublime, his stubbled lips grazing your neck as he rolls you under his warm weight. Just as your body stirs under his sensual kisses, he stops and sighs, dropping his forehead onto your clavicle.

“I wish to spend a lifetime right here, entwined naked with you, my love, but alas, I must desist,” he laments softly. “We need to get moving…”

“You never did say your planned destination,” you point out, running your fingers into his lush hair as he tilts his handsome face up to meet your gaze.

“Did I not?” He lilts, feigning ignorance. “I blame you entirely; your beauty is far too distracting..” Flattery falling from his lips reflexively. “Well, anyway, we must make haste if we are to reach Scotland by Friday as I have planned.”

“Scotland?” you echo breathlessly. “That is so far! Why there?”

“Gretna Green, my love,” his eyes sparkling as he hovers over you, entwining the fingers of your left hands together, his thumb brushing your ring finger. “I hope you are amenable to my proposal...”

And your heart veritably explodes.

-xiii-

The journey is long but worth it. Your wedding, five days later, over the border in Scotland, is everything you could hope for—a beautiful, romantic, private moment for just the two of you, promising your lives to each other in secret. Something thrillingly illicit about its location, too, the place to which all forbidden lovers escape. You do not wear a wedding dress, just a simple light blue chiffon one you had thrown into your night bag, always a favourite since Benedict once complimented you in it. He wears a cravat in the same colour. Exchanging matching wedding bands engraved inside with the same phrase Benedict signed off his love confession with: A vila mon coeur, gardi li mo (Here is my heart, guard it well).

You are happily ensconced in his idyllic Wiltshire cottage by the time family reactions to your elopement reach you almost two weeks later. The Bridgertons are supportive if a little shocked; the dowager Viscountess is always enamoured with a dramatic love story. Your family is less so, but they cannot deny a match with a Bridgerton is no bad thing, even if it was fleeting gossip fodder. You hear from your mother that Lord Farringdon did not demand compensation for your abscondment from the altar. Apparently, you were not the first to do so. Rumour has it that the odious man is negotiating a marriage deal with the Cowpers for their wayward daughter. It may be the first time you have felt a pang of sympathy for Cressida. 

Mostly, you are grateful that the more scandalous truth surrounding your union - Benedict stealing you away on your wedding day - never becomes public knowledge. Every couple must keep some secrets from the world, no? 

Although, a couple of weeks later, on a leisurely Sunday morning, you discover your marriage can no longer be considered as such.

“Darling, you might want to see this…” Benedict drawls casually, wandering into the bathroom as you luxuriate in warm water. 

He drops the latest issue of Lady Whistledown onto a nearby stool as he tugs off his shirt, apparently planning to join you in your bath. Your mouth falls open in shock as you grab the pamphlet. But it is not from his naked form as his trousers hit the floor; it's from what you read:

Lastly, this author may have to eat her hat. News has reached me that Mr Benedict Bridgerton had indeed done the almost unthinkable and married the spirited Miss Y/n Y/l/n. They exchanged vows in a quiet ceremony far from the prying eyes of the Ton and will now settle in Wiltshire, I hear. 

“How did she find out?” you ponder aloud as he slides into the tub behind you. Surely Whistledown must be close to the Bridgertons to discover as such?

“I have not a clue. But perhaps I should send her some honey from our hives to make her headwear more digestible?” he jests, interrupting your reading by pulling you backwards into his arms. 

“Mr Bridgerton!” you chastise playfully, holding the paper aloft to save it from the sloshing he creates as he surrounds you, laughing carefree, so much delightfully naked skin around yours.

“Are you done reading Mrs Bridgerton?” His tone changes to a husky murmur in your ear, his fingers trailing distractingly upwards over your ribs under the water.

“You just brought this to me, husband,” you riposte pointedly, but your argument dies off into a wanton noise as his hands slide up and cup your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples expertly. You abandon any attempt to focus on the page, tossing the paper aside and twisting to capture his lips with yours.

Upon the floor, as water splashes onto the wood nearby, the last few sentences you missed glow in a shaft of sunlight:

Congratulations on the latest Bridgerton love match, and I wish them a lifetime of happiness. As I am certain, do all of you. 

What secrets will I unearth next, dear readers? Even I do not yet know. But I look forward to it. Don’t you?

Yours sincerely,

Lady Whistledown

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[mozart-the-meerkitten]

This popped up in my notes again and it's so weird to read eight months later after all the ups and downs of raising the babies. The absolute shock and joy I had when Maraly's five kittens were born alive and then LEELI'S six were. The stress and happiness of monitoring newborns and their weights and hearing their little squeaks and PURRS (the internet will tell you that kittens can't purr until they're a few months old. this is a lie, kittens can and do purr from BIRTH). Watching the babies grow and trying to find them homes and give ALL FOURTEEN (3 big, 11 little) kittens attention. Tulip, the happiest little kitten who had a heart condition we didn't know about and passed during her spay surgery because her heart gave out but she lived the HAPPIEST four months of life any kitten has ever had, purring like crazy through them all and as fiesty as any of her siblings (and I can't regret knowing her even though I lost her because there would have always been something missing from my life that I couldn't explain and now I've figured out she's a missing piece in my BOOKS that I started writing A DECADE AND A HALF before she was born). Finding homes for the kittens and having to say goodbye to them. Getting UPDATES from their new families about how loved they are. Learning I got to PICK A KITTEN TO KEEP and taking all of ten minutes to decide on Madia, the kitten who God literally handmade for me. How we decided to also keep her brother Farid because my mom fell in love with him. How Maraly and Leeli and Kalmar have learned to run around and play like kittens and are catching up on their lost kittenhoods. How HEALING it has been for all of us to have these precious babies, to have these little lives entrusted to us.

And then remembering before all that when I didn't even know if they would survive, or if Leeli and Maraly would survive HAVING their kittens, and now their kittens are happy and healthy and thriving and seven months old. It's wild to me.

(L to R: Maraly, Madia and Farid on our screened in porch)

Rescue Bengal Kitten update (warning for discussions of possible animal death)

I'm feeling very much like the guy who pulled over on the side of the road to rescue one kitten standing there and ended up rescuing fifteen.

We have been forced to accept that Leeli and Maraly are pregnant. Which is. upsetting, because I really don't think they're more than six months old. Like, I need to stress that as much as I want teeny tiny newborn babies to raise again I didn't want the KITTENS I rescued to be pregnant. But, unfortunately, my mom and I agree that they definitely are. Current likely theory is that when they went into heat at around 4 months (which is APPARENTLY the earliest cats can get pregnant) their former owners couldn't deal with the yowling (if you have never heard a cat in heat count yourself blessed) and instead of getting them spayed they threw them out on the streets. And the girls subsequently got pregnant.

I also have to stress that we don't know if their kittens will be born alive or survive after they're born. Maraly and Leeli (especially Leeli) were STARVING when I found them, and depending on how long they've been pregnant the unborn kittens might not have had enough nutrients to survive....

BUT if I hadn't gone and saved these kittens Maraly and Leeli would have died after they had kittens AND their kittens would have died. Guaranteed. So at least now the little girls should make it through okay and hopefully some of the kittens make it. I am already fully dedicated to doing EVERYTHING in my power to keep as many kittens alive as possible.

Uh, however this also means we'll have to care for an unknown amount of kittens soon which we weren't planning for. We've never really had a surplus of money but goshdarnit if I have to use 98% of my paycheck (the other 2% is for gas) for the whole year to pay for their food, litter and spaying and neutering I WILL do it. They don't call me a crazy cat lady for nothing.

Anyway, sorry for a more serious post about my new babies, but we could really use some prayers here. My mom especially is having a hard time wrapping her head around it. Part of me wants to be excited but I'm also sad that Maraly and Leeli don't get to be KITTENS like they should. ... but this does mean I might get to raise some kittens from newborns and my GOSH have I missed teeny tiny babies ;-;

Here's a happy, sleepy Maraly

tl;dr- my rescued kittens are pregnant and Idk how to feel about it please pray for us

[suguru-getos]

Kid Gojo goes to Kid!Fem-Reader's House

This is a part II to a drabble I wrote, Part I.

Satoru's footsteps matched hers, trailing towards an unknown path leading to a normal-looking house. It was beautiful though, bright colours, gardens had flower beds of roses, tulips, a ceramic pot with fresh water for the birds. Homely, the house looked and felt what the Gojo estate never did. For a ten year old, who wasn't accustomed to this new found feeling, Satoru didn't know what to say, how to react. He hums, "small, your house is small." kicking a piece of gravel from the pavement.

She was on her tippy-toes, reaching for the door-bell and ringing it. "Mean." She pouted, looking at Satoru with a disgusted face. Like he has shit his pants and she can smell it kind of disgusted.

"What is that face?" He fumbles, taken aback, eyes siren in offense. She shrugged, sticking her tongue out, "I make this face at meanie poopy people." She crossed her arms, always works. No matter who it is.

The faint echoes of footsteps carry from farther away in the kitchen to the hallway, becoming clearer as the door opens. "Oh hello Y/N! Welcome home sweetheart!" Her mother beams, bright and joyful. Her eyes scan the little kid next to her, from his clothes he definitely did not look homeless. Beautiful, all-knowing, almost frightening eyes. "Oh? You made a new friend?" Her mother inquires, looking at Satoru. Now, Satoru Gojo was used to people bending backwards for him, this bland reaction was refreshing.

"My name is Satoru Gojo." He hums, "She dragged me here." He scoffs. Of course not, but the heir of the Gojo clan can't look eager for some cookies?

"She did? Oh my" Her mother gasped a little, knowing the kid was just behaving of his age. "I just wanted him to taste your cookies mama, he protected my favourite water bottle tumbler from the poopie kids!" She grins, walking inside. For a moment, Satoru looks hesitant. What is he even doing, he has roles and responsibilities. Cookie-tasting is definitely not one of them. He can have cookies from any part of the world, Paris? Even London's bakeries- why even-

His trance is broken the moment his wrist is grabbed by her, cheerful eyes beaming and dragging him inside. The moment Satoru's footsteps get inside, and the delicious scent of cookie dough fills his nostrils, he decides to stay. Cookies are important. He could get cookies from anywhere but these are the best ones, yes. The girl herself, said so.

"Come sit," Her mother coos, "Satoru kun, Y/N." She hums, getting them both a chair in the dining table.

Satoru's eyes linger around, the house is cute, not too vast. The distance between him and Y/N is also minimal, because the dining table is not so big. It's perfect actually. He grins, he feels happy, the spacing makes him feel included.

"So? What is your job?" Satoru asked, crossing his arms, looking at the girl.

"My job? I dunno- mama's daughter? Though when I play Police with my friends I am never the thief!" She grins. Satoru is… jealous. Satoru is… enamoured.

"No like, okay leave it- what is your dream?" He asks again, surely there can be some similarity where he can link his life to hers.

"I am gonna be an Astronaut!" She grins wide, "Gonna see the pretty moon, the pretty stars!"

Satoru Gojo pouts, he's ten, and his birth shackled him to one role. He wants to be a sorcerer because he doesn't know any other thing. He thought being a sorcerer was his decision, training was his decision. An eerie bewilderment presses his soul, hollowing it like a cavity. Why couldn't he think about becoming someone like an Astronaut?

"When you come here next time- we should play together." Y/N hums, feet shaking in boredom.

Next time… why would there be a next time? Her mother comes in the room, freshly baked cookies with a glass of milk, a slice of the cake she just made.

"Oh drooling!" Y/N whines, watching her mom place them on the table.

Satoru acts, sophisticated, there is no way some cookies would make him say that, he's not a dog! But they smell so good- NO WAY!

Y/N quickly takes the first bite, happy shakes and wiggles follow with whines. "Oh my god mama this is the best!" Satoru looks flustered, hesitantly taking a bite as well. The flavours melt in his mouth, it was perfect. Wow… "This is good." He announces, watching her mother grin and leave the two alone. He gets headpats, Y/N gets headpats. Satoru doesn't get headpats, the flustered expression on his face is evidence enough.

"Y-you were saying?" He asked, taking another bite.

"Oh yeah! I was saying, when you c'mere next time, we should play House." "House?" What is that game?

"Like, house? Or we could play Police too…" She grins, so excited, so thoughtless.

"I don't play kid's games. I am ten years old." Satoru scoffed.

"Aw- okay." She looked down, taking another bite, interest and excitement killed. Satoru's eyes glare at her, stop doing that! "Maybe just once." Satoru Gojo was kind, he knew he was… just didn't want to show it to others especially in a scathing world like the Jujutsu community where he is worshipped. "Okay! Let's play House then!" She grins, perking right back up.

Ten year old Satoru Gojo had already promised a second meet to play House. Is this how you make friends, he wonders…

[ace-turned-confused]

planted in your garden | joel miller x f!reader

joel masterlist | read on ao3

summary: joel has always shown his love for you through flowers, and now it's your turn to do the same word count: 1k warnings: 18+ only, reader has tattoos & is shorter than joel, joel being soft & lovey-dovey & just the best in general, bit of spiciness at the end a/n: written for @morallyinept's Fauna & Flora Challenge ❤️ not beta’d or any of that jazz, please enjoy :)

If there’s one thing you know about Joel Miller, it’s that he will always find a reason to buy you flowers, no need for a special occasion. It’s been a long hard week and I wanted to get you something, saw these pretty flowers and thought of my pretty girl, got them just because I love you. Whether it’s an entire bouquet or just a few wild stems tied together by a ribbon, you’re sure he’s given you more flowers than you’ve received in your entire life.

It started on your birthday — you told him you hadn’t planned anything because you didn’t want a big fuss and it wasn’t a number worth celebrating, and he insisted on bringing you dinner so you wouldn’t have to spend the evening on your own. Every number is worth celebrating, it means you’ve been around another whole year. You were floored when he showed up on your doorstep, pizza boxes in one hand and a bunch of red and pink tulips in the other.

“Saw the ink on your arm there and just assumed they were your favourite. None of the stores ever have anything fresh or pretty enough, so I just cut these from my back garden.”

Joel Miller. Cut red and pink tulips for you. From his own garden.

You’d only known each other a few weeks at that stage, and he’d been more observant in that short time than any other man you’d met. At first, you didn’t read into it too much, he’s just doing something nice for you. You told yourself it didn’t matter that this ‘something nice’ was the single nicest thing anyone ever did for you.

You ate your takeout pizzas and talked for hours that night, record player on in the background, sharing stories of years gone by and remembering the person you each used to be. A few stray tears even slipped down your cheek at one point — Joel moved to sit close next to and almost on instinct you rested your head on his shoulder. It was oddly comforting knowing just how vulnerable you could be around him. He was a kind soul, a rather rare find in today’s world, and you found it surprisingly easy to open up to him.

You asked him for a hug that night and he wrapped his arms around you, holding you firmly against him, his chin resting on the top of your head and it was the safest you felt in years. Of course, and next time you don’t have to ask. You smiled into him, letting out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. He eventually pulled back to check on you and planted a hand on your waist; he bid you goodnight with a wink, called you sweetheart and went home, leaving you standing like an idiot, mouth hanging open in a daze and still feeling the heat that had radiated off his palm and the grip of his fingers through your shirt on your skin.

‘Sweetheart’ played in your mind over and over for hours, days, weeks after that — soon enough you acknowledged that you weren’t immune to his charms and you’ve never looked back.

The flowers aren’t only for you to enjoy — you noticed early on that Joel takes great pride in his garden. The lawn always mowed, flower beds always with manicured edges, bees and butterflies in abundance. You’ve spent many hours lounging in the sun just admiring him, your book long abandoned — temples and greying curls damp with sweat, t-shirt clinging to his arms and back, gym shorts showing him off deliciously, all while he potters around tending to his garden, refilling a bird bath, touching up the fence and spewing out endless plant facts.

He even expanded the bed of tulips, planting bulbs of different varieties and an array of colours — ones with frilly edges, ones with pointed petals, and even blooms that look almost hand-painted in their beauty. He told you he’d been planning this for months, long before he met you, but you knew that part of him was doing this for you, too.

Late one night he finally told you the red and pink of your birthday flowers represented eternal love and affection, and sheepishly admitted he only remembered that once he’d already knocked on your door. He had hoped you wouldn’t ask him the meanings that night and figured there must’ve been someone looking out for him when you simply accepted them with a dazzling smile and that twinkle in your eyes. He wonders how things might have played out differently if you had asked him that night.

Now it’s Joel’s birthday and you want to do something special for him — so here you are, lying underneath him in a matching set, simple and white and covered in daisies. Propped up by his elbows, he traces over a flower right in the centre of your bra.

“You gonna tell me anything about them?”

“Daisies supposedly represent innocence and purity…” His voice fades off as he trails his fingers featherlight across you, goosebumps rising in his wake. With a faint smile pulling at his lips, he lifts his gaze to look you in the eye. “But something tells me you already knew that.”

He leans to kiss you, tongue licking into your mouth and you feel him pressed against your core, thick and heavy. You spread your legs wider to accommodate him and he grinds his hips into you, your fingers raking through his hair and tugging ever so slightly. He pulls back and starts snaking a hand down between you, now taken by the same applique daisies on your panties.

“Not sure those words apply right now, though,” he whispers to you, knuckles grazing the fabric.

“What, ‘innocence and purity’? You don’t think that’s true about daisies?”

“I ain’t talkin’ bout the daisies, sweetheart.” He smirks at you and you simply grin at him and huff a laugh in response as he shuffles down your body to pull your panties down your legs.

comments & reblogs are hugely appreciated, forehead kisses to all 💜

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[dumbbitchgalore]

Old man!Price fixing his and Birdie's home 🌷

Hammering and clamoring can be heard from outside of the home. Birdie looks out the kitchen window with a smile etched onto their face. Blissful domesticity, a dream of John's that has come to fruition after years of longing.

John finds himself outside putting the pieces together for the flowerbed, pots of tulips in disarray waiting to be planted within the bed. Pink, white and purple petals hiding its beauty from the world lingering for a bit of nurture from the pair.

His love walks out onto the patio with a cold beer to satiate his thirst knowing that he wouldn't ask for it himself lest to have burden you. Sauntering over to him, you place a chaste kiss on his cheek before nuzzling against his bread breathing in the scent of his aftershave.

You moves his hands away from the hammer and hand him a beer bottle. You both sit down on the edge of the patio looking at the unfinished projects scattered around the backyard. A content smile is splattered across your face as you reminise how far you two have come. From deciding to start a conversation with the older gentlemen in the pub to filling a home with the things you both love.

"A penny for your thoughts, birdie?" John asks, taking a sip of her drink.

You chuckle softly, resting your head against his shoulder. "Hm, just thinking how good life is right now." You respond sweetly.

John hums in response, putting his hand on your thigh, rubbing it soothingly. You lift your head up from his shoulder, grabbing his chin and turning his head to face you.

"Wanna see those eyes I fell in love with, baby." You whisper, leaning in.

John looks at you, studying ever aspect of your face. Your eyes, nose, lips, the way your hair is styled, everything and anything. You both lean in, closer and closer until your breath mingles with one another.

Scooting closer to him, your eyes flutter closed. Lips pressing together softly as you both indulge in the fluffiness of the moment, adoration for the other pouring out of your souls. Moaning softly, you wrap your arms around his neck and pushes him to lay down on the patio as you lay on top of him.

Breaking the kiss only out of necessity, you pull away giving him a small yet endearing smile. You run your fingers through his hair, peppering his jaw with a few kisses accompained by a giggle or two.

"Let your birdie love you, baby."