#sunken-standard

[nightingale-prompts]

Ghost Beauty Standards

So what if ghosts have their own scale for beauty?

Waxy pale skin, half-lidded eyes, empty eyes, colorless lips, ashen complexion, and sunken cheeks.

These are considered the most attractive features of a ghost without the extra bells and whistles.

Tim did not know this when he sat at his desk after pulling a week straight of sleepless case-solving and his desk neighbor was staring at him.

Danny had never seen anyone more beautiful until he noticed Tim. He looked like he could drop dead at any moment. Did he even drink water? Eating?

Those beautiful glassy vacant eyes made Danny blush. He couldn't take his eyes off him.

When class ended Tim sat up Danny heard his back crack from his still position. Thoughts of rigor mortis filled his head and the sound of popping bones was almost a turn-on. Danny didn't even know what that said about him.

Danny had to consider what to do next to tame his feelings. He could stop his attraction by helping his classmate improve his health. Or he could satisfy his urges by courting him.

[wheresarizona]

Columba 

summary: It isn’t until you’re in his home that you learn it’s General Marcus Acacius who’s summoned you for your services—you’re not sure why he did, when the other courtesans standing beside you, hoping to be chosen by him, have bodies that look nothing like yours.

pairing: Marcus Acacius/Plus Size f!reader (Courtesan)

rating: E (18+!! This is smut. No y/n, explicit smut, plus size reader, courtesan reader, age gap (reader is of legal age in today’s standards), takes place pre-Gladiator 2, dommy Marcus Acacius (loves giving orders), he’s a tiny bit possessive, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, rough sex, backshots, woman on top, oral sex (m receiving), vaginal fingering, breast worship, hair pulling (m receiving), slight breeding kink, (1) pussy slap, dirty talk, spanking, spit mention, some biting, with hair like that he wants it pulled, some sweetness at the end) 

word count: 4.8k+

a/n: I took one look at Marcus’ hair and immediately thought, that guy likes his hair pulled. I also decided that since he spends weeks to months with a bunch of men at a time, when he comes home, he really appreciates a curvy woman. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d be able to write anything for him until I saw the movie, but the trailer got me. This is unbeta’d, all mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

Masterlist

It was the marble bust atop a pedestal that revealed whose home you were in. The opulence of the domus’ atrium, with its four tall marble columns surrounding the impluvium's shallow, sunken pool in the middle of the room and the compluvium’s opening in the ceiling above it, allowing the moon’s light to filter in, told you whoever lived here had notoriety—then you saw the face carved out of stone, recognizing the curls and strong nose you'd only ever seen as he was paraded past you down the street in honor of his latest victory, and you knew.

General Marcus Acacius is a man feared by many for his ferocity and skills in battle. It's been said Mars, the God of War, blessed his birth, while others believe his bloodline is descended from the God himself. What you know to be true is he's a gifted General that the Emperors and Gods have smiled upon, and in his presence, an intimidating figure you didn't dare look at unless you were addressed.

There are four women standing to your right, all of you younger than him, naked, and courtesans of the highest standard—well-educated and well-versed in politics along with the pleasures of the body—and highly sought out by society's elite. 

Marcus is at the opposite end, silently making his way down the line with what you can only assume is a scrutinizing eye, and you fear there's been a mistake that you're here—the other courtesans are all built similarly with small breasts, flattened stomachs and thinner waists than yours, whereas you’re curvier, and have more meat on your bones, with your bigger chest, soft noticeable belly, and grabbable hips. Clearly, he requested a particular type of woman, and it doesn't appear you're it. Staring down at the tiled floor seems better than seeing the disappointment on his face when he gets to you. 

His sandaled feet come into view as he stands before you, and you can feel his eyes roaming over your bare body—golden snake bracelets coil around each of your upper arms, and at the unexpected gentle touch of his fingertips to one, you flinch. 

"Do I frighten you?" His voice is a low, deep rasp that shivers down your spine. 

"No, Sir," you answer.

His thumb strokes over the snake's head and along its body. "Why do you flinch?" 

Raising your head, you see he’s wearing a white tunic with a gold pattern lining around his neck, down his arms, and along the hem, a belt securing it at his waist; golden cuffs covered his wrists. You’re met with dark eyes, a furrow crinkling between his eyebrows—his brown hair with a kiss of gray, curls like waves on his head, his facial hair dotted with a few silvery strands. It takes you a second to answer his question because the glimpses of him you caught during victory parades and the marble bust didn't prepare you for his beauty. 

Mars and Venus have bestowed their blessings upon him. 

“My apologies, Sir,” you finally reply. “It was simply surprise at being graced by your touch.” His expression is difficult to read, so you continue speaking, “I’ve heard of your prowess in battle that inspires songs and how your enemies tremble before you, but I do not believe I have reason to fear you—unless that is something you wish. Do you wish for me to be frightened of you?” 

Some men liked it if you acted afraid of them to feel powerful. Some men, usually the big, tough ones, liked to bury their faces in your bosom while you held them. The slight show of relief on Marcus’ face when you said you had no reason to fear him made you suspect he’d be in the latter category. 

“No.” His eyes are locked onto yours. “I do not need another to fear me. I wish for you to want my touch.” 

“I wish for more than your touch,” you reply. “I wish to feel your lips on mine and your weight on top of me, I wish to feel your cock inside me and to hear the sounds you make when you peak, and I do wish for your touch; I wish to feel your hands claim my body as yours.” 

His gaze turns to one of desire, and it makes you smile. 

"You," he says. "Stay. The rest of you,” he announces, keeping his eyes on yours, “leave us.”

The invitation the messenger brought to your home the day prior did not state who requested your services; it simply said the person was a public figure, and the woman picked would be paid handsomely.

The servants, who stood as still as statues against a wall, scurried to assist each of the other women with redressing.

"Come," he orders, offering you a hand you accept. He leads you to a room you realize is his personal quarters when you spot his armor in a corner, Medusa's golden head on the cuirass shining in the candlelight—she wards off evil and offers protection. There's a bed against the wall opposite the door, and he lets go of your hand, slipping off his sandals by the doorway before walking over to a thin table laden with a jug, cups, and a bowl of berries and grapes. 

"Care for some wine?" he asks without looking at you while pouring himself a cup. 

His body is tense, and you’re assuming you’re here to help him relax—he arrived home only days ago from war, and you got a chance to see him rolling down the street on a chariot as he waved to the cheering masses. It would make sense that he could use somebody with your expertise to get him to unwind. 

“No, thank you, Sir,” you answer, and he faces you again, taking a drink. “It’s a great honor that you chose me, and I do not wish to forget a single moment.” 

His cup lowers, and you're surprised to find he’s wearing a little smile. He twists to set his wine down next to the jug, and removes the cuffs from his wrists, setting them onto the table then his eyes are on yours. 

"Marcus," he says, and it only takes a few strides to have him in front of you again. 

"I'm sorry?" you ask.

His attention moves to your body, and he’s not looking upon you like an object or something he’s just purchased as most men do; his gaze is appreciative, the same kind of look you could imagine was on his face when he stared at art that pleased him. Your figure isn’t the ideal for most Roman women—your hips are too wide, your breasts are too large, your ass is too big, your thighs are too thick, and your stomach is too noticeable—yet, there are many men who sought you out and paid well for your time, and it seems the General is one of them. 

"My name." He walks around you, his fingers sliding along your upper back from shoulder to shoulder. “Call me Marcus. I want you to be familiar with how my name tastes on your tongue.” 

The touch and his words cause your nipples to harden and goosebumps to rise on your skin.

"Marcus,” you say. 

He’s in front of you again, his darkened eyes on yours. His big hands grip your waist, pulling you into him, and he shoves his face into the crook of your neck, feeling him inhale deeply. “Gods, you’re the best thing I’ve smelled in months.” The words are said against your flesh. “Like a meadow of flowers in Spring, and I fail to remember the last time I felt such softness.” He squeezes the fleshy handles at your hips and goes lower to grab handfuls of your ass, then runs his hands up your back. “Upon hearing your description,” he says, “I knew you’d be perfect, but what I imagined has no comparison to seeing your beauty with my own eyes.” His admission catches you off guard as it sounds as though he always intended to pick you from the line of women. It’s curious that he even invited the others if his mind had been set beforehand. He straightens, meeting your gaze. “Take off my clothes.” 

There's no need to reply; you just do as he ordered, getting his belt undone, the leather falling to the floor, then pulling his tunic over his head, it meeting the same fate as his belt. 

He’s completely nude, standing at his full height before you. 

You expected the scars etched all over his body, the evidence that he'd lay down his life for Rome without hesitation. There's a long, jagged one across his right pec, silvered with age, that has you forgetting yourself and softly pressing your fingertips to it.

He snatches your smaller hand, pulling it away from his marred skin. 

"My apologies," you quickly say, bowing your head in submission. "I shouldn't have touched you without permission." 

"You may touch me." Once again, he surprises you by putting the flat of your palm against the scar, his other hand grabbing your chin to lift your face. 

From his reaction to your fingers on him, you think he hasn’t been with a woman in quite some time, and you hope you can make up for all the nights he spent alone. 

It seems he's done with the pleasantries when his lips crush into yours. It's all of the encouragement you need, kissing him back while rubbing your palms up his broad chest, feeling his warmth. You snake a hand down his stomach through the trail of hair low on his belly to take his half-hard cock into your hand—he groans and twitches in your hold.

He truly has the Gods' favor—a talented General, handsome and well-endowed. 

With his hands on your waist, he walks you backward to the bed, laying you on the mattress. He's on top of you, deepening the kiss with his tongue pressing into your mouth, his hand palming your tit, making you wet with arousal and your body heat. 

It's fascinating how he's defying all of your expectations. The men who seek you out after spending months fighting are often rough and brutish, using you however they want to release their tension. There's never kissing or offers of drink; it's orders to suck their cocks, or to get on the bed in their desired position—and here's Marcus kissing down your body, along the skin of your neck to your chest. Most of his weight is on his knees between your legs while bending forward over you, and the only word you can think of to describe it is he's worshipping your breasts. He has them in his hands, moving from one to the other, licking, sucking, and nibbling on your nipples and soft skin, the sensations making your pussy weep with need. 

“Gods, Marcus,” you moan. He has you squirming with how good it feels, your fingers pushing into his curls. He takes a pebbled bud between his teeth and gently tugs. “Oh,” you gasp, your hands tightening in the tousled waves on his head.

He releases your nipple. “Harder,” he rasps, then flicks his tongue against your stiff peak, and you do as requested, pulling his hair harder. A loud groan rumbles from his chest as he continues laving at your tits, skimming his hand down your stomach, your skin tingling under his fingertips, until he’s sliding two fingers through your wet slit. You tighten your hold on his head, your toes curling when he starts rubbing your clit, and the realization hits that he intends for you to have just as much enjoyment as him. 

"Marcus," you whine.

He’s one of those men who has you praying that he’ll wish for your company again, and you wouldn’t even make him pay if you got another chance to warm his bed. 

The push of his thick digit into your pussy makes your breath hitch at the slight stretch, his thumb pressing to your sensitive bundle of nerves, moving side to side—you know he’s going to make you come, and you silently thank the Gods.

His finger is pushing in and out of you, his thumb continuing its movements, and he lifts his face to look you in the eyes, his own are so black there’s hardly a sliver of brown remaining. "Come for me," he commands, slipping a second digit inside you—you’re so wet you can hear the slick slide of his fingers pumping into you. The muscles in your belly are tightening, and the fire in your core is building. "Come for me, sweet girl." His head dips to lightly bite your nipple before soothing it with his tongue. "Once you come, I'll do as you wish and sheath my cock into this perfect cunt." 

The hot heat of his mouth envelops your pebbled bud, and he sucks—it's your undoing; your eyes close as you fall over the edge, coming with a moan of his name. His digits and mouth continue to extend your ecstasy while your chest heaves with labored breaths and your heart pounds. 

He lets go of your nipple with a wet pop, his hand sliding from your pussy, up your stomach, leaving a trail of your release on your skin. His voice deepens, “You’ve done well for me, and I keep my word��turn over.” 

He helps you to roll onto your front, and you get up onto your hands and knees—a familiar position. He takes a moment to admire you in front of him, his palms feeling the thickness of your thighs and hips. His fingers dig into your plump asscheeks as he spreads them and dips his head, hearing and feeling him spit between them, the hot saliva dripping from your asshole down to your opening. He shuffles up behind you, sliding his cock through the wetness of your come and his spit to lubricate himself, then notches it at your entrance—you both moan as he slowly starts feeding himself into you. 

Gods, he’s big. 

There’s a slight burn with how he’s stretching you, your inner walls having to accommodate his ample girth, and once he’s pressed all the way to the root inside you, a breath leaves you that you hadn't realized you'd been holding in. 

He has a tight grip on your waist and pulls out almost all the way, immediately pushing back into you hard enough there's a clap when his hips hit your ass. This was expected, Marcus setting up a rhythm that punches the air from your lungs each time he thrusts forward—he’s working out what he doesn’t wish to feel, and with how slippery it is between your legs, he's moving easily, and the brutal pace feels amazing. 

Many times, you’ve had to fake your enjoyment to make those employing you think they’re talented lovers—the majority are selfish in bed and care little about your comfort but want their egos stroked. Marcus, on the other hand, earned your favor when he took the time to ready you with his fingers and allowed you to climax. 

He's pounding into you, the collide of his body against yours making your asscheeks shake, and with how his cock is pressing into something truly divine, he’s also earned your screams of his name and whatever incoherent words are babbling from your mouth—he has you dizzy with pleasure, heat coiling in your belly, and there’s no doubting the Goddess of Beauty and Sex has given him her blessing. 

Sounds are spilling unbidden from your lips, Marcus loudly grunting with each stroke, the wet slap of skin hitting skin echoing in the room, and you look over your shoulder—the candlelight around the room shows the glisten of sweat on his golden skin. His head is thrown back, his eyes closed, and his jaw slack. Hair is sticking to his forehead, and a beautiful rosy flush has begun on his chest, rising up his neck to paint his cheeks. You can't think of another you've laid with who looked so breathtaking while taking their pleasure, and you could only imagine how glorious he’d look on the battlefield. You don't know what comes over you, reaching your hand back to touch his hip, and suddenly, he’s looking at you, his eyes glazed with lust. 

It’s as though he’s been in a trance, losing himself in your body, and now he’s come back to be in the moment with you. He falls forward, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of you, blanketing your back and slowing his pace. His chin is on your shoulder, and he bites the shell of your ear; all of his weight goes onto one arm to free up the other that roughly grabs your breast and plucks at your nipple.

“You take me so well,” he says into your ear, his cock continuing to slide in and out of you. “Your sweet little cunt will milk me dry, and then I’ll have you again and again after that to keep you full of my seed.” 

His words steal a moan from your lips. 

“Does that please you, my sweet girl?” he asks. “You wish for more of me? Has another ever fucked you so good?” He gets his hand between your legs to circle the pearl of your pleasure, and your jaw drops, eyes closing—he’s going to make you come again. “Answer me,” he growls, lightly slapping your clit, and you clench around him. 

It’s challenging to think, but you say, “No,” and push your ass back against him as he thrusts forward, fucking yourself on him to get closer and closer to your end. “I’ve never had such fortune.” 

“You do now—by morning, I’ll have you ruined for any other man, and your cunt won’t soon forget the shape of my cock.” 

He means every word that slips from his tongue, and it sets the fire in your belly ablaze. You’re holding yourself up on shaky limbs, the muscles in your stomach knotting up—you’re close.

“Marcus,” you moan. 

His warm breath tickles your ear as he speaks into it: “I love how my name sounds from your lips. I know you’re close. Give in so I can feel you ascend to the heavens.” 

His words, the fullness of his thick shaft moving in and out of you, and his fingers swirling around your sensitive bundle at the apex of your thighs has you shattering—stars burst behind your eyelids as white-hot pleasure erupts in your center, your pussy clamping down on him hard enough he slows to a stop, and groans in your ear.

You exhale panted breaths, your heart beating rapidly, and the blissful euphoria ripples through your body, slowly ebbing away. 

Somehow, you find your voice, "Allow me to ride you." 

He kisses your shoulder, his beard scratching against your bare skin. "You want to mount me?" he asks. 

"Yes."

"Then you shall." 

He pulls out of you, an achy groan leaving him as he lies beside you on his back, and you get up onto your knees. He draws your attention with how he’s splayed out on the mattress, his long legs slightly spread and arms crossed over his head. His cock is still hard, it shiny with your juices, and resting against his lower belly, cushioned by the tantalizing path of hair that led directly to it—and he’s looking up at you, his eyes dark with want that keep lowering to your bosom, and back up to your eye line, the pink of his tongue wetting his bottom lip, that you suddenly wish to bite. 

There’s the common knowledge about Marcus all of Rome is aware of—the family he comes from and the military achievements that have led to him being the victorious General the Gods have blessed the city with, and now you’re versed in his more private attributes—he likes his women to be sturdy with sizeable breasts, he enjoys the pleasurable pain of his hair pulled, he’s a generous lover, he prefers to be in control unless you can tempt him enough to hand over the reins. It’s quite tempting for him to lie back and watch your tits bounce as you ride him. 

Shuffling in place to face him, taking his hard length in hand—he didn’t ask, and you didn’t offer, yet you want to take care of him like he took care of you, so you scoot back enough that you can bend down at the waist, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock.

The sound of Marcus’ loud moan and the way his back arches as if it were the string of a bow shoots straight to your cunt—you can taste the mix of your essence and his arousal that’s steadily dribbling from the sensitive head that you lick and suckle; your hand easily stroking up and down the sheath of skin on his shaft. The muscles in his thighs and stomach have tensed like it’s taking everything in him to hold back and not fill your mouth with his come.

“Enough,” he grits the order through his teeth, and his palm lands on the side of your ass with a hard slap that echoes against the walls, the sharp sting getting a moan out of you—your head lifts off of him to see he’s scowling. “I’m not spilling down your throat,” he continues and smacks your ass again. “Ride me, or I’ll have you under me.” 

“Apologies, Marcus,” you reply demurely and sit up on your knees once more. Quickly, you move, throwing a leg over his waist to have your thick thighs hugging his hips. You rise, grabbing his cock, you press to your entrance, and you watch his face as you slowly start to impale yourself on him, relishing in how his mouth falls open and the tight grip he has on the meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into them hard enough it bordered on painful. 

The fullness is incredible when you sit flush against him, and you love how he fills you. Your palms find purchase on his broad chest, and you rise until only the tip of him remains inside of you, and you drop back down—the rhythm you set has you moving in his lap, up and down in quick succession, Marcus groaning, his eyes locked on the jiggle of your breasts. 

Sweat forms on your skin, feeling it on your forehead and a single drop sliding down your spine, your eyes closed as you focus, your moans stuttering each time you sink onto him. 

His hands are resting on your backside, rising and falling with you, his voice rough with pleasure, “That’s it, ride me, bounce on my cock.”

This isn’t about you, and though it feels good riding him, your goal is helping him achieve his own high, and you’re determined to do so—your hands leave him to press your tits together, and you gasp in surprise when he sits up and shoves his face into them. Your pace doesn’t waver, and you look at him to see he’s keeping himself up with an arm braced on the bed behind him, the other hand grabbing a handful of your ass, and you know he’s not going to last much longer. 

Your fingers slide into the unruly curls at the back of his head, and you yank them hard to make him look at you, Marcus hissing while his cock twitches inside you. In this position, you’re taller, and he gazes up to meet your eyes. 

“I want you to come,” you pant, continuing to fuck yourself on him. “I want to feel you flood my cunt with your seed.” The noise he makes sounds like a whine. “Then I want you to do it again, and again after that—I want you to fill me to the point I’m brimming with you, and you’re in me for days.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut as he groans out a long, drawn-out Fuck

With his beautiful neck on display, you duck your head and lick up the taut skin of his throat, wishing you could suck a mark into it to remind him of you for a while after you part ways. His free hand roughly grabs your chin to pull you close enough for him to slot his lips against yours, and you have to slow to a grind as he messily kisses you, shoving his tongue into your mouth. 

He breaks away to fall back onto the mattress, his fingers getting a tight grip on your ass, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you enough to start thrusting up into your soaked pussy rapidly—he’s grunting while baring his teeth to chase his high, and all you can do is press your palms to his chest for balance while keeping yourself raised enough for him to pound into you. 

The slick push and pull of him, moving in and out of you, has you chanting his name, and it sounds wet between your legs, hearing the clap of skin on skin of him plowing into you. Perspiration makes his tan flesh glint under the candle's light, his hair is a mess atop his head, and his expression is wild; it’s no surprise when his strokes get uneven and his eyes close. Marcus tugs your ass down to bury himself as far as possible in you as he gives in, coming with a guttural groan—you feel his cock jerk and the wet pulse as he paints your insides with spurts and spurts of his spend, wringing himself out until his body goes completely lax.

He pulls you forward to lie on top of him, wrapping his arms around your middle, and turns you both onto your sides. There’s a hiss that slips from his lips when he removes his softening length from your cunt, and you smile at Marcus sliding down the bed far enough for his face to nuzzle in your bosom while hugging you tight. Your fingers stroke through his sweat-damp curls, his hums of appreciation sounding like the purr of a cat. 

Minutes pass in silence as your breaths even out and your hearts slow. After some time, he says something you can’t make out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” you reply. 

His head lifts, and he kisses under your chin. “Stay,” he says again. 

“I have no intention of leaving. I’m here until you send me away.” 

“And if I don’t wish to send you away?” 

His lips trail along your jaw. 

Your eyebrows pull together. “As I said, I’m here until you request my leave.” 

“And if I never request your leave?” 

He’s kissing your neck now, the question making your eyes round. “You intend for me to be your mistress?” 

It’s not uncommon for a courtesan to become one’s mistress. Some of you are from families of wealth and do this line of work for the powerful connections, while others are freedwomen who’ve worked their way up to earn their notoriety—either case, courtesans are respected and thought to make great mistresses. 

“That is all I can offer since I have no plans to marry,” he answers. “You can stay here with or without me when I’m ordered away, and whatever is left of my salary and spoils of war after the household debts are paid, you may keep.”

He makes you frown. 

“Why me?”

Marcus gets his arm out from under you and scoots up the mattress to look you in the eyes. 

“You’re everything I desire in a woman with your beauty and intellect, and you can sate my needs in bed—you’re perfect, and I want you all to myself. I do not wish to share you with anyone else.”

It’s in this moment you realize you’re the one in control here—you don’t need him, you’re self-sufficient, and there are many who’d eagerly take his place, but your looks are rare in your profession, and he needs his deal to be enticing enough for you to take it. 

“What if I decline your offer?” 

“Then I pray you’ll allow me to keep your company until I receive my next orders.” 

He seems to be a good, honorable man who wants to please you, and he had you tempted to accept on the merit of his skills in bed alone—there’s just something that won’t leave your mind. 

“Before I make my decision, answer this question: if you believe me to be so perfect, why were the others here?” 

He presses his large palm to your cheek. “It was in your power to deny me your company, and though the other women weren’t of my tastes, they were better than nothing.” 

You see no flaws in his answer. 

“I accept your offer on one condition.”

“And that is?”

You no longer find him intimidating, and you’re now comfortable brushing errant hairs off his forehead and sliding your fingers through the curls above his ears. 

Your eyes lock onto his. “You return home to me,” you tell him. “You fight with the might of Mars, and you always return home to me.” 

That earns you a small smile, and he takes your hand into his, kissing the center of your palm. 

“I will, my Dove.” 

Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know!

[geopsych]

Bridget being cute and coy, for feline Friday. I’m told by @sunken-standard who gave Bridget to me, that her wiggles and rolls like this are a family trait. But don’t be fooled: when I’ve reached for that soft belly I’ve ended up wearing a bandage.

[blvdheart]

ALL THAT GRACE, ALL THAT BODY

→ you wash the grime off your boyfriend’s body after he returns from a mission!!

CW: x gn!reader, fluff, established relationship, i think that’s it!!

WC: 800+

NOTE: i didn’t really imagine this with any leon in particular ˃ᴗ˂ just a short fic hehe i haven’t really written anything in a while…let there be no typos

MASTERLIST

Kissing and sex can be casual, in some cases. Hook up culture and games like seven minutes in heaven and truth or dare allow for them to be. In the heat of the moment, specks of unique imperfections are completely missed.

There is nothing casual, however, about the act of running your hands through someone’s skin and hair with the intent of cleaning them and nurturing them back to a better state. It’s the exact scene that played behind a particular shower curtain.

A chaste kiss was pressed against the mole on his neck, and another one landed on the healed up scar tissue on his shoulder. Steamy water washed away your gentle touches, leaving a blank canvas for you to adorn with affection over and over again.

For the most part, Leon didn’t speak much during this unless you voiced the thoughts in your head, he was too caught up in enjoying your caresses. The only think he requested was for there to be no talks about his missions and work while in the shower, he wanted to focus on you and not the hell he just returned from. Thankfully, he didn’t return too battered up this time. Just a couple nips and bruises, nothing fractured or broken like other unfortunate times.

His skin was already reddening just a tinge from the temperature, similar to the shade he turned whenever you littered gentle nips against his neck. But he always asked for the water to be turned up high, he was used to it. Before he met you he had felt so lonely and hot water had always been a comfort for him. Plus, colder water just reminded him of when he’d try to sober up after some drinks, terrible terrible times.

“You know the drill! Close your eyes for me.”

His eyelashes fluttered as he followed your instructions. Hands perched themselves on your hips so he wouldn’t lose his balance. You began threading your shampoo lathered palms and fingers through his hair, gently rubbing his scalp.

“Mm…” He purred contentedly, his tense shoulders relaxing. Leon was almost tempted to slump against you, would you hold him until the end of times? He’d like to think the answer is yes. “You should work in one of those uh…what’s the name? Those…head spa places? You’d put others out of business.”

“Yeah? Does it really feel that good?”

“Y’know, you ask me that every time, hell yes. Feels like my brain is turning to mush. Careful sweetheart, I might just topple over you.”

“Pfft.”

You pushed all his hair back. He looked otherworldly. One look at him, and no one would believe that he’s a man keeping the world safe with a mountain’s weight of survivor’s guilt on his shoulders. How could he look so tranquil?

It was no use, you shook the thought away. You’d ask him another time.

“It kinda pisses me off how good-looking you are.” You whisper to him, washing the residue of shampoo off your hands before cupping his face. Once upon a time, his cheeks had been more sunken in. But they had gotten fuller being in a relationship with you.

“When did you become such a flatterer?” He asked, the corner of his lips twitching into a smile. Just a subtle one.

“I dunno, maybe the moment I laid eyes on you.” You tug him more towards the water, washing away the shampoo from his hair as he lowered his head. “I’m pretty hard to please y’know…got really high standards.”

“No way I met all of them.”

“Passed with flying colors. You raised the bar a bit, actually. Think you’ve got me wrapped around your finger for eternity.”

With a washcloth, you cleaned the expanse of his skin, leaving it smelling faintly of rosemary. Your water bill is begging you to hurry your pace, but you went as slow as a snail.

Thank God he could finally open his eyes again, there was nothing he loved more than having his sight on you.

If only you could see yourself from his perspective. He saw everything. The way you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth while you did your best to wash around one of his wounds, you didn’t need to be so gentle with him but you were anyway, and the glimmer in your eyes when you took a brief peek at his face.

“Sorry, baby…” Your murmur was accompanied by a wince when you thought you rubbed too harshly. It felt like a tickle to him though, nothing more, and he reassured you of that.

One minute turned into five, then five into ten, then ten into fifteen. Ten of those minutes were dedicated to cherishing the body that belonged to the recipient of your adoration.

The white noise of running water came to an end with a twist of your wrist. He pulled you close, curling his fingers under your jaw as he leaned in to kiss your lips. It was a small token of appreciation for how tender you always were with him. Droplets from his hair fell onto you, for some reason it felt intimate. “Thanks…I feel as good as new.”

“You should get some shut eye after this, when’s the last time you slept?”

“Been a while.” God, he didn’t even remember. His assignment had been long and frankly he hadn’t had the luxury of resting.

Leon shook his head before scrunching his hair with a smaller towel that hung from the curtain rod, some of the water on his hair went flying.

“Bad dog!” You couldn’t help but giggle.

He shot you an amused huff. “Yeah yeah, my bad.”

Accepting love had been hard, but you were full of it and oh so willing to give it that Leon had grown to depend on you.

Maybe you and him were meant for one another.

[jiubilant]

“Get up,” whispers Camilla Valeria, patting the face of the stranger in her bed. “Get up! My brother’s back early from Delphine’s.”

In a few days, the woman sprawled in Camilla’s strewn sheets will be renamed by a thunderclap. Dragons will dread her. Skalds will sing of her first battle-feats. Now she twists her face, assailed by hurried hands and the light lancing in from the window, and makes a muzzy noise.

“Here,” says Camilla. “Here, your shirt, your breeks, your rock—”

The voice that will kindle fires is hoarse with sleep. “Dragonstone.”

“—your belt, your boots—”

The woman in the bed, with groggy amusement, lifts her chin. “And?”

Camilla blinks down at her. Then, with a swift, sweet shopgirl’s smile, she drops a kiss on the other woman’s lips.

“I think you’re right,” she says, breathless. “I’ll marry Faendal. Then I won’t have to put up with Sven’s mother.” She grins down at her companion. “Unless you have a farm you haven’t told me about?”

The woman who will be called Dragonborn smiles with some effort.

“No,” she says, and stretches like a dancer. Her bruises burn. “I don’t have anything."

* * *

She has the rock—the Dragonstone, she corrects herself, following the Jarl’s plodding packhorse down the switchbacks of the Hvit. She has, too, the hundred aches and scrapes suffered in Helgen—she tries not to think of the screams, the charred-meat smell, the severed heads rolling from the upended basket—and last night in the barrow of the wight. The thing had probably been interred with the rock in its frail arms. But the ages had crumbled armor to rust and bones to dust; she’d lifted the Dragonstone from the sunken cavity of its chest, choking every Khefrish prayer she knew for quieting the dead. When she ran out of invocations, she made up soothing words that meant nothing in any tongue.

Drem, she’d murmured to the corpse, prying its withered hands from the stone. Her own hands shook. In the flicker of her torch, the scratches on the walls had seemed to burn. Praan, midaargolz, vodahmaan faazselaas—

The horse tugs its lead with an impatient huff. She staggers after it through the scratchy scrub, the sap-sticky branches, the patches of shade and light. Sun dapples the beast’s flanks. The river flashes as it polishes its stones. The leaves shriveling in the foreign trees blaze in all the colors of fire.

The burning standards, she thinks, the sun hot as fever on her neck. The horse-thief with his face in the dirt, his breath a wet, punctured noise. The severed heads rolling from the upended basket.

Then she grins, forcibly, like the dragon-skull mounted on hooks behind the Jarl’s throne. She draws the parcel wrapped in oilskin from the horse’s twitching back, soothing it with the praises she’d overheard in the Jarl’s stable; she doubts the wizard will let her look at her prize later. She thinks hard of the coinpurse in wait for her, the leg of mutton at the table of the Jarl, the smiling woman who fills the cups. The folds of waxy cloth fall open.

She blinks. She is, she realizes after a moment, holding the rock wrong-side up. The obverse side stares back at her, chiseled with scratches that mean nothing in any tongue.

The wind sticks, whispering, to the sweat at the back of her neck. Something in her stirs with a rattle of scales.

“Here lie our fallen lords,” she murmurs—aloud, halting, as though one of her old tutors scowls over her shoulder still. The words flower in the back of her throat like fire. “Until might of al du in—”

The trees shiver. The horse shakes its head and stamps. A head with suns for eyes tilts somewhere, listening.

[ohnopicturesofanothercat]

For Throwback Thursday if that’s still a thing: a Bridget baby picture with her mother and brothers, taken by @sunken-standard. She was born to be a star I guess. 😸

[starwrighter]

DpxDc angst prompt for April go!

The standard Danny gets de-aged and thrown into the DC universe au but with a little flare™

Danny is thrown by clockwork face first into the DC universe after a nasty encounter with the Giw he is freshly reformed and confused. Clockwork whips up a false identity for Danny and shoves the halfa through a portal to heal.

Clockwork didn't say much of anything to Danny except "Find the birds,". Danny, who is now 4yo, with mixed up traumatic memories, and in a universe he doesn't recognize doesn't know what the heck that means.

Danny ends up staying ghost and staying very invisible while watching the local crow population for a few days. He only drops his invisibility a couple of times for a brief couple of seconds before before he decides that's not a good idea. People looked unnerved when they saw him; one person even called the police on him!!!!! >:(

What 4yo Danny fails to realize is that ghosts like him or anyone from the ghost zone don't exist here so the DC universe's hoard of excess ectoplasm was very eager to warp the appearance of his ghost half.

People were right to be afraid. Danny looked awful! He was still in the hazmat suit he died in loose on his now tiny body and peeling off where the Giw had sliced into him. His cheeks were sunken, his body littered with bruises and cuts from fighting. His eyes were a milky-blue glossed over and lifeless. Overall he was a horrifying sight to see even to most Gothamites

Danny was lucky the bats didn't find him (he was looking for birds not bats dang it!) There was a brief Investigation on the sightings but since Danny showed up soon after a fear gas attack it was dismissed. It's only when he can hear the bats talking on their coms that Danny realizes that Robin's were a bird!!

Danny gets really excited. The next day he follows Tim to school still invisible at this point because Tim is still a living person and Danny thinks people are scary. Danny wants to talk to Tim but he is also nervous so he does the obvious thing and tries to write him a note.

Only...

He doesn't have a pen but, oh! He could make this work!

In other news, Tim opens his locker to find a page of his notebook has a message scrawled in the blood that matches that of a recently murdered four-year-old.

"Hi birdy,"

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I'm intrigued by this renovated 1920 home in Los Angeles, CA. 2bds, 3ba, 2,220 sq ft, $2.795m. It may be small by Los Angeles standards, but it certainly has the hefty price tag. Here's what a simple 2bd ranch for $2.8m in LA looks like.

There is no grand entrance, just a modestly tailored center room.

The focal point of the living room is a lovely fireplace surrounded by built-in mirror-lined shelving with one large mirror in the middle. Reflected in the mirror is a magnificent chandelier.

It's a nice room done in a relaxing green tone.

The plain dining room opens to a terrace.

Love the blue cabinetry, which is probably the old cabinets, that were painted, and dark granite. My 5yr. old apt. has dark granite, and it looks dated, so I hope that darker granite is becoming more popular.

Popular fish pattern designer wallpaper in the powder accented with a porthole mirror.

The primary bedroom wallpapered in gold wallpaper that gives off a glow. A window wall opens to the patio and pool.

The ensuite features a cement counter and matching shower bench.

Bedroom #2 is done completely in matching blue patterned wallpaper and fabric.

The ensuite has poured cement counters and matching, but plainer, blue wallpaper.

This is unusual- the ranch style house has a patio that surrounds a deeply sunken pool area.

Look at these trees along the wall trimmed straight across as one piece.

Another lovely garden on the side of the house. 8,062 sq ft lot

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/1737-N-Vista-St-Los-Angeles-CA-90046/20794131_zpid/

[theworldbrewery]

1d8 Places to Rest in the City

The upstairs of the Coronet, a seedy and rundown public house in the industrial district. The pub is under new management, and has been undergoing extensive renovations in the hope of cleaning up its image. Despite the owner’s best efforts, pickpockets and thugs loiter outside. And most nights, a smuggler by the name of Smiley Sam can be found in the barroom, ready to trade in secrets, coin, or illicit goods.

The roof of the Third Regional Bank, an imposing edifice with an atrial dome and a cluster of gold statues above its grand doors. From this height, you can see the sprawl of the whole city, its flickering lights and flares of magic. The night watchman might need paying off, and it’s none too comfortable in rain or snow. But the gargoyles have formed a sketch comedy group, so there’s built-in entertainment.

The Magnolia Pink, a fabulous hotel with genuine silver floors. The suites are worth the expense, from the liveried servants who attend the guests’ every need to the plush, indulgent beds and decadent room service options. But rumor has it that for every night you pass in the Magnolia Pink’s embrace, the less likely you are to come out again — at least until you can no longer scrounge up the cash to afford just one more night.

Under the Bodhi Bridge. This brickwork overpass provides excellent shelter from the elements, particularly because some enterprising vagabond has knocked in part of the supporting wall and created an accessible niche roughly 15x15 ft. in size. In time, other vagrants have left their marks: symbols in thieves’ cant, broken bottles, worn-out boots, and a pile of logs inoculated with a variety of mushrooms.

Inchibald Quingle’s Lodging House, a crooked three-story structure with drafty rooms, narrow hallways, and two hearty meals a day. The elderly Mr. Quingle has handed the reins to his son, Inchie Jr., whose passion for cookery has earned the Quingle Lodging House its place on the map. Inchie’s other passion—taxidermy—does put some guests off their supper, however.

The Asylum of the Ragged Saints, a humble almshouse dedicated to housing the poor, the pensioners, and the downtrodden. Available only to those in need, the Asylum’s rooms are clean and orderly, but offer little privacy and even less comfort. Its patron, Lady Parsimony Cross, is a crotchety and bookish young woman who inherited responsibility for the Asylum from a more kindly and warm relative. She is greatly concerned with the idea that the Asylum is being used by those who do not truly need its services, and has begun imposing increasingly high standards of poverty and desperation to its residents.

An abandoned underground transport station, dating from a time immemorial. A rusting metal wagon rests on a sunken track, its doors jammed into the open position. Moth-eaten seats line an aisle within. The track extends into the darkness of an enclosed tunnel, which emits an eerie buzzing noise. If the wagon doesn’t hold any appeal, you can always remain on the buckling stone platform and examine its illegible signage and explore the chambers lined in cracked, mossy tile which branch from the main cavernous space.

The basement of the Ershae family home. The Ershaes are friendly people, part of a social network which offers safe housing to travelers. As members of this group, they host strangers willingly and are welcomed by other strangers in the network when they travel themselves. The sole condition of your stay is this: you must join the network and list your address among the available places to stay. If you agree, you may sleep in this place as long as you need without charge, though you are responsible for your own meals. The Ershaes’ basement is wood-paneled, with a shaggy orange carpet and a vividly green sofa bed.

[immortalbumblebee]

The Sunken City

Chapter 1: The Last Drop

It’s sequel time!!!

This is a sequel story to City of Iron and Glass! This chapter, or the story that will follow sadly won’t make any sense without the context of that story.

As you’ll see, this story will largely follow the events of the show. However, that doesn’t mean everything is staying the same >:)

Masterlist

A tavern. The Last Drop, as the bold lettering on the sign proclaimed. Not just a bar but a sprawling space that seemed to grow the longer you looked. The main hall was vast, with polished wooden counters and sturdy tables scattered about. High above, iron chandeliers hung like industrial constellations. Off to the side, a maze of hidden tunnels promised endless adventure for the children. Behind the tavern lay a house-sized apartment, complete with office space, a workshop for you, and separate rooms for each child. It was more than you’d dared to hope for—in every way but one.

“A bar?” you murmured, unable to hide the apprehension in your voice.

He didn’t falter, his grin softening into something more earnest. “It’s not just a bar, Min. Look closer,” he said, gesturing around the space. “This is more than just a place to drink. It’s a home. It’s a place for the community. For us.”

“I just… I don’t want them to grow up thinking this is all there is,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I want them to have a chance at something better.”

“And they will,” Vander said, stepping closer and placing a hand on your shoulder. “Because we’ll show them how to build it. Here, where it matters. Where we can make a difference."

Your eyes swept across the room again, taking in the details you’d missed in your initial shock. The sturdy booths in the corner, perfect for quiet conversations. The wide-open space where the kids could run without fear. The private apartment in the back, designed with care and consideration.

His conviction was palpable, and it was hard not to be swept up in it. You sighed, nodding slowly. “Okay,” you said, though the hesitation lingered. “But it’s going to take a lot of work.”

Vander’s grin returned, this time accompanied by a wink. “Good thing we’re not afraid of a little hard work, eh?”

It wasn’t much, but you’d made it your home. Now, the bar—the infamous Last Drop—was the bustling epicenter of the Fissures. Both home and workplace for you and your now-husband. But more than that, it was the closest thing the Undercity had to a town hall and council tower, all rolled into one increasingly grungy building. One of the first things you’d installed was the pool tables, a place for people to hang out and chat. But the booths were for business, like the Undercity’s personal offices.

As he’d promised, The Last Drop wasn’t just a place to grab a drink; it was a lifeline. Deals were struck here, alliances forged, and disputes settled over pints of ale and the steady clack of billiard balls. It had become a refuge for the weary and a stage for the powerful, a space where the lines between home, workplace, and community blurred until they were one and the same. Vander’s vision of a place where the Undercity could gather, plan, and grow had come to life in these walls.

Tonight was a pretty usual night by crowd standards, busy enough to keep you on your toes. Not that you’d ever complain—lord knows you needed the money. Slamming down a crate of booze from the pantry, you wiped the sweat from your brow, flinging your long-grown hair out of your face. Gone were the days of your choppy short haircuts… those were saved for your children these days.

The bar thrummed with life. Regulars occupied their usual stools, their laughter mingling with the occasional outburst of an argument at the card tables. In the back, the booths were full of shadowy figures engaged in low murmurs—business of some kind, though you knew better than to pry. The jukebox—a salvaged relic Vander had restored—crooned a soothing melody that seemed to ground the chaos in a strange harmony. You glanced toward Vander, who was busy pouring drinks and trading hearty laughs with a group of miners fresh off their shift. He looked so at ease, so in his element, and it filled you with a quiet pride. This place, this grungy, vibrant heartbeat of the Undercity, was a testament to everything you’d built together.

Your eyes glanced up at the regular in front of you, and a familiar smile spread across your face. “Sevika!” you exclaimed, quickly getting to work preparing drink orders, your hands moving with the precision of years of practice. “Always a face I like to see. What can I get for you?”

Her muscles heaved as she laid down a pair of rusted mining gauntlets on the bar. The loud ‘thunk’ was enough to catch the attention of a couple of patrons nearby, and you paused for a moment, your eyes scanning the metal in front of you. The gauntlets were in terrible shape, cracked and worn in several places, barely holding together.

“The gauntlets work gave me are shit!” she exclaimed, reaching into her pocket to pull out a cigar. “Look at ‘em! You think I can do any work with these?”

You huffed, frustrated, and placed a glass of ale in front of the man who’d ordered it without so much as a glance. Continuing your well-practiced dance around the bar, you swiped up the heavy gauntlets with one hand, spinning them as you inspected their surface.

Sevika had grown into quite a broad-shouldered woman with sharp, calculating eyes, exuding an air of gruff confidence. Her dark bangs often fell into her face, only to be flicked back with practiced ease. She wore her scars like trophies, a testament to years of fighting and surviving in the Undercity.

“They’re getting sloppy in their neglect,” you agreed, nodding. “I’m gonna have to scrap most of this to get anything even remotely functional. What did you do with the old ones I made for you?”

Sevika rolled her eyes as she lit her cigar, flicking her dark bangs out of her face with practiced ease. “Some bullshit,” she muttered.

You hummed, the sound almost a laugh, then sent the gauntlets flying up to the second floor with a casual toss. “Seems to be a popular excuse for you these days, Sev. I’m gonna run out of cast iron before you give me a proper reason for all the metal I spend on you!”

Before you could complain too much more, she reached into her back pocket and slapped down a bag that jingled with coin. The sound caught your attention, and you gave her a small, approving nod before pocketing it.

“What can I get you to drink, Sev?” you asked, leaning back slightly as you caught your breath.

“The usual,” she replied, taking a long drag from her cigar. Without missing a beat, you reached for the moonshine. As you did, you felt a familiar large, warm hand on the small of your back that immediately drew your attention. As you poured the drink, Vander leaned and whispered into your ear, “Family meeting. Tonight. For now, gonna keep an eye on Huck.”

His tone told you everything you needed to know. Something was up. Ever the telepath, Sevika cocked an eyebrow at your exchange as Vander walked around you to the other side of the bar.

“That about the chaos happening topside?” Sevika asked, blowing a plume of smoke in your face. As you placed your last glass order on the tray, ready to take it out to the tables, you took a moment to lean against the counter across from one of your oldest friends. Even though the days of the fighting pits had long passed following Vander’s retirement, you always appreciated Sevika’s loyalty to the fight, even when she wasn’t beating the living daylights out of you two.

“Something to share with the class?” you asked, extending your hand. She handed you the cigar.

“Big explosion, some kind of fancy lab apparently. It’s got the Academy and the council with their panties in a twist.” You couldn’t help but let out a scoff as you began to breathe in the scorching bitterness of the cigar.

“Academy, huh? One of those fancy-pants students does something stupid and the Enforcers look to blame us somehow, huh?” you asked, the words flowing out of your mouth with a gust of dark smoke.

“That’s just it,” Sevika leaned in closer, “word in the mines is this wasn’t Academy work. And four shabby-looking children were seen running from the scene and across the bridge, giving the Enforcers a run for their money.” There was a familiar troubling glint in her eyes. “Remind you of some young people we know?”

Your blood ran cold, and your hand paused halfway to your lips. Before you could even take the huff, a string of curses in your mother tongue tumbled out from under your breath.

“Thought you’d say that,” she said, skillfully taking the cigar from your fingers. “May want to keep an eye on those kids of yours, Min. They take after you and Vander a little too much, if you ask me.”

“Oh, trust me,” you huffed, grabbing your tray and stepping out from behind the bar. “I’m well aware.”

As you made your rounds, placing drinks to their respective customers, your eyes trailed to the nearby booth where Huck, a small man with big, round, glasses and a newcomer to your ranks, sat alongside two gruff-looking Traders. The conversation seemed to not be going well from Huck’s perspective, the little man sweating bullets and shoving a bag of coin back in the direction of the Traders. 

Then one of them pulled out a dagger. 

Now, weapons weren’t not allowed in your bar, but fighting…that was another story. You were about to jump into action, moving to shelf the tray of drinks, when Vander appeared at the table, almost like clockwork. 

Vander, through your eyes, was a man transformed by the weight of years and the burdens he bore. In your memories of the old days, he was leaner, scrappier—his sharp jawline unmarred by the beard he now wore like a badge of wisdom. His arms, though strong even then, lacked the sheer bulk they carried now, built by years of hard labor and holding the Undercity together. Back then, his eyes burned with reckless defiance, a fire that matched the unruly mop of his hair. Now, that fire had softened into a steady, smoldering warmth, tempered by loss and responsibility.

The Vander of today bore scars he didn’t in those memories, not all of them visible. His frame had grown broader, his hands calloused from years of building, fighting, and protecting. The man who once thrived in chaos had become the embodiment of stability—his wide shoulders seemingly built to carry the weight of the entire Undercity. Yet, in quiet moments, you could still glimpse the younger man you’d fallen for, hiding behind the weathered mask of the protector he’d become.

Your eyes drifted to his forearm, where a worn leather brace held his arm snugly, concealing the scars beneath. The sight sent a pang through your chest—a wound that time had barely managed to dull. Memories of the incident flickered at the edges of your mind, unwelcome but persistent. You swallowed them down and refocused on the present.

The tension in the air crackled, his irritation radiating in waves. The heat of the conversation hadn’t faded from his stance, and the warning glint in his eye showed no signs of dulling. Sensing the moment stretching thin, you adjusted your grip on the tray, shifting its weight to one hand.

“A piece of advice,” your husband said, his tone light but edged with steel. “Don’t threaten the guy that pours the drinks.”

As if rehearsed, your free hand shot out in a fluid motion, fingers catching the hilt of the female trader’s dagger mid-air. The blade never reached its intended target. In the same breath, you sent it spinning from your grasp, its pointed edge embedding with a resounding thud in the wooden wall between her and Huck.

The room stilled, every eye darting toward the dagger quivering in the woodgrain. A beat passed, the Trader’s stunned faces whipping toward you in unison, then taking in the bar as a whole. Everyone was staring back at them, hands on their respective weapons. You responded with a slow, deliberate smile—warm and disarming, as if you hadn’t just neutralized a threat with practiced ease. With that, you turned on your heel, carrying the tray back toward the bar, leaving behind a silence thick and the faint tang of adrenaline in the air.

As you moved back toward the bar, the weight of their stares pressed against your back. It wasn’t unfamiliar—moments like these had become second nature over the years. Vander’s establishment, while a sanctuary for most, sometimes drew the wrong sort of attention. And that’s where you came in.

Vander had long since hung up his gloves, now hanging above the bar like a taxidermied deer head. Trading fists and fury for tankards and quiet resolve. The leader of a movement now settled into the role of a caretaker, he carried the weight of the Underground’s struggles in his steady hands. But peace came at a cost, and while Vander’s reputation kept most trouble at bay, there were always those too young, too reckless, or too arrogant to respect the man behind the bar.

That’s where the partnership worked.

You were the shadow to his steady presence, the sharp edge to his soft diplomacy. Where Vander sought compromise, you delivered consequences—swift and undeniable. He didn’t have to ask; you understood the line he walked, the weight of his need to keep the peace. And he trusted you to ensure that peace held firm, even if it meant taking up the violence he’d sworn to leave behind.

It wasn’t a role you’d ever expected to fill, but somewhere along the way, probably thanks to your history, it had become second nature. Equal partners, but in different ways. He handled the words, the diplomacy, the broader picture, while you handled the moments when words failed.

As you slid the tray back onto the counter, Vander’s gaze met yours from across the room. His brow furrowed in faint concern, a silent question in the tilt of his head. You answered with a subtle nod, a wordless assurance that everything was under control.

He exhaled, a soft sigh of relief, and you knew he trusted you completely. And why wouldn’t he? In this unspoken dance between the two of you, the roles were clear, the balance perfectly struck. He was the anchor, and you were the storm—two halves of the same whole, working to keep their fragile world intact.

Your moment of assurance was pulled away when the doors to the bar opened again. Rather than more patrons, however, in came four little heads, barely visible in the crowd. Vander and Vi locked eyes for a moment, barely a glance, before she lowered her head and hurried her shuffling through the crowd towards the apartment in the back that you all called home.

Well if that wasn’t an admission of guilt…

Your eyes locked with Sevika, who was watching this unhold with a studying gaze.

“Next drink on the house tomorrow if you help us close up for the night?” You asked, a pleading note to your voice.

“Make it three drinks.” She huffed, a cloud of smoke blowing out her nostrils like a dragon.

“Two.”

“Deal.”

***

It took the three of you all of ten minutes to get people paid and packed up. The moment patrons caught sight of the kids lingering near the edges of the room, most had gotten the message, hurriedly downing the rest of their drinks and calling it a night. You offered apologies as you went, though they were met with waves of dismissal. Many of them were parents themselves, quick to understand the situation and gracious in their departure. For that, you were endlessly thankful.

Once the last of the stragglers filtered out into the night, you leaned against the bar with a sigh, sparing a glance at the kids. A familiar warmth tugged at your chest, the kind that only they could inspire. Still, there was a recurring prayer that left your lips often, a silent entreaty to Mikael and your mother—how in the hell had they managed the four of you?

Four kids, each with a wild streak a mile wide. It must have been chaos, pure and unrelenting. And yet here you were, walking the same path they had, the echoes of your own childhood now played out in your day-to-day.

Not that you regretted a single moment of it.

The truth was, you loved your kids more than anything else in this world. From the moment they entered your lives, that love had been as fierce and unwavering as the tides. It was the kind of love that didn’t question, that didn’t hesitate. You would fight for them, bleed for them, die for them—and, if necessary, kill for them—without a second thought.

Parenting, you’d come to realize, was its own kind of adventure. An uncharted journey full of highs and lows, triumphs and mistakes, moments of wonder and sheer exhaustion. Watching them grow into their own people—each developing their own quirks, interests, strengths, and flaws—was unlike anything else you’d ever known.

It was amazing, really, though the word barely scratched the surface. No, it was more than that. It was profound, life-altering. An experience that changed you in ways you hadn’t thought possible, leaving you simultaneously humbled and awestruck at the enormity of it all.

And yet, as you watched one of the younger ones stifle a yawn, leaning sleepily against their sibling, you couldn’t help but smile. Parenthood might be chaos, but it was your chaos, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

That doesn’t mean you didn’t want to kill them sometimes.

As you and Vander crashed through the door to the little apartment that worked as the combination pantry and family gathering room, the room seemed to shake as four pairs of eyes flew up towards you.

"Everyone alright?" Vander’s voice broke through the chaos as you rushed down the stairs, your eyes scanning each of the kids for signs of injury. The familiar, jarring marks of a brawl—bruises, scrapes, and cuts—were written across their faces and limbs. You exhaled, relief coursing through you as you spotted Powder first. She stood trembling in the corner, wide-eyed and small, her messy blue hair sticking out at odd angles. Gone was the infant you had once seen crawl across the floor of her parents' cramped studio apartment. Now she was all elbows and knees, her limbs long and awkward, always in motion. Though her scrappiness was undeniable, you saw the girl who was still very much a child beneath the bravado, and you were thankful she seemed unharmed.

Your gaze shifted quickly, instinctively, to Claggor. The eldest of the group, your unexpected son. After the Bridge incident, when you and Vander had taken Powder and Vi in, Claggor had shown up a few days later, checking in on his cousins. His aunt had been the one caring for him, but a stray piece of shrapnel had torn through her during the conflict. She wasn’t even officially on the front lines. And that had been that—Claggor had joined your makeshift family without question, and though his quiet demeanor often made him seem older than his years, he had fit in seamlessly.

Now, kneeling next to him, you gently pushed his goggles up—once a fixture in your workshop, now more often used as spectacles—to reveal a nasty black eye. "Oh, my darlings," you muttered, your voice thick with concern as you hurried to the icebox to grab an ice pack.

The room around you seemed to sigh with familiarity, the mismatched couches and ragged armchairs arranged haphazardly around a low, battered table—each mark a testimony to the years you’d spent in this space. The dim lighting gave everything a soft, inviting glow, and the flickering shadows whispered of nights just like this one. Every crack in the walls, every corner worn smooth by time, told a story: of laughter, of hardship, of growth. It was small, humble, and perhaps not what you’d ever imagined for yourself, but it was home—your home, and theirs.

"Never better..." Mylo grumbled, sinking deeper into the worn chair beneath him, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His voice was raspy, barely audible over the hum of the room. His deflection was classic Mylo—gruff on the outside, but you knew the layers beneath.

Much like Claggor, Mylo had been an unexpected addition to your family—but his story was... different. More personal.

After the Bridge, when everything had fallen apart, you’d found yourself volunteering at the makeshift hospital Dr. Yan had set up to tend to the wounded. You had been there, sorting through the chaos, offering what help you could, when you met Mylo’s father. A man who reminded you so much of Mikael—gentle, kind, and resilient in the face of the violence surrounding him. The two of you had spent hours talking, bonding over the quiet moments, the kind of shared history that could only be forged in the fires of war. But then, as often happens in places like that, things had gone awry.

An infection, unnoticed and unchecked in the frenzy of the overcrowded infirmary, had spread through him, and despite your best efforts, there was nothing to be done. He was gone too soon, leaving behind a five-year-old boy who had no one.

That had been the hardest part—watching the life drain from a good man, and knowing the ripple effect it would have. It was like losing your own parents all over again, so soon after burying what was left of their remains in the river. But the pain of that loss only deepened when Mylo was left orphaned and alone, with nowhere to turn.

At that point, you and Vander were already stretched thin. The tavern was barely holding together, and the kids were growing, needing more. The Mines were on the verge of losing Vander, too, as the chem-barons started cutting ties. Yet, despite it all, you both knew one thing for sure: you couldn’t turn away a child in need. You couldn’t leave him out there, abandoned and vulnerable, just because life was already hard enough.

So you took him in.

And despite the weight it added to your already full plates, despite the tightness in your chest whenever you saw Mylo’s hollow, haunted eyes, you never once regretted it. He was family. And there was no turning back once you'd made that choice. As you knelt down next to him, spotting some particularly bad bruising on his forearm, he wanked his arm away from you. Ever the drama queen. 

Vander marched down the stairs, his movements deliberate and controlled, his shoulders squared with the kind of resolve that only years of leadership could shape. As he descended, his gaze flicked over each of his children, his eyes narrowing with growing concern. “I don’t suppose you can explain why it is that I’m hearing about an explosion and a foot chase topside? Four children fleeing the scene…” His voice was low, the weight of his disappointment settling in the room. He paused behind Violet, his eldest, almost a grown woman now. She was a tomboy through and through—ripped jeans, scraped knees, and a defiant streak that matched her fiery spirit. The fearless leader of your little band of misfits.

Violet stood out amongst the kids—not just because of her leadership, but because she was the spitting image of her mother. Every day, she was a reminder of the promises you’d made to them long ago, promises that still lived within the depth of your heart.

“What were you thinking?” Vander finally huffed, the words heavy with both concern and frustration, after a long, pregnant pause.

“That we can handle a real job!” Violet exclaimed, her voice thick with frustration as she pulled her knees up to her chest, slumping further into the corner. The fire in her tone made it clear she wasn’t backing down, but the tension in her posture suggested an underlying fear she couldn’t quite shake.

“A real job?” Vander’s eyebrows furrowed, a mix of disbelief and worry flooding his expression.

“We got our own tip, planned a route, nobody even saw!” Violet was quick to explain, her voice rising slightly with the kind of conviction that made you proud but also terrified.

“Well, clearly someone saw.” You tutted, your tone soft yet pointed.

Vander’s sigh was deep, the sound heavy with annoyance and concern. “You blew up a building.” His voice was matter-of-fact, as if the severity of her actions should have been obvious.

“That wasn’t—” Violet started, but Vander cut her off, his tone sharp.

“Did you even stop to think about what could have happened to you? Eh?” He motioned to the rest of the kids, his gaze shifting over to Mylo, Claggor, and Powder. “To them?”

Violet straightened her shoulders, the defiance returning as she opened her mouth to retort, eager to defend herself. But then, as if struck by the weight of her father’s words, she hesitated. The fire in her eyes dimmed slightly, her resolve faltering. Slowly, she curled back into herself, pulling her knees tighter to her chest, her fist coming up to her lips as her gaze drifted to the side, avoiding Vander’s piercing eyes. The bravado evaporated, leaving her looking like the young girl she was—vulnerable, conflicted, and unsure of how to reconcile her actions with the love and protection her family offered. Vander massages the bridge of his nose. 

“You’re too young to be working jobs on your own,” you explain, your tone gentle yet firm as you crouch beside Mylo, gently urging him to let you examine his injuries. After several moments of coaxing, he finally allows you to take a look. “You’re not ready for that kind of danger and responsibility.”

Vander watches the interaction closely, his brow furrowed in thought. “Where did you even get this tip?” he asks, his voice steady but laced with concern.

No one answers immediately, the room hanging in tense silence. Then, finally, Powder’s small voice breaks the quiet.

“We just… heard it at Benzo’s shop.”

Benzo, you curse, biting back a roll of your eyes. 

“From?” Vander presses, his tone sharper this time.

Powder swallows hard, her gaze flickering between the two of you and Violet nervously before she speaks. “Little Man…”

Oh good, you think, another child putting themselves in harm’s way. Not that you’d expect anything less from the relentless spitfire that was Little Ekko.

Vander sighs deeply, his disappointment evident, but before he can launch into a lecture, Violet steps forward. She stands tall, her jaw set, and her gaze unwavering as she meets Vander’s gaze head-on. “I took us there,” she says firmly, her voice clear and resolute. “If you wanna be mad, be mad at me! But you're the one who always says we have to earn our place in this world!”

The air between them crackles with tension. Their gazes do not break from one another. Vander’s lips press into a thin line, his frustration evident as he contemplates Violet’s words. Despite his disapproval, he knows she isn’t entirely wrong. The weight of her defiance lingers in the air, but the spark in her eyes—so much like his own—gives him pause. He’s proud of her, even if he’s angry.

“Everyone out.” Vander’s voice is firm, a command more than a suggestion. The younger children, sensing the shift in tone, quickly begin to filter out of the room, their footsteps light but reluctant as they avoid the tension in the air. Powder lingers for a moment, glancing up at her sister, before following the others, leaving you and Vander alone.

You step closer to your husband, the quiet weight of the moment pressing down on both of you. With a soft but purposeful movement, you press your hand gently into his arm. Your gaze meets his, steady and understanding, the silent plea clear between you both. Go easy on her.

Vander’s shoulders tense for a moment, his jaw clenched in the familiar struggle between his protective instincts and the harsh realities of the world. He looks down at you, the storm of emotions in his eyes slowly quieting as he reads the depth of your unspoken words. With a deep, resigned sigh, he lets the tension leave his body, his head dipping slightly.

“I know,” he mutters, his voice softer now. 

You give Vander’s arm one last reassuring squeeze, grounding him for just a moment before you turn and follow the kids out of the room. The hallway feels quieter than usual, but the tension still clings to the air. Claggor slumps down onto the stairs, his tired body heavy as he holds the ice pack to his blackened eye. Mylo flings himself lazily against the wall, his posture exasperated, and Powder stays close to your shadow, her small form seeking comfort in your presence.

You pause for a moment, taking a steadying breath before speaking. "You’re sure you’re all okay?" you ask, one hand lowering to gently ruffle Powder’s messy hair, the action instinctive and soothing.

“We’re fine,” Mylo huffs, but there’s a noticeable edge to his voice. “Why is Vi getting reamed out? We were all there!”

You let out a quiet sigh, your breath held in the weight of it all as you take a deep breath, trying to keep the peace. You give Powder’s hair another ruffle, offering her some comfort. “Violet’s the oldest, which means she looks after you guys the most. You know that.”

“But it was all our faults,” Claggor agrees, his voice soft but resolute. “She doesn’t deserve to get yelled at just because we follow her.”

You offer a half-smile, looking at them with quiet affection before turning to challenge them. “Who says she’s getting yelled at?”

“Vander seemed really mad…” Powder mutters, her hands stuffed into her pockets as she keeps her eyes on the floor, a little too nervous to meet your gaze.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep the conversation light despite the weight of it. “Hell,” Mylo interrupts, stepping forward with fire in his eyes, “if anyone should be getting yelled at, it’s her!” He jabs a finger in the direction of the littlest child, and Powder flinches at the sharpness of his words.

“Mylo!” Claggor barks, his voice raising in defense of his younger sister. “Quit it already.”

You feel the tension tightening, the rising conflict, and for a brief moment, everything slows. You look down at Powder, your gaze turning inquisitive as you weigh the situation, your mind quickly working through the pieces of the puzzle. “Woah, woah, what happened?”

The hallway falls into a charged silence after your stern interruption, Mylo glaring down at Powder, his jaw set in frustration. His voice breaks the quiet first.

“She goes off on her own, then a big explosion happens? That’s one hell of a coincidence,” he accuses, his tone sharp. “She’s always messing up jobs, and she never has to face any of the consequences! Then when shit hits the fan, she runs away and loses our haul!”

“I didn’t even do anything!” Powder snaps back, her small hands clenched into fists at her sides. “And I told you, I tried to fight back!”

The tension detonates. Mylo raises his voice, Powder yells louder in defense, and Claggor steps in, his own protests escalating until the hallway echoes with their overlapping arguments. The noise grows into chaos, and you’ve had enough.

“Hey!” Your voice cuts through the din like a blade, sharp and commanding. The arguing ceases immediately, and all three children snap their eyes toward you. You stand tall, your arms crossed, your expression steely—a look Vander had once said was the spitting image of your mother’s infamous glare.

“All of you, stop it. This is not how you communicate with people,” you scold, your voice calm but firm. Your gaze settles on Powder first, softening just a touch. “Pow-Pow, I’ll be talking with you separately. Go ahead for now; I’ll find you later.”

Powder hesitates, her blue eyes flicking to her brothers and then back to you. She looks small, fragile in her apprehension, but with a quiet nod, she slips away toward the back door without another word.

Your attention shifts to Mylo, and your stern expression hardens again. You cross your arms tighter over your chest. “You, on the other hand…what the hell, Mylo? She’s a kid. Take it easy on her.”

Mylo scoffs, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Everyone always says to take it easy on her just ’cause she’s the baby! She’s not going to learn that way, you know.”

“And she’s not going to learn with you getting on her case every time she messes up,” you counter, your voice unwavering. You motion toward the door Powder just walked through. “I get that you’re angry. We’ve all had jobs go sideways. But dividing your team in a bad moment? That’s going to sow resentment that’ll bite you later. Trust me on that.”

Mylo stands there, his jaw working as he absorbs your words in reluctant silence. Sensing a shift, you uncross your arms and step closer, placing a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t brush it away, though his expression remains stormy.

“You want to know why Vander is talking to Vi separately?” you ask, your tone softening. “It’s because he knows what it’s like to have everyone looking up to him, just like Vi has you guys looking up to her. He’s making sure she knows what she’s doing so none of you get hurt. It’s a big responsibility, Mylo. And it’s not easy. That’s why you’ve got to trust her—and us—to handle things like discipline. You have a problem, bring it up with us. But don’t start lecturing unless you’re ready to take on everything that comes with being a leader. Got it?”

His defiance cracks just a little, his eyes falling to the floor. “Fine…” he mumbles after a long moment.

You give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before pulling him into a tight hug. At first, he stiffens, his dramatic nature still bristling, but then he slowly relaxes and wraps his arms around you.

Extending one arm, you wave Claggor over, and he joins the hug wordlessly, sinking into the warmth of your embrace. You press a gentle kiss to each of their heads, your heart swelling with affection despite the chaos of the day.

“I’m so proud of you guys for trying to step up, okay?” you murmur, your voice soft but sincere. “Just…maybe talk to us next time before you go remaking our teenage mistakes.”

As the chaos begins to settle, replaced with an uneasy peace, the door behind you creaks open again. Vander steps out, his presence filling the space like a tidal wave, a lumpy burlap sack slung over one broad shoulder. His sharp eyes sweep over the three of you, lingering briefly on each of the children before coming to rest on you.

“Everything alright out here?” he asks, his gravelly voice tinged with an edge of exhaustion.

You let go of the boys with a final squeeze and straighten up, offering him a small, knowing smile. “Peachy,” you reply, brushing off the tension that still clung to the air.

“Good,” Vander says gruffly, though his eyes soften slightly before he turns his attention to Claggor. Without warning, he tosses the sack toward him. “Get ready, Claggor. We’re going out.”

Claggor catches it with a surprised grunt, nearly dropping it before managing to steady the weight in his arms. “Now?” he groans, his voice carrying that distinct teenage whine of someone not quite ready to accept their fate.

Vander doesn’t respond right away, instead stepping toward Mylo and deftly plucking the earhorn from his belt.

“Hey!” Mylo exclaims, his tone indignant as he fumbles to grab it back. “That’s mine!”

Vander doesn’t miss a beat, tossing the horn into the burlap sack with a clatter. His gaze pins Mylo in place, a mix of authority and challenge gleaming in his eyes. “You want to be treated like adults, right?” he asks, his voice measured but firm. “Then you should know better than to come back from a job empty-handed.”

Mylo opens his mouth to argue but seems to think better of it, crossing his arms with a dramatic huff instead. Beside him, Claggor adjusts his grip on the sack, looking somewhere between resigned and curious.

You raise an eyebrow at Vander, folding your arms as you lean back slightly against the banister. “Benzo’s?” you ask knowingly.

“Yup,” Vander replies with a curt nod, straightening the lapels of his worn jacket as if gearing up for battle. His expression hardens, and there’s a glint of something dangerous in his eyes—protectiveness laced with frustration. He turns back to the boys, his voice dropping to that low, warning tone they all know too well. “I’m gonna have a little word with your informant.”

[ninibeingdelulu]

Old ghost ✧

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Plot: Leon thought you were dead, that you were one of the person he failed to protect in Racoon city. But in another perilous mission where he need to rescue a woman he don’t know the identity, he find you.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The rickety wooden beams groaned in protest under Leon's boots as he crept through the derelict farmhouse, rifle raised and eyes scanning the shadows.

The musty air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and a deeper, visceral reek he had encountered too many times before - the stench of the bioweapon outbreak festering through these lands.

He paused beside a low window, risking a quick peek outside. The overgrown courtyard was still and silent but for the gentle sway of the cornfields in the arid breeze.

Too quiet...which only set his nerves further on edge. Having the official mission briefing be so sparse on details never boded well in his line of work.

All he knew was that a woman had been abducted, presumably by the deranged cult the reports mentioned. The faceless government handler gave no name or description for the target - standard protocol to avoid emotional compromises in the field.

Just another civilian to extract from a hellish biohazard zone. It was his grim routine at this point after surviving the Raccoon City Incident.

Footsteps in the hall behind him made Leon whirl, thrusting the muzzle toward the cracked doorway. His calloused finger tensed on the trigger as a lithe figure slipped into view.

The rifle clattered to the rotting floor as white-hot shock lanced through him. Those vivid big eyes, the tumble of raven hair falling over her heart-shaped face...it couldn't be...

"You..." he rasped, the word little more than a strangled whisper.

You looked just as stunned, chest heaving as you instinctively shrank back against the wall. Haunted shadows clung to your sunken features, lingering remnants of torment etched into your skin.

But it was unmistakably you.

Alive.

"Leon?" Your voice trembled with equal disbelief, eyes searching his in naked hope and fear.

His mind spun, denials crashing against the truth standing so fragile before him. You were supposed to be dead, one of the countless victims he failed in Raccoon City all those years ago.

That loss had cleaved into him deeper than any wound until he felt hollowed out, hardened to protect what little still remained of himself.

But the woman he loved more than life itself lived. You were here, in the flesh.

An agonized noise tore from Leon's throat as he surged forward, crushing you against his solid frame in a desperate embrace.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, clutching you so tightly it had to hurt, but he didn't care. Tactile reassurance that this wasn't some cruel delirium.

"You're alive," he choked out in a guttural rasp, the first blistering tears he'd shed in years scalding his cheeks. "Oh god, you're alive..."

Leon held you with trembling arms, his body wracked with waves of emotions he thought had calcified long ago in Raccoon City's ashes. Grief, joy, disbelief - they pummeled him in a dizzying cyclone around the central truth.

You, his whole world, were alive and real against him once more.

He pulled back just enough to drink in every detail of your face, to sear the memory behind his eyelids in case this miraculous reunion was torn away again.

His calloused fingers tenderly brushed the hair back from your brow as tears blurred his vision.

"How...?" The broken rasp was almost inaudible past the tightness in Leon's throat.

"I watched the city fall. I thought..." He couldn't finish, couldn't give voice to the years of torment believing you among the countless dead.

Your own eyes shimmered as you lifted a trembling hand to cup his whiskered jaw.

There were so many answers to unravel, so much time to reclaim between both of you. But in that fragile moment, words seemed hopelessly inadequate.

Instead you leaned up, fitting your lips to his in a searing kiss that branded down to your soul. It unlocked a floodgate inside, every worry and horror washing away in the wake of this reunion's tidal force.

This was real, you were alive - nothing else mattered.

Leon gasped softly against your mouth before surrendering completely. His arms crushed you impossibly closer as he drank you in with desperate, needful strokes of his tongue.

The taste, the feel, the pure essence of you overwhelmed his senses like a man finally shown the sun after an eternity of darkness.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, his piercing gaze bored into yours with renewed determination. A steely promise alongside the tenderness.

"I won't let anything happen to you again," Leon vowed in a low rumble.

"Not this time. I'll keep you safe no matter what..." You felt the steel resolve thrumming through Leon's powerful frame as he cradled you protectively.

Even after believing you lost for so long in the Raccoon City nightmare, his instincts to shield and safeguard you were inviolable. An unbreakable vow sealed behind that piercing blue stare.

Calloused fingers brushed feather-light over your bruised cheek as his throat worked.

"Who did this to you?" The gruff demand held an unmistakable edge that could slice through bone.

"Tell me everything that happened."

Clutching his solid warmth, you gathered the frayed threads of your story in a shuddering breath. You confessed to the night the cult fanatics breached the safehouse, slaughtering your fellow survivors in a wave of blades and implanted bioweapons.

How you alone were taken as some perverse sacrifice, enduring unspeakable rites and torments at their village.

Leon's jaw hardened to granite with each harrowing detail laid bare, legendary restraint the only force keeping his fury banked. When you finally fell silent, throat raw, his arms contracted around you in a crushing embrace.

"I'm so sorry," he rasped against your hair, the first fissures creeping through his ironclad control.

"I should've been there, should've protected you. I failed you again..."

The self-recrimination lacing his tone lanced straight through your battered heart. You cupped Leon's etched cheek, stroking the faint stubble as you met his tortured stare.

"No, Leon. You came for me, like you always have." You pressed your forehead to his in a grounding kiss.

"You're my guardian angel."

His thick lashes swept down as he crushed you closer, shielding you with the bulk of his body.

"Not anymore guardian angels," he murmured in a low rumble that reverberated through you both. "This time I'll be the vengeful archangel raining catastrophe on these cultist scum."

You shivered at the dark timbre, the promise of unleashed devastation it carried. Leon's reputation for relentless, borderline-supernatural lethality was utterly deserved.

And you realized with visceral clarity that nothing would be left intact when he carved his path of recompense - not after believing you among the departed souls for so long.

A fierce protectiveness flared bright in your chest as you gazed up at this indomitable man, your hero reforged in crucible after crucible. He had already surrendered so much in the line of duty.

You refused to let him sacrifice even an ounce more of his precious humanity for your sake.

"Just promise me one thing," you entreated in a murmur, hands fisted in his tattered shirt.

"After we put these monsters down...let me be the one to save you this time, Leon."

His intense stare burned into you for a prolonged beat before giving a fractional nod, understanding the vow you sealed between your profoundly bonded souls.

A portrait of your determination painted across the facets of his own eyes.

Then his mouth crashed over yours once more in a searing, desperate kiss that tasted of shared desperation and newfound hope on the razor's edge.

An inferno stoked by your mere presence, reminding him to keep fighting against the ever-creeping darkness.

He was no longer your guardian angel , but the fallen angel who fell in love deeply.

His memories of you only brought him darkness, but now, you would be the light blazing away his shadows.

[petermorwood]

This post mentions the Le Creuset Doufeu casserole (Dutch oven) and several comments were "I want / must get".

@dduane and I don't need one, but from curiosity I went looking to see what they cost, and what I said in the original post still applies:

New Le Creusets like the one above are hideously expensive...

Ouch!

Since buying by brand name Is A Thing, it seems to me that the words LE CREUSET on cast-iron cookware immediately jacks the price up by at least 100 £$€ currency units over similar items from other manufacturers; for curiosity I compared Le Creuset to Staub, which also aren't exactly cheap: 41cm oval Staub, €449; 40cm oval Le Creuset, €599.

OUCH!

*****

They can be found somewhat (and if lucky, much) cheaper on eBay and Etsy, or in yard sales, garage sales, car boot sales and thrift shops.

A bit of searching revealed that people have had some very good luck with vintage Le Creusets, quite possibly because the original owners didn't know what they'd got.

This has to be the best thrift shop bargain I've seen in a long time:

*****

We've got these:

Even though only the orange one is actually labelled as a Doufeu, the other two have recessed lids and also work that way, complete with condensation drip-points cast on the insides.

This seems standard on recessed-lid casseroles, Staub have them too, and makes me think that casseroles with those lids are a better buy, since they can be used for regular OR doufeu cooking while those with flat or domed lids can't.

Also, remember where I said "original owners don't know what they've got"...? I found a hint of that in a sales listing which says:

It has a multi banded lid with a sunken knob, enabling the lid to be inverted, and used as a serving dish, with raised studs to help stop the food from moving around when being carved.

I think what happened here was that whoever wrote the description didn't know what the studs were actually for, and defaulted to what they thought they were for.

They're not sharp enough to hold food in place, and while this style of lid can be balanced inverted, it's not so they become serving dishes, because they'll teeter off-balance again with the slightest sideways pressure, such as trying to carve meat. So, er, don't.

*****

The cream/brown Fontignac was bought new more than 30 years ago - I've mentioned the French Country Recipes (seriously yummy) cookbook that came with it a couple of times - and DD bought the orange Le Cousances Doufeu about 5 years ago on eBay.

The smaller black Tramontina (from Brazil) was bought new last year to find out if something at that price level was any good.

So far... Yes, it is.

Staub own the Fontignac brand-name and Le Creuset own Le Cousances, so here's what to look for on the base of vintage originals.

There must be other bargains out there, maybe even as good as that thrift-store capture, so good hunting!

[victonair]

“Was it really Casual?” - Azul Ashengrotto x reader

Since childhood, you had always been unsure about romantic relationships - tending to avoid them at all; you didn’t know how to feel when people often confessed to you. Unfortunately, you were always a magnet for things you didn’t want, weren’t you? Which led you to the ultimate form of trouble itself, the calculating and dealmaking Dorm Head of Octavinelle, Azul Ashengrotto.

Or rather

In which, Azul falls in love with you, and you don’t know what to think or do.

Author’s Note: I’ve been writing too much fluff in both my drafts and blogs, so this is a nice refresher. Once again, I am open to requests! I really need something to motivate me to write more, so a couple would be nice! I wrote this within an hour so please don’t have that high of a standard for this! I consider this a drabble since it’s only 1600+ words, so please do enjoy!

Content Warnings: Angst, Reader and Azul being in a situationship, and Reader’s gender being ambiguous! Both Azul and reader are childhood friends and both of them are toxic in some way, but they’re toxic together! Azul is an unreliable narrator, and lastly, this fic is left with an ambiguous ending.

-

Azul had been in love with you for a long time. And that was an understatement; the feelings he had, had boiled, marinated, and developed for years. It took him so much time to realize the fact that he had been in love with you that he didn’t even know when his feelings started to develop. He wondered when it first sparked to life: was it when you took to exploring the sunken ships under the sea with him? Or was it when he first arrived on land, and for the first time, you gazed at the stars and looked at him so adoringly that it was almost sickening. He didn’t know, but all he knew is that he couldn’t bear to hide it from you anymore. It had took him years to accept it, and another year to gain the confidence to confess to you.

He didn’t know exactly what went wrong when he did confess; the plan was perfect, he’d woo you and charm you till you fell for him, that was if you didn’t fall for him like he did for you in the first place. He calculated his odds and although he wasn’t sure of it - he took the risk.

So, why was your answer like this?

You stood across him, the lounge empty from the private dinner you just had. Your eyes looked off to the side, refusing to look at him - this wasn’t the worst scenario he had expected, but it wasn’t the best. Little did he know that he’d see that your answer was the worst one he could’ve ever expected - not because of the answer itself, but the outcome that he would see through due to it.

“…I don’t know.”

What do you mean by that? You didn’t know? Were you in love with him or were you not? When was there ever a middle-ground? Perhaps, you were still in the stage of discerning, and to him, that was okay. He would help you discern your feelings for him, and he’d make sure it’d be all right for both him and you.

For a while, he was silent, before smiling at you. The same smile he’d use on his clients, and you clearly saw that. There was clear tension in the room as he hid the unsure hurt he felt, because then again, based on your answer - he did have a chance to convince you that both you and him were perfect for each other.

“I see.” His eyes stared at yours, whilst yours looked down to the ground, anywhere else. You looked like you wanted to be anywhere else in the world, and for some reason, his hurt began to ache with a pain, similar to the pain he felt when he loathed himself for getting these feelings in the first place, and by extension: you.

He kept the same business-like smile on his face, taking a deep breath before speaking once more, “Are you unsure? If so, then at least give me a chance to convince you that I’m good for you, or that you have feelings for me.” His hands clenched tightly underneath the table, something to still his heart from the pain he felt.

And for a few moments more, silence was present within the room - it was eventually broken by you giving him a nod and one word:

“Okay.”

And so began the hell that you put through him to, starting with your answer.

-

From that point on, he had done everything in his power to have you make the decision to love him: from showering you with gifts, to offering to do everything for you, and everything in a typical romance novel - he had done it. And each time, you had accepted it with a smile, almost like your answer and tune had changed regarding your answer to his confession. He took it as a positive.

But each time he had tried to bring it up, you looked uncomfortable and shied away from the subject as a whole - you instead tried to change or deflect the topic. And not wanting to lose his chances, he foolishly let you do it, always complying with what you wanted regarding the subject. If you didn’t want to talk about it, then he wouldn’t force you to.

However, with months of this development, it drove him insane. You did everything he wanted you to do to him - you smiled at him adoringly, took his courting gifts, and made it clear to the world that both of you were meant for each other - so why were you so annoyingly persistent about not bringing up the topic of defining what you were? When he asked, you - you looked uncomfortable and proceeded to say that you just weren’t ‘ready’.

He understood, it took him years to come to terms with his feelings. However, you couldn’t do this to him, not when he had already waited for months, years if you count when he didn’t recognize his feelings and one more year for when he did. It was hell. And for how rare it was for him to feel helpless in life, he felt so helpless to you - only you could end his suffering and you could do that by just doing something, anything.

He didn’t know what to do with you anymore, really.

-

The moon and stars looked so beautiful, but it couldn’t compare to you - you looked especially radiant as you laid down on the grass beside him. You had invited him to stargaze for one night, and he had taken you up on your offer. He couldn’t understand how beautiful you were; he was sure God existed, because if he didn’t - why wouldn’t he have given you to him? You were both his blessing and curse to bear - your existence and friendship was a blessing, whilst his unaccepted feelings for you were a torturous curse, he was sure that God had planted for his greed and all he had done to deserve this.

But it didn’t matter if God existed or not, because either way - he would have you do something to end his pain.

“…Sometimes, I imagine myself in your arms, dancing with you and laughing with you. And at times, I think that I want you to be the first thing I see when I wake up, and the last thing I see when I fall deep into my slumber within your arms.”

You had always said things like this to him since childhood, always things that made his heart race and when he was a child - he didn’t know what the feeling was, but now he knew. And this time, his feelings were laced with bitterness and hurt.

“Then, why don’t we make it official? We can do all of that, if you want. Just…say yes to me.”

Immediately, he could tell you were uncomfortable, but before your mouth opened to change the topic like you always did - he interrupted you, “And don’t tell me some nonsense about you not being ready, I’ve been courting you for months - doing the best I can to make you see reason. But you won’t see it.” His fists were clenched as he stared at you eye-to-eye.

A breeze rolled onto both of you as silence permeated the environment, the only noise coming from the woods that were filled with peaceful creatures, harmless ones unlike yourself. Finally, you met his eyes and after a while of hard staring, once more, you had one more answer.

“I know. I know I’ve been leading you on, but I can’t- I’m just not ready for a relationship-“

Azul immediately interrupted you with his own response, “Then reject me. Reject me and be done with it. Do something about it. Don’t lead me on and toy with me like I’m something to be stringed along and played with. I don’t understand why you couldn’t have just done it.”

You didn’t know what to answer to that, and so silence took your words once more. Azul knew that it was just two options and you had to choose, or else everything be damned - he would never look at your face once more. Despite the pain and hurt he had endured, he still wanted you to choose; he wanted you to choose him.

But with the way you looked so unsure, he already knew your answer.

“I like you. There I said it. But, I-I just don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship. Please, just give me more time.” Words fell off your tongue like venom disguised as pleasure; it hurt so damn much, and most of all: he felt so angry. He felt angry with you and himself. You couldn’t decide if you loved him, and him? He let you walk all over him and his feelings. Why the hell were you leading him on? He couldn’t fathom how you felt about him, it was two options to him: either love him or reject him. If you wouldn’t choose, he would force you too.

“It sure didn’t seem like it when you accepted all my courting gifts and said all the things you loved about me. Why are you doing this to me?” His heart hurt so much as he proceeded to say this, but he wasn’t willing to back down. You, on the other hand, went silent - not able to defend your actions nor say anything.

“…I don’t know.”

“Choose. Right now. Or leave this forest and in turn, leave me.”

And so you chose. The choice wasn’t easy, but either way Azul was satisfied with both options.

[ctrldoll]

Perfect Home

Wife!Reader/Husband!Miguel O'Hara

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Genre: Angst (⁠ب⁠_⁠ب⁠)

4.5k words.

Arguments are so tasking to write! They're supposed to be illogical, anyway. :⁠'⁠(

This has been in my drafts for a month! Ideas were not idea-ing! (′д｀σ)σ

Listening to a The Weekend playlist while editing was such a vibe!!! (∩^o^)⊃━☆

Warnings: Cheating, Pressure From Parents, Society’s Marital Standards, Desire To Have A Child, Cursing, Envy, Suggestive & Homely Vibes Are Non-Existent.

Peace and blessings to you, My Love!!!

𖤐⭒๋࣭⭑ [𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐏] ➜ He cheated, you found out. You don't know whether to leave him or not. Now what?

The egg in the pan let out a bitter scent before you firmly flipped it. “Ugh.” You let out as you looked at it from your sunken and puffed-out eyes, breathing in mucus as you struggled not to sob once more. “Over an egg? Over an egg, [Name]?!” You thought and picked up a tissue to brush your tears and stray drops of slick over.

Just yesterday, you found out about your beloved husband's cheating with his ex for two months.

You should have caught on to the signs during your parents’ gala that took place two months ago. Dana’s excitement led her to firmly hold on to Miguel's firm arm as Miguel discussed the success of a deal with Stark Industries with the both of you, which should have been a warning sight. It irked you slightly, but you didn't view it as enough to suggest anything. Maybe how Miguel didn't depart from her hand for minutes on end should have done it.

You've always been a bit credulous. Always having one too many friends who didn't really care about your well-being from the beginning, desiring all that your younger self, who faked sickening sweet kindness, had. The public loved every bit of it, as did your parents. You noticed the subtle hints of disrespect and commented on them much later. Far too late.

You made sure your presented nature wouldn't crawl into adulthood, but it spread itself into your relationship.

Miguel was a quiet nerd when you first got to know him. Never the hot topic, he stuck to himself the majority of the time.

You bonded with him while you visited your friend in the institution, watching as she obviously flirted with Miguel's friend while they walked with one another. Surprisingly, you bonded over an idle conversation about cake.

“Tres leches is fantastic! Dios mío, there's no arguing with that!”

“Yes, Tres leches may be fantastic to you, but [ — ] definitely crosses that!”

You both didn't catch the side-eye both friends gave one another.

The next week, a double date was set.

It was the perfect TV show grounding for marriage. It all feels like a waste now that you look back on it with low eyes.

“Mi Alma.” You rolled your eyes as your husband walked into the kitchen in sweats with a water bottle in hand. You felt the chill of the Five AM air for a moment before you turned to place the egg on your plate and turned off the stove.

The crinkle of the wrapper as you pulled out the loaves of bread constantly broke the silence in the room as you looked away from him.

“Were those four years we spent with one another a waste?” You asked after a moment, then opened your mouth to chew on a loaf. A tear poured down your cheek, but you quickly wiped it away.

“No, no, they were not, Cariño. They were the most amazing years of my life.” Miguel sadly sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I'm so sorry, Mi Amor. I promise I'll be better. For you, for us.” 

“You don't get to call me that. How am I your love when you cheat on me?” You barked, glaring at him. Your fork clinked when it reached the floor. You sighed in exhaustion and picked it up. You tossed it into the pile of dishes in the sink. “Fuck, I feel done.”

“Can’t we just get past this? We've been through so much for something like this to tear us apart. Miguel tsked and shook his head as he rolled his eyes. Nervousness ran through them, but he wouldn't show it. “Are you fucking serious right now, Miguel?! I should get over it?! Is that what you're saying?!” You yelled, frustrated, and you took deep breaths to calm down. “You’re such a fucking asshole, Miguel.”

“What about you, [Name]?! You're so damn ungrateful! I’m there for you! I support you, but you never support your husband! You barely do anything useful; you're always so caught up in your work that we can't even spend time together!” Miguel yelled, drawing closer to you.

“I have to work, Miguel! What part of that don't you understand?! I don't do anything useful?! Who's the one who does nearly everything in this household?! Me! You aren't even around for us to spend time together! If you aren't working late into the night, you're fucking patrolling! Do you want me to just sit down and wait for you?! I have other things to do!” You couldn't be more thankful in the moment that the room was soundproof. You could let out more than you would have in other spaces.

“You are so damn stubborn! Fuck! We can't even have a conversation without you trying to form an argument!” Miguel yelled, standing at arm's length as he pointed at you.

“Don’t point at me, Miguel.” You demanded and backed away from him to grab your purse. “If you honestly think that this isn't overdue, you're ridiculous. Stop victimising yourself. I’m the one who was cheated on. Go be with Dana, who probably won't piss you off as much as I do.” You said it with a crack at the end of your words as you struggled not to break down.

“[Name], I-” Miguel pushed his hand forward to grab your arm, but you pushed it closer to your form as you quickly left the hotel room. “Read the letter on the kitchen table. Or don’t. I don't really care.” You closed the door and walked away.

On the kitchen table, a letter in cotton paper was laid on it with your mother’s formal handwriting, inviting the both of you for lunch before your departure. Miguel cursed as he read it, the stress already getting to him as he envisioned how it would be.

Meanwhile, you headed to the café, reassuring yourself to calm down as you walked the longer route to it, hoping to have felt better when you reached there.

What you didn't notice was your mother’s gaze upon you from her balcony as she let out another puff from her cigarette while in her white silk nightgown, a black coat with a fluffy neck covering her as she cocked her eyebrows. Her eyes squinted at the moment you paused to quickly rub your eyes. She let out a hum, watching your figure disappear from her sight.

“These crumpets are quite fantastic.” Your father smiled, spreading another with blackberry jam as he chewed the spongy and soft treat. “We should wait for a few moments before requesting lunch, no? It will only take them a few more moments to arrive.” Your mother smiled at the both of you, a glass of water in hand, before taking in a long sip, bothered.

“So, Miguel, how have you been? Is there any success in the partnership with Calahan Tech? I've heard much about it in the Nueva York Times. Business moguls are just as excited about it as I am.” Your father's eyes twinkled in excitement as he imagined the size of the funding he would receive and the amount of votes the results of the collaboration would bring him in the next election as he snacked on a pig in the blanket.

“I’ve been well, Joseph. The agreement to partner has been a bit tough because we've been trying to convince the funders to work with us, but I’m sure we're about to reach a breakthrough.” Miguel responded, proud, as a smile appeared on his face. His hand shifted to your thigh under the table, alerting you as you took a quick look around before shoving it off of you. You were still bothered; he could tell by the way you struggled not to furrow your brows and the quick way your heart beat at his gesture, which reverberated in his ears as you gracefully downed a glass of water to calm your nerves.

“If you ever need some extra help, you know who to call. I can convince those hotshots to remove the sticks up their asses and agree.” “Joseph!” Mary whispered with a hiss, patting his arm as the man chuckled. “No one heard me, Darling. I whispered.” Your father said it with a wink, placed his hand over his wife's, and squeezed it. Her shoulders slouched, pleased even if she didn't verbally express it, at her husband's gesture, and she looked at their intertwined selves, then went back to her drink.

Joseph winked at the both of you once more and separated his hold from hers for the appetisers.

Your heart squeezed with want as you watched them. It was a moment of love, but also a reminder that you couldn't have that anymore. You looked away with a smile, not wanting to endure the feelings of sadness that weighted your heart.

“Hello, Mary. Hello, Joseph”. You heard in the background but were unable to focus on the two new voices in the background as you focused on calming yourself down.

“Cariño, I-” Miguel whispered in your ear, catching onto your feelings, but a sharp noise broke the moment.

“[Name]! Look at you! You're getting more and more gorgeous by the day! My gosh, you're glowing!” Elle, your sister-in-law, beamed and hugged you from your seat. You stood up quickly to hug her and beamed when you saw your brother walking up to the table.

“Aww, you're so adorable! Gosh, we haven't seen you in a bit.” “We apologise for that, by the way.” Micah shook your hand and led Elle to their seats. He smiled at the stink eye your mother threw at the both of them and rolled his eyes once he looked away from her.

“We apologise for arriving so late. Some business had to be taken care of just at the moment I was to leave the office.” Micah said with an apologetic look on his face. “We wish that we could have arrived on your anniversary as well, [Name] and Miguel. Work, once again, occupied us. Happy belated fourth anniversary to the both of you.” Elle congratulated him with a smile and thanked the waiter when he brought their wine.

You internally giggled at her personality change. Elle was always so casual around you but had to become formal when the fact that she's in public sets in. It wouldn't be good for a model to appear improper.

“How are you, Miguel?” Elle was greeted as Micah nodded. “We haven't seen each other in a while, man.”

“I’m doing well, thank you. I’m just taking care of the missus.” Miguel responded to Micah’s approval and your resistance to roll your eyes. “It’s been four years. I still can't believe that [Name] managed to tie someone down. She's so difficult.” Micah chuckled as you glared at him. “Speak for yourself. I still can't believe Elle wanted you. She could have done so much better.” You giggled and dismissed him with a wave of your hand.

“Don’t you remember when you..." Micah began, but Mary interrupted him. "Children, there is no need to complain about one another. To be quite honest, I didn't expect either of you to get married so soon. I thought that you'd both get married after building up your characters.” Your mother giggled, much to both of your dismay.

“Mum? You're cracking a joke? Are you sure you're alright?” Micah questioned, raising a brow that quickly came down when you kicked him underneath the table. “What was that for?” “What are you talking about?” You evaded his glare with a smile.

“I’m just glad to finally see my children and their spouses in the same spot.” Your mother had a gentle smile as she looked at the both of you as your partners looked elsewhere for a moment. She didn't approve of Elle either.

In her view, her children were supposed to marry someone of their status. Someone who is highly regarded. Not anything but that.

However, she regarded your brother in a higher manner when it came down to who he chose to marry.

Elle was a ‘blantant gold digger’ in her words, ‘a model who just wanted someone to raise her higher in the industry’. Micah was a highly praised film director and writer. Who better to expose her to the world of the rich and famous than him?

“Before we continue, Micah and I have an announcement to make.” Elle announced and stood up along with her husband. Your heart dropped as the next sentence echoed in your brain.

“We're pregnant!” They both grinned and hugged one another while grins appeared on your parents' faces. “Congratulations!” Mary cheered and eagerly stood up to hug the couple. “Congratulations. My boy, you've done it again!” Joseph grinned, to which Micah flustered.

“Congratulations!” You finally joined in, grinning as you hugged them both, a bit too tightly. You wanted the moment to feel real. You weren't upset. You couldn't be. You shouldn't be.

“That's a bit tight.” Elle said, causing you to break it. “Oh, I'm sorry. I'm already excited to see your little one or ones.” You grinned. “Congratulations, you two. We can't wait to see the little one.” Miguel smiled next to you, wrapping his arm around your waist.

You could feel the sharp looks from your parents, Micah and Miguel. Elle paused to look at you, and her brows furrowed in worry. "I hope this wasn't inappropriate." She whispered in your ear, looking at Miguel for a moment, holding your hand, to which you tightened the hold. "Elle, are you excited for this new part of your life? I'm so happy for the both of you." You shook your head to hint, and a relieved smile appeared on her face. "Yes, yes, I am." She responded and hugged Micah. He hugged back and smiled at you as a form of assurance and sternly looked at Miguel, to which he looked away.

“I can't wait to find out the gender of your little one. Searching for outfits will be pleasant.” Mary said once you all sat down, smiling at the couple who were in their own moment of adoration as food was brought on the table. Your heart broke as you watched Micah caress Elle’s stomach lovingly, and her hand lifted to squeeze his as they smiled at one another.

You looked at Miguel, whose eyes remained trained on yours, and softly sighed when his hand held yours in assurance, wanting the hurt to end when yours squeezed his. Clinging onto his attention, you hoped that it would rub off the pain you felt, but guilt and shame crawled onto you. You drew your hand from his and onto your fork.

“I just know they'll be spoiled rotten.” Ella giggled as Micah let out a chuckle. “Definately. We'll have to watch out for that.” “I can't wait to meet my first grandchild.” Your mother’s gaze fell on you for a moment, emitting her disappointment in you before having it on the couple as she grinned more.

Much was discussed around the table. The women's attention remained trained mainly on the little one and topics that interested them, as the men were cooped up in their own little world. Soon, it was near the hour of your departure. 

“[Name]. Let's chat for a moment in private.” Your mother said once Micah and Elle left to arrange their hotel room. The frown on her features became more evident the more you both drew away from the public eye. You both stepped into an empty break room. Once the click of a lock was heard, you sighed.

“Do you even realise just how disappointed I am in you, [Name]?” Your mother started. “Micah has a child before you. He hasn't even crossed two years with that girl, and he's made so much progress compared to you. You should be ashamed, [Name].” Anger flared in you as the words sunk in. You had already been through so much in such little time. Why did life’s cards decide to add more to your plate?

“Why does it bother you so damn much? I’ll have children when I want to. What part of that don't you understand?” You responded, glaring at the older woman. “You’ve always regarded Micah highly in comparison to me when it comes to marriage.” You rolled your eyes at her glare.

“[Name], Micah’s a man. Whether or not he has children early, he's alright. If he were to even leave Elle, he'd find someone new. He’d be able to have children, regardless. Men get better with age, unfortunately, unlike us. Your clock is ticking, [Name]. You need to progress into the next step of your life before it's too late.” Mary shook her head and sighed at what she believed was your foolishness.

You drifted into lassitude, it clinging to you like glue, with the realisation that she would never be satisfied with you until you did what pleased her. “I can just imagine how the public will react to this. You've set yourself up for failure.”

“I need to go.” You said, looking at the keys in her hand. “[Name]. Why can't you just listen to me? Did I raise such an impudent child? I’m just looking out for you, [Name]. I don't want you to experience regret. It'll never stop. I’m guiding you towards the right path.”

“Open the door.” You said once more, refraining yourself. “Why do you act so childish? I’m trying to help you.” Mary insisted, only further pushing your buttons. “Open the door.” You repeated it and headed towards it. You hand motioned at it. “You’re going to regret it if you continue with what you're doing.” Mary said, placed the key inside the keyhole, and turned it. “Maybe I will; maybe I won't. I respect you so much, Mum. Let's end this.” You said, then opened the door. “This will only end if you do what is right.” Was all you heard her softly say. You left.

“They offered only sixteen million dollars to help fund the project?” Your father questioned Miguel as he puffed the cigar on his lips and blew it out. The smoke waved in the air, and Miguel glanced at it for a moment as he drank his glass of beer. “Yes, they did. They didn't believe in the project’s potential until recently, when testing made a lot of progress.” Miguel responded, then drank the rest of his drink.

“Your drinking tolerance must be high. You've drank four beers since you arrived, and you're still standing straight. You'd do amazing in the drinking competitions that go on in the basement on Saturdays. Don't tell Mary; she wouldn't be pleased to know about them.” Joseph winked, to which Miguel chuckled as he shook his head. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” 

“Miguel, why won't you have children?” Your father broke the silence and looked at him, somewhat disappointed. “I’m a man as well, Miguel. It's not hard to conclude the possibilities.” The cigar was nearing its last draw.

“My career. I don't think it would let me enjoy the simple pleasures of family life. I do my research late into the night. [Name] does so much to accommodate that. I don't think it would be right of me to bring children into that.” Miguel confessed with a sad gaze as he thought back to your heartbroken expression when you found out about his involvement with Dana.

It hunted him throughout the missions he did that night, rage and shame filling his form, and anyone around him sensed it. Many in the Spider-HQ avoided him in the brief night he was there. Jessica and Peter avoided him as well, aside from brief interactions. They knew he'd pour out his feelings to them eventually. 

“As much as using work as an excuse gratifies you, it's a poor choice, Miguel. You'll regret it if you decide to let it linger.” Your father looked at him from the side of his eye and rubbed his moustache.

“My work was easier in my younger days, but I found it just as challenging as I find it now. I was just an assistant to the previous politician at the time, too. You understand what I’m hinting at when I say that, right?” Miguel nodded, to which the older man smiled. 

“I had my children either way. It was a struggle to tackle the task of raising them and working. I had days where I thought I didn't do enough for them and that I found my work to be more important. Mary had her own career to focus on. She would work late into the night. I’m assuming that [Name] does the same thing since she chose to be a designer just like her mother. Do I need to be corrected?” “No, you don't. You're right.”

“We still did the best we could, regardless. We could have done some things better, yes. But we can't go back in time to correct ourselves. We can only give advice to those who seem to be going astray.” Joseph hinted, looking at Miguel, who looked back at him.

Joseph knew; he could tell by the way he looked at him, disappointed and angry, but chose to contain himself.

“I only hope you won't regret your decision, Miguel. Just know that I will be alongside my daughter when she decides to tell us.” Your father took in one last puff and let it out. Miguel and Joseph gazed at the smoke one last time until it disappeared into the clear, blue sky over the beautiful atmosphere.

Joseph's cigar remained in its ashtray, the soft red of it fading with each passing moment. Both men took in the peacefulness of the atmosphere with sombre spirits.

Moments after you freshened up, you headed to your husband. “We should head out in a bit.” You said, then placed your head on his shoulder and laid your hand on his chest. He noticed how drained you felt. He sensed the irregularity in your hormones. You felt his arms wrap around you, and you wrapped yours around his. You made your decision at that moment.

“Cariño, I am so sorry. I'll be better. I'll never hurt you again.” He whispered in your ear, his soft tone and the warmness of his breath in your ear making you melt in his arms as you tightened your hold on him.

“We will see each other once more.” Mary stated, across both of you with her husband. She hugged you, then Miguel. Her hands held the sides of both your shoulders and shook them. “Drive safe, alright?” Joseph said, then hugged you and shook Miguel's hand. “Yes, sir. We'll be alright.” Miguel responded and shook the keys with a grin.

“We hope to hear some good news soon.” Your mother commented, smiling as she directly looked at you. “We will soon, won't we, Miguel?” Joseph said, looking at Miguel with a grin. “Hopefully.” Miguel responded and straightened himself. You could tell that something happened between them. “Don’t worry, you will soon.” You responded with a smile and left hand in hand with your beloved.

The strawberry air freshener, coffee, Miguel's spicy cologne, and your sweet perfume lingered in the air of your home when you both stepped in. The cosiness hugged your form, and you took it all in, craving the warmth you desperately needed in the last two days.

“Miel, it feels good to be back, doesn't it?” Miguel placed your luggage on the side and hugged your waist, savouring the comfort of the air before him. You squeezed into his warmth, cherishing it as a longing emotion overcame you. You turned to face him, and before anything could pour from his plump lips, you locked them with your own.

He lifted you, soft lips still entangled, his stamina much greater than your own, to the wall, willing to do all the work as you squirmed in eagerness across him. “Let me help you.” You said, in between gasps, need flaring all over your body as he kissed your neck, nearing your collarbone as kisses and tiny licks trailed towards it.

You could feel the slight sting of a canine; the sensation became foreign as it had been a long time since you embraced in hazy lust. Your body missed it—the curl of your back as you felt it draw a messy line down your collarbone.

“Mikey, please-” You drew out a sharp breath, your eyes hinting towards the stairs that led up to your bedroom, then shut tight when he pressed his hips closer to your own, evidently just as excited as you were. He lifted you in a hug, and your legs immediately clung on to his waist as he tightly held on to you, almost as though you'd disappear right there and then.

“Mi Vida, I promise I will never hurt you again. Te quiero tanto. Te quiero, te necesito tanto, Mi Vida, Mi Todo. Por favor, por favor, déjame tenerte.”

[“I love you so much. I love you, I need you so much, My Life, My All. Please, please let me have you.”] 

“You can have me, Mikey. Please.” You dragged on, clinging more to him as want consumed your forms.

The sensual fog filled the house as carnal desire mixed between your bodies late into the night. You finalised your decision as sweat stuck to your body, your gaze on Miguel as he slept soundly. You hadn't seen him like this in such a long time. Your fingers moved to separate a stray lock that stuck to his cheekbone. Pain struck your heart when you thought about how Dana must have seen him this intimately. You wouldn't blame her if she did the same thing you had just done. You just hated that she got to.

The never-ending bustle of Nueva York in the distance was all you drifted off to sleep once more with. You had a fleeting thought of what went on in his mind when he watched you drift off to sleep first. You knew he must have loved it; he must have gazed at you with the same adoration during your first moments together. You missed it all.

“I want a divorce, Miguel.” You calmly let out, scrambled eggs on your plate and his as you ate breakfast with one another, spirits low. He sighed, an indication that he expected this, then looked at you, searching for a sign that you would consider any plea that fell from his lips. He didn't find any. “I’m sorry, Mi Amor.” He apologised, then drank coffee. The cup was placed on the counter a bit loudly for comfort. He looked towards you in apology. You nodded, then turned to eat.

“I know.” You responded, looking out the window at the eggs that softly lay on the nest on top of the tree next to the household, wondering if, by leaving him, you'd unlock the path towards that. The mother bird’s eyes lingered on her eggs for a moment. Maybe it was in adoration.

You let out a hum, making Miguel shift his low eyes towards your own in questioning, and you shook your head, then turned back to your plate.

I’m done!!! Yessssss!!! I don't know whether to continue with this or not. If I do, it'll take a bit to get chapters. This took a bit out of my lifespan but I’m so happy that I wrote this! ꒰⁠⑅⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠꒱⁠˖⁠♡

[emyn-arnens]

Like the Birds of the Shore

Eärwen | G | 1k | @arafinwean-week day 1: Eärwen + family | AO3

When word comes from the returning Exiles that her sons have died, Eärwen already knows. For a century, she has felt the splintering in her spirit, and for a century she has denied its meaning.

Were she one of the Noldor, she might pour her grief into a craft. In Tirion, Nerdanel sculpts and Anairë builds. Tirion brims with sculptures and cenotaphs of their sons as they hew their grief from stone, pulling forth veins of sorrow and regret.

Eärwen is neither a sculptor nor a builder. She is a lace-maker and a weaver, and even then her craft is a shadow of Míriel’s, unrefined and coarse by the standards of the Noldor. She has never woven lace for mastery, though, only for the enjoyment of doing so.

But she has not turned to the craft since Nerwen left, since she found that her hands do not follow the thoughts of her mind and her fingers do not flit among the threads as they once did, when she and Nerwen bent their heads together and laughed at the travails of the Noldorin court.

It is just as well that she cannot set her hand to lace-weaving, for lace is too delicate a vessel for the raw grief that pours forth from her. There is no thread she could weave that is dark enough to tell the tale of her sorrow. 

And so Eärwen sets foot upon the shoreline where her people were slain, and she casts her gaze over the pale stretch of sand, seeking. Like the shorebirds, she hunts among the sands, turning over rocks and shells, peering into pools, searching beneath tangles of seaweed.

She collects. She constructs. She consecrates.

She gathers pale stones from the shoreline and places them into piles, facing east, and builds. Like the little castles in the sand she once built with her children—Finrod, who delighted in building castles of both beauty and mathematical precision; Angrod and Aegnor who liked rather to build an impenetrable fortress and see how long it could outlast the waves; and Galadriel who sat stubbornly apart, working single-mindedly upon her own castle—she places memories of her sons and their families upon the shoreline.

For Angamaitë, her iron-fisted son, she stacks the stones closely together, so that there is not a gap between them, just as he built the fortress that became his tomb. She sets upon the top of the cairn a coronet of round stones and tucks swan feathers in between them, the one touch of beauty she will allow, to mark him as the son of the Swan-maiden.

For Aikanáro, the fell fire, she gathers flame-colored coral from the shoreline and sails a skiff out onto the bay to gather the red algae that floats in great mats upon the surface and the red dulse that grows in deep forests beneath. When she surfaces, gasping to refill her lungs, the dulse lies like flames in her palm, and she swallows down the bitterness of her foresight. She places the coral about the base of the cairn and tucks the algae and dulse in the crevices between the stones, where they flutter in the breeze, a memory of fire.

For Eldalótë, the Elven-flower, slain in the same firestorm that took her sons, Eärwen forms a small bowl with the stones and fills it with water. She walks beneath the silver willows of Lórien and gathers lotuses and lilies from the pools and lakes, brimming with blossoms and sunken stars, that spread at their feet. She places her harvest in the bowl of water and weeps for the woman who followed her son across the Ice into death.

For Findaráto, her golden son, she builds a cairn of stones the color of the westering sun and sets within the crevices pearls she has gathered from the Bay of Eldamar, diving deep into its clear waters, and emeralds that Finrod left for her as parting gift, both apology and the farewell he could not bring himself to speak. She cups water in her hands and lets it trickle over the stones, washing them clean as she could not clean and dress her son’s body, bloodied and rent with many wounds. 

For Artaresto, soft-tongued and gentle-hearted, she builds a cairn sculpted of soft sand, ringed in pale stones to guard it from the lapping waves. And for Finduilas, whom she has never met but whom the returned name her great-granddaughter and of whom come tales of surpassing sorrow, she builds a cairn of pure white stones and dresses them in tears-of-the-sea, and she weeps for the great-granddaughter she never knew. 

When she is done, Eärwen stands over the cairns and sings the song of parting known to all sea-folk, casting her voice upon the wind. It heeds her bidding and carries her words over the waves, and the Maiar that dwell in the waters take up her song, murmuring in voices like rippling water.

— — —

When Finarfin leaves, clad in golden armor brighter than the face of the sun, the favor of the Valar shining upon his brow, Eärwen picks her way down to the shoreline, where her cairns stand sheltered under the lee of a sea cliff, and watches the departure of the Host, trembling even as she draws her swan-cloak tighter about her. The words she had not been able to voice, stunned into silence at the sight of her husband garbed as one of the Maiar and heralded by ringing trumpets, are still stuck in her throat. Had she the heart to voice the words, she would have told him to come back to her, for she could not bear the grief of another taken forever by Middle-earth, could not bear to stack a pile of stones for him. 

But she thinks he knows, though he had spoken no words as he pressed his lips to her brow in farewell.

The winds tug at her swan-cloak as she watches the departure of the host, surrounded by her cairns.

In the middle of the line of cairns lies an untouched pile of stones, not yet arranged into a cairn. 

And Eärwen waits for a daughter who has not yet turned her heart to home.

[vampiretendencies]

request; hi! i love your writing! if you could maybe do “tell me about your day.” with jj! maybe he’s your first boyfriend & you’re taken back by such a simple question/gesture since nobody has ever cared about you in that way before.

warnings; fluff

pairing; jj x fem!reader

authors note; writing blurbs rn bc of writers block (sorry to keep saying that btw i just repeat myself in case there’s a new reader, though i am currently starting to get over it) but still send in requests for one shots, imagines, etc. you may choose a blurb from the list below or send in your own idea.

other ways to say i love you prompt list

2 months.

So fresh, and so perpetually new.

Honeymoon phase striking JJ as something that would actually last this time. Not that he had many relationships to base it off of, but the past few he had typically went sour within the first few weeks.

None of them could get along with his way of life, or they just simply didnt appreciate the wholeness of everything that was JJ.

But he sensed it with you; he felt it in his bones, under his skin, on the tip of his tongue, every ounce of his being felt you, even if you weren't in the room.

This was his most serious, longest, emotionally involved, admiration filled relationship he'd been in.

This was your first relationship, but after being underwhelmed in his past endeavors he found this to be his first too.

And he's thinking about you first thing when he wakes up in the morning, last thing when he goes to sleep- unable to function properly if you weren't near.

JJ was your first everything; first kiss, first time holding hands, first time cuddling, first time being sexually involved with a boy.

But, Christ were your standards low about yourself.

Initially thinking a human with such with breathtakingly confined gestures didn't exist like JJ.

He proved you wrong, convincing you that everyone else in this world were heathens.

He taught you how to create such passion for another, how to know someone's heart and you did the same.

"How was your day, baby?"

It rolled of JJ's tongue, finitely. The two of you were entangled in the hammock at the Chateau, and you were cradled into JJ's arms. Attached to his side, whilst he studied your features; peering down at your scrunched up nose as if you were heaven sent. You thumbed over the material of his beer-stained Heyward's t-shirt, coming to a halt at that question. Almost like the hammock stopped swinging, the unearthly beaming sun stopped shining on the two of you, and as if you'd sunken into the mucky ground.

You were in awe, glaring up at JJ like he'd grown two heads.

Was he being serious? You thought.

"Something on my face? It's okay you can tell me-"

"No m'just ... you meant to ask me that?"

Stunned, was an understatement, as you are now propping your chin onto JJ's muscular chest, needing a better view. Almost uneased and taken aback as that wasn't an everyday question anyone asked you— lead alone a boy.

"Course' I did ..." and then he noticed your furrowed eyebrows. "C'mon, what's goin' on in that pretty little head?”

"Nothing J, you're the first guy to ask me that."

""Let's keep it that way, baby. I'll be the only one."

He's repeatedly pecking the skin of your forehead leaving you to say, “Since I've met you all of my days have been perfect."