#sunken-standard

[goldensunset]

i think i've entered my 'shorts over leggings' era

[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!

[embowed]

Transitional Living Room in New York

[kyomi-shi]

Living Room Enclosed (San Francisco)

[garfinski]

Enclosed (New York)

[blast-door]

Family Room Open in New York

[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,"

[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.

[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.