#though not quite half way on the wordcount yet

[arminsumi]

SAKURA.

𝐆. 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 — 五条悟 ⋅ fem reader

NOTE: i really liked this idea and merged it with my little daydream of Gojo being in his clan and meeting you in a small village (like before he moved to the city or something) and tweaked it just a lil bit if that's ok!! i hope i delivered, and mwa ty for your request lovely anon i hope i got it all right, enjoyyy 💐

REQUEST: Can you pls write gojo who gets the Hanahaki disease cause of reader and gojos condition worsens so to keep the strongest alive the higher ups set up an arranged marriage with reader (her mission is to love gojo so he doesn’t die but she is defensive and uncooperative at first) but then she warms up to gojo (he does everything to make her happy) and they both live happily ever after 😭💕

SUMMARY — you meet a boy on a Taiko-bashi as a child. Little did you know, he was the prodigal son of the Gojo clan, and you would be married into that family to save his life.

WARNINGS — heavy angst to fluffy fluff, he steals ur first kiss, domestic life with ur kid Megumi at the end <3 😭, unrequited -> requited love, arranged marriage, quite a lot of blood/bloody flower mentions, disease/afflicted with coughing spells (see about the fictional Hanahaki disease here. Basically u cough up flowers and/or throw up full flowers if it gets life-threatening), poor boy almost dies, there’s a scene where it’s insinuated that he throws up a full flower, some teasing/playfulness yk the usual you'd expect from gojo, lmk if i have missed a warning thank u

WORDCOUNT ≈ 4.3k

PLAY ME ♪ bouquet — Ichiko Aoba

🍒 𝐉𝐚𝐲 — サクランボ ⋅ 𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬/𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 !

When you were seven, a boy a few years older than you – perhaps two or three – passed you by on a Taiko-bashi in a small village. You remember him as the boy with peculiar eyes and white hair who looked back at you on the bridge. In your eyes, it was a very ordinary encounter with a very extraordinary looking stranger.

But in his infinitely blue eyes, there was ingrained a more meaningful and vivid memory of that encounter. He held it very close to his heart. When you and he made that brief eye contact as he looked behind his shoulder, slowing at his mother’s side, he felt a windswept, lovestruck feeling come over him. He batted his pretty lashes at you and stopped walking for a fleeting moment, as if captivated, and then went his separate way with the image of your face burned into the forefront of his mind. His kimono fluttered as he tended to walk in a gliding manner.

When you were fourteen, the same encounter happened again. A familiarly pale face with barely grown-in features looked back at you – his whole body felt a twinge of excitement. He only took one small moment to look at you and yet knew you were the same girl he saw as a child on this very same bridge.

Years went by, and the two of you kept encountering each other at peculiar times in your lives at that same bridge. Neither of you spoke to each other once, well, you didn’t say a word – but he uttered a few boyishly desperate greetings and even bowed as he glided past you to try and get your attention. If only you would have stopped for a chat, the poor boy would have given anything for that.

In some way, it felt like the two of you knew each other, though it was only your eyes that ever talked.

Come your eighteenth birthday, you were burdened with awful news. You were to be married to a man you had never met – someone from the Gojo clan. That person was apparently fatally sick with a disease you had scarce knowledge on. You asked your friend at the time, her name you’ve long forgotten by now, about Hanahaki and all she said was;

“Your lover is going to spit flowers in your face.”

You scrunched your nose up in disgust and confusion at this. A very silly image formed in your mind about the disease ever since your old friend had said that ��� all you could imagine was your future husband spitting saliva-wettened, half-destroyed flowers at your face.

The Gojo family and your family had always distantly known each other, hence all the visits to the village that they resided in. Your marriage to Gojo was long-debated throughout the years – yet neither you nor him knew anything about it. Neither of you prospected marriage, you were just the two strangers that passed each other on the Taiko-bashi every time the Sakura was in bloom.

The first time you and the son of the Gojo clan were introduced, it had already begun with a rocky start. You walked in when he had been overwhelmed with a coughing fit, and you were hushed back outside. The shoji door smacked shut behind you, and you heard sickly coughs piercing through the translucent sheets. When your future husband stopped coughing, and the blood and petals were cleaned up, you were brought back into the room. There were both your families and some important-looking officials in the large room, all formally sat on the tatami mats with mixed expressions. His mother seemed delighted at the sight of your face – but not more than her son.

Gojo Satoru, an eighteen-year-old at the time, with usually such a loud mouth and good joke up his sleeve, was rendered speechless when you had walked into the room. He analysed and absorbed every feature that made up the image of what he thought was the most charming and alluring creature ever to exist. Definitely a creature, he thought as you formally bowed with him, because no human could possess such an ethereal beauty.

Satoru was intrigued by you from your encounter on the Taiko-bashi, but when he was finally introduced to you he was utterly captivated.

The reasons and conditions for your marriage with the Gojo clan’s prodigal son conflicted with your strong beliefs in love and romance. You had rather aggressively told the poor boy your opinions in the days leading up to your wedding.

“I always thought,” you emphasized with a snotty tone, yet he listened to you like one would listen to the tranquil flow of the river under the Taiko-bashi, “that I would marry someone I loved, and not be forced to love…” you seemed so disappointed with how your life was turning out, that he couldn’t help but feel a bit bad for you.

“I’m a positive person, I have faith that you’ll fall in love with me in no time.” He said cheekily and winked at you. You felt very taken aback by such straight-forward flirting – you must understand, no boys in your village ever did that. They were very proper, even reserved.

He was almost charming in that instant, but then he added; “Who wouldn’t fall in love with me?”

At the time he was so full of himself that you could hardly believe there was space for any petals in his body. But there certainly was – when you left him alone in that room and stormed off, appalled by his conceit, he clutched the side of the door frame and coughed up little pink petals – enough to comprise three whole flowers.

It started worrying him, a few days before the wedding, when he started coughing more often. And not just that, but he started coughing up more petals than he had ever in his life. The peculiar disease had started during a time in his childhood that was coincidentally very close to the time he first passed you by on the bridge.

The night before the wedding, he laid in bed and brooded. And he was never the type to brood – he let life happen and moved on relatively easily. But he brooded, and brooded until it felt like he sunk so deep into his futon that he became one with it. The ceiling blurred.

What was going to happen if you didn’t fall in love?

That thought scared him so much that he violently drove it out of his mind and replaced it with an ideal daydream; he envisioned you and him cuddled up, bracing each other’s bodies, and melting into each other like real lovers do. He imagined you would be warmer than him, with that cool touch he had, and you would also stroke his hair. It was very fluffy, he made sure to point that out to you several times – but you never took a hint.

On the day of your wedding, he snuck to meet you just before the ceremony. He was crouched in the garden outside the room that you were preparing in. It’s then when he heard you voice your feelings to whoever it was helping you get ready.

“How can I love a stranger? And anyways, he is so full of himself, I can hardly believe there’s space for any flowers in there. There’s nothing I like about him.”

“Oh, Y/n, you have yet to learn about him. I’m sure you will find he’s rather charming. He is the pride of the Gojo clan, after all – he has the Six Eyes and Limitless. He’s the strongest, he’ll always be able to protect you – ”

It sounded like the woman talking about him was your mother, with how she praised him so much. She was right, Gojo thought; he could protect you from anything.

His expression was grave after hearing your thoughts. But he put on a lightened smile and masked his slight heartbrokenness when the rituals and main ceremony commenced.

It was a very formal, rigid ceremony. Gojo looked up at you sadly a few times, wishing you would spare a glance. He brooded on the idea that you’ll never love him like he loves you, and then a sickening, ticklish feeling spread in his throat and just as the closing ritual ended, he burst into a coughing fit – one of his worst yet. A bit of blood dribbled out his flushed lips, contrasting against his pale skin. Of course you were concerned – and of course you felt the urge to help and comfort him. But those feelings were purely out of the goodness of your heart.

Friends share love. But even when you and Gojo developed something resembling a friendship, it didn’t alleviate his disease. It was embarrassing sometimes, to realize that you were failing at the one thing you had to do; and that was keep him alive.

He was quite genuinely dying for you to love him.

Yet you refused to be in the same room as him for too long. Your mother had to encourage you. Eventually, both his family and your family worked together to make sure you and Gojo spent adequate time with each other. They organized meetups ranging from fancy nights-out to long voyages to weekend sleepovers. It was comical, how your families got along more smoothly than you and Gojo.

It’s the spring of his nineteenth birthday when the thought of kissing you becomes a reality. Well, it doesn’t go as he planned it. See, Gojo envisioned that kissing you would solve all his problems – he thought he could infect you with his love, somehow worm into your heart through a passionate kiss.

So when you and him sat for tea in a spacious room, kneeled side by side on the tatami mats, he went in for a kiss. You were distractedly straightening out your kimono when suddenly a pair of inexperienced, boyish lips crashed onto yours.

“Mmf!” you reacted with sheer shock – why on earth was he kissing you? The audacity, he had just insulted and made a mockery of you with a cheeky, playful attitude.

“Satoru!” you whined into his mouth.

He cupped the back of your neck and partly entangled his hands in your hair. White lashes sat pretty as he closed his eyes and glided his wettened lips over yours. For the briefest moment, you let yourself enjoy his kiss. But suddenly, as if your principles of love kicked back in and stomped on the moment, you shoved him away.

And a hard shove that was, he fell out of balance and landed on the mats with his elbows, a look of shock and surprise twisting into comedy.

“Playing hard to get?” he joked. His heart sunk ever so slightly at your rejection.

“You can’t just kiss a girl!”

“Come on, I’m your husband – if I can’t kiss you, then who is allowed to?” he asked.

You looked furious, like you were about to bite him, so he slowly started backtracking.

“I just wanted to see if kissing you would – ”

“How dare you, that was my first kiss! I thought I would have a cute first kiss, not a hasty one shared over… over a cup of tea!” you complained.

His expression changed and he started sputtering apologies. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know – I – ahuh!” he started lightly coughing.

And now it was your turn to feel apologetic, because all the bad tension between you and him brought on another violent coughing fit for him.

“I’m okay.” He choked out, eyes water and face reddened – some blood pooled at the corners of his lips, he instinctually brought his hand up to his mouth to catch any that dripped.

You rushed and kneeled over him, placing a much-needed soothing hand on his shoulder. “Satoru, I’m sorry.”

He tried to muster up a joke to lighten your worry, “H-hey, since when d’you call me S-Satoru? I thought it was strictly Go-jo.” he was interrupted by more coughing.

You comforted him, until his parents came into the room. They seemed disappointed with you, but masked it.

The night fell heavy all around the Gojo home. The barren Sakura trees’ branches subtly shook in the wind. A storm was approaching.

“Hey, sweetlips.” Gojo slipped into your room as you were in the middle of preparing for bed. “There’s a big storm comin’, if you get scared you can sleep with me.”

“Are you out of your mi-” you shut up when a sudden, extraordinary crack of lightning sounded and shocked you right out of your skin.

Gojo had a little laughing fit at your overreaction. He was completely calm at such a loud noise. Of course he was.

“I’m not sleeping with you!” you muttered angrily, but then you saw the dejection on his face – no, rather, you saw the way he tried to conceal it, and you felt bad.

Maybe tonight is the night you’ll try harder, you thought.

“Okay, well, don’t cry like a wimp if the thunder scares you ‘cause I won’t come running to soothe you.” He said and left you alone.

When he walked down the hall, his fingers grazed over his lips. All he could think about was how blissful it felt to kiss you, even if you did reject him. And he was your first kiss – maybe it was wrong to smile over that, but he couldn’t help himself as he climbed into the comforts of his bed.

A violent rainstorm engulfed the village.

As the lightning got more frequent and more terrifying, Gojo scrunched up his shoulders and half-hid his face under his blanket. He felt like a boy again, as scared of the thunderstorms as he was when he was seven years old. His pretty upturned nose peaked over the blanket, eyes glistening with tears as he recalled the fateful day you and him encountered each other at the Taiko-bashi.

He held onto that memory with a death grip. No one else ever had the honor of being so close to his heart, not even his best friend who he had made at Jujutsu high when he was seventeen. No, that heart of his he kept reserved for you. He thought to himself that night, while curling up on his side in pain, that even if he dies, at least he would die having been able to love you – albeit without reciprocation.

And then it happened. He shot up and let out a violent cough, and began spluttering over his white blanket. The thunderstorm was so violent that it muffled even the violent coughing in his room. His head felt like a dense ball of tension.

Unrequited love for many boys his age was heartbreaking, but not deadly. He morbidly laughed at that fact, observing the flower that he had thrown up onto his blanket, soaked in his blood.

He was dying.

He defeatedly closed his eyes, breathing through his blood-glistening mouth. His chest lightly heaved. “Y/n, you’re really gonna be the death of me… ah, oh well. That’s okay.” He muttered madly to himself and fell back onto his bed, too weak to stay awake any longer.

It was probably the work of the universe, but you floated down the unlit hall and tapped at Gojo’s doorframe. “Are you awake? Satoru?” you called his name in a gentle murmur.

There was an eerie silence. You slid open the door and caught a glimpse of bloodied sheets and a mangled-looking flower.

“Satoru!” you rushed over to him, stirring him awake with a harsh shake on his arm. “Satoru? Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

He groaned weakly – you felt a small relief. He wasn’t dead, though he really looked pale enough to be. His cheeks were flushed, his lips cracked and dry with residual blood.

Not a word you spoke sounded coherent to him though it was, all he heard was the soothing qualities in your voice. Though his vision was blurred, he knew it was you, because he felt the familiar air and scent of you.

He felt a strange sort of alleviation when you cupped his cheeks, murmuring something. Oh, when did he end up in a doctor’s room, laid on a patient’s cot? Weren’t you and him just in his bedroom at night, during a loud thunderstorm?

All he recalled was that you held his hand and squeezed it for a long time, while you were travelling somewhere. He remembered feeling your comforting presence each time his consciousness stirred.

“Have I died and gone to heaven?” he chuckled jokingly, feeling your lips press to his forehead.

“Huh?”

“Probably dreaming…” he muttered to himself.

“Satoru, you’re not in heaven you’re at Doctor Tanaka’s home.” You told him.

He pinched his eyes shut, overwhelmed by his afflicting sickness and Six Eyes.

“I’m so sorry…” he heard you speaking in a more tender voice to him than you ever had before. He felt the pressure in his chest lessen as you spoke, “… I was going to come to you because the thunderstorm scared me… no, actually, because I wanted to be with you. I felt this overwhelming urge to be at your side, and I don’t know why. Satoru, I’ve been such a fool. I’ve been such a scared fool, fearful of loving a stranger. Or, no, I guess I’ve feared loving someone I’m not supposed to be loving. You’re so special I feel driven away by it. But I promise I won’t flee from your love anymore, Satoru – I love you, and I’ll express it as much as I can in this feeble human form. The rest of our love will happen in the stars, after we die, I guess.”

He opened his eyes. It felt like the burdening fog that had been plaguing him since he was a little boy on the Taiko-bashi finally cleared. Everything felt fresh and sharp, and good and properly comforting. It felt like he had woken up from a long dream or arrived home from a harrowing journey through the landscapes of his mind.

“So you can be good with your words.” Was the first thing he said, and that was such a Gojo response that you knew he was okay.

“How do you feel?” you asked him, peering down at him.

He groaned and stretched and shifted around, fussing dramatically.

“I feel…” he began, and looked over at your lips. “Like I deserve to be kissed.”

“Oh, shut up you…”

He pouted. “Okay, ‘guess the kissing can wai- mmf!”

You kissed him very quickly and recoiled from shyness. His lips were divine.

He shot up out of the bed like he couldn’t just believe what happened.

“Wow.” He blinked at you. “So gutsy, you know you’re not allowed to kiss your husband!” he joked.

“You are such a – ”

“ – good kisser?”

“An idiot!” you giggled, genuinely enjoying his company.

The two of you bantered, basking in the newfound feeling of shared love. When the doctor came back in, he was preparing to witness the worst – but he was utterly surprised and at a loss for words when he walked in on you two smiling and laughing.

And it was the talk of the village. Neighbors gossiped, “Did you hear that Gojo Satoru is cured?” they spoke amongst themselves, “I heard! Apparently it’s a very romantic love story, did you read the newspaper article?”

You and Gojo drifted down the Taiko-bashi, together. He squeezed your hand when you set foot on the bridge, the cool skin of his wrist tickling your inner wrist as they pressed together.

“What are we doing here?” you asked him confusedly.

“Don’t you know this place? It’s the place we met.”

“Ooh, you’re romantic, huh?” you smirked.

A small blush crowned his cheeks.

“I’ve been romantic since the start.” He defended.

“What d’you mean! You were so cheeky!” you kicked his leg.

“I was quite a menace, I’m sorry – not sorry – kidding, kidding, I am sorry.”

He looked at you with a cheeky smirk, knowing damn well what you were talking about.

“You know…” he began, looking over the bridge at the river flowing beneath and admiring how the stream carried the Sakura blossoms. “Whenever I used to get coughing fits – bad ones – I would soothe myself with the memory of when we first met here. I can still recall the kimono you wore, and the Sakura that got tangled in your hair – and I thought about…” he came closer to you, speaking with a charming allure, “How badly I wanted to pluck that flower from your hair.”

You blinked up at him. How could such romantic words come out of him? You didn’t know how to respond.

“Ooh, did I make you shy?” he teased.

“No…”

“I totally made you shy. That’s so sweet. Are you blushing?” he giggled, putting his cool palm up to your cheek to feel the heat, “Oh, you’re blushing blushing. You could burn my hand right off.”

“Satoru!” you giggled.

“Ah!” he clutched his chest dramatically when you said his name, “Don’t say my name like that! I have a wife.” He joked.

“You are ridiculous!”

He gave you a big, toothy smile. “But you love me for it.”

“I do.” You tell him, and though he’s heard it many times after that day, each time feels like the first time you’re saying you love him.

“Gimme a kiss.” He asks.

“Come get it.” You tease, slowly backing away off the bridge.

“Seriously? You’re gonna make me chase you for a kiss? I’ve coughed up petals because of you, ‘n you’re gonna do me like this – heyyy! Get back here!”

Running into the petal-littered streets like carefree kids felt so freeing and exhilarating. He felt like he was catching up on all the fun he missed, if only you would have lived in his village as a child or visited more often.

“Got you!”

“Ah! Jesus, you scared – mmmf!”

He didn’t hesitate to take a much-needed kiss from your quivering lips. He kissed you so hard that you felt dizzied, lost for breath, rendered speechless. And he relished the love pouring out from you.

You stood there being kissed by your husband in a quaint alley, standing tiptoed on the Sakura blossom-littered ground to meet him halfway. Gojo’s heart thumped at the smallest things, like the fact you were standing on your tiptoes – that was the cutest thing in the world to him.

The two of you took a break for breath, and silently admired the Sakura blossoms as they drifted, being swept away by the wind.

Gojo looked at them, and looked at you, and thought of everything that had happened up until now. He was about to say something lovey-dovey but blurted out a dumb joke instead just to hear your laugh.

“Damn, I used to cough up those things.”

You laughed, “Your jokes aren’t good, Satoru.”

“But you laughed.” He said cockily.

“Shut up or I will never kiss you again.” You playfully threatened.

“You don’t mean it.” He tilted his head at you. You cracked a smile.

On the walk home, he kept calling you various nicknames – all flowers.

That day became a cherished memory of the past as the two of you weaved your way into proper adulthood. And the nicknames followed; he went through the whole flower alphabet, even the bizarrely named ones, even the Latin root names. When he wanted to annoy you, he’d call you prunus subgenus cerasus.

Now Gojo fusses around the living room of his tiny Tokyo apartment, preparing food for a little boy of the name Megumi. The day is full and busy, but any second he can get with you, he relishes.

“My tulip, 'gimme a kiss.” He asks.

“Come get it.” You tease.

“Ew.” Megumi grimaces, hearing this exchange right as he walks into the kitchen. He walks right back out.

“Gumi, get back here, food is almost ready.” Gojo calls after him, then leans down to try and kiss you but you playfully dodge him.

It always happens like that – he asks for a kiss, you refuse jokingly, he chases after you for a kiss and you scamper away. Like a running joke that’s a callback to your past.

“C’mere, you – ” he finally snatches you up, too needy for a kiss to play around anymore. “Stay right there and let me kiss you.”

He enjoys every second of kissing you, embracing you tight like he’s never letting go. Just like when he first kissed you, Gojo cups the back of your neck and tilts his head to deepen the kiss. It has you breathless, gasping – he’s so alluring that you shudder.

“Satoru!” you scold, “The food will get cold…” you excuse.

“Okay, okay. But you owe me extra kisses tonight.” He winks.

“You’ll have to get them out of me yourself.” You tease.

“Oh, I will, don’t you worry. I’ll take every little kiss I can.” He says determinedly.

He pecks at your lips, savoring the sound and feeling of the act.

“Ew!” Megumi grimaces, and walks out the kitchen just as he walks in like earlier.

“Gumi! Food! Sit-your-silly-butt-and-eat! You rascal you.” Gojo lifts him by the armpits, and tickles him like a real dad.

Megumi is poker-faced at the tickling.

“Y/n, tell Gojo he’s being annoying.”

“Husband, you’re being annoying.” You murmur up at Gojo.

“Am I?” he smiles down at you, giving you another cheeky peck.

Megumi sighs.

“Stop spyin’ and start eating, little lotus.” Gojo threatens playfully.

“Dad. Save the flower nicknames for Y/n.” Megumi scrunches his nose up.

Gojo's face lit up. “Okay, okay. Enjoy eating, I'm gonna go see where she went off to.”

He hurried into the bedroom where you had wandered into and excitedly whisper-shouted “He called me dad!” he gushed like he was the happiest man alive.

© 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐢 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈'𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄.

[icallhimjoey]

I feel like Joe's the type of guy during a heatwave to complain about the heat but still insist on cuddles. And I just imagine both parties being grumpy from the heat but also from not being able to just cuddle.

lil short one! sticky sweaty cuddles with a lil side of grump! Wordcount: 1.5K

---

That Better?

"Where do you think you're going?" you can barely make out the words Joe's mouth tries to shape. He's pressed up against your chest, his whole cheek stuck to your skin in a way that makes his lips go funny.

It's uncomfortable. Way too hot and sticky. Outside you can see another flash, and hear the sky rumble in the distance. No rain yet, though. Just humidity.

"Joe," you warn when he tightens his grip on you as you try to move away a little. "Please, it's too hot." You use both hands to find his shoulders to create some space in between the two of you.

It's difficult, because you're fatigued with the heat, and Joe is stronger than you.

"The fan's on." Joe argues, though it's dry and flat, no energy to put any heat behind his words. It's already hot enough.

He holds on, quite tightly at that, and you huff a breath into his face as you relax again. You're too weak. The room already feels stifling and heavy without a person stuck to you, but Joe's lying right on top, and you desperately need the fan to hit the areas of your body that he's covering with all of his right now.

But Joe doesn't want to move.

He's grumpy for it too, but he needs the cuddles to get to sleep, no matter how warm and sweaty and gross it feels.

Which, it does.

Everything feels damp.

It's silent for a while, until you can feel a drop of sweat make its way down your scalp, sliding through your hair slowly and then picking up speed when it gets to your neck.

It's disgusting.

"I'm not even moving and I can feel myself sweat." you complain, but Joe just hums. Adds, "Yea, it's sweltering." in agreement. He can feel you sweat too, but knows that it just means that the fan feels nicer for it. He doesn't add that bit of information - fan feels like a sensitive subject now. You had just had a big fight over whether or not to sleep with the floor fan on.

It wasn't exactly a silent one - the fan or the fight.

Joe desperately wishes for the fan to be moved out of the bedroom; it's a big floor fan that sounds like an airplane taking off, he'd always say. But you need it on. You'll take the loud constant whir that will bring you an actual breeze over suffering in a dead silent humid room that feels more like a sauna than anything else.

"Baby, you know I can't sleep with it on. It's too loud."

"Can't sleep with a fan on, but can fall asleep in the middle of The Expendables." you'd sarcastically said, making a face at him. The Expendables was basically a whole film of big loud explosions. He'd insisted on watching it the other day, and then fell asleep about 15 minutes into it.

"You know that's not-" Joe sighed with frustration. "That's hardly the same."

You could feel the sweat sit between your toes, it was that hot.

"Joe, without the fan on, I don't even want to touch my own body! Let alone yours!"

You fought, back and forth until you'd cut it off by going for a cold shower. When you got out, you found Joe in bed with all the lights off and the fan on, and you silently accepted Joe's kind compromise.

When you'd laid down on the bed, Joe had immediately rolled half onto you, and you knew that in return for the fan being on, he wanted to at least be able to fall asleep the way he wanted to. Needed to.

Touching.

All snuggled up.

Breathing your breath, limbs crossing limbs, bare skin pressing into bare skin. Feeling heartbeats and hearing heartbeats, until one of you can't feel their arm anymore from lying on a shoulder weird. Joe needs the comfort of a whole person to make a psychical connection with to feel instantly at ease.

It not his fault that you calm him down so much. That he loves you.

And you love Joe too.

But it's definitely too fucking hot for any of it. You feel too grumpy, and you know Joe isn't in the best mood either.

Joe might feel at ease, but you don't feel at ease at all.

You're still holding out hope that the clouds that had threatened rain all day will actually give way. The heat needs to break already. So far, no luck though. Just some flashes and some rumbling thunder up high in the sky.

You're not a fan.

You don't like thunder storms. There's something so very threatening about them. Every loud crash makes you jump a little, surprising you every single time.

Joe knows.

He remembers the first time he'd been around you during bad weather, and he had watched you from up close for a little while until something inside of him took over.

I, big giant man. You, small little defenseless woman. Must protect.

Cave man behaviour.

Cute when you're after a little babying, but absolutely awful when the heat and the humidity had you in an awful mood. Like right now.

Another flash lights up your bedroom for a split second, and you can hear how the storm's getting a little closer.

"I'm not scared, you know," you comment softly, and Joe just hums again. Acknowledges what you're telling him, but keeps you close for his own comfort. Doesn't seem to care if you're scared or not - just pretends that you are, because he likes that a little better.

He ducks into his shoulders a little more, curls up to you a little more, and you can feel how the side of his face slides against your chest.

Slides.

You try to hold back an audible wince at how much you hate that, and you endure Joe's weight for a little while longer. But then, slowly, the itch under your skin becomes too much and it builds until you feel like you're about to burst.

"I can't," you suddenly sputter, pushing at Joe's shoulders again. "Sorry babe, but I cannot." you say definitively, groaning as you move to sit up. This time, Joe lets you go.

When you see Joe's sad little face, half of you wants to reach out to wrap your whole self around him. But the other half wants you to go sit in the freezer.

Unfortunately for Joe, the latter wins.

"M'sorry, just..." you turn in the bed and find a piece of cold mattress to lie down on, your head near the foot of the bed now, your feet near your pillow. You get the best bit of air from the fan from there too, right in your face, and it feels a little better.

It really does help that you're damp all over.

Makes the air actually cool you down.

You suppose that's what sweat's meant to do in the first place, so it makes sense.

Joe watches you from his spot.

Watches as you starfish on top of the bed in the dark, hair blowing in the breeze, and Joe wants to frown, because this isn't what he wants. But then he sees how the creases on your face slowly disappear, and just witnessing you be a little more comfortable makes his own frown smooth out a bit too.

"That better?" Joe asks, and you're not sure if it's a sarcastic question or not. If saying yes will hurt his feelings or not. You detect a little hidden bite in there though, so you don't answer.

Instead, you sigh a little contently and say, "Come over here."

Joe doesn't need telling twice.

In an instant, his legs have swung around on the bed and he finds a nice much cooler spot next to you.

"Here," you say, and you hold out your hand.

Joe gives it a glance before looking at your face. He knows you've only just showered, but your hair's mostly dry already. He notices it now as it drapes over the edge of the bed, swaying in the wind. You may be sweaty, grumpy, sticky, and uncomfortable, but you're still gorgeous. It's almost annoying how he likes the way the heat makes you look.

"Hold my hand." you say when it takes too long for Joe to grab hold of it.

It's your compromise.

Joe smiles.

Takes it.

It's not as nice, but Joe will take it, fingers intertwining as your palms glue together.

"That better?" he asks again, and this time there's no doubt about his intentions, voice much sweeter and softer, no hidden bite left in there at all.

"Hmm." It's your turn to hum now, agreeing as you add, "Better."

Joe gets to touch you.

You get the fan on.

It's not the best of both worlds - it's still fucking boiling - but it's definitely better than before.

And then, just when you think, maybe you actually could fall asleep like this, you can hear the soft patter of a few raindrops hitting the bedroom window.

Just a few at first, but it quickly picks up into a gentle, rhythmic pattern as the sound grows.

You squeeze Joe's hand, and there's still a slight slick to your palms and fingers, kind of clammy, definitely warm.

But it's kind of nice to be stuck together like this.

Joe squeezes back, and you let a happy sigh escape you.

You can actually fall asleep like this.

"Much better."

---

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add yourself

[undiscovered-horizon]

In Emerald Hearts, Emerald Minds - Nikolai Lantsov x Reader

[mentions of unwanted advances + suggested groping + suggestive/sexual (consensual) themes]

☽ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ☾

SUMMARY: When Vasily asks you to forget his half-brother and marry him instead, you escape the Little Palace along Alina. Nikolai realizes something strange is going on when Kaz mentions seeing a similar emerald ring on the woman that came with the Sun Summoner. With how much you and Nikolai have been running in circles to find each other, the reunion aboard Volkvolny feels almost fated.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 4.6k

>>Grishaverse-inspired playlist&lt;<

It feels like the Winter Fete has been going on forever. The champagne keeps on being poured, the guests keep on dancing and the circus acts just keep on performing as though tomorrow is a mere mirage, a concept of a certain time period that never actually comes. Inside those walls of gold and marble, the misery devouring all of Ravka seems like nothing beyond a mad nightmare - something so removed from reality, it’s hilarious in its ridiculousness. Everyone is so carefree and happy you almost take their joy as your own.

Almost.

The orchestra begins playing Waltz of the Flowers and you feel your throat tighten. Despite doing your best not to, your mind relives that fateful night when everything changed. For the longest time, you’d been claiming that the change was for the better but now, standing alone for another year in a row and watching the dashing aristocrats spin to the music, you’re not so sure anymore.

“You really need to stop doing this,” Nikolai says firmly. Although his tone is decisive and clearly unwilling to accept defiance, a pronounced hint of amusement lives between his words - a thread of light-heartedness, one might say.

Your eyebrows gently furrow. “Doing what?”

“Smiling at me like that. Any longer and I might ask you to marry me.”

It feels like you’re about to burst at the seams. Trying to contain your emotions, and failing at it quite horribly, you bite your lower lip. “I might say yes.”

“Where have you gone, Kolya?” you whisper under your breath. The gloss of vacancy covering your eyes blurs the dancing bodies into one mass of faceless strangers. But it also makes you not notice someone approaching you.

“I find it quite admirable.”

Vasily’s voice startles you. To your now-gone relief, you didn’t have the displeasure of running into him all evening - until now. If you were to list all of the things about the older Lantsov son that makes your skin crawl, you’d be done by the time another Winter Fete is organized. The top of the list, however, deserves to be mentioned as it’s an inseparable part of your every interaction with the prince: he’s quite adamant and crude in his desire to be more than just a future brother-in-law to you.

“Excuse me?” you stutter out.

That patronizing look on his face is now accompanied by a cocky half-grin as he realizes he caught you off-guard. “Your devotion to my brother. For all we know, he might be already dead, Saints’ protect him.”

“Don’t even say that!” you hiss at him. Right after, you look around to check whether one of the guests has noticed your unpleasant exchange.

Despite what you’ve just said, you know he’s right. There’s no way you can be sure that your Kolya is either dead or alive. Perhaps this is the detail further ripping your heart apart - you don’t know anything about his fate; you’re mourning, although you’re yet to see the coffin. You haven’t for a few years now and each passing month of silence only made court gossip more cruel and bold.

“All I’m saying, dearest,” Vasily begins quietly as his hand drags along your arm, “is that the moment the news of Nikolai’s death reaches the Grand Palace, you’ll be thrown out. On the other hand, I can make you the Queen of Ravka. And unlike my brother, I won’t disappear off the face of the Earth and forget about his beloved lady.”

The word of endearment is dripping with sarcasm as it leaves his chapped lips. His breath reeks of alcohol and you unknowingly turn your head away. Vasily seems to think you’re about to leave his side, so his hand tightly grips your arm. The hold is almost bruising. He yanks you even closer towards himself.

“Kolya hasn’t forgotten about me,” you say in a shaky voice. Maybe he’s not as foolish as he appears and Vasily is genuinely trying to break you down.

The prince studies your face for a moment, definitely noticing how shaken you are. His eyes have the strangest glint to them - something between desire and contempt. “Is that so?” he barely stifles a grim laugh. “He would have written you a letter if that were true, no?”

Tears sting your eyes. Vasily is certainly smarter, or at least more cruel, than he lets on. He knows exactly what to say to get into your head. It’s a startling difference between him and Nikolai - only one of them does what he can to keep a smile on your face. Well, did.

His dirty, rough hand grabs your chin. Vasily forces you to look at him, his smile wavers upon noticing your desperation. “Consider your options, зайка,” he purrs out. The prince’s other hand trails your face. “The choice is yours.”

A tear falls down your cheek. You feel it rolling across your skin and you silently hope the guests surrounding you are watching this scene. Then, you lean in even closer to Vasily’s face. The whisper leaves your lips like a viper’s venomous hiss: "I will marry you the day you lay his dead body at my feet."

To your surprise, Vasily drops his hands and takes a step back. Despite the self-assured smile on his face, you can see the fury inside his eyes. “As you wish.” He bows curtly, turns on his heel and marches away, undoubtedly looking for another glass of alcohol and a lady naive enough to warm his bed.

The palace suddenly feels stuffy and overcrowded; the music is too loud, the plethora of smells make your head spin.

Outside. You need to get outside.

Bumping into several guests and mumbling half-coherent apologies, you run through the halls of the Little Palace. When the cold, night air hits your flushed cheeks, only then do you stop. Taking in a deep breath, you can actually feel your thoughts becoming clearer. 

With each gust of freezing wind, all the anger and sadness is leaving your shaking body. Vasily just wanted to get a rise out of you and, as much as you don’t want to admit it, he succeeded. Unlike he claims, Nikolai surely is alive. Maybe bruised or sick or not sleeping well but as long as there’s no news about him being dead, he is as alive as one can be. The same starry sky hangs above your and his heads. Perhaps, in this small moment of longing, he’s thinking about you too. Wherever he is.

A tired sigh leaves your lips. You’re about to turn around and go back inside when a silhouette moving in the night catches your attention. The shape is swift although careful like a lizard approaching a fly. You see them looking around before running for another few meters only to hide behind a bush or piece of architecture.

Curious and a little scared, you follow the stranger towards one of the carriages. Quietly, you get close enough to grab their wrist. The shape lets out a gasp and turns around to look at you.

“Alina?!” you whisper. What in Saints’ mercy is she doing? You look at her warm, casual clothes and the bag on her back. “Are you running away?”

“I need to leave,” she answers equally quietly. Her voice as well as her stare is filled with certainty - she’s convinced beyond reasonable doubt this is the right thing to do. “Please, don’t try to stop me.”

You let go of her hand. “Stop you?” A dry chuckle leaves your lips. “I’m coming with you.”

“What?” she deadpans. Alina is staring at you with a vacant stare and her mouth slightly agape. Apparently exchanging royal comforts for hay and stolen apples is unthinkable.

“If I have to spend one more day around Vasily, I will murder someone.”

Alina slowly nods her head - she can definitely understand the sentiment. A dimwitted Fjerdan would have more charm than the older prince. But then she squints her eyes, looking at you with a sense of scepticism.

“Out there, there won’t be warm beds and three-course dinners, you know?”

“I know,” you answer with a careless shrug. Loitering and wandering isn’t for ladies of your sort, it’s like throwing a finless fish into a tank with sharks. Despite that, you’re quite convinced the means justify the end, at least in this scenario. “But out there is my Kolya. And I’m done politely waiting for him.”

A shadow of sadness covers her face. If there’s anyone who can understand your plight, it’s her. In fact, she is luckier than you - she saw her lover maybe an hour ago. Pleasant or unpleasant, the meeting confirmed to her that Mal is at least alive. It’s not a privilege you could afford.

“Then let’s go,” she says to you before opening the chest in the back of the carriage. Forgetting all of your etiquette and social standing, you climb into the compartment with her. Towards adventure or death, you’re going somewhere.

“The ring gave you away,” Kaz announces. “It’s too expensive for a bodyguard.”

Jesper knits his eyebrows together, suddenly remembering something. He leans towards Kaz but speaks a little too loudly for the question to be inconspicuous: “Didn’t that girl wear the same-”

When Kaz’s cold glare meets Jesper’s squinted eyes, the dark-skinned man immediately closes his mouth halfway through the question. Both of them sit back as they were but the cat is already out of the bag. Well, not entirely - half of it is peeking out of the metaphorical sack.

Nikolai looks between them with unmissable suspicion. Although he’s heard enough to be aware of the possibility that the Sun Summoner isn’t travelling by herself, this is the first time either of the Crows admits it.

His heart begins to beat slightly quicker: Alina run away from the Little Palace along with another woman and that lady was wearing a royal jewel at the time. As long as Vasily didn’t lose his signet on one of his distasteful escapades, the course of events points to only one person - you. Shoving his restless excitement into the deepest chasms of his heart, Nikolai manages to remain his composure:

“Who was wearing that ring?” The prince-turned-privateer unknowingly fiddles with the heavy jewellery on his finger. Noticing the Crows’ reluctance, he makes them an offer: “If you tell me who you saw wearing an emerald ring, I might, say, give you ten minutes to escape.” Nikolai vaguely gestures to the closed window on his right-hand side.

Kaz knows there’s no point in lying any longer. The man in front of him is not only well-informed but also smarter than he looks, making the Crow wonder whether he also knows the answer to this question but prefers to play some kind of a game. In any event, he’s done his part of the deal and his ex-accomplices are left to their own devices. Additionally, he could really use those ten minutes. “A young woman that accompanied Alina Starkov. High-born, confident, decisive. Not a Grisha as far as I know.”

“Not a Lantsov, obviously,” Jesper chips in.

Brekker’s keen eyes catch the barely noticeable change in Sturmhond’s expression - the corner of his mouth merely stuttered up and down but it is enough to tell Kaz as much as he needs:

“You know her.”

Know her? If Nikolai had a weaker grip on his emotions at the moment, he’d laugh until his stomach and diaphragm hurt and then he’ll burst with laughter once more, unspeakably joyous that he might get to see her sooner than he thought. Yes, he does know her but in the way heart knows blood and lungs know air. She’s the ligament that keeps his bones together, the fibres that construct his muscles, the very blood that runs in his veins. Does the Moon simply know the stars? Do trees know their roots and branches?

But for now, he needs to stay focused. 

“Not really,” Sturmhond answers while scrunching his nose. “Many aristocrats wear a ring like that. While I may know of a lot of them, I hardly know anything about them.”

Kaz fights back a mocking half-grin begging to twist his thin lips. “I’d argue that an emerald in Ravka is a rather rare gem.”

“Hers is probably genuine. Mine’s stolen.”

Silence falls between the three men. Nikolai and Kaz are staring each other down, battling in some kind of war of wits and nerves, waiting for the other to give in. Jesper is stealing glances at both of them, feeling the cold tension rise in the air.

Against his deep-seated desire, Kaz doesn’t inquire further about the emeralds or the strange coincidence that the two enigmatic characters wearing them might know each other. He sits back in the chair, his shoulders visibly drop. As much as he’d love to dig deeper, he’d much rather get out of here and reclaim his freedom that is now endangered.

“Well, gentlemen,” Nikolai begins in an upbeat tone, “your ten minutes start now.”

Without saying anything else, he leaves the room. Only then, when the dark, wooden door close behind him, does he let suppressed emotions wash over him. A quiet chuckle brushes past his lips and for a moment even tears sting his eyes. Delight, worry, relief - conflicting sensations merge into one, completely overpowering flame burning inside his chest.

Maybe he doesn’t have the Sun Summoner and he still needs to come up with a plan to catch her but Nikolai hasn’t been this happy for a while now: his солиышко is alright, still making the world brighter and warmer. If he can get to Alina Starkov, he might see her again, although he begins to wonder whether she wishes to see him after all those years of silence and ignorance. But if he can see her, just witness the marvel of her entire being even for one last second, he’ll be cured of the longing and loneliness that has been gnawing at him ever since he left Os Alta.

You’re following the Shu man to what you assume is his captain’s cuddy. The ship creeks and groans under the weight of the crew as well as the power of the waves. The bussing crewmen spare the three of you a glance, only to show disinterest and go back to their duties. It’s a nice change compared to the kerchen ship you travelled on to Novyi Zem, where the captain asked Alina and you to stay under the deck because of the sailors’ superstition. After getting off the ship, it took you a good week to wash out the reek of cured cod from your clothes and hair. Sometimes you still felt like you can smell it in the air, even in the dusty wind sweeping through Novyi Zem.

Your ‘guide’ pushes the door and they swing open with a creak, the list of the ship aiding the motion. Except for the squeaky hinges, probably rusting faster than anyone can manage, Volkvolny is in good shape. In fact, it looks brand new - no mould or woodworms.

“Captain, request for charter,” the stocky stranger announces with a hint of amusement or excitement in his voice. Despite his imposing visage, the Shu man has made a good impression on you but the long sword on his back kept you vigilant against getting too comfortable in his company.

Only when he moves to the side, presenting the three of you to his captain, do you see the face of the infamous Sturmhond.

You want to laugh. In fact, you have to clench your fists to stop yourself from bursting out with laughter. This situation feels like the strangest coincidence that you can think of, which in turn makes you suspect that it’s not a coincidence at all. Because what are the odds?

Nikolai’s face momentarily brightens up when he recognizes you, a new glint lights up his eyes. He looks different than you remember but in all the right ways: his shoulders look broader and his hair is longer, curling in a way that makes him appear more infantile. You remembered him as a handsome man but the Nikolai in front of you is beautiful enough to be considered unreal.

He's staring into you like a deer caught in headlights until Tolya hands him Alina’s unusual means of payment. As Nikolai is turning the piece of jewellery in his fingers, you notice another change: his hands look rougher, definitely scarred from all the adventures you hope you’re yet to hear about.

The blond prince turns his attention back to Alina, Mal and you. “A gold hairpin can get you anywhere. But an emerald ring?” He gestures to you. “It can get you everywhere.”

“It’s not for sale,” you answer, although you know he’s not trying to buy it. After all, he’s the one that gave it to you.

“I don’t want it.” Nikolai shakes his head. Then, a flirty smile appears on his face. “Looks better on you anyway, doll.”

You’re about to respond to his remark when his attention is once again placed on Alina. “Now, Tolya says you’re looking for a charter. Where are we sailing?”

Alina begins the story with ‘the creation of the world’ as your mother used to say: the Little Palace, Darkling, Morozova’s amplifiers and the Fold. Nikolai nods along, never giving away that he’s privy to most of the story. He doesn’t believe in the Sea Whip at first but that’s hardly his fault - not too long ago people wouldn’t believe in the existence of the Sun Summoner and now she’s standing beside you, nervously rubbing her hand. As you have expected from the moment you saw that Nikolai is Sturmhond, he agrees to the insanity of taking up the quest to catch the amplifier.

“Tolya will show you around.” He sends you off. You’re about to follow your friends out of the cuddy when he adds: “You, emerald lady, I’d like to talk to in private.”

Alina gives you a concerned look (‘blink twice if you need help’)  but you only smile and nod at her in response. With Mal tugging at her arm, she reluctantly leaves you and Sturmhond alone.

The moment the door closes behind Tolya and your friends, Nikolai runs around his desk towards you, engulfing you in a bone-crushing hug. His hand threads through your hair, pushing your head further into the crook of his neck. Even if you tried, there’s no way you can pull away or even move. Taking a deep breath, you smell the familiar fragrance of his cologne but now it’s mixed with the scent of resin, saltwater and seaweed.

Then he pulls away, looking you up and down with burning worry. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? What are you doing here?”

You swear he could be bleeding out on the floor and still he’d be apologizing for staining your clothes. It’s heartwarming that despite the years and evident change in his appearance, Kolya is still Kolya.

A wide smile enters your face. “Looking for a frisky sailor to take me on a voyage filled with indecency, obviously.”

“Well, here he is.” Nikolai points to himself and winks at you. “And he’d really like to know why you’re in Novyi Zem with the Sun Summoner and whats-his-face and not in the Grand Palace in Os Alta.”

You let out a heavy sigh and shake your head gently. “I grew tired, Kolya.” His eyebrows slant upon hearing the exhaustion in your voice. Despite the sheer happiness he feels when you say his name, the concern gnawing at his heart seems to be more powerful. “Years have gone by without you giving me even the tiniest sign that you’re alive and well. And your brother, Saint’s have mercy on him because I won’t, has been adamant about marrying me ever since you left. I told him I will accept his proposal the day he lays your dead body before me.” You make pause, noticing a strange shadow hanging over Nikolai’s face. But he’s not saying anything for a moment, so you finish what you wanted to say: “I had to get away from it all. There’s only so much uncertainty and intruding fingers a lady can take.”

“By the Saints,” he breathes out, “did Vasily lay a hand on you?”

You feel his grip around you tighten but it’s not painful, rather securing. “If you’re asking whether he hit me or forced himself on me, then no, he did not. He did, however, make it abundantly clear what he wants from me. On multiple occasions.”

Nikolai’s face twists in a scowl. The glint that lit up his eyes when he saw you is now gone, exchanged for something dark and unstable. “I’m so sorry, if I knew-”

“I know, love,” you interrupt him. He doesn’t need to announce the ends he’d go to in order to ensure you’re safe and comfortable. Nikolai has never said or done so but you’re fairly convinced he wouldn’t shy away from fistfighting Vasily if he said something less-than-savoury to you. “But neither of us could have known.”

“I promised you’d be safe in Os Alta.”

“And I promised to stay put.” You can’t keep laughter in any longer. You’re not quite sure whether your chuckle is born out of happiness or disbelief. “Now look at us.”

Suddenly, he knits his eyebrows close. At first, you think he’s confused but then the slight rise of his cheeks suggests something closer to contempt or disgust. "Would you actually marry Vasily if he gave you my dead body?"

You can only give him an indifferent shrug. "Maybe?” you ponder aloud. “If you were dead, I would lose all care about what happens to me or with me. In a way, I’d be dead too."

Nikolai takes one of your hands and kisses its fingers. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel his warm lips against your skin. “I could never rest in peace knowing how he’s treating you.”

“Having you haunt me would be incomparably better than you just being gone. Everything is better than silence.”

His shoulders slouch. Nikolai looks away from you for a moment, admiring the floor in his cuddy but even this can’t hide his guilt and shame. “I couldn’t have just popped in for a visit. Not anywhere in Ravka.”

"You couldn't even have written me a letter?"

"Someone at the palace would recognize my handwriting. I couldn't risk it."

"Then you could have dictated the letter to one of your crew."

That self-assured, flirty smirk appears again on his face. "And scandalize my crewmen with the things I want to tell you?”

As much as you’ve dearly missed his insufferable humour, at the moment it’s making your skin crawl. “This is a serious conversation, Nikolai,” you state firmly.

“I am serious, солиышко.” The pet name rolls off his tongue with both weight and lightness as though it belongs exclusively to you and no one else can ever claim it as their own. He kisses your hand again but keeps it against his lips for a while longer. Then, he places your fingers on his chest and you can feel the soft thrumming of his heart. “Do you think I never thought about writing to you? That I didn’t stay up at night thinking about what I will tell you when we meet again? Countless letters I have begun only to tear them apart and throw them into the sea or burn them. If some people found out we know each other, you’d be in much greater danger than Darkling following your steps. I’d rather deal with the heartbreak of staying away from you than know I put you in danger because I can’t live without you.”

It brings you a grim sense of comfort that he’s been equally torn as you were over the lack of contact. You never thought about it before but Nikolai must have been worried sick, not knowing whether you’re alright and happy. Has he imagined your plight and misery as often as you did his?

“What did you write in those letters?” you ask in a shaky voice.

“I wrote about how much I miss you, how it physically hurts to consider that you might think I have abandoned you. When I was hungry, cold, tired or sick, only the memories of you made me push on. On nights when I couldn’t sleep, I’d stare at the sky above me and wonder whether you’re looking at the same stars. I wrote that wherever I go, I see your face. You are in every sunrise and sunset, every flower I see and every fire that warms me.” Nikolai lets go of your fingers, placing both of his hands on either side of your face. The softness in his eyes makes you swoon. “I only wrote the truth,” he says slowly, making sure you understand the weight of his words.

Swallowing back tears, you lean into his warm touch. “My beloved, my heart yearns for you?” you jest in a dramatic voice.

A playful smile creeps back unto his lips. “If only my heart.”

“Gross.”

“You wanted a frisky sailor.”

"You’re a pirate, not a sailor.”

"I’m a privateer,” he drones out the word as though it makes a world of a difference.

"Pirate sounds sexier."

Nikolai gives you a fake frown. “Oh, I definitely am a pirate."

Without thinking twice, he’s kissing you. The sensation is just as comforting as you remember. His soft lips are doting on you, growing needier with each peck as though this is some feverish attempt at making up the lost time. 

He pulls away to catch his breath and although you’re panting yourself, you unknowingly chase after him, unwilling to dismiss this carnal desire just yet. Nikolai seems to notice your eagerness - he flashes you a cocky grin and shortly pecks your lips again.

“You crossed Ravka, the Fold and the sea just to find me?” he whispers. His eyes are stuck to your wet, swollen mouth.

“And I’d do it a hundred more times if I had to.”

You exchange a few more hungry kisses, pecking and nipping at each other’s lips, before Nikolai continues the conversation:

“I want to say that I’m flattered but I’d rather not encourage you to do something this stupid and dangerous ever again.”

“Hate to break it to you but you took all the stupid with you.”

He rests his forehead against yours; hot, laboured breaths brush against your flushed cheeks. “I’d like to clarify that I’m not stupid, I just can’t seem to think about anything other than you.”

Nikolai wraps his arms around your waist. In a swift motion, he turns you around and pushes you against the edge of his desk. His strength surprises you when Nikolai effortlessly lifts you and places you atop the table, pushing off maps and navigation essentials. Firm, warm hands are restlessly wandering across your body, unsure where to lay or what to grab.

You gasp quietly when his fingers sneak underneath your shirt. “Is this the indecent part of the voyage, my frisky sailor?”

“By the Saints, I hope so,” he whispers against your lips. Then, he furrows his eyebrows questioningly. “Is that offensive to say around a living Saint?”

“I don’t think Alina heard you.”

His nimble fingers are quickly undoing the buttons on your clothes. “Well, she will hear you in a moment.”

“Gross,” you say with laughter in your voice but the word gets muffled as Nikolai gets back to kissing you again.

Even if the crew did hear you that day, no one dared say a word.

зайка [zay-ka] - bunny (feminine; term of endearment)

солиышко [sol-nee-shko] - little sun (unisex; term of endearment)

[yok00k]

coming down

pairing: non-idoloc! x idol!jk

genre: angst

“i always want you when i’m coming down”

sypnosis: although you sleep next to jungkook every single night, it feels like you’re million miles away from him.

wordcount: around 1,000

warning: in 1st pov, it’s a little sad (for me), open ended ending, one sided love, allusion of cheating, oc’s world revolves around jk (don’t be like her)(lowkey im her), toxic relationship, lack of communication

author’s note: this did not go as I initially planned help-_- i was gonna make light jealousy oc/jk drabble idk how I ended up with this. i hope yall sob w/ me or lmk ur thoughts

an absolute ideal.

his performance. the concept. the way he sang his new released songs flawlessly. how smooth his dancing movements were. how the stage composition and development were so sumptuous.

and most importantly, how romantic the live performance was, given the fact that there was an actress involved in the show.

calling Jungkook an amazing artist would be an understatement. He’s creative, unique, and original in his masterpieces. Everything he does, no matter what, is just mesmerizing and astounding. He’s indeed a true performer.

Jungkook dedicated several months to work on his solo album. The time and effort he had put to his work is just admirable. On most days, he stays up late, trying to come up with so many possible ideas and options he can add on his album.

and I was there by his side. I chose to be.

I was there, waiting for him to come home every single night, or usually midnight, in our noiseless living room, wrapped with a thick blanket and loneliness. He would arrive home, but as night by night goes, I was accompanied by nothing but solitude. it feels like it’s taking over me.

I was there, in bad days where Jungkook is focusing on the negatives and having doubts in himself. Days where his standards for himself weren’t being met. both of my shoulders were closely next to him if he needed something to lean into. Reminding him that it’s okay and he’s doing wonderful.

I was there, even in times when he didn't want or need me to be there. times where he just wanted to be by his own with no distraction. but here I am, continuously showing him my undying love and support for him.

I chose to stay there. on nights where he stopped saying “i love you” back before going to dreamland. I hugged him closer as I convinced myself to believe that he just didn’t feel like saying those three words at those moment because of all the stress he undergoes through day to day.

I gave all of myself, I’ve done my part as his other half. Just like how Jungkook produces his works, I poured all my love and time to him, leaving not a thing for myself. It sounds foolish, but that’s just how I love

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

we’re both lying on the massive bed, only inches apart from one another’s body yet it feels like he’s millions of miles away from me as I stare at his cold, broad back that’s facing me.

I’ve got to used to this upsetting scenario at this point but that doesn’t mean it hurt less.

The whole bedroom feels chilly. I’m freezing, solely due to the fact that his warm arms weren’t wrapped around me like they used to be. as i’m not hearing his snores, I know that he’s still awake

“Do you still love me?” I manage to ask out loud and clear, immediately regretting the words that came out of my mouth even though it’s simply an inquiry.

a question that’s been going around my head for quite some time now. a question that i’m afraid to know the answer to because his response might be the response my heart doesn’t wish to hear or else it will shatter into millions of pieces.

my hope for an answer rapidly decreased as seconds went by filled with silence. The absence of noise that surrounded me was deafening; abundantly mocked the emotions I was feeling at the moment, screaming at me that my feelings didn't matter.

It's alright.

I did nothing but wipe the single tear that uncontrollably rolled down my cheek.

it’s stupid. I should’ve just kept it to myself. maybe that would be less embarrassing. less problematic. less painful than I was feeling minutes ago.

I turned my back against his as I accepted my defeat. maybe I’m just tired. maybe drifting to sleep will make me feel okay although I know deep inside that I won’t take the pain away. this is not some type of feeling i’m unfamiliar with to begin with.

I shut my eyes, as I try to put myself to sleep. but in that process, i felt his body moving, turning around, and finally snakes his warm arms around me. a pair of arms, the same ones I longed for so many nights.

“____, why would you ask that?” he giggly asked, sounding like he just heard a silly question. as if i was just being clingy and wanted some piece of his attention.

‘because i don’t feel like you love me anymore’

the man waited for a response, waiting to see if I was just fooling around or that was really genuine. the noiselessness, just like all times, answers the question we both interrogate to each other.

the heavy feelings just got worse, if not heavier. even so when he talks more. “i won’t be laying next to you if i wasn’t.” as if that makes me feel better.

indeed, he’s physically here by my side yet distant. Jungkook is so far off that I’ve lost him. numbness was all I felt as I heard his words. I couldn’t be more content now that I have my answers.

his indirect answer to a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question is enough for me to know where we stand.

I can’t help but to turn my body to face him, just to stare at his doe eyes that I easily get lost in due to the fact that they hold thousands of stars, if not a whole world in them.

regretfully, my eyes should’ve just maintained contact with doe-like eyelids. but rather, they drop their focus on the side of his neck, detecting a foreign lipstick shade that he might have forgotten to wipe off. a shade that will be tattooed in my brain and will forever hate.

Inhale. Exhale. I chose to shrug it off, bringing my attention back to his worn out face.

“I love you” truthfully and whole-heartedly confessed to him once more just like I always do. although this was a little bit different because I don’t expect him to say it back anymore.

and with that in mind, this was also the last night that I will to express my love for him.

[bamsara]

For the prompt thing, may I suggest, "good morning sleeping beauty" with moon? I think it'd be really sweet to have y/n finally comfortable enough to sleep near moon and they wake up to see him next to them.

(also, hi bam!)

Moon-Centric | Wordcount: 1,018 | A03 Version

Adjusting to living with the Daycare Attendant was easy in some ways, odd in others, and in some cases: just weird.

You've gotten quite used to a few quirks or theirs, or simple things. Like remembering you're not alone in your apartment anymore when you suddenly hear the TV turn on to the news in the other room or the sound of doors opening and closing. Or the smell of food cooking (burning) when Sun decides to try a new recipe that he may have forgotten that your fridge is not an endless supply of ingredients and you do, actually, have to go to the grocery store to keep supplying his new hobby.

There's the whole showering situation. The laundry situation (they don't need clothes, per say, but one of the upsides of being free robots means they can dress however they like now, so their wardrobe is growing) and coming home to see that your furniture has been rearranged for a third time that week because the Daycare Attendant wants everything to look just right.

There's also the sleeping situation.

You mostly wake up to Sun in the morning. Unless you don't, and it's the middle of the night, and Moon doesn't know the meaning of 'personal bubble.'

One evening you wake up with a sore, dry throat, open your eyelids and find two bright red glows casting back down at you. "What the-"

A silicone-coated hand gently, quietly, comes over your lips. You are silenced, though still sending a glare, to the robot that hushes you, hovering inches over your face. Moon sits cross-legged on the bed, tall body hunched over your foam. His T-shirt brushes up against your bare arm. The bell of his hat rests beside your head on your pillow. This was the norm for him.

You glare up at him and talk through the fingers on your mouth. "Whattyadoing."

The Moon does not respond, but his smile and half-lidded eyes tell you its an obvious answer.

You blink through he bleariness and look to the clock. It's about 5AM, not the middle of the night like you thought, but the sun hasn't risen yet. The space behind your curtains is still a blue, purple of a day not born yet. "How long have you been like this."

"Only a few moments." He talks quietly, voicebox in a whisper. Any louder would disturb you, and he wants you to fall back asleep. "You were stirring."

You yawn, and the hand brushes down your chin and to your neck, and lingers there. The bed on your back and warm blankets are lulling, but the ache in your throat is becoming more noticeable as you breathe. "I need water."

"I can get it for you."

"No, it's fine." You grab his arm before he moves, and he stays. Though a dulled look comes across his face, he returns to hover above you. "Give me a minute. I should get up for the day about this time anyway."

Moon's face twitches. Obvious disagreement. But the hand near your neck returns just to brush the hair away from your face. "You are getting up early?"

"Yeah." You yawn, and stretch your legs under the blankets. Any moment now you'll have to bite the tired and sit up. "Gramps has doctor appointment at 8AM, and we're driving him. Might as well get some stuff done and ready before we go."

"Hmm." His thumb moves to your eyes, and you close them briefly as he thumbs away the sleepy bits in the corner. He does what Sun does all the same, greasy hair and dried drool on your face do not stop him from petting you, for some reason. It's a nice feeling, if not too soothing when you know you need to get up.

The Moon clicks dully, pulling at the skin underneath your eyes (dark circles, thin skin with taut veins from sleepless nights and days full of worry and agitation. ) before a soft grin stretches on his face. "Good morning, sleeping beauty."

You glare at him, blinking out of synch.

"I never tell you good morning." He continues, unphased by your less-than-impressed reaction. "I only tell you Good Night. My turn."

That was...correct. Moon was the one who followed you to bed, but never the one to wake up with you. That was Sun. You never thought to wonder if they'd prefer to see how it is to switch. "God, you're corny. I hate 'sleeping beauty.' Makes me cringe."

"I can use a different name I have for you." Moon's smile turns slightly wicked.

"Pass."

"I can try a different way-"

"I'm going back to sleep." With one swift motion, you pull the blanket up to your chin and turn away, back to the animatronics. "Wake me up in an hour."

A low, amused chuckle comes from the static voice box behind you, and the presence on the bed shifts, the weight moving as Moon's head comes down to your face directly. "I won't."

"Mean."

"I'll wake you when the sun rises."

You blow air out from your nose and onto his face. It swivels, the ball falling with it. "You're totally preventing me from getting my extra hour of sleep, by the way."

"A shame." Moon hums. The face disappears from your vision, and the darkness of the room is all you have to see. Against your back, you feel the bed shift, and an arm comes up underneath you. The covers are lifted (not like you didn't help with that) and the space behind you is occupied now. Your legs brush up against star-pattern pants, a metal arm secured around your waist. "We will make it two hours."

You realize with faint defeat that you never got your water, but you're already lulling back to sleep too late to try. "Don't make me late."

"Hush." The other hand finds its way over your eyes. Moon's faceplate rests on your head, his t-shirt presses into your back. "Good morning."

"G'morning." You mumble, shifting backward further into the animatronic, and letting your lingering sleep take you.

[dystopicjumpsuit]

The Plant Prowler of Pabu

A/N: I’m scared that Pabu is going to be toast after this week, so I wrote a little fluff to make myself feel better. Also, this is the first time I’ve been able to finish a fic in six weeks, so… yay me!

Pairing: Crosshair x Reader (GN)

Rating: T (but MDNI as always)

Wordcount: 2.1K

Warnings and tags: mild language; fluff; a kiss; spoilers for The Bad Batch season 3

Summary: Exploring the island during his first morning on Pabu, Crosshair encounters a mastermind of botanical crime: you.

Suggested Listening: 

Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list

Whoever said, “It’s darkest just before dawn” had clearly never woken up to go for a walk before sunrise. Even if Crosshair hadn’t had enhanced vision, it would have been easy for him to navigate his way down to the beach of Pabu in the dim half-light. Hunter had wordlessly watched him exit the Marauder, pretending to still be asleep, but Crosshair knew that his brother would have drawn his vibroblade in a flash if he’d even glanced sideways at Omega.

Crosshair didn’t exactly blame Hunter for his caution, but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow. The squad had arrived on the idyllic island the previous day, and Crosshair was immediately swarmed by a horde of curious locals. With Hunter determined to keep Crosshair in sight at all times, there had been no escape from their onslaught of hospitality, and by the time the celebrations had died down, Crosshair had been clinging to the tattered threads of his patience and sanity.

It was a hell of a thing to go from barely speaking to anyone for months on end to suddenly being plunged into the midst of a vibrant and chaotic crowd of nosy spectators. He’d escaped to the Marauder at last and pretended to sleep, keenly aware of Hunter’s eyes on him. He’d spent enough time under the microscope in the past several months, though, and he was ready for some privacy.

And so it was that he found himself wandering down the empty terraced walkways of Pabu, making his way to the shoreline in the pale gloaming. He didn’t encounter a single soul as he walked—barring the ubiquitous moonyos that seemed to frolic across the island at all hours. Pabu was the sort of place that seemed too flawless to be real. Too flawless to last.

Not quite as flawless as it seems on the surface, he acknowledged as he turned down a path that snaked through one of the sections of the island that had yet to be rebuilt after the catastrophic sea surge he’d heard about countless times at the welcoming party the previous night. The buildings had been reduced to rubble, and judging by the weeds sprouting in the cracks of the walkway, the locals tended to avoid this particular part of the island.

Perfect.

The gentle breeze off the ocean was chilly, and he told himself it was the reason his hand trembled more than usual that morning. He shoved both hands deep into his pockets as he navigated the last few levels before he reached the beach. As he stepped onto the sand, a gust of wind buffeted against him. It was bracingly cold, and it smelled like salt and aquatic vegetation and wet earth, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and focusing on the sensation.

When he opened his eyes, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision had him snapping his head to the side. He froze. A figure meandered slowly down the beach, sticking close to the bottom of the hill where the lush foliage grew thickly right up to the edge of the sand. He was certain you had spotted him, but you didn’t immediately acknowledge his presence.

He watched for a moment as you paused and stooped down to examine one of the plants, then carefully plucked a few bunches and laid them in the basket you carried. Bizarre. What the kriff was this person doing out here so early? Nothing innocent, that was for damned sure. Why would anyone sneak down to such an isolated stretch of the beach at this obscene hour if they didn’t have nefarious intent?

Aside from me, obviously.

He squinted slightly. Even with his enhanced eyesight, it was dark enough, and you were far enough away, that it was difficult to make out your features, but he was reasonably sure you hadn’t been at the party the night before. 

Hmph.

He turned and walked the opposite direction, away from the person who’d had the audacity to interrupt his solitude by getting to the beach first. Better not to get involved.

Crosshair took a different route the next morning, arriving at the beach just as the sun rose. As bad kriffing luck would have it, you were exiting the beach just as he arrived, and your paths inevitably intersected. He braced himself for a conversation, but you simply met his eyes and nodded quietly as you passed him.

He suppressed a sigh of relief. Stepping aside to make room for you to pass on the narrow trail, he couldn’t help noticing that your basket was filled with a variety of neat bundles of leaves and twigs. Odd, but your hobbies were none of his concern. Even if they did involve herb rustling and grand theft shrubbery.

He continued his path down to the shoreline and wandered along the water’s edge, staring out at the horizon. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see your solitary figure making its way up the steep slope and into Lower Pabu. He was now completely sure that you’d not been at the welcoming party, nor had he encountered you in the village. It wasn’t that surprising; after all, hundreds of people lived on the island, and he wasn’t in any particular hurry to meet them all—or any of them, if he were honest.

Of course, he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Wrecker had flatly refused to allow Crosshair to isolate himself, while the gregarious mayor Shep Hazard seemed equally dedicated to the twin causes of thrusting Crosshair into the community and plying him with as much fruit as he could eat in a lifetime. He was starting to feel a tiny surge of violence every time he saw a jogan fruit.

On the third day, Batcher woke up with Crosshair and scrambled out of the Marauder, bounding ahead of him down the ramp and then turning to wiggle her entire body in anticipation as he followed. He let the lurca hound pick the path that morning, not bothering to hide his thin smile at Batcher’s endless curiosity and enthusiasm. She crisscrossed the walkways incessantly, sniffing and exploring, chasing the moonyos playfully down the hill, investigating every nook and cranny of the village, and easily running five times the distance that Crosshair traveled on their way down to the water.

The beach was empty this morning, to Crosshair’s relief. At last, some peace and quiet. Or at least as quiet and peaceful as it could be with Batcher rocketing back and forth across the wet sand, grunting and huffing as she charged into the surf and back up to Crosshair, crouching into a bow as she tried to entice him to play with her. When he didn’t immediately comply, she took off chasing a flock of seabirds, scattering them into the air in a cacophony of indignant squawking.

She chased the birds down the beach, barking joyously as she splashed through the surf. When the hound disappeared around a bend in the shoreline, Crosshair sped up slightly, not wanting to risk Omega’s wrath if anything happened to her pet on his watch. As he rounded the bend, he was greeted with a most unexpected sight: Batcher was lying on her back on the sand, writhing with delight as you rubbed her belly.

Your basket was overturned, and all the neat little bundles of herbs were strewn across the sand. It wasn’t hard to deduce the instigator of such carnage. Batcher spotted Crosshair and immediately jumped up and shook the sand off herself before rushing to greet him.

“Down,” he said sternly as she jumped up and swiped at him with her massive paws.

She dropped obediently, and trotted along next to him as he approached you. You’d already begun picking up your fallen bundles of leaves, and he quickly bent to assist you.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled.

“No harm done,” you replied, shaking a bit of loose sand out of the bundles before you dropped them into your basket. “They all get washed before I hang them up to dry anyway.”

“So you’re not just engaging in botanical heists for the adrenaline rush?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, it really gets the blood pumping,” you replied, deadpan. “My day just doesn’t feel complete without a little horticultural larceny.”

“I can see you like to live on the edge,” he said with a tiny smile. “The Plant Prowler of Pabu.”

“And I would have gotten away with it, if it weren’t for a mysterious stranger and his meddling dog.”

He liked you. Damn it.

Crosshair didn’t see you for the next several days. He assumed you’d moved your criminal enterprise elsewhere on the island, and after the team returned from Barton IV, he didn’t feel the same need to escape the Marauder as he had previously. Still, he wasn’t sleeping particularly well, and after an excruciatingly restless night, he slipped out of the ship not long before dawn and wandered aimlessly down the streets of Pabu until he found himself in the unstable section he’d discovered on the first day.

As he picked his way through the ruins, he spotted movement two terraces below, and he grinned. Forcing himself to walk casually so you didn’t suspect how pleased he was to see you, he sauntered down to your level, only to find you ripping weeds up from between the fragments of pavement with uncharacteristic abandon.

“What did those plants ever do to you?” he asked.

You must have spotted him before he arrived, because you didn’t even flinch at the sound of his voice.

“Invasive species,” you replied. “I try not to over-forage, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.”

“And I thought your crimes only extended to vegetational theft,” he drawled. “I had no idea you’d escalated to floral murder and agricultural vigilantism.”

“The hero Pabu needs,” you said with a smile that had no business being as charming as it was, considering you were currently covered in a fine layer of dirt and assorted bits of leaves and twigs. “If this plant gets established on the island, we might never be able to eradicate it. It will outcompete the native plants and could cause significant disruptions to the ecosystem.”

“How altruistic of you,” he remarked drily.

“Not at all,” you laughed. “It also happens to be delicious.”

Crosshair stooped down and pulled one of the plants up by the roots, examining it closely. “It’s on sight, then.”

“Exactly. No mercy.”

As the first rays of the sun appeared on the distant horizon, you packed the large bundles of weeds into your basket, then stood and dusted your hands off on your trousers. You stretched a bit, clearly a little stiff from your labor. Impulsively, Crosshair spoke.

“Want to watch the sunrise with me?” You looked surprised at his offer, and he cleared his throat, looking awkwardly away. “Or do you turn into a meiloorun if you stay out past dawn?”

“Yes,” you said. “I mean, no. I mean, yes, I’d like to stay. No, I don’t turn into a meiloorun.”

You bit your lip and stared down at the bundle of weeds in your basket, poking at it ineffectually as you muttered something unintelligible under your breath. Stifling a laugh, Crosshair climbed up onto the crumbling half-wall of a destroyed structure and extended his hand to help you up after him. You scrambled up and sat down next to him, gazing out at the tranquil ocean as the sun began to paint the high clouds in brilliant shades of gold and pastel.

“Not a bad view, is it?” you asked quietly. 

“Definitely worth waking up early,” he replied, watching your face as the light caught on your cheekbones and reflected in your eyes.

Without making a conscious decision, he lifted his hand and brushed a little loose dirt off your cheek. His damned hand trembled, and he mentally cursed. You didn’t seem to notice the slight tremor, though—or if you did, you didn’t say anything about it. Instead, you turned your head slowly, grazing your lips across his fingertips as you met his eyes. It seemed the most natural thing in the galaxy to continue to trace the line of your jaw until his hand curled around the back of your head.

Your lips were soft and warm in the cool breeze, and you tasted like sea salt and dew and something he didn’t quite recognize. Something new. He liked it. You leaned into his kiss, and when at last it came to its natural conclusion, he drew in a shaky breath.

“Hi,” he whispered. “I’m Crosshair.”

---

Want more Crosshair? I have another Crosshair x Reader ficlet here!

Taglist:

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[iwaasfairy]

ETCHED IN RED | VERMILLION Part 2

tw. dubcon/noncon, yandere, bullying, age gap, power imbalance, implied stalking wordcount. 1k

read part 1 here or see the valentine's masterlist

gojo satoru x reader

It’s been a while since you’ve left the countryside for Tokyo. It’s been even longer since you had the displeasure of being locked up in a room with the people who stood by while your life — well, you want to believe you can leave old grudges lie. It’s been half a decade, and people change. As you wade through the group of people, mostly old classmates and their partners, you regret coming alone.

Your cold hands play with the flute of champagne, before you look up again.

He’s yet to take his eyes off of you.

White hair and those blinding, paradise blue eyes… apart from maybe one extra line next to his eyes, he still looks the exact same. You’re very aware you do not. You made a purposeful effort to remove anything that made you you the second you left Tokyo. But it doesn’t really surprise you all that much to see that he still recognises you. Gojo’s might just be surprised to see that you came at all. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t have.

It’s been long enough that you could’ve ignored the invite. Could’ve pretended like you didn’t know the class of cheery misfits, that you never got it at all. But Yuuta had sounded apologetic, and maybe somewhere deep down you wanted to believe that everything had changed. That you’d arrive and you wouldn’t feel the same helplessness you felt. Maybe seeing one of your beloved friend’s memorial pictures would mend things, and you could let go of the strings still pulling you back.

Being that it isn’t just a reunion, but a memorial too; there’s very little music to fill the space. It leaves everything awfully raw and exposed. Your shift the glass from holding, to placing, to holding again. Flutter your nervous fingers along the stem, as you flip through the picturebooks they’ve left on the table, alongside the framed picture of her. Before she was Yuuta’s flame, she was your friend— came to Tokyo Jujutsu High on the same train as you. You flip through some of the yearbook until you find a picture that makes you swallow tighter.

It’s you and her, Makki, Panda, Inumaki. And of course Gojo, white hair hanging loosely over his shades, his arms around Yuuta’s shoulders. You remember the day it was taken. You remember the way you’d brushed away your spilled tears and had puffed your chest out like none of it had any effect on you, and how you’d watched Yuuta ignore you through the gap in the door. While Satoru embarrassed you, humiliated you, threatened to ruin you. The more vile stuff had come only later; but you can’t help but think that if anyone had said something, none of it would have happened in the first place.

You wouldn’t have had to hide like a rat under the floorboards.

His scent spooks you before he can even make his presence known, has you bumping into the table of entrées when you turn. Your eyes meet his through the tinted glass, but it doesn’t take away from the intensity that stares back. A tad bit too wide to be comforting, a little too wild to feel familiar. You’re pinned like a bug under his towering shape, and though he smiles, you don’t feel it. Gojo Satoru’s even more unsettling than you gave him credit for. Something about distance making the heart grow fonder. “Hardly believe my eyes,” he chuckles, “I didn’t hear you’d swing by. It’s been a few years…”

You nod back, certain the smile doesn’t reach. “I quit, you can’t expect me to come by every few weeks. You’re all busy, and I decided our line of work wasn’t for me, so…”

He chuckles at that, and runs long fingers through his hair. “Even though we’re so understaffed?”

“Because we’re understaffed. Too many familiar faces.” If he catches your underhanded dig, he doesn’t show it. But Gojo was always good at hiding whatever was bothering him. “It’s good to see Miwa, Inumaki and Makki again.” Your eyes flick over his shoulder to another familiar face standing among their circle, but can’t make yourself say a nice word about him either. A few years ago you would’ve added him to the list too. But here, you can’t call him a friend. “Panda and the staff too.”

“You look really different. Wouldn’t surprise me if the staff didn’t recognise you.” He eyes you down for a few moments, before taking your drink out of your hands and downing it. Not even a question, he just takes. Like he can still scare you into owning every part of you. “But I guess if anyone was going to quit, it would’ve been you or Yuuta. Must’ve been hard after the funeral.”

It shouldn’t surprise you that he’s managing to twist your fondness back onto you. However much it hurt, that wasn’t the straw. No, it’s always been Satoru. He’s the reason you left. He already knows this. You don’t expect the picture-perfect smile he’s giving you to slip any time soon. “It was. Especially because I didn’t really have any support.” You glare at him just barely, before picking your now empty glass back up. “Following your lead and all.” It doesn’t bring you the resolution you hoped it’d bring. 

Even when you watch him chew his tongue for a response, or when his eyes sink down your chest to your hands clasped around the flute. To the glittering stone on your finger. For once, he raises his eyebrows too high, eyes searching. Maybe he expected the threat of violence to stop you for longer. “Got married in your time away?” He’s quick to school his expression back, and if it wasn’t for the forced jerk of his mouth corners, you could believe he’d actually be happy for you.

“Engaged,” you force out. It’s the truth. It’s just that as soon as it’s out, you wish it right back. There’s something wrong with his eyes. “It’s been good catching up.” You would add some false pleasantries after, but Gojo would just take it as an invitation. “I’m going to talk to Miwa, haven’t seen her in years.” A hand wraps around your shoulder when you try to slip past him, gripping too tight. With one long step he almost forced you into the wall. His smart tongue presses against his teeth, before he softens his grip and lets you go.

“You look beautiful, baby. Missed your pretty eyes staring up at me like that.” You turn over your shoulder to glance at him instinctively, just long enough to watch the Cheshire grin slip onto his lips. Before he winks, and strides past you back towards the group — stopping only to brush his mouth past the shell of your ear when he dips. “Can’t wait to catch up. It’s been a long five years, hasn’t it?”

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[luviwon]

MY FAVOURITE SECRET LOVER y.jw [양정원]

no. 1: if you think i'm pretty, lay your hands on me

genre: smut & wordcount: 1.7k

warnings: switch!secretary¡jungwon, switch!manager¡reader, cheating, some nicknames, oral sex (reader receiving), no romantical feelings involved and vague mentions of other idols;

a/n: like and repost if you'd enjoyed, love. i'm also a sucker for reviews, so if you have anything nice to say, would love to hear! i also recommend reading this oneshot while listening to the song with the same title! (if you think i'm pretty – artemas) it hits different.

COMING BACK FOR MORE?

"i'm so glad today is over" you said as you entered your office, throwing your bag on the couch and sinking in your leather chair. "do we have a tight schedule for tomorrow, mister yang?"

the boy followed you into the room, and checked the papers in his hands before giving you an answer. he looked up and down on a couple of sheets, finishing his task with a simple smile on his face. "fortunately, not at all! although, i need to remind you that the day after tomorrow is your wedding anniversary, madam. any upcoming events i need to fill in regarding it?"

"as if" you chuckled, rotating in your chair a few times. "don't worry too much about it, mister yang, you will have the day off"

jungwon looked at you curiously. he couldn't quite comprehend how he could get a day off after he's just been back from his holiday. "i'm sorry, madam, are you certain?"

"i'm positive"

you chuckled again as you relaxed your legs on the office desk, one leg on top of the other, biting your gel nails gently. a habit you couldn't really get rid of, although you were trying really hard to. you looked over at your obedient secretary, standing up next to your desk with a naive smile on his face. he looked so handsome, especially today. his cat eyes would barely blink, his gaze being perpetually all over you.

"do you think i'm pretty, mister yang?"

"pardon?" jungwon's eyes became bigger, his mouth opening slightly. he was ready for anything, but not for that. that's why he sat silent, staring at your face, probably waiting for you to repeat your question. he must have heard wrongly.

your legs didn't rest long before they were put on the floor again, standing up in the uncomfortable heels you've been wearing all day. you fixed your skirt as you walked towards jungwon. the boy was just analysing every step you made, gulping while not letting his smile fade.

getting as close as possible, you raised your left hand, moving it closer to his face. you stared into his eyes, you could have sworn he was not blinking. his eyes were deep and hypnotising, you could have fallen down on the floor. would he have caught you? his cologne smelt so good. something like summer floral, not too strong though. just if you got close enough, and you were as close as possible.

jungwon did not move either. he was just staring at you, his lips opening again to start and say something smart, but your pointing finger covered it quickly, as in making him shut up. you knew him way too good, and you won't let him ruin this.

"if you think i'm pretty, lay your hands me"

the boy was still quite processing what was going on, but he couldn't help it. nervously, jungwon placed his left hand on your waist, holding the papers in the spare one. his palm held your body strong and then softly, but his hand never left your pretty waist. he did indeed answer your question now.

"considering you only used one hand, am i just half pretty, mister yang?" you teased him, grabbing the papers he was holding, and throwing them on the desk next to you. "you have no more excuses"

jungwon didn't need any. he placed his right hand on your waist too, before it went down your hips and thighs. his warm yet masculine hand grabbed your thigh hard, lifting your leg up next to his body. you gulped, meaning to cross your legs but couldn't. he didn't let go of your thigh for a second. your waist was left alone by both of his hands now, his left one travelling all the way up to your shirt's collar, slipping his fingers slyly underneath it and pulling it more onto the side.

"how come mr. sim didn't leave any marks on your beautiful neck, madam?"

"jungwon-,"

"should i make up for his wrong doing?"

jungwon's naive smile turned into a smirk, and before you knew it, you could feel his cold but soft lips touching your exposed neck, leaving wet marks on your skin. it was a feeling you hadn't experienced in so long, you were craving to feel it over and over again. it was absolutely magical, his lips were like no one else's. you wanted more and more as he kept making out with your neck, biting your skin with his sharp teeth and sucking the skin until it started to have a violet tint to it.

you bit your lips, trying to keep your moans hidden behind your mouth. he shouldn't know how good he makes you feel, would he take advantage of that?

"you are not just pretty, madam, you are gorgeous" he whispered into your ear, moving back and looking into your eyes. he smiled innocently, like he didn't just leave countless hickeys on your neck. he glanced at them and his eyes widened. did he go to far?

"oh, goodness. i couldn't stop myself, i'm incredibly sorry. i'll go and order your favourite concelear with urgent delivery, immediately. mr. sim will not be happy to see this, i'm worried"

you couldn't help but softly laugh at his reaction. he was getting all nervous and scared for his life. you, honestly, couldn't care even less than this. nor about your useless husband, always away from home, always secretive, showing only a lack of affection and care for you. you couldn't remember the last time he made you feel like this, like jungwon did in a couple of seconds. him finding out would be your last concern.

"what about we put him aside and focus more on this, mister yang?"

he nodded, grabbing your hand and leading you towards the chair. he pushed you carefully into it while loosening his tie. he looked so damn hot in this second, with his messy hair and craving eyes. his innocence disappeared for one second, so did your skirt that was pulled down and thrown away by your secretary, revealing a pretty pair of white panties, just as he liked.

you felt pretty wet already, and your panties showed it. as jungwon noticed, the bulge in his pants grew bigger, biting his lower lip. but it wasn't about him, it was about making you feel good. you were the boss here, he was just being given instructions. jungwon got on his knees, looking up at you while his fingers reached your wet fabric, and how wet was that.

"i know you can't stop thinking about it, madam. i'll make you feel good, to prove how pretty you are to me"

without second thoughts, his fingers slipped underneath your panties, only to pull them to the side while rubbing his hand against your pussy. although only for a second, the feeling of his hand touching your sensitive spot just sent you a shiver. you couldn't help it. and you were close to turning into the nervous, scared one. not because you'd be worried about your husband finding out, but because you had no idea how you would survive without this every day.

without yang jungwon teasing your wet and needy pussy.

"may i?" jungwon asked, his mouth almost reaching your private, yet his gaze not breaking the eye contact. he had to make sure you wanted to and felt comfortable, too. and you did, thus your nodding was enough of a green signal for him to innocently lick your clit a few times before sucking on it, not as softly as expected.

his technique was harsh but causing so much pleasure at the same time. your clit did nothing but get all swollen and red from the nice sucking jungwon gave you, however he did not stop there. he was taught to finish his task, before going to play, so placing a sweet kiss on your clit, he burried his face into your pussy, loudly eating you out. holding your ass in his hands, he kept dragging you closer, not being able to get enough of your taste.

you threw your head back, moaning his name with your fingers lost in his messy hair. you crossed your legs around his neck, pushing him deeper and letting louder moans out. at this point, everyone in the department would have heard you already, but wasn't that the best part? for people to know who makes you cum so well?

jungwon did anything but got tired, as his mouth did not take a break from devouring his dessert.

"jungwo- your tongue feels so good"

hearing that, the boy only got an ego boost, which only made him take all of your pussy in his mouth, taking it in aggressively and hungrily. he needed you so much now that he had you. he wanted more and more and nothing would have been enough, besides living with his face between your legs.

no long passed until you could feel your pussy feeling so good, an absolute unexplainable feeling, making you hold onto his hair harder and arch your back on the office chair. jungwon moaned into your pussy, acknowledging you were getting close to making him so proud. instead of going faster or slower, harder and softer, he just kept his speed and method, knowing already that's what you needed.

that's all you needed.

it took you one second to relieve your orgasm inside his mouth, yet he did not stop but overstimulated you by continuing to eat you out. the echoes of your moans could be heard in the entire empty room. you couldn't face it anymore, it was too good that you might pass out. you pushed him gently, and he understood, standing up again with his innocent smile on his face one more time.

innocent my ass. you tried to fix your breathing, however it was hard to even think about fixing it. cumming feels good, but cumming with him? that's another kind of pleasure. you just stayed in the chair, not moving an inch from your comfortable position. you closed your eyes and smiled to yourself too. how did that actually happen?

"i'll make sure to fill in upcoming events for your wedding anniversary, madam. i'm just worried mr. sim might have to be excluded" said jungwon, picking up your skirt from the floor and handing it to you.

you instantly opened your eyes, witnessing how his naive smile turned into a sly smirk.

**not proof read

[justporo]

Evening Rituals

The sun might be lost for Astarion, but what he can hold onto are the sunsets once the sun itself has hidden beyond the horizon. And so he sits and watches - and you hope to help him mend what's broken.

MASTERLIST | AO3

Author's Note: I wrote this after I thought of that recent headcanon of Astarion liking to catch as much of a sunset as possible - because they're beautiful and we all know he loves beautiful things. Coincidentally the sky this morning - although it was a sunrise - was just as I imagined it for this piece. Pairing: Astarion/GN!Tav (You) Warnings: light mention of past trauma Wordcount: 1k Song: Am I Dreaming - Lil Nas X ft. Miley Cyrus ~~~

The room was dark so the sky could be more vibrant.

At least that’s what Astarion always said when he insisted on getting up as soon as the last golden ray of the setting sun had climbed down below the horizon. He’d thrown open the thick brocade curtains covering the tall window in your room, only to do the same with the window and then perch on the window sill: one leg drawn up, the other hanging casually down from the little nook and his head up towards the gradient sky.

His posture seemed casual enough. Inviting you to think that he was merely languidly relaxing. But for you who’d become accustomed to carefully notice even the most minute of details of your lover, you saw the tension in his spine and the way he leaned towards the last moments of daylight. The way his eyes spoke of yearning and a dear one lost.

It had become an evening ritual this. Since evenings were now the start of your days.

It had been merely a couple of days since your final battle for Baldur’s Gate and so for the time being you’d chosen to remain in the relative comfort of the Elfsong tavern. Until things had blown over a bit, the dust settled.

One of those things being how your vampire had been forced back into the night.

And how he hadn’t been ready for it. Although, if you were quite honest with yourself, who could have ever expected him to be ready for something as cruel as that?

Astarion fully hadn’t been prepared for this sort of breakup yet. That’s what he’d said several times. Sometimes half-joking, sometimes with as much earnestness as you’d heard from the man.

And you knew that even his new found, undying and powerful love for you could only take the sharpest edge off the pain all this was causing him.

He was mourning the loss of the sun. The griefing doubled by it being the second time it had been taken from him.

Because a heart already shattered into pieces, already once broken and barely just starting to stick together again was so prone to breaking down even more.

And so Astarion sat and watched how the last remains of sunlight slowly got drawn from the skies every evening. Observed how the colours changed from simmering, liquid gold at the rim and got drowned out by all shades of the colour blue imaginable. Like a curtain dragged down over the city ever so slowly - until glittering stars and a vibrant moon brought some solace with their silver light. As if offering a soft caress as a small apology to the vampire who would have to make do with them instead from now on.

And you sat with him every night, trying to offer additional comfort even though you knew that even you couldn’t substitute all the warmth of golden daylight. At least you wanted to be there for him while he was trying to mend the pieces as best he could.

It might not have been healthy how Astarion clung to shreds of what was left. But could you really blame him? You saw the pain in his crimson eyes every evening once he had settled down to watch, how he practically made himself sit through the pain time and time again. It tortured you.

But you also noticed the spark on his face, at least a silver lining. When he smiled and whispered to himself how beautiful it looked. “Almost as beautiful as you,” he joked sometimes. And then you smiled at him or kissed him. But not for too long as to not to keep him from his moment of serenity.

Mostly the two of you remained silent. You needn’t speak about this, it was an unspoken agreement between you. And a lot of thoughts must be going through Astarion’s mind at any given time. Two centuries were a hefty time span to sort through. And you felt he needed these moments to slowly work through it. To patiently let the major dust storm settle and see how pieces fit together after that. So usually you just stayed with him, observed him as much as the sunset sky, while you hoped you’d be a piece in the puzzle once he would have figured it all out.

Today you had quickly went down to the taproom to get yourself a mug of hot tea while Astarion had already flung open the window to perform his routine.

When you returned he was already there, head leaning against the window frame, one leg up and angled, softly swaying to a melody only the vampire heard.

Kneeling down in front of the window on a pillow you set down your cup on the window sill and then your head on top of your arms right next to it. Vapour curled lazily from the boiling hot beverage you’d brought for yourself, dissipating somewhere towards its way up to the flamboyant sunset.

The sky was different today. Mixed with the usual oranges, yellows and and blues was a breathtaking blend of purples and pinks, stroked over with some soft sheens of clouds that glowed even more vibrantly with the unusual colours.

Astarion was mesmerised, mouth slightly agape, as if he’d never seen something similar. Truly the way he could admire every single instance of the sky darkening slowly had you in awe and broke your heart simultaneously.

The vampire loved beautiful things, loved to look at them, again and again. And if that was what remained, he would hold onto it.

You took him in, took careful note of how his profile outlined darkly against the softer pastels of the early night, eyes shining. The warm light tones painted him softly - in a way that made your heart ache even more.

Astarion noticed you watch him and smiled at you lovingly - and just a little wicked. You hoped you saw a tiny bit less aching in it today. He stretched out his hand to stroke your hair softly while not breaking eye contact. He admired you very similarly to how you had been looking at him. And to how he previously had drank in the dusk sky.

Tonight his eyes didn’t stray from you while the colours slowly gave way to the darkness of the night.

The pain and the beauty of sunsets might be fleeting. Always prone to betray one.

But you were there. And you stayed even beyond darkness.

Taglist (DM if you want to be added please): @spacebarbarianweird @sunfire-ancunin @tragedybunny @dependsonthedream @tallymonster @magazzne @micropoe10 @aoirohi @my-bunny-prince @lumienyx @fayeriess @darlingxdragon @hereliesblackdragon @ayselluna @ajokeformur-ray @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @rikuyrk06 @marina-and-the-memes

[black00olive]

The Right Words

A/N: This was supposed to be just a little thing about Satan writing a love letter to but it quickly ended up spiralling into somewhat of an analysis of Satan's feelings towards you (take that very lightly as a lot of this is just made up of vibes). Also, the "you" isn't a completely blank slate as I did base some of it off of my own MC and all that (that's where most of the canon divergence comes from). I have never written a love letter before, so pls don't bash me for my love letter writing skills. It was also pretty challenging to write something from Satan's POV since he's a lot more sophisticated than I am Lol. In any case, hope you enjoy :3

Pairing: Satan x Reader

Wordcount: ~3,900 words

Summary: Writing should come easy to Satan, he’s practically read every book in existence and written several pieces before. Yet, when it comes to him writing a love letter to you he finds himself completely stuck. None of the words seem right and nothing he’s written seems to fully describe his feelings for you. As he stares at the blank piece of paper in front of him, his mind wanders and he starts to reminisce about how he developed these feelings for you in the first place.

Reading, and the absorption knowledge in-and-of-itself, was a core part of who Satan was. “He was the nerd of the family,” that’s what his idiot of a brother, Mammon, had claimed— said idiot of a brother had quickly learnt to not say such things about him, but that was neither here nor there. Some other core parts of who he was were his love of cats (though in his opinion everyone should love them, and those who didn’t were wrong), how well-connected he was with high society, and lastly his wrath— though he works hard to contain that one. Overall, he was a classy and upstanding demon. Further, if you were to ask someone, or even him, to describe himself they would most likely use words such as knowledgeable, polite, respectable, and intelligent.

In layman’s terms: Satan was smart and cool.

That’s why he’s so confused as to why he was finding himself hunched over his desk hopelessly writing his 34th love letter to you. Furthermore, why was a well-read demon like him unable to find the right words? He was finding that no words could even begin to describe the feeling aching in his chest, and he knew his way with words.

Satan was no Asmodeus, he doesn’t have a different demon (or demons) in his bed each week. He doesn’t have a list of ex-lovers so long he could wrap himself up in it, twice, nor does he flirt with every demon that even so much as glances at him. However, that doesn’t mean Satan is completely inexperienced; he has had lovers before, has lain with others a couple of times, and even made several of his high-society acquaintances through waxing poetries at them. He is quite good with that last one, he’s made many demons swoon with just his words and been told that he has quite the silver tongue. Yet all words seem to escape him when faced with you. He could repeat the same words that had made so many demons before you fall to their knees, but…

Even those sentences couldn’t even begin to encompass all that you are, and all that he feels for you. You deserved more than some half-hearted words that he had just uttered to get what he wanted. You were so much more than any of those words, as well. The entirety of his being was consumed by you. The way you spoke, the way your eyes would crinkle when you laughed at an especially humourous joke, the way your eyes sparkled once you came across something that caught your interest. Your smile, your bravery, your sarcasm, your kindness, your cockiness, your somewhat childish humour, and even your cruelty. Each and every little thing about you made him erupt in emotions that he had previously only read in books. None of the books could compare to the all-encompassing feeling it truly was.

Satan stares at the paper in front of him with a clenched jaw and lets out a disgruntled huff. Letting go of his pen (he really should loosen his hold, it might break and with the rate he’s going he won’t have any left before he finishes a writing something he’s even somewhat content with) and crumpling up the piece of paper, he then chucks it to the pile of other love letters— none of which had come out like he had wanted—, and he starts anew.

It’s a little silly, he thinks, that things ended up like this. When you had first been chosen as the exchange student Satan hadn’t cared, rather he had found himself a little annoyed. It would be incredibly inconvenient to live in the same house as a human, especially with how Lucifer had hounded them to “be more careful” and “suppress” themselves a little more around you. So in the beginning he had kept his distance from you. He had better things to do than to entertain a “dumb” human like you, humans are just a bunch of useless trouble anyway. He cringes at what he had thought of you in the beginning.

He isn’t sure when his feelings for you first started changing from mild annoyance to something else (that’s a lie, he remembers the moment vividly, but sometimes he questions if his thoughts about you had shifted earlier and he just hadn’t noticed). Perhaps it was when you first got your pact with Mammon, just a day after first being summoned. While Satan would be the first to admit that his brother is a complete idiot that doesn’t negate the fact that he’s the second most powerful of them, a student council officer on top of that, so for an ordinary human to manage to form a pact with him so quickly was definitely intriguing. At the time he thought you would stop at that, but you didn’t. Instead you decided to compete against Levi in a competition, a quiz to see who was the biggest The Seven Lords fan at that. A fool’s errand, Satan would have said if you had asked him at the time. Yet you seemed determined to actually win.

He had heard that humans often had a lot of audacity but he would have thought that even the dumbest human could tell that they had no chance of winning. Levi was older than you could even rationalise in your limited human mind, and he had spent a good portion of that time consuming any sliver of TSL media. You must have known that, right? No, Satan knows you knew that, you are a lot smarter than he had ever given you credit for in the past, yet despite that you were still determined to go through with the competition. He supposes it was that reckless determination that had fascinated him enough to tell you to seek out Simeon to help you win. You hadn’t won but you did end up forming a pact with Levi later that same day.

It is that same reckless determination that he loves and hates, it both causes him anguish and makes him admire you. It was that same reckless determination that made you protect both Beel and Luke from Lucifer that day Luke entered the underground tomb and had taken The Grimoire. He had not been there while it had happened, but he had heard. At the time it had amused him how you had stood against Lucifer, now it makes him wish you didn’t disregard your life as much as you had done in the first couple of months of your stay. You already have such a short life, you shouldn’t cut it even shorter… Satan cuts off that thought right there and crumples up the paper in front of him before he places a new one in its place.

He hadn’t believed Asmo when he had said you had been able to coax out more power in him than Solomon ever had. At the time he had just assumed it was Asmo getting too excited over a new “play-thing” (his lip curls up at that, he hates calling you such demeaning things) and was over exaggerating as he usually does.

Yet, Lucifer was wary of you. That meant something because as much as Satan hates to admit it there are very few things that Lucifer can’t handle. During that time Satan had only focused on the fact that you bothered him, and you forming pacts with his brothers bothered him even more. To former him, it was very clear as to what he needed to do. In the present, however, Satan thinks it was foolish of him to be so willing to give away his autonomy just to get under Lucifer’s skin. It was also said foolishness of him that led him to almost kill you when you had rejected his request to form a pact. Satan can feel himself start to frown at the memory of him threatening to tear you limb from limb. He had been so enraged by the thought of a simple human being the one to reject him, that an ordinary human— who didn’t even have the capabilities to use magic— would think themselves better than him, the Avatar of Wrath. The current Satan could never even imagine himself saying something so vile and hateful to you, but at that moment he had been fully ready to go through with the threats. For once in his life, he’s glad Lucifer had stepped in and stopped him.

Then, in spite of the threats, you were still willing to help Lucifer and his relationship (though Satan also has the sneaking suspicion that a big portion of the reason you wanted to help was because you had grown tired of their arguing, especially while sleeping in your room). Arguably, transporting them into, at the time had seemed like, a dating sim wasn’t the best plan but you still tried to make the best out of the situation. It’s cliché, but he can still remember your words from the evening before they were supposed to “profess their love” with vivid clarity because, admittedly, Satan believes it was then he first started developing these feelings for you.

You had asked to speak with him after he had apologised for dragging you into the whole mess. “You don’t have to force yourself to like someone you don’t. Lucifer doesn’t see you as a child as much as you think, he only wants to look good in front of Diavolo as his number two,” is what you had told him. The first part stuck with him, is still stuck with him if Satan is going to be truly honest. Such a simple concept, that you don’t have to like someone. One that he had come across in his books several times before you had even been a thought in the universe. Despite that, when you had said it to him in your typical bold fashion it was as if it was the first time he’d heard of the mere prospect. Like a fog that had swallowed his brain was finally cleared. Satan believes that if you were to ask Levi to describe it, he would say something along the lines of: “he finally reached a high enough level to unlock the ability to understand secret texts.”

Your very simple words had given him a shocking amount of things to contemplate, even more so when the whole situation with Grisella’s death on the train. Her perspective of it not mattering what hand fate deals you but how you deal with it along with yours had made him come to the realisation that he can never go back and change the circumstances of his birth. However, he can choose how to live his life and that has nothing to do with Lucifer. Because he’s not him. It was such a simple answer to an issue that had been plaguing him ever since he was born, and he’s sure that he was only able to find the answer because of you (irregardless of how much you’d like to claim that you didn’t much of a part in his discovery).

Then after the whole fiasco of Lucifer and him switching bodies you had finally accepted his request to form a pact with you. Satan feels his fingertips graze over where his pactmark sits on your body as he smiles. A pact, something that connects the two of you on a much deeper level than any piece of metal exchanged in a ceremony ever could, not that he wouldn’t mind being bonded to you in such a way though. A pact, something akin to an invisible string that ties the two of you together; a string that pulls him to you constantly (he wonders if you feel the same pull), a string that makes him share your pain, a string that binds the two of you together until the day you die.

Perhaps even longer, Satan thinks as his eyebrows furrow and he feels his whole body tense, because you did die. He had felt the tightness in his neck, his brothers had as well— the brothers that had formed pacts with you at that point at least— and they had all ran to the foyer where they had found you along with their youngest brother but it was in a situation Satan is sure he’ll never get out of his mind. Mammon had been the first to move, he had ran to you and had clutched your dying body in his arms. Satan curses his past self for not doing the same. He curses himself for just standing there, watching helplessly, as your pain coursed through his body in pulses. In rhythm with your dying heart. He should have joined in as his brothers started to yell at their youngest, he’s the Avatar of Wrath. However, in that moment, despite having watched countless of humans die before you— being the cause to some of them— he had never in his life felt more lost. Yet, you came back. Satan had watched as you stepped out of the shadows and as you, the one in Mammon’s arms, had slowly fade into nothingness. He had stood just watching as you revealed the truth about Lilith and your relation to her. The he had continued to simply watch as the rest of his brothers had all started hugging you. When he looks back on it, he hadn’t done much but watch during the whole incident. It had weighed heavy on his heart ever since and he had vowed to never be so complacent when you’re in danger.

Then after the whole incident his brothers and him had gone on to do something that he now realises (thanks to you) was incredibly foolish. What number was he of foolish things he’d done in regards to you now? Satan is quite shocked that despite every foolish thing he and his brothers have done you’re still willing to put up with them. Not just that, but you’re willing to love them. Despite the fact that they had foolishly tried to pretend like you hadn’t died that night and that everything was fine. Despite the fact that because of their own denial they had neglected to check if you were okay after you had just died. Despite the fact that they had pushed the responsibility of mending their relationships onto you once more while you were trying to deal with your own whirlwind of emotions over your own death. Despite all of it, you still chose to love them. Satan doubts they’ll ever be worthy of that, of your love, of you. Rightfully, you had called them out on their shameful behaviour.

That evening when you had told them off for down-right ignoring your death Satan believes he fell for you completely, body and— if he had been a human— soul. The green wrath that surrounded you that night was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. His sin engulfing you and the tendrils of it ebbing throughout the dining hall. You had been stewing in this anger for quite a while, he had concluded that evening, because the wrath flowing off of you was so strong. Intoxicating, almost. He had never seen you that angry before, you were usually very good at keeping calm. Of course, you got annoyed and irritated a few times but nothing to that degree. He had needed to stab his fork into his thigh to maintain even some semblance of composure, to not transform fully. As you were berating them he had found it hard to breathe with how your wrath was overwhelming all of his senses, much like how his love is for you nowadays. It was also that evening where Satan finally realised that the seeds of you had fully bloomed into a garden and grown roots in his heart, and he wasn’t willing to rip them out. He loved you, he realised, as much as you’d like to say it wasn’t possible to love someone after such a short period of time he knew he loved you and he’d never love another.

Truthfully, he feels a little bashful admitting that he had only realised he loved you when you were taken over by his sin and insulting them for their poor decision making in deciding to ignore your death, but he was going to be honest with you. You had once said that you value honesty a lot, and he’d give you anything you wanted— no matter what it was; whether it be all the riches in the world, someone’s head, or even the crown to a country. He’d give it to you— and you had wanted his honesty so he’ll give it.

The days following your outburst his eyes could not leave you, as much as he had wanted them to (you were still mad at him, he had yet found the words for the apology you deserved; by simply just existing you tend to render him speechless). He started to notice every little thing about you, your routines, your habits, your ticks, your quirks. Each thing made him fall deeper and deeper in love with you. Even in his lonesome he couldn’t escape you. In every book he’d find you, usually taking shape as the love-interest as he immersed himself in a world where he was that book’s protagonist. In his dreams the two of you would go on adventures, ranging from simple dates on the beach to travelling to different human-world countries. Even when he was out shopping he’d find himself reminded of you from various trinkets and thinking of what clothes or foods or various other goods you’d like. A few times while passing more risky stores that he’d commonly find Asmo browsing, he couldn’t help his mind from wandering to things he would one day like to see you in (if you were comfortable with it, of course. You and your comfort take precedence over everything else).

Eventually he had found the words and given you an apology for how he’d behaved, not even just regarding your death but prior to that as well, and you had accepted it. As the relationship continued to grow as had his feelings. He was no longer simply “in love” with you, but rather he felt something much more intense, overwhelming, and ineffable. Satan supposes that’s why he can never seem to find any words that seem fitting enough for you or the love he holds for you.

Combining his fingers through his hair, Satan sighs as he leans back in his chair. He had set out to write a love letter to you, yet all he’s done so far is reminisce over how his feelings developed for you over the course of your stay. He looks down at the paper in front of him and gently glides his fingers over the words. He isn’t even fully sure why he’s writing this to you. Right, because you valued honesty. The paper starts to lightly shake and Satan realises it’s because his hands are trembling. How humiliating, he’s the Avatar of Wrath, 4th most powerful lord of the underworld, yet the idea of giving you a love letter is what makes him tremble. What if you don’t reciprocate his feelings? His mind starts to doubt, but he forces himself to calm down. Even if you don’t feel the same he will continue to love you and stay by your side. His feelings for you will never change nor waver, he’s sure of that, and for as long as you’ll allow him he’ll stay right by your side.

The Love Letter:

My Dearest,

Recently my thoughts have been drawn irresistibly to you, while that in-and-of-itself isn’t uncommon I find that now it’s become unbearable to simply keep them to myself. So, here I am penning my deepest affections for you as I find myself reminiscing over our shared past. Once, I recall you had told me that you value honesty, so I shall be fully honest with you as I write this. When you had first been summoned I had not thought much of you. I had assumed that you wouldn’t have survived to the end of the exchange year. Yet, you did, technically. However, you didn’t just survive, you managed to thrive. You subverted every last one of my expectations and I found myself growing more and more affection towards you. Now, you’ll be leaving and returning to the human world in a couple of days and I would forever regret it if I didn’t disclose my feelings to you at least once before you leave.

I love you, truly and deeply. From your courage to your kindness as well as your defiance, you have ensnared my heart in ways I never thought possible. You consume my every waking thought and even as I sleep I still find you in every one of my dreams. You’ve seen the depths of my fury, the intensity of my wrath, been victim to my thoughtlessness, and yet, you remain. You choose to stay by me regardless. You’ve awakened emotions in me that I had once only read within the pages of my books. Love, trust, and a tenderness that shouldn’t be possible of the Avatar of Wrath. I find myself yearning for even a moment of your attention, a quick glance or wave as you pass me through the halls. With you, I am not just Satan, the Avatar of Wrath, but something more, something much bigger; a being capable of deep, profound love.

There is not a moment that goes by in which I don’t adore you. Each day I find myself falling deeper and deeper in love with you and all of your quirks. From your beautiful eyes, which seem to invariably lure me in, to your laughter that, like a melody, pierces through the cacophony of my existence, bringing a sense of peace I never knew I craved. And your touch, gentle and reassuring, has the power to calm the raging storm within me. Your endless curiosity makes me remember the beauty of learning and of our world. Your reckless bravery, however with that one I wish you would rely on me more. You don’t have to deal with everything by yourself. Even the traits that humans tend to label as bad I find myself loving; your sarcasm, your stubbornness, your cockiness, your selfishness, and your impulsivity. I even find myself loving your pure cruelty, however rare that one is.

Know this, my beloved, my heart, once a vessel of only wrath, now beats with an ardent longing for you. It would no longer be right to call it mine for it seems to be filled solely with you. I am yours, wholly and completely, bound by a love that transcends the very fabric of our existence. No matter what your response is, trust that I will stay by your side for as long as you let me; whether that be as a friend or as a lover. Either way, I will love you until the end of eternity.

Forever, and always, yours,

Satan

[alistairtheyrin]

the bard of riverbrook farm, pt. ii

la belle dame sans merci, frank bernard dicksee

aemond targaryen x lowborn!reader

masterlist | ao3

summary | help with the harvest comes from the most unlikely source - the one-eyed man from the inn - and your curiosity about what he is hiding beneath his courtesies only grows.

tags | secret identity, soft romance, bard!reader, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, discussions of trauma related to war, gender-neutral pronouns

wordcount | 3.8k

likes, reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated 💞 lyrics are not mine this time but from A Storm of Swords

The band of wandering men left empty-handed by the war moved on in the end, what work there was in the village done, what hospitality could be afforded to them spent.

You didn’t even realise the man with one eye from the inn had stayed until he came wandering up the lonely track to your farm.

You were bent over, pulling up carrots in the field, stopping only to mop sweat from your brow, and your back was aching. You always bit back on your complaints, though, because your parents were working on the next row over, swapping the baby in her wrap between them whenever it got too much to bear in the summer sun.

Your father was the first to notice a stranger's approach and passed off your gurgling sister so he could approach the man.

“Ho, stranger,” your father called, letting the one-eyed man know he was spotted in case that was enough to deter him. You recognised him from the inn, though, and felt a hint of a smile on your lips. No, you did not think this was some common thief.

“Ser,” the man, strangely formal as ever, inclined his head. Even when he raised his voice to be heard over the distance and the wind, his tone did not change from that calm, collected way he had. “The innkeeper in town said you might need an extra pair of hands for your harvest. I came to offer my services.”

Good Beck, always sticking his nose in, you thought, holding back a roll of your eyes. You made your way down the field, your half-full basket on your hip, and came to your father’s side. “I remember you,” you said, “from the inn.” You could still sometimes feel the ghost of his lips on your hand.

His eye met yours. He looked glad to see you but not surprised. “The bard,” he said, “have you finished your song yet?”

“Not quite,” you said, biting your lip to stop you from smiling.

Your father, for his part, looked wary. “You fought in the war?” he asked, and the man nodded. He did not ask what side. It was generally accepted that you did not ask that question in these parts when the peace remained new and uneasy. 

“Another pair of hands would be good,” your father said wearily, “if only so that one of us could focus on the babe instead. But I don’t have much to pay you.”

The man shook his head. “Food and shelter is all I ask for, ser.”

Your father hummed, noncommittal. “I don’t much like the idea of strange men under the same roof as my wife and children,” he said. “No offence meant, but you could be anyone. You understand.” Your heart dropped a little at the dismissal, but you noticed he was holding his shovel close to his body and sizing up the stranger. It made sense - men like this stranger were often bad news, driven to desperation by war or indulging depravities that had always been there, lurking just under the surface and only coming out now that the world had gone to hell.

“No, ser, I understand - I did not mean shelter under your roof. I could bed down by the plough horse. I was not clear in my speech; I apologise,” the man said, “but if it is still a no, I will be on my way.”

That spiked a slight panic in you, and you grasped for words. “For what it’s worth, father, he was kind at the inn,” you said hurriedly. “He wanted to ask me about my songs, the ones I write myself, but he was very respectful.” The man gave you a grateful half-smile for that.

Your father hesitated, considering both your words, just as the stranger was shifting to go. “Stop,” he said. You could see him thinking. The door to the house was always barred at night, and you and your mother had carried blades concealed in your clothes since the war broke out. It might be worth the risk, to get an extra pair of hands on the field and get this sowing of carrots up before any started to soften. Most would need to travel to Raventree Hall before they were sold, and the steward would not pay the full price unless they were fresh. Your father looked back at your mother, who was bouncing the baby on her hip, and she gave him a slight nod. “Okay, we’d like to have you on for the next moon or so. There’s a spare stall in the stable where you can bed down if you’ll help me clear some equipment out of it.”

The one-eyed man was visibly relieved and offered your father a hand to shake, which your father grasped firmly. “Thank you, ser,” he said.

“I’m no ser,” your father said, but he looked a little pleased to be addressed as such.

“There’s broth on for tonight,” your mother added helpfully, calling down the field and shading her eyes from the sun with her spare hand. “Bread was fresh yesterday.”

“Sounds perfect,” the man said, and for all the light in his eye at that, he seemed to say it genuinely.

Your father was clapping him on the shoulder and leading him off to the paddock that housed the small stable when you stopped them with your voice. “Wait! What was your name?”

The man stopped dead in his tracks, and you may have been mistaken, but you thought you saw his jaw go a little tighter and his eye a little wider. He wavered, then cleared his throat. “Uh, Luke,” he said.

Your mother and father did not seem to notice his hesitation, but you narrowed your eyes at him, and he had the good grace to swallow hard before he was led away.

Luke, you thought, testing the name on your tongue. You had a feeling that getting to know each other would be very interesting indeed.

— ∞ —

“You know, if you were going to lie about your name, you probably should have thought about that before someone inevitably asked what your name was.” It was the height of the day, and you were irritable, the collar of your shirt becoming damp and yellow with sweat, the basket on your hip growing harder and harder to lift.

It had been a few days since the man - Luke - arrived, and you had already learned to like having him around. He was an able young man, strong, and his pace of work meant that sometimes both your parents could afford to rest when the sun reached its peak. You were glad - they were not so young as they once were, and neither of them got to spend enough time with the babe anyway.

It was such a day today - the two of you were deep in the fields, pulling up the crops and loading your bounty onto a cart - and Luke gave you a bewildered glance. He was starting to do that more and more to you in answer to your pointed questions. “I’m lying about my name, am I?” He asked as though it was not already a foregone conclusion.

You huffed out a laugh. “Given how you positively shit yourself when asked the most simple question a person can ask you about yourself, I would wager so.”

“So you’re a gambler as well as a bard?”

“You can’t answer a question with a question,” you pointed out, huffing as you lifted your now-full basket onto your hip.

He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t ask me a question; you just levelled an accusation at me,” he said, but there was no heat in it as he left his own basket for a minute to take yours off your hip and carry it to the cart for you. You did make to protest, but the sun was blazing, and you rather liked the way his shoulders could be seen shifting through his shirt as the sweat-soaked fabric clung to them.

“Fine,” you sighed, “why did you lie about your name?”

He gave you a look, rubbing at his cheek a little where his eyepatch sat with dirt-stained fingers. You wanted to tell him to take it off - it was chaffing him in the heat, and you had seen worse injuries over the years than a lost or damaged eye - but you didn’t want to push your luck. “My name - the name my mother gave me, it’s… recognisable. I told you I don’t know if I could face going home. If someone from my past heard my name being used around here, I don’t think the choice would be mine anymore - to stay or not.”

You thought that over and nodded. “I suppose that makes sense,” you said. “Many folks are running from their pasts ‘round these parts.”

He sighed. “You have an unforgiving way of cutting straight to the heart of the issue. Has anyone told you that before?”

“Mm,” you hummed, smiling. “It’s a useful skill in a bard. People have a way of burying a lead and telling themselves stories, but they’re rarely motivated by anything other than what’s in their hearts.”

He was watching you with something unnameable in his eye.

“Who is Luke, then?” You asked, not letting up for a second.

The look of levity on his face darkened at that, and you almost regretted pressing the issue. “A boy I killed,” he said simply.

You didn’t know what you expected, but you certainly hadn’t expected him to be so blunt. “You knew him?”

“We were family,” he said, passing you back your now emptied basket, but he looked a little distant now. “We found ourselves on different sides of things. He took my eye. I killed him. It was an accident, but it was still my fault.”

You nodded, a heavy feeling in your gut settling. Everyone had done things they weren’t proud of during those years. Every stale crust of bread or overripe apple you stole to feed your family could have been the one that starved your neighbours to death. “So you use the name… what, to keep him alive?”

He considered this. “I suppose it’s something of an apology, yes. I was a boy then - rash and angry. Now that I’m a man, I realise that no matter the wrongs he visited on me, he didn’t deserve to die. If I keep his name with me, I hope he lives on through me, yes, and I hope, wherever he is, he knows I have not forgotten him and what I did.”

“That seems like all you can do,” you said.

“Mm,” he looked away, “it still doesn’t feel like enough.”

“Everyone has done things they can’t make up for,” you pointed out.

He gave you a rueful smile. “I fear I have done more than most.”

— ∞ —

The next time you made your way down to the tavern, lute strung on your back, he followed you.

You pretended you hadn’t heard his footsteps until you were halfway down the village path. Then his boot struck a stone, sending it skittering, and you turned to look.

He was watching you, head tilted, and the look in his eye betrayed an appetite.

“You know, you could have just asked to come with me.”

He smirked, slowly drawing up to you. “I’m not much good at small talk. Thought it better I didn’t bother you.”

You hummed. “I like it when you bother me,” you said.

It felt like a leap of faith, but he was there to catch you.

The music fell from your strings and your lips so easily that night, flowing like honey, like gold, and you had the entire inn swept up in a reverie. There was dancing and laughing and singing along, and Good Beck was toasting to you over the bar and sending you mead faster than you could drink it as he struggled to keep up with his orders.

Your shadow, Luke, watched you from the back of the room all night. He’d bought a pint but didn’t seem to be drinking it, and he was surrounded by people but didn’t seem to be talking to them. He just… watched. Like you were some enrapturing creature singing a siren’s song.

You closed up with your own song, the newest one you’d finished. You’d written it by the fireplace in the evenings, gently rocking your sister’s crib with the toe of your boot. The warm glow of the embers brought to mind the glow of the day, the way his skin glistened, and how he smiled and laughed when you spoke even though he didn’t want to, like he couldn’t help it.

My featherbed is deep and soft,

and there I'll lay you down,

I'll dress you all in yellow silk,

and on your head, a crown.

For you shall be my lady love,

and I shall be your lord.

I'll always keep you warm and safe,

and guard you with my sword.

And how she smiled and how she laughed,

the maiden of the tree.

She spun away and said to him,

no featherbed for me.

I'll wear a gown of golden leaves,

and bind my hair with grass,

But you can be my forest love,

and me, your forest lass.

The song was the warmest of embraces: wildflower blooms in the air, the tickle of grass on your skin, and soft, hot kisses on your neck. You closed out the tune on your lute, and when you looked up, your regulars were roaring their approval, and other villagers were clapping for you. You pulled in ragged breath after breath, struggling after the full set, and when you met Luke’s eye, you didn’t want to fool yourself, but you thought him similarly… breathless.

You made your way from the little stage, lute on your back, free pints in hand, and jerked your head to the door, hoping he’d get the message. Fresh air was a must after a full set, as you were often overheating, and the smells and sounds of inside would become oppressive.

You set your tankards on an overturned barrel and sat down on the riverbank, away from any revellers also seeking fresh air. The brook was low right now—there hadn't been a proper rain in a moon—but the trickling sound was still soothing, still enough to reset the thudding rhythm in your chest.

“Just as mystifying as the first time,” his voice and cadence were becoming deeply familiar at this stage. You looked up, and he was setting himself down next to you, giving you a soft smile.

You waved away his praise with a hand and took a deep drink of your mead. It was sharp and sweet and cutting. “You should be ashamed of yourself, following me out here with a drink to ply me and sweet words on your lips; it’s so obvious,” you jested, and his cheeks went a delightful shade of pink.

He held up his hands. “I recall you beckoning me and supplying the drink. If anyone has ulterior motives, it is you.”

“You’re a strange one,” you said, looking away for a second to follow the path of two village girls stumbling home over the wooden bridge downstream, having overindulged in Good Beck’s homebrew. This place was a different world from what it had been only years ago. You didn’t think you could ever fall out of love with it. “What sort of conscripted village boy uses words like ulterior, anyway?”

He laughed. He’d left his pint he hadn’t been drinking inside, so you pushed the tankard you hadn’t managed to get to towards him. He made a face as he sipped but went back for more all the same. “When did I say I was a conscripted village boy?”

“You didn’t,” you said, with a slow wave of realisation. “I just… thought. The book thing - you’re educated and all that.”

He grinned, and his face in profile was something to behold. You didn’t think you’d ever found a nose so pretty. “Educated, but that never saved me from being a fool.”

“It never does,” you pointed out. “Sometimes, educated people are worse for being fools than farming folk. You’ve got all this extra… shite in your head that helps you make excuses for why you’re doing foolish things.”

“Concise, to the point,” he noted with a dry humour in his voice, drinking deeply from his tankard now. “How did one of the farming folk come to know what ulterior meant if it’s such a graceful, airy word?”

He had you there. You smiled and averted your eyes, taking another drink. It was like a game. Take a drink when the other person proves they’re fit for you, and you see how evenly matched you are in all the ways you never expected to be. “My mother is a clever woman, trained in a mummer’s troupe. She knew the plays, knows how to play this,” you said, tapping the lute strung to your back. “She gave up the mummer’s life when she was younger than we are now - she fell in love, found out she was having me. She says she wanted to build something solid, something permanent, and she wanted to do it with my father.”

He hummed. “My mother was just a girl when she had me, too. She was not in love with my father, though, and he was not in love with her,” he said. “It must be nice… to know you were made in love.”

You wanted to kiss him, then. Burned to. Being made in love was blessed, yes, but it was nothing you could not learn later if only you were willing to. You held back, though, if only because he looked sad and you did not think it was the right time. You reached out a hand instead and rested it on the back of his neck, sweeping your thumb over the base of his skull. He responded to your touch, pushing into your palm, and you smiled. 

“Why do you shave your head?” You asked. You’d seen him the other morning, studying his reflection in a bucket of water, scraping stubble off his scalp with a well-kept razor and a bar of soap. It had only been enough hair for you to see that he was fair-headed, but you’d thought that already with his pale skin and piercing eyes.

He screwed his eyes shut for a second, then peered at you sideways, trying out a half-smile. “Would you believe I am already balding horribly? My family is cursed with it, indeed-“

You burst out laughing at that, a terrible snort slipping out, but it made him snicker with you. “Shut up,” you said, “no, you’re not.”

“You’re so heartless, mocking my plight. My grandfather was bald as a coot at four-and-ten, I’ll have you know.”

You snorted again, and he was laughing into his mead, and it was beautiful. As you laughed, you lay back on the riverbank, pushing your mother’s lute to one side for now and pillowing an arm under your head. The night sky was twinkling down on you, broken up only by the glowing light spilling out of the inn, and you sighed. “I’m guessing it has something to do with you being recognisable.”

He sighed and lay down next to you. “Yes.”

Who is recognisable by their hair? You longed to ask, but you knew he would not answer. You rolled onto your side and used the hand not pillowed under your head to reach up and trace his cheek, under where his eyepatch sat. “And why do you never take this off? Even in the height of the day, when it chafes your skin.”

He watched you, either struggling to choose his words or struggling to find any words at all. “You would not mind if I took it off?”

You shook your head. “It causes you pain,” you said, “and I have seen… things.” You swallowed. “I have seen enough of war to know what is ugly in a person - cruelty, vengeance, rabid desire. No injury of the flesh could ever compare to that.”

“You say that as though I have no injury of the soul to match my injury of the flesh,” he said, quiet, solemn.

“I have seen nothing of it!” You answered, sharper than you intended, but you were so sick of him painting himself in such dark colours when you had yet to see anything of the sort. “I see a man tired and worn down by a life that has not been good to him and dealing with that as best as he can—the same as any of us. Only gods and kings are perfect; even then, it’s all just stories. You are doomed to fail if that is what you aspire to. Just… set your sights lower. If you make yourself feel good and you make others feel good… what else matters?”

He swallowed hard. “I…” he stuttered, “I have never aspired to something so humble, yet so terrifying.”

You were cupping his cheek, and the glossy look in his eye was breaking your heart. “What do you want? Right now?”

Maybe the mead made you so bold, or perhaps it emboldened him to choke out an answer.

“You.”

You pressed your lips to his cheek. “You have me,” you murmured.

He reached up, slowly at first, then faster, and pulled you closer. “Am I not… taking advantage? Of your parents’ hospitality?”

You smiled. He was sweet. “My parents only wish to protect me from wandering hands I do not invite. I am not a blushing maiden whose virtue must be guarded by a shining knight. I am just a soul, and I wish to be cherished, like all souls.”

His kiss was as sweet as a sigh, like waking up warm and comfortable with the sun breaking through the window. You gasped into his mouth as he pulled you close, almost on top of him, arms twisting around you like he was afraid you might vanish if he did not hold on.

He was shivering under your lips and the tips of your fingers, and you wrapped yourself around him, chasing off the cold. He kissed like he was savouring something incredible—slow and lazy, nearly forgetting to gasp for air. By the Seven, he was so severe, so earnest, he even kissed with seriousness and earnestness. Your breathing was haggard, and he broke the kiss at last, your lips shining and only an inch from his. He held your cheek, ran his thumb under your eye, and pressed a kiss to the bridge of your nose.

“Good?” You asked, your voice wavering and unsteady.

He smiled and kissed you again. “Glorious.”

a/n: experimenting with focusing on the writing more than the editing, so this might be pretty rough - let me know if you spot anything that needs fixed/improved!

taglist (dm/reply to be added): @dracaryxzs

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Talking Heads Roll on Floors

So I really really wanted to do this hybrid au inspired by @bluegiragi, but if they want me to delete this I'll do so. I don't want to steal their idea, and if I'm stepping on toes I'll take it down. However, I did like the idea of shifters and created my own hybrids (just because I love monsters and mythology) and wanted to make a story following König.

So this story is just an intro of reader talking to a general as they're assigned König's case file. König is a half nachtkrappe/half jotunn hybrid, with a tendency to spread sickness and decay.

Either way, very short intro.

TWs: Discussion of death and disease

Wordcount: 1.1k

Art from This Post

Story below the cut

Talking Heads Roll on Floors

You looked down at the documents in your hand. The file was decently thick, strangely so for a hybrid. You’d been assigned to a couple of hybrids before, but you’d never had a case quite like this before. A lt. general had purposefully called on you, specifically, for your background in avian hybrids, and though you had tried to explain that your experience with avians was limited to one grumpy grounded roc hybrid, the general was determined to see you on König’s file.

“He’s a lot to handle,” the general warned you sternly, “be careful with him.”

“Has he actually… He’s not hurt any handlers before, has he?” you asked nervously.

“We’re legally required to disclose these deaths in relation to Cnl. Leichenberg,” the gray haired man brushed his mustache, thick with dark streaks stained through it.

You looked down at the daunting manilla folder being pressed across the table.

“You’ll find that deaths in relation to Cnl. Leichenberg are largely due to handlers not following proper procedure,” the general tried to lighten the weight but failed miserably.

“Sir, it’s not my place to correct you,” you fumbled awkwardly, “however, aren’t most handler deaths written out as handlers not following proper procedure?”

The general was kind enough to give you a small smile, “You’re right to be suspicious, however Cnl. Liechenberg is a separate case entirely. In his shifted form, he acts as a form of bioterrorism against enemies. You may have heard of Lt. Riley, from SpecGru?”

“The one who kills somebody everytime he shifts?” you asked nervously.

“By random chance, yes,” the general nodded, closing his soft blue eyes momentarily before opening them again slowly, “Cnl. Leichenberg has a similar condition, except it seems that those in close proximity are at higher risk of contracting a fatal illness.”

“And you expect me to accompany him into battle,” you grumbled.

“Cnl. Leichenberg cannot control his illness, which is where you come in. You are to ensure he does not contaminate other shifters,” the general explained, “of course you’ll be given full vaccination and hazard gear on the military’s dime, and need I mention the benefits this position offers?”

“I can only imagine,” you whistled.

“Cnl. Leichenberg is not a dangerous shifter by any means,” the general paused, “at least, not to his handler. When proper procedure is followed, he is perfectly safe to be in close proximity to. However, the last string of handlers have been… Lackluster in performance.”

You glanced over the latest handler’s bio, “It says here that the latest was crippled?”

“He contracted a case of small pox,” the general explained, “the man was apparently a known anti-vaxxer and yet was put on Cnl. Liechenberg’s case. Of course, he didn’t manage to make it through the mission. You, I’m assuming, are up to date with your vaccinations?”

You nodded.

“You’ll need a few more before meeting Cnl. Leichenberg when he’s shifted, but I imagine you’d do well to meet him before you take his case,” the general’s warm eyes crinkled, “he’s not a difficult case to manage, I assure you. I’ve met the man, and he’s a nervous creature, but he’s nothing to be afraid of. I imagine you’ve dealt with more unruly hybrids during basic training.”

You laughed, “Well, if you’re so sure, I might as well meet him. Does he have a call sign or anything that I can call him by?”

“He goes by the name ‘König’.”

König… It seemed familiar.

“Wait, that guy’s not a colonel,” you glared at the general.

“He was when he was in the military,” the general explained, “and here in KorTac, we tend to respect the previous rank a soldier had before joining us, as long as they’re up to standard of course. König, thankfully, exceeds expectations.”

“It says here he’s an insertion specialist?” you asked, “but he’s a nachtkrappe shifter. Those are pretty small, aren’t they?”

“Keen on your biology, aren’t you?” the general chuckled, “but you’re right, they’re usually rather small and sickly, a result of their contagious nature. That nachtkrappe part of König is why protocol is so important when managing him. However, the other problem with König comes from the other side of his family,” the general trailed his finger down a page, “which you’ll find is-”

“He’s a jotunn shifter?” you spluttered before snapping your jaw shut. You looked up at the general fearfully, but thankfully the older man was in good spirits.

“That’s the insertion specialist part,” the general laughed, “he’s the biggest shifter on base, bigger even than the roc you were managing. He’s the biggest I’ve seen in ages.”

“So why are you asking for avian training when handling him? It’s not like he can fly, right?” you joked. You face fell with the general’s.

“König can fly alright, that’s part of what makes him an effective insertion specialist. He’s too big for most weapons to do significant damage, and he’s able to get into high points with a few flaps of his wings. He’s big, strong, and fast,” the general smiled grimly, “a perfect killing machine. Of course the unfortunate part is that he spreads disease wherever he goes. He’s the only shifter that can be used on a team at a time, and the rest of the squad needs to be outfitted accordingly. It’s part of your job as handler to ensure other soldiers follow protocol when they follow behind him into a building.”

You groaned, “You know they’re not going to listen to me.”

“You make them listen,” the general’s face hardened momentarily, “if you don’t think you’re up to it, I can find someone else easily. But here I was, thinking I was doing you a favor and helping you get ahead!”

“I understand sir,” you ducked your head submissively, “I’ll ensure the soldiers are equipped properly.”

“You’d better,” the general snorted, “the anti-vaxxer nearly got a whole squad of special ops killed on the first mission. Half of them had to be put on permanent leave,” the general leaned close and hissed, “you will not make the same mistake.”

You nodded quickly.

“Good,” the general relaxed, “so you know the drill, meetings will be once the paperwork’s been signed up. We’ll send you your forms with you once you leave, and König will get his side. Have them filled and submitted by Wednesday and we’ll arrange a meeting between you on Friday.”

“Yes sir!” you gave a quick salute.

You were quickly dismissed, and as you left the secretary by the door handed you a tome of paperwork that already had your head aching. Looking down at the stack, you had the dreadful feeling that the night would be a long one.

[undiscovered-horizon]

The clockmaker, the crow and the mantis

[contains vulgar language]

SUMMARY: When an infamous assassin breaks into his office, Kaz Brekker is offered a part in a strange scheme. Despite their mutual dislike, the two might yet have a common goal.

(enemies to lovers I guess?)

WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.2k

A feeling of a cold breeze brushing against his clothes makes Kaz stop immediately - he hasn't opened the window in weeks. The barely noticeable gust of wind tugs gently at the paperwork in front of him. Flames dance ever so slightly on their wicks. The darkness pooling in the corners of the room, where the candlelight can’t quite reach, seems deeper, more imposing, as though it wasn't the lack of light creating it but something much more alive, much more sinister.

Something moves out of the corner of his eye, bordering realism and phantasm. He gets up quickly, hand gripping the decorative cane that had seen its fair share of blood. Calculated, careful steps lead him to the centre of the room as Kaz studies the shapeless shadows encircling him like an ominous vignette.

His heart picks up its pace. A muffled sound of chatter and laughter reaches his ears from behind the heavy door. Horse hooves clatter against cobblestone, a wooden carriage quietly creeks as it rolls through the streets somewhere outside the building. But not a sound, except his own laboured breathing, comes from inside his office. The air doesn’t smell differently and even his eyes can’t quite discern between malicious darkness and the shadows he’s so used to being surrounded by.

By all accounts, Kaz is alone in his office that couldn’t have been tainted by an intruder. Despite his senses not earning him any useful information, he knows his privacy has been breached. It’s unclear what to call this sensation but it appears only in certain kinds of people - those who have been tried by particular ways of life. Their consciousness as if expands, almost miraculously sensing long knives in the dead of night.

Kaz swings his cane at a rather formless shadow by his side. Just as he expected, the staff comes into contact with something. Right there, where light meets darkness and safety of visibility becomes an impenetrable abyss, tips of gloved fingers appear, holding his cane mid-air. The grip is strong, textbook as if. Foreseen.

"Maybe listen to me first, you knucklehead,” resounds from the darkness.

He has to take a step back as the stranger emerges from the veil of the night, both of them still tightly gripping either side of the cane. The deep hood covers their eyes, making the lower half of their face easily visible. Kaz immediately notices a characteristic, pinkish scar ending about an inch below their right eye. The first button of their long, dark double-breasted coat is left open, revealing a grey shirt with moth-shaped collar pins. There’s so many pouches and pockets attached to their clothes - he couldn’t count them if he tried. Even more, Kaz can’t even begin to guess what they hide. A golden chain of their pocket watch glistens in the dim candlelight as they move forward, pushing Kaz farther back.

There’s only one wraith haunting Ketterdam that fits this description:

"Mantis,” he spits out.

"You know Krolmeister, the old clockmaker?" she asks calmly. Despite their less-than-friendly meeting, the assassin appears hardly bothered. One can only assume she has, in fact, been greeted in much worse ways and if one was to believe the wild legends people tell about her, even after applying a generous grain of salt, she can compete for the Dirtyhands title with him.

"I don't see how he has anything to do with you breaking into my office."

"He's the direct, well, indirect, reason why I'm here but we'll get to this in a moment. Mister Krolmeister has offered me a contract. A contract for you, to be precise.” She pauses for a moment, no doubt studying his demeanour, the reaction for such news. Her own face, however, remains just as unmoved making it impossible to say what she makes of his behaviour. Kaz clenches his jaw, already preparing for a fight with someone he can never measure up to. Part of him isn’t surprised in the slightest - after all, in what other way could the Bastard of the Barrell possibly pass away? Mantis leans offhandedly close to his face and continues in a voice barely above a whisper: “Now, you and I both have heads with more use than just wearing hats, so you're probably wondering what you had done to poor Bernard Krolmeister for him to have you killed. The short answer is nothing but the long answer is a lot more interesting. Care to listen?"

The woman lets go of the cane, giving Kaz a chance to strike her but he only lowers the staff to lean on it once again. He may be proud but he’s not stupid - if she had indeed come to kill him, he would have already been long dead, before his mind could even compute the final blow.

"Do not waste my time. Speak."

If he was trying to appear menacing, he has failed. Mantis casually strolls past him, towards a chair by the desk. She sits down, crosses her legs and only then gives Kaz an explanation: "My expertise on the matter tells me that Krolmesiter is nothing but a proxy, a dummy middle-man to blame if something goes south. Blackmail, probably, but that doesn't matter for now. That scenario suggests that there's someone above him, a puppet master if you will. And that puppet master, whoever they are, has good business in having you gone. Considering those two elements, the proxy and the determination, I'm certain you could accurately guess who's truly behind that contract.”

Kaz can’t help the scowl on his face. Her perplexing audacity, a clear and yet indirect disregard for him, makes the man grip the model crow atop his cane ever tighter. His teeth clatter against one another while Kaz contemplates the nature of a violent act that is bound to take her down a peg. Even after his list reaches double digits in just a few seconds, he knows better than to try anything - not yet, at least.

"You’re just a murder, Mantis, no matter how expensive.” 

His words don’t bother the woman as she continues to play with a paperweight on the desk. Her fingers make him wonder for a moment - even when gloved, they’re clearly thin and long, without a sign of heavy labour on them. They move swiftly and elegantly across the figurine, feeling its dips and rises as though she’s trying to remember them. Those are hands of a pianist or a prestidigitator, someone who’s precision borders on a miracle. 

She’s not even looking at him. Kaz feels his patience running thin. One can still work as an assassin without a finger or two, no? Without a whole hand, perhaps? 

“Why should I believe even a single word of this fairytale built on hypotheticals?" he grits through his teeth.

The gentle movement of her fingers stops abruptly. Finally, Mantis looks away from the brass paperweight. Kaz still can’t see her eyes but he can feel them - there’s something primal about her gaze like a predator studying its prey for any sign of hesitation. Heavy paperweight or not, if he turns his back to her, it might just be the last thing he does. 

“True, I am but a humble murderer.” Mantis mockingly puts a hand on her chest and bows her head. “But I’m really fucking good at it, too. I’m not asking for belief. Just trust my reputation.”

Kaz doesn’t answer for a longer while. His eyes bore into the hooded figure sitting in front of him. Disillusioned, he knows she’s doing exactly the same thing. The observation makes him even angrier but for an entirely different reason - perhaps, they are, after all, similar in some way. The restless urge sitting under his skin gets only more urgent. Kaz needs to hit something. Now.

“Why are you telling me all of this? Want me to pay you for telling me someone wants me dead?”

The man scoffs. It’s no news to him - everyday someone tries to get under his skin. Some figuratively, others literally.

"I need you to play dead for the next two days,” she states candidly. “You're silent, so I'm guessing you're interested. If I'm correct, and there's hardly any possibility I'm not, after I tell Bernard that the mighty Kaz Brekker had been dealt with, he's sure to inform a direct messenger between him and the possible blackmailer. I follow him, learn a thing or two and get back to you. And you'll get half of the reward. How's that?"

In slow limps, Kaz narrows the space between them. Mantis is still sitting, making the man tower over her but he knows it’s not much of an advantage. He leans further on his cane moving his face obscenely close to hers. An aroma of rainwater and grease fills his nostrils as he takes in a ragged breath:

"What do you get out of this deal?"

"Aside from like a hundred thousand Kruge? Peace,” she says with a shrug. Mantis looks away for a moment. She puckers her lips, sighs and turns back to him. “I don't like you, Kaz Brekker.” The way her words pierce the tension between them leaves no doubts about their honesty. “Damn, I'd probably open champagne if your head rolled into the gutter.” A light shake of head before she continues. “But you are, I'm afraid, a necessary evil. Say, if you do die, who will take your place on this throne of filth called the Barrel? You're a shitstain but you're tolerable."

To his own surprise, Kaz is speechless. Out of all the things she could ask in return for the information, Mantis only wants the Barrel to not get more problematic than it already is. As strangely kindhearted as it may sound, he continues to have a hard time tolerating her condescending attitude. Kaz Brekker is the king of this steaming pile of shit and to her, he appears to be nothing beyond an over glorified guard dog. Not even an imposing one, it seems.

"Those are some big words for someone who kills to make a living, don't you think?” He tilts his head in a futile attempt to see more of her face. “I suppose it takes a shitstain to know a shitstain."

"As much as both of us hate to admit it, a day has come when we need each other. Anyway, I won't take any more of your time. Places to go, people to kill, you know how it goes.”

Mantis throws her legs over the armrest of the chair and in swift strides makes her way towards the window. Considering her line of business, doors of any kind were prohibited. In a clearly experienced motion, she places a flat metal bar between the window frame and the windowsill, opening her exit in a smooth act. Before she climbs through his window only to disappear like a dream at the break of dawn, Kaz stops her one last time:

"You should be wary. Birds tend to eat praying mantis."

He watches as her lips curve into a cocky smile. "Only if he can catch her."

And with those words, she dives through the window, dissolving into the black night as though it was his fantasy that brought her to life. Kaz stands alone in his office. Nothing about the room has changed, even the brass paperweight is placed exactly as it was before Mantis put her hand on it. In some way, the assassin was never there. Despite her elusive nature, the smell of grease and rain will linger in his nose for a few more days, haunting him like the wraith of Ketterdam she is.

Jesper knows something is wrong the moment he notices Kaz’s bitter expression. Although his boss appears to wear a grimace most of the time, the wrinkle between his eyebrows seems slightly deeper than it did just a few hours ago. He’s clenching his jaw, looking at the people in his club with a patronizing scowl.

"You alright, boss?" he asks when Kaz reaches the bar counter.

But Brekker isn’t fast to answer. He downs the drink Jesper got for himself. Gripping the edge of the counter like his life depends on it, he begins to explain:

"I'm dead, Jesper."

Kaz isn’t funny. Truth be told, he doesn’t seem to have even a speck of a sense of humour. Despite that, Jesper dismisses the notion that his boss could be serious. It sounds ridiculous.

"You look pretty alive to me,” he says in a slow, reluctant tone. Maybe he missed something obvious?

An accusatory index finger makes Jesper unknowingly lean back slightly. "Tell everyone I'm dead, stabbed in my own office. And do it now."

"Hold on, what?” He shakes his head. “Why would you be dead?"

"Just do it, Jesper.” Kaz lets out a defeated sigh. The smart choice just so happens to be the one he hates.  “You'll know in due time. All we can do now is wait."

Jesper watches Kaz’s back as he walks back up the stairs into his office. A familiar anxiety blooms in his chest - something big is about to happen and he might just have the front-row seat.

[oxymorayuri]

❞𝐍𝐨 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬❝

Part three

If you haven't read the first part yet, you can find it here or the masterlist. ♡♡♡

✦ Pairing: Portgas D. Ace x Reader ✦ Warnings: language, angst, suggestive ✦ Spoiler: talking about dressrosa and doflamingo

A/N: The song I was listening to while writing, that screams Ace x Revolver [us] to me ✨ : Ari Abdul - You or Arctic Monkeys - R U Mine?

wordcount: 3007

tagging: @lazyninjatheorist - @sassyyassi

! ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ !

ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛ

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓: katsutake

During the night, you slightly wake up because Ace is trying to move. You groan a little in disappointment as you cling to his chest and run your hand over his upper body. You automatically snuggled up to him and laid your head on his chest. Caressing his warm skin, you finally realize that you are lying on top of him.

You open your eyes to find yourself wide awake.

You look around in a panic and don't dare to move. Turned to stone, you hope that you are the only one awake. Luckily for you, Ace is slumbering peacefully with one hand behind his head and the other on your back.

You exhale slowly and carefully, calming down a little.

Ace's smell is something you have missed so much. You can't dream this smell. He smells like summer and a bonfire that is burning dimly. His skin is softer than you expected and if you think about it, you could swear his skin smells after a fairly decent body lotion.

While your thoughts revolve around Ace, you notice how Ace wants to lie on his side because of his fruitless attempts to move... You would like to stay lying on his chest for a little longer, but you can't risk him waking up now. Just as you are about to turn your back to Ace, he reaches out to pull you close to him.

Sharply, you suck in your breath and look up at him with trembling eyes.

He's asleep. Okay.

Even though the position is a little suffocating, you stay in his embrace. Chest to chest with only a few centimeters between your faces, you watch him sleep.

The freckles on his face are something you've always found so adorable about him. How can a person be so beautiful, whether awake or asleep? His gorgeous black hair lies lightly on his face and your gaze wanders around until it lands on his lips...

You could if you wanted to...

But you decide not to. How creepy is it that you want to kiss him right now? Imagine he wakes up. What do you say?

It was just so inviting? Well, you'd have to explain that in more detail.

Your breath is cut short as you feel Ace's warm hand run over your side. His fingers skillfully go under your shirt and touch your bare skin, but nothing moves on Ace's face. He is still asleep.

You find it almost funny how touchy Ace is. His touch tickles you a little, making your body move and you automatically press yourself a little closer to him so that your now bare stomach touches his. He's so hot, and not just in terms of looks, he radiates pure heat and you'd love to return his embrace so that there's not a single gap between you.

Ace hums satisfied in his sleep and returns the pressure. His grip tightens on your hips and greedily finds his way onto your ass.

On one hand, you are happy that he is asleep, but on the other, you are a little sad. The tiredness finally floods over you and you fall asleep, entwined with each other.

When you open your eyes again, it takes you a moment to realize that you are still in the prison cell. The lack of daylight makes it difficult for you to know what time it might be. The next thing you realize is Ace lying half on top of you, both arms wrapped around you and his head on your breasts.

You don't intend to stay in this position forever as it's getting quite uncomfortable in this small bed. You don't want to know what your back feels like when you get up...

"hey… hey Ace…!" You try to wake him up with a whispering voice at first, but Ace doesn't wake up. You shake him a little, which makes the black haired man grumble a few words, but at the same time his embrace tightens.

"Mmmh, what's going on Marco? Is breakfast ready?" You raise an eyebrow. Someone must have forgotten what kind of situation they've been in since last night…

You give him a little slap on the back of the head and he looks straight up at you from between your breasts. He looks a little shocked as his eyes wander between your eyes and your boobs, yet he makes no effort to move away from you.

"Move." It comes coldly from your mouth and hastily he moves backwards to the end of the bed.

You sit up and rub your head sleepily. At least you can finally stretch out.

"Good morning." You say in your usual voice as you look at him, sitting a little unsurely in front of you. When Ace hears the change in your voice, he can't help but smirk faintly. He's sure you're not angry with him though.

"Good morning y/n." He watches you intently as you take a small lap around the cell to loosen your limbs.

"I assume you didn't sleep so well?" He boldly asks you with his signature grin as he leans against the wall.

You give him a dangerous smile. The boy is driving you nuts.

"Not really, and you?" - "Like on clouds." He leans his head back against the wall and you can see from his throat that he's gulping a bit. He knows his line is dangerous, but he can't resist testing the depth of your waters.

he wonders how far he can go with you until he drowns? He wants to know... he needs to.

He follows your movements while his heartbeat increases as you approach him with a smile that is as beautiful as it is frightening.

"You know Ace, I'm glad you had a restful sleep…" You stop in front of the bed and slowly lift your leg to get on the bed with one knee. You hate Ace for giving you that look. He doesn't even try to hide the pleasure on his face and as he runs his tongue over his lips, you would love to throw yourself at him, but that would only play into his hands.

With seductively slow movements, you sit down on his lap and rest your hands on his shoulders. Ace doesn't even think about putting his hands on your hips, he's far too busy looking into your alluring eyes.

You tilt your head slightly to one side and feel a little amused at how obvious it is, that you have Ace under your spell.

You turn your gaze away from him and look at his upper body while your hands slowly caress his shoulders.

"You know what would make me feel really good?" Your gaze returns to his eyes and you move closer to his lips.

"No… but let me know." His voice is barely a whisper as your lips almost touch. You can feel his soft breath on your lips and even though you're fighting a thousand battles against the building sensation in your lower core, you won't get out of your role. You're a pro at this and you want Ace to be aware of that.

Your slender finger sneaks up to his lips and runs over his lower lip so that his mouth opens slightly.

Ace is boiling inside, but he doesn't let it show. You can do what you want.

Your fingers move further down, along his neck, to his chest and down to his waistband. You are calm and collected, this is your game. You make the rules.

"If I told you… would you be willing to help me?" Your voice sounds innocent and yet still dirty.

Ace hums a little low as he strokes your thighs.

"Of course." The smile on your lips turns wicked. Ace knows that look. That's how you looked at the drunk guy back then. He knows what's coming, but he's been craving your skin, your voice and your eyes so much that he's soaking up every bit of your attention.

You inhale deeply, your chest fills with air and lifts your breasts deliciously.

You lean towards him to whisper in his ear. Ace leans his head to the side in delight and enjoys your warm breath on his skin.

"It would make me feel so, so good… if we could finally get out of here." Ace's heart slips into his pants. He knew you were just playing with him, but he wished it could go on a little longer.

You leave his bulging lap. You've felt his excitement the whole time. You liked it too, but somehow he deserved it. He has messed with your head so much that you aren't yourself anymore.

You know you have to pull yourself together quickly. You have a reputation to lose if you keep playing the bitch.

You stand up and try to look out of the cell without touching the bars.

"You're right. We can't stay in here forever… I'm starting to get hungry too." You turn to him in surprise. You didn't think he would react so nonchalantly to your statement when he's got a huge boner in his pants right now.

Your gaze is fixed on his crotch. Ace notices where your eyes are, blushes and tries to hide his erection.

"Shy?" you smile mischievously at him. Ace immediately puts his hands down again and laughs in a provoked manner.

He shakes his head and stands up. He closes the distance between you and grabs your hand to pull you towards him. With one hand on your cheek and the other firmly on your lower back, he presses you firmly against him so that you can feel his bulge.

"You can't provoke me…" Even though there's something threatening in his voice, your heart melts. He's so sexy that your knees buckle.

"…I love what you do to me y/n." You draw in your breath, the tingling in your chest intensifies and for a moment your facade crumbles, but you quickly regain your composure.

You hum pleased because of his bulging pants.

"The only question is how long." Your voice is suddenly very serious and Ace realizes the pain in your eyes. He rests his forehead on yours and looks deep into your eyes.

"Sometimes you have to take the risk rather than running away and just wondering what could happen… If you need time I'll give it to you y/n but please don't avoid me." You suppress your tears.

Ever since you saw how gentle Ace was with the little boy, you knew he wasn't an emotional jerk, but you didn't expect words like that either.

"It drives me crazy when you hate me." he whispers to you.

From a distance, you hear a door being opened and a little panicked, you free yourself from Ace's grasp. Ace looks after you a little depressed as he watches you hurry to get out of his clutches, but his mind is made up. He is waiting for you.

It took you a while to convince Marco to let you out, but at some point you started threatening him.

You personally can't threaten him, but you have your own kind of power, and that power is Whitebeard.

You explicitly told him that you were okay with your dad catching wind, that you and Ace were having problems AND THEN you would tell him how he and Jozu threw you both in a cell.

Marco knows it won't end well for him and Jozu and reluctantly he let you go.

The days went by and the relationship between you and Ace got better again. You still avoid him, but when you run into him you don't give him death stares, yell at him or ignore him. You could say it's the same as before.

He's just as pushy as before and you're secretly happy that he's back to his old self.

You gaze out at the endless ocean with satisfaction. The sun is reflected on the surface and every now and then you see dolphins jumping out of the water. You are happy to be back home on the Moby Dick. You have been away from everyone for three years now. You have missed them all so much.

However, your routine is soon interrupted.

Whitebeard called you and Ace to his office. He has a mission for you and wants to discuss the details. When you saw Ace in his room, you didn't realize that you wouldn't be going solo this time. Normally you go undercover alone, but apparently this time you have a mission together with the second division.

But the more your father told you about your mission, the more you realized that you and Ace should go alone.

"W- w- wait Dad!" you raise a hand and the large man stops in his speech. "So you're saying that I should go undercover with Ace? To Dressrosa?"

You look at him a little uncertainly and then at Ace. Whitebeard breathes somewhat heavily.

You're not usually one to say anything against his plans but he didn't miss how you reacted to Ace when you found out that he had been appointed to be the commander of the second division. At least he doesn't know the rest. That wouldn't be so funny.

He thinks it would be a good idea for you to get closer and become friends. He can't stand to see his family not getting along.

"Y/n my beloved daughter… Dressrosa is more dangerous than you think. If I send you alone, you'll have no one but yourself. It's not like on Alabasta where I have my contacts. That's why I'm sending Ace with you." You drop your shoulders in defeat. Yes, you weren't alone on Alabasta, that's true. You have to take a professional view of the whole thing… besides, you don't want to disappoint your father. It's always an honor for you that he sends you on such important missions to get all kinds of information. Whitebeard is aware of your talent.

You are fast, cunning, clever, have an insane intuition and most importantly; you leave no trace. You are his best spy.

You've never been caught and that will be the same in Dressrosa, even with Ace by your side. You will not be distracted. Like you said, you have to stay professional.

You put one hand on your chin. You have already heard some questionable things from Dressrosa.

"Donquixote Doflamingo is a difficult person, it might not be such a bad thing that I'm not going alone…. Thanks daddy for looking after me!" You thank him with bright eyes.

With slightly reddened cheeks, the big man scratches the back of his head.

"Actually, Doflamingo is also the reason why Ace should go with you…" you and Ace look at the captain, a little puzzled.

"My lovely daughter would only be a feast for the king of Dressrosa. You and Ace will pretend to be lovers who want to spend their honeymoon on Dressrosa." He grins broadly at you as if he has the idea of the century. You try hard to control your face. Your eyebrow twitches a little, but you agree with him.

You've heard a few stories about how he treats women… You just hope you don't run into each other.

"But what will change with Ace's presence?" you don't want to disagree with him… you're just honestly thinking about it. Doflamingo is heartless and takes what he wants.

"If Doflamingo wants something, he'll take it. It doesn't matter if a woman has a ring on her finger…" You're back in thinker mode.

Whitebeard hums in agreement.

"It will reduce the possibility of you attracting attention, though. Think about it… a young beautiful woman alone in Dressrosa? That would be foolish. Besides, I'm not really sure what's going on on this damn island, but you said yourself what kind of rumors are going around." He's right. You've heard a lot about the King of Dressrosa on your missions. For example, that he has another name 'Joker' and that he is in fact the the famous underworld broker.

"I assume you understand what you have to do on Dressrosa. Ace will be a great help to you, I'm sure." The big man leans back and pours himself some sake into a cup.

"Of course father. If there's nothing else to discuss, I'd like to start preparing everything." - "Do what you have to do, my precious flower. Tell me if you need anything." He reaches out to pat you on the head and you enjoy your father's affection, with flushed cheeks.

Outside in the hallway, Ace holds your hand before you go your separate ways.

"I promise you that I won't be a burden." You look at him, a little surprised, but shake your head slightly.

"I don't even think you would, Ace…" Ace returns your smile and lets go of your hand.

"My precious flower?… Really?" He refers to the pet name Whitebeard has for you. But your grin widens…

"Envious?" You stick your tongue out at him and wave him off as you turn to leave.

"I'll come to you when I have something to discuss about the mission…" You turn to him one last time and wink at him. Ace is still standing there, unable to get the stupid grin off his face.

He's pretty excited to be going on a mission alone with you.

Masterlist

Ayayay… I can't go to sleep now but unfortunately I have to.. ;( *cries in fatigue Good night my sweeties ♡♡♡

➽ Next chapter

[noisyquokka]

Hi hi! First, I'd like to say how wonderful your writing is and how much I enjoy it. It always makes me smile :)

Second, I have a request. Could you do a GN!reader with Minho where we feel and listen to each other's heartbeats? Maybe throw in a good kiss for extra flavor? I just think it would be really cute, and being a cardiophile who ults Minho, seeing a story like that would make my day.

No rush at all of course, and thank you for your amazing writing. Keep up the great work! ❤

Midnight Symphonies

PAIRING - Minho x GN!Reader

SYNOPSIS - What more is needed than the sweet song of your Lover's heartbeat in the silence of the night.

WORDCOUNT - 1.1k

WARNINGS - Fluff, Soft Cardiophilia, a tad suggestive? (more like petting and caressing idk), a soft and domestic Minho who just needs a good night's rest

A/N - Love this request so much!! I apologize for it being so short. I was hoping to make this a little longer, but I'm not a fan of writing more in only to have it feel forced. I hope I've done your request justice, Dearie 😅

It's been roughly a half hour since he walked through the door. You heard the apartment door click shut through your haze of sleep, footsteps pad down the hall, even the subtle rustling of clothes slipping off at the foot of the bed. The water running in the shower was the last thing to ring in your ears before you dozed off again.

It's late now; just a little past midnight when Minho slips into bed. Your brows twitch as the mattress dips behind you, the sheets flipped up so he could slide in beside you. A warm hand coming to rest at your waist. You instinctively lean into his touch, hips shifting against the mattress to lose that space between you. To find his warmth.

"Can't sleep?"

The question has you stifling a yawn, rolling over so you're facing him. He smells like evergreen and lavender, the notes coming together to wash over your senses. Utter tranquility.

"No... jus' heard you come in." You mumble. 

"Sorry."

"You're fine, Babe."

Minho shifts until he's lying on his back, eyes closed as he pulls you on top of him. Your body settles into his embrace, falling into place as if you're the missing piece to his puzzle. Slender fingers run up and down the length of your spine, callouses coaxing you back into a sleepy haze as the minutes tick on. Your head falls against his chest and with that, the sure and steady thump thump of his heart hits your eardrums. It's the perfect metronome, as if his very existence were a symphony. It's more than enough to lull you back into that liminal space between conscious response and dreams. Though you're not quite ready to go back there yet.

"How was practice?" The palm of your hand travels as you pop the question, tired limbs and muscles twitching beneath soft flesh. 

"Good." He hums, lungs swelling under you only to release a great sigh. You can tell he's exhausted, if not by the short responses, by how needy he's being. Strong arms keep you pressed against his chest, lips making contact with your scalp. "Just glad to be home."

You smile at that, picking your head up to trail a few kisses of your own over the expanse of his chest, the skin dewy and warm from the shower. Minho purrs, his fingertips sweeping over the swell of your hip and you glance up to catch the beginnings of a lazy smile pulling his lips. He searches for your hand among the sheets, a short hunt that ends with your elbow propped up on his chest and lips ghosting over your wrist. Your pulse spikes at the contact. Brown eyes find yours in the dim lighting of the bedroom, half-lidded and malleable in your presence. 

"Feeling's mutual." You murmur, observing the way his fingers press into the underside of your wrist. The action alone is something so simple yet so... intimate. 

You've always found the sound of Minho's heartbeat to be hypnotic, to feel the muscle quicken under your touch. Strong and steady. Minho has never been opposed to the ritual. In fact, he'd been more curious than anything when you first brought it up. Now, you often find yourselves in bed like this— a mess of limbs and tangled sheets, few words spoken because you're both enamored by the life force that keeps both of you going. 

Minho has his own way of reciprocating. What started out as the subtle nuzzling of his head against your chest turned deliberate, always accompanied by the warmth of his hands sweeping over your flesh in search of your pulse points. His actions are always attentive and measured, even when he's trying to be subtle about it, having spent more than enough time discovering what makes your heart tick. 

Right now is no exception.

He's tracing small, soft patterns into the underside of your wrist, his fingertips dancing along the skin lightly enough to make you shiver. You let him continue his ministrations, your eyelids drooping as his hand slides up your forearm in a soothing manner. A ghost's caress.

"You trying to get me back to sleep?" You ask, your voice nothing more than a whisper. 

"Maybe I am." He mutters with a lazy smirk, a light grunt leaving his throat as he hikes your body further up the mattress. So you're draped over him. So that your chests are level with one another. That hand slips back down to your wrist, fingers dancing over the veins. Lingering on each as he explores the delicate network of veins hidden beneath the thin flesh. 

Each move is deliberate, but Minho is much too tired to tease. He's simply taking his time. Touching just to touch. But when he finally pinpoints the surge of blood running through your veins, you swear you're melting like butter on warm pancakes. 

Minho moves to adjust the position of your body, bringing you impossibly closer. Pressing you against his own frame. There's a pause. Brown eyes taking you in. An uptick in his heartbeat, you can feel it against your own. Then he's leaning in and you can't resist meeting him halfway. 

It's a slow kiss— a wave that crashes against your ribs and leaves you aching, a heat settling in your soul like the last burning embers of a fire. Minho breathes you in, feels your heart pounding against your ribs the same as his. His fingers run down the curve of your spine, sending shivers down your back as Minho shifts and pulls back. He presses another kiss to your forehead, eyes fluttering in exhaustion.

"Get some sleep, hm?" He whispers against your temple, his arms winding around you as your bodies entangle in one another.

"Alright," you murmur, snuggling up against him. Your muscles relax in his hold, loosening with every back and forth of his thumb. You let out a tiny sigh, resting your head against Minho's shoulder. 

Sleep is catching up to you, but you can't bring yourself to fall back into that liminal space right now. Not yet, anyway. You are content to simply lie here with him, skin-to-skin, feeling his heart pulse against your chest. Listening as his breathing regulates and those loving caresses slow until there's nothing but two souls tangled up in each other. 

Sleep can find you sooner or later. 

Right now, this is enough.

Psst!! If you made it this far, thank you for taking the time to read my work 💕 I appreciate you!

[myers-meadow]

Fear and wonder: Jonathan Crane x reader

Summary: A bad day shakes you and all you want is to be close to Jonathan, to hear his voice, to have him assure that you will be alright, to share a meal together.

This is a slice of life insight into life as Jonathan Crane's best friend - who he has a terrible, obsessive secret crush on. This is a part one. Part two here.

Warnings: for this chapter, just some implied obsession but nothing outragious yet :)). Fem reader.

Wordcount: 1.5k+

Dividers by @saradika-graphics. Reblogs, comments and feedback are very appreciated!

You've made a new friend somewhat recently. Even though you didn't quite realise it at the time, your life slowly shifted to accommodate him more and more. He fell into place so perfectly, like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle. The timing felt utterly right as well, and you couldn't be happier with him as your friend.

After meeting him, only two weeks after, one of your friends moved back to her home country. You'd always known this change was coming, as much as you dreaded it. Years ago, when your studies started, your friend came to the USA to study and was often homesick. You wanted her to be happy, of course, but you'd be lying if you said you wouldn't miss her terribly. For the longest time, you vainly hoped she'd find a good job and a loving partner, that she'd stay, just so you wouldn't have to miss her. Alas, no such luck, and from one day to the next, she was gone. You didn't press her for contact, with the timezone difference, and how busy she must be settling into this new stage in her life... Yet you would've hoped she kept in touch more than she did, it felt like she disappeared entirely once she was back home.

Then, in a stroke of luck you got hired for a slightly different position at the same company, which allowed for Friday afternoons off. Those Friday evenings, after you've had your time to unwind, became the nights you spend together with your new friend. A routine formed. Friday night dinners, movie nights, sleepovers, and a trip to a park, a museum, the market, anything that took your fancy.

Your new friend could be described as a workaholic, so it made you happy to share homecooked meals with him. He'd come over, and you'd cook together. It was surprising that someone understood your particular brand of picky eating and seamlessly acomodated for you in the way he did. Not only did he understand, he had similar tastes too, and it was a joy to try new recipes with him. After, you made dessert together, laughing and licking off sticky jam fingers side by side, leaning against the kitchen counter, a bottle of Merlot half full waiting to be polished off.

His name was Jonathan Crane. He worked as a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum and was passionate about his work. With you, he didn't discuss it much, but the small outbursts that sometimes came, during late night chats, showed how deeply he cared. You wondered whether he had any other friends, as he never mentioned anyone who wasn't a co-worker or a patient. Not that it mattered, because he had you.

A month went by, of comfortable dinners, museum days, and grocery shopping together. One Monday, you didn't have anything planned with him, but your boss was so difficult, and work felt so overwhelming, that all you wanted was to be at home with him. And to eat a pomegranate like a caveman experiencing fruit for the first time. Or a big piece of homemade tiramisu. The urge to see Jonathan was stronger than the sugar craving, it washed over you like a dam breaking as you sat in your car, trying to gather yourself after your boss's tirade before you felt able to drive home. Sure, Jonathan was a good friend of yours, it seeningly went unnoticed how easily he became your rock, your safe haven. Without even thinking, you rummaged in your bag for your phone.

"Hey," you greeted as you held open the door for him. He came as soon as you called.

Jonathan took in your appearance for a beat, before entering and shutting the door behind him. "Hey," he returned, then repeated himself, voice soothing. "Oh, sweetheart, what's wrong?"

You shook your head but let him pull you into his embrace, your head resting on his shoulder. You'd never been fond of being touched, especially not of hugs, but as you felt the wool of his suit jacket against your cheek, you exhaled deeply, relaxing into his touch. Finally you could breathe. He hummed softly and rubbed his cheek against your hair.

Often, he let you break the hug first. You weren't sure why he tended to let you do that, but this time was no different. When you finally moved away from him, you smiled softly.

"Thanks for coming on such short notice."

He waved it away, and settled into your space; took his shoes off, took the bag he came with to the kitchen.

"You sounded upset, so I went by the store and got you a pomegranate," he said, laying the fruit on the counter. It was a hefty thing, judging by the thud it made against the surface. How did he know to get a pomegranate, today specifically? Sure, you loved having them, but they're a rare treat. Grocery stores don't even reliably sell them.

"Jonathan, you're a godsent." Tears welled up in your eyes. He knew you so well... Perhaps he was the first person to make you feel this seen. Best thing about him was, probably due to his work as a therapist: he never told you to stop crying.

"That bad, huh?" And his arms were around you in an instant. His scent and the softness of his knitted vest grounded you. "Why don't you take a warm shower while I make us some dinner, yeah?"

When you exited the bathroom, the scent of onions and spices made your mouth water. You rubbed at your face, trying to make yourself more 'presentable' now that you washed off your make-up, and went to the kitchen.

"Feel a bit better?" asked Jonathan, his back still to you, busy draining the water of the rice, his glasses fogging up.

"I do," you smiled softly. "Thanks for making dinner."

"It's almost done, the curry needs a bit more time."

In the time it took to simmer, you readied the dinnertable. Two plates, two sets of cutlery, and glasses of water. He brought the sauce pan, the rice, and let you serve yourself first.

"So, do you wanna talk about it?" he asked as he ladled curry atop his rice.

You hummed, taking the first bit. "Ah, it's hot. Um, well..." Suddenly a shyness crept over you, always so nervous when complaining, afraid of being too negative.

"My dear, I do this for a living, and now it's after hours, so I can choose who I listen to. And I want to hear it. I want to make you feel better. So please, get it out if you need to." His practiced smile was comforting nevertheless.

"I've told you we've had interns again at work, right? Well, today one of them forgot to write down where she put an important manuscript, and," you let out a deep sigh, "my manager got wind of it, and I got blamed. She yelled so much, and so loud, that I received pity looks the rest of the afternoon, Jezus Christ."

Jonathan huffed out a breath, his hand reaching to take yours over the table. Your stress seeped away through the physical contact.

You continued. "I'm not even qualified to deal with interns, it's not me who should be doing it in the first place. They won't learn much from following me around either, if they're hired to do more than file manuscripts all day. All the academics think they're too good to waste their time herding interns, so that leaves me and Samatha from the front desk to do it - which is fine, we share the responsibility. But from the organisation itself, it's such a shame. And now, I tried doing the right thing, but ended up getting shit for it, while having no real means to relay that to the interns. I know it's not their fault, but after a day like today, I fear it will make me bitter."

"And you don't want to be bitter." Jonathan finished for you. You nod. "You're not. You're a good person. It's just a feeling, and getting it out is already a great step. Tomorrow you can face them with a more level head, and you'll know you did the right thing."

"Yeah," you nodded, squeezing his hand. "It's just frustrating, that's all. I'll live."

"Your manager shouldn't yell at you, it's highly unprofessional." 'Unprofessional', an odd word choice, but it endeared you to him more than anything.

You shrugged. "Yeah, but what can I do? Besides monitor the interns like a hawk." You chuckled softly and he smiled, glad to see you found the humour in the situation again. Then, your stomach grumbled. "Oh, we should probably finish dinner, before it gets too cold."

After dinner, plates cleared away, you set the gorgeous pomegranate in between the two of you.

"Who does the honours?" you asked, handing Jonathan the big knife. He took it with the most charming grin and your heart skipped a beat. After cutting it, he let you have the bigger half, and you picked seeds from the skin with your fingers. At the end of it, your nails were glistening red from the juiciness. 

"Did you know I really looked forward to a pomegranate?" you asked. There was no way for him to know this, other than predicting you scarily well. "I was specifically thinking about it all day. It's like you read my mind."

Jonathan smiled, casting his eyes down and pressing another seed between his lips. "Me too. I wanted to have one. Perhaps it's just a coincidence, but I'm glad we both get to satisfy a craving."