#to focus enough

[essektheylyss]

"must a story have conflict?" yes. hope this helps <3

[artkaninchenbau]

People keep on asking for more Baby Robin and Papadile so here is more Baby Robin and Papadile. Now never ask anything from me ever again

[noproveninterests]

Inktobertale Day 13: Bells

he can no longer menace local birds. or Errors.

ink belongs to @/comyet

dream belongs to @/jokublog

error belongs to @/loverofpiggies

blue belongs to Popcornpr1nce/AU Community

[stil-lindigo]

HELP PALESTINIAN ARCHITECT EVACUATE HER FAMILY FROM GAZA

This is a verified fundraiser for a family of four to evacuate to Cairo. The fund's creator, Amal Abu Shammala, reached out to me personally to share this since she's failed to get her fund on Operation Olive Branch and Let's Talk Palestine's fundraising linktree.

As of right now, she has raised €2,397/ €42,000. You can see the breakdown of what the money will be used for in the fund description.

Please give generously!

[tsuutarr]

You almost scream when something falls into your basket, certain that you'll have to deal with a large bug. 

You soon calm down when you realize that your sudden visitor isn't a bug, but a tired garden fairy. He leans against your basket, looking worn out, causing sympathy to well up inside you. You push some of the berries inside your basket his way, causing his eyes to brighten.

After that, you've had a little fairy stalker following you around everywhere. But you don't mind – he's cute and harmless, after all. He fits into all your dollhouses and gets full eating just a few berries, so there's no way he's anything dangerous. 

In fact, he helps you out a lot! He makes you tea and helps you clean despite being so tiny. And it's really cute when he sits on your shoulder or gives you little cheek kisses or little gifts! You're still wearing that necklace with an adorable acorn charm he made you.

So of course you appreciate his company. Besides, you've been feeling a little lonely as of late, what with so many of your friends getting sick lately. You're not sure how you avoided the weird stomach bug that's been going around, but you don't really question it.

Because really, why would you ever question it? It's not like you're aware that your new little fairy friend enchanted that necklace of yours to make your friends sick whenever they talk to you, nor are you aware that he's been feeding you enchanted tea to make you more fae than human, hoping to whisk you away to the fairy realm.

Because really, why would you ever doubt him?

He's so cute and harmless, after all.

[abyssal-ilk]

cannot think too hard about the fact that vivienne was young when she first originally met bastien, the head of the council of heralds, and he took an interest in her when he was likely well into his forties. cannot think about how the moment he set eyes on her during the wintersend ball she was made a target of the rest of the orlesian court. can't think about how she was forced into becoming a player of the game and that she NEEDED to become good at it and have bastien's support or she would of been killed. having a very normal one about vivienne today, clearly

[fictionadventurer]

I love libraries.

I'm browsing the WWI shelves (as you do) and notice a very old book about the war. I glance at the first pages that talk about how one day the war will be over and we'll look at this place and not see any signs of the battlefield.

Then it hits me. And I check the publishing date.

This book was printed before the war's end. Not written. Printed. The physical object was created in 1918, while the war in question was raging and the end was as yet uncertain.

Now I'm standing on the other side of the apocalypse, with this physical link to that era in my hands. I'm living proof that the war did end and life did go on and we can all look at the end of the world as a long-ago memory.

Reading old books is cool enough, connecting our minds and hearts through the ideas of people who lived long ago, but there's something extra profound about holding a copy of the book that comes from the time that it was written. It's a physical link between the past and the present connecting me to those long-ago people. A piece of the past come into the future that gives me the chance to almost take the hand of some long-ago reader, to hold something they could have held, connecting not just mentally but physically to their era, a moment of connection across more than a century.

Excuse me while I go weep.

[zarnzarn]

Athena shoots upright as soon as her eyes fly open, gasping. She calls on her spear and slashes in a brutal curve, provoking shouts from the enemies who'd been holding her down as they back off. Bares her teeth in a snarl as she grabs the sheets off the bed to whip at the eyes of the assailants and-

Light floods into her eyes as they step away from her attack and she freezes as she remembers a flash of brightness too fast to escape, heat and burning like never before, electricity that seeped into her very bones, thunder that deafened, lightning that hurt-

"Get back!" She hears and turns unsteadily back to- back to where Apollo is pulling Ares back by the cape against the far wall. Apollo. Ares. Aphrodite, Aephestus, Artemis.

"Wh-" She manages, before she's bowled over, coughing. She has never done it before, and she can't stop it from happening- chest rattling as her knees give out, barely holding herself up with her spear in time to reach the bed. It doesn't stop, doesn't stop, plumes of smoke escaping her mouth as she can't stop, can't breathe-

"Athena," Hera whispers, and a rough hand gently touches her on the shoulder, handing her a glass of nectar. She accepts it gratefully, tilting her head back to down it. It's soothing like it's never been before, stoping the coughing at last and it clears her headache long enough to realize that she isn't in her armour- she's in a chiton.

"Where is my armour?" She rasps as soon as she can, wiping her mouth. Looks around- Apollo's chambers.

She'd always known being the favourite wouldn't protect her forever. But repeating the words didn't seem to reduce the hurt.

Nor the shaking fear.

"-not!" Apollo is saying, indignantly setting his hands on his hips. "Do you have any idea how hard you got hit? You're lucky I could even stabilize your aspect enough to reduce some of the damage, otherwise you'd still be having a seizure back at Mount Olympus!"

"Mount Olympus," Athena mutters oddly, without much intent to it. She tries to stand again and her vision suddenly cuts out, provoking a round of screams as she loses her balance.

When the world blurrily comes back into focus- and she doesn't like this, hates this sudden weakness; she's always been able to get back up from any blow, has never visited a medical chamber in her existence, even when they had to fight the Titans- she's in Ares' arms, oddly horizontal.

"Cease this stupidity, sister," Artemis hisses at her as she grabs onto Athena's arms to bring her back to the bed. "Calm yourself. You are alive. You are safe."

"My armour," Athena says, voice cracking, head rolling oddly on her neck, unable to look upright. She catches a glimpse of Aephastus holding onto a sobbing Aphrodite, staring at her with a strange sort of sorrow.

Something twinges in Athena's chest in reply, but she stumbles before she can address it, feeling a fission of panic at the instability before Ares' grip on her tightens enough to keep her upright. They're all staring at her like that, she realizes, with that same horrified heartbreak.

"Didn't Artemis just tell you to cease stupidity?" Ares barks, though it's rather quietly said, for him. He adjusts her on the bed until she can lean back against the pillows. His hands are shaking, and Athena stares at them with curiosity. "Weren't you the one to lecture me half to death about when to remove the armour?"

"What," She says weakly, then moans as an aftershock trembles through her, residual sparks humming maliciously as they exit her skin, leaving her trembling. "I- hmmm, what? What were- what were-"

"Athena, calm down, please, you're scaring us," Hera says, bangles jangling as she sits down next to her, taking one of Athena's hands with desperation. Athena tilts her head to squint, noticing the tears for the first time, before she shudders as her skin registers the heat, the unbearable heat.

"Scaring?" She murmurs when it stops, voice coming out smaller than she intended it to.

"Her fever keeps rising and falling," Apollo reenters the room before anyone can answer, carrying a large tub of some odd liquid. "Here, help me rub this on her skin, it should extract any remaining- any remaining lightning."

They all move towards the tub at the same time, dipping the cloths provided and then taking positions in a circle surrounding her. Athena stiffens, fingers twitching for a weapon, but the first touch of Hera's drenched cloth on her forehead makes her moan in relief, the blessed coolness of it making her melt back into the sheets. She has no strength to complain or protest when her fellow gods each take a limb to rub at, a sensation both horrifically terrible and unbearably good. She has never taken her armour off in her life.

"Easy, that's it," Apollo says coaxingly, lips downturned like he's trying not to cry. She whimpers as the cloth on her left leg suddenly burns as a spark escapes, instinctively pulling it away, but Aphrodite grabs it before she can and resumes rubbing, whispering apologies. She turns her head and weakly opens her mouth for the herb Apollo lifts to her lips, desperate for relief from the splitting headache.

She can't think. She can't think.

Athena has no idea how long it goes on, how long the other gods ignore their realms to tend to her. Slowly, they strike up a conversation, something light-hearted that she can't follow- different from their never-ending arguments and insults, as they talk about the past year and humourous stories and varied anecdotes.

Athena can't help but relax into it, the soft bed at her back and gentle hands massaging her sore muscles and warmth all around her. Feels something trembling within her since she first became aware of herself settling down with a sigh.

Until she suddenly smells ozone.

Hera and Apollo both notice her tensing up immediately, and look to where she can hear slow footsteps approaching. Apollo growls and shoots out a hand, bringing up the shields of his realm.

The conversation dies down as they all look to the side, at the distinct shadow at the other side of the curtain.

Rage, Athena realises, thoughts slow and muddied. They're angry with him.

"I will handle this," Hera says coldly, with the steel undertone that Athena strives for. She moves her cloth aside and leans down to kiss Athena on the forehead, like a mother would. "You rest, my daughter."

Athena's breath hitches, eyes burning. Nobody has ever cared for her, apart from Zeu-

Nobody has ever cared for her.

... Nobody has-

Hera turns sharply at the noise that suddenly escapes Athena, half hysterical laugh and half distraught wail.

"Did I win?" Athena asks desperately, pushing herself upright, ignoring the protests of the others as she pulls her limbs from their grasp. Hera stares at her and Athena grabs the side of the bed as she tries to lever herself up like a wild animal, demanding in a broken voice, "Did I win?"

A silence that stretches for a painful moment before- "Yes," Aephastus says, putting his hand on her shoulder to guide her back from the edge. "Yes, Athena, you won."

A strangled gasp of relief leaves her, making her light-headed as she leans back against the pillows. She shivers, then sobs- humiliation running through her before she hears an answering noise of sorrow from Aphrodite next to her, pressure all around as her five younger siblings embrace her carefully, gently, like she would break at any moment.

She's not the one who's been raped by a Titan's daughter for seven years.

The thought has her breath hitching, wiping her tears away with a hand that refuses to co-operate the first few tries. "I need to-"

"No," Artemis snaps, glaring at her. "I know you think of nothing but your work, but Athena, you cannot do it this time." Outside, Hera's and Zeus' voices rise as they begin to shout and scream. "You must rest."

"N-no, that's not- aah," She groans as another aftershock rips through her, leaving her panting and soaked in sweat when it's done. "I need to- I need-"

"Hermes has gone to his grandson," Aephastus says soothingly. "Peace, Athena. Your hero is free."

For a moment, it doesn't comprehend and she stares at him blankly. "Free," She repeats, words still infuriatingly faint and lilting. "He's free? I- I need my helmet, where is-"

"No, Athena!"

"Sister, please, you cannot resume your duties, you are in no state!"

"I need my helmet, please, please- just give me my helmet!"

Her cry echoes off the walls and she hears herself when it bounces back to her, broken and pleading and so unlike her she feels nauseous. Her siblings have gone silent and still at her begging, staring at her with shock and horror and fear and sorrow alike. Even Zeus and Hera have stopped talking.

Athena shakes, wishing she could rip this awful vulnerability out of her veins, wishes she could find a stone footing to stand on once more, wishes she wasn't in this horrible chiton.

"Please," She whispers.

Quietly, Aephastus gets to his feet and walks in the direction of the nearby drawers, where she can now see her belongings stacked up haphazardly, blood-stained.

"Sister, you must calm down," Aphrodite pleads. She takes her hands and Athena dazedly looks down at her, with her wide, scared eyes. Seizure, her mind registers finally from Apollo's earlier talk. Ah. She seems to have frightened them all. "You cannot afford a relapse."

Athena squeezes her fingers in acknowledgement, but reaches for the helmet when it's held out, dented and worn.

She touches the metal and feels the full force of seven years of silenced prayers hit her at once.

She's crying before she knows she's doing it, clutching the helmet to her chest as the warmth of the worship wraps around her like a shawl, and holds it tight against her as Ares tries to pry it away.

"No, no!" Apollo intervenes, shifting forward. He touches a hand to the helmet and suddenly the hymn bursts forth around them, loud even though the prayer itself is quiet and broken. Athena inhales at the feeling of it, soothing over the cracks in her own mind with their never-ending continuity, desolate, unbroken faith even when she never came to help-

He's still singing.

She shifts her hands on the helmet to make sure but- yes. Odysseus is calling her, still, at this very moment.

Her head snaps up, but even the dizziness the motion causes doesn't take away from how much clearer the room looks. "Where is he?"

"Sister-"

"If you do not answer me, I will take to the skies myself," She says firmly. "Where is he?"

Her siblings exchange looks.

"Three days out from Ithaka," Artemis replies with a sigh. "On a raft. But listen, wait but an hour, at least absorb these prayers-"

Athena stumbles off the bed and pulls on the helmet, closing her eyes.

"Wait, the bandages-!"

"Athena, you'll hurt yourself, please!"

"Daughter, be careful!"

Athena opens her eyes and looks out at the waves, rough and choppy, but not enough to sink the raft. She looks down and looks at the way the faded clothes don't fit him, the way he has no water left to drink but he still continues to sing.

"Odysseus," She says, and he freezes.

A wave rises and falls. They stay silent, unmoving.

"Won't you look?" The words break out of her, cracked and desperate.

He inhales and exhales, tears in the sound of it. "I don't want to look if you're... if you're not really here."

She swallows against the lump in her throat, takes a step forward. "Well, I-" Her voice cracks, but the fragile grin on her face is real as it spreads, the frailest thread of laughter entering her voice. "I would hope. That if you were hallucinating of me, that the spectre would at least have wisdom enough to tell you that you were."

Odysseus sobs and her heart cracks, feels his heart cracking in turn; yet it is akin to a misaligned bone that never healed right and has to be reset- she can hear the laughter before it comes, with relief coming from the brink of madness, with joy they'd both forgotten and missed. "It is you."

"I could not reach you on Ogygia," She blurts out, desperate to make him understand. "Could not hear your call. I would have come the second time you prayed, if I had."

"It is you," He whispers, swaying. A wave rises suddenly and they both burst into movement, grabbing ropes and pulling the mast, balancing together to keep it steady.

The wave passes. They are almost touching now.

"Won't you look?" Athena asks again, raw and grieving. "Odysseus. My companion, my friend. Please."

He turns at that, a stunned expression on his face- before it turns into wide-eyed horror as he looks at her. She laughs breathlessly, slightly dizzy, but- her friend. How lovely it is to see him again.

"Athena!" He rushes forward with unexpected vitality, the parts of him that she knew suddenly rising to light in his eyes, in his movements, becoming unhidden from the defeated, beaten figure he'd been moments before. "What in Gaia's name-"

"I'm sorry," She interrupts as she slumps forward into the hands on her arms, off-balance. "I should have tried better to understand, all those years ago. I understand now and I- Odysseus, I am-"

"Athena, shut up," Odysseus snaps, clearly panicking. She laughs again, because isn't it such a novelty, to have a person who will have the audacity to tell her to? "Of course it's forgiven, I'm sorry too, I should have fucking listened back then- but listen, what in Hades happened to you? Why do you look like this- why do you have bandages- Hermes wouldn't answer when I asked if something happened to you, fuck-"

"Peace," Athena rasps, even as her vision blinks in and out, forcing her to kneel. They both grimace as another wave crashes into the raft, but they don't upturn. Odysseus kneels down with her, staring at her with such worry and concern she can feel nothing but fondness. "The disagreements of gods are often violent."

"Gods-" His eyes flicker to the side of her face, and he frowns, reaching out to push back the helmet. She bends her face down to let him, feeling an odd burning on the left side that she has a vague bad feeling about- proved right when Odysseus' expression falls into blank horror. "You got into a fight with-"

"Yes."

"But he's your-"

"I know. He did not take kindly to my petition to release you," She smiles dryly, without mirth.

"To release me?" Odysseus wheezes, face cracking into anguish and disbelief alike. "Athena, what- I- I'm not worth-"

"It was worth it," She snaps. "Consider it my penance for abandoning my own. I certainly don't regret it."

"I never felt abandoned," Odysseus whispers, taking her hands as she shifts, supporting her body with his own as they lean against the mast. She looks at him, and remembers why Penelope is still weaving, why he's still out on the waters, why Ithaka is waiting out the suitors till Telemachus takes the throne. "I always knew you would come back. I just figured it would take ten years more, perhaps."

Athena is silent for a bit, absorbing that. And then, because she can't hold it back any longer- "I am sorry about your men." His breath hitches under her and she turns to take him in her arms, knowing what's coming. "I am sorry about your friends."

He sobs, ugly and loud, and she holds him tighter. "I am sorry that Titan's whelp had you for so long, and what she did to you. I am sorry the Fates were so unkind."

"Athena," He keens, finally falling to pieces. The sobs are mere loud gasps for air at first, before it dissolves into wailing, screaming, grieving for all the men they'd kept alive through a war, only to lose them to this cruel tragedy instead. Even she hadn't known- hadn't anticipated how wrong things would go after she left. Hadn't even thought that he hadn't reached home.

"It's all my fucking fault," He shouts, shaking. "If only I had- if only-"

"It is not. No one could have known," She whispers. "The Fates are unknown to us all."

He sobs louder and she closes her eyes.

But finally, their tears dry up. She holds him still, as the night fades and the sun rises again, trying to take his hurt into herself so he can be happy again.

"I am sorry," She whispers, seaspray around them. "That my enemies became your own. That I pushed you so hard. That I chose you, and brought pain to your life so."

"Hey now," Odysseus says, pulling back to look at her, a broken smile on his face. "Hold your blasphemous tongue, before you insult the wisdom of Pallas Athena." She laughs, even as tears spill over. "Even if I had the chance to choose again right at this moment, my goddess, I would still choose you."

"That means more than you know," Athena murmurs, overcome. She gathers all her strength and reaches out to run a hand over his head, soothing his mind and driving away the last tendrils of madness that were still holding onto him. He sighs and relaxes under her, some visible weight lifting from his shoulders. "Still. I will learn from my mistakes. If you would give your old friend a chance-"

"Stop right there. Of course I-" Odysseus scoffs, reaching out to hold her left cheek for emphasis. "Athena, your left eye is half gone."

"Ah. Well, that explains the depth perception," She mutters, then bursts into giggles at the incredulous look on his face.

"Are you drugged?" Odysseus demands, but he's already trying not to laugh himself. They both move on fast. "What am I saying, of course you are- have you been drugged this whole time? Who on Earth drugged you?"

"That would be me," Apollo says, crossing his arms.

Odysseus snarls, grabbing his sword and swinging wildly in an arc, half-animal in his panic, pushing Athena behind him.

"FUCKING- whoa, hey, calm down, it's her brother, it's Apollo!" Apollo half-shrieks inelegantly, jumping back. "Honestly! Athena, call off your hero, please."

"Apollo?" Odysseus tilts his head, lowering his sword and narrowing his eyes.

Apollo stares at him. "Wow, you two- really do act the exact same, huh. Yes, Apollo, god of please let me change your fucking bandages, do you mind?"

Odysseus bows and murmurs apologies, clearly wary of getting into more trouble, but to her mild surprise walks behind Athena instead of to the other side of the raft.

"I don't need assistance," She mutters to him, even as she grimaces at the length of the chiton as she tries to pull herself upright.

"You're still dizzy," Odysseus points out, settling in behind her to hold her steady. He wipes at the tears still on his face and smiles at her. She manages a half-smile back. "Do you need to go back to Olympus?"

"Yes," Artemis crosses her hands and Odysseus' fingers tighten painfully on her shoulders.

"I'm not quite certain there's space for so many on this raft," Athena mutters.

"It's a magical raft, it'll survive- but never mind that, could you not have at least sent a message that you were okay?"

"Well, maybe you should have thought of that before running off without a word!"

"Really, daughter, you should know better!"

Odysseus grip is bruising now, and his sword is in front of Athena protectively; she can already tell what moves he's planning to use if they choose to attack. "Who..?" He asks lowly.

"Pantheon. At ease," She replies back shortly, before looking up at the others. "I thank you, my fellow go- my family, for your worry and concern. But we are only two days out from Ithaka and I would like to see this journey completed."

"You are not going to see yourself completed, if you don't rest," Apollo says, roughly at the exact same time that Athena undermines her own argument by throwing up on the raft.

"Athena, go," Odysseus says urgently when it's over, handing her helmet back to her and adjusting her cape as Hera kneels down beside her to hand her another glass of nectar, looking at him oddly. Odysseus grimaces and changes his tone. "I will be fine, patroness. I'll call for you when I reach the shores."

Movement catches her eye and she sees Ares remove his own helmet, giving her a reproving look. She remembers the speech he was talking about now- the one she'd loudly ranted at him when she was drunk a year ago, thinks about how much more at ease he is now.

"Alright," She acquiesces and everyone breathes a sigh of relief. "Two days."

Mania fills Odysseus' eyes as he smiles back, finally home from a war twenty years ago. "Two days."

Athena grins, even as she feels Hera wrap an arm around her to take her away. "Penelope is waiting."

Odysseus' eyes widen, then fill with tears, like he'd never quite truly let himself believe it; but his smile is wide and true. "Penelope is waiting. Thank you, Pallas Athena."

"You don't thank friends," She murmurs, exhaustion settling in. Odysseus laughs and the last thing she feels is a warm hand on her cheek and their foreheads pressed together, before the world goes black and she knows no more.

[rednite-dork]

The awkward morning after 🥴

a continuation to this piece 🫠

[just-null]

Do you ever do requests? If so, do you ever plan on drawing some Yandere with the Hantengu clones? :D hope you have a good day/night!!!

Mentioning an unfamiliar name

yes!! I love yanderes.. and these guys.. these guys are such good material...... nods nods..

I'm not sure about requests..I assume you mean drawing requests? I suppose if it REALLY catches my interest enough, I'd do it, but it'd probably just be line art/sketches.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

this dang helmet gonna be the death of me

[5hehzada]

[sky-is-the-limit]

How the fuck is this all we get from Gaz?! The main character in the background, you cowards.

[ganondoodle]

another wip for the totk rewritten project (botw2 edition)

trying to find a balance between modern gerudo, ancient gerudo (bc they should be different at least in style) and a more practical approach for the desert

(legend of zelda)

[macksartblock]

they just keep kissing huh

[s4lv4tions]

labour of love; nsfw

pairing; nanami kento x reader summary; something is on your husband's mind — nothing that can't be solved with a morning in bed, you're sure. wc; 4.6k cw; smut, largely vanilla, nanami kento is a loving husband etc

You’ve long since grown used to the press of knees against the mattress rousing you from your sleep. The gentle dip of the bed, the steady — if not stilted — breathing, the sudden waft of his cologne as he tries to settle himself beside you without waking you. It doesn’t work most nights, but Kento still tries.

He smells like the cleanliness of shower gel and the spicy goodness of his favourite fragrance, all nutmeg and saffron and warmth. It’s enough to have you rolling over to face him, half-lidded and half-asleep, hooking your leg over his waist and burying your nose into his neck. There’s a rough puff of air as he realises he’s failed to be stealthy — not for the first time, either. But he pulls you closer anyways, hands smoothing up your back as if to memorise the curve of your spine, or to cajole you back to dreamland.

If there was a way to become one with him you would’ve figured it out by now. Some days, in this bed, it feels like you’re close enough to discovery. Perhaps if you press every possible inch of yourself against him, share the same air, let your minds float away to the same place, it'll happen. Alas, you wake as two separate people, forced to peel yourselves apart when the sun rises and he's off to work. It’s always accompanied by disappointment, but for now you revel in the feeling of his firmness beneath you, and the beat of his pulse in your ears.

“Sorry for waking you up.”

He always says it, and you never mind, but you reply anyway. “It’s okay. I like seeing you.”

Kento’s arms tighten around you, and he says nothing back. The shaky breath muffled against your hair is enough to tell you how his day went, but you won’t ask him about it. Not yet, not when it’s still fresh in his mind. It’s enough of a blessing that he was able to return home at all tonight, instead of sleeping at his desk with only his jacket to fend off the cold. Still, even a good night’s sleep won’t solve everything. You can deal with it tomorrow.

“Did you eat?” You mumble, trying to ignore the seductive hands of sleep pulling at your brain. “I left… hamburger steak. In the fridge.”

“Mm.” His lips brush your hair, and you feel yourself slipping away, further and further into dreamland. “Don’t worry, darling. Just sleep.”

“O…kay… Sweet dreams… Kento…”

You always sleep best when you’re with Kento. You know this because, without fail, you end up drooling all over him like a dog. It's something that never happens when you’re bundled up alone, but it’s as if every muscle in your body relaxes something fierce when you’re with him. It’s embarrassing, and gross, but somehow he never minds. Just chuckles and watches you fuss over wiping it all away, teasing you about how deep you must’ve been sleeping. This morning is no different.

You’d woken with the sun. The curtains you’d forgotten to close shed honeyed sunlight across every fold of your blankets, every inch of skin, every tiny piece of dust floating in the still of the air. Hair tousled and mouth dry, you were so warm it almost made you fall right back asleep. Any part of you not covered in a blanket was wrapped, in some way, in Kento’s arms. The perfect morning. No longing looks as he rose to go to work; no cold side of the bed if he’d stayed in the office. Just perfection and warmth and… a drool stain on his arm.

Whether your cheeks are now warmed by the sun or a persisting feeling of embarrassment, you cannot say, but his hands are even warmer where they cup your face. You attempt to ignore him, scrubbing at his skin. “I need to tape my mouth shut.”

His thumb begins to smooth back and forth. If you were a cat you’d be purring. “Dramatic.”

A glare that’s far too soft. You push away the corner of the duvet you’d haphazardly chosen as your rag, cursing yourself for your weakness as you abandon your task and instead lean into him. “Oh, and I suppose you enjoy waking up every morning with a sticky bicep, Kento?”

“Mm.” The way he urges you towards him is not lost on you; it’s not until your noses brush and your lips part that he says: “I love it.”

“You’re gross.” Your smile betrays you, but you can’t help yourself. You let your graze trail over the handsome planes of his face; from his strong, pointed nose to his chiselled cheekbones, his thin, expressive eyes and tousled morning hair.

“Mhm. And you married me regardless.”

"Hm. I guess I did."

It's like two giggling children sharing the silliest inside joke. Your laughter is soft and breathless, still muddled with sleep, and it's natural the way that you fall into each other so easily. Your head falls back against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat in your ear; your legs intertwine, and your arms hook under his. Close enough to the point where you don’t know where one of you ends and the other starts. If only every day could start like this one, but you're the sort of person who cherishes rarity. And oh, how rare it is to wake up with him — speaking of which…

"You don't have work today?" You ask, trying (and failing) to keep the hope out of your voice.

"No." There's a little pause, before: "I finished up my latest project, so I took the day off."

You haven't forgotten the pledge you made to yourself yesterday: the promise to ease whatever may ail him, or at least to get to the bottom of it. “Woah. You passed up a chance to make money?”

“I suppose I did.”

"Hm, I don’t mind. I like having you to myself." Breakfast, that goes without saying. Maybe he'd prefer to go out for it, or maybe you could cuddle until brunch. Maybe he'd like to take the rare opportunity to stay in all day — and if you're in all day, you may as well do a little more than cuddle...

“You’ll have to share me with the laundry.”

“Mm.” As if drawn there, bolstered by the knowledge that you essentially have all the time in the world, your lips meet the side of his neck. You feel him swallow as you do, but Kento’s nothing if not poised; even as you dare to scrape your teeth along his skin, there’s no other reaction that’s quite so visceral. “I’m a jealous woman, you know.”

“I know.”

Those hands that had cupped your face start to trail down your back — warm and slightly calloused, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Brushing over the elasticated waistband of your panties, lingering just enough to be suggestive, but no more. You pretend that even the slightest whisper of his touch doesn’t make your stomach twist pleasantly, but you suppose you’re long past coyness, considering you are husband and wife. “And you married me, so you know I can’t share you.”

“Even with the laundry?”

“Oh, especially with the laundry.” You finally lift yourself from nipping at his pulse point, flushed and arching into his hands, and stare at him straight on. His gaze is half-lidded, but his eyes — oh, his eyes. So clear and sharp and fixed on you like he wants to print your image onto his eyelids. And his body is so firm beneath you, broad and muscular (you’ve never questioned how a salaryman who has no time to go to the gym is so incredibly fit, but you aren’t about to start now) — even on top of him you feel almost dwarfed. “But, speaking of laundry — we should probably get our money’s worth from the washing machine, then, shouldn’t we?”

An eyebrow quirks. “Oh?”

“Mhm. If we’re gonna wash the sheets, they may as well be as dirty as they can possibly be. Filthy, even.” No use in playing innocent. It’ll be killing two birds with one stone — multiple birds with one stone, even. You can treat your hardworking Kento to an orgasm or two, comfort him after what was no doubt a long, hard day — all the while you enjoy yourself in his arms, and save time and money with the laundry. Perfect.

You’re practically kneading his biceps at this point. The manicure he pays for bi-weekly digs in just slightly, leaving half-moon dents in his otherwise perfect skin. You don't worry about it too much; if there’s one thing you know about Kento it’s that he treasures those little marks above all else.

“How do you propose we do that?” He says, face purposefully blank.

Groaning, you give his arm a light slap. “C’mon, don’t make me say it, Ken.”

“I was joking, darling.” With a smile that sends your tummy flipping, he threads one hand in your hair, large palm flat against your skull, and urges you closer to him. The other settles itself against your jaw, keeping your head firmly in his hands, and it’s with very little shame that you melt into him. It’s hard not to — and besides, why starve yourself of something you’ve waited so long for? “I’m not that cruel.”

A liar he is not; with little fanfare, his lips meet yours, and it’s like every time before and every time after. His lips are smooth, his nose slanted to press against yours, and every movement is deep. His tongue licks into your mouth, lips moving against yours in such a way that you can’t help but moan. It's interesting to experience first-hand how much your relationship with Kento has changed over the years. When you first met him, he baulked at even the mere idea of tongue — this Kento, though, is some measure of depraved, and takes great pleasure in the way you squirm underneath him when his tongue runs over yours.

It’s the type of kiss that, inevitably, makes you want more. You’ve long since parted your legs to hug either side of his hips, and you whine at the press of his growing bulge against your panty-covered clit. It’s that dull sort of pleasure — not enough, never enough, and you’ll curl and arch and flex yourself until it feels like it might be, grinding down on the shape of him. At some point his hands move from your head to your waist — or are they at your back, your ass, your hips? You’re not keeping track. You only know that they sear the skin that they touch and set your nerves aflame, and that’s all that matters.

You’ve just broken apart to catch your breath, prepared to peel off your panties and have your way with him — but in the blink of an eye you’re weightless, and the world twists and warps and you’re under him, suddenly, with the wind knocked out of you. “Kento!”

“Sorry, love.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. In fact, the words are barely out of his mouth before he descends on you again, this time laying the entirety of his body against you. It’s all you can do to desperately follow the movement of his lips, the rocking his hips — and you’re clutching at his arms all the while, mind dizzied and chest heaving. You’re liable to let him have his way with you just like this, with your legs around his waist and your ankles pressing against his ass, but—

“Wait, I—” Panting, your grip on his biceps tightens, and you frown up at him— “I wanted to be on top, y’know. I wanted to give you a break.”

His laugh is gentle, breathy. In the haze of the morning every sharp edge of him is cotton-soft, his hair this honey sort of blonde wherever the light hits it — mind twisting juxtaposition to the red-hot pleasure broiling in the pit of your tummy. “It’s a husband's duty to worship his wife, is it not?”

“I—” His head dips to the crook of your neck, lips ghosting over your skin in such a way that you shiver in his grasp. It’s sweet and indulgent and him, all him; his weight atop you, his hands on you, his scent around you. “I… Oh, You’re playing dirty, Kento.”

His answer is a hum that reverberates all throughout you. “Am I?”

You’re not expected to answer, and you doubt you have enough control over your muscles to do so, because just as you open your mouth, his fingers slip underneath your panties and slip over the hot, slick skin of your pussy. He’s always purposeful with you, and this time is no different — he does not fumble and flounder, unsure of where to put his hands. He has learned you well enough to know what brings you pleasure, and oh, does he want to bring you pleasure. He makes a glutton of you; gives you far too much, buys into your every whim. He can’t help himself.

You’re wet enough that he can slip a finger in with little difficulty — embarrassingly little difficulty, and you squeak as he slides it all in at one go. His fingers are thick, that goes without saying, but what makes Kento especially dangerous is his skill. He’s too attentive — watches everything, notes every shiver, the pitch of your voice when you whimper his name. He knows just what he needs to do to make you lose your mind — at that, as if he’s read your mind, another finger joins the first, jutting upwards to grind against that spongy spot that makes your legs jerk.

“O—oh,” you breathe, “That’s — okay, that’s good.”

“Is it?” Kento sounds far too amused for your liking, but you’re hardly in a position to scold him, not with your legs spread and your hips rolling up into his hand. “You're like wet velvet.”

“Don’t say things like that!” You whine, slapping a hand over your face. Your cheeks are red-hot, and it only adds to the overwhelming overstimulation — the sheets and Kento against your skin, the coolness of the pillows beneath your neck, the sounds that leave nothing to the imagination.

Sometimes you can’t believe your luck. Almost every partner before him was his complete and utter opposite, caring little for your pleasure and simply using you as a means to an end, but — with Kento, it’s so different. He centres you in everything. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, especially when he wants only for you to lay there and do nothing. It’s hard not to feel a bit lazy, like you have to offer something in return — he says you’ve already given him everything he wants, and it’s enough to make you scream. You suppose you have little to complain about, though, considering you’re regularly being fucked through the mattress.

When you gain enough lucidity to unscrew your eyes, he’s already watching you — like you knew he would be. Somewhere along the way Kento had migrated from on top of you to beside you; he propped himself above you on one elbow, cradling your head. If you were to only glance at him, you’d think him wholly unaffected by your whining, squirming self — but you allow yourself a stare, and are pleased to find the tips of his ears pink and flushed.

“I wanted to take my time,” says Kento, as if reading your mind. “But I’m too impatient when it comes to you.”

“I don’t mind,” you say — breathe — adding: “We have the whole day. You can fuck me slow later.”

It’s as if he was waiting for you to say it. Almost as soon as the words leave your mouth he’s pushing himself up, gently slipping his fingers out of you. You mourn their loss, but you know you won’t be untended for long. Sure enough, he pulls off the sweatpants and briefs that hang low at his hips, and settles himself between your legs once more. His cock is hot and heavy against you, pressed right between your lips, and you shiver as it’s nudged right against your swollen clit — but nothing more. Not yet.

Kento has endless patience — or so it may seem. His impatience, though rare, manifests itself only in his accidental roughness — as if he doesn't know his own strength. Your legs parted with strong hands, your body tugged further down the bed before you can even register the movement... Still, despite such impatience, he takes the time to rest the tips of his fingers against the shiny plushness of your bottom lip. He watches with sharpened eyes as your mouth opens and accepts them in, your tongue all too eager to lave over them, licking over the tanginess of your own juices. His voice is laboured — almost hoarse — when he breathes: “You’re vulgar.”

With a pop, his fingers are removed, glossy and wet and slimy. He wipes them on the blanket as you huff: “You put them there.”

His large hands grasp the back of your knees and push your legs up, until they hook high up on his waist and around him. “Because I knew you were vulgar enough to take them in your mouth.”

“Touché. But—”

Kento’s lips silence any half-baked argument that was about to leave you — this kiss is gentle, almost innocent. Somehow it’s enough to make your cheeks heat up more than any other racy gesture he’s shown you thus far. It’s made even worse when he reaches across your chest to intertwine your fingers — both hands housing a wedding ring.

(And it’s not surprising how romantic he is. Perhaps when you first started dating you were convinced that his blunt mannerisms and professionalism would extend to every facet of his life — and in many ways, it does. He’s the perfect gentleman in public, hands never straying too low, words rarely crossing the boundaries of polite-speak. But here, in your marriage bed, with more than a measly three hours of sleep and the sun casting shadows across your bodies, Kento is softened. Whatever exists outside your room that scares him so much no longer has any place in his mind.)

“I’m going to make love to you now,” he says. It’s just above a whisper, heated and heady against your lips. The gravel in his voice that had attracted you from the moment he’d opened his mouth is enough to make your knees turn to jelly — lucky, then, that they’re kept compacted by the barrel of his torso. “Is that okay?”

Your brain short circuits. Any smart comment or cheeky quip you could respond with is lost, and you’re left staring up at him, wide-eyed and willing. “Yes, please.”

His lips twitch upwards, the ghost of a smile, but he doesn’t attempt to tease — simply connects your lips again, and guides himself to your entrance with that free hand of his. The blunt head of his cock is silky smooth and slippery with your arousal, and barely catches on you before it presses in — the stretch dull and only slightly uncomfortable, but entirely familiar. It’s like stepping into a warm shower after a cold day — not just sexual, not just to scratch an itch or a means to an end — it’s this. Feeling the heat of him inside you; the way his breath catches in his throat as you squeeze around him. Knowing that you’re the only person in the world who has the privilege of having him like this.

It’s with a breathless sigh that he bottoms out inside you, hips flush against yours. On either side of your head, his arms bulge with the weight of his own body, muscles hardened and tensed — and as his hips begin to move, that neatly trimmed patch of hair around his cock grinding against his clit, you can’t help but reach out, anchoring yourself to them. There’s little else you can do except lay there and take it, shuddering all the while, mouth agape in wonder.

“Is this — okay?” Kento asks. His voice is strained, and you try to hide the smug smile it elicits in the bulk of his arm — there’s no point. He’s far too focused on staring at where he splits you open, anyways, watching how your lips split around him, crested by the sweet little pearl of your clit. And he calls you vulgar.

“Mhm. You can — you can go faster, if you want.”

A laugh. “If I want, hm?”

“Please, Kento,” you whine, humping up towards him. It’s embarrassing how much he makes you want him. It should be, at least, though you find you’ve gotten a little shameless as of late — shameless enough to press your feet hard against his ass, pulling him in deeper. “Don’t make me wait.”

Never let anyone proclaim he doesn’t treat you right, because at your request, he does just that. His pace quickens, pulling out to the tip and slamming all the way back in — the rhythm straightens out quickly, and that’ll be your downfall. If it isn’t enough that his hips grind down against your clit with every thrust, Kento (predictably) knows how to use his cock. The mushroom shaped head bullies against your g-spot in that dizzying rhythm — back, forth, back, forth, building you up until you’re gasping for air.

You wonder if it’s like this for everyone. You wonder if everyone in the world is lucky enough to find someone who fits them this perfectly, who listens to them this intently, who isn’t afraid to show such unerring devotion. You wonder if you will ever feel safer, more loved, than you do when you’re in his arms — if you will ever feel such deep, persistent pleasure at the hands of another. Then again, what good does wondering do? When you have all you need at your disposal, there’s little need for wondering. When you’re taken care of so thoroughly, there’s little need for anything else. And God, are you being taken care of.

“Oh — fuck, Ken, I’m—” Words escape you. All that matters is that building heat, the involuntary trembles of your walls around him, the electricity zipping from neuron to neuron; his eyes on you, the furrow of his brow, the comforting weight of him pressing you down. It’s all so much. You could lose your mind. You are losing your mind. “I’m—”

You can’t even finish the sentence. All you know is that your toes curl and your back arches and you squeeze his arms a little too hard but you can’t control it, you can’t control anything, not the way you’re squeezing him in a vice grip, not the way you’re dripping down around his cock, wet and sticky and messy—

“That’s it,” Kento urges, voice ragged as he fucks you through it. Through hazy eyes you see him — strands of hair hanging low over his face, his skin dewy with sweat. Ruined. “Good, that’s it. There you go — damn it—”

When he cums, he very nearly collapses on you, breathing heavily and sweat dripping from his brow. He presses himself to the hilt — of course he does, he can’t help himself — panting lowly as he thrusts with every wave of his orgasm. You can feel him against your cervix, that once-strange sensation of being filled.

In the midst of his pleasure, and fortified by his fatigue, his movements begin to slow. It’s that inevitable syrupy slowness that comes after an orgasm, where desperation is eventually traded for an easy languidness. His head bows to place a sloppy, messy kiss on your mouth, one he’d normally eschew, and you accept it with all the eagerness of a woman in love. One, two, three — another one to your cheek, then, and then to your brow.

That frantic, charged energy finally slips away. Kento holds you tightly to him — he always does, when all is said and done — but something about the way he’s hunched over you makes your stomach twist. You don’t know what is — some sixth sense, perhaps, that blooms into a sense of dread in your chest. The supernatural powers of a wife to know when there’s something wrong with her husband, and coupled with his demeanour the previous night...

“Kento,” you whisper, petting your hands over your head. “Is everything alright?”

“Mm.” A beat of silence, before he pushes himself up again, and — with some difficulty — pulls himself out of you. He kisses your forehead and sits himself up, sheets pooled around the hard lines of his abdomen. With worried eyes you watch as he reaches for his glasses, and then the wristwatch he’d left on the bedside table last night (almost 800,000 yen, one of the few things he’s splurged on himself) and deftly begins to clip it on. He's still avoiding your eyes when, at last, he says: “I… I was thinking of changing jobs.”

You shoot up — or sit up, rather, with what little energy you have left. “Hm? Oh, Kento, that’s wonderful!”

“Mm. It is.” But something’s bothering him. He doesn’t sound as elated as he should, considering he despises the job that he currently has. “It’s a smaller agency. An old… friend of mine runs it. The work is hard, but I won’t have to work much overtime, and… well, it’s better work, I suppose.”

You run a comforting hand over his covered thigh. “But?”

Kento exhales, slow and tired. “But I thought I left that work behind a long time ago.”

You shift, humming to yourself thoughtfully. “The work is hard, you say?”

He nods. “But… rewarding.”

“Hm. Well, I don’t know too much about finance, but I think that as long as it gives you purpose, it’s good, right?”

His head falls back against the headboard, and tired eyes trail over you. “It’s so simple for you.”

“Well, one of us has to simplify stuff, and I doubt it’ll be you. Look — you hate your job now, don’t you?”

“...Mm.”

“Then change it,” you say, rolling over on your side to face him. Your features soften at the sight of him — uncharacteristically unsure of himself, staring at his hands with furrowed brows. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so deeply torn, but then again, you know how hard he’s worked for this job. His career — especially before you met him — was of the utmost importance to him. Money, money, and more money. That’s what he’d told you. He was obsessive. He slept even less than he does now, barely used the fancy apartment he paid extortionate rent for... How do you turn your back on years and years of commitment, of obsession?

You reach a hand up and take his hand in yours once more. The silver of your rings glint and glimmer in the morning light, the garnet stone in the centre of yours a bloody red.

“For better or for worse, Kento,” you say quietly. “That’s what we promised. Whatever you choose to do, I’ll be here with you through it all.”

He doesn’t say anything, just smiles that one smile of his — the small, wistful, sad one. The one that hints at a far more tragic past than he’s let on, one of misfortune and melancholy. That’s okay. He doesn’t have to tell you, and you would never press him to. In much the same way, you pretend not to see the glassiness of his eyes when he raises your joined hands to his lips, and pretend not to hear the lump in his throat when he tells you he loves you — dearly, more than life itself.

"Yeah, yeah," you say, smiling. "Just don't forget about that retirement to Malaysia, okay? I want a beach house."

He huffs a laugh, and the cast of despondency shatters. Then, a thoughtful hum. "Mm. A beach house... that sounds good."