#we will sit on a window sell and look up at the sky and the clouds will spell messages adressed to you and i

[omgitsbeewave]

i haven't listen my scaridarity playlist for a while and i feel my heart crying bc OH MY GOD I LOVE MY DUM GUYS SO MUCH I MISS THEM 😭😭😭

[monster-disaster]

[tentacle] The monster under the bed

tentacle!monster x human!Reader Good to know: somnophilia, a bit of dub-con

Summary: Your aunt's house is not as empty as you thought.

A/N: For kinktober 2023, I have a new town full of monsters. Here is the masterlist.

The change in the air is thick and heavy after you leave the Welcome to Grimbrook sign behind you. You feel it in your core. It's cold and silent. For a second, everything goes quiet, and the time seems to stop. The rumbling of your car gets muffled, and the colors of the lush, green forest at your sides fade into a milky fog flowing above the ground. You can't see the tall mountains and their sharp edges in the distance anymore. The clear blue sky turns gray, and you can't find the sun anymore, either. Just a few dim rays shine down on the road in front of you, showing your way to the village next to the sea.

As you get closer, you can smell the salty scent of the water even through the closed windows of your car. It's heavy in your nostrils. The sound of the waves gets louder too. From the top of the uphill, you can see the village with its old stone buildings and the sea behind everything. It seems colorless, merging into the dark sky at the horizon. It is beautiful and terrifying at the same time. There is something in Grimbrook that you can't pinpoint but freezes your insides. The only light you can see comes from a lighthouse at the edge of a cliff. It emits a soft, rhythmic beam of yellow light that cuts through the heavy fog, casting eerie shadows over the still village. Seagulls glide through the mist above the white seafoam, waving across the dark surface.

"Okay," you hum, forcing your eyes to go back to the GPS on your phone. The blue line clearly shows your way to the house you have to reach before night falls. It leads you out of the center of the villages until you reach a small suburb with Victorian houses standing in a long row with grand iron gates and gardens.

The monotone voice of the GPS informs you when you reach the right house, and after sitting in your car for a few more minutes, you have no other option but to get out and make your way up to the porch. The wooden planks creak under your steps as you look around a bit better. The house is old, with tall walls, characterful windows, and a dark green door with a golden knocker in the middle. It's cold in your hold as you knock it against the door.

You don't get an answer, though.

The door opens, and you find yourself facing a narrow foyer with stairs on the right side. Pictures and paintings hang on the walls in dark wood and golden frames. You can see the entrance of the kitchen at the end. And on your left side, there is an arch that leads you to the living room.

"Hello?" You break the silence. Your voice is hoarse and quiet. You have to force your legs to move and not turn back to your car and leave this place immediately. "Somebody?" Your gaze lands on a small table in the corner next to the entrance door. There is a letter with your name on it.

Dear Cat, I'm sorry I can't be here when you arrive. Make yourself at home, and we will talk tomorrow. Delilah

"Great," you sigh, letting the paper fall back onto the surface of the small table.

For a second, you think about searching for a hotel or something similar to spend the night, but to be honest, it doesn't sound much better either. You know you should leave the town to feel better, but it's not an option. So you close the door behind you and wander further into the house.

You got a call a few weeks ago about your aunt you met long years ago. She died, and now you have a house. You can keep it. You can sell it. Whatever you want.

The house is old, with a lot of wood, dark colors, and golden details. There are still newspapers from months ago on the coffee table in the living room. The rug under you is faded and thin. The floor creaks every now and again. There are two rooms and a bathroom upstairs. The bigger room is still occupied with your aunt's belongings. The scent of her perfume still lingers in the air. You remember her when you were a kid. She came to your grandmother's funeral, and you never saw her again. Nobody really talked about her in the family. The only things you know are that she was kind but preferred her own company above everything else. She lost her husband in her late twenties but stayed in Grimbrook, barely leaving the town.

The guestroom is much more bare than the other parts of the house. A bed in the middle with two nightstands and a lamp. There is a drawer in front of it and a mirror on the wall. The window is slightly open, letting in the cold autumn breeze. You have a view of the street from here. It's calm and empty. The only reasons you know you are not the only person in the town are because you can see a few cars here and there and a dog barking in the distance. The fog is thick and heavy. You can't see the end of the street through it.

After wandering around the house some more, you decide to call your friend until you have no other option but to change and try to get some sleep.

Climbing up on the bed in the guest room, you settle under the thick covers. The scent of the linen is faded and mixed with dust and the night air coming through the window. It's dark outside, not counting a few lamps on the street. Their orange lights filter into the room. And everything is quiet. So quiet that your ears almost start to ring. You are not used to it. You live in the city with constant noises.

When sleep takes you, it's restless and everything but relaxing. You fidget and turn, trying to find a comfortable position as you balance between the darkness and the real world. Your head feels just as foggy as Grimbrook, and at some point, you can't decide if you are dreaming or not.

You are on your back, one arm on your stomach, and the other is next to your body. The autumn breeze caresses your skin, moving up from your feet to your ankles and calves. Shiver runs through your spine at the feeling. You want to reach out for the blanket, but even though your arms move, they do not obey your command. Something pets the thin skin of your wrist. It's soft and barely noticeable. You feel your muscles stretch as you reach up to the headrest of the bed, but you don't even know why. The cold moves up further on your legs. It curls around your flesh, spreading you in the middle of the bed. Your heels dig into the mattress. Your body tenses when your limbs don't do as you want. A frown deepens between your brows.

"What?" A hoarse grunt leaves your lips. When you open your eyes, you meet darkness, and you are not sure if you are really awake or not. Your eyelids are heavy, and not even a second later, you fall back asleep again.

The bottom of your pajama slips down on your legs. The waist stretches around your parted legs. Something slides up on your stomach under your t-shirt. It is slick and soft. A gasp echoes in your room when it flicks your nipple. The thing curls around the flesh of your tits, groping and caressing. Your nipples harden under the strange touch. Saliva? A tongue?

Where are you?

And there is something else between your legs. The muscles of your thighs tense, and the hold around you tightens.

"What?" You groan again into the silence. As you look down on your body, you see your t-shirt around your neck. Your breasts are bare. Something dark and purple curls around them, squeezing and licking. The teasing on your nipples is almost painful. At the back of your mind, you want more. Your head falls back onto the pillows, and you are asleep again.

The tentacles between your legs move up and down on your pussy. Your panties are ruined between your wet center and the slick touch of theirs. One of them flicks your clit. Your back arches at the feeling. The cold night air hits your aching pussy when the thin fabric is pulled aside. One of them stays around your clit, flicking and rubbing the hard bud. The other one goes straight to your hole.

You want to move. To get closer or farther away, you can't decide. The tendrils don't let you go anyway.

You break the silence with a sudden moan. The limb enters you slowly. It slips into you easily, stretching your walls until you can't take another inch. It fills you up.

"Fuck," you groan.

Your breasts are soaked. The slickness on your skin shines under the dim streetlights. The tentacles play with your flesh, rubbing and pinching your nipples. The pain takes your breath away every now and again until you feel dizzy.

The others between your legs move without pausing even for a second. Your clit throbs, and your walls flutter. Pleasure flares inside your veins, rushing through your body with such force you never felt before. Your lungs burn for air, and your muscles ache as you lay taut, panting.

When you open your eyes, you see the ceiling and the old lamp hanging above you. You want to force your mind to think, to panic, to do something, but your senses are full of pleasure. The only thing you can do is moan and grind against the tentacle inside your pussy. It pounds into you, reaching every spongy spot inside that makes you see stars and beg for more. The sheet under you is soaked with your mixed juices. You can feel it dripping out of your hole.

Fuck, you want to shout, but you can't find your voice. You just shake and tremble in the hold of the limbs keeping you in place on the bed. Every nerve in your body is on edge, and when it snaps in your lower stomach, you can't remember how to breathe. Your climax forces you down and stops you from moving. A thin layer of sweat shines on your bare skin. Heat burns you from the inside, and your pussy flutters and sucks on the tendril inside you. It still moves in and out. It twitches and rubs against your walls. And doesn't stop even when the darkness envelopes you again.

When you wake up the next morning, you need a few minutes to remember where you are. The sun shines through the window, casting an orange hue over the old rug in the middle of the room. As you sit up, your t-shirt falls back over your torso, but your pants are still around your knees.

"What?" You grunt out. The question is barely louder than a whisper. Your hand shakes as you reach down between your legs. Your pussy is wet, sensitive, and swollen. A moan escapes you when your fingertip slides over your slit.

Your dream is still vivid in your mind. You can feel the tentacle in your pussy, using your hole and rubbing your clit. Your center starts to throb with need at the memory. And your breasts. Your other hand grabs one of your tits. Your nipples are still hard peaks through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"Hello? Cat?" The sudden noise snaps your head up to the door of your room. The voice comes from the entrance of the house. "It's Delilah." "Hey!" You croak out. You are not even sure if she can hear you. "I will be down in a minute." "Great!" She shouts back. "I will make some coffee, and we can talk about your plans with the house." Your fingers sink into your hole. You are still stretched out. You move in and out of your pussy easily.

Yeah, you think, you need a few nights if you want to decide about your plans.

- Masterlist Grimbrook Masterlist Patreon

[inherdaze]

jungle — kiyoomi sakusa

kiyoomi x f reader

18+ content, pining, slow burn, sakusa wears dog tags mmm, smut, acquaintances to lovers. kind of a historical au? (think 1930s) idk bro it's like all made up. mentions of pregnancy

9k

summary: kiyoomi seeks serenity after coming home from war.

There’s lots of commotion outside. Hollering, cheering, squeals and shouts paired with the sight of lovers reuniting, families coming together, men picking up their children and spinning them around in the air. You watch from the kitchen window as you wipe down the dishes, see some people carelessly pick the flowers from your yard to bunch up and give to wives, children, husbands, the like. Normally, you’d scold them for being so careless and probably offer a pair of garden trimmers so that they wouldn't crush the surrounding flowers, but you let it pass. Everyone is happy. The war is over. 

Your mother watches as she stands next to you, handing you over the dishes to dry once she’s finished washing them clean. She looks at you from the corner of her eye, gouging out your reaction before clearing her throat. 

“Do you remember Kiyoomi?”

 You freeze for a second, plate and rag in hand as you try to think. “Mm. No?”

“The Sakusa family?”

“Oh,” And then you start again, rubbing the plate dry. You don’t really remember the boy, only that your mother was friends with his mother and that apparently the two of you played around as young children. You don't remember the last time you saw him. Probably couldn’t even point him out in a crowd.

“He’s coming home.”

“From the war?”

 “Yes.” 

“Would you like me to gather some flowers for him? There’s plenty in the backyard, too. None of the crushed ones.” 

She sighs before placing the plate she held back into the sink, turning to face you entirely. 

She says your name softly. “He’s coming home. Here.” 

“Why? For dinner?”

“No– well, yes– but he’ll be staying here. With us.”

You slowly put out the plate face down on the long countertop cloth to let it air dry. “Since when?”

“We’ve been exchanging letters.”

Ah. You had been wondering what that was about. Each time the mail came in, your mother would scurry to get it before you could, holding it to her chest protectively before gently slicing it open in the study, purposely keeping it from you. You thought she had been exchanging letters with some sort of admirer, so to speak. You thought she’d be afraid to tell you she’s moving on after years of your father’s death. 

She continues, “His parents passed a while back– they both fell ill while he was away. He just needs somewhere to stay in the meantime so he can get back up on his feet. I'm sure there are plenty of other families that would be more than happy to host a soldier, but I suppose he would feel more comfortable here. I mentioned the garden and the chickens and he said he’d help you out with those. Don’t let him, though.”

“Huh? Why not?”

Your mother lightly swats your arm and gives a quiet scold of your name, “He isn't here to work. He’s here to rest. He’s been through a lot, you know. Just let him be while he’s here.”

You roll your eyes. Your mother can tell that you're not really annoyed. 

“He seems very reserved in the letters we exchanged. If he’s formal with you, insist that he don’t be. We are friends of his. Make him feel comfortable, okay?” 

You hum and nod. “Okay.”

There’s a pause.

“When will he be here?”

Your mother nearly answers before you've even finished asking.

“Tomorrow.”

You’re an early bird. Even when you don’t want to be, you must. You have to tend to the chickens in the morning, tidy up and make breakfast for your mother before she goes out to the market to sell the eggs. 

The morning dew that sits atop the grass kisses at your shins as you trudge towards the coop, face lit by the oncoming sunrise. The sky shifts from deep blue to a lighter blue to purples and pinks until the sun finally reaches the top of the sky. 

As you get closer to the coop, you hear the familiar and pesky repetitive clucks, appreciative that the coop is farther out into the yard and not by your window.

You slide the coop door open, stepping to the side as they rush out with curiosity.

“Mornin’ kids,” You start before emptying out their dirty water, tossing it into the grass before turning on the hose to fill up the bin.

You replace the water, give them more food, collect the eggs that are deemed ready, and hang out with them for a good thirty minutes to make sure they’re healthy and roaming around like normal. You sit on the grass, knees to your chest as you absentmindedly say hi to them when they pass by or stare at you.

Once the sun has almost fully risen, you grab the basket of eggs and make your way back into the house, slipping out of your boots before stepping inside.

The morning goes as always; Your mother wakes up, thanks you for handling the chickens, thanks you as you place her breakfast on the table, gathers all the eggs she needs to sell, and kisses your cheek before she heads out to the market. 

“Kiyoomi should be here later, once I’m already home. Please make sure the spare bedroom is clean, with fresh sheets. If he happens to arrive early, be nice.” 

“God, don’t act like I’m insufferable! I won’t drive him out.”

She smiles knowingly. “I know, my dear.” 

She looks like she wants to say more, but swiftly turns on her heel and takes her leave.

The rest of the day is spent cleaning up the spare bedroom to make sure it’s nice and welcoming for when your new guest arrives. You smooth out all the bed linen and wipe down the dressers, making all photo frames and little trinkets look presentable. It doesn't take long for you to set it all up– the bedroom has always been very empty. You wonder how it'll look like when it’s more lived-in, with boots and coats and whatever else he may carry laying around. 

You slip into the kitchen and wash your hands, preparing to make lunch. With the curtains on the kitchen window drawn shut, you fail to see the man that climbs up your porch steps, eyes downcast as he raps his knuckles on the door a few times. 

You freeze in your spot almost violently. It’s much too early for him to be here, and when you glance at the clock on the wall, you’re convinced that it has to be someone else– perhaps the neighbor? 

Drying your hands on the apron tied to your dress, you draw back the kitchen curtain to get a little peep.

You almost squeal as you back away from the window, covering your face with your hands like you’ve just seen something you weren't supposed to– but you had just seen him. He was… big. That’s all you could think.

When you open the front door, the two of you stare at each other, silent. 

Yes, he’s big. Broad shoulders, gifted with height, and his chest seems…. inviting in the military uniform he wears. You finally make eye contact with him, scanning over his handsome features, the two little beauty marks that rest atop his eyebrow, the pretty curve of his lips—

“Hello,” He says with an air of formality, and you clutch at the skirt of your dress.

“Hi… hi.”

He stares at you blankly.

“I, ah— come in, Kiyoomi,” You start, standing to the side as he takes off his boots and leaves them by the door, following diligently as you lead him to his room. He doesn’t even spare a glance to look around the house, eyes trained on your back. 

“Here,” You say, opening the door to his room. “The bathroom is down the hall, my room is right there– right across, and my mother’s room is the farthest one down the hallway. There’s a, um, study if you'd ever like to read or spend some time in there. Do as you like,” You explain gently, a warm smile on your features. “I was just making lunch. Are you hungry? Would you like some?”

“No thank you,” He says immediately, looking down at you. “Thank you for letting me stay here.” 

“Of course! My mother should be here in a few hours. For now, the house is all yours– er, ours, but– well, yeah, yours…” You trail off with embarrassment, looking into his eyes for help, hoping he’ll finish your sentence or laugh it off with you. 

He doesn't. 

As soon as you back away and start walking back to the kitchen, he shuts the door softly and coupes himself up in there. 

You frown to yourself, remembering your mother’s words. He seems very reserved, let him be, he’s been through a lot.

You do just that, careful to not make any noise as you prepare lunch, then sit by yourself at the table to eat. There’s a light clink and clatter of the dishes as you wash them, but you can only hope he doesn’t mind. 

Noon turns into night and you’re still alone. You haven’t heard Kiyoomi leave the room or rummage around at all. It’s like he never even arrived. 

You’re not surprised when your mother comes home and deems the house empty (besides you being there) and exclaims that the both of you must rush and start working on dinner because Kiyoomi deserves nothing but the best. You feel your skin prickle hot for some reason. She wasn’t wrong, but if Kiyoomi had heard her say it, it sounded like she was one of those old ladies who desperately fawn over younger men. You didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

You laughed nervously and bumped her hip with yours, quietly telling her that he had already arrived. 

She gasps dramatically, hand flying to her heart as she scolds you. 

“Why didn’t you invite him out here to sit with you? Has he eaten lunch? Did you offer him lunch? Goodness, my dear, this is no way to host someone. Ask him to step out! Did you show him around the house, at least? Oh, heavens– did you change the sheets?”

Your ears feel terrifyingly warm, knowing very well that your mother was loud enough for Kiyoomi to hear her through closed doors. Just thinking of him overhearing you get scolded made you want to scuffle away and complain in embarrassment to the chickens. 

“My apologies, miss.”

The both of you whirl around to see Kiyoomi, who looks absolutely delightful, you think. 

His curls are mussed as if he had been sleeping, uniform ditched for a skimpy white undershirt tucked into some slacks, the planes of his chest peeking out and greeting you handsomely. The dog tags that are strung along the chain around his neck glint in the kitchen light, almost like they’re saying Hi. “It’s not her fault, I assure you– I had turned down her offer for lunch, and I just wanted some time to myself after arriving. No hard feelings at all.”

He speaks in such a collected and calm manner, and his face and eyes look empty. He’s good at containing all his emotions. 

“Oh,” Your mother breathes out, a wistful smile creeping onto her face. “Oh, my lovely Kiyoomi!” She rushes towards him and cups his face, smushing his cheeks in her hands, beaming up at him. The action makes his eyes widen, hands immediately flying up to push hers away, but he stops himself just in time and lets them fall back to his sides. 

“How you’ve grown! My goodness, it’s been ages, my love, please– please sit down, we’ll make some soup, okay? Just rest. Tell us, how have you been? Any good stories?”

She greets him like a mother would, and for a second, you think you see his features relax. Not wanting to get caught ogling at him, you turn and face the cutting board, lining up all the vegetables needed for the soup. 

The two talk the entire time, your mother silently leaving the task of cooking up to you. You don’t mind at all, keeping your back to the both of them to hide the look of shyness on your face. Every time Kiyoomi speaks, you feel your hands stutter. 

The conversation is mostly your mother gushing over him and how much he’s grown, telling him he’s such a handsome young man, asking him how his trip over here went, and then she asks him if there is a woman in his life. You know that it would be normal for him to feel a little flabbergasted from such a question, but you don’t know why you feel so embarrassed as well. 

You figure it’s because if he says he does have a special someone in his life, your mother would turn around and berate you (in front of him) for not being ‘out there’ enough and for not seeing someone already. 

To your surprise, he weakly mentions that no, he doesn’t have anyone like that in his life. He quickly excuses it by saying that he had been too busy during the war to worry about such things. 

Your mother laughs good-naturedly, flailing her hand around, “Oh, of course. Silly me!”

By the time your mother opens her mouth to tell him that there are plenty of riveting people around town that he may like, you announce with your back still facing them, “Soup’s ready.” 

You serve your mother and Kiyoomi, keeping your head down as you approach him and place his bowl on the table. He thanks you in a quiet, rumbly voice that makes you go completely still for a split second. 

Conversation dies down as the three of you eat. Your mother has pulled out as much as she can from Kiyoomi. He avoided a lot of questions about the war, about his experiences, about what he saw. You can’t help but wonder. 

Your mother interrupts the silence as she subtly turns to face you. 

“How are the vegetables doing?”

“Growing,” Is all you respond as you stuff another spoonful of soup into your mouth. She’s grasping at straws to not let the atmosphere turn awkward. 

You figure that if Kiyoomi is going to be staying here, may as well be casual, treat him like anyone else (despite the fact that he looks like he came down straight from Heaven). 

You shift in your chair, the wood creaking. “Tomorrow, could you buy some more flower seeds from the market? You can pick which. I need to fill in the spaces that were crushed yesterday from all the people.” 

Her eyes light up, “Of course, dearie. Thank you for reminding me.” 

The two of you talk about mundane things for the rest of dinner, topics you usually discuss. Kiyoomi finds it comforting. Makes him feel more at home. 

The next morning, you rise before the sun kisses the sky, as always.

You pull on the short linen clothing you use for working, old stains of mud and grass forever tainting the articles. As quietly as you can, you pad around the house before reaching the back porch, tugging on your work boots before stepping into the fresh morning grass. 

Unbeknownst to you, Kiyoomi is also an early riser, a habit that he has cultivated over years of training. He watches you from the backyard’s dutch door, the top half open. He rests his elbows on the bottom half and leans forward, watching and listening as you greet and coo at the chickens like they’re your children. His eyebrows twitch up when he hears you reprimand one– Stop putting grass in the water, Harold! 

After you dump out the water, you pick up the water bucket and take it over to the pump, working the water into it. With your back turned to Kiyoomi, you don’t hear as he steps through the grass towards you. 

“Good morning,” He greets politely, and you yelp.

Whirling around with the half-full bucket in hand, the water flies out and crashes right into him, soaking his torso and the entirety of his pants. 

You drop the bucket.

“Oh my gosh– oh, Kiyoomi— I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry, oh my goodness– I didn’t– I’m so sorry—”

You're petting his torso worriedly, as if your hands will soak up all the water that has been spilled. He knows you have good intentions and are just trying to help somehow get the water to dry, but your touch makes him stiffen.

You’re repeating that you're sorry, and the more that you ramble on, the more he can hear the tremor in your voice as you squeak and swallow and try to push this upcoming embarrassment down. Kiyoomi lifts his hands and places them right on your arms, completely stilling you. “It's fine.” 

It comes out clipped, like it's not really fine, but you can’t tell if he's annoyed. His face remains stoic. 

“I’m so sorry,” You whisper.

“It's okay. You weren't aware that I was here. I understand.” 

You look over him again, the bottom half of his cotton shirt soaked and his pants clinging onto his legs like paint. You’re so embarrassed and ashamed that you can't even find it in yourself to admire him. 

“You’ll– you’ll get sick. Let’s go inside,” You plead, stepping away from his touch and gathering your skirt in your hands to run back into the house, hastily kicking off your boots before prying the bottom half of the door open.

He watches you scurry around the house to make him some tea, pouring water into the kettle and sorrowfully letting him know it’s gonna take a few minutes. You advise that he changes but don’t push it on him too much, not wanting to be over controlling.

He disappears into the room and shuts the door, and you plop onto the dining table chair. Resting your head in your hands, you mentally chastise yourself for messing up like this, and on the first day that he's been here, too. 

The kettle whistles. You pick yourself up to see Kiyoomi already looking at you, in a pair of clean clothes. Embarrassment crawls up your spine. 

“I’m sorry.” You say again, turning to silence the kettle and pour the water into a mug before adding a few loose tea leaves. 

“I’ve already forgiven you.” 

“I know, I know but– I’m really sorry.”

He only sighs. You take that as a sign he’s frustrated. 

“I’m stepping back outside,” You say, “Still have to get stuff done.” 

He nods stiffly. You walk with your tail between your legs to the backyard porch, putting on your boots and this time shutting both halves of the dutch door.

You confide and whine to the chickens as you clean up and spread out their food.

Despite the incident, Kiyoomi insists that he help you out in the mornings. He follows you out to the back porch and manages to slip past the threshold before you can shut the bottom half of the dutch door to trap him inside (he can always just open the door and walk by, but you tell him it’s the prospect of trapping him inside that matters the most. His eyebrow twitches at that). 

He lingers as you talk to the chickens, which you do quietly now that you know that he’s there. He pretends to look away when you tell Harold good morning. 

When you finish saying your greetings to the birds, you tell him to go back inside. This is your job only and he should take this time to rest or get some extra hours of sleep– but he insists. He tells you he can’t sleep for any longer, he’s spent years rising early and getting straight to work and if he were to lay in bed he’d just lay restless. 

You know your mother will scold you later, but you offer him some work to do anyway. You tell him to replace the water while you give them fresh food. And he does so gladly, falling into a rhythm with you that, if a stranger looked at the scene, would convince them that he belongs here and always has. 

There’s this sort of look of serenity on his face, like he’s content to be doing something rather than staying in the house (which is what your mother has been pressuring him to do). 

The rising sun kisses his face, reminding you of his beauty. His skin practically glows and you can’t help but let your eyes linger on the moles on his forehead. 

In this kind of lighting, you see faded scars on his hands and arms, earned from hardwork and fighting and war and other things you cannot even imagine. They make him seem gruff (more than he already is) and in a way, scary. But the way he handles the chickens and the land and the water with such a tender touch tells you otherwise. For a brief second, you wonder if he would hold you with such care as well. You shoo the thought away. 

Kiyoomi stays with you while you watch over the chickens. He stands while you sit on the grass.

“Talk to them,” You encourage. 

He lifts an eyebrow. “And what should I say?”

“Ask them how they are.” 

Kiyoomi clears his throat and looks at one of the chickens, “My… My dear Harold,” He starts, “I hope you are in good health.” 

You laugh, “So formal, Sakusa.”

He finds himself humming. Humming. Humming in amusement.

When you're done with the chickens, you tell him he can go back inside and relax while you check up on all the vegetables, but he tells you he wants to help with that too.

You untie your apron and start checking on and picking the ripe vegetables, bundling them in the cloth. Kiyoomi, truthfully, seems a little lost as he handles pulling out the vegetables and leafy greens with a sort of hesitance as if he’s afraid to hurt them. You scoot over closer to him and offer some help. 

“They won’t cry in agony, Kiyoomi.” 

“I–” He starts, embarrassed. “You mistake me.” 

“How so?”

He doesn’t answer, runs out of excuses. Suddenly Kiyoomi thinks the sun feels warmer when your hands brush over his own to guide him, encouraging him to pluck at the vegetables. He gets the hang of it, bundling up all the produce in your apron before the two of you make your way back inside. 

When your mother sees the both of you step in, kicking off your boots and hands stained with dirt, she tsks at you. 

“I specifically told you not to ask for any help.” 

Embarrassment blooms in the depths of your chest. Getting scolded in front of Kiyoomi will be the death of you. You want to defend yourself but you don’t want to throw him under the bus, either. You hold the bundle of vegetables and greens closer to your chest, almost protectively. 

“She did no such thing,” Kiyoomi interjects before your mother can continue. He stands tall, seems bigger, voice collected but strong enough to cause the both of you to jump. It’s been ages since you and your mother have been in the presence of someone as powerful as Kiyoomi. 

He visibly slackens, clears his throat. “She didn’t ask for my help– told me to go inside, actually. I took it upon myself to help her.” 

“Oh,” Your mother breathes out, tone suddenly sweet and forgiving. “I see.” 

The silence that rests between the three of you could pierce your ears. You skitter into the kitchen to wash all that you’ve collected and leave your mom and Kiyoomi alone. In a matter of seconds, she’s already cooing at him and telling him that there’s no need for him to be working, it’s fine if he wants to rest inside, there’s plenty of time for him to spend his days off. He’s silent in response. 

After you make breakfast and your mother leaves for the market, you gather all the dishes and make a beeline for the sink, pouring hot water over the dishes to scrub them clean. 

Kiyoomi follows up behind you, rolling up the sleeves of his cotton shirt, bunching it up right above his elbows. You watch as he leans forward to grab a washcloth, swallowing when you see his dog tags swing low as he dips down. They clink back onto his chest when he stands upright. 

“Thank you,” He says suddenly, eyes focused on the plate in his hands as he wipes it in a circular motion. 

“What for? I should be the one thanking you, Kiyoomi. You defended me in front of my mother.” 

He takes a second to formulate what he wants to say. “I must thank you for letting me work with you. I know your mother has good intentions, and I appreciate that she insists I rest.” 

You tilt your head up at him, silently asking if he will continue. 

Kiyoomi, unbeknownst to you, is facing an internal battle with himself. Years of being in war and surrounded by men who believe vulnerability is weakness often leaves him staying quiet in moments where he wishes to speak. He mulls over what he wants to say again, wondering if you’d laugh him off and tell him to not be silly. But he knows that you sense something is up, your eyes taking on a glimmer of understanding and kindness before you look down at your plate. “I won’t force it out of you, Kiyoomi.” 

He looks at you affectionately, but you miss it as you stack the plate on the counter. 

“Well, since you’re practically pleading me to share my thoughts, I’ll tell you.” 

That makes you laugh. You laugh a gentle little laugh, and Kiyoomi has to turn back and face the dishes so that he doesn’t lose his thoughts. 

“Your mother, I… I know she means no harm. I know that she may believe that I need rest and time and some sort of recuperation period. I don’t mean to be rude, but she… it feels as if she is doing worse than good, for me.” 

You nearly freeze on the spot, worried about what he’ll say next. You’re scared that you and your mother have ruined his whole stay. 

Kiyoomi breathes out your name, “I assure you that I am not a wounded dog that must be left alone to rest and sleep the pain away. I want to live a normal life, now. I’ve faced enough estrangement in the war. Please, allow me to work and live with you just as anyone else would.” 

It’s a simple, simple request. A simple request that would have anyone cheering and clapping and showing him to the damaged flowers in the front yard and putting him right to work. It’s a simple request that makes your heart clench and twist in the caverns of your chest, knowing that he wants to live a life of normality and serenity. Knowing that he has opened up to you about being shunned away. It makes you feel trusted, and in a way, sought out. 

You’re silent for a beat too long and Kiyoomi looks like he wants to scrub away all the words he just said with the way he resumes at washing his plate. As you set another one to dry, you tell him calmly, to prevent the feeling of pity arising in the air, “Of course, Kiyoomi.” 

The corners of his lips twitch up when you tell him the bushes out front need to be trimmed. 

You tell your mother of Kiyoomi’s request that same night, and she scoffs and frowns and throws a little fit before she caves. She initially insists that you only give him light work, but eats up her words at the glower you throw her way. 

He helps you trim the bushes, the weeds, helps you with the vegetables and the chickens and watches eagerly as you prepare food so that he can take on that task later on. 

You stir the soup around in the pot, sprinkling in some herbs and seasonings to add some more flavor. He asks you how much you use, you tell him you just know in your heart when to stop. When the kitchen falls quiet, you pick on him and teasingly ask, And how should you cook? And he answers, suppressing a laugh and an eye roll, With love. 

You peer down into the pot. 

“Okay. Kiyoomi, I am trusting you to deem it ready. Have a taste. The fate of this dinner falls on you.” 

He bites his cheek at your dramatics.

You bring the ladle up to his lips and Kiyoomi has to lean forward a little to meet you halfway. You press the spoon to his lips and he lets the liquid in, his eyes locked on yours as he takes a sip. You feel small in some invigorating, exciting way. 

He pulls away to think about the taste. “A little more rosemary.” 

You eye him carefully but take his word, dipping the ladle back into the pot and sprinkling in a few more leaves. After a few stirs, you scoop the liquid back into the spoon and hold it up to him again. 

He leans forward without being told, almost eager to have you press it to his mouth. Again, he keeps his eyes trained on your face as he has a taste. 

When you pull the ladle away, he remains close to you, face inches away from your own. 

Your fingers twitch. 

“Yes,” He breathes out, your lashes flutter. “It’s ready. Made with love.” 

You can’t tell if your mind is playing tricks on you, but he seems to be inching closer and closer, your grip tightening on the end of the ladle as you start freezing up, debating whether or not to shut your eyes. 

You watch as his pretty eyes close, and with your heart leaping and palms sweating around the ladle from nervousness and the heat that remains in the small space between you two, you let your eyes slip shut. 

You know it– you know it, it’s coming, his lips right against yours, you think you can already taste him—

“I’ve arrived early!”

The both of you jump backwards and the ladle collides with the floor. 

“S-Sorry,” You whisper to Kiyoomi, picking up the ladle and tossing it in the sink before grabbing a different one off the kitchen rack. His shoulders sag and you think you hear him sigh, but he composes himself quickly as your mother makes her way into the kitchen. 

She sees the two of you in front of the soup pot and beams, missing how stiff the both of you look and how you’re wiping your sweaty hands on your apron.

“Teaching Kiyoomi how to cook? Good! Good good, more men should partake in household chores. I cannot wait to taste how Kiyoomi’s soup comes out, should he cook for us soon.” 

He nods curtly, watching as you dip the new ladle into the liquid. You look shaken up, movements jagged and nervous, and he fears he’s done something terribly wrong.

“Did you teach him the most fundamental lesson in cooking, dearie?”

At that, a smile slips onto your face. 

“Yes. Cook with love.”

When the three of you eat dinner together, Kiyoomi mulls over the fact that it was made with love. Your love. He wants to eat so much that he feels full of your affections. He wants so much of it that he cannot help but decline anyone else who offers food, because he’ll be full of your love. 

You two never bring up the almost-kiss. Kiyoomi is scared that he’s pushed a boundary and you’re scared that you misread the situation– so the two of you remain silent and try to fall back into the familiar pattern of days, the rhythm you two share. 

The tension is nearly unbearable when the two of you are less than two feet apart. It almost hurts. It hurts Kiyoomi to look at you so longingly and you never notice. It hurts you when you try to scoot a little closer and all he does is move away. You think it's because he's disgusted with you. He just wants you to feel comfortable. 

Days pass and the both of you pack the incident up and back away into the furthest crevice in your minds. Everything seems alright again– you both talk to the chickens, trim the flowers and cook dinner by each other's side.

You’re preparing to cook and pull your apron off the hook rack that’s nailed right by the kitchen entrance. Kiyoomi watches as you slip it on and watches when you huff in frustration as you try to reach behind yourself and tie it off. Your arms start getting sore from the awkward position they've been in, the apron straps unraveling again and again in protest. You’re about to let the damn thing flail loose until you hear Kiyoomi clear his throat behind you. 

“Let me help.”

Your cheeks burn. 

He delicately takes the straps into his hands, making the base knot against your back and pulling it. “Is that good?” 

It’s a little loose. 

“Tighter, please.”

He pulls. It’s almost like you’re drawn backward, nearly knocking into his chest. He starts tying up a little bow and you feel the brush of his fingers against the small of your back, shivers running up your spine and shoulders. You have to hold yourself back from twitching. 

“There,” He says, taking a step back and admiring his handiwork. He keeps his eyes trained on the bow, tries to hold himself back from drinking in your entire figure. 

It’s oddly domestic, intimate. It has you drifting off in thought, has you confirming all your wonders about his touch that had crowded your mind ever since that day when you saw him pull out the vegetables. He is gentle. You can only hope that the softness of his touch is a testament to his feelings (more specifically, his feelings about you). 

You cough. You make it awkward. You thank him in a quiet, choked up voice before gathering all the pots needed for dinner before scrambling away to start on the food. Kiyoomi thinks he made you uneasy and this time, stands farther away from you when you show him how to prepare the food. Your heart aches at the same time as his. Both of you are back to square one. 

The following days are painfully repetitive. It’s a cycle of the two of you falling back into place, and then your hands brush his, or you catch him staring, or you lean in too close to him, and then the both of you are creating more distance and relapsing into silence and copious amounts of space. 

On this particular night, the two of you are sitting far apart, him on the rocking chair with an open book, and you on the other side of the living room, pressed into the far corner of the couch, embroidery hoop in hand. 

You could trick yourself into thinking that there’s a sense of peace that blankets the two of you, a scene of quiet comfort and domesticity before there’s a dull knock on the door. 

You both freeze. You’re the first one to get up to go check, and Kiyoomi is a little too late in his reaction as he tries to tell you that he’ll get it, a weird sense of protectiveness overcoming him. 

The door is already open and the air is knocked out of your lungs. 

Before you stands a tall, handsome man, brown hair slightly disheveled, a smile growing as he looks down at you. He is very attractive. But not as charming as Kiyoomi, a voice in your head whispers. 

“Well, well, well,” He starts, leaning onto the door frame. “Didn’t know Omi was staying with a pretty little lady.” 

“Miya,” You hear from behind you, nearly jumping as your skin burns hot knowing there are two striking men trapping you. 

“Ah! My old friend!” The man cheers, his eyes searching yours for approval to step inside. Without any hesitation, you grant him access, slowly backpedaling into Kiyoomi’s chest with a squeak before he moves out of the way, the two of you letting the man inside (much to Kiyoomi’s dismay). 

“Miya,” Kiyoomi starts again, gaze hardened. “What are you doing here?” 

“Don’t be like that, my good friend,” The man, Miya, repeats. “Hurts when you address me by last name.” 

Kiyomi doesn’t retort. He won’t play into the man’s tricks of beating around the bush. 

Finally, he fesses up. 

“Bo and Shoyo and I are going to meet up at the pub in a bit, thought you’d like to come along.” 

You see Kiyoomi make a face. 

“I have suffered enough from your presence over the last few years. Please do not try to rope me back into your antics.” 

“Omi!” The grown man whines, face falling before he remembers that you’re standing there. Slowly, his face shifts into a wicked smile, and Kiyoomi’s frown deepens. 

“Ah ah ah,” He starts, dipping down and leaning in closer as if he’s examining you. “I know why you’re so adamant about staying. Find yourself a pretty little wife?” 

The both of you choke. 

You’re about to protest, but Kiyoomi is pushing Miya out the door, effectively letting you hide behind the broad expanse of his back, but you peek out from behind him to see what’s happening. 

“If I– If I go with you this time, will you swear to not come back?”

“Don’t be like that, Omi.”

“Miya.”

“Just say Atsumu! And fine! I won’t visit after this. Won’t steal your pretty lady away.”

“You are unbearable.”

Your cheeks feel hot as Kiyoomi turns around to face you, face irritated. 

“I’ll be on my way. I should be back before it gets too dark out. Please stay safe.” 

You give him a meek goodbye as you watch him pull his coat from the rack next to the door and slide it on, watch closely as he threads his arms through the sleeves, watch as the article fits snugly against his form, watch as he again proves that he is a sight for sore eyes. 

After you shut and lock the door, you rush to the kitchen window to get a peek at the both of them descending the porch stairs, watch as Atsumu laughs and hangs close to Kiyoomi as the latter tries again and again to maintain the space between them and throws unimpressed looks his way. 

When your mother comes home, you tell her Kiyoomi went out with his friends. She smiles and thanks the heavens, happy that he’s finally getting out there. She tells you she hopes he finds someone he may like while he’s out.

You only hum in response. 

Hours pass and Kiyoomi is still out. You and your mother have already eaten dinner and she’s already fast asleep. You’re already in your nightgown and tired of waiting around. 

You step outside and stand by the chicken coop. You watch them sleep and some of them scatter around and you talk to them as if you’re sending wishes to the universe. Tell them you hope Kiyoomi is okay. Tell them you hope he gets home safe. 

As soon as you’re stepping back inside the house, there are drunken laughs and weak knocks at the front door. Not wanting to seem too excited, you take a few deep breaths to pass time before you hear that Miya boy holler out a muffled Pretty lady, come and get him! Which is nearly cut off by a familiar groan. Kiyoomi throws some swear words around. 

You open the door and find that the two of them were using it as support as they nearly fall into you. Atsumu catches you before you can trip on your own feet and fall backward. 

“Hi,” He breathes out into your face, and you have to hold back from scrunching your nose. He smells of liquor but his steady arms keep you rooted in place, his physique nearly swallowing you whole. 

“Hello,” You start, hyper aware of how you look and if you have any blemishes on your face and how close the two of you are, but before you can think of anything else to find a flaw in, Atsumu is pulled back by Kiyoomi. 

“Stop terrorizing my host,” Kiyoomi hiccups out, trying his hardest to remain stern and imposing, but his friend only laughs brightly.

Atsumu slurs out your name, “You must know,” He starts, leaning his arm on the door frame, trying to pose coolly. “Omi mentioned you an awful lot tonight. Think he might have taken a—” 

“Miya.” 

“Yes, my most beloved Omi,” Atsumu professes, cheeks pink and dewy from all the alcohol. “I’ll leave you two be.” 

He clumsily spins on his heel, trips on his way down the steps, and crushes another flower bush. 

Your eyes flash with pain and Kiyoomi shuts the door before you can see Atsumu trip into anything else. He’s rather good at composing himself, straightening his face and posture as he looks at you. 

“Would you like some dinner?”

“Yes, please.”

You find out soon that Kiyoomi is mouthy when he’s drunk. After you reheat what was left over from dinner and slide the plate towards him, he asks that you sit down with him. His face flashes with disappointment when you sit across from him instead of right by his side. 

In his drunken state, he spills all that he’s kept inside without you even needing to probe. Tells you he plans to get going soon, has his eye on a place, tells you he's ready to move on and start life from scratch. He tells you he's tired of you avoiding him like the plague, but there's no malice behind his voice– only pure disappointment, like he’s sulking. At that, you perk up and lean forward, guiltily trying to fish some more out of him.

“Hate that you stay so far away,” He grumbles before stuffing his fork in his mouth. “Always jumping and skittering around me like I’m, I’m– frightening. Hate that you think I’m scary.” 

He hates that you keep your distance, hates that you've deemed him untouchable, hates that you see him as some warlord man who will crush you beneath the soles of his shoes if you utter something incorrectly. 

“Miya,” He suddenly blurts, and for a second you think he thinks you’re the man that just left. 

“Miya told me to confess to you.” 

Your blood runs cold. Confess…? 

Kiyoomi is quiet after that, finishing up his food with sad eyes. He wants more and more and more, any drop of your love that he can get, he will take it. 

You don't ask if he means confessing by telling you all that he hates or if he means confessing something else. Something else that has your stomach stirring, heart doing odd twists as your fist the skirt of your dress. It's hard to think about it when he's right in front of you and slurring his words and clumsily pushing his plate away. It's something you must think about later, in the solace of your own room. 

When he’s done, you help him shrug off his coat, watch as the expanse of his back reveals himself to you. You guide him to his room, expecting him to close the door as soon as he steps in again, but this time, he turns to face you and leans on the frame. He swallows as he looks over you, eyes droopy and tired, and he looks so vulnerable in this light. He’s loosened up, mouth parted only slightly as he lets his eyes wander where he usually doesn't when sober, lets his mind think what he usually holds back on any other day. 

He breathes out your name. You look up at him curiously. 

“I wish you could come with me.” 

You stiffen. You gently place your hands on his chest and push him back into his room slowly– your touch makes him smile. 

“Goodnight, Kiyoomi,” is all you say. 

“Goodnight, angel.” 

Just like the almost-kiss, neither of you bring up what Kiyoomi said that night. It's an elephant in the room– at least, to you. You’re not sure if Kiyoomi even remembers what he said. (He does). 

The two of you delve into another game of dancing around each other in circles, putting on a show that makes it seem like everything's alright and that your hearts don’t ache. Neither of you are aware that when night falls and you're in your respective rooms, the both of you dwell and worry about what you've said and done. 

As of late, Kiyoomi hasn't been around. He still helps you with his morning tasks, but after breakfast, he slips out of the house and tells you he will be searching around town for work with his friend Miya. You know that he doesn't owe you any explanations, but some part of you appreciates it. 

(Kiyoomi knows this, too. He wants you to know he isn't seeking anyone else out there).

Day in and day out, he's around less and less. You start to think that Kiyoomi is now trying to get rid of his feelings ever since you didn't exactly reciprocate what he said that night, when he was drunk.

One heartbreaking evening, Kiyoomi announces that he’ll be leaving soon over dinner. Your mother has a big smile on her face as she congratulates him and cups his face and cries on and on about how proud she is and that he deserves all the best. You nod along to everything that she says, but your vision blurs and all the twines of your fork blend together and it’s hard to see what you’re eating. It's even harder to hold back your sniffles as she starts asking him where he’ll move and where he’ll be working and if he's met anyone. She's always on his back about that last one. It makes your heart feel bitter and heavy. 

The next morning, your mother insists that she go out to the market and get Kiyoomi some farewell gifts. He reassures her that she doesn't really have to, tries to convince her to stay as she's already putting on her coat, and then she's walking out the door. 

Kiyoomi asks if you could help him tidy up before he leaves. It’s more of a statement than a question, so you oblige. 

You help him take off his sheets and load them into a basket to wash later. You wipe down the dresser and the desk, help sweep the floors, help him fold his clothing neatly so that his suitcase shuts securely. 

When everything's done, you wipe your hands nervously on your apron and give him a curt nod, turning to leave the room.

“Stay,” He suddenly blurts, fists clenching at his sides. “I have to tell you something before I go.” 

And so you turn and face him, letting your hands fall to your sides. He steps closer to you. 

“Before I go,” He starts, eyes scanning your face for any emotion, but he gets nothing. You look numb. 

“I don’t expect anything from you in return, but I must tell you, or else I don’t think I can live with myself. You,” He hesitates, feeling like he instead wants to turn away and save it for another day. 

The curious glimmer in your eye pulls him back in. 

“You have captured my heart,” Kiyoomi says breathlessly, “The entirety of my soul. I have no regrets in opening myself up to you, in letting you in, and I can say that you have made me a better man. I want to be vulnerable with you as I am now, time and time again. I want us to be one, but to be our own all at once.” 

His eyes search yours frantically, “I love you.” 

Your mouth drops open. 

Hands shaky, you try smoothing out your dress and formulating a response, the right response, one that tells him you feel the same.

Kiyoomi begins to lean away, taking a step back, face calm. “As I’ve said, I don’t expect anything from you in return. You can leave, if you wish.” 

You stay rooted still. 

“Kiyoomi,” You finally squeak, voice cracking like you're on the verge of tears. The tone of it makes him stand up a little straighter, like he's worried about what he's done, but then you're beckoning him forward with your hand.  

He comes in closer, approaching you like you’re injured- gentle and calm like he mustn't startle you any further. You try to lean into him, try to pull him closer, hands wrapping around his shirt and bringing him towards yourself, voice shaky as you manage to get out, “And I you.” 

It’s all he needs. It’s all he needs before he’s dipping down, lips slotting against your own as you sigh out wantonly. Days and weeks and months of pent up feelings and unspoken words all pour out in one kiss, a kiss that has you stumbling backward and grasping at his shirt, his hands roaming down your back and pulling you into him, closer and closer and closer, like he is going to fuse the two of you together. 

(He wants to). 

It isn’t long until you find yourself pressed into his bed, both of your clothes thrown into some corner of the room, underwear torn off as he hovers above you, licking into your mouth and grinding against your cunt. 

“Kiyoomi,” You whimper once he pulls away. “Please.”

He dips down again to kiss and nip at your chest, the metal of his tags stinging your skin and giving you shivers. Kiyoomi hums into your shoulder, licks a stripe up your neck before lifting himself off the bed, planting his hands on your hips. He drags you closer to him, lifting you up as he drags his cock over your warmth. 

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he groans as he slips in, eyes falling shut when you immediately flutter around him. Kiyoomi almost falters, almost curls in on himself and leans atop of you again before he collects himself and starts dragging his cock in and out, hissing at the way you clamp down on him. 

It’s a build up, Kiyoomi starting gentle and slow until you’re bucking up your hips and whining at him to go faster, till the only thing you can get out is a weak string of please please please. 

Kiyoomi cages you beneath him again as he starts drilling into you, broken cries slipping past your lips as your hands race up and down his back, leaving light scratches that make him moan so prettily right by your ear. 

He brings his hands to your thighs, pushing them up and trapping them against your chest and your eyes roll back, body falling pliant to him. He’s so close, all up in your face and humming about how wet you are for him, how fucking good you feel, how you’re made for me, doll, all for me.

His breath fans your face as he thrusts into you desperately, making the bed shake. The tags on his chain bump into your chin, clinking softly like little chimes and bringing you back time and time again as your mind spirals under the feeling of him pounding into you. Kiyoomi grunts and lifts himself up for the fastest second, taking the tags in hand and ripping the chain off his neck, metal grazing the wood floor as it slides away. His irritation with it makes you want to laugh, but the sound gets caught in your throat as his cock hits the sweetest spot in you, making your toes curl as you cry out his name. 

He watches you as your hands sneak down, nimble fingers spreading apart your folds to try and get a good look at his length sliding in and out of you. Kiyoomi looks down, watches the spot where the two of you meet, watches as his dick comes out covered in slick before pushing himself back in. 

“Fuck, fuck, angel, you’re so– so good, such a good girl for me.”

Your head bobbles up and down in a nod, weakly whimpering out his name, “I want to cum, please let me– let me cum all over you, Kiyoomi!” 

He shudders, hand coming up to grab at your jaw. “Look at me. Look at me when you cum.” 

You sob out pathetically, legs shaking and twitching as you tighten around him, gushing for what seems like hours until you fall limp, tears invading your vision. Kiyoomi murmurs praises into your cheek before planting both hands on your hips again, using you to reach his high, and you let him, let yourself be his little doll. 

You feel his warm seed trickle into you, stomach fluttering at the sensation before he collapses on top of you. 

Kiyoomi nestles his face into your chest for a few minutes before rolling onto his side, cupping your cheek with his big hand. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, trying to scoot in closer to him, albeit weakly. 

“I love you, Kiyoomi.” 

He smiles. He’s beautiful, you think. He opens his mouth to return the affection, your hand coming up to brush his curls away, but there’s a telltale sound at the door that alarms the both of you. 

In an instant, you two are up, laughing and tripping over your own feet, Kiyoomi hustling into his slacks as you awkwardly slide your dress back on, thumping into the footboard of the bed as your mother chirps out like a bird, “I’m home!” 

“Your mother,” Kiyoomi says in a hushed tone, leaning close to you as he buttons up his shirt, “Always has to go and interrupt us.” 

You smile up at him cheekily, and he catches the mischievousness in your eyes. 

“Just means that you must take me with you, I presume?” 

You step out into the grass of the backyard, the sun already hanging in the sky since you’re a little bit late to your task. Nonetheless, you head straight towards the chicken coop and unfasten the doors, the chickens pouring out and clucking around obnoxiously, as they always have. The rest is muscle memory– throw out the old water, replace it, add in fresh food, sit with the chickens. The familiarity of it all soothes you– not that you need soothing. You simply feel in touch with your roots again. 

“Good morning, Harold.” You jeer at one particular chicken, who eyes you warily. You laugh. “Now don’t be jealous, I’ll always come back to check on you.” 

He gives an approving cluck. 

You gather yourself and get back up, slipping off your boots on the back porch. As you approach the dutch door, you see someone already leaning onto the bottom half of it, a little bouquet in hand. 

“He told me to give this to you,” Your mother swoons, holding out the bundle of flowers to you. A laugh bubbles at your lips as you observe the flowers, holding the stems together, “Aren’t these from the front yard? Such a romantic,” You joke, rolling your eyes as you make your way inside. You tuck the flowers into one of your mother’s vases to keep them safe. 

“I’ll get started on breakfast,” You call out, despite it already being later in the day and, technically, lunch time would be rolling around. 

“Oh no no,” You mother gasps, a sound that you had become all too familiar with when Kiyoomi was around, when she’d clutch her chest in shock. 

“You rest, my dear, I’ll start working on the food.” 

“Mother,” You press, “You need to go rest. That’s the exact reason why we came over here!”

“Nonsense!” She chimes, pushing you down to sit at the dining table as she pads over to the kitchen. You remain still for a few moments to appease her, but then the front door creaks open and you’re on your feet immediately. 

“Hi lover,” You say almost bashfully as Kiyoomi approaches you, wiping the sweat off his forehead as he sinks down to kiss your forehead, your chin, your lips. 

“Hi, my little doll,” he mutters against you before pulling away. “Did you like the flowers I got you?” 

You laugh, observing the green and brown stains on his white undershirt, evidence of his hard work in the front yard. “I shouldn’t be praising a thief, seeing as you took my mother’s flowers right from her yard.” 

“Oh?” He suddenly challenges, “I think this thief deserves a little praise, seeing as I successfully made your heart mine.” 

You can’t help but scoff, tongue poking at your cheek with how embarrassing he is, how corny he’s become now that he’s in love. 

Your mother scurries back in with two plates in hand, telling you both to Sit, sit! like dogs, and Kiyoomi looks at you with a knowing smile on his face. Always interrupting things.

As the three of you start eating, your mother points her fork accusingly at you. 

“And you, my sweet girl, better eat up. You need more nutrients for when a baby is on the way.” 

You choke. Kiyoomi smiles into his cup as he takes a sip. 

“We’re not expecting,” You scold, stabbing your fork into your food. “You can’t just say things like that, mother—”

“How come? You never know! With the two of you in that new big home, you’ll surely want to fill in some space. You’re young! There’s no shame!” 

“You’re the one who may as well fill up the space, visiting nearly every day!” 

“Oh honey, I’m just excited for you—” 

The bickering is all in good fun, Kiyoomi knows. He takes your hand into his underneath the table, finger brushing against the golden band that encompasses your own. 

Yes, he thinks to himself, heart swelling. Perhaps it’s time to start filling up the space.

[violet-fluff]

Levi x Marley! Reader (Oneshot)

At the drop of a handkerchief

You're strolling through the streets of Marley, humming happily as you eye all the new vendor booths that have come to sell merchandise on this sunny afternoon.

Food, flowers, jewelry, everything you can imagine is here today, with vendors waving you over in an attempt to sway you to buy something.

Although nothing was catching your eye and you were about to call it a day and head home until...

The most beautiful creation stopped you in your tracks.

With your heart pounding and your cheeks flushing red, you lean behind the wall, trying to hide yourself as you take in such a beauty.

But this beauty is no object....this beauty is a person.

A beautiful man.

Skin as white and shiny as a pearl.

Hair as dark as the night.

Eyes as grey as metal.

This man was nothing you have ever seen before.

Quite literally. The suit he’s also wearing is not something you typically see the men of Marley wearing.

He must be from a different country. Which means it will be harder for you to convince him to stay, because there is no way you’re letting this magnificent creature escape you.

Surrounded by his own group of people, you’re anxiety and nerves tell you that you’re not brave enough to go interrupt their conversation to start a new one, so you’re left with no choice…

Smoothing your hair and outfit, you start walking towards him with your head held high.

As you look towards the blue sky, you tell the universe to let it be known if he is your soulmate or not during this test.

As you inch closer, you smile to yourself as the group notices your presence, and when you walk barely past the beautiful man, you slyly flick your wrist to release your handkerchief.

‘One duck, two duck, three duck…’ You count in your head to time how long the seconds pass as you continue walking.

“Oi! You!”

Time stands still as your heart pounds and you do a smooth swivel of your feet to turn around. Your breath hitches when the beautiful man is waving your handkerchief at you.

“You dropped this.” He tells you, his face showing no emotion.

A bit intimidated, you slowly walk over to him, but before you can reach out and grab your belonging, he crumples it in his hand.

“It’s too dirty now.” He grunts, and with his slim fingers, he digs into the front pocket of his dark blue suit.

“Here, you can have mine. It’s clean.” He says, holding a perfectly folded handkerchief out to you.

“O-oh! Ok!” With shaky hands, you grab it from him and gently hold it in your palm. “Thank you, sir. This is very sweet of you.”

Bowing your head slightly in thanks, you quickly turn on your heels and leave.

He watches you leave and Gabi scoffs.

“Gross. I can’t believe I just witnessed that.” She says with a gag.

Levi raises a brow. “What?”

“You fell for the oldest trick in the book.” Falco laughs lightly.

“I have no idea what either of you are talking about.” Levi clicks his teeth and leans against the wall, continuing to watch you walk further and further away.

Onyankopon smiles gently. “It’s something Marley women do to get a man’s attention. They act like they drop something in hopes you pick it up for them.”

Levi’s eyes widen in realization while Hanji bursts out laughing.

“No way, shorty! She had her eyes on you!” Hanji grins and slaps his shoulder.

Falco smiles while Gabi pretends to puke again. “And you gave her a new handkerchief. She’s probably planning your wedding right now.”

Connie gasps. “Captain! Are you going to go after her!”

Levi clicks his teeth. “No. I don’t have time for romance. We have more important matters to work on right now.” He looks away to hide his embarrassment.

Jean sneers and adjusts his hat. “I can’t believe the captain is the one getting all the women.”

As they continue to pester Levi, you watch from afar through a window in a bakery.

“Um, Miss…” The clerk comes up behind you, “You have to buy something to sit in here.”

You wave him off with a hush and go back to watching over your soul mate.

*the dropping of an item to catch the attention of a man was a real tactic used by women during the Victorian era

[leezlelatch]

On a Moth’s Delicate Wing

Secondo x F!Reader - Yearning, unrequited to requited love, mild Catholic Church bashing, insecurity, comfort, fluff. Written for and inspired by @writingjourney. Secondo enjoys a quiet session of study with the woman he has fallen so rapidly for.

The clock struck the hour. Grey clouds danced in the sky, thunder rumbling in the distance as they opened, cascading rain tumbling to the ground in skipping droplets which created a pleasant thrum of white noise on the roof. Secondo closes his eyes, drawing breath through his nostrils, taking in the smell from the open window. He stands, his dark slacks shifts against his thighs as he approaches the window, opening it wider. He leans his hands on the sill, watching the raindrops patter against his skin, soothing against his arthritic joints.

A book sat open on his desk next to steaming cup of tea, and he turns from the storm to pick it up, blowing a little on the dark liquid before taking a sip. “And what have we learned, falenina?” He murmurs, his eyes finding you, perched on his couch with the same book in your lap. He smiles as your hair catches the breeze from outside, a few errant strays curling around your neck and cheek. He so longed to reach out and brush them back, to glide his fingers through hair you never let air dry. Perhaps the rain on his fingers would wetten the strands, and he would watch in delight as they would curl and spread out in the humidity of the room. Only then may he gain an idea of what you look like when you first wake up, or after you’ve shared your body with someone who loves you just right.

It should be him.

“After the Catholic Church began to sell indulgences, the Satanic Church saw an increase in worshippers,” you murmur, your eyes scanning the page of the book you have both been studying.

“And why is that?” He pushes, leaning against his desk, one arm crossed over his stomach as the other is preoccupied with holding his mug. He takes another drink, his mustache twitching from the heat of the beverage.

“Because selling tickets into heaven revealed to a people already ravaged by plague that the church was corrupt. Is corrupt. And they sought a faith that wouldn’t lie to them,” you conclude, placing your bookmark between the pages. “They still practice something of that today, yeah?”

Secondo tilts his head in consideration, placing his mug down. He makes a turn about the room, his eyes scanning the various paintings on his walls depicting the duality of man, the masculine and the feminine, the Morningstar in his glory. He stops at one. De Goya, Saturn Devouring his Son, and he stands in contemplation. “The Catholic Church regularly consumes those who seek guidance,” he murmurs. “It is their unending covenant. To draw in lost souls and spit them out changed. And sometimes, changed for the worst.” He turns to look at her. “We seek to show them the truth. That paradise is not so easily earned with a tithe.”

“Our Siblings contribute to the Church,” you point out, watching him closely. He likes the way you look at him. Your gaze is searching, and as your pretty eyes pass over his face, your lips curve at the corners. Even now, paint-less and in his slacks and vest, you find him attractive. There are no barriers between the two of you, you see him as the man he is. Long-lived and jaded, you see his flaws and you smile. How could a man such as he be worthy of the little moth’s attention?

“They do. But we are plain in our words, falenina. In our actions. Our Siblings know that any contribution they seek to give will be given back to them. Through renovation and upkeep of the residency, the chapel, the grounds.” He moves to the couch, sitting down beside her, one leg crossing over the other. “The meals we take together.”

Your smile grows, and you close the book, sitting it aside in favor of turning toward him, sitting cross legged on the couch. “You don’t often eat with us, Papa.”

He makes a gruff noise, turning equally in your direction, one arm slung over the back of the couch. His eyes are dark as he watches you, perhaps strange for a man with one green eye and one white, but they were dark nevertheless. Assessing in his stare which held a thousand secrets, and a weary yearning. “I prefer to cook for myself. Which you would know if you accepted my invitation.”

Your cheeks bloom a lovely shade of pink. Secondo wants to run his tongue across your heated skin, tasting your blush. His eyes linger on the apples of your cheeks, a sense of pride filling his chest. He makes you blush. Him. This old, bitter man full of too much loneliness flusters the most beautiful woman in the Ministry. It feels good, to be desirable. Unless…

“You do not wish to,” he concludes, his voice almost strained. He clears his throat to hide how the mere thought of your rejection affects him. The brief flare of agony which makes him want to sweep a hand across his desk, clearing it of everything to silence the cacophony in his mind with the crash.

“I want to,” you say, your voice soft. It captures his attention immediately, his hand dropping from the couch to linger near your crossed legs. Aching to touch you. “But I would want to keep coming back. And then I wouldn’t want to leave.” Your eyes fall to the surface of the couch and Secondo wants to cry out, to scream at you to keep looking at him.

He couldn’t believe his ears, and then he does touch you, his hand brushing against your leg. The small intake of breath, the flush on your cheeks, it would drive any man to insanity. And Secondo was the least sane of them all. “Do you not understand, amore mio?” He murmurs, a sort of laugh to his voice. It wasn’t at you, but at the incredulity of the situation. That you could possibly feel the same as him. “I do not want you to leave. You cannot leave.”

When next your eyes meet his, Secondo suddenly understands everything. The moth, a nocturnal creature, flies toward the light. And this moth, Secondo’s falenina, is leading him from the darkness toward the brightest future. One he never fathomed for himself, but is grateful for all the same. “You are intertwined in my soul like a witch’s knot. Unbreakable,” he whispers. “A gift from Lucifer himself.”

You stand from the couch in a rush, your steps quick across the office floor. He nearly lunges after you, panic entering his heart as you whip around, your eyes wild with bewilderment. And fear. “I can’t be,” you say, your voice breathless. “I’m not…” The words don’t seem to come to you for a moment, and you grapple for a thought, your eyes darting around the room. “I’m me.”

The conclusion and finality in your voice springs him from the couch and his arms are encircling you. One hand is at your waist, squeezing fast, pressing you to him while the other cradles the back of your head, sliding his fingers in your hair in just the way he has dreamed. “Sì, you are you,” he says passionately, pressing his burning cheek against your own. “And I dream of you. I ache for you in the night and my very being writhes in agony when you are not there. I sit here each day, and I gaze you at you, amore mio, I look at you so deeply and I see the most adoring soul. A woman with the cleverest eyes, thoughtful and careful with her words. A woman who has the silliest jokes and makes an old man laugh more than he has in decades. I see you. And I need you.” Those last words are said with awe. He is in awe over you.

You say nothing in response, and he pulls back to look down at you, his eyes frantically searching your face. “I am a fool, sì?” He whispers. “An old fool.”

“No,” you whisper, eyes wide and glassy with tears. “You are my love.”

Secondo could collapse if he wasn’t holding you in his arms in that very moment. He presses his forehead against yours, a strangled gasp leaving him as his mind and heart absorb those precious words spoken to him. “I suddenly forget what we were doing before this,” he says with a small laugh, voice thick with emotion.

You smile, your arms looping around his neck. A tear falls down your cheek and he kisses it away with a brush of his lips. “We were talking about the Catholic Church.”

Secondo snorts, pulling you backward until he falls to the couch, his grip firm as you land in his lap, straddling him. His fingers capture your chin in a tight grip, and he smiles at you. His eyes are dark again. “Hail Satan.” His lips find yours.

[katyawriteswhump]

the freak in the penthouse part 12

E-rated (for sexual content), accidental millionaire eddie/sex-worker steve. On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2 Part 5.1 Part 5.2 Part 6.1 Part 6.2 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 or search #thefreakinthepenthouse :)

On AO3 FYI, I’ve basically imagined that Dustin and Suzie are roughly the same age as the others in this, so in their late teens and early twenties…

Chapter 12: reality check

Five Days later

Steve picked up the phone and dialled Eddie’s number. It rang twice, before the answerphone stabbed him with the same old jack-knife in the gut:

“Hi! This is Suzie.”

“And this is Dustin.”

“We’re not around right now—

“—or we’re having our downtime, together or apart, which is super important to us—” 

Jesus Christ, kill me already.

Steve had heard this message a dozen times. Dustin and Suzie sounded so goddamn chirpy, like they were going to explode into song. And Steve had endured waaaaay too many chirpy songs the last few nights, courtesy of Robin’s mom’s cassette deck.

He endured the rest of their nail-scapingly annoying message and braced himself for the Ding!

“Hi, this is Steve. Again. Look, I really need to talk to Ed—”

“Answerphone tape full,” recited an electronic voice, the polar-opposite of chirpy.

“Fuck!” Steve slammed down the receiver. 

Why wasn’t Eddie returning his calls?

Okay, Steve had been sleeping a ton the past few days, might’ve missed something. Robin’s leave was over today, and her mom worked really long shifts…

A muffled meeeeow had him looking up sharpish. Resident cat, Fernando, glared at him through the window.

“All right, I’m sorry I stole your couch. I don’t hate you, it’s your fur that hates me. Way to go making me feel even shittier about it.”

He glared back. Trouble was, this was Fernando’s home, not his. Robin had technically moved out last year, and he’d barely got a nickel to slot into the housekeeping kitty.

He was gonna have to sell his watch. Or the guitar. Dammit, he’d wanted to check in with Eddie first, but what choice did he have?

He leafed through the telephone directory for music stores, scraped together some loose change, and caught a bus across the city. On the journey, he missed his old Sony Walkman as never before. Thanks to Robin’s mom, ‘Mamma Mia’ by Abba ear-wormed through his brain. Uuuuuuurgh! He  hugged the glittery guitar case tightly and attempted to pep himself up.

Eddie said he was crazy about Steve. Steve sure as heck felt the same. 

“Yes, I’ve been broken-hearted, blue since the day we parted. Why, why did I ever let you go?”

“Shut the hell up, Agnetha,” he muttered, earning himself a scathing glance from a woman sitting close. But Steve hadn’t been broken-hearted when he left the hotel. He’d been scared shitless over that fact he was losing his memory as well as his mind. He still was. His future with Eddie had been the one thing he’d felt faintly optimistic about, and… 

“Look at me now, will I ever learn?”

No. No way. Eddie was a good person. Yeah, Robin had passed hours bad-mouthing him. No matter. Steve believed in Eddie. Well, he desperately wanted to. He was getting really worried about him—about whether he’d really been ‘cured’ of his agoraphobia, and about his overly sass-tastic and curiously absent friends. 

He missed him so much. Christ, it hurt.

In ‘Jivin’ Jams,’ Steve laid the guitar case on the counter and opened it. The store-owner’s brows shot sky high: “Where did you get this, son?”

“A friend gave it me,” said Steve. “There was a rumor it once belonged to Jimi Hendrix or something.” 

The guy stared at him, mega-intense, which Steve took to be a positive sign. Maybe he should play hardball, get competing offers from a bunch of stores.

“I’m looking for at least two-thousand bucks,” he ventured.

“I got some catalogues out back that should help me figure out what it’s worth. Gimme a tick.”

Steve shrugged. “Sure.”

The dude vanished. Steve waited, grinning when a track he knew—‘Friday I’m in love,” by The Cure—drowned out the Abba hell-loop in his head. He remembered this one. Yeah, he’d been flat on his back on that honking great bed, with his ankles looped around Eddie’s neck. While merrily fucking Steve, Eddie had sung along like an idiot:

“Monday, you can hold your head, Tuesday, Wednesday, stay in bed, Or Thursday, watch the walls instead, It's Friday, I'm in love…”

Christ, he missed Eddie’s dumbass ‘o’ face. He missed how Eddie always needed him to come too, loving it when Steve squirted across those lick-tastic tatts. Yeah, he missed… so much. If he got a decent amount for the guitar, maybe he and Eddie could rent a place together. Get back to fucking every day of the week…

He was still daydreaming, smirking vaguely, when the two policemen walked in. 

“I didn’t know it was stolen!” protested Steve. The son-of-a-bitch store-owner handed the guitar over the counter to one of the cops.

“Where d’you get it then?” asked the other.

“A friend gave it to me.” Steve’s legs started to feel wibbly.

“This friend got a name?”

Steve bit hard into his bottom lip.

“You think on it, and tell us when we get to the precinct, huh?” 

They took his knapsack and turned out his pockets. When the handcuffs came out, the bubble of panic in his windpipe ballooned.

“I didn’t know it was stolen,” he repeated, sort of on autopilot. They cuffed him anyway. Outside the store, the cool air smarted against his burning skin. “C-crap. No, please! Look… I… I didn’t know!”

He was guided into the back of their patrol vehicle and the door slammed shut. He shut his eyes, rested his head back, and battled his instinct to struggle against the cuffs.

OH MY GOD, EDDIE! YOU REALLY WERE TAKEN FOR A CHUMP!  

Unless he knew it was stolen? No. No way, no way. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. Okay… breathe. Keep calm, right? Shiiiiit! 

Steve had been picked up by the police once before. It’d been soon after he’d run from that man, when he was on the streets, and… Nope, nope, NOPE.

His mind grew as clammed up as his body. Which was probably how, breathing fast and shallow, he survived the short journey to the precinct. Still kinda dazed, he was uncuffed and processed. His rescue inhaler, which had been in his pack, was handed back to him. For the first time in a while, he managed to form a coherent sentence: “I need to make a phone call.”

As he was shown to the booth, his worries swerved off in a whole new direction. Dammit, he still didn’t know Robin’s number. He could try calling the hotel, see if he could get a message to her, but…

His unsteady fingers dialled the one number that’d etched itself into his heart. He knew it was gonna go to that ‘answerphone full’ message.

Shit, you are not gonna cry, Harrington, or you’re gonna be eaten alive.

“Hello, this is Suzie.”

“Oh Jesus Christ!”

“No, I’m afraid I’m not Him. This is Suzie Henderson. To whom am I speaking?”

“It’s Steve.” He swiped his knuckles across his cheekbones. “I’m, uh… um… Eddie’s friend. Is he there?”

“No, we don’t know where he is. We’re really worried.” She sure sounded less chirpy than in her message. “I thought Dusty tried to call you back. Have you heard from Eddie?”

“N-no, no. Oh my God. Oh my God, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening.”

“You seem distressed, Steve. Can I help?”

What choice did he have? He poured out his story, including how Eddie gave him the guitar he was accused of fencing, right till the call randomly cut off.

…

In the interview room, a tired-looking cop dumped a worryingly thick file between them.

“It’s a simple question, kid. Tell us how you came into possession of Jimi Hendrix’s guitar, and we can cut you a deal. You sing sweet enough, you could skip all charges.”

Steve chewed his thumbnail, stared at the table: “I got it from a friend.”

“Listen to me. That guitar was stolen during an armed robbery at a house in Brentwood. You already got an arrest record. You don’t talk, you’re looking at some serious time behind bars.”

Steve gawked up at the interviewer, his thumb still half-caught in his mouth. He’d go to the prison for the guy he loved but…

This isn’t happening.

“Whoever you’re covering for, are they worth it? You scared they’re gonna come for you? We can put you in witness protection.”

Scared? Of Eddie? It was almost hilarious, and finally snapped Steve from his clammed-up funk. He giggled nervously.

“You think this is funny, kid? You can laugh your ass off in jail. You wanna recall your friend’s name for me now?”

“I… um…”

Eddie would want you to tell him, you idiot! He can probably help clear this mess up! There is also the teensy weensy possibility he’s skipped town, leaving you holding his seriously problematic baby…

“Look, I’m not exactly sure where he—“

The door flew wide and a young woman with fashionably frizzy hair and some serious shoulder-pad action stepped in. “Stop the interview. My name’s Nancy Wheeler. I’m Steve’s lawyer and I need a moment alone with my client.”

The interviewer looked mildly pissed then picked up his files and shuffled out.

Steve slumped back in his seat and blinked at his apparent saviour. Beneath the make-up and the power suit, she didn’t look much older than he was. She smiled tightly, pulled a chair around and sat down beside him.

“Woah, woah, woah.” Steve finally found his voice. “I don’t wanna sound ungrateful, but I can’t pay you anything."

“I’m not actually a lawyer,” she hissed, kinda apologetic. “I’m a trainee journalist. Friend of Suzie’s. She’s sort of into law as a hobby, and she’s clued me in on exactly what to say, so… sit tight, keep quiet. We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

…

Nancy did a lot of talking, and Steve eventually found himself leaving the precinct flanked by Nancy and Suzie. Suzie had brought her checkbook to pay Steve’s bail, though in the end, he hadn’t been charged.

He’d lost track of time during his ordeal, and it was past ten pm and dark outside. Before they reached the bottom of the precinct steps, a Volvo drew up, and its internal light switched on. A guy with curly hair and a ‘Vecna’s Doom Quest’ baseball cap wound down the window.

“Get in!” he yelled.

“Love you too, Dusty-bun.” Suzie headed around to the front passenger seat. 

Steve hesitated. “Uh, look, I appreciate the cavalry charge and all, but you’re, like, complete strangers.”

“Get in, Dingus!” Robin had rolled down the backseat window.

“What the heck are you doing here?” He climbed in, and she folded him into a clumsy hug. Nancy climbed in on his other side.

“Are you okay?” asked Robin.

“Jesus, what do you think? I got arrested, and.. I’m so confused.”

Robin launched her story, as Dustin drove off. When she’d discovered Steve AWOL, she’d freaked out. Then she’d called Dustin’s number, which she knew Steve had been trying all week. While garbling madly at each other, she’d learned from Dustin about Steve’s arrest. Dustin, meanwhile, gleaned that Robin had heard from co-workers that day about an incident at the hotel.

The same incident that Dustin, Suzie and Nancy had spent the last few days trying to get to the bottom of.

“What happened at the hotel?” asked Steve.

“We’re not entirely sure,” said Nancy. Steve wasn’t sure why they'd gotten a rookie journalist in tow. So much baffled him right now. “What we do know is that the police have charged Eddie with assault and battery. His disappearing act doesn’t exactly help his case.” 

“What? No way!” Steve couldn’t buy it. Eddie was one of the gentlest guys he’d ever known. Okay, there was that one time he busted his own knuckles, but…

"It's a pretty serious business," Robin was saying. "The only witness was Doreen. She swore that the so-called 'victim’”— Robin spluttered the word out like sour milk—“was blind drunk and walked into a pillar, but the police didn't buy it.”

“We’ve got to find Eddie before the cops do,” chipped in Dustin.

“Yeah, well, LAPD are the least of Eddie’s troubles,” snapped Robin. “I’m gonna gut him over this whole guitar business.”

Too fucking much.

After the rollercoaster of the past few hours, Steve felt basically punch-drunk. He groaned, rubbed his brow, then shaded his eyes from the dazzle of the streetlights. “Please just someone tell me you’ve got a clue where Eddie is.”

“It’s a work in progress,” said Suzie. “He never picked up his ride from the hotel. We’ve exhausted our leads locally, so we’re heading up to Oregon to see his uncle. Wayne won’t talk over the phone—”

“He won’t talk to us, period,” interjected Dustin. “But I think he knows something.”

“We’re going to Oregon?” Steve emerged from beneath his fingers. “Now? The cops told me to not leave town.”

“Dustin said he’d drop us home first,” said Robin. “I’d be delighted to wash my hands of Jon Bon Jovi’s evil stoner cousin for good.”

“He’s not evil.” Steve gave an enormous yawn, then zoned in on the one thing he knew for sure. “I need to find him. You go home, Robin. Fernando will scratch my eyes out if I spend another night on his couch.”

She bitched a bit more, including about how yuck and sweaty he was. Then she refused to leave him. He curled up against her—he couldn’t risk drooling on a complete stranger—and hunkered down for the long drive.

....

Part 13 on Ao3 Part 13 on tumblr

promise we’ll get back to Eddie in the next chapter. I needed to get a few more characters into play so we can finally get steddie on their path to healing and HEA… soon (ish!) 

Thank you for reading. Likes, reblogs and comments much appreciated and will feed the bunnies🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2 Part 5.1 Part 5.2 Part 6.1 Part 6.2 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 or search #thefreakinthepenthouse :)

On AO3 All my ST stuff on AO3

[udretlnea]

The Divine City: Some Slices of Life

Part 1 \ Part 2 \ Part 3 \ Part 4 (here) \ Recap

“People without firmness of character love to make up a fate for themselves; that relieves them of the necessity of having their own will and of taking responsibility for themselves.”

Ivan Turgenev

The best time to wake up is when the sunlight is pouring through the window after having a pleasant dream about flying through the sky. It’s even better after falling asleep while reading the most fantastic book; the image of the protagonist sitting down with friends enjoying a pleasant meal after a hard day’s work leaves a sense of warmth in one’s chest.

It’s because of this fact that Lyla sleepily opened her eyes as she slowly awoke. She sits up to stretch her arms and then lets out a small yawn.

Mm, that was a good sleep. What time is it even? She thinks while glancing at the clock, only for her jaw to drop. “Oh SHOOT. How is it nearly noon already?!”

Indeed. It was 11:59 am. 

With that thought, the teen practically jumped out of bed and into a closet. In thirty seconds she changed out of her comfortable wear and into something suited for an outing. Lyla took a moment to comb her fingers through her blue hair until it was straightened out - ignoring any stray strands of course. 

Grabbing a Sunsettia from a fruit bowl she left on the table - fruit bowls were a nice thing to have - Lyla exited her dorm, taking extra care to lock it and making sure it was locked.

Then she headed out for a late start to her day.

People happily go about their business through the commerce district, the sounds of merchants selling their wares, and the muted excitement for Volksfest. Everything was lively.

Yet Lyla blocked it all out. To her, the extra stimuli would overwhelm her so she took care to set up her mental defenses lest she be overwhelmed. All of this just reminded her of how loud everything was at school. 

Lyla made a disgruntled noise as she passed by a particularly loud group of students. Maybe I should create an accident to make them quiet.

The bluenette rounded a corner and somewhat relaxed. In front of her some distance away was a building with the symbol of an open book attached to the front. Her destination was near.

Lyla paused just before the door. She exhaled a deep breath before putting a hand on the knob. Lyla turned it-

*Ding-ding*

-and entered. Her senses were assaulted by the suddenness of warmth and the scent of fresh paper. She allowed the door to close itself to stand there. Lyla shut her eyes to take it all in. 

At that moment, the noises from outside became muted. Her muscles relaxed themselves as she let herself be taken away to a happy place. Lyla could feel her lips curl into a smile. Soon enough she could feel a zen aura wrap around her. 

There, now we can begin. Lyla began making her way down the aisles of bookshelves. Allowing her senses to guide her, the bluenette looked left and right in search of any title that would catch her eye. Let me see, what am I in the mood for today? Guide me, gut instincts.

The student began taking her sweet time by reading the first chapter of any book that even vaguely interested her. She picked and read book after book, a few were tucked under her arm for purchase; time passed quickly as Lyla went through several aisles.

Lyla went through seven aisles when she had reached the end of the eighth. It was there that she noticed a book with a bright red material in the corner. The letters on the spine shone like gold. 

“Hmm, what’s this?” Lyla took the hard book and examined the cover. She read the title. “The Dark Soul of Tokoyo Still Stands by Taro Tanaka.” Sounds a bit odd for a light novel, but it does tickle my fancy.

She read the first chapter and was pleasantly surprised by what she read. The hook did its job well enough that she made it to the second and third chapter.  Pleased, the student tucked the book under her arm then turned to make her way to the counter.

A man with fair skin, short light brown hair and dark brown eyes sat at the checkout. He was in the middle of sipping a small cup of coffee when he noticed Lyla approaching. 

The bookstore owner - Gael no last name - was an interesting person. After asking him about his past one day, she learned that he’d moved from Mondstadt to the Divine City fifteen years ago. Having such a rich book collection, he decided to make a business selling all of them.

To give away all of this knowledge to the public for them to enjoy and learn instead of letting them rot away, I hope I’ll be as selfless as Mr. Gael one day, she thought as she put the books on the counter.

“Well well! The little bluebird hast returnst to mine humble bookstore,” he said with a smile.

Lyla raised a mocking eyebrow. “Are you speaking archaically Mr. Gael?”

He grinned. “Aye! I’m stuck behind the counter practically every day! I think I’m allowed to have some fun every now and then, hm? Spice things up and all that?”

“Sure if you’re having fun with it, then who am I to judge?” she smirked. 

Mr. Gael chuckled. It was bright and cheerful to her ears. He started going over the books she brought with her. His gaze then landed on the one with the red and gold covering. “Oh? You’re buying this one too? Interesting. I thought I’d never see the day.”

Lyla tilted her head bemusedly. “Why’s that? Is the cover not interesting enough?”

Gael shook his head as he put the book inside a bag with the others.  “That, along with how I got some comments saying the subject was odd. Like it couldn’t decide between gothic dark fantasy or medieval comedy.”

The bookstore owner shrugged and handed out the bag. Lyla thanked and paid for them, already going back into automatic mode. 

What a delightfully productive day. Though, I could’ve sworn it should still be day. Is the sun already setting? She looked up to see the sky already a mixture of orange and blue; she noticed a lone cloud floating lazily in the sky. Odd. That cloud shouldn’t be there. It should be…huh.

Her gut instinct roiled within her as if telling her something was off. Lyla squinted her eyes at it, trying to wrap the image around her head. Distantly, she heard a muffled voice grow louder. It sounded almost familiar. 

That’s weird. That cloud doesn’t look like it’s moving. 

“...a!”

But that hardly makes any sense. The wind should’ve blown it away.

“...yla!”

But then, how-

“Lyla!”

The bluenette student jumped at the loud noise and threw her hands in the air. Unfortunately that also meant her books were airborne; a second later gravity took hold and they started falling. Lyla held her arms out to swiftly catch two just in time. The third - the one with the red cover - slipped through the gap in her arms and was about to hit the ground.

Only for a hand to shoot out and grab it at the last second. Lyla’s eyes trailed up the arm until she was staring at a face she’d seen before. 

Cecilia straightened up and held out the book. “Here.”

“Thank-thank you, Cecila.” Lyla took the book gratefully. “It’s nice to see you again Cici, but I’m-I’m afraid I need to get back to my dorm soon!”

She was about to leave when Cecilia put a hand on her shoulder. 

“Wait.” Lyla turned around. “I…I want to cash in on that favor you owe me.”

Lyla’s eyebrows widened. She opened her mouth, but Cecilia wasn’t done. “Not right now though. I want you to meet up tomorrow morning at that cafe by Timeless Treasure. I promise to explain things there.”

“Uh…” Lyla pressed her mouth into a thin line. I don’t…ugh. Fine. “Sure thing.”

Cecilia gave a nod before turning around and walking out of sight. 

Lyla did the same, grumbling to herself about how eager she was to put the day’s events behind her.

And like that, night fell over the Divine City with promises that tomorrow will be exciting.

////////////////////////////////

A/N:

Taglist: @yuriisclumsy

(Reminder: This series was inspired by the Divine City by @yuriisclumsy)

Ta-da! Introducing Lyla aka that one student in class who’d rather escape into books than interact with reality! Ideally, it was best not to write her as a sole loner; as a teen, she does want to make friends, but it’s secondary to her. I hope I could portray her as - not nerdy what’s the word for it - introverted (Hm, I’d love to explore her hidden backbone though).

Also, surprise! Lyla has a friend/classmate in Cecilia. I plan to explore their relationship after this project once stuff hits the fan. And yes, this is the “who” Cici alluded to near the end of her chapter. A part of me thought the execution was weak, but personally I believe it’s more than sufficient. It definitely isn’t too soon to use that card, not with what I’ve planned.

Regarding the plot point of Lyla being a student therefore supposed to be in-class…I chose to go another route: namely, she doesn’t have classes on Friday and neither does Cecilia (in my notes they both go to Voxia Academy and ONLY that academy. They ain’t studying to be Upholders.) That would then leave her open on the weekends for Cecilia to execute her plan without trouble.

Mr. Gael. You definitely won’t be seeing him anymore. Nope, just a one-off character who has completed his purpose of introducing Lyla’s love for books. Yup.

BTW FYI in case it wasn’t clear, the four chapters take place on the same day: August 2nd. Sure, we see different perspectives throughout the times, but it’s still the same day.

Hmm, having to clarify this in the notes feels cumbersome. I should just write this into a recap chapter - WAIT OH MY GOSH THAT’S why recap episodes/chapters exist! For convenience! Mm! Practical. I should write that after this one. And then a break would be in order I think (I deserve one at this point, don’t I?).

I needed to make sure everything was figuratively wrapped in a nice bow. The set-up is now done, and all left is initiating the conflict. If you have any critiques, comments, or observations please don’t be afraid to leave any! Please!

[skzloversblogsposts]

Eat well and live well [l.f][a][f] TW MENTIONS OF STRUGGLING WITH FOOD ETC

TW: mentions of struggling with food and eating , reader suffers and goes through body image issues as well as coping with them ( destructive behaviours) bigger reader

An: I think it’s important that we all sit back every now and again and tell ourselves that we’re beautiful inside and out , it’s so easy to get caught up in life and forget to value ourselves and ultimately ending up being overly critical so if you haven’t told yourself that you’re beautiful or you haven’t heard it yet , take it from me you’re absolutely gorgeous, stunning and please never doubt it 💕

“ no no you can’t eat that think of how awful it would make you look “ “dont you even think about eating anything now you at a few hours ago””if you just lost a few pounds you’d have guys lining up at your door “” it’s not a big deal I’m just being honest with you , you’ve gained a few “

The water in the pot placed on the stove boiled , its savoury flavoured broth causing the room to be enveloped in its scent . You watched as the bubbles rose and fell patiently waiting to pop your cluster of noodles in to the hot water. The weather was cold , the sky hung gray and the windows steaming up from the indoor heating blocking out the cold . Winter was your favourite always had been . From the fallen leaves covering the sidewalks in an array of what was once greenand lush now brown and dried to the icy wind nipping at you cheeks gracing them in a crimson hue , it all felt so comforting but the best will always be the warm baggy clothing , concealing all your flaws trapping you in a sheet of unexposure shielding your body from the harsh words of those around you .

Growing up bigger than others is never easy , constantly being on a diet , restricting foods you love and having to wear certain clothes as a child is enough to leave any kid confused but having to carry those same insecurities and rituals into adult hood seems almost foolish , but here you stand infront of the stove in deep though of whether you should eat the bowl of noodles or not . You sigh grabbing the pot and chucking the soupy liquid down the drain.

Your shoes hit harshly against the pavement as you ran , late for your only chance to catch a bus to work , the commute being longer making it harder for you to walk there . Arriving at the bus stop you crouched down your head pounding and your heart laboring in your chest as the dizziness hit you in waves leaving you unsteady on the side walk panting in heaves . Your body rocked forward slightly startled by the warm hand pressed against your lower back , you blinked haphazardly trying to vanquish the fuzzy shapes that appeared to cloud your eyesight “are you alright ?” He spoke his low voice soft and welcoming as he gently rubbed circles on your back . Your breathing uneven as you stood up , a sheen of sweat covering your worn out body as you took in his appearance , he smiled sweetly urging you to respond “ I’m okay thank you for asking” you said . His eyes widened as he looked at his hand pressed so lovingly to yourside soothing the exhaustion your body expelled “ sorry ,” he chuckled removing its warmth “ you don’t look too good… are you sure you’re alright?” He asked his voice filled with concern noticing your frail trembling hand filling with the hem of your scarf . You nodded casting your gaze away from him and onto your approaching bus .

You stared into the mirror your face paler than it usual your eyes bloodshot and sunken making you appear sick , you weren’t sick , hungry , tried , nauseated and a little hot but sick wasn’t the right word , you just had to hold out a little longer and maybe you’d feel better , you splashed water on your face the droplets easing the heat you felt as you continued on with your day .

The streets never failed you when it came to good food it’s vicinity coated in vendors selling delicious items filling the air with its lovely scent inviting customer and peaking people’s hunger . Your mother never bothered to listen to your requests , as you pulled on her sleeve “ can we get this please it looks yummy “ your younger self expressed pointing to the saucy skewers laden with meat and veggies , she sighed “ you’re not eating anything , you had so much already what are you trying to get bigger? Isn’t it embarrassing enough to have you look the way you do now ? “ she spat .

You clutched onto the strap of your bag as you walked through the smells of the various items awakening your already hungry tummy and churning your nausea. Your eyes stayed steadfast on the ground as you walked past everything determined to get home to the solitude of your confinement where you could be left alone without any distractions . Your head met with the chest of another as he gently grasped your shoulder halting your movement ending the collision between you two , he smiled your eyes narrowed in on him recognizing his features “you’re the girl from this morning right , wow ! what a coincidence!” His eyes crinkled warm laugh filling his chest , you smiled politely watching as he placed a polystyrene container infront of you “ I just got these they’re fresh off the grill we could share them , I mean I did bump into you it would be a shame not to indulge in this coincidence “ he smiled showing off the skewers the meat and vegetables coated in a moutheatering sauce .

Felix sat you down on the bench after introducing himself , the river I front covered in a warm light from the tiny sail boats as he spoke about where he’s from and what he does for a living and occasionally humming as you spoke about yourself, your tummy rumbled filling the comfortable silence you had now created with the stranger you had met “ you haven’t had any” he said gesturing to the food you two promised to share “oh I’m not hungry “ you said smiling at the end “ you sure ..?” Felix spoke noting your rumbling tummy “uh huh I ate a while ago “ you said your lie leaving a bitter after taste in your mouth causing the guilt to wash over you , Felix was a complete stranger you shouldn’t feel guilty about lying to him especially over something so trivial. Maybe it was because he felt so comforting and warm easing your worries with his words or maybe you felt like you were betraying yourself , depriving yourself of your basic needs neglecting any self awareness you had.

Felix who was once a stranger , coursing you out of a dizzy spell now three months later sat on the carpet of your apartment , pizza box placed on the table while you retrieved plates from your kitchen making it a point to drink a glass or two of water before , he smiled cracking open a can of soda as you placed the plates down steadying your legs as you sat down next to him placing too much of pressure on your wrists causing you to wince “ are you okay? Did you get hurt ?“ Felix asked jumping ever so slightly to examine you “no no no I’m alright “ you said “ just a little cramp “ your words leaving your mouth as you pressed on your wrist interchangeably hoping to ease the pain that the tired sore muscles were feeling . Felix nodded seemingly understanding as he opened the pizza box , the smell of cheese and pepperoni filling your apartment , Felix placed a slice in your plate and one in his , eyes fixating on the movie you bother agreed to watch . You looked down at the triangle placed so perfectly on your plate . It’s grease rising through the cheese coating it in a delicious sheen as you moved it about the plate avoiding picking it up .

Felix sighed half way through the movie and turning to face you “yn..” he spoke his voice low as his gaze slowly shifted to yours “ why aren’t you eating ..? “ his curious eyes searching yours for an explanation as you placed the plate on the table “ I’m just not hungry that’s all “ your words untrue , Felix knew they weren’t true , he knew that all too well “ you’re not hungry?” He spoke “ did you eat something before? “ he asked . Your mouth ran dry as you looked at him his face stoic as he asked you questions which seems so simple to answer but carried enormous weight “ I had something a while ago” you lied “what did you have ?“ he asked “ uhm- I -uhm it was a uhm …“ your words trembling unable to form a sentence

“ the truth please “ Felix spoke his gaze softening at your unsteady voice “ I don’t remember “ your voice thick with disappointment “what do you mean you don’t remember?” Felix asked gently taking your hand in his “I don’t remember because I haven’t really eaten anything” it was simple really , the truth but why did you feel so ashamed , so guilty watching Felix’s facial expression fall as he grasped your hand tighter “ I know that feeling all too well yn “ his word soft “ I’ve noticed don’t think I haven’t , I’ve noticed the way your eyes dull at the mentions of food

Or how your hands shake slightly over the dishes placed so perfectly infront of you or how you discard your leftovers claiming to be full as you throw away a full plates of food “ he shuffled closer to you gently tilting your chin up to meet him “ I know why you’re doing this I’ve been there too, too many times to count , too many times to ask for help , I know what it’s like and I know it’s hard but I can’t stand back and watch you do this to yourself , watch you destroy the beautiful person I met “ his hand cupped your cheek “ the person who’s so perfect in every way possible that it pains me to think about how you don’t see it “ your eyes prickled with tears “ I know what a battle it is and I know how you’ve been silently fighting it , fighting yourself but please don’t do this to yourself it’s not worth the trouble , I want you to be happy , to be healthy , to eat well and to live well too even if it means I have to get you the help you deserve I’m willing to do so “ he spoke “ I’m willing to risk it all for you ..for us ..” he mumbled watching as your eyes sparkled with tears slowly trickling down onto his hands , your salty wetness streaking down earning a kiss to your cheek

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted in every way possible , please don’t ever let anything make you feel otherwise you’re beautiful ..”

[gtunesmiff]

7 Things That Will Doom Your Novel (& How to Avoid Them)

You can doom your debut novel from the start with these 7 (tongue-in-cheek) strategies for flailing, and failing—or, you can do just the opposite.

There are a lot of ways not to do something. Like the new boat owner a few years ago who was filling up his pleasure craft with fuel for that first time out. Only he mistook the tube meant to hold fishing poles for the gas tank. After completing his work he started up the engine.

The gas fumes ignited and blew the boat owner into the sky. He came down in the drink and was rescued, but the boat was a goner.

You can be just as creative in finding ways not to write your novel. With a little thought and not much effort, you can easily devise methods to prevent yourself from actually finishing a book—or finishing a book that has a chance to sell.

So if not finishing or not selling are your goals, I’m here to help you with the following seven tips:

1. Wait for inspiration.

Go to your favorite writing spot with your laptop or pad. Perhaps your location of choice is a Starbucks. Sit down with a cup of coffee and hold it with both hands. Sip it slowly. Do not put your fingers anywhere near the keyboard. Glance out a window if one is available. Wait for a skein of geese flying in V formation. If no window is available, simply observe the other patrons and make sure they can see your expression of other-worldly concentration.

You are waiting for inspiration. It must come from on high and fill you like fire.

Until then, do not write a word. If you’re tempted to start working without it, open up Spider Solitaire immediately. Tell yourself this will relax your mind so inspiration can pour in.

Of course, those who think it wise to finish their novels do things backwards. They don’t wait for inspiration. They go after it, as Jack London said he did, “with a club.” They follow the advice of Peter De Vries, who said, “I write when I’m inspired, and I see to it that I’m inspired at nine o’clock every morning.”

These poor souls think the secret to writing a novel is to write, and work through minor problems quickly, and major ones after the first draft is done.

They do things like this:

Establish a writing quota. The quota is based not on how much time they spend thinking about writing, but on how many words they get down. Some do a daily quota, others do it by the week. But they figure out what they can comfortably get done and set a quota about 10 percent above that as a goal.

Review the previous day’s writing and move on. By looking at what they wrote the day before, they get back into the flow of their story. They fix little things, spelling and style mostly, but then get on with the day’s work.

And one day they look up and see a finished manuscript. They have lost sight of how not to write a novel.

2. Look over your shoulder.

The great pitcher Satchel Paige said, “Don’t look back. Something may be gaining on you.”

It’s good life advice, but in order to not write your novel, you must ignore it.

To not write your novel, constantly worry about how bad your book might turn out to be. Pause every thousand words or so and think, This is about the worst piece of crud known to man. Where did I put the bourbon?

This is sometimes known as the “inner critic,” and he’s your best friend.

If you think about those doubts long enough, you can even develop them into fears. Jack Bickham, a novelist who was even better known for his books on the craft, put it this way:

“All of us are scared: of looking dumb, of running out of ideas, of never selling our copy, of not getting noticed. We fiction writers make a business of being scared, and not just of looking dumb. Some of these fears may never go away, and we may just have to learn to live with them.”

Of course, some writers learn not only to live with doubt and fear, but to defeat them. How do they do that? I shouldn’t tell you, because it’s counterproductive to not writing your novel. But mostly they simply pound away at the keyboard.

They concentrate on the words in front of them and kick that inner critic to the curb.

They train themselves to do this via writing exercises, such as:

The Five-Minute Nonstop. Write for five minutes, first thing in the morning if possible, without stopping to think about what you’re writing. No correcting. Just write.

The Page-Long Sentence. Choose something to describe (a room or a character) and write a page-long sentence about it, not pausing to edit and instead going on whatever tangents present themselves.

The List Maker. Whenever you’re stuck for an idea to pursue, make a list. Brainstorm ideas without assessing them. Turn off your filter. Get lots of ideas, then pick the best one.

Writers who have dulled the inner critic don’t worry about getting the words right. The only thing they worry about is getting the words written.

They really have not got this not writing a novel thing down at all.

3. Ignore the craft.

This piece of advice on how to not write a novel applies whether you finish your first draft or not. It’s the cry of the artistic rebel who will go to the grave denouncing rules and techniques and anything that gets within a hundred yards of structure.

This does create a very good feeling, like you’re the king of the world. You can completely ignore all of the storytellers who came before you (be sure to call them hacks or sellouts). The fact that you’ll most likely not place your book anywhere shouldn’t hinder you from your intractable writing course.

The misdirected scribes who actually sell their books and build readerships take the craft of writing seriously. They study it without apology. They have people give them feedback—editors, critique groups, trusted and objective friends—and they read countless novels and examine what’s going on. They’ll do the following:

Analyze successful stories. They ask questions when reading and use their findings to help strengthen their work. For example:

How does the writer make me want to turn the page?

Why am I drawn to the lead character?

When are the stakes raised?

How does the writer integrate minor characters?

What makes a scene work?

What’s the key to conflict?

How does the writer handle dialogue?

These studious writers will be spotted reading Writer’s Digest and books on writing. What they learn they apply and practice, and through the wonder of trial and error find themselves growing as writers.

But this is an article on how not to write a novel, so follow their example at your peril.

4. Keep a chip on your shoulder.

Here’s a surefire way not only to create a novel not worth reading, but scuttle your career as well. Decide that arrogance and defiance are your two weapons of choice to bulldog your way to publication.

When you have a manuscript rejected, treat it as a personal insult. Think of editors and agents as nasty creatures who love saying no, who sit at their computers laughing Bwahahahahaha as they fire off their favorite thing: the impersonal form letter.

You can carry all this to your social media sites and publicly rebuke such shortsightedness. By name.

Those who do break through and obtain a career have the crazy idea that they can recover—even learn—from rejection and use it as motivation to write better.

They foolishly remember the admonition of writer Ron Goulart: “Never assume that a rejection of your stuff is also a rejection of you as a person. Unless it’s accompanied by a punch in the nose.”

Yes, they recognize that rejection hurts. But they believe it’s part of the process and always will be. Writers like this do the following:

Wallow, then write. They let the rejection hurt for half an hour or so, then get back to the keyboard.

Learn from the critique. They go through the letter and their manuscript and attempt to draw out any lesson the rejection brings. They understand that people in the publishing industry actually want to find new authors.

Of course, these are terrible tips for not writing a novel!

5. Write for the market only.

Now let’s talk about one of the biggest keys to a novel that really has no chance. Start by chasing the market. Study the bestseller lists and try to identify a trend and jump on it.

There’s a saying in publishing that the moment you spot a trend, it’s too late to join it. By the time you finish writing something you think will be popular because it’s popular now, that ship will have largely sailed.

Ignore that saying, or you may end up with something agents and editors look for: a fresh voice.

Such writers are market conscious. They know that publishers are in this business to make money, a return on their investment in a new writer.

But they still manage to bring something new to the table, namely their own heart and passion filtered through a craft that enables readers to share their vision.

Yes, vision. Any genre needs it. As super agent Donald Maass says in The Fire in Fiction: “What the hell are you trying to say to me?”

Writers with fresh voices:

Explore all facets of a story. They concentrate on feeling the story as well as writing it.

Read a wide variety of material. These writers read outside their genre—even poetry!—not to find out what’s hot, but to expand their stylistic range.

But just beware that if you do find your voice, that means you’re not not writing your novel.

6. Take as many shortcuts as possible.

With the boom in e-books and the ease with which anything can be “published,” writers have a new way not to write a novel that might be worth reading. It’s by holding the thought firmly in mind that whatever they write is worth putting out as a self-released e-book, and they will do it no matter what!

This relieves a lot of the pressure of trying to grow as a writer. One can combine this with the chip-on-your-shoulder attitude for a terrific double whammy.

Of course, other writers—those who are laying a strong foundation in the nontraditional realm of digital and independent publishing—foolishly continue to find surefire ways to vet their work:

They will use test readers. They don’t trust themselves in all ways. They know they need objective readers, so they cultivate people they trust to tell them specifically what’s not working. Then they’ll figure out a way to fix it.

They will hire a good freelance editor. They know that the big benefit of a traditional publisher is professional editing, so it’s worth it to them to find a reputable freelance editor to go over their work. Note the word reputable. There are less-than-savory services out there that will gladly take a writer’s money for very little quality work. (And if you’re trying to not write a novel that’s publishable, you should probably use them!)

7. Quit.

If all else succeeds and you’re still intent on not finishing your novel, you have a surefire fallback: Stop writing.

Forget the examples of those who persevered and eventually found an agent or got published. Like Kathryn Stockett. She wrote and edited The Help over a five-year period, then got three-and-a-half years’ worth of rejections from agents—60 in all. It was agent 61 who took her on, and the rest you know well.

Published authors will tell you it’s all about perseverance, the one characteristic all successful writers share. They’ll tell you as long as you’ve got a computer and keyboard, or pen and paper, you can write. And as long as you write you have a chance to get published.

Author David Eddings said, “Keep working. Keep trying. Keep believing. You still might not make it, but at least you gave it your best shot. If you don’t have calluses on your soul, writing isn’t for you. Take up knitting instead.” 

With several bestselling series under his belt, he definitely wasn’t very good at not writing novels.

… Wait. What’s that? You actually want to write a novel? Well, I’m not the writing sheriff. The choice is yours.

~ James Scott Bell || Writers Digest || 4/29/2016

[rabbitenn]

i just had a thought that i knew you’d do justice. trigger in a royalty au?? like would it be an arranged marriage? child hood friends? rival kingdoms?? i just think your writing style is perfect for this. it’s up to you if you wanna do headcanons or a paragraph. i just really like how you protray these characters.

remember to rest, eat, hydrate, and take breaks :D

REGALITY.

No crown could burden you and no army could ever dream of keeping you apart from him. In every version of reality, you both know it’s together, til the end.

ft. Yaotome Gaku, Kujo Tenn, Ryunosuke Tsunashi x gn! reader.

cw/genre: royalty au, romance, fluff, some mild angst. Reader is implied to wear a dress in Gaku’s and Ryu’s.

hello, dear and a thousand thanks for this request ! I love royalty and fantasy aus and you asked it for my favorite group too <3 also, thank you for trusting me with this idea, I hope you will like how I executed it, even though I’m very late to posting it.

♡ YAOTOME GAKU

— Arranged marriage ‧₊˚ ⋅

“Be more selfish. You can show me your emotions and allow yourself to depend on me.”

Tonight, millions of stars accompany you as you make your way through the palace’s halls.

Countless silver pinpricks, filtering in dancing glimmer through the floor to ceiling windows.

And yet, you feel lonely.

The rustle of the gray silken curtains aflutter on the nocturnal ambiance is the only sound breaking the complete silence.

Anyone should be happy on such an occasion as today’s, right?

You got to wear a beautiful dress, everyone smiled and tender vows were exchanged.

Not to mention, your last name now was that of one of the richest lords in town, soon to take over his father’s rule.

Handsome and desired by everyone in the kingdom. And still, something in the sharpness of his gaze makes you keep to yourself.

Yaotome Gaku.

You would have never imagined you’d end up marrying him.

Not that you had any say in the matter, of course. Your family had essentially succeeded in selling you off and increasing their social status.

You let out a sigh, fiddling with the silver band now adorning your ring finger. The moon reflects on it, a cruel reminder of the shackles bestowed upon you.

You take a break, sitting on the stone windowsill.

Your mind wanders off into the night. It would be nice, to be a star. So free, you against an endless sky.

The celestial seems to absorb you, your thoughts leaving the real world if only for a second, a sort of black hole, so far away and so close at the same time, sucking you in when your fingertips graze against the great unknown on the other side.

You don’t notice the footsteps approaching in that instant.

“It is late. You shouldn’t be here.” A deep voice pulls you out of your trance.

You start, eyes widening when they meet steel hued ones.

Against your better judgment, you stand up, taking a step backwards.

Why do you react like this?

There is no denying the man before you looks absolutely stunning.

Is absolutely stunning.

His liquid moonlight gaze seems to pierce through you, tendrils of argent clouds falling over them in the slight curl of his hair. Lost stars kiss his pale complexion, the penumbra of the palace at night embracing the other half.

“Yaotome-sama!” You exclaim, bowing briefly.

A shadow of hurt passes over his handsome features, his eyes, downturned, averted to the side.

“Please, just call me Gaku.” He asks of you, tone bordering on pleading.

“Alright. Gaku…” You trail off nodding.

He seems somewhat… flustered? Maybe it’s the late hour, but his harsh features just fade into something gentle with a tinge of fierceness.

In that moment, you wish you had met under different circumstances, instead of just through political and economical interests.

“[Y/n]…” Your husband begins. You don’t dislike at all the sound of your name when he says it. “I know you didn’t choose this, and I’m sorry we had to meet like this…” His expression softens. “But you can tell me about your worries and thoughts weighing on your mind.” Gaku’s eyes fixate on you, the rest of the universe silent and invisible to him right now. “If I can’t be the lover you dreamt of, I will at least do what I can to make you feel comfortable and safe.” A demure smile reaches his lips. “So, it’s okay if you’re selfish.”

You stare at him a little dumbfounded, the daze of his charming presence and the care he’s putting into his words, rendering your heart into a frenzied dance.

The next time Gaku takes a step in your direction, you don’t retreat.

♡ KUJO TENN

— The bandit and the prince ‧₊˚ ⋅

“Catch me if you can, mister Kujo.”

Giggles leave your throat as you run through the ivy maze.

You try to stifle them, this moment of borrowed time, too precious for its bubble bathed in auroras to pop.

Upwards, the sky dyes in shades of cherry blossom and tangerine, periwinkle clouds giving way to an horizon lined in citrine.

Your breathing grows shallow, as you take a left turn between the shiny verdant leaves.

Behind you, light steps follow.

And despite the dead end standing in front of you in the form of a wall of greenery speckled in the pink of hyacinth blossoms, a smirk plays on your lips.

You stand there, resigning to your inevitable fate, eyes closed, taking in the scent of azaleas, singing of secret nights, passion filled.

The taste of sweet daybreak coats your tongue; a shared interlude of curtains falling over the stage for last night’s dreams, a preamble to the wait for the hours before the dawn to come again.

A gentle aroma of strawberries and cinnamon suddenly dances around you, as if clapping for your heart to spread its butterfly wings to its tune.

“Checkmate.” A cheeky voice whispers, his soft lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Turning around, your lashes flutter open, your prosecutor’s arms already around you.

“Heh, it seems you caught me, your highness.” You tease, leveling him with a bold gaze.

“It wouldn’t be the first time now, would it?” The prince winks, his hold on your waist tightening. “And it’s Tenn to you.” He utters, voice barely above a whisper, as his forehead touches yours.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“I know that, just teasing you.” You giggle, your grin widening. “So, you still remember? When you failed to capture me the first time?” Your gaze flits to his lips. “Is that why we’re playing now, so you can finally catch me, Tenn-Tenn?”

Of course he remembers. How could he not recall the moment he met the one who gifts him moments of freedom like this?

—

“And what, may I ask, does a sneaky fox like you happen to be doing in my chambers?”

A curse leaves your lips through gritted teeth. The crown prince was not supposed to come back so soon. Wasn’t he at some gala tonight? Did you miscalculate?

“What? Didn’t expect me to come back so soon?” He chuckles. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

What would be your chances of winning in a fight against him? You’ve got your daggers…

You notice the thin sword hanging at his hip from the corner of your eye.

You could potentially have an advantage in close quarters…

It’s not like you want to hurt him, just… maybe knock him out as you take what you need for you to be able to buy a ration of food.

You run for it.

But before you know it, the prince’s sword grazes the side of your neck, the cool metal a threat enough to draw blood at the minimum movement.

Your daggers freeze mid-air, your hood falling, revealing your identity.

You let out a ‘tsk’. This is troublesome.

You lower your weapons.

Tenn retracts his sword.

Rosy eyes scan over the person standing before him. Dark shadows gather under their eyes, as if sleep or food were a rare luxury for them. Their face is gaunt, lips parched. Ragged clothes sway around the thief, several stains coating them.

And yet, the prince doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone as beautiful.

The fire in the burglar’s stare burns intensely, a thundering blaze, tearing down whatever they have to in order to survive.

“And what, pray tell, do you need all of these gold and jewels for?” You spat, tone clipped.

The man lowers his blade, his eyes never once leaving you.

“I don’t.” He states. He reaches up, unclasping one of his earrings.

Extending a gloved hand towards you, he says:

“Take it.”

You scoff.

“I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not like that. You probably risked a lot just to sneak in here, didn’t you? It would be a waste to leave empty-handed. So take this.” The prince gently removes one of your blades from your tight grip, putting the jewelry in your palm. “Sell it for a good price. Get enough food to last you for a while. Please.”

You seem to hesitate for an instant, but then your fingers close around the accessory.

Without another word, you step into the room’s balcony and disappear into the night.

Tenn follows after the trail of your ripped crimson cape.

By the time he reaches the veranda, there is no trace of you.

That night, he leaves the gallery’s glass doors open.

Just in case you wanted to come back for the blade you left behind.

A few nights later, that’s exactly what you would do.

—

One of Tenn’s hands comes up to cup your jaw, fingertips brushing against the pointy earring dangling from your lobe.

Identical to the one he always wears.

The exact one he gave you that night.

The impending cyan of the morning unfurling above augurs the nearing of your departure.

Neither of you want for your hidden romance painted in soft shades of watercolor to come to a close.

Your prince’s eyes soften, its quartz shade, the fleeting memory of early sunsets over the castle’s gardens.

‘Please, don’t go’ is spelled in the last rays of the crescent dipping behind the distant mountains reflected in Tenn’s gaze.

His thumb brushes over your lower lip, your breath at a standstill as you are put under spell by Tenn’s angelic aura. So warm, so perfect… A safe haven.

You turn around your face slightly, leaving a delicate kiss to his bare palm.

Then, with one last squeeze to Tenn’s hand, you step away.

“Meet me at midnight again.” Your lover whispers, as his hands leave your face.

You decide to relish for a second more in this forbidden moment. You linger closer to him, a fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth, before disappearing between frondous greenery.

Tenn stands there, a soft smile on his features as the sensation of your kiss tingles on his skin.

The promise of your return is sealed with the ripple of the pink astilbe petals surrounding the prince.

Dusk can't come soon enough.

♡ TSUNASHI RYONUSKE

— Knight and prince(ss) running away together ‧₊˚ ⋅

“I decided I wanted to enter that light, and at the edge of it, I found you.”

Beams of light threaded in gilded sparkles filtered through the library’s windows. The afternoon was in its prime and yet, you found yourself cooped up inside an empty room.

The rows upon rows of books felt more like the bars of a tightening prison, the book you were copying from, iron shackles tying your feet to the cold grey ground.

You sighed. It was unfair. For your life to be decided like this, just because one day you’re to rule this kingdom.

You didn’t want this. You never asked for the weight of the crown.

The day outside shined in blues and golds and yet, you were trapped here.

You couldn’t stand it anymore. You closed your book, making your way to the huge window.

Standing on your tiptoes, you fumbled with the handle and got it open.

A gust of summer air wafted around you, filling your lungs with all the colors of summer.

You wanted to go play outside like the other children did.

Eight was too young an age to be subjected to the heaviness of endless study days.

Leaning on the windowsill, something caught your eye.

A boy about your age swinging a wooden sword, his body moving with agility as he practised how to avoid enemy strikes.

Maybe he was a knight in training. And right now, you think you’d rather take on a bloody battlefield than spend a minute more learning about centuries old history you couldn’t care less about.

So, using a chair, you climbed up on the windowsill, jumping down the couple of feet separating you from the green grass beyond.

With quiet steps, you approached the boy.

His expression was determined but gentle, his eyes reminiscent of the sunlight you yearned for. Tufts of brown hair swing in the hot air as he gracefully moves with his sword.

Then he stops.

“Y-your highness!” He stammered, bowing down.

Your cheeks heated up, hurt crossing your features in the way you avert your gaze.

“Just [Y/n], please.” You asked. “What are you doing? It seems fun. Can I try too?” You inquired, curiously tilting your head.

He swallowed. “But I will become a knight… I’m supposed to protect you in the future…”

“Please?” You pouted, hands clasped in front of you. “I’m tired of being inside studying…”

With fearful eyes darting from side to side of the courtyard, the boy made sure no onlookers were present.

His hands brushed against yours when he handed you the practise sword.

You held it, it was light, dull, but enough to cut a pocket of freedom in the monotony of your upbringing.

“What’s your name, by the way?” You questioned.

“Ryunouske.” He answered shyly.

With a last smile his way, you began imitating his previous movements, dancing in tune with the doves soaring high in the radiant sky.

Years later, you would know that would be the beginning of your story together.

—

Weaves lap against the sandy coast, early evening bringing with her a sea of aureate copper and indigo. Foamy water gently caresses your feet, your prints in the sand coming and going with each wave.

On the dry sand, a set of armor, a pair of heeled shoes and an intricate dress lie.

Here, it was just you and him.

“Ryu,” You call him, your hand squeezing his calloused one. You stop walking for a moment, indulging yourself a little on the sight of him against the brightness of the soon to set sun.

A smile find its way to your lips, your lover’s toned chest visible through his open shirt.

“Isn’t this nice?” You say, directing your gaze towards the horizon, a few stray seagulls shadowed against the peachy heavens. “Just us, in this magical quiet place… I could get used to it.” You lean your head against his side, as Ryunosuke’s arm loops around your waist.

“It certainly is nice. The sea… it always relaxes me.” The knight tilts his face to look at you. All these years by your side, as your secret companion, your best friend and your lover later on, and nothing would change the fact you’re the most alluring person he could have ever met.

“What would you say, if I suggested we run away, Ryu?” You search for his gaze, those honeyed orbs widening in surprise. “I don’t want to be tied down by stupid rules and traditions, I want to be with you, no matter where.”

Your knight lets out a sigh.

He wants to say ‘yes’. A lifetime of freedom by your side is all Ryu could ever dream off.

And yet…

“Are you sure, my dear?” Both of his hands hold yours in between them. “If we leave… There will be no way we can ever return to your home…”

“This is no home of mine.” You state, steel laced through your tone as you think of that suffocating palace. “My home is with you, Ryu. No matter where life takes us.”

Standing on your tiptoes, you place a soft kiss on his lips. Their salty taste reminds you of freedom. Ryunosuke’s arms wrap around your waist, the silken fabric of your under dress an obstacle for the both of you at this point.

“Alright.” He whispers the moment he parts.

Before the sun completely hides behind the undulating horizon, you’re already making your way to Ryu’s place.

Packing up some food, clothes and essential belongings, you reach the outskirts of town before nightfall.

Hand in hand, you walk towards the sun awaiting in your new life.

[themonotonysyndrome]

Could you please write a Headcannon of celica getting cat called/vulgar comments/racist comments or just mean comments in general from intacian that definitely don’t want peace but castins men got her back 😮‍💨😎

Oooo, Anon, you're COOKING RIGHT NOW! I love the trope where a bunch of people defend a character that can actually hold well on their own. It leads to such sawft moments!

So let's give this a shot!

Scenario:

The Baroness is currently in town, not because of pleasure but for business. One of her contacts from the Empire's underworld arrived at these shores and needed to catch up with her. Unfortunately, their meeting can't be in the manor because her contact and Ezekiel would kill each other if they ever meet again (a story for another time). So here they are! Hidden behind booths in some unknown, quiet cafe. Crowding around a table behind them are Castin's men whom he picked as Celica's guards today - Rex, Dolion and the female warrior who has a not-so-secret crush on the Baroness the moment Castin introduces her during their training, Elena.

Unlike the Dolion and Rex, she's practically shaking with excitement when Castin picked her to accompany his wife on a lowkey trip into town. Dressed in plain clothes instead of their usual uniforms and the Baroness usual set of red dresses and jewellery, this is the first time Elena gone an undercover mission with the Baroness!

"Please calm your ass down before the waiter kicks us out." Captain Dolion hisses under his breath. The Baroness and this mysterious contact is talking shop. As much as he enjoys giving her shit, he knows better than to disturb her right now.

Elena promptly freezes. Rex sighs and pushes an untouched glass of lemonade to her.

"Even though there's an empty booth between our table and the Baroness', we still have to give them an illusion of privacy. Remember what we're here for."

Dolion just rolls his eyes at that while Elena vigorously nods her head.

Sitting close to the window, Rex and Elena silently scan the world outside of the cafe. The morning market's liveliness dies as the sun hits the afternoon sky. Children play indoors due to the heat, while the awnings of street vendors act as shelters for merchants and traders who are working hard to sell their wares. Meanwhile, Dolion keeps track of every customer who walks through the cafe's doors. A pair of couples out on a date perch on high stools near the bar.

Everything is quiet. Everything is peaceful.

"... the letters that I delivered were explicitly written, Shaw. And yet you still couldn't follow it just as instructed. Tell me, what use are you to me now other than a target practice for Eaton?" The Baroness sounds perfectly composed, but there is ire behind her words.

Well... mostly peaceful. Unfortunately, though, it seems the Conquerer is bored today and the Goddess isn't around to temper his mood because trouble first emerges in the form of whispers from the bar.

" - definitely an Imp. Even the commoners over there look as snobbish as her."

"Ooooh, someone's jelly~ You know you're my one and only, right? So what if she's hot?"

"Oh? So you admit she's hotter than me!? Why? Just because she has a bigger rack than me?"

"What!? No! Goddess, you always do this. This is why I can't take you anywhere!"

"Why? So you can ogle bitches like her!? Is it that easy for you to turn into a traitor? Any Imp's pussy would do, right?"

"Babe, come on! It's not like that! Can you please keep it down before - "

"Before what? Hmm? You were staring at her tits earlier. Why don't you go over there and shove your head into them! I heard it's pretty easy to bag them. Of course, you're not as good-looking as Castin so you're out of luck." The woman sneers, but her venomous spew chokes her throat when she feels cold, and sticky lemonade drips down her hair. It drenched through her clothes.

Standing behind her, Captain Rex looks positively thunderous. "You were getting a little too heated, miss. Perhaps cooling off might be appropriate." How rude of her. Envy or not, it's no excuse to slander the commander and the Baroness in one breath! She has no idea how fortunate she is that it's Rex who confronted her and not Castin himself.

The woman gapes. Shock, embarrassment, and humiliation couldn't even begin to describe what she was going through. Perhaps she was heartbroken because her lover refused to even look at her the moment he realised that the man who poured his drink on his girlfriend was bigger than him.

Amid the chaos, Elena darted outside. She immediately confronted a group of men who were snickering and leering at the Baroness from the water fountain. Dolion at least was considerate enough to stop to shrug at Rex and say, "They kept pointing and were doing that jerk-off hand gestures in the Baroness' direction. Elena put two and two together."

Rex turns around just in time to see Elena deliver a mean punch to a man twice her size, effectively silencing the laughing group. The punch was so brutal and precise that the man landed his ass in the water fountain.

"Say that again about Her Grace, you piece of shit!" Elena shrieks.

"And are you planning to stop her or join in the fray?" Rex absentmindedly asks. He snatches the napkin on the bar to wipe his hands before tossing it on the drenched and still frozen shocked woman's lap. The other couple that knew how to keep their mouths shut giggled.

"Elena can handle herself. I'll step in if she draws that sword of hers. Pay for our table, won't you?" And with that, Dolion swaggers outside. Eager to throw more fuel into the fire just because he can.

This time, it was Rex's turn to roll his eyes, but he did as he was told.

In the middle of her conversation, Celica is suddenly distracted by a loud commotion outside. She blinks once... and then twice... at the sight of Elena and Captain Dolion beating up a group of men in the middle of the town square. She subtly leans to her left, where a woman in wet clothes is screeching at her boyfriend and throwing a tantrum while Captain Rex is as stoic as ever at the table where she last seen him. Unbothered by everything.

"Something tells me I don't want to know what is happening right now..."

[ikeromantic]

Tis the month where we bid farewell to a year filled with tears and laughter. A month where everything is under an expansive blaket of pristine white as if the world is cleansed into a crystal clean slate but before we say adieu to 2023 and ahoy to 2024, would the fine and most creative beloved scribe grant us a final (perhaps few) scribbles for 2023? Perhaps one of the great multi-bejeweled warlord as he sits outside with his beloved, watching a flurry dance of the heaven's crystal flakes or maybe with the rather enigmatic Vlad as he catches the first few snow on his cold hand and magically transform it into a crimson heart for his lady. Guess you can't figure out who this nony is eh.

Hehehe ^_^ I might have some ideas where this ask came from, but I won’t tell if you don’t! Thank you for your lovely compliments, and for being your sweet self. I think I’ll write something for Vlad. I haven’t had much opportunity to write for our strange vampire prince. Approx 1300 words of fluffiness.

Vlad pushed his flower cart along the icy cobblestones. Snow drifts covered the stoops and squares and hid the fountains and lampposts. The Paris streets were a winter wonderland, made softer by the blanket of snow. In a few hours, it would be reduced to piles of gray slush and chill ice-melt, but now, in these early morning hours, it was magical.

“We should enjoy it while we can,” he said softly, his breath steaming. 

The poinsettias on his cart nodded with red-leafed wisdom, bobbing silently in their colorful pots. Vlad regarded them solemnly. They were flowers of good cheer, the joy of family and friends. That was why he’d brought them today. To spread happiness despite the season’s chill. He found a good street to stop on. 

There were several other stands setting up here, selling hot cocoa or mulled wine. Hand held snacks and little bags of colorful candy. By the time Vlad settled into place, the street was bustling with the day’s traffic. Most barely noticed the man and his flower cart.

Vlad watched the crowd, his half-lidded ruby gaze searching for the right customers. The people that would most need a bit of cheer. The first was a young maid, hurrying through the shops. She wasn’t dressed for the cold, and her uniform was ill-fit, too big for her small frame. She wore a face of intense concentration as she tried to keep her hem out of the muck. 

He gave her a tiny white rose, barely more than a bud. In a day or two it would open into a beautiful rose. Her smile blossomed at the gift and she was humming as she returned to her errands.

The second was an old man in a patched coat. He wore a look of weary bitterness born of too many years alone, and expectations unmet. Vlad gifted him a poinsettia, with crimson blooms and a verdant stem. 

His third customer was a gentleman, a man with a young face but ancient eyes. He’d served as a soldier, and the horrors of that etched scars across his soul. Vlad gave him a bundle of forget-me-nots and baby’s breath. The man would never forget his lost friends and slain enemies, but life gave him a second chance. A new beginning.

The flowers in Vlad’s cart were given away one at a time, until he had only one left. A tiny white poinsettia in a glazed white pot. The plant had just one small flower, and two little green leaves and a narrow stem. There was a time when he might have cut such a plant down, but he’d come to realize that every bloom had beauty. 

He wondered who would come for this last little flower. The sun hung low in the sky, a distant glow at the edge of the city skyline. The lamplighters were already out, and many of the stalls were closing up. But Vlad didn’t want to leave until he’d found a home for his last blossom. 

The sunset came, its glory muted by the thickening clouds and the roiling mist that crept up the banks of the Seine. Candles flickered behind paned glass windows, and the lamp flames wavered in the growing darkness. It seemed the last flower would need to wait for another day to find its place, Vlad thought.

He took off his apron and tucked it into the cart with a sigh. Just as he straightened, a pair of mittens covered his eyes. Vlad froze stock still. He knew, of course, exactly who it was. 

“Guess who?”

“Hm. Charles?”

“Nope. Try again.”

Vlad chuckled. “Not Faust, of course. He only surprises me with needles or pills . . .” 

“Not Faust.” A tremulous laugh, held in.

“Some street urchin, then? Or are you a burglar? Perhaps I should struggle, hm?” He grinned, his fangs glinting in the gloom. Vlad turned, easily grabbing his hidden assailant. Her mittened hands settled on his shoulders as he brought her close for a kiss.

When he pulled back to look at her, she was smiling. “You knew it was me.”

“Of course.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Did you come to fetch me?”

She nodded. “It was getting late and I missed you.” Her eyes went to the near empty flower cart. “It looks like you had a good day.”

Vlad nodded. “The square was busy. People shopping for the holiday, or out getting things for their celebrations.” He wrapped an arm around her, pulling his lover against his side. “Did you want to have a special celebration?”

“Being with you for the day is enough for me.” She leaned into his embrace, snuggling into his side. 

“But I was here all day . . .” Vlad’s eyes opened wide. “Is that why you missed me? I shouldn’t have left you alone for the whole -”

She laughed and shook her head. “No, I knew you’d want to be here, making people smile. But now your work is done and I have you all to myself.” Her wide, beautiful eyes regarded him. 

Vlad didn’t think he would ever get used to that look. Full of love and hope and joy. He couldn’t help but smile as warmth blossomed in his chest. “Then let’s make this a special evening for just the two of us.” 

He picked up the last tiny poinsettia, the white bloom seemed to almost glow in the evening light. “I think this flower was waiting for you. See how glad it is that you are here?” 

She leaned close, her fingers almost touching the plant. “It’s so beautiful.”

Vlad tipped her chin toward him, and kissed her again. Her lips were warm and soft, and her mouth tasted of cinnamon and spice, sweet as mulled wine. She was everything to him, and he still could not believe he held her in his arms. Centuries he’d waited, wanted, ached for her. It felt like a dream, one he never wanted to wake from. A world without her was no world worth waking to.

The snow began to fall again, tiny flakes dancing on the evening mist. 

She pulled back to look up at the drifting snowflakes. “Look! It’s snowing again!” She tugged off her mitten and caught a tiny flake in the palm of her hand. “It’s like an icy bit of lace, don’t you think?” Her hand lifted to show him.

He laughed. “It is. And already starting to melt.”

“Oh no!” Her eyes widened. “I should let it go.” She waved her hand in the air to release the flake, but it held to her skin, the edges already thinning to nothing.

Only she would be worried about destroying one tiny snowflake, he thought. His silly, lovely, ridiculous girl. Vlad caught her hand and blew across it, sending the tiny snowflake skirling back into the night. Then he licked the bead of moisture from her palm, letting the tip of his tongue tickle across her skin.

She giggled and tried to pull her hand back. “Vlad! What if someone’s watching?”

“What if they are?” He kissed his way to her wrist. There he could feel the delicate tracery of her veins and vessels, the steady pulse of her kind and loving heart. “I want everyone to know how much I love you.” He nipped the spot, a promise and a tease. 

“Vlad,” she repeated, breathily this time, a heat in her gaze that could melt more than a snowflake. 

He tugged her mitten back over her hand. “Let’s go home. I want to celebrate you.” 

“Don’t you mean with me?” She picked up her flower as he began pushing the cart.

“That too.” Vlad smiled.

[kavehsclaymore]

Traces we Left

an 4nemo smau

DISC 1 - Track 2 : Watch this!

You laugh as you look at your phone's notifications. You're seated on the couch in your living room, warm in your sweater and fuzzy socks, and full still from the dinner you and Kuni cooked earlier. Silly as her initial tweet was, Lumine is right: this happens every year when Kuni visits you for Lantern Rite. Like clockwork, the moment he's seen at the airport beside you, photos and rumors begin circulating online; and like always, you both ignore and deny the dating rumors. But this year you stirred the pot yourself, so to speak - and this way, it's clear to fans and the media both that you're aware of the situation, and that you know how to handle it light-heartedly. Beside you, Kunikuzushi lets out what almost sounds like a grumble as his phone buzzes for what must be the upteenth time tonight. "You couldn't have waited for me to warn my PR team?" He asks this with a stoic face, but there's no real bite in his voice. He shoots a text to someone (probably his manager Jean - just to assure her that yes, you and he are still "just friends") - and then shoves his phone into his pocket, and promptly stretches himself out on the couch, using your lap like a footrest. "Put these away," you joke, poking at his socks, but he merely arches a brow at you. "If you don't, I'm snapping pics and selling them online. Your 5wirls will go crazy."

Kuni rolls his eyes.

"I'm wearing socks, nobody would buy them. And aren't you my #1 5wirlie?" he reminds you. "So wouldn't that include you?"

"I've seen your toes for free since third grade. So I don't count." You shove his feet off your lap, but he only shoves them under your thighs instead. You shoot a playful glare at him. "They aren't even that pretty."

He lets out an amused scoff.

"Wow, when did you become such a toe connoisseur?"

Now it's your turn to scoff. "Okay, listen... I didn't mean it that way."

"Sure."

"Shut up."

Your eyes meet, and you stay comfortably like that for a little while, simply staring into each other's eyes. His are a very unique shade of blue, almost a light purple in the right lighting. Like right now -- in the ambiance of your living room, lit up only by the lamp in the far corner, and bathed in moonlight besides that, they're a soft lilac shade that reminds you of midnight glaze lilies.

He is the first one to break away. He sticks his tongue out at you and then turns his head towards the window across the room. You lean back against the soft plushness of the cushions and start aimlessly scrolling through your social media accounts, ignoring the constant notifications popping up.

"I've been thinking..." He starts.

"Must be hard for you," you say with mock sympathy. He kicks you lightly.

"I've been thinking about my future," he says. You blink, and take a better look at his face. The expression he's wearing... It's a little wistful, and his brow is furrowed. You realize this is something he must have been giving a lot of thought lately, so you silence your phone and put it down beside you.

"Sorry for teasing you," you apologize gently. "Go on."

He waits for a few moments, watching the branches on the tree outside sway in the breeze against the backdrop of the night sky, before finally speaking again.

"I don't have any interest in a college degree, unlike some of my bandmates," he said. "But when 4nemo breaks up someday... What do I want to do after that?" He shakes his head. "I haven't had an answer to that for a long time."

Your breath hitches. "So... Are you saying you don't want to continue singing if that happens?"

He turns and looks at you with an inscrutable expression on his face. You almost want to squirm under his gaze, it's so intense.

"I didn't say that," he says slowly. Your heart beats quicker, relief pouring through your veins in spite of yourself -- and when he pulls his feet back and sits up, you do, too, putting your hands in your lap. "I know what I want. Or, at least, what I want to do next."

You tilt your head, urging him to continue. His eyes follow the movement.

"I promised I'd write a song someday," he says. "But I'll do better than that, because I can. I'm going to release an album."

You feel your heart in your throat now, and your eyes widen.

"A solo album?" You ask, and you can't keep the excitement from trickling into your voice when he nods. Kuni picks up on it (because of course he does) and smirks at you.

"You can do lyric work on the next one," he promises. "I know that's what you're studying for, anyways."

You feel your eyes bugging out of your head -- Next one, there's gonna be a next one?? you think wildly -- but you catch the unmistakable drawl at the end of his sentence.

"But...?" you prompt him.

"But," he says, looking into your eyes, "This one is all me. I'm going to say what I've always wanted to. So... Don't look away, okay?"

You open your mouth to speak, but just then, his phone rings. You purse your lips; Kuni actually groans as he pulls the phone from his pocket.

"Great timing, Jean..." he mumbles sarcastically. He answers, and moves to stand and take the call in another room, but you reach out and tug on the bottom of his long-sleeved sweatshirt. He stops and looks at you.

"I won't," you promise. "I won't look away. And sign my copy first!"

He huffs, but his lips tug upwards into the smallest of smiles. He then walks away, muttering into his phone in soft tones to not disturb others in the house, leaving you to sit and process the news.

A solo album.... His first solo album... Wow. And he told you first. (Maybe he's talked about it with his fellow 4nemo members, you think - but then you remember the intensity of his gaze, and know without a shadow of a doubt that he wouldn't have. This was personal to him.)

You wonder now, as you turn to face the window, watching the branches sway outside -- with the flickering of a bygone image teasing at the edges of your memory -- if he knows just how much his words means to you.

a/n: :x i didn't plan for the album thing to happen so soon but uh..... sometimes the plot guides itself lolol.

Summary: As your final semester in university begins, your childhood friend-turned international idol Kunikuzushi decides to make good on the promise he made to you all those years ago.

He's going to write you a song.

Scaramouche/Wanderer x gn!y/n

ALBUM: Traces we Left

prev | masterlist | next

Credits: Y/N's circle || Kuni's circle

DISC 1:

Track 1 | ▶ Playing Now: Track 2 | Track 3 | Track 4 | Track 5 | Track 6 | Track 7 | Track 8 | Track 9 | Track 10

DISC 2:

Track 11 | Track 12 | Track 13 | Track 14 | Track 15 | Track 16 | Track 17 | loading....

((message to be added to taglist))

taglist: @misfireezreal @crowbird @i5yanfei

[allthewriteplaces]

A Magnolia In May - Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Summary: The kids get some ice cream and Thomas gives a quick update on the health of his horse.

Chapter Warning(s): None

Word Count: 3753

Chapter Twenty-Four

After swimming and building sandcastles, we slipped our shoes and sunhats back on, not caring too much about the fact that our hair was still wet. Our shoes made funny sloshing sounds as we walked the length back to Arrow House that the kids of course found amusing, even with the sun trying to scorch the backs of our necks and heads, at least we had cooled off enough to be able to walk without feeling like we were roasting like a lamb on the spit.

“Listen! Our wet shoes sound like ducks,” said Katie and a chorus of quacking and laughing from the other children ensued. I turned around and Lizzie, Esme and I exchanged a look. I think we were all secretly wondering if it would last until we got all the way back home. Not that we cared, of course. It kept them happy and soon enough, even we joined in.

We weren’t too far away from a little marketplace, and the wooden sign told us that one of the nearby shops was also serving ice cream cones, so we decided to stop by.

There weren’t very many customers browsing the stalls considering that the market was quite literally in the middle of nowhere, but the people behind them who were selling the produce all seemed warm, friendly and cheerful regardless.

All of them wore straw sunhats on their heads and white, long-sleeved shirts and blouses to protect them from the summer heat. After the children helped us pick out some fruits and vegetables to take back to the house, we let them each by an ice cream cone and they all crowded together on the long picnic bench to eat them.

The benches were under big, shady umbrellas so they didn’t have to sit with the sun blazing into their skin. Polly had packed napkins in the basket which came in handy when some of the ice cream ended up on their noses, cheeks, around their mouths and on their clothes.

Marie was one of those little girls that didn’t like messy things. Alice didn’t care for messy things, either, but the main contrast between the two of them was that while Alice knew that a small spill of milk or ice cream on her dress was nothing that couldn’t easily be mended, Marie saw it as a dire catastrophe.

Unfortunately for her, she had gripped her cone too tightly and it cracked into pieces.

The ice cream went all over her hands, all over her dress and all over the ground.

Before she started crying, Linda swooped in and wiped the spot on her dress, rubbing her back and telling her that it was okay if the clothes she was wearing got a little bit messy, that they’d be changing into clean clothes later.

“Marie! Look! Look at me!” said Henry, purposefully dipping the entire bottom half of his face into the cone and then lifting it up. “I have a chocolate moustache.”

Marie laughed and Henry grinned proudly.

“I wanna try,” said William, doing the exact same thing.

Soon, all of the kids either had a chocolate or vanilla moustache.

Esme turned to me and whispered, “We’re gonna need more napkins.”

“A whole basket full,” I responded.

“Would you like to go and buy another cone?” Lizzie asked and Marie nodded, taking her hand and letting her take her inside the shop to get another cone.

The afternoon continued as follows: Marie came back with her new ice cream cone, we had a couple of incidents of brain freeze, Ruby talked about how excited she was about her and Charlie’s music recital, and once they’d all finished their cones, we continued down the winding road.

We got to Arrow House just as the sun reached its highest peak in the sky, just as Miss Carleton was leaving. She waved out the window and out of politeness, Lizzie waved back at her only to lightly roll her eyes the second she disappeared. I chuckled softly and she smiled as we proceeded up the path toward the house.

Thomas was pacing back and forth, a cigarette dangling between his teeth. He stomped it out when he saw us coming and when Ruby and Charlie let go of Lizzie’s hands to run over to him. He bent down a little and lifted them both into his arms.

I could practically sense the weariness leave his body and soul the second they entered his field of vision. His eyes brightened and his face broke out into a wide smile.

“Daddy, we went swimming!” Ruby exclaimed, “and built sandcastles!”

“Don’t forget about the ice cream!” Charlie added. “We got a whole cone!”

“Did you?” he asked. “Well, we’d better get you into some dryer clothes, eh?”

He set them both down on the ground and ruffled Charlie’s hair, then he allowed them to lead him back inside. Lizzie leaned over to tell me that she was going to get Charlie and Ruby ready for their recital. I replied by saying that I’d be close by if she needed my assistance and to tell them I was looking forward to hearing them play.

The other kids followed their mums inside, too, relaying the whole story of our day at the lake to their dads.

When I eventually walked through the front door, Thomas was waiting in the middle of the foyer with his arms at his sides and his feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor, like he wanted to continue pacing, but something was preventing him from doing so in that moment. He looked like he had a lot he needed to say and he was worried; I hated seeing him that way.

As soon as I’d walked in, the worry and anxiety melted away from his face and his expression was now tinged with a touch of relief, though I could still see it reflecting in his ocean eyes. “The kids said you all had fun.”

“We did,” I answered, “not all of them wanted to swim and we said they didn’t have to if they didn’t want to, so they built sandcastles instead, although, the sand was actually more mud than what you’d call actual sand.”

He smiled. “Just like them to want to play in the mud.”

I smiled back, “All kids love it. Or at least most of them do.”

He took me into the parlour and we sat down on the armchairs near the window.

Not surprisingly, the sun had disappeared behind the clouds again almost like it knew that we were done playing outside for the day. It must have wondered what the point of staying out was, but certainly there would have been lots of other children who would have enjoyed the sunshine.

“So,” I said, easing into the chair. “How’d your meeting with Miss Carleton go?”

“Pretty much the same as always,” he shrugged.

Unlike Lizzie, he didn’t seem to have any qualms with her, but if he did, I highly suspected that for the sake of diplomacy and civility, he would push those feelings as far back as he could. Unless of course she said or did something that would warrant another kind of response.

He groaned softly as he sat back and put his feet up on the stool and then continued with what he was saying before, but there was a twinkle in his eyes and a small smile as he glanced in my general direction. “You would have been bored out of your mind, love.”

“How do you know?” I teased, although of course I was only thinking about the way he called me love. It sounded prettier in his voice, somehow. He must have read my thoughts because his smile grew, but I continued before he could say anything, “I’d have loved to have chatted about horse racing and training and whatever else the two of you chat about.”

He scoffed, “No, you wouldn’t have. Besides, we mostly just chatted about the weather and how nice it would be if the temperature actually remained consistent for a while, and besides that, she would very well have talked my ear off if I hadn’t made up the excuse that I needed to run an errand.”

You? Running errands? I thought, but instead of scoffing and replying with some witty comment, I nodded. “And what did she have to say when you told her that one of your horses may be expecting?”

I braced myself for whatever answer might come from me asking. Of course I tried to be optimistic that everything was working the way it was supposed to and that if Grace’s Secret was indeed pregnant, she would be able to carry the foal to full term.

“Well, when I took her outback to the stables,” he said, “one of the first things she wanted to know was whether or not you could see the tiny lump where the foal was growing, so she placed her hand on her stomach and sort of felt around.

“It was a wonder she didn’t put up a fight. Everyone knows that even in her current state, that she darn well could have landed a good kick if she felt threatened, but she must have trusted May enough to know that she’d never harm her.”

Thomas tapped his foot against the floor for a minute and rubbed his hands together, providing me more and more evidence that he was still very anxious. I suspected that the veterinarian was running late, or else he probably would have been a tad more relaxed than he was pretending to be.

“She has no doubt in her mind that Grace’s Secret is pregnant, but she said the veterinarian will be able to tell how far along she is, make sure the foal is healthy, and can give us some advice about what we can do to make her more comfortable.”

I did my best not to let my excitement show on my face, but the idea that we would have a new little one in our lives would be exciting and wonderful and I hoped that everything would go the way it was supposed to.

Human mothers had to wait nine whole months to deliver a baby, but according to Uncle Albert, for horses, it was ten months. Not that much longer, but it would probably be exhausting for the poor mum. I noticed Thomas taking off his hat and exhaling deeply as he ruffled his hair with one hand.

“It just startled me, is all,” he muttered softly. “Aside from Charlie, who is one of the most beautiful and most precious things that she has blessed me with, this horse is the only part of her I have left and I don’t want anything to happen to her.”

This was a side of Thomas Shelby that he kept hidden from most of the people around him, including most of his family and friends, but there were a few times when he let the mask drop from his face and he let people see how he was truly feeling.

I spent the next few minutes considering what I would say or do next, or what I should say or do. I wished there was more that I could offer him besides words of encouragement and reassurance, because words cannot fix bullet holes left behind by someone that has passed on.

When my mother and father had died, I was beside myself with grief, much so in fact, that after they sent me away, for the first couple of weeks, I didn’t eat, for a whole month I had trouble sleeping, for six months I had almost constant nightmares, and for an entire year, I didn’t speak more than a few simple words.

Losing Grace was by far the worst day in Thomas’ life.

In all honesty, he said, he didn’t think he would ever recover from it, that he could still see the look on his face sometimes in his nightmares, just like he still sometimes see the tunnels he and his brothers used to have to dig through, and hear the sound of the enemies’ shovels.

“I don’t know much about horses,” I said, leaning forward and tentatively taking his hand into mine. He let me hold his hand and I rubbed soothing circles on the back of it with my thumb as a way to help him calm down, “but the doctor will know—”

“The doctor hasn’t even come yet! He told me on the phone last night that he would come in the afternoon,” he snapped, pulling his hand free, forcefully pushing himself out of the chair and stepping over to the window with his hands on both of his hips.

He didn’t sound angry, really, he sounded more panicked. I knew that the best thing to do in this particular situation was to give him some personal space so as much as I wanted to stand by his side and try to reason with him, I remained seated in my chair and kept my distance or else he might have felt suffocated.

Once he’d calmed down a bit, I spoke again. “Doctors, including animal doctors, will usually let you know ahead of time if they’re going to be late. Maybe there was an emergency that he needs to take care of. And Grace’s Secret doesn’t seem to be in any distress.”

He sighed and sat back down on the chair, gripping the arms of it so tightly that his knuckles were as white as the sheets on his bed. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that, though. It’s not your fault and it isn’t fair to take my anger and frustration out on you when you weren’t the one who …”

I wasn’t sure what he was going to say after that, but I decided to try to lighten the mood by saying, “Well, I sure hope not. Heaven only knows what a human and a horse’s child would look like.”

He looked completely taken aback by my words that for a whole ten seconds, his eyes became the size of dinner plates. He wasn’t sure whether he should be amused or terrified or both, but then he laughed.

“Look, I don’t know much about horses aside from what I learned growing up on the farm, but I do know one thing. Just like her namesake, Grace is strong and she’s got that stubborn and determined streak in her that can stretch the length of the entire ocean.”

Thomas’ unease melted away again. He must have been beside himself waiting for the doctor to arrive, which was why he was so stressed. I went on to say that if Grace’s Secret was in any sort of distress be it physical or emotional, or that if the lump was caused by anything other than pregnancy, surely she would be showing a lot more worrisome symptoms, and if that were the case, I could run into town and fetch another doctor in no time.

“Miss Carleton’s entire life revolves around breeding and showing and training horses. She would have told you right off the bat if there was anything to worry about,” I said, leaning forward and looking into his eyes again.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he nodded, exhaling.

I could hear all of the worry leave him in that single breath. With another grunt, he rose from his chair, held his arm out to me in that old-fashioned way that I thought went out of style ages ago and looked down at me with a warm, subtle smile.

“Well, Miss Bennett, I do believe we have a recital to attend to.”

I glanced down at his arm for a minute or two, as if doubting in my mind whether I should loop my own arm through it or just let it wait for a bit longer.

In the end, I decided he deserved a reprieve from all the stress, including any stress that would probably be deemed unnecessary and looped my arm through.

“I do believe you’re right, Mister Shelby,” I said in my best impression of a Victorian lady, “It would be very rude to keep everyone else waiting.”

“It would be indeed,” he answered, playing along, “and besides, if we want to claim the best seats in the house, we mustn’t linger in the parlour longer than we have to.”

Thomas was enjoying playing the part of a dapper young man taking his lady out for a night on the town to see a music recital, and I was enjoying seeing him dropping the mask and having a little fun.

But true as that may be, I loved my Thomas Shelby.

My Thomas Shelby was a complex man.

One that, even as I type away at this typewriter, have yet to figure out completely.

To most people, Thomas was two sides of the same coin and some didn’t know which side of the coin they were going to get when they first met him. He was the sort of man that you might automatically love to fear, or that you might automatically fear to love, depending on which side of the coin you were on.

Let’s consider this well-known fact: each coin has two sides, right? You’ve got your heads, and you’ve got your tails. Now, this coin can be used in this scenario in many different ways, such as the one I’ve just stated above, where Thomas would flip it and whichever side it landed on was the one you were going to get.

But you could also use the coin, too.

If you happened to have met him or at least heard the many stories and rumours surrounding him, you might already have your own impression of him ingrained into your mind. You may have already picked your side of the coin, be it consciously or not.

I’d picked my side the second we laid eyes upon each other in my aunt and uncle’s parlour the day he came to take me to Arrow House. I was wary of him, and I’d been a little thrown off by the fact that they hadn’t confided in me about this plan to have me take on the role as governess for his two children, whom I was sure were very respectful and well-behaved, but whom I was sure wouldn’t trust me right away.

Had I been a less rational or more emotionally reactive, I would have undoubtedly went into hysterics. Now, wouldn’t that have made for a nice first impression?

Understandably, he was just as wary of me, because that was our first time meeting and other than my name, he clearly didn’t know anything about me, what I looked like, my hobbies, my interests, my likes and dislikes, etc. But he wasn’t at all rude, or gave me any indications that he had ill intentions or might become violent if I said or did the wrong thing.

Those who had seen Thomas Shelby at their worst, like those who had threatened him or his family, were said to have never been heard from again, either because they had died or because they’d fled and did not wish to be found. To them, he was a formidable opponent, a cold-hearted killer who would stop at nothing and would do whatever he needed to do to work his way up to the top of the food chain. To them, he was the tall handsome man who, out of the gathering storm, would step out of the shadows with his dusty black coat and a red right hand.

Others, who had been fortunate enough to remain on his good side or earn their place on there right from the get go, were easily swayed by his quiet domination, his non-reactivity under pressure, his ability to gain respect and trust by those he wanted in his circle, and not to mention his connections he had to famous individuals — I was told he’d even spoken to Mister Charlie Chaplin himself!

A few lucky individuals, specifically women, fancied themselves immune to his charms and his bedside nature, but of course they couldn’t fool him even if they tried. He knew what to say or what to do for his own satisfaction or personal gain, a front he used to protect himself from being hurt in the same way he’d been hurt when Grace died and he and Lizzie separated.

Yes, I was aware of Thomas’ sides, I was aware of the potential consequences of getting too close, I knew that there was a possibility of seeing his darker side or that aspects of his past that he’d tried hiding away would come back eventually, just like the time he ended up in the hospital after those men almost beat him to death.

My older cousins, a handful of the friends I still kept in touch with through postcards and letters, even random strangers on the street, everyone kept telling me that Thomas was somehow manipulating me and forcing me to be with him. No one aside from my immediate family seemed to be able to understand that I had wanted to be with him, they weren’t aware of how much he loved his children; his sisters and brothers, his nieces and nephews and his Aunt Polly, and how far he was willing to go to protect them.

To protect me.

I was as in love as any woman had ever been, and while I couldn’t deny that there were some things Thomas did in his past that I didn’t agree on, I could see that for the sake of his children, he was trying to be more present in their lives and be a lot more careful with the people he got involved with.

Every evening before we’d go to sleep, as we laid side by side in the big bed, sometimes accompanied by Charlie or Ruby if one or both of them had a nightmare, he would tell me he loved me and reminded me how lucky he was to have us in his life and how his world would be bleak without us in it.

Smiling warmly, we made our way into the music room, as my ears picked up the sound of hurried footsteps thundering down the stairs. We both turned our heads at the same time to see Ruby holding onto the railing and coming down the stairs with her red recital dress on.

To Be Continued

Taglist: @zablife @izabesworld @cillmequick @sherbitdibdab

[blackbat05]

Don't be scared

Frank Castle x Female Reader

Plot: Escaping from the memories of you proves to be especially difficult when a core memory is forged on a vehicle that transcends international waters.

Genre: PG-13, Angst

A/N: Finally got down to binge-watching <The Punisher> on my break and got inspiration from being literally on a plane ride that was one of the most bumpy ones that I ever had. Hope you enjoy it! Reblogs appreciated💜

Frank Castle picks up his bag, towering over most passengers. But he keeps his head down not wanting to attract any unwanted attention.

Stuffing his passport back into the bag, he slings it over his shoulder, searching for his seat. Frank sees a young woman sitting at the window seat, staring absentmindedly at the ground staff moving luggage into the plane. Good. She doesn't seem to be the nosy type.

He takes his seat, allowing other passengers to get settled in. The boarding process goes smoothly and the plane starts to prepare for takeoff. The safety briefing that no one pays attention to finishes swiftly and the engines begin to whir to life. Frank finally relaxes and he decides to try and catch some shut eye.

Even if it may be riddled with nightmares.

Frank doesn't know how long the plane had been in the air until he's rudely awake by a harsh jerk. Turbulence.

He's about to go back to his fueled nightmares when he sees the woman holding the armrest in a death grip. She's trying to regulate her breathing and her left ring finger taps irregularly.

He has religiously followed his rules of not engaging with any civilians but curse his need to help others. Frank's about to decide against breaking his rules when the woman addresses him first.

"I'm sorry but do you think I could take that paper bag if you don't need it?"

Frank realizes that you're talking about the barf bag that is slotted into the pocket of every seat. It hits him how the woman remains polite despite looking on the verge of a breakdown. Ah, screw this.

"Be my guest. But do you mind if I help you? You seem a little sick." He hopes he hasn't offended her. The woman gives a weak smile. "You're an observant one. I have a fear of flying."

Frank notices that the woman looks at him for a while as if waiting for him to mock her. "Don't worry about it. It's perfectly normal. I've seen plenty of guys struggling with heights let alone jumping out of a plane."

She takes some time to process this. "You're military."

"Marines." Frank should have had the alarm ringing in his head but he sees the woman visibly relaxing. "We all have different ways to take control of that fear. You want to know what I do?"

Frank leans in, directing her to face the magnificent view of the clouds, the wing of the plane in sight. "Tell me five things that you see. You name one thing and you take a deep breath right after."

She bravely nods and her eyes roam around.

"All I see is just clouds but... that one looks like it has wings."

Frank nods his head, silently encouraging her to continue.

"The sky is so blue... pastel blue. They look like the paint that they sell at the local bookstore. It looks like another plane just flew past not too long ago judging by the straight line that looks out of place if you ask me-ah!"

The plane shakes as it passes through another cloud.

"Hey, don't give up on me. You still have two more." Frank urges. She slowly opens her eyes and takes a deep breath like he instructed.

"I think I can see an island but it's blocked by the clouds. Come to think of it... I never noticed how they look so much like cotton candy."

The plane starts to make its descent and the Captain announces that they are almost at the end of the journey.

"Feeling better?"

The woman smiles and she turns around, nose almost brushing against Frank who had yet to move back into his seat. "Much. Thank you. I'll definitely remember what you've taught me. Control the fear and don't let it control you."

"Glad I could help."

Frank is about to settle in to prepare for landing when she asks the dreaded question.

"I'm not usually the nosy type but I would love to know the name of the stranger who helped me with my decade-long fear of flying." The look on her face was almost pleading. It was difficult to fight against. So he does.

"Pete."

But you see, it never ends there.

***

"Safe travels Frank." Curtis brings him in for a hug. "Call me if you need anything."

Frank returns the hug and heads for the departure gate. He tunes out the thousands of passengers fighting to get to their assigned gate and in no time he finds his own.

He checks his ticket again, 29F. The very same. Frank sits down and he doesn’t bother to make space for the incoming passenger who would be sitting beside him because it would be empty. Frank made sure of it with the help of David.

The plane races on the runway and it ascends into the clouds. The light for the seatbelts turns off and passengers start to unbuckle their seatbelts. Frank moves too but to the window seat.

"I have to do this Frank. Remember? Not to let my fear rule me."

"Breaking news, a UN plane delivering supplies to the Western region of Qurac exploded yesterday evening. The situation is developing but it is presumed that all personnel are dead."

Frank takes a heavy breath.

"I could come with you. We always did work well as a team."

Frank chuckles, looking at the Liberman family standing behind David. "Nah, I'm good. Besides, Sarah will cut your balls off if you pull another stunt again."

David breaks into a snort. "Very funny." He pauses, looking visibly uncomfortable. "Don't do anything stupid."

"No promises."

The plane shakes and Frank sees a little girl in the other aisle squeezing her eyes shut as her mother holds her hand. He turns away, facing the clouds once more.

He wonders if the plane goes any higher, would he be able to see her? He can't imagine how the fear had gripped her at the last moment, leaving her trapped like a rat in a cage.

No, she wouldn't have. She would have been brave up till the very end. Atta girl. He wants to hug her so badly. He's so close but yet he can never close the gap.

The plane starts to descend, announcing its arrival. Frank takes a look at the photo of his last moment with her - a simple ice cream date at a park. Bringing it to his lips, he makes a promise that he'll come for you soon.

But first, he'll make a trip to hell.

For they will pay.

[flirting-with-psychology]

Taylor Swift - Favorite Lyrics From Each Song - Part 11

Fortnight: I love you, it's ruining my life I touched you for only a fortnight I touched you But I touched you

The Tortured Poets Department: This ain't the Chelsea Hotel We're modern idiots

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys: There was a litany of reasons why We could've played for keeps this time

Down Bad: 'Cause fuck it, I was in love So fuck you if I can't have us

So Long, London: And I'm just getting color back into my face I'm just mad as hell 'cause I loved this place For so long, London

But Daddy I Love Him: I'm having his baby No, I'm not, but you should see your faces

Fresh Out the Slammer: Camera flashes, welcome bashes Get the matches, toss the ashes off the ledge

Florida!!!: Well, me and my ghosts, we had a hell of a time

Guilty As Sin?: I keep recalling things we never did Messy top lip kiss, how I long for our trysts Without ever touching his skin How can I be guilty as sin?

Who's Afraid of Little Old Me?: Put narcotics into all of my songs And that's why you're still singing along

I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can): Whoa, maybe I can't

loml: A conman sells a fool a get-love-quick scheme But I felt a hole like this Never before and ever since

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart: They said, "Babe, you gotta fake it 'til you make it" And I did

The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived: And I don't even want you back, I just want to know If rusting my sparkling summer was the goal

The Alchemy: He jokes that it's heroin but this time with an "E"

Clara Bow: You look like Taylor Swift

The Black Dog: That was intertwined in the magic fabric of our dreaming Old habits die screaming

imgonnagetyouback: Even if it's handcuffed, I'm leaving here with you

The Albatross: You were sleeping soundly when they dragged you from your bed And I tried to warn you about them

Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus: Back to the moment I crashed into you Like so many wrecks do

How Did It End?: Come one, come all It's happening again The empathetic hunger descends

So High School: Are you gonna marry, kiss, or kill me?

I Hate It Here: And way up there, I actually love it

thanK you aIMee: But I can't forget the way you made me heal

I Look In People's Windows: What if your eyes looked up and met mine One more time

The Prophecy: I guess a lesser woman would've lost hope A greater woman wouldn't beg But I looked to the sky and said Please

Cassandra: You can mark my words that I said it first In a mourning warning no one heard

Peter: Lost to the Lost Boys chapter of your life Forgive me, Peter, please know that I tried To hold onto the days when you were mine But the woman who sits by the window has turned out the light

The Bolter: Started with a kiss "Oh, we must stop meeting like this"

Robin: You have no room in your dreams for regrets

The Manuscript: Now and then I re-read the manuscript But the story isn't mine anymore