#words cannot describe how much I love you

[azsazz]

In Safe Arms (Part 2)

Bodyguard!Azriel x Celebrity!Reader

Summary: Anon Req: Hey ! Ik u are hella busy and I am so proud of ur for ur publication , but if u ever get time could u do a Celebrity reader x bodyguard az?

Warnings: A little PTSD for reader alluding to a horrific incident but not much described besides blood.

Word Count: 3,702

Notes: Happy New Year my loves!

_________________________________________

You’re jolted awake at the rocking of your SUV dipping into a pothole.

Your spine straightens on its own accord and your bleary eyes snap open, frantically scanning the space, on high alert. Your heart pounds in your chest as you desperately try to take in your surroundings. Outside the window, there is nothing but darkness, the skies and scenery draped in midnight-hour black.

It takes you more than a second to realize where you are. In the back of an SUV on your way to your parent’s charity gala that you cannot miss. Except that the weather in New York took a turn for the worse, a heavy blizzard that no news stations mentioned before you fell into an exhausted sleep last night. No planes in, and no planes out.

Which meant that you had to find alternative transportation to make it to Chicago before the gala, which meant that Azriel had to arrange safe travel for you to get there on time, his job already on the line from his mistake only days ago.

Not the kiss. Not the weak fucking moment he had in the bathroom of your suite after a passerby tossed an unknown object at you that split the skin above your brow.

Your parents don’t know about the kiss. You tried to convince Azriel that it wasn’t worth telling them, and he tried to convince you that it couldn’t happen again.

His eyes had been hard. He’d been wearing that same stoic mask he showed up on his first day with. “We can’t do that again,” he’d said, like the kiss was transactional. Like he didn’t feel the passion that lit your entire body up, the wanting in your bones.

No kisses have happened in the days since.

Your eyes connect with Azriel’s through the rear-view mirror and the sight of your infallible bodyguard has you relaxing against the warm leather seat, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Azriel says softly. His rough, gravelly tone sharpens his apology.

“It’s fine,” you brush off, but it’s not fine. Nothing that has anything to do with you is ever fine.

Silence takes over the car. He hasn’t even turned on the radio to keep him company while you slept. You frown at the thought, then realize that silence is probably what Azriel is used to, what he prefers.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” you admit.

Azriel’s gaze stays focused on the road, not another vehicle in sight. “You needed it,” he defends, and you shrug.

“Where are we?”

“A few hours away from the Ohio border,” Azriel answers. You glance at the neon glow of the clock. It reads just past one in the morning, which means that you still have seven or so hours of driving to go, depending on how bad the road conditions are.

You’re supposed to be in Chicago by ten a.m. for brunch with your parents and the charity director for the gala, but with all of the delays that have happened since New York, you’d much rather spend as much time as you can away from the crazy normal that is your life. This unexpected road trip feels like a breath of fresh air that you didn’t know you needed.

You squint, peering around the passenger seat. The roads are clear from snow, piled high on the sides of the highway, but that doesn’t mean that there can’t be patches of black ice to look out for.

You decide to keep Azriel company. You don’t want to be sleeping the night away peacefully while he navigates through four states to get you back to your parents. You know for a fact that he’s gone days without speaking a single word nor getting an ounce of sleep, but right now, with the dark of night blanketing the car, it feels cruel.

Azriel protests when you unbuckle and climb over the console, claiming the front passenger seat. His hands are white-knuckled around the steering wheel and he tries to keep his focus on the road, though you do catch him sneaking a protective peek over at you more than once. It makes you want to snort with amusement, there’s no threat here, unless he hits a patch of aforementioned black ice, but you trust Azriel with your life, so you should be fine.

And you are. Azriel’s shoulders don’t lose a strand of tension until your buckle slides locked with a click. Even then, he can hardly relax. “You shouldn’t be up here.”

“And you shouldn’t be driving this late at night,” you retort easily, kicking your feet up on the dash. Azriel’s hand comes down over your knee before you can fully prop up your legs, guiding you in a gentle yet stern matter to keep your feet on the floor. You follow his command so that he doesn’t banish you back to the back seat.

He hardly acknowledges you, focusing on the task at hand. Delivering you in one piece to Chicago in time to arrive at all of your scheduled meetings. He will not fail your family a second time.

With his focus pinned on the road, you drink your bodyguard in. His eyes flicker from the rearview mirror to the side mirrors to the windshield in meticulous rotation. You trail your gaze down the straight slope of his nose to his pink, plush lips. You haven’t stopped thinking about his mouth on yours since the desperate kiss you shared in your hotel room two nights ago, and a warm heat coils low in your stomach at the memory, waking you up.

“You look tired,” you murmur, distractedly. He does. The gray circles under his eyes aren’t the only thing giving Azriel’s exhaustion away. It’s in the way he blinks slowly, but forces his eyes wide. It’s in the way he drums his fingers against the steering wheel for something to focus on other than the road. It’s in the empty cup of coffee stacked on his old ones. He’s stopped thrice tonight for a caffeine boost and you slept though them all. He’d be jonesing for another if you hadn’t climbed up into the seat beside him. His entire body is tightened with alert now that you’re here.

He isn’t tired, he’s wired. Three large black coffees might have been too much, but it’s your presence that has Azriel more alert than anything. His skin heats at the feeling of your eyes on him, can feel every movement you’re making from across the console.

He taps his fingers against the wheel to expel the nervous energy. You wonder what’s going on because Azriel’s resolve never cracks like this. Everything was fine when you were in the backseat, asleep. He didn’t have to interact, possibly mislead you. He was free to dig into his mind, overthink every little thing that’s happened between the both of you since this little journey began.

He knows you too well. He has to. He’s read your file, like he does with all of his clients. Somehow, you’ve managed to worm your way into his mind, deeper than a flesh wound.

“I’m fine,” he assures. He rubs a hand down his jaw, the short stubble tickling his skin. He needs to shave.

“We should stop for the night,” you protest, catching glimpse of a sign on the side of the highway that shows that you’re only a few miles away from a town to get gas and sleep.

“We need to be in the city early,” Azriel refutes. He chances a glance over at you. Your arms are crossed over your chest and you’re wearing that stern, determined look on your face that makes his cock twitch in his pants. He keeps himself carefully still. “We don’t have time to stop.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that we stop for the night, Azriel,” you reply. “I was telling you that we are going to stop for the night.”

He should protest, he knows that he should. He doesn’t know anything about this town, if it’s filled with lunatics or people who’d try and harm either one of you for your expenses. The decked-out, expensive SUV is a sign screaming rich.

You don’t remove your glare from him until he veers the vehicle onto the exit ramp.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“I’ll take the chair,” Azriel says, eyeing the single bed in the room. “I won’t be sleeping anyway.”

Your nose scrunches. You stare at the chair for a long second and return your gaze to Azriel’s. The entire point of stopping for the night was to rest, to let the storm that caught up to you play out and hopefully finish the drive with clearer conditions.

Something clenches in your chest. You’re not sure if it’s your heart or your stomach or both.

He won’t sleep because there is only one bed.

“So, you’re going to sit in that chair,” you repeat like you don’t understand. You don’t, and you point to the faded green armchair. The rests are made of a blonde wood and the back of the chair sits so straight that there’s no chance anyone could actually fall asleep in it. “And do what? Watch me sleep?”

His jaw sharpens, the muscles flexing as he clenches his teeth. His hazel eyes follow the point of your finger for a fleeting second before returning to yours.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s watched you sleep.

“I’ll turn the chair toward the window,” Azriel answers like this is a solution. If it makes you uncomfortable, he will even wait in the car.

The real solution would be for him to get in the fucking bed with you and sleep for a few hours. You saw the stack of empty coffee cups in the car. You saw the strain in his posture, the way he was forcing himself from giving into his exhaustion.

A disbelieving noise crawls up your throat. He’s so fucking stubborn. It’s not like you’re both eighteen and the prospect of touching looms over you. No, you’re both adults. You’ve seen him sans clothes, even if it was an accident, and Azriel has been in the room with you during fittings with designers your father fully didn’t trust. He may have been turned toward the window, you toward the mirror, but there was always the thrill that maybe he’d peek over his shoulder, give you a long once-over, that maybe some sort of want would infiltrate his hard, hazel eyes.

You’ve imagined it more than once.

“Azriel,” you scold. You busy yourself with moving your luggage to the empty desk in the corner. The table wobbles as you set your things on it, but it stays upright. You quickly move back toward the bed and tug the blankets back, doing your best to reign in your cringe as you think about the possibilities of what could have gone on in this dingy motel room on the side of the interstate. You’re used to luxurious, five-star hotels catering to your every need, not rundown motels that reek of mothballs and crime.

Ghosts. Are there ghosts?

“We stopped here specifically so you could sleep,” you try to argue, but you sound distracted, and Azriel’s gaze snaps to yours, his shoulders straightening like he’s going into protective mode.

He catches you staring dazedly at the bed. Your fingers are curled tightly into the blankets, lips pressed together tightly. Your chest is rising and falling more quickly, and he rounds the bed, coming to your aid.

Azriel knows the life you’re used to living. What you must be thinking about a place like this. He could say something mean, mention how spoiled you are, how it’s just like the hotels you usually stay in, minus the amenities. He wants to tell you that people have done worse things in nicer rooms, especially the ones you tend to stay in, but he knows that your frozen features are due to something else, a dark memory that edges up every once in a while.

“Let me get you some fresh blankets,” he murmurs. His hand comes down around your wrist gently, drawing you slowly from your daze. The heat of his body sears through the thin fabric of your pajamas, and you latch onto that as you squeeze your eyes shut and force the memories away.

“No,” you choke, sounding much more put-off than you’d like. Azriel knows your past, you remind yourself, he knows everything about you, this isn’t you looking weak. You’re only human. “It’s fine, I—” you swallow roughly as a smatter of red conjures behind your eyelids. You try hard not to flinch, but it’s there, the blood on the walls like some fucking mural.

You look down at your hands, painted with the same crimson. Your clothes, and as you drag your eyes up to the bed—

“Hey,” Azriel snaps, hand planted firmly on your cheek, tearing you from the awful memory. You blink and your eyes latch onto his worried hazel ones. You didn’t even notice Azriel turning you around, how your hand went from clutching the sheets to fisting in his black button down. “You’re not there, you hear me?”

You nod because your throat is too tight to do anything else. Tears brim your eyes and Azriel wipes an escaped drop that drags down the apple of your cheek. His touch is too soft, too tender.

You pull away, ripping yourself from his hands. You turn toward the bed and don’t allow the dreadful recollection another thought. You slip between the sheets and try to hide your trembling movements by tugging the blankets all the way up to your chin.

You can feel Azriel’s presence behind you. You always can, whenever he’s in the room. It’s like the two of you are magnets. There is an attraction to him that you can’t place.

He knows that you won’t be sleeping now. That the harrowing memory of what you’ve been through lingers in the surface of your mind and if you should fall asleep, it will only haunt you worse.

Azriel’s known about your past, the terror that you’re trying so desperately to run from, to forget. It chases you like death is on your heels, ready to grip you with its bony fingers and drag you into the dark. He’s been briefed on how you might respond when the trauma inevitably claws its way back, but this is his first time experiencing it happening to you. How it grips you around the throat and threatens to consume you.

His jaw aches from grinding it so tight. The one thing that he can’t protect you from is the one thing he wants to protect you from the most.

He has a job, and this is part of it, he tells himself as he kicks his shoes off.  

“Shove over.”

“What?” You ask, confused. You peer over your shoulder to see Azriel shrugging off his jacket. It leaves him in a black t-shirt that clings to his body exactly the way you want to. You never thought you’d be jealous of a piece of clothing, yet here you are. You carefully tear your gaze away.

“You need to sleep and I know your stubborn, spoiled ass isn’t going to do it if I’m not doing it with you” he pauses. That sounded so fucking wrong, but Azriel trudges on. “So, shove over.”

You fight the smile that threatens to curve your lips at his comment. If it was coming from anyone else, you’d be offended, but you know that Azriel doesn’t mean it as anything other than a joke. You scoot further toward the edge of the bed, shivering at the cool sheets. Your goosebumps only prickle further when Azriel’s weight hits the mattress, and the warmth of his body washes over you.

You try not to let your breathing shallow as he settles himself in. He’s not even touching you, for Mother’s sake, and yet you’re responding as if you’re a teenager lying beside her childhood crush.

“Don’t think about it,” Azriel’s voice startles you.

You might smile at the rough demand in Azriel’s tone if you weren’t feeling like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for someone to come up behind you and shove you off.

“Easier said than done,” you mutter. When the light flickers out, your body locks, and the memory explodes in your mind like a fucking gunshot wound.

“I said, don’t think about it.” Azriel’s voice is a gruff command in your ear, snapping you back into reality. Your heart is pounding against your ribcage, and you can hear the struggle in your lungs as you try to gulp down what little air makes it through your constricting esophagus.

Hands wind their way around your waist and you don’t have a second to struggle before Azriel tugs you back into his chest, molding his body against your back. A warm, heavy arm is draped across your side, and his hand finds your shaking ones beneath the blankets, offering you a lifeline.

You clutch onto him. Azriel murmurs softly in your ear but you can’t make out the words. They’re in a different language. French or Italian or Spanish, you think. You sure that if he was speaking English, you still wouldn’t understand with the way that you’re focusing on fighting past the demons in your head.

The room is pitch black. You always sleep with a light on, even if it’s just the screen of your phone lighting up the darkness. You haven’t been in a blackened room like this since that night, and Azriel knows it, which is why, with some maneuvering, he turns on the flashlight on his phone and sets it on the bedside table, illuminating the room in an awful white light that has you all but melting into his body.

“Thank you,” you whisper. It sounds much too loud in the quiet of your motel room.

“Go to sleep,” he answers plainly. His bluntness almost makes you smile.

But you can’t go to sleep, and not just because of the lingering aftershocks of your memory. As those slowly eke away, you focus on the feeling of Azriel’s body pasted tightly against yours.

You swear you can feel every muscle that is packed onto his hard body through your clothes. Your ass is nestled against his front, and you want to wiggle oh-so badly, to writhe against him in the hopes of feeling what he’s working with down there.

He’s still fully clothed, you notice. Didn’t think twice about climbing into the bed behind you to console you. You wonder if he’s uncomfortable before realizing that with his military trained past, he must have slept in worse conditions than this before.

Which makes you cringe. Here you were, freaking out about a fucking motel when there are people who are going through much worse. Embarrassment flares your body and you squirm uncomfortably.

Azriel’s arms lock tighter around you, and he tugs you closer. You didn’t think there was a closer, but there is. His breath fans across your ear when he speaks. “If you keep moving like that, we’re going to have a lot more than a blizzard and stiff fucking sheets to worry about.” He sounds callous, but there’s a strain to his tone, one that has all of the fiery feelings in your veins converging between your thighs.

Your movements halt immediately. “Sorry,” you say, but there’s no sleeping now. Not when his words are out there, hanging in the air. That if you kept moving, you’d have a different kind of stiffness to think about. One that you’re much more interested in than the starchy sheets.

You close your eyes anyway, trying to fight off the interest stirring low in your gut. The image of Azriel naked, rolling on top of you drifts into your mind. Your pussy clenches when he slowly parts your legs and flashes you a devious smile before lowering himself between your legs.

Movement has your eyes jolting open. You’re holding your body so tightly that Azriel would be terrible at his job if he didn’t know that you weren’t asleep like you should be.

“Sleep,” Azriel reminds you brusquely. His hand splays across your stomach, his thumb stroking across the soft fabric of your shirt in a soothing motion, or what would be a soothing motion if you weren’t three seconds from creating the foulest dirty thoughts about him or two seconds away from actually doing something about it.

“Okay,” you breathe, trying to force annoyance into your words instead of the arousal that slips out anyway. Azriel’s thumb falters and you swear you feel something against the curve of your ass twitch. Your breath catches in your throat and now you know that the movement against your hind wasn’t a part of your imagination.

The noise you let slip has blood pooling into Azriel’s cock. He refuses to move, refuses to do anything except squeeze his eyes shut and practice the techniques he learned in the Royal Marines to keep himself in fucking check. He promised that after the kiss in the bathroom that he would keep away from you, that this relationship would stay professional only.

Professional feels so fucking far away from this.

You find the courage to whisper. “Azriel?”

He grunts in response, to let you know he’s awake and listening, and you like the sound all too much. “That doesn’t sound like sleeping.”

“I’m not sure that I can,” you admit.

Azriel sighs softly, his breath tickling your neck. “You didn’t even try,” he answers simply, but his fingers begin tracing a soft, soothing pattern across your forearm. You latch onto his hypnotic touch, wishing it would move further south. “Just think of better things. I’m here, and you’ll be alright.”

I’m here, and you’ll be alright. Because he’s your bodyguard, your protector, and he won’t ever let anything happen to you, mentally or physically.

You shut your eyes and think about those words, the soft touch from a man so callous and strong, long until you fall asleep.

[pretty-little-mind33]

Count Alexei Vronsky x fem!reader

Summary: You're forced into an arranged marriage.

Genre: fluff, angsty

Warnings: Alexei is kind of an asshole in the beginning, reader is from France, the daughter of a Marquis, and she is described as having hair that can be pinned up and curled (otherwise no descriptions), sexism of the time (very mild)

~ thank you anon! sorry this too forever (this was requested ages ago)!! ~

COUNT VRONSKY MASTERLIST

As you brush your hair in the mirror of your vanity, staring unemotionally at the girl staring back, your mother's words ring in your ear. "Love, beautiful love, can be learned, ma chérie (my love)," she'd promised, as her hand lay on your nervous knee, smoothing her thumbs over the crinkled skirt of your lavender dress, the fabric bunched up from hours of carriage riding. 

"I did not love your father when I met him. Not in the beginning." Your mother smiled and continued, "But, when it finally happened—and it will for you too—I could not imagine myself without him." 

And you did believe her. Up until you took your first step on Count Vronksy's estate, the sun hot and warm on your skin, you listened to your mother's proclamations of true love with attention and yearning. 

You still want to believe her even now.

Your future husband's lips had felt so foreign on your upper palm, the feeling more like a courtesy than something intimate. He hadn't said a word, minus the polite greetings that frankly don't count in those situations, as he stood beside his mother wearing an oddly vacant expression. The blue shine of his eyes mirrored an ocean you imagined losing yourself in, but one you couldn't yet reach. 

You suppose you should feel incredibly lucky that he didn't turn out to be some old, hideous, nobleman with crooked teeth and chapped lips. You certainly did feel lucky that the only reputation he had was player tendencies and fleeting infidelities—which your mother promised you could be dampened with time and care. 

"He will be a good husband to you, mon amour (my love). Give him time."

Your mother sounded so sure, but you didn't know how much time your heart could handle without breaking.

Across the house, Count Alexei Vronsky paces his bedchamber, his white chemise hung loosely over his shoulders as he practically tugs at his blond curls. His mind races with countless scenarios and possibilities as he plays the memory of meeting you on an endless loop. 

"Alexei," His mother, Countess Vronskaya, chastises as she sits on his bed, her lips pursed. "You are acting like a spoiled child. Sit down." 

Her youngest son shakes his head, his voice coming out strained. "I cannot do this, Mama," he says, meaning every word. "I do not know her. I cannot love someone I do not know!"

"Love?" Countess Vronskaya scoffs, staring at him with sharp eyes, "What on earth has put that silly word into your head? And don't tell me it was your little affair from a few months ago—oh, the shame—" she fans her lace fan faster and then shuts it and abruptly lays it onto her lap.

"Alexei, love does not exist. Responsibility, on the other hand, does. It is your responsibility to make up for your mistakes and this is the solution. Marriage. Besides," she fans herself again, "You can easily have Mistresses, I am not denying you that so please, stop this nonsense at once."

"I do not want any Mistresses!" Alexei exclaims, his frustration growing.

Countess Vronskaya stares at her son with an expression of annoyance and disbelief. "Then what, pray, do you want? To bring further scandal upon this family with your childish rebellion? You will marry this girl. It is not a request but an order."

Alexei drops to his bed, his head held pitifully in his hands as he calms his breathing. He pretends he's anywhere but here, his mind focusing on how the wind against his window sounds like waves crashing onto sand. 

One. Breath in.

Two. Breath out.

Three. Breath in.

"I understand, Mama," he whispers, knowing he has no choice in the matter. 

* * *

One. Breath in.

Two. Breath in.

Three. Breath in.

"Maman, it's too tight, I cannot breathe," you whimper as you press a palm on your stomach, feeling slightly light-headed as the maids tighten your corset and slip over your periwinkle dress, the silk sliding over your shoulder as one hangs delicately to the side. It's a simple dress, minus the puffs and ruffles. "Beauty is pain," your mother says, nodding her head as the maids continue to dress you up. 

They pin up your hair with a silver pin and wrap your neck in pearls, adding earrings to finish the look. "Charmante, ma chérie (Beautiful, my dear)," your mother admires as she stands and pushes a stray curl behind your ear.

"Il va t'adorer (He'll adore you)."

You focus on her promise as you walk down the grand staircase and enter the ballroom, which is illuminated by golden chandeliers and sparkling candles. The event looks lavish and it seems to you that Countess Vronskaya had invited all of Russian Society for the announcement of your marriage. Your stomach churns with nerves as you glance around the room. You don't know how to introduce yourself to the women who stare judgmentally from behind their fans. 

Your mother takes your arm and leads you to the center, where Count Vronsky stands beside his mother again, chatting ideally with some other aristocrats. Upon seeing your arrival, he turns and you hold out your hand, his lips brushing your skin in the same fleeting manner as it had earlier. 

"Good evening, Lady Y/l/n," he says, looking you over and you wonder if you look unpresentable from the way he's staring. His gaze then shifts to your mother. "Marquise Y/l/n."

You smile up at him. "Good evening, Count Vronsky," you say and then smile at his mother, "Countess—" You swallow your words when she sees your dress and her frown deepens. 

"What is this?" she asks with a hiss, her voice low. Alexei tenses from beside her. 

"I beg your pardon?" you whisper, eyes wide with confusion as your mother's frown deepens.

"Your dress. It isn't suitable for an occasion like this," Countess Vronskaya almost snarls, looking around the ballroom and then her eyes land on you again. "You look positively underdressed!" She sounds completely taken aback and almostdisgusted as she looks you up and down. You feel stupid and exposed, hearing her tell you this in front of your future husband. You don't dare look at him.

Your mother takes the fall. "I didn't know this wouldn't be suitable for this occasion, Countess Vronskaya. In France—" The Countess sends her a dirty look, clearly having no patience for any explanations.

Your mother exhales, "I assure you, Countess, the fault lies with me. I misjudged the attire. I apologize for my mistake," she says with a forced smile, pushing on your back to move you closer to Alexei—who still hasn't said a word. "Our children should have a dance, shouldn't they?" 

You look up at Alexei, your chest tightened as you make eye contact. Countess Vronskaya doesn't seem pleased but she nods and Alexei holds out his arm, his lips still shut as he stares in front of him.

You hesitate but take his arm as he leads you onto the dance floor and begins the dance, his hand around your waist. You try to remember the moves and once you're finally comfortable, the dance is suddenly over.

"I–" 

Alexei interrupts you with yet another chaste kiss to your hand and then he spins around, his posture as composed as it always is. He excuses himself and walks to make conversation with other guests, leaving you all alone. 

You stare at him, blinking back tears. How are you supposed to love him if he won't even talk to you? You feel hopeless as you stand there, feeling stupid and lonely in your dress.

So lonely. 

* * *

Alexei's knee bounces impatiently as he waits. You're over thirty minutes late. None of your maids have seen you and neither has your mother. His mind flashes back to last night; your pretty smile, the sound of your voice and the curls in your hair—the ones that had gotten slightly messy with the constant movement of your head. He feels a tightness in his chest. 

Where are you?

The thunder cracks outside, the rain pouring against the window of the parlor. It's a dreadful day and it only creates a pit in his stomach at your disappearance. Something is wrong.

"Should I fetch your mother?" One of the maids asks timidly when, ten minutes later, you still haven't shown up. Alexei takes a breath and shakes his head, he stands and holds his head in one hand. 

"No need, it's fine, I'll—" 

He's interrupted by the sound of a familiar neigh-ing outside the window. His head snaps around and his eyes widen. "Frou-Frou?!" he gasps, seeing his horse out in the rain. His eyes widen even more when he sees familiar hair blowing messily in the wind and rain, covered only by a flimsy cloak.

He stands and runs outside, ignoring the calls from the confused maid. All he can think of is Frou-Frou and you. Frou-Frou doesn't do well with strangers and Alexei knows that the slightest jerky movement could startle him and he could unintentionally hurt you. You. Why would you steal his horse? In a thunderstorm no less? 

Are you running away?

"Y/n!" he screams into the yard. You're approaching the fence but Frou-Frou's never ridden outside of the manor without him. Alexei breaks into a run and curses when Frou-Frou makes a jerky movement, kicking you from his back as you scream. The rain is blurring Alexei's vision now as his white shirt becomes soaked. His hair is sticking to his forehead as mud from the grass sticks to his boots. You've fallen into the mud and grass, your skirt heavy under the extra weight of the rain.

Seeing him run up, you try to stand to run but the mud slows you down and you fall again. Frou-Frou panics from the rain and the situation and he runs off. "Damnit," Alexei curses, hesitating. He knows Frou-Frou isn't going to leave the grounds without him, so he turns and grabs you under your armpits. "What is wrong with you?!" he hisses as thunder cracks again. You kick your feet, mud splattering his trousers and Alexei's chest tightens when he sees the tears in your eyes. 

"Don't touch me!" you hiss, hitting him as you try to stand in the mud. 

"What were you thinking?" he demanded, pulling you upright. "Were you attempting to flee?"

"Why should it concern you?" you spat, wrenching your arm from his grasp.

"Because you are my betrothed!"

"And you do not love me," you hiss. Your heart is thumping and you hate how pretty he looks, wet and disheveled. You hate how your heart reacts to him in ways you're sure his doesn't when he looks at you.

Alexei groans, his head already hurting from this entire situation. He just holds you tighter. "You are correct—I do not know you well enough to claim such feelings for you. But I do not wish to see you harmed, running recklessly into a storm! My God, you already drive me mad! How am I supposed to tame you?" 

He sighs, his voice drifting when he realizes he's said the wrong thing as your expression twists into one of pure anger. You hit him with your palm, mud flying into his hair. 

"Tame me? Is that how you see me?"

"No, wait, I didn't mean it like that," he tries to explain, shielding himself as he keeps his hold on you. You're so different from when he'd met you yesterday when you'd been on your best behavior— he groans when you pull away, only to slip and fall.   

You shriek when he falls over you, the rain still pouring on you both. It's almost comedic now, your dress and his chemise a mess of dirt, mud, and rainwater. "Lady Y/l/n, please," Alexei tries again, struggling to get you to listen to him. 

Once he's leaning over you, his knees digging in the dirt as he holds your hands beside your head, he whispers; "My darling, please, you misunderstand me." 

You're breathing heavily now, your gaze intense. 

"I do not love you, but that doesn't mean it has to be like this our whole lives," he whispers, not sounding quite like himself. He lifts one arm, finger gently tracing your cheek as he slides the mud away. "It does not mean I want to see you hurt, running off in a storm with my horse." 

You calm your breathing and when you move to sit up, he does the same and you both catch your breaths. The rain is soaking you both, the cold air chilling your skin, and you watch him. He doesn't look as distant anymore. His skin is smeared in mud and his blond hair is askew. You push some wet strands of hair away from your eyes, half wishing he would have just let you run away. 

As the storm begins to calm and the rain softens to a gentle drizzle, Alexei's breathing is calm.

"I did not mean to frighten you," you murmur, your voice barely audible. "I just—I feel so out of place. As if I don't belong here. As if I don't belong with you in your world."

His expression flickers, and for the first time, you see a vulnerability he's been keeping hidden beneath his polished exterior. "Do you think I don't feel the same?" he asks quietly, his voice raw. "I have spent my life pretending to be the man everyone expects me to be. I have never been what anyone truly needs. I am not fit to be a good husband."

The honesty in his words sends a sharp hurt through your chest. "Then why chase after me?" you ask, your voice shaky. "Why not let me leave if you feel the same way?"

Alexei hesitates, then with a deep breath, he moves a little closer, his eyes searching yours. "Because," he begins, "when I saw you out here, stubborn and fearless in this storm, I realized something. You might be the only person brave enough to truly see me. And if I let you leave, then I would regret it until the day I die."

The rain has nearly stopped now, the storm's fury replaced by a stillness that feels almost unreal. You're unsure what to say, your chest tightening with the weight of his confession. For a moment, neither of you moves. The distance between you feels both vast and insignificant, the air thick with something that will probably remain unnamed.

Then, almost tentatively, Alexei leans in, the lips that had barely let themselves brush your hand, now kiss your forehead. You inhale.

"We can figure this out," he murmurs against your skin. "Together. Please do not run anymore. I can do better, for you."

You close your eyes, the weight of his words settling in your heart as you take them in. A moment passes and then you force a small smile, leaning into him as you nod.

"Okay. Let's go find Frou-Frou then," you whisper, earning a smile from Alexei. Your smile widens a little. Maybe your mother was right—maybe love could be learned. And perhaps, just perhaps, it could start here.

[moldy-flowers]

I've finally found it... the perfect tbiz art... oh fuck guess I have to die now but at least it would be a sweet death looking upon these two losers...

Winter Tbiz❄️

[thepascalparadox]

Chapter Nine: A Fragile Bubble

Word Count | 3.8k Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x OC F!Reader Chapter Warnings | switch pov, allusions to battle series masterlist

As the haze of sleep begins to dissipate, the world around you slowly comes into focus. Yet, it is not your world, not the familiar warmth of your bed or the gentle breeze from your balcony. Instead, the cushion beneath your head is firm and warm, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The consistent beat beneath your ear—strong, measured, alive—grounds you in a way that feels both foreign and soothing. A gentle hand moves languidly across your bare back, tracing idle circles, coaxing you to remain in this serene moment.

"Good morning, my princess," comes Acacius’ low, resonant voice, the deep timbre reverberating from his chest to your very soul. You keep your eyes shut, as though by doing so you can prolong the spell of the night before, let the memories linger a while longer before reality claims you. A soft hum escapes your lips as you nestle closer to him, seeking more of that warmth, more of him.

He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates against your cheek. "Didn’t think you were one to sleep late," he teases, his tone light and playful. "But as much as I’d love to stay here all day..." His voice dips lower as he shifts, turning so that he hovers above you, his strong hand capturing yours and pinning it gently beside your head.

"Loving you..." he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to the hollow of your throat. "Worshiping your body as the goddess you are..." His breath grazes your ear before his teeth catch the delicate edge of your lobe, sending shivers cascading down your spine.

At last, your eyes flutter open, meeting his gaze. And there he is—your husband. The sight of him steals your breath, his dark curls tousled, his features softened by the faint morning light filtering through the tent. How could anyone describe this moment? No words seem sufficient to capture the quiet perfection of it, of him.

"We need to get up," he says, though his voice is tinged with regret. His lips curl into a kind smile, as though softening the blow of the day’s demands intruding on this fragile bubble of intimacy.

You lift a hand, cupping his cheek, and watch as his eyes fall shut at your touch. The faint shadows beneath them catch your notice, a testament to the restlessness of his sleep. Memories surface—his tossing and turning, though never letting you go, always keeping you close.

A pang of longing and concern twists in your chest. Perhaps the ghosts of his battles still haunt him, stealing his peace even in the safety of your arms. The thought stirs something deep within you—a need to shield him, to offer him the same comfort he has given you.

His eyes open again, finding yours. For a moment, the world stills. The storm in your gaze meets his steady calm, and the connection between you speaks louder than any words. How long this exchange lasts, you cannot say. Seconds, minutes, eternity—it all blurs.

Before either of you can speak, you lean up and press your lips to his, a kiss filled with quiet devotion.

"Good morning, husband," you whisper against his mouth, the word feeling new yet natural, like it had always belonged to him.

The term draws a low groan from him, his forehead falling to rest against yours. "You’ll drive me mad one day, you know that?" he murmurs, his voice tinged with something raw, almost pained.

"Have I done something wrong?" you ask softly, your fingers threading through the curls at the nape of his neck.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his brow arching as though you’ve asked something absurd. "Wrong?" he repeats, almost incredulously. His eyes flick away for a moment as he searches for the right words. Then, with a resigned sigh, he continues, "It's just that... Well, how can I say it... Oh, what am I doing? We are married, after all."

With that, he rises swiftly, as though summoned by some unseen duty. You stifle a laugh at his abruptness, pulling the sheets around you as you prop yourself on one elbow.

"Well, I suppose we are. Now more than ever," you reply, a teasing edge to your tone, alluding to the intimacy shared just hours before.

His smirk turns mischievous as he fastens his tunic. "Indeed. What I meant to say is... now that I have you, I’ve no idea how I’ll ever resist you. It’s as though everything you do—every word, every look—calls to me, beckons me to... Do things." He trails off, his voice thick with emotion.

"If it’s my permission you seek to kiss me whenever you like," you interrupt with a sly smile, "then consider it granted, Soldier."

His eyes soften as he returns to your side, leaning over you. His face hovers mere inches from yours, his breath mingling with yours.

"I’ll remember that, wife," he murmurs before capturing your lips in a kiss that promises all the love, all the passion, all the devotion he holds for you.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

The tension in the tent was almost tangible, an invisible weight pressing down upon everyone present. Valerian’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding, as though shaped by the countless battles he had weathered.

"We have every reason to believe Rome is already aware of the princess’s marriage," he declared, his tone as steady as the blade of a well-forged sword. "That is why we must act without delay—bring the war to their doorstep. The General commanding the Eastern legions sent word this morning, swearing allegiance to the late Emperor Antoninus. With both our armies united, our chances of victory grow stronger. Together, we can overthrow Macrelius and restore order to the empire."

Each word carried a sense of urgency that made your chest tighten. The talk of war unsettled you; its grim realities were foreign and cold, a world far removed from anything you had known before. Standing at the edge of the room with Lena, you felt like an intruder in this grim council of men whose lives revolved around strategy, conquest, and bloodshed.

At the table’s center, Acacius sat alongside Valerian and three others, their faces illuminated by the flickering glow of oil lamps. The low murmur of their discussion was steady, measured, and wholly at odds with the storm of discomfort growing within you.

"How many of us against how many of them?" Acacius asked, his voice calm but laced with a sharp edge that betrayed his focus.

"Approximately three thousand of ours against... four thousand five hundred of theirs, my lord," one of the men replied, his words respectful yet tinged with unease.

Acacius leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he considered the numbers. "Doesn’t sound like much of an advantage," he murmured, his voice barely louder than the whispers of the wind against the canvas walls.

Valerian stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Acacius’s shoulder. His confidence radiated like an unshakable pillar amidst the uncertainty. "The men they have lack our experience," he said, his tone resolute. "With the right strategy, there is no number that can stand against us, brother. You know this."

A silence followed, thick with the weight of decisions yet to be made. Then, with a nod, Acacius rose, his movements deliberate and composed. "Then you know what must be done, Valerian," he said, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. "Gather the men. Ready them. We march at dawn. Time is a luxury we cannot afford."

As he stood, his gaze flickered toward you—a fleeting glance, no more than a second, yet it sent a strange, bittersweet warmth through your veins. Before you could decipher the look in his eyes, he turned and strode out of the tent, his cape sweeping behind him like the shadow of his determination.

"Must they leave so soon?" you whispered to Lena, your voice hesitant, almost inaudible against the somber atmosphere.

Lena sighed, her expression a mixture of resignation and sorrow. "Just when I thought I would have them together for a little longer..." she murmured, her voice tinged with wistfulness. You watched as she moved to Valerian’s side, her delicate hands resting on his chest as their foreheads met. He cupped her face with one hand, his other rubbing soothing circles over her swollen belly, the silent exchange between them brimming with love and unspoken fears.

The sight stirred something heavy within you, a pang of guilt settling deep in your chest. For the first time, the full weight of your choices crashed down upon you. Every life in this camp now seemed tethered to your actions. Lena’s future, her happiness, and the child she carried—so fragile, so full of promise—were all at risk.

Have I condemned them all without realizing it?

You lowered your gaze, your hands clasping tightly as if to anchor yourself. When you had woken in Acacius’s arms that morning, the world had seemed perfect—blissfully, selfishly perfect. But now, that fleeting perfection felt like a cruel illusion, one that had blinded you to the price others might pay for your happiness.

Have I made the right choice? Or had my desires sown the seeds of ruin for everyone around me?

The questions lingered, unanswered, as the murmur of preparation began to rise outside the tent.

When you entered your tent, you hoped to find Acacius waiting there, but the space was empty. A faint sigh escaped your lips. The absence of servants to prepare your belongings was no surprise; after all, the camp’s resources were directed elsewhere. Resigned, you set about the task yourself.

There wasn’t much to pack—just enough to fit into a single casket shared between you and Acacius. The process was methodical, almost soothing, as you folded the dresses gifted to you since your arrival and carefully arranged the tunics belonging to the General. Among the modest pile of clothing lay the small bag you had carried from the palace, its contents untouched since you arrived.

As you opened it, your fingers brushed against something hard and familiar—the little sac containing your father’s ring. The sight of it sent a rush of conflicting emotions through you. It had remained hidden, untouched, since the day Acacius had become your maritus. You had expected him to take it, to claim the symbol of your father’s legacy and, with it, the throne.

But here it was, undisturbed.

A realization settled over you like the weight of a quiet truth.

He has no intention of claiming the empire.

That is why my father entrusted it to him. He knew Acacius didn’t crave power or glory for his name.

Your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps and the sudden entrance of the man occupying your mind.

“Are you ready?” Acacius asked, his voice firm, his expression taut with an edge of impatience.

“I am,” you replied, still holding the folded fabric in your hands. “I was just gathering our things. But... aren’t we leaving at dawn? The sun has barely passed its peak.”

His jaw tightened, and he avoided your gaze, moving briskly around the tent to collect his belongings. “We are not leaving. The army departs at dawn. You, however, are going home—with Lena.”

The words struck you like a blow. “I—what? No. I’m going with you. To my home. Our home. That’s the plan, isn’t it?”

He paused briefly, his lips curling into a bitter, humorless laugh. “What, are you planning to don armor and fight alongside the soldiers? Don’t be ridiculous.”

The dismissive tone ignited a fire within you. Anger flared, sharp and unrelenting. “Don’t you dare mock me, soldier. I am still your princess.”

“And I am your husband,” he shot back, his voice low but laden with authority. “And you will do as I say.”

His eyes finally met yours, and the intensity of his gaze caught you off guard. There was fire there, yes, but it was not born of anger alone. It burned with something deeper, something almost desperate.

“Oh, so that’s what you wanted?” you challenged, stepping closer, your voice laced with defiance. “To tame me? To finally have the right to command me, to boss me around? Well, let me make something clear, husband. I will never—”

“Aemilia, please.”

His voice broke through your tirade, quieter now, laced with something that made your breath catch. His hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose, his eyes closing as though warding off the weight of the moment. When he spoke again, it was softer, almost pleading. “This is hard enough as it is. Just... listen to me this time. Please.”

You stood frozen as he stepped closer, his hands finding their place on your shoulders, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the tension in the room. His fingers moved gently, soothingly, up and down your arms, as though trying to ease away your resistance.

“I need to know you’re safe,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “If I can’t... if I'm not sure you’re out of harm’s way, I’ll lose my focus on the field. I can’t afford that. Not now. Do you understand?”

For the first time, you noticed the raw emotion etched into his features. It was there in the slight furrow of his brow, the heaviness in his eyes. Beneath the hardened exterior was something fragile, vulnerable. He looked almost... afraid.

Your anger softened, replaced by an ache that settled deep in your chest. Slowly, you raised your hands to rest on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms.

“I’ll listen this time,” you began softly, your lips curling into a faint, playful smile, “But just this once. Next time, I’ll be the one giving the orders. Deal?”

For a brief moment, his lips twitched as though tempted to smile, but the weight of the situation held him back. He nodded slightly, his hands lingering on your arms before dropping to his sides.

“Deal,” he murmured, though the word carried an unspoken promise of something heavier, something that lingered even as the silence between you grew.

The truth was stark and unrelenting: this "deal" would mean nothing if he died. Death, once a distant companion—an inevitable visitor with no known hour or place—had been a concept he had long accepted. As a soldier, he had learned to coexist with its shadow, feeling its cold breath on his shoulders without fear, merely acknowledgment. This was the life he had chosen, and he bore it with unflinching resolve.

But now, something had shifted. Death was no longer his alone to contemplate. The weight of another’s life rested in his hands—a fragile, precious burden. Recklessness was no longer a luxury he could afford; to fall now would mean leaving Aemilia with nothing but sorrow and an unfulfilled promise. And if he dared admit the truth to himself, he found that, for the first time in years, he did not wish to meet death at all.

Not now. Not when he had tasted the sweetness of love, the ache of yearning for a future that seemed suddenly, achingly possible. For the first time, the world held a beauty worth fighting for—a beauty that gazed back at him with a smile that lit the darkest corners of his soul.

He exhaled sharply as he secured the final clasp of the carriage, his hands working methodically even as his thoughts whirled. His features betrayed his inner turmoil: the hard set of his jaw, the furrowed brow, the quiet efficiency of his movements. He knew how he must look—stoic and impenetrable. Yet inside, the storm raged.

You watched him in silence, understanding the rhythm of his moods. Now was not the time for words or levity. Instead, you waited, your hands clasped, your eyes tracing his every motion as if memorizing him just as he was.

"Come," he said at last, his voice steady but heavy with unspoken emotion. He extended a hand to help you into the carriage. You took it, your touch light but deliberate, and noticed the way his eyes shimmered, betraying the tight rein he held over his feelings.

Inside the carriage, Lena sat quietly, her tears falling in subdued streams. Acacius lingered by the door, his grip on your hand tightening as he spoke. "Promise me you'll be careful," he murmured, his tone raw with desperation.

"Only if you promise the same," you replied, your voice a deliberate contrast—light, steady, as though trying to lend him your calm.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a fragile thing that made your heart swell. "For you, I will," he said softly. "Lumina mea." His lips brushed the back of your hand, lingering, as though he could pour all his devotion into that single act. "May the gods be with you."

"And may they bring us together once more," you whispered, leaning in to seal your words with a kiss.

In that fleeting moment, he memorized everything. The taste of your lips, the scent of your skin, the softness of your hands cradling his face. A single tear slipped from your eye, mingling with his own, and he cursed the betrayal of his emotions.

A soldier must not cry.

He pulled away abruptly, his composure snapping back into place like a shield. Turning to his men, he barked the order to depart, his voice carrying the weight of finality.

As the carriage wheels creaked into motion, he did not allow himself to look back. His feet carried him away, but his heart remained behind, bound to you in a way no distance could sever. And though he refused to admit it, the thought gnawed at the edges of his resolve: perhaps this was the last time he would see you.

But for you, for the promise of what you shared, he would fight the gods themselves if that’s what it took to return to you.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

Nightfall was an unusual time for a departure, a choice that would have raised questions among the troops if not for the urgency of their mission. Time was a luxury they could not afford. With the sheer number of men under his command, the march to Rome would stretch over nearly five grueling days—five days that Macrelius would exploit to strengthen his hold on the city.

Valerian, ever the tactician, had dispatched envoys ahead of the main force. Their orders were clear: to weave whispers of hope among the loyalists in Rome while maintaining an illusion of submission. The senate must believe the people were content, that the city’s pulse beat steadily under their rule. Only then would their defenses falter, their vigilance wane.

The plan was bold: to strike under the cover of darkness, freeing captives from the dungeons and spiriting them away before the city could rally. Yet, as the idea unfolded in Acacius' mind, doubts crept in like shadows lengthening with the night.

Would the cover of darkness truly give them the upper hand? Or would it merely announce their arrival, granting the enemy precious moments to prepare?

His thoughts churned ceaselessly, a storm of possibilities and pitfalls. The weight of command pressed heavily on his shoulders, a familiar burden but no less relentless. Until Rome was reclaimed, until the republic was restored and peace reigned once more, his mind would find no rest.

Acacius gazed ahead, the dim outline of the road blurring as his thoughts pulled him inward. Duty demanded resolve, yet doubt whispered insidiously, questioning every decision. He reminded himself that he was not alone in this. Valerian, his brother in arms, was surely strategizing as well.

Three days lay ahead before the soldiers would begin their rigorous preparations. Three days to refine their plan, to turn doubt into certainty, and ensure that every step taken would lead to victory.

The General tightened his grip on the reins of his horse, his jaw set with determination. The night wind tugged at his cloak, a silent reminder of the fleeting time. Failure was unthinkable, not when so much was at stake. The situation demanded his strength, his mind, his very soul. And he would give it all, willingly.

For the glory of Rome.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

The gentle sway of the carriage had lulled Lena to sleep, her tears finally spent after what felt like hours of quiet sobbing. Perhaps in her dreams, she found a fleeting solace—a fragile hope for a brighter future. You couldn’t blame her for retreating into that sanctuary, nor had you questioned her silence as you departed. She sat on her side, and you on yours, the weight of unspoken fears pressing down on you both. Two women lost in thoughts of the man you loved heading into battle.

You wished you could sleep too, but peace of mind had always been a struggle. The only true rest you had known in days was the night spent in Acacius' arms, his steady heartbeat lulling you into a rare peace. But now, his absence was a tangible ache, and all you could do was cling to fragile hopes and whispered prayers for his safety.

The carriage shuddered to a halt, jolting you from your restless thoughts. Darkness had deepened outside, and you wondered if you had finally reached your destination or if the soldiers meant to make camp until dawn. Curiosity and unease propelled you forward, your hand parting the curtain to glimpse the world beyond.

And then, it came. The unmistakable metallic whisper of a blade being drawn.

Your breath caught as the sounds of a scuffle erupted—grunts, the clash of steel, the chaos of battle unfolding in the shadows. Your heart raced, every beat a hammer against your ribs. Your eyes met Lena’s, wide and frantic now, her sleep shattered by the same dreadful realization that had seized you.

There was nowhere to run. The confined space of the carriage became a prison, each passing second stretching into an eternity. The hope that flickered faintly in your chest was a fragile thing—perhaps they would pass you by, perhaps the Roman soldiers would dispatch these attackers swiftly.

But then the silence fell.

It wasn’t the relief you had hoped for. Instead, it wrapped around you like a suffocating shroud. Your stomach twisted, dread settling deep within you. The curtain moved slowly, pulled aside with deliberate care.

And there he stood.

A stranger, his expression twisted into a cruel smile, his eyes alight with malice. His gaze raked over you both, and the chill in his voice cut deeper than any blade.

“Well, well… The Emperor will like this very much indeed.”

[gotta-winwin]

gotta-winwin's to do list - happy new year !

starting 2025 off with a bang, here is everything on the works and on the lineup for january! words can never describe just how thankful i am to be as loved as i am on this platform - although i cannot respond to each and every comment/reblog, trust that i see you and that your words go straight to my heart >3

🔔 incoming message: cyana yue is happy to greet you in 2025!

and for the ghosts that haunt me | CYANA following cyana through her past, a docu for hit the road coming soon! back to old haunts follow us as we dive into cyana's backstory and the mystery of what the hell happened in LA! coming soon! i hear you through notes follow woozi and cyana as they bond through written words coming soon!

🔔 incoming message: falling in love through songs is happy to see you!

🎧 1. HEART OUT by the 1975 with VERNON "it's just you and i tonight, why don't you figure my heart out?" 🎧 4. BLACK FRIDAY by tom odell with JEONGHAN "every time you touch me, i feel adrenaline"

🔔 incoming message: in the works has landed on your table.

right where you left me - dino x reader our beloved childhoodbestie!dino is finally getting his spinoff of a happy ending! coming soon! compromise - mingyu x reader he's an act of service kind of guy inspired by compromise by role model coming soon! b.e.d - vernon x reader vernon's a little dense when it comes to subtle hints req coming soon!

and much, much more!

a full and completed 24hrs with svt req > 3:15am with wonwoo > 7:00am with wonhao > 6:45am with woozi squidgames!wonwoo x reader brother'sbestfriend!hoshi x reader actor!jun x idol!reader req nana tour seungcheol req bss love languages - a bss celebration! ot13 type of loves - a movie rendition ot13 type of angst - a poetry rendition

my masterlist

[love-toxin]

words actually cannot describe how much I NEED Kenji. Like it's an actual problem I would be thrilled to be his stupid househusband and spend all day looking after him ^°^

MEOW HOUSEHUSBAND 👀👀 !!!! It would for real be such whiplash for the rest of the yakuza cause Kenji so doesn't seem like the type. Not only is he the quietest and gets the least attention from girls when he, Makoi, Hayao and Shura are out, but he's definitely one of the most devoted to the clan to the point that the Azumako uncles and elders often praise him for it, especially seeing as he's not even a blood-related family member. So to find out he's dating somebody would be a shock, and for him to get married would be even more surprising!

In fact, by the time Makoi and the others finally meet you and find a cute guy prancing around Kenji's modest little home, they're so far past being taken by surprise that it doesn't even faze them that he's married a dude. Momo might make some jokes here and there, but he's got absolutely 0 legs to stand on considering he blows all his money on Umi's streams--plus, he definitely doesn't wanna poke the bear where you're involved. Kenji doesn't have much and values his possessions rarely, but you're a person he would do unspeakable things for if it meant protecting your honour.

Aside from that, you and Kenji would seem like the absolutely picture-perfect couple, partly because you dote on him and partly because he's so sweet on you. He's never really dated before and he's not one to fall into the womanizing habits that often plague the male members of the Azumako clan, so he's noticeably tender and gentle with you in a way that few other men would be. Even if you're a househusband, he'll still do a load of laundry for you when he gets home so you can relax, and he takes a day out of the week to cook for you so you don't have to plan every meal. But he loves the way you care for him and run after him to tend to his every need, especially when he's had a hard day and just needs his husband to snuggle with and comfort him. He's not the "smack your ass on your way by" kind of husband or the type to tease you too much, he's unbearably delicate with you and he always tries to consider your feelings before his own. The exception to his gentleness, however, is in the bedroom.

Kenji isn't rough, per se, at least not by default, but...he's definitely a little pent-up more often than not. He's not a talker, he's not prone to violence unless absolutely necessary, and he has a tight grasp on his emotions; plus, you're his one and only outlet for sexual energy, so it can be a bit of a bumpy ride. Even though he definitely cums the first few times you consummate the marriage, it's not until you get more comfortable in the bedroom with him that he's really able to cut loose. He likes to take things outside of the bedroom into other areas of your home, particularly the shower, but somehow he's especially fond of the little span of floor right in the middle of your small living room. It's hard to imagine why at first, but when Kenji grabs your face and pins it to the floorboards so he can bend you over completely, the arch of your back and the sloppy mess he leaves dripping down your legs makes it all a lot clearer.

The househusband aspect may be his favourite part though, cause crowding you in against the countertop and fondling you underneath that cute apron could send him into the stratosphere with bliss. Sometimes he has to interrupt your cooking or baking altogether by railing you over it, and sometimes he just urges you to keep up what you're doing while he kneels down behind you and thanks you for the meal--just not the one you're cooking. It might become a bit of an addiction as time passes and he only falls deeper in love with you, but if the yakuza have met you by then, it's no surprise. When Kenji checks his phone and gets up to leave without a word, everybody present already knows what's up. Kenji's got a nice, helpful, and cute husband at home--it's no surprise that he'll dip early to go make sure you're all taken care of.

[multi-fandomdisaster]

THERE'S MORE!!! YIPPIE!!!

Ayo, if anyone out there has any particularly traumatized or silly images of one Theodore Spankoffski, would you mind handing 'em over? I must expand my ✨collection✨ :)

[its-just-cj]

Hi!! Just a friendly reminder that.. I love you and that I miss you and that you're the best thing to happen to me and I miss you so so much and I wish you were here with me rn n I love you tons 🫶🫶 - ♊

This was absolutely the best thing ever to wake up to <3 I hope you know just how much I love you too and how wonderful you’ve made my life 🫶🫶 I cannot wait until I can see you in person again <33

[elenchi]

@themightyi:

Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds are back on the road 🎸 Thanks, Seattle and Portland! Next stop, California 😎 📸: Sharon Latham

05.06.2023

Thank you San Francisco and Santa Barbara 🌴 Onwards to LA and San Diego… Where will you be joining? 📸: Sharon Latham

09.06.2023

Unseen shots from the road in 2023

15.08.2023

[qifreyplushie]

to wuming, hua cheng, san lang;

happy birthday, dearest a-hong. 🦋💘

DESSERT LATER !!!!!!!! 🧹🧹🧹🧹🧹🧹🧹(WHACK WHACK WHACK)

[frosted-co0kies]

hc that kris s teeth glow

stole from this post. Kris you are so weird (affectionate)

[tatakaeeren]

Levi Ackerman in every 進撃の巨人 Episode

....Thank you Isayama for giving us this man ❤️

[seraphdreams]

Happy Birthday baby. Another year if being a beautiful princess.

-🧸

you think i’m beautiful 🥺 fank you!

[ominus-potato]

Words cannot describe how much I ABSOLUTELY ADORE THIS!! AUGHHH THE END WITH THE LITTLE KISS WAS SO SWEET!!!! The way that this is drawn/animated is absolutely incredible. Even if it’s unfinished, I can still tell exactly what’s going on and I love it.

Perfect video, perfect song, 1 year later and it still hasn’t died, thank you so much for this food.

whatever, go my unfinished marware animatic, yes it's this stupid ass song

DON'T REUPLOAD ANYWHERE ELSE OR I'LL CATCH YOU

this has been with me for so long, like I started this so SO long ago and I heard this fucking song so much I can sing along to it </3

anyways this mainly happened cuz I actually liked the song

and.......... again-

PLEASE DON'T REUPLOAD THIS ANYWHERE ELSE !!! despite it kinda sucking I put my soul into it!! I do absolutely love animation despite barely ever doing it cuz it's like, time consuming and it's hard to keep up w everything I love doing

and also some of the. awkward places in this thing- so like if you know adobe animate layer management you know my pain

like I've............ I've gotta make my process less painful for myself at some point, in some way

because that's exactly why I lost so much of my progress!! some of which I liked so much more than the first draft stuff!!

maybe if I gather the strength to make something else of an animatic for this fandom I'll be wiser and actually think harder about managing my layers and animation

[raplinenthusiasts]

BTS x Major Arcana

for @dearedwardteach 🖤 {cr. namuspromised / psd / cards}

[not-poignant]

Hey! It is so interesting to me when people hate on things created by the people they hate (not bashing here just wondering, for each their own). It is just for me it always was the same thing as - my country is run by terrible people, but there woudn't be the place where I can feel more at home than this room I am in. Same always was with HP. I will hate Rowling for every shitty thing she said/did, but hp fanfics/books will always be my safe haven. It's not hers anymore, it's mine.

Anonymously coming into a trans person's private messages to tell them that hating on the creations of the most famous transphobic creator in the world is 'interesting' to you as though this is merely a thought experiment and not something with tangible stakes is a choice, anon.

Here's the thing. JKR isn't dead, she's not a philosophical concept (like a nation), she's not a government. She's a living person still using the profits of her creations to hate on and harm trans people and actively influence trans dehumanising laws.

Anyone who gives her money via buying her books or merch actively and explicitly contributes to these actions and this hate. I don't think your analogy is comparable, so I'll give you another: It would be like if you were a domestic violence victim, and I was a huge fan of Chris Brown (a very famous domestic violence abuser) and went into your personal space to anonymously tell you how 'interesting' it is that I can separate the art from the artist. That his music is 'mine now' while fully knowing that a domestic abuser is benefitting from my listening to his music and spreading this rhetoric about him. I'll tack on a 'but he's bad' to cover my bases, but that's it.

Just...why.

Our lives are not thought experiments. It's not 'interesting' that many trans people can't and won't separate the art from the artist while the artist actively uses the money from the art to harm us and increase hate crimes against us. It's devastating that more people don't understand why this is such an issue.

HP is not yours, anon. Not in the same way it's JKR's. You don't own the IP. You can't use the profits from it to help marginalised people. You can enjoy it in your mind, and privately, and among folks who feel the same way as you, but speaking about it favourably in public with zero caveats allies you with the most public and infamous transphobic mascot and influential figure in the world whether you like it or not. Even with caveats, it still harms more trans people than it helps.

Being reminded of the person actively working to increase the number of draconian laws around our rights, who has the endorsement of Putin and has empowered trans haters in the US, is not an 'interesting' little experiment for me, it's actively painful and hurtful. I'd rather you just bashed outright so I could delete the anon message rather than explain why our lives are interesting philosophical think pieces.

If this is what you're choosing to do with the part of HP that belongs to you and is now yours, by anonymously coming here to tell a trans person these things as though you expect any answer than the one I'm giving you now? Well, that sucks too.

Enjoy the IP and make it yours if you must. Stop telling trans people about it anonymously. And if you can't stop telling people how much you like HP, for god's sake, warn them first so they can decide if you're safe enough to keep interacting with.