#you still might burst into tears for no reason at any moment

[ashesfromashes]

.

[kalinysu]

💮 Hello, I was wondering if you could do a muzan × reader where they're married, so he's the demon king and she's the queen, and they have been together way before he was a demon, so he turned her. She's also pregnant, and he won't allow her to go on missions anymore. I would like to know if he would keep her by his side or would he lock her in her room. She can also walk in the sun. Please take your time. 💮

𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏. — Muzan x F!Reader

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Gentle Muzan with slightly harsh words, stubborn reader.

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: Very cute request! I’ve never written for Muzan and a pregnant wife, so it should be fun. Might rewrite, this was a little lazy 😭

“Darling, please lay down.” Muzan said with a sigh. You two had been going back and forth all night, and you were keeping him quite busy, busy enough to the point he had to ignore his other tasks and focus on you in the moment. “Stop!! Don’t you have any missions for me to do?— I mean, I can’t just lay here for 8 months straight.” You said, trying to sit up and get out of bed.

Muzan kept you away from the other demons, well more specifically Douma. He was far too handsy with you even if you were of a higher status and deserved just as much respect as Muzan. He preferred keeping you locked inside of his room when he couldn’t have you near him, such as when he worked on experiments or had meetings with the ranks. You were too distracting and required every of his attention, which he was willing to give when you two were alone and he wasn’t busy.

“Woman. Lay down, now.” Muzan said, furrowing his brow a bit. His hands were placed on your shoulders, occasionally switching to your waist, trying to be as gentle as possible with you even if his words weren’t. He let out a exhausted sigh, getting into bed with you. He then wrapped his arms around you, holding you just firm enough so you couldn’t get up from the bed. “Missions—“ You said, still trying to free yourself from his grasps. “Darling, I’ve made it clear that i’m not letting you go on any missions while your pregnant, go to sleep.” He said. He was right, besides, you hadn’t slept in days, but you wanted to do something, anything but be in this room.

“Let go—stop it! Stop!”

Muzan eventually had to lock you up inside of your room, not allowing you out at all. He had practically began to neglect you after the first few days of staying by your side. He did bring you human flesh to eat sometimes, and spend short amounts of time with you before going back to his work. If you got into too much trouble while on your own, he’d have Kokushibo or Akaza watch you. And they watched you like a hawk. They treated you as if you were a human, and any minor injury would be treated majorly.

Muzan wanted to be near you, but he just had too much to do. Today though,Muzan had come to check on you while you were asleep. But when you heard the door open, you forced yourself awake. You felt Muzan pull the blankets over your body completely, before placing a hand on your shoulder. “Muzan..?” You mumbled, turning over to look up at him. He gave you a small smile, before getting into bed beside you. “Upper 1 told me you were crying today. What’s wrong?” He asked, and you could barely believe it. You were about to slap him, but he had caught your wrist. He was just about to lecture and scold you, but you had burst out into tears before he could.

He didn’t know that this was also just your hormones affecting your mood, and thought you were just sad. “Darling, come here.” He said, sitting the both of you up and pulling you closer, allowing you to cry into his chest. “Y-you barely ever stay with me anymore!!” You sobbed, gripping his shirt. “My love, you know I have things to do..” He said, gently stroking your head. He was being honest, but there was another reason. He wasn’t sure how to take care of someone he actually cared for who was pregnant, so he resorted to locking you away to keep you safe and away from others.

“My apologies. I’ll take you with me from now on, how’s that sound, hm?” He asked with a smile when you finally calmed down a bit, tilting your head up to look at him. You sniffled, before nodding, wiping away your tears.

[kikyoupdates]

Goddess Wink ⭑˚💘⭑ 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒

bnha x f!reader

reverse harem, my hero academia x fem!reader, slowburn

Ever since your Quirk first manifested, you’ve been the apple of everyone’s eye. With the goal of becoming a hero, you enroll to U.A. and soon find yourself drawing the attention of many. Will you form genuine connections with others, or is this all just your power's will?

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You were four years old when it happened.

As far back as you could remember, you’d lived in an orphanage. You’d never met your real parents, nor did it seem like they had any intention of coming to get you, just based on how your caretakers would act. They tried to convince you that your parents must have had their reasons; that they might not have been in the right place to take care of you, but it served as little reassurance. You felt unwanted, unloved. You wondered what you could have possibly done that your own parents wouldn’t want to be with you—why all of these children were missing their families. You didn’t understand, but it felt unfair. For whatever reason, you were undesirable. At least, that’s the way you felt.

On a rather uneventful day, you were out on the playground with some of the other kids from the orphanage. They were all playing together, but you were off by the sandpit on your own, fiddling with the outfit on your doll. At some point a cluster of them had broken off, and one of the boys came right up to you, grinned, and snatched the doll straight out of your hands.

You frowned at him. “Give it back.”

“Nuh uh,” he jeered. “You’re always so boring, [Name]. You never play with the rest of us.”

“I’m not in the mood to play right now. Can you please give me my doll back?”

“What’s so fun about these dolls anyways?” The boy squinted at the toy in his hands, and without wasting a beat, popped one of the doll’s legs clean off. “Whoa!” he cried out. “They break so easily!”

You felt like you should be bursting into tears, but oddly enough, the tears didn’t come. You were eerily composed, a sense of calm washing over you. Something was telling you there was no reason to get worked up. You felt your chest growing warm, and your eyes began to glow a faint, pink shade. You stepped up to the boy and grabbed him by the wrist.

“You ruined my doll,” you said. “Apologize.”

“Huh—?” He stared back at you, dubious, and something akin to realization overtook his expression. He began to grow red in the cheeks, his breaths became irregular, and he swayed unsteadily on his own two feet. The boy stared down at the doll and its now missing leg in shock, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just done. “I-I’m so sorry!” he spluttered. “I didn’t mean to… [Name]. I’m really, really sorry!”

You’d never seen the boy act like this before. He was always up to some sort of mischief, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to go around teasing the other girls. You glanced down to where your fingers were laced around his wrist. You tightened your grip, watching the way his blush only deepened.

“I want a new doll,” you told him.

“Of course! I’m so sorry… I’ll tell the supervisors what happened and get you a new one right away, I promise!”

Even his accomplices seemed to be confused. “Dude, why are you apologizing to her? She thinks she’s so much better than everyone else!”

“She thinks she’s too good to play with the rest of us!”

You pulled away from the first boy and stared at the other two. Still hesitant, you reached over and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. You felt something rushing or pulsing through your body. The air felt like it tasted richer, sweeter. And this time you were sure of it—the moment your hand made contact with their bodies, each of the boys grew red in the face and started rocking on their feet as if they were drunk.

“Apologize,” you ordered again.

“We’re sorry, [Name]!”

“So sorry…”

You took a step back and marveled at what had just happened. All three of them were staring at you with flushed, puffy cheeks, as if they were awaiting your next command. Your small limbs were practically oozing with power. You were sure that this must have been what everyone was always talking about—the birth of your Quirk.

“You guys can leave me alone now,” you said, crouching back down inside the sandpit. “Please make sure I get a new doll and tell the supervisors that you were the reason it broke in the first place.”

They nodded their heads furiously, already rushing over to confess their wrongdoings. You hugged your knees to your chest and inhaled shakily. You didn’t know exactly what kind of power it was, but the feeling of others being so helpless before you… it was oddly exhilarating.

—

You explained to the caretakers the gist of what had happened, and they began speculating as to what type of power you had. It was worth noting that while some became more interested in you as a result of your newly-developed Quirk, others were a bit more apprehensive after finding out what had happened to the three boys. The teachers and caretakers instructed you not to use your Quirk on others needlessly, since you presumably had a power that could control people.

Of course, you didn’t listen.

The next couple of weeks cleared up some questions you had about your Quirk. To be more exact, you weren't consciously using it. It was a difficult power to control, and you would find that it activated on its own without your awareness. It became evident that your Quirk didn’t simply enable you to control others; there were other aspects to it that you were struggling to grasp. You were too young and naive to make sense of it all, but the one thing that was seemingly apparent was that your powers relied on attracting others to you.

You’d been rather quiet and reserved for the majority of your stay at the orphanage, but now the others flocked to you like birds. The boys especially seemed most susceptible to your powers. They would follow you around for near hours at a time, even going so far as to give you presents that you hadn’t even asked for. On some occasions, the caretakers themselves would tilt their heads and smile, saying what a “cute, charming girl” you were, before letting you get away with things that normally wouldn’t have been allowed.

At first, you thought you liked your Quirk. You were getting more attention than you ever had, and for the first time, you felt loved and desired. You thought that maybe if you’d been born with this power, your parents might not have abandoned you. All of the boys in the orphanage loved you, all of the girls wanted to be your friends, and they would each go to any lengths to make you happy. You could get anything you wanted. Truly, it was the best possible Quirk.

But this too, was a fleeting feeling. Before long, the attention became overbearing. You could never get away from it all, from the looks of desire and adoration. The friendships you’d developed with the children started to feel less genuine and more fabricated. You felt like they weren’t really your friends; that your power was just forcing them to be. These ugly thoughts started to pile on more and more, to the point that you began to resent your Quirk. You couldn’t control the power leaving your body, and it felt as if you were living life trying to navigate through a misty pink haze.

Several months passed, and a visitor came to the orphanage.

“I’ve come to take you in, [Name].”

It was a man with pin-straight black hair and striking red eyes. He introduced himself as Mikael, and declared that he’d already filled out all the required paperwork to adopt you. The orphan children began to cry, lamenting the fact that you would be leaving them. You were both relieved and anxious. Even if you couldn’t control your powers, here, at least, you could rest easy knowing that everyone adored you. You’d spent all of your life in the orphanage, and you were a little afraid to leave.

This guy will probably listen to anything I say anyways…

Mikael held you by the hand and led you outside once you’d bid farewell to everyone. He looked down at you, eyes gleaming, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. “I think you’ll find that your Quirk will have no effect on me, descendant of Aphrodite.”

“Aphrodite?”

You stared up at him, confused. He didn’t answer your question and instead chuckled to himself.

“Not to worry. I will teach you how to control your Quirk in due time. You’ve been blessed with a gift, young one. A beautiful power capable of touching the hearts of many.”

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[guiltyasdave]

constellations in his eyes

pairing: Dave York x f!reader

summary: Your fiancé stands you up on your birthday. Dave doesn’t.

word count: 736

tags/warnings: infidelity, shitty boyfriend, angst, fluff, kissing, able-bodied reader, reader has hair, no use of y/n

a/n: this is based on the song high infidelity by taylor swift and written for @beskarandblasters’s taylor swift drabble challenge. i love taylor and this song and dave, so this was very fun 🫶🏻 check out the whole challenge masterlist here!

follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for fic updates and find my whole masterlist here :)

dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

It’s your birthday, April 29th.

Rain is soaking through your dress, the drenched fabric clinging to your skin, wet strands of your hair sticking to your forehead. Unfamiliar lips are pressed against yours. You don’t remember the last time you’ve felt this happy.

You’re supposed to meet your fiancé for dinner tonight. When you call him, you’re already seated at the table, waiting for him to meet you there.

“Give me a break,” he sighs at your demand for an explanation, “I’m sure you’ll find someone else to buy you dinner.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what I mean. None of those guys from your office available tonight?”

“Fuck you.”

You slam the phone back onto the table, swallowing down the angry tears that are starting to well up in your eyes. You have been dealing with his unreasonable bouts of insecurity and jealousy because you’re working in a male-dominated field for way too long. You had hoped that he would get over it eventually, but it had rather gotten worse, mixed with remarks about how he made more money than you and how thankful you should be that he took care of you.

After staring down at the table for a few moments, you pick your phone back up again. If this is what he thinks of you any way, you might as well give him a reason to.

“Hey. Can you come and pick me up, please?”

Of course Dave could. You’re often assigned cases together, are often huddled up in the office when it’s already dark outside and your colleagues have gone home. You like working with him, like how quiet but straightforward he is, how he understands your way of thinking. You like him.

You’ve been out for drinks before, to celebrate successfully solved cases, but nothing more, no matter how many times he hinted at being interested in more. Because you’re not that kind of woman, despite what your fiancé apparently thinks.

Until now. It’s your birthday and you’re gonna spend it with someone who actually likes being around you.

When you walk out of the restaurant, he’s waiting for you, his brow furrowed in concern, immediately asking if you’re alright. You nod, mumbling something about a change of plans, nothing to worry about. You can tell that he doesn’t buy it.

He’s walking you down the block to his car, one hand at the small of your back. You feel yourself melting into him and his calming presence beside you, into the self-assured way he’s taking charge.

Neither of you had expected the sudden downpour, soaking the both of you to the bone within seconds. You stop in your tracks, staring at him in surprise for a second, before you burst out laughing.

You stumble over your own feet as you try to keep walking and instinctively grab his arm. He turns in your direction and steadies you, an amused smirk on his face, his hands a heavy weight on your hips, his touch burning into you.

You lean in and kiss him before your mind catches up with your actions. He stills for only one moment before his lips start moving against yours with a caressing urgency that makes your heart clench with longing.

Your hands cling to him, to his shirt underneath your fingers that’s just as drenched as your clothes, to the broadness of his shoulders that’s sending a rush of excitement through you. The absurdity of the whole situation makes you giggle against his mouth and you feel the rumble of his own laugh more than you hear it while his arms are wrapping tighter around your waist.

You don’t care that you’re in the middle of the sidewalk, that rain is still pouring down on you, that this is not the man that you’ve agreed to marry.

Because when you open your eyes, he’s already looking at you, the lights of the city reflecting in his dark pupils, like constellations that you want to get lost in. For the first time in forever, you feel seen. Your fingers burrow into his hair and you pull him closer again, connecting your lips with his once more.

When you reach his car, he opens the door for you and asks if he can take you home with him. You say yes.

None of it feels real, but you feel more alive than you’ve felt in a long time.

thank you for reading! if you liked this, please consider reblogging, commenting, sending an ask or interacting in any way. it’s really what keeps writers going <3

[speaknow-sw]

THE POET AND THE ROSE

Content : fluff, betrayal, fluff, fluff, mentions of pregnancy.

A/N : 8.3k words omg I’m proud of myself. I like this chapter because it’s pure fluff with plot. Anyway there’s only three chapters left after this one 😭.

꧁ Chapter 6 : A Life Begins ꧂

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

The flesh is weak, yet burns divine,

A hunger shared, a sacred sign.

In whispered touch, the world unwinds,

Desire consumes, as hearts entwine.

Two Months Later

The signs had been subtle at first, easy to dismiss amidst the chaos of court life and the lingering shadows of betrayal. You had felt the change before you fully understood it—a gentle tiredness that seemed to settle into your bones, the way your body rebelled at certain foods, and a strange, unfamiliar ache deep within you. But it wasn’t until one quiet evening in the solitude of your chambers, painting at your easel, that the realization had struck with the force of a storm.

You had paused mid-stroke, the brush trembling in your hand as you pressed a palm to your abdomen, instinctively protective of the life you now knew was growing there. A child. Anakin’s child. Your chest had tightened with a mix of wonder and fear, tears slipping unbidden down your cheeks as the weight of the revelation settled over you.

But how could you tell him?

Days had passed, and the secret felt like a flame in your chest, burning brighter with every glance he gave you, every touch of his hand, every stolen kiss. You waited for the right moment, for the perfect words, but they never seemed to come. And now, lying in the soft cocoon of your shared bed as the morning sun painted gold over the walls, you knew you couldn’t wait any longer.

The bedchamber was bathed in the soft glow of early morning, sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains, painting the walls in golden hues. Anakin stirred beside you, the warmth of his arm draped possessively over your waist. For the first time in months, there was no urgency, no danger clawing at the edges of your lives—only the fragile peace that had settled between you like a long-awaited truce.

He opened his eyes slowly, their stormy depths softening as they found you already awake. A rare, unguarded smile curved his lips, and he reached to brush a strand of hair from your face.

"You’re watching me again," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

"I am," you admitted with a teasing smile. "You’re easier to study when you’re not scowling."

He huffed a soft laugh, his hand slipping to your cheek. "And you’re easier to adore when you’re smiling like that."

Your cheeks warmed under his gaze, and you turned your face slightly, pressing a kiss to his palm. Anakin shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could watch you more fully. The intensity of his gaze had always unsettled you before, but now, it made your heart race for entirely different reasons.

"Why do you look at me like that?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"Because I can," he said simply, his thumb brushing over your lips. "Because I don’t want to waste a single moment."

A comfortable silence followed as you lay there, tangled in the quiet intimacy of shared breaths and fleeting touches. It was in this moment, with his love laid bare and your heart so full it felt as though it might burst, that you knew you couldn’t keep your secret any longer.

"Anakin," you began, your voice trembling slightly.

He tilted his head, concern flickering across his face. "What is it?"

You hesitated, nerves tightening in your chest. Then, with a deep breath, you placed his hand gently over your abdomen. "We’re not alone anymore."

For a moment, there was only silence. Anakin stared at you, his brows knitting together in confusion before realization dawned. His hand tensed against you, his eyes widening.

"You mean…" His voice faltered, and he sat up fully, his gaze darting between your face and the place where his hand rested. "You mean there’s…?"

You nodded, tears brimming in your eyes. "A child. Our child."

A strangled sound escaped him—a mixture of disbelief and unbridled joy. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, his hand trembling against your stomach.

"A child," he whispered, as if saying the words aloud would make them real. "Our child."

His other hand cupped your face, his lips finding yours in a kiss so tender it left you breathless. When he pulled back, his eyes were damp, his expression unguarded in a way you’d rarely seen.

"I never thought…" He shook his head, his voice breaking. "I never thought I’d have this. That I’d deserve this."

"You do," you said firmly, your own tears spilling over. "You deserve this, Anakin. You deserve everything."

He kissed you again, his hand never leaving your abdomen as if he feared the moment might vanish. When he finally pulled back, a mischievous grin tugged at his lips.

"I suppose this means I’ll have to be even more careful with you now," he said, his voice light but full of meaning.

"And you’ll have to stop taking so many arrows," you countered with a laugh, wiping at your cheeks.

He chuckled, the sound reverberating through you like a promise of brighter days. Then, with all the reverence of a man who had finally found something worth living for, he rested his head against your stomach and whispered, "I’ll protect you both. Always."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. He pressed his forehead against your abdomen, his hands cradling you as though he could somehow shield both you and the child within.

"I’ll protect you both," he repeated, his voice low and fierce. "I swear it. Nothing will ever harm you."

You ran your fingers through his hair, your heart swelling with love for this man who had so carefully guarded his heart until now. "I know," you whispered.

In that moment, with his arms wrapped around you and his love radiating so fiercely it felt like a shield, you believed him. For the first time, you dared to dream of a future beyond war, beyond duty—a future where love, not fear, shaped your lives.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

Beneath my hand her womb softly sings,

A fragile promise, the weight of all things.

A vessel of stars with her body divine,

Carrying the future, forever entwined.

The morning sun cast long rays of light across the castle courtyard, gilding the stone walls and brightening the faces of the assembled crowd. Nobles in silk and armor lined the balconies, their curiosity veiled behind composed expressions. Below, commoners packed the square, their chatter a rising tide of speculation. The air was thick with expectation, the kind that settled before great moments.

Anakin Skywalker stood on the dais, his broad shoulders cloaked in a formal mantle, though his armor still bore the scratches and dents of battle. The sight of him commanded respect—his presence, forged in countless wars, left no room for doubt that this was a man of action, even amidst diplomacy.

Behind him, you lingered, draped in a gown of deep crimson that framed your figure elegantly. Your hands rested gently on your stomach, though the gesture was discreet. You were still adjusting to the weight of the news, the sheer gravity of what was to come.

Anakin turned slightly, his sharp blue gaze finding yours. The flicker of a smile softened the resolute lines of his face, a private exchange amid the public spectacle. Then, he faced the crowd and raised his hand, commanding silence.

“My people,” he began, his deep voice carrying effortlessly over the gathered throng, “we stand today in the fragile peace that follows war. These stones underfoot have borne witness to centuries of bloodshed and strife, of alliances forged and broken. Yet, today, I bring you a new promise—a reason to look beyond the scars of the past.”

The murmurs quieted entirely, the crowd hanging on his every word.

“It is with pride and humility that I announce a union not only between lands but within my own house. My wife,”—he paused, gesturing toward you with a reverence that made your breath catch—“carries within her a child.”

A ripple of astonishment coursed through the crowd. Gasps escaped lips, eyes widened, and an audible shift of energy swept through the courtyard. The nobles exchanged glances, their veiled thoughts unreadable, while the common folk clutched at their neighbors, whispering fervently.

“A child,” Anakin continued, his voice unyielding as he cut through the rising murmur, “born of two nations. A symbol of unity in a time when division would seek to undo us. This child will embody not only the blood of two kingdoms but the hope of peace that binds us all.”

The crowd’s reaction was a mixture of awe and uncertainty. Applause began hesitantly, building into a crescendo of cheers. Yet not all faces were jubilant. Among the French nobles, Count Aulbry’s expression tightened, his calculating gaze fixed on Anakin. Nearby, a cluster of English lords exchanged furtive looks, their smiles forced.

Anakin stepped closer to you, his hand extending. You accepted it without hesitation, your fingers trembling slightly in his firm grasp. He turned to face the crowd with you at his side, his voice now softer, yet no less commanding.

“This child is more than a bond of blood. It is a covenant,” he said, his eyes sweeping the audience before returning to you. “Let this life be a bridge, a reminder that no force of man or steel can sever what love and hope have built.”

The cheers erupted anew, though you could still sense the undercurrent of tension among the nobles. Even as their voices rose, clapping hands and ringing bells filling the air, you caught sight of Count Aulbry turning away, his lips a thin, displeased line.

You squeezed Anakin’s hand, grounding yourself in his steady presence. He glanced down at you, his expression softening in a way few had the privilege to see. His thumb brushed your knuckles, a silent reassurance.

As the crowd’s cheers continued, Anakin leaned closer, his words meant only for you. “Their faces betray their smiles,” he murmured. “This news binds us together, my rose, but it also stirs those who would see us fall. Be vigilant.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. For a fleeting moment, you longed to retreat from the weight of it all, to find solace in the quiet of your chambers, where the world’s scrutiny could not follow.

As the crowd slowly began to disperse, Anakin led you back toward the castle. The walk through the corridors was quieter than you had expected. His hand never left yours, his touch an anchor against the storm brewing in your mind.

Once you were alone in the warmth of the great hall, he paused, turning to face you fully. His hands framed your face, roughened palms gentle against your skin.

“Thank you,” he said softly, the intensity in his voice making you blink.

“For what?” you whispered, overwhelmed by the depth of his gaze.

“For giving me this,” he replied, his hand dropping to your abdomen. “For giving us this.”

The vulnerability in his voice, the way it cracked under the weight of his emotions, made your eyes well with tears.

“And thank you,” you whispered back, “for standing beside me when the world watches and whispers.”

He kissed you then, deeply, as though trying to etch that moment into his soul. The world outside the castle walls could rage and plot, but in that instant, nothing else existed but the two of you.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

Within her womb, a kingdom stirs,

A bridge of blood, where hope confers.

The wars may rage, the world may scheme,

But here we stand, love’s quiet dream.

The soft glow of candlelight filled the room, casting long shadows on the walls as Anakin held you close. The sound of murmurs from the bustling servants outside seemed a distant hum. It was just the two of you, in a world where only your love existed.

His hand moved from the curve of your waist to wrap around you, pulling you nearer. The women outside the chamber whispered their gossip, but none of it mattered now. He only cared for you.

Anakin placed his chin on the top of your head, inhaling your scent. His breath was warm against the crown of your hair, and for a moment, there was silence between you both. He just wanted to feel you close, to savor this rare peace.

"I love you, more than my own life," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

You leaned back slightly, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you smacked his chest playfully. "Don't say that," you protested. "It’s bad luck."

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. Instead, his arm tightened around you, pulling you even closer, his breath fanning across your neck. A quiet sigh escaped his lips, and he spoke again, this time softer, as though surrendering to his own feelings. "I love you… more than my own life."

You bit your lip, the weight of his words pressing against your heart. "It’s not something you should say," you whispered. "Saying you value someone over your own life is a serious thing."

He nodded, a hint of seriousness creeping into his eyes. Gently, he turned your chin so that your gazes met. His blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a long moment, neither of you moved. "I know," he said, his voice low, "and I mean it."

His hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing under your eye, tracing the outline of your cheek. "I mean it," he repeated, his gaze unwavering. "I would rather die a thousand deaths than live without you."

His words struck you, not with fear but with the deepest affection you had ever known. A small tremor passed through you as you tried to find something to say, something to counteract the weight of his promise. "You shouldn’t say that, Anakin," you whispered, shaking your head. "It’s wrong on so many levels."

He nodded again, knowing the truth of your words but unable to keep from speaking them. His thumb slid gently over your lips, as if tracing the very words he had just spoken. He leaned in, his voice a whisper now, close enough that his breath brushed your skin. "I know. But I’m being honest. I do love you more than my own life."

A soft sigh escaped you, and you closed your eyes, the tenderness of the moment overwhelming you. "Did you come here to recite poetry, Lord Skywalker ?" you asked playfully, a smile tugging at your lips.

He chuckled, his fingers brushing along your cheek and jaw, moving with the ease of someone who knew you better than anyone else. "No," he replied with a smirk, his voice playful yet sincere. "I didn’t come for poetry." He held your chin gently, looking deep into your eyes, his thumb caressing your lips once more. "I came back to see you," he murmured, his voice softening. "I wanted to see my wife after hours apart."

You smiled, a warmth spreading through you at the thought. "Isn’t that worth a little poem from you?" you teased, raising an eyebrow.

He grinned, his smile broadening as he kissed your forehead. His fingers lingered on your waist before he pulled you closer, his hands soft on your skin. "A poem for my wife ?" he repeated, his voice playful. "Hmm, I’ll have to think about what to write." He acted as though deep in thought, then looked at you with a smirk that made your heart race.

"I hum softly to your beauty, love, and grace," he began, his voice taking on a tender note. "I will search for your heart, if you take it elsewhеre. Even if in your dances, othеrs fill your hours. I will search for your soul, in the cold, in the flames. I will cast magic spells at you, for you to love me forever."

The words hung in the air, like a promise, like a vow. He kissed the tip of your nose, and you closed your eyes, feeling the depth of his feelings wrap around you.

"You got me used to better, Lord Skywalker," you said softly, the words tinged with amusement.

He chuckled, shaking his head. His thumb moved to your lips once more, brushing them softly. "You are my better," he said with quiet confidence, his voice low and tender. "Don’t doubt that for a second. I am a better man around you. I’m softer, gentler... and I like being gentle with you."

His words warmed your heart, and as his thumb gently traced the outline of your lips, you couldn’t help but smile. "Am I worth your poetry then?" you asked, a teasing tone in your voice.

He smiled, his eyes gleaming with affection. "You are worth more than that," he said, his voice serious now. "I could write a whole damn book full of poetry about you. Every single page would be filled with words about the love I feel for you... and it still wouldn’t be enough to express it all."

You laughed softly, your heart swelling with the love he poured into you. "Did you write that in your little poetry notebook ?" you teased, giving him a playful smile.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "No," he replied, his voice warm and full of affection. "I said it from memory... for how many times I’ve thought about it, for how many times I’ve said it to myself."

His hand slipped from your lips, and he kissed your forehead once more. "For how many times I’ve wanted to write it down," he whispered, his words lingering in the air between you.

He pulled you into a gentle hug, his arms surrounding you as he pressed his chin to your head. And in that moment, you knew, without a doubt, that the love you shared was something beyond anything you had ever dreamed.

Three Weeks Later

The grand ballroom shimmered in the soft light of hundreds of candles, their flames flickering like little stars suspended in time. The rich, velvet tapestries that adorned the walls caught the light, painting the room in hues of deep red and gold. The melodies of a string quartet filled the air, gentle but with an underlying tension that seemed to hum just beneath the surface. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration, a grand ball thrown in honor of the child you carried for now three months, a moment of joy in a world shadowed by war and betrayal.

Anakin, looking every bit the warrior he was, stood at your side as the evening unfolded. His gaze, though warm when it met yours, seemed to flicker with something else—a restlessness that had become more pronounced in recent weeks. His hand, ever so gentle on your waist, was the only anchor you felt in the sea of polite chatter and forced smiles. But even his touch could not mask the distance that had been growing between you both. Anakin was a man of action, of purpose, and the palace's ornate dances—both literal and political—had never been kind to him.

The music played on as Anakin stepped away from you with an apologetic look, his lips curling into a half smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Please enjoy yourself, my rose," he murmured, the words laced with affection but also an unspoken understanding. He had to leave you—duty called. As the host, it was his responsibility to oversee the evening, but it was more than that. Anakin had his eyes on a different prize tonight: the King.

You watched him slip away, his figure becoming a blur in the crowd of dancers and courtiers. He moved with purpose, his sharp gaze scanning the room as he made his way to the King. Your heart sank just slightly, not from jealousy, but from the ache of knowing what awaited him in the King's chambers. Another attempt to open the monarch’s eyes to the treachery festering within his own court. You knew he would fail again, just as he always did. The King, blinded by his pride and political games, refused to acknowledge the threat that lurked at their doorstep.

You had no intention of following him, not tonight. Instead, you sought refuge in the dimmer corners of the ballroom. But even as you tried to lose yourself in the music and the laughter of the nobility, your mind kept drifting back to him.

The King’s chambers were draped in opulence, a grand, imposing space filled with the weight of centuries of power. Rich velvet curtains hung over tall windows that overlooked the expansive gardens, their vibrant colors muted in the late afternoon light. The room smelled faintly of incense and old parchment, a blend of history and authority that had long been unchallenged. And yet, in the midst of it all, Anakin felt a weight heavier than the gold on the walls, a suffocating pressure that was more than the King's physical presence—it was the weight of his ignorance.

King Edward sat at the head of an immense wooden table, his posture regal, but his eyes were distant, unfocused, as though he were far from the matters at hand. A goblet of wine sat before him, untouched, a symbol of his disinterest in the serious matters his kingdom faced. His advisors, those loyal sycophants who hovered like vultures, waited in silence for their King to speak, but it was clear they, too, were tired of this endless charade.

Anakin stepped forward, his boots scraping against the cold stone floor, breaking the silence with the weight of his own presence. His heart thudded in his chest—not from fear, but from the anger that simmered beneath his skin. He had seen enough, heard enough, and he was ready to lay it all bare.

“Your Majesty,” Anakin began, his voice a low, controlled growl that betrayed the tension in his body. “The French are preparing to strike. Their treachery has already begun. If we do not act now, the bloodshed will be on our hands. My sources—”

King Edward raised a hand lazily, his fingers brushing the surface of his goblet, the motion more dismissive than anything else. “General, please.” His voice was smooth, like silk slipping over stone, but it held none of the urgency or gravitas that the situation demanded. “I do not need to hear your reports of spies and rumors. I have dealt with these matters before.”

Anakin clenched his jaw, the need to maintain his composure burning inside him like a wildfire. He was no fool. He knew the King’s mind, and it was as stubborn and inflexible as the walls of the castle itself. But even so, he pressed on, his words a sharpened weapon.

“The reports are not rumors,” he insisted, his gaze steady and unflinching. “I have seen their movements myself. The French are gathering forces. They have spies within our borders, and I have witnessed their military preparations. This is not just a skirmish; this is the beginning of something far worse. We cannot wait any longer. War is coming, and we must be ready.”

The King’s eyes flickered, but he did not rise from his chair. He took a languid sip from his goblet, his gaze never leaving Anakin. “War, you say? And who exactly are we supposed to declare war on? The French nobility? The King of France himself? No, Skywalker. I will not throw this kingdom into chaos over the whispers of an unsettled general.”

Anakin’s hands balled into fists at his sides. His pulse quickened, blood rushing to his head, but he held back the fury that was threatening to explode. “The French have made their intentions clear. We cannot sit idle and hope this resolves itself. They will attack. If you do not act now, there will be no kingdom left to protect!”

King Edward set his goblet down slowly, his eyes narrowing, his voice dripping with condescension. “And what of my kingdom? What of the people I rule?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studied Anakin. “Your zeal for battle is admirable, but you fail to see the bigger picture. I will not waste resources, time, and men on a war that is not yet upon us. You speak of French treachery, but what of our own treachery? What if this is nothing more than a product of your own paranoia?”

Anakin’s patience snapped.

“Paranoia?” he spat, his voice rising with a dangerous intensity. “I’ve fought on the frontlines, Your Majesty. I have bled for this kingdom, for you. You sit here, comfortable in your ivory tower, while the world around us burns. You think this is paranoia? These are facts, not delusions!”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the tension thickening with each passing second. The King’s face hardened, his eyes cold as they met Anakin’s. For a moment, it seemed as though the two men might tear at each other, their differences too vast to bridge.

“You forget your place, Anakin,” the King said, his tone low and dangerous, a warning that rang louder than any shouted command. “You are a soldier. You have no right to question me, to demand anything from me. You are my subject, nothing more.”

Anakin’s chest heaved with a deep, ragged breath. How humiliating the King was by calling him by his name. The truth of it hit him then—the King was not just blind to the truth; he was willfully blind, choosing to live in ignorance for the sake of his own comfort. Anakin could feel the weight of the crown’s power in the room, but it was not a weight that humbled the King. No, it was a weight that corrupted him, twisted him into something less than a leader and more like a petty tyrant.

“If you refuse to see reason,” Anakin said, his voice a low, dangerous promise, “then I will take this to the people. I will not sit back and watch while you put us all in danger.”

The King’s lips twisted into a humorless smile. “And what exactly do you think you’ll do, Anakin? You’ve no power here. You’re a soldier, nothing more. You may have been given a title, but you forget who holds the power in this kingdom.”

Anakin took a step forward, his gaze unwavering, his body tense with suppressed rage. “Then let me remind you, Your Majesty. I have the loyalty of your soldiers, the respect of the people. And when the time comes, it will not be your gold and your title that will protect you. It will be the strength of those who stand with what is right. And right now, that is not you.”

The room was still, deathly silent. The King’s eyes flared with anger, but he did not move. He simply looked at Anakin with the same cold detachment he had displayed all evening, as though this was all some game.

“You will regret this, General,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “Mark my words.”

Anakin’s lips tightened into a grim line. “Perhaps. But history will remember the truth, Your Majesty. And it will remember those who acted in the face of it.”

Without another word, he turned and walked out of the chamber, his footsteps echoing through the silence, the weight of the King’s indifference following him like a shadow.

Outside the chamber doors, Anakin’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with fury. He knew the King would never change. But he also knew that the battle was not over, not by a long shot. The kingdom was on the brink of destruction, and no matter how many times Anakin tried to warn him, the King would not listen until it was too late.

And by then, it would be Anakin’s job to pick up the pieces.

Hours passed, but no word came. The night seemed to drag on, each moment more strained than the last. Anakin had not returned, and you felt the weight of his absence in your chest. The idea of him facing the King, alone, with nothing but words to defend a kingdom, made your stomach twist. You knew he would be met with the same stone wall, his words unheard in the face of the King’s stubbornness.

And then, just as you began to wonder if perhaps you should find him, the doors to the ballroom burst open. Anakin stormed in, his jaw clenched, his expression fierce and unreadable. The room, once alive with conversation, fell silent at his entrance. All eyes turned to him, but none dared approach. He was a tempest contained in human form, his anger a palpable force that hung in the air. He moved toward you, not stopping to acknowledge the curious gazes or hushed whispers, his stride unyielding.

You were already rising from your seat, but before you could speak, he reached you, his hand gripping your arm tightly, as though needing to anchor himself to something—someone. His breath came in quick, shallow bursts, his chest heaving as though he had just been in a fight, though the only battle he’d faced had been with words.

“Anakin…” you murmured, your voice soft, laced with concern. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, a desperate attempt to reach him, to soothe the storm that raged inside him.

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, his gaze seemed to bore into yours, as if seeking comfort in the only place that still made sense to him. His free hand clenched into a fist, then released, only to repeat the process. Finally, he exhaled a shaky breath and spoke, his voice thick with anger.

“The King,” he spat, his words sharp as daggers. “He refuses to see reason. He will not declare war against the French, despite the clear treachery, despite the evidence that—” He broke off, shaking his head in disbelief. “He refuses to act, and all because he is more concerned with his own image, his own power, than the safety of his people!”

You reached out, touching his arm gently, a small, grounding gesture, but Anakin didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were wild, as though the weight of his failures had become too much to bear. His voice, usually so controlled, cracked under the strain of his frustration.

“Did you see him?” he demanded, his face flushed with the intensity of his emotions. “Did you see the way he dismissed my warnings? As though my words are nothing, as though the fate of this kingdom is nothing but a game to him. He can’t see beyond his own damn selfishness.”

You could feel his frustration building with each word, the heat of his anger radiating off him. And though your heart ached for him, you knew that there was little you could say to ease the pain of his disillusionment. The King’s refusal to act had cost him far more than political approval; it had cost him faith in the very system he had fought so hard to protect.

“Anakin…” You said his name again, this time with more force, as if to pull him out of his spiraling thoughts. “You did everything you could. You tried. But if he will not listen, if he will not see reason, then you cannot force him.”

He shook his head, his eyes dark with frustration. “And what of the people? What of our people? What of your people, my rose? Shall we sit idle while they are slaughtered in the streets?” His voice had softened on the last words, his gaze flickering down to where your hand rested on his arm.

You stood in silence for a moment, unsure of how to offer comfort when there was so little hope to offer. You had known the King’s stubbornness well enough to understand that his refusal to act wasn’t about ignorance—it was about fear. Fear of losing his power, fear of facing the consequences of his decisions. And now, that fear was condemning the very kingdom they had sworn to protect.

Anakin’s grip on your arm tightened for a moment, and then, just as quickly, it loosened. He exhaled a breath, his shoulders slumping slightly as though the weight of the evening had finally taken its toll on him. He looked up at you, his eyes darkened with exhaustion and a new kind of bitterness.

“Tonight was supposed to be about celebrating,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, a stark contrast to the fiery anger that had gripped him moments before. “And yet, all I feel is…betrayed.”

The word hung in the air between you, a silent acknowledgment of the emotional toll the night had taken on him. You felt the ache of his weariness, the deep-seated frustration that gnawed at him, and in that moment, you wanted nothing more than to take away his pain, to make it disappear.

You took a step closer to him, your hand reaching up to touch his cheek. He didn’t flinch, but his eyes closed briefly at your touch, as though your presence was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“It’ll be okay…you’re resourceful, General,” you said softly, your voice a promise, a balm to his wounded heart. “And I trust you.”

Anakin’s eyes flickered open, and for the first time that night, something softer seemed to stir within them. A silent gratitude, an unspoken understanding.

For a moment, it felt as though the weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders, if only just a little.

But even in that fleeting moment of peace, the reality remained unchanged. The King had made his decision, and Anakin’s fight was far from over.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

A soldier’s loyalty, a leader’s pride,

Can only go so far before worlds collide.

The King’s blindness is his greatest chain,

As his strength breaks free from his reign.

Unknown POV, Unknown Day

In the dimly lit chamber of the King of France, the air was heavy, thick with the scent of wax and velvet, with shadows draping over the stone walls. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting dancing shapes across the floor, but it did nothing to warm the chill that had settled in the room. Count Aulbry stood before the King, his presence a calculated weight in the silence. His gaze was steady, unwavering as he watched the monarch, who sat slumped upon his throne, the weight of the world seemingly pressing upon his shoulders. The King had aged since Aulbry’s last visit, his once-proud stature now marked by the growing weight of doubt, fear, and the heavy responsibilities of a reign threatened on all sides.

“Your Majesty,” Aulbry’s voice sliced through the stillness, rich and low, his words curling like smoke around the King’s consciousness. He had long since learned the art of speaking in half-truths, a skill that would serve him well in the game he played.

King Phillip’s gaze was sharp, though his weariness showed in the slouch of his shoulders, the way his hand rested weakly upon the arm of the throne. He had not answered Aulbry’s greeting but instead regarded the count with a long, careful stare. Finally, the King spoke, his voice gravelly, tired.

“What is it you want, Aulbry?”

The Count smiled, a practiced, predatory smile that had served him well in his rise to power. He knew how to make men bend to him without them realizing it. “I want to offer you a solution, Majesty. A way to reclaim everything that is rightfully yours.”

Phillip’s eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his bones like a snake. “What are you speaking of?”

Aulbry stepped closer, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. He lowered his voice, though there was no need—he knew the King was already listening intently. “The General. Anakin Skywalker. Your daughter’s husband.”

Phillip’s face twitched at the mention of Anakin’s name. There was a deep resentment in those eyes, something far darker than simple dislike. There was fear there too. Fear of losing control, fear of a man whose power seemed to grow by the day, a man whose strength was respected and feared not just by the French but by all who knew him. But it was also that power—Anakin’s influence—that was now the crux of their problem.

“You have a plan,” the King murmured, more to himself than to Aulbry.

“Indeed,” Aulbry said smoothly, his voice like silk wrapping around the King’s nerves. “A plan that will see you regain everything you’ve lost. You see, the news I bring will shake the very foundation of their alliance.” He paused for a moment, letting the tension in the room build like a storm. “The Princess is with child, Your Majesty. The General’s child.”

Phillip blinked, a flicker of surprise—then quickly replaced by anger—flashing across his features. He straightened in his chair, his hand tightening around the armrest. “A child? This changes nothing. The treaty is sealed. Their union is a farce.”

Aulbry stepped forward, speaking more urgently now. “It changes everything. This child—this heir—makes the union all the more permanent. It ties your daughter irrevocably to him, to the General. And that, Your Majesty, is what we can use to our advantage.”

Phillip’s brow furrowed, his lips pressing together in thought. “What are you suggesting?”

Aulbry’s eyes gleamed with a predator’s hunger. He knew the King was wavering, his thoughts clouded by emotion, fear, and frustration. Aulbry had dealt with such men before. He would break him down.

“You have a chance here, Your Majesty,” Aulbry said, lowering his voice, leaning in closer to the King. “Anakin Skywalker’s influence is growing, and it is no longer just a matter of politics. His presence, his marriage to your daughter—it’s a symbol of strength, of power. But it also presents an opportunity. A weakness.”

“A weakness?” the King repeated, his voice low, cautious.

Aulbry smiled, sensing his moment. “Yes. The child, your daughter’s pregnancy. That’s where we strike. You must act before the General grows too strong. You see, the General may have won his battles, but in this case, it is not his strength that matters. It is his heart. He is blinded by love for your daughter and for the child she carries. His loyalty is torn between family and duty, and the moment he becomes too distracted, too weak, we strike.”

Aulbry’s gaze hardened, his voice growing more deliberate. “The General would lay down his life for your daughter, and he would defend her child as fiercely as he would defend his men. You know this.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing. “But that is precisely why he will fall. His people love him. They would die for him. He has built something—something that will never be torn down by force alone.”

The King’s brow furrowed. “The General loyalty to his people…” he muttered under his breath. “His army is an extension of him. They would follow him to the ends of the earth. The Brits love their General, and he’s won their hearts with his courage.”

“Yes,” Aulbry said, almost quietly, as though speaking a dangerous truth. “His love for his people and their devotion to him are his strength. But it is also his vulnerability. He cannot bear the thought of failing them. And this is where we can strike.”

Aulbry took a step forward, his voice lowering to a near whisper, as though revealing a carefully guarded secret. “The Scots are not as united as they seem. There are traitors within their ranks, bought by the French crown. They have been undermining the Scottish leadership, feeding us information, causing strife in the ranks. It’s a delicate web we’ve spun, but one that will unravel when the time is right.”

Phillip sat silent for a long moment, staring into the flames. The weight of Aulbry’s words settled heavily in the room, thickening the air with dark possibility. Finally, he spoke, his voice a low murmur. “And what do you propose?”

“I propose that we take advantage of this moment, Your Majesty. Skywalker’s love for your daughter will blind him. His attachment will be his downfall. The General will fall, and you—will regain what is rightfully yours.”

The King’s expression hardened, and Aulbry knew he had him. The desperation, the fear of losing control, the relentless need for power—it was all too much to ignore. In that moment, the King could feel his grip on the throne loosening, slipping away like sand through his fingers. He needed to regain control. He needed to act.

Aulbry stepped back, letting the King absorb his words. “An ambush, Your Majesty. It is the only way.”

Phillip looked up at him, his face unreadable now. “How?”

Aulbry smiled, his voice soft and menacing. “You already have soldiers loyal to you, my King. You already have the means. We strike swiftly, decisively. The General won’t know what hit him.”

The King took a deep breath, his mind racing. The idea was seductive—simple, almost too easy. His daughter and her unborn child would be used as bait. The General’s love for her would make him vulnerable. And once Anakin was removed from the equation, the throne would be his again.

“Yes,” King Phillip said at last, the decision made. His voice was cold now, final. “We strike before the child is born. We do this quickly.”

Aulbry nodded, his face lit with a quiet triumph. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

And with that, the plans for betrayal were set in motion. What had begun as a carefully orchestrated plan to use a marriage for peace had now spiraled into a dark, dangerous game. A game in which the stakes were higher than ever, where loyalty was nothing more than a fleeting illusion, and where betrayal would come at the cost of blood, love, and a kingdom’s soul.

As Aulbry left the King’s chamber, the weight of the upcoming attack settled on him, the sense of impending danger thick in his chest. He had won for now, but he knew it was only the beginning. The General would not fall without a fight. And when the bloodshed began, it would be nothing short of catastrophic.

But for now, the stage was set. The King’s power would be restored, and the Princess’s happiness was a casualty in the war for control.

Extract from an anonymous letter, dated 1294.

…and word has reached us of a significant movement of troops from France—seven thousand men, marching swiftly under the cover of darkness, now shifting direction toward England. Their intentions remain veiled, yet their numbers and sudden reorientation suggest a calculated strike. It is clear that they have been set with the aim to disrupt the delicate balance of power in the Isles. We must act swiftly before the full strength of their forces can converge towards…

The morning sun filtered softly through the canopy of trees in the royal garden, casting dappled light across the ground. The air was warm with the scent of blooming roses and the fresh earth after an early morning rain. A gentle breeze whispered through the leaves, carrying with it the soft melodies of birds singing high above. It was a perfect day, a moment of quiet peace in a world that often felt too full of noise and chaos.

You sat on a weathered stone bench near a fountain, your eyes following the gentle ripples of water as it flowed over the carved stone. The garden, with its wild yet carefully tended beauty, seemed to encapsulate everything you had come to love about this place. It was calm, it was sacred, and it was your shared space. The air between you and Anakin was filled with a quiet, gentle happiness. The world felt still for the first time in so long, as if it was holding its breath in anticipation of something new—something beautiful.

Anakin, shirtless and with a focused look on his face, was kneeling beside a pile of smooth oak wood. The rhythmic sound of his carving echoed in the peaceful air as he worked meticulously on a crib, each stroke of the blade purposeful, each curve of the wood thoughtful. His broad, muscled back rippled with each movement, and his hair, damp with the summer heat, clung to his neck in soft tendrils.

You watched him with a soft smile, your heart swelling with a mix of love and wonder. He had never seemed more at peace than he did in this moment. It wasn’t the warrior, the general, the man who fought with all his might—this was the man who, despite the weight of the world on his shoulders, wanted to carve out a space of safety for the child you carried, for the family you were about to become.

His hands worked steadily, the delicate carving slowly coming to life beneath his touch. The sight of him so absorbed in the task, his brow furrowed in concentration, filled you with a quiet joy. You had often imagined this moment—life, love, and the promise of something new—yet it was better than you could have ever dreamed.

He paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Then, as if sensing your gaze, he turned his head and smiled at you, the smile that always made your heart skip a beat. His eyes, dark and stormy with the depth of his feelings, softened as he looked at you.

"How does it look so far?" he asked, his voice deep but tinged with a hint of something softer, something tender.

You rose from the bench and walked over to him, your hand resting lightly on your rounded belly, your gaze fixed on the crib he was shaping. The smooth wood, still rough around the edges, already had a certain elegance to it. It wasn’t finished, but it was something you could already imagine your child sleeping in—your child, his child, the child that would grow in your arms, with the love and strength of both of you surrounding them.

"It looks perfect," you said softly, kneeling beside him. "You’ve done something beautiful, Anakin."

He smiled again, the warmth of his expression making your chest tighten. "I want everything to be perfect for them. For you. For our future."

He set the carving tool down and leaned back, stretching his arms above his head before letting out a small, satisfied sigh. His gaze shifted from the crib to you, and there was a moment of quiet before he spoke again. This time, his voice was quieter, more reflective.

"I keep thinking about the future," he said, his eyes looking out at the distant horizon as though he were imagining a world beyond the war, beyond the bloodshed and the pain. "I dream of a world where we don’t have to fight anymore. A world where our child can grow up in peace. A world where the only thing that matters is love."

You met his gaze, your heart filling with a tenderness that you could hardly put into words. You hadn’t realized how much you had craved that same hope—that same dream of peace—until you heard him speak it aloud. It was a dream you hadn’t dared to let yourself believe in fully, but now, in this quiet moment, it felt possible. It felt within reach.

"I dream of that too," you whispered, reaching out to take his hand. His fingers laced through yours, the touch grounding you in the moment.

He squeezed your hand gently, his thumb brushing over your skin in a soothing, steady rhythm. "I’ll do whatever it takes to make that dream real. For you, for me, for our child. I’ll fight to the end to give us a world where peace is more than just a dream. I’ll carve it into being, just like I’m carving this crib."

You smiled softly, your fingers moving to rest over your heart. "And I’ll be here, with you, every step of the way."

Anakin leaned closer, his lips brushing your forehead in a soft kiss. You closed your eyes, savoring the warmth of his touch, the comfort of his love surrounding you. In that moment, nothing else mattered—just the two of you, together, preparing for the future you had yet to see, but were determined to create.

As he returned to his work, carving out the future with his hands, you found yourself lost in the beauty of the moment. The crib would be ready in time. Your love would grow in time. And despite everything—the danger, the uncertainty—you knew one thing for certain: together, you and Anakin would make a world worth living in, a world where love and peace would finally reign.

And the baby—your baby—would know nothing but that love.

The air around them stilled as a young servitor rushed toward them, breathless and pale. With a trembling voice, he delivered the news, “My lord... Sir Obi-Wan... he’s been found dead, just beyond the village. They say it was an ambush... he didn’t make it.”

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

I wonder if she’ll be like you, my love, A little girl with a soul from above. Her laughter a sound that fills the air, A reflection of you, so gentle, so fair.

I can feel her in dreams, though she’s not yet here, Her tiny hands, her voice so clear. Will she have your eyes, the warmth of your smile? I long to hold her, even if just for a while.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): foul language, death of a spouse, brief descriptions of death & injury, symptoms of grief, brief suggestive themes

Word Count: 5.1k

A/N: Part Three of Ink & Needle

A tragedy pulls you back to England. A certain masked man follows your arrival.

Chapter Two // Chapter Four

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Three Years Later

Outside the café window, the sky is a dark gray, threatening rain. Across the street is the Cambridge train station. Commuters move to and away from the station, many of them jumping into cabs, waiting at the nearby bus terminal, or entering the pedestrian areas. Several even enter the café you’re currently waiting in.

Your fingers tap on the plastic lid of your coffee cup in a steady, nervous thrum. Your sandwich is off to the side, hardly touched. You’ve only managed a few bites. It’s not that the sandwich is bad but that you’re so exhausted that even food turns your stomach.

At the moment, sleep is an elusive creature, and you certainly cannot curl up in your chair and fall asleep in the café.

You haven’t slept in hours. Anxiousness simmers in every part of your body. On the flight into O’Hare International, you almost puked up your breakfast. Then, on the connecting flight into London, your stomach was a roiling mess. You spent the whole flight staring at the ceiling of the plane praying that you didn’t need to quickly run to the bathroom. The train from London to Cambridge was no better. Your stomach still isn’t cooperating.

You sigh and try again anyway. Tearing into the sandwich, you chew slowly, thinking that maybe if you only focus on the flavors, you’ll sense something.

The bite is dead in your mouth. Bland.

Perhaps you’re getting sick.

You glance out the café window, your gaze scanning the sidewalk and street. Evie is late, which is so unlike her, but entirely understandable. She just buried Archie less than a week ago, and the whole reason you’re back in London is because of the fucking shitty situation Evie is in now that Archie is dead.

It isn’t fair. Evie doesn’t deserve any of this. The two of them should be celebrating their three-year wedding anniversary next month.

You don’t have the ability to track Evie on your phone—the cellular fees alone would be astronomical. All you have is Evie’s “on my way” text and a hope that she’ll turn up soon. You miss her. You want to hold her in your arms and remind her that there are still people in her life that love her.

Evie still hasn’t made an appearance after another ten minutes, and you turn back to the offending sandwich, taking another bite as if this one might be the one that does it.

Nothing. You almost spit it back onto the plate.

You run your hand over your face. Now that you’re sitting, and at your destination, your body is screaming out for rest. Every muscle and limb aches, and you know your eyes are likely bloodshot from the lack of sleep.

“There you are.”

The soft, melodic voice draws your gaze away from the café window. There’s Evie, beautiful even though she looks a mess. There are deep bags under her eyes and her chestnut-colored hair is bunched up on the back of her head in a bun. Worse, Evie’s eyes are watery, like at any moment she’s about to burst into tears.

Evie stands right in front of you, and as your gaze roams down her body, taking note of how disheveled she looks, you land on the one thing that makes this situation so much worse.

With one hand, Evie cradles her pregnant belly. The other rests against the bulging curve. Eight months. Her due date is coming up quick. On her and Archie’s three-year anniversary of all things.

You stand quickly and throw your arms around your best friend, squeezing her tightly but minding the belly, oozing every ounce of love you have for her into the embrace.

“I’m sorry, Evie. I’m so sorry.” Your voice nearly breaks but you manage to reel it in before it shatters.

No number of apologies could ever replace what happened. Wrong place, wrong time is what Evie was told. The bullet wasn’t even for Archie. The person aiming the gun shot wide of their mark, striking Archie in the back of the head.

He died while on a business trip for his family’s consulting firm in the United States. Archie was on his way to meet up with a few friends when his skull was blown off. Evie was told that he died quickly. That he probably didn’t feel a thing.

You draw back a bit and smile softly. “Please sit.” You pull away but keep one hand on Evie’s back, gesturing at the chair across the table from yours.

Evie winces into the seat. “How was your flight?” she asks, rubbing the top of her belly. “And the train?”

“Fine. All fine,” you reply quickly. A lie. You’re bone-tired. Aching in all sorts of places. “How are you? Are you doing okay?” You desperately need to know.

Evie has no family. None. She’s an only child. Her mother died when she was young, and her father died of Coal Worker’s Pneumoconiosis after his retirement. The only family she has in the world is Archie’s, and most of them despise her working-class roots. You distinctly remember Archie’s mother calling Evie a “leech” to her face minutes before the ceremony took place.

That hag of a woman sat in the front row of the church like she hadn’t just spit venom.

Reaching out, you rest your arm across the table, presenting your open palm. Evie stares down at it for a brief moment before sliding her hand into yours, squeezing. Her eyes are wet, close to spilling over, and you decide that this topic of conversation is not appropriate for such a public spot.

“We can talk about it later. If you want,” you murmur, not wanting to draw unneeded attention to her.

Eve sniffles and nods, releasing your hand to dig around in her purse for a tissue.

You slowly draw your hand back into your lap. “I can tell you about work,” you suggest. Evie daps at her eyes and then blows her nose. “Want a bite of my sandwich?”

The offer falls flat. Evie shakes her head. “You should eat it.”

And you need to eat something Evelyn Green.

“You need it more than me,” you insist. “Honestly, I’m not feeling it. Don’t want to let it go to waste.” You push the plate across the table to her.

You don’t need to ask to know Evie isn’t eating. Her cheeks are sunken and her skin is on the paler side like she’s fallen ill. Evie holds the sandwich in both hands and takes a pensive bite. She chews slowly, and then digs in as if starved.

Without Archie here, has no one checked on her? Has Archie’s family completely cut her off? It makes your blood boil.

In the States, you can’t really do anything, but now that you’re here—now that you’re actually witnessing the state she’s in—you’re fucking furious.

The best thing for you to do is to not linger on it or bring it to Evie’s attention. This is something you can tackle later when you’ve had time to calm down.

You adjust in your chair and clasp your coffee cup with both hands. “The technical writing work pays but isn’t that exciting, unless you’d like to hear about the furniture instructional manuals I’ve been editing.”

Evie grins around a bite of food and that small, amused smile is enough to ease some of that internal anxiousness.

“I do have come fiction clients. Pay isn’t nearly as good, but very enjoyable.”

Evie chews and swallows. “I’m glad you’re staying busy.” Her smile softens a bit. “And that you’re here.”

“I’ve missed you, Evelyn Green.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

You take a small sip of your coffee. It’s gone cold.

“I’ll grab another for the road.” You lift the coffee cup. “Once you’re finished, we’ll leave.”

You take Evie’s car to her house near the outskirts of Cambridge proper. Even though Archie helped his father run the family business, he had his own ambitions when it came to his career. He took a part-time teaching job at the university. He and Evie moved out to Cambridge quickly, mostly to escape his family.

While Archie loved them, he did not love how they treated Evie. He spent a great deal of time away from them, but coming from privilege has its own issues. Archie was always called to attend this or that event, and Evie always came along.

From the street, all you see are tall hedges. When Evie pulls into the drive and stops at the gates, you glimpse a small sliver of brick. Evie presses a button on a small remote and the gate opens inward. The hedges are only a natural fence, and once you’re past them, you finally see the house Evie has called home for the past two years.

It’s all brick with wide windows and a flowerbed that follows the outline of the house. The tall hedges mark the property boundaries, and you cannot see into any of the neighbors’ yards. The property itself is deep, stretching vertically back from the road.

Evie pulls up to the garage but doesn’t pull inside. Instead, she parks the car and starts to get out. You follow suit, moving to the trunk to withdraw your suitcase.

“This is gorgeous, Evie.”

“Thank you,” she replies softly. “Archie picked it out.”

The mention of Evie’s dead husband immediately puts you on edge. You glance at your friend and frown. She’s staring off into the distance.

Chewing on your bottom lip, you go over to her and slide your arm around hers. “Show me around.”

Evie seems to melt a bit, whatever it is that held her slipping away for a moment. She tilts her head toward you and smiles. Over the next few minutes, Evie shows you the private backyard complete with garden and pool. From there, the two of you enter through the mudroom door, kicking off your shoes and heading into the living room.

The space is rustic with deep browns, greens, and golds. There is no minimalism or modernness to this home other than the appliances. You do a small turn, admiring the organized yet maximalist-leaning décor.

“Evie, I—” Your voice cuts when your gaze falls on her.

She is focused on the fireplace mantel. As your attention shifts from her to the mantel, you realize what Evie is staring at. The entire mantel is lined with framed phots of their wedding. There are pictures of just Evie and Archie, some of his family, and ones of the bridal party.

Sighing softly, you move toward her, taking her upper arm to snag her attention.

Reluctantly, Evie’s gaze pulls away from the photographs.

“Can you show me to my room? We can go from there.” You make sure to not sound condescending or worried for her. Evie needs a bit of normalcy.

“Of course,” she nods, showing you to the spare bedroom on the second floor.

You promptly set your stuff down and unpack after Evie slinks away. You’re worried about her and the baby. It’s why you came out here after all. Evie has no one, and with your work, you can easily pack up and travel, taking it with you.

When you return to the first floor, you head into the kitchen. Evie stands in front of the open fridge staring at nothing.

“Evie,” you call out. She doesn’t reply. “Evie.”

She glances over at you and promptly shuts the fridge. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I spaced out.”

“You wanna order takeout?” You slide your phone out of your pocket and wave it in the air. Evie nods and the two of you go to the couch, settling in.

“What are you in the mood for?” You open a food delivery app and begin browsing.

“Whatever you want,” replies Evie.

You tap away at your screen. “What if I’m craving sushi? That would be a problem.”

“True,” she smirks, rubbing the curve of her belly

“What about a super greasy pizza with lots of cheese?”

“We’re in England,” laughs Evie. “Not America.”

“So? There has to be a good pizza place around here.”

Evie leans in a bit and watches your phone over your shoulder. The two of you bicker back and forth but finally decide on the pizza idea.

“How’s baby?” you ask, locking your phone and setting it to the side.

Evie lightly taps her belly. “Good. Healthy.” She winces. “Pushing on my bladder,” she mutters.

“As they do.”

“Archie and I made a list of names. Narrowed it down a bit but never got to finish before…well…now I’m not sure what I like.”

“Do you know what you’re having?”

Evie nods. “You know we wanted to keep it a surprise, but with Archie gone and everything that’s happened, I decided I want to know now. To prepare.”

“Of course. That’s understandable.”

There is so much that still needs to be done, and your arrival only scratches the surface.

Evie gently elbows you in the arm. “Do you want to know?”

You gently elbow her back. “Only if you want to tell me.”

Evie pauses briefly before speaking. “It’s a girl.”

“I’m so proud of you,” you murmur. “You’re going to be an amazing mom, Evelyn Green.”

Evie starts laughing, which quickly turns into crying. You sit up, ready to comfort her, but she’s already starting to laugh again.

“Fuck. I think I peed,” she hiccups as she tries to get off the couch. It’s more of a roll and you hop up to assist her. She totters off to change.

The pizza arrives during that time, and the two of you snuggle into the couch, creating a bed of pillows and blankets as you eat pizza and watch a reality show on Netflix. Evie starts to soften, becomes happier, and you love to see it. The pizza is loaded with extra cheese, lots of garlic, roasted tomato, spinach, and a white sauce.

“You know,” you say around a bite of crust. “The fact that ranch is not a staple with pizza here is an atrocity.”

Evie arches an eyebrow and wipes away a wayward strand of cheese from her chin. “You want to eat ranch with this?”

“Not this specifically,” you mutter.

Evie snorts and takes a large bite of her slice. “What I really miss most about the States is the food.”

“Like what?” you press.

“Tacos. And not that hardshell bullshit you get at the grocery store. I want the cilantro, sliced radish, and lime with a salsa so hot it melts your face.”

“Don’t forget the onion.”

“And extra onion,” adds Evie.

You wipe off some grease from the corner of your mouth.

Evie sighs, her shoulders heaving before she turns to look at you. “Thank you. By the way. You didn’t have to come.”

You roll your eyes and give her your best smile. “I’d do anything for you. Plus, I work remote. I can literally go anywhere in the world at any time and still be able to do my job. Honestly, it’s fine. Plus, I’m not paying rent or anything. It’s amazing.”

Evie shakes her head in amusement. Her plate is carefully balanced on her belly. “Are you seeing anyone?”

The abrupt change startles you.

“Nope,” you reply quickly, nibbling on the reminder of your crust.

“Remember that man with the balaclava at Riot Room?” Evie gestures toward her face as if she’s wearing one. “The one Jade, Sam, and I all convinced you to have sex with?”

You drop the pizza crust onto your plate. “Yes.” Why is Evie asking about him?

“Do you ever think about what happened to him? Like, what he might be doing now?”

All the time.

You lick your lips and rub your fingers together over the plate. Crumbs fall from your hands. “Sometimes.”

It’s a total lie. You think about your wraith all the time, especially in the dark when your hand is between your legs. The memory of him is like a deep, poorly healed scar. It is a slash across your heart.

Ghost.

His touch will never fade. He marked you, made you his, and you won’t forget a single moment you spent with him.

“I can’t believe you missed Sam making a move on his friends. What was his name?”

“Gaz?” you offer, vaguely recalling the man that spoke to you when Ghost wouldn’t let go of your arm.

“Was it? I thought Sam said his name was ‘Kyle.’”

You shrug. “The man I ran away with called himself ‘Ghost.’”

Evie nods, yawning. “That’s true.” She shifts slightly in your direction. The plate on her belly stays put. “We have an early morning.”

“Do we?” you ask nonchalantly, thankful for the pivot in conversation.

“Did you ever meet Archie’s grandmother? Amelia?”

There are only a handful of times you’ve met anyone from Archie’s family and most of them were during those last few weeks leading up to the wedding.

“I don’t believe so,” you reply slowly.

Evie rubs at the side of her belly in agitation. “You can’t stay with me forever. And while I appreciate you, I’ll need support when you’re gone.”

Sighing, Evie removes the plate from belly and tries to sit up. Knowing her efforts will be in vain, you take the plate from her and set it on the coffee table.

Evie murmurs a quiet ‘thank you’ and falls back against the couch. “We’re going to stay with her. She lives in the Clapton area of London.”

You’re surprised. Evie loves this home. When her and Archie first moved in, it’s all she could talk about. “You don’t want us to stay here?”

Evie’s mouth turns downward and tears start to form in the corner of her eyes again. You understand the moment the words leave your mouth. This place holds too many memories.

“It’s not like anyone else will have me,” she sniffles even as she tries to laugh it off like it doesn’t bother her.

“They’re a bunch of idiots. And don’t deserve your tears. Fuck. Them.” You stuff the rest of your half-eaten crust into your mouth.

It might not be the nicest thing to say, but the majority of Archie’s family are assholes who deserve to be called by an insult rather than their names,

Evie turns back toward the television. You snuggle in next to her and Evie’s head falls against your shoulder. A single tear rolls down her cheek and you absently wipe it away.

The next day is all business.

It keeps Evie busy enough that she can’t stop to cry, but you still make her take frequent breaks. It’s clear that Evie hasn’t been taking care of herself since Archie’s funeral. She may be eight-months pregnant, but she’s abnormally sluggish and forgetful. Evie keeps losing her train of thought, or she starts to mumble to herself instead of speaking directly to you when you ask her a question.

It’s upsetting, but it mostly makes you angry. It means that Archie’s family has completely abandoned her now that he’s dead. They have no reason to interact with her.

On top of that, there is too much to do, and Evie needs all the support she can get. You don’t want to make England your permanent place of residence, but Evie is like a sister to you. She is family. You won’t toss her to the side.

The biggest hurdle is making sure Evie has adequate help. You’re not the only person Evie should need to rely on. After Evie went to bed last night, you promptly messaged Jade and Sam, detailing the situation. Both of them want to come out, but their jobs are not nearly as flexible as yours.

With the essentials packed, and the car loaded, you and Evie clean out the kitchen, tossing out all the open perishables while boxing up everything that is still good and unopened. The two of you will stop at a local food bank and drop it off.

At midday, the two of you are in the car, driving to London. By American standards, the drive isn’t that far, but the traffic is horrendous. Evie drives, and you take notes of everything that needs to be done while being the perfect passenger princess.

Everything in the house will need to be organized and gone through. Evie plans on staying with Archie’s grandmother which means she needs to downsize. You’ll need to contact an estate agent to appraise and ready the house for the market. All the furniture will either need to be sold, donated, or brought to Ameila’s home. With Archie’s death also comes an enormous amount of wealth all tied up in various assets. None of it makes any sense, and Archie’s personal solicitor will need to be contacted.

None of that includes setting up a nursery or supporting Evie through the rest of her pregnancy. Plus, there is your job to think about. Yes, you do mostly freelance work, but you’re usually sent work by the company that contracts you. There are deadlines that you need to hit.

The GPS beeps and Evie turns onto a massive thoroughfare, crossing a large bridge before coming to a massive roundabout. From there, Evie follows the road a few minutes. She turns onto a side street lined with various business and homes. You recognize nothing. This city is completely foreign to you.

“We’re here,” says Evie, nodding to a two-story brick house. She pulls into a tiny driveway and turns off the car.

Amelia’s home is what you picture when you think of houses in England. Maybe you’ve watched one too many movies, or maybe the stereotype holds true, but it fits the bill. On the outside, it’s clean and taken care of. The short driveway and path to the store is perfectly lain without a single weed. Even the stunted hedges under the front windows are perfectly trimmed.

You’re out of your seat and to the driver side of the car before Evie has the chance to open her door. When she tries to head to the back of the car to empty the trunk, you politely chase her away. You’ll make multiple trips if you need to, but you’re not allowing Evie to lift a single thing.

The front door opens and a short, stout older woman steps out onto the stoop. Her graying hair is clipped to her shoulders. She wears tan pants, the knees of which are patched over with sunflowers on white fabric. The rainboots on her feet are splattered with mud, and the yellow coat and white linen shirt she wears are speckled with a bit of dirt.

Amelia grins as she removes the gloves she’s wearing. “Evelyn!” she calls out.

“Amelia,” greets Evie, her arms outstretched.

Evie waddles over to Amelia and the two of them embrace. Amelia pulls back at the same moment you approach the two women.

Amelia smiles. “Can’t forget you.”

“You—” The words leave your mouth in a huff when Ameila wraps her around your waist and squeezes like she’s trying to snap your spine.

“Evie’s friend,” breathes Amelia, stilling holding tight.

“That’s me, ma’am,” you manage, the sound of your voice mostly strangled breathing.

Amelia abruptly stops hugging you and the sudden release of tension is a perfect inhalation. “Blimey! Hear that, Evie? She called me ‘ma’am.’” Amelia tuts. “None of that ‘ma’am’ nonsense around here. Call me Amelia.”

She glances to the left of you and then the right. You only managed to snag a few bags from the car before walking over to them.

“Well,” begins Amelia. “Hand me a bag and let’s get inside. I have the kettle on. Along with some biscuits and jam.”

“Good,” you sigh. “I’m starving. Ran out of car snacks halfway to London.”

Evie glances over her shoulder and grins at you. “That’s because you ate them all.”

You make a face and Evie laughs, entering through the front door.

The first thing you notice about the place is how many goddamn doors there are. Just inside the front door is another door that enters the living room, then another that leads to the stairs. None of it is open. It’s bizarre. Tight and cramped.

You have to wiggle your way sideways into the living room.

“Drop the bag there dear.” Amelia points to a spot near her sofa. “We can grab them later. Take a seat at the table. Enjoy a cuppa before I start dinner.”

The kettle whistles loudly as you enter the kitchen. Evie stretches a bit before she slides into a chair. You select the chair next to her. Amelia grabs three mugs from a cabinet and sets them on the counter. From a different cabinet, Amelia grabs a tea tin and drops a bag into each mug. She removes the kettle from the stove and starts filling the mugs with hot water.

Steam rises into the air. “Now I know all about Evie, but I know nothing about you other than what she’s told me.”

“Whatever she’s told you. It’s isn’t true.”

“It’s all good stuff.”

“Like I said. None of it is true.”

Evie tries and fails to stifle a snort.

Amelia’s mouth forms an amused smile. “She told me you were a writer.”

“Not exactly,” you say slowly. “I’m an editor. I usually do technical work, but I occasionally branch off into the publishing world of fiction. Especially if I’m looking for a little extra cash flow.”

Amelia ambles over to the table, expertly carrying all three mugs. She sets one down in front of Evie first and then you before herself.

Amelia settles into the unoccupied chair.

“She said your job allowed you to move around. That’s good. Glad you’re here. Evie needs more than me looking after her.”

You swallow, the mug hot against your fingers. “I’m glad I came.”

When you wake in the morning, it’s early. The sun is just starting to ascend.

Evie is still asleep, her breathing even and calm. You slowly unfurl yourself, walking on quiet feet to the bathroom with a change of clothes in tow. You brush your teeth and wash your face. It’s a bit cold but not overly so. You open the small window in the bathroom to check.

You head downstairs, a knee-length cardigan wrapped around your body. The kitchen light is on. There is a hot kettle, two mugs, and tea bags set out. The gesture is lovely but you cannot live on tea. You’ll need coffee eventually or you’ll go insane.

The back door is propped open and you walk up to it, poking your head out into the early morning chill. Amelia is out in the backyard tending to her garden. You step out onto the top stair and call out to her.

Amelia glances up and waves you over.

As you approach, she starts talking, her warm breath creating steam before her face. “Checking on the tomatoes. Bit chilly this morning. Plants don’t like it much.”

You wrap your cardigan a little tighter around yourself. “Can I do anything to help you?”

“That’s sweet of you. But no. At least not out here.” Amelia gestures to the raised garden beds with an outstretched hand. “Could you go to the bakery just across the way? Grab some pastries for today and tomorrow?”

You nod. “Of course. Where is it?”

Amelia removes her gloves and tosses them down onto the edge of the wood garden bed. “When you go out the front door makes a left until you come to the first cross-street. Turn left again and then an immediate left at the small corner store. Just walk that and you’ll see it.” Amelia shrugs. “Usually a line by this time.”

“Is there coffee?”

“They do indeed,” replies Amelia with a knowing grin.

“I’ll just grab my coat.”

“Take your time.”

You head back upstairs to the bedroom to grab your coat. Evie is still asleep. Silently, you snag your coat off the back of a chair and slip it on, leaving through the front door.

There is surprisingly little traffic as you follow Ameila’s detailed instructions. You take a left and follow the row of houses all tightly packed together. When you make it to the cross-street, you turn left again. The corner store comes up quickly. Turning left again, you keep your gaze on the storefronts that line the street. After the corner store is a pub, another pub, a salon, a few restaurants, another pub.

Then, a tattoo parlor.

141 Ink the sign reads. It’s dark inside but it’s fairly early. The sun is much higher now but it’s still not late enough for a tattoo shop to be open.

You shrug and walk on, noticing the line Amelia mentioned almost immediately. It’s not nearly as long as you expected it to be, and you’re through faster than you anticipate.

When you step inside, the smell of roasted coffee beans, baked bread, and cinnamon greet your nostrils. There are so many options and for a moment, you’re a little overwhelmed. But with more people lining up behind you, you make a few selections and collect a coffee for yourself.

With bag and coffee in hand, you start to walk back the way you came. The pastries smell delicious and it takes you a second to realize that the door to the tattoo parlor stands open.

You frown and stop right outside the door. Checking your watch, your eyebrows rise at the time. It’s still incredibly early. Who opens a tattoo parlor at this hour?

Curiosity gets the better of you. You walk up to the entrance and glance inside.

The first thing you notice is a dog. It’s an all-black German Shepard that lays in the early morning sun from the window. His eyes are open and he’s looking at you with interest but not enough to lift his head.

There is the sound of metal clanking against metal. It draws your gaze upward and away from the dog. Your eyes catch a bit of movement. You narrow your focus as your sight adjusts to the shadowy interior.

A man is there with his back to you. He shifts. Turns. And then your heart drops into your stomach.

It’s him. And that is impossible. Of everyone it could be, how could it possibly be him.

Your wraith.

You are frozen. Utterly shocked. He turns a bit more and notices you standing there in the open doorway.

There is zero doubt. None. This is him.

This is Ghost.

Fuck you think. Shit shit shit shit.

You step back and Ghost takes a step forward, his hand falling to his sides, his back straightening like he’s about to move toward you.

Everything about him is the same. All broad shoulders, towering height, and imposing darkness. You know it’s him because of the balaclava. That’s the same, too.

You shake your head and take another step backward.

Ghost takes two.

You turn on your heel, and bolt.

Chapter Two // Chapter Four

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[shadyteacup]

CAN WE HAVE A PART 2 OF BOY BYE

Free

Part 2 of Boy Bye

You sighed as you heard the door rattle ever so slightly.

It had been 2 weeks since Dazai walked out on you and it has been… peaceful.

Or so you had hoped.

The ache in your heart only grew as the days went by, but you weren’t going to text him, let alone call him.

He had been such a loving boyfriend these last few months, that you had almost thought it was a prank when he asked to break up.

You were strong and independent, you didn’t really need him. Or so you told yourself everyday, as you tried very hard to ignore the dull pain in your chest.

A click brought you out of your thoughts, making you jump slightly on your seat at the sofa.

This can’t be actually happening, you thought to yourself, as you heard the door creak open. You were seated at an angle that blocked your view of the door, but you weren’t exactly worried about your safety. Because you knew who the intruder was.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t be calling the police, Osamu.”, you spoke into the silence.

A low chuckle was heard, followed by a messy head of brown appearing before you.

“Because, love,”, he said, making you roll your eyes at the nickname that he didn’t deserve to call you anymore.

“I’m not breaking in! I simply, forgot!”

He stood there, grinning like an idiot, holding up a set of random keys, cheeks blushed and eyes droopy.

“Forgot what?”

“To carry the right keys, of course!”, he said, burping at the end, making you scrunch up your nose in disgust.

“Just, how drunk are you?”, you asked, worried as he almost tumbled onto the floor, unable to stand still.

“Just a little!”

You groaned at his idiotic grin. This was going to be messy.

“Whose keys did you flick?”, you asked, hoping to return them to their rightful owner tomorrow.

“Keys? What keys? I don’t know any Mr Keith”, he declared, sauntering up to the space next to you and collapsing.

You froze up as he nuzzled his head on your thigh, his long arms gripping onto you as if you might disappear any second.

In mere seconds, you heard snores, and sighed to yourself.

How did he expect you to move on if he kept doing things like this?

You looked down at his head, and a small smile formed on your face as you saw how his cheek was smushed up against your thigh, and his pink lips naturally formed a cute pout as a result.

God. You missed this so much.

Hesitantly, you raised a hand and lightly grazed over his hair. The curls tickled the tips of your fingers, and you could almost cry at how comforting that felt.

You always loved him dearly. Even when he would have his random bursts of cold, distant behaviour, you gave him space and welcomed him with open arms when he came back to normal. You knew he was like this because of his trust issues, and his childhood wasn’t the best, so to speak.

He would always be sure to pamper you with love after his cold spurs.

But this time, when he wanted to break up, you didn’t see that same wall that he usually built around himself; you sensed indifference and dislike. He truly didn’t love you at that moment, and that scared you.

One of the only reasons why you didn’t want to even try to rekindle your relationship with him, is because of how scared you were of his expressions that day. He truly felt absolutely nothing but dislike for you, and you could feel it.

How is it that the same man is lying here, on your couch, with his head on your lap, lovingly nuzzling into you in his sleep?

“You must have a split personality…”, you mumbled, toying with individual curls of his dark hair.

“Or maybe, it’s more of a bipolar disorder?”, you wondered, lacking any actual knowledge of either mental illnesses.

You just wanted some reason to defend his hurtful behaviour. Some reason to let him in.

But maybe, there is no reason. Maybe, it was all just an elaborate lie, that he spun to cure his boredom.

The thought was too painful to entertain, and a tear slipped down your cheek.

You decided to just ignore these thoughts, and enjoy the moment of calm while it lasts.

Dazai groaned as he stirred awake. He had blacked out last night, having spent the night getting kicked out of multiple bars for having drank too much. He couldn’t remember much, except for the occasional sob of your name as he clutched a glass of whiskey on the rocks. He hadn’t felt such emptiness for a while.

He begrudgingly opened his eyes, only to still at the sight.

There you sat, asleep, neck bent in an uncomfortable position. He felt your hand in his hair, and decided to just stare at you.

He observed the smooth, silky skin he adored so much, and how it bent inwards after your cheekbones, narrowing towards your chin.

He smiled at the tiny freckles, and adored the pink of your lips. His smile faded as he noticed the dried tears on your cheeks, and the remnants of your maskara staining a path below your eyelashes.

He was the reason for your tears. He hated himself.

He raised a hand, and hesitated. Did he deserve to touch you after what he had done? Did he deserve to wipe your tears, to push your hair out of your face and to comfort you?

“Osamu..”, you whispered, still deep in slumber.

He usually loved the way you said his name.

But this time, his heart hurt at the pain in your voice.

He silently retracted his hand, which was only inches away from your face, and tried to get up. He wanted to get out of here before you woke up, hoping that you’d chalk it up to a weird dream.

He, stupidly, forgot about your hand in his hair.

You jumped awake, eyes wide and heart pumping. Your swift gaze landed on him, stilling.

You didn’t say anything, and he could see that you wanted to say something. He hoped you would, he silently begged you to.

But you didn’t.

He finally got up, and adjusted his shirt. It felt weird sitting next to you on the sofa where you had both spent countless nights cuddling, watching movies and enjoying each other’s presence.

You both spent some moments in silence, hating to accept that you liked the proximity.

You finally broke the silence as you cleared your throat, ready to take the initiative.

“Please don’t break in again.”

With that, you got up. He watched as you searched for something, and looked at you puzzled when you picked up a set of keys.

“Return these to their owner.”, you said, handing them to him.

He scrunched his brows, not knowing what any of that meant.

Did he break in? Whose keys are these? Why aren’t you addressing the real issue here?

“Did I.. break in?”, he asked, his voice deep and slightly raspy.

You sighed at the state of him. How could he sound so sexy and yet make you want to cry your eyes out? How could he not remember anything? Were you a joke to him? A joke of a person that he can use and throw as he pleased?

“I’m not your plaything, Dazai.”, you mustered up the courage to say to him, watching his face darken.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

He averted his eyes, and nodded.

“Please, just..”, you hated the way your voice cracked. You took a moment to calm your throat, and push the emotions away. You couldn’t afford to cry right now.

“Please leave.”

Dazai clenched his fist at your words. He hated the way you were holding back tears, tears that you would probably spill the moment he’s out the door.

“I’m sorry.”, he said, getting up and collecting his things off the floor.

You watched, hands hugging your torso, as he grabbed everything.

He stepped towards the door, when you called out to him.

“I’m asking because I want closure.”, you began, “Why?”

He froze, not being able to meet your eyes.

He hated himself.

He absolutely loathed himself.

“Because,”, he said, still avoiding eye contact, “you don’t deserve to be with a cheater.”

You couldn’t hold it anymore, having feared this.

Tears freely occupied your cheeks, sliding down and staining your top.

“Was she worth it?”, your voice trembled, making Dazai close his eyes in shame.

“Nothing can truly be worth it, y/n.”

You watched him disappear behind the door, and felt numb.

Maybe this was what you needed: the truth, the keys that can finally set you free from the chains around your heart.

Authors note: I’m truly sorry lol

[eiloveir]

mad (for nothing)

✰ pairing: hatake kakashi x f!reader

✰ genre: light angst, romance

✰ warnings: argument, brief mention of strong language

author’s note: i started writing this while listening to ne-yo’s “mad” and kakashi’s face suddenly popped out and it seemed to fit him perfectly. i tend to write quickly and this piece is no different, so i hope you can bear with any rough edges.

the silence in the apartment you shared with kakashi was almost unbearable, a suffocating presence that hung heavily in the air. it was as if the very atmosphere had thickened, becoming a physical barrier that pressed down on you both with relentless force. the room, usually lively with the hum of daily life, now felt unnaturally still. the silence was so strong that even the faintest rustle of fabric or creak of the floorboards seemed amplified, each sound echoing with an exaggerated intensity that only deepened the discomfort

you wanted to say something—anything, but the words felt lodged in your throat, trapped by the tears that threatened to spill over at any moment. every time you glanced in his direction, the memories of what you had seen surged back. the vivid recollections of those moments were like a tide, crashing against the walls you had built around your heart.

"fuck you, kakashi!" you suddenly screamed, your voice erupting with a intensity that shattered the silence. in a burst of pent-up rage, you leaped up from the sofa, your movements fueled by an anger so fierce that it seemed to burn away any semblance of restraint. you flung the door open with a violent force, the sharp sound of the door slamming against the wall punctuating the outburst. your hands trembled uncontrollably, the tremors a sign to the depth of your anger, and you didn’t care in the slightest if anyone heard. the boundary of your patience had been crossed, and in that moment, you were beyond caring about the consequences of your eruption.

as you stood at the door, you attempted to slam it shut, your frustration fueling the effort. but before you could complete the action, kakashi moved swiftly to block you, his presence almost perceptible as he forcefully pushed his way inside. his voice, though frantic, carried an unnerving calmness as he tried to soothe you. “stop,” he urged, “let’s talk this through. please, just listen.” despite his attempt to placate the situation, the urgency in his eyes betrayed his struggle to manage the tension.

“how dare you try to calm me? motherfucker!” you exclaimed, your voice rising with each syllable, each word dripping with anger. you could see a flicker of irritation and hurt in his eyes, a clear sign that his patience was wearing thin. the calm facade he tried to maintain cracked, revealing the strain and frustration beneath.

looking around, you noticed your neighbors peering out from behind their doors, their curious eyes taking in the unfolding spectacle. the embarrassment stung, but not that deep as the kakashi had inflicted. as you locked eyes with him, his gaze conveyed a plea, an unspoken request: “let’s talk about this inside.” his expression, though strained, held a semblance of hope that reason and resolution might still be possible within the confines of your shared space.

“god, what did you just do?!” he exclaimed, voice full of anger that took you by surprise. “now all the neighbors, everyone in konoha, knows what’s going on.” his outburst was jarring; he rarely raised his voice, and seeing him lose control like this was unsettling. his usual calm and composed self seemed to shatter, revealing his frustration and the impact of the public spectacle you had inadvertently created.

with a sigh, you stepped aside, allowing him to close the door behind you. the soft click of the latch echoed in the apartment, accentuating the weight of the moment. you stood facing each other in the cramped space, the familiar surroundings now feeling stifling and charged with tension. kakashi's usually composed demeanor began to fracture, his calm exterior giving way to a growing frustration. as the silence stretched, his control finally snapped, and he erupted with the intensity of his suppressed emotions.

as you stood there, your emotions still taut and unsettled, the room seemed to constrict around you, its walls closing in with an oppressive weight. the thumping of your heart felt almost audible in the stifling silence that enveloped you both. in the midst of the atmosphere, his eyes narrowed, his gaze steely. his voice, though firm, carried a note of disbelief that underscored the gravity of the situation.

“you think i cheated on you?” he asked, hurt evident in his voice.

“i... i just saw you... with that girl. it looked like... like you were flirting with her.”

your voice quivered slightly as you spoke, the words emerging with a hesitant, yet accusatory edge. you avoided his gaze, unable to meet the hurt reflected in his eyes. instead, you focused intently on the floor, its familiar surface offering the emotion swirling within you. you took deep breaths, attempting to calm yourself amidst the mounting tide of emotions that threatened to crash over you. the silence in the room seemed to grow more oppressive.

“flirting? what are you talking about? i was just talking. there's nothing more to it.”

his tone grew sharper, cutting through the tense air. his jaw tightened, a sign of the effort it took for him to reaffirm his innocence. despite his best efforts to maintain his usual composure, the strain was evident as the tension in the room thickened with every second. you could almost feel the weight of his words pressing down on you, the gravity of his protestations mingling with your own swirling emotions.

“i saw you with that girl. it was more than just talking.” you insisted, fighting back disbelief.

“for the hundredth time, i was just talking. can you give me a moment to explain instead of jumping to conclusions every damn time?”

he pleaded for understanding, he was exhausted from constantly having to justify himself. and the words itself carry the burden of his frustration, the weariness of having to defend his actions repeatedly. his request for patience heightened the strain that had taken hold of your relationship, a reflection of the growing rift between you both.

“i can’t just ignore what i saw! it looked suspicious,” you retorted, “and besides, you’ve been distant lately. you’re never home.” you clung desperately to your perception of the truth, unable to shake off the doubts that clouded your mind. every observation, feeling of neglect seemed to reinforce your fears, and it creates a barrier between you and the reassurances he offered.

“i’ve been working a lot, but that doesn’t mean i’ve been avoiding you. i’m just exhausted, both mentally and physically."

“and what about that girl? huh, why were you so close to her? why were you leaning towards her?”

“i was just trying to hear her better in the noisy environment we were in. you’re making this into something it’s not.”

“how can i trust you now?” you muttered, the distrust in your voice unmistakable. “how am i supposed to believe anything you say when you’ve been acting so distant?” the words were heavy, your tone conveyed uncertainty that had taken root.

“enough, i can’t take this anymore!” he erupted, his voice cracking under the pressure of the misunderstanding and accusations that had pushed him to his breaking point. “i need to rest, okay? give me a break.” his plea for a reprieve was both a surrender and a desperate cry for respite from the relentless emotional stressed that had consumed both of you.

it’s been about an hour since the argument, and the tension in the air has only intensified, rendering the distance between you and kakashi seemingly unbridgeable. the room, once filled with the sounds of argument and emotion, now lay in a suffocating silence, punctuated only by the steady, rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. each tick seemed to emphasize the growing chasm between you, marking the passage of time in a space that felt increasingly charged with mounting frustration.

his tiredness and aggravation were noticable, evident in the way he slumped slightly and the frustration that marred his features. his inability to articulate what you had witnessed earlier only added to the strain. the urge for clarity and understanding weighed heavily on you, but his persistent silence seemed to deepen the stress, the moment of quiet stretching the tension further. the unresolved questions hung in the air like a dense fog, intensifying the emotional distress as you grappled with the need for answers that remained stubbornly out of reach.

you blinked back tears, making a deliberate effort to move slightly away in an attempt to conceal your weakness. despite your efforts, the sound of your stifled weeping seemed almost deafening in the silence. every suppressed sob felt magnified, piercing through the quiet and betraying your emotional struggle.

then, very slowly, kakashi approached. his steps were cautious, his movement deliberate as he broke out the silence that had settled between you. he reached out with a tentative hand, his fingers brushing lightly against your hair as he gently moved it away from your face. the touch was soft and careful, almost tender, conveying an unspoken apology. it was a subtle gesture, with remorse and a desire to bridge the emotional gap between you.

kakashi’s features softened, the hard lines of his face giving way to an expression of regret. he approached you slowly. his voice, laden with remorse, broke the heavy silence as he spoke, “baby, please, i’m sorry.”

you turned away, unable to meet his gaze, the pain still fresh and raw in your heart. each attempt to face him only deepened the ache, making it harder to bridge the chasm of hurt and mistrust that had formed between you. the emotional weight of the moment was too great, leaving you feeling vulnerable and overwhelmed.

“i’m so sorry, baby. it was a misunderstanding. she was our client, and it was an important mission—i promise. you can slap me or do whatever you want. i won’t talk that way again.” his statements were a plea for understanding, his eyes—usually so piercing and intent—now softened with vulnerability. he waited for your response, the weight of his remorse evident in his expression, as he sought a way to make amends and mend the rift between you.

“are you sure? i’ll ask sakura if that’s true,” your voice quivered, betraying the need for reassurance. your eyes locked onto his, you sought the truth in his gaze, your heart torn between the desperate desire to believe him and the lingering fear of being deceived. the internal conflict played out across your face, reflecting the struggle between trust and skepticism as you awaited his response.

“you can ask anyone,” kakashi assured you, his voice steady but soft as he gently tilted your head to meet his gaze. he reached out, his fingers tenderly brushing away the tears from your cheeks.

“i swear, kakashi, if you’re lying…” you began, your voice trembling with apprehension. but before you could finish, he cut you off with a gentle chuckle, attempting to lighten the heavy atmosphere. his soft laughter was an effort to ease the tension, providing a brief moment of levity amidst the emotional storm.

“baby, i’m not…” he murmured, his voice low and tender. he guided you back to the sofa, his movements gentle and reassuring as he pulled you into his arms. the warmth of his embrace began to dissolve the tension between you, offering a fragile yet comforting sense of relief as the emotional storm slowly started to subside.

a heavy, almost intoxicating weight enveloped you as you melted further into his arms, his body radiating warmth that seemed to seep into your very core. the air grew thick with a charged, tension, your muscles instinctively tightening as you felt the moment. kakashi’s hands, gentle yet insistent, brushed teasingly at the fabric of your shirt, his touch lingering in a way that sent shivers across your skin. he leaned in closer, his breath a warm, tantalizing whisper against your ear as he murmured, “baby, i know i screwed up.”

you could feel his hands on your stomach, the soft whisper of his breath on your chest, and your body grew more tense as tensions with what your boyfriend came up. “i’ll make it up to you.”

[sweet-evie]

A Piece of the Whole

A glimpse into the life of a single dad who's doing his best.

masterlist || pt 2

Content ⚠️: Established Relationship, afab!oc, fem!oc, nameless!oc, she/her/hers pronouns for Satoru's S/O, Tragedy, Childbirth, Maternal Death, Mentions of Blood, Angst, singleparent!gojo, dad!gojo

Never Grow Up Pt 1

May 5, 2012: Sanno Hospital

Throat tight and heart shattered, Satoru choked down the remainder of his grief and promised himself the luxury of breaking down when he was alone. He couldn’t do it now… Not here. Not in front of doctors who offered him sympathies. Not in front of Shoko who sat beside him with equally mournful eyes.

How would he even begin to tell Megumi and Tsumiki?

The latter was especially excited through the phone when he and his partner rushed to the emergency ward almost a full day ago when her water broke.

Almost as if she read his mind, Shoko laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “We should get things sorted out. Finish the paperwork and get the kids.”

Satoru swallowed around two mouthfuls of cotton balls and pushed his blackout sunglasses further up his nose — a sorry attempt at hiding how defeated he felt and how his eyes were full to bursting with unshed tears. It almost felt wrong to start moving again, as if the world hadn’t stopped turning the moment she took her last labored breath.

Logic told him this wasn’t the end… He was still Satoru Gojo — still the head of the Gojo clan, still saddled with the responsibility of instructing first year students at Jujutsu Tech, still needed to exterminate curses that cropped up too frequently for his liking. Being a father to a newborn was an added responsibility that he looked forward to for the past nine months and it was all because he had his Love by his side. He promised his lover and his would-be daughter his time and commitment, because if he couldn’t shoulder the burden of sheltering his baby in his own body and going through painful labor to deliver said baby into the world, then he would pour all his effort into taking care of the mother of his child and his new baby.

His Love did the work — uncomfortable, strenuous work that cost her her body image, her mental well-being on some especially hard days, and her general comfort.

What a woman…

What a woman she had been.

He’d asked her once why any woman would willingly do this to herself, knowing the possible complications, the risk, the changes, the toll, and she had smiled at him — amber eyes glinting in the afternoon light of the apartment they called ‘home’ — and told him that any woman who willingly went through pregnancy allowed it for different reasons. But for her, it was because—

“Loving her is loving a piece of you. And I love you wholly, Satoru.”

The strong smell of antiseptic brought him back from the memory he had been reminiscing about. The busy humdrum of a hospital outside the private room reminded him that his life might have ground to a halt, but others’ didn’t.

The Love of his life perished at the cost of delivering the baby she loved so much, and the world wouldn’t care.

“What do I tell her family?” Satoru mumbled, giving Shoko a verbal response at last.

“The truth. You can’t exactly hide it.”

Maybe he could get away with having his Mom deal with that. Their families had never been exceptionally close, but Satoru figured it was the least his mother could do after the woman had initially expressed her disapproval when they announced her pregnancy to his clan.

The main gripes had been the fact that she was not a sorcerer, they were not married, and his lover did not possess any sort of public influence that could benefit the Gojo clan.

Not that it mattered now…

His Love had passed away.

“At least her family would hate me enough not to bother with trying to file for custody. I don’t think they’d be happy about the baby either.”

“I doubt they’d be unhappy. It doesn’t matter if they do try to file, Gojo. Your parenting rights exceed theirs.”

“I know.”

Satoru stared at the empty bed and its flattened sheets. It looked too sterile — too clean. It was a far cry from the blood and the screaming and the smell of death that had permeated the room not too long ago. The smell and horrible aftertaste of death’s door was an all too familiar sensation to him unfortunately — especially after Megumi’s own father had brutalized him five years ago. He hated that his Love had to know what that was like before she succumbed to it.

“Have you met her yet?”

“Not yet.”

Regrettably, he hadn’t thought about the infant ever since he watched the light leave his Love’s eyes. She was the center of his world and truthfully, more important to him than a baby he barely knew. Of course he grieved her.

But now that Shoko brought it up, it added another horrible taste in his mouth. Just a month ago he’d felt so carefree as he laid beside his pregnant partner, shamelessly cooing and fawning over the unborn baby in her womb, making a show of how excited he was to be a dad, and already making plans to teach her plenty of things. Now his life flipped upside down at the onslaught of tragedy that befell his girlfriend.

The doctors had whisked his daughter away to the NICU to monitor her closely and provide care after the mother passed away near the end of delivery. The Love of his life didn’t even get to see her baby before she died… Didn’t even get the chance to speak her name so they could print it out in the tiny tags they kept around newborns’ wrists to identify them in the nursery.

Her last coherent words were impassioned pleas thrown out in the midst of her suffering, punctuated with labored breaths, gasps, and blood — so much blood that stained the white sheets pink and orange.

“Love her, Satoru. Promise me. Promise, please? Promise me. Love her. She needs you.”

Did she feel her own life slipping away? Was her strength sapped bit by bit with each gasp and strained scream? They’d taken her body to the morgue an hour ago, but he swore he could still feel her near bone-crushing grip on his fingers — regrettably a pathetic source of consolation during her labor. His words of whispered encouragement didn’t hold a candle to her pain and suffering. 

It couldn’t save her from rapid blood loss and cardiac arrest.

Pathetic…

The strongest sorcerer of the modern age — abundant in financial resources and political power, yet useless in the face of death and loss. This was his curse.

“It’s only been half an hour. Did the doctor say anything?”

“They might keep her there for the whole day or for weeks for all I know.”

“You should go see her.”

“I—”

Shoko’s tone was soft but firm as she reached out, squeezed his shoulder again, and made for the door. “I’ll come with you.”

=OoOoO=

Entering the neonatal unit was not as complicated as he first assumed. The entrance to the unit was armed with a cache of hand sanitizers, disinfecting alcohol, antibacterial liquid soap, face masks, and other paraphernalia meant to prevent spread of infection. Next to that was a station for handwashing. The place smelled of a strange yet pleasant mix of scented rubbing alcohol and baby powder.

The nurses had asked both him and Shoko to don hospital gowns over their clothes, plus wear gloves and masks. If the situation had been a little less grim, he would have argued with Shoko over whether these precautionary measures were really necessary for him when he had Infinity and his immune system was tougher than beds of nails. She would have told him how ridiculous he was being, and he would have countered with an argument that revolved around the idea that he was the last person carrying transferable diseases in the entire hospital.

But there was none of that…

He was quiet and subdued, even as the smiling nurse led them through.

She was not one of the nurses present during his baby’s birth, so she obviously didn’t know. Satoru wondered if she would have treated him differently if she knew. He let Shoko take care of the technicalities of the conversation. They were talking about IVs and breathing measurements and vital signs — everything that Satoru knew he should be paying attention to.

But he knew, despite his baby’s sensitive condition, that she was completely fine — that she was alive and that she would pull through.

His daughter’s cursed energy signature was readable outside of the unit. It thrummed and doused her in it completely like a second blanket. It wasn’t tightly reined or controlled, as expected from a newborn. She had more than the normal amount a sorcerer would have too — that tiny body housed enough cursed energy to match the output of a Grade 1 sorcerer.

He followed a step behind Shoko and the nurse, sunglasses now pushed to the top of his head so he could see everything. The tiny and insignificant curses that usually plagued hospitals were nowhere to be found — hiding from him most likely. 

Their little group stopped at the eighth infant warmer.

There she was — the fruit of his Love’s efforts.

Tiny, fragile, covered in a pink blanket, eyes half-open, her tiny arms and legs moving, and a nasal cannula in her nostrils.

“Normally, it’s really hard to tell which baby belongs to which parent because they all look so similar.” The nurse giggled at Shoko, gesturing to the rows and rows of dark-haired babies in identical infant warmers or incubators. “But your baby stands out from the rest. She’s hard to miss.”

“She’s not my baby.” Shoko corrected the nurse.

“Oh— My apologies, Dr. Ieiri.” She turned, about to address Satoru.

He was already standing over the tiny bed. The size of the infant warmer when placed right next to his towering height created a comical scene: a six-foot plus giant leaning over a restless baby.

“I can see where she gets her hair, Mr. Gojo. You have a very beautiful daughter.”

Her words barely registered in Satoru’s brain; his mind too preoccupied by the sight of his Love’s sweet angel. She’d begged him to love the little girl — made him promise. She had pleaded with every ounce of breath left in her rapidly deteriorating body.

And the sight of this tiny girl — her small fists curling and uncurling, small body wiggling and twitching underneath the soft blanket, and her head turned to his side with those eyes squeezed shut — broke what was left of his battered heart.

“She’s so small.” Satoru mumbled, seating himself on one of the stools they placed close to the infant warmer. (Truthfully, all newborn babies looked tiny compared to Satoru Gojo). 

Cautiously, he placed his elbows on the transparent edges of the warmer, watching the little girl closer, oblivious to the way Shoko and the nurse watched him.

“Is she a healthy size?” He spoke slowly, quietly; Six Eyes never straying away from the new life he’d helped create.

“Yes, Mr. Gojo.” She watched as Satoru fiddled with the name tag wrapped loosely around the newborn’s chubby wrist. A name hadn’t been given, so the tag simply read ‘Baby Gojo’. “If we could have her name, we could reprint a new tag.”

A name… If they could have her name.

Satoru stared at the thin white piece of photo paper between his fingers.

Born on the fifth moon at the beginning of the end of Spring, delivered at 11:43PM, firstborn child of the head of the Gojo clan, offspring of the strongest sorcerer alive.

The name left his lips unbidden, uttered as a reverent prayer and offering to a love he lost and equally gained. It was the name his Love had chosen — a fitting name for their baby girl and her powerful birthright, his Love had said.

“Satsuki… Her mother named her Satsuki, with the kanji for ‘blossom’ or ‘moon’ and ‘princess.’”

“A fitting name for a lovely girl. Your wife must be so proud.”

“She is…”

She would have been…

Satoru nodded along to the nurse’s kind comments, still wholly focused on watching his daughter. The nurse excused herself to accommodate a colleague’s inquiries, leaving him and Shoko alone amid the row of infant warmers and sleeping babies.

“You could touch her.” Shoko nodded once, noting how cautious Gojo was.

Uncaring of any protests, Satoru slipped off the glove that covered his right hand and gently slid two of his fingers into the space between her curled fingers and tiny palm. Her skin was warm and she was so so so small. It was a sight to behold: a daughter holding on to her father’s finger — a prelude of how they would behave around each other three years down the line. 

He was a stranger to fear, but in this moment, perhaps he could admit to feeling apprehensive — that his most delicate grip could shatter her. Satsuki deserved utmost care and tenderness — the kind that only a mother could give… The kind that Satoru so obviously lacked. He could put a roof over his daughter’s head, give her clothes to keep her warm, provide food in abundance so she would never starve, financially support her so she would never want for a single thing in her life, and protect her from every threat. All of that, and he would still be incapable of restoring the warmth and comfort Satsuki’s mother could have brought her — had she been given the chance.

That’s what hurt the most, he figured… Satsuki would only know of her mom — would only experience her through the thousands of pictures and videos Satoru had stored in memory cards and camera phones throughout the years. Satsuki would never know how sweet and warm her mother was, how affectionate and kind and patient. And no matter how much Satoru would strive to convey all of that through his stories and his actions, it could never measure up — could never bring proper justice to the firsthand experience Satsuki would have had, if only Fate wasn’t cruel to Satoru Gojo and everyone he loved.

He pulled down the mask that covered half of his face as he gently stroked his daughter’s hair. There was so much of it — a full head of white, a blanket of snow. He could fit her entire head in the palm of his hand. He marveled at all of her, now that he had been staring for quite some time. Thin and pale eyebrows matched her long white eyelashes. Her nose, her mouth, the shape of her face — it was all his. In this at least, no one could doubt her paternal lineage. (Not that anyone would dare to question Satoru Gojo if he claimed a baby was his — look-a-like or not).

“Oh my god, she’s all you.” Shoko muttered over his shoulder, echoing his own musings as she finally got a closer look for herself.

“Would the clan elders still insist on a paternity test, do you think?”

It was a half-baked attempt at humor, but Shoko did smile a little underneath her face mask. There was some truth to that claim. 

Satoru’s family weren’t the happiest group of people when they found out he got his girlfriend pregnant. They lived in modern society, but the biggest clans of the jujutsu world held fast to traditional beliefs, even if said beliefs dated all the way back to the 18th century. Satsuki was born out of wedlock, so in their judgmental eyes, she was illegitimate — unworthy of the Gojo name and certainly not fit to inherit any asset or receive support from the clan. But Shoko doubted that claim would stay for long — not if Satoru would have anything to do with it. He got what he wanted one way or the other (and for the most part). She knew her friend.

Shoko wagered that this family conflict would persist for a year or less… Satsuki is and forever will be entitled to the name ‘Gojo’, and Satoru would even put her in line to be the next head of the clan — patriarchal traditions be damned.

“How’s her cursed energy level?” Shoko asked out of curiosity. It had been on her mind ever since she and Satoru wandered into the unit.

“As stable as can be expected from a baby. The amount matches a Grade 1 sorcerer.” 

Shoko reached over the edge of the infant warmer to fix the blanket covering Satsuki’s body. “You think she’ll have Limitless?”

“Maybe. It would be better for her if something unique manifests instead. You never really know until kids hit five or six.”

Satoru continued to speak quietly as he scanned his daughter’s face, watching closely as her little eyelids fluttered and peeled themselves back halfway, revealing bright amber irises. At this, he had to smile.

“She has her mommy’s eyes. Of course she does.”

His Love would have adored her. She’d fawned over Satsuki from the moment they went to their first checkup. She had smiled so wide when they heard the steady beat of their little girl’s heart for the first time, and she told him all over again that her horrible nausea in the mornings, her swollen feet, her migraines, and all her troubles were worth it — even if he so obviously thought otherwise.

“Loving her is loving a piece of you. And I love you wholly, Satoru.”

A piece of him…

Satsuki was a piece of her too, wasn’t she?

Satsuki was the embodiment of her love — the remnant Satoru resolved to cherish for the rest of his days from this moment forth.

Shoko went looking for the nurse and left him alone for a moment, and Satoru contented himself with the view of his daughter staring listlessly into a mess of colors and shapes that her still-developing brain barely identified. Giving her the sincere smile she deserved, he held one of her tiny hands again and kissed her fingers — a promise of the life and future he would give her for as long as he was able.

It would be a long long while until he would see his Love again — longer still because their daughter needed him now. 

Wherever she was, perhaps watching over him and Satsuki, he sincerely hoped his Love heard the utterance of the very same words she’d told him that time he asked. His Love was right…

Loving the girl was loving a piece of her mother. And ever since that evening on Christmas Eve so many years ago, he’d loved every bit of his lover everyday, more than he did the day before until the moment she took her last breath. 

“I’ll take care of our little girl. I promise.”

[mur4sak1]

How would elves behave during an argument?

A/N: Remember that English is not my first language so I hope I wrote in the best way <3

Characters: Rog, Galdor, Glorfindel, Maedhros, Legolas (bonus)

Rog: guys, this elf would be really scary. Contrary to what you might think, he would lose his temper very easily; he works all day in the darkness of the forges and when he leaves he just wants to have a good rest, so further stress from an argument would drive him out of his mind. He's the typical person who screams without thinking twice and says things he doesn't mean in anger. His way would destroy you every time, making you burst into tears from how bad he made you feel... but as soon as he saw a small tear running down your face he fell silent, forgetting everything that was happening; Was it him who made you like this? He was making the only person who loved him and who had always supported him in his darkest moments cry. He would stay still for some time, with a thousand thoughts in his head when a louder sob from you would bring him back to reality. He would apologize to you but he would do it without meeting your gaze, he is suffering too much for what he did and he wouldn't have the courage to see your destroyed expression. But you knew that he loves you more than anything after all. With difficulty you would get up and hug him as tight as possible, telling him that everything was fine, that you knew he didn't think those things and that you loved him... You couldn't see his face, but a tear fell from his eyes.

Galdor: NOW LET'S ALL GIVE A HUG TO THIS WONDERFUL ELF TOGETHER. He would always try to find a solution peacefully, without discussions and the need to argue, but if this happens you should not fear anything from him. He would NEVER scream, he would NEVER raise his voice, he would NEVER say anything mean to you just to hurt you or win the argument. I mean, it would be fantastic. Maybe due to particular circumstances you would have become so upset that you felt angry against the elf, but in any case he would have spoken to you in a calm and reasonable tone, making you understand that you didn't need to react that way. If the pain brought you to tears, he would hug you and console you like a defenseless child, helping you and trying to get you to vent so that he could fully understand what was troubling you so as to avoid misunderstandings. Galdor would have been able to understand and love you more than anyone else, always.

Glorfindel: It was rare to argue with the blond elf, but sometimes it happened and the situation became quite lively. Glorfindel always tried to keep his problems to himself and not involve others because he was convinced that difficult moments should only be faced with those you love. Furthermore, he certainly wanted to avoid all that useless gossip that many elves had on any topic that might attract their curiosity. Although his character was often extroverted and playful even in the saddest situations for this reason, when he argued with you it wasn't uncommon to hear shouts and snorts coming from your rooms. They would not be screams that expressed malice, but screams that asked to be listened to; it was natural for him to raise his voice when he wasn't listened to and in that way he expressed all his frustration and the pain that the discussion with you was bringing him. He always acted for your good and feeling attacked made him suffer, he wondered what he was doing wrong, what more did you want from him. But the intense mix of emotions inside him prevented him from acting rationally, forgetting how to express them and focusing only on everything you said. After a long time arguing like this you would have reached the point of being exhausted and progressively raising your voice would have left you breathless. You would stop to breathe for a fraction of seconds, with the certainty that everything would soon start again. But after rubbing your eyes, you looked at your elf's face and saw in him all the pain that he was trying to say to you through his tone of voice; his fists were clodes, his head was bowed, his forehead shiny with sweat and a few blond hairs stuck to it. In an instant you understood everything... You breathed a heavy sigh and quickly approached him to hug him, starting to beg him to forgive you and sobbing heavily between one apology and another... Caught off guard, after a few seconds he relaxed his arms and reciprocated the hug. Finally he let himself go to his feelings; he rested his head on your head and the wet of sweat combined with the wetness of a few tears. So he was able to express everything he felt and only at that point would you be able to clarify and return to being happy and in love as always "I just want to always be perfect for you".

Maedhros: I'm sure fights with the red-head would be very peaceful. Having grown up in a large family and in the role of an older brother, he had developed a lot of patience thanks to which he could easily handle any type of conflict with you. Contrary to what many might think, after Angbad Mae would not have vented the pain on you with shouts and insults, but quite the opposite. After the terrible torture he suffered, the only thing he wanted was to feel accepted and in you he found his salvation; in all the darkest moments where his mind couldn't differentiate reality from dreams you were there by his side to help him, without ever making him feel wrong and making him understand how strong he was to have overcome such a trauma. For this reason, he would feel like a terrible elf during arguments. He only wanted to offer you the support that you represented to him every day but instead he felt more like a burden to you. This would make him cry a lot, but in silence and alone, because he feared that with every little clash you would abandon him. He just needed time, time to understand that you would never, ever abandon him; you always told him that you loved him more than anyone else and that he needed your support to be able to return to the sweet, confident elf he once was, and you would do anything to help him. Needless to say, every time the arguments were resolved without even face them... there was too much love that bound your hearts to ruin it for superficial reasons.

BONUS. Legolas: So, I honestly see Legolas as the kind of elf who would be capable of walking away during an argument. Perhaps due to stress, lack of patience or lack of desire for confrontation, he could stop the conversation, pick up and leave the place where you were. But in reality his behavior would be the solution to the problem. In fact, the much anger that you had accumulated would have faded with distance and the passage of time and would have made both of you understand how much you cared for each other. Solitude would have helped Legolas to think clearly about the problem and find a possible solution to make them both happy. When you met again you would have made peace, both apologizing for your abrupt ways and organizing something to spend the evening together.

[thelaughtercafe]

Matters of the Heart

Tea Type: Milk Tea

Potential Triggers: Brief mentions of intentional verbal abuse, and a raised hand though no contact is made. A carriage accident takes place. Ciel is 21 at the start of this fic and ages as it continues!

Pairing: Ciel Phantomhive/F! Reader

Length: 1.1k+

Summary: This is an AU where the demon contract never happened, so Ciel simply grew up without his parents; cynical and detached from the world. He'd already chased Lizzie away long ago, and he intended to do the same to you. This was how it was meant to be. What he deserved.

His parents’ death had changed him. Everyone expected that, to some extent. But what they didn’t expect was the way Ciel grew cold and distant.

He shut down entirely; let no-one in. His engagement was called off with Lizzie after a few years of cruel words. He was always especially cruel to her.

She deserved someone better than a broken man such as him.

She was happily married now.

He had not attended, merely sending reassurance the Phantomhive name would continue their working relationship and support her and her family in whatever endeavors they needed.

What he didn’t expect to have to do…was be thrown into another engagement when he turned 21.

You were…different from Lizzie that way for sure. His cruelty didn’t make you burst into tears. Nor did you even flinch when he raised a hand to you. He never would’ve gone through with it, but most women fled with the fear of abuse.

You lived mirror existences as the date grew ever closer and one day when he was in a particularly sour mood…he snapped when you brought him tea.

“Why are you still here? Are you some kind of masochist, foolish girl!? I have done nothing but treat you badly and yet you refuse to leave and shower me in kindness I am not worthy of!”

Your smile dropped a moment and then it widened despite the sadness within it.

“…I stay for two reasons, Mr. Phantomhive. One, grief is a powerful emotion. One that can and will consume every part of your being like the vilest of diseases if you allow it to. You wish to never let anyone close. To never allow your heart to feel love again for fear of having that love turn to the agony of loss and grief. I am a patient woman. And I know this anger you show, this cruelty and bluster…is merely a facade. A mask you wear so you may feel safer with me at a distance. I have already been through my cycles of grief and decided I will allow my heart to love again, despite the pain that might ensue. But I can not make you do the same. You will come to your own conclusion when and if you are ready to.”

Ciel was…in shock. You’d never spoken this much, all but locking yourself away in the library and only offering him gentle kindnesses expected of a wife such as bringing him lunch when he forgot to eat and the like.

All he could say was.

“And the second?”

Your smile widened.

“Just as grief is powerful, so too is unflinching kindness and empathy.”

You turned on your heel and began to leave but paused at the door, voice lightly teasing.

“Thank you for the new shipment of books, Mr. Phantomhive.”

You slipped out to the sound of him shouting after you that it was only to keep you far away from him, but you knew if you looked back he’d be blushing.

He did not change all at once. Of course he didn’t. You did not expect him to.

There were still full days of silence. Full weeks even. There were days where he reminded you of a wounded animal, lashing out at every little thing in fear of how you may harm him.

But something quite miraculous happened when you had to meet with your parents, about 3 months after your explanation and a month before the wedding.

As you entered your parents’ estate, Ciel initiated physical contact, putting a hesitant barely-there arm around your waist. When he caught your shocked gaze and the blush on your cheeks he flushed himself and yet did not release you.

“…Don’t get any ideas women. It’s just to keep up appearances around my soon-to-be family-in-law. A mere formality.”

You beamed and quickly looked to the side to blink the burning in your eyes away.

He was healing, whether he realized it yet or not. Not only had he not cared for formality before.

That was also the first time he’d called your parents family.

The meeting went well, your mother gushing over how close you seemed to be and your father happy Ciel was well-versed in business and could keep up with him.

The drive home was not silent, but instead, Ciel led the conversation, talking about your parents and how ecstatic they were.

You were wed before he was fully finished healing but you weren’t worried. He had started and that was enough for you.

It happened rather suddenly. You’d both been out shopping, getting clothes and furniture and all sorts of things now that you would be moving in “so you couldn’t complain later”.

As you were crossing the street, a carriage came careening down it much too fast. Too fast for you to act.

Your husband did, pushing you out of the way with a cry of your name.

The ensuing crash was deafening but you cared not for anything save your husband, frantically kneeling over his body and sobbing as you heard people rushing to get medical attention and the police.

They showed up quickly once they heard the Phantomhive name. They tried to insist on you returning home to wait but you refused to be separated from your husband.

The ensuing days were…tough, to put it lightly. You cried enough tears to fill a lake at his bedside as you waited for him to wake. Your parents were out of the country on business so you were all alone.

The doctor had said he’d done all he could and it was up to Ciel if he lived or not.

You tightly held his hand and spoke to him.

“Please, don’t leave me. I know you must be ecstatic at the chance to see your parents again but I need you here Ciel. Please. We have such long lives ahead of us. I beg of you, don’t make a widow of me. I-I love you.”

You lowered your head to sob into the hands holding his and were startled at the feeling of someone rubbing your head before his familiar voice filled your ears.

“…You finally said it. You’ve been holding in your feelings all this time while I acted as the pinnacle of immaturity in a vain attempt to push you away.”

His blue eyes shone with remorse and genuine care.

“Will you forgive me, my love?”

You nodded breathlessly as you laughed and hugged him tightly.

He chuckled as you pulled away.

“I never want to lose anyone I care about again. And so I will fight to protect all that I do. I hope you will do the same for me.”

You laughed.

“Till death do us part, Ciel, I will ever remain at your side.”

He flushed and looked away with a huff, reaching out expectantly and smirking just slightly as you held his hand, though he pretended to be stoic as ever, clearing his throat.

“Yes, well, see to it you do.”

[jasmineoolongtea]

coffee jelly and parfait ― chapter 1: caramel pudding

pairing: bodyguard!toji x baker!reader (f), toji is 38, reader is 22

summary: after working towards and succeding in accomplishing your lifelong dream working for one of the most famous bakeries in tokyo, you decide to go out for a night of celebratory drinking. however, the next morning, you wake up and find out that you're now married to a total stranger and an older one at that! but, turns out, this accidental marriage of yours might be more useful than you think.

contents: a sesame salt and pudding!au, age gap relationship (16 years - everyone is completely legal here!!!), marriage of convenience/accidental marriage, fluff, angst, slice of life, nicknames (toji is referred to as ossan by reader which is an informal way of referring to a middle-aged man in Japanese and this is taken directly from the manga inspo behind this)

warnings: drinking/alcohol, smoking (from toji)

word count: 3.9k words (much beefer than i was expecting ngl)

extras:

⤷ mood board/pinterest board

a/n: ahhh i'm so excited to finally be able to work on this series since it's been workshopping in the back of my mind for a while shdhahwj hope you guys enjoy this and hope you have an amazing day/night !!! sorry that this chapter is so exposition-heavy rip djasd, i promise later chapters will get better. as always, any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated <333

It's normal for weird things to happen after a night of heavy drinking, right?

You've heard all sorts of stories from your friends and family about the strange antics drunk people get up to once they get a certain amount of liquor running through their veins. It can range from small silly things like trying out a new skill in public due to a sudden burst of newfound confidence to more extreme ones like running away from an angry mob of people that you've accidentally incited somehow. Despite the difference in their severity, the common thread here remains: all are mostly harmless things and nothing that is possibly life-changing.

Much to your dismay, however, you seem to be the outlier in all those cases. Actually, it appears to be that you've managed to outdo almost everyone this time as this one definitely has to take the cake right here or whatever award they give out for things like this.

This morning, as you wake up and open your bedroom door, you suddenly find yourself face to face with a complete stranger, who very much appears to be an older guy, standing right outside in your apartment.

And to top off this already weird trajectory of events, as if things could not possibly get even stranger, it also turns out that you've apparently married said stranger last night.

...What!?!

-

To say that your memory of last night is hazy would be a massive understatement in all senses of the word. But what you do remember clearly is the reason why you went drinking in the first place, which was to congratulate yourself for finally achieving your lifelong dream up to this point.

After years of blood, sweat and tears spent at the Tsuji Culinary School where you fought with tooth, fist and nails against hundreds of other culinary hopefuls to win the highly coveted and only place available for the exchange programme to Le Cordon Bleu institute in France, your suffering was not all for nought as on your glorious return back to Japan, you've managed to land your dream job of working at one of Tokyo's most famous bakeries, Pierre Hermé.

If that was not a perfect reason to celebrate and drink the night away completely carefree then you don't know what was.

However, there was one tiny little snag in your plans for a joyous night out. The moment that you returned home to give your roommate the good news, still trying to come down from the high of hearing the good news, it seemed that she apparently also had a similar genius idea of her own and decided to inform you that she was leaving you to search for somewhere else to live closer to her job.

For most people, that wouldn't be a problem as they could just be able to leisurely search for a new roommate at their own pace. But for you, this was not the case as you were facing a different set of circumstances. For you, your move to Tokyo was entirely conditional on the fact that would stay with someone and this was explicitly set and outlined by your dad. Now roommate-less, you suddenly had a ticking expiry date placed on all your ambitions that you had barely scratched the surface of by this point.

This was probably the worst case of whiplash you've ever had, going from an extreme high to an extreme low all in the span of less than 10 minutes. Unfortunately, it seemed that the odds were very much not in your favour. But how could you let that waver your resolve? If you had learned anything from your years of existing is that you weren't going to give up and relent that easily.

So, in actuality, it was somewhat a lie that you were only out drinking for one reason. In reality, it was for two reasons; one, to congratulate yourself on achieving your dreams and two, to try and forget your newfound problem through the power of alcohol. And this was how you found yourself complaining to a bunch of strangers at a local izakaya, surrounded by several empty pints of beer.

A loud drunken sob echoes through the small confines of the bar which is accompanied by the thud of an empty glass cup slamming against the wooden countertop of the bar.

"It isn't fair at all! Do you know how hard I've worked to get here? I've basically given up everything for this and now it's going to all disappear?" You bemoan out loud to whoever's around you, signalling to the barkeep to fill up another pint for you as you're clearly intent on accomplishing your plan of drinking away your problems.

There's a lady and her boyfriend, whose face you can't really remember or recall in any particular detail, sitting next to you on your right trying to comfort you with sympathetic coos and awkward back pats. While they're trying their best to comfort you, or as best as drunk people can, their efforts are seemingly in vain as you can only sigh in defeat at your current predicament.

Taking another swig of the freshly poured pint, you continue on your rant. "And you know, my dad is only letting me stay in Tokyo if I either have a roommate or if I'm married even if I'm happy here as is!"

The lady nods in an empathetic manner as if to say she's gone through the same thing as well, commenting, "My dad's the same way as well, he's kinda old-fashioned when it comes to stuff like this and it's awful."

"If only alcohol could cure problems like this," You muse. "My roommate and I used to come here all the time and everyone we met here is always so nice."

At your praise of the other bar patrons, there's a murmur of agreement and cheers from all around. The frothy foam of your drink has bubbled down by now but as you stare into the half-drunk glass, you're suddenly hit with an outrageous idea. "Hey, what if I get married to one of you guys tonight, right here right now?"

Boisterous laughter immediately erupts at your words. One dishevelled salary man from the other side of the bar jokingly remarks, "If you do that, you won't even be wanted back home!"

However, once the laughter dies down there's a genuine pause from everyone, including yourself, as if you all were genuinely considering carrying out this ridiculous and definitely impractical idea. Following the brief silence, the other patrons turn to their neighbours and begin to talk and discuss amongst themselves, their heads swivelling left and right in what seems to be an attempt to size up and judge the men at the bar as potential candidates.

"I'm already married to a wife I love dearly so I'm going to have to turn down that offer." Announces a middle-aged man from opposite you, with other similar comments and statements soon chiming in to eliminate themselves from the running based on a variety of different reasons.

Before the lady's boyfriend can even open his mouth to volunteer himself, she sends a withering look and an accusatory finger his way as she warns him, "Don't even think about it." At her stern warning, he quickly sinks back down into his seat.

An elderly man sighs wistfully to himself. "Ha, maybe if I was 20 years younger..." He then turns to his side, nudging the guy next to him with his elbow to get his attention before asking him. "Hey, what about you?"

You can't really see the other man's face since he's pretty much on the other side of the long table and your vision might have been slightly hazy on account of all the alcohol flowing through your system at this point, though you hear his gruff voice ring out as he shrugs his built shoulders and responds, "Me? 'M single I guess."

From all the other voices you've heard tonight, you don't recognise his, guessing that he might have been relatively silent throughout most of the conversation. Although you can't see much of him, you notice even sitting down, he's about two heads taller than those around him and his broad shoulders and well-built physique are accentuated by the tight-fitting black shirt he's wearing. God, it looks like he's basically vacuumed and sealed into that thing as the fabric shifts with every flex of his muscles.

Maybe it's the dim lighting of the izakaya but you're sure you catch a brilliant flash of green from across the table looking you up and down with vague curiosity and interest. You think to yourself, he doesn't look half bad.

Suddenly filled with a renewed sense of energy, or rather you're getting to the point on your drunkness scale where you feel comfortable enough to throw logic out of the window, you leap up from your seat and point at the man as you shout at the top of your lungs,

"Alright, you in the black shirt! Let's get married!"

After hearing your declaration, the lady starts to furiously flip the magazine in front of her until it lands on a certain page before picking it up and showing it to the others. "Hey, look! This magazine I bought has a marriage registration form at the back."

"What an amazing coincidence." Someone mutters from beside you with a few other voices soon relaying their own hums of agreement.

"We can all be witnesses! Come on and sign it!"

Chants of "Sign it." start to fill up the bar as the other patrons begin to cheer you two on like a crowd at a live stadium sports match from the sidelines of their seats. The moment your pen clatters against the floor, the crowd bursts out into celebratory shouts and cheers, with that being the extent of your memories of last night with whatever after it fading into black.

-

Now back in the present, you feel your face start to burn with a renewed sense of embarrassment as memories and small recollections of last night start to flood your mind. Any chance of even possibly denying the events of last night goes out the window as turns out, your drunk self decided that it was the perfect opportunity to apparently take a commemorative photo of the event with the marriage license at the dead of centre of it, your names unmistakably written on there in bold.

As you examine the form, still slightly gobsmacked, you spot his name next to yours. Fushiguro Toji, huh? You think quietly to yourself, his name sounds kind of nice. But before you can find yourself getting lost in thought, a husky voice snaps you back into reality.

"Now, do'ya remember?" The man, or Toji as that's what appears to be his name, quirks an inquisitive eyebrow at you.

"Yeah, but that doesn't explain how you ended up in my apartment." Eyeing him up and down, you pause for a second as you take in your equally dishevelled appearances, something suddenly clicking in your head as your overactive mind begins to draw its own conclusions about what happened after the events of the izakaya. "Oh no. Di-did we..?" You gesture frantically at the two of you, hoping that he understands what you're implying with your question.

Toji shakes his head, a slightly irritated or perhaps even amused sigh leaving his lips, you're not sure. "No. Yer insisted that you should take me home since I mentioned that I didn't really have a place to stay for the night."

A sigh of relief escapes you.

You take this time to now fully examine him since you didn't get much of a chance last night, or rather you had forgotten all about it. There's an unquestionably intimidating aura about him with his shaggy black hair, incredibly muscular physique and piercing emerald green eyes that look like they could kill a man where he stood with a single stare. His all-black clothing and what appears to be a vertical scar situated on the right corner of his lips do him no favours to make him look less like a gangster straight out of an action movie.

Although there aren't the typical tell-tale signs of ageing on him like obvious wrinkles or a head of grey hairs, there's a faint imprint of more permanent creases starting to form in the middle of his brows and if you look closely enough, you might even notice some small sprinkles of white starting to pop up amidst the rest of his raven locks. This all points to the fact that he's definitely older than you but you're unsure by how much from your initial assessment of him, probably at least ten years older than give or take.

Though, besides this outright menacing factor to him, you can't help but admit that he's also strikingly handsome in a rugged way. You realise that you might have been caught staring at him for too long when he clears his throat and gives you a pointed glance with those sharp green eyes. Just having his gaze on you is enough to send a tingling sensation down your spine.

Deciding to brush it off, he huffs to himself as he leans his weight against the white walls of your apartment. "It's probably too late to cancel it since we already signed and submitted it last night so the only option we have now is to divorce."

He fishes around in the pockets of his pants and produces an already half-empty and slightly crumpled cigarette box. Before taking one out, he turns towards you and silently asks for your permission with a tilt of his head. You nod at him, expecting him to crank open one of your windows to smoke but instead, he walks towards your kitchen and turns on your kitchen hood. Curiously, you follow behind him and see him use a dingy lighter to light up the cigarette, the pale glow of the flame illuminating the harsh lines of his features, as he takes a deep puff of it before blowing the smoke up the hood.

So he's a kitchen smoker, huh? Obviously, you want to know how he's developed this peculiar habit but you decide to bite your tongue for now as there are more pressing issues on hand such as the undeniable elephant in the room.

There's a brief moment of silence before Toji starts speaking again. "Y'know, I kinda feel bad for last night 'cause you're going to be a divorcee so young."

"Hey! I'm not that young you know, Ossan!" You protest in return, crossing your arms over your chest in a slightly childish display of annoyance. That earns you what sounds like a breathy laugh from him as one corner of his lips tilts upwards in a somewhat crooked manner.

"Oh yeah? Then how old are ya?" There's a teasing lilt to his voice, almost as if he's slightly amused by your antics.

You huff. "22. What about you?"

"You really can't remember much from last night huh? I'm 38." If he's 38 then that means there's a 16-year age difference between you two. Not the worst-case scenario that could happen when it comes to marrying a complete stranger by accident, you think to yourself.

It seems that your apparent lack of reaction, only giving out a half-hearted hmm, to finding out his age is surprising to him. If he was going to be honest, he wasn't ruling out that you might have started bolting out of your apartment at the mention of it and in that case, he wouldn't blame you.

You state, "Besides, you're not the only one to blame here. It's on me as well since we both signed it. So don't feel bad. We'll get it taken care of as soon as possible." You send a reassuring smile his way, waving off his concerns with an easy-going wave of your wrist. For some reason, he feels like he might even believe your assurance for a second.

Much to your public embarrassment your stomach starts to grumble loudly with what some might say is impeccable comedic timing. "Or well, as soon as I get some food." You comment bashfully, your previously carefree attitude fading away relatively quickly as a new priority has emerged.

As you make the move towards your fridge, you look over at him from your shoulder as you ask, "Oh right. Do you want something as well? I don't really cook meals that often so all I have in my kitchen is basically just baking ingredients."

Toji does a quick look around the kitchen, examining the clear state of mess and disarray that it's in and scoffs offhandedly to himself. "Didn't realise you could call this mess a kitchen."

"In my defence, my roommate used to do all the cooking and cleaning whilst I mainly covered the bills." You point back at him, a wooden spoon in hand as you wave at him warningly.

"What happened to them then?"

"Oh, you know, suddenly deciding to move closer to work even though your roommate has already paid the lease for the year for two people and stuff like that." There's an edge of annoyance to your tone, clearly, you're still annoyed at your roommate for putting you in this predicament, but Toji decides not to comment on it.

After watching you struggle to turn on your gas stove for what seems to be like the tenth time in the span of 2 minutes, a loud sigh of exasperation escapes him as he places his calloused hand on top of yours. stopping you in your tracks. "Come on, just let me do it." He states. As he moves closer to the kitchen counter, his body is positioned so close to your left side that you can feel the heat radiating off of him.

He starts to busy himself with various ingredients as it seems that he's now begrudgingly taken over cooking duties from you, no protests from your side by the way. Before you go to take your seat at the kitchen table, you hear him mumble under his breath. "Can't believe you have the time to go out and get drunk and not even to clean your place."

"Hey." You turn around to face him once again, your voice stern. "You don't know me, alright? I wanna stay in Tokyo because I just got my dream job and I'm not planning on leaving any time soon."

"...Yer job? What d'you do?"

"I'm a baker. Have you ever heard of the bakery, Pierre Hermé?"

He pauses, bringing a finger up to his chin as if deep in thought. "Think 've walked past it a few times. Why?"

There's a renewed sense of excitement to you, passion very much evident in both your words and expression as you launch into an animated spiel at his question. "It's one of the top bakeries in Tokyo and I've spent my whole life working towards being able to get a job there." You look out at the window, quietly contemplating and contrasting the crowded and bustling streets and skyline of Tokyo with the sleepy and relatively isolated atmosphere of your hometown.

"Back in my home town, there isn't really much opportunity to work somewhere like this, especially since it's a foreign bakery specialising in French pastries so this is basically my only chance to fulfil my dreams." You can't help but let a wistful sigh leave your lips, thinking about how hard you've fought to get to this point now. Unbeknownst to you, Toji suddenly sits up straighter, his back pressed against the cool ceramic countertops as he stares at you, seemingly studying you in a new light after your words. Before you can realise it though, he quickly adverts his gaze elsewhere, taking another drag of his cigarette.

"What about you?" You ask him, a sense of interest clearly present in your voice. For someone like him, you don't even know where to really begin when it comes to guessing what a guy like him could do for a living as it could range from semi-realistic to wildly fantastical like straight out of a TV show.

"...I'm a bodyguard for hire." Compared to you though, his tone is devoid of the same energy and passion present in yours with him even pausing slightly before answering, as if he was hesitant to reveal this aspect about himself.

"Wow, that's cool." There's a small sense of awe at his response. Being a bodyguard would definitely explain that muscular physique of his, you remark quietly to yourself.

A tsk sound escapes him at your comment, shrugging it off with his shoulders as he turns to the side. "All I care is that it pays well. Nothin' more."

You deflate a little at his words. To you, he sounds more begrudging than anything and you think that there's probably a story behind that as well, like many other things about him like that lip scar of his, but you choose to avoid prodding him even further as well in his defence, you've technically just met each other last night. All of a sudden, you're hit with an idea, a crazy idea just like last night, but this time now sober, and it might just be crazy enough to work or you two might just be desperate enough to make it work. You clear your throat before you call out to him.

"Hey, Ossan." Toji looks back at you, and clearly, you've managed to pique his curiosity by the amused expression present on his face. If you were a lesser person, you might have shrunk under the intensity of his gaze so intently trained on you but you don't, there's too much of your future dream riding on this now for you to back out before anything could have even begun. You look into his eyes, maintaining eye contact before you continue. "I have an idea, actually, it's more of a request. The next time I go back home to visit my parents, can you come with me as my husband? If I'm married to someone who lives in Tokyo, my dad can't tell me to move home anymore and he'll definitely believe that it's real once he sees your name on the official family register."

Before he can even say no or offer any protest of his own, you add, "Plus, this deal will be beneficial to you as well since you'll get a place to live until you get your own apartment. So, let's hold off on the divorce until then."

There's a hopeful look in your eyes with a look of determination painted on your features. Evidently, even without his input, it appears to be that you're dead set on this plan if it means you get the slightest chance of staying here. He contemplates a future where he says no, imagining another week of being forced to couch surf on his boss's stale office couch and living in a constant state of uncertainty for who knows how long. Sure, it's not like he's so sure about what going to happen now but at least if he agrees to this, he's not alone in dealing with whatever uncertainty is thrown his way.

He shakes his head, stubbing out the burnt end of his cigarette in the sink and takes your hand in his.

"Alright fine, yer got a deal."

taglist: @catobsessedlady , @aluvrina , @thulhu , @sn1perz , @meowmeew , @hprnx , @r0ckst4rjk , @dianakisses , @lashaemorow , @cinnabooonn

[koolades-world]

Hi, hopefully it's still before the 5th for you bcz idk, bcz of the time zones 😭 Asmo and the number 40 would be cute imo. Congrats on 2k, that's a huge number! You must be really proud of yourself! Wish ya even more! 💕

thank you! don't worry you were on time!

so glad to see the asmo lovers come out of the woodworks for this event. i'll compile a masterlist once i complete the final request tomorrow but i think he got four requests which might be the most!

enjoy <3

prompt 40 w/ Asmo

Although Asmo was the avatar of lust and was famous for his physical beauty, you were surprised at just how many people overlooked the other beautiful things about him. Maybe it was just because they didn't know him like you did, but you could argue that his inner beauty rivaled that of what he showed off daily. There was no doubt that he was gorgeous, but he had many other glowing qualities.

You adored his mannerisms, like the way his hand always found it's way into yours when you walked side by side and the way he always looked out for you. He always scanned a room, looking specifically for you, and the way his face lit up when he saw you was adorable. You could help but melt at every time he went out of his way for you and appreciated you for you, and not what you stood for. You couldn't imagine your life without him. He always found a way to seamlessly add you to his packed schedule and you felt as if you were together more than you were apart.

One of your favorite things about him was his laugh, which was surprisingly something he didn't talk about much. He admitted to you once while drunk that the reason for this was because he didn't like it. You'd tried to comfort him in the moment, but he'd moved on and ran off before you could. After that, it hadn't come up again and you didn't want to drag down his mood. Any time he laughed at a joke you made, or when he saw one of his brother do something stupid, you thought about how much you loved it. To you, it was like the sound of the last school bell of the day. Hearing it instantly made you day better every time you heard it.

You couldn't fathom why he hated it, since he was the most handsome individual you'd ever met, inside and out. But, you always never pestered him about it because you knew what it was like to be insecure and dislike something about yourself. It was human, after all. Despite all that though, you'd always hoped that it might come up naturally one day and you could tell him you adored it.

"Mc, sweetheart, do you want another sweet tea?" Asmo got up and stretched his legs. Since the weather permitted it, the two of you, and his brothers were having a beach day. At first, it was just the two of you, but one by one, his brothers invited themselves along until they all wanted to go. Asmo didn't want to give up your time together, so he made his brothers promise they'd give you space. You knew that wouldn't last long, but you let him has his moment.

"No thanks. I'm still working on this one." You gestured to the half full glass beside you.

"Alright." He walked around behind your chairs to the cooler and refilled his own glass. He sat back down once he was done. Rather than shut his eyes again, he watched his brothers fool around closer to the water. Mammon and Levi were fooling around knee deep in the water. After a well timed, swift push from Levi, Mammon feel into the water. It must've been deeper than it looked behind him, because he got totally submerged. He came back up about a second later, furious at Levi. He tried a couple times to shove Levi back but failed every time. Asmo burst out laughing like he hadn't in a while, swatting your arm a couple times to make sure you were watching. While what Levi and Mammon were doing was undeniably funny, you couldn't tear your eyes away from Asmo.

"What? I know I'm beautiful." He swept his bangs aside and smiled at you, fluttering his eyelashes.

"You have such a pretty laugh is all." Asmo seemed a little surprised at your words. He opened and closed his mouth a couples times before shutting it all together. "Really, you do. I love it."

He wordlessly started at you, before responding with a quiet, "Thank you." The rest of your afternoon together was just as it had been before, but you caught Asmo giving you significantly more lingering looks. That night, his Devilgram post about you beach trip was very sweet and was mostly pictures of you and him together. He sat down with you after dinner and gave you a hug, and insisted on cuddling. You noticed he started to laugh more after you'd told him that. How wonderful it was to see how far one sweet compliment could take him. You were glad you could uplift him in the same way he uplifted you countless times.

[skekilla]

my brain is rotting out of my s kull boys

anyway heres from my au, pomni and ragatha talking about just trying to tell caine life in the circus sucks and they all want things to change sdfdfs

ANYWAY I BLACKED OUT AND ENDED UP WRITING A THREE PAGE SHORT FANFIC ABOUT THIS SCENE SO.... here goes ugh

Everything was quiet out there, in the big room scattered with blocks and suspended domes of darkened skyboxes. Pomni stood on the balcony. She stared up, along the spirals and ledges, into the Circus’ simulation of nighttime. She didn’t know what made her leave her room and come out there, but she did know she didn’t care for more nightmares like the ones last night brought. Then again, after everything that day—the funeral—she did doubt the likelihood of anything similar to that coming true. She hoped it wouldn’t, anyway.

“Can’t sleep?”

Pomni startled at the sound, whirled around. “Ragatha! Ah… w-why? Should we not… be out here at night?”

Ragatha chuckled, coming closer. “Oh, no, you’re good! Don’t worry about that.” She came to a stop beside Pomni, a few feet away. Her one vaguely humanoid eye glanced up into the night sky. “I just heard your door—I have trouble sleeping too, even after all this time, so I was awake—and I thought you might want someone to talk to. Only if you want, of course!”

“Oh. Okay.”

An awkward pause stretched between them. “Do you… want to talk, or…? I know you had a big day, with that NPC and whatnot, so…”

The shapes of the Circus floor sparkled like a deathly burst of confetti in Pomni’s mind for just a second. She squeezed her eyes shut. “No. No thanks. I just…”

Ragatha’s hands rose to try to comfort Pomni, but hesitated before they actually got close enough. Instead, she clasped them together in front of her. “That’s okay. It’s not easy to get used to. I can go.”

“No, it’s fine. I just—” It was rare that Pomni ever felt choked up. At least, she felt in her subconscious that it was—not that she remembered anything distinct about life before… this. For some reason, though, everything was washing over her right then. Maybe it was Ragatha trying to get her to talk that was drawing it out of her, or maybe it had just finally all caught up to her. Either way, her gloved hands clenched into fists and she held her breath. She wasn’t sure if she even could cry, but she didn’t want to. Not to someone who was basically still a stranger. Albeit a nice one.

It had been a long time since Ragatha had seen anyone but Gangle on the brink of tears. She almost didn’t know what to do—almost. She sat down on the checkered floor, patted the ground by Pomni’s feet. She smiled up at her. Pomni stood still for a moment, unsure, before she finally sank down.

“Don’t worry about talking, if you don’t want to!” Ragatha said.

But words were already tumbling out of Pomni’s mouth, strangled against her tense vocal chords. “I just don’t understand why,” she said. “Why am I here? Why are any of us here? Why did they do this to us, what- what could any of us have done to deserve being- trapped? Controlled? Why…” She shook her head, eyes towards the ceiling and skies again. She let her back meet the floor. “Why?”

Ragatha started to say something, but stopped herself and thought it over. Trying to act like there was any answer to that wasn’t helpful. She knew that by then. After a second, she laid down too. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sorry, Pomni. It’s just the way things are—how Caine runs them. There’s nothing any of us can do.”

“Why not?!” Pomni’s voice broke a little. She took a breath, calmed herself. “There has to be something. It can’t… it can’t be impossible to leave. It can’t!”

“I’m sorry,” Ragatha said again. “Believe me, if any real ‘exit’ existed, we’d probably have found it by now. The only way to change anything here is through Caine, and… well…”

Pomni inhaled. “Well what?”

“Well… letting us go isn’t in his program. Making us ‘happy’ is. That’s it. There’s no changing him.”

Pomni’s hands rose to her face. For a moment, she just stayed like that. Then something came to her. “But he’s not making us happy.”

“Yeah…”

Pomni’s head rose. “Does he know that?”

Something between surprise and confusion filled Ragatha’s face. “I… don’t know. He keeps trying the same stuff again and again, so… probably no.”

Things began to click into place in Pomni’s mind. “Then… then maybe we could tell him! Get him to change things! Let us have more say and… and maybe, eventually, leave. If he is made to make us happy, then he’ll listen if we all say we really, sincerely aren’t. Right?”

Ragatha thought about her words. “I mean,” she began, “I don’t remember anyone really trying anything like that in the time I’ve been here—not like what you’re saying, anyway. Maybe… maybe.”

“Then we have to. We have to try.”

Ragatha looked over at Pomni. The desperation she heard in her voice made her nervous, but the hope that came with it was swaying her. “Well… it could be worth a shot!” Pomni looked back at her, the simulated moonlight flickering in her red and blue eyes. The hope in them was growing stronger. It lifted Ragatha in a way she hadn’t been lifted in a long time and crushed her all at once; a wave of guilt came with the joy. Pomni would be disappointed, and Ragatha knew it. Trying to mitigate her optimism, she added, “I mean… it’s not like things can get much worse.”

Pomni’s eyes flicked back upwards. Disappointment, to a smaller degree, had already pricked her with just those doubtful words. “Right.”

Even more guilt filled Ragatha. “I can help bring it up to everyone else tomorrow,” she offered. “I really do think it’s something to try. I’ll stand by you on it!”

Pomni took a deep breath. Her voice was stable again, her breathing steadied by the hands she rested on her stomach. It was worth trying. Anything was worth trying at that point. Like Ragatha said, what could get worse? She shoved the doubts away, to the back of her mind—still very much there, but hidden behind determination. “Okay. Tomorrow.”

Ragatha smiled a little. Pomni didn’t. She just stared up. Silence hung between them again, though it wasn’t awkward anymore; it was tense, filled with fragile hopes, fluffy clouds drifting and evaporating in the sky. Yet, somehow, they both felt a kind of security in it. Security in chance.

“I really, really hope this works,” Pomni said.

“It… probably won’t, if I’m being honest,” Ragatha couldn’t help but say, a nervous chuckle punctuating her words.

“I-I know. Still.”

Something twinged in Ragatha’s chest that made her smile all the more sincerely. Some kind of familiarity maybe, or care, or… maybe a bit of her own hope, awoken after so long. “Well… that’s sure a breath of fresh air around here.” She closed her eye. “I like that about you, Pomni.”

Pomni glanced at Ragatha for a second, but she heard right. Maybe she did have a friend in the Circus after all. Maybe what she guessed after the funeral earlier was right. Maybe, even if whatever happened tomorrow didn’t go as planned, everything would be okay. Somehow.

[shdo-xplosion]

Hi Dove❤️ welcome to tumblr!! For your event, I’d love to read aizawa and prompt 7🖤

eeeeeeek thank you! this is one of my favorite prompts with one of my favorite characters! and i got VERY carried away with it. oopsie!

7. 🖤 MONSTERFUCKING • s. aizawa

alien!aizawa, size difference, humanoid features but still monsterfucking, womb-fucking, belly bulge, oviposition, drugs (his alien spit has a sedative in it or something)

When you’d agreed to be part of the research group, this is not what you had in mind. Blood tests? Sure. New drugs to be a guinea pig for? Why not. Spreading your legs for an alien specimen, though? How the hell did this even happen?

You’d been promised a lot of money, is how it happened. A lot of money and a photo of a not entirely horrible looking creature from a world or two away. Aizawa.

He doesn’t speak, which is fine, just towers over you with blacked out eyes, inhuman tongue slithering out of his mouth every once in a while to dab at your pulse point, only emphasizing how fast your heart is beating with him on top of you.

You’re safe. You think. You’re being supervised through a window, not entirely alone. It would bother some people, but your standards for sex went out the window way before this. You’d prefer this metal lab table to the gravel behind the bar from your college town.

Smooth, thick digits are buried inside your cunt, feel more like your silicone toys than any human finger or dick you’ve ever taken, but it’s not bad. His hands are huge, fingers impossibly long, and the way he’s touching you makes you feel like he’s the one doing the research here. Impossible to tell what he’s thinking, though.

His body is mostly human-like in terms of shape. A head, a torso, two arms, two legs, et cetera, but there’s no denying he’s anything but. For one, he’s enormous, at least twice the size of an actual human. His flesh is… cold and dense, rigid, muscle packed into different groups to ensure he can move in ways you’ve never seen before. The black mop on top of his head is impossible to describe. Hair? Sensors? A million antennae? You don’t know for sure, but you’ve mostly stopped worrying about that in favor of focusing on what’s hanging between his legs.

That is 100% an alien cock. In size and shape and… function. There’s no use comparing to what you’ve seen before because the only thing that’s similar about it is that it’s vaguely shaped with the purpose of sliding into some kind of hole. In this case, your pussy. Even with his fingers doing a strange, meticulous job of stretching you out, you don’t know how he’ll fit.

Then it sort of clicks into place when he leans up and slips his long tongue into your mouth, secreting something sweet from it that makes you feel boneless.

Oh. So this might be a problem.

He moves his fingers a little more aggressively inside of your body, adding another and another. You can feel your body stretching, feel the sting that comes with, but you don’t mind for some reason, like even if you were scared or angry, all you’re capable of feeling in the moment is contentment.

The initial press of his cockhead to your entrance almost jolts you from whatever high state you’re in, but Aizawa rests a hand on the side of your face and softly pushes a finger into your mouth, and you find yourself sucking at it, tasting the same sweet sedative he had given you before.

You can’t make a sound as he pushes into you, leaning his hips forward as his huge cock bullies your walls open. You suck in a deep breath, tears falling from the corners of your eyes, but it doesn’t hurt. You know it’s supposed to. You know it will. But it doesn’t. It’s almost like the tears and air are being pushed from your body in a feeble attempt to make more room for him. All you’ve taken is his tip and you already feel like you’re going to burst.

You also feel like you’re going to run out of fluid with how wet you are, pouring slick all over his length where you lay spread for him. You can’t read any facial expressions or even the look in his eyes, but something about the way his head lifts and those endless eyes reflect your sweaty face… you think he might be satisfied with the effect he’s having on your body.

Aizawa starts thrusting shallowly, slowly working you open, stretching your cunt so that he can fit more and more of his cock inside of you. Human bodies were obviously not mean to accommodate a creature of this size, so why exactly are people researching it?

His cockhead finds your cervix, landing uncomfortable but soft kisses to it for a few moments before Aizawa starts pushing in more. Your chest tightens, blood going cold because no no this isn’t how bodies work, he can’t just—but he kisses you with his addictive, euphoric alien tongue, and your body just parts for him, and suddenly there is something deep inside of you—deeper than anything has ever been.

You can feel how wide your eyes are, how far your jaw has dropped, and how wet your pussy is. You don’t understand it, but it’s all happening. He’s touching every millimeter of your insides, massaging your g-spot just by being there. A smooth finger pinches and toys with your engorged clit, and you cry out when it makes you cum. Your muscles try to clench with each pulse of your orgasm, but it’s impossible to tighten around the huge cock inside of you. All you can do is stay stretched around it as juices leak from you.

Something of a grunt catches in Aizawa’s throat, his head down as if he’s looking at yoir cunt, where the two of you connect. He touches your sensitive bud again, another noise leaving him when you jerk beneath him, and then he begins rubbing it in time with his now faster thrusts. He must have liked seeing you cum.

You don’t know what you like anymore. You don’t know anything.

You’re covered in a sheen of sweat, face wet with drool and tears, but you’re not in pain exactly, just overwhelmed, can’t really breathe, can’t focus on anything other than how full your poor body is. When you look down, you whimper at the sight of your stomach bulging and moving with every push and pull of Aizawa’s cock. He’s so deep, sliding against your insides, pounding into your guts—your womb—and you don’t know how long he’s there or how many times you cum. All you know is you’re trembling and breathing quickly and sobbing when he throws his head back and climaxes.

The feeling is indescribable. It’s not like with a human when you can feel warm cum dripping from your pussy. You don’t feel anything dripping from you. You just feel something filling you, something being added to your body, a tightness forming in your belly that shouldn’t be there.

Aizawa pulls out, leaving you so cold and so, so empty, but he places a hand on your swollen tummy. Swollen even without him inside of it.

There’s still a pressure deep inside you, a pressure, and then a pinch, and then—

You scream, back arching, legs spreading even further than before as you bear down on the table. Another orgasm crashes into you from out of nowhere, and the force of it pushes whatever is inside of you out of you.

Eggs. You don’t know how many. You just know they fall from your gaping hole like a grotesque slime, oddly pleasurable as they breech your entrance and only prolonging your orgasm. Both your brain and body are confused at everything that’s happened since being locked in this lab, and once you’re finished expelling all of the eggs, all you can do is curl up on the table and shake.

Aizawa is very still for a while. You think he might be confused. He reaches down and scoops up some of his wasted contribution, considering it and then you, then drops it back to the ground.

“S-sorry. My body’s not… the right fit for you,” you tell him breathlessly, surprisingly sheepish.

Silence. A few more glances. Then he’s reaching for you and pulling you from your fetal position, tugging you until your ass is on the edge of the table and your legs dangle on either side of him.

Leaning in close to your face, he speaks for the very first time. It should be comforting that he knows your language, but it only sends a chill down your spine.

“You’re the perfect fit for me.”

event masterlist ✿

[the-kr8tor]

haii !! for your fluffy friday:

hobie brown x reader and reader got one of those american girl doll baby dolls (i forgot what theyre called) so hobie and reader can take care of it like its a real baby 🤗

Hi, angel! Thank you for your request, hope you like it ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem! Reader

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, Reader is pregnant, Fluff.

It's Fluffy Friday!

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

You and Hobie wave goodbye to Mayday, she pouts in her dad's arms, not ready to go home yet. Baby blues tearing up, her lip wobbles. Peter tries to console his daughter. The portal swirls in your living room, bathing it in a yellow glow. You cringe at how your stuff will fall harshly on the floors once it closes.

"You'll see them again, don't you miss mama?" He bounces her in his arms. Mayday only frowns more at her father's question, emotions running high.

"Mm-hmm, I'm sure your mommy misses you a lot, Mayday" you coo at the toddler, cradling your baby bump. You're about to burst any day now.

Hobie hands Peter Mayday's baby bag, "yeah, we'll just be here waiting for you" he ducks down to meet Mayday's teary eyes, shaking her tiny hands, trying to bring comfort. You grin at the interaction, hormones making you tear up.

"Thanks guys, I really need to get her home before she throws a tantrum. See ya!" Peter makes Mayday wave her hand by using his own. "Say bye bye, Mayday! Hit me up if you need any help, okay?" she finally wails as her dad steps inside the portal. Her cries get cut off by the portal closing.

"Oof glad I'm not Peter right now" you huff, turning around to look for Hobie, "Hobie?"

He crouches down to pick up a baby doll left on the floor. Shaking it in his grip, "D'you think she was crying because of this?"

"I don't think so, she barely played with it" you shrug, wobbling to him, taking the doll in his hands. Still accustomed to taking care of an actual baby, you cradle the toy like it's alive. "We can give it back to Pete next time they visit"

Hobie cracks an endearing smile, he's seen you hold Mayday before with the same enthusiasm but something about you carrying a smaller baby albeit a toy one unlocks something in his mind. He's absolutely excited to have the little one in your arms.

"You look really fit right now" Hobie eyes you up and down, whistling. You make pregnancy look good.

You roll your eyes, "what?" Not believing the words he uttered "my shirt is covered in baby food," you sniff at your collar. "Yep, mango baby food. And I haven't washed my hair in days"

Hobie leads you in his arms by your elbow, holding you close, the baby doll right in the middle of your cuddling, stomach making it hard to embrace him properly.

You suddenly realize what he really meant, knowing him well. Basically reading his mind when he lays his head on your shoulder, tired from chasing around Mayday all over the flat; hand rubbing soft circles over your tummy. The other kneads at the small of your back, massaging the aching muscle.

He's been so supportive the entire pregnancy, even with all your weird cravings and hormone induced mood swings, Hobie was always there to help ease the burden off of you. You've seen him get more and more excited everyday, bouncing all over the flat to get it ready for the baby.

"Yeah? I look good?" Bouncing the toy in your arms, you smirk at Hobie.

"Mm-hmm," Hobie peppers your face with sticky kisses leaving you all giggly and smiley. "So" kiss "bloody" kiss "good"

"Okay" laughing in between "calm down this is the reason why I'm pregnant" instead of pulling away, you encourage him by leaving your own kisses on his cheeks.

After a moment of you attacking his face with your lips, you finally pull away, scrunching your nose endearingly at Hobie with a lopsided grin. His hand never leaves your bump.

"Maybe we should keep this for a few days, might be good for practice" He holds the doll by its foot jokingly. You know he's prepared enough to know how to hold a baby properly.

You chuckle, "not a good start, babe" taking the doll with care, cradling its head, you indulge him.

"I haven't got that swaddling thing down"

"Come on then, let's practice" leading him to the bedroom by his hand with a tired but happy smile.

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