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[tarjapearce]

Chapter 1: And So, Chaos Was Born.

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

WARNING: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Smut, angst, emotional distress, mentions and graphic depictions of cheating, rough sex, one night stand, Protected sex, p in v, fingering, squirting, touch starved reader, mentions of fuck buddies, condom breaking, reckless and questionable behaviors, established relationships.

Summary: A momentary relief brings the worst possible of outcomes.

Pt. 2

reblogs, comments, tags are highly appreciated c:

Chapter's song:

Sparkling bubbles popped in the surface of the champagne cups as they were distributed among the attendants. A relatively formal retirement party.

A party that liked it or not required your presence in an attempt to make feel the retiring executive chairman appreciated and already missed, despite most having the slightest idea who the hell he was.

Just a few bunch knew him, but even so, many have their reasons to be at the party besides the RSVP deemed mandatory. Free food, alcohol, a collective ogling from the well dressed coworkers people had a crush on, leading to new gossips to keep boredom away and morale up within Alchemax's breadwinners.

Not so discreet looks at the administration's and Lab's secret crushes, more gossips and a night off preoccupations. Your reason? Getting all dolled up and wear for the first time a dress you always wanted but never had the occasion to wear.

A black silk bustier cut dress with spaghetti's straps and floral embroidery with matching and stylish spool heel sandals. Hair that was usually tied in a mid ponytail on reception, thanks to the borderline stupid corporative image code, was now free and blown out by a stylist.

A French girl makeup that only enhanced your features, drawing the attention towards your lips. Nails lacquered in a lovely shade of red that matched your alluring mouth. Along a black little purse to hold your personal items.

You looked different from the boring receptionist look you had mastered after Two years of working for Alchemax.

A couple of men had approached you through the night, but we're kindly declined. Part of your job had granted you the ability to remember faces quite well, hence a bit of knowledge about their position in the company.

One worked in the research department, the other one had invited you a cup and a talk, but he was known as The dirty Samson in the administration lands. Another one from HR and Security management.

It was odd. They'd probably pass you without noticing much difference if you were in the working mode. Sometimes you marvelled at how easily impressed men were with a bit of makeup and more effort. It was like if you were a completely new person. The HR guy had the nerve to ask you if you had been transferred. Earning the instant rejection buzz.

You downed what it seemed your third cup of sparkling liquor, and went to the entré bar. You didn't know who was the guy but were grateful he thought about leaving the big way, and his colleagues to splurge in him in delicious food that had you swooning. Specially some little empanadas, full with the right amount of spicy seasoning that made your mouth soar in delight.

You were about to grab the last one when a large and tan hand snatched it from the silver and fancy platter at the last second.

A bushy eyebrow quirked at you, a silent this is mine, get over it. With a huff you reached for the last crunchy guacamole cup when your fingers grazed not so kindly with his. By instinct you slapped his hand away but quickly turned horrified at your actions.

"I'm so so sorry... fuck." You covered your mouth and the man chuckled, amused at your nervousness.

What if he was from the higher ups? What if he got you fired for being so careless and uncouth? What if-

"Here, have it. They're bringing more anyways"

A tight knot coiled in your stomach as nervousness bloomed into anxiety.

"Thanks" Your dry mouth mumbled, his eyes remaining on you for a bit, seizing you while reaching for the food. Sadly, his face was the only one that didn't ring a bell on your memory, and you had seen and remembered a lot of faces through your working years.

You'd definitely remember sharp cheekbones, meaty and inviting lips, Mahogany eyes that would search within the deepest crack of your soul without trying much. A rare yet appealing color that screamed danger. Strong nose and a compelling demeanor that would scare anyone coward enough to flee from his presence.

And you were no coward.

The cherry ontop was his voice. Deep with a dash of mischievousness if you  paid enough attention.

He held a cup of champagne on his left hand.

"The lobster spring rolls are good"

Mentally slapping yourself for a rather awkward approach, you grabbed a small paper cup of sweet chili sauce to go with the two aforementioned snacks in your plate.

He just looked at your hands, eyes trailing over the skin and soon, stopped at your chest. Lovely pair of mounds that would certainly fit into his hands.

He blinked the sudden thought away but it didn't help him watch you popping a small grape into your mouth.

Oddly enough he had been angry. Angry at the text messages and calls he had received a while ago, unleashing a new level of meanness within his heart.

He hated being belittled and the passive aggressive back handed texts did not help him. He needed to replenish before setting his plan in motion. Part of him knew it was wrong what his mind had conspired, but his current situation had decided it was enough. He could only take so much before lashing out.

The anger had to be let out one way or another. And you happened to set his imaginary idea bulb alight. His jaw clenched.

He hadn't seen you before, to him you'd probably be another outside guest that would have no business in returning to the company. Someone who would be forgotten in a span of a night. Another one in his long forgotten and hidden list of conquers. 

You downed the fourth cup of  champagne and ate, balancing the alcohol ingest.

"What's your name?"

The words came out of his mouth like butter. In other circumstances he'd be repulsed by his own behavior, but the brewing anger had to be unleashed one way or another, or things would turn even more acrid within his mind.

Your eyes widened a bit at the question. Naturally you gave him your name and he nodded.

"Miguel. Nice to meet you."

He offered his right hand and you took it. His engulfing yours with ease.

"Are you having fun?"

"I'm just here for the food if I'm honest" You chuckled and cleared your throat, hoping the lack of flirting over the past six months wouldn't seep in through and ruin the possible chance ahead of you.

"Uh, what about you?"

"Not a party guy. But one in a while won't hurt."

"Cheers to that" Your cups clinked.

His eyes scanned the area. People were either scattered in the main salon area, or were outside in the balconies, in their own world not really looking his way or yours.

Good.

"Do you know by chance whose the guy that's leaving?" His chuckle only widened your smile.

"Not really."

Lies. Miguel perfectly knew him, He was the chairman of the Lab Department, and if he worked hard enough, he'd be the old man's replacement soon. He even had a new project proposal he had been assembling the past months and hopefully that would kickstart his road ahead.

You on the other hand, had been looking into a more administrative position, trying to upgrade the current status of a simple receptionist. You definitely needed a raise.

"I mean, if this is being served at his retiring, can't help but wonder what they will do in his funeral."

Miguel couldn't help but genuinely laugh at your comment. You smiled again and gulped.

"I haven't seen your face around here." mumbling you set your eyes on him again, he smirked.

"Same thing. Would've remembered those pretty lips. Preciosa"

He didn't need to explain what that meant since it caused the right effect on you. The kind of effect that would have your skin flushed, and a chill running down your spine. Oh the petty in him was running rampant and there was none to stop him.

"Well, speak for yourself."

"You think I have pretty lips?"

It was disgusting to him how easy he could slip into this old mask he had dropped many years ago. Nearly scary at how natural he still seemed in the arts of flirting.

"The prettiest I've seen so far." You mumbled an octave lower.

But you didn't slack. You were persevering, he gave you that. If only the rest of his colleagues had that, it'd make his job easier. You were pretty. Really pretty, and he was being a resented ass that knew how to indulge.

"I was supposed to say that, sweetheart."

Be it the alcohol, or your sudden raging hormones that sparked a little fire within that he kept feeding with his words, or the lack of sex for the past half year that got you extra bold tonight. It was your night.

"Pretty sure they'd look better on mines."

His brow quirked as your eyes gazed at each other's. Biting your plump and red lips was enough for him make his resolve.

"Wanna try out that theory?"

He put the food and cup down and offered your hand. Once more his morals reminded him of the consequences. But he pushed them back, like everything that made little to keep his mind busy and focused.

You took it, letting him guide you to another milieu of the building. A more secluded area. HR's bathrooms. Not the kind of setting that you had imagined, but given the working areas being closed for the night, neither of you could be picky.

Plus none would take their time to walk this much to relieve themselves. You had an itch and he would scratch it.

A new sense of thrill invaded you as he took you to one bathroom stall. Once the door was locked, Meaty and plump lips landed on yours while he cornered you against the wall. Purse dangled on your shoulder

Red lips limned sin. A sin that he was tainted with the more you both devoured each other.

His hands roamed your romantic body lines, and pulled you impossibly closer to his, but the bathroom was proving to be a nuisance.

He groaned as he separated from you and opened the stall, looking outside for a moment.

"Come" He pulled you out the caged place to get into the special needs one. It was definitely roomier, kinkier even if he knew how to make the most out of the space. The lovely smell of jasmine and floral undertones the area was doused in, helped your senses relax, coaxing you even more into his lips.

His tongue swirled yours, while his hands trapped your head in the ravaging kiss. One of his thighs positioned between your legs, and pushed against your flesh, earning a mewl. Purse long forgotten on the floor.

Seizing the chance he lured your tongue out and sucked it softly, your hips humped his thigh. He smirked into the kiss as his hands slid down your neck and stop at your shoulders. The thin straps of your dress were slid down, the area cupping your breast next.

He pulled out from the kiss and stared down at you. Lust and something darker looming over his eyes. His cologne tickled your senses, and your skin crawled when he pushed you against the wall once more and his tongue skimmed over your neck.

Your senses under attack only urged him to release your breast. Breast that looked as delicious as he had imagined. Perky nipples met his hungry gaze, mouth trailed over the valley between them and suckled over the left one.

Gasping, you held onto the horizontal metallic bar next to you, grounding at the building up sensations. A whimper filtered through your throat as his other hand played and tweaked softly at your lonely breast. His mouth turned on pleasuring both, to then squeeze them together, trying to fit both in his mouth.

"F-Fuck-" Your face turned a bright red as he pulled one softly between his teeth, to then give a deep suck that had you groaning. He released you with a wet pop, nipple glistening with his saliva. A little hickey underneath the nub.

A discreet way of marking you.

His fingers ventured over your back zipper releasing your body from the lavish dress. He picked it up and hooked it on the little contraption attached to the door, preventing it to soil down, despite the place's apparent immaculate state.

And what he saw underneath got his pants tighter at his groin. Your panties only accentuated the dip of your curves as generous hips called him in. Luring him to be lost between them.

He removed his suit and placed it ontop of your dress, sleeves rolled up his elbows, revealing strong and well worked forearms.

Your hands pulled him by the belt buckle and he chucked but quickly gasped as you undid the thing and slid a hand in his pants and caressed his clothed cock. Eyes widening at the sheer size.

"Uh uh, don't back up now, princess."

His tone sending shivers down your spine. You squeezed.

"I'm not." Alcohol made you stupid. And bold. That's why you were a social drinker. You pulled his pants as low as you managed to.

Your hand fumbled with his boxers for a second before taking a hold of his erection. Husky breath fanned on your face as you pumped him with one hand and the other pulled the cotton undergarment down his sculpted thighs.

"Faster, cariño-" He groaned at your pace increasing, " J-Justo así. Dios que rico..." (Just like that. God... that so good)

He mumbled in between raged breaths, one of his hands slid in your panties, fingers dipping between your moist folds. Caressing and rubbing as much flesh as they managed to meet, until he made contact with your clit. You whimpered and your pumping faltered. He slid your panties off your legs.

"No no, keep going" It was hard to please him when you were crumbling upon the ministrations he provided. Your hole slurped one of his fingers, trapping him inside. Erratic as your handjob was, it provided him enough urge to plunge another finger in, stretching bit by bit your tight and now soaked hole.

Your face was blissful as his fingers curled and flexed inside. His phalanges contracting and prodding at the right spots that had you humping his hand, trying to get as much friction inside as possible.

His fingers drenched and your mewls turned into loud groans but he put a hand on your mouth, while he slid in and out with ease. Juices rolling down the back of his palm and pooling on his hand. He nearly laughed at the realization.

He hadn't even fucked you properly and you were already melting and gushing on his hand. And the tightness inside. God, he was gonna enjoy ruining you.

Your breath hitched as he wriggled his fingers deeper. Your hand kept giving him deep yet slow strokes, alternating between pumping and squeezing him.

His ears were full of a wet and sinful song. Your mewlings mixed with the sloshing noises your drenched cunt did pushed him to graze at that swelling and rubbery texture inside you that earned him a yelp. Your hand had long stopped and clung to his shirt, mouth ajar underneath his hand, trying to find the right sound to vocalize.

A muffled sob. Your eyes rolled back as your body convulsed and your pussy gushed. A satisfied smirk plastered over his handsome face while you came. Your arousal staining the floor in droplets.

You looked gorgeous, he had to admit. Flushed cheeks and neck, lust half lidded eyes that stared back at him, begging for more. Chin smeared in lipstick, that trembled with every deep pant you did. So so gorgeous.

"Condom" You breathed, "P-Put it on"

Clever girl. If it wasn't for your words he'd raw you. You amused him. Despite your lust blown mind, you still managed to think coherently.

He reached for his wallet and pulled out one. His phone buzzed with many texts surpassing the twenty. But he put it on plane mode and quickly resumed his revenge. The latex ring was rolled down his shaft, fitting snug and perfectly built at his size.

He cupped your quivering and soaked thighs and sat you on the metallic bar you were holding onto. His mouth busied with yours and his hand guided his engorged tip towards your aching and awaiting flesh.

Miguel bit your lip at the brain splitting sensation your warm and tight pussy provided. Your legs spreaded as wide as they could to take him in completely.

"Dios mío..." He rasped as he pushed in to the brim, your thighs resting on his forearms while your spine rested against the wall. Your jaw clenched at the fullness you were experiencing. Pain and pleasure came in hand in hand. It didn't help he had sheathed in as you were still riding your high.

"You okay, cariño?" A weak nod. His forehead rested against yours, letting  to adjust at his stretching and invading cock. With a roll of his hips he pushed all air away from your lungs.

A hand squeezed his shoulder as the other covered your mouth, preventing from being too loud.

"Good girl" He praised and his hips moved again, keeping a steady pace.

"M-Miguel" You whimpered and writhed, "Wait, wait-"

He chuckled and kissed your neck, helping your discomfort to leave your body. But in truth, you were cumming again. Your legs went around him and clamped tightly. Shallow and erratic breaths flew out your mouth as you came by taking in his cock. Body licked with fire.

"Jesus, babe." He held your thighs tighter as they trembled, "Been a while, huh?"

You nodded and he cooed. A high pitched whimper echoed through the walls and he immediately shut you up with his hand again.

"You gotta tone it down, ok?"

You nodded and kissed him desperately. And it was enough spark for him to move inside. Deep and slow strokes were delivered while he clawed at your ass.

Every stretch increased in pleasure while the discomfort subsided. Never in your life had met someone this big. He got your mind made a puddle. A puddle he enjoyed playing with.

His voice whispered the sweetest and filthiest things his mind could come up with. Noting how you reacted at the filth he plowed in deeper. Your cervix was bullied.

"Harder" barely a whisper

"What was that?" He stopped and you whined

"H-Harder"

He tittered, "You're barely holding it together sweetheart, want me to ruin your pretty pussy? Hm?"

You nodded and urged your hips closer to him.

"Can't say no to that face."

His grip tightened on your ass, his hips accommodated in a different angle and sheathed in once more. Feeling yourself full made your toes curl in again.

He didn't give you time to fully grasp your reality as an onslaught of thrusts were pounded into your squelching hole.

Your spine arched while his hands handled you like a ragdoll on his cock. The only remaining garment on your body were the heels.

Where was he when you needed a new fuck buddy? It didn't matter.

Not when he was punishing your cunt and bullying your cervix in a way none had made you feel before. It was addictive. Ass bounced on his hands with every toe curling thrust.

He left you insides empty with every pull he gave, only to be filled again. And again and again. He had warned you, but you didn't listen. And now you were enjoying and suffering the consequences.

His hot breath fanned over your neck, as much as he wanted to leave you marked as his despite just being a one night stand, he couldn't leave traces.

He didn't know if you had someone. Neither care. All he cared for was that he was getting his anger out and you were enjoying it. You liked it rough.

He stilled and dropped your legs on the floor, the sudden action caused a slit in the condom, he knew he had to stop and change it, but you felt too good and your insides begged to be ruined. You were too cock drunk to notice. He just turned you around and hoisted one of your thighs up, opening you like a book.

He buried in with a swift motion and resumed his relentless thrust, leaving you breathless again. Your hands held tightly on the bar as he pounded on your needy cunt.

The constant slap had your whole frame shaking, even your head, that tried hard to keep inside the sanity line. But this angle provided him not only the perfect spot for him to stimulate both, but a deeper and meaner reaching within.

His chest was filled with pride at every time you gasped, panted, moaned, begged and wailed his name. Unlike her.

By God he was angry. Angry at the belittling words of him not being man enough to keep with stupid antics. 

You sobbed as your frame shook with such force it was mind shattering. His hands held such a grip on yours he was glad you had that dress to cover up the bruises.

How dared she? How Dana could say such things when he was making this beautiful stranger he met minutes ago so blissful and happy? How could she say she was left unsatisfied when he was giving it all to you? Wetness didn't lie. And you had not only squirted, but kept him drenched and welcomed and asked no questions.

A perfect subject.

You didn't care. Too focused on trying to not go deranged at the pleasure you've certainly been lacking. Your insides twitched. You looked even better than her when fucked out. Sounded even, unlike the annoying quiet moans Dana gave him, making him feel unsure of his performance in bed.

He slapped your ass, a red mark blooming on your right supple cheek.

Dana hated being manhandled too roughly. But you loved it, encouraged it even. He didn't know who to blame to get to this point. Himself for letting things to run deeper until they turned into this wretched anger, or Dana for getting used to his temper and approach him once things were calm enough.

Feeding this harmful behavior just for the sake of not letting him go. Sometimes happy moments with her weren't enough for him, but he was too comfortable to just go and start meeting new people. He wasn't one for social mingling, but tolerated the whim enough to get him some favors among administration.

If it wasn't for the fact that he was cheating out of spite, he'd definitely ask your number for a round two.

You came with the most delicious sound he had ever heard, igniting his own peak.

He emptied inside you with an angry growl. Thick blobs of his cum spilling into the condom. He threw his head back and relished at the release. Anger finally subsiding.

He let your thigh go and pulled out. A few droplets had escaped through the now broken condom. Rolling his eyes he discarded it and cleaned himself up. His fingers wiping the leaking cum off your flushed cunt .

"You still with me, preciosa?"

You landed on the floor with an oof. And laughed. He cradled you in his arms with a chuckle. Your Bambi legs trying to get a hold of themselves as you stood.

"That was..." You shook your head with a laugh, "Too bad I didn't met you six months ago."

He smirked and wiped the sweat off his forehead and body, trying to tone down his tussled looks. You reached for your panties and soon got dressed.

In truth, six months ago he was on the beach, having an impromptu vacation with Dana, celebrating on of her achievements.

His hands reached for your zipper once he saw you struggling with it.

"Thanks."

The long forgotten purse on the ground was picked up, your hands reached for the item you were looking for. You handed him a couple of makeup remover towelettes.

"Gracias." He mumbled as he left the stall. You followed only to giggle at your reflection. All the money invested at the stylist, gone.

Chin flushed by the smeared lipstick, mascara had ran out, just like the eyeliner. Frizzy hair, and flushed out cheeks.

Each of you cleaned up, wiping away the immorality of what just happened. Bit by bit, you started to look the way you were an hour ago. The tussled hair only added a little more appeal to your looks.

"Sure you can walk?"

You sighed, "It's kinda uncomfortable to walk after months without sex. But yeah."

You corrected your eyeshadow and then took the lipstick.

"God take his time but surely never forgets"

Again, he laughed softly. Maybe he should ask for your phone. The screen however was alight in his phone and he exhaled, annoyed.

"Thanks... Miguel right? That was amazing."

The last chivalry act of him was to take your hand and kiss the back of your palm.

"Thank you, hermosa. Have a good night."

He left.

As you gave an approving look in the mirror and mentally congratulated yourself for such feat, Miguel had left the building.

You were home with a wide smile, unaware of the ruse you were dragged in.

Monday came and you went into working mode. Receiving the guests and other executives with a smile was part of your job.

The Cinderella illusion had vanished, leaving you with a new expectation no man could fill. Thighs rubbed together at the memory.

Your evening was spent between organizing files, receiving calls, giving information to people, arranging meetings, and dispatching the couriers.

You had just received a package, the name Dana D'Angelo etched on the delivery tag. Thirty minutes more and you'd be able to go home. Hands fixed your ponytail for the third time.

Your fingers typed in the information as you scheduled the meetings, when a brunette with a short bob approached.

"Hi. By any chance a package with the name of D'Angelo came in?"

Her smile was disarming, she had the cool pretty and rich girl aura irradiating from her. The kind of aura that would make people stare her way while entering a room.

"Yup! Just got it actually." You rose from your seat to fetch the package. A little wedding magazines bundle and some information pamphlets regarding venues and other wedding relating procedures.

"There you go. Sign here, please." You pointed at the space as her hand slid the pencil on the paper. Penmanship impeccable as you noticed an engagement ring on her left hand. Shiny and perfectly snugged in her finger.

Lucky girl.

Your smile stretched at the thought. Of course pretty girls like her had a wonderful looking man as a future husband.

" Dana, cariño. Hurry"

The familiar voice made you snap your head up at the man. Much to your horror Miguel stood before you, a golden band on his ring finger, matching Dana's.

Throat dried and soured, like if you had been forced to swallow a tall glass of ashes. Heart thumped so violently you had to clutch your chest for a second as your eyes locked on eachother.

His eyes widened to then narrow upon recognizing you. A subtle scowl twitched on his upper lip.

Realization hit both harder than a car crash, so sudden, unexpected, and terrifying. Unmistakably he was the same man that had gave you the most toe curling fuck of your life, the same man that didn't wear his ring while plowing into you in a bathroom stall after a few minutes of flirting.

The same man that frowned your way after Dana got her package. Piercing eyes seized you. There were no longer lust, but apprehension and mistrust in them. Neither of you needed words to understand the devastating consequences that would unfold if your little dirty secret came into light.

Homewrecker

The thought made you pale. You had fucked an engaged man. You had been lured and used by an engaged man. You were part of a lie the brunette wasn't even aware of. And right now you wished to be as blissfully ignorant as she was. Unaware of your role in this back stabbing and heart wrenching lie.

No no no!

Dana walked ahead and Miguel followed. Nausea rising to your throat, your stomach clenched in such way upon witnessing them kissing and move towards the entrance.

How could he? No, no. How could you?

Slut

His hand wrapping her smaller shoulders in a loving embrace while he shot a contempt and skin crawling glare your way.

A Shutup and don't get in my way look.

If only the earth could swallow and spit you out elsewhere far far away. A silent threat. A threat that you weren't sure of keeping to yourself. So many questions flooded your brain at once.

Like a miriad of voices were urging you to do the right thing and spare the woman the heartache of discovering it on her own, damned be the consequences. But his eyes and the promise within them made your racing thoughts to stop. He was a different person from the one you met and he didn't need words to make his point clear.

Keep your mouth shut.

Whore

Another man got in your peripheral as he greeted you. A visitor. Head spun, voices so loud you considered in yelling them to stop.

Instead, you forced a strained and nervous smile upon the visitor that approached you.

"Welcome to Alchemax. What can I do for you?"

You'll burn.

Taglist:

@death-moth-art @miss-taura @xylianasblog @serpentstarr @randomnobody187 @tayleighuh @8xbygirl @artyanimi @ittybxttykxttytxtty @del-ightfulling @iytatsworld @moonzuzuu

@huehuehuehuehehe @ryk-mt

Header made by me

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara angst #t writes✨ #one night stand #Spotify

[vexxandra]

mini pac : stardust

we're all made of stars, but how do you shine? (your best qualities, and how they appear in the world) 3-28-24

PILE ONE ; " like the afterglow of rain " ...

your shine is like that of a child finding their first four leaf clover. the euphoria of finding a diamond in the rough, the feeling of finding light in darkness. you are hope. you are the orange remnants of dusk, painted across the sky, the freckles on someone's skin- perfection amongst beauty. but what makes you shine the most is that you are unaware of this. you don't see your own shine, can't see how bright you burn. you are just like that one direction song; what makes you beautiful. you may envy people for their effortlessness and grace, but let me tell you a secret; you are just the same.

extra: the cool colors, color schemes like the photo above, led lights, neon lights, bars, little black dresses, musical career, forests, cars, synth pop, long sweaters, nighttime. polytheism.

PILE TWO ; " like the call of home " ...

your shine is like the warm hug of the person you love most, tenfold. like the nostalgia in reaching out and making peace with your past, laying in a field of sunflowers thinking of the future. you are the daisies during sunrise, you are bouquets of roses. you are just like flowers in bloom; universally loved. unlike pile one, you know you shine, and you bask in it. but not egoically, no, comfortably. you know your worth and so do the people that love you. sometimes you may feel alone, but let me tell you a secret; you will never be.

extra: hamilton (ontario), tall houses, mundanity, bubble 2022, open roof cars, white dresses, sandals, countryside imagery, text messages, leaving someone on delivered, sunset.

PILE THREE ; " like a rose despite it's thorns " ...

you shine like cat eyes in the night, brilliant and gleaming. like a snake coiled to attack, dangerous like mesmerizing. like a dahlia in full splendor, or the sparkles of glitter and gold. you are the crack of a crystal within a geode, and the flare of a lens. your shine is more like a sparkle, bright, bold and untamable. your spark is like a lion, and shines a golden glow. eyes beautiful and bright that stand out in an ocean of dullness. you stand out. sometimes you try to hide your claws in order to conform to the norm, but let me tell you a secret; you are more beautiful unconcealed.

extra: dashboard, striped sweaters, long nails, shoulder-length hair, october, 2026, driving fast, platform sneakers, enid (wednesday), chicago illinois, tanned skin, pregnancy (doesn't have to be you).

#pick a pile #pick a card #pick a picture #pick a pile readings #pick a card readings #pac #pac tarot #pac reading #intuition #intuitive readings #intuitive messages #intuitive #tarot free reading #tarot reading #tarot readings

[blckfyres]

can i request #41 with aemond thank you!!!

btw i’m so excited about this and if you’re up for it im so down to send you more requests but i don’t want to overwhelm you 🖤

i'm alive! life got in the way but your dear author managed to get a big job! this is my first time writing smut so i’m not super happy with it, but please enjoy take on a blackwood!reader's reaction to aemond returning from storm's end with some slowburn gratuitous smut. our aemond is a tough nut to crack.

request a song prompt!

The Bloody Post

Warnings: smut, slightly sub!aemond dom!reader, choking, murder, kinslaying aftermath

WC: 4586 (i wish i were sorry)

Prompt 41: "Love will save you from misery, and tie you to the bloody post" - Love Will Save You, Swans

The palace halls were filled with a turgid emptiness tonight. Smoke hung heavy on the cold stone walls, flame from the torch sconces stuttering death rattles in the biting cold. You pulled your thick robe closer to you as you hurried, leaving a trail of hushed condensation behind you as you breathed like dragon smoke. 

It was desolate nights like these that made you miss home, where your mother kept all of the hearths lit, ready for your return from the barren gardens of Raventree Hall. You would often sit at the dead weirwood, even as a girl, chattering to the Old Gods and petitioning your dreams on the necroding white bark. You did not need a reply to know they heard you – you could always feel it in the sprawling coil of the white roots, more familiar to you than your own blood. 

Targaryens had their occasional dreamers, but the blood of the First Men ran thick with greensight – you, who could hear the whispers of long-forgotten gods, and things yet to come to pass. You were a long way away from home, but you could still feel that magic in your bones – thrumming, cold, knowing.

It’s how you were jolted awake tonight – dreams of a dragon’s jaws at your throat, and a mother’s screams in your ears. It’s why you scrambled out of your room before your legs had even registered moving, and how you could always feel him before you saw him. When it came to your love for eachother, neither of you had ever needed eyes.   

Your feet traversed the freezing flagstones bare – you had been too hurried to find your sandals, hearing the roar of Vhagar’s return from the east wing as soon as you crossed the threshold into the hall. 

Something in that roar made you sure it belonged to Aemond rather than his mount, and your already-freezing blood ran colder. You had awoken for a reason, then. You could feel him more strongly now – the sensation of cold rain spittle on his neck was keeping him anchored. Outside.

You didn’t think twice about the sudden turn you made towards the palace gates. You felt talons of broken stones slashing the skin of your soles as you walked outside, and thanked the blood you would leave in your wake. My debt for the warning, paid in full. Paid to the Old Gods in blood. 

The downpour became heavier the closer you got to the palace walls, and you searched for your lover desperately through the thick, mummer’s drape of a storm.

Your legs became victim to the biting cold, as numb as his resolve felt to you. You needed to find him before his family did. He needs me. You thought, as your wet shift slithered against your legs. He won’t be able to wash the blood from his hands by himself. 

Out of both breath and heat, you surveyed the grounds again. Lightning struck two leagues north of the castle, illuminating the grounds and the tall figure you suddenly noticed stalking towards you. You watched Aemond lurch closer, you – a phantom in his path. He could walk right through me, you thought. And I would let him. 

You had barely registered the distance he had closed before you felt Aemond’s freezing hands grip the hair closest to your scalp– desperate, stinging, a shipwrecked sailor clinging to dissolving driftwood. The little breath you had left was crushed against him like a paltry sacrifice. 

Your voice was little more than a guttural choke as you grabbed his shoulders. You hoped your grip was iron – you couldn’t feel your hands.

 “What is it, what’s happened?” 

Aemond stared at you, and his silence was as telling to you as the whispers of your gods. But you needed to hear it, gods, you needed to hear him say it. You needed to know what to fix - for him to tell you where to sew his flesh, even though you could see the gaping wound. 

Aemond watched you implore him with your eyes, unable to do much else than bask in the overwhelming comfort of your presence as he gripped you, the same way he used to imagine gripping dragon reins as a boy. You were two rusted anchors clinging to each other for dear life so you wouldn’t fall apart. You were sure that your nails had pierced through his leathers by now, how could they not have? 

Another bolt of lightning illuminated the tableaux in front of you again, and this time you could see the state of of the prince clearly. His naked eye was half-crazed, his silver hair a matted ash, and arms trembling as they held his hands to your head. You had never seen him panicked before, not like this. 

Aemond’s arms dropped from your hair - gone was the strength he had to hold them up. They tumbled down your body, and his hands gripped whatever of you they could find to keep afloat, drowning you as he held you. He didn’t know what he needed, he just needed. 

Your lover’s sudden cold touch pulled you back to the present, your mind suddenly sobered – you needed to know what you had to prepare for. 

“Aemond.”  You barked, ripping his hands off of your form. 

The panic in you rose like bile, shrouded in your demand. You weren’t sure if the roaring in your ears was Vhagar’s or your own.

Aemond took a deep breath through his clamped teeth, breathing between his teeth as he yanked you towards him once more, gripping you even tighter than before. 

He shook his head like a child in denial, and dread gripped your lungs like a tourniquet. You struggled against the steely muscles of his arms, looking up desperately to read his face.

“Storm’s End,” He searched your eyes for a wisdom that evaded you. “Luke.”

It was the first time he had called his nephew by the name used by the boy’s mother. A mother’s love, transfigured to an uncle’s guilt. And that’s when you knew. Perhaps, If you were honest with yourself, you knew the moment you awoke - your gods have never deceived you. Denial. You thought. A pretty, pretty thing.

The prince began to scramble at your silence, though brusquely, justifying it to himself just as much as you under the bluntness of his tone.

“It was an accident. I only meant to scare the boy, and Vhagar –”

Only. You gripped his leathers again, like you were trying to tear at his skin. You wanted to howl at him, rend his flesh like a wild animal, to peck at his eye like the ravens on your weirwood – rage. Rage at his arrogance, his stupidity, his pain, his projection.

But all you could do was sob, move your attention up to hold his weathered face in your hands, and hate yourself for the gentleness of your touch. 

He needed you, and you would carry him as you would his sins, paint yourself with the same brush and blood-red paint. He would not be alone. Tonight, you would fix him, and tomorrow, you would break him down again – repaired, reborn. 

This is what love is, you supposed. Getting blood on your own hands because you can’t help holding theirs. 

Aemond pressed his forehead to yours in desperation, as if to meld into you to make you see, understand. You would never forgive it, but he knew you would face the seven hells with him, hand in hand. 

You caressed his face through your tears, and pressed your lips to his suddenly, needing comfort in him just as much as he needed you. You forgot your own hatred for vulnerability when it came to Aemond. Aemond, who would raze kingdoms and caress your cheeks with gentle thumbs in the same breath.  Love. You thought. All it is is your blood on the line and your head on the block. 

You caressed your lover’s eyebrow with your free thumb as you kissed him slowly, and you felt the tension in his body dissipate at your tenderness, your acceptance of him despite his sins. But the tenderness was little match for the violent need you both felt.

Your lips danced against his in their usual battle, and he clutched at the soaking underclothes that clung to your body. You felt him fight tears of his own, his despondency turn into desire. Aemond pulled you against him tighter, like he wanted to dissolve into you, consume you. He got like this sometimes – all gnashing canines breaching lips, and moans more violent than dragonsong. But you couldn’t let him succumb yet. Not here. 

You stopped him with a flat palm to his chest, an action that usually made him crack a smile. Dohaeris, you would whisper wickedly, before he pushed you down to devour you from under your skirts.

He didn’t stop kissing you this time, a man too starved to serve. But you needed time with him – away from the tumult of war councils and the retribution the gods might strike down on him, a kinslayer.

“They’ll be looking for you,” You murmured against persistent pecks against your lips, letting his fervent kisses wash that ugly word away, if only for tonight. 

You looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to steer you through the hidden tunnels of the castle to his chambers. He ignored you, lips harsh against yours once again, hands rending the robe from your shoulders with a snarl as if its mere existence offended him. You did your best not to arch into his touch – it was liquid wildfire.

You knew that he would fuck you right here if you allowed it, and your core clenched at the thought. He grunted in victory when he noticed your reaction, and moved his attention to your collarbone and neck – he bit and kissed languidly, in the way he knew made you writhe.

You fought the urge to yank his head back and claim his mouth with your tongue, your body was beginning to betray your sound mind – you weren’t sure if the wetness between your legs was the rain or your own.

“Aemond.” you said weakly, tugging at his hair to try and reveal his face to you.

Aemond grunted against the valley of your neck, licking a hot trail up to your ear to distract you. He needed your hands on him now – he would break apart without them, crumble to ash.

“Aemond.” you commanded, nails digging into the scruff of his neck to get his attention.

He pried himself away from you with a hiss, tenderness rearing its head at the familiar, steely stubbornness of your gaze. He could never deny you, not really. 

“Unless you want the entire palace to see me bare,” you challenged, eyebrow raised.

You stepped closer to him, hand on his chest once more. You reached up to caress his neck, lips against his ears in a whisper that you were surprised was not lost in the storm. “Or am I not yours?”

Aemond stared at you for a moment, your heaving breasts and wild eyes, the way the rain hung from your lips. He knew exactly what you were doing, yet he never had the strength to resist you. You, his conniving, feral love.

Aemond hummed without a word, taking your wrist and pulling you with him towards the unsuspecting wooden door you would often use.

If it were any other time, you’d have the strength to smile. You could always rely on your lover’s jealousy, if nothing else.

The walk to your chambers was a short one through the passageways, though this time you made the journey in complete darkness. Something about his unusual lack of restraint had you wetter than ever before, and now you were the one dragging him behind you, his hand protectively on your waist as if you’d disappear if he ever let go.

You weren’t certain about how you got so close to your bed  – it was all a flurry of tongues, teeth, and desperation. You had never felt him move this fast before, save in his sparring matches. The prince’s need was palpable, a forest fire raging in the blood, forcing him to burn and lick like flame. 

Faster than you could register, Aemond moved behind you and gripped your back against him, hard.

His pale palm was firm against your throat and clear in its instruction. You sighed at it, arching your neck back against his shoulder - bare and willing against the jaws of the dragon. 

The prince’s other hand held your lower half flush to his clothed cock, and began to rock you against him. The friction was all-consuming, and you suddenly understood how the clash of battle could be glorious. You cursed his leathers for the distance they put between the two of you, and began to blindly move your hands behind you to free him from them.  

Aemond snarled at the feeling of you trying to weave your way through his grip. Insolent. He readjusted his grip with a hiss, moving the source of his pressure to your clit as he continued to grind. He needed you still, to tame something, someone — he fumbled for control as if he were holding water with open fingers.

The dual friction ended what little control you had over your hands. Your eyes rolled back as they would during your visions, but the only god you saw this time was a dragon, devouring what little restraint you had left stored in your neck and shoulders. 

Aemond groaned at the feeling of you jolting against his cock, sharply lapping at your ears and neck and biting what resistance your muscles dared present into submission. You fought to keep your head clear, grappling for a tether in a thick fog of pure want.

As your mind cleared, you began to feel the tremble in his hands, how his eye refused to open, his unwillingness to remove his leathers. A struggle for control.

You felt your resolve strengthen against his blunt bites to your temple. No. You thought. Not this time. Not like this. He needs me. 

You took a deep breath, a final bolster before you tore yourself from his grip and whipped around at a speed that mirrored his own.

The dragon may have strength, but the raven has cunning and speed.

You watched his pale face balk in shock, lips parted and eye wide and heavy. Before he could revert back to his scrambled dominance against you, you brought your soft, uncalloused fingers to the sliver of scar tissue that peeked out from his eyepatch.

You stroked the raised, pale flesh with your thumb softly, and feeling the muscles jump, unused to contact. His eye began to flicker closed slightly, nostrils flaring. You watched him fight against his reflexes, unravelling like a half-tamed serpent.

When you replaced your lone thumb with two fingers, Aemond’s breathing stilled entirely, and for a moment you worried you had gone too far. The candlelight of your room was suddenly oppressive, seeking the reflecting glint of the sapphire underneath the eye patch.

You fought to remain eye contact, and swallowed at the intimacy of the gesture – somehow you felt like the one laid bare, as if the jaws of the dragon were stilled and coiled to strike. The metallic scent of danger did little but strengthen your resolve, and you pressed your lips to his, still parted in shock.

You caressed him as you always did, lulling him into the familiarity of your embrace to calm him. The kiss did little to dampen the fire between you, try as you might – there was always something within the both of you yearning for the other, like fire and blood.

“Ñuhon,” You whispered into his mouth, your rudimentary Valyrian holding a rustic beauty he had yet to find in even the libraries of Oldtown. “Ñuhon se sȳz.” Mine. Mine and good.

Aemond growled under the praise, and tried his best to mask his desperate, preening sob with a low grunt. Your core clenched at his response, fighting the urge to guide his fingers into you.

You shook the thought from your core. Not tonight.

You continued to caress his scar as you kissed him, paying little mind to the tense coil of his balled fists and thrumming heartbeat. You could feel him slowly softening into your languid ministrations, a low pant forming at the apex of his burning lungs as you continued to touch his scar.

You moved your other hand to massage his scalp in encouragement. Your movements were repetitive, deliberate – it was as if you felt afraid to frighten a stray cat. You felt his neck erupt in gooseflesh when your tongue grazed his bottom lip, the tension in his muscles stark against his involuntary preening. 

Still fighting me.

Your kisses were plush and languid with the promise of wildfire. When you opened your eyes to meet his, he simply stared at you. Your eyes were probing, imploring in a way that made him fight the urge to panic. 

You sighed as you ran your hands along whatever lands you could reach: chest, fangs, fingers, lips, talons.

“Ivestragī nyke,” you whispered, thumb soothing the sharp contours of his eye. Let me.  

There was a long pause before you saw him nod, almost imperceptibly.

You pulled him to you once again, and this time, his hands moulded against your curves in silent submission. You sighed as you felt his tension dissolve in a way that made you want to sob. 

You began to move him against you, wings in the wind, and he moulded himself around you like a wave to the moon.

His forehead slowly dropped to rest against yours heavily, exhausted, as you began to unbutton the stiff leather of his doublet. You would burn it in the morning.

You rubbed your nose against his in comfort, your heart straining at the relieved huff he let out.

You struggled slightly against the latching of his leathers, hands still freezing from the storm. But he was patient, eye closed and almost serene.

His skin looked more pallid than usual in the candlelight, and you observed the stark contrast of skin between the two of you as your hand found his bare chest. You imagined this was how he felt taming Vhagar as a boy — raw muscle, the touch of the untouchable.

You felt Aemond’s abdominal muscles tense at your cold touch, and then relax slightly at the feeling of your full lips on his chest.

Aemond felt your tongue against his flesh, a violent gentleness that took his breath away. It felt like the old gods rather than the seven – primordial, familiar, scorching. Devastating, but gentle nevertheless — as gentle as wildfire could be.

You marked your territory slowly, kissing and licking whatever bare, scarred skin you could find in front of you until you felt Aemond’s muscles begin to tremble in earnest.

You lost yourself in the act and in his warmth, whispering whatever broken Valyrian you could remember under your breath as you mapped the contours of his flesh: Dohaeris. Serve. Nuhon. Mine. Rapa. Soft. Gevie. Beautiful. You suddenly knew how Aegon the Conqueror felt when he looked out on his lands. 

You tore your lips from him with great effort, finally looking up at his face when you felt him let out a long-held breath.

You felt the slick from your mouth leave a trail connecting your lips to him, and your stomach jolted when you saw the way he looked at you.

His eye was heavy with something you didn’t recognise, and his cheeks flushed. You licked your already-wet lips and felt your own face grow as hot as your core – he had been watching you the entire time, with a religious reverence and a hard cock. 

The sight of him more wrecked than you had ever seen him, his scarred, bare chest and straining leathers ignited something deep within you – perhaps that dominance, that aggression that your parents had tried so hard to cull.

You stared at him through heavy lashes, pushing his shoulders down with a nod of your head. Aemond heeded your instruction without argument, sitting at the edge of your ornate, mahogany bed without his eye leaving yours. 

There was something deeply erotic about the way he was looking up at you, and you both knew it. Your chest was heaving under your damp shift, now eye level with your lover as you stood over him. You wanted to break him, and then make him again, like a god. There was a pulsating power in the air, and it belonged to you. Is this how dragons feel?

You observed the way his lips parted in need – had it been any other night, he would have pulled you flush and taken your nipple into his mouth with a desperate urgency. But this time, he simply waited for instruction, single blue eye begging as violent need consumed him from the inside out. 

Your fingers weaved their way into Aemond’s scalp as you kissed him with a sudden ferocity that you had little strength to fight, relishing in his grunt as you climbed and straddled his lap. You didn’t wait to remove his trousers, swallowing his groans of relief as you loosened the ties to relieve the tension. 

He could have sobbed when he finally felt your hand make contact with his strained cock. He could already feel the tip weeping, and could do little to stop the flow of precum that escaped when you began to lick at his ear and neck as you pumped him. 

“Ñuhon,” You repeated in unison with his strangled grunts. “Aōhon.” Mine. Yours.

He did not need to hear anything else but that broken phrase for the rest of his life. 

He clutched you like he did Vhagar’s scales when he claimed her when you began to remove his eyepatch. Your hand never faltered on his cock as you stared at him, pupils dilating when you revealed the sapphire nestled deep within sensitive scar tissue. 

You felt all that he did, he knew. He could see it in the way your pupils swallowed your irises whenever you would swipe a thumb over his tip.

Those eyes will be my undoing, he vowed, finally closing his open eye and letting it roll back into the blackness where the Stranger no doubt waited for him.

You relished his hiss of ecstasy when your free hand yanked at the hair close to his scalp, punctuating the pull with the squeeze of your hand on the tip of his cock. Aemond finally let out a strangled moan, all grunting restraint forgotten.

“Ivestragī jikagon,” Let go. You commanded, feeling yourself gush onto his drenched leathers at sight beneath you. You couldn’t stop yourself from rutting against his thigh, joining his moans to create a symphony that sounded closer to dragonsong.

You felt something ignite in you when you remembered his eyepatch in your hand. Spurred on by the prince desperately fucking himself into your hand beneath you, you quickly placed it over your lover’s head and guided it to sit around his neck. Pretty, you thought.

Aemond’s eye snapped open at the sudden sensation, eyes darkening as you slowly started to pull the leather tight. The pleasure that shot through Aemond almost winded him, his groans built from the pit of his stomach as you began to choke him. 

“Kessa,”  Yes. He repeated it like a prayer, though it still sounded too much like a command for your liking.

You couldn’t look away from each other as you began to fasten your pace on his cock and wind the strap tighter. Aemond’s pupils were blown and his teeth bared, your instruction forgotten as he began to desperately tug your core over to his cock.

You felt his entire body tremble and his cockhead darken even more – he would not last long, judging by his desperate need to sheath himself in you. You ignored the agony between your legs, that desperate ache to ride him – your work was not done.

You nipped at his shoulder in reprimand at his attempt to put you off of your strategy, punctuating the bite with another tug at his neck. You relished at his flared nostrils and his wrecked gaze. His eyes were pleading, desperate, adoring. If you didn’t know better, you could see tears begin to form. 

“Ivestragī jikagon, Aemond.” Let go, Aemond. 

He growled at that, defiant until you shifted your weight to hover your core over his cock. The sound the prince let out was more dragon than human, and it made you tighten your leash and hold his gaze — daring him to disobey you and fuck up into your warmth.

Gods. You groaned at his heady glare. You would need to be quick, your own resolve was becoming little more than dornish sand.  

You weaved both hands into your lover’s silver hair and you straddled him, carefully holding your weight. You lowered yourself slightly and slowly with a hiss, until his cockhead barely breached you, nestled in the very opening of your walls. 

The prince cursed within a groan. Aemond’s grip on your hips was bruising – the wetness between your legs did nothing to put out his fire. He groaned at the heat, legs shaking at being held over the edge like this.

He almost toppled over as he felt your tongue on his scar and your core clenched around his tip. 

“Kessa ao ivestragī jikagon hen bisa?”  Your words were a honeyed, panted command. Will you finally let go of this? 

It was all too much for him. Your wanton acceptance of the ugliest part of him, the way you fit perfectly into his hold. He found himself nodding slightly, begging, and the overwhelming feeling of acceptance wormed its way through his core.

Something about the ease of it after all of these years was infuriating. He could do little else other than adore you, and beg for his destruction at your soft hands.

“Yes, yes I –” He shuddered as you began to let more of him in, the scorching warmth of you enveloping his cock until you were fully seated. 

“Fuck,” You whimpered, feeling him completely fill your walls, everything you had.

You threw your head back as you began to ride him, sobs escaping you at the sheer feeling of fullness and the sound of him begging, babbling in Valyrian.

He watched you, enraptured as your hips began their familiar, snake-like dance against him. In his haze, he wondered how you, his anchor, had your palms anchored onto his chest. 

You smiled at him slyly, something unspoken resolved during the whole affair – it felt lighter. He felt lighter. “Would you like to be released, my prince?” 

You punctuated the address with a swivel of your hips, a clench of your core, and a caress of his balls behind you. 

“Wretched woman.” He groaned weakly, gripping you for dear life as he tried to ward off his release. Impossible. “You save me from misery and tie me to the bloody post.” 

His words did little more than spur you on. You lay flat against him, your chest on his as you began to ride him faster. The fire in your core was stronger than it had ever been, punctuated by your squelching wetness as you rode him. You let your lover adjust you so he could hit that sweet spot within you – he needed to please you, he always did. You allowed it, arching to allow his fingers to resume their familiar, circular position on your clit. 

Your vision behind your eyes was bright white, brighter than the heavens as you felt your release chase after you. You weren’t certain your body would be here when you awoke, you were on fire. You would both be little more than ash when you awoke, and you would love each other more for it. 

You felt the coil tighten past human comprehension for the both of you, an ouroboros of pleasure as you fed eachother. You saw your tears before you felt them, falling onto the prince under you like flutterings of volcanic ash. 

“Let go, Aemond.” 

Your final command was weak, but he followed it anyway, his eyes black and his throat hoarse as he released into you with a series of sobs and bites.

You stroked his scar as he came, barely registering the action past the involuntary shakes of your own release – white hot, powerful, older than time itself. Aemond watched you as you came, a creature, the goddess Syrax herself. Made for him, whatever he was now. Kinslayer. Made for you. 

Aemond held you flush against him in the quiet aftermath, your head nestled into his shoulder. You continued to ride him slightly, slowly, wanting to drain him fully and feel it deep within you. He groaned softly as you did, attempting to get his shaking muscles under control before his grandfather came to find him. His eye felt sharper, his head clearer, and his heart lighter. Something had shifted. 

You lifted your head with great effort, noting the long tear tracks on his cheeks. You have never seen Aemond cry, and you never would. But this was close enough. He met your thoughtful gaze with a serious look, searching. Almost as if he expected a recoil from him after the lustful haze. He found none, hoping his eye conveyed his gratitude — it was a weight his tongue couldn’t possibly manage.

Instead, you did as you always did. Unmake him and whatever wisdom he thought he had, while you gripped his hand in yours. 

“You cannot control a dragon.”

He huffed.

“You control me well enough, my love.”

#song prompts #my fics #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader smut #hotd #hotd fics #unbowed unbeta'd unbroken #mine

[helloescapist]

Wisteria Bound Promises | Shinobu Kocho

Word Count: 5682

Setting: Shinobu Kocho x fem!reader (memory loss)

Content Warning(s): suggestive themes, mention of gore, angst

Summary: a mission leaves the couple at a bridge of their relationship; stripped of all memories of demons, of slayers, of... her, Shinobu must face a decision she was never prepared for. To know whether her love is strong enough to let you go.

Anon, I hope you see this, and I was able to fulfill your request. I gave it my all, and I hope it makes your day <3

[image is not mine]

Shards of glass decorated the forest ground, littered throughout the duff. The distant memory, her words playful at the time echoing in her ears. A time when she had praised the beauty and practicality of your unique breathing style.

Glass Breathing, but now the sight of fallen stars shattered amongst rocks, fragmented against bark, and splintered amongst the grass devastated her. The Insect Pillar’s footsteps could not carry her fast enough, her caution lost amongst the carnage. Neither worried of the cuts that marred her uniform, or concerned at the digs of shards against the pads of her sandals.  The desperate squawks of your crow guiding her forward, his consistent divots as he ushered her along as ever loyal as his partner. Her partner. The distinct scent of metallic seared her nose, tints of ferric that claimed her senses. The shiver of the hair at her backs, and the lump that gathered at her throat. Familiar. Far too familiar, reminiscent of her medical instruments. The sickening fragrance that had begun to mix with the flesh, the coiling of hairs, and cauterized skin, flayed, and open to the night air. Wounds exposed, caked with traces of pebbles, and dirt. Debris from the scuffle painted across your flesh. Rubble that gathered in clumps adhered by gore. The dim sunlight that trickled through the trees revealing the feebleness of your skin, bare in the light. Displayed by the shredded fabric gatherings of your uniform, the under cloth once white stained. Thick patches remaining vibrant, and red, while other areas had begun to darken. Brown. Black. The chemical process, Shinobu knew all too well how long such exposure required. Her adrenaline causing her body to tremble, swayed under the thoughts that ran rampant. She needed to act. No. She needed to remain calm. she should hold you. No, it’s dangerous to move your body without knowing the depth of your wounds. Her insides screamed, her eyes falling to the slump of your back. Curved unnaturally against a bolder, as though you were nothing more than a doll tossed to the side. Your blade at your side, the touch of your fingers still in grasped. Dropped it. You had released it from your hold after you had vanquished your opponent. Good, good girl, you had prioritized conserving your strength.  The tremble of her body, willed herself to remain in control despite the tears that quivered. The twitch of her eyes as she begged them not to fall, a struggle she could not win. The weight of her cries far too heavy for her eyelashes to contain. The shake of her hand as her fingers found your pulse. The quiver of her back and how Shinobu’s sob had caught the nearby kakushi off guard; betrayed by her movements. Barely allowing herself to absorb the information. Head. Blood. So much blood. Clot. Clotting? Pulse. Alive. Alive. Breathing. Slow. So slow. Move. Move. Eyelashes closed. Open. Open. OPEN.

Kocho’s fingers gathered at her eyes. The touch of calloused hands, the faint aroma of wisteria mixed with poisonous ingredients met the cleanliness of clothes and linen. Every time she closed her eyes, she was caught there. A shadow amongst the tress, lifeless and hollow, daring not to breath. The sight of your body, the plague of a battle—she should have been there. You needed her. Awash by her duties, diluted into prioritizing the care of mizunoto that had come in the night before, she should have assessed the situation better. Inquired more details from your crow Yugure before you had departed. You had assured her that you would be fine. You promised. You lied. She would always protect you. Shinobu lied. The ache of her stomach, and the gnawing whispers that tore at her soul as she leaned against your bedding. The way her heart had plummeted when Yugure had returned without you; the ruffle of the fowl’s feathers. The anguished cries, and tremble of his caterpillar charm you had crafted for him, she had deserted her task. If Aoi had not stepped in without hesitation, her patient very likely would have bled out, but she hadn’t even considered the repercussions. Shinobu had only had one thing in mind.

[YN].

                Her fingers traced amongst the bandages of your cheek. The roll of your bangs that mostly hid the dressings, swaddled amongst blankets, you had rested. Long eyelashes that dusted over your cheeks, the faint of twitch of your eyes at her touch. The girls had worked overtime to ensure all of your wounds had been properly tended for; Shinobu herself had remained steadfast at your bedside as you slept. A duty she had assigned herself not only as the proprietor of the Butterfly Estate, but as your lover. Not that she felt as though she deserved such a title. I let this happen to you. The Insect Hashira’s heart heavy, reprimanded herself for fidgeting with a sleeping patient regardless of the intimate nature of your relationship. She knew better. You were stable, she understood that. Kocho was well versed in the nature of your wounds, comprehended that you were well on the mend even if you had not awakened to her yet. Rest was necessary, but still, she could not prevent the way her hand failed her. Performed an obvious coup as it caressed the soft structure of your cheek. Danced across your features, tucked the strand of hair behind your ear. Rejoiced in the flutter of your eyelashes. Slow, steady. Listless at first, and how it proved singing from her core. The smile drawn to her face, leaned to your side. Pressed her forehead against your own. To fill the life that had returned to your body, to savor the soft way you would whisper her name. The way you would reassure her you were okay. Greet her with your usual giggle, and tease of how she had once again fretted over your care. Yes, yes, the giggle she yearned for—had emerged a warped scream.

                And Shinobu’s world had once again, been torn asunder.

Y-You hadn’t meant to scream. Truly you didn’t, or at least, you think you didn’t. Your eyes followed the room in a daze. The small wrinkle of your brow that grew. As you attempted to absorb your surroundings. The walls were mute in hues, lacquered wood trims and floors that met in noticeable care, a flower vase that had been well tended to. Small decorations that had been meticulously placed. Their placement well considered and practical in usage. Some items appeared to be newer. Recent additions that had been implemented, or at least you had considered them to be. The paint fresher, or more modern than that of the furniture of the room. A dresser filled with trinkets, and fresh clothing set to one side, and an end table on the other. Another floral arrangement awaited viewing, alongside an--- the woman with purple hair had explained it was an IV. Tubes that connected to your arm through small needles. Your eyes tracing the lines, curious. The small part of you wishing to yank on it, having never interacted with such medical devices before, but the petite woman who had adjusted it strongly discouraged it. Her touch significantly less delicate than the woman who you had awoken to, tugging over cloth. Her pigtails swaying as she did so. The cutesy butterfly embellishments catching your attention, the blue of her eyes averted. Unwilling to meet your gaze. A common occurrence from the staff you had concluded.

White bedding, stark and ready for cleaning at a moment’s notice had bundled you tight, pinioning you to the bed. An onslaught of pillows, and metal framing, far more modern than the humble abound you were accustomed to, or at least, you felt as though everything had felt unfamiliar. The unease in your stomach, and small prick of Suni’s care--- ah no wait, Aoi. Her name is Aoi.

                The purple woman—Kanao. No, wait, that wasn’t her name. You could feel the frustration begin to bubble in your head. The small pulse of a headache that had threatened to blossom. Your eyebrows drawn forward wrinkling your brow. “You were clearly told not to force memories,” the haughty young lady instructed. Her hands falling to her hips as she attempted to stare you down. Yet, when you attempted to meet her gaze, her eyes once again drifted your own. Once again evading contact, successfully dodging you in a way that made you uncomfortable, “Lady Kocho’s orders for your treatment are on the end table, be careful getting up. Your balance is still a bit off after your fall,” she sighed. Discomfort. Did you perhaps, make Suni--- no Aoi uncomfortable? “I-I’ll be back in a bit with dinner, we’re having your favorite yakitor—I’ll bring dinner back later,” she fumbled. The anxious of her voice quick as she gathered her supplies and dispersed from the room before affording you the opportunity to inquire... How does she know I like yakitori? It had been like this since you woke up. A series of oddities, over familiarity that you could not explain, and for those who were more trained in their conduct, it felt as though there was a bridge between you and your care providers.

                The Lady Kocho had explained upon waking up that she had been attempting to check your fever. Although your environment certainly seemed similar to a medical ward, something… didn’t feel right in the distance she had put between the two of you, following your startled response. You had felt certain, she had said something to you when you were waking up, a small feminine voice that you had heard in your slumber, but no matter how hard you had tried to recall, the small numb of a headache—ah that’s right, the female physician had expressed that concentrating would only spur a migraine. What else had she said?

Before you had screamed, flustered her distance, her forehead had been pressed against your own, tender and gentle. She had expressed, it had been intended to ensure you hadn’t contacted a fever in your slumber. Though, the methods had seemed a little unusual, everything about the interaction had felt off kilter. Your name, she had called you by your name with such heavy affection that it had startled you. The level of fondness had hinted at a deep level of intimacy—but that couldn’t be right, you had never met the woman before, and upon inquiring how she had known you, a smile had tugged her face. As though it had been meticulously forced upon her features, pinned to place with sewing needles, and the way she creased her eyes in the smile. It felt off, ah but to be fair, perhaps you would feel insulted if your patient did not remember you after so much effort. Either way, the evidence of a tremble of her lip had been erased, replaced with a well-practiced smile. Forced. Poised. Distant. Distant? Any evidence of sentiment had been absorbed by the mask she bore as the Lady Kana—no no, Kocho had begun to inquire a series of medical response. Inquiries of your name, of your age, the region you had been born and raised in. All, fairly odd questions, as though some part of her expected you to slip up in your response. No, prayed you would not know the answers, but that’s ridiculous. For all the care she had put into your recovery, what sort of doctor would hope their patient has no memories at all? It was somewhere between your responses, correct for what it was worth, recounting simple childhood recollections, and beginning to inquiry where you were that the young nurse, Kiyo had entered the room. Ah no, wait, Aoi. Her name is Aoi. She hadn’t uttered a word upon entering the room. Rather her yes fell to the physician, and then back to you. Absorbing the same information as you had, and upon your inquiry as to where exactly you were, the Lady Kocho had not flinched. Her smile rather, seemed more strained. Tugged tighter, nearly as tight as a shamisen string that threatened to snap under the weight of its instrument, and yet regardless of how gentle her voice remained. How steadily she explained that you were at a local hospital, the nurse behind her—her eyebrows had trembled. Her eyes flashed to her superior, her eyebrow noticeably furrowed. Lips pursed, as though she had bit into a sour pear not quite in season. The purse of her lips, overlooked by the Lady  Naho, Kocho, who approached your next question. “How did I get here?”

Aoi’s fingers grasped her tray as the Lady Kocho explained that you had taken quite the tumble on your journey. Sent on an errand from your family that had led you to the region, you had stopped by prior to your fall and requested assistance with your directions, thus why the residents of the hospital seemed familiar with your name. Aoi’s blue eyes falling to the Lady’s back, as though she could see something you could not, your attention pulled to the jumble of writings your care provider offered you. Instructions, scribbled in her hand writing the small floral scent that touched your nose from the parchment; small notes of residents you would find upon your recovery. Verbal cues, and with that, she had departed. Separated from herself, only stopping for a moment to lean into the nurse Aoi before bidding you farewell. The very paper you now held pressed between unsure fingers, your only thoughts wondering why it was the scent had felt so comforting.

Hours turned into days, and days faded to weeks, and in little time, two months had passed since your accident, and despite all the small hints that Shinobu had left around the estate, your memory had yet to return. Her attempts ranged from the typical touch of your favorite meals continually made by Aoi to beloved kimonos custom crafted for your figure alone. Each endeavor growing a little more and more less restrained. Ridiculous, she understood that. Kocho was more than aware that to force memories on a recuperating amnesia patient was—not advised. Yet, she had gone so far as even encouraging the small trio of medical students to guide you through walks in the Butterfly Mansion’s garden. To her credit, the fresh air would beneficial. When Shinobu had concluded that your condition was just limited to your memories, she had implemented routine as she would for any patient--- no really, she was sticking to her duty… sort of. During meals with the residents of the medical facility, she would often make small talk, drop small fragments praying that something may trigger your memories. Allowed herself to be lulled by false hope that something had ticked when you had requested to work in her office, filing paperwork at the minimum. It was after all, how your relationship had found its footing. The close proximities, long hours, yes, she had thought perhaps there was something there, and yet as the weeks languidly passed little progress had been made. The time between excruciating for her heart. Her empty bed as vacant as her core. Aimless. Meaningless. While she struggled to maintain her composure, told herself that in time, your memory would return, and this would all be a bad dream. The passage of time was beginning to wear on her, and she had begun to wonder if perhaps, you may never retrieve your memories. No part of you had a recollection of the Demon Slayer Corps, nor the selection process, let alone the monsters that wandered in the dark, or of her.

Hues of purple glanced over ponds, the garden a light in the faint of the morning. The wisteria hanging in bunches, gently swayed by the gentle breeze that met the day. Fragrant, and warm. Safe guarded from the world, enchanting as the moonlight, and all of the stars. As though a piece of the heavens had fallen to the earth, tucked away in a remote location upon the grounds of the Butterfly Estate. Well-practiced, callous hands that worked deftly to extract wisteria essence. The beauty of the blossoms as lethal as the wielder. Amethyst eyes that captivated the petals, the absence of the smile she had forced as a façade. Lost amongst a grove of wisteria, Shinobu had never felt inclined to reveal the depth of her rage. Nor the spite in which she withdrew lethal dose after potent toxin. Administered in batches, collected into test tubes secured at her hip. Focused, and lost amongst the isolated blooms, it offered the rare opportunity for Kocho to breathe. To slip the smile from her lips, to allow the scowl that etched into her heart the day her sister had passed. The early hours only securing her privacy, the snap of branch that drew her attention as quick as her blade.

                Your cheeks burned under her gaze. The faintest shade of a blush that threatened its way down your neck, across your cheeks. A delicate hue of red that would shame any rouge that a merchant would dare to vend, and the delicate tremble as your eyes averted from her own. Shy, as the bite of your lip. One hair securing wisteria blooms that cascaded from the trees, kissed your hair in ways she had longed to, the other hand grasped at your chest. Clutched, trembled, before eyes that lit with the morning sun. Determination seizing your confidence, urging you towards her side.

The memory of your confession shattered the glass between her hands. Revealed scrapes over faded nail marks that had been embedded in the palm of her hand. The result of her own self infliction—every time she had become aware that she had been erased from your memories, she had found herself clinching her fist since that first day. Wounds that had been reopened multiple times, the restraint of her growing frustration. When you had been woken from a nap, and she had to withdraw the hand that thoughtlessly reached for stroke your head. Over meals in which Shinobu had considered offering an extra serving from her own plate, when you had correctly called Aoi by the correct name. When you had called her Kanao. Nails that had torn into her flesh, and the forced smile that disguised her growing rage. Demons. Demons had done this to you. The small glitter of glass that flickered in the light, The quiver of her lip, the shiver that traveled down her spine. Blood that escaped the newly emerged wound, all hushed whispers of the night a monster had stolen her place within your heart. Drawing only the clench of her teeth, scrapped against each other as she quivered.

                The startle gasp that drifted through your lips, dropping your task at hand, and rushing dutifully to her side. The light touch she had known in so many other ways that dusted across her wound. The soft voice that had reassured her dead of night, eased her from nightmares, and embraced her in love now offered soft reassurance as you delicately cleaned her wound. The worry of drawn eyebrows, a face you would often pull when work had kept her in the long hours of the night, often from the corner of her desk where you would set yourself up with a book. The occasional glance over the pages, that small wrinkle of your brow. Now peeking up at her once again, the tremble of her heart. To thread her fingers through your hair. To whisper assurance back, to kiss the scars that had formed at your cheek after your assault, the wound never likely to heal. The only physical evidence of your encounter that had remained. The press of your breast against her desk, eliciting distant memories of pinned encounters against the lacquered wood. To hear your desperate cry, to witness the tremble of your breast, to elicit the moans only she had known—the naïve way you regarded her as you wound fabric over her palm. Completely unaware of how desperately the Insect Pillar longed to embrace you. To hear you call her name—to declare her love for you in body, heart, and soul. To back you to the bookshelf. To encase your wrist with in her small hands, to pin you to the book bindings. To reach on her tippy toes, and claim your lips as her own. To have your body respond to her as it had so many times before—no, no the clueless gaze in which you regarded her was not one that she was familiar with. Innocent of the thoughts that lurked beneath her mind, you were an angel still, but one that knew only of the light of day, and nothing of the horrors of the night.

                Her eyes catching at the tender flick of your wrist before drifting to the parchment that had gathered on her desk. Bitterness ebbing her stomach. Swallowed in her throat, and betrayed her voice. “[YN], are you perhaps—ready to return to your family?”

Your eyes fell to the packages that had been carefully wrapped. The Lady Kocho had taken great care to ensure that you would have everything you would need for your voyage home. A variety of colors, clothes more expensive than you could comprehend. A lavish gift that felt.. out of place. The depths of your heart uneasy at the journey to come. Whispered uncertainties that you could not quite grasp onto, urged you to remain under the care of the medical ward. You had wondered if it was that you were anxious to leave their care after such an unexpected trauma. Perhaps you were filled with a fear that such things would happen again, with no assistance. Reprimanded your heart for how it begged to remain under their company, to sleep just one more night—they had more than sacrificed for your sake. Welcomed you into their home, and allowed you to parade as though you were one of them. Patiently accepted your blunders, and mistaken identities. Embraced your uncertainty, and nurtured you to health. Only one scar remained from the incident, you had guessed that it had been some sort of rock that had caught you in your descent down the mountain.

                Your eyes wandering across the room, uncertain and anxious as you did so. For all the short time you had spent there, it had captivated a place in your heart. To witness workers cloaked in black, Aoi had explained they were… movers. Their outfits a unique uniform by their employer, to bare witness to them one by one heave box out of the room you had called your own for a short period left an unnamed ache within your heart.

                “{LN], the horse is ready,” Aoi’s voice whispered. Her blue eyes trained to the ground. Only briefly peeking at you through her parted bangs. A hefty burden laid upon her shoulders, invisible to your sight despite the obvious weight. I did this to her. To all of them, your stay had impeded on their lives. Despite the way your heart ached for her, to know your presence had burdened them so. Heavy feet that echoed down the wooden hallway, reluctant with each step. Willed yourself to press forward. Reluctance at the sight of the gate that drifted into view. All too aware of the tears that fell between the young trio’s eyelashes. The sobs audible, and near controllable despite Aoi’s reprimand. Strained words that insisted that your departure was hard on all of them, unaware of the weight her words carried. Or the way they had carved into your core. The tremble of your brows, unwilling to glance back at the little girls, knowing all to well that your reluctance would only manifest their unease. Mournful of your departure. The mover willing to assist you in heaving you upon the carriage with the horses. The ease that your body adjusted to the beast a surprise, tucked the neglected letter into your breast pocket, and swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat. “P-please tell the Lady Kocho, thank you for her care.”

                Aoi’s eyes fell. An obvious wrinkle of her nose manifesting—you had come to recognize her annoyance. Understood that the young lady was by all rights, rather well-mannered in her behaviors. She was likely frustrated that Sh—Lady Kocho had been unable to send you off properly. The small part of you worried of the lecture she would push on her master, as a bitter smile found your features. You would miss this. But what was there to miss? This was only a moment together. you had no right to claim such for yourself. “Here.” A bundle of fabric, weaved of purple hues and the softest tint of floral fragrance before she turned her back on you. Quick on her feet, ushering the young girls away. Insisting that work was to be done, chores to tend to as you departed. A forced smile that found your face. The warm scent of floral notes, and antiseptic poised against the fabric. The tears that threatened to roll. It smells like her. The press of silk against your nostrils as you breathed in the familiar scent. Long hours assisting her in the past weeks had offered you a lot of opportunities to engage with it, and regardless of how hard you tried to resist it. You could not help but admit, that the smell in all of its unusualness was comforting. Longed to savor the scent for as long as you could, in a way that you could not place. The yearning of your heart to see the medic just one more time.

                The shrill had drawn you from your thoughts, well, obsession? The Lady Kocho had warned you that your thoughts may be askew for some time to come, you hadn’t considered it would wander to something so… Deviant. Obsidian feathers well maintained and manicured. The delicate click of a charm against a claws; fluffed and demanding. A crow hovered close to you. Its insistence to be heard drawing your eyes to the small charm at its neck. A small note clutched against its talons. Gestures that did not feel as though were your own, yet came naturally to you as you reached out for the little bird. The comfort its weight against your arm provided, the toss of its beak as though it were appraising your reaction.  Why? The carefully folded parchment, and ribbon secured at its ankle drawing your eyes, met once again as he fluttered his wings. Puckered his chest out in assistance. The unintentional way your hand drew against the gathering over feathers at his shoulder blades. The way he leaned into your touch as though you had done this countless times before. His ankle stretched out with one more craw demanding your attention. “A-ah, Mr. Bird, is this for me?” His feathers wrinkled; the hint of agitation evident on the bird’s features as his insistence squalled. As though you had in some way offended his honor. “I, uh, thank you?”

                The handwriting familiar. One you had known since childhood. Your mother, sweet and affectionate in her praise. You needed this, you told yourself, for what heartbreak you could not understand, but it was not the words you had expected to read across the page. You heart yearned for reassurance that nothing had changed in your absence, that your family awaited your return in good health.

                Instead, she wrote of a bond. One made of promises, and sweet nothings. Of flustered confessions of her daughter—you hade made. The countless letters recounting her stay at the Butterfly Estate leaving her at a loss as to why it was you wished to return after all this time. Reassurance that if you had had a spat with S-Shinobu that running away was not the answer. Love was so rare these days, and should not be abandoned so easily.

                Love? Love. You could feel the click of your thoughts. The unease that skated over the page, over and over again. You had not written letters, none that you could recall during your admittance. No, no of course you hadn’t. You had not a—crow? Mail carrier. Peeking at the bird that was shamelessly studying you, the small peek of purple bug of a charm. Blown glass. Glass. You found yourself fumbling against the note, careless in your regards to it as you scuffled to unravel the lavish silk cloth that you had been gifted as a parting token from your physician. The pounding of your heart, guided in a way that you could not explain. The tremble of your fingers. The quiver of your soul—Desperately snagged at the harness of your mount. Stumbled across as the words fell from your lips, “I-I’m sorry Yugure. I- I promise I’ll make this up to you.” Negligent of the fluster of kakushi that carried your luggage. Flung yourself from the mount, allowed the wind to catch on the folds of your kimono revealing your legs to the day light in a rather inappropriate way. Your sudden departure erupting into chaos amongst the kakushi, dazed, and confused, and arguing as your feet carried you forward. Tumbled over rocks, your weeks passed as a book keeper leaving you a little out of breath and sore. Struggling to breathe as you pressed forward, guided by your heart, and the clutch of a wisteria hairpin clutched against your breast.

Her fingers busied themselves with the blooms. Trembled as they appraised each petal. Shinobu had diluted herself. Convinced herself that she should busy herself with work. While you had been effectively retired from your position, erased from the books, and thankfully unaware of the darkness of the world, she would punish every creature in the night. Her rage had reached new heights. Tumbled as the veins that threatened to burst upon her forehead. Quivered beneath her fingers. Focus, she told herself time and time again. Kocho had made the right call—she knew that she had. To, to be able to gift her lover with a life free of burden. Of responsibilities. Of happiness, and one that would never know the horrors of humanity, yes she had made the right call. She knew she had. Logically, the Insect Hashira was confident she had made the right call. Regardless of the way her heart screamed at her, or the distance that the other residents of the mansion had expressed towards her. Hurt. Lonely. Mourning the loss of the household. Your spot—your spot would be empty at dinner. Gritted her teeth once more--- demons had taken you from her. Snapped off yet another bloom, determined to concoct a far more potent elixer. One that would damn any bastard creature within distance upon her setting it off. She would go for carnage. To eradicate any demon that dared to breath within her reach. To at least ensure that the world you would know moving forward was safe.

                The snapping of branches, toyed with her mind. Shinobu relentlessly attempting to draw her attention to the branches beneath her fingers. A trick of the mind, one that had caused her more self-harm. Gritted her teeth, trembled her shoulders. Snap of a branch, if only, she swallowed the vile that seared her throat. Willed herself to breathe, the hot tears that kissed the corners of her lips, betrayed her rage. Revealed her shattered heart to the morning air. The wisteria that dangled, little reminescent of scars that painted across her soul, the sob that escaped her lips, and the nails that dug into her palm. The steady fall to her decent. Her fall from grace, from self restraint. No longer capable of living the life her sister had prayed for her, Shinobu’s only chance at content to follow her hatred into the dark. Turning her back from the light. From you.

                “Y-You.” Broke the silence of her thoughts. Shattered her breathing. Trembled her soul. A trick? No, no. The fingers that met her own, encouraged them to uncurl. Wary of the mar of flesh between them. The press of a nose against her back, leaned over her petite figure. The familiar embrace of arms that captivated her, and drew her back against your breast. Tucked into your hold, the warmth of wisteria that greeted your nose, and the telling quiver against her form. Her mind drowning in confusion, of self-doubt, and hopeless prayer. Grasping for gods that had ignored her pleas, now daring to answer a lost worshiper. “You promised me,” murmured over broken sobs. Promise? Promise. A vow amongst wisterias that fateful day when you had relinquished your heart, divulged your loyalty to her. Pledged devotion, whispered affections, with no anticipation of returned sentiments. Rather, you had come to her that day, broken and shattered. Her mask had slipped from her face, revealed the depths of her self-loathing, her drive, her hatred. Betrayed herself to you, revealed parts that she wished never to be viewed in the light of day, nor expected to be accepted by another. Only admitted by the break of your heart, the fear that one day Shinobu would succumb to her hatred. Promise. She- she had promised to remain. To persevere. To return home. At all costs. To live. “D-Don’t break your promise.” The small crack of your voice, threatening to shatter her heart all over again.

                Her body relaxed, allowing you to weave yourself into her pores. To clutch her in the way that she adored. To embrace her. To accept her. To love her. Snuggled into your embraced. The tears that fell from her cheeks as authentic as the smile that had formed across her small lips. Delicate and encompassed in all of the words she could not adequately express, nor the sentiments she could appropriately articulate. The buckle of her knees beneath her weight, supported only by your hold. The tears she had contained all this time, the love that she had feared that escaped her grasp returned to her, and to her alone. The gentle way you held her fast against you, whispered the words she desperately missed. Prayed to hear once more. The ache of her heart, wishes granted by mercy. Craved against her skin, the delicate touch that belonged to her lover returned once more. To press against you. To be held by you. You.

I am yours. And yours alone

A love that promises to return to the light of day beneath wisteria.

Original Request: here

#demon slayer x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #kny x reader #shinobu kocho x reader #shinobu kocho #🍡tsuyospeaks

[litgwritersroom]

Hiii I love your page, can you please write something for Jamal or Lewie where the producers stop them from following us out when we gets dumped? I would love to see the behind the scenes

STAY

Jamal / MC - 2400+ words - @tammyisobsessedwith

When the girl he was falling for gets dumped, Jamal is almost ready to walk out the door after her.

“The Islander who will be leaving the Villa tonight is… Olivia.”

Shocked gasps reverberate in the still night air as the whole group hears those words, Ozzy’s voice sounding hollowed out as he reads the name in the text message. 

It takes a moment for it to sink in, Jamal looking across the firepit as their fellow Islanders react to the shattering news: the softly whispered ‘no’ coming from Bella sitting next to him, so at odds with her usually upbeat and loud personality; how Amelia’s whole body seemed to coil in on itself, her hands coming up to cover her lips as her eyes immediately shine brighter with unshed tears. Grace looks shell-shocked, like she can’t believe what’s happened as she stands there with her mouth hanging open, her hands still tightly wound around Olivia’s. The other boys’ reactions are all in the same line, the absolute bombshell news rendering everyone speechless as no one saw this coming.

As for Olivia… Liv seems petrified, eyes wide and her lips just slightly parted as if her breath was stolen away. She looks as if she were in a daze then the next moment her brown eyes sharply meet Jamal’s over the blazing firepit and he can feel so many different emotions passing through the air between the two of them with that single look that it almost knocks him over.

“No way,” Jamal hears himself saying it, but he can’t really recognise his own voice. Blood rushes in his ears and there’s a tightness in his throat that actually makes it a little hard to breathe.

The sound of a text coming through brings reality crashing down on all of them. Olivia recovers somewhat from the shock as she reaches for her phone with slightly trembling hands. “Olivia, your time on Love Island has come to an end. You have thirty minutes to pack your bags. Please say your goodbyes and leave the Villa.”

“Oh my god, no!” Amelia exclaims, getting up and out of Roberto’s arms as she crosses over to her twin sister in a few rapid steps, her high-heeled sandals clicking loudly on the wooden floor. She throws her arms around Olivia and buries her head in her shoulder, her sister stumbling slightly on her feet with the force of this sudden movement, then she hugs Amelia back and gently pats her on the head.

That seems to put the whole Villa in motion again, everyone getting up and crowding up around Olivia. The other girls join the two sisters in a group hug and everyone starts talking again, saying how it can’t be real and how there must be some mistake.

Jamal is still reeling, as not only he’d just lost his best friend from the Villa when they’d sent Lewie and Chloe home just a few minutes ago, but now his girl is also leaving. The other boys come with comforting pats on his back, even Elliot walks over with a grimace on his face as he offers his sympathies. 

Even though the gamer had picked Olivia at the last recoupling, she had remained loyal and unofficially coupled up with Jamal the last few days, as they slept out in the daybeds or in the lounge and they’d still been spending a lot of their time together. Despite the newest bombshell’s efforts, Elliot wasn’t able to turn her head, as Olivia was simply friendly with him but she made it quite clear that her eggs were still firmly in Jamal’s basket.

But now… It doesn’t seem fair. It was supposed to be a matter of time, just waiting until the next recoupling before they were officially back together, as it always should’ve been. How could they be sending home the one person who personifies the heart of the Villa and this whole Love Island journey? And for Jamal specifically, he doesn’t see much of a point in staying if she’s leaving.

After all, that is the name of the game. And listen, he isn’t one to talk about fate or destiny and bullshit like that ─ that’s the sort of thing Ryan was always going on about in his flowery speeches or song lyrics. Jamal believes that we make our own lives and he has created his path from scratch, with his own hands and the skills he has after a lot of hard work. He’d thought coming on Love Island would be 1) a laugh, 2) a great opportunity to put his brand on the map, and 3) a chance for a cheeky summer fling, at most.

But what he’s found with Olivia is unlike anything he has ever experienced before. Not only is she drop-dead gorgeous and one of the hottest women he’s ever met (and trust him, he’s met a lot of hot women over the years), but she can also make him laugh and enjoy the little moments together while also dreaming up big things for the future. He loves her ambition, how she has so many topics she feels passionate about and all the projects that she wants to implement through her social media presence and the charity she works with. He loves her energy, how she wants to be everyone’s friend and how much she enjoys taking care of people and hyping them up. She’s so upbeat and charismatic that he can’t help but fall under her spell, his own smile shining so brightly whenever he manages to make her laugh.

Man, he could go on and on! To be honest, he can’t really explain what it is about this girl that actually made him run around gathering flowers to spell hearts and make grand declarations. He just knows she’s someone special and that she’s brought out feelings that he’d never felt before, and since he doesn’t have his camera or his skateboard to express himself, it needed to come out somehow. Luckily Liv thought it was the cutest thing, she still keeps a bunch of the wilting flowers on her bedside table and refuses to throw them out.

All of these thoughts swirl in his mind as he thinks about what it will mean for the two of them now that she’s leaving. He doesn’t really know how he ends up sitting down again, but the firepit is quieter as everyone else walks away and she’s with him now, kneeling on the floor between his legs as she looks up at him with a small smile.

“What the fuck, Liv.” He says, his voice still sounding strange to his own ears. “How can you be dumped?”

“It’s part of the game, babe,” she says with a casual shrug, almost as if she’s convincing herself of her own words. “We never know how we’re coming across to the people out there.”

“That’s bullshit,” he says with a mirthless laugh. “You’re the best one of us, if people don’t love you then they’re just wrong,” he adds defiantly.

“You’re just sweet on me, you’re biassed,” she counters with a teasing smile and he can’t help but smile a little in return. “Listen, you stay and have fun,” Liv says, her voice just above a whisper, her eyes shining brighter.

“Without you?” He grimaces at the thought. “Doesn’t sound much fun.”

“Yeah I know, but you should stay,” she insists with a gentle tone. “You have so many things you want to accomplish…” 

She doesn’t need to say it out loud, he knows what she means: the more air time he gets, the more exposure, the better chances he has to make deals once he’s out of Love Island to get his brand off the ground.

He feels his heart hurting at the thought that she’s still thinking of him first and all the plans they were making for the future. He knows it’s a big decision to make, but right then the fact that she wants him to stay makes him want to go even more.

“I’ll be waiting outside,” she continues with that small smile. “And if you happen to find someone here who absolutely blows your mind─”

“Not gonna happen,” he interrupts her with a shake of his head.

“We never know,” she counters with a shrug. “All I’m saying is… I’ll understand. You know I only want the best for you, right?”

“I’ve already found the best,” he argues back, running his hands through her hair before cupping her face and kissing her gently. Olivia lets him pull them up to their feet, their arms wrapping around each other as their lips meet in a gesture that’s sweet and comforting, something that they’re so used to by now, as if kissing each other was something they’d been doing forever and would spend another eternity doing together.

Their lips pull apart, but they’re still in each other’s arms. Olivia lays her head on his shoulder while Jamal buries his nose in her hair and inhales deeply. Her familiar scent is enough to ground him a little.

“You know I think you’re pretty amazing, too. I may be leaving the Villa, but I’m not going anywhere,” she says with a smile into the curve of his neck, pressing a soft kiss to his warm skin. “Relax and have fun with the boys. I’ll be waiting outside.”

Jamal shakes his head despondently then kisses her quickly one last time before they turn and head up to the Villa. They rejoin the group as they sit around and help her pack her bags and in almost no time at all they’re stood by the front door as Olivia says her final goodbyes.

Amelia is a complete mess, tears running down her face as she hugs her twin tightly one last time. Everyone gives her the biggest hugs as she makes the rounds and she saves Jamal for last, whispering the same comforting words that he should try and have fun and she’ll be waiting for him.

Even after the door is closed and she’s long gone he’s still staring straight ahead, a frown on his face. “It feels wrong,” he says to no one in particular. “It almost feels like a break up. I mean, not that I’d know since I’ve never been through an actual break up, but I imagine this is what it feels like.”

“Hey, just sleep on it,” Ozzy offers with a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Tomorrow you might feel better. But if you still feel like it, you just do what you gotta do.”

All the girls give him hugs and the lads clap him warmly on the back as they turn from the entrance back to the bedroom. Jamal lingers, eyes still on the closed front door and a frown on his face as his hands reflexively clench and relax by his side.

He is the first one called to the Beach Hut to give his impressions on everything that has happened that day. He initially thinks of putting up a front, trying to protect his ego (and his heart), but when he’s actually sitting there on the couch he’s a little surprised at how emotional he feels, as it seems to sink in that Liv is really gone.

He feels pretty raw when he leaves the Beach Hut, exposed and emotionally exhausted in a way that’s never happened before. He feels like he could sleep for days but at the same time he’s wired and wide awake, the many possibilities of what he could do next buzzing in his mind and demanding his attention, so for a moment he just stands there in the hallway, leaning his back against the wall before he notices one of the producers leaving the production booth next to the Beach Hut. He’s seen her a few times now, usually coming around to retape something if the wind interferes with catching what they’re saying or to admonish them when they have long conversations without their mics in the pool. 

The woman offers him a sympathetic smile and removes her headset before she comes to stand just next to him.

“I just wanted to say, I know that was hard,” she says softly. “And I know you’re thinking of leaving.”

“Yeah, I really am,” Jamal says with a heavy sigh, rubbing his fingers on his temple. “In fact, I was just thinking of asking someone from production if I could pack my bags and go.”

“Technically you can, we’re not gonna stop you if that’s what you really want,” she answers, a small frown marked between her eyebrows. “But I really, really think you should stick around, at least for a few days. You’re coming out of this whole thing right now, a little time to process it might be good.”

“It’ll just feel so weird in here without her, y’know?” Jamal says, running a hand down his face in a tired motion. “She’s so much part of my journey here, from day one. And everything we’ve been through? It’s like this is another test and I’m failing.”

“You’re right, it could be a test. Or it might be the thing that makes you stronger than ever,” she counters, her voice soft. “Sometimes these things happen in relationships and how you handle it makes all the difference. For instance, you and Olivia live in different cities. How will you handle spending time apart and doing long distance?”

“I─” He starts to answer reflexively, before pausing and frowning a little. “I don’t know. We hadn’t talked about all of that yet.”

The producer nods, knowing that would’ve been his answer. “You could use the next few days to think about all of that, it might give you the clarity you need,” she offers with a casual shrug. As he remains frowning, she lets out a small sigh before continuing. “Just trust me on this one, okay? Don’t make any rash decisions that you might regret later. Plus, she did tell you to stay and have fun.”

Jamal simply nods back at her, so she smiles once more before heading back into the production room. He thinks the producers just want to make sure he stays as everyone watching at home will be tuning in the next day to see if he stays or if he leaves and it will make for good TV drama.

But Liv wanted him to stay and have a good time. Well, he doesn’t know how much of a good time he’ll have without her around, but he figures he owes it to her to at least try.

#litg #litg fanfic #litg jamal #litg season 6 #litg double trouble #tammyisobsessedwith #litg writers room #writers room #love island the game #ask

[suiseisyojo]

"what's left of a prayer is a promise." silver knight au (inspired by the black cauldron)

ever since you were born, you knew you would never live past 17. on the day of your 18th birthday, you're destined to walk into a cauldron reeking of decay—the 'sacred' oblation passed down for generations to appease the undead gods.

since long, long ago, there existed a black cauldron. putrid billows of pitch-black mist ooze from its depths and pollutes the lands, leaving behind agony and rot.

it's the duty of those who bear 「the mark of the horned king」 to willingly walk into this cauldron at the age of 18, when the crest on their body shimmers in a wicked light, and lose their life.

↠ silver has been tasked since childhood to look after you and ensure no harm befalls you until you reach 18. over the years, the two of you have grown close. you've even garnered the love and affection of his adopted father, a retired war general, alongside another knight-in-training. even the future king, a dragon fae a hundred years older than you, has taken a liking to you. ↠ you and silver have been together through the stages of life, from childhood to adolescence. and your pure-hearted soul has enraptured him, more and more over the years. ↠ and almost suddenly, as you approach your 18th birthday, silver finds himself abhorred with himself. all this time, he's done nothing to protect you. he's been keeping you safe just for the sake of watching you cast away your life? everyone in the kingdom, asides from malleus, praises him. it disgusts him. and yet, there's nothing he can do. not even the future king can best the indestructible cauldron, but⋯ his father, malleus, even sebek, have encouraged silver to oppose fate if that's what he wishes to do.

——on your day of sacrifice, the moldering wooden plank beneath your sandals creaks with your every step. silver watches you, the maelstrom of emotions festering in his chest cavity threatening to boil over any second, and he finds tears bubbling in his eyes.

you reach the edge of the plank, your gaze peering over to espy the sickly, corroding cauldron below you; the very thing that'll defile your very soul and rip you off all the dreams you ever had.

turning around, your lips curve into a smile as your eyes go half-lidded in a serene action. and in that moment, heart broken beyond repair, silver lunges forward and tautly coils his fingers around your wrist.

"even if it’s a lie, [name], this is the part where you’re supposed to look sad. and until you do, i won’t let you die."

but is he truly someone capable of saving you—and the world he loves so much?

#concepts #shye ramblings #angst no comfort #silver twst #silver twst x reader #twst #twst x reader

[mdemontespan1667]

Dipping my feet in writing again. It's just a few sentences.

Steve Rogers (POV) x Unnamed Female Character

Warnings: Angst and Cheating

Steve watched as she primped in the antique, gilded hallway mirror. 

Her dark chestnut curls glimmering in the filtered, globed light as she expertly slicked blood red gloss on her full lips. 

YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN BY THE LOOK IN MY EYES, BABY, THERE WAS SOMETHING MISSIN’

“You're beautiful.”

Her reflection smiled back at him.

“Will you be late? I can wait up.”

YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BY THE TONE OF MY VOICE, MAYBE, BUT YOU DIDN’T LISTEN

“I’m not sure.”

She adjusted the wide, gold herringbone chain Steve had given her for their 4th anniversary.

It mimicked the deep scooped neckline of her cream mini dress.

“I might crash at Ava’s.”

YOU PLAYED DEAD, BUT YOU NEVER BLED

“How ‘bout you and I go out tonight instead? We can go to that bistro you like then I’ll take you dancing.”

She turned, brushing past Steve, spike heeled gladiator sandals clicking on the hardwood floor.

“I’m not canceling on my girls.”

“You were out with them last weekend. I just thought we could spend some time together for a change.”

Whirling around, her eyes flared.

“Jesus Christ Steve, you’re really gonna lecture me about a girl’s night out when you spend half the goddamn time hanging out with Sam and Bucky? Seriously!”

INSTEAD YOU LAID STILL IN THE GRASS, ALL COILED UP AND HISSING

His friend’s accusations looped around his brain.

“She’s fucked half of Brooklyn.”

“The Bartender at REINE”

“The IT guy at her agency”

“The new partner at her sister’s law firm”

“The mechanic who worked on her corvette”

The

The

The

“Nat saw her with”

“Pepper recognized her car”

“Regular at that sleazy Fairmont motel”

He pushed the words down, burying them as he always did.

AND THOUGH I KNOW ALL ABOUT THOSE MEN, STILL I DON’T REMEMBER

Steve twisted the titanium band on his left ring finger, his gaze falling on the framed wedding photo.

CAUSE IT WAS US, BABY, WAY BEFORE THEM, AND WE’RE STILL TOGETHER

“It was only a thought, sweetheart.”

He kissed her cheek, careful to avoid mussing her meticulous applied makeup.

She smelled of oranges and cloves, the same perfume she’d worn at the altar when they’d sworn their vows.

AND I MEANT EVERY WORD I SAID. WHEN I SAID THAT I LOVE YOU, I MEANT THAT I LOVE YOU FOREVER

Lifting to her tiptoes, her lips brushed against his.

“Don’t wait up Baby. I’ll text if I'm not coming home.”

Steve watched her leave, frozen in place until he heard the corvette’s rumbling engine fade.

He made his way to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of cheap tequila. 

For the millionth time he wished he could get drunk, craving oblivion.

Powering on his laptop, he typed in a series of commands.

Specially configured panoramic microscopic cameras embedded in his wife’s necklace and wedding set activated, bathing him in a blue glow.

AND I’M GONNA KEEP ON LOVING YOU. CAUSE IT’S THE ONLY THING I WANNA DO. I DON’T WANNA SLEEP. I JUST WANNA KEEP ON LOVING YOU

Keep On Loving You

REO Speedwagon 1980

[napkinscrawls]

.Comfort after a nightmare. .Thunderstorms.

Primo/ghoulette!OC | 608 words | inferred panic attack & premature grief

Primo gets scared by his ghoul's perceived mortality. AO3

Although safe from the heavy storm outside, Primo is not safe from watching Muck walking about out there, alone, the ghoul herself being entirely unfazed by the lightning that crackles above. She seems perfectly content as the wind & rain buffets her. Busy with the task of fastening the tarp covers on raised beds she didn't notice the old man fret at the window. He had promised her to stay indoors as his age was showing in this turn of the weather.

So instead he glares out at the sky. Thick black clouds that flash with sickly pale light, a beautiful sight when safe from its wrath. Casting his eyes back to the gardening ghoul, she is done with the impromptu patrol of the gardens & just stood there in the rain. Not looking at anything, not doing anything, but the slump of Muck's shoulders sent panic through Primo's veins.

The ghoulette was usually the picture of hedonism; bright, unashamed & powerful. That made the sight of her staring up at the sky all the more of a betrayal to all she is. It drives Primo to action. Risking losing line of sight on them, he heads to the door. As he reaches for the handle a sharp bolt of light frames the door & his thoughts freeze. Now opening the door became a daunting act. As dramatic as that is, Primo is hit with the realisation of how much of a constant Muck is in his life; she'd been with him since his days as a cardinal. In his arrogance he assumed she would see him shuffle off the mortal coil with the same impish smile & full arm wave she greeted him with everyday. Unchanged since the day they met.

Braving the possibility, he opens the door by its heavy ring-pull & welcomes the sight of Muck still standing there in the distance. The burnt ring of where the lightning had struck sizzles in front of Muck's open-toed sandals. Their head is now craned down to stare at the mark. He couldn't see her face but he was preoccupied with getting her to safety.

Grabbing her by the upper arm, Primo drags her backwards, across the path & into the hall. Only when the door shuts does he turn her around & face whatever reality is there.

Mucks stares up at Primo; eyes wide & jaw loose, she is stunned. When her mouth does open it's not into a grin, but instead a question. "Primo?"

He can barely hear her over the rushing of blood in his ears, so she repeats herself, head ducking to the side to catch his focus.

"Mostriciattola," He mutters "non allontanarti così lontano da me."

Muck blinks. What had been a benign activity for her had set something off inside Primo, a primal fear dances in the shadow of his old eyes.

She runs a soothing thumb under his eye, chasing away the rain there as if it were something more.

"Y'know I'm a part of you, love." She promises, stepping into his space & away from the door that barely muffled the continued rolling thunder beyond it. "What's haunting you, truly?" Her voice drops to hum as droplets of water fall from her hair.

A shuddered sigh has Primo tilting his head away, only for Muck to follow the movement, intent on chasing the words out of him.

"A foolish idea." He relents.

"Ooo, I love talking with him." She finally smiles, having found her prey.

Primo levels a look at them.

She pats his wet cheek "C'mon, let's drown the sorry bastard then."

Muck guides Primo back to his chambers where the water is warm & she is close enough.

#the band ghost #mushy may #nameless ghoul oc #primo x oc

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[waitingonavision]

Hello, dear Moon, may I please request a fic where Bruno and Julieta have a sibling dance? (I need it in my life, so help me!) 💚💙

I'm so sorry, this took forever!!! 😭 Please accept this fic! I hope you like it 💚💙 Here’s the AO3 link.

...

¡Bailamos!

Snap!

Teeth gritted, Julieta gives a sharp flick of her apron. She gathers up fistfuls of the fabric before burying her face in it and releasing a long, quite loud exhale.

It’s already late in the day, too late to be considering putting the apron back on, and the seconds tick by. A mix of scents fills Julieta’s nostrils where they’re pressed into the uniform that has identified her role for over four decades. Even when freshly laundered, it always manages to smell of herbs and spices, fire smoke and salty cheeses. She lets herself breathe everything in as she leans back against the counter.

The sound of knuckles rapping on wood alerts Julieta to her little brother’s presence. When she raises her head, she sees Bruno standing at the entrance to the kitchen: round eyes peering but not staring, left fingers pinching at the opposite shirtsleeve, brows knit like diagonal lines reaching to meet at the center.

“Did- something happen, Juli?” More soft, wooden knocks.

Despite the coiled spring in her chest, she can’t help but smile at him. So caved-in with his slight hunch; he’s never loved being around expressions that feel even remotely angry, whether directed at him or not. Yet so steadfast with his question. The sweep of his gaze and the concern on his brow are only for her.

Which is why she’s not surprised when he steps into the room and beside her. Or when he takes her hand.

After another moment, Bruno gives it a tender squeeze. “So…”

Julieta… can’t seem to pinpoint the exact cause of her frustration, and she tells her brother as much. It has been a very long day, yet no less busy than any other. —No, less busy. Less frenetic. They’re all permitted real breaks now, ever since Casita herself broke and they’ve been forced to confront so many things as a family. Maybe that’s why…

“What I feel,” she starts to say. “It’s still an adjustment, isn’t it? We’re all- Como, the way a roasted pimientito collapses when you pull it from the hot oven.”

Years of watching, as well as helping, his sister in the kitchen have primed Bruno for cooking metaphors. He hums quietly in understanding.

“But, you’re allowed to be upset. Or- or, or… well, anything.” His fingers flit in the air by way of illustration. “Everything. Um. —O-oh, were you about to make something?”

Julieta lets out a fond chuckle that turns into a muted sigh. The reason she’d collected her apron again...

“It settles me.” Even though he knows that, too, he nods.

Neither of them goes to move. The older sibling is contemplating the knot in her chest: still very much there but, maybe, a bit less wound tight. If she decides not to cook, what else can she do to shake the stress? The current silence is certainly pleasant, as is having Bruno right by her side.

…Bruno, she notices, is staring ahead rather unfocused, with a palm resting across the plump little roll of his belly. It’s an endearing and unselfconscious habit he’s picked up, which both Julieta and Pepa think there’s more to than just a tactile, fidgety nature at work. Perhaps it’s the subtle warmth… the reassuring presence of the padding along his middle. Really, they could stay like this: standing together in the dim kitchen for a while longer, Julieta muses, a small smile on her lips.

They do so, breathing in sync—triplets through and through. Soon enough, and true to form, Bruno begins to lightly tap his fingertips against his stomach. It takes a few moments for Julieta, who’s become somewhat lost in her own thoughts, to catch what his hands are doing and connect it to any sort of rhythm. And then he’s stepping away, sandals shuffling on the tile.

Before she can even open her mouth to protest this apparent attempt to leave the room, he’s twirling on the balls of his feet with a look round at her and a loopy grin. There are no instruments, no music playing in the house or in the distance. A blinking Julieta knows her brother doesn’t need any of it. He’s much too busy swaying his hips to some imperceptible personal beat, matching their movements to exaggerated backward and forward strides that must be a workout for his short legs.

Just dancing in the kitchen with his elbows bent and shoulders shimmying.

A couple of side-steps and quarter turns interrupt any would-be pattern, and when Bruno passes close again, he reaches out his hands.

“¡Bailamos, Juli!”

She shakes her head, smiling, as she accepts the invitation. The two of them clasp hands and start swinging gently from side to side; Bruno retreating backward into order to bring his sister away from the counter and open up more space for her.

“No spinning, Bruno,” comes Julieta’s warning, which she tempers with a loving pinch to his chubby cheek.

“But that’s the best part!”

“Not in my kitchen, it’s not! Corazón, I already let you get away with the one.”

She’s turned to the side now, locking eyes with her brother and rocking her body and feet: left-right-left, right-left-right. Steps that Bruno mirrors, like the ebb and flow of a tide. They do several repetitions, each one increasing in tempo, before he swings around in front of her. From there he offers his hands once more.

“Okay, but what about this?” With the smirk—oh, she can tell what’s coming.

Now it’s a brisk front-back-front, 5-6-7… using some of the momentum they’ve created, Bruno rises a little onto his toes and lifts both their hands high. Enough for Julieta to twist under the canopy of their arms.

The look she gives is something of a squint. Her answer, to plant her feet flat on the ground and pull Bruno into a turn. Which happens, kind of. He teeters his way through it as if inebriated, free hand flung across his forehead in mock dismay.

And it makes Julieta laugh. She grips the closest chair in an effort to regain her breath and wipe at the tears in her eyes. Bruno is in a similar situation, having caught his sister’s fit; he’s splayed a hand over his belly again, both because it’s quaking from laughter and because there’s a stitch in his side.

Eventually, they begin to recover some of their composure.

“—Juli?”

“Wait… We- Let’s take a break, okay?”

“Oh!” Bruno, who’s resettled into the space next to Julieta, lets his fingers freeze in midair, where he’s about to tuck some hair that has come loose back behind her ear. “No no no …No more dancing, I mean.”

He brushes a few strands out of her eyes.

“How’re you feeling?”

The question shakes Julieta’s awareness for the first time since Bruno spun like a goof on the balls of his feet. If she were to glance past him now, she’d see her apron lying forgotten on the counter. But her mind is only on the knot in her chest, the fact that it’s gone, replaced by an echo of carefree laughter.

She smiles and plants a kiss on her brother’s cheek, to dispel the worry gathering in his expression.

“Thank you, Bruno. Eres un hermanito maravilloso. This was just what I needed.”

#encanto #asks #encanto fan fiction #bruno madrigal #julieta madrigal #glitternightingale #🌙 fic and art requests #my writing #my fics #fic: ¡bailamos! #viva la pancita de bruno #stuff i've posted #dancing is hard to write

[fjotla-vithir]

GOTD: BRD

((A closer look at what Ether found himself doing once stuck in the First. Private calls for private “dances”. One thing he’s definitely proud of is his courage to admit he loves the work.))

“I’ve got the feeling that makes me high and I want it all.”

—☠️—🥀——————✨——————🥀—☠️—

THE GLAM

Head: Thavnairan Headdress

Body: Thavnairan Bustier

Hands: Claws of the Beast

Legs: Rathalos Coil [F]

Feet: Choral Sandals

Ears: Platinum Earrings of Fending

Wrists: Inferno Bangle of Aiming

Fingers: Woad Skywarrior’s Ring, Augmented Ironworks Ring of Aiming

#ffxiv #ff14 #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv addict #ffxiv screenshots #ffxiv edit #ffxiv gpose #gposers #gpose addict #gpose #ffxiv viera #ffxiv bunny boy #viera veena #viera #male viera #ffxiv viera male #viera boy #oc: ether #GOTD

[queerbluefae]

Love when ur trudging home at 10:30PM in the pouring rain, ur feet r slipping and sliding in ur sandals but u have an umbrella so thats something at least, then all of a sudden some English dude gets under ur umbrella and strikes up a convo. Ur too scared to say no so u let him use ur umbrella with u. He's nice enough, asks u where u live, u say "around" in this high pitched voice, and he says he's from England. U walk for a block awkwardly then he veers off to meet up with friends and go to the pub apparently and then ur slipping and sliding in ur even wetter sandals home, anxiety coiled around u like a vice and u wonder: why do men have all the audacity

#he seemed nice #but come on mate I just wanna go home 😭 #without being accosted like its some aussie horror flick #there r 2 types of responses and its perfectly summed up by 2 of my friends #1st friend: damn could have been a fleeting romance #2nd friend: sounds like a fucking nightmare #i was more the latter

[berryaura]

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[kane69kane]

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[slutwater]

i had an weirdly epiphanous moment, i was outside tending to my small garden, which is a task i have been doing poorly in recent months. and i contemplated not coiling up my water hose. when i knew it would be better for my mind cuz its organized or whatever, and that its better for the hoses' lifespan. and i knew that already but many times i just kind said fuck it ill have to take it out soon anyways. but like a spirit flicking the back of my oddly resonant skull. the words entered my mind.

"sometimes you just have to do things"

and i think something clicked. im not terribly sure why this realization is what makes me feel like i need to do things, or if its the conversation i had with a friend this morning that i hadnt spoken too in some months. but i just kinda dont feel that comfortable and "in my own little hole" just sitting in bed, if that phrase makes sense to anyone but me since i just kinda made it up because it feels right. i want to do things. things need to be done not so i can do nothing later but so i can appreciate action itself. my mind wants to incorporate the world around it i think. i really writing right now just as my thoughts come to me, and so my words may not be saying much except reflecting my current feelings of optimism/ just my brain vibe. i think that "doing things" is part of what makes silence and stillness so wonderful. but stands on its own as an appreciation as myself as an incarnation of god's hands ( god here is not Abrahamic or religious in nature, moreso a way of addressing the universe, totality, and/or the human psyche/ collective subconscious), i should be loving everything i can interact with, showing care to the things in the world, be that the sandals i wear to go into my backyard, the hose i pick up, or the plants i water and prune. action itself is a form of connection to the world, something i had be severing in my room, even if my mind was considering the astral. because they are intertwined. if there is no action in my body my mind will slowly run itself into an astral halt. and i mean astral in the magical sense, the world of vibe and idea, or perspective. the energy that radiates from a known thought about and perceived object. i hope, i dont like saying hope because i think that part of me sees hope as it does wishing, that being thoughts for a situation to change without action on my own part. i want this to mean i get the drive and strength to do more for my health and balance myself better. and to but more care and thought into my actions. i see this as a slap on the head from the world around me, that i have been given the tools for my mission, i have just refused to open the backpack they were given to me in. so no wonder i felt i could not complete my tasks. i have been starving myself (non literal). balance is soon to come if i can stay on this track, thats at least what i foresee for myself.

all that from some simple message as well.

this writing process may be a good indicator that i would benefit from journaling.