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allfearstofallto · 4 months

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You are Made to Greet them When they Return Home

Yandere! Forced marriage x fem! Reader head canons

Ft: Childe and Scaramouche

Synopsis: Your yanderes require the domestic pleasure of being greeted by their wife when they return home.

Word Cound: 1k

TW: yandere, obsessive themes, forced marriage, NSFW themes, mentions of previous abuse/punishment

Childe

“Master Childe has arrived home,” a maid said after knocking gently on your bedroom door. A notice to anyone else, but a warning for you. A warning telling you to be your most joyful and happy self, to be ready for your husband that had a temper that could change like the flick of a light switch.

Your nicest dress hugged your body, a satin slip in his favorite shade of blue. It barely went past your plush thighs, something too cold for the typical Snezhnaya air, but perfect for the inside of the estate, which he kept warm for you.

Scurrying down the stairs, your heels clicked against the floor. No matter how many times you'd done this, your heart wouldn't cease beating like a drum. The fear and the worry all sat deep inside your chest and made you tremble, but you tried to not show it on your face.

Arriving at the door to the home, you stood there obediently, as you'd been told to do time and time before. You and a few of the house maids. And almost right on cue, it opened.

For the briefest moment while the door was open, you could hear the sound of the wind howling outside, like screams of the night. A little snow blew through the door, and tickled your toes, but it melted as quickly as it showed up. All that stood there now was him.

Snow covered his coat and frosted the tips of his orange hair, but he still had a beaming smile on his face, overjoyed to see you. “My angel,” he said sweetly at the sight of you.

You were pulled into an embrace, his gloved hands still wet from the elements. He kissed your cheek, his cold red nose tickling you, and you tried not to notice the blood splatter near his neck that he didn't clean off. No matter how domestic he tried to make your life together seem, he could never truly hide what he did for work.

When he pulled away from the hug, you began to take off his cape. No maid was allowed to do this, as he said that undressing him was a job for his wife and his wife alone. It was a heavy, white piece of clothing, with black fur on the nape. He'd always smile at you as you undid the clasp, his height dwarfing over you to the point where you had to reach up to touch his neck.

“Was work okay today…” you gulped down saliva nervously as the cape fell into your hands, the weight of it making your arms sag just a bit. He had a questioning look on his face, raising his eyebrows while his smile began to falter ever so slightly. He wanted you to say the rest. “Was work okay today, m-my love?” you barely managed to force yourself to say those words. You could already feel the bile rising up from your stomach, but the content look on his face told you that he was happy regardless of how strained you sounded.

His large cape was handed to a maid to be cleaned and she ran off without word of orders. You weren't the only one scared of Childe in this house, you were just the one who had his attention.

You didn't even get the chance to completely turn and face him again before he was wrapping his arms around you and resting his body against you in a dramatic display of his fatigue.

“Work was tiresome!” He groaned while placing many unwanted kisses on your cheek and neck, “But my beautiful wife will make it all better, won't you?”

Scaramouche

Such a beautiful, vibrantly colored kimono was nice for special occasions, but it only weighed you down in these instances. The multiple layers piled on top of each other were a pure sight for eyes, but absolute hell to wear. Especially for someone who wasn't native to Inazuma.

You struggled to drop to your knees in front of the door. It felt like all of these layers were swallowing you whole, and with one wrong move, you wouldn’t be able to get up. Not without assistance at least.

The lighting outside illuminated his silhouette through the translucent white, paper of the sliding door and you hurried to make sure you were in position.

The second you heard it click and slide open, you bowed your head down before him. Your palms against the floor, thumbs in the shape of a triangle, and your forehead pressed against the ground. You'd practiced this position a million times before, with him studying your figure to make sure you got it right each and every time.

“We welcome you home, my lord, Scaramouche,” you said with your head still angled towards the floor. He merely hummed at your greeting. A hum was good, it meant that you hadn't displeased him yet.

You were to stay in this position until he told you to rise. Some days he did it immediately, so that he could begin to kiss and undress you like an animal in heat. Other days, he would leave you there to see how long he could keep you on your knees before him. Those days were hell, the weight of the kimono made it feel as if you were suffocating, drenching yourself in sweat. But you knew better than to move an inch. Being crushed by heavy fabric was better than any punishment he'd given you before.

You could hear the sound of him shuffling, taking off his shoes and putting away his jacket, then finally, you heard the familiar jingles of him lifting his ornate hat off of his head, and handing it off to a maid who also stood beside you.

“You may look upon me,” he ordered.

You rose up, but still stayed on your knees in front of him, finally meeting his gaze for the first time today, “Greetings, my lord. Did the day treat you alright?”

“My day was the same as usual,” he muttered while stepping past you and up the stairs, “Meet me in the bedroom, and bring tea as well.”

When you heard the familiar click of the bedroom door closing, you breathed a sigh of relief. You'd made it through another moment with him, but still rose to your feet with hesitance. Making it through the greeting was the first part, now you'd have to manage in the bedroom.

#yandere genshin #genshin #genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #yandere scaramouche x reader #yandere scaramouche #yandere childe x reader #yandere childe #x reader #yandere x reader

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radiance1 · 8 months

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god the batfam thinking that Danny is one of them from an alt universe is simply gold and misunderstandings!!! But my all time favorite is probably when it’s Jason and when it’s dissection trope it’s even better so let me give you a little prompt

Danny who was runaway after being caught by the GIW and with the help of ClockWork gets him to a universe he could rest and he’s given the ring of rage and the crown but it turns into a tattoo on his neck and with the ring he’s more prone to violence to fix conflict and it matches up with Jason so when Danny gets kidnapped along with a few others and he’s shown off to the rest of the city in a live video the whole batfam is having panic attacks and shit and is on their way but Danny when the joker is monologuing he gets out quietly and gets (who would have guessed) a crowbar. He swings with all his force not caring that the Joker is not a ghost because he hurt people and the other hostages so he keeps beating him until he’s crying and he’s shaking purely because of the emotional and physical fatigue (he’s still healing) and when the batfam get there they’re met with pale blue eyes staring into them and surprisingly it’s Jason to step up and pull him away and comfort him because the pits went silent maybe and there’s something in him telling him to protect him

Anger came easy to him, after his crowning.

Easy to lose himself within its gently yet insistent lull, clouding his mind in nothing but red that made it so easy to just, let go.

But he didn't want to kill anyone, even after what they've done to him, strapping him down on a table and cutting him open, enjoying his pain and suffering and cutting flesh and examining his organs.

He just wanted to escape, he wanted closure, he wants peace and love and acceptance.

He did indeed get his escape that he wished for, but that only lead to his fall into more captivity. It was another dimension, one of capes and villains, and never in his life as he met a human so...

Disgusting.

Even when under that operation table, the ones cutting him open didn't seem to take any pleasure in the act. Simply doing what they were told and taking notes with cold efficiency.

But this, this one called the Joker. He took pleasure in hurting others, watching them suffer and squirm and cry and beg as he made jokes at their own expense.

Never had he felt the amount of rage he did then. So when he himself, was taken by the Joker, along with others he planned to air live.

He let himself fall into the safety of rage.

The Joker was cruel and cunning, but he was waiting for someone, for Batman. He used it to his advantage.

He took a crowbar and swung. Swung at his arm, his legs, every part of his body his rage clouded mind could process and kept hitting and hitting and hitting and WHY WAS THIS MAN LAUGHING!?

It only made him angrier.

He swung in his face, and the man still laughed, so he kept swinging until he wasn't.

And then, as he was slowly climbing down from that rage, he stopped, and a man- who he distantly recognized as Red Hood- approached him and gave him comfort.

Then he fell, not into rage, but the deep embrace of unconsciousness.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc #dcxdp #dc x dp crossover

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teastainedprose · 20 days

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Breaking Point (Homelander x reader)

Homelander delights in teasing you until he needles you too much on the wrong day. 1.5k words | Jerk Homelander to guilty Homelander, hurt/comfort if you squint. Homelander x gn!reader, implied chronic pain reader, implied plus-sized reader, [A03]

You are so soft. Your flesh gives under his grasp when he yanks you by the arm, careless with how it makes you stumble. Homelander laughs mockingly at the small, annoyed twitch of your lip as he tugs you close. Too close.

"Hey. Where are those new poll results, sweetheart?" The words are a purr, warm breath a caress against your cheek as he looms too close to be proper. Everything done with calculated intent to pull a reaction from you.

You stare blankly up at him, expression schooled neutral. You're used to this game. You've watched other employees crack and fracture under the pressure Homelander exerts. You refuse. You're made of sterner stuff, a master of hiding how you're honestly feeling.

He knows he gets to you, but you rarely let it show on the outside. You can school your face, but there's no controlling how he makes your heart hammer in your chest. How being so close to him sets your nerves alight in a pleasant sensation. Homelander leers down at you, pleased at how your pulse skitters under his scrutiny. He releases you, stepping back as the persona of a proper gentleman settles into place. Homelander smiles as he waits for your reply, the well-practiced one that the cameras always catch.

You're quick to give Homelander an indulgent smile back. An exchange of fake expressions as the two of you play nice. You look so placid and calm before him, but Homelander knows better. He can hear your heart jumping in your chest.

"I can pull them up for you right now if you want?" You reply, the words even and calm as you look up expectantly. You're too tired to deal with any bullshit. Homelander's included. You're always too tired.

In his eyes you're so amiable, so sweet. So disgusting. Your response isn't what he wants. It's controlled and that's no fun. He's not satisfied with your performance. Homelander sneers, whirling away with a flutter of his cape. "Never mind."

You stand there, grimacing in his wake as you rub the spot where he grabbed you. You briefly let your honest emotions flicker freely on your face while his back is turned.. No eyes on you at this moment as sheer frustration and pain settles in. You take a breath as your mask of calm is set back into place. You go on with your day.

Why are you so soft? Under his hands and how you interact with others. Why do you always hand out such easy smiles so freely? He hates that about you. You carry that weary calm like a cloak, but you'll shake it off with a vibrant smile and a laugh if the right person engages you in conversation. They distract you from your fatigue and you light right up.

Homelander has yet to earn one of those sunshine smiles. He gets the fake ones. The ones that make him feel like a child clamoring for attention that you only indulge with your patience. He hates it. It makes him feel small. A god should never feel this way around such a weak mortal as yourself.

As any god does, he lets it bruise his fragile ego. The mortal must be punished and punish you he does. Every day Homelander tries to get a rise out of you. He tries to crack that cheerful facade you've welded in place. It must be fake. No animal has such a cheerful disposition naturally. There's no reason for it because you're so often a lethargic thing. He can smell the weariness on you, the stress, and even pain. How the fuck are you still smiling?

-and why the fuck do you never smile at him?

Homelander decides, in his usual mature fashion, that if you won't smile? He'll bait out your anger instead. He wants, needs a reaction from you beyond those fake smiles.

He continues to goad you day in and day out. He'll slide right up next to you, too close, and lean down to ask directly into your ear for a report or some statistics on what his numbers are doing. Any old excuse to engage with you. He gleefully invades your personal space and is extra handsy because Homelander knows you hate it while he's aware of the effect it has on your body.

If he grabs your shoulder and squeezes just so, your breath hitches. If he places a palm against the small of your back, your pulse races away without fail. If Homelander berates your fashion choices or comments on how tired you look, you flash that hollow smile while your eyes speak loathing at him. He wants that fire, craves it.

The tired fatigue that you always carry briefly pulls back to hint at a simmering something. One day he'll get you boiling over. In anger, in lust. It doesn't matter which one as long as it happens with him there to witness it.

Homelander finds himself brimming with anticipation for that day until it finally happens.

Everyone has a breaking point, even you.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It's too much, please just-

He's caught you trying to hide away in a conference room, the scent of adrenaline in the air as your heart races. A glance with his x-ray vision reveals you staring off with shaking fists clenched against your plush sides.

Finally!

Will you lash out? Will you bite back? The thought sends a thrill through Homelander at seeing little Miss Sunshine finally rattled. There's a storm brewing on your face as your fingers tighten. It's an expression Homelander knows he's worn many a time. The sort of look that has interns scattering and Ashley stammering.

What a delight it'll be to see what you unleash. What can you possibly do, as small and soft as you are? Will it be like watching a kitten hiss and claw? Adorably pathetic.

He strides into the conference room with a smirk, the door clicking shut behind him. "There you are! You missed today's meeting, you know." He chides softly with a waggle of one finger as Homelander strides closer. You stare up at him, eyes blazing.

"Now what are we going to do about that?" Homelander goes on, voice as smooth as honey as he smirks down at you.

Something in your expression shifts. A crack in your mask appears.

Gotcha.

"Well?" He prompts, expectant. Giddiness trickles down his spine as Homelander grins wide, fangs on display. He can't wait to see how this rage of yours plays out.

Except you don't unleash anything on him. You don't even insult Homelander, which would give him reason to taunt you further or retaliate. It would give him a reason to finally lash out at you in earnest, but all you're doing is standing there.

Your expression crumples up like wet tissue. The tears are white hot and silently streaking down your face in an instant. The sound you make is beyond pathetic as you drop back into your seat, huddling into yourself. Homelander watches stock-still as you draw your legs up, arms coiling about your knees as you bury your face away from his gaze.

It's a truly pathetic sight, sobbing like the little mud person you are.

Homelander should feel triumphant. His grin twists to a grimace. He awkwardly shifts, gloves creaking as he balls his fingers into fists at his side.

Why isn't he pleased? He's watching you shatter and it doesn't wash him in the usual delight bringing misery to others does. Your sunshine is gone and it's raining on your parade, which is exactly what Homelander wanted.

Your crying should amuse Homelander. He's not amused. Instead, there's a sinking feeling within the pit of his stomach. A dead weight settles heavy inside as all his amusement flees at the sound of your whimpering sobs. It's a foreign sensation and Homelander doesn't like it one bit.

Homelander works his jaw as guilt chews away at his insides, stuck to the spot hovering over you. You continue to cry, quieter now with your back bowed and face hidden. He can smell the salt of your tears easily.

Silently, he reaches back to pull up the length of his cape. This Homelander offers to you. He doesn't have a handkerchief like a proper gentleman, so this will have to do.

He knows he's broken something. Carelessly snapped it in two. Homelander has done it countless times before. The snap of a spine. Fizzle pop of a control deck. The crackle and sizzle of flesh. The wet sucking sound as organs spill on the floor. It's natural for a creature such as him. Things breaking is a fact of his life. He's never felt guilty about any of those times. Guilt is a rare emotion for Homelander but now it's clawing up his throat, threatening to choke him.

Homelander blinks and refocuses his gaze as he feels a tug on his cape. He watches in a detached way as you dab at your face with the fabric, sniffling loudly. Homelander can't make himself apologize. He doesn't know how.

Instead, he asks in a surprisingly tentative voice. "Bad day?"

That takes you by surprise as your gaze snaps to him. You stare a beat up at Homelander and then you smile. It's a quavering sort, but it's an honest smile. The sunshine rushes back into your face as Homelander sucks a breath in. Were you always such a lovely little creature?

"Yeah," You say slowly. "Something like that."

#homelander #homelander writing #homelander x reader #the boys fanfic #drabble #plus-sized reader #PURE self-indulgence venting on a bad pain day that became a drabble #-and now Homelander has a new Reader version to smooch in my brain along with the Little Bug

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natalievoncatte · 1 year

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Alex rarely calls her. Alex prefers visits, or texts. She does things like send Lena a random TikTok that they can laugh over at three in the morning, or shows up at her office with lunch to catch up- food being a love language is as much a Danvers trait as it is a Kara trait. Sometimes Kelly joins them, sometimes Esme.

When she calls it makes Lena nervous.

“Hello?”

Alex’s voice is tense, hoarse from fatigue, and she’s tired.

“Lena, thank God. Kara’s… okay, first, she’s okay. She’s not physically hurt.”

There’s an almost imperceptible emphasis on physically that makes Lena’s stomach sink.

“Tell me what happened.”

“We were dealing with a villain named Shade. Nothing more than a thief, really, but his gimmick is controlling darkness with this staff he has. We took him down.”

“But,” Lena says.

“He enveloped Kara in shadows and she panicked. She flew home and I’m not sure if anyone else should go in right now.”

Lena feels her stomach twist and the steering wheel creaks beneath her hands. She was already on her way home, but she abruptly cuts into the left lane and pushes in the throttle, glad that she both decided to drive herself to work today, and that she selected the Bugatti from the garage.

“I’ll be there in five.”

She makes it in four.

Lena’s teeth click as the low slung car jolts over the curb; she forgot to hit the switch to raise the front end. She doesn’t much care, as she leaves the driver’s side door hanging open. Taking the side steps two at a time, she rushes through the garage door into the kitchen and blinks.

The house is unbearably bright. Every single curtain is throw open to the afternoon sun and every light is switched on, with every dimmable bulb all the way up. Kara has also lit the fireplace and sits next to a roaring blaze, still in her suit, rocking slightly as she hugs her knees to her chest.

Lena first sheds her blazer and then her heels, approaching Kara with steady, even steps.

“Lena?”

“It’s me, darling.”

“Idon’tknowifImsafe,” Kara blurts out, the jumble of words tumbling from her lips.

“Hug your arms around yourself like we practiced.”

She does, wrapping her arms tightly around her body, alleviating the fear that she’ll hurt Lena with an errant movement. Lena sits slowly, curling around Kara from behind as she guides the other woman’s head to her shoulder.

“It was just like being back there,” Kara whimpers, her jaw shaking with every word.

Lena lets Kara feel her nodding and slips her fingers into Kara’s hair, gently working out the tangles she finds. She can tell that Kara has been in a fight; she smells like sweat and oil and soot.

“You’re not there anymore and you never have to go back.”

“What if this has all been a dream. What if I open my eyes and you’re not there anymore.”

“I’ll be here when you open your eyes, my love. Come on, I’m right here.”

“I can’t.”

“Okay,” Lena says, “tell me five things you can feel.”

“My cape. The floor. The heat from the fire. My boots. You.”

“That’s right. Now, five things you can hear.”

“The fire burning. The electrical hum from the lights. The wind in the trees outside. The mantle clock in your office. Your heartbeat.”

“Okay, now, five things you can see.”

Kara’s entire body shakes as she forces her eyes open. When her gaze meets Lena’s, she melts into Lena’s arms.

“Our house. The rug. The fireplace. My painting of Argo City…” and then, breathless, “you.”

Lena cannot help but marvel as they shift their bodies and Kara is suddenly in her lap. Lena cannot help but marvel and the mind-boggling reality of this moment. Kara has been worshipped as a god; she has performed miracles, shattered mountains, can melt steel with a look. Yet here, now, she feels as small and fragile as a baby bird cupped in Lena’s palm.

Kara is not so delicate, though. Her arms still wrapped about herself for safety, she lets Lena squeeze her as hard as she can, until Lena trembles with effort, making sure she can feel.

Kara’s breathing slows. Her body relaxes, and Lena feels secure enough to fetch her phone and call Alex to let her know that Kara is alright, and then order an absolutely absurd number of pizzas and other junk food from their favorite new place.

After Kara has showered and been fed, she goes right back to where she need to be, pillowed on Lena’s chest. They don’t speak; Lena simply understands that tonight she will sleep with the lights on, and strokes her fingers gently through Kara’s hair until her face goes slack and the fear and worry leaves her features as she falls asleep. Kara is even more angelic like this, one arm thrown over Lena’s waist, head turned into her, breathing softly.

Lena doesn’t sleep a wink, but that’s okay, because Kara does, and by the time Kara wakes up, Lena is more than happy to spend the day in bed.

Playing with their hair until they fall asleep.

#supercorp #supergirl fanfiction #supergirl #supercorp fanfic #lena luthor #kara danvers #kara x lena #karlena #supergirl fanfic #ficlet

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muzansfangs · 6 months

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Jugram x f! Reader NSFW??

In the river of crazy.

Starring: Jugram Haschwalth x f!reader;

Format: one-shot;

Warnings: nsfw, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, creampie, dom!haschwalth, sub!reader, slightly somnophilia, choking, mention to pregnacy, rough sex, mention to bruises, not defined relationship status;

Plot: he had been always taciturn. You knew Haschwalth’s life was nothing like that of a common civilian. It was a miracle even being able to meet him, at times. Therefore, you left him the key of your flat. When he was upset, you knew what to expect from him. That night, when he slipped into your room and found you asleep in your bed, he did not hesitate to take what he wanted.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

He had never talked much. His cynic and detached nature matched with his stern expression. Haschwalth Jugram was more than handsome. His beauty made angels turn away in jealousy. You remembered with a certain nostalgia how you had thought he was not real, when two first met. No one could be blessed with such perfect features: no creature blessed by a divinity for sure.

There was something demonic about his perfect visage.

His icy blue eyes were his finest weapon. They always stunned you in silence, the moment you made eye-contact. All that you knew was that you could not resist him, you could not oppose yourself to him, you were totally subjected to his requests, eager to satisfy his darkest desires. Everything felt like an endless dream you did not want to wake up from, albeit your relationship was not defined. He would have never told you that he loved you, but if he kept on sticking around, his cold eyes lingering on your face rather than your body, perhaps you were not just a rag doll for him to toss around. It was not a simple lie you told yourself not to suffer for his mood swings.

Haschwalth never cared about anyone. You wondered if that little thing you had meant that he cared a tad bit about you. Then again, there was a chance you were being delusional.

Once, as the night breeze caressed your sweaty faces, blowing gently through the opened window of your bedroom, he had decided to talk to you. He had said those damn words that are still ringing in your head, making your heart skip a beat whenever the thought of him crossed your mind.

“It’s not just sex. I need you” he had stated, his eyes transfixed on the ceiling, his fingers combing your hair absent-mindedly, while you looked at him with droopy eyes full of expectations. Haschwalth Jugram confused you. What a way to mess with your head.

It had been a whole week, since your last encounter. You had waited for him, both day and night, standing by the window with the same apprehension a wife would have for her husband. But you were far from being his woman. In the end, he probably just seeked comfort from you, a person who would have nor questioned him, neither judged his behavior.

No matter for how long he was away, Jugram would have always come back to you. He knew your door would have been opened for him.

As the moon raised up into the night sky, your droopy eyes gave up. Waiting wide awake for him to arrive was useless at this point. As you dragged your feet along the floor to reach your bedroom, your gaze trailed up to the clothes hanger, hoping to see his white cape on it. What a fool you were. He was not there, you needed to deal with it, to accept this unavoidable truth.

Crawling over the bed, however, you chose to abandon your usual spot. Ignoring your pillow, you nuzzled your face on his one, inhaling deeply in a futile attempt to detect even a dull track of his cologne. Much to your dismay, it was fading away. But you would have never forgotten it anyway. Peppermint and an ounce of musk. The amount of nights it had lulled you to sleep was uncountable.

You sighed, heavy eyelids yielding to the fatigue of the day and the turmoil of emotions you were experiencing. You missed him, you missed the way he made you feel. Drifting into the realm of Morpheus, allowing the god to sing a peaceful lullaby to calm your heart, you allowed yourself to finally rest. Snuggled into the blankets, tired of waiting on someone who seemed to live just fine without you, nothing seemed to be able to torment you anymore.

The key unlocking the front door of your home a few hours later did not startle you. How could you hear light footsteps approaching your bedroom, or the sound of rustling clothes as someone began to undress himself by your bed? You were fast asleep.

But he was there. He had come back to claim you once again. He could not help himself, when he spotted you in a fetal position among the snow-white blankets, so small compared to him and, above all, vulnerable. A lamb to the slaughter, his favorite victim but also the only person he could never really get rid of.

You were stuck in his head, you and your way of letting him know that no matter what he did outside your flat, no matter how many people he had killed, you would have always welcomed him between your arms. You were his haven. How was he supposed to stay away from you?

As the last piece of his clothing fell on the floor and he carefully climbed on on the bed, hovering over you and inspecting your features, there was nothing he could do if not delicately tracing your cheekbone with his cold, soft lips. A way to worship you, a way to gently letting you know that he was there for you and you warmth and there would have not been anything that could have ever stopped him from it.

You hummed softly, still half-asleep as your senses began to awaken again and the presence of a naked, muscular body pressed against yours made your heart skip a beat. Your lids lifted slowly, lips parting as you soaked in the angelic visage of the man you had learned to love through blood-stained clothes and sharp blades.

Blonde strands of his hair fell over your face as you reached your hand up to cup his smooth cheek in your hand “Haschwalth…” you whispered softly, lips parted in disbelief.

“Hush, it’s me” he replied in his usual monotone tone, a simple confirmation that he was really there, that you were not imagining him. It was not a vision.

You sighed, tears brimming up in your eyes, but you knew better than allowing them to spill out and run down your cheeks. Instead, you fluttered your eyes closed and let his lips leave a trail of open mouthed kisses from your jaw down to your collarbone. He nibbled at the tender flesh, sucking, lapping at your skin so sensually, but showing that he had suffered starvation like a lion in a desert.

He was not gentle, once his hand reached down to hike the hem of your nightgown up, his slender fingers did nothing more than pushing the fabric to the side, and you were met with a guttural growl rambling from his throat, when the pads of his fingers met your wetness. You had missed this like crazy, you had missed the way he somehow always found a way to make you so responsive in a matter of seconds.

You moaned, his fingers delving into your welcoming core, pumping in and out as he prepared you for what was yet to come. It was true that you were used to him, to his rough touch, to the way you crumbled completely when he touched you. But you felt tears brimming in your eyes, the nature of which was either the immense pleasure he was making you experience or the way your body had missed him.

“J-Jugram” you breathed out, your toes curling in pleasure, as the pressure on your lower abdomen coiled. You were close to snap, to release and he knew it. He could feel it in the way your inner, spongy walls, tightened around his fingers.

“Shut up” he whispered firmly, wrapping his free hand around your throat. The pressure was enough to prevent you from squirming around, but not enough to strangle you. The air he was depriving you of made your head spin a tad bit, but it made you focus more and more on your incoming orgasm.

Touching yourself in his absence had been pointless, the only thing it resulted in was feeding your pent up frustration of wasted orgasms far from matching the ones he induced you at.

As he felt your inner walls tightening around his slender fingers, a clear signal that your climax was about to burst, he withdrew them quickly and grasped his cock, giving it some languid strokes before lining it up to your entrance. His hand, choking you, slithered down your waist and gripped your hip to keep you in place, eyes locked with yours, as he finally entered you with a guttural moan.

Inch by inch, you took him inside you, where he belonged, where he was always supposed to be. Your jaw went slack, a strained moan leaving your lips as he gave you the time to adjust to him once again. Your arms found their place around his shoulders, your palms flattening against his muscular back and shoulderblades.

“I missed you” you meekly whimpered, while Jugram kissed you briefly, before picking up a steady by rough pace that made your body jolt with each of his thrusts.

He groaned, his grip on your body tightening as you came to the terms that he would have left some clear bruises and fingerprints over your hips. But it was in his style, this was the Sternritter Grandmaster. As charming as he was, he was a cold-blooded man.

High-pitched moans and grunts filled the room. The crescendo making you shiver as a sinful orchestra played in your bedroom. The lewd sound of skin again skin, the shaky breaths, the sound of the headbed slamming against the cerulean wall behind you were all part of this sinful song you had agreed on playing.

You did not expect him to say anything now, as your legs were wrapped tightly around his waist, but he did. As he gripped your jaw, your orgasm building up again, you realized he was close to the edge and quite desperate too.

“I will show you how much I missed you. I’ll fuck a baby into you tonight” he huskily said, leaving you in a daze as butterflied fluttered into your stomach. Maybe you were not just his stress-relief object. You were more.

You were more and you knew it, as he gave you one last thrust, muffling your moan with his mouth and pressing his lips onto yours, while he filled you up to the brim. Your own juices milked him, making Jugram groan and kiss your cheek, when he slowly began to pull out of you.

“You’re staying with me. Tonight, forever” he breathed out, before collapsing onto the bed beside you.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hello there! Not me cheering because I have fulfilled a request after so long! I wonder why every single time I write for Haschwalth Jugram I end up writing such lewd scenes… Who knows?😂❤️

As per usual, likes, comments and re-posts are highly appreciated!

Tags: @electronicwitchcollection @brittscafe @shattereddreamssara @tsuukichan @cyberdazetragedy

#haschwalth x reader #jugram haschwalth x reader #jugram x reader #jugram haschwalth #bleach jugram #haschwalth jugram x reader #bleach smut #bleach x reader

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squirrellypoo · 6 months

Text

I love AMC's "Interview with the Vampire" tv show so much that I wanted to show my appreciation by sewing my interpretation of Claudia's New Year's Eve outfit from episode 7. The scene is barely a minute long, with Claudia's costume only partly visible for a few seconds, however, so there wasn't much footage to go on.

Thankfully, though, the costume designer for the show, Carol Cutshall, shares incredible details of the vintage inspirations, costume design, and behind the scenes photos on her Instagram page after the episodes air, and shared details of this outfit along with sketches and behind the scenes photos of the actress, Bailey Bass!

I'd like to stress that this is not cosplay - I'm not trying to BE the actress or the character, but sewing my own interpretation of the garments. I try to avoid sewing "fast fashion" as much as I avoid buying it, and I strive to only have clothing in my wardrobe that I will wear again and again.

Cape: Pattern: self-drafted Fabric: Italian floral silk/polyamide cloqué, ribbon, and metal ball hook all from MacCulloch & Wallis, black satin lining from my stash.

I based the pattern off of a classic circle skirt, modifying it for the narrower fabric and squeezing in a lined hood as well! I also added a hook at the neck to take the strain off the ribbon, and finally, little wrist loops so that I too can look like a little bat with my arms out!⁠

Shirt: Pattern: Named Saraste from “Breaking the Pattern” book Fabric: Black textured silk & red silk satin from my stash

I was lucky enough to have the most perfect textured silk already in my stash. I also found a tiny scrap of red silk satin which I added to the inner collar and yoke to give a hint of red to the neck as a nod to my favourite vampires!⁠

I used low-key black corozo buttons for the front, but added some drama to the cuffs with metal skull buttons, which I gave red eyes using red nail varnish!⁠

Trousers: Pattern: BurdaStyle 06/2023 no108 Fabric: Deadstock Japanese burgundy acetate twill from New Craft House

I'm not normally a fan of wide-legged trousers, or high waists, or side zippers, so I modified the design to be something closer to my own style and preferences.⁠ I used the black satin lining from the cape to line the pockets, added a little Claudia cartoon heat set vinyl inside the waistband to serve as the label, and finished the hem with black lace for an invisible hand sewn finish.

Overall, I'm stupidly happy with how all three pieces turned out and that I will be able to wear them separately as well as together. I poured all my love for this show into sewing these garments (while I was suffering from extreme post-viral fatigue, too), and I'm proud I can put my skills to use in this fandom!

#interview with the vampire #iwtv #carol cutshall you are a goddess #sewing is my superpower #claudia de pointe du lac #claudia the vampire #iwtv fandom

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astralisbelle · 1 year

Note

Din filthy prompt!

Good old shower sex on razor crest. Trying to keep quiet as much as possible because they don’t want to wake the little green baby up.

Hush, Hush -- Din Djarin x F!Reader

warnings: explicit smut, creampie, some very light d/s tones, staying quiet, and shower sex... ofc

What a day.

The hot water beading down her head and back washes away the fatigue, soothing her muscles. She hangs her head, hands pressed against the wall of the shower just to relax herself. It takes her a while before she actually takes the bar of soap in hand, works up a lather, and rubs it onto her shoulders. The sound of metal-on-metal perks her up, alerting her to a foreign presence.

“You’re going to waste all the hot water.” The Mandalorian’s modulated, curt tone cuts through the steam and hiss of the water.

“We had a long day,” she says, rinsing her arms of the soap. “I mean, if it bothers you that much, I’d say we could share it. But you’d never.” Glancing over her shoulder, she sticks her tongue out at him.

Din stands there with his arms crossed, squaring his shoulders and trying to look unimpressed. The black of his visor hides the fact that his eyes are following the contours of her body like the beads of water. Suddenly his tongue is dry and craves to quench itself with those droplets. Today was trying as it is, wearing his patience thin. After a long pause, he tugs on the leather of his gloves, pulling on each of the fingers before sliding them off. As soon as they hit the floor, he unties his cape.

Her eyes widen. “D-Din?”

“Turn around. Don’t look back.” It embarrasses her how easily she follows his commands. Though, it wouldn’t be the first time, would it? She faces the wall and listens to the pieces of beskar hit the floor, to his belt clanking against metal. Stars, Din always took forever to undress, leaving her to sit in her lust, recalling lewd memories of where his hands had been, where his lips had left marks.

Bend over. Touch me. Kiss me. Cum for me.

Those were all demands he growled in her ear before — she fulfilled every last one.

The soft patter of his footsteps approaching makes her chest feel tight, like the steam was making it harder to breathe. A shadow against the wall of his figure grows bigger and bigger until the overhead light fails to shine upon her. When Din wraps his arms around her, her body awakens, recognizing the skillful hands that brought her so much pleasure before. He rests his chin on her shoulder, relishing in the heat from her body and hot shower.

His hands swipe the soap from hers, pushing her hair over shoulder. After creating suds in his palm, he massages it onto her back. She sighs in satisfaction, leaning into the touch and willing herself to not look back. Her eyes flutter closed and she drifts away. Then, his hands slide over her hips and onto her stomach. Soap makes her skin slippery as he tickles around her navel, making her giggle.

She opens her eyes to watch his hands — his bare hands that she almost never gets to see. Streams of water trickle down the valleys made from veins and knuckles. Hard, calloused pads massage her skin as a firm, defined chest rests against her back. Din’s stubbled chin rests on her neck and shoulder. She licks her bottom lip as his hands inch further up. He breathes out, wide palms capturing the flesh of her breasts. That slippery feeling makes them ultra smooth, all the more fun to knead and squish. “Mmm…” A low, satisfactory hum comes from her lower throat as he kisses her shoulder and pinches her peaks.

On instinct, she inches apart her feet and presses her ass right against his half-hard cock. A shower isn’t a fantastic place for this, but neither of them care.

Din pushes her forward until her chest squishes against the wall, boxing her in with his body alone. He grinds his hips, getting himself hard enough until he can rub his tip against her slit. She lets out a louder moan that prompts him to clamp a hand over her mouth.

“Shh.” Wouldn’t want to wake the kid… Oh, but his darling does so love it when he’s a little mean. “Keep quiet or I stop.”

Fuck, she could listen to him give her commands all day. A quiet whimper of affirmation is all he needs. While the roar of the water covers up his softer, repressed groans, he angles himself against her entrance. Slowly, he pushes in, her thighs quaking as she moans against his palm. He draws back before he fills her up again, her fingers curling against the wall. Din has to control himself too, clenching each of his muscles and teeth to not let a single loud sound escape the bathroom, no matter how fucking delicious her tight walls hug his dick.

Din hides a groan against her skin, uttering a quick swear. The hand clamped over her mouth tightens, his fingers digging into her cheek. He can tell that she wants to moan so badly, to say his name in sinful prayer over and over, but she does everything in her power to stop it. She bites her lip, she claws her fingers, she squeezes around him.

“You’re doing so — ah — well,” he whispers. “So good…”

His hip bones meet her rear in wet slaps as he drives harder, chasing the rise of his pleasure. She is writhing, her whines and whimpers getting desperate behind his hand. “Shh, shh,” he whispers in her ear, slowing himself to tease her. “Stay. Quiet.” She groans in response. Din gives her a hard thrust. “Just like that… yes, just like that.”

Din kisses her shoulder and sucks the droplets off her skin, just like he wanted to. “Be a good girl and cum.” Her body shudders at his words, clenching and flushing hot. “Cum.” She mewls against his palm as her thighs quake, her walls tightening around him as her climax unravels. Din has to use himself entirely to keep her from falling, holding her against him as he delivers his final few thrusts.

With a groan buried deep in her shoulder, he drives his cock deep, pumping hot streams of seed that mix with her essence. Her eyes roll up as he stuffs her full, white streams trickling down her inner thighs.

He lets go of her mouth and lets her breathe, her hands resting on his. After a few heavy breaths, she shivers, but not because of their activity. Goosebumps run up and down her skin as she awakens to the fact that the water has cooled down and inches towards cold.

Din sighs loudly. “Told you you would waste it.”

She snorts. “Shut up, Din.”

#the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin #belle fulfills requests #thank you so much for the prompt!

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capetowncapers · 5 months

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Nah i just burst out laughing seeing somewhere that tender/swollen lymph nodes in… exactly the places I have them can be a symptom of chronic fatigue syndrome. Oh besties we are filling up that bingo card I see… more tests to come but oh my fucking god…

#that fun phase where you’ve been diagnosed with ‘chronic fatigue’ as a *symptom* but not CFS bc you’re going for tests to rule shit out #not to self diagnose but uhhmmmmm SUSPICIOUS LOL #anyway I have an ultrasound for said lymph nodes tomorrow…#blood tests soon that I’m trying not to think about bc I’m having several tests run and they’ll probs need several vials #only hot bitches get the reclining chair for blood draws bc they get woozy ok. they told me it’s for bad bitches only you wouldn’t get it.#cape town rambles #health update

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angelbitezzz · 3 months

Text

Now where in the hell did she go?

Prev - Next - First

(more pictures and writing under the cut)

God damn it. Sans had one job—keep an eye on the human, make sure she rested, keep her out of trouble. Now, as he stared dumbfoundedly down at the obviously empty couch on the first floor, he only had one real thought come floating through his fatigued skull.

"i'm gonna kill that girl."

He threw his soiled jacket somewhere in the corner of his room and snatched his hoodie from where it was hung next to his door, slipping it on as he shoved socked feet into slippers, descending the stairs so quickly he may as well have teleported. Far be it from him to ever move that fast on purpose—apparently, that was another thing she was able to do to him without him knowing, damn it all. Frustration simmered at the back of his throat, but even he knew that the feeling was covering a darker, more icy fear that clutched at the inside of his ribcage and froze into a heavy thing somewhere next to his SOUL. She needed to rest. She needed to stay out of sight for now until they figured things out with her magic. She needed to stay safe, fuck, and even just thinking that sent an uncomfortable rattle up along his spine. He didn't bother opening the front door, he jolted through space and found himself outside a few feet away.

"think, sans, think. where would she—"

His pupils settled on the ground. Blue grass and sand mixed together to create an uneven path leading through the village proper. The isles were on the night cycle now—which, didn't look different, but having something of a curfew helped with the constant feeling of nighttime—so nobody was around save for some real night owl types. Sans had excellent night vision, picking out the disturbed sand leading through the village and far to the left, back towards the entrance. He took a step and jittered to the far end, focused on the footprints leading up, until the grass and sand gave away to stone, ascending on a gentle incline that only grew steeper until it led to a cliff overlooking a majority of the Starlight Isles and surrounding territories.

His steps slowed as a silhouette came into view near the edge, an ambient warm breeze tugging the cape pulled around their shoulders. Briefly, he thought he'd stumbled across Count Koffin K doing something...but when they raised their head to gaze upward, he realized he'd found his target.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and resisted the urge to stomp his way up the cliff to her side.

"and what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Angel startled a little, jerking around halfway and flinching. Burning purple eyes met his own, wide and alarmed.

For a second, he felt like they fit right in with the "stars" in their sky.

"Oh! Oh. Sans. Hey."

"answer the question, human."

"Right. Um." Her gaze trailed away, back over the edge of the cliff. "Well don't worry, I didn't fuck off to, uh...y'know. Yeah. Ye—yeah. I'm just, just..."

He didn't speak, recognizing by the tone of her voice that she was struggling to get her thoughts out. She got scrambled like that sometimes—it reminded him of Alphys...when she wasn't putting on a whole fake persona, anyways.

"...Processing. Mhm."

"your near death experience or your magic?"

"Can it be both?"

He inclined his head and slowly stepped forward, moving to stand beside her. There was a very long pause before he spoke.

"well, uh, anyways. asgore said you gotta rest. my brother'll have a conniption if he finds out you're out here."

"Right. Sorry. I just...really needed to get some air. Please."

Frustration boiled behind his teeth, but he sucked back the smoke and smiled anyways. When she glanced at him, whatever she saw in his expression made her grimace and look away again.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not dying."

"you nearly did." The lights in his eyesockets extinguished, smile thinning until it was nearly a frown. "like, 6 hours ago. unless you forgot. i mean...wouldn't really be surprised, ya did hit your head pretty hard during your little stunt."

"God, Sans, can you just—not? For once?"

"i dunno what you mean."

She whirled on him, a desperate sort of anger flashing onto her features.

"You know exactly what I mean! Don't kick me while I'm down. I—"

"i'm trying to get you back in bed before anyone sees you, but hey, if you wanna keep acting like a babybones, be my guest."

"I'm NOT—" Angel cut herself off and shut her eyes, drawing Sans's cape around her shoulders tighter and covering her face with a hand. "Not...fuck. Fuck. Sans. I–I don't need you to act like my parent. Be all weird and protective over your brother, but don't...let's not pretend. Don't do the same with me cuz you think you have to. It hurts."

He didn't know what to say, for once. There was a quiet swallowing sound while he searched for something, anything to respond to that. Seconds dragged into minutes before she spoke again.

"...I'm gonna die down here."

"hey, you just said you're not—"

"No, Sans." She interrupted, insistent, voice pitching high and broken. "I'm gonna die down here. This place, it's driving me fucking mental. I don't. I don't know what to do."

Her hand slipped away again, a frightened, tight little grin stretching across her face as she looked at him. It looked like it hurt.

"The sun. I miss the sun. I feel like I've been stuck in a damn time loop where it's always night time and I do the same damn shit every day! Yesterday was the first time in weeks that I felt like something new happened and I completely fucked it. I've been having so much fun here that I forgot that—I forgot. I forgot!" She began to laugh, gesturing to her body frantically, trying to get a point across. "I forgot!"

Sans listened to her speak with an increasing feeling of worry, frustration melting into concern the longer she went on.

"kid—" He started, but she cut him off again, her laughter ceasing as quickly as it had come, turning her body away.

"Don't. Please don't. I don't think I could stand if it you started with the pity train."

"wasn't the pity train, was more like the empathy express."

His weak attempt at humor did bring a smaller, more genuine twitch of her mouth than whatever fake grin she'd been trying to keep up. How had she ever managed to fool him before? In hindsight, it was obvious now, all the times she'd been pretending at joy.

Ah, but then, she was the perseverant kind of person. Maybe she was just...used to that.

He didn't want to know why.

"i was just gonna say...you're not alone."

He reached out and set a hand on her shoulder, struggling to find the words. Sun sickness had been a lot more prevalent back during the aftermath of the war—he had no experience dealing with it directly.

"it ain't so bad. you're still here. people down here like you."

"...Do you even like me?"

"huh?"

Angel turned her head just a little, enough to catch his gaze with her own. She looked exhausted, the warm breeze threatening to spill the tears welling up in her eyes.

"I pay attention, you know. You—god, Sans, you only tolerate me cuz I'm friends with Papyrus, right? Sometimes I feel like we get along great, and then something happens and you just...act off. Am I that much of a burden to you? Should I just leave?"

His thoughts flashed back to the day before. The panic that had thrummed through his body at the mere thought of losing her, that same panic that had brought him out here looking for her in the first place.

"i..." He hesitated. "...think it's been a long day, angel. you're tired and homesick and still coming down from the adrenaline high from earlier. you'll feel better in the morning."

Angel just gazed at him for a long, long moment. Those purple eyes searching for something in his expression before they went lax, her face flattening.

"...You're right. You're right. I'm just..." A lump in her throat. The tears began streaking down her face, dripping off her chin. "...so tired."

"hey." His voice was soft now, softer than she'd heard it before. "...i get the feeling, bud."

Her shoulders shaking, she raised a hand and slipped it over the one he had on her shoulder just for some measure of comfort, head ducking and turning away as she quietly hiccuped. He let her hold him there, warm fingers on chilled bones as she anchored herself again in the present.

It was a good long while before she let him take her home.

...

"Hey, Sans...?"

"mhm?"

"I forgot my glasses. You're gonna have to lead me back."

#art #my art #digital art #doodle #ts underswap #Crossbones and Starstruck #ts underswap self insert #self ship #ts underswap sans #underswap sans #tonight we get ANGSTY #look i love sans and he's a great guy but hes also kind of an asshole sometimes and thats okay #he's trying #fanfic #if the pictures seem really out of order i promise im trhing to fix it tumblr mobile just hates me

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sucker-for-sniffles · 2 months

Text

Did someone order a loyal knight with a bad cold and his prince who loves him dearly trying to get him to rest for once in his life? Here’s 4k words of that, please enjoy these guys who barged into my head and won’t leave

—

As if negotiations in Halfford hadn’t gone poorly enough, Prince Robin thought, bouncing about uncomfortably in the back of his carriage, Sir Harper had started to catch cold a couple days into the journey home. Off of the Duke’s snot-nosed son, Robin had no doubt. The brat practically hung off Harper’s shirt all week, as if he were a fawning child rather than a man hardly any younger than Harper.

Harper made his ailment utterly unobtrusive, as always, his service unfailing. Any other company might not have realized he was ill at all. But Robin knew him too well to miss the edge of fatigue to his practiced smile, the soft sighs when he didn’t realize Robin was listening, the sneezes muffled into his cape just too often to pass off as coincidence.

And Robin knew him too well to say anything. Harper blamed himself for the disaster this trip had become, even if he didn’t want Robin to see as much. As if he ought to have prevented the storm that stalled them four days on the way to Halfford, or Duke Edward’s foul mood at the delay. With Harper on edge as he was, Robin didn’t have the words to ask after him without Harper taking it as a critique. He blamed his friend’s father for that. The old bastard was just the sort to wield “are you quite well?” as a blunt weapon.

Robin was in far too sour a mood for tact. On another day, he would walk beside the carriage and talk with Harper, but given the circumstances, he was better off sulking with the luggage. Even if he wound up with a bruise or two, he didn’t have to try so hard to bite his tongue with the creaks and clangs of the cart on the uneven road making conversation difficult already.

“It’s getting dark,” Harper called back. There was a fresh rasp to his voice accompanying the mounting congestion that marred his m’s and n’s. The poor man ought not to shout so. “If we press, we may reach an inn not long after sundown, but…”

“Let’s camp here.” Robin shifted carefully, extracting himself from the corner of the cart he’d wedged himself into. He didn’t want Harper doing any pressing.

“Very well, my lord.” A note of relief in Harper’s voice, well-masked but perceptible. The cart rumbled to a stop and creaked loudly as Harper stepped down from the driver’s seat.

Robin followed suit and crawled from the back of the cart, stretching out stiff and aching limbs. He really did prefer to walk. He circled around, intending to offer help, but paused when he saw Harper seize a fistful of his cape and bring it close to his face. His shoulders rose with his breath, once, twice—

Harper ducked into a rough, throaty sneeze, muffled harshly by the thick wool of his cape.

“Bless you.” Even that much, Robin worried would be unwelcome.

“Ah—tha’k you.” Harper dragged his cape roughly under his nose and sniffed with a determined finality. He smiled. “I am glad to see you in one piece after being tossed about like a sack of flour. What draws you to ride in the cart on roads like this, I can’t understand.” He set to unyoking the horses, leaving Robin to trail uselessly behind him.

“It isn’t so bad without armor clanging about you.” Robin rubbed his arms.

“Hah.” Harper lifted the yoke from the horses’ shoulders, a quick flash of pain crossing his face when the weight settled in his right arm. Was his shoulder bothering him, too? It was awfully cold this far north. “There’s no need to lie to me, my lord. I only wish I could give you privacy with a little more comfort.”

Robin huffed a laugh. “Alas, you are no magician. I am merely grateful my father didn’t insist on sending an entourage after us.” And he was, truly, whatever Harper might have thought. It isn’t as if thirty men could have fought off a storm that Harper couldn’t.

“Your father’s men don’t know how to leave you well enough alone,” Harper agreed, but Robin didn’t miss the doubt that flickered across his face. He set down the yoke and glanced at Robin. “Are you warm enough? The cold comes on quickly out here.”

Robin dropped his hands from his arms. “Perhaps not.” The wind was beginning to creep through the linen of his shirt without the canvas walls of the cart to block it.

“Allow me to fetch your cloak.” Harper strode past before Robin could insist on fetching his cloak himself. It was likely best to let him help, anyhow. If small, unneeded favors were what he needed to prove himself, there was no reason to protest.

Harper returned promptly with Robin’s favorite travel cloak over one arm—a thick red one, almost long enough to drag on the ground, made when Robin was young enough that there was hope he’d grow taller. “I hope you are well, my lord,” he said, fastening the cloak over Robin’s shoulders.

It took Robin a moment to process the question. “I—am. For the most part.”

Harper smiled, honest despite the tired weight to it. “I’m glad. It can be hard to tell, when you draw away from me, when I should start to worry. I hope you will never feel lonely when I am with you.”

And he squeezed Robin’s shoulder and returned to the back of the cart like he hadn’t just stung Robin senseless. He’d made Harper worry for him all this time. Since they first arrived in Halfford, no doubt, and Robin had spent every evening too exhausted by the Duke’s temper to do more than sulk in his guest room and tell Harper to explore the city without him. Harper understood, as Harper always understood, but it was hardly any wonder he’d gotten tense. Robin could be a dense little brat sometimes, he thought bitterly.

A wrenching, tightly muffled sneeze pulled Robin back to himself. He moved around to the back of the cart, where Harper had paused in tying down the rear flap to press his fingers to his temples, exhaustion written plainly on his face. The red cast of his nose was no longer faint, and the poor thing was starting to swell under Harper’s rough treatment.

“Bless you,” Robin said, anxiety creeping foolishly up his neck. Talking to Harper ought to be the easiest thing in the world. Damn this trip, damn Duke Edward, and damn Robin’s own idiocy.

The exhaustion all but vanished from Harper’s expression as he looked up and gave a quick thanks, carrying on with the canvas.

Robin twisted the edge of his cloak between his fingers and dared to ask, “Sir Harper, are you well?”

Harper paused his work for just a moment, too briefly to be noticed by anyone paying the slightest bit less attention than Robin. “I may have caught a chill back in Halfford,” he admitted, his tone carefully flat. “Do not concern yourself, my lord.”

“I shall concern myself if I like,” Robin said before he could think better of it.

Harper pulled a rope taught with a fair bit more force than seemed necessary and barked a laugh. “Of course, my lord.” He sniffed, sharp and wet, and tied off the rope, securing the canvas flap over the open back of the cart. He climbed inside without another word and started shifting things around, laying out their bedrolls and moving fallen luggage aside.

Robin sighed and leaned against the cart, pulling his cloak tight around himself. He’d misstepped already. A cold. What an absurdly unremarkable, temporary affliction to regret. As if anybody could think less of Harper for such a thing. For falling ill, for bowing to the weather. Robin could think of a few sharp words for Harper’s father, though he doubted they would do any good.

He watched the darkening sky as Harper bustled around in the cart. Some clouds were forming to the east—might it rain? The roads would be hell tomorrow if it did. Perhaps they ought to have pushed on to the inn after all.

“Does it look like rain to you?” Robin asked as Harper emerged from the carriage. He’d stripped his cape, tabard, and heavy mail, leaving him in trousers and a tunic with his sword tied around his waist.

Harper glanced up to the east, briefly pressing a gloved knuckle under his nose. “Ah—yes, most likely.” He smiled. “Worry not, my lord. You will stay quite dry in the cart.”

Robin bit his lip. “Yes, but the roads will—I will stay dry?”

“We will.” Harper sniffled and laid a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Worry not. I am hardly infirm. I shall handle the roads tomorrow, whatever condition they may be in.”

“Of course you shall.” Robin sighed, studying Harper’s face, the faint lines of exhaustion his best efforts can’t erase. “I do not doubt your capability, but…it has been a long journey.”

“It has.” Harper squeezed Robin’s shoulder briefly and let go, looking away. Was Robin staring? “Rest in the cart. I will take care of camp and fetch you when there is dinner.”

That isn’t what Robin meant at all, but already Harper was striding away towards the horses. Robin followed him, almost jogging to keep up with his long, quick steps. “No. I will accompany you.”

“No need.” Harper didn’t slow, nor turn to Robin. “You are exhausted. Rest for tomorrow.” There was a clipped insistence to his tone so uncharacteristic that Robin was almost hurt until Harper brought both hands to his face and smothered a sneeze that seemed to tear through him and take a piece with it, leaving him staggered slightly with a few short, harshly constrained coughs.

“Bless you, Sir.” Robin took the opportunity to overtake Harper and reach the horses first. Of course—poor Harper hadn’t had a moment’s privacy since they’d left Halfford. If Robin couldn’t convince him to let his guard down before him, he could at least give him a few moments alone. “I assure you, I am quite capable of watering the horses myself. We shall both to bed sooner if I help.” He took both horses’ leads without waiting for a response and clicked at them to follow.

“…very well, my lord.” If Harper was trying to disguise the relief in his voice, he didn’t manage it very well. He sniffed thickly and dropped his hands from his face. “The river is a short way south of here.” He pointed, but Robin could hear the rushing water already.

Robin nodded. “I shall return soon.”

And he led the horses off. This was absurd. Why should the two of them play these games even when alone? Harper’s father was not here to scold him, nor anybody who might report to him or the King. Why should decorum prevent Robin from speaking frankly with his dearest friend? He ought to order Harper to rest as much as he was able.

The river was further than Robin anticipated, and by the time he returned night had all but fallen, the air damp and bitterly cold, and the rain clouds in the east were unmistakably nearer. At least he was able to spare Harper the trek—the fool would have left without his cloak—but he was relieved nonetheless to see a fire roaring already by the time he returned, a steaming pot hung over it. He secured the horses and joined Harper beside it on a fallen log, noting with pleasure that Harper had remembered himself and donned a cloak.

“Back at last, my lord?” Harper smiled at Robin as he sat down, a touch of mischief in his expression. “I had forgotten how much longer a walk can be on shorter legs.”

Robin shoved his shoulder, gasping in mock offense. “You know perfectly well how quickly I walk.”

“How slowly.” Harper’s grin flashed into a grimace and he turned away from Robin, lifting a fistful of his cloak to his face. His breath wavered perilously for a moment, and he crumpled, smothering a heavy sneeze into the fabric.

“Bless you.” He sounded worse, Robin thought.

Harper coughed roughly before recovering his breath. “Hah. Tha’k you.” An attempt at sniffling audibly caught in stuffed-shut sinuses and Harper cleared his throat, such an unmistakeably unwell sound that Robin wanted to drag him to the cart to sleep and damn his feelings on the matter.

“What do you think of breaking into that mead the Duke refused?” he said instead. “My father won’t expect it back, and it seems a fine night to warm ourselves up.” And perhaps a bit of drink would help ease Harper’s nerves.

“If you’d like.” Harper tipped the pot over the fire towards him with a ladle, his other hand keeping the hem of his cloak pressed under his nose. “Though I hope you don’t need drink to find my company tolerable.”

Robin laughed. “Simply unbearable, being alone with the likes of you. It’s near enough to make me miss Duke Edward’s hospitality.” He stood and brushed dirt from the back of his cloak. “I simply can’t face a sober evening with company who prefers me to a horse’s ass.”

That earned a huff of laughter from Harper. “I’ve been looking at a horse’s ass all day. You’re a far better sight.”

“He doesn’t mean it, Dapple,” Robin called to the horse in question, who flicked an ear in utter disinterest. He patted her side on his way back to the cart.

It was dark inside the cart with the rear flap blocking out the firelight, but it was easy enough to find the mead, bundled up in a spare cloth and tied to the side of the cart to ensure it didn’t bounce around and break. There ought to be some handkerchiefs about, too. Robin recalled seeing a couple at the bottom of his bag, so he took a moment to dig them out.

When he returned to the campfire, Harper had taken the pot off the fire and was doling out stew to travel bowls. Robin offered a handkerchief without a word.

Harper took it with a nod of thanks and swiped quickly under his nose, though by the sound of things that wasn’t nearly enough.

The stew was fine enough, good for being scrounged together from diminishing fresh supplies. Harper called it a last proper meal before returning to dried meat and stale crackers. The mead was better. Robin’s father wasn’t one to spare expenses when it came to obsequious gifts.

“The one gift the Duke’s given us,” Robin said after the two were halfway through the bottle.

Harper snorted. “His generosity shall not go unremembered.” He took a swig from the bottle, then passed it urgently back to Robin. “Pardon—” His breath caught and he twisted away from Robin, though the sneeze seemed to toy with him, keeping his breath hitching uncertainly for several seconds before tearing out of him with a vocal desperation that almost startled Robin.

“Bless you.”

“Ngh.” Belatedly, Harper lifted the handkerchief to his face and blew his nose hard, though, by the sound of it, not to much effect. “Blast this cold.”

He must have been feeling calmer if he was complaining, Robin noted with pleasure. Though whether that was thanks to the mead or to dinner and company, he couldn’t guess. “Poor thing,” he said as lightly as he could manage, rubbing Harper’s shoulder.

Harper huffed, with laughter or irritation. “You needn’t tease me, my lord.”

“I’m not!” With feigned offense, Robin set the bottle on the ground to fold his arms. Harper picked it idly back up. “Can’t a man express his sympathies for a friend?”

“Of course, my lord.” Harper took another swig. “But as I’ve said, you need not worry.”

“Need not worry, need not worry!” However much the mead was touching Harper, Robin was feeling a touch bolder. “Perhaps I want to worry, Har. You aren’t acting like yourself.”

Harper grinned, visibly biting back a laugh. “You’re acting plenty like yourself.” Robin squinted. “Fussy and overprotective.”

Robin scoffed, almost offended. “Overprotective! Says Sir ‘rest in the cart while I do the work of thirty men!’”

“Thirty men!” Harper laughed properly at that until his breath caught in his throat and pulled him double in a coughing fit. “Thirty, Robin, really?” he croaked as soon as his breath allowed.

“My father would send thirty.”

Harper drank again, calming the cough. “Your father really is overprotective.”

Robin could hardly argue with that. He shifted closer and leaned into Harper’s side. “Honestly, what’s the matter?”

“You got me drunk so I’d admit I don’t feel well,” Harper said, vaguely impressed. “Conniving bastard.” But he leaned back into Robin’s touch.

“Answer me, Harper.” Robin let a smidge of princely authority into his tone. “You aren’t usually so…”

He searched for the word, but Harper gave a stuffy, defeated little sigh and sank deeper into Robin’s side. “Your father will have my head when we reach home.”

Robin scoffed. “Like hell.”

“He will.” Harper sniffed and pressed the handkerchief beneath his nose with some force. “You’ve been miserable on this trip—don’t lie to me; you have been—and it is my job t-to—oh, hell—” He leaned away from Robin and crushed a sneeze into his handkerchief, sharp and rough and furious.

“Bless you. I don’t give a damn about your job.” Maybe Robin oughtn’t to have drank. It made it awfully difficult to shut his mouth. “I only care that my friend is ill and you won’t let him rest.”

“I give a damn.” Harper didn’t snap, but the edge to his tone suggested he might have were Robin anybody else. “I haven’t got the luxury of only being your friend.” But he leaned back into Robin’s shoulder nonetheless.

Robin bit down the first words on his tongue, Your father said something to you. Dragging up that old argument could hardly do good. “I’d be happy to see you rest,” he said instead.

“Hah.” Harper swiped beneath his nose. “Less so to see the cart uncovered, dinner unmade, fire unlit…”

“I could have done any of that myself,” Robin insisted.

“And then what use would I be?” Harper’s tone might have sounded playful to someone else, but Robin heard the subtle frailty in the words.

A drop of rain splashed on Robin’s cheek. He put up a hand to feel for more.

“Right.” Harper sat up and pulled Robin’s hood over his head, smiling. As if Robin is the one needed reassuring. “Go stay dry in the cart. I will join you within a half-hour.”

Robin could have argued. A better friend might have. But Harper was rarely so insistent unless he was right, even if Robin couldn’t see it. “I’ll come looking if you’re late,” he said instead.

Harper laughed. “Nonsense, my lord. We don’t need you catching cold, too.” He stood and offered Robin a hand up.

Robin took it. “Then be with me in a half-hour.” The longer he ran his mouth, the longer Harper would be out in the rain, so he nodded goodbye and headed for the cart.

Inside the cart, he lit his fire-light and left it near the entrance, providing paltry light for Robin but, he hoped, a signal for Harper in case the rain put out the campfire. It wasn’t as if he needed to see much to strip off his cloak and boots and crawl under the blankets Harper had laid out.

The rain picked up quickly, and wind along with it. Robin pulled a pillow over his head, trying to block out the roar of the rain hitting canvas and with it the thought of poor Harper caught outside in this misery.

He had no way to tell the time, but he trusted despite his threat that it really had been less than a half-hour when Harper returned. He heard splashing, heavy footsteps drawing closer, then a creak of the cart as Harper started to step up. A pause, then a wet, wrenching sneeze, half drowned out by the rain hitting canvas but for once not muffled. And then another, ripe with exhausted frustration. Harper cursed, gave his nose a quick, rough blow, and climbed into the cart.

“Bless you.” Robin took the pillow off his head and rolled onto his back. “It sounds miserable out there.” As close to you sound miserable as Harper was likely to accept.

“Hah. S’pose so.” Harper turned out the fire-light and tossed it back to Robin, who fumbled it in the unexpected dark. “Were you frightened without me?”

Robin grumbled. “Oh, terribly. I’m a grown man; I’m not afraid of the rain any longer.”

Harper laughed, still shuffling around the cart to get out of his boots and cloak. “And here I thought you needed me.”

Robin lifted up the blankets to his right—prematurely, he realized when the unexpectedly cold air made him shiver. “All right, then. Get under here and protect me from the wind, Sir Necessary.”

To Robin’s relief, that drew more laughter from Harper, until it broke into a couple coughs. “Of course, my lord,” he said, a bit raspy, and slid under the blankets beside Robin.

He was keeping weight off his right arm, Robin noticed. So his shoulder was acting up. Robin waited for him to settle, then moved himself onto Harper’s good shoulder, pinning him down, and tucked the blanket gently over the other before Harper could protest.

Harper laughed softly and looped his arm around Robin’s waist. “You’re fretting.”

“Will you deny me that?”

“I will deny you nothing, my lord,” Harper said with that note of amusement that always left Robin torn between affection and indignation.

He settled on responding with a haughty sniff and pulling the pillow under Harper’s head. “Then tell me what you would have of me.”

Harper’s answer was as quick as predictable. “Nothing, my lord.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Robin settled his head on Harper’s chest and hooked a leg over Harper’s, drawing him close to share their warmth. Harper’s clothes were damp, and he shivered slightly beneath them. All the more reason to cling to him. “I know you hate to be alone when you’re unwell, but you’re hearing anything more than ‘bless you’ as a slight against your honor. Tell me how to care for you.”

Harper sniffed. “It is not your responsibility to—”

“Why did we come out here alone just to act like your father is listening?” Robin bit his tongue, regretting the words as soon as they passed his lips.

He might not have heard Harper’s breath catch without his ear pressed to his chest, but the sound made him want to shrivel up where he lay. “Oh, hell, Har, I—”

Harper twisted his head away from Robin into a vicious, half-stifled sneeze.

Oh. “Bless you. I’m sorry.”

Harper sniffed hard and brought up his right hand to scrub beneath his nose. “Tha’k you.” He sucked his teeth, absently rubbing a thumb on Robin’s back. When he spoke, it was hardly more than a hoarse whisper, as if asking quietly were less offensive: “Will you ride beside me tomorrow?”

“Of course.” Robin could feel the tension leave Harper. “I ought to have done so from the beginning.”

“You needed space.”

“And you needed company.” Robin shifted, pulling Harper in tighter. He’d stopped shivering. “I wish you’d asked for it sooner.” Harper started to speak, but Robin added, “I know you think you can’t, but I wish you would.”

Harper chuckled softly. “Truly, Robin, you worry too much.”

“Only as you refuse to take proper care of yourself,” Robin protested. “Get some sleep, now.”

“At your pleasure, my lord,” Harper teased, but he relaxed beneath Robin and, soon enough, drifted off to sleep.

#bloop #blep #snz ocs #this is attempt FOUR at this fucking fic because they kept developing in my brain so that the beginning of the fic was ooc #by the time I got to the end #they were SUPPOSED to be one-off characters just for this fic. but now they won’t leave my brain and unfortunately I’m obsessed with them

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supersaiyanjedi14 · 3 months

Text

SABEZRA DAY 2024

Prompt: Speaking Love Language/Free

@sabezraweek

*My AU; Ezra looks to communicate his feelings in a way Sabine will instantly understand. If only his sources of guidance weren’t butting heads.*

“This right?”

“Almost. It needs a bit more of a curve around…here.”

“That’s exactly where you pointed last time.”

“And it’s not right yet.”

“Why didn’t you say so before?”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“I’m seriously starting to wonder if I do!”

Throwing up his hands, Ezra marched away from the work bench, resisting the urge to smack the other man in the mouth. He had been working on this for the past week, every second of his precious little spare time dedicated to making it perfect. When preparing a gift for the woman you love, you naturally feel compelled to make sure it is just that. On paper, consulting someone familiar with the designs you are tying to replicate would be an ideal situation.

In practice, the fact that the only one available is the brother of the object of your affection, a brother who seems to relish in being as annoying as possible, makes the situation a bit more complicated.

Tristan laughed at Ezra’s dramatic distress. “If it makes you feel any better, it’s a lot closer than it was when you started.”

“Yeah?” Ezra replied sharply, “Well maybe, next time, get the big details right on correction #1, not #17.”

“I didn’t correct it that many times.” Tristan protested.

Ezra rolled his eyes. “Wanna bet? I’ve been keeping track.”

“What’s all the commotion?”

Turning to the new voice, Ezra saw three men walking into the rec room. One of them, garbed in a pilot’s fighter jacket, was only familiar to Ezra by reputation. The other two, a second Mandalorian in blue armor and an officer with a dashing cape across his shoulders, were far better known.

“Hey, Lando, Rau.” Ezra greeted his friends. He turned to the other two. “Lt. Janson, right?”

“That’s me, sir.” The pilot responded with a light salute.

“At ease, at ease.” He turned back to Lando. “Not much. Tristan’s just being difficult.”

“For the love of-“

“Relax, Tristan,” Fenn Rau reprimanded the younger Mandalorian. “You should know better than to be baited by his teasing by now.” Rau turned to the bench. “Ah,” he realized, “still working on this little pet project for Sabine?”

“If I meet Master Wren’s exceptional standards,” Ezra flamboyantly gestured to a pouting Tristan, “it should be done soon.” He held up his work for the others to see. “What do you guys think?” he asked.

Lando nodded. “Not bad. Though I think working on it out here in the open might be risky. In my experience, the best gifts come with an element of surprise.”

Rau groaned. “Really, Calrissian?”

“Just giving him some pointers.”

Janson snorted loudly. “From you? That’s rich.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Tristan shot back. “Wasn’t it that Mirialan on Onderon that you scared off by eight parsecs?”

Janson’s face went red. “it was one time, Wren, one-“

“Okay, enough.” Ezra cut in before an argument about Wes Janson’s love life could break out. “And to answer your question, Lando, don’t worry. Everyone in this room is sworn to secrecy.” He turned to the far side to the man in commando fatigues watching a holodrama. “Isn’t that right, Dameron?”

Dameron paused his show and raised a hand. “Silent as the grave, Commander!”

Sadly, Ezra’s attempt to avert conflagration were futile. Janson regained a measure of his flair and turned to the commando. “Oh,” he said in a slow, sarcastic tone. “So he rejects our sage advise, but turns to you?”

Dameron got up at the challenge. “He doesn’t ask anything. If he did, though, I’d happily offer him tips.”

“Oh, so you’re an expert on romance?”

“Well, considering I’m the only one in this room who’s married, yeah, I’d say I am.”

“So what? I’d actually be able to-“

“He didn’t want Calrissian’s schmoozing tips,” Rau cut in, “why would he want yours?”

“Schmoozing?” Lando blurted out in mild offense. “I’ll have you know-“

“Oh, give it a rest.”

“I don’t see you adding anything, Wren.”

“Maybe because I don’t have anything to compensate for.”

“Why you little-!”

Whatever the conversation had turned to was thankfully muffled once Ezra slid the door to the rec room shut. He considered putting the project on himself for a little extra filtering.

“Romantic advise isn’t that helpful tonight, is it?”

Turning around with a jolt, Ezra instinctively hid his gift behind his back, but relaxed when he saw the Twi’lek standing there. He let out an exasperated breath. “You have no idea.”

“You’d be surprised.” Hera grinned. She turned to look at what Ezra was holding. “So that’s what you’ve been slipping out to work on.”

Ezra nodded and looked down at it. “I wanted to do something up her own alley, you know? Show her how I feel in a way she can understand the best.”

Hera looked at the gift. “I think it’s beautiful.” She smiled warmly. “Sabine’s going to love it.”

“You sure?”

Hera shook her head and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Positive. Besides,” she murmured as she walked off, “it’s not like she can’t already read you like a datapad.”

“Huh?”

“You’ll see.”

Ezra just shrugged.

A few hours later, there was a knock on the door to Sabine’s cabin. Setting her airbrush down, she walked over to answer. She was greeted by the sight of her smiling boyfriend, who was holding a hastily wrapped mass in his hands.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she answered brightly. She gestured to the package. “What’s that?”

“Let me in and I’ll show you.”

“Hmmm,” Sabine mused, “I don’t know. Strange men coming to my door bearing unexpected gifts. I think my mother warned me about such things.”

Ezra’s face warmed a bit. “Strange? Lady Wren, I must protest.”

Sabine let out a laugh. “Come on, get in here.”

Regaining his composure, Ezra smiled and strode into Sabine’s quarters, the door closing behind him. The two sat on her bunk and Ezra passed her the present.

“Go on,” he said. “Open it.”

Normal, Sabine would have been happy to play hard to get. Even all these years later, that light teasing they engaged in hadn’t faded away. Experience often allowed one to see things others would not be able to perceive so easily, and the two of them had a knack for wrapping their earnest remarks in layers of sass, a little puzzle to piece through. Now though, her curiosity got the better of her. She quickly tore the flimsi off in one swipe.

Her eyes widened at the sight before her. It was a shoretrooper helmet, but decidedly non-regulation. The tan helm was now a vivid magenta, with blue markings along the jowels and orange stripes across the nose. The forehead was adorned with a pair of purple arches, with a bright green spot right in the middle. It took only a few seconds for her to recognize the markings. The Nite-Owl, just as what her own helmet bore. And looking closer at the blue markings, she saw them clearly. The jaig eyes, the mark of honor for courage. A little stylized and not in the traditional place, but jaig eyes all the same.

“Wow,” she said in genuine wonder. Ezra wasn’t exactly the artist type, yet she could see dedication a parsec away. He had clearly gone the extra mile to do something in her own style. Not quite as complex as her own work, but the care he had placed into this was undeniable. “This is…Ezra this is amazing!”

“Thanks,” he said as he placed a hand behind his head in a bashful look. “The helmet came from that mission to Valo a couple months back. I asked Tristan about how to do the symbols right, though the hard part was finding the right shades of paint.”

Sabine’s eyes snapped back to the helmet at that last word. Paint. Color. Ezra wouldn’t have chosen just anything. Taking a careful look at the gift, she began to unpack what she saw.

In Mandalorian tradition, certain colors held significant meaning. Many warriors were known to paint their armor with specific colors to represent their chosen undertakings and causes. While Sabine had never been picky enough to stick to one hue for a mission, she knew the significance of these shades by heart. She checked off what she saw.

Blue jaig eyes on the sides. A green center to the Nite Owl. The orange nose stripes. The pink and purple base.

Blue, for reliability. Someone who you could always count on come hell or high water.

Green, for duty. For a person driven to uphold whatever they believed in and see it through to the end.

Orange, for a lust for life. Someone who treasured every day, every experience, and everyone they shared it with.

Purple and pink had no explicit meaning to Mandalorians. But they didn’t need one. Those colors spoke of something more specific. Someone more specific. Someone who considered those colors her personal favorites. Someone who exemplified all the other colors on the helmet, yet was something all her own. Someone the creator of this masterpiece loved above all else.

Ezra had been babbling on about his ongoing work for the past minute, but the deep kiss she quickly pulled him into shut him up. No other words were needed. He could tell exactly what she was thinking.

#star wars #sabezra #ezra bridger #sabine wren #sabezraweek #sabezraday2024 #happy valentine's day

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underscar · 8 months

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THE SCULPTURE & THE SCULPTOR

Pairing: Makima/Female Reader

Summary: The sun was slowly setting on a brisk evening, casting a golden-orange glow over the bustling streets. The air was crisp and cool, signalling the beginning of autumn, and the leaves on the trees had started to turn shades of auburn. You met her that fall evening, and fell in love that October. Warm sunlight elapsed your memories and your love story with Makima and it all felt like a dream, until it erupted into a nightmare. The phrase "separating the artist from the art" is one that dates back long ago. Both the art and the artist can be seen as their own entities; yet, the artist has the control and power to destroy that oeuvre.

CHAINSAW MAN MASTERLIST

A/N: finished this oneshot. was shorter then i expected it to be but that’s alright. as always, i’ve been occupied with school and work and volunteering and just…life.

WORD COUNT // 3209 words

The sun was slowly setting on a brisk evening, casting a golden-orange glow over the bustling streets. The air was crisp and cool, signaling the beginning of autumn, and the leaves on the trees had started to turn shades of auburn.

The streets were packed with people going about their daily business. Groups of students hurried home after their after-school activities and cram school, their backpacks slung over their shoulders and their uniforms crumpled from a long day of studying and play.

Workers in suits walked with purpose, their briefcases in hand, eager to catch the earliest subway home to their families. Their fatigue expressions spoke of long hours spent in the office, but they soldiered on, determined to make it home to their loved ones.

And amidst the sea of people were others, simply out to get their shopping done before the night fully set in. The bright lights of the shops and neon signs illuminated the streets, beckoning shoppers to come in and browse their wares.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the city transformed. The neon signs grew brighter, casting colorful shadows on the pavement. The streets became livelier, with people pouring out of restaurants and bars, ready to enjoy the night ahead. Despite the crowds and noise, there was a sense of peace and harmony in the air.

Tokyo was a city that never slept, but on this fall evening, it seemed to slow down just enough for everyone to take a moment to appreciate the beauty of the changing season.

The multiple chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling of the pet shop also casted a warm, golden glow over the store, giving it an almost magical quality.

The shop was located just a few blocks away from your apartment in the bustling city of Tokyo, and you often found yourself wandering in on lazy evenings to browse the various pet supplies and see the cute cats and dogs. The puppies specifically were your favorite.

Today, you found yourself standing in the soap aisle, surrounded by an array of colorful bottles and containers. You were looking for a special shampoo for your new puppy, a fluffy golden retriever that you had adopted a few weeks ago, disregarding your father's displeasure. The recent adoption makes your dog duo now a trio.

As you scanned the shelves, you noticed a woman with reddish hair knitted in a braid standing a few feet away, examining a bottle of dog shampoo. A brand you recognized. She was dressed in a stylish outfit, a suit that was as sleek as a cats coat, along with a trench coat that didn’t drown her form, yet instead curved it like a cape, all complete with a perfume that smelled so strong, like greek gardens in heaven.

“That brand is rather cheap,” you blurt out. The snobby words escaped your lips unnoticed.

She turned to you with a raised eyebrow, her expression conveying a mix of surprise. “Pardon me?”

You suddenly realized how snobby and rude your comment sounded, that you even spoke at all. You didn't even know this woman, and here you were, making assumptions about her shopping choices. Feeling embarrassed, you cover your face and you quickly tried to backtrack.

“Um - uh, well this is,” you stop yourself from stuttering and clear your throat. “I actually had to return it recently. Both of my retrievers had an…uh,” you lower your voice, “really bad skin infection after using the soup. I just would never recommend it.”

The woman's expression softened slightly, but she still looked a bit guarded. "I understand," she said coolly. “But just because a product is bad doesn’t typically relate to its affordability, does it not?”

You looked down at your purse, feeling shameful. “Ah, slip of the tongue. My apologies. I misspoke.”

As a child of affluent and politically influential parents, you were constantly surrounded by privilege and power. From the lavish parties and exotic vacations to the private schools and exclusive clubs, your life was a far cry from that of the average person. However, despite the obvious perks of your upbringing, you often found yourself feeling like an outsider, rather than fitting in with those around you.

Perhaps it was the fact that you stood out from the crowd with your designer clothes, expensive technology, and sleek cars. Or maybe it was the subtle differences in your upbringing that made you feel out of place, like the way your parents talked about politics over dinner, or the fact that they were always traveling to meet with world leaders and dignitaries. Whatever the reason, you worried that people saw you as snobby or spoiled, simply because of your background. And to be honest, there were times when you felt like those labels were justified, just like now.

The women smiled. “You’re cute.”

Your face instantly burned with embarrassment.

You weren't sure how to respond, and you wondered if she was flirting with you. You looked up shakily from your purse, your eyes then meeting hers. You gasped when you noticed her exotic eyes. They were a striking yellow color, with multiple red rings within them. For a moment, you were mesmerized by their beauty, forgetting your embarrassment and confusion, being hypnotized.

Nevertheless, as the woman's stare became apparent, you realized that you had no idea how to respond to her comment. You stammered out a few awkward words, trying to come up with an explanation for your sudden embarrassment, but nothing feasible came out.

She quirked her head. “Also slip of the tongue. Apologies.”

She then stuck out her hand to you. “I’m Makima. You?”

Your lip quivered as you spoke her name. “Makima…”

The moment you told her your name, you had become hers.

You embarked on your relationship the following October, and it was during that same month that you found yourself falling deeply in love accompanied by autumn weather.

“Moving fast in your relationship”—your father spat. He wasn’t wrong, but you were loving every moment and day under Makima.

You and Makima spent countless evenings together, her walking you down the vibrant streets of Tokyo, discovering hidden gems, and indulging in the city's rich culture. She effortlessly unveiled a side of the city that had eluded you in your privileged upbringing. Not only were the experiences enchanting, but it was Makima herself who drew you closer. Her magnetic aura captivated you from the moment you met. Makima's intelligence, wit, and care for dogs made you constantly crave her company. She destroyed your perspective, forced you to question your assumptions, and told you to embrace the beauty of imperfection.

As your relationship deepened, Makima entrusted you with a secret—she was a devil hunter. Although she didn't reveal the specifics of her career, you knew she held a high position and enjoyed the benefits that came with it, evident in her lifestyle and the numerous dogs under her care. She had a contract with a Devil, but she didn't disclose the details of this arrangement, nor did she want you to be involved in her dangerous work. Respectful of her wishes, you refrained from prying for more information.

Instead, Makima had you to stay at home and keep your relationship separate from her professional life. Since you had never worked before and your parents supported your financial needs, it seemed reasonable for you to take on the responsibility of caring for her pack of dog, along with your two, now in Makima's home. After all, she had generously moved you into her house. You willingly embraced this role and followed Makima's instructions, appreciating the opportunity to contribute in your own way while living under her roof.

Thus each day fell into a rhythm.

Mornings arrived with the stirrings of sunlight, coaxing you from slumber. Always when you woke up, you were alone. In the corner of your eye you would see the bathroom light on underneath the door, where you could hear water running. This signalling Makima getting dressed. She always woke up early before you could register her leaving the bed at all. In order to not disturb her, you would use the guest bathroom.

Then, afterwards, you’d go downstairs and start to prepare breakfast for you and the hoard of dogs, their wagging tails adding cheer to the steaming kitchen. Makima however never ate breakfast at home, despite her waking up early enough to eat, she always left for work without doing so. Subsequently, as plates were made, Makima would come downstairs, to the dogs and your excitement.

Makima, adorned in her immaculate devil hunter suit and trench-coat, would depart early for her duties, her presence exuding confidence and purpose. Before leaving, she would grace you with a tender farewell before sealing it with a kiss. "Be good," she would softly utter as she crossed the threshold. To whom those words were directed remained a mystery—once you pondered if they were intended for your exuberant four-legged friends gathered by the doorway or if, in a strange twist, they were meant for you?

Once Makima embarked on her work and you found yourself confined within the walls of her home, the hours stretching ahead, blank canvases awaiting strokes of purpose from the artist—you the canvas. Yet, a familiar pattern emerged as her absence settled in.

Thoughts, ceaseless and unrestrained, flooded your mind, overwhelming you, akin to a tumultuous storm brewing within. Pondering became second nature, almost synonymous with migraines. Your rumination meandered through various facets of you and Makima’s relationship, occasionally interrupted with words of your father.

Primarily, your thoughts gravitated towards Makima—inevitable, for love held you captive in this home. In her presence, the mental restlessness waned, and your mind found solace in the assurance she exuded. Thinking less was effortless when she was near, her mere existence a balm for your turbulent thoughts. She found your thoughts cute, thoughts worried so much for her sake.

Your relationship continued to winter, and winter was cold and bleak.

"I'm scared," you admit, your voice filled with trepidation.

The reality of Makima's career as a devil hunter was something that had taken a toll on you more than you had initially anticipated. At first, you had been intrigued by her strength and determination, admiring her for her ability to face the darkness of the world you lived in head-on. However, as time passed, you began to see the darker side of her world, and it started to affect you in ways I hadn't imagined. Death seemed to linger around Makima like a shadow, both in her professional and personal life.

The constant threat of powerful devils and dangerous missions weighed heavily on her shoulders, and that weight often spilled over into your relationship. The nights when she returned from a particularly gruelling battle, covered in blood and forsaken things, were nights filled with worry and fear from yourself. You couldn't help but imagine the worst and dread the possibility of losing her.

But it wasn't just the physical dangers that troubled you. No, it was the emotional toll of her work. The secrets she had to keep, the compromises she had to make, and the people she had to sacrifice for the greater good of her cause began to gnaw at your conscience. It amazed you how she kept herself so disciplined and stable despite it all. Work, with its constant demands and unpredictable hours, easily seeped into you and Makima’s home life.

There were nights when she would receive urgent phone calls, forcing her to abandon our plans, which she did with ease. Though you would lie if you said it did not leave you feeling neglected and alone. Alone constantly in this home, lost with your anxieties and thoughts.

Makima raises an eyebrow, her expression curious. "Oh. Scared of what, my dear?”

"I'm scared of…losing you, Makima," you confess, your words laced with vulnerability. "Lately, it feels like our relationship isn't a,” the fear of possibly offending her scared you more than anything, “uh, priority to you.” You used that word carefully.

Makima's gaze intensifies as she considers your words. "So, you believe I should reassess my priorities?” she asked. “And you think you’re a priority? Is that what you’re saying?”When she worded it like that you felt awful and belittled.

You stumble over your words. "I... I mean, we're dating, and... I just want to feel like we matter to each other.” You were sheepish, like a school girl.

Makima held her chin high, looking down at you through her long lashes. "Darling, don't be afraid to express yourself. If that's how you feel, I want to understand.”

You let out a shaky sigh, your voice filled with resignation. "I understand you're busy, Makima. I just don't… want you to stress yourself too much." You force yourself to say these words to please her and in a way, end this.

“Good. I’ll make sure not to.”

The winter winds howled and pounded against the windows, rattling the panes and sending shivers down your already tense spine. The room was bathed in the soft, flickering light of the fireplace, its crackling providing a comforting contrast to the harshness of the outside world and the void that was inside this distant home. The room was in a void of silence until Makima broke it.

"Look at me," she states, her eyes fixed on the book placed in her hands.

For some reason, despite your dismay, you do what she says easily and look into her eyes.

In the corner of your eye, you could see a flicker of understanding passing through Makima's eyes as she reaches out to gently touch your hand. "I hear you," she murmurs softly. "I may have been preoccupied, but I assure you, our relationship matters to me."

A glimmer of hope ignites within you as you meet her gaze fully. "Really?"

She nods, her expression sincere.

As you take in her words, a sense of reassurance washes over you. Perhaps, in this moment of honesty and vulnerability, you and Makima could strengthen your love. “I love you,” you say with no thought but with hope.

Before she could respond to your heartfelt declaration, a familiar tone chimed from her phone, interrupting the moment like a cruel déjà vu. You hold in a resigned sigh as Makima swiftly rose from her seat, reaching for her trench coat and draping around her, shielding her from the unforgiving cold that seemed to have no effect on her. It was a stark reminder that her duty called her away once more, leaving you alone and vulnerable to the haunting thoughts that seemed to shadow your every moment.

With the slam of the door, she disappeared into the night, and you watched her silhouette retreat into the darkness, a sense of loneliness creeping in. It was a feeling you had grown accustomed to, a feeling you had faintly hoped would change after the discussion you just had, a recurring ache that accompanied her absence. Once again, you found yourself left alone with your thoughts, the crackling fireplace the only company in this wintry night, its warmth unable to completely dispel the chill that had settled deep within you.

Whining, your pack of dogs circled around your dejected figure, their eyes filled with concern, their tails arched down, dejected.

As you sat there, alone, a whisper escaped your lips, barely audible, “I wonder…if I’ve made a mistake.”

Spring had arrived with its characteristics of humidity and warmth and the scent of freshly brewed coffee, but for you, it brought not the promise of new beginnings but the sting of heartbreak.

You had chosen this place for its cozy ambiance, hoping to find comfort in each other's presence. It had been so long since you both had went on a date, after all, Makima was dedicated to her work, and you spent your whole free time, home alone. But as the conversation grew heavier, the air around you seemed to thicken, and the pleasant background noise became a distant murmur.

Makima's words cut through the serene setting like a bolt of lightning. "Let's end things."

Your heart skipped a beat, and you couldn't believe what you were hearing. The gentle clinking of coffee cups and the chatter of other patrons seemed to fade into the background. Your voice trembled as you choked out a bewildered, "What?"

Makima's expression remained cool and detached, as if the weight of her words held no emotion at all. "Yes," she repeated, her voice devoid of tenderness, she rubbed her chin, as if she hadn’t decided already, "we'll end this...relationship."

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you held them back, not wanting to break down in the middle of the coffee shop. The woman you loved, who had once meant the world to you, now felt distant and unfeeling.

"Consider this a good deed on my part," she continued, her tone as indifferent as ever. "You were an obedient girlfriend, ______. Be proud."

As her words settled in, you felt a sense of betrayal and loss wash over you. The cozy coffee shop had transformed into a backdrop for your heartbreak, the world around you now irrelevant as you grappled with the end of a love that had once seemed unbreakable. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you couldn't contain the rush of emotions any longer. Your hand moved to cover your face, fingers trembling as you tried to hold back the sobs that threatened to escape. The coffee shop around you faded into the background as your grief and sorrow spilled into your trembling hand.

Makima watched you silently, sipping the dark coffee, her gaze unwavering but devoid of any warmth or remorse. In her eyes, this relationship had lost its worth, and she believed that ending it was an act of empathy, sparing you from the emotional decay that had started to seep into your life. Meeting Denji had changed everything for her, and you were left to bear the consequences.

To her, it was a good thing, a release for both of you, though for very different reasons. In her own way, she believed that you had gotten lucky, even if it didn't feel that way in the midst of your heartbreak. She saw it as an act of kindness, despite the undeniable manipulation and use of your emotions. In her eyes, this was her way of sparing you from further deterioration, even if it meant severing the connection that had once meant so much to you.

You knew, deep down, that you would recover from this heartache, that you would eventually find a way to live without Makima. But in that moment, as you wept in the coffee shop, it was hard to see beyond the pain and confusion that had come with the end of a love that had once consumed your heart.

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