Hiya!! I’m obsessed with your writing. You’re my favorite writer on here, I dream of your stories!
Would it be possible to request (either with Ghost or Price, I love them both equally) something like they were young love but he breaks up with reader cos he wants to keep her safe and thinks he knows what’s best for her. Then during a mission gone wrong, they need a safe house but somehow the enemy found out all the locations of their approved safe houses. He remembered her place is close by and tries his luck. Maybe she gets mad at him for making decisions for her or maybe he learns about her difficult past that happened without with. But with a happy ending? ☺️
Only if this inspires you! Thank you again for sharing your beautiful writings!
If You Bite My Hand Again
PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader
SYNOPSIS: How dare he show his face to you after all of these years. How dare you still find it in yourself to love him.
WORDCOUNT: 6.6k
WARNINGS: Heavy angst, abandonment, arguments, mentions of death, blood, insinuations of torture & mental illness troubles, Simon's comic backstory, hurt/comfort, sort of suggestive?, anxiety attack, somewhat happy ending, etc.
A/N: This was really fun to write, lol, enjoy Anon!
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
You never should have met him. In fact, it seemed like the universe had been adamant to make you not run into each other on that chilly October morning almost…well…it has to be more than thirteen years ago, now. So long.
As you head to your kitchen and glance at the clock, the hands point to a perfect three-fifteen—an hour of pitch-blackness and whispering winds that dash past the musty glass of the windows. The thump of your footsteps blocks out the heaving sigh that falls from your mouth; rubbing at your eyes like a cat as great bags sag from tired flesh.
The dreams weren’t uncommon.
Simon still reigned supreme in the conjuring of them, ingrained into the sinews and pulled thin by a hand constantly working them—knitting a sweater of memories addled with age. Moth-eaten.
As you snap on the light of your tiny and run-down kitchen, the bulb fizzing and the dishwasher still emitting that squeal as it always does, you think about him before grabbing a glass. Water hits and fills the thing up as your eyes blankly stare, fatigued but yet never more awake.
The tremors in your hands persist.
You never should have met him.
—
Your feet take you to Primary, laces a mess atop your little shoes caked in mud and grass—you’d chased after a butterfly through the front yards, getting caught in your neighbor's bushes and having to slip your way out before she could rampage outside with her broom.
It was no surprise that your face was lit with a bright smile, eyes shining like fire that your teachers had given you a special name for—“Ember.”
The very thing that could start a blaze over and over again as long as it still was alight.
Laughing and peeing out leaves from your hair; flattening out your uniform, you stride with pride ingrained into your body. Well, you did before you heard the soft sniffling coming from down the alley.
Halting, your ears perk at the sounds, smile freezing as you blink quickly. Looking to your left, you lock onto the hunched figure of a boy.
Perhaps only a year or two older than you, you stare in curiosity as he consciously paws at his cheeks, walking out of the alley in broken and odd strides. His uniform is ruffled, wrinkled, but not in the way yours was.
He must have fallen and hurt himself, you reason with a child-like frown pulling on your lips. Blinking at his blond hair, you get a glimpse of red-rimmed brown eyes.
The boy halts, looking at you widely, fear and pain emanating from his expression. You’re the first to speak, brightness still in your eyes but a deep innocence that comes with youth. All you saw was a boy your age in pain—that was strange to you. You knew what getting hurt was like; you fell and scraped your knees often, or hit your elbows on corners. Sometimes you would cry from that…did the same happen to this boy?
“You’re crying, aren’t you?” Brown-Eyes stares, hurriedly pushing at his face to wipe tears but only succeeds in making his face red from the material of his uniform. “Did you fall down? I do that pretty often—it’s okay, my Mum says you’ll be better after a hug and a kiss!”
You smile and stand straighter.
“I,” the boy begins, sniffling. “I didn’t fall. I’m not clumsy.”
You tilt your head, confused. “Well…then why are you crying?”
“That’s none of your business!” He snaps, brows pulled in as he comes forward on the sidewalk. Your face twists as you huff in annoyance.
“My Mum says to treat everyone nicely. That wasn’t very nice.”
“I don’t bloody care, do I,” you’re sent a scathing glance as he passes. “I didn’t ask for you to speak to me. Leave me alone.”
Naturally, you follow after, cheeks gaining heat.
“You’re being mean! Apologize!”
“Would you run off already?!” The boy shouts, and perhaps something fires in that small brain of yours—a thought and a semblance of self-realization at the shame that emits from his tone. A tight squeeze of vocal cords.
He was ashamed. Ashamed you’d caught him. Seen him.
Your feet slow back to a stop, watching him hurriedly continue on and hearing the quiet gasps of breath. After a moment, you grit your teeth and run the distance; seizing him around the middle in a hug of stubby fingers and tightly closed eyes.
The boy startles, body hardening and a cry escaping his lungs. “Get off of me!” He shouts, hands snapping down to yours and digging under your hold.
“No!” You call, stubbornly. “My Mum says that hugs make everything better—”
“Stop talking about your Mum!” The boy stomps his foot to the ground, chubby cheeks turning crimson as he tilts his head back to look at you, tears still dripping off his chin.
A stiff silence falls but like a green branch on a tree, Brown-Eyes’ form twitchingly loosens, his prying hands softening as you hold tight—digging your nose into his spine. He minutely flinches, but you only hug him more.
You’re both late to the building, and your teachers are going to give you scoldings. But right now, on a chilled October morning, you hug this strange, crying boy and blink your fiery eyes up at him.
After he relaxes fully and the sniffling stops, you let go and smile brightly again, looking up into his open expression of innocent confusion. Whatever had happened, he must have fallen pretty hard, you thought, pulling out another leaf from your hair. You giggle and hand it over as a gift.
The boy hesitantly picks it up and looks at it before turning back to you.
“Call me Ember.”
A pause. A hesitation. But your eyes shimmer and he relents with the memory of the hug in the front of his mind. Such a strange encounter.
He speaks, looking away from you with flushed cheeks, muttering out as his tear streaks dry.
“...Simon.”
You walk together the rest of the way.
The reality was, if you had gotten caught by your neighbor, had snatched that butterfly—had even stayed in those bushes for three more seconds, you would have missed him. And if Simon hadn’t run out of his home crying, he never would have locked onto the burning reality that was with you.
—
You put the glass to your chapped lips and take a long sip, throat bobbing as you take down the liquid with tears burning your eyes. Blinking rapidly, you swipe at the water at the sides of your mouth and shake your head, sighing.
“Why can’t you leave me alone?” Your voice bounces off the walls, peeling paint and moving the dust stuck atop the fridge. “Damnit, Simon.”
Today was worse than the others—everything building and stacking like some castle of misery and pain; windows too narrow to let in any light and your form stuck in shadows longer than an endless rope. There were just so many things that suffocated you now.
And in the endless nights, the brain desperately looks for comfort.
You hate that it only comes from the memories of him.
“I have to go to work tomorrow.” Your subconscious reminds you as you blankly stare out the window above the sink, seeing the streetlights and the cone of warm light—it flickers every so often, a blinking taking place like the eye of a large, brutish, wolf.
Work, then the grocery store, then back home to eat a tasteless dinner and fall back to sleep. An empty house with empty walls and empty memories.
Your hands put the glass in the sink, coming back up to rub and dig into your eyes until the itch behind your flesh stops. A thump of a low pulse is felt in the thin skin, orbs of your optics moving before you pinch into the bridge of your nose and drop them with a slap of a hand to the counter. A harsh breath exits your mouth, but it’s quickly strangled away into a sound of ragged shock.
Outside, under the light, the silhouette of a man leans heavily on the pole, feet shaking under him and face pressed into the shadows as his shoulders heave. You stare, wide-eyed, as your heart jumps to a rapid pace.
“What the fuck?” Your mouth utters, watching the man push off the light and stagger with a heavy limp and a jerking body of immense stature. Whoever this guy was, he was out of his mind—and coming right for your front door. You startle to go and secure it, feet slapping the ground and face twisted.
“What the fuck?!” Gasping, you re-check your locks and frantically look for something else—the stool where you place your keys meets your eyes. You grab it and place it as a barrier to the handle, tilting it on two legs and blinking quickly as whatever sleep-sheen that had been in your gaze leaves in one swoop of adrenaline.
Grunting wafts in from under the door, haggard inhales and a sudden slam of a body hitting the door. You stifle a scream and back up quick steps, slapping your hands to your mouth.
Sure, you might live in a shitty neighborhood, but no one had ever tried to just straight-up break in high or drunk off something. Your mind slashes to the knives in the kitchen drawer as the wall shakes again—something sliding down to the ground and a grunted whine.
Just before you run off, you hear it. An utterance; a disruption of airwaves. A whisper, a plea. Your brain ceases to function with one foot back the way you came, hand on the frame with the knuckles tight.
In one instance it all comes to a screeching halt.
“Ember…”
Who called you that anymore? The rare instance where you’d meet your classmates in the world they would mutter it; also be asked a few questions before they went on with their lives. You pause in your panic, slowly gazing back at the barrier and the stool like you’d just discovered you’re under the sights of a sniper.
There’s a sliver of something that inserts itself into your brain. Fear or hope, you can’t tell. But that can’t be right.
He left.
“Ember!” You flinch, the deep Manchester accent grating your heart into shreds. No. “It’s me!” He says, followed by a horribly gritty cough.
There’s a weak thump against the door, mumbled curses, and growls as if a wild animal mimicking human speech. You almost wished for that, considering you now knew the exact person behind the door down to his atoms. The brown of his eyes and the way his cheeks looked as they were stained with tears.
His laugh. Simon’s voice. Everything.
Simon.
You’re rushing to rip the stool away with a clatter and a jerk as it hits the far wall, undoing the locks with shaking hands as you grasp the handle and wrench it sideways.
His form slams to your feet with a loud grunt as the door hits the wall.
“Fuckin’ hell! Mind your bloody—!” Whatever he said was lost to you as you stare at the bloodied form of the man you had thought you’d seen the last of. Tactical gear, terrifying skull mask, black on black with weapons galore. But that voice told you all you needed to know.
Simon Riley is alive and very much breathing.
The same boy you still loved.
The same boy who’d broken your heart.
—
After October the years with Simon seemed to strengthen. You always walked together in the mornings—or, at least, you always waited for him. The dawn of your friendship strengthened and hardened to an unbreakable amount of mid-day rays; vast and sunny.
When he was sixteen he asked you to be his girlfriend, hand in his pockets and ache on his chin as he grunted out broken sentences. Stuttering and awkward. You’d smiled with your bright eyes and giggled before kissing his cheek—feeling his sigh and him melting into you with a grin of his own, unable to meet your eyes for a moment.
Later, when he said he’d wanted to leave his apprenticeship at the grocery’s butcher shop and join the Special Air Service, you’d been along for the ride—anything to get him away from his father and brother. You knew what was going on, even if he was still so hesitant to allow you any glimpse of his home life.
When he’d shy away at the Halloween decorations of skeletons as if the skull would jump off the page and tense at loud cheering, you knew. You did what you could, but there was only so much for you to suggest or say without him shutting down.
When you’d offered your flat as a safe space after graduation, desperate to help your Lover, he’d stared and blinked in shock; tilting his head at you before smiling softly and taking you into a hug. Wherever he went, he knew he’d always have a place by your side.
So, throughout his leaves of absence from the military, he’d come home to you—bruised and tired, but still the same Simon you fell in love with. You’d cook for him, tease at his shaved hair as he gave you those puppy-dog eyes, and talked him through your classes at University.
You would fall asleep on his chest, feeling the hard strength he was gaining and the way he held you tighter than he ever had; conscious of himself but not wanting to part with you.
The love the both of you had was akin to a blaze of fire, and you often found Simon simply staring into your eyes in times like those—watching silently and rubbing his thumb along your spine until your face burned.
He was always so gentle despite everything; you loved his perseverance, his drive to be good despite nearly every factor telling him he couldn’t be. Slowly but surely, he was forging his own life.
In 2003 he managed to take a break from the military to get his family straightened out. His brother, Tommy, went to rehab—Simon stayed with his mother and a year later he kicked his father to the curb and out of his and his family's life entirely. Finally free.
You managed to meet his lovely mum, still so bright, and even interacted with Tommy once he got out; went to the younger brother’s wedding in ‘06 and met Beth, his wife. When you saw Simon’s mother and the way she carried herself, you knew where your Love got his pride from. The two were so alike it was a sight to see.
While it may not have been conventional by any standard, Simon proposed to you in the back garden of Tommy’s cheap wedding venue. Alone, so as not to cause a scene. Willow trees and a small stream of water. Fireflies. The words ring in your soul with every waking moment, and they will stay there until it all goes silent with the grip of death.
He didn’t want to use his mum’s ring—the one that holds so many bad memories for both parties. He’d used the gold from it though. Went to a man who bled him dry for money to have it re-cast.
It was simple. A small, glinting, ruby pressed in the middle.
“It was always goin’ to be you, Ember, yeah?” he’d muttered in his deeper voice, formal attire holding you both tight. “So…don’t make me beg too much, Sweetheart. You know the old lady’ll kill me if I get stains on my suit.”
“Beg?” You responded, tears in your eyes but such a wide grin on your lips. The stars above you twinkle like the pupils of your eyes—the same burn still trapped. “Oh, Simon, come on, now.” He connects his forehead to yours, hand still in the middle of you and presenting the accumulation of all of his love. The other wraps your waist.
He was shaking slightly.
“I would never make you beg for my love, Brown-Eyes.”
You both share a breathless chuckle and lock lips, smiling like fools as he sighs into you.
In a happy world, that would have been the beginning of a perfect life. A happy house. A happy wedding. Happy deaths.
But something went wrong on one of his deployments.
Missing for months, he came back…wrong. With a fiery temper and sharp snapping words—wounds on the outside as well as inside. His eyes were feral, like a dog held back by a broken chain carting around its feet.
Simon never spoke about it—the missing days. The weeks. The months.
You broke yourself over it, trying to help but not knowing what would make it better. Some days there were flickers of soft expressions, but it was as if he were dragging himself up from a pool so deep it was bottomless to show them to you. Simon rarely smiled. He rarely sent an affectionate glance.
He didn’t let you touch him.
And then he called the entire engagement off with a letter on your counter only holding four words.
‘Don’t look for me.’
And then Simon’s mum, Tommy, Beth, and his nephew had all died. Been killed. And you were just supposed to move on? Live with that? There were times when you had breakdowns so bad you couldn't leave the house for days—the house that Simon and you had bought together.
All of those years.
All those vows and shared nights.
And he disappeared on you.
—
You have him sitting on the couch, watching silently from the chair across the room as he finishes wrapping his leg with the bandages from the first-aid kit you’d provided.
More like chucked at his gut.
No one had said a word, and the air was as tense as a noose—choking any oxygen that traveled into your throat. Simon was getting blood all over your flat cushions, the crimson saturating the fabric as you sit rail-rod straight, hand clenched on your thighs.
Simon’s avoiding your eyes.
“Take off the mask,” you hiss, pupils slits. If he wasn’t going to address it, then you were. Simon freezes, not breathing as his hands fall stationary around the bandages.
“I’ll be fine in a while—”
“Take off your fucking mask, Simon.” You can’t help the way you snap, face burning with shame and hate. How dare he show up now, after all of these years of mourning him and the relationship you’d built as kids. Simon wasn’t just your boyfriend—your fiancé—he was your best friend.
And all he’d done was left you a four-fucking-letter note before leaving you behind.
The geared man sighs silently, and you see his shoulders sag. His grip travels up as he straightens his spine in a fluid motion, pain medication working through him in waves of numbness.
His brown eyes bore through you as if he were a ghost. Under the fabric, his mouth thins. “Ma’am.”
Even his voice is older. More dead. How could this be your Simon?
Your heart bruises your ribcage as he grasps the top of his skeletal mask, gloved fingers peeling back the sown layers until you get the full image of a man more damaged than before. You have to stop yourself from sobbing right then and there; your throat going dry.
So many scars. Milky white and spread vastly—they weren’t pretty. Up his cheeks, down his brow line; even at the corner of his mouth and seeping down his neck. A crooked nose with damaged cartilage. Strangling a gasp, it comes out as a great expelling of horror, eyes going wide with shock.
You hate how you want to rush to him, take his face in your hands, and try to brush them away as if marks on paper. But you don’t make any such movements beyond a hunch of your shoulders.
“Not pretty, eh? Guess I should’ve warned you.” Simon rubs at his forehead, blond locks, hanging around his temple, and the black of face-paint stuck in his sockets. “Didn’t mean to fuckin’ drop in like this, Ember. Bloody bastard thing for me to do.”
You flinch at the name, looking away as you’d been peeling back his skin with your eyes. “What are you doing here, Simon?” Anyone with a brain could hear the cracking hardness in your words. Face blank.
He studies your features, taking in the changes and the bleakness of your expression. Brows furrow slightly before they go back to a state of nothingness. Simon glances around the room, finding the condition of things concerning but doesn’t show it.
“Nothin’ you need to worry about comin’ back to you, Sweetheart. Just work.”
“It is when the bastard who abandoned me shows up years later, bloody on my doorstep. Stop acting so self-righteous,” you growl, snapping, “I should toss your arse outside and let them have you. And don’t fucking call me that.”
Silence descends, and your words echo. It’s like now that he was here everything hurt ten times more than when he wasn’t.
“I never wanted us to end up like we did—”
“Bullshit!” You’re on your feet and stalking to him, pointing with your finger as he hurriedly stands up as well and looks down in shock as you press your digit into his bulky vest. “You shut your mouth, Simon Riley, and you let me explain something to you.”
He keeps silent, mouth parted and scars shifting around his stubble. His hands slightly held out at his sides and hovering over your hips—not touching you but there just in case. Simon’s brown ords are carefully widened at your tight exclamation. The sound of his clearing throat enters the living room before you speak again.
“I waited for you, hoped and prayed that you would show me at least a,” your throat bunches, but you push through. “A modicum of respect and show your stubborn self up at my door with apology flowers and a guilty smile on your lips. You know who took care of your family's burial plots, you fucking piece of shit,” his eyes flinch closed a bit, turning his head down as his breath hitches. “Me! You fucking disappeared!”
You know you shouldn’t be yelling, shouldn’t be pounding on his chest with a fist as if he was a door and you the knocker, but, dammit, it’s been years and he just shows up? Like this? Ten times the size he was—scarred and torn to shreds; laced with muscles and an expression of vacancy. Simon holds to your words, hanging off of them with a down-ward turned chin and eyes that lock with yours through pale lashes.
“Maybe I-I did, o…or pushed some things that I shouldn’t have,” you hold back your tears, but your voice still wavers, tapering off like a line without a hook, “but I didn’t deserve that, Simon.” The first traitorous sob breaks through. “I didn’t deserve that.”
His eyes shatter into a myriad of kaleidoscope bits and pieces, brows flicking from one point on your face to another in quick slashes of guilt. But he still doesn’t touch you. Not until you tell him it’s what you want.
Simon opens his mouth but closes it just as quickly, unable to find any words that would even matter. You let your tears slip down your cheeks, dribbling off your chin. The man’s chest hurts, pulse thumping to mirror yours.
“I waited for you and you broke me,” you whisper, mouth twisting with odium towards the man under your fist. “I wanted a life with you, Simon, no matter the trials.”
“I didn’t mean to…” The man trails off, clenching his jaw. You scoff, backing up a step and pressing your palms into your eyes.
“But you did.”
“I had to keep you safe, Ember.” Simon’s fingers twitch outward, eyes frantically moving around as you sniffle and shakily walk away to the kitchen. He follows, desperately on your heels as your spine bows forward with resounding cries of anguish. “I...I wasn’t right in the head, I need you to understand I didn’t want this! I never wanted to fucking hurt you!”
Your hand connects with the junk drawer, tearing it open and digging a hand inside as he pleads with you to listen.
“If I didn’t leave I was worried I’d do something—!”
“Then you should have trusted me!” Your hands rip out the ring held on a small leather strap. The ruby glints where it always sits, held in tarnished gold. You chuck it at his chest and suck down breaths so you don’t pass out. “I would have listened! Gotten you help! We don’t abandon the ones we love, Simon! Not us!”
Simon catches the object by slapping a hand to his chest, pinky finger latching through the leather cord before he jerks his limb back up. When he looks at the ring, he goes utterly still, gazing back up at you slowly.
“We were supposed to be different,” you sob, trapping it behind your hands. He’s shaking, brows tight and lines along his face as he brings a free hand to run through his locks, gripping the strands for a moment and pulling. “Simon,” you say again, and he looks back at you with glossy eyes. “We were supposed to be better.”
“What did I do to you to deserve that,” he stares, his jaw is loose and he can’t stop clenching and unclenching it. You can see his heart working through his breast. Bloodied. Beaten by fists and slashed with knives. “What did I do to you?”
“Nothing,” he gasps, taking a step forward. “Fuck, Ember, you didn’t bloody do anything to me besides love me.”
You sputter out, “Then why did you leave me here alone?” Your knees buckle and he darts forward, catching you under the arms as you wail out, shoving on his waist, “You never should have come back. Never should have come back.”
He lets you push him off; lets you back up to the counter as Simon tilts his head higher to stave off the tears in the sides of his eyes. He’d known coming here was a bad idea, for lack of a better word, but after the Op went bad and all of his safe houses were compromised, he didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t to say he didn’t regret his actions in the past with you, or that he didn’t punish himself for them, yet at the time it was the only thing he could do to give him the sense that you would be better without him. Safe.
After everything that had happened, he wasn’t in the right state of mind anymore. You deserved so much better. But hearing all of this…
Christ, could he have been wrong? Everything blurred; hurt. Hearing your sobs was like a knife to his heart every time, digging and cutting with serrated edges at the veins and pumping muscle, carving away flesh to shed the pounding redness to light. You held that heart in your hand and in his he held the ring—the ring he’d given to you as a promise of love and honor.
A pact of loyalty.
Simon doesn’t even realize he’s crying until the blurring edges of his vision make itself known. His eyes bore harshly, prodding into you as he makes known what he’s been broken since he first locked gazes with you again. The man’s voice shakes, accent deep and tight.
He asks the first thing that comes to his head.
“What happened to your eyes?”
“What?” You ask, incredulously, brows furrowed as your hand digs into the counter to keep you upright. Simon stares deeper, the sides of his eyelids wrinkling with a not-so-hidden sheen of great concern. Unbearable pain.
“What happened to your bloody eyes?” Where had the spark gone? That flare that grew and spread like fire that was the entire purpose behind your name. An unconquerable ache for life.
You only watch him with a parted mouth and tear-stained lashes, sniffling. Simon tries again, taking a step forward on unsteady feet.
“Please, Sweetheart, d…don’t, don’t…” He can’t finish, the leather cord intertwined into his fingers as he comes closer. “Don’t tell me I took it away. Not my Ember. Not my Girl’s fire.”
Your eyes are so overflowed you can’t even see him as he hovers over you, fingers coming up to brush your cheeks as his mouth is open in hard pants of breath. “No, no, no. Fuckin’ bastard, not me. Not over me, please.” It’s like Simon’s not even talking to you but rather himself.
He mutters in fast sentences, eyes panicked. “You were supposed to be better off—‘posed to move on. Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you find someone else?”
“You’re an idiot, Simon. An idiot,” you sag into his neck, nose digging into his pulse as he quivers, legs having to reset themselves. His heat melts into you as your body gives out with a final sob, “It was always going to be you.”
His arms snap around you like a vise, dragging you into him as he breaks and stifles his whimper on your scalp, breathing right by your ear; gasping for breath.
“M’sorry,” he mutters, so silent below his sniveling stutters, “M’so sorry, Sweetheart. This is all my fucking fault.”
You shake into his chest, face nuzzling and desperate to smell his scent again—tired from all the yelling and fighting. It was still late, you still needed to go to work tomorrow…but Simon.
Oh, Simon. How could he be so…him?
Your sobs are quieter than his, tiny cries that make the man’s arms tighten around you every time. Hands coming up, you can’t stop the way you want to hold him; how you wish to keep him close to you and push him away all at once. How dare he?
How dare he still make you love him after all he’d put you through?
Simon sags to the floor with you in his hold, head bowed and trying to gasp down his vulnerability as tears stain your shoulder. It’s as if the realization that he’d made a mistake had broken him back down to when he was young, past hatred of messing up infesting his brain like maggots. A fear of it, even.
The man presses quick, panicked kisses to your neck as his breath hitches every other second, rocking you back and forth.
“Didn’t mean to do it,” Simon utters. “Didn’t mean for it to hurt you—”
He breaks off and you realize that despite the years Simon’s mind was still very much fragile when it came to home life. You blink and take a deep breath, unable to get out of his unrelenting grip.
Your hand travels up to find the back of his head, spreading through his hair and massaging his flesh. When things got bad you used to do this with him. Give the man something to focus on so he could pass through his hysteria quicker.
Simon’s ribcage bangs against yours, nearly hyperventilating with how he’s trying to hide his small grunts and whines.
“Simon,” you clear your throat, trying to calm yourself down as seriousness sets in your tone. “Simon, breathe.”
Your ears twitch, noticing him listen to you as he takes down a long gasp of air and breathes out in puffs on your neck—hot and humid.
“Ember…”
“Shh,” interrupting, you shush him in tiny whispers, still rubbing at his head. “Brown-Eyes, just sit here, okay?” You feel a jerky nod, his fingers squeezing your flesh off and on as he mimics your own lung pattern.
It’s a few minutes before he goes completely still again, and you feel the burn of shame from his face in your clutch. The relationship was strained—or whatever you could call this—but you never wanted to see him in pain. Never.
You knew he was better when he sighs deeply, completely going limp in your arms; great weight leaning into you as you lean back to the cabinets to help with the pure might of his physique. With a slow hand, you un-velcro his vest and his gear, letting it hit the floor with dull thumps and clatters.
He doesn’t protest, doesn’t move to help or hinder. You would give anything to know what he was thinking.
“M’sorry,” Simon whispers and you respond accordingly, softly.
“You’ve already said that, Love.” He grunts, taking in a long, deep breath.
“Need you t’know it.”
“...I do.”
“Okay.” You close your eyes and stave off your anger at everything happening right now. While it would feel better to yell at him until dawn, what would that even achieve? Everything had needed to be said, had been. And you’d never felt lighter than at this moment.
You knock your head against him, the both of you panting for breath and hands vibrating with leaving adrenaline. Sweaty and twitchy.
“You never should have done that, Simon.” Whispering, you sigh. “I needed you. I needed you here. With me.” He stays still, but you feel his lips press deeper into your pulse. You’re practically in his lap, back to the woodgrain.
In a moment of weakness, or pure longing, you pull his head back and situate your hands at his cheeks, looking over his scars and his broken skin as he lets you move him how you wish. His half-lidded, red, eyes stare—grip around you not letting up.
Simon doesn’t speak as, unprompted, you kiss the shattered bridge of his nose; you only feel the fluttering of his lashes as they tickle your cheeks.
“I was scared of myself.” He mutters. “After they died…” His family. “I didn’t want to put you in danger, Ember. Not you.”
“We would have figured it out, Simon. You know that, deep down, you do.” Brown eyes find yours as you tilt his head.
“You sure?” He asks, desperate for an answer even though he doesn’t know himself.
Thumbs run up and down his stubble. Your face creases, “...I don’t know. But we could have tried.”
Simon’s eyes close tightly, and his face tilts to press his lips to your palm, quivering breath exhaled with the strength of an open balloon. Your ring was still stuck in his digging grip, and it was never going to leave for the rest of the night.
“Yeah,” he whispers, gravely voice lax.
Studying him now, in this light, knowing he was so afraid of what he might do if he got into an episode, you were stabbed with agony in your heart. To be that afraid of yourself to that magnitude was nearly unimaginable to you.
Nearly.
“What now?” You ask lowly, the last remnants of tears drying as Simon opens his eyes slowly, looking back at you.
“Don’t know.” He admits. “I have to leave.”
“I have work tomorrow,” you relate. Your teeth find your lip, biting it.
A small awkward chokehold captures the both of you. The reality was that both of you were akin to strangers again—such was the curse of lost years and trials you’d faced along the way.
Brown-Eyes and Ember were dead, yet you still called their names like phantoms of sleek black fabric and chained recollections of a boy with red cheeks and a girl with muddy shoes. The walks to school were there, the dates, and the late nights spent in good company. Touches to skin and open-mouthed kisses. Fireflies that whizzed and the glinting of gold as wind ran through the willows.
Dark corruption stained the faint idea of happiness; of a good world. This was not reality. It was some joke of an existence.
If life were fair, Simon Riley would have never grown up in that house—his father wouldn’t have latched onto his brother and done dark deeds to wrap the little brown-eyed boy in red tissue paper and barbed wire. A present and sheen of mild sociopathy; separation of any pain or torment. A fighting boy. A boy born with blood on his hands and stuck behind his eyes every time he swung a fist.
It was a curse to love him. And it was a curse that burned your soul with his very name.
“Are you going to go?” You ask, eyes blank but yearning for what little comfort you can grab. It had been so long. Simon blinks, his head still in your hands; body not moving.
He knows he should. He isn’t sure if there’s anything left for him here or not.
Simon connects his head to yours and you still. “Do you want me to?”
“Do you love me?” You blurt, blinking at him and confused. Simon’s lips part. “Or if you walk out that door do I plan on never seeing you again?”
You're about to open your mouth and continue before his own slots perfectly against it.
You gasp lightly, taken aback but in no way opposed. He still felt exactly the same, flesh still tasting metallic and tinged with violence down to his DNA; raised with survival instincts as his greatest ally. Until you.
With you survival became secondary.
Your hands go to card through his hair, latching and lightly pulling as Simon’s body shivers; growling against your lips in a dance of heated flesh and damp cheeks. Hearts hammer with the restraint of years.
“I would never make you beg for my love,” he murmurs between lapsing passes of his mouth, open kisses and dark glances. “Tell me where you want me to be.”
You whimper against him and he goes back in, pressing the base of your skull to the cabinet as hands grip and slide, kneading your skin.
“Tell me,” Simon whispers. Pleads through grunts. “Ember, tell me.”
“Here,” you admit brokenly, pulling him closer to you as you’re lifted and placed on the countertop. “I need you here, Simon. I need you with me.”
Fingers capture your chin, keeping your head angled up as your eyes beg. Lips bush with every word, gazes wild as if two leopards locking jaws over a kill.
“Fight to get me back.” Brown sparks with purpose, a small puff of air hitting your mouth as eyes darken over. In this moment, you do not know if you’re dying or living. “Make it right.”
“Affirmative.” Simon moves his head back, taking your ring and looping the cord around his neck, he keeps it there as you watch, breathless. Your face creases with question. The man’s lips flicker when he sees this, coming back and grasping your hips as you instinctually latch to his waist.
“I’ll give it back when I’ve earned the right for you to be called mine again. Seems I have work to do, Sweetheart.” He kisses you once more, firm and true. “First, I’ll ‘ave to figure out if my Girl can get her spark back, yeah? I’ve proper gone and fucked it up.”
That night you lay in the heap of limbs and sheets that couple the both of you together. In the morning the questions would start, and Simon knew you’d take nothing short of the truth.
And he’d give you it. All of it.
Because Simon Riley knows well enough that you don’t go and bite the hand that feeds twice. Certainly not when it was you. Certainly not when it offers a love he would never hope to find again, in this life or the next.
So you keep the other close and sag into a deep slumber, not to wake for a long, long time.
A small doodle of a friday night dance at the Stardrop Saloon. I cannot decide on what Beau looks like, but I do know now that he is older. He had a midlife crisis, and ended up a farmer.
Giveaway piece (for @creations-of-a-certain-no-one blog that was turned into fully SFW, so pardon that it’s not posted there!) for @fandomshizlet! I hope you’ll enjoy the fic even if I promised it so long ago. More than a year ago, oof. I’ve been struggling with repulsion a lot during this time, but didn’t want to give up a fic that was already half-written, so it’s finally finished and I’m quite happy with how it turned out!
Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku
Rating: EXPLICIT.
This is a smut fic. Minors don’t interact with this post. If I see any minors in the notes, I’ll have to block without mercy.
Pairing: Mitsunari/Ieyasu/gender-neutral MC
Warnings: tender, soft and fluffy, if it upsets you, don’t read XD
Summary: It’s been a while since Ieyasu and MC have let Mitsunari join their relationship. Ieyasu however preferred to keep the relationships with them relatively separate. He might be changing his mind very soon, though, gently persuaded, with unbearable tenderness. Sandwiched Ieyasu. Gender-neutral MC, they/them.
Betareading: @reneotomegirl
Word count: 4720
Read on Ao3! Link is in the source under the post too!
Can you believe it? We reached five hundred thirteen followers together. I can hardly believe it, and yet here we are. (´,,•ω•,,)♡
When I started this blog, I wasn’t sure of how I’d be received - I was worried, hesitant. I was insecure about my writing. I still am sometimes. But I can tell you with certainty now that creating this blog has been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made, and that writing for you has become a favorite pastime of mine. Not only have I connected with so many wonderful fans through this blog, but I’ve also made irreplaceable friends within such an amazing fandom.
Through tough times, here we are still standing strong - five hundred! I’m amazed and still in awe. I’m lucky to call you my fans. I can’t tell it to you enough… thank you so much for your continued support and encouragement.
In not too long, I will be opening up paid commissions for full length fics (such as A Quiet Power or Cravings/Yours). You will have the opportunity to commission me to write a customized, personalized fic that stars your own original character!
But before then, I want to celebrate YOU & YOUR endless support with a giveaway! There will be 3 winners!
1st draw - A full length fic of your choosing starring your OC and any of the IkéSen characters except Motonari, Yoshimoto, or Ranmaru (sorry - I don’t know too much about them yet!).
2nd draw - A full length fic continuing a prior HC prompt (see masterlist). Will star your OC and any of the IkéSen characters except the aforementioned three.
3rd draw - A full length fic continuing a prior HC prompt. Will star a general MC and any IkéSen character that was previously requested in the prompt of your choosing.
Rules
You must be following me & reblog this post. This counts as one entry! New followers are welcome! (:
Your username will be entered an additional +1 for every piece that you like and an additional +3 for every piece that you reblog.
So, to maximize the amount of times that your username is entered in the lottery, like and reblog as many fics that you can! I will be rewarding the first three draws.
If you already previously liked or reblogged a piece, it is considered valid and will be counted as an entry!
UPDATE (AUGUST 11, 2019): You are allowed to reblog more than once or to reblog to side blogs if you put your main blog in the tags.
You can only win once, so if you were already drawn as a winner, your username will be taken out of the next draw.
Good luck! ♡
Winners will be announced by October 1, 2019 at the latest. It might end earlier depending on whether I finish up on requests sooner (I am working on them!).
I hope the rules and process make sense! If you have any questions at all, don’t hesitate to message me for clarification so that I know if I’m actually not making sense at all lol~ Thank you so much & good luck!
✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧
If you enjoy my work, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi, ikesenrambles. I don’t have much spending money for since I’m saving my paychecks to cover college housing and board. Supporting me on Ko-Fi would mean that I have pocket money for the little things that bring me joy. ♡
He wasn’t—not really, not even by a long shot—but the two teenagers in front of him made him feel weary and ancient in a way that he suspected many a parent would relate to. The young adult rubbed his temples slightly, and his sharp eyes swung from Shigezane quickly to Masamune.
Best not to linger on Shigezane, or he’d smile, and then they’d never take him seriously.
He made himself frown, slightly.
Masamune’s shoulders dropped and his eye did too, and Kojuro wasn’t fast enough to hide his own wince, which Shigezane saw and seized on. “C’mon, Kojuro, we didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
It was heartening, the immediate leap to defense of his cousin. Masamune had precious few allies, and if Kojuro felt weary, he could only imagine at the invisible burden on the teenager’s shoulders, which smoothed themselves to stiff even as Kojuro looked away from them to the one that was… “That’s two negatives – did not and nothing, which means something.” Shigezane rolled his eyes—framed in paint and powders that, Kojuro was somewhat startled to observe, were very flattering to his skin—at the grammar lesson, and Kojuro made himself continue. “So what did you mean, Shigezane?” He’d been dying to ask, and yet simultaneously suspected he would be better off not knowing why the pair of them were pretending to be man and wife.
Silence.
For a brief second, Masamune looked like he might cry. There was a hitch of breath that alarmed Kojuro, but the next, the adolescent’s face hardened, and smoothed into something daring and dangerously calm.
Kojuro hated that, even as he recognized it was necessary. A hardened shell was a surer protection than an exposed softness, but in some sense, it was a retreat. Not for the first time, Kojuro swore to learn sufficient strategy to guide his young lord through the offense, that someday he would not need to retreat into a shell to survive. Shigezane had heard the hitch too, and glowered furiously at Kojuro, skinny arms crossing across a growing chest.
The effect was diminished, somewhat, by the red paint on his lips, and the fine silk of a lady’s robes encasing those arms (not because Kojuro did not believe fine ladies to be formidable, that had more than been proven by Masamune’s own lady mother, but because it was so very like a rebellious teen, and Kojuro had–though it would shock the young charges in front of him–been one of those, once. Briefly.)
Kojuro did not glare back. He simply arched a brow and waited.
Neither teen budged.
Well, he wasn’t stupid. And best he could tell, no one else had caught on, only he, to the true identities of the wayward couple. And no one else would, given the amount of sake flowing freely, and the fact Kojuro had marched them back to his own quarters. “Very well.” He managed not to sigh, but felt his brows come together in a weary sort of concern for the pair of them. In the interest of fairness, he murmured, “Shigezane, you look very nice, by the way.”
He was unprepared for the eruption of glee from the messy-haired teen, who surged into the air with a whoop of triumph before launching himself and Masamune, who looked startled at the sudden intrusion to his personal space, but otherwise not terribly concerned as Shigezane draped himself over the other boy’s shoulders. “I toldya! I TOLDYA he’d tell me I’m pretty!!”
Kojuro’s brows found his hairline again (technically he had said Shigezane looked very nice which was different than ‘pretty’, but, semantics) and he inclined his head, slightly, curiously, in Masamune’s direction.
Masamune just sighed.
But his cheeks, Kojuro noted with amusement he was terribly sure he oughtn’t feel, were bright pink.
Side Ponytail Relationship Success Support Squad – the ship no one asked for, I’m sorry!
Watercolor background by Balasoiu. Reference one & two
Officially, Kiyohiro oughtn’t approve.
Emotional attachments are liabilities in the shared business of Iga villagers, and he has seen their cost paid enough times to understand why they are considered so; it’s much easier to clean blood off your blade that never belonged to someone once held dear.
But there’s something nice about seeing them form, and blossom.
The softness in the Lord Assassin’s smile looks like it belongs there. Like its shape has settled and sealed some shattered foundation and strengthened it.
Hi, if you're doing headcanons, how about this? The MC (and probably Sasuke) hand-draw memes to entertain themselves, but the warlords find them hidden in her room while MC is away. How do they react? Whichever warlords you want to do is fine. :)
Thank you so much for sending in a request! I love memes, and I absolutely loved doing this request. I’m sorry that it took so long to do - I wanted to make sure I did it justice~ I hope that you enjoy it and that I was able to deliver!
If you enjoy my work, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi, ikesenrambles. I don’t have much spending money for Ikesen since I’m saving my paychecks to cover college. Supporting me on Ko-Fi would mean that I have pocket money for the little things that bring me joy, like Ikesen. I would be able to buy premium routes, which in turn means that I can learn more about the warlords & write even better stories for you to enjoy. ♡ It would really ~meme~ a lot to me.
MC’s Doodles: Nobunaga and Hideyoshi
Sitting on the dais, a thoughtful smile plays on Nobunaga’s lips as he carefully studies a lost page of your sketchbook. “Hideyoshi, come here,” he commands. Immediately, Hideyoshi rises to his feet and approaches.
“Our new chatelaine is rather entertaining, don’t you think?” Nobunaga muses. “She captures my likeness quite perfectly. Even the emotion behind some of my deepest desires and my most intimate whims…”
“If you would allow me to see…” Hideyoshi’s voice trails off. Nobunaga hands him the slip of paper only for Hideyoshi’s eyes to widen in flustered disbelief. “Is this… k-konpeito!?” he blurts in a panic, shaking his head furiously at your seemingly blatant disregard for Nobunaga’s health. “My sincerest apologies, my lord, but I will not allow this kind of provocative propaganda in the castle!”
“Stand down, Hideyoshi.” The simple command from his master is enough for Hideyoshi to bow deeply in apology. “It’s a rather tasteful portrait of me,” Nobunaga tells him. “I would like to see it displayed in the castle.”
With a hesitant sigh, Hideyoshi nods in reluctant resignation. “As you wish, my lord. I’ll see it done.”
MC’s Doodles: Ieyasu and Mitsunari
“Mitsunari–!” An astonished, overemphasized gasp penetrates thoughtful silence as Hideyoshi comes swooping in between Mitsunari, Ieyasu, and Masamune, who are snooping through your private sketchbook behind the closed doors of your chamber. “Don’t you know how rude it is to look through another person’s belongings without permission?” He scolds the three with a firm shake of his head, grabbing the book from Mitsunari. “I expected better from you two especially,” Hideyoshi puffs in frustration, turning a pointing finger toward Ieyasu and Masamune.
Ieyasu rolls his eyes sarcastically in response while Masamune chuckles softly to himself, shaking his head at Hideyoshi’s overreaction. Per usual, it takes a few moments for Mitsunari to fully return to reality, his eyes continuing to scan the space in front of him despite his hands being empty. When he finally does, he cocks his head to the side in curious consideration, mulling over the words written on the page he had just studied. “I don’t quite understand,” he admits with sheepish innocence. There is not an ounce of offense or annoyance in his voice.
“This is…” Hideyoshi stifles another sound of surprise as he allows himself a peek at the contents of your sketchbook. His face reddens at your unexpected profanity. At a loss for words, he quickly closes the book shut and tucks it back under your pillow. “Lord Mitsunari, please be assured that she was only joking–!”
“Don’t even bother,” Ieyasu interrupts Hideyoshi with a scoff as he attempts to explain the illustration to Mitsunari. “It’s a joke, Mitsunari. Someone as dense as you couldn’t possibly understand.”
Mitsunari’s face softens at what he interprets to be gentle reassurance from his close friend, Ieyasu. “Of course, Lord Ieyasu would never say something with the intention to harm,” Mitsunari says confidently, flashing an even wider smile at Ieyasu, much to Masamune’s amusement and Ieyasu’s utter disgust.
MC’s Doodles: Yukimura
It’s a hot, summer afternoon. You and Yukimura are lazing under the cool shade of a tall tree, enjoying the rare luxury of idle time, when inspiration for a new kimono design suddenly strikes you. You ask Yukimura if he would retrieve your sketchbook for you, which you left in his room.
Yukimura agrees, finding your sketchbook tossed on your futon. Curiously, he flips through a few pages of your designs to admire your artistic ability. Before long, however, a particular doodle of yours catches him off-guard and captures his attention.
The illustration seems to depict Yukimura himself. He spends a few moments just staring at it, trying to decipher what it could possibly mean. “I don’t get it…” he murmurs to himself, stumped.
“Of course you don’t.” Yukimura hears a soft sigh behind him as a hand clasps him gently on the shoulder. “Please tell me didn’t call her this right after you two…” Shingen’s voice trails off.
“Right after we…?” Yukimura repeats thoughtlessly, not quite sure of what Lord Shingen meant to ask him. Shingen only raises an eyebrow in response until the young vassal, finally understanding, cringes. Embarrassment appears all over Yukimura’s face as his cheeks flush bright pink.
“O-of course I wouldn’t!” he says defensively, shutting the sketchbook closed with a loud thud. “Anyway, it’s none of your business what we did–uh, or didn’t do–!”
Shingen can’t help but smirk at Yukimura’s denial. “Ah, so my little Yuki is now a man,” he muses teasingly. “Had you paid more attention to my habits, perhaps you would better understand how to please the second sex.”
“The what now–?” Yukimura groans at Lord Shingen’s unsolicited advice, marching out of the room. “It wouldn’t make sense to compare her to a summer’s day. They have nothing in common,” he grumbles under his breath on his way out.
“I really failed you, didn’t I?” Shingen mumbles with a disappointed sigh.
MC’s Doodles: Kennyo
“Looks like the Oda princess left behind her valued notebook… how foolish of her,” Kennyo speaks in a grim tone, a sinister smile appearing on his scarred face as he picks up your forgotten sketchbook. “Now…” The vengeful desire in his darkened voice is tinged with self-satisfaction. “What precious secrets could Nobunaga’s favorite woman be hiding?”
The man’s husky voice cracks slightly as he stammers out in confusion, “Is that… me?” He coughs loudly to counter the bewilderment - and even slight embarrassment - in his speech, forcing a frown to mask the sheepish expression on his face as a warmth begins to spread across his face. “As if the hatred in my heart could be distilled by such simple means,” he mutters with a bitter scoff as though offended by your uncanny ability to read him.
“Abbott, is everything alright?” One of the disciples peers into Kennyo’s shed, concern in his eyes. “We are all set for the ambush tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” Kennyo whispers, a sickeningly twisted grin appearing on his face. “Tomorrow, we will take back the dignity that was stolen from us at Honno-ji. We will purify our perished brethren with the spilled blood of the Oda.”
Once the disciple leaves, Kennyo turns his attention to the little weasel curled up in the corner. “Come here, Hozuki,” he calls to it in a soothing voice. It nuzzles into the palm of his hand, enjoying his gentle touch.
Suddenly coming to terms with his predictability, Kennyo sighs in frustration, crumpling your drawing and discarding it on the floor before continuing to pamper the tiny animal.
Sasuke’s Doodles: Kenshin
Yukimura and Shingen stand around Sasuke’s study table, completely in awe of a hidden treasure they’ve happened to stumble upon in Sasuke’s room: the ninja’s precious research journal.
Sasuke’s handwriting is hurried but clean: nothing less than they would have expected from the genius ninja. On lined pages are complicated mathematical formulas and comprehensive calculations that neither Yukimura nor Shingen know what to make of.
From behind the two, the sliding doors are roughly thrown open as Kenshin strides toward them impatiently. “What’s taking so long? I’m thirsting for the thrill of battle,” Kenshin mutters with a disgruntled sigh.
“Hold on just a moment,” Shingen orders, beckoning Kenshin to take a closer look at Sasuke’s notes.
Ever stubborn, Kenshin firmly refuses. “I will not.” Forcefully, he shakes the journal from Yukimura and Shingen’s prying hands. As the three tug on the notebook’s pages, the journal falls flat on the floor, opened to an even more perplexing illustration.
A doodle depicts Kenshin casually choking Sasuke, who, even in his precarious position, wears a mask of nonchalance. Written in bold text underneath the drawing are the words, “You’re weak Sasuke.”
Upon seeing the drawing, Shingen laughs softly. “It looks to be a friendly joke about the Dragon of Echigo’s peculiarities,” Shingen muses aloud.
“A joke?” Yukimura scoffs and shakes his head. “This happened for real. I would know. I was there!”
Kenshin’s frown soon softens into a smile that, though genuine, is somewhat terrifying given the context of the illustration. “Ah, yes,” he murmurs in a voice that almost carries with it a sense of nostalgia. “I remember Sasuke’s first days with us.” Picking up the journal, he reminisces fondly of the ninja. “There’s nothing like some good-natured sparring. I wonder, perhaps Sasuke is trying to tell me that he would like a rematch.”
Sasuke’s Doodles: Ieyasu
You are out shopping with Ieyasu when you catch Sasuke stealing glances at the two of you from behind a gingko tree. “Just a moment, okay?” you reassure your boyfriend, squeezing his hand softly as you let go to hurriedly rush to Sasuke’s side for a quick conversation.
When you don’t return soon enough, Ieyasu becomes suspicious. Both you and Sasuke can feel his hot gaze observing from where you left him, his fingers curled in a fist around the baskets of groceries that he’s been carrying for you.
“What were you talking to him about?” Ieyasu asks as he possessively wraps his arm around your waist in a show of territory in front of Sasuke. You can’t help but giggle at Ieyasu’s inability to hide his jealousy. His face flushes at your soft laughter, and he avoids your gaze, embarrassed.
“It’s not me that he’s interested in,” you tell him, retrieving a piece of paper from the sleeve of your kimono. “Here. He wanted me to give you this.”
Ieyasu snatches the note from your hand. The pink shade of his cheeks deepens as he reads over it “Ng–!” A quiet sound of surprise escapes his lips, followed by an uninterested scoff. “This… I…” He sighs, tucking the note away. “I don’t understand why you hang out with that weird ninja.”
“Yasu, he’s my friend. Be nice,” you scold him teasingly, tugging on the sleeve of his kimono. “Come on, I told you, didn’t I? There’s nothing to be jealous about.
“Who said I was jealous?” Ieyasu scoffs again only for the timid blush of his cheeks to betray the annoyance in his voice. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter who he’s interested in, anyway.” He pulls you even closer. “You’re mine and mine alone, okay?”
Bonus Meme:
All of the above memes were made by yours truly! The alignment chart above was found here & filled out by me!
If you want, tag yourself for the alignment chart~!
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A special shout out to @mythiica for reviewing my memes for quality! It gave me the confidence I needed to be myself with these! (＾▽＾)
idk enough about yoshimoto or motonari yet to decide whether or not I like them and I don’t particularly care for kenshin or shingen. These are my ships though! I didn’t include myself in the mix because I don’t actually like shipping myself lol
Mitsuhide sighed, Hideyoshi had yet again cornered him in the hallway and demanded that he swear his loyalty to their lord. As fun as seeing Hideyoshi riled up was his constant paranoia was getting to be quite tiresome. After a moment of thought, an idea flickered through Mitsuhide’s head and a scheming smile played across his lips, a smile that Hideyoshi did not miss. Crowding even closer to Mitsuhide, Hideyoshi slammed his hands on either side of the wall, caging the other man in between his arms.
“Is something funny?” Hideyoshi growled.
“Not at all,” Mitsuhide replied, but despite his words, his smile only grew larger. If riling the other man up this way was getting old then he would just have to find a different way to rile him up. Mitsuhide placed his hand on Hideyoshi’s chest and leaned inwards, bringing his lips close to his ear. “It’s just if you wanted to press me against the wall so badly you could’ve just asked.” Upon hearing those words Hideyoshi pulled away from the shorter man faster than one could blink with a flushed face and a scandalized expression.
“I-.. wha- T-that’s absurd! What are you saying!?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Of course you are!”
“Well with how often you seem to want to trap me between your arms, I was beginning to think that these interrogations of yours were just an excuse to get close to me. Though I must say, that blush your sporting doesn’t help convince me in the slightest.” At that, Hideyoshi blushed harder and turned his head in a vain attempt to hide it. Mitsuhide again stepped close to Hideyoshi bringing his hand up to his racing pulse.
“You may deny it but my offer still stands,” he said with a smirk and nothing short of bedroom eyes. Hideyoshi sputtered and then turned and stomped off, muttering curses along the way. Mitsuhide watched him go with a look of amusement. He may have just found his new favorite game.
What have I done?
This isn’t nsfw, but it does have mature implications. Also, as this is based off of Genya’s Thrill of Romance story, this is Genya x Shigezane, so be warned if you don’t like that. Adding onto that, I feel like I botched their characters. :/
Hm. I’m trying too hard. Let’s just get on with it.
Without further ado… (oh gosh what have I done what have I done what have I done)
My birthday is in ten days y’all (July 16, AKA Yeshaween according to @a-shout-to-the-void), and all I really want is for my dash to be FUCKING FLOODED WITH CONTENT FEATURING YOU ALL.
This is how it works! You can participate in part one, part two, or both! They are as follows:
1. MAKE SOME CONTENT
What kind? All kinds! Do you do moodboards? Art? Write? Imagines? I WANT TO SEE THEM ALL! I’m going to put a list of prompts/ideas/characters that I’m super psyched about at the bottom and you can pick one and use it!
Don’t worry: if you really want to make content for someone/something I haven’t listed, go for it! I’m super happy just to see content in general.
Tag me in it, and I’ll reblog it on here (complete with reaction!) from 7/16-7/20!!!
2. MAKE A DONATION
Note: Do not do this if you don’t have the funds to spare. It’s okay, I get it!
If you donate to either RAICES or MMIW (Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women/Coalition to Stop Violence Against Native Women) from now until 7/20, I will write you a short piece (1-2 pages) of your choice! (No NSFW content if you’re under 18) Send me a date or timestamped confirmation of your donation, and let’s talk!
—–
PROMPTS
Characters:
>IkeSen: Masamune, Mitsunari, Mitsuhide, Kenshin, MY OTHER JULY BOI YUKI AYYY, Yoshimoto
>IkeRev: Blanc, Seth
>IkeVamp: Napoleon, Mozart, Leonardo, DAZAI (it me), Shakespeare, Theo
Quotes:
>“Pretty sure that doesn’t go that direction.”
>“Left… a little more left… a little–okay no.”
>“I didn’t know popcorn was that flammable.”
>“I feel like you’re making these numbers up.” “I polled.” “Who?” “…never you mind that.”
>Anything from Hozier
>Anything from Lord Huron
>Literally anything from Shakespeare (come at me h8rs)
Scenarios:
>Detective Noir Au
>Someone’s birthday!
>A midnight walk
>Literally anything that involves NB main characters (pls)
>Regency AU (not that @a-shout-to-the-void and I are working on something involving this or anything #sweat)
>Pool/lake/ocean fun! (Someone splash Yuki)
>DEMON/ANGEL AU!
>HALLOWEEN IN JULY LETS GO
>Aesthetic™ Content
>If someone does Ocean!Mitsunari a la To Honor and Protect I will literally die and love you forever
areudirty
andulkaphoto
romaincrisis
annaxmalina
