james and reg meeting through dorcas and marlene getting married (they're both the best men) and regulus asking dorcas who the hot guy dancing like an absolute idiot to the spice girls with a margarita in his hand and the tie around his head is and dorcas just smiling because she knows reg is gonna love him
Shit fucking blows dawg I was reading a peter parker x reader fic just now on here and some how tumbler just moved they ass and now my shits gone. Im trying to find it but all I see is SMUT CAN YALL RELAX A BIT. when i came outta there i was HURTING! I was reading a good ass hurt/comfort fic with a slight happy ending that mind you I DIDNT GET READ BECUZ TUMBLR GOOFY ASS WANNA MOVE IT!!
Uhh angsty stuff, also I am not a good writer here so apologies for any mistakes.:
Malachi was devoted or obsessed with Amphinomus because he wasn't like the rest of the suitors who were arrogant and greedy nobles. Malachi declaring whether silently or directly is indebted of his life to Amphinomus, the man whom he owes his life for and because he thinks the Dulichium Suitor gave him hope that maybe Malachi could save him and etc.
The fact Amphinomus remembers Malachi, his childhood friend, 'brother' in arms, and etc. Malachi having false hope that Amphinomus wouldn't become like the others, placing his loyalty for Amphinomus, as the highest priority next to Penelope and Telemachus.
Only for that to shatter him when he found out the truth of Amphinomus' family. His basque grandfather was the tormentor of his family. Whom Malachi spent years hunting down for revenge, hungrily, and angrily and to make the last remaining descendant of the same grandfather who made his family suffer pay. Amphinomus being unaware, shocked to learn about it.
Malachi couldn't bear to kill Amphinomus, instead drops the knife. He yelled at Amphinomus to leave this palace, go somewhere safe.
Amphinomus looks at him gently and says "Why won't you come with me too? Here you are wretched enough. I owe you not just gratitude, but my life too. Come with me, where we live somewhere in peace.”
It tempted Malachi to go with him, the voice that urged him to be in his arms.. but he already made a choice and so he tells the prince. "I cannot, for I have loved this island and bear my misfortunes for it, so I will die to this.. You must go, save yourself..”
"Malachi-”
"Go my Lord! You are wasting time!"
After saying that, Malachi didn't waste time, he gently grabbed Amphinomus' hand, lifted it and held it. Then, he placed it onto his lips, kissing it passionately with mixed reverence. As if he is a soldier kissing a glorified God's hand before going to war. His black eyes meet green trembling ones. He hears the choked gasp the prince left out, as if he tried to repress that he will weep through a devoted man.
“Go.” He whispered. His one last words.
Amphinomus' own hands tremble. Malachi no longer held his hand anymore. Amphinomus yearns for that cold hand to be wrapped into his. After a few silence hours. The dulichium suitor left, reluctantly holding the door like he was thinking to be in the arms of the guard again, the man who he once knew..
But unfortunately, fate isn't merciful. If only there was a universe where they were together. No generational trauma, war, corruption. Just peace and them..
Amphinomus then vanished into Malachi's sight... That is when the guard turned around and stared at where the prince had left.
No matter, he will always save his life for Amphinomus. He will always own his life for him. He was made for him as Amphinomus was made for him.
Yes Malachi is if not a fool.
Edit: Hi! Miva here, if anyone is curious about what happened between them, you are free to ask questions in the comments or asks! ^^
the rule of one touch and the benediction of honey
You start bringing honey.
Not the fancy kind — plastic bear, supermarket shelf, a little ridiculous in your pocket next to the rosary.
The first night you set it beside the kettle and Sukuna eyes it like you just smuggled contraband through customs.
“Honey?” he says, mouth tilting. “Vai adoçar o demônio?”
“Só um pouco,” you answer, and he huffs, regaled despite himself.
Tea, two glasses.
The room holds that tired red glow, but it’s quieter than usual, rain is flattening the street noise outside. You twist the cap, the bear’s face crinkles. You pour a thin gold ribbon, and he watches with a focus that feels like touch.
“What is it this week?” he asks. “Confession? Exorcism? Sermão?”
“None,” you offer, calm. “A rule.”
He lifts a brow, lazy and sharp.
“Oh?”
“One truth and one touch,” you say. “Every time I come. Your choice or mine. But only one of each.”
He stares like you just offered him a knife with the handle facing his palm.
“You’re trying to ration me.”
“I’m trying to keep us alive,” you say, as evenly as you can.
He laughs low — the sound of a lock clicking open or shut, you can’t tell.
“Tá. One truth, one touch. You first.”
You think.
The truth arrives with zero elegance, like it has been waiting.
“I want to stop pretending I came here for you,” you say. “I came because something in me recognizes something in you and calls it home.”
Silence, quick and full.
“That’s big,” he says after a beat, voice softer than the light. “Too big for your veil, santinha.”
“My veil isn’t a ceiling,” you say.
He sits with that, cheek propped on his fist, eyes on your mouth again because he’s stubborn and you let him be.
Then he nods, as if conceding a point in a fight he plans to win later.
“My truth,” he says. “I like the way you look at me after I say the worst thing about myself. Like you measured it and still stayed.”
“I did.” you say.
“Pois é.” he murmurs, almost to himself.
“Now a touch,” you say, pulse flicking. “Your pick.”
He thinks like a thief choosing which wire to cut, then he pats the bed beside him.
“Vem cá,” not a command, an invitation.
You sit, careful.
The room shrinks to breath and cotton and rain.
He doesn’t reach for your waist or your throat or your mouth, none of the places he could claim and ruin with ease — he takes your hand like he’s shaking on a deal.
Fingers interlace. His skin is warm and nicked with work, yours smells faintly of chapel soap and city water.
It is a small touch, almost nothing.
It feels like stepping through a door that was always unlocked.
“Só isso?” you whisper, startling yourself with the relief.
“For now,” he says, pleased. “Rationing, remember?”
He squeezes once and releases, genuinely obeying the rule, and you love him a little for it, which is a problem you accept like rain accepts the roof.
The rule holds — it becomes a scaffold you both build with a stubborn tenderness that would look like defiance to anyone else.
Another night, your truth.
“Sometimes I’m scared that saving you is just an excuse to stay near you.”
His truth.
“Sometimes I’m scared that letting you save me is the only way I know how to be near you.”
Your touch.
You smooth his eyebrow with the pad of your thumb where a thin white scar breaks the hair.
His touch.
He sets his forehead to yours and breathes you in like steam.
On a slow Tuesday, he brings you a trinket, a single metal bead from a busted bracelet, heavy and imperfect.
“For your rosary,” he says, eyes inconveniently gentle. “The one that broke.”
You roll it in your palm, it clicks against bone.
“Did you steal this?”
“Provavelmente.” He looks unrepentant. “I’m giving it to God through you. Consider it laundering.”
“Not how that works.” you say, smiling despite yourself.
“Everything is how I make it work,” he says, and the arrogance should curdle, but today it doesn’t.
Today it sounds like a boy who refused to starve.
One truth, one touch.
Your truth.
“I prayed last night and didn’t ask God to change you.”
He goes very still.
“And?”
“I asked to love you honestly,” you say. “Whatever you are.”
His hand finds your jaw, and he stops himself at the last second like slamming brakes before a cliff.
He huffs, frustrated by his own obedience, then trades the hungry touch for a permitted one, knuckles ghosting the line of your sleeve, wrist to elbow, like he’s memorizing the map of someone allowed to stay.
“Your turn,” you say, voice thread-thin.
“My truth?”
He leans back on his palms, eyes on the ceiling as if he’s talking to the plaster.
“I want quiet. I make noise for a living. I want… a room where I don’t have to perform.”
His glance cuts to you.
“This one doesn’t count. You make me perform softness.”
“And you hate that?”
“I hate that I like it.”
“Good,” you say, and he bares his teeth at you — amused, betrayed, soft.
Rain stops. City breathes deeper.
He stands, restless energy back, and gestures toward the door.
“Roof,” he says abruptly.
“Why?”
“Because it’s our one touch,” he says, unexpectedly shy. “I want to show you the city when it doesn’t want anything from me.”
You climb narrow stairs that smell like mopped concrete and cigarettes.
The roof is slick and honest — Belo Horizonte spreads out like a patient map — hill lights, wet tile, slow buses. He doesn’t do the cliché of wrapping you in his jacket, he just stands close enough that your shoulders share heat.
“My touch,” he says, remembering the rule, and takes the veil’s edge between two fingers.
He doesn’t lift it, he doesn’t intrude, he just feels the fabric, rubs the weave like he’s learning a language by hand.
“It’s lighter than I thought.”
“It’s not armor,” you say.
“No,” he says, almost tender. “You are.”
You don’t say thank you.
You don’t say anything.
Your one touch tonight is a small blasphemy, you press your mouth to the place on his bicep where the skin is unmarked, a dry kiss, the kind you could give a relic, a child, a doorframe you trust. He inhales like a man bracing for pain and finding something else.
“Careful,” he says, rough.
“I am,” you answer.
The city shivers off the last of the rain.
The neon below blinks awake again, he tips his head toward your shoulder, not putting weight, just settling the crown there for a beat, like a king who takes his rest where it’s offered.
You let him.
You stand like that long enough for the air to cool your cheeks and warm your ribs.
“Tomorrow,” he says into the fabric. “Same rule.”
“Tomorrow,” you echo.
You go back down.
On the landing he stops you with a lift of his chin.
“One more truth?” he asks, breaking the rule on purpose and waiting for the penalty.
“You’ll owe me a touch,” you warn.
“Pago,” he says. “Truth, I want to kiss you the way I kiss nobody else.”
You stare at him.
The honesty doesn’t crash, it settles — like furniture placed where it belongs.
You feel the want shiver through you and then sit, obedient, exactly where you tell it to sit.
“Then don’t.” you say softly, and the way his eyes darken says he heard the rest of the sentence you didn’t speak — not yet.
He smiles, unhinged and almost sweet.
“Tá bom. Amanhã.”
You leave the honey on his nightstand.
He doesn’t touch it.
Next evening, there’s a clean spoon waiting, two glasses, and the bear is less ridiculous somehow.
He watches the gold ribbon fall, then lifts his eyes to yours and nods like he’s agreed to something bigger than either of you said out loud.
One truth. One touch.
A life, leaking tenderness, held on purpose.
Yours. Only yours.
Weeks stretch. Your rule holds, one truth, one touch.
It becomes liturgy.
Some nights the truth is small enough to cup in a hand.
“I never finish the last bite,” he says once, pointing at a plate. “Superstition. If I leave a little, nothing ends.”
“Everything ends.” you say.
“Not if I make it disagree.”
“Meu Deus.” you sigh, fond.
He grins, satisfied.
Some nights the truth is heavy.
“I used to sleep in bus stations,” you admit, voice steady. “I memorized departures because it felt like hope. Sair já era alguma coisa.”
He doesn’t joke, he just nods like he understands travel as a wound.
Touches are careful, almost plain.
You fix his collar.
He tucks a loose hair behind your ear with the back of one finger.
You press a thumb to the scar along his eyebrow.
He rests his mouth for a second against your temple — breath and warmth, nothing more — then obeys the rule and steps back, teeth showing in a frustrated smile.
“Um dia.” he says.
“Not yet,” you answer and you’re not cruel, just honest.
He keeps the honey, adds a spoon that isn’t stolen and cleans it after, which is its own prayer.
He builds a little shelf from a broken drawer, hangs it badly, swears in the middle, then fixes it.
Teakettle, two glasses, bear — everything has a place.
Domesticity looks ridiculous on him until it doesn’t.
On a Monday that smells like wet concrete and oranges, a letter comes from your prioress, dates, decisions.
The paper is thin and it’s official, your name looks older on it. You fold it once, then again, then pretend it isn’t a weight in your bag.
He notices anyway.
Of course he does.
“What’s in the envelope, santinha?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.” He doesn’t say it unkindly. He taps the bag. “Truth?”
You breathe.
“They want me to set a date,” you say. “First vows.”
He goes very quiet. The rain slows. The city seems to lean toward the window to listen.
“And what do you want?” he asks.
You hold his gaze.
“I want to be honest.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one that doesn’t hurt when I say it,” you tell him.
His mouth tilts.
“That’s new for you.”
“Don’t be an ass,” you say, too gently to sting.
He hums, thoughtful, then gives his own truth to balance the scales.
“If you go,” he says, “I won’t come drag you back. I don’t want to be the reason you betray yourself.”
You didn’t know you were waiting for that mercy until it arrives — your lungs change shape around it.
“Thank you,” you say.
He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his hand flexes once by his thigh like something in him wants to break furniture and he is choosing not to.
“Touch?” he asks, rough.
You nod.
He doesn’t take your mouth or your wrist, he slides his index finger along the spine of the letter through the canvas, tracing the edge like he’s blessing an altar piece.
“Whatever you choose,” he says, very quiet, “I stay chosen.”
The week turns on that sentence.
Your truths get truer.
His do, too.
Your truth.
“I don’t want to save you anymore.”
He lifts a brow, wounded and amused all at once.
“Perdeu a graça?”
“I want to be with you,” you say. “Saving you was how I stood near you without admitting it.”
He stares, then laughs once, almost voiceless.
“Okay. My truth. I stopped taking late jobs on the days you come.”
“Since when?”
“Since the first time you said ‘tea,’” he answers, unashamed. “I didn’t want to arrive after you and find you gone.”
You blink.
“Sukuna—”
He cuts you off with a lift of his chin.
“Don’t make it a sermon. Make it a rule.”
“What rule?”
“We don’t punish each other for wanting,” he says. “We say it. We sit with it. We don’t turn it into a weapon.”
You nod, throat hot.
“Rule accepted.”
The next touch is nothing and everything, you lace your fingers with his under the table and keep them there while you both drink.
The honey tastes different that night, warmer somehow, like gold learning to be food.
One evening, when the heat is lazy and the moon is a pale coin above the roofline, he leans against the window and watches your reflection in the glass instead of your body.
“My truth,” he says.
He never warns.
“The face paint? The marks? Everyone makes up stories. Here’s the real one, I did them myself. Not for anyone else. For armor. For symmetry. For… belonging.”
He says the last word like an insult he’s reclaiming.
You turn, slow.
“They’re beautiful,” you say, simple as bread.
He blinks like you reached out from ten meters away and touched his throat.
“You would think that.”
“You made them on your own body,” you say. “You gave yourself a face to meet the world. That is prayer.”
He rolls his eyes.
“You call a lot of things prayer.”
“Maybe prayer is just the name I use for anything we do on purpose.”
He lets that sit, then he offers his hand, palm up.
His touch tonight is yours to choose — you turn it, press your mouth to the center where callus meets lifeline, dry and reverent.
“Careful.” he murmurs, familiar, changed.
“I am.” you say, familiar, changed.
Days draw a circle around you.
You keep walking it, not trapped, chosen.
Someone starts leaving flowers in a chipped vase at the end of the hall, and every time you pass, you move one fallen petal back into place.
He sees you do it once, doesn’t comment, but later you find the vase in his room with water that isn’t cloudy.
You draft a reply to the prioress and don’t send it.
You spend an afternoon in the chapel, your cheek against wood, your heart turned honest.
You do not ask God to pick for you.
You ask God to bless you if you choose the life with this man, holy not because anyone says so, holy because you will make it so.
When you climb the hotel stairs after, he’s pacing — too much energy for the small room.
He stops when he sees your face, something in him goes still the way the sea goes still before dawn.
“Okay,” he says. “Tell me.”
“Two truths,” you answer, breaking your own rule with both hands open. “First, I’m not taking vows this year.”
He makes a small, complicated sound.
You hold up a finger.
“Second, I want to try. With you. Not secret, not shame, not rescue. Só nós. Devagar. Honest.”
His eyes, always bright with trouble, do something rare, they soften without losing any heat.
“My truth,” he returns, immediate, equal. “I want the same thing.”
The room changes temperature, you feel it like a front moving through bone.
He moves, then stops himself, then laughs, a little wild.
“Touch?” he asks.
“Touch,” you confirm.
He comes close, slow, for him, and reaches up to pinch the edge of your veil like he did on the roof.
“May I?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t strip it away,he folds it back from your face with care he usually spends on knives.
Your hair catches a little, he frees it, clumsy and tender.
He sets the cloth over your joined hands like a small white tent, like a canopy, like a promise.
Then he looks at you properly, with nothing between.
“This is the part where I should be filthy,” he says, wry and quiet. “I got nothing.”
“You have something,” you say. “Say it clean.”
He exhales like a man setting down a weight.
“Be mine,” he says. “Not owned. Chosen. If you want. I’ll learn how.”
“I already am.” it’s not poetry, it’s a receipt.
He laughs, startled, joyous, hands shaking just enough to make you brave.
You lift your mouth.
The kiss — when it finally happens — doesn’t perform. It doesn’t prove. It doesn’t drag.
It lands and holds.
He kisses you like a secret he doesn’t plan to keep but will protect anyway.
You answer like a prayer you wrote yourself and finally dared to say out loud.
He pulls back first, pupils blown, breath uneven — his forehead rests against yours, a gesture you’ve learned by heart.
“Holy.” he says, half-mocking, half-convinced.
“Holy.” you agree, fully.
After, nothing collapses.
You don’t float.
You change your habits like moving furniture back two inches so the room makes better sense.
He texts clients to shift appointments earlier, he takes the late slot off his list on your nights without explaining why, he keeps the shelf tidy and buys better tea.
You stop counting the minutes you can stay, you start counting the ways you can show up clean.
You tell your prioress you need a year to discern outside the walls.
She writes back with a blessing that is short and surprisingly kind.
You and he craft a handful of rules you don’t hate.
No lying, no vanishing without a word.
No punishing each other for wanting.
If someone asks what you are to each other, you don’t joke it away.
If you’re scared, you say “I’m scared” before you say anything else.
He breaks the “no vanishing” rule once and fixes it with three truths in a row and a long, quiet night sitting on the roof, shoulder to shoulder, watching buses move like veins.
There is a small ritual now when the kettle clicks, he places the clean spoon between you like a baton, and whoever lived the harder day stirs first.
Some nights it’s him, some nights it’s you — honey glows in glass like a simple kind of miracle.
One last truth, you say one evening, almost a month after the letter, the heat humming in the walls.
“Your name.”
He goes still in that way that means he’s already decided.
“Ryōmen,” he says, soft as the edge of a blade wrapped in cloth. “Don’t make it pretty. It never was.”
You repeat it the right way, careful with the vowels.
He closes his eyes like it matters in a place that doesn’t give things back.
“Now yours. Your true name.” he demands.
You give it.
He holds it like he held the rosary that first week, not grabbing, not testing, carrying.
Touch.
He kneels — not performative, not dramatic, just the body’s most honest height — and presses his mouth to the back of your hand.
You don’t move for a long time.
When he stands, he’s grinning again, dangerous and bright, but the danger has a home now and it is not you.
“Tomorrow?” he asks, old joke, new meaning.
“Tomorrow,” you say.
He walks you down the hall.
At the stairs, he stops like he hears a thing you don’t. He turns, digs in the drawer, and comes back with something small and warm from his pocket, another metal bead, imperfect twin to the first.
“For your rosary,” he says. “So you remember we’re both counting.”
You thread it onto the cord right there on the landing, tie a knot with your teeth, and laugh when the bead clacks against the next prayer.
He laughs, too, and the sound isn’t armor anymore.
You go, because leaving and returning is part of this holiness you’re learning.
On the sidewalk, the city smells like diesel and pão de queijo and rain on dust. You feel his gaze on the back of your neck like sunlight and make yourself not turn, not because you’re playing a game, but because you don’t need proof.
Tomorrow you’ll bring new tea.
He’ll make the shelf level.
You’ll both fail a rule and fix it.
You’ll kiss like it’s a craft you intend to master.
You’ll keep one truth and one touch and add a thousand small ones until they make a life.
Not rescued — not redeemed like a billboard.
Just chosen, and kept, and quiet.
Honey-thick, roof-cool, candle-soft.
Holy because you say so and then live like you meant it.
♡ Hideo who promised he won't get drunk when he goes out to celebrate a mission well done with his teammates and ends up passed out on your porch with sober Mika and Shion recounting the events of the night.
♡ Hideo who hates getting the silent treatment but lets you run your mouth with a heavy gaze and a bemused expression. "You settled now, baby?" You'd hear behind your ear as he trapped you in his arms.
♡ Hideo who doesn't really know how to apologize but knows how an apology works so he buys you flowers, your favorite chocolate brand, and a writes an apology on fancy stationary paper that with brown teddy bears to leave on your front door.
♡ Hideo who doesn't let go of you the day he discovered he was getting drafted to kill Yokai in an isolated dangerous land.
♡ Hideo who has a picture of you tucked in the breast pocket of his uniform and occasionally puts a hand on his chest to feel connected to you.
♡ Hideo who has the picture clenched in his fist as he breathed through the pain. Dread in his veins with the harrowing thought of leaving you forever waiting for him at home.
♡ Hideo who holds it against the trigger in dire situations so that every kill is dedicated to getting home to you.
♡ Hideo who can only relax by knowing he came home to you.
My favorite kinda assholes are the ones full of ego<3.
"Are you sorry?" The smaller boy asked the purple one. The purple boy looked down at the pale boy. The boy who'd never get a chance to grow tall like him. "In every universe." He replied, his voice raspy. His mouth was barely moving.
"Are you sorry?" The boy asked his older brother, the older one staring down at him with tears in his eyes. A small girl drawing by his side. "In every universe."
"Are you sorry?" He asked his brother, the blonde haired boy looked at his brother. He didn't know how he'd respond to this. In his eyes, he didn't exactly do anything wrong. The blonde one was as pale as the first boy. The older one looked at his missing arm and then sighed. "In every universe." He finally said, his voice a whisper.
