#[Polished Smiles and Practiced Perfection; My Drabbles]

[the-writerwoman]

I'm back, with my amazing drabble idea! I won't lie, I fell asleep halfway through writing this and forgot what I was doing :D and I googled the script to get an idea of the conversation.

So I was watching the 2005 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice and I thought "Omg, Wade and Logan would be perfect for this! Logan, the brooding Mr Darcy. Wade the sharp minded and outspoken Elizabeth. The brooding and pining, the slow burn. It's perfect. Chef's kiss.

Neena is Domino for those who don't know. She takes place of Charlotte, Lizzie's best friend. Dermot is Mr Bingley, Jean grey is his sister and I made Scott her husband in this, even though she still has a thing for Logan. They all just fit, it's too perfect :D

Enjoy!

______________

The music swirled around the grand ballroom as couples danced gracefully across the polished floor. Wade stood near the edge of the dance floor with Neena, watching Vanessa and Dermot move elegantly in time to the music as the song ended. Wade, always the observer, leaned toward Neena with a smirk.

“Well, he’s besotted, isn’t he?” Wade murmured, nodding toward Dermot. “Practically floating. I’d wager Vanessa could ask him to bark like a dog, and he’d do it.”

Neena giggled softly, shaking her head. “At least he’s kind. Vanessa could do far worse.”

“Kindness is overrated,” Wade said, rolling his eyes. “Give me wit, charm, or—”

“Trouble,” Neena interjected with a knowing smile. “Which is why you’re standing here instead of dancing.”

Before Wade could reply, Dermot and Logan stopped just a few paces away, not noticing them. Dermot, flushed with the exhilaration of the dance, turned to his brooding companion.

“Logan, come on, you must dance!” Dermot urged, his cheerful voice cutting through the chatter. “I hate to see you standing there like a statue. At least pretend you’re having a good time.”

Logan shook his head, his arms crossed as he leaned casually against a pillar. “You know how I feel about dancing.”

“You’re impossible,” Dermot said with an exasperated laugh. He gestured toward the crowd. “But look around, have you ever seen so many beautiful women in one room?”

Logan’s gaze swept over the ballroom before settling back on Dermot. “You’re dancing with the only truly beautiful woman here,” he said plainly.

Dermot grinned, his affection for Vanessa clear. “She’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. But her brother, Wade, is very… agreeable.”

Wade, standing just out of their line of sight with Neena, raised an eyebrow at the remark. “Oh, how thrilling,” he whispered to Neena. “I’m agreeable. That’s just above tolerable, isn’t it?”

Neena tried to suppress a laugh, but her eyes sparkled with amusement.

Logan’s voice, low and dismissive, followed. “Perfectly tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me.”

Wade’s smirk froze.

Logan continued, his tone indifferent. “You’d better return to your partner and enjoy her company. You’re wasting your time trying to drag me into this nonsense.”

Dermot laughed good-naturedly and left to rejoin Vanessa. Logan, as impassive as ever, stayed where he was, sipping his drink and watching the crowd.

From their place behind the column, Neena turned to Wade, her expression sympathetic but tinged with humor.

“Ignore him,” Neena said softly. “He’s so disagreeable it’d be a misfortune to be liked by him.”

Wade’s smirk returned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh, don’t worry. I wouldn’t dance with him if he were the last man in Canada.”

“Good,” Neena said, linking her arm with his. “Now, shall we find the punch bowl? Or would you rather talk about how utterly ‘tolerable�� you are?”

“Punch first,” Wade said breezily, though his glance lingered briefly on Logan before he turned away.

~~

Dermot stood with Vanessa, Wade, Logan, and Scott near the edges of the dance floor, a pleasant tune in the air. The room was alive with the sound of conversation and laughter, but Wade’s attention had settled on the small group, his sharp wit ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

Dermot turned to Vanessa with a warm smile. “Your brother, Miss Bennet, has quite the gift for conversation. He’s very amusing.”

Wade grinned. “Ah, Mr. Bingley, you flatter me. Amusing is just a polite way of saying I talk too much, isn’t it?”

Vanessa shook her head fondly. “It’s better than being dull, Wade.”

Logan, standing slightly apart, muttered under his breath, “Depends on who’s listening.”

Wade’s grin faltered for half a second before he recovered, his eyes flicking toward Logan. “And here I thought brooding silence was a charming personality trait. You must be the life of every party, Mr. Darcy.”

Dermot, ever eager to diffuse tension, jumped back into the conversation. “Do you think conversation is the true key to affection, Mr. Bennet?”

“Not at all,” Wade replied, leaning back against a pillar. “Conversation can only do so much. Real affection is built on something stronger, something that a few awkward words can’t undo.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “And what about poetry? Surely that has its place in building affection.”

Vanessa nodded. “Yes, Mr. Summers, poetry has inspired many a romance.”

Wade groaned dramatically. “Poetry? The food of love? Hardly. If anything, poetry is the quickest way to kill a weak affection. One bad sonnet and it’s over.”

Dermot laughed. “Surely you jest, Mr. Bennet. Poetry is meant to inspire!”

Logan, who had been silent until now, added quietly, “I thought poetry was supposed to nourish love.”

Wade turned to him, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, perhaps it does. But only for a love that’s already strong. A fragile affection, though? One overwrought sonnet and it’ll wither faster than an unwatered plant.”

Logan’s gaze sharpened, and for the first time, his lips curved into a faint smug smirk. “So, what do you recommend then to encourage affection, Mr. Bennet? Since poetry seems so dire to you.”

Wade hesitated for a moment, then his grin widened, full of playful challenge. “Dancing, of course. Even if one’s partner is…” He paused, letting his gaze sweep over Logan with mock consideration. “Barely tolerable.”

Logan stiffened, his expression faltering for the briefest of moments before he looked away. Wade’s grin only grew as he inclined his head and took a deliberate step toward the dance floor.

“Speaking of which,” Wade said over his shoulder, “I think I’ll find someone who can keep up. Enjoy your poetry, gentlemen and Sister.”

As Wade disappeared into the crowd, Vanessa gave Dermot an apologetic smile, while Scott tried to stifle a laugh.

Logan stayed silent, his gaze fixed on the space Wade had just vacated, his jaw tightening as a faint blush crept up his neck.

[pars-ley]

The Drabble game seems fun!!

✨Jackson

🖤Enemies to lovers

✨prompt # 8

A lil angsty & smutty pls!

Congrats on 800 🎉

Title: Just like magic Pairing: Jackson Wang x (f) reader Summary: You and your colleague have never got on, he irritates you more than anyone you know, and especially when you attend a work event to announce your imminent promotion. But what happens when you're not prepared for the unexpected. Genre: Enemies to lovers / idiots to lovers / colleagues to lovers / office romance / one shot / angst / smut Rating: 18+ (NSFW) Warnings: Unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it) / breast play / finger play (f. recieving) / heavy making out / Explicit language / cumshot W/C: 4.7k Banner: me Beta: @flurrys-creativity you're the best cheerleader ever! Notes: Thank you to this anon, I was super excited to write this one and the inspiration just kept coming, I hope you enjoy!

A groan rumbles in your throat, as your heels click against the stone steps ascending into the tall, old building being used as this year's work party venue. 

“It won't be that bad,” Mark's voice next to you brings you some comfort, as he squeezes your hand, encouragingly. Glancing down at his polished nails, painted by you and you squeeze his back.

“Thank you for coming with me, honestly, you're the best friend a girl could ask for.”

“I wouldn't let you endure tonight alone,” he says, holding the large door open and gently placing his hand on your lower back, guiding you inside.

Your footsteps echo as you cross the large, ornate foyer, where one of the servers points you in the direction of the hall, the music muffled behind the closed doors.

“You ready?” He asks.

You nod and thread your arm through his, before taking a much needed deep breath. Tonight's work party is to celebrate the accomplishments of the company for this financial year. And most importantly the new creative director of events would be announced. You've worked your butt off for this promotion for two years, you've planned the most events out of anyone else in your company and with excellent reviews. All of this has not been without plenty of sleepless nights and working late. Now, it was all about to pay off and you felt like you could breathe again, but this work party had been filling your stomach with butterflies ever since it was announced. You hated being the centre of attention, plus the fact the promotion would be announced in front of everyone and you had to do a speech, made you very uncomfortable.

You walk into the large crowded room, suits and gowns as far as you can see. A large piano sat in the far corner, where a lady in a lavish blue dress and long black hair played an elegant piece, hitting the keys with perfect precision.

You drag Mark to the bar, insisting on a drink before any greeting, that is until you hear an all too familiar voice behind you. None other than Jackson Wang. 

“Mark, my man, it's been a while since y/n’s dragged you along to anything.” He says, no doubt shoving his hand into Marks. You take a few gulps of your martini.

“Another please.” You mouth to the bartender, tapping on the glass. 

You finally face Jackson, not even bothering with fake pleasantries.

“Y/n, you look…” he pauses for a moment and clears his throat, “nice.” He says the words as if they would choke him upon their exit and you can't help but roll your eyes. 

“Gee, thanks,” you mumble, your nerves of tonight's events, making you far less patient for Jackson Wang than usual. 

You two have been practically mortal enemies since his arrival at the company. He has been here half the time, does half the work you do and yet, gets most of the praise. But boy, does he love to rub it in. Everything about him rubs you up the wrong way.

“You seem to be in more of a mood than usual.” He remarks, “I thought you'd be celebrating by now.”

“Yes, well not everyone likes being the centre of attention, Jackson.”

He smiles, seeming awkward at the bite in your retort. “Well, Mark, great to see you as always.” They shake hands and hug once more, before Jackson turns back to you, placing a hand on your shoulder and says, “good luck, y/n.”

Your irritated glare burns holes in his back as he walks away.

“You need to cut him some slack,” Mark's voice sounds next to you, annoyance blooming like a tree inside you, “he was just trying to be nice.”

You fight the urge to snap at him, taking a breath before speaking, “no, nice and Jackson Wang are two words that can't coexist in the same sentence in regards to me. He's nice to you, yes. Me? Absolutely not. He’s sarcastic and loud and he doesn't care about anyone but himself.” You down the rest of your drink and pick up your second that waits for you at the bar.

“I think you're wrong about him. He's just-”

“Chaotic, arrogant, self-centred, conceited. I could go on if none of those work.” You reply dryly, ignoring the eye roll he throws your way.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” your boss on the microphone startles you out of your current conversation and has your stomach doing somersaults. “Can you all gather around, please?”

Mark holds out his arm for you, “shall we?” 

Grasping it like your life depends on it, your feet move mechanically towards the crowd at the stage. Your legs feel like they would surely give way under you, if you weren't leaning on him so heavily.

“Now, it's the time we've all been waiting for folks…” he smiles cheerily. “I'll keep this brief, as I know everyone is eager to delve into the celebrations…” 

You attempt to control your breaths and hope to slow down your rapid heart beat, pounding alarmingly hard against your rib cage.

“...creative director is a prized position in our company, and so, of course we had to make sure we chose the right person…”

A loud swallow seems to echo around you as you try to quell the dryness in your throat. How on earth will you be able to do a speech?

“...we need someone who will continue to bring in fresh ideas, someone who will create trends and not follow them and someone who will do their best to strive for this company…”

Your ears throb, mimicking your heartbeat and making your boss's words quiet.

“...it is my utmost pleasure to introduce to you, your new creative director…Jackson Wang!”

Your legs wobble and Mark clutches you to his side, his eyes straight on your face. But you couldn't look at him. Instead you're scanning the room, finding Jackson as he climbs the stairs onto the stage. A wide Cheshire grin stretches across his face, too wide not to have known that was coming. Your blood boils in your veins, an unbearable heat rising up through your body and straight to your face, making your head feel aflame. You flash back to his ‘good luck��� to you only mere moments ago and your chest fills fit to burst with a scream you dare not let escape.

All around you a muffled call of “speech, speech,” slamming its way into your ears like a steel drum.

No matter how much you don't want to watch this scene play out, your feet are frozen to the floor beneath you, unable to do anything but stare.

He laughs, “wow, uh, believe it or not, for the first time ever, I'm speechless.” 

The crowd erupts into laughter, only infuriating you more as your fists clench into tight balls at your sides. 

“Hey, let's get out of here?” Mark says attempting to soothe your anger but you don't miss the slight panic in his tone.

There's a brief moment of Jackson meeting your eyes and you could swear he almost faltered while making his rehearsed speech…almost but he recovers and you can't bear to see anymore. You let Mark lead you slowly out of the large room, following blindly alongside him, numbness taking over.

You both come to a stop in a quiet part of the building with no prying eyes or ears. Mark comes round in front of you, taking both your hands. “I'm sorry, y/n.” He whispers. 

A hot tear rolls down your cheek and it's only then you realise your blurry vision is because your eyes are a dam ready to overflow. Cheering in the distance trumps again and you guess he's finished his speech. 

“Do you want to go?” Mark asks bending down to try and catch your eyes, but your stare is fixated on the marble flooring.

You did, of course you did. You wanted to run as far away from this as you could but, you were expected to be here, your boss will want to talk to you, no doubt and you don't want anyone thinking you ran off and sulked, especially not Jackson. The last thing you would do is let him see you upset because of him, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Swiping harshly at the wet trail down your face, you swallow your pride down and take a deep breath. “I can't, I have to stay.”

He says nothing but nods in understanding.

“Give me a few minutes ok, I'll meet you back inside.”

He eyes you carefully. “Are you sure? I can wait here for you?”

Smiling, you lay a hand on his chest. “I'll be fine, I promise. I'll see you inside.”

Reluctantly he agrees and heads off back into the main venue, looking behind him once to check on you. Once he's out of sight you head to the bathroom to freshen up, needing a moment to collect your thoughts. Thankfully the mirror is unoccupied giving you the chance to touch up your makeup. Smoothing down your dress, you release a steady breath, feeling calmer and more prepared now you are in control of your emotions. However, when you open that bathroom door, you're met with the last face you expected to see waiting for you.

“Y/n,” Jackson breathes, seeming relieved.

Your fists are balled up at your sides in an instant, all your calming positivity thrown out the window from just your name on his lips.

Gritting your teeth to keep your cool prevents you from replying.

“I'm so glad you're still here.” He takes a hesitant step towards you.

“Where else would I be, Jackson?” You snap.

He stills, his face falling and eyes suddenly so sad and vulnerable it hurts your heart. The fact you feel guilty for your response has you doubting your feelings, but you push it aside. No, he's the one that's done this, he's taken something you've worked so hard for.

“Y/n, we need to talk.”

A bitter laugh escapes you, “you're the last person I need to speak to.”

You try to walk past him but his hand comes out, grabbing your arm gentle but firm, your head snapping back to him.

You realise then this is the first time he's ever touched you, unsure as to why that thought enters your head, you push it aside.

“Y/n, please.” His pleading eyes pull at your heart, as confusion muddles your mind further.

Shrugging out of his grasp and folding your arms across your chest, you say, “you have five minutes.”

He breathes a sigh of relief and closes some distance between you. “Thank you.” He smiles, seeming to ease the tension but maybe he's just smug that you've relented.

“I know that we haven't always seen eye to eye,” he starts and you can't help but scoff at the understatement. He ignores and continues, “but I want you to know that I've refused the promotion.”

Your mouth falls agape. Never in a million years would you have guessed that's what he was about to say. “Why would you do that?”

“Call me crazy,” he takes slow steps towards you, your arms fall at your sides even though you feel more tense than ever, “but I think a promotion should be earned.” 

You're still waiting for the punchline but when there's only an inch between you, you look up into his dark eyes, open and honest and find your wilful thoughts faltering.

“You've worked harder than anyone in this company to do that and I've expressed that to our managers. You've not been recognised for all the work and revenue you've bought in for them. If I'm honest, I think you'd be better off elsewhere, but that's not my business.” He holds his hands up, surrendering before you can snap at him again. Only this time, your anger and annoyance has dissipated, left with only awe and bemusement in its place.

Your eyes narrow at him, still unwilling to completely let go of the distrust you hold. He smiles at your suspicion. “Feel free to go in and ask Mark, he is my witness, I'm a man of my word.”

There's a long pause, unwavering eyes on one another in the empty corridor, before he swallows and looks at his feet, shifting awkwardly on the spot.

“Anyway, I just wanted you to know. I'll see you around y/n.” 

He starts off towards the exit doors and something inside you rises up, unwillingly to stop this conversation, the words fly out of your mouth, “why are you being so nice, now?” 

He turns and smiles sadly, “I've been trying to be nice to you for months.”

Instantly, you're ready to argue but he puts a hand up to stop you, “you assume the worst of me and I'm not really sure why?”

For once you are at a loss for words, thinking back to every conversation you've had recently, could you have misinterpreted him? Or was he right, and you've just been looking for a negative brush to tar him with?

“But you're always so…” you're unsure where to start but decide on the least offensive first, “loud.”

“Did it ever occur to you that perhaps, I'm trying to get you to notice me?”

Your eyes snap across to his, feeling sure you would see the teasing in his eyes and when you don't, you feel more confused than ever. “Well, what about this, you tease me so often I never know when you're serious.”

He takes a step towards you. “I tease you to make you laugh.”

“But what about when you're always showing off?”

Another step closer. “Once again, trying to get you to notice me.”

You're desperately trying to connect a puzzle in your head but the pieces just don't seem to fit.

“But why?”

He laughs, shaking his head at you and swiping a hand through his hair, a move that he makes looks so devastating, your thoughts still. “I like you, y/n, I have since I started working here. I was hoping our fiery banter would turn into something more but…I never realised how much you despised me until tonight.”

A rock of guilt and disappointment lands in the pit of your stomach at his words.

“I'm sorry, truly, I didn't mean for there to be any miscommunication or to have upset you in any way. I should have just been up front and honest sooner,” he explains, making you feel worse.

Standing here looking at him now, how sincere and exposed he is, you realise what an idiot you've been.

The office is always full of laughter when he's around, something you'd assumed was at your expense, but he was aiming for your laughter instead. He was always speaking up in meetings, trying to pitch his ideas, you'd assumed he was talking over you and attempting to prove he's better, but it was all for your attention. Every compliment he'd given you had seemed sarcastic and full of mocking, instead he was just being awkward and unsure of how to communicate with you.

“No,” you say, closing the distance between you, “I was wrong, I read you completely wrong, all due to my own stubborn and selfish thoughts. I'm sorry, Jackson.”

The blush that crept across his cheeks was something you'd never imagined and made him look even more handsome. 

A slow melody sounds around you, echoing down from the main function. 

He clears his throat and holds out a hand to you. “Could I be so bold as to ask you to dance?”

You hesitate, although you're surprised at how badly you want to. “Here?”

He nods, a breathtaking smirk plays on his lips and needing no more encouragement, you take his hand and let him pull you to him. His arm wraps around your waist, holding you to him as your feet move perfectly in sync, slow and deliberate.

Neither of you say a word for the entire song, just enjoying the closeness, though unexpected and when the music stops so do your feet.

“I always thought you hated me.” You can't help the nervous laughter that escapes as your bodies remain pressed together.

He looks down at you, hooking a finger under your chin, “I'd rather fight with you, than be with anyone else.” 

You realise now how serious he is, how much he means everything he's said to you and…much to your surprise, how much you want him too.

Without overthinking or second guessing, you grab the lapels of his blazer and pull him down towards you. He eagerly obliges. Not before cupping your face with gentle hands and touching his lips, softly but assertively to yours.

Your mouths explore each other in a passionate dance, tongues swirling and lips moving together perfectly, until you're both breathless and pulling away, fighting for air. 

“You wanna get out of here?” You ask, your core throbbing with an unexplored want. 

He nods frantically, pulling out his phone and requesting a cab. 

“Come on, 2 minutes.” He takes your hand and pulls you towards the exit but as you leave the main doors and the chilly night air hits you, you remember someone.

“Wait, I need to find Mark.”

“No need, princess,” Mark's voice sounds from behind and you spin to see him casually leaning against the wall. “I'm waiting for a taxi as we speak, you go and have fun.” He winks at you and you resist the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl.

“See Mark, I knew I liked you.” Jackson says before leading you back down the steps and to your waiting car.

“Hurt her and I'll break you in half!” Mark calls out and you can't help but laugh, knowing how serious he is.

As Jackson pulls open the door of the cab you slide in, he follows you in quickly and slams the door.

“Your place or mine?” He asks.

“Mine’s closer.” You rattle off your address to the driver, before your mouth is on Jackson’s again.

Feeling needy and eager as his hands explore a pathway down your body, you resist the urge to climb on top of him.

“Did I mention how good you look in that dress?” He whispers against your lips.

“Not really no,” you respond, as your lips make their way down his neck, relishing the way his breath hitches in his throat. 

“As soon as I saw you tonight, all I could think of was peeling this off of you.” He grabs at the material around your legs, bunching up to reveal your flesh. His fingers skate slowly up your thigh but he pauses and grabs them instead, letting out a frustrated growl. “I’ve wanted you for so long, these last few moments feel unbearable.”

You feel powerful and confident as you decide to make matters worse for him. Gliding a hand up his muscular thigh until you reach his crotch, you can feel his erection through the fabric of his trousers and you palm at it teasingly. He sucks in a breath and then holds it, biting his bottom lip with pleading eyes aimed at you. Smiling, you have to resist the urge to unzip him right there but the car comes to a stop, much to your relief.

Jackson tips the driver and helps you out of the vehicle. 

Grabbing his hand, you race to your front door, fumbling to find your keys in your purse with the other hand. He presses the front of his body against your back, his hands wandering all over you, exploring an urgent pathway that makes you want to melt against him. The click of the lock has you growling with fervour, as you roughly push your way inside your apartment. Spinning, your lips are on his, burning with a passion you've never experienced, as your hands are whipping off his tie and rapidly tackling the button on his trousers. Your hands slide up under his shirt while he clumsily tries to undo the buttons, you however, have no time for that. Ripping open his shirt, and hearing the spray of the buttons as they scatter around your living room floor.

“Sorry.” You whisper breathlessly.

The smile you feel against your mouth tells you he doesn't care one bit, and before you know it, you're stumbling through your bedroom until your back knocks into your dresser.

His hand grasps the back of your knees suddenly, and before you can register, he's scooping your legs up and lifting you onto the wooden top. He glides the material of your dress up and over your head, only briefly breaking the contact between your bodies, before slotting himself in between your legs

His fingers find the hem of your underwear and pull them off quicker than you anticipate, having to hold yourself onto the edge of your dresser.

Your fingers run along the hard muscles of his chest and down his stomach, you're desperate to have him inside you. No thoughts of teasing and drawing this out, you wanted him to quench this unbearable thirst, now.

Reaching inside his briefs, you free his erection from its clothed prison, he's rock hard in your hand and you can't help the desperate whine that escapes you. Lining him up to your entrance, you use your legs to guide him in. 

He pulls his lips off you and searches your eyes, cupping your face in his hands. “Are you sure?”

You nod frantically, “please, Jackson, I need you.” 

His mouth connects to yours, more hungry and desperate than before and he pushes himself forward slowly, sliding into you and stretching you open.

The resounding groan from the two of you, sounds animalistic and raw. No holding back, just giving in to your feelings and desires. 

Watching each other intently, panting with excitement, time seems to slow down. The mood changes around you. Having him in such an intimate manner opens your eyes, seeing him clearer than ever, as if for the first time. You hold his face, pulling him down to you with a kiss that's different, not full of eagerness and impatience, but comfort and understanding.

When he bottoms out in you, he pauses, savouring the moment between you, tongues dancing softly together but it's not long before you find your impatience growing again. With your legs hooked around the back of his, you pull him forward, and grind yourself up against him, willing him to move.

He grunts and gets the message before he's pumping in and out of you in a perfect rhythm, making your heart pound wildly in your chest, so loud you can hear the echo in your ears, thumping away.

He grabs at your bra and pulls it down, freeing your breasts, his hands are on them in an instant, massaging them.

The sound of your dresser squeaking under the movements and pressure beneath you, only turns you on more, at this point, it could collapse under you and you'd still continue on their tirade.

Your hands find his buttocks, squeezing the flesh as you control his movements, wanting him harder and faster, the pressure building up inside at an alarming rate. 

You admire his body, toned to perfection, your gaze travelling up to watch his face, as his eyes are solely focused on his dick sliding in and out of you. The groans coming out of him are so sinful it makes you feel hot inside, too hot, like your skin could burn off your body at any minute and as the pressure inside grows intense, you realise you're dangerously close to a very powerful orgasm.

“Just like that,” you gasp, unable to say much more from the pleasure tightening everything and strangling your words.

“You close, baby?” He asks, eyes on your face as you nod. He smiles, looking pleased with himself, “I want to see how pretty you look when you come.” He bites his own lip, as if trying to hold off his own climax. The idea of that is all you need for the pleasure bubble inside you to pop and your body contracts aggressively around him, as you’re blinded by white light. 

“Oh, yes.” He whispers, as he holds your face towards him, while he helps you ride out your high. The pulses continue on until they die down and suddenly he's pulling out of you and pumping himself with his hand, until he explodes all over your stomach and chest, leaving white ropes of ecstasy as evidence on your skin.

Leaving your head on his chest, trying to catch your breath, he strokes the skin on your back.

After a few peaceful moments, he places his knuckle under your chin and lifts your head up towards him, planting a tender kiss to your lips.

“Come,” he says, pulling up his trousers and then scooping you up in his arms to take you to your bed.

Your eyelids feel heavy and you can feel the adrenaline leaving your body as you curl up into his side, the last thing you remember is his lips against your forehead.

*

Opening your eyes, you're met with bright sunlight streaming through your window, you can hardly keep them open. Rolling from your front to your side and feeling for your phone on the bedside table, you check the time. 10.05. Not too late for a Sunday. Glancing down you notice your naked body, as the memories from last night's events come back thick and fast as you sit bolt upright, eyes darting around the room.

“Jackson!” You call out through the ajar bedroom door, wondering if he's somewhere else in the flat.

Silence. 

Your stomach sinks slightly. Did you fall for a complete fabrication of feelings for a one night stand? Checking your phone; there's no missed calls or messages from him. Flopping back down on your bed, you pull the sheet over your head, feeling embarrassed and stupid and wanting nothing more than to hide away from the world. How were you going to face him at work tomorrow? Did any of your colleagues see you leave together? The thought churns your stomach, regret starting to seep in, hurting your chest with every new thought or worry. 

A noise in the distance distracts you momentarily from the chaotic thoughts using your brain as a roundabout. You sit up, hearing someone moving around in your kitchen, could it be him? 

You get out of bed quickly and quietly, pulling on some shorts and a vest, giving yourself a quick check in your mirror, that's when you notice your makeup and other items that neatly sat on your dresser, scattered all over the floor. A flush travels up your neck with the images from last night. 

You swallow them down and tiptoe out into the open plan living room and kitchen.

There he stands, dressed in his suit trousers and shirt, at the counter, putting something on a plate, humming quietly to himself. The sight pulls in your chest and you can't help the smile that pulls your mouth as you lean casually against your door frame.

He turns towards you, carrying a tray with what looks like an iced coffee, panini, a plastic bowl of fruit and pancakes. When his eyes notice you, he freezes, his cheeks flush red briefly as he beams at you. A smile so captivating you can't believe you didn't appreciate it before.

“Hi,” you break the silence first.

“Morning,” he says, dreamily, then shaking his head as if to snap himself out of his daze, he adds, “I thought you might like breakfast. I didn't know what you'd like, so I got a selection.” He stands there, seeming awkward, his usual confidence gone. 

You walk towards him, taking the tray and placing it on your dining table. “It all looks amazing, and very thoughtful. Thank you, there is something I'd like for breakfast.” 

He frowns, bewildered from your actions, as you watch his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows. You close any distance between you, playing with his shirt and notice the question in his eyes.

“You.” You reply, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

He's on you in an instant, lips dancing hungrily with yours as he lifts you and carries you into the bedroom, leaving your breakfast waiting for when you've stated the hunger you feel for him.

[happybird16]

Pet Names 🐾

a silly little drabble for @chaotic-on-main's Cringefest!!!

Levi x gn!reader

Warnings: vague thoughts of cheating, but other than that it's just cringe

The front door closes behind you with a solid click, signaling your arrival home and the end of a long day. As you hang your bag on the coat rack, a sigh of relief escapes your lips, carrying away the weight of the day's work. The familiar sounds and scents of home envelop you, offering a sense of comfort and solace.

To your surprise, it seems Levi has finished his meeting earlier than expected. The sound of the washer and dryer fills the small entryway, their rhythmic vibrations reverberating in the air. Swiftly kicking off your shoes by the door, you call out into the house, "Levi, I'm home! Work sucked, but what else is new?"

However, there is no immediate response. Your voice must have been muffled by the noise of the laundry appliances. Curiosity piqued, you make your way down the hallway, guided by an unfamiliar sound emanating from the bedroom.

"Levi?" you call again, the sound growing clearer as you approach. The tone you hear is unlike anything you've heard from him before—a soft, baby-talk-like cooing, filled with tenderness and warmth.

An uneasy thought flickers through your mind—could he have someone in there with him? Suppressing your rising horror and disbelief, you move down the hallway with cautious steps, the silence only disrupted by the hushed glide of your socked feet on the polished hardwood floor.

"You're such a sweet girl, aren't you? Such a perfect little Princess," Levi's gentle whispers reach your ears, tinged with an unexpected affection. Pet names and endearing terms aren't usually part of his vocabulary. The silence between his words is filled only by the distant hum of the washer and dryer, and the gentle hum of the AC. Could he be practicing pet names? The thought amuses you, momentarily easing your disbelief.

Finally, you reach the bedroom door and steal a glance inside. The sight that greets you brings a mixture of delight and amusement, and you can't help but stifle a giggle with your hand.

Levi is sprawled across the bed, his body curved protectively around the small form of your cat. The rhythmic purring from her tiny frame fills the room, a testament to the contentment she finds in his presence. With adoring eyes, she nestles herself against his chest, one paw kneading into his shoulder while the other stretches into the air, blissfully reaching for an invisible goal.

Amidst this heartwarming scene, Levi exclaims with exaggerated surprise, "Oh, look at that belly!" His hand gently scratches the cat's exposed stomach. "So soft! You're getting a bit fat, huh, sweet tea? My fat little pussycat."

He playfully catches hold of her paw, his thumb tenderly pressing against the small pink pads. "Look at these beans!" With his other hand, he dives into the depths of her fur, offering a soothing rub behind her ears. The cat responds with a contented meow, leaning into his touch. "Such a precious little face," he murmurs with genuine adoration.

It's hard to believe that Levi was initially hesitant about having a cat, citing concerns about fur and litter. Yet now, seeing him engrossed in these tender moments, your heart swells with warmth and joy. You lean against the door frame, a wide smile spreading across your face, as you silently observe this adorable interaction.

"You're such a good girl for me, huh? Daddy's little lovebug," Levi continues, unaware of your presence in the doorway. "You deserve an extra treat tonight, huh, puss?"

Amusement bubbling within you, you decide to join in on the fun, interjecting with a playful tone, "You give Matcha treats?"

Startled, Levi's body jolts, causing the bed to shake. Even Matcha appears momentarily taken aback by your sudden arrival, sitting up to stare at you with wide green eyes. Flushed with embarrassment, Levi's cheeks turn a vivid shade of pink, extending all the way to the tips of his ears.

"How long-" he begins, his usual gruff tone making a swift return.

"The whole time," you interrupt with a mischievous smile, deciding to playfully tease him a little further. "Why don't you call me your sweet little pus-"

"Shut the fuck up," Levi hastily cuts you off, his face deepening in redness. His embarrassment is palpable. "Don't you dare ever tell anyone."

Laughter bubbles up from deep within you, filling the room with a lightness that washes away the stress of the day. Walking over to the bed, you sit down beside Levi, patting Matcha softly between her little ears. As you lean in to give Levi a gentle peck on the cheek, you assure him, "Your secret is safe with me, my sweet little lovebug."

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

An Offer

Warnings: coercion, threats, slightly blackmail-ish, intimidation, entrapment, implied noncon

This is dark!(lumberjack/nomad) Steve Rogers and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Steve makes you an offer you can’t refuse.

Based on this drabble request:

Nomad Steve Rogers + “You'll never find anyone better than me.” + Lumberjack AU + Smashed and broken dreams of a good career forces reader back home. With a degree in her hand but no real chance of finding a good job reader has to accept any job she finds and Steve isn’t making it easy cause he wants her so he sabotages any job opportunity to make her depended on him. This really hits home 😭. Sorry 😭.

When you sat in your college lectures, you never expected to end up there. Never expected to be carrying armfuls of wood to a large stack, splinters catching in your gloves as each piece clacked between the noise of the logs being split. You didn’t expect to be working for pennies, busting your ass for hours, just to pay for the room above the liquor store in your hometown.

You didn’t expect any of it. It was a surreal nightmare. It was as if that purgatory could never let you go. The small town’s always claimed what was theirs. Blood grown of that soil could not venture far before the roots dragged them back, a constricting coil around the throat.

Another log split, almost exploding as the two halves fell on either side of the stump. Steve took one and chopped it again, then the other. Perfect quarters for you to pile in your arms and add to the mounting stack. Your sweat soaked the flannel coat, the same kind your father wore when you were a child, the same that everyone in town seemed to have somewhere in their closets.

Steve rested the head of the axe on the stump and leaned on it as he watched you.

“Think that’ll do,” he said as you heard him scratch his beard, “supposed to be a mild winter.”

“Mild? Around here? You know that just means the snow stops at the knee, right?”

You carried the last of the wood to the pile and laid it out in the niches perfectly. It was like a Tetris game, every piece had its place. You clapped off your gloves and looked back at Steve as he shook out his jacket and pulled it back on. Even as his work left him sweaty, you didn’t know how he could stand to take it off and bear the bitter winds in only a tee.

“My knees are higher than yours,” he said, “think I’ll be fine.”

“Uh huh,” you put your hands on your hips and looked out at the trees, the sun setting behind them in an amber haze.

“Hey,” he interrupted your sightseeing, “how about you stay for dinner? I finally tried that chili recipe…”

“You? Cooking?” you shook your head, “so that’s why I’m out here lugging wood.”

“Is that yes?”

“Do you have pepto?” you joked, “sure, guess I could. Save me the trouble of opening a can at home.”

You followed him inside as he held the door for you. You shoved your gloves in your flannel pocket and hung it as you wiggled out of your boots. Usually you tidied and did the household chores as Steve worked outside. It wasn’t much of a job but there was nothing to be had in the lifeless town. Still, even with the work you found in the city, you couldn’t afford even a closet to live in.

The house was nice, big. The country land was cheap and as Steve told it, he built the entire thing himself. It was a wooden castle with better amenities than most of the antique houses in town. He bragged about how he chose every countertop and cut down every leg of every chair and sanded and polished the thick table over a willowy fall.

But you wondered how he ended up there. He wasn’t from the town and his accent was not of the nearby metropolis. He must be from far away. You could see it was an escape from the life he didn’t talk about.

You sat at the table as he clinked around in the kitchen. He came out with two red bowls and set one before you as he sat at the corner near you. He handed you a spoon with a wooden handle and you twirled it as you watched the chili steam.

“Did you make these too?” you asked.

“Ha,” he said dryly and stirred his bowl.

“Well…” you shrugged and looked around.

He smiled at you and leaned his head back until his neck cracked. He let his spoon rest and rubbed his jaw. It twitched and he looked out the big bay windows of the dining room, the ridged bark and overgrown grass staring back.

“I…” he shifted and leaned on the arm of the chair, “I slipped your pay in your jacket.”

“Oh, thanks,” you were embarrassed to talk about money. He knew how little you made even if he did pay you generously for the work you did.

“But… I did want to talk about it, er, about…” he sighed and rested his chin in his hand as he traced his lower lip in thought. He sat up and cleared his throat, “we get along, don’t we?”

“Sure,” you blew on a spoonful and tasted the chili. It was spicy but not bad.

“I know how hard it’s been, Maggie, Lester, Jeff… tough break.”

You swallowed and sat back. You frowned. “How did you…” your resume had been turned down by almost every business owner and manager in town.

“It’s a small place, like that box you’re living in.”

“Steve--”

“I’m not saying it to embarrass you but… because I… want to…” he gripped his spoon, thought about having a bite, then let it go again, “I want to make you an offer.”

“You pay me more than you should for doing your chores,” you left your spoon in the bowl and ran your nails up and down your jeans, picking at the little metal snap by the pocket.

“That’s not--” he squared his shoulders and all humour left his face. He bit down and the vein in his head surged, “you could live here. The place is more than big enough… lonely.”

“I can’t--”

“Please, just listen,” he raised his palms, “I’m lonely and you’re in a bind. We could help each other.”

You squinted and shook your head. He took a breath and leaned forward. He reached under the table and touched your knee. He slid his hand up your thigh until it met yours and you stopped him.

“What--”

“You don’t even have to keep on cleaning or any of that,” he said quietly, “just be mine. You’ll be comfortable here. All you have to do is… be here… with me.”

“Steve,” you held onto his thick fingers, “maybe you don’t mean it that way but I’m not… not a prostitute.”

“It wouldn’t be that,” his throat constricted, “it would be convenient; practical.”

“I should go,” you shoved his hand off of you and stood, “you did a good job with the chili.”

The chair scraped behind you as you stepped out from between it and the table. Steve was fast and caught your shoulder before you could evade him.

“Go where? Do what exactly?” his voice was stern and stolid, “huh? No one in town’s gonna hire you, we both know that. And you can’t make it in the city.”

“That’s mean, Steve, I want to go,” you pouted, “let me go.”

“Why can’t you see I’m helping you?”

“You have helped me but what you’re… offering is insulting, don’t you understand?”

“It’s generous is what I’d say,” he grabbed your other arm and pulled you close as he snarled down at you, “I can give you everything you need and want, all you have to do is give me…” his eyes crawled down your body, “a little sweetness.”

“Steve--”

“You’re proud, I get it, you don’t want to admit you have no choice but what happens when Fletcher needs that room for storage or he rents it out to a higher bidder? Where do you go then? Huh, you keep handing out that resume and what has that degree got you but sorrys and no thank yous?”

“Get off--” you pushed on his chest as he squeezed your arms painfully.

“Let me tell you I will be the only yes you ever get,” he growled, “I made sure of it.”

“Wha-- I--”

“I’m not driving you back to town,” he released you, “so if you really wanna go, if your pride is worth all that, you can walk and see if you beat the wolves. Or you can stay and earn that extra bill I put in your pocket.”

“Steve, what the hell?”

“Your call,” his fingers stretched around the waist of his jeans as he flexed his chest, “reception’s shit so good luck getting a ride.”

“You can’t--”

“Let me make this easy for you. Walk and see if you make it home, stay and you’re already home.”

You searched his face. You’d never seen this side of him. You blinked and spun on your heel. Fuck him. You’d drive yourself and he could tell the police you stole his truck. You ran to the front door and snatched his keys from the hook. You bent to grab your boots but his hand on the back of your neck stopped you. 

He wrenched you back and tossed you against the wall. The keys tumbled to the floor and he kicked them away, “no cheating,” he said, “you wanna go then?”

Before you could answer the high whine of a coyote cut through the air and the glass slats of the front door dimmed. You faced him and your heart beat wildly.

“Why?”

“You going?” he asked again.

“Steve--”

“Well?”

“You can’t do this,” you pleaded, “keep your money then. Just take me home.”

“No,” he marched towards you and pinned you by your neck against the wall. His hand threatened to stifle your breath as he leaned in, “go or stay?”

You batted away tears with your lashes. You turned your head as far as you could whimpered as the sky continued to darken through the marbled glass, “Steve.”

“Go or stay?” he rasped as his breath tickled your cheek.

You trembled and touched his wrist. He squeezed just a little and you gasped, “and if I get lost? If I die out there?”

His lips curved and he chuckled lightly, “you willing to take that risk?”

You watched him, looking for any crack in his veneer, looking for an ounce of the man who’d been your godsend in that desolate town. He wasn’t there. It had all been an act, a trick. He had you in his snare like any good hunter.

“What choice do I have?” you whispered.

He pressed his forehead to yours and his large nose brushed against the tip of yours, “I’m not that bad,” his other hand crept along your stomach, “you’ll see that,” he played with the ribbed cotton, “you'll never find anyone better than me.”

🪓🪓🪓

Please reblog and leave some feedback if you enjoyed. Thank you 💕

[we-love-imagines]

What the Jojo’s would get their (s/o) for their birthday

Hello everyone! My birthday is coming up soon, so I thought I’d take a little break from Last Train Home to write a fun little drabble. It’s just the anime only +SO for right now, I’m halfway through SBR! If you have any requests more more thinks like this, Feel free to reply/ PM me!

Jonathan Joestar

Jonathan is traditional in the sense that he likes simple, yet elegant gifts. He’s definitely the type to get you a fancy piece of jewelry, take you out to dinner, and enjoy a nice evening with you.

He’s a little scared that you won’t like surprises, so he’ll tell you his plans, and may even go so far to check if you like his gift before he buys it.

Even though he’s always a sweetheart, expect a huge wave of affection on your special day. Hugs, Kisses, Cuddles- whatever you want, he’ll give it to you.

If you have a specific hobby you partake in a lot (Painting, Writing, Music, ect.), he’ll get you something in that regard. He might get you a very expensive set of paints, a new instrument, a book you’ve had you eye on, whatever!

All he wants is to make you happy. Even though his gestures are kind of cliché and sappy, you can tell he put a lot of thought and love into them.

Ask and ye shall receive!

Joseph Joestar

Honestly, He kinda forgot.

But don’t worry! He was planning something! A spur-of-the-moment adventure!

He’d take you to a fun bar, on a scenic drive, or to a little fair for your birthday. Even when he remembers, he’s more focused on spending a fun day with you rather than material gift giving.

When he does get you something, however, it’s usually a memento of whatever you did that day. Like the stuffed animal he won you at the fair, a snowglobe from the beach, or a cute photo you two took.

Despite the lack of planning, he’ll make sure you have the most fun possible. He wants to see you smiling and laughing throughout the entire day.

He’s a little clumsy, but he means well!

Jotaro Kujo

Look, this guy is not one for affection, but he BRINGS IT on your birthday.

He plans it months ahead. He wants to give you an experience you’ll never forget. This includes mini-vacations, trips to a fancy spa, or renting a private house on the beach. I mean, he’s got the money...

Jotaro is a very left-brain guy, so in terms of material gift giving, he’d probably get you something practical. Having back pain? Uh- here’s a back pillow. Need a pencil sharpener for your job? Here’s a pencil sharpener.

They’re not the most romantic gifts, but it shows that he listens. He’s more focused on the events he’s planning, anyways.

During these little trips he’s a tad more affectionate than usual. While he’s usually not very into PDA, he’ll hold your hand while you two explore the new location.

Jotaro isn’t one for words, so he shows that he cares by giving you a memorable day.

Josuke Higashikata 

This kid is the birthday KING. From the moment you wake up to when you go to sleep, he’s working.

Totally the type to throw you a surprise party (unless you’re not about that!). He’ll get the whole gang together at Tonio’s and lure you in, telling you that’ll just be the two of you. He loves the look on your face when you see everyone there!

He’s all about gift-giving too! He’ll get you some designer shoes you’ve had your eye on, beauty products, and lots of little goodies just for you!

He would also probably get you a gag gift. Even if you’re an adult, expect at least one Barbie doll or a nerf gun, just for giggles.

Poor boy would try to make your cake himself. He swears up and down that he followed the recipe to the tee, but he’ll end up asking Tonio to make you one after a few botched attempts.

Josuke’s goal is to make you feel special! You’re the star!

Giorno Giovanna

Oh boy, Giorno will treat you like royalty for the day! Like, almost excessively.

If you don’t wanna walk that day, he’ll carry you. What you say goes!

He’ll start off by making you breakfast in bed. It’s cheesy, but he does it in such earnest it’s sweet!

For the rest of the day, expect little surprises while you’re pampered. Wanna see a movie? He’s rented out the whole theatre so it’s just the two of you. Hungry? Don’t worry, he already has a reservation at the most exclusive restaurant in town. Wanna just lay around all day and cuddle? He’s already got face masks, bath bombs, and nail polish for the perfect at-home spa day.

When it comes to physical gifts, Giorno writes the SWEETEST cards. Long, flowery messages straight from the heart.

He’ll like to get you something you’ll use/ enjoy. Books, games, clothing- something that will make you smile. He’ll probably surprise you with something a little fancier too, like some nice jewelry.

He wants to make you feel loved, first and foremost!

Jolyne Cujoh

Jolyne is pretty laid back when it comes to birthdays, but she still wants to show how much she loves you.

Expect a fun date! She’ll take you to a theme park, water park, outdoors for a nice picnic- anyplace where you guys can have some fun and get into a little trouble.

She’s the type who would get you gifts you two could use together. A two-player videogame, a camera, maybe even one of those sappy ‘couple’s journals’ if she’s feeling sentimental.

If you’re more of an indoor person, she’ll attempt to make you you’re favorite meal, curl up with you on the couch, and watch your favorite movie/show. It’s simple, but she knows you enjoy the little moments.

Jolyne just wants to have some quality time with you on your birthday. If it makes you smile, she’s all over it.

[parkerlyn]

ROs reactions to the MC going up to them and bowing, hand outstretched, saying "May I have this dance?"

💃🏻🕺🏽🎵🎶 yeeeessss I am soft for dancing!! (sorry this took forEVER it uhhh spiraled into 2k words haha. ROs names are colored for separated drabbles!)

Thank you for the asks! ❤️❤️

*At [insert event here] that involves dancing*

The Healer:

Their face has been lit by the swirling orbits of the dancers in front of the two of you, a slack-jawed awe frozen on their face as they watch the footwork of the closest couple. 

Which is why when you turn and ask them to dance, their expression throws you off kilter. Instead of the enthusiasm you were expecting, a chill falls over the air between you as their face morphs into...fear?

"Oh, uh-" The Healer seems to have dropped their confidence on the ground, by the way their eyes search it. "I'm alright really, I'd rather be a bystander."

"Really?” Your incredulous response brings back the light in their face for just a moment. “You?" 

"I'm..." They search the ceiling and the draped pillars now before muttering, "Imnotverygoodatdancingyoushouldreallydancewithsomeoneelse."

You blink. "Sorry, want to say that again?"

A sigh passes through their lips while they pull idly at their ear. "I'm...a little clumsy at these sorts of dances. Can never get all the steps in the right order."

Your face breaks into a soft sympathy and they can't help theirs relaxing in response. Still, you hold your hand out with resolution.

"We don't have to do the fancy steps, it's enough just to dance with you."

Reflections of you are clearer in their gold irises as their eyes widen, the smile spreading in turn. Finally, they take your hand.

"You do remember I literally crashed into you the first time we met, right?" At your expectant stare, they laugh. "Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you."

With that settled you lead them forward, feeling just the slightest bit of nervous resistance that melts away when you give a quick squeeze. You guide them to the corner of the dance floor away from focus, before turning and tentatively placing a hand on the luscious sash and decorated fabric draping over their shoulder, the other resting in their elevated hand. 

The Healer keeps their gaze locked to yours, uncertain what to do next and finding anchor in your eyes. Deliberately, steadily, you begin to rock to the right, then to the left, swaying your bodies in a gentle rhythm. Their eyes dart once with self-consciousness at the couples around you, before the movement hooks their focus back. Face transitioning into something more at ease, you feel them start to move with you instead of being moved by you.

The smile that illuminates their face practically jumps to yours, and they bring the hand they’re holding to press against their chest. Rumbling bliss echoes against your skin, their heart leaping to meet your palm at each beat.

“See?” you whisper. “You can dance just fine.”

They press their forehead against yours, eyes barely open. 

“Only because it’s with you.”

Oisein:

“Well, hello there.”

The sultry voice comes from your left as Oisein slides into your space. Though they’re wearing their mortalis glamour, the amount of embroidery on their clothes and the delicate jewelry adorning their ears, neck, and arms still gives them an ethereal sheevra-likeness that hasn’t gone unnoticed.

“What’s a gorgeous thing like you doing all alone?” Their eyes narrow, lip turning with a clearly mischievous intent. “Bored by all these stuffy mortalis?”

“Oisein!”

Grinning with no remorse, their lavender eyes cast back to the dancing crowd, the glints of light off their accessories casting shifting reflections on the columns around you.

“We do throw better parties though, you have to admit,” they murmur.

“Maybe... Though I’m not sure the last Equinox counts as a party so much as a...rampage? A riot?”

“What’s a party without a little chaos?”

The two of you laugh quietly enough to seem polite to those around you, almost in mockery of the mortalis niceties. 

As the laughter ebbs away, you just catch the slight shift of weight from one of their legs to another as Oisein fumbles with bracelets along their wrists. It’s clear what their real reason is for shadowing you recently, and you suppose you’ve played hard-to-get long enough.

With a flourish worthy of Oisein’s dramatics, you give a bow as the instruments and Soundweavers begin the next song. 

“May I have this dance?”

You're not sure what happens first, you finishing the question or Oisein grabbing you by both hands and hastily backing up onto the dance floor.

"Finally! I thought you'd never ask!"

"What, you couldn't ask me either?" You tease while they hold one of your hands up and lift your other arm on top of theirs, their palm gently pressing against your back between your shoulders.

"When have I ever made anything easy?"

The smirk is there for an instant before it thaws into something warm and affectionate, and the two of you begin to revolve around each other across the smooth floor. 

Colors swirl like a kaleidoscope as you keep your eyes fixed on them. The lavender, the golden blond, the emeralds and sapphires glittering while resting on their tanned and freckled neck. Compared to the pairs around you Oisein flows as naturally a part of the music as the notes themselves, your movements merging into a harmony between your bodies. 

Your view changes as Oisein dips you backward, your waist nestled and secured in the crook of their arm before they roll your torso back up against them. A low hum of delighted magic reverberates from their chest through yours when you’re fully upright again, and you can just hear them begin to sing with the melody enveloping you. 

Leaning into Oisein as far as you can without disrupting your dance, you catch the small hitch in breath before they reach a warm, steady hand to cradle your neck, saccharine voice continuing a private concert for your ears alone.

The Sage:

Even from a distance, you can see the Sage’s strained smile. To the dignitaries and figureheads around them, it must seem polite, polished, immaculate. But you recognize the tired creases at their eyes and the tightness of their hands, the anxious habit as their fingers brush the braids against their back.

They turn to face someone else, the soft yellow ribbon that usually holds their hair replaced by a brilliant golden clasp that glints against your eyes. It reflects once more as they give a seasoned nod and a bow of acknowledgement, before excusing themselves. 

You smile as you watch them search the crowd for respite, tense politeness loosening into adoring relief when their eyes catch yours. The smile tugs further at your mouth and you give a wave.

“I’m so sorry,” they exhale out as they come to your side. “I thought the conversation with the Ambassador would be much shorter, but I really should’ve foreseen the...” They search around you to make sure no one can overhear them. “-bragging and oversharing that he’s wont to do.”

“Were they at least fun stories, though?”

“Depends on your definition,” they whisper back, trying to control the smirk threatening to spread. “But I know for sure the ‘legendary beast’ he described fishing for off the coast of Han is a creature he stole from his daughter’s imagination.”

“Plagiarising children? Can the mortalis sink any lower?”

“You-!” The Sage tries to wave your words away, turning to make sure no one heard you but beaming with a conspiratorial excitement. You laugh at the reaction, and they cover their mouth to stop from releasing a laugh to match.

“Well,” you continue. “Do you think the Gold Sage might have a chance for a break with a commoner like me?”

With your question, they finally let the laugh loose and bring the base of their palm against the bottom of their eyes, the usual golden swoops under them painted further out and twisting into delicate, intricate patterns over their warm skin.

“I’d hardly consider you ‘common’,” they chide, eyes half-lidded. “But what did you have in mind?”

You hear the music crescendo, before putting on your best impression of a stuffy official, with an equally stiff bow and rigid arm outstretched.

“My dear Sage,” you begin with voice pitched in imitation. They snort at the caricature. “Would you give me the honor of a dance?”

“There's nothing else I’d rather do," they say with a more genuine response, reversing your hand to place a kiss on your fingers before they let you lead them to the dance floor.

Their fingers spread against your palm when you come to an open space, and they frame your body with theirs. A lilting waltz begins and their steps start to move like clockwork, precise and smooth, pulling you into the tides of golden fabric rippling at their waist.

Vivid, lively hazel watches your face, searching over your features with admiration while your feet glide beneath you. Any view of the other mortalis or the ballroom or the band blurs into the background, your eyes caught and tangled in the glow of their unbridled joy.

“...Think we could turn this into more than just a break?” they ask gently as you continue to revolve.

“I’d be happy to help you avoid the Ambassador for as long as possible, yes.”

“Perfect.”

The Magesmith:

You're not sure what you were expecting. Maybe not as much bluntness when you asked them to dance? But still, the crossed arms and resounding "No," stings a bit more than anticipated.

They shift awkwardly at your hurt expression as you draw your hand back, distracting themself by pulling at the tight, velvety dressclothes the Sage shoved in their face just hours before.

"It's not you," they continue softly, almost apologetically. "Just not a huge fan of crowds...and dancing."

“Right, of course," you trail off. You understand, really, but the rejection still burns in your core and in your cheeks.

Neither of you are fully sure where the conversation is supposed to go from here, and small talk has never been the Magesmith's strong suit. When you look up again though, you catch them click their tongue while exploring the area with their eyes.

"Come with me for a second." And now it's their hand waiting for yours.

Skeptical, you still take it, and there's a sweet tenderness as they close their heated fingers around yours and weave the two of you through the crowds to the outer rims of the party. Just beyond the last line of revelers, you see a curtain barely separated to show the balcony hiding behind it, hardly visible past the reflection of the gaudy scene you’re currently caught in.

The Magesmith releases your hand and presses their face against the glass with no regard for your surroundings, before nodding and turning to you.

"Here," they state, as if that's all the explanation they need to give. They press through the door anyway, beckoning you to follow.

Slight humidity hangs in the air outside, both warmth and chill prickling over your skin. In some wild turn of luck, the balcony is empty save for the two of you, and the Magesmith holds out their brass arm as the melody from inside trickles outward in muted cadences.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to," you finally say into the silence.

"No, I-" They clench their fingers before relaxing them again. Brown eyes melt into their gentle admission.

"I want to," they breathe out. "Of course I want to."

They continue to stare into you until all you can do is believe them, and your hand moves without thought. When you do connect, a small noise escapes you at how confidently they pull you forward, and how smoothly their arm flows around you. There's a practiced step to the side as they move you to their hip, before unfurling you out and around, and closing back in so you’re facing them.

They're...good at dancing.

Your feet step in time with theirs as they rock backward, to the side, on the balls of their feet as they rotate you under their arm while keeping your hands connected. In some unfamiliar array of movements, your hand drops from one of theirs, sliding across their collar to the other with another soft spin.

Really good.

"Are you kidding me?" You practically hiss. They just snicker low in response, their lips now close to your ear as they pull you flush against them.

"Please don't tell anyone, it'll ruin my reputation."

The laughter that cascades from your mouth is bright enough to put the stars to shame.

[you-did-well-moon]

Top 100 (3) Hey Mama! - Exo-CBX

Pairing: Zhang Yixing x Reader

Type: Drabble

Au: Office, spy

Warnings: lying, mention of a gun, mention of a shady place. 

Words: 734

A/n: Another exo song as my top 5 can anyone tell one of my ults yet- How ironic a drabble about a inactive member from the group he’s been inactive from. Anyways this song is just so fun overall we have some some of the most amazing vocals, and the chorus overall is my favorite as well as Chen’s part in the first verse. I’ll stop rambling now. 

What you think about that that? That moon calls us so badly Yo! You don’t need to dress well What if you came right after work. Who cares? It’ll be took a long time if you get dolled up But you’re already pretty.

----------

The blank screen glared at you in all it’s mocking glory as your supervisor left with one last fake smile sent her way. A tired exhale left your pouting lips, and your hands came up to sooth the incoming headache. Your head filled with the feeling of your comfy warm bed, and the images of curling up under your blanket and catching up on your favorite show. 

These images desperately called your name, but the devastating wrecking ball of a job as an intern came crashing down on all of them. You straightened your blazer, pat down your skirt, and made sure every single hair was in place with a clearing of your dry throat leaning in to get started on your never ending work. The haze of the long day skewered your senses as you failed to notice the figure standing behind you until a heavy hand lightly tapped the back of your chair. 

You slightly jumped as you spun around being met with the dimpled smile of your coworker, Lay, with the same professional appearance that he always maintained. Slicked back hair with a single strand falling on his forehead, and his tie slightly tilted. 

That was the thing about Lay, there was always something that slightly warped his perfect manner. 

You and Lay had always shared teasing touches and knowing glances, but a relationship in the office was far off from perfect. 

“How you holding out? "he asked, putting his hands in his pockets and slightly leaning forwards. 

Your chest heaved with the big sigh you let out as you replied, “As good as I can with Bertha practically basically riding my ass”. Her name wasn’t Bertha, but no one really cared to learn her real name when everyone knew she would be replaced in a week’s time. 

Lay’s shoulders shook with a drawn out chuckle as the tip of his perfectly polished shoe toed at the yellow stain in the carpet. 

He raised an eyebrow exhaling in a teasing manner, “Hard day huh?”.

A scoff left your lips as you shook stray hairs out of your face carefully putting them back in place, “Pft, more like hard week.”

“You should really try to relax more, do you need anything? Water? Protein bar? Bertha’s two week notice?” His eyes crinkled at your soft laugh ringing around the cubicle, shaking your head at his antics. He bent down sitting on his heels, and he balanced himself by placing his arms on the arms of your chair, entrapping you. 

“How about you join me today, we go out, have some fun, and you forget all about the horrors of office life, hm?” he hummed, breath lightly hitting your knees. 

Your lips parted in surprise shifting in your seat as you wringed your hands. 

“I don’t know Lay, it’s a weekday, I still have my work clothes and I-? You were cut off by your clasped hands being taken apart and encased in a set of much bigger, much warmer hands. 

He tilted his face up at you, the corners of his lips slightly curling up. “Come on, just try it, you won’t have to do it again if you don’t like it. I won’t let anything happen to you”. 

You looked into his eyes, hopefully looking up at you, thumbs rubbing your knuckles, and you couldn't care about how wrong it felt. 

You were wrapped around his finger. 

“Fine, fine! Where are we even going?” 

“It’s a surprise.”

You didn’t catch the suspicious look Lay shared with Baekhyun, another coworker. 

That night, Lay’s breath was constantly caught in his throat. For once, you weren’t perfect. You were messy, and it was beautiful. 

The white undershirt under your blazer was dangerously unbuttoned and wrinkled, and your hair was everywhere with stray stands framing your face. When you laughed, you threw your head back and let the sound fill the air around you. You no longer covered it up nicely behind your hands. 

There you were, next to him in his convertible, with your eyes peacefully closed, lips stretched in a big smile, and your hands raised to the bright night sky. Lay was breathless at the view of you with the city lights framing your figure. 

But as Lay arrived at the meetup spot and he hugged your body closer to his, he sincerely hoped you couldn’t feel the gun tucked into his pants. 

[bgyulix]

— daechwita | 3

-> pairing: min yoongi x reader

-> word count: 1k

-> tags/warnings: blood, gore?, decapitation, minor (major?) character death, bang placeholder surname for y/n

-> summary: a series of drabbles about yoongi and his spy, as they try and topple a king. - Your sister has blood and dirt and bruises on her face, and she hobbles when a guard pushes her forwards. She’s been beaten, but still she holds herself tall, glares at the crowd, licks the blood off her lip. She looks like your mother.

-> the masterlist

-> a/n: just a drabble, she said, quick and easy, she said. anyway not sure how i feel about this one folks but i hope you like it

You have always been the second in a group of three, have always been a plural; the butcher’s girls, the Bang sisters, you and your sisters.

What are you girls doing?

You troublemakers.

Where are you girls off to?

You three look busy.

You girls hungry?

Bring your sisters.

How are your sisters?

Oh, you three.

Three.

Somin is the eldest, and the softest. When your mother died, Somin slipped into her place quietly without complaint. She keeps her hair silky, her good clothes clean, her shoes polished. She makes you hold her hand in crowds and braids your hair and spends her coin on soap, and her eyes and her shoulders grow heavier by the day.

Minyoung, a clever little creature. Only just emerging from childhood, with only the scantest memories of your mother, her knees still scraped and face still muddy. She is the smartest of the three of you, helping your father manage the coin as he grows older, and she lines up stones on the windowsill, counts cracks in the pavement, barks back at dogs. Minyoung is strange and wonderful and your baby - she is your baby, your littlest baby sister who cannot sit still and who is reckless and who will not listen.

You had told her not to do anything stupid. You told her, and she didn’t listen. Somin had warned you she was getting too involved in this rebellion.

The crowd is thick, stinking, unsettled. It fills the square like a writhing body, a mass of insects. The people buzz with whispers and jeers and hushed murmurs at the sight of the king, tall and shining on the palace balcony, and of his prisoners, lined up on the stage below like pigs to be slaughtered. It has been a while since the last public execution. People seem to have forgotten what happens when you stand too close to the stage, judging by the hands grabbing at the prisoner’s legs. It is hot, the sun high and punishing in the sky.

“These are the actions of a petulant child!” the king is saying, his voice settling like thick fog over the crowd, squeezing the air out of your lungs. “Such riots and disorder only bring chaos to our lives, to our great city! First, they burn and steal my property; who is next? They will not stop there! Soon, it will be your homes, your livelihoods!”

The gold around his neck and dangling from his ears glint dangerously in the sunlight, his eyes dark and cold like black stones. He opens his arms wide as he talks, to pull you in, to sling his words at you. He sneers down at the crowd with something that looks like disappointment. He looks like a god.

Your sister has blood and dirt and bruises on her face, and she hobbles when a guard pushes her forwards. She’s been beaten, but still she holds herself tall, glares at the crowd, licks the blood off her lip. She looks like your mother.

“Minyoung!” you shout, “Minyoung!”

The king’s voice drowns you out.

“Let this be a message!” he booms, and the executioner melds out onto the stage like spilled ink, swings the sword in a graceful arc, and the first prisoner’s head rolls.

The crowd screams. The body flails for a second before it collapses, almost like it’s confused. It almost looks fake, the way the blood spurts. Someone elbows you in the gut, and you crumple.

“Antisocial behaviour will not be tolerated!”

“Minyoung!”

The second prisoner starts to cry. He’s young, even younger than your sister. Practically a child. You recognise him - a sweet little orphan boy named Changwook who wants to be a fisherman, who follows your sister around like a puppy. The executioner has to aim low to take his head. You’re close enough to see the crowd part as it rolls off the stage and onto the courtyard, blood splattering, pooling on the cobblestone. Minyoung screams.

It settles in you, then. A stone drops in your stomach, a cold, heavy weight inside you, and your body stills, prepares. The breath inside your lungs freezes and the blood in your ears rushes. Just for a second, you feel calm, despite the sea of bodies battering against you, despite Changwook’s dead eyes gazing up at the sun, despite the fear on Minyoung’s face. Perfect clarity. You reach down to the knife on your belt, the grip cool and familiar in your hand.

“Acts of treason are punishable by death!” the king is saying. You see it; a gap in the crowd. You are as close to him as you’re going to get. You pull your arm back.

“___!”

Hands grab at you from behind and knock the knife from your grip, sending it clattering to the ground and disappearing into the crowd. You shout and throw your head back, but they reach up and yank your chin into their shoulder.

“___, stop!”

It’s Yoongi, eyes blown wide with panic.

“Let me go!” you scream, bucking in his arms, but he holds fast.

“There are guards everywhere! You can’t,” he yells in your ear, “you can’t!”

“Get off me! Get off!”

Any calm you might have had vanishes in an instant, and you kick and struggle like a wild animal, thrashing and clawing, Yoongi’s arms like iron around you. The executioner steps towards your sister, the king raises his arms in a flourish, the gold thread on his sleeves shimmering, and Minyoung squeezes her eyes shut and folds in on herself and she’s so small, god, she’s so small.

“Minyoung!” you cry until your voice is hoarse, “Minyoung!”

She looks up and spots you. Her shoulders slump, the tension releasing from her spine. You swear you see a tear on her cheek.

She smiles. The sword flashes.

Yoongi turns your face away, but you hear the impact, the squelch, the thump.

It’s quiet, all of a sudden. Fading away. White noise. Buzzing in your ears.

Oh.

Your heart is in your throat, in your feet, in your stomach.

Oh, you think. This is what it’s like to die.

You must fall, because gravel is digging into your palms and Yoongi is pulling you up by your armpits and dragging you away, and you are wailing, your vision blurring, your knees buckling, and Minyoung, Minyoung, Minyoung -

Yoongi leads you down a side street and holds you to his chest, gently this time, and you sob into the warm crook of his neck, grab fistfuls of his jacket. His hands are shaking where they cradle you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Your stomach convulses violently, and you tear yourself away from him and collapse, dry heaving into the dirt.

You sit there, gasping, a part of you dying, and he sits beside you and gathers you up in his arms.

“I’m going to kill him, I promise you,” he says. “I swear I’ll kill him.”

It shouldn’t be a comfort.

[soranihimawari]

Confessions & Kiss

Welcome back to a short draft/drabble featuring the Karasuno 1st year squad and Delta-y/n (again). This is a continuation of “Constellations & Whistles” where the main pairing is Yamaguchi x Delta-y/n (Hitoka’s childhood friend from elementary - middle school). Time frame is roughly six weeks since Delta was introduced to the team by Hitoka. Enjoy!

Taglist: @m0nstergeneration20xx​ 

<Constellations & Whistles< previous

====

Ever since you came to visit the Karasuno VBC with Hitoka, life for you became pretty rad. For example, you didn’t have to worry about eating lunch alone anymore since you were joined by either Kageyama & Hinata or Tsukki & Yamaguchi on the days Hitoka couldn’t meet up with you; walking in the hallways when you had to deliver the English class notes to the Faculty Room, you were usually stopped by some of the second year senpais like Kazuhito & Ennoshita who would escort you and tell you funny stories about Noya & Tanaka bombing the last exam; and finally on the days leading up to an official match, Shizumi-san asked if you could come watch the match. 

“I-I’m not sure if I should go,” you said. You sighed as you closed your locker after changing out of your uniform shoes. It wasn’t that you were nervous about going, however you saw first hand how much the whole team had improved with the late night practices.

“What?” Hitoka asked. She gripped your shoulders in slight shock. “Delta, I know this would take you out of your comfort zone watching the guys go up against Seijoh, but I think the guys would really appreciate it if you’d come...”

You remove her hands from your shoulder and give them a gentle squeeze for reassurance. You give your best friend a half smile. It’s been about a month since now since that first afternoon and perhaps you thought the volleyball club members were extremely kind and attentive to making sure the bullying you endured was reduced (mostly thanks to Tanaka and Sugawara being the founders of “protect our precious lady manager/s squad”.)

“I know you’re the one inviting me, Yacchan,” you said, releasing Hitoka’s hands. About a minute goes by for Hitoka to acknowledge her friend might have begun liking one of the members of the team.

“But you’d rather have the person you like ask you to come?” Hitoka asks sheepishly. The blush forming on the apples of your cheeks warm your face. “Holy moly, I was right,wasn’t I?”

You nod. 

“Don’t make such a fuss over this development please. Yamaguchi might not even like me back...” 

“Oh, I highly doubt that.”

“Yacchan, I’ll be fine. Besides, did I tell you I’m headed to see the concert tonight at the observatory with Marina-san?”

“Oh? I didn’t know your relative was in town, but have fun! I’m running a little behind to practice anyway.”

“See ya.”

You shake your head to clear your negative thoughts as you turn around mentioning you were heading to the local city science museum since your cousin was taking you to see the Holst Concert ‘Planet’ Series (once or twice a month the local observatory would either stream or have live concerts at the observatory). Your moss green combat boots made you a little bit taller than Hitoka who was gearing up for another last minute practice before the team would be off until game day doing individual practices.

Hitoka pouted, but there was a hopeful expression emerging. Unbeknownst to you, Tsukkishima let it slip during one of the first year study groups his best friend had a crush on Delta. 

Kageyama and Hinata were the ones who flipped out the most, cornering Yamaguchi after morning practice with questions ranging from how he was going to confess, when did those emotions come in, and most of them were positive. Hitoka, on the other hand, had come back to the group catching wind of the endless teasing ways her fellow classmates were giving Yamaguchi. Tsukkishima continued doing his work trying to steer his company back into studying, but Hitoka decided to offer some free advice to the boys when it comes to handling a crush (especially since she would essentially personally involved in making sure Yamaguchi’s feelings go answered):

“Sometimes the simplest ways to get the person you like to notice you is if you’ express interest in learning about what makes them happy,“ Hitoka states, going back to working on preparing the lab report for her preliminary biology class. Judging by the silence she was being given as a response (even Tsukki paused his writing for a moment. Truthfully, he did want to help Yamaguchi, yet he had no clue how).

“Yamaguchi, you know how much Delta loves studying the constellations, right?Have you ever asked her about which ones are her favorite or see how worked up she gets when she found a new part of the city to go stargazing?” Hitoka states in matter-of-fact tone. “I gave you her number a couple days ago, message her and see what she says.”

====

[22:08]

『yamaguchi: hey delta. 』

『delta-y/n: hi yamaguchi! what’s up?』

『yamaguchi: mind telling me about the draco constellation?』

『delta-y/n: sure! did you know that draco means dragon in latin? are you busy after practice tonight?』

====

The days leading up the Karasuno rematch against Seijoh caused all members of the team to practice more intensely than before. There was a sort of electric switch between the students on the team. Even the most rambunctious members were eerily quiet when pondering upon different strategies (Hitoka mentioned it to you Kageyama observed one of the Grand King’s practices where the local university club players played a set against the present team.)

During break, you accompanied Hitoka at the request of Shizumi to the gym. The boys were all seen doing spiking drills with both Sugawara & Kageyama on either side of the net while Noya and the was working on his defense. You quietly observed the ambient sounds of the sneakers squeaking against the polished gym floors followed by the echoes of “toss to me!” from the players’ lips.

“Yacchan,” you whisper to your friend.

“Hmm?” Hitoka replies. Her hands are looking at the notes Shizumi handed her when you both arrived.

“I thought they were on individual practice again?”

“They are, but they do need to practice as a team.”

“Can’t argue that logic, Yacchan. I’m going to head back early. I haveTakeda-sensei’s class next & we’re covering Nakajima works.”

You tap the blonde girl’s shoulder paired with a nod and you left, the commanding sound of Sawamura’s voice echoes.

After classes had concluded, you were once again at your locker switching out your school shoes for your boots again. The skies above were cloudy and overcast with the weatherman stating there would be no reason to bring an umbrella until tomorrow. Hitoka mentioned to you that she was on cleaning duty for her class via text, stating if you wouldn’t mind, she was going to send one of the boys from the club to walk with you in her stead. You were honestly surprised a bit because as far as you knew, not very many of them (with the exception of your fellow first year compatriots) knew which neighborhood your parents house was. 

You were lost in your own thoughts over thinking about how you did on your science exam as well. You didn’t really prepare for it, considering it was going to be about planetary systems, it should be a breeze. Well, except for the physics involved, but who is counting? your inner voice sasses you. You finish tying your laces and closing the door to your locker to let out a surprised gasp when you saw Yamaguchi walking in your direction. Tsukkishima apparently wasn’t with him considering his individual practice was with his brother’s neighborhood team that evening, allowing for this conversation to happen between Yamaguchi & you.

“Hey Delta-chan,” he greeted. Yamaguchi waved and you did the same.

“Oh hi, Yamaguchi-kun. You’re the one who’s gonna accompany me home?” you ask. I am going to get Hitoka back for sending my crush to walk home with me. Maybe she could buy me chocolate milk for a week, you think.

“Is that ok? I was going that way anyway to speak to Coach Ukai’s friend.”

“Sure.” You comb your hair behind an ear and as you turn around, you and Yamaguchi begin the walk home. “So you wanted to learn more about the draco constellation right?”

When you reach the convenience store, Yamaguchi introduces you to his jump-floater teacher: Shimada Makoto. You wave as a silent greeting before humming along with the song on the radio. Your attention was immediately drawn to the connect the dots magazine having an issue for the fall constellations a few aisles away leaving the student and his master to speak in confidence.

“How are your serves coming along?” Shimada asked.

“I’m improving, but I haven’t quite perfected it, but that’s ok,” Yamaguchi answered. His eyes wander to where you were thumbing through another magazine having a featurette on otherworldly planets from neighboring star systems. 

“There is always room for improvement, Tadashi-san,” Shimada explains. Then, he notices how his honorary student glances at his school mate who was thumbing through another National Geographic-Japan issue. “But maybe you might feel more determined after you talk to your friend.”

Roughly twenty minutes later, you and Yamaguchi bid Shamada good bye as you both continue walking to your neighborhood. The sun had already begun to set in the twilight hour. Yamaguchi told you stories of his childhood growing up with Tsukki, being bullied for his timid demeanor; in return you told him about the shared sidewalk chalk with Hitoka and the awkward years in middle school where you found your affinity for studying the heavens. At the park that separates your house from theYamaguchi residence, you fish out your pocket telescope from your bag. 

“Care to stargaze for a while with me?” you ask him extending the telescope out to him.

“Only if you come to the game we have coming up, Delta” Yamaguchi says. 

His cheeks seemed a little more pink because of the way he phrased his statement. In his mind, when Hitoka had told him you might need a little more convincing to come to the match, he wasn’t exactly planning on asking you the week before it was scheduled. To be fair, it was the first time Yamaguchi also took an initiative in asking his crush to cheer him and his team on. His eyes look away from yours for a moment before you answer him. You lower your hand holding the telescope, baffled by his compromise. Your eyes study Yamaguchi’s face, taking into account how the freckles on his face are mini-star clusters you were eager to memorize. He really is good looking up close, you muse thoughtfully as you take a step forward toward him.

With your free hand, you caress Yamaguchi’s cheek so he can turn his face to see yours. He leans into your palm with a surprised sigh escaping his mouth; his blush deepens on the apples of cheeks. The freckles on his skin remind you of the red hues in the photos published on the NASA website earlier that week from the Guggenheim Conservatory. 

“OK. I’ll go,” your voice is gentle like the breeze that stirs the leaves in the park. The time space continuum slows for a bit when Yamaguchi puts his hand over yours to remove it from his face. You don’t tell him how handsome you think he is while being bashful around you nor does he tell you clearly how much he was considering sharing his first kiss with you when you tell him you’d go. He leans his forehead against yours, committing the minute features of your face to memory like the scar on your eyebrow when you fell off your bike in second grade and the beauty mark on the top left corner of your cupid’s bow. With a light touch, he slowly lifts your chin up with the tip of his index finger until your face is uplifted toward his. Your breath hitches in your throat in anticipation when you feel your heartbeat pick up quickens its pace.

Yamaguchi dips his head down as if to kiss you fully, but instead you feel his lips brush against yours in a subtle manner. 

“If you’re actually planning on kissing me, I suggest you do it now,” you whispered as you press your lips against his own lightly. This mutual feeling between you and Yamaguchi was as bright as a solar flare; the mutual pining ceased as soon as you felt him return your kiss. Timid Yamaguchi was grinning against your pout like he won a lottery for every time your lips met his. When you two pulled apart after the last one, he pulled you into a loose embrace.

“I really like you,” he confesses, still holding your hand. Yamaguchi’s voice for once, is not shaking because of nerves. It sounded as though there was an air of confidence emit from his vocal chords.

“Me too,” you confess too. 

Your lips curl upwards into a smile as you close the distance between Yamaguchi and yourself. When you press your lips against his, you feel how well his lips mold on to yours; he catches a whiff of the light mint flavor of your lip balm. The kiss is innocently short when you two break apart. Yamaguchi is quick to notice how smitten he was with you especially seeing your cheeks slightly redden when he kisses your forehead. You glance down at your shoes kicking a small pile of construction dirt away. 

“W-we don’t have to go stargazing today Tadashi,” you offer. “I think I’d like it if you take me to the cafe a few blocks away from my house.” 

“OK.”

===

[19:43]

『yamaguchi: tsukki. i kissed delta this afternoon. 』

『tsukki: : huh?! YOU DID WHAT?』

====

[20:19]

『delta-y/n: i changed my mind. i’m going to the match on saturday, hitoka. 』

『hitoka-chan: oh~? that’s great. how was the walk home with yamaguchi?』

『delta-y/n: fine actually...he confessed if that’s what you mean. 』

『hitoka-chan: wha~?! yamaguchi did what?!』

『delta-y/n: hitoka, he kissed me & then we went to the cafe this afternoon...』

『hitoka-chan: i’m gonna call you right now delta and you’re gonna tell me e v e r y t h i n g.. 』

[waywardrose-archive]

Omg I came to give compliments on the Abe Drabble and upon seeing your askbox says ‘prompt me’ then I surely will prompt u 😝 it really caught my eye the fact that Abe and his love defiled her art workshop at their home, can you tell us how that first time went? Meanwhile, I’m gonna go re-read the post because it was so goood!

Okay, I lied earlier about only combining two of the Abe prompts. I read both of these, and an idea came out of nowhere to fricken maul me! [Dr. Phil: Thank you for that…] This piece has elements of both prompts. I hope it satisfies! Thank you, sweet nonnies, for reading, the compliments, and prompting me! I really do appreciate it—and you.

pairing: abraham h. parnassus x reader

rating: mature

warning/tags: sheltered-artist reader, no vintage racism, vaguely late 1940s, old-fashioned euphemisms, creeping into sugar-daddy territory, vaginal fingering

-

IT’S MAGIC

Don’t go to art school, they said.

You sighed at the large wad of clay that was supposed to be a hollowed-out mountain. It looked like a… a pile of turds. You didn’t know how you were going to fit the mirror inside the top so when the observer leaned over, they’d see themselves.

You’ll never earn enough money to live on, they said. No one cares about real art these days.

You had given the piece the working title of “Holy Mountain.”

Maybe they were right. Maybe you weren’t cut out for this life. You couldn’t even manipulate clay to make a rudimentary mountain. You didn’t know why you wanted the observer to interact with the piece. Your ideas were all over the place.

You tossed the encrusted loop tool onto the bench and looked at your dirty hands. You couldn’t believe you’d turned down a date with Abraham to work on this stupid project. The school was practically deserted on a Friday night. Though, the janitor was running the floor polisher one level down.

You could’ve had a nice meal with Abraham. Maybe gone dancing afterwards. Yet here you were: wearing a tired outfit and dirty smock, alone and hungry. You feared if you postponed another date with him, he’d find someone else.

There were plenty of girls he could ask out. Girls who wouldn’t ruin a manicure with paint and clay. Charming girls with perfect hair and safe topics to discuss in polite company. You didn’t know why he was interested in you, nor why he’d approached you during the student art show at the end of last quarter.

He was an executive with one of the corporate sponsors for the show, Sanders and Pickens Global Oil & Gas. He’d been imposing with his dark, penetrating eyes, bespoke navy suit, and impressive height. But then he’d told you an off-color joke about an unused Carnation Milk slogan. It shocked you right into laughter. He smiled, offering his elbow, and asked you to guide him through the show.

It had been easy to talk with him. He listened when you explained your piece. And then he had flirted, which made your already-thumping heart kick into high gear. He’d said your work reflected your beauty. You scoffed, but he insisted.

He’d said, “I see you here,” as he motioned to your mixed-media abstract. “And I’m spellbound.”

“You make me sound like a witch.”

“An enchantress.”

You looked into his bourbon-brown eyes to see sincerity. You were quiet for a beat too long. You didn’t know how to reply. No one had ever spoken to you like he had.

He ducked his head. “You must pardon my overstep,” he said and made to move away.

You tightened your grip on his bicep, insisting: “You haven't—!” You placed your other hand on his forearm. “Overstepped… I’m not used to…”

“A man taking interest?”

You shook your head.

“Well, I have. Is that a problem?”

Again, you shook your head.

“Are you interested in me?”

This time, you nodded with a grin.

He grinned back, the flirtatiousness returning. “Well… Are you amenable to seeing me outside this art show?”

His eyes flashed with bold warmth when you’d giggled like a little girl. He suddenly looked so young. His striking face glowed, more interesting than any art around you.

“Yes!” you’d laughed.

After that, he’d strutted around with you on his arm, all blushing smugness. Your cheeks had radiated heat, more from pleasure rather than embarrassment. He’d been so debonair at the end of the show, asking for your number and kissing the back of your hand.

He called the next day to arrange a date for the coming weekend. You recall sitting next to the house phone in the hallway and how every other boarder had something very important to do outside her respective room. You’d hidden your hot face when he again called you his enchantress.

The questions the girls had after the call were embarrassing. They wanted to know all about Abraham. They had advice for your hair and cosmetics and how to style your limited wardrobe for a fancy night out. They offered perfume and extra rollers for your hair.

It had all been so overwhelming.

You weren’t fancy. Any money your parents gave you went to art supplies. You only owned cream rouge and loose powder. Most of your clothes were from high school, and you only had one pair of black pumps.

But none of that mattered when he knocked on the door that Saturday. He didn’t notice you’d hidden the scuffs on your pumps with ink. Or that your dress was faded and the stones of your brooch were paste.

He’d smiled at you and escorted you to his maroon Cadillac convertible, which he’d parked illegally out front. When you glanced back at the house, you saw multiple faces in the big parlor windows, in multiple states of skin care, looking back. The girls cheered when you gave them a small wave.

And the end…

A new wave of heat flowed through your cheeks.

The end of that first date had been wonderful—everything you’d read about in the books you weren’t supposed to know.

He’d taken you to the Shakespeare Garden after dinner. You marveled at the riot of colors. There were waxy tulips in punchy reds and oranges. He sat with you on a bench under a magnolia tree—his favorite—and talked about art and philosophy.

You learned about his parents, finding his beginnings had been as humble as yours. He didn’t care that you had no money. He didn’t care about a lot of things a younger you had been told were important.

All he wanted was to be a successful oil-man and provide for those he loved.

Your eyes met as the sky went from coppery pink to misty purple. His arm had been behind you, thumb stroking one of your scapulae. His gaze was so direct, you wanted to look away. If he looked too closely, he’s see how out of place you were.

Instead, he gave you a soft grin and leaned in. At first, you minutely angled back, but you realized it was habit. You didn’t actually want to move away. And he gave you space to decide as he silently asked for permission to kiss you.

In the end, you’d brazenly closed the distance for the kiss. It had been awkward, your nose bumping into his. He chuckled, murmuring that his beak was getting in the way.

“No,” you whispered, smiling. “It’s a beautiful nose.”

“All the better to smell you with.”

You laughed at that, cupping his cheek in your palm. His eyes were like diamonds in the twilight as he scooted closer. You kissed him again, and he slanted his head.

And it’d been perfect.

His full lips eagerly pressed against yours. He taught you kiss by kiss how to let go. You touched his hair, the rims of his ears, his angular jaw. You tasted the manicotti and red wine on his lips—and then his tongue.

It was so wicked, and you were dizzy for more. Your body was alight with desire. You’d never felt that way before, not with anyone.

Abraham’s arm behind your back curled you towards him. His other hand rested high on your thigh, right where the garter clipped to your stockings. It made you all too aware of the flimsy fabric separating his heavy hand from your flesh.

You pulled away when you remembered you two were in public. How could you forget? Anyone could see. They’d think you fast and him a lecher.

You whispered, “Sorry,” and hid your hot face.

He gently shushed you and offered his hand, which you held in both of yours—

A sharp rap on the studio doorjamb jolted you out of your memory. You turned to see Abraham in the open doorway, holding a jug of beer and a greasy brown-paper bag.

You jumped to your feet. “Oh goodness!” Your clay-crusted hands darted to your hair until you remembered how dirty they were. “What—?”

“I couldn’t live another night without seeing you,” he dramatically announced, stepping inside.

You laughed to hide how downhearted you were about your sculpture and told him to make himself comfortable. The door clunked closed behind him as you washed your hands at the big sink at the back of the room.

You were startled once more when Abraham slid a hand around your back.

“Something wrong, my darling?” he asked.

Darling. The endearment felt so good, you almost cried. No one had ever called you that.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “No, it’s just this silly project.”

You turned off the water, and Abraham handed you a paper towel from the stack.

“It’s in the early stages,” he said to comfort. “What’s the concept?”

“The inviolable divinity of the spirit. Any holiness you find on a mountaintop is the holiness you brought up there.”

You didn’t want to tell him you had beatnik friends who’d introduced you to transcendentalism. Your parents would be horrified, afraid you were crazy from reefer and engaging in free love and anarchism. You didn’t want to scare Abraham away, either. He was a sensible businessman, not some feral bohemian who lived off exotic coffee and jazz. And you certainly didn’t want him knowing you were open to that sort of thing just yet.

“That is quite the topic.”

You sighed as you finished drying your hands. “It’s supposed to be a mountain.” You turned to him and looked at the pile of clay-turds on the worktop. “But look at it.”

“Mountains aren’t built in a day.”

“You’re right,” you breathed and rested your forehead on his chest.

Then you remembered you were wearing a grubby smock. You gasped, saying you didn’t want to dirty his clothes as you stepped away. His nice blue button-down, brown tweed slacks, and driving jacket didn’t look contaminated, though.

He said with a sly tone, “Then why don’t you take this off?”

Your cheeks were like flames as you admonished him: “Abraham!”

“Just Abe, my darling. You know only my mother calls me by my full name.”

While that might be true, you privately thought Abraham was a good name, a strong name.

“If that’s what you want.”

“Or you could try any number of pet names.”

“Oh?” You smiled as you took a few steps to throw the damp paper towel in the trash. “Which would you prefer?”

“How about ‘lover’?”

The smile melted from your lips as you froze. “I’m not sure that’s… right.”

“We could remedy that.”

“I’m not—” A hussy. “I want—” Love first. “I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

“What I feel for you isn’t appropriate in the slightest.”

Your breath caught in your throat, heart wrenching in your chest. You grabbed the counter next to you as your knees quaked.

“What do you feel?” you croaked. “For me?”

“I wish to hear from you every day. I want to know you. I want to kiss you good-night, kiss you everywhere.” Your ears burned at that, but he continued, “Touch you all over.”

You took a step back in fear. But you didn’t know what you were afraid of. Your heart was pounding in your chest.

“Take off that smock.” His dark eyes caressed you, ate you up. “Please.”

Your hands went to the smock’s top button. You looked down at them, wondering why they were obeying him. They trembled. Were you actually afraid? Of Abe?

This didn’t feel like fear. This was something new—something adjacent and unexplored. You couldn’t name it, had never experienced it, but you didn’t want to run away from it.

“Please,” he said again. “I won’t compromise you.”

As you unbuttoned the smock, he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over a nearby stool. You watched him roll up the sleeves of his shirt. His forearms were elegantly muscled, his hands sturdy.

You felt immature and inexperienced in your pilling short-sleeved knit top and dirty saddle shoes. Your tartan skirt was starting to fray at the hem. You fisted the smock in front of you in an attempt to hide the state of your old clothes.

Abe slowly approached, holding out a hand to take the smock from you. With a deep breath, you gave it to him. You adjusted the neckline of your top and stood straight as he draped the smock over a table.

When he turned back, he looked you over with an unfamiliar mien. “My little sweater girl,” he crooned.

“No, I—” You went hot for the nth time and smoothed down your skirt. “It’s from high school. I haven’t replaced it yet.”

“Maybe I can help you replace it?”

“Oh, I couldn’t!”

“I want to,” he said and stilled your hands, taking them in his. “Let me.”

“I…”

“Let me take care of you.”

You nodded and watched him bring your hands to his lips. He kissed your knuckles and turned your hands over to kiss your palms. You cradled his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. He inched forward as he wet his lips.

He whispered, “Will you let me now?”

You nodded again, drawing him in. The second his lips touched yours, you knew you were a goner. With hands at your waist, he pressed his front to yours. He kissed you hard, invading and teasing you with his tongue. He nipped at your bottom lip, sucked at the sting.

All you could do was hang on and try to reciprocate while he teased these desperate sounds from your chest. You clutched at his shoulders and thick hair. You sucked at his tongue, feeling wonderfully dirty.

His body was all hard lines and firm muscle. He rubbed against you and groaned against your lips. The urge to wrap your thighs around his hips shocked you, had you gasping at your own shamelessness.

“Can I touch you?” Abe half-slurred, sounding so unlike himself.

He was already touching you, but you knew what he meant. The hazy thought of his big hands under your shirt had you nodding. You raised yourself on tip-toe to kiss him once more.

He swooped in to devour you. One arm went around the small of your back while his other hand glided up your side. His touch was slow and ardent, making you want so many new things.

When his palm cupped the side of your breast, you froze mid-kiss. His thumb skimmed the underside and glanced off your nipple. You shivered as a tingly wave of pleasure swept down your body.

Abe whispered, “Shall I continue?”

You knew you should say no. Good girls weren’t felt up like this—at their school, where anyone could walk in. But there was nowhere else to go. You certainly couldn’t go home with him. You’d be ruined. And he couldn’t come with you to the house. Men weren’t allowed on the second floor.

But his bold touch felt good. You wanted him to fondle you and give you what you’d only read about.

You met his gaze. “Yes, please.”

He gave you a devilish smirk before kissing you again. You let your hands wander over his shoulders and into his hair. His touch was electric, even through clothes. You arched into it, encouraging without words.

In reply, his other hand squeezed your rear. It was delicious and wrong. You shouldn’t let him do that, and you pushed at his shoulder, breaking the kiss.

“Abe, we can’t,” you said.

“Yes, we can. No one’s up here but us.”

“But…”

“Do you not like it?”

It wasn’t a matter of not liking. You wanted him to respect you. If you were easy, he’d use you and throw you away. Wouldn’t he? That’s what everyone said about dating: Men were wolves after one thing.

“It’s not that,” you replied.

“Oh?” He dipped down to mouth at your neck. “What is it, then?” he murmured.

You bit your lip at his gentle touch and breath ghosting over your skin. He drew you closer as he kissed his way up your neck to your jaw. Your head went fuzzy with his kisses. You couldn’t remember what you were protesting.

His voice was low as he said, “Tell me to stop and I will.”

“I…”

“You’re so tempting, you know. So beautiful. I can’t take it.”

“Abe…” you whimpered and took hold of his face, angling him up for a kiss.

His swollen lips crushed against yours, urgent and hungry. He forced his tongue inside to sweep over yours. All you could do was hang on and surrender. He overwhelmed in the best way. Everything—every worry or nagging fret—beyond him fell away.

His hands grasped your rear, and he hoisted you off your feet. You gasped, clinging to him like you’d die if you didn’t. He set you on the counter, nudged his way between your knees, and dragged you to the very edge.

With your torso tight to his, your skirt rucked up, and thighs on either side of his hips, you knew he could compromise you. He was already. Because you wanted more.

You wanted to feel his hands on you, know his touch and all his kisses.

He tilted your chin up. His eyes were so dark, cheeks so pink. He caressed your bottom lip with a thumb. You kissed the pad of his finger.

Abe stared at your mouth before asking again: “Shall I continue?”

You swallowed, thinking of his promise not to compromise you. Maybe he had no intention of doing so, but you didn’t know if you could trust yourself. You adjusted your seat on the counter, feeling your underwear wetly cling between your legs.

How embarrassing.

“I don’t know, Abe…” You looked away. “I’m not, ya know—” You shrugged. “I need to clean up.”

“You don’t smell dirty to me, my love.”

He leaned in and down to kiss your neck again. Your eyes rolled back as he left a path of biting kisses down your neck. You hugged him and fisted his shirt.

He whispered, “Unless you don’t mean bathing.”

“I don’t,” you replied just as softly.

“Can I make it better?”

“Better, how?”

“Can I help you forget?”

Your skirt slithered up your thighs little by little. You reached down to stop it, meeting Abe’s hands bunched in the fabric. If he saw, or God forbid, caught a whiff of how turned on you were…

“Let me make it better.”

You had a feeling he meant make it worse.

He purred, “I’ll make you feel good.”

He held the outsides of your bare upper thighs. His warm fingertips were centimeters from your underwear. You shouldn’t let him touch you like this. It didn’t matter how right it felt.

“I—”

He cut off your protest: “Just you. Only you.”

His eyes smoldered with lust. A lock of hair curled over his forehead. He was captivating, and you wondered if prey felt like this when a predator approached.

“I’ll do anything,” he rasped.

You placed your hands over his and drew them up the scant distance to your underwear. He softly groaned and kissed you hard. You braced yourself with hands on the counter, kissing him back and sucking on his bottom lip.

His thumbs slid between your legs to rub at the cotton of your underwear. You squirmed against the gentle pressure of his touch. It almost satisfied.

He purred against your lips as his fingers found your slit. He must feel how wet you are. You wanted to apologize or explain.

Abe broke the kiss to say, “Such a dirty girl you are, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I—”

“I love it.”

“Oh…”

“Shall I keep going?” he asked as he massaged your sensitive flesh.

Your mouth dropped open, and you nodded. His stroking fingers felt so good. And was even better when he concentrated at the top of your slit. Your hips rotated against his fingers. You couldn’t stop yourself, your body moved of its own accord.

He caught your lips with his own. Surrendering to his kiss and touch felt right; inevitable since that first date. You wanted everything from him.

You skimmed your hands under the collar of his shirt as you lost yourself in his kisses. His skin was silky smooth and hot. The wet rub of your underwear over your nerves sent sparks up your belly. But it wasn’t enough.

You mewled, spreading your knees and curling your pelvis up.

He pulled away to shush you. “Not enough, is it?”

You bit your lip and shook your head.

“That’s all right, darling. I know what to do.”

He drew his hands from under your skirt. You wordlessly protested, but he shushed you again.

“Trust me,” he murmured.

He snaked his hand between the ribbed hem of your top and the waistband of your skirt. You didn’t know what he was doing. Nothing up your shirt was going to help this growing, gnawing tension inside you.

Instead of going up your body, he went down. Between your stomach and underwear.

“Wha…?”

“Trust me.”

He maneuvered to the side and then plunged his big hand down your underwear. You stiffened and put a hand on his forearm. Not necessarily to stop him, but you needed the contact.

He slowed as his fingertips touched your pubic hair. You shivered and couldn’t tell if it was from excitement or anxiety. He lowly praised how soft your skin was, how he needed to touch you. You nodded and held your breath. You needed it, too.

At first contact of his fingers to your delicate slit, you drew in air. This was really happening. It was no fantasy.

“So slick and hot,” he commented.

You hid your overheated face in his broad shoulder as you fought not to beg for more. You almost lost when he pushed right between your folds. It felt so good. You didn’t want him to stop now.

He stroked with two thick fingers, slow and delicious. You breathed in his aftershave as your head swam with such new pleasure.

“One day,” he hotly said. “I’m going to lay you on our bed and take you like this.”

“This” turned out to be fingers slowly pushing inside you.

You cried out before slapping a hand over your mouth. No one could know what he was doing to you.

He continued, “It won’t be my fingers in this honeypot.” He eased them out and back in again. “It’ll be my cock.”

You groaned at his vulgarity as your body protested a little at the penetration. Though, it hardly deterred you from wanting to feel that unyielding, yet luscious fullness.

When his words finally registered, you realized he wanted more than just this with you. He wanted it all with you. He’d said “our bed” like he was setting up the future.

Your heart soared. Because that future—a future with him—sounded wonderful.

“You want that?” he asked as he steadily pumped his fingers. “Want me to be your first?”

You nodded, uncovering your mouth, and breathed, “Yes.”

He kissed your temple and edged his fingers out. You almost asked for him to push inside again when his fingertips darted over a tender bud of nerves at the top of your sex. It was as though he’d touched a live wire, except the shock went through you.

You muffled a moan with your hand again. He asked if that was good, and you nodded as you gripped his shoulder. He placed his other hand on your lower back. It steadied you, keeping you in the moment.

“I have you,” he said and held you close as he petted that hypersensitive bud between your legs.

Each slide of his fingers made your body tense. You held onto him as he tightened his hold on you. His arm flexed between your bodies. His deft fingers worked you until your whole body was tense and shaking. There was no pause, no relief.

You needed some release.

“Please,” you begged from behind your hand.

Abe pressed harder, worked faster. You weren’t sure that would help. Your eyes went wide and you bit your lip as the tenseness morphed into fevered strain. You couldn’t find the words to demur. It wasn’t bad—not at all. It was too foreign to wrap your head around, though. It seemed your body knew what was happening as it went rigid.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t catch your breath, and you weren’t sure you wanted to get away. All you could do was take it.

Without warning, the strain snapped like a rubber band. You sagged in his arms as this torrent of torrid ecstasy surged from between your legs to heat every inch of your body. It went on and on, thudding like a heartbeat.

Abe cooed, “That’s my darling.”

You numbly nodded. You were his. You didn’t want anyone else touching you like this. No one had ever made you feel like this.

His fingers stilled to rest against your body. You were so wet; slick and yet sticky. The titillating stories you’d read failed to mention this part of lovemaking. A part of you was mortified and wanted to apologize, but he didn’t appear to mind.

“You’re so beautiful,” he softly said, making your embarrassment vanish.

You met his eyes as you rested your hands on his chest. “Thank you.”

He smiled, brilliant and sly. “Oh, my love, I should be thanking you.”

“I didn’t… Is there anything— Should I…?”

You wondered if Abe wanted you to reciprocate. You didn’t know how to do that. Not that you didn’t know what a penis looked like. You’d seen medical illustrations and taken Life Drawing class. You’d also seen enough crude gestures to know what men did to themselves. However, you weren’t sure you could satisfy him with only that knowledge.

“Just let me continue to love you.”

“You love me?”

“I told you when I met you, you’d bewitched me. You’ve had me ever since.”

-

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[gallantgautier]

♞ ∴∵∴ LIKE NO ONE IS WATCHING

Dancer Drabble! Under a cut for length

The thing about knowing how best to sneak around after hours, is that you come to learn all the places that are so very off limits. The dining hall, for one, while not guarded all that heavily in the moonlit hours, is far from spotless, too many ways to leave incriminating pieces of evidence. Sometimes, when he’s tempted to grab a snack on his midnight jaunts, he wonders if that’s intentional, catch them red handed – or crumb collared.

The training grounds too. Sure, tracks can be covered, scuffed over and made unrecognisable, but he knows his own tendency for neatness is his worst enemy here. He’d leave it too perfect, too pristine, and a late-night training session is not what he’d be accused of.

But there’s his own little haven, and that’s the joke, isn’t it? The ballroom is the last place he could describe as little, no nooks to tuck into where he won’t be seen by prying eyes, no long hedgerows to duck behind with company he hasn’t kept for a time longer than anyone would believe. And that’s the other joke, because even a day is too long in their eyes for that. Sure you’re feeling okay, Gautier?

The white sheets lay like the first snows over the instruments at the back of the room, like they did way back when on his last trip here with only his footsteps. But he doesn’t greet his old friend today, leaves her and her ivory keys safely under the rich mahogany he longs to trace. Another night, perhaps. Tonight, the only music is the owl calls, and a song he’ll hum under his breath to keep time.

The shoes are the first to go. He tucks them neatly next to the piano.

He couldn’t change in his room, too much rustling could easily awaken a light sleeper – if he even sleeps at all, sometimes Sylvain wonders – and the tinkling charms would ring like cathedral bells in an empty hallway. Or, he’s exaggerating, he’s been known to do that. But he’s practiced putting it on, during stolen hours between classes, or a moment before bed, he knows where the sashes should lie, which side the silks drape, where the fabric wraps under his arm and leaves his shoulder bare.

He catches his reflection in the glass of a display cabinet. He looks ridiculous.

But there are no eyes on him but his own, no one to judge, no one to care. And that’s why he came here, waited to creep through empty corridors and slip through shadows.

You need to keep your shoulders loose, Inigo had said, or said something like it. He doesn’t remember the exact words, but he lets them guide him through his first breaths. Long and deep, in through the nose, his bare left foot slides out in a half circle across the polished floor, stretches into a point from the long line of his leg. Out with the mouth, his upper body twists, right arm reaching skyward, as though he could pluck a star from the sky, if only the curtained windows and ceiling and his own worthiness couldn’t stop him.

Be fluid, he turns, the song he doesn’t play guides the next step, and the one after. It’s a presence at his back, hands under his elbows and at his waist that don’t claw and tear but direct. This way, my friend, just like this. And he follows, black silks on red, silver chains that ring in harmony instead of bind. A leap, landing silent and graceful – he almost wants to laugh, would never let himself wear that word. But there’s no one here, no one to see or judge or care or hear. So he does.

Around and around, feel the music, let it carry you. And he hears, imagines fingers flying over the keys where the song would build, where he’d lean forward, and hands would fall heavy to strike out the crescendo. He matches it with a turn and another, body first, head following, and another and another. He hears where it would slow, meets it halfway bending backwards, holds, and brings himself upright in one languid motion.

Pausing as the song fades in the silence of the ballroom, Sylvain realises – belatedly – he’s smiling.

One more time.

He’ll regret it in the morning, perhaps, when his muscles ache and friends and unknown faces alike roll their eyes at the evidence of another late night. He knows what they’ll think, what he won’t correct. But for an evening – or an early morning before even the sun greets them – he can indulge in fine silks and delicate jewellery and light footsteps. He can twist and turn and laugh and sing and dance how he plays.

Like no one is watching.

[shannonallaround]

Roadster Racers Drabble -- Sick Fluff Fic

Minnie rung out the wet rag and slapped it down onto the edge of the water bucket. She dried her hands off on her overalls. A sigh of satisfaction escaped her as she looked over her sparking pink race car.

“I think I’m finally done! What do you think, Daisy?”

Daisy rolled out from under her own roadster, the Snapdragon. “Oh, Minnie, its stunning! It’ll be perfect for the couple’s race!”

Minnie giggled. “Thanks.” She picked up the bucket and practically skipped to the sink to dump it. “Oh, I’m so excited!”  

“I’m sure you’ll have a blast.” Daisy smiled and rolled herself back underneath her car.

“I sure hope so!” As she walked back to her bow-inspired vehicle, pristine and polished, Minnie couldn’t help but grin.

“Achoo!”

“Bless you, Daisy!”

Daisy poked her head out again. “That wasn’t me…”

“Oh? Minnie blinked. “Well, it wasn’t me.” Then who—?

“Achoo!”

“Mickey!”

Minnie had turned to see her boyfriend leaning against the doorway to the spare room, holding a handkerchief to his face. His eyes blinked open as he put it away, smiling sheepishly.

“Hey, girls.” His voice came out scratchy.

“Good morning, Mickey! I forgot you’d be here already.” Minnie jogged over to meet him, her high-heeled work boots clicking against the floor. “Are…are you alright?”

Upon closer inspection, Minnie could see Mickey’s cheeks were flushed even more so than usual. Mickey cleared his throat, though with little success. “Yeah, just a little cold. I’m good.”

“You certainly don’t sound very good,” Minnie’s brows furrowed in worry, hands going to his shoulders. “Or look good, for that matter.” Although Minnie didn't mention it, Mickey’s eyes looked red and glassy. Even his tail drooped behind him.

Despite a headache forming, Mickey smiled, as if trying to convince her otherwise. “No need to worry, Min. I’m fiii… ahhh…” His face suddenly froze, and he whipped out his handkerchief again. “Achoo!”

“Bless you, Mickey! My goodness…” Minnie’s hands pulled away and clasped tightly in front of her chest.

Daisy had emerged from under her car again and was now standing, wiping grease off her hands with a rag. “You really do sound bad, Mickey. Are you even ok to race?”

“Course I’m ok to race!” Mickey’s face shot up from his handkerchief, appalled. “Min’ an’ I have been plannin’ this for ages! We’re not gonna miss it just ‘cause of a silly cold!”

“Mickey, I’m not sure its’ just a ‘silly cold’…” Minnie reached out to trace Mickey’s face, her fingers pressing against his forehead and cheeks. “You feel very warm… I think you have a fever.”

Mickey’s own hand flew to his face. Then, suppressing a shiver, he pushed himself firmly off the doorframe. “I can race.” He started to cross the room.  

For a moment, it looked like Mickey’s determination was going to win this battle. But not even a third of the way across the garage, he was hit with a dizzy spell—the room spun, his feet stumbled, and finally, his legs collapsed beneath him.

“Mickey!” Minnie cried out as Mickey fell right into Daisy’s outstretched arms.

It wasn’t until Minnie was looking into his face and she and Daisy were hoisting him up that Mickey realized what happened. It was Daisy that spoke first. “Mickey, you are in no shape to race.”

“I agree,” said Minnie. “You can barely stand— how can you expect to drive safely?”

Mickey looked up with tired eyes pleading. “But Min—!”

“Nope, no buts.” Minnie had made up her mind: Mickey was staying home. “You are not getting into that car only to crash because you sneezed.” Then her firm expression changed to a gentle one as she and Daisy helped him up fully, draping his arms over their shoulders. “I’ll take care of you. Ok?”

Mickey wanted to protest— he really did. But by now, his head was beginning to feel heavier than his own car. His scratchy voice was quiet as he resigned. “Ok.”

The threesome made their way slowly back to the spare room. Mickey had converted this space into a simple bedroom some time ago—by sleeping at the garage the night before big races, he had explained, he wasted less time traveling and was able to spend more time preparing. By the rumpled bedsheets, it was clear that was exactly what he had done.

At the doorway, Minnie took over helping Mickey inside. “Daisy, do you think you could get an extra blanket, please?

“Sure thing.” Mickey heard her run to another part of the garage. He sneezed again.

“Bless you!” Minnie picked up a pair of discarded pajamas draped over the footboard and placed them in Mickey’s hands. “You put these back on. Then you can get back under those covers and just relax, ok? I’ll go make you some breakfast. Are you very hungry?”

Mickey shook his head, his eyes on the pajamas in his arms. “Not really… though something warm would be nice…”

“Like a hot chocolate?”

“Yeah.” He looked up. “Thanks, Min.”

Minnie pecked him on the cheek, again noticing the heat from his face. “Course, sweetie.” Then she stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

In a few minutes, Minnie had prepared a steaming cup of hot chocolate, complete with a little spoon to stir it. It was moments like these that she was grateful the garage was outfitted with a small kitchen area.

She took the mug, a matching plate, and the spoon and knocked on Mickey’s door. “Can I come in, Mickey?”

There was a sneeze from the other side, followed by a muffled ‘yes’. Minnie stepped in. Mickey was already sitting on the bed, back in his striped pajamas, the extra blanket Daisy had fetched draped over his knees. His face was buried in his handkerchief again as he blew his nose.

“Here’s your hot chocolate.” Minnie carefully placed the steaming cup on the bedside table, then proceeded to fold back the covers. “Now you can just get in, rest, be warm and maybe sleep a bit more.”

Mickey didn’t say anything, but let Minnie guide him under the blankets. A few moments passed before he spoke.

“I’m sorry, Minnie.”

Minnie looked up at him. “About what?”

“About this.” He gestured roughly to himself, scowling. He had the expression of someone who, while walking down the sidewalk on a bad day, had the incredibly strong desire to kick a rock. Unfortunately for Mickey, in his bed there was no rock to kick, so his frustration came out in his voice. “The timing of all this is sure lousy.”

“Oh, Mickey," Minnie touched his hand. "Don’t talk like that, it’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, it is.” Mickey scowled harder. “I mean— We planned this! And then I had to go and ruin it all by gettin’ some dumb, stupid fever and—!”

Mickey suddenly found himself cut off by something very soft and pleasant pressed against his lips. Minnie kissed him gently. And just like always, Mickey’s brain began to melt into mush at the very act. His own love for her outshone any and all other thoughts. When Minnie pulled away, Mickey’s words to her were barely more than a mumble, stringing from his subconscious.

“Yur gonna get sick too, now…”

Minnie giggled. “Maybe so. But I want you to know that I love you. So much.” She stroked her sweetheart’s feverish forehead. “Getting sick isn’t something you have control over. Yes, there are things that help prevent it, but everyone gets something every once in a while. Don’t beat yourself up about it.” She smiled. “I know you were looking forward to today— I was too. But in the end, I’m just happy I’m able to spend the day with you."

Mickey looked like he didn’t quite believe it, but any protest died on his tongue as his body began to shut down. His eyes drooped as leaned back into his pillow, succumbing to the warmth of his bed. Maybe laying here wasn’t gonna be so bad after all. But he wasn’t gonna sleep! Nuh-uh, nope, no sir…

“We’ll race next time… alright?”

Minnie giggled as Mickey began to doze off. “Of course we will.” As his head nodded and he softly began to snore, Minnie leaned in to kiss her sweetheart’s forehead once again.

“Next time.”

_____

Found this on my computer and just edited/added to it today. I haven’t written anything mice related in a million years so it was really fun. 

I haven’t seen anything of Mickey and the Roadster Racers since the first few episodes but I enjoyed them so this was born, hope you enjoy. 

[the-lightning-strikes-again]

Hello? Yes, I heard there is a Allura Singh x Emperor Lotor fic i need a lil help finding it please?

Hi, anon! Thanks for your note! So, haha, I’ve had a few conversations with others about VLD’s multiverse. We asked the question, “What if the Lotor and Allura of Adrenaline Rush could meet the Lotor and Allura of VLD?” Within that conversation, the crack ship Allura Singh x Emperor Lotor (Singhperor) came to exist. 

I’ve written a few little drabbles for a multiverse concept. @brimdraws143 just drew a Singhperor picture based off a little vignette by @sachidiva, as well.

If you’re interested, here’s a few of my silly multiverse AR/VLD drabbles, haha:

In Which Allura Singh Attempts to Flirt With an Emperor

Allura Singh bit her lip before awkwardly trying to lean against the wall, pulling out the tie from her bun so her long, white hair flowed down her shoulders.

The heat of the day had frizzed it, and her posture made her look as if she were favoring an injured leg. But this man before her was attractive, and if she tried to flirt with him, it would not matter, for she would likely never see this version of Lotor again. It would be good practice. She just needed a good line. “Um. Do you know, sir, that you really get my engine running?”

Yellow, slit eyes narrowed upon her, searching her over curiously. “No,” he murmured. “I have not touched your land-based vehicles. Perhaps you are thinking of someone else.”

She swallowed hard and then nervously laughed. “Oh, that’s not what I was—um. Oh dear.” Her face flushed.

The alien man leaned in a bit, curious of this human doppelganger of Allura. “And I am not a sir. But an Emperor.”

If it were possible, her blush darkened with horror. “Um. Yes, of course.” She managed a weak smile, her knees beginning to wobble in nervousness. “Emperor Lotor. I forgot.”

He blinked, his slit eyes narrowing further. And then suddenly, his thin lips stretched to reveal dangerous fangs that glimmered white. “Miss Allura Singh. I fear you are a bit easier to tease than your counterpart.”—

In Which the Lotors Talk and Allura Singh Pays a Compliment to Only OneEmperor Lotor curiously turned a pair of sunglasses in his hands. “These are similar to the sight-correcting devices worn by the green paladin, Pidge, and her father, Commander Holt.” He tilted the object up to see through them. “But they are dark. Tell me, what defect plagues you to warrant such corrective lenses?”

Lotor Dalir crossed his arms, tilting his head in amusement. “They are sunglasses, to deflect harmful rays. My vision is otherwise perfect.”

The alien man hummed as he peered through them and lightly placed them on his face. “Are they purely for pragmatic reasons? Or is this another strange Earth fashion as well, like your leather jackets?”

Dalir paused, looking at this counterpart of himself. He realized in despair that this emperor looked very good in aviator sunglasses. Perhaps even better than him. “It, ah, is a fashion, yes.” 

Emperor Lotor paused, lowering the aviators to eye him with slit pupils, genuinely curious. “…How do I look in these?” 

At that moment, one Miss Allura Singh entered the room in a flounce of shopping bags. “Lotor, there is a space mall here, with employees who have four arms, can you believe—?! Oh.” She froze on sight at the image of the Emperor Lotor in dark, sleek sunglasses. “Emperor Lotor. Hello.”

And then the Galran gave a respectful bow to her. “Miss Singh.”

“You look rather dashing in Lotor’s sunglasses,” she said, her cheeks flushing with the attempt flirt a little more .

And then the emperor slid his eyes to her and began to smile. “Why, thank you, Miss Singh. Your compliments are, as always, appreciated.”

Lotor Dalir’s eyes narrowed.

—-

In Which the Emperor Takes Allura Singh Shopping at the Space Mall

At the space mall in the rift between realities, Allura Singh giggled in delight. She leaned over a jewelry counter. “How strange it is,” she murmured, “to discover that even galaxies and galaxies away, all people enjoy creating things from gold.” Her eyes were set upon a small chain, which was perhaps meant to be a bracelet for a larger alien—but she knew it would double perfectly as a new anklet to replace the one she’d broken.

“That is not gold, Miss Singh,” came the lightly amused voice of one Emperor Lotor. “It is simply Hiulux, a metal which mimics its properties. These are quite cheap copies.” He leaned against the counter along with her, watching her curiously. “But I see that does not deter you.”

“Whatever they are, the workmanship is divine,” she whispered. She looked up to the shop owner, who was a portly man with five eyes, and she said happily, “I will take the one on the end please. Um, toward me. My end. Yes—that one.” And she nearly vibrated in delight as she handed over the GAC in exchange for the delicate chain.

But then she stared it, narrowing her eyes, and she began to pout. “Oh, dear. I do not understand this clasp. How do you get this to work?”

The emperor smiled at her struggles, his eyes crinkling. “It is a standard clasp of the Malija, who have claws similar to my own. Would you like me to assist you?”

“Oh, yes please. I very much would.”

And then the pretty woman dropped all of her bags and unceremoniously raised her leg to hook an ankle against a nearby chair. The skirt she had borrowed from the Princess Allura fell in folds away from her ankles, revealing slim, bare legs and the odd, mostly naked top of her foot. Flip flops, she had once called her strange shoes.

The emperor swallowed hard as she held out the chain, not quite realizing that her very action—revealing her legs to him, asking him to place a bauble upon her—was an old Galran engagement tradition.

Oh dear, he thought, his alien heart skipping a beat.

The emperor’s alien eyes stared back up at her with a few strain of tension in his face. “Miss Singh, I believe this item of jewelry belongs not on your leg, but upon your wrist. The sign says these are bracelets.”

She giggled at him. “Well, yes. But I lost my anklet, you see, and I really wanted another one.” She dared to wiggle her toes on her raised leg, her pink nail polish glimmering in the light. “Won’t you help me, Emperor Lotor? Or should I find another man with claws to help me out. I believe I’ve seen a few around here. Although some of them had the most peculiar body structures—I would not know whether to stand in front or behind them to ask, with all their many eyes.”

He quirked a white brow. “Even as human as you are, you have no fear, do you.”

“Not a bit, sir.” And then she smiled brightly. “I mean, Emperor. I promise, I do intend to be better about your title.” And then she blinked, and suddenly she faltered a bit. “Oh, or perhaps you find this request insulting to you somehow? I did not think of that.”

The alien man gently grabbed onto the chain, his warm callouses brushing against her lithe fingers. “I did offer you my assistance. But you should know, if this one breaks, do not run to ask a strange man for help. There are many customs here you may be unacquainted with.”

And then he bent down, gently wrapping the chain about her dainty ankle, using the tips of his claws to open the spring clasp. His lips pressed together tightly.

“And what customs are those, Emperor Lotor?”

His voice tightened as he dared to accidentally brush his callouses against the side of her leg. “Not important for now, princess.” And then he paused. His beautiful voice strained. “I mean, Miss Singh.”

And the human woman began to giggle at his slip.

[kikizoshi]

may i request a fyogol drabble or short fic about fyodors birthday and how he doesn't think its important but nikolai uses it as an excuse to show him a silly magic trick and suddenly their day isn't going so badly anymore

Yes, of course! Thanks for the ask (and on Fyodor’s birthday, too; this really is such a treat)! I took a few liberties with the story, as you’ll see, because I thought it fit with their theme a bit better, but I tried to include everything you asked for. And, yeah, I hope you enjoy it! It was great having an outside reason to write, so thank you very much!

     The ticking and tocking clock mocks Gogol as he swings his legs, laying half off a new-smelling bed and utterly bored out of his mind. ‘Tick’ reminds him that there’s nothing to do. ‘Tock’ reminds him that he could make something to do. ‘Tick’ argues that he can’t do something out of the ordinary for his character designation of Secretary. 'Tock’ disagrees, because who’s going to be looking at Secretary, anyway? Gogol vaguely remembers the story of an angel and demon on one’s shoulder and groans out loud at the overused cliche.

     He looks over to the door and sighs. He doesn’t mind any of the other scenery around the room–he’d long since tired of the dull white walls and clean kitchen. The worn, polished picture frames and the new IKEA desk mean nothing if their owner doesn’t care for their contents. No, the only things of mild value remain tucked away in Gogol’s cloak, and so nothing catches his eye. It’s just the door that’s insufferable. A sort of freedom taunts him this time in the form of being so very close, and it’s maddening. Strangely, both Tick and Tock agree with him on that.

     Gogol sighs harder–as though that will relieve him of his tantalizing thoughts–and scratches at his black wig. He looks at the tiny slit of a gap between the door and the doorframe and imagines himself becoming as thin as paper (or maybe thinner?), slipping through that taunting crevice. He can practically feel it–the smooth, slightly rough but oh so satisfying slide against the door and doorframe until he’s out and the cool, near-winter air whisks him up, up and away from this melancholic, drab, caged act.

     The clock forgets Gogol’s even there, arguing with itself louder, and that damned itch won’t go away, so Gogol scratches more–only serving to irritate the skin, itching it further–stills his legs, and the free energy coils up in his gut, screaming at him to move. He jolts up and throws the wig across the pristine floor, dragging his nails along his scalp irritably. God, how do people spend their every day like this?!

     It’s terrible, yes, simply awful, so why should Gogol stay in their hell? No, he has better things to do. It’s a very important day, after all! A grin stretches his face at that, the thought instantly lightening his mood. He’d almost forgotten the speciality of this day, but how could he? When his dear, dear friend and coworker surely sits all alone, up to his neck in a pawn that won’t comply or coding that defies all logic or whatever it is that Dostoyevsky even does–for Gogol finds himself rather unaware of such things even when Dostoyevsky explains it to him, such is the work as enigmatic as the worker–what else can Gogol be expected to do if not cheer him up?

     And so, without even bothering to question whether or not his friend actually is in any sort of stress at the moment, Gogol shoots up and all but dashes to the door, only barely stopping to grab his cape before he goes. He does take careful pains to lock his door, however–unwelcome visitors are always troublesome.

     The breeze is … not as cold as he’d expected, though why he expected cold weather at all in Japan is perhaps a mystery not even he can solve. It is cool though, a pleasant breeze even if not a cold one, and Gogol’s smile softens at it. 'We should visit a park or something later,’ he thinks, 'or perhaps look on the city from one of those Mafia buildings?’ He looks up in contemplation to try to see the four tall shapes. Sadly, they don’t appear in his line of view, but that can be fixed! Gogol swings around, walking backwards now and garnering a few stares but that doesn’t matter much now. Now that Gogol can see those dark pillars–and the alley he’s looking for is half a mile away–he gets lost in his imagination for what they could do there.

     The breeze blows chillier than it does on the ground–much more akin to what the two are used to, picking up their capes and blowing them so far they look to be seeking escape–and the city lights twinkling below them could almost be pretty if they weren’t another sign of this world’s latent corruption. That doesn’t matter as much, though, Gogol is sure, since the wind still feels nice and his friend looks to be at some sort of peace for once.

     "Hey, hey, Dos-kun?“ A grin stretches Gogol’s face as he comes up with a marvellous new joke, “What’s the synonym of both 'essential to society’ and 'ignorance’?! I’ll give you three guesses, though I’m sure you only need one!”

     "There are many answers to that, how am I to know which one you mean?“

     "Why, that’s the point!” Gogol laughs, loud and free, “If I weren’t vague, my audience wouldn’t have to guess and the quiz would be no fun at all!”

     "That’s true.“ Dostoyevsky keeps his blank face faced towards the sparkling city as though lost in thought, but Gogol thinks it might just be less cold than usual. “Well then, in this case, your answer is 'the Port Mafia’, as they’re both essential to Yokohama’s society and incredibly ignorant for allowing us to slip onto their roof.”

     "Excellent, bravo, that’s exactly correct!“ Gogol jumps up from the edge they’re both sitting on to proclaim in a sweeping gesture, "It’s a perfect answer, and since you replied so splendidly, I have a special offer!” He holds a hand out to Dostoyevsky–whose hand is gloved, for once; a fact for which Gogol is incredibly thankful–that’s then taken, although the latter doesn’t move to stand. “IIIIIIt’s 'Double or Nothing Time’!!! For the price of figuring out one more trick, I’ll double the prize you would have gotten! Beware though,” Gogol’s voice suddenly drops to a dire whisper, “for if you get this one wrong, you’ll lose everything and be doubly tricked.”

     Dostoyevsky smiles slightly. “And do I have to stand for this new trick of yours?” he asks.

     "Hm, no, I suppose not. Only give me a second.“ Gogol lets go of Dostoyevsky’s hand and pulls his cape across the top half of his body, vanishing it in front of Dostoyevsky’s eyes. Not for long though, as it’s back in front of him when he turns back to look at the city. And also a little too close for comfort. Dostoyevsky pokes Gogol in the chest, a signal for him to back up slightly, which he does with a laugh and 'floats’ there merrily in the air, simply grinning at Dostoyevsky for a moment.

     "So this trick of yours is …” Dostoyevsky trails off, waiting for Gogol to finish–a request to which he happily complies.

     "Yes! You see, I found this the other day,“ Gogol retrieves from his cloak a regular paper napkin, completely average in every way, and holds it out like it’s the Holy Grail, "and I just had to use it! So, my willing participant, if you would be so kind as to hold this for me,” Gogol rips the napkin in two and picks up Dostoyevsky’s right hand, placing one half inside of it, “and I’ll take the other one, see, and curl it up like so,” he crushes his half of the napkin into a ball about half the size of a tennis ball and holds it up with glee, “and viola!”

     "… Your trick is a ball.“ Dostoyevsky stares at him, unimpressed. Gogol laughs again. "No, no! Not a ball,” he cackles, “the ball is only the beginning! No, though the ball is very nice, it’s what’s inside the ball that’s important! If the magician can’t get the special component outside of the ball, then there’s not much point at all, and everyone’s left unsatisfied!”

     "And that is?“

     "Magic, of course!”

     "Of course.“

     "Yes, sooo,” Gogol sways the ball around in front of Dostoyevsky’s eyes, “I want you to pay very special attention to this ball. Whatever you do, whatever happens, don’t, for even a second, let it out of your sight. If you do, then you automatically fail!”

     Dostoyevsky nods.

     "Alright! Now then,“ Gogol puts the ball into his cupped right hand, "as you can see, the ball is here now,” he closes his hand, “and now you don’t see it!” He laughs gaily, though sobers enough to continue when Dostoyevsky gives the ball an exasperated look. He opens his hand back up and takes the ball back with his left hand. “So now, when I put the ball in my hand for the second time and close it, you can be sure that, when I open it again, there will be only empty air! Ready?” Gogol grins wider at Dostoyevsky’s nod.

     Now, here’s the tricky part. Gogol holds the hand with the ball just high enough that a quick flick should be out of Dostoyevsky’s periphrial vision, then quickly brings his left hand down as if he’s putting the ball in. He closes his hand and looks back to Dostoyevsky and … and Dostoyevsky’s not looking at him.

     Rather than focusing on Gogol, like he’d wanted, Dostoyevsky had stayed true to his word and now looks towards the edge of the roof where the ball must have been swept off by the wind. Slowly, he turns his unimpressed expression back to Gogol, though Gogol doesn’t miss the tinge of humour in it. Gogol sighs. Well, it was worth a try. Though he’d hoped he’d get farther than that, it’s not like he didn’t expect–

     "Ah, I see,“ Dostoyevsky continues with a smirk, cutting off Gogol’s train of thought, "so I’ve already been caught.” He holds up the hand that Gogol had taken at the very beginning palm-up to himself and sighs. Right there, though he’d been too distracted to notice it at the time–something Gogol takes great pride in–is a small, flat cylinder, not unlike a poker chip, with a counter counting down from about a minute on it.

     Gogol makes a show of falling back out of his cape and laughs to the sky. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually! Though perhaps it’s too late?! After all, time’s running out and the release switch is who knows where.” Gogol grins mischievously, gloating over his assured victory. To his delight, it actually has the intended effect!

     Dostoyevsky stands, smirk still there although merging with an outright smile now, and walks over to Gogol. Nonchalantly, as though he has all the time in the world, Dostoyevsky reaches into Gogol’s right hand and presses the button on the switch.

     DING! DING! DING! DING!

     Dostoyevsky jumps, startled, at Gogol chuckles and confetti flies out of the disk on Dostoyevsky’s hand, said disk falling to the ground shortly after.

     "Happy birthday!“ Gogol shouts, throwing his arms up in excitement, "And may we wish for many more to come.”

     "So that’s why you brought me up here?“ Dostoyevsky sits back down on the edge, raising a hand to his head. "That’s a long way and a lot of time for nothing, Gogol.”

     "Certainly,“ Gogol says seriously, "That’s why it’s 'Much Ado About Nothing!’ If it was 'Much Ado About Something’ or 'Much Ado About Most Things’ then people wouldn’t be as interested! No, it’s 'Much Ado About Nothing’, and isn’t it such a luxury to have any ado not attributed to anything? I think so. And, wouldn’t you like to experience it too? If only for a little while.” Gogol smiles genuinely, taking a seat back beside Dostoyevsky and taking his hand.

     "I hate to be the one to inform you of this,“ Dostoyevsky says, "but your whole existence could be said to be 'Much Ado About Nothing,’ and therefore insignificant.”

     "Aah, but you see,“ Gogol leans in conspiratorially, "if I were to vanish from society today, it would have an effect. Not an immediate or noticeable one, perhaps, but an effect nonetheless. Therefore, even if you call my existence 'Much Ado About Nothing,’ my actions have to do with something! But anyway,” Gogol takes in a deep breath of air, suddenly becoming much calmer in the moment, “It’s true that I know how to have fanfare over trivialities, but you don’t seem to. It’s always the end or beginning of the world, but nothing ever happens outside of that. Wouldn’t you like to try, then, and take a step out of reality for even just a handful of minutes? Surely it wouldn’t be terrible.”

     "Perhaps.“ Dostoyevsky’s smile becomes only that, then, and he sighs a sigh that Gogol might almost venture to call contented. "I hope you plan on cleaning the confetti, because I definitely won’t.”

     Gogol laughs.

     Coming out of his thoughts, Gogol notices the alleyway to his destination and grins. It’s just about time, then. Even if things won’t happen exactly the way he’d imagined them, just seeing Dostoyevsky soften is more than enough of a goal for the day!

     With that in mind, he sweeps through his cape the rest of the way and ends up in a fairly cramped room. It’s a few doors behind an underground bar–'Lupin’ he remembers the sign said–that Dostoyevsky bought from the now-dead owner of the establishment. As such, the backroom that Gogol finds himself in isn’t too big, holding only a small group of pillows Gogol guesses could be called a bed, a single glowing bulb fixed into the ceiling, a desk, chair, and a few monitors. Why, exactly, Dostoyevsky decides to stay here, when there are plenty other–better–places to stay, Gogol has no idea. The former doesn’t seem to have a problem with the setup, however, as he’s … well, he’s doing something completely unexpected now that Gogol looks at him with properly adjusted eyes.

     Dostoyevsky looks up from his book, the stark pink colouring of it seemingly shining in the dark room as he lowers it slightly. “Gogol. What brings you here?” He asks.

     "My, you sound positively brimming with happiness at my visit! Can I not see friends when the boredom consumes me whole?“

     "No, it’s not that you can’t, but you never do things without even a minuscule reason. Humans don’t.”

     Gogol sighs. Working up to his fantasy will take time, but it’s time well-spent if it’s time with his friend. Or coworker. Dostoyevsky doesn’t seem to be in a good mood, after all. “Yes, and that boredom is my very reason! Usually you would get that … Oh no, is something seriously wrong?!”

     "No, I understood that. But you have another motive, too.“ Dostoyevsky sets his book on the table next to him and leans back in his chair.

     "Of course, of course,” Gogol relents, “because … No, but I’ll let you guess! What better way to get the mind working than a quiz?! And a quiz needs a hint! Let’s see, 'what rhymes with "calendar?”’“

     "November. You’re here because of my birthday too then, but there’s no need and even less so since you have to break character to be here.”

     "On the contrary, it’s very important! Even if not to you, then to the people around you, so,“ Gogol reaches into his cloak–and readjusts it while he’s at it. Had he really been so careless in throwing it on?–and pulls out a small-ish, lumpy yet neatly wrapped package, "I’ll let you guess what this is, and if you get it right, I’ll give you a second present!”

     Dostoyevsky takes the package–irritably–and feels it, squishing and turning and making a mess of the packaging. Gogol watches in anticipation. 

     After a few moments, Dostoyevsky answers. “It’s a new ushanka.” Promptly, before Gogol can announce the verdict, Dostoyevsky rips open the packaging to reveal a hat exactly like the one he’s wearing. He sighs. “I already have one though. What’s the point in getting a new one?”

     "Because!“ Gogol exclaims, "You were talking about that guy–”

     "Dazai?“

     "Maybe–you didn’t mention him by name–and I thought, since you were so peeved at him for wearing your hat, you’d want a new one that you could call unsullied by your nemesis!”

     "I see.“ Dostoyevsky removes his hat and replaces it with the new one from Gogol. Much to Gogol’s delight, his expression does soften some as he feels at it on his head. "It’s softer,” Dostoyevsky says.

     "Of course, your other one was getting rather old, too.“ Gogol smiles and pats Dostoyevsky on the head through his cape. "This one should be warmer as well, although I still don’t know how you manage to wear such furry clothes in the heat–”

     "Thank you,“ Dostoyevsky says, smiling, "it’s nice.”

     Gogol smiles back and moves closer to Dostoyevsky. “I haven’t forgotten about your second present either.” Slowly– to give Dostoyevsky enough time to move away if he wishes–Gogol slips his arms around him in a semi-awkward embrace and says simply, “Happy birthday.”

     Dostoyevsky returns the hug, “Still, I can’t help but think this should be a time of mourning for you, too.”

     When Gogol pulls back, Dostoyevsky is smiling cunningly. Gogol mildly worries. “E-Eh? Why would I mourn the day of your birth?”

     "How about a quiz?“ The smile stays, and Gogol feels himself cornered before the conversation has even ended. "Since you like them so much, I’ll provide one this time.”

     "Why thank you,“ Gogol laughs, pulling away completely to sit on the pillows across from him, and thinks aloud, "Let’s see, a reason to mourn Dos-kun’s birth … Because it’s bad for the world? But I don’t believe that! His existence hasn’t caused me any pain not of my own making, has been very beneficial, yet I have some reason to mourn it …” After a few moments of silence, Gogol finally throws his hands up in defeat. “I have no idea! I give up, so you’ll have to tell me.”

     The now-smirk grows, “Because,” Dostoyevsky begins, as though explaining something to a schoolboy, “now you’ll no longer be able to make jokes of being the older one of us.”

     Gogol’s eyes shoot wide open as he processes the new information. “Oh no!” He screams, “How could I have forgotten such an important detail?! You’re right. This is terrible, utterly awful! But alas, I must endure it … Yes, I’ll endure it for a few more months, and then all will be right again!”

     "But you won’t,“ Dostoyevsky says, "because you won’t have the chance.”Gogol tilts his head in confusion. “What? Of course March will get here eventually! So why wouldn’t–” Just then, as though the realisation strikes him with a staggering force, he leans back onto the wall and his smile falls sad. “Ah, of course. I won’t be here for March.”

     Dostoyevsky nods. “Precisely.” His expression becomes grim too, and he comes to sit next to Gogol. “So perhaps we should change the plan–it’s what I was thinking when you came in. There are a few ways about it, although the boss won’t like it very much, it’s not as though they can do anything about it if we decide not to go through with 'Sunday’s Tragedy,’ as you like to call it.”

     Gogol shakes his head, a resolute smile on his lips. “No, that’d be no good. The whole point of Sunday’s Tragedy is that it happens. I wouldn’t have agreed to it if it went differently, so of course, we can’t change it. Don’t you already know that?”

     Dostoyevsky sighs. “Yes,” he says simply, resting his head against the wall and looking at nothing in particular. There’s nothing else to say, Gogol supposes. Still, this isn’t how it was supposed to go. Dostoyevsky wasn’t supposed to end up depressed by the end–Gogol wasn’t either.

     "It’s,“ Gogol says, "It’s going to turn out fine. After all, we’ve known each other for, say, about nine years now, and most of the plans you worked on came to fruition. Even if these plans are shared amongst others, I believe in the things you create, so you can believe in them too.” He takes Dostoyevsky’s hand, “I’m sure of it. You don’t have to worry.”

     ” … You put a mechanised party popper in my hand at a moment like this …“

     "Ah, drat! And here I thought I was sneaky this time!” Gogol laughs nonetheless and takes out the release switch. “Well, since you figured it out so quickly, I suppose I’ll end it myself this time.”

     Dostoyevsky’s eyes widen. “No, wait–”

     DING! DING! DING! DING!

[boshaw-manor]

Atlanta

More John and Harlow drabble because I love them. Sorry about it.

Seed ranch was boring as hell. There was nothing to do and John was always busy with the Project. Harlow would hazard to stay she hated it sometimes when she snuck off to visit him for a few days but she couldn’t resist. There was something about John Seed that had a real hold over her.

After spending a good ten minutes sliding across the polished dining room floor in her navy woollen socks, Harlow wandered out into the living room. Yawning, she rubbed her tired eyes as the morning sun glittered through the window. Bored. Oh so very bored. She should’ve brought her old Gameboy to play Pokemon or something. Sliding to the floor behind the couch, she rolled her ankles around before letting out a long sigh. The sound of gunshots in the distance outside would’ve made any normal person bolt but to her it was just background noise now. The same as the birds in the trees, the whir of a plane’s engine or the bark of a dog. Smirking to herself, Harlow pressed her fingers together to form a gun.

‘They’ve got me surrounded captain. I might not make it out alive, but it’s a sacrifice I gotta make.’ Whispering into a pretend com, she leapt to her feet and shot the fake gun at imaginary enemies. ‘Pew, pew, pew!’ Harlow combat rolled across the floor and took cover behind the taxidermy wolf by the stairs. ‘You’ll never take me alive!’ She howled, vaulting over it and pretending to spray bullets

‘What are you doing?’ John’s cutting tone made her jump and she spun around, pressing her mirrored index fingers to the skin of his slightly exposed chest.

‘I’ve found him sir, the ring leader! I’ve got a point-blank shot!’ The Deputy grinned at the Baptist in hopes he’d play along but knew it wasn’t meant to be the moment he rolled his eyes.

‘If you’re bored come and help me clean out the office.’ John’s hands wrapped around her ‘gun’ and lowered it, tilting his head to the shut door across the room. ‘You’d be actually making yourself useful for once.’

‘Fine. Mission aborted.’ She grumbled, unclasping her hands and taking the liberty of skidding across the floor once more before opening the office door. Piles of paperwork littered the desk and boxes upon boxes of crap towered up to the ceiling. ‘You’re messy.’ Harlow stated, reaching for the first box on top of the highest pile.

‘I am not. I’ve just been neglecting my duties somewhat to spend time with you.’ He ran a hand through his distressed hair, pulling loose unkempt locks back from his forehead, before busying himself with a filing cabinet in the corner.

‘You coulda fooled me.’ She muttered, placing the cardboard box on the ground and rifling through it. It was all old contracts and legal stuff signed off with John’s dramatic signature. Shoving that hunk of junk out of the door, she motioned to take another one down. Teetering on the tips of her toes, Harlow’s fingers grazed the top of the box as she tried to reach it. ‘Almost... there...’

‘Wait-‘ John tried to stop her but it was too late. The tower began to waver, shifting its weight and toppling down on top of her. Books and papers buried her body as she struggled to free herself from the fragile binding now pinning her to the ground. Emerging, her head popped out first and a hand soon followed to rub at her temple.

‘You have a lot of shit.’ Harlow groaned, releasing her other arm to pick up a leather bound black book and wave it in the air. John frowned at the mess she’d made, slamming the cabinet draw shut and stalking over. Taking the black book into both her hands, Harlow smoothed a palm over the cover. A big white sticker had started to peel at the corners in the centre, reading ATLANTA in block capitals. Flipping it open, her curiosity was piqued at the sight of dozens of photographs.

‘Huh. Haven’t seen that in a while.’ John’s frown dissipated into an intrigued smirk, looping his arms under Harlow’s armpits and pulling her from the wreckage. Her attention remained focussed on the pages as he dragged her to his office chair and sat, practically yanking her onto his knee.

‘Looks like quite the life.’ Harlow remarked as he rested his bearded chin on her shoulder. One page was decked out with fancy cars littering a driveway, another saw a slightly younger John and a group of men in a casino winning big money. Flipping the page, a panoramic shot of a penthouse filled with people partying reminded her of a more expensive looking Where’s Wally? scene. The drinks were flowing, the people looked happy and right in the centre of it all was John. Turning the page again it landed on the Baptist, or in that time the lawyer, with his arm looped around the back of a young woman. Harlow’s eyes traced over the long red gown and sizeable jewellery clinging to her tiny frame. The next page was almost identical but with a different woman in a different outfit. And the next page. And the next page. And the next page.

‘Wow...’ She mumbled under her breath. They were all so opulent and luxurious and she was... not. She could never be that. Damn she’d tried it as a teenager but high school prom had been such a disaster that she’d decided maybe sticking to shorts and a novelty t-shirt was a safer bet. It was better than crying in the toilets alone. And rather than being sweet and smiling, she’d learnt to scowl and throw bitter insults at any guy who approached her in the university common room. It became easier for her not to be taken the piss out of that way. Insecurity washed over her as she leant back into John’s chest.

‘You okay?’ He asked, dragging a hand down her arm. She’d tensed up and was still staring at the same picture.

‘In the real world you’d never of chosen me.’ Harlow finalised quietly, snapping the album shut and tossing it on the floor with a thud.

‘Is that envy I see?’ He chuckled, squeezing her sides teasingly. But she wasn’t laughing.

‘No. Just honesty.’ Sighing heavily, the usually stone-cold Deputy scratched at her neck and tightened her lips to stop tears from forming in her green eyes. ‘I could never look like that.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, you’d look stunni-‘

‘No I wouldn’t.’ She interrupted knowingly. Trying to picture herself on John’s arm in a skin tight dress or sitting in the passenger seat of one of his sports cars made her want to barf. She’d look frumpy and out of place and just plain wrong.

‘Sweetheart, I don’t even remember half of those women’s names.’ John crept his hands soothingly up her back and rested them at the base of her neck. ‘Everything in there is fake. Fake asses, fake tits, fake smiles. All of it.’ Harlow wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.

‘But if you passed me on the street, that’d be it. Just passing. You wouldn’t pay me an ounce of attention. I feel like...’ Incisors nipping into her lip, Harlow cursed herself out for getting emotional. ‘I feel like maybe I’m just convenient for you.’ Slipping off of his knee, she padded out of the office and shoved her hands in her pockets. Of course he’d pick the women with the perfect hair and the trim waistlines and the big beautiful smiles over her. She knew that. She was short, swore like a trooper and was still on a personal mission to complete her damn Pokedex. Trudging up the stairs, going back to her room seemed like the best option. Maybe she could cry for an hour and then resume her internal struggle as to which Star Wars film was the best.

‘She’s found me! Agent Fox has found me!’ Harlow’s footfalls paused, as she looked over her shoulder at John. He was half-heartedly holding his hands up like he had an invisible gun in them. Blue irises staring right at her, he nodded a little to try and coax her back down the steps. ‘But wait, she could be waving the white flag? This could be our chance to blow up the world!’ He mimed an explosion, even making booming sounds under his breath. John felt like a moron in this moment. But he knew he had to give her an inch. He had to try at least a little bit. Granted, she wasn’t his conventional type. She was mouthy, unfeminine and, to be honest, a massive nerd. But she was also calculating, perceptive and far smarter than most people would give her credit for. She was a challenge, willing to butt-heads with the Baptist just to get a reaction. He liked that. The way she wound him up pissed him off but turned him on at the same time. Being with her was the most fun he’d had with a girl for a very long time and he didn’t want to lose that. If the Project ended tomorrow, he knew he’d rather stay in Hope County with her rather than return to his flashy lifestyle. Because unlike everything and everyone else before her, Harlow was real.

He watched as her lip quirked in confusion before she warily turned around and lifted her hands back up to form a pistol shape.

‘Mission resumed captain. I’ve got eyes on the target.’

[hlycrwn]

nobody asked but instead of doing Anything Productive i wrote a drabble thing on dimitri’s first run in with rufus post - tragedy bc i like making myself really sad so anyway here’s wonder wall  [  do not rb btw  ]

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

When he was seven he thought of this castle’s size as a blessing, a plethora of crevices and corners to tuck himself into when the responsibilities of being a prince became too much for small shoulders to carry on their own  ---  now he wonders how he was able to stomach it, this vast abyss of space holding naught but memory and ghosts and the echoing sound of his own footsteps clumsily finding their way over polished tile. Walking still proves difficult on his own, dimitri’s hand pressed against the wall beside him for additional support; he’s not supposed to be out of his room, he knows, not without someone to serve as a crutch but his bedding tonight felt far too similar to that of a casket and in the three months since the tragedy he’s scarcely seen anything beyond his own bedroom walls and some part of him needed this, he thinks. To see the reality that is his father, buried, his stepmother, gone, familiar faces all tucked neatly beneath the earth with far more gentleness than the actions that took them there in the first place. Some part of him believed, with all the innocence reserved for a child more naive than he can ever be permitted to be again, that it was all simply a  bad dream.  That if he simply took the steps outside his door he would see his father walking down the hall with his advisors, files in hands, or hear glenn down in the training grounds as he clashed swords with practice dummies and make believe soldiers.

An owl cries, somewhere far beyond these walls and it sounds almost mocking; a  hoot  and a  ha  existing far too close for comfort.

& when it stops, the silence it leaves behind feels somehow only worse.

There’s an awareness that he can’t stop here, standing alone in the dark as he listens for the voices of men who will never manage to speak again  ---  but it’s difficult to convince his legs to move and for reasons beyond simply the pain building up at the base of his spine. It’s a mix between a lack of desire to return to a familiar room / familiar bed, his own chambers feeling more and more like a cage with each passing day and the question of where it is he’s even attempting to go if he continues forward. Who would be waiting, what would he find other than more emptiness to feast upon his bones, gnawing and tearing through him ‘til there’s nothing left but his shadow?  ---  Truthfully, he knows there’s nothing there. But he is a child, small and scared and in the process of processing what it means to be  alone  and he wants …

He wants his parents.

The single, loudest thought in his mind; a desire to see familiar, warm faces again and it is enough to force dimitri to once more begin dragging his feet along the ground in the direction of his father’s bedroom. It is, thankfully, not a particularly long walk from his own, his birth mother having desired to have her son as near as possible after she’d brought him into his world only to spend the last month of her life terrified at the thought of being anywhere near him, lest her final breaths result in his own as well and he never got to meet her, not really. Somehow he still pictures her, hopes for her somewhere beyond closed doors as though in this night all the dead may prove themselves merely resting their eyes and reality will not only right but  perfect  itself in way of an apology for the cruel joke it had played upon him. It’s a vain dream, a form of self - flaggration at very best but it does little to stop his heart from skipping several beats upon seeing light filtering into the hall from beneath the bedroom door, hearing laughter and muffled voices behind the wood.

Dimitri’s hands act without thinking, trembling with an uneasy excitement as he pushes the doors open with no clear image in his head of what he’ll see once they part but, he thinks, as he stops abruptly in the doorway, whatever it might have been it certainly wasn’t this.

Four pairs of eyes turn to look at him, smiles shifting to something more frustrated upon seeing a child standing there on shaking legs, looking for corpses in the last place he remembers their hearts still beating; three women he doesn’t recognize, one man whom he does and distantly he recalls Rodrigue saying something about his uncle taking the throne until Dimitri is ready to take his father’s place. It hadn’t seemed real at the time / it still doesn’t, even staring him right in the face.

“ ---  I … I was looking, for … ”  Dimitri beings, trails off.  My parents  he wants to say, but it doesn’t fit quite right in his mouth, with this scene. One of the women coos, something pitying and mocking in the way her hand is held over her heart, lips pulled down into a soft pout in accompaniment to her practiced oh, poor thing.  He doesn’t know her and he doesn’t think he wants to.

If his uncle notices he doesn’t show it, looking only apologetic toward the woman on his right as he slips his hand from her uncovered waist and slides from his  ( lambert’s )  bed with a sigh reaching a level of dramatic thespians only wish they could attain.

“ Damien, my dear, dear nephew, ”  Rufus begins and Dimitri finds himself near swallowing his own tongue in an effort not to correct him. He’s never gotten his name right; he doesn’t think the man’s ever cared enough to try.  “ what a … wonderful  surprise it is to see you walking about on your own two legs! Rodger --- ”  

“ Rodrigue. ”  A  timid correction. His own name may well be dirt, but not his.

“ --- Rodrigue! Yes, yes, that’s what I said, “  a wave of his hand before Rufus settles it far too firmly upon Dimitri’s shoulder, fingers  digging in  in a way that could not possibly be meant to be gentle.  “ He told me it would likely be another few months before you would be well enough to leave your bed without help from --- ”  A pause.  Dimitri wonders if he’s trying to remember Dedue’s name in particular, or if he’s struggling with recalling the name of any of the servants or knights within the castle. “ --- Well, just help. But here you are  ---  here you are!  Not only surviving such an  awful  tragedy but recovering from your wounds at remarkable speed. But I suppose such can only be expected, from one possessing such a coveted crest. ”

Something dark flashes in Rufus’ eyes, the fingers on Dimitri’s shoulders digging in so tightly it causes him to gasp; his uncle lets go, then, and the smile on his face is anything but warm.

He regrets not staying in bed.

“ Still, can’t be good to push yourself, hm? We’ll catch up another time, yes, when you’ve gotten more of that spring in your step back and I am less … busy. “  Rufus turns to throw a wink over his shoulder at the women still waiting for him atop the covers and Dimitri has never wanted to sink into the floor more than in his moment.

“ Yes sir. ”  He says, soft and quiet and obedient, allowing himself to be herded out of the room and the doors closed solidly behind him. Dimitri stands there a few minutes after, a ringing in his ears and gaze fixated on something distant, something more memory than anything else and there’s something about this scene, this man with these women in a place where safety and warm once resided that finally hammers the nail all the way in to his loved ones’ coffins.  They’re dead, dead and replaced and he is alone here in this castle with nothing but ghosts to keep him warm and the guilt settles in his gut, manifests outwardly in the form of tears, teeth biting down on a lower lip to prevent himself from wailing. 

He walks halfway back to his room and crawls the remainder of the distance.

It’s Rodrigue who finds him curled up on the floor beside his bed come morning, bags under his eyes and an old stuffed toy near crushed within his arms; he’s gentle, when he lifts him into his bed, brushes his hair from his face; he’s gentle, and for all the pain it causes in his chest as he thinks about how the man just down the hall will never attempt to be even half as much, he almost wishes he wasn’t.