#(*slinks off to bed after Letting Loose*)

[solbaby7]

Tripping Over You

pairing: azriel x reader

warnings: swearing, some typos, sexual tension, clumsy reader, just fluff

summary: Your lack of situational awareness has a certain Shadowsinger stumbling to maintain his patience.

—

If Azriel was being perfectly truthful, he didn’t like you much.

It wasn’t personal but in the time he’d known you, he found you to have an annoyingly bad habit of being completely unaware of your surroundings; always just barely dodging being flayed by some disaster.

Call it bad luck or just plain carelessness but Azriel fucking hated it.

His fingers twitched when he’d caught you in a pile of your own limbs on the kitchen floor, a knife held loosely in your hand and a sheepish smile on your face as if you hadn’t almost just shoved the sharp blade in your neck because you’d been too preoccupied to clean up the little puddles of water you left around. “Give me that,” He grumbles with a scoff, carefully snatching the blade from your hands.

Unintelligible words drip from his tongue and you watch wide-eyed, slowly rising back to your feet as the shadowsinger quickly finished the sandwich you were attempting to make, slicing it four ways with a huff and sliding it in your direction. “Thanks.”

“You need to be more careful.”

More of that went on for weeks.

Short, snappy comments on your inability to step out of bed without the possibility of breaking a bone, soothed over by Azriel just completing whatever task for you. His behavior should’ve deterred you; the deep scowls and gruff voice, the tension in his shoulders that formed when he noticed you in a room—but at least he always noticed.

Always had a hand curling around your arm when you tripped and was the first one to pull you out of the water after wandering off a little too deep. Water soaks your hair, dripping into your eyes and you’re weightless when he tugs you over to the more shallow area, seaweed sinking in your toes. “Why are you even in the water if you can’t swim?”

“I can swim,” It comes out choppy, cheeks red from all the coughing but Azriel can’t help the feeling that burns in his belly when you peer up at him, eyes glittering and full lips quirking at the corners. “Just didn’t realize how far out I’d gotten.”

He looks positively exasperated by your passiveness, chest rising and falling quickly with each breath and you’re no better than any of the other women who dared stare at the spymaster long enough to take in the true expanse of muscle that lies beneath those leathers. Rippling pectorals, biceps that flexed deliciously as he spoke; he’s more animated than you’d ever anticipated, usually offering nothing but perfect silence—or the occasional sarcastic comment towards his brothers. You’re not really paying attention to what he’s saying, eyes wandering down his form and he abruptly stops talking when he sees the way your eyes catch down his abdomen, mouth pouty and hair dripping down your shoulders. “Are you even fucking listening?”

“Not really.”

“Unbelievable,” The view when he turns is almost as amazing as the front, perfect dips and ridges of his back and broad shoulders enough to have you forcing your eyes away before you drooled enough to fill the lake three times over. Inky hair shines under the sun, hazel eyes snapping to you over his shoulder and shadows slink out to you in seconds. They push at you, urging you forward until your toes sink in dry sand.

Azriel lets you go ahead first, partially because he wasn’t a hundred percent confident you wouldn’t try going back—but mostly he just wants a better look at the bathing suit you’d slipped into. It’s nothing overtly scandalous but attention drawing all the same, skinny ties and bottoms that show enough to have his fingers twitching with want at his sides. “You’re staring,” Rhys informed, a bare elbow nudging into Azriel’s ribs.

“Because, I just don’t get it,” He’s referring to you, tripping twice over nothing on your return to the girls under the shade, your knees scraped from a tumble and a scarred hand reaches to cup the back of his head when Amren swiftly stabilized you. “How come when Amren finally decides to make friends it’s with fucking Bambi of all people?”

“She’s sweet,” Rhys shrugs, violet eyes regarding you no more than a sister but your beauty was undeniable. “So, she’s a little clumsy—big deal.”

“A little clumsy,” Az repeats, sounding genuinely annoyed and the High Lord can’t push back the growing smirk that tugs on the corners of his mouth. “She’s a liability, she’s going to get herself ki—“ The words die on his tongue, a low sound pulling from his chest when Azriel is forced to send a shadow out to stop you from slicing your fingers clean off with the dagger Mor had handed over to pry open the wine bottle. “Mother above.”

The air was fresh, a cool breeze sifting through quickly drying clothes under the sweltering sun and Rhysand could admit he’d seen his brother through many emotions. Anger, grief, disappointment, happiness—but never such mother hen like attentiveness; hazel eyes tracking your every move like a hawk. “Are you interested in her?”

“Are you insane?”

Rhys shrugged, bare shoulders going golden under the suns rays. “That answer varies depending on who you ask but that doesn’t really answer my question.”

“She’s—“ The words get caught in his throat, muscles tensing under the discomfort that grows under his skin because Azriel hadn’t even thought about that. Sure, he’d been slightly more involved than he’d originally planned but you just kept getting yourself into such trouble; he had no choice but to stay close behind to make sure you stayed safe. “There’s no way—“ Heat begins to warm the top of his ears and the shove he gives is less than gentle. “Oh, fuck you.”

Rhysand doesn’t seem phased, a teasing smile on sharp features and Azriel doesn’t miss the way the High Lord keeps trailing his eyes back to Feyre, her fingers raking through your hair until most of it was braided out of your face and decorated in an assortment of little flowers. You’re soft—a little too sweet and that obliviousness Az always grumbled about was a little noticeable in the way you allowed things to just happen around you. Fey deciding to do your hair, Mor topping off your wine before you’d even gotten halfway through, Nesta snatching at the book you’d had tucked in your bag and her eyes widen when she flips to a random page, a red tinge flushing her cheeks.

But the book shuts too quickly for even Az’s shadows to sneak a peek.

“You’re allowed to be happy you know,” Rhysand doesn’t look; doesn’t even let his voice get too loud in fear that his friend would shut down or disappear and never bring up a single personal thing again. “If you like her then just act on it. Mother knows we all could benefit from a little more happiness.”

There’s a pause and Rhys can’t get a good read on what Azriel’s thinking. “I appreciate that but that’s not what this is. She’s just a danger to herself and others—it’s better I keep an eye on her myself.”

A knowing smile on the Lord of Darkness’ face. “Right, of course.”

—

It only gets worse from there and while Azriel doesn’t catch onto it right away—Rhysand was definitely behind it. Conjuring up wisps of darkness to curl around your ankles and trip you up, forcing the shadowsinger to rush to your aid and somewhere along the way he ditches his sneer for just a soft frown. “Sorry,” You sheepishly allow yourself to be steadied, acutely aware of the large hands splayed at your hips. “I think I’m still a little tired.”

“I bet,” Azriel’s quick to retort, hands slipping away entirely too soon and the ghost of where his touch once was yearned for more. “Heard Amren and Mor have been introducing you to Rhys’ liquor collection.”

At the reminder your hand raises to press to your temple, a low grunt sounding under your breath and he finds your crankiness kind of adorable. “Yeah, they’ve been breaking me in.”

He swallows audibly at the word choice, hazel eyes stealing a glance at you from the very corner of his vision but you make no indication that you were intending being flirtatious—it still doesn’t stop the blood from rushing to his cock. Giant wings bristle behind him and Azriel can’t stop staring at your night clothes; a tiny pair of shorts and an oversized shirt that hung off one shoulder. Your legs look soft; bare toes padding against the floor until you’re perched on the stool, eyes still a little hazy with sleep but you don’t make a move to cook anything—not with Azriel around.

He would’ve stopped you if you tried anyway and then he’d start complaining about you not being able to touch the appliances after forgetting to turn the burner off one time—or four.

But, who was really counting?

It’s instinctual the way he grabs for some fruit and a bowl, washing and carefully cutting them; peeling bitter citrus off and leaving the sweet parts before sliding the blow over. “Eat.”

You don’t hesitate though you do sigh softly, feet swinging. “Did Amren hire you to like take care of me or something?”

His brows furrow, confusion growing at the question, at your tone, at the embarrassed expression sinking into such pretty features it makes Azriel’s stomach twist. “No.”

But you only nod, frown still present while you spear at fresh fruit. “Are you sure? I know you’re the High Lords spymaster and Ren told me how you like to keep an eye on things.”

Ren?

Since when did Amren allow nicknames?

“—mentioned how she’s had you look after a few prized possessions for her before.” You seem different to him somehow, more guarded and stern than he’d ever once seen you and it sends a shiver up his spine. Intrigue grows, the picture of you he’d been painting of some scampering baby animal was beginning to seem furthest from the truth with such contained fire behind your tone and suddenly he wonders exactly where Amren even found you.

“I have before, yes.” The kitchen remains silent; probably not for much longer with the steadily rising sun and the smell of hot food beginning to waft in the air as Azriel sauntered about the kitchen—chopping here and adding spices there, cracking an egg or two before cranking the heat up a little higher to cook the potatoes faster. “And no, she didn’t ask me to watch you.”

“Then, why are you here?” You clear your throat, seemingly aware of how it comes off and he can’t resist a smile when you look genuinely confused. “Why are you always here?”

“I’m still not a hundred percent sure about that yet but,” He doesn’t face you when he answers, shoulders stretching out a plain black tee with carefully cut out lines on the back nearly six inches in diameter to make room for the base of his wings. They hover high behind him, flexing and shifting with his arms as he moves and you find yourself a little transfixed—a trained killer preparing you breakfast in his pajamas. “—you looked like you’d been stumbling your way through life for a while,” You’re pleasantly surprised by the amount of care in his voice; hair mussed and pillow lines fading in the left side of his cheek and your eyes catch on the low hang of his sweatpants. “Getting passed off from one hand to the next, just allowing life to happen to you however it came at you and I guess—“ He lets out a deep breath, the words seeming to be a struggle to muster up, to say out loud and you stay quiet in fear of scaring him off. “I suppose I could relate to what that felt like once upon a time and I figured you could benefit from a little support.”

You’re quiet longer than he’d have liked and Az can’t tell if the uptick in your heartbeat is a good thing or not but his shadows urge him to turn—to look. You seem skeptical at first, eyes boring into him so intensely he felt like you were stripping him bare, pulling back his ribs and holding his heart in your hands; judging his character and his choices and the soul that resided somewhere in between.

It’s a struggle to remain calm, the cool disposition that Azriel had thought he’d mastered crumbled to nothing before his very eyes. Scarred hands take their time fixing your plate, piling on the protein and making sure to add the fruit he’d caught you wiggling over the last time.

“No one’s ever said anything like that to me before.” Someone’s awake, you can hear their footsteps against the glossy floors and a steaming piece of bacon is pinched between two fingers when you lean over and press a kiss to Azriel’s cheek; just a gentle pressure an inch or two away from his mouth but you might as well have just punched him right in the gut with the way it takes his breath away. “Thank you.” He’s still reeling when you continue, humming in appreciation over your food and his fate is sealing when you smile brightly at him. “You know, you’re not so bad when you aren’t being a prick.”

“Tolerable enough to let me take you out sometime?”

“I’m surprised you know that’s a thing,” You tease over your food, wisps of cool darkness careening through your hair and resting at your thighs like a napping feline. “—considering you’ve taken to just following me everywhere.” There’s a blush burning on the curve of his ears, shadows ghosting past your ear as a distraction and distantly you wonder if Azriel could feel you the way they could. “Tripping me up with these things just to have an excuse to put your hands on me.”

“Wait, I haven’t—“ There’s a smug cough sounding in his brain and the spymaster’s gaze cuts to the corner of the room. A smirking Rhys still shirtless from the night before just lingering in silence, silently urging, mentally pleading with Az to just take this slice of happiness. He sucks in a soft breath, heart thudding against his chest and his voice is barely above a whisper. “If you knew why didn’t you stop me?”

He can smell your conditioner when you turn to face him, palms braced on the stool beneath you and you lean forward, eyes staring up at him and your toes graze at his knees. “Because, I like your attention.” More rustling and the unmistakable sound of Cassian’s booming laugh and you’re jumping off the stool, food finished and plate dropped off in the sink and Azriel can’t help but think that’s the most balanced he’d ever seen you as your hips swish a little on your way out, words thrown over your shoulder before you disappear. “And yes, I would like to go out with you sometime.”

[pochaccoups]

cw — sfw, fluff, mingi is sick and sulky, reader is smaller than mingi

It’s not entirely weird for Mingi to be waking up at 11:27 a.m. Sure, he’ll get up at seven or eight on a day full of schedules, but there’s also days where he sleeps until two, three, four p.m whether it’s from jet lag or after staying up late writing. What is weird is the fact that he’s been asleep since eight p.m. yesterday.

A text from your boyfriend is what lets you know he’s finally awake, and you’re up from the sitting room couch in an instant, darting to your shared bedroom.

He’s got the covers pulled halfway up his face with just his eyes poking out to stare at his phone screen and you wonder how a six-foot-something man can look so small.

“Morning, baby,” you say, slinking over to his side of the bed so you can sit on the edge next to him.

“Morning,” he replies, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was quite literally in front of you, you’d be convinced that someone had kidnapped your boyfriend and replaced him with a complete stranger—one with a voice so deep that it rumbles when he speaks.

Your eyes widen and you giggle, but you can’t say you’re surprised at how he sounds. His voice is notorious for dropping several octaves in the morning. Usually it’s sexy, but given that he’d spent the entire day before complaining about a sore throat, you can’t find it in you to feel anything but pity for the poor boy.

“So, I called your doctor and he said you need to stay home for the next four to five days at the least,” you tell him, reaching for his muss of silver hair to tangle your fingers through it softly.

“What-no, I’m really fine!” he whines, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. “I have to practice for the comeback, I can’t take a break right now.”

“You’re not taking a break, Gi, you’re going on sick leave. You kept me up all night with your sneezing and coughing,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, only to melt as soon as he gives you his big, round, puppy eyes.

“But it’s just a cold…”

“Well, the doctor ordered it. Besides, I’ve already called Hongjoong and your managers. And I took work off today and tomorrow so I can stay home with you.”

For a split second you swear his eyes well up with tears. “You did?”

“Of course,” you tell him. When Mingi is sick, he turns into a four week old puppy because he can’t be left alone, or a newborn baby who needs a pair of eyes on him at all times so that he doesn’t suffocate to death. So when you tell him you’ll go make him some food and tea, he wraps his excessively giant hands around your body and clings to you, like letting go of you would mean he’ll succumb to his illness.

“Gi, you need fluids. Please let me go,” you remind him, but he only holds you tighter and you know it’s partly out of spite and partly because he’s just like this—a velcro boyfriend.

“Mingi, I’ll be two minutes, then I’ll come right back, okay?” you tell him.

“No, you won’t, I know you,” he says, and you don’t have to look at him to know he’s pouting. It’s a permanent feature of his face by now.

“I will! Why else do you think I took work off, huh?”

He’s silent then, and a moment later his arms fall loose, and he lets you go, but you leave a kiss on his forehead as an act of promise to him and shuffle back out to your kitchen.

Spurred by your boyfriend’s neediness, you gather leftover rice from the fridge, chicken broth, and a handful of vegetables with haste and start to boil the concoction that your mother taught you how to make, the one that got you through not just fevers but through heartbreaks, losses, and cold winters.

“The most important ingredient,” she would say, “is a sprinkle of your heart”—though Mingi deserved more than just a sprinkle.

The kettle boils away and your stew bubbles with life in no time. It’s also no time before a giant, warm, sniffling body plasters itself to your back and buries his face into your neck, practically bending in half to do so.

You can’t say you don’t see it coming. Still, the spirit of your mother possesses you when you drag out his name to scold him.

“Why aren’t you in bed, dummy?” you question, though you’re careful not to have any real aggravation in your voice toward him. Admittedly, you adore the way his body heat wraps around you like a blanket, although you’re sure that’s just his fever.

“Missed you too much,” he mumbles, nuzzling his nose and lips against your shoulder.

“I told you I’d be two minutes,” you sigh.

“It’s been more than that already. You lied. I knew you’d lie.”

“It was hyperbole for ‘I’ll be super quick’.”

“Then you should have said that.”

You place your wooden spoon down on the counter, turning to face your boyfriend with a fond smile on your face.

He looks adorable. Unbelievably so. Mussed up white hair, a dusting of pink on the apples of his cheeks and the pointy tip of his nose, puffy eyes that still sparkle at the sight of you. You might be the luckiest human on the planet.

You bring your hands up to his face, grabbing at each of his cheeks and squishing them gently between your fingers.

“My poor, sick princess,” you coo, watching his dimples make an appearance when he gives you a goofy, content smile. “Do you wanna watch a movie? Or a show maybe?”

He nods his head, still smiling so sweetly.

“Go pick something and I’ll finish up your soup,” you offer.

“Can I have a kiss first?”

You stare at him, unamused, though you know this very well—Song Mingi cannot live without your kisses. It’s why he was crafted with the softest, prettiest, heart-shaped lips, so that you could kiss them over and over and over again until the end of time. There are exceptions, however.

“I’m not catching your virus! Is that what you want?”

“No, no, on my forehead again!” he clarifies, his features suddenly muddled with worry because he would suffer from this cold for the rest of his life if it meant you would be healthy for the rest of yours. You wonder, though, if he knows how badly you wish you could take his cold and suffer it for him.

“Oh, well then yeah, duh,” you say, standing on your tip toes and gently pulling Mingi’s face towards you so that you can plant an overly long kiss on his burning forehead and pull away with a “mwah!” that leaves him utterly beaming.

Finally satisfied, he shuffles off back to the room, leaving you to brew his tea and serve up the stew into two bowls.

You grab flu tablets from the medicine cabinet, noting that they’re almost all gone and you’ll need to go to the pharmacy to get more. For today you have enough, so you place them on the tray along with the stews and tea and make your way back to your bedroom.

Mingi is curled up under the covers again and it’s so cute that you hate to disturb him, but he unfurls himself and sits up as soon as he sees you with a tray in hand.

“What are we watching?” you ask, slowly settling on the bed next to him and laying the tray down on the mattress.

“I think Attack on Titan, if you want to,” he says, full of fondness as you hand him two tablets to take.

“Oh, right, you’ve been wanting to watch that! Of course I want to,” you tell him, because you could never pass up the opportunity to see Jean Kirschtein in action again. You’ve missed him dearly since the show ended, though you have no doubt of the sulking and pouting you’ll get from Mingi when he comes onscreen.

Your boyfriend’s eyes go comically wide when he tries your soup and you laugh because he almost chokes on it.

“Is it that good?” you chuckle.

“It’s really good,” he responds.

“Good, because I put all my love into it.”

He hums, his face glowing pink as he eats another spoonful. “I can tell. Thank you for making this. And thank you for taking care of me. And for putting up with me.”

“Anything for my princess,” you giggle. “But I’m not ‘putting up with you’, idiot. Is it hard to comprehend that someone cares about you, Mingi?”

He stares up at you with his shiny eyes as though you hand-crafted the very sun, moon, and stars and placed them in the sky yourself.

“I love you,” he says, a mere whisper. It’s three words he’s said to you a million times, but right now, with his walls down and him vulnerable, it’s worth a million times more.

“I love you too,” you reply, leaning over to smack your lips against his temple. “Now watch the show!”

And he tries, he really does—but your little hospital patient is fast asleep by the third episode.

[porcelainseashore]

Buckle Up and Enjoy the Ride

Pairing: Dominant! Leon Kennedy x Fem! Reader

Summary: There are many things Leon uses his belt for — some of which involve you.

Content & Warnings: 18+ Consensual kink, belts, bondage, impact play, smut, p in v, oral (f receiving).

Author's Note: Happy AO3 Posting Anniversary to my lovely friend, AliBelleRosetta / @alibellerosetta! 🎉 I’m so glad to have met you and cheers to many more fulfilling creative writing experiences. Here’s my naughty little gift to you, enjoy! 🎁❤️ (P.S. I tried to wrap Leon in a box, but he wouldn’t let me, lol)

AO3 Link

Leon’s always been a practical man with a penchant for multipurpose items. The more ways he can use an item, the better. This often means leaning heavily into his creativity, something which he prides himself on.

Take, for example, his trusty belt that has served him well through countless missions, slinking over his slim fit jeans or tactical pants, resting just above a certain pair of assets. That very same belt which he has secured over his navy blue suit trousers, whenever he needed to head into the White House for a formal function. In a pinch, he could use it as a makeshift weapon, vicious and deadly in his hands. However, there are other uses for it that he would much rather keep private, like a clandestine secret shared only between you and him.

When the layers of clothes shed off, so does his prim and proper golden boy veneer, which he wears like a mask around strangers and friends alike. The only time he lets loose is around you. You kneel down obediently before him when he unbuckles his belt, knowing full well what is to come next. He teases you by running the smooth, supple leather against your lips, the natural grain against your skin. You close your eyes and sigh, breathing in its warm, earthy smell — the smell of him.

He likes to take his time to play with you. Frequently, you find your wrists tied to the bedpost, the firmness of his belt restricting you from moving too far, separating him from your touch. Meanwhile, he does what he wants with your body, exploring every dip and curve with his tongue trailing along your bare skin. It’s only a matter of time until you feel his hot, shaky breath against your mound, and with a feverish hunger, he takes your pussy into his mouth, lapping at your clit as you squirm against him. You feel the leather around your wrists tightening and creaking under the strain of your pulling. He holds your hips down firmly with his hands and continues as you cry out his name.

Sometimes, after a bout of relentless teasing, or if you’ve done something particularly naughty, he rips his belt off, pulling it taut between his hands as you hear it snap to attention. “Wanna play?” he smirks at you.

Bending you over the mattress, he doles out a few experimental taps with his belt on your ass, just to warm up. Gently rubbing its soft, fleshy cheeks, he whacks you properly this time, adjusting the intensity to how you react, timing it perfectly with every gasp and hitch of your breath, as pain mixes into pleasure.

“You like that?” he growls, voice thick with lust, in between sharp smacks. Your ass is sore and marked up red; you’ll be feeling it tomorrow. But every wince is a hushed whisper of what took place the night before, and every imprint an insatiable reminder of who you belong to.

Other times, when you’re both too horny to wait any longer, he throws you onto the bed, wrapping the belt around your waist roughly. You’re on all fours, and he listens out for your word before tugging at you forcefully, leather bound around his hand and wrist like a leash, as he yanks your pussy back onto his hardened cock, stretching it out as you take in every inch of him. 

He rails you into the mattress deeply; you can feel his cock twitching and dragging along your sensitive walls. He savors every moan and scream in ecstasy that he manages to draw out of you, until your throat is hoarse and you’re nothing but a whimpering mess beneath him.

There’s a loud rap on the front door and he throws a towel around his waist, answering it top naked, as if to spite whoever it is. Turns out it’s another noise complaint from the neighbors from hell, so it’s back to keeping quiet and stealthy.

He fits the belt across your mouth and you clench down on the strap. His hips snap against yours, fucking you at a merciless pace as if he had never stopped to begin with. Teeth marks show on the gummy leather which he’ll wear like a badge of honor, a lucky charm he’ll never lose in a fight. 

Your words are muffled, when in actuality you’re uttering a string of curses and his name over and over like a prayer.

“What was that again, sweetheart?” he grits out, teetering on the edge, yet signed off as usual with his irresistible cocky grin.

You want to wipe it off his smug face, but as he brings both of you over the threshold where you’re riding on a high, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[away-at-late-dawn]

Welcome Home, Michael!

Summary: Halloween is over, and Michael is coming back home. fluff/drabble Pairing: Michael Myers x GN!Reader Word Count: 584 Warnings: N/A Notes: here i am, back again with the michael x reader contenttt sdkfjhsdkj hope halloween was all right for you! i had an idea to write about him coming back home after being out, and here's the end result. it does fit his regular slasher self, but i also have this idea for a peaceful au version, and i think that this fic fits it just as well. i'll probably post about it sometime next :] anyway, pls enjoy!

🌌+☆°⋅. (turn the page)

Halloween was over. The cold of the outside air emptied into the open rooms like a spirit passing through one’s body, a supernatural force that would chill them to the bone. With it came the scattering fall leaves, the smell of night rain, the sounds of lone cars fearfully inching down unfamiliar roads… And a familiar shape. From a shadow to a man, Michael slowly stepped in through the frame, hands free and loose, the right one gently uncurling from the doorknob. He was calm and collected, slinking like a panther into its home. Then, with suddenness, the lights overhead flickered on to reveal you already waiting for him.

—

There were so many kids who visited today. The candy bowl had to be refilled three, maybe four times. They would ring the doorbell so often that you went and layered underneath the costume you had and found a comfortable spot out on the porch, but the cold found a way to seep in as the evening turned to night, and even later still. When you went back inside and turned off the Halloween lights, you quickly went for the couch and the blankets draped across it. You fell asleep to a movie, even if you were enjoying the premise.

Sometimes the house felt empty when it was just you there. Like Michael had to come back for it to be whole again. The feeling was nothing unbearable, and yet, when the draft at the window woke you up, you found yourself walking aimlessly throughout the house. You realized, subconsciously, you were looking for him. Soon enough you settled near the front door, bringing a chair to wait on and a blanket to keep you warm. 

—

Michael almost twitched in surprise when he saw you. 

“You didn't think I'd be up?”

Michael remained still. No.

“Honestly, I didn't expect it either.” You had to chuckle at yourself as you glanced at the clock nearby: uncannily late.

Michael toed off his boots and pushed them away into the corner, at the door, quietly glancing up at you. Naturally, maybe instinctively, you went towards him, opened up the blanket, and wrapped him up in a hug; he slipped into your arms so easily.

“It turns out I missed you more than I thought,” you admitted, muttering it against him. You felt him clutch you slightly, the warmth spreading from his hands. “Welcome home, Michael.” You closed your eyes and rubbed his back for a bit before adding, “And Happy November First, too.”

“Heh,” came his reply. He nuzzled his face into you almost forcefully, a bit embarrassed at how loud his voice was.

Soon enough, the both of you let go, shuddering at the chill. The night was nowhere near young, and the both of you were feeling the exhaustion. The trip back to your room was a bit long—Michael tripped on something on the way back—but it was all right besides. Of course, he brought you candy, and you had to laugh at the fact as you dropped them gently onto the nightstand. There was plenty more candy left.

"I'll tell you about the costumes I saw today," you told him as he got into his sleep clothes, and he gave you a peck on the cheek as he got comfortable. He seemed excited to hear about it, even if he fell asleep immediately after he settled into bed. It was cute.

He was cuddled up against you all night, if not all morning.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 11

part 1 | part 10 | ao3

cw: period-typical homophobic language, explicit sexual content (if you are under 18 then kindly GO ON NYOW GIT come back when you grow your first gray pube)

It feels crazy, after all that, to just get up and face the day. Feels like last Fall all over again: he’s concussed in the back of class getting bagel crumbs on a worksheet with his face still pulverized. There’s a gross pang in his chest as he goes about his morning routine, his heart all squishy and bruised like some dickhead smashed a plate over it, but whatever, he guesses. Public education and minimum wage wait for no one.

Robin grills him the whole car ride: “Oh, my god, is he okay?? Is he alive? Is your mom okay? What the hell, Steve?” and he lets her ramble with wide, worried eyes; doesn’t even get to the part about Eddie. When they pull up to the school she gets out of the car and comes around to his side, knocks on his window and leans in when he rolls it down to give him a ridiculously long hug.

"Robinnn," he grumbles; his face is mashed against her boobs. "People are gonna think we're dating."

She bends to hug him tighter still, her bony ass hanging out his window where the whole school can see. "I'd date you in a second."

"You've literally said that you wouldn't."

"Platonically, I would!!"

She gives him one last squeeze, and he watches her waddle off, trumpet case awkwardly smacking her calves.

And then he just... goes to work. He goes to stand around a nearly empty store and pretend like he even has any work to do, restocks the already full displays of candy and buffs the countertops until they shine. Three hours in and he's run out of ways to look busy and Keith is “doing admin stuff” in the back, so he gives his mom a call. Makes sure she's okay; did she eat anything yet; any updates on Ernie?

She’s fine, she's not hungry, he's alive but that's all they know for now, her tone distantly polite like Steve's nothing more than a friendly cold caller.

He shoves his fingers in his eyes ’til he sees stars when they hang up.

He calls the Henderson house next, leaves a message to apologize for skipping out early, promises that he'll be there next Wednesday and he can bring dessert this time. There’s a lunch rush after that, but the day still drags like a bad hangover, a dull throbbing in his bones, and when he finally gets home he collapses onto his bed and passes out on top of the covers with his dumb work vest still on.

—

Eddie's acting weird.

Steve sees him again on Friday, spots him and his uncle having a smoke out on the porch and wanders over to say hello. Wayne seems happy enough to chat; gives him all the news on Ernie — "Bastard's unkillable," he says, almost impressed. He’s stable now, should be home any day.

Eddie, on the other hand, spends the entire interaction behaving like a skittish cat, eyes darting to and from Steve, leg jiggling as he quietly puffs his cig.

Steve half expects him to slink off and come back to drop a dead mouse at his feet.

He feels his brows knit together, agitation creeping in. It's not like he thought they'd be best friends after a single night of ceasefire or anything — as if they'd start braiding each other's hair and trading their deepest, darkest secrets or whatever queer shit — but like…

He thought they might be cool now. At least a little bit.

And Eddie's not being rude to him, exactly, but that's somehow even worse. The polite disinterest. The subtle shift to the left. Back and away.

“Okay, well, uh...” Steve glances at Eddie, who's looking anywhere but him. Fucking fascinated by a loose thread on his ripped jeans, apparently, plucking at it with anxious fingers. “See ya around, I guess?”

Wayne says not be a stranger, and Eddie gives him a quick nod. “See ya.”

Steve grinds his teeth about it for the rest of the afternoon, then decides, like, screw this. It's a Friday night; he's not sitting around sulking all evening because Eddie Munson hurt his feelings.

He calls up a girl — some pretty blonde chick he remembers from the cheer squad — and sets up a date for later that night. Takes her to the drive-in, buys her a vanilla shake. The date's fine; it's good; it's fine. She's pretty enough, and she offers to suck him off when the main feature starts.

It’s not a good blowjob. Arguably one of the worst ones Steve’s had, and he’s had quite a few. She keeps gagging herself with these gross squelching sounds, barely getting even half of his dick in her tiny mouth and not bothering to use her hands to make up the difference. Just leaves them resting on Steve’s thighs while she makes fake whimpering moans like she’s sooo turned on by this; fucking as if; and somewhere in the middle of her repetitive, sloppy bobbing his mind starts to wander off. To the trailer, to the lot fees, the fucking pharmacy bills. Their ever-dwindling savings and what percentage of them he just wasted on this lackluster movie night; surely they’re gonna run out any day now; tick tock, tick tock.

"Um," the girl squeaks as she pulls off with a gross slurp. Steve looks down at his lap, sees he's gone soft. "Am I, like, doing something wrong, or...?"

Her voice is high and quiet, innocent and sweet, and Steve feels like an asshole. He squeezes himself at the base, gives a few quick strokes to get himself up again. "No, you're perfect, honey," he lies. "Stick out your tongue for me?"

She bats her eyes demurely and rolls over onto her side, gives him some kind of sexy pout before opening her mouth so he can jerk off over her. Steve works his wrist; tries not to be rude and look away, but her colors are all wrong. Strawberry hair. Blue irises. He squeezes his eyes shut, moves his hand faster and thinks of dark brown. Dark hair, dark lashes, dark eyes like the deep woods. Endless. Sort of mesmerizing. Nancy? "Oh, fuck," he gasps as he comes.

The girl squeals and jerks away from him, hands flying to her face. "Oh, my god! Oh, my god! You got it in my nose!"

"Sorry,” Steve grunts, shuddering through an aftershock. There’s cum on his hand, on his pants; all over this poor girl’s face. He thinks he got some in her eyelashes. "Shit, sorry, let me, uh—"

He leans over and rifles through the glove box, trying to find a napkin for her. No dice. Best he can do is an old McDonald's wrapper with a grease stain on the side. "Here, does— does this work?"

“Ew!”

“Sorry, I mean it’s that or my shirt, but then I’d have to drive you home shirtless, so-”

“Ugh,” she gives him a bitchy look. Tries to, anyway. One eye is glued shut. “Just give me that, please.”

His limp, spitty cock is still hanging from his pants when he passes her the wrapper. Flaccid and sad, like a white flag of surrender, and a bubble of hysterical laughter slips out. A choked burst of it, a pufferfished pfffft as it explodes past his lips. He’s not sure if it's the orgasm or the ridiculousness of the situation or if he's just plain lost his mind, but the girl glares at him, which...

There's still a glob of jizz on her cheek, so it doesn’t help matters much.

"I think you should take me home."

"Y-yep. Sorry. Yeah."

“Like now.”

Steve tucks himself into his jeans.

—

part 12

tagging whoever commented yesterday if your settings will let me @slutforcoffein @annabanannabeth @rani-mayida @awolfstudio @noodle-shenaniganery @yourmom-isgay @zombiecreatures @anne-bennett-cosplayer @thestarslittleking @evillittleguy @acedorerryn @messrs-weasley @bronwenmarie @lololol-1234 @estrellami-1 @jaytriesstuff @space-invading-pigeon @violetsteve @ahsokatanoss @slowandsteddie @zoeweee @silver-snaffles @eddie-munsons-missing-nipple @thealwithnoname @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @hellion-child @stevesbipanic @trensu @steves-strapcollection @hotluncheddie

[mockerycrow]

Softdom! Gaz just wants to sit and relax with you for a couple of hours, but you end up cuddle-fucking instead <3

Missing You (Softdom!Gaz x GN!Bottom!Reader)

gaz masterlist — gaz picture origin — 924 words

a/n; I LOVE HIM, YOUR HONOR!!! no genitals are described besides his, i hope this fluffy enough </3

[WARNINGS; Softdom!Gaz, Bottom!Reader, brief cuddle-fucking, praise, pet names, fluff.]

Getting some alone time with Kyle was not very common. Kyle applies for leave as much as he can to see you, but it doesn’t get approved every time due what’s happening. So when you do get some time together, Kyle is determined in dragging you to your shared bed and never letting you get up unless he’s with you. You never minded—and still don’t mind—how clingy he can get after it’s been a couple months of being apart. So when Kyle gets home and you two share some lazy, but loving kisses and leads you to bed, you don’t complain.

“Thought you wanted to be the little spoon this time?” You murmur as Kyle slinks into bed behind you, wrapping an arm around your abdomen as he slots himself against your backside like a matching puzzle piece. Kyle hums for a moment as he nuzzles his face into your scalp. “Changed my mind.” He whispers, and you melt into his touch. Being without him for so long did take a toll on you, even if you never admitted it to him. You know how to function without him; you did it for many many years before dating him, but his absence leaves a noticeable hole in your chest every time.

You let your eyelids flutter shut as Kyle wiggles a bit to get comfortable before settling down once again. You try to adjust yourself and Kyle makes a noise of discontent and tightens his arms hold around you, causing you to chuckle. “Not gonna let me get up, then?” You question, not really wanting to get out of bed anyway. You were perfectly happy being stuck in bed with your boyfriend any time of day. Kyle hums and you feel his head shake before he murmurs “no” against your scalp. You don’t respond, not needing to. You feel yourself float for a while; you aren’t sure for how long, but you love the feeling of Kyle pressed up against you, his arm slung over your hip. You also love the feeling of him leaning into your chest, or even spooning him. You love how wide his shoulders are.

You’re brought out of your thoughts when you feel his hand come up from near your abdomen to your throat, loosely wrapping around the front of it. You make a noise, your eyes fluttering open as his other hand slides underneath your body, that hand pushing your pelvis and hip area back until—Kyle groans as he pushes your hips against his erection, earning a whimper from you, the sound vibrating his hand. A hot wave of arousal pools in your lower extremities and your gut, feeling Kyle’s hips roll against your ass. “Kyle..” You breathe out, the loose grip on your throat making your head feel fuzzy already. He presses a kiss against your scalp before he lets out a pleased noise. “I know, sweet one.” Kyle murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “M’sorry, darling. I just need you badly.. Can you lay here for me? Y’don’t even have to do anything..”

You slowly inhale, knowing he’s asking for your consent. It makes your face feel warm, knowing that he wants to make sure you’re comfortable with this. You nod in response, but you gasp quietly when his hand around your throat squeezes gently. “Words, love. Wanna hear you.” Kyle corrects, and you whine quietly as his hips still. “Yes,” You whisper. “Please.”

Kyle chuckles, the noise rumbling in his chest so much that you can feel it against your back. The fingers near your pelvis slip under your shorts and underwear, tugging them down. You eagerly help him, maneuvering your legs to kick them off somewhere else onto the bed. You feel Kyle shift behind you, and you laugh shakily. “You’re lucky I touched myself before I went to pick you up, Kyle.” You say, implying you fingered yourself open. You hear his breath hitch, making your lips curl into a smile. Kyle presses his lips against the of your neck as you feel him shift against before his bare cock is pressing against your ass, making a hot heat run through your veins. “Can’t just say that shit t’me..” Kyle whispers. His hand grabs right under your knee and pushes it up towards your chest. He takes his hand back and you hear him doing something with his mouth. You smile and you lips part to respond, but all that comes out is a soft gasp when you feel the tip of his cock slip right into you with no resistance.

“Fuck—“ You gasp, urging your muscles to relax as Kyle groans softly, his hand coming down from your throat and holding under your thigh to keep your leg near your chest. You feel him slowly slide the rest of his length inside of you, and you’re unable to stop yourself from panting with need as Kyle peppers kisses against the back of your neck. His cock is thick and heavy inside of you, making your head spin. You let out the faintest whimper as his pelvis presses against your hips, getting as deep as he can in this position. “You alright?” Kyle’s voice rumbles softly in your ear, causing you to shiver. Your hand is gripping the pillow your head is on, and you nod before you remember he wanted words. “Mhm, I’m okay..”

Kyle presses a kiss against your neck, letting you adjust as long as you need to. After all, you two have all day together. He’s in no rush.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 98

Part 1 Part 97

It’s fucked up, but Steve’s never been happier. He’s not sure how much of it’s the drugs, and how much is the relief, but it sits like a weight on his chest that he never wants to shake off.

There’s a constant stream of visitors. Ms. Byers, who’s taken to cupping her cool hands around his face and kissing his forehead each time. Uncle Wayne, who’s calluses are starting to become as familiar as Edde’s to the skin of Steve’s palms.

Barbara and Carol, attached at the hip in a way he can’t parse. He doesn’t think he was gone that long. How did this happen? But he knows that flirty smile, knows what his best friend’s fingers trailing over Barbara’s shoulders means.

Tommy doesn’t come. It shouldn’t hurt, but – But. Something inside him tightens and contracts. It might just be his heart.

Jonathan and Nancy come together. Jonathan’s bubbling over with apologies, contrite in contrast to Nancy’s fuming.

“You should have called me,” she says, curly hair practically raising with the power of her ire. “I could have helped.”

From his seat by Steve’s side, Eddie huffs and puffs and barely holds back his yell. He doesn’t see the way her fists are curled, can’t see past the veneer of control that hides the worry behind it.

“I was possessed, Nance,” Steve replies, smiling up at her. His face hurts with all the smiling. “I didn’t even know who you were.”

She sputters and stalls while Jonathan stands beside her, shooting worried looks out of the corner of his eyes.

He can almost feel the hole they’d left in his brain. The shape of their outlines at high school parties and in line at the cafeteria. Nancy’s firmly raised hand, Jonathan’s slumped shoulders. It’s filled now.

He wants to fill it with more memories, so many that the bad ones just shake loose.

“Oh, alright,” she huffs, settling down on the other side of the bed, far away from Eddie’s twitching fingers. “But that won’t work as an excuse next time.”

The kids are easy; they come in a pile, stacking against each other in his room’s doorway until Dustin comes pouring in, everyone else after him. They all crowd onto his bed with no regard to his personal space. Even Mike slinks onto the end to sit with sullen shoulders and shining eyes. 

They’re like puppies, yapping over each other for his and Eddie’s attention. Will’s planning a new campaign, and his eyes light up when Steve agrees to play.

Chief Hopper comes next with a girl hiding behind his back, clutching onto the hanging lapel of his jacket. Her head peaks out behind him, curls springing wildly from her scalp as she smiles shyly at Steve. 

“I know you,” Steve says.

The chief huffs, as the beams, and says her part in their little play, “I found you.”

Steve shuffles up in his bed, not looking as he feels Eddie prop up pillows behind his back. He holds his arms out and open, waiting even as his muscles begin to strain. 

She shuffles out from behind Chief Hopper, head down as she climbs onto the edge of his bed, butting her forehead against his chest like a cat. He puts his arms around her, slow as he feels what he’s come to find out are burns of varying degrees. No one will tell him what they’re from, but Carol had looked especially shifty when she’d witnessed the bandages being changed. He elected not to ask.

The girl doesn’t put her own arms around him, just lets her hands settle into her own lap and leans in. 

“You really are a supergirl, huh?” Steve asks, reaching his hand up to play with her curls. His splinted finger knocks against her skull once before he holds it back as best he can. 

She leans back to beam up at him, eyes alight. “You can call me El”.

They probably both look stupid, smiling at each other, one of them all banged up, the other in what must be Chief Hopper’s cast-offs. 

Hopper clears his throat when the silence lingers. He stomps in his clunky work boots over to the seat beside Eddie and sinks down, almost reclining into it despite its straight back. Eddie curls away from him, glaring at the man like he’s got a live grenade. 

Or like he’s been searched for drugs before and doesn’t want the fuzz to be sniffing around. Steve laughs, loopy and pleased while they both look at him with the same furrowed brows and worried frowns.

“You alright, kid?” Hopper asks gruffly, reaching out to put his meaty hand on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve winces, feels the bandages pull until Hopper drops his hand. 

“Did you know she was real?” Steve asks, reaching out to pull one of El’s bounciest curls atop her head. It all goes straight and taught and then bounces back into place.

Hopper snorts. “Where do you think she’s been living?”

“Oh,” he replies. 

His brains clicking in his skull, weighed down by morphine and too much sleep, but when his gaze flickers around the room, he recognizes the awkward grimace on Eddie’s lips.

“You knew,” Steve accuses, finger pointed toward Eddie’s face, to emphasize who he’s accusing. His finger shakes unsteadily until Eddie snatches it out of the air and pops it into his own mouth to bite down. “Ow, what the fuck?”

Eddie’s dimples pop around it as he nibbles into the knuckle one more time before letting go with a suctioning pop. “Don’t be mad, Stevie,” he weedles, looking up at Steve through his lashes with wide, innocent eyes, even as his prominent dimples give away his amusement.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Steve’s slightly damp finger flicks Eddie’s nose until he hisses and snatches Steve’s hand to interlace their fingers with a shrug. “I thought it would be funny.”

It’s hard to hold a grudge when El giggles, light and airy as it breathes life into the room.

“He’s got you there, kid,” Hopper replies, reaching out again, this time to ruffle El’s hair. 

Steve huffs, “whatever, man,” but his lips are little traitors and they can’t stop from turning up at the corners. “See if I introduce you to the next superhero we meet.”

Eddie squeezes his hand, familiar callouses scraping against Steve’s palm. “You’ll introduce me, Stevie.” he replies. Steve closes his eyes as he feels warm lips on the back of his hand. “You love me too much.”

Steve closes his eyes against the feeling, still smiling even as his healing skin pulls, and his finger feels unwieldy and wrong, and his head aches and floats up toward the ceiling. 

Yeah, he really does. 

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @wonderland-girl143-blog @nerdsconquerall @sharingisntkaren @canmargesimpson @bananahoneycomb @rainwaterapothecary @practicallybegging

Part 99

[gravehags]

naked in that garden

Pairing: Rain x f!Reader

Rating: Explicit

18+ ONLY MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Tags: PinV sex, period sex, breeding kink, the usual ghoul tenderness, Cirrus cameo

Words: 2,013

Summary: Rain stops by for a visit. You know exactly what he wants.

a/n: sweet sweet Rain my lanky bass boy. i know there's a freak hiding underneath that sensible, haughty exterior.

~~~

Cirrus wears an amused look as she watches you inspect your backside in the full-length mirror.

“Bruised to shit,” you growl, giving her a look. “I’m not going to be able to sit down for a week.”

Hopping off the bed she slinks over to you and runs the flat of her palm over the sensitive skin as she watches both your nude forms reflected in the mirror.

“Poor pet,” she coos, mouthing at your shoulder. “I’m sorry for getting carried away but you were just so tempting. So plump and eager.” 

Cirrus continues to lick her way up your neck and you feel a twinge of interest from between your thighs. She’s sliding her hands over your breasts to pinch at your hardened nipples when your phone lets out a very loud, very obnoxious sound. The moment is thoroughly ruined as you pick up your phone off the dresser to turn off the alarm and grab your bathrobe. Cirrus looks extremely put-out as she watches you slip the garment on, covering yourself from her view. Slipping your phone into your robe pocket you approach her and take her face between your hands.

“See you later?” It’s more of a statement than a question but you give her the option of declining all the same.

With a dramatic sigh, she nods and swoops in for one last lingering kiss. Before she can wrap her arms around you and drag you towards her you’re reluctantly slipping out of her grasp. You make towards the door and when you put your hand on the knob and look back, she’s giving you a sad little wave. It takes all your strength to leave that room and the ghoulette inside it behind but if you’re late to mass, Papa Secondo is going to be most displeased.

—

A few days pass, filled with the usual duties, when you’re finally struck down. Your period arrives with a vengeance and although you are annoyed, you are mostly pleased it’s shown up at all. You have no idea if ghouls can impregnate humans - probably something you should have asked Swiss on that first day - but you’ve been playing fast and loose despite your regular consumption of birth control.

You’re curled up in bed, cozy underneath your duvet, when you hear a hesitant series of knocks on your door. You sit up slightly before calling out with a hoarse “hello?”

“It’s Rain,” the muffled voice says through the door to your quarters. “Can I come in?”

You’re a sight after spending the entire day sequestered in your room. A sympathetic sister covered for your daily duties after you explained to her your annoying predicament and you’ve been in bed ever since. Your hair is mussed and you’re wearing nothing but a big t-shirt and your underwear underneath your covers. You sigh and rub your eyes wearily.

“Yeah,” you call out. “Yeah, come in.”

He opens the door as quietly as possible and creeps toward you, his slender form casting shadows around the room illuminated only by your bedside lamp. When he approaches your bed, his tail is twitching behind him as he delicately sits on the edge.

“Hey,” he says, fidgeting with his hands. “We were worried about you today. Sister Marguerite said you’re ill and–”

You smile, turning on your side towards him.

“Not ill, exactly,” you sigh, watching him gaze down at you softly. “Just human bullshit. I’m on my period.”

He nods and scoots towards you, fingers tangled in his lap.

“Is there anything…is there anything I can do to help?”

You regard him from your reclined position. Rain’s dark hair hangs around his pretty face, broad shoulders rising and falling with his steady breaths. His hands, long and slender, toy with the fabric of your duvet. You don’t know Rain as well as the others - he’s something of an enigma to you - and all of a sudden you’re filled with the desperate desire to familiarize yourself.

“Do you want to stay with me?” you inquire softly with a knowing look, your hand reaching out to brush his. He looks down at you with parted lips and wide, dark eyes.

“Yes,” he whispers, eyes traveling over your form. “Yes please.”

You understand exactly what it is he wants, particularly after he stands and you see the bulge pressed against his black jeans. Nuzzling into your pillow you watch him undress, admiring the curve of his spine and the way his blush reaches all the way to the base of his horns. He hesitates before sliding off his underwear and your mouth goes dry. He’s beautiful, nude and half-hard before you and you long to slide your mouth over the swollen tip of him. Instead you scooch over in bed and pull back the duvet, gesturing for him to join you. Gently he clambers in beside you and he sighs when you draw the covers back over the both of you. The two of you are face to face now and you lean forward to brush the tip of your nose against his. When he reaches up and slides a hand into your hair, you let out a contented noise in the back of your throat.

“Do you want me?” you whisper, your eyes seeking out his. Something shifts and he stares at you with blown-out pupils. 

“You have no idea,” he growls before slotting his lips against yours.

The kiss is hungry as he buries his fingers in your hair and you moan into his mouth. He coaxes you open with his tongue, licking into you with ferocity you did not expect from him. Bringing his body flush to yours, you feel the kick of his cock against your belly and your cunt aches in response. When he pulls away for a moment you whine until you realize he’s trying to work your shirt off over your head at an awkward angle. You sit up slightly to help his cause and suddenly the garment flies over your head and onto the bedroom floor. He’s on you in an instant, sucking your nipple greedily as you fist his dark hair. 

“Rain,” you breathe, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He hums around your hardened bud and slides off with a pop to give you a dark look.

“Need you so bad,” he intones, “you have no fucking idea.”

You gasp as his hand slides down your body and into your underwear. When he cups a slender hand against your mound you squirm with delight. He slides one finger against your clit, rubbing languid circles as you buck into his touch. 

“Nice and wet, all for me,” he murmurs as he kisses your neck, continuing to work his finger against the nub. When his hand pulls back to the waistband of your underwear you cringe a little.

“I’m bleeding,” you say, biting your lip. “I’ll make a mess.”

“That’s the idea,” he says as he licks a stripe across your collarbone. You resign yourself to the fate of sullying your clean sheets as he slips your period panties off you, eyeing the mess of blood and slick on the gusset as he pulls them to eye level. You’re embarrassed, cheeks and chest flushing but he gives you a grin full of sharp teeth and tosses them over his shoulder, diving back in for another heated kiss. You slide your hand down his chest, making sure to brush his nipple so he moans into your mouth, on a path towards his cock. When you slip your fingertips over the head he flexes his hips into your touch, precum dripping on the sheets. His calloused fingertips return to your cunt, dipping into you to gather your juices and slide them over your clit. When he kisses you again as you both stroke each other, it’s sharp. Fangs peek out to nip at your bottom lip until he’s drawn blood, which he licks up eagerly. 

“Need to fuck you,” he groans in your ear as your fingers work over his shaft. “Now.”

In an instant, he removes his hand from your cunt and grips your hip to pull you closer to him. When he grabs his cock to tease at your entrance, your eyes roll back in your head. Rain spreads you open with two fingers and slides into you with one solid thrust, knocking the breath from your lungs. 

“Fuck, Rain!” you gasp as he slips almost all the way out of you again. When he slides back in it’s with more gentleness, yet no less firm. You hook your leg around his, granting him greater access and he grips your thigh with sharp claws. Slowly, he begins to set a consistent pace and you sigh with delight.

“So beautiful like this,” he groans, and he hesitates a moment before he speaks again. “Would you let me breed you? Fuck into you again and again until it takes,” he inhales sharply, “and you’re round and full with my kit?”

Your jaw drops open as your cunt clenches around him. His thrusts continue, becoming more insistent. You never thought the idea of being impregnated would arouse you but your moans have become louder all of a sudden, the stretch of your walls more intense.

“Y-yes,” you pant and his pace picks up. “Fuck yes, fill me up. Please.”

You can feel and hear the mixture of blood and slick as his fucking becomes more frantic at your words. Pulling him in for a bruising kiss, you grip the back of his neck, digging your nails into the flesh. You can hear him crying out under your mouth so you pull away, nose to nose with him.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he rasps, sliding a hand down to your cunt to toy with your clit. “Please.”

“Yours, Rain,” you keen as his fingers slip against you again and again. “I’m yours!”

When he coaxes your orgasm out of you, your back arches, pushing your body even closer towards him. His cock continues to slam inside of you, desperate to reach his own end. As you come, your cunt spasms around him and he grips the back of your head to press his forehead into yours.

“And I’m yours,” he grits out, thrusting erratically, “we’re all yours, baby.”

We. The word makes you gasp and clench around him once more as you come down from your high. We.

You are the ghouls’ and the ghouls are yours.

As he spills into you, you vaguely acknowledge the tears sliding down your cheeks. He continues fucking you even after his seed seeps out of you until he’s crying out from the overstimulation. Gently he pulls his softened cock from you and you both lie next to each other, panting. When you raise a hand to lightly stroke his cheek he nuzzles into your touch and turns to place a kiss on your palm.

“Hey,” you say quietly, snuggling closer to him. “That was really nice.”

When he smiles your heart sings.

You feel another rush of blood seep out of you to join the rest of the mess between your thighs. You must be making a face because Rain laughs, sliding out of bed to stand.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Your shower still broken?”

“No, actually,” you say, getting the gist, “got it fixed yesterday.” When you slip out of bed and stand you groan at what you see on the sheets.

“Ok, shower and then we gotta change these things. Ugh those sheets were almost brand new.”

You stomp towards the bathroom and Rain captures your wrist in his hand, drawing you back to him.

“Beloved,” he whispers, bringing your hand up to his mouth to kiss it. Your chest aches from the way he gazes at you and you smile - a bright, sincere thing with all of your teeth.

“Thank you,” you say simply. 

The words you really want to say - words you have been wanting to tell all the ghouls - linger in your mouth but you can’t yet find the courage to speak them into existence.

Soon enough.

[gyutopia]

worls of sinners ii | sim jaeyun

⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: your parents are the head of one of the nation’s most lucrative syndicates and your older brother is heir to the throne which leaves you free to leave this world of evil behind. you’ve been waiting for this day for twenty years of your life, you can practically taste the freedom. what will you do, however, when your parents arrange a marriage for you to bind together their empire with the Lee’s to stop a full on gang war?

❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: sim jaeyun x f!reader ft brother!sungchan

❥ 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: mafia!au, arranged marriage!au

❥ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 8.0k

⟶ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: dark themes, mentions of drugs, mentions of violence, vulgar language, mentions of death, forced marriage, corruption, consumption of alcohol, possessiveness, mentions of blood.

| masterlist | previous | next |

The reception was just as beautiful as the wedding. The soft procession of violins and cellos filled the hall as your guest roamed about the spacious room talking amongst themselves. You secluded yourself to the high table and refused to leave your position to meet any new faces.

You could clearly see the distaste written across your new father-in-laws face as you made it your goal to avoid his business associates but you could’t find it in you to care. While the mobsters scattered around the room drank away their inhibitions and partied like no tomorrow, you sat alone nursing a flute of sparkling cider mourning the loss of your freedom.

Jake tried his best to play the role of a doting husband but gave up an hour later when you did nothing but give him the cold shoulder, you said nothing as he slinked off to go congregate with his close friends, you watched them talk amongst themselves, feeling biter at how easy it was for Jake to let loose and enjoy himself. You bring the flute glass up to your lips and finish it off before placing the glass back onto the table only to be met face to face with Heeseung who stands on the other side. You raise your eyebrows curiously, “May I help you?”

He smirks and scans your face, “I'm sure you can doll.” Your face remains passive, even at the pet name he bestows upon you, you watch him with a blank face as he rounds the table to sit beside you. “Why do you look as if you’ve been shot? Shouldn’t you be happy, it’s your wedding day afterall?”

You scoff, “I’m sure you know why.”

A puff of air escapes Heeseung’s parted lips as he leans back in his seat and takes a sip of his whiskey. “Jake won’t hurt you if that’s what you’re thinking, that boy couldn’t even harm a fly. I have no clue why our father chose to hand over the clan to him. Besides, you have far more pressing matters to worry about”

An eyebrow shoots up at that, “such as..?”

He smirks over the rim of his glass, “producing an heir.” You cringe at the reminder of what is expected of you. You can’t stand even being in Jake’s presence for more than an hour let alone letting him bed you. “I don’t know how things are run over at Jung Empire but the Lee clan is quite old fashioned, the women are expected to look after the children and make sure there is peace between the mafiosos while the men control the bigger things such as the business aspect. Think of it as a game of chess, you may be the queen and Jake is the king but you hold the power on the board, he is nothing without you.”

You frown at his analogy, “I'm not sure I understand.”

Heeseung’s face is void of any emotion as he looks away to stare intently at the back of his younger brother's head, seemingly calculating “I’m sure you will soon.” He turns back to you and offers you one last vibrant smile before standing and walking away.

You watch him walk away, lost in your own mind that’s working in overdrive. You sigh and stand to walk towards the bar to get yourself a glass of whiskey.

As you pass Jake, the song draws to a close and your mother-in-law starts tapping her butter knife against the rim of her cocktail glass, the chatter around the room abruptly dies down. Your eyes locate her by the end of the hall, near the live band with her burgundy nails wrapped around a flute of a dark red wine.

“May I have your attention for a moment please,” she asks, her voice delicate yet firm. Jake makes his way over to you after excusing himself from his friends, he places a warm hand on your shoulder and leans over to place a kiss on your cheek.

You can’t decide what you hate more; the way Lee Yerin stares at you with her hawk-like eyes, scrutinizing your every move or the way Jake slides his arms down to grab you by the waist to assert his claim on you in the presence of his men.

It bothers you how comfortable he seems to be getting with you already but you know better than to brush him off. In your world, possession is everything. It wouldn’t be wise to send a message of strife so early in your marriage.

You’re barely listening as Yerin goes on about how proud she is to finally see her youngest son become a man. You wonder if she means her words, with Jake being the living breathing proof of her husband's infidelity you can’t help but wonder if she harbors any hate for the male. She finishes by thanking the guests for their attendance, before turning back to the two of you with a red-lipped smile that reaches her eyes.

As her speech draws to a close, the room erupts into polite applause, but the tension in the air remains palpable. Jake's grip tightens around your waist, his touch possessive, as if daring anyone to challenge his claim over you. It's a stark reminder of the role you've been thrust into – a pawn in a game of power and ambition.

You glance over at Yerin, her smile still plastered on her lips, but there's a glint in her eyes that sends a shiver down your spine. She may be putting on a show for the guests, but you know better than to underestimate her.

As the crowd begins to disperse, you feel a sense of relief wash over you. But before you can slip away unnoticed, Yerin's voice cuts through the air once more.

"____," she calls out, her tone sweet yet commanding. "A moment, please."

You exchange a wary glance with Jake before reluctantly stepping forward to face his step-mother. Her gaze is piercing, her scrutiny leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable.

"I hope you're settling into your new role comfortably," she says, her voice laced with thinly veiled authority.

You force a polite smile, nodding in response. "Of course, Mrs. Lee. I'm doing my best to adapt."

Yerin's smile widens, but there's a hint of something sinister lurking beneath the surface. "Good," she says, her tone dripping with insincerity. "Because there's much expected of you as Jaeyunie's wife."

You swallow hard, the weight of her words sinking in. You're well aware that your position comes with its own set of expectations and obligations.

Before you can respond, Jake steps in, his voice firm but gentle. "Mother, perhaps this can wait for another time. ____ must be tired from the festivities."

Yerin's gaze flickers between the two of you, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Of course, my dear," she says, her tone saccharine sweet. "We wouldn't want to keep you from your rest."

With a final nod, you and Jake make your escape, the weight of Yerin's words lingering in the air like a dark cloud. As you slip away into the mass of people, you can't help but wonder what other secrets and challenges await you in this new chapter of your life.

As you and Jake make your way through the crowd, the weight of Yerin's expectations hangs heavy in the air. Despite the celebration, a sense of unease settles over you, casting a shadow over the lavish celebration.

Jake's grip on your waist remains firm, his touch a silent reassurance amidst the chaos. You steal a glance at him, finding a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, a stark contrast to the confident facade he wears for the world.

"Are you okay?" you ask softly, your voice barely audible over the din of the party.

He offers you a tight-lipped smile, his expression guarded. "I'm fine," he replies, his tone lacking conviction. "Just... adjusting, I suppose."

You nod in understanding, knowing all too well the weight of expectation. It's a burden you both share, a burden that threatens to consume you if you're not careful.

As you reach the outskirts of the crowd, Jake’s grip loosens slightly, allowing you both a moment of respite from the suffocating atmosphere of the reception hall.

"Thank you," you say softly, meeting his gaze with a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty. "For stepping in back there."

Jake offers you a small, genuine smile, his eyes softening with warmth. "Of course," he says, his voice gentle. "We're in this together, ____. No matter what."

As you and Jake navigate through the dispersing crowd, a sudden hush falls over the room, drawing your attention back to the center of the hall. Your heart skips a beat as you see Heeseung striding confidently towards you, his presence commanding the attention of everyone present.

With a flourish, he raises a glass high, the tinkling sound cutting through the silence like a sharp blade. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announces, his voice ringing clear above the murmurs of the crowd. "I believe it's time for our esteemed mafia leader to take his beautiful wife home."

A ripple of laughter and applause erupts from the guests, their cheers mingling with the strains of the fading music. You feel a flush of heat rising to your cheeks, a sense of discomfort settling in the pit of your stomach as all eyes turn to you and Jake.

Jake's grip tightens around your waist once again, his jaw clenched in irritation at the spectacle unfolding before him. You can sense the tension radiating off him, a silent warning to Heeseung to tread carefully.

But Heeseung pays no heed to Jake's silent threat, his gaze fixed on you with a predatory gleam. "Come now, my dear brother," he continues, his voice dripping with faux sincerity. "Let's not keep your wife waiting any longer."

You feel a surge of resentment bubbling within you, disgusted with the way Heeseung chooses to carry himself and address you as if you’re nothing more than a prize Jake has won to bed.

"I'm sure your wife is eager to get home and enjoy your company in a more... private setting," Heeseung drawls suggestively. This is met with a drunken roar of approval from the men in the room, a few of whom lift their glasses in Jake's direction and laugh salaciously. Yerin observes you carefully over the rim of her cocktail before stepping in. “The car outside is ready to go when you are, my darlings." she adds in, arching a perfectly-shaped eyebrow before raising her glass to you with a smirk. "Welcome to the family, ____."

A lick of ice runs through your veins.

In the next moment, you find yourself flanked from all sides by your bridesmaids, giggling as they pull you from Jake's clutches and shove you towards the exit. Jake groans as his friends do the same to him, trying and failing to get them to stop.

The cool night air hits you like a slap to the face when the double doors are flung open. A black SUV awaits you outside, the suited driver standing to attention on the curb, and the bridesmaids shove you into the back seat.

Next thing you know, Jake is being wrangled into the seat beside you. He sends his best man one last glare before the car door slams shut behind him. The car engine hums to life, and a heavy silence falls upon you as the driver pulls away.

You gaze out of the window for the entirety of the ride to your new residence.

When you finally turn in through the large automated gates of the Lee/Sim residence, you don't even wait for the driver to come around and open the door on your behalf, all but throwing it open in a bid to drag some fresh oxygen into your lungs.

You hear Jake's murmured thanks as he exits the car behind you; however your eyes remain fixated on the modern-style mansion that looms ominously before your eyes like a great, architectural monster.

Wordlessly, he moves past you with keys in hand. He knows you'll follow. After all, what other choice do you have?

The journey upstairs to the bedroom is a quiet one. Several of Jake's maids bow at ninety-degree angles as you pass, their hushed greetings of “Welcome, Mrs. Sim" directed at the expensive carpet beneath your feet, but given no indication that you should acknowledge them, you carry on in silence.

The master bedroom is pristine. So much so that it looks unlived in. As you step inside, you inhale the faint scent of fresh linen, a stark contrast to the lingering perfume of the evening's festivities.

Jake's voice breaks the silence, his tone surprisingly gentle amidst the chaos of the night. "This is your space," he says, gesturing around the room. "I'll be across the hall if you need anything."

You meet his gaze, gratitude mingling with the exhaustion etched into his features. “Okay, thank you.”

He stiffly nods before promptly exiting your room. Once he’s out of sight you huff out a sigh of relief before throwing yourself onto the large mattress. You know you should begin to get ready for bed but you feel drained in every sense of the word.

Just as you’re about to stand to remove your reception gown you feel your phone buzz on your bed. You look up from your seated position to find an incoming facetime call from Haru. You perk a bit, noting you hadn’t seen her or Anton on your way out of the reception.

You quickly answer and prop your phone up against a nearby pillow, adjusting it so you can see the screen while you start getting ready for bed.

“Hello.”

Haru smiles brightly and then turns the camera a bit to show Antons face before they both brightly answer you, “Hi!”

You smile at your two friends. “I miss you guys so much,” you say, letting out a tired sigh. “It feels like ages since I saw you.”

“We miss you too,” Haru replies, her voice filled with genuine concern. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

Anton nods in agreement, his expression serious. “If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call. We’re always here for you.”

You start to unbutton your gown, feeling a bit more relaxed. “Thanks, guys. I really appreciate it. Things have been... intense.”

As you step out of your gown, Anton's voice comes through, a bit hesitant. “How are things with Jake?”

You shrug, momentarily forgetting they can’t see you. “We haven’t really spoken. We’re sleeping in separate bedrooms.”

“At least he isn’t a creep who expected you to sleep with him on the first night,” Haru says, trying to lighten the mood.

You let out a small laugh, nodding. “True. That’s one thing to be thankful for.”

You slip into your pajamas and pop back into the frame, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “But something is off. I don’t know what it is yet, but I can feel it.”

Anton leans closer to the camera, his brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

You take a deep breath, deciding to tell them everything. “I was cornered by an FBI agent at the engagement party. He hinted that they know about the dealings of Jake and his family and they have a solid case. I’m going to find out what’s going on and use it as leverage to get out of this marriage.”

Haru and Anton are silent for a moment, processing your words. Finally, Haru speaks up. “Are you sure about this?”

“I have to do something,” you say firmly. “I’m not going to be a pawn in this game. I need to get out of here and join you guys in Paris. My father would have never agreed to this marriage if he knew that the FEDS have a solid case against Jake. I’ll snoop around his office tomorrow and see what I can find.”

Anton’s face is filled with worry. “Please be careful. If he catches you...”

“I know,” you say, nodding. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

There’s a moment of silence as your friends exchange worried looks. Then, Haru smiles softly. “Just remember, we’re always here for you.”

You feel a surge of gratitude for your friends. “Thanks, guys. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

After a few more words of encouragement and promises to stay in touch, you finally say your goodbyes and hang up. You place your phone down, feeling a bit more at ease after speaking with your friends.

You lie back on your bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, you’ll start your investigation. You’ll get yourself out of this, it’s you against everyone else. Nothing new.

The next morning, you wake up feeling surprisingly well rested. You dress quickly and make your way downstairs, the quiet of the house almost unnerving. As you enter the kitchen, you find your new husband sitting at the kitchen island. He’s engrossed in his iPad, looking over company spreadsheets while sipping on his coffee.

A maid appears, her presence soft but attentive. “Good morning, ma’am. What would you like for breakfast?”

You offer a polite smile. “I can make myself a bowl of cereal, thank you.”

Jake glances up from his iPad, his expression firm. “No. I’m paying them to take care of you, so you should have a proper breakfast.” He turns to the maid. “Make her some waffles, please.”

You don’t put up much of a fight, knowing it’s not worth the effort. As you try to leave the kitchen to head to the massive dining room, Jake stops you. “Why don’t you take a seat beside me?”

Reluctantly, you sit down next to him. He looks at you, his eyes softer now. “I had all your art supplies moved into the studio down the hall. Thought you might want to get back to painting.”

You’re taken aback by the gesture. “Thank you, Jake.”

He nods, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I have to go to the company for a meeting with the shareholders, so I’ll be gone most of the day. But once I’m back, we can discuss the creative department I plan on opening for you.”

Surprised, you thank him again. This side of Jake is unexpected, you didn’t think he was being serious when he offered to open up a creative department for you when he proposed. You thought it would be yet another empty promise, his kindness leaves you momentarily off balance. He gets up to leave, grabbing his briefcase from the counter. “See you later.”

As he exits, the maid places a plate of waffles in front of you. “Anything else you need, ma’am?”

You look up at her, suddenly curious. “What’s your name?”

“Rose, ma’am,” she replies, her tone respectful.

“Thank you, Rose,” you say warmly. “Would you like to join me for breakfast?”

Rose shakes her head, a faint smile on her face. “It’s not proper, ma’am, but thank you for the offer.” She then moves off to clean the kitchen, leaving you to your meal.

You eat the waffles slowly, trying to gather your thoughts. The house is quiet, and the sense of isolation is almost tangible. Once you’re done, you make your way to the studio Jake mentioned. It’s a spacious room with large windows that let in plenty of natural light. Your art supplies are neatly arranged, and a blank canvas stands on an easel, waiting.

You sit down, picking up a paintbrush, but no inspiration comes. The paintbrush feels foreign in your hand, and you find yourself staring at the canvas, lost in thought. The events of the past few days swirl in your mind, making it hard to focus. You remember the FBI agent’s warning, Jake’s unexpected kindness, and the looming uncertainty of your future.

Minutes turn into hours as you sit there, the paintbrush hovering over the canvas but never touching it. Your mind is too cluttered to create, and the weight of your situation presses down on you. You think about Haru and Anton, wondering if they’re almost done with their preparations to leave Korea, wishing they were beside you now.

Eventually, you set the paintbrush down, realizing that you won’t be able to paint today. Instead, you decide to use the time to start your investigation. You remember Jake mentioning that he would be gone for most of the day, which gives you a window of opportunity.

You leave the studio and make your way to Jake’s office. The door is slightly ajar, and you peek inside to ensure no one is around. Taking a deep breath, you step into the room and begin your search. You open drawers, sift through papers, and check the computer for any clues. But the office is meticulously organized, and you find nothing out of the ordinary.

Just as you’re about to give up, you notice a locked drawer in Jake’s desk. Your heart races as you consider your options. You could try to find the key, but that would take time. Instead, you decide to try picking the lock, a skill you picked up in your younger, more rebellious days.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually, you hear a soft click. The drawer opens, revealing a stack of documents. You quickly skim through them, and your blood runs cold as you realize just how cruel your husband can be. You thought your father was bad, but Jake seems to be the devil himself.

As you read through the documents, you uncover records of people Jake has killed, debts he plans on collecting, and bribes that go all the way up to the president. Each piece of paper details horrifying acts—the ruthlessness with which he eliminates anyone who stands in his way, the meticulous planning of each murder, and the extensive network of corruption he maintains. Your hands tremble as you come across a supposed hit list with names of people from Parliament.

Just then, you hear a voice outside the door. Heart pounding, you quickly put the documents back in place and lock the drawer just as Heeseung walks into the room. He looks surprised to find you standing behind Jake’s desk, a smirk curling on his lips.

“What are you doing in here?” he asks, his tone casual but laced with suspicion.

You straighten up, refusing to let him see your fear. “I was looking for a ballpoint pen to sketch with,” you lie smoothly.

Heeseung’s eyes narrow as he studies you. “Is that so?”

You nod, “And what are you doing in my home?” you ask, deflecting the attention away from yourself.

He scoffs at your use of the word “my” and steps closer, his smirk widening. “Your home? Has Jake fucked you well enough for you to be content with being his trophy wife?”

Your eyes narrow in anger as you slap away his hand that was reaching for a stack of papers on the desk. “If you came here to insult me, you can see yourself out. Otherwise, you’ll have to answer to Jake.”

Heeseung lifts his hands in mock surrender, his eyes sweeping around the room as if looking for something. “Jake doesn’t scare me,” he says, his voice low and menacing. “And neither do you. I’m not like Jake. I play rough, so you should watch where you put your hands.”

You glare at him, trying to keep your composure. “I’m not afraid of you, Heeseung. Now, if you don’t have any business here, I suggest you leave.”

Heeseung takes a step closer, invading your personal space. “Or what? You’ll run to Jake? You’re just his pretty little plaything, and you don’t know the first thing about the business we’re in.”

Your pulse quickens, but you refuse to back down. “I’m not just a plaything, and I won’t be intimidated or undermined by you. If you have any respect for Jake and me, you’ll leave now.”

Heeseung smirks, reaching out as if to touch your face, but you swat his hand away. “Don’t touch me,” you snap, your voice steady.

Heeseung chuckles, clearly enjoying the power play. “Feisty. I like that. But remember, Jake isn’t always going to be around to protect you.”

You take a step back, putting distance between you and Heeseung. “I don’t need Jake to protect me. Now get out before I make you.”

Heeseung’s smirk fades slightly, and he seems to reconsider his approach. “Fine,” he says, lifting his hands again. “But this isn’t over. I’ll be back to talk to Jake.”

“Goodbye, Heeseung,” you say firmly, watching as he finally leaves the room. The door closes behind him, and you let out a shaky breath. The encounter has left you rattled, but you can’t afford to lose your nerve now.

You sit back down at the desk, trying to calm your racing heart. Jake and his family truly do rule the underworld, it’s no wonder your father was so quick to wed you off. They’re involved in crimes that go far beyond anything you could have imagined. But this information is also your ticket out of this nightmare. If you can find a way to use it, you might be able to escape and start a new life.

For now, you need to act normal and keep up appearances. You leave the office and head back to the studio, your mind racing with plans and contingencies. Once inside, you pick up a paintbrush and stare at the blank canvas, hoping to appear absorbed in your work should anyone come looking for you. But your thoughts keep drifting back to the documents and Jake. He seems nothing like what those papers claim. He’s been nothing but sweet to you, to think he’s touched you with the same hands that have taken the lives of others makes you want to get up and shower.

Minutes turn into hours as you sit there, pretending to paint. Eventually, the sound of the front door opening and closing signals Jake’s return. You take a deep breath and put on your best calm demeanor, ready to face him.

Jake finds you in the studio, and his face lights up with a smile. “There you are. How was your day?”

“Good,” you reply, forcing a smile. “I spent some time in here, trying to get inspired.”

He nods, walking over to you and placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’m glad to hear that. Let’s have dinner, and then we can discuss the creative department.”

You nod, feeling a mix of relief and anxiety. Dinner with Jake means more time to play your role and gather information. As you follow him out of the studio, you can’t help but glance back at the canvas, the blank space mirroring the uncertainty of your future.

At dinner, you sit across from Jake in the dimly lit dining room. The table is set with fine china and a sumptuous meal prepared by the household staff. Jake starts the conversation, his tone light and conversational.

"How did you spend your day?" he asks, cutting into his steak.

You take a sip of your wine, trying to maintain your composure. "I spent the day in the studio."

Jake nods, chewing thoughtfully. "I'm glad to hear that. I've been thinking a lot about how to integrate your talents into the company."

You raise an eyebrow, interest peaked. "Oh? What do you have in mind?"

He leans back in his chair, a smile playing on his lips. "We could start by setting up a small team to work on special projects. Maybe some unique advertising campaigns or custom artwork for our high-profile clients."

You nod, your mind racing with possibilities. "That sounds wonderful, Jake. Thank you for considering my passion."

He smiles, seemingly satisfied with your response. "I think it will be a great addition to our company. Plus, it will give you something to focus on and keep you busy."

You force a smile, trying to hide the unease that bubbles beneath the surface. "I appreciate that. I've always wanted to use my art in a meaningful way."

Jake takes a sip of his wine, his eyes studying you. "I want you to know that I won't hurt you," he says softly, his voice sincere. "We were both forced into this marriage, and I understand how difficult that can be. I won’t take any anger out on you. I want you to be comfortable here, to feel safe as my wife."

You’re conflicted, Jake’s words sound comforting but the papers hidden in the depths of his office scream otherwise. “Okay.”

Jake sets his wine glass down and looks at you with a seriousness that makes you lean back in your seat slightly. “I want to make something clear, though. I didn’t choose this life because I wanted to. My father chose me to take over even though it was Heeseung’s birthright.”

You frown, genuinely curious. “Why would your father choose you over Heeseung? And why would you even accept? You seem so different from him. Why would you want to be involved in such horrid crimes?”

Jake hesitates, clearly not used to talking about his family dynamics. After a moment, he relents. “Heeseung wasn’t ready to take over. He abused the fact that he was the heir. He partied, made reckless decisions, and endangered our entire operation. I thought stepping up would show our father that I was capable and might even fix my broken relationship with Heeseung.”

He pauses, his eyes distant. “I’ve always been undermined because I’m the bastard son. People are finally starting to take me seriously now that my father has given me full reign.”

He lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “You must find me pathetic, doing all of this because of daddy issues.”

You shake your head, empathizing with him. “Not at all. I understand more than you might think. Growing up, I was always in my older brother’s shadow. No one took me seriously because I was the youngest and a girl. I did everything I could to get our father to see me, to recognize my worth. But eventually, I gave up. It wasn’t worth all the pain I inflicted on myself and others.”

Jake looks at you with a newfound understanding, a bond forming between you. “I guess we’re not so different after all.”

You both sit in silence for a moment, processing the vulnerability you’ve just shared. Then, you remember the FBI agent from the engagement party. “Jake, what do you plan on doing about the case the FBI has opened?”

Jake shrugs, his demeanor calm. “I’ll deal with it.”

“How?” you ask.

Jake pauses, then looks at you intently. “Do you want me to be honest?”

“Yes,” you say, taking his hand. “That’s all I’ll ever want from you—honesty.”

He nods. “I’ll have the lead investigator, the one who threatened you, killed. We’ll make it look like a suicide. Then I’ll pay off the president to close the case.”

You nod slowly, having expected such a response. “I figured as much. Thank you for being honest with me.”

Jake squeezes your hand. “I promise, I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe.”

You return the squeeze, feeling a complex mix of emotions—relief, fear, and a strange sense of solidarity. “Thank you, Jake.”

With the heavy conversation behind you, you both return to eating your dinner. The atmosphere between you has shifted; there’s a newfound understanding and mutual respect. As you finish your meal, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, you and Jake might find a way to navigate this treacherous life together.

After dinner, Jake stands up and reaches for your hand. “Let’s go to the living room. We can talk more about the creative department there.”

You nod and follow him, feeling a bit lighter. Once you’re both settled on the couch, Jake starts outlining his vision for integrating your art into the company. You listen intently, offering suggestions and ideas, and for the first time in your life, you feel a glimmer of hope that you might be able to carve out a small piece of this world for yourself.

As the evening wears on, the conversation shifts back to more personal topics. You find It isn’t hard to relate to Jake the more you talk to him, surprisingly finding yourself enjoying your time with him. You’re more similar than you expected, and it dawns a new sort of appreciation for him. It was like this entire marriage would seem easier than you thought, especially with an understanding partner like Jake.

Jake shares stories from his childhood, and you find yourself laughing at some of his more outrageous ones. In turn, you share some of your own, and by the end of your last story, there’s a comfortable silence between you.

Jake looks at you, a small smile playing on his lips. “Are you tired?”

You shake your head and sip on your wine before answering. “Not really. Why?”

He grins, looking almost boyish. “How about a movie night? It’s been a long day, and I think we both deserve a break.”

You nod, feeling a sense of relief at the normalcy of his suggestion. “Sure, that sounds nice.”

You begin to get comfortable on the large, plush couch while Jake turns on the tv and scrolls through his streaming service before deciding on ‘10 Things I Hate About You’

You raise an eyebrow, amused by his choice. “Seriously?”

He defends himself, his grin widening. “It’s the best movie ever made. Don’t knock it until you’ve watched it with me.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Alright, you’ve convinced me.”

Jake hits play and sits down beside you, draping a cozy blanket over both of you. As the movie starts, you find yourself relaxing more than you have in days. The lightheartedness of the film and Jake’s occasional commentary makes you forget, even if just for a while, the dark reality of your lives.

About halfway through the movie, you start to feel your eyelids grow heavy. You fight to stay awake, not wanting to miss any part of the film or the rare moment of peace. But before long, you find yourself leaning against Jake’s shoulder, the warmth and comfort lulling you to sleep.

Jake glances down at you, a soft smile on his face. He gently shifts his arm to support you better, careful not to wake you. “Pretty,” he mumbles under his breath, almost to himself. He reaches up and softly caresses your cheek, his touch tender and protective.

As the movie continues to play, Jake finds himself more focused on you than the screen. He watches you sleep, marveling at the trust you’ve shown by falling asleep on him. The weight of the day’s revelations and the growing bond between you settles over him, and he feels a strange sense of contentment.

Eventually, the rhythm of your breathing and the comfort of the moment lull Jake into sleep as well. The two of you sit there, wrapped in the blanket, a small bubble of warmth and peace in the midst of a tumultuous world.

In that quiet, shared slumber, a tentative connection begins to form. It’s fragile and new, but in the darkness of your lives, it shines like a small, precious light.

You wake up the next morning wrapped in Jake's arms, his steady breathing a comfort against your shoulder. As you gently shift, his eyes flutter open, and for a moment, you both just stare at each other, unsure of what to say. This closeness is new to both of you.

Jake clears his throat and slowly separates himself from you. "Good morning."

"Good morning," you reply, sitting up. "I’m sorry for falling asleep on you last night."

Jake waves off your apology with a soft smile. "Don't be. What else are my arms for if not to support my wife’s head?"

You laugh softly, appreciating his attempt at humor. "What are your plans for today?"

He stretches and then looks at you, his expression turning serious. "I have another meeting today. It’s for our... other business."

You catch on immediately, realizing he means the mafia. Nodding, you decide to take a bold step. "Can I tag along?"

Jake looks hesitant. "I don’t know if that’s a good idea."

"Think about it," you reason. "It would be a good look if we showed up together. It might help if no one thinks there’s any strife in our marriage."

He considers your words and finally relents. "Alright, but stay close to me. It’s not the safest place."

As you both stand from the couch, Rose enters the living room with a polite smile. "Good morning, Mr and Mrs. Sim. I'll take care of the living area while you get ready."

You nod and head to your room to shower. The warm water helps clear your mind, but your thoughts keep drifting back to Jake and the strange new dynamic between you two. After your shower, you find a dress laid out on the bed—a tasteful yet elegant piece that you can tell Jake picked out to match his own attire.

You dress quickly, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement. When you walk out, Jake is waiting, he gives you an approving nod. "You look perfect."

"Thank you," you reply, feeling a bit flustered under his gaze.

Jake leads you to the car, opening the door for you.

The car ride goes by smoothly and in no time you arrive at the outskirts of Seoul. The warehouse you pull up to is surrounded by extravagant cars, a testament to the wealth and power of those inside.

Jake places a protective arm around your waist and guides you into the building, and you’re met with familiar faces—associates of Jake’s clan and big-time mafiosos. He takes a seat at the head of the table and pulls you onto his lap, a clear display of possession and protection.

Sunghoon, Jake’s right-hand man, stands to give his report. “The situation with the baggie boys is getting worse. They’re stealing cuts of our product, and now men from the Lee and Jung borders are going missing.”

You tense at the mention of your family name but stay quiet, tuning into the conversation with more interest.

Jake’s frustration is evident, but he lets Sunghoon continue. “Also, the FBI knows about the illegal acts, not just the corruption within the government. This investigation might be harder to navigate.”

Jake hums in thought. “Have we spoken to the president?”

Sunghoon nods. “The president is keeping a close eye on the case, but it will take time before he can act.”

One of the mafiosos, Byun Baekhyun, speaks up, his tone accusatory. “Is there a rat amongst us?”

Jake’s eyes flash with offense. “You dare question my men?”

Baekhyun doesn’t back down. “It’s a fair question, Jake. How else would the FBI know so much? Someone must be leaking information.”

Jake’s grip tightens on your waist, his anger barely contained. “My men are loyal. Perhaps you should look at your own house before making such accusations.”

Baekhyun leans back, smirking. “I’m just saying, it’s a possibility we can’t ignore.”

The comment lingers in your mind, you make a mental note to discuss it with Jake later.

The meeting continues, filled with more bad news. Sunghoon informs the group that the police are cracking down on the remaining baggie boys, and they’ll likely need to pay another visit to the police lieutenant.

By the end of the meeting, you can tell Jake is out of it. Instead of heading straight home, you suggest, “Would you like to grab lunch with me?”

Jake agrees, and the drive to the restaurant is filled with conversation. “That meeting was intense,” you start.

He nods, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. “Yeah, things are getting complicated.”

“What about the possibility of a mole?” you ask carefully.

Jake sighs. “It’s something I’ll have to keep an eye on. Baekhyun’s comment wasn’t completely off-base.”

You nod, sensing his frustration. “How’s your dad handling all this?”

“He’s not thrilled,” Jake admits. “He’s been cracking down on me, questioning my decisions. This new info Sunghoon mentioned is definitely going to make him question my leadership abilities even more.”

“I’m sure he knows you’re doing your best,” you offer, trying to comfort him.

Jake glances at you, a smirk playing on his lips. “Thanks but my dad doesn’t care about effort.”You frown, trying to think of something to say. “What about the rest of the team? Do they support you?”

“For the most part,” Jake replies, his expression thoughtful. “But there’s always someone ready to step up and point out your mistakes. It’s a competitive environment.”

You nod. “Yeah, I get that.” sielcne settles between the two of you for a moment before you add, “how’s Sunghoon holding up with everything?” trying to shift the focus slightly.

“He’s stressed, but he’s handling it well. He’s been a great support, especially with all the new information coming in.”

“That’s good to hear,” you say. “It’s important to have someone like that on your side.”

Jake’s expression softens. “Yeah, it is. I’m lucky to have him and the rest of the team.”

The car ride continues with a mix of silence and small talk until you reach the restaurant. As you step out of the car, you look at Jake and say, “Let’s try to forget about the meeting for a while and just enjoy lunch, okay?”

He nods, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “Sounds like a plan.”

As the two of you get out after he parks, Jake surprises you by taking your hand as you walk down the street. The gesture feels almost normal, like you’re a real couple. You blush but indulge in the rare moment of intimacy.

Seated outside with Jake beside you rather than across, you tell Jake to surprise you with the order. While he speaks to the waiter, you glance around your surroundings, trying to absorb the peaceful atmosphere. Across the street, a familiar figure catches your eye—your brother Sungchan. He’s sitting at an outdoor bar with another man, engaged in a heated discussion. You recognize the man as the chief of police.

Sungchan slides an envelope across the table before standing and leaving. You shrug it off, assuming it’s just work, and turn back to Jake.

He’s placed the order and looks at you, curious. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a smile. “Just saw someone I know. It’s nothing.”

Jake nods, accepting your explanation. The conversation shifts to lighter topics, and by the time your drinks arrives, you feel more at ease.

The waiter, a young man with a charming smile, returns with your meals. He seems overly attentive to you, his eyes lingering longer than necessary. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” he asks, leaning closer to you than Jake finds appropriate.

Jake’s jaw tightens. “We’re fine, thank you.” He subtly points to your wedding ring, hoping the waiter will catch on. “My wife and I are just enjoying our lunch.”

The waiter doesn’t seem to catch the hint and continues to hover, making small talk with you. Jake lets it go, expecting you to shut him down. But when the waiter comes back with the bill and you still haven’t said anything, Jake’s patience snaps.

He grabs your chin and kisses you sloppily in front of the waiter. The kiss is possessive, a clear statement of ownership. You’re embarrassed yet turned on, feeling a mix of emotions.

The waiter clears his throat awkwardly and leaves. You pull back, looking at Jake with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “What was that about?”

Jake’s expression is calm, but his eyes are intense. “He was hitting on my wife. I don’t like sharing.”

You nod, understanding his possessiveness but also feeling a strange sense of comfort in his protectiveness. After lunch, you head back to the car, and the drive home is filled with a comfortable silence. As you approach the house, Jake breaks the silence. “Thank you for today. It was nice to have you there, despite the circumstances.”

You smile, “I’m glad I could be there for you. Besides, think of it as a thank you for yesterday.”

Jake parks the car and turns to you, his expression serious but warm. “We’re in this together now. I want us to be a team.”

You nod, feeling a newfound sense of partnership. “Me too, Jake. Two’s better than one, no?”

Jake gives you a small smile, the warmth in his eyes unmistakable. "Who knows, maybe one day we can be more."

Taking a deep breath, you offer him one last smile before saying, "I'm going to head to the studio and try to paint for a bit. It helps me clear my head."

Jake nods. "That sounds like a good idea. Do you need anything before you go?"

"No, I'm good. Thanks." You give him a reassuring smile before heading towards your studio.

As you walk down the hall, your mind buzzes with the events of the day. The meeting, lunch, Jake's protectiveness-all of it swirls together, pushing you towards your creative sanctuary. When you step into the studio, the familiar scent of paint and canvas immediately calms your nerves.

You set up your easel and prepare your paints, letting your mind drift. The blank canvas in front of you feels like a challenge, urging you to pour out everything you've been holding back. You start with broad strokes, not fully aware of what you're creating until the image starts to take shape.

Hours pass as you lose yourself in the process. You paint with a fervor you haven't felt in a long time, each brushstroke a cathartic release. The image that emerges is raw and intense-a naked girl on a bed, covered in blood and semen, her eyes shut in pleasure. A male hand tightly grabs her right breast, the possessiveness and violence palpable.

As you step back to examine your work, your breath catches in your throat. The hand you've painted is unmistakably Jake's. The realization sends a shiver down your spine, a mix of embarrassment and arousal flooding your senses. You can't believe how deeply he's affected you, invading not just your thoughts but your art as well.

Feeling flustered, you clean your brushes and put away your supplies. You need to clear your mind, to stop thinking about Jake in such a sexual manner. Deciding it's best to get some rest, you leave the studio and head towards your bedroom.

Once in bed, you can't help but replay the day's events. Jake's protectiveness, his vulnerability during your conversation, the way he held your hand so confidently—it all stirs something deep within you. As you lie there, staring at the ceiling, you wonder what the future holds for you and Jake. You turn off the light, allowing yourself to drift into a restless sleep filled with dreams of paint and passion.

taglist: @dreamiestay @sumzysworld

[sporadicthingcollection]

Smash or Pass: Part 4/4 (LA!Buggy the Clown x Reader)

Summary: It's the last stop before the Grand Line and you slink away for a quiet evening. The universe, however, decides to clown on you. Sequel to Kiss, Marry, Kill. Pairing: LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader Rating: Semi-explicit. Warnings: Attempted murder. Word Count: ~3.6k.

---

PART 4: In which you prepare for a walk of shame, avoid eating your hair, and do some storm prepping.

Oh, what a wonderful dream. There you were, the High Surgeon Princess, besieged by uncultured swine. You thought for sure your time was up, but then the Harlequin Outlaw swooped in like the incorrigible, irascible rapscallion you've always wanted in your life and saved you from certain doom and dishonor. You graciously treated his wounds and one thing led to another and you fucked like rabbits in springtime. You got married and had two-point-five children and lived happily ever after in a castle with a white picket fence.

Unfortunately, your marital bliss is interrupted by the sun on your face and a battleaxe pingponging around in your skull.

You grumble. You hate Drunk You. She’s a bitch who doesn’t know her limits. Next time you see her, you’re gonna kill her.

Your cheek is stuck to something smooth, your arm is under something heavy, and something wispy tickles your lashes. You open your eyes to find that they’re all the same thing -- a broad expanse of tanned skin stretched taut over hard muscle, draped with a head of long, blue hair.

Alright, maybe Drunk You isn’t so bad. She knows your tastes and left you a thoughtful gift. Maybe you’ll get a bonus round.

You drape your other arm over him and explore. Nice pecs, fuzzy chest, cock semi-erect… ooh, soft belly. Very nice.

You walk your fingers up to his face. Stubble, pierced ear…  what the hell is that on his face? 

You sit up as much as you can with your arm stuck under your gentleman friend.

Your memories come rushing back like water through a sluice. Your blood turns to ice. You’re never drinking again.

You’re stuck. In bed. Naked. With Buggy. Buggy. Fucking Buggy. Not Kuro, who at least had some class while he tried to eviscerate you. Not Mihawk, who has no beef with you personally and doesn’t wear a shirt. Not even that handsome Marine with the sword and suit.

You could have lived with any of those, but no, you wake up next to the most pathetic man in the four Blues. A literal clown. A vainglorious loser. A man who wants to rip your captain, your best friend, limb from limb and feed him to sharks.

Do you think you could chew your arm off before he wakes up? 

You look for any sign of him stirring. Eyes closed, hair falling in his face, lips parted slightly as he breathes. One strong arm tucked underneath his head and the other in a loose fist by his mouth.

He looks so cute and peaceful. Ugh.

He shifts enough for you to free your arm and, just as you thank the gods, he lets out a snore that could have come from an ox. You can’t help but laugh.

Maybe this wasn’t a mistake. Maybe this was two people fooling around. Maybe nothing will come of this and you'll both go on your merry way with a fond memory of a night of drinking, dancing, and screwing. La-di-da-di-day. Everyone wins.

You stand up on shaky legs and examine yourself. A lot of little bruises on your thighs where he gripped you, but no hickeys. Thank God.

There’ll be no hiding the walk of shame, but you can at least maintain some dignity. You fix your hair, rinse your mouth out with the water in the dry sink basin, and sponge bath yourself with…

Hmm. No washcloth and you're out of rags. There’s gotta be something around here you can use.

Like the candy cane bandanna on the floor. You snatch it up and, wetting it, give yourself a quick wipe down. Pits, tits, pussy, as the saying goes. You'd never forgive yourself if you got something nasty from this.

“Oh,” says a soft voice. 

You turn. Buggy, propped up on his elbow, blinks sleepily at you. The sun lights up his hair like a shallow sea on a calm morning, shifting and shimmering as he brushes a few strands out of his face.

Your stomach jumps up your throat in a most pleasant way. Clearly, it’s conspiring with your heart against your brain.

He rubs those wide, gorgeous eyes. “Thought you’d’ve made your exit.”

You were about to. You shrug. "Just enjoying the view. Counting the masts.”

Hook baited. The joke is right there. Right there. He’ll say ‘I’ve got a mast for you right here, hur hur’ and you’ll have an excuse to get the hell outta here.

But he smiles. Not the showman’s smile he gets before he says something he thinks is clever. It’s soft. Warm. The kind of smile one bestows in private to those deemed worthy.

"Glad you didn't," he says.

Your brain puts up a valiant defense, but the heart-stomach alliance is winning. You swallow.

His smile wavers slightly. “Is that my bandanna?”

Shame burns your ears. "Sorry. I'll wash it--"

He flaps his hand dismissively. "Keep it. I've got plenty."

He pulls the sheets back and by God, nothing has ever looked as tempting as him. Him, a pirate with a weird nose who tried to kill you, sprawled out on scratchy, threadbare sheets, his fat cock laying there so deliciously—

You swallow again. Your pussy has joined the siege on your brain and they’ve voted to rename it the Organ Entente.

He stretches as he stands, his muscles rippling as he pops and rolls his joints. Sunlight pours over his body, draping him in liquid gold. He pulls his hair from its ponytail and gives it a good shake before putting it back up.

Lest your eyes join the fight as well, you turn away. Count the masts in the harbor. See if you can spy any Marines. Find the Merry.

Two strong arms drape around your shoulders, pulling you against a broad, warm chest. He rests his chin on your head. “Think I can see my ship from here,” he murmurs.

And in jumps your skin from the top rope. The nerves have betrayed the brain, charging over the ridge to aid the Entente in its assault. “Yeah?”

“Right over there. The Big Top.” He points to a perfectly normal-looking ship, nothing like the beast that waylaid you a few weeks ago. “Well, she’s the Loosey Baru now. Heard the Marine captain's a real bulldog, so we did her makeup and gave her a costume change.”

“Amazing what you can get away with when your sail’s not a big Jolly Roger.” You were the only one against putting a giant WE ARE PIRATES sign on your mainsail, but you got outvoted.

His chest thrums as he giggles. “Subtlety is for cowards.”

You scoff. “Subtlety is for people who like not being in prison.”

"And being flashy is for people like me.” His head moves to your shoulder. His stubble scratches against your cheek. “Who like meeting girls like you.”

The Entente breaks through the wall and feelings flood your brain. Warm feelings. Fuzzy feelings. Feelings that make you absently kiss the side of his nose before you’re even conscious you’re moving.

Buggy goes stiff and not in the fun way that pokes your kidneys. He jerks away from you, gaze hard as he searches your face. Whatever he’s looking for, he must not find it, because a moment later he kisses your lips.

Overwhelmed, your brain surrenders. The Entente celebrates by jumping around all through your body, bouncing from your head to your toes. They also must have fired off a twenty-one-gun salute, too. Why else would your ears be ringing like bells? Big bells? Big, glorious, golden wedding bells?

But it's over as soon as it started. He pulls away and straightens up. “C'mon, let's get outta here before the matron gives us the hook."

Dressing goes smoothly enough for the both of you. Socks and gloves are retrieved. Drawers are located. Your bra and his scarf are found. You stuff his bandanna into your pocket and he settles on a ponytail.

You’re pulling on your trousers when you see him looking in a small compact mirror, carefully drawing green swoops on his face with what looks like an oil pastel.

“Makeup at a time like this?” you ask.

“Flashiness is next to godliness.” He draws a cross on his forehead, then regards himself. “Ech, I need a shave...”

You pause as you fasten your belt. “Gimme a few grand and I’ll shave you so smooth you’ll look like a ten-year-old. Promise not to cut your tongue off this time.”

“Done.” He swaps the green pastel for a tube of lipstick and moves on to his mouth, smearing his lips red. “Gonna have to straighten out my cabin first. Place’s been a mess since... well, always."

You pause mid-bra hooking. "Huh?"

“Haven’t shared with anyone ‘til now.” He rubs his lips together. “Not like it’s dirty — just clothes and shit everywhere. Hope you don't need much closet space.”

What the hell is he on about? You pull your shirt over your head. “Sharing quarters?”

“What, you think I’d stick you in with the freaks? My bed’s big enough for two.” With the back of his wrist, he smears the color onto his cheeks and into the gruesome smile he’s known for. “Not to mention that it's a bed and not a hammock. You ever try to fuck in a hammock? Ain't easy, lemme tell ya."

You lace up your shoes. "I have no idea what you’re on about."

"I’ll show you when we get back to the ship."

"What ship?”

Any mirth in Buggy's face vanishes. He looks at you, brows knit. "My ship," he says slowly. “We’ll get you settled, then I’ll go take care of my business, and we'll haul anchor when I get back."

The audacity of this man. "You really think Luffy'll let you kidnap me? He'll be on you like suckers on a squid."

He’s giving you a look you know well: the do-you-need-a-psych-eval-cuz-you’re-talking-crazy look. “Since when is going with someone willingly kidnapping?” 

You return the look. "What the hell makes you think I'm going with you at all?"

He pockets the lipstick and clicks the compact shut. He steps towards you. “You said if I screwed you to the wall, you’d come with me. I did just that. And then I asked if you meant it, and you said you did.”

"That's not--" You falter. Okay, you can see how bringing up what he said and telling him to do it could be misinterpreted.

Well, shit. Miscommunication strikes again. "Sorry you got your hopes up."

Buggy falters. Something stirs the rivers of his eyes, the same vulnerable, hurt something you saw lurking when you'd insulted his nose. His gaze drifts downwards and his jaw clenches.

Remorse douses you in a bucket of ice water. You're officially a giant asshole. And a slut. And a dumb bitch lush who hurt someone you actually started caring about.

For a moment, you consider recanting. Go with him. Run off and join the circus like you always threatened you would. Sail the seas with a colorful cast. Get rocked every night.

You stop yourself. Enough. You hate a captive audience, you're not a pillager, and while you are a slut, you're not desperate. You have people you know you can trust. Stick with them. Don't jump in with the wildcard.

Buggy huffs, snapping you out of your musings. The hurt in his eyes has faded and the rivers are still. The eerie calm before the storm surge.

"You led me on," he growls.

"I did no such--"

A knife flies past your head, taking off a few strands of hair and shattering the window.

Buggy's shoulders rise and fall rapidly. He readies another knife. "I'm gonna rip your lying tongue out."

You suppose that's karma. You edge towards the window and he matches your step. Another knife narrowly misses the back of your head.

“And then I'm gonna drag you across the keel by your fingernails."

Ouch. A third knife sails past your nose. You're almost there...

"And then I'll nail your corpse to the figurehead!" 

He lunges at you and you at him. You dive low, hitting the floor as he hits the dry sink and leaves the way to the door wide open.

Unfortunately for you, it's locked. You turn the bolt only to be pulled away and spun around by the strap of your satchel.

Buggy pins you against the door, yet another knife at your throat, his arm against your chest, and his knee between your legs. It would be hot if it wasn't for the deranged churn and roil in his eyes.

"I'm gonna ask one more time," he says. “You coming with?”

“No,” you spit. You try to kick him off, but he holds you fast.

He cracks a bit in both composure and voice. “What’s that little rubber prick got that I don’t, huh?! What's it gonna take?!”

“He’s never tried to kill me.” Not on purpose, anyways. “And he doesn't hurt innocent people.”

Frustration ripples through his eyes, and his gaze drifts downwards. “Well, I’m hurt.”

"You're not exactly innocent!" He doesn't notice your hand sneaking towards the knob. "He'll have to be dead, dying, or catatonic before I leave him."

He looks back up. Defeat hardens into determination. "Consider it done."

You really shouldn’t say what you’re about to say, but the words are out before you can stop them. “Good fuckin' luck, big nose.”

The river rages. The floodgates crack and the levees break. He drops the knife and reels back a punch.

You twist the knob. The door opens outwards and he sails past you, landing a heap on the floor. 

"Sorry," you say. You really do mean it. He tries to grab your ankles, but you dodge his hands.

The bar looks like a stampede went through it. The matron looks up from her cleaning as you leap down the stairs. "How's your boyfriend?"

"Trying to kill me." You sprint for the front door, only to pause. "This happens a lot. Situation normal." One more pause. "And he's not my boyfriend."

An impotent roar hits your ears. "I'm gonna make you eat your hair!"

And there's your cue. Exit, pursued by a clown.

---

In hindsight, it makes sense that Sanji would be in the galley making breakfast. You still scream like you saw a corpse when he greets you, but he doesn’t take it personally. Just offers you a warm drink and a place to sit.

You sit at the counter while he pours you a steaming mug of black coffee. You drink deeply. “How do you always manage to make a perfect cup?”

“If I told you that, I’d be out of a job.” He returns his attention to the stove. “So what’s his name?”

You almost spit your coffee all over him. “Say again?”

“You're gone all night and come home in the morning looking like you ran the whole way.” He gives you a sympathetic smile. “Will you at least tell me if you were chased? Just in case we need to bust some heads.”

“I think I lost him by the shipyard.” You stare into the swirling steam. “If you fell in love with someone, would you leave the crew to be with them?”

Sanji’s gaze drifts upwards. "Didn't I already?" 

But he's... Oh. Ooooh. "Alright, that was smooth. But you know what I mean."

He pulls a frying pan from the cabinet, gazing into its sheen like a scrying mirror. "I'm not sure. Depends." He looks up. “Is this the same person who sent you running?”

“No,” you say on impulse. Sanji continues to stare at you. You slump. “Yes.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Love always hits like a hurricane,” he says. You quirk your eyebrow at him. “Old East Blue saying. It's sudden, fast, and sweeps you off your feet.”

Not the only thing that does that. "Speaking from experience?”

“First time I saw you, love,” he says with a wink and a smile.

You blush in spite of yourself and laugh. “Call me in ten years. I’m a bit old for you.”

His smile grows. “Could have fooled me.” He clicks the burner on and turns to dig around in the refrigerator. “So, tell me about your temptation.”

“What's there to say? Boy meets girl, boy drinks with girl, boy dances with girl, boy kisses girl…” Boy blows girl's back out, boy gets his heart broken, and boy threatens to make girl eat her hair. “...and here I am.”

“Sounds like a swell guy.” He sets a stick of butter, a rasher of bacon, and a dozen eggs on the table. "At least you had fun."

You snort. “So what do I do about B—” You catch yourself. “About this hurricane of mine?”

Sanji looks at you. Not that accusing right-into-your-soul look that Nami does, but like a man contemplating fish in a pond. “Well, you could build a sea wall, evacuate to higher ground, dance around naked in the rain…”

You chuckle. You wouldn’t mind seeing that. “What would you do?”

He smiles. “Batten down the hatches and enjoy the rising tide.”

You nod. Certainly something to chew on.

Standing, you take your mug. “I’m going to sit on deck. Photosynthesize a bit,” you say. You smile. “Thanks for listening, Sanji. I mean it.”

"Any time, love. I'd never judge." He cracks eggs one by one into the frying pan. “Every big storm has a name. What’s this one?"

You pull the bandanna from your pocket. You should hang it out to dry. “Hurricane Buggy.”

As you head out on deck, you hear the mighty splat of eggs hitting the floor.

---

The Buggy Pirates are no stranger to their captain's mercurial temper. Laughing one moment, shouting the next, then throwing a violent fit about who knows what, then back to cackling.

But this is extreme even for him.

They linger outside his cabin, listening to the crashing and slamming. No shouting, though. Just the occasional huffing and puffing, followed by the crack of splintering wood and the whunk of knives hitting the wall.

"How long's he been at this?" the strongwoman asks the fire eater.

"Longer than usual," he mutters. "No one knows why."

The old fortune teller -- also the cook -- crosses her arms. "He was gone all night and he comes back with a love bite. Could only have been a woman."

The shatter of glass makes everyone flinch. Still, not a sound from the captain.

"Could've been a fella," the strongwoman says.

The cook shakes her head. "I've been around a long time, girl. Only a woman could drive a man to this sort of madness. The fury of a woman scorned is nothing compared to the rage of a rejected man."

The contortionist rolls his eyes. "So he fucked around and found out. So what? Mohji said he had eyeballs on the rubber kid's crew. We need to move."

The strongwoman casts him an appraising look. "If you wanna go in and get him, be my guest."

He blinks, then frowns. He crosses his arms. "We could all go in there."

"I'm not gonna fight a guy with a shitload of knives."

"We can take him. Not like he can't stab all of us."

"He literally can."

"Wait. Shh, shh, shh." The fire eater puts a finger to his lips and holds up his hand. "You hear that?"

They all listen. They hear nothing. Silence.

He presses his ear to the door. "He's singing," he says with a frown.

They all glance at each other. That's never a good sign. "Singing what?"

"You know the one about the guy who gets drunk and kills his woman and gets hanged for it?" They nod. "That one."

The cook gives the strongwoman her famous told-ya-so look. The strongwoman rolls her eyes.

The door opens. The fire eater leaps away and everybody tries to look like they weren't eavesdropping as Captain Buggy comes strolling out, fiddling with his scarf and humming. He looks perfectly normal -- well, as normal as a man like him can look.

He speaks like he hasn't spent the last hour tearing his cabin apart. "Mornin', folks!"

The marksman looks at the strongwoman. Say something, it says. She shakes her head and looks at the cook. She looks at the contortionist, who looks right at the captain.

"Rough night, cap'n?" he asks.

Captain Buggy freezes. Everyone flinches.

Slowly, he turns to the contortionist. His expression doesn't change as a disembodied hand snatches the man by the neck and throws him into the water. Everyone jumps away, but nobody dares move any more.

Captain Buggy recalls his hand. "Mohji's found Rubber Boy, huh?" he says. "Great! Right on schedule. One little last minute change, though. The brunette with the long hair? I want her alive."

They look at each other again. "I thought we were gonna kill them all," the strongwoman says.

"Oh, we will. First, I kill Rubber Boy. His ass is still mine. Then you all clean up his little friends. And then..." His voice drops. "I teach the little diva a lesson, and then I'm gonna kill her." The darkness vanishes, and he returns to being jovial. "But first, breakfast!"

He strolls off, humming to himself. As soon as he's out of earshot, the cook speaks.

"Oh, he has got it bad," she says.

---

Take a look at a boy like me

Never stood on my own two feet

Now I'm blue as I can be

Oh, love come get me down!

---

A/N: And here end the melodramatics! a big thanks to everyone who read and commented and reblogged and liked and sent asks (askers ilu especially, i see a 1 by the envelope and my day is immediately made) 💙 i've got some ✨idears✨ in the pipeline for what's next, but in the meantime... stay flashy~

⬅⬅⬅ | To the "Curious Courtship" Masterpost | To the Mastahpost | Tip Jar | ➡➡➡

[actual-changeling]

based on this post by @crawley-fell, i dreamed this up in a sleep-deprived haze and will now hopefully fall into bed. petition to get a moment like this in s3 because by god do i need it. this is pure comfort fluff and absolutely tooth-rottingly sweet.

-

Crowley watches him silently for a little while, arms crossed in front of his chest and leaning against the doorframe.

It's late, later than they usually eat dinner, but up until now he had been napping on the living room sofa, and regardless of how peckish he might feel, Aziraphale always waits for him. There is a pot with sauce simmering happily on the stove, not daring to burn or boil over under the angel's watchful gaze, and Aziraphale is humming along to a pop song he most definitely does not know but enjoys anyway. When Crowley darts out his tongue to taste the air, he recognises the freshness of basil leaves, which he probably took from the plant sprouting on the windowsill, and the familiar aroma of their favourite pasta.

A smile inadvertently tugs on his lips, small and soft, for no one but him, and maybe it is the wave of love following right after or simply his awareness of his presence that makes Aziraphale turn around. In the dimmed kitchen light, his blue eyes glint like polished sapphires.

"Done sleeping for now?"

Crowley uses his elbow to push himself into motion, his bare feet making the slightest of noises on the tiles, and slinks towards him.

"Mhhh," he responds as he presses up against Aziraphale's back, loosely wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on his right shoulder. "Missed you."

Even with the cold seeping up through his soles, the heat radiating off of him is both comfortable and comforting, a steady assurance pulsing with his heartbeat. His hands unfurl, fingers splaying across his stomach, and the gentle give only has him tighten his hold, causing him to bury his face in the side of his neck. Embracing him like this, or in any manner at all, really, feels exactly what one imagines a cloud to be like, just infinitely better.

"Your nose is cold," Aziraphale hums, but he makes no attempt to move away, instead picking up his knife and continuing to cut up the recently picked basil leaves. Crowley rubs the tip of his definitely cold nose into his skin and brushes his even colder toes against his bare ankles for good measure, soaking up the amused giggle it elicits.

While he is indeed done sleeping for the next hour or two, he remains contentedly dazed, his eyes fluttering shut, and they lazily sway along to the music. Most of the light is blocked out either by Aziraphale's neck or the curtain of red hair falling into his face, growing longer by the day, and it is only by pure force of will that he doesn't drift off again right there and then.

Despite the many months they have spent in their cottage together, Crowley continuously marvels at the quiet, gentle, and not at all fragile peace they have gained—a garden for them and them alone, without forbidden apples or punishing celestial powers. Aziraphale sighs happily and drops the knife in favour of slotting their hands together, holding Crowley as he holds him, and he tips back his head, wiggling until he lifts his chin to kiss him.

"I love you," Crowley breathes, brushing their lips together again and again and again.

"I love you too."

(If the house hadn't long known better, dinner would have probably gone up in flames while they distracted each other for the better part of an hour; luckily, it would never dream of disrupting their 'us-time', let alone waking the wreath one hungry angel can unleash upon it.)

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

A CROW'S CARRION COMFORT (X)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER XI ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.3k

WARNINGS: Banter, angst, death, guns, violence, plot lines coming together, mentioned insomnia/nightmares, wounds, mentions of stitches & blood, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You stare at the phone blankly, unblinking eyes in the darkness of your room stiff. At all sides, the shadows bleed away from the light of the device as it shows the small icon of an ongoing call—the picture void of any personalization, just a plain circle. Your eyes blink, and the voice that had been speaking comes back into your ears like a far-off murmur. 

“I swear on your mother’s life I didn’t mean to do it like I did, Kid.” That Jersey accent makes your lips thin. “My daughters mean the world to me, see? I ain’t shittin’ you when I say you remind me of ‘em. I…I can’t stand to see one of my girls hurt.”

Hector had a fast and hurried tone, and your phone sat on the coffee table unaffected—the door to your room closed and fastened shut in a lie that you were getting dressed for bed. It hadn’t been more than ten minutes since your outburst out back; Gaz and your… reconciliation? You didn’t know if that was the word, but it was the best you could come up with at the moment. 

Your lips don’t speak, and your face feels void of blood. 

“Kid,” Hector gets more desperate. “You don’t understand, alright? My girls mean so—”

You slap the red icon and his voice cuts out as if it were never there. 

Staring at your phone, you listen to the house as your mother’s voice wafts in through the vents, a roar and wave from an ocean with garbled words you can’t make out. Bringing a hand to your face, you slowly rub up and down; pushing back the weight as your fingers dig into your eye socket. 

A knock echoes off the walls. 

“...You alright in there?” You blink, slightly shaking your head. It was like the Sergeant had a radar on him—telling him whenever you were doing something other than what you’d told him. 

It struck you that this time, it didn’t dig so much into annoyance as it did some deep part of yourself that somewhat appreciated it. 

“Be out in a minute,” your voice calls and a firm tap to the wood moments later lets you know he heard; footsteps going back across the hall to his room. 

From there you do your normal routine—a shower, a quick brush of your teeth even if you were going to be grabbing food at midnight anyway, and pajamas. Nothing more than a large oversized shirt and sweats.

Feeling a chill up your spine, on the way out after grabbing your laptop and the attached USB, you snag a blanket as well, unwilling to put your dirty jacket on even if your fingers twitch to fiddle with your coin. Throwing the fabric over your shoulder, you push open the door and slink across the hall to enter Gaz’s room; the lights there dimmed, and the twin lamps shone a warm glow. 

Eyes flinching a moment, you sigh as the man looks up from where he’d been leaning against the frame of his bed. When he sees you, he pushes off and blinks carefully. There’s a tight moment of silence that borders on awkwardness.

“All squared, then?” The Brit asks, and you toss your chin. 

He was wearing gray sweatpants and a navy compression shirt, small white accents in the stitching; his hat was on the nightstand. Not letting your eyes wander, though it was, horrifically, hard not to do so when every muscle and dip was on display, you loosely passed him your laptop with one hand. 

“Suppose,” your voice eases out, eyes flicking at the sounds from downstairs—moving furniture and such. You wondered if your mom had enlisted Alex to do her grunt work, and you have to comment internally that he isn’t getting paid enough for that. 

Kyle watches you before softly taking the laptop, glancing down at the USB still stuck in it before he sighs under his breath. He places it down on the bed, feet shifting. 

The man wasn’t one to pry into things where he didn’t feel he belonged or it wasn’t his duty. Your personal affairs weren’t a part of this, but somehow, somewhere along the line, you’d managed to intertwine them like a jumbled pile of cords. Tonight, the pond out back and the willow trees…Kyle’s eyes dart to your injured palm; where the skin is bare and soft from your shower. 

Without a word, he walks to his duffel bag and takes out his med kit, nodding his head to the desk chair near the back wall firmly.

“Let’s get that hand re-wrapped properly, eh?” He watches as your tired body waits for a second more. “It’ll get infected if I don’t keep an eye on it.” 

You pause, and for some odd reason, an embarrassed heat builds in your cheeks. 

“Y-You don't have to do that,” your voice stutters, eyes jumping from his throat to his under eye before they settle on the wall behind his head. Kyle’s brows furrow, med kit slightly lowering in his hand as he studies you in confusion. “It’s not…that’s not…”

Your lips are thin, jaw clenching. But Gaz isn’t as clueless as he was when he first got you under assignment, he rubs at the back of his neck once and begins walking over slowly. 

“Spitfire?” He levels earnestly. You wait, blanket shielding your form. A hand is extended in front of your face, and you blink down at it. “Let me help.” 

Right about now you’d fire a quick insult his way—tell him to mind his own business and slink off to your room; you would have reasoned that was what he deserved. But, damn him, he seemed to know that you craved some semblance of a warm touch, craved to keep that comfort from just a tiny while earlier. 

The scene under the willows had changed something fundamental in your brain. Had taken the bits of what remained and sewn a fraction together. Like a reluctant recipient, you had allowed him in on the basis of your own gnawing guild—had spilled over like a glass of water. 

Yet, you admitted that for once in your three long years, crying hadn’t felt as much of a curse when his head was sitting atop yours.

With a lick of your lips, you slowly set your hand into Kyle’s palm—silent as a mouse. 

“Thank you,” he says, earnestly, before his fingers lightly curl over your own and he gently pulls you over to the desk chair. 

Kyle sits you down softly, kneeling like he had the first time you found yourselves in this position, and places the med kit on the floor before twisting your hand. 

“Any pain?” He asks as if talking about the morning paper. 

You have to wonder if he feels as awkward as you do—like you’re inhabiting another’s skin and pupating it, nothing but a marionette doll. It’s as if now since there’s nothing to bark or argue about, you’re rendered…mute.

Kyle calls your name and you blink, gaze moving to the side of his mouth. 

“Yeah?” You breathe out softly, still hearing the noise from downstairs. The Brit’s hands squeeze yours once, and you nearly shiver like a fool. 

“Do the cuts hurt?” Brown eyes narrow slowly, tilting his head. “I have pain medicine in my bag if it does. Most it’ll need now is just some tight bindings. No use with more stitches, the worst of it has pulled back together.” 

“They’re fine,” you whisper, flexing the hand. “Gaz,” your curiosity leaks in, and perhaps a bit of your boldness. 

The man hums under his breath as he grabs gauze and bandages. Your eyes stare into his scar. 

“Can I have his journal back?” You expected a quick and firm ‘no’ to roll off his accented tongue, but after a minute of his careful yet attentive eye, a smirk flashed on his lips. Amusement fills the air. 

“Oh, you mean the one you broke into a museum to steal?” Gaz raises a brow in mocking question. “That journal?” 

Your lips huff out, “Yes, Sergeant, that journal.”

“I suppose I shouldn't mention the unconscious security guard that was found in the hallway along the way, then?” He chuckles. “He’s fine, by the way.” 

“It would be best if you didn’t.” On your face, your lips fight a smile at the banter—the still pounding flesh under your eyes going to the back of your mind from the crying and the fatigue. Your voice is still raspy from sobbing.

Gaz shakes his head, smiling with white teeth. “If there’s a handful of things I’ll never understand, Spitfire,” he squeezes your hand one last time and stands up; your gaze following the small inhale he takes in his chest. “I think it’s safe to say you’ll always be one of them.” 

You chuff a laugh, stifling a yawn on your lips, as you push out, “Rich, coming from a guy whose file says he prides himself on understanding ‘even the finest details.’” 

The memory of the cafe, the first real meeting of the two of you, flashes through your heads. It felt like a lifetime ago. 

“Still can’t believe you bloody threw a pack at my head,” Gaz murmurs, rubbing at the back of his head as he walks away. He points a finger back at you as he flips and begins walking backward to the nightstand, you roll your eyes at him. “Head might still be ringing, you know?”

“If only,” you grumble, smirking. “I'd have been surprised if that was enough to bring you down. Pleased, but surprised.”

“Hell, so would I,” Gaz admits with a grin. “Not a bad arm, though.”

“Thanks,” you joke with a raised brow, standing as the man opens the drawer and digs a hand inside. “I use it to slap air vent covers into unsuspecting security guards.” 

His laughs echo off the walls, and the noise momentarily stops downstairs; he covers his mouth with his forearm to try and hide it, but the sound itself makes your lips pull back in a pleased grin. You giggle tinily at his reaction, face going heated. 

“Fucking hell,” Gaz shakes his head, smiling wide as he stares at you. His throat bobs in a swallow. “So this is a pattern I need to be aware of, then?”

“Oh,” you tease, face pulling in.“One hundred percent.”

“Christ, Love.” Your father’s journal comes to light from the confines of the nightstand drawer, and it’s like all of the strange joy is sucked out of the air like a spell of smoke and mirrors. 

Your lips pull back down to a thin line, blinking at the black leather and the bulk of wrinkled pages. Kyle feels it too, shifting his jaw for a moment before clearing his throat. Along the sides of the object, his fingers tap twice. 

“You know I can’t let you have it,” he says, voice firm but begging you to understand his position. You do know that. 

Already your forked tongue is begging to be let loose—to snap and release venom. But your eyes hurt, and the night is long; there are so many more important things to think over than how to make this man miserable for just doing his job. You imagine he does that to himself more than enough if the confessions by the pond meant anything in the long run. 

There’s just so much that hurts, and you can’t figure out a way to make it stop. 

You rub at your face and grumble out a tired, “Yeah.”

Kyle sighs, looking away for a moment before he filters his gaze back. His foot shifts. “Guess that just means we’ll have to go through this shite together then, eh, Spitfire? You said the USB was password-protected?” 

You stare with parted lips as he puts the journal down on the bed, taking your personal laptop instead and flipping it open to the screen while the stick blinks to life. A swift brown glance is spared towards the chair. 

“Password-protected, right?” You nod in a soft jerk of your head, suddenly unable to look at the man as he blinks at you, shrugging. 

“It’s late,” Gaz looks you up and down—tilting his head as he also pulls out the other item from the nightstand, the laptop from the museum. “I’ll try my hand at finding something, but until you get some rest and come back, I’ll stick to skimming the—”

You interrupt him.

“I’m not going to be sleeping tonight,” your body pushes you up, and you stalk over to the bed slowly while pulling the blanket farther up your shoulders. The bindings on your hand are tight and sure. 

Kyle pauses as you take the journal, watching you with a furrow in his dark brows. He lets you explain as you feel his digging gaze—curious but confused. You clear your throat, flipping open the first page of your father’s life like that was all he was; words on thin paper, the indent of a pen nib. 

“Nightmares, remember?” 

“Yeah,” Gaz answers, “I just didn’t…” He pauses, shaking his head. “Never mind.” 

You both stand shoulder to shoulder, looking down at the laptops as the man lowers the first back to the comforter with a puff of air. The item in your hand you turn over to the first page—dated on a day you knew all too well. Your birthday. Your first birthday. Inside of your chest, your heart tightens. 

Your father had started journaling the very day you were born. 

You snap the journal shut and turn to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing out, “Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if your dad hadn’t become a soldier?”

Kyle startles, eyelids blinking quickly. “W-what’s that,” he stutters, looking down at you in shock. 

“Your dad,” you say slower, mocking almost before your voice once more fades back to a genuine question. “If he hadn’t…I don’t know, if he hadn’t made the decision to sign that enlistment form, do you think you’d have become anything different? You said you took after him, I’m just wondering.” 

“Yeah,” he’s confused at this, going to cross his hands over his chest and stare at you as your mouth takes down a deep breath before re-opening the journal and skipping the first few entries entirely. “I…couldn’t really tell you. Haven't thought about it like that, I suppose.” Gaz’s fingers lightly dig into his biceps. “Why do you ask, Love?” 

You shrug, eyes scanning memories. 

“It’s like we’re all just shadows of what our parents were. Trying to carry on a legacy that died with them before they could ever complete it. It’s…funny, I guess.” Your lips take down a breath. “I tried so hard to become my father that I feel like I’m falling down the same pit he did.”  

“You’re better than that,” Kyle reassures immediately, taking a step closer to the bed. 

“You don’t know that,” your voice counters. 

Instinctual self-preservation kicks in, leaving your throat tight with the knowledge you should stop talking. On the roof, there begins the slight pitter-patter of rain. Talking to him, it seemed, had suddenly become addictive—perhaps it was because there was truly no one else who could offer you advice like he could. After all, he’d been there through all of it. You just had to say it.

“I need you to understand my position here.” you skim over your father’s account of your third birthday and the cake you’d gotten; two layers decorated with your favorite cartoon characters. Your eyes flicker away to stare at the man’s chest, at the cross of his arms. 

Kyle grunts under his breath but can appreciate the level-headedness you’re coming to him with. This was a conversation he could have—so much better than a round of insults from both parties and the hidden glares. 

“I understand it,” he admits, nodding once. “Through all of it, I always have.” 

Inside of your chest, your heart sputters. “Good,” you cough out and a moment later you’re changing the subject, fingers hot as Gaz looks away for a moment. “The USB had a limited number of password attempts—there’s only two left.” 

Brown eyes glance over the room, sliding past furniture and the old creaking of the walls. 

“Then we don’t try anything until we have something narrowed down, yeah?” Kyle, after a second of hesitation, moves over to your form and sits beside you on the bed, moving your father’s laptop onto his legs. “We leave it alone for now…” He side-eyes you. “I take this, you take the journal?” 

“Shouldn’t you be sending this off to an analysis team or something?” You interject, not complaining but cashing in on the fact that if you get him to speak to you, your head will stop spinning. Gaz’s scent pools in your nose like perfume, and you wonder if you can ever separate that scent from the press of his head above your own; the dig of his fingers as they kept you to his neck.

That steady pulse.

“Yeah,” that boyish charm returns as if it were second nature. “But the way I see it, Spitfire,” his shoulder bumps yours and you’re surprised you don’t immediately flinch away. “I’ll be saving my own neck if I don’t. Figured you’d have ransacked my room by now.” 

Your nose releases a puff. “Was about a day away.” 

“Knew it,” he mutters, smirking. “But, no, I will be calling in a team and writing up a report. Just…not right now.”

“I’m flattered,” you sarcastically comment. Yet, you really were. It’s…nice to be able to speak like this. The sins of the past haven't been forgotten, and they won’t be, but right now there has to be something said for the simple existence of someone to joke with—to tease and spill secrets too. When did you last have that? 

The rain patters far overhead as Gaz gets to searching, fingers tapping and his shoulder close to yours as you flip through pages slowly. The weight is back on your chest, but a portion has been chiseled off like a stone sculpture. Biting on your lip, your mind hones in on the details of the entries. 

Months and years fly past in mere minutes, things that your mind calls to but can’t fully recall—when your father had gone on his business trip to California, the meteor shower when you were eleven. Even when you had broken your arm in middle school gym class. There were family secrets and drama. Apparently, you had broken a back window with a baseball when you were thirteen, which, despite all of it, made your eyes widen slightly like a child who had just stolen a cookie. 

“Found something,” Kyle calls about half an hour in, moving through files and script down to the very base of the laptop’s components—you barely noticed, only blinking over when the thunder from outside makes you tense. 

“Hm,” you hum, sitting up straighter as your eyes burn from the tiny written words. The blanket around your body keeps you in a cocoon, and somehow, Gaz seems even closer than he had been before.

A finger is pointed to the screen casually, one hand moving the cursor as your eyes stay on his cheek.

“Encrypted files—dozens,” you furrow your brows. 

“How hard is it to break?” His lips pull thin.

“I’m not exactly an expert on it—” You take the laptop from him and roll your eyes. 

“Garrick, I got into CIA databases,” the man’s sigh is all but seen on the airways, letting you do as you wish as he shakes his head. “All you had to do was ask.”

He huffs, grunting out, “Well, if you’d have let me finish, Love, I would have.”

“Then you should have just started with it.” A smirk pulls your lips. “Chop-chop, Sergeant, there’s no time to beat around the bush.”

You enter each individual line of the script, fishing like a hook in water for something out of place or a mere segment that didn’t feel right—each time you dig deeper, past firewalls that you have to wonder why were even there in the first place—you feel his eyes on you. 

Gaz breathes quietly through his nose, not used to the way your vision eagerly skims the screen ahead of you as the minutes draw on into double digits; your sights trained like his are when behind a gun. You enjoyed this, he realizes with a tilt of his head. Enjoyed the thrill of breaking into something—the stab of achievement at…control. Kyle glances down at the bandages over your palm, and at the bags under your eyes. 

Control. His lips slightly parted. It was the thing you always seemed to lack; the thing you never had to begin with. 

Your words at the pond told him much, most of which he already suspected but hadn’t had the time to process with all the running around. Truthfully, the man didn’t know if you even knew it yourself, but it was painfully obvious that despite the history of this estate and the memories, you gained a sheen of mild fear every time you came home.

At the creaking, the nothingness—he could see it in your eyes. 

You hated it here. You loved to hate it; to hate the darkness and the groaning frame, the neverending rush of water through the pipes like a tsunami amplified by the static silence. 

For not the first time that night, the man’s chest tightens and he clenches his jaw to force down his stiff expression. 

So many questions, so many things to say, but so little time. 

“Got it,” you snap your fingers, bringing your legs up to fold on the bed, knee knocking into Gaz’s thigh. The both of you don’t care enough at that moment to move, and, in fact, the Sergeant’s body leans even closer—shoulder right behind yours. 

Files alight on screen; a folder already opening for you as the script peels back.

“Now, what do we have—” The name of the overarching folder in the white bar makes you freeze, face going dead-still like something had just shot through you; a spark of shock making your eyes widen. 

“Spitfire?” Kyle asks, face pulling closer as his fingers grab the side of the screen, turning the device somewhat his way. “What’s going…” 

Brown eyes lock on the same item that yours are on and his heart skips a beat. Each MP4 file in that folder was dated, named, and either holding one of two letters: ‘A’ or ‘D’.

But the folder name. The dates all fall on the same as the red ink that had been in your father’s office, once a month, all detailing different entries into the museum. The fifteenth; the day he was always home, waiting to take phone calls but still…with you and your mother.

The name.

Chiyou.

Before Gaz can stop you, you’re clicking on the first file—dated on the fifteenth of September, 1999, and named ‘Randal Wolfe - D’. The video pops up, and your finger slams on the unmute button. 

The screaming is the first thing you hear, but your eyes land on the man not even a millisecond later. Kyle’s eyes go wide, air stuck in his throat. It wasn’t smart, but neither of you could take your gazes away from the scene in front of you. 

A man was tied to the ceiling by chains, hanging from his arms as his feet dangled. There’s so much blood, even the large pixels and the fuzzy recording can pick up the puddles of it, drops dripping to the floor. Your jaw falls open as your pulse mimics a war drum, lungs decreasing the amount of oxygen available to your brain. 

He, this Randal Wolfe, is begging. Begging for his life just as the long arm enters the frame, a jet-black pistol held in its gloved grip with gold detailing. You stare at that gun and take down a violent inhalation, hands on the laptop shaking as the flick of a safety is lost below the wails and pleas.

“It’s not just a name,” Kyle breathes, stopped dead in his tracks even as his brain screams at him to move. 

You stare in growing dread and horror, guts tightening inside of your abdomen and your fingers jerkily clenching into fists. So many files—so many names that had been cataloged like the storage room in the museum; laid out in alphabetical order. Execution tapes, extortion tapes, ‘D’ for dead and ‘A’ for alive, MP4s with cold evidence of the same caliber that Kate Laswell had been looking for, if the surroundings offered any clues as to secondary locations. Organized with the staples of a man dedicated to his work. 

Work.

Chiyou. The way you now recognize the title is a curse, a stain that bleeds your soul black until nothing remains but a void. Why now? Why, out of all of the times to remember, why did it have to be now?

A Chinese mythological figure, now revered in a different sense. Your own father had taught you about him in passing, textbooks from school, and the large books in your own library. Stories that he’d read to you in front of a fire—rain similar to the storm outside battering the windows. A God of War. It was never just a name. 

Your tongue is lead.

“...It’s a business.”

Kyle’s hand snaps the laptop closed just before the gun can be fired, the sound cut out as your eyes continue to stare straight ahead—knowing the boom and the spray of blood that came immediately after like the back of your hand. 

The silence extends like purgatory and if you think hard enough, the dripping of crimson can be felt still on your face just as the sound of glass breaking from downstairs snaps your attention away.

TAGS:

@fatunn, @mh073099, @littlegaypng, @untitled69555, @babybooday, @caffeine-anxiety-and-randomfacts, @underrated-youngster, @jupiterredolent, @idocarealot, @karnellius, @latteisaqueen, @petrat97, @jade-jax, @roosterr, @escapefromrealitysm, @renaich, @kysa32, @human-turtle, @aurora-basin, @terumisworld, @violet-phantoms, @xxfeelmylovexx, @neelehksttr, @nezukos-number1fan, @20forty9, @mdjenjen, @marrianena, @angeldaisyy, @alhaizen, @homicidal-slvt, @emerald-valkyrie, @raissadoesthingslmao, @misfne, @hollyhopesworld, @wasteland-babe, @330bpm-whiplash, @anna-banana27, @justherebecausesafarisucks, @sunnynomoar, @doggydale, @thecrispypotatochip, @74478328, @blueoorchid, @das-conk-creet-baybee, @dragonfruit1985, @chestnutsandcurls, @vamqyr3, @lavalleon, @nebula67, @urfavsunkissedleo

[kingofthe-egirls]

(love): LUFFY x READER (oc, she/her)

(cw: angst, some comfort, kitsune)

(a/n: i needed this angst, all lower case)

words: 1k

****

slowly, you untangle yourself from luffy’s arms. he’s been hanging on you all day, insisting you pay attention to him at every given opportunity. he’d stolen bites off your plate, draped over your papers when you were sketching, and now he’s got his arms wrapped around you in loops as he sleeps.

quietly, you slip out of your shared cabin and into the night air.

no one’s out, thank god.

you need some alone time, and stat.

so you gaze up at the stars, breathing in the cold quiet. it’s a tad cloudy, but some points of light still break through. it’s your favorite time of day: two a.m. it’s the only time you feel truly free.

no one else around, no eyes on you, just the darkness and the silence and no one needing anything from you. you take another deep breath, relishing the quiet waves and gentle wind. it ruffles your hair, left in two loose braids over each breast. your hair is ashen, silky now after nami showed you how to brush it. she and robin had shown you how to soap up your face and leave “moisturizer” on it once it’s clean. you don’t love the sticky tubes of cream they keep in their beauty supplies, but you do love spending time with them. plus, it’s nice to smell nice. and luffy likes it, too.

so you learn how to brush and wash your tails (all nine of them) and how to wash behind your ears.

a bath would be nice, right around now.

you decide to take a quick shower, longing for the crisp, cool water on your overheated skin.

you walk across deck to the ladies’ spa room, and slowly undress for your shower.

****

“baby?” luffy mumbles sleepily as he falls in and out of dreams. she’s not here, still wrapped in his arms as he’d like her to be. she’s not even in the bed, he realizes as he paws around the covers.

luffy pouts, and gets out of bed.

he pads across the empty deck, searching for his slippery girlfriend. she’s always slithering out of things, it seems. no matter how tightly he holds her. she’s a survivor, he thinks, she’s good at running away.

but she’s good at coming back, too.

so luffy slinks along, sleepily making his way to the spa rooms. there’s a light on and he can hear water running. she likes showering before bed sometimes, since it exhausts her as a devil fruit user, and leaves her all sleepy and clean. so luffy slowly pushes open the heavy wooden door, to see her back turned to him as she washes her face. her hair is clipped up in two braids, piled at the top of her head so it doesn’t get wet.

smart, he thinks.

she turns, letting the water soak through her tails to leave them thin and wiry. she looks like a stray cat, sometimes. she’s got her eyes closed; her movements are gentle as she scrubs soap into her legs.

luffy watches her rinse the suds off her shining skin, until she’s all fresh and clean and turning the water off behind her. she sighs, leaning her forehead against the tile wall.

“finally,” she whispers, “some alone time.”

so luffy leaves her alone.

****

she comes back to bed eventually, sliding in next to him while he pretends to be asleep.

“sweet dreams,” she whispers, softly rearranging pillows and sheets so she’s comfortable. she tucks her chin into his shoulder, inhaling deeply through her nose. she’s always sniffing him; she says she really likes his scent. luffy likes that.

she snuggles up into him, wrapping both her arms around one of his. he lets her, staying as still as he can as she starts to fall asleep.

she flicks two tails up, suddenly.

she sits, restless, and pushes out of bed once more. this time, luffy sits up with her. “what’s wrong?” he whispers through the dark as she creeps across the floor. she’s already got one hand on the doorknob.

“sorry,” she says, eyes reflecting the cabin’s moonlight like a cat’s, “can’t sleep.” so she slips out again, leaving luffy alone.

luffy doesn’t like alone.

so he stands up after her and follows her out the door.

****

“whatcha doin’?” he asks her, sneaking up behind her as she stares at the stars. she’s leaning against the ship’s railing, head tilted back toward the sky.

“shit!” she gasps, spinning around with a portal half-formed. she sees it’s him, and snaps the shimmering, turquoise oval closed with a sigh.

“sorry,” he says, scratching his head. she smiles, and reaches forward to kiss his cheek. he turns his head at the last second so she gets his lips, instead. he giggles, which makes her smile and scritch his hair behind his ears. she presses her nose to his cheek, and inhales.

“s’okay,” she says, and draws away to stare at the sky again. so luffy leans against the railing next to her, and stares along with her. they stay like that for a while, stargazing in silence. the air is cold, but not uncomfortable. it feels nice after sleeping in his stuffy room.

she bumps his shoulder.

“hey,” she whispers, “is there…something i can say? for alone time?” she thunks her bare heel against the railing behind her. she’s in pajama shorts and a crop top, with her limbs laid loose and bare beneath them. she has a fine layer of ashy fuzz along her forearms, with matching hairs along her legs. she has ash-grey hair around her pussy, too, but luffy kinda really likes that.

he strokes a finger along her forearm; goosebumps raise up beneath the hair. “m’not sure,” he admits, “guess just ‘’lone time’ works for me,” he trails his hand down to intertwine with hers, and she gives him a squeeze. “didja need ‘lone time now?” he desperately hopes she doesn’t, that she’ll say no and crawl back into bed with him, so he can wrap himself around her (love) and fall asleep in the comfort of her warmth (love), but she nods, instead. his heart falls, and she can tell, because she’s kissing his bare shoulder as if she’s apologizing.

“sorry,” she says again, but luffy shakes his head.

“s’alright!” he says, throat scratchy, “jus’ come back to me when you’re done.”

she nods, and he smiles, and he pretends that each step away from her body (love) isn’t sending needles through his ribcage.

(lonely).

****

[vroombeams]

dvd bonus for rear 32 pls!!

✄ DVD BONUS: pick a fic and I’ll describe or write a deleted scene!

The aftercare isn't his favourite part, obviously. That's not why they do this. That's not why Oscar lets Mark do things like stab about in his mouth with questionably legit Amazon dental tools. But it gets him every time, the way Mark looks afterward. When he gets Oscar set up in the bath—perfect temperature, nails it every time—and they're bantering idly, part a debrief and part a distraction, Oscar catches the softness to his face. Impressive, really, that that face can look soft at all. But it does; his eyes go all warm and melty, and the sharpness of his mouth curls like a cat in its favourite sunbeam, and the hard lines of his cheeks seem to round off like they've been sanded down just a little. Oscar's still... whatever he is, after a scene, head fuzzy and insides heavy. Maybe it's him that's gone softer. Maybe everything's the same and it's just his brain that's different. He slumps to lean against the side of the tub, lets his neck roll loose, lets his head just barely rub up against Mark's chest. Mark pauses where he's been running a sponge over Oscar's opposite shoulder. He's kind of expecting Mark to keep going about his cleaning business. Dislodge Oscar's head, move on, maybe wash Oscar's hair. Mark loves a cuddle, sure, but that's a bed-specific activity as far as he's concerned. So Oscar's not actually expecting Mark to set the sponge aside. Not at all expecting Mark's wet hand to cup the side of his head and pull him in so that Oscar's cheek is pressed to his chest. Oh. Alright. "You did good, kid," Mark says. It's just—it's a normal thing to say, after a scene, but it gets Oscar somewhere more tender this time, slinks in under his ribcage and flutters there, warm and bright. Oscar doesn't get choked up about it. He super doesn't. It's just that Mark smells quite nice, and that's the only reason he pushes his face into his shirt and has a bit of a sniff.

fic ask game 💃

[scoops-aboy86]

Luck Guardian

Prompt: Guard (@steddiemicrofic) | wc: 532 | Rating: M | CW: weight gain, belly kink | Additional Tags: chubby steve harrington, feeder eddie munson, post-canon by way of eddie munson lives, creative use of a D20

“Where the fuck,” Eddie just about snarls as he tears through several dresser drawers at once, “is my lucky D20? Have you seen it?!”

Lounging against the headboard of their bed, Steve is fiddling with something near his straining waistband instead of paying attention. All the years free of the Upside Down have been good to him, comfort and safety settling into his skin all over but most noticeably his round belly and spreading thighs. When Eddie isn’t distracted, he’s often cozied up and touching, praising, fondling, and nibbling those soft attributes that he enjoys so much about his boyfriend these days. 

Unfortunately, right now he is very distracted and Steve is starting to pout about it. 

“Eds,” Steve says. “Baby, come here.”

Eddie whips around, brandishing a frustrated pointer finger. “Have. You. Seen. It?”

“No,” he replies honestly. His hands settle, folded over his navel where a sliver of hairy skin peaks out between his underwear and ‘loose’ t-shirt. “But I know where it is, and if you come here I’ll tell you.”

“Can you just—” But Eddie cuts himself off after a single warning look. 

Steve may be more relaxed these days, but he’s lost none of his attitude and doesn’t take shit from anyone. (Except from the gremlins. And Robin. And Eddie, but not when he’s in a tizzy like this.)

Wordlessly, Eddie slinks over and crawls onto the bed at his boyfriend’s feet. Steve spreads his legs and beckons him closer, close enough to lean forward with a grunt, gently grab Eddie’s chin, and pull him in for a slow kiss. Plush lips open beautifully for him, letting Steve’s tongue dip in for a taste; Eddie drapes and melts against him as he eagerly takes what he wants. 

“Good boy,” Steve murmurs against Eddie’s lax mouth. Another peck, then he adds, “I found your very special nerd die on the floor earlier and put it somewhere safe. You should be more careful with your things, baby.”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie breathes, eyes half-lidded. “Where’d you, um, put it?”

Instead of answering, Steve takes his hand and guides it to his belly. To his bellybutton specifically, where Eddie’s fingers come into contact with—

“Safe enough there?” Steve teases gently, watching Eddie’s eyes dilate as he realizes that’s his D20. “Anyway, I’m starting to get hungry. Kind of your fault, you know, the way you’ve been feeding me.” He pats his stomach as if he hadn’t been the one to ask for all that food, feels it jiggle. “So how about this: I’ll guard your little good luck charm while you make lunch, and you can have it back either when I’m satisfied or if you fill me so full it pops out on its own.” Grinning at Eddie’s dazed expression, he gives him a wink. “Whichever happens first. Sound fair?”

“Yes,” Eddie says immediately. “Yes, yeah, that sounds… good. Really…” He swallows hard, testing a finger between Steve’s skin and briefs and finding it tight beneath his muffin top. “… Good.”

“Better get to it then,” Steve purrs, and chuckles when Eddie scrambles up and throws himself into action so hard he nearly faceplants on his way out to the kitchen. 

Permanent tag list (ask to be added/removed):

@hotluncheddie @lawrencebshoggoth @sofadofax @cherrywade @oatmilk-vampire

@wheneverfeasible @hamiltonswiftie @grtwdsmwhr @yesdangerpls @theseaofdespair

[sflow-er]

Sunday snippet

I haven't done these in a while, so to kick myself back into gear, I'm sharing with you the start of an aged-up Henry oneshot that grew out of my QP Walty writing practice...

It's a long one, so I'm putting it under a cut.

[Title TBR]

If there was one thing about today that Henry did not expect to struggle with, it was his necktie.

After all, he’s got enough experience to tie it on muscle memory alone. Three whole decades’ worth. From the tedious lessons with his father since before he started primary school, to the uniformed school celebrations and secret Society meetings at Hillerska, to the summer balls of Riddarskapet och Adelns Ungdomsklubb and an assortment of high society events that have dappled his life since early adulthood. A tie was not necessarily required on all those occasions, but he always found it harder to meet the standards without one.

That’s not even to mention the last few years and the campaign he started after his father’s untimely death. Sometimes, it feels as if he’s been armoured in a silk tie and a Windsor knot every other day since the funeral, to meet with some old baron or former Society brother. Rationally, he knows that’s not true; there was plenty of tieless time in between, and the last six months have been almost entirely tie-free. It’s just hard to see that when the tie days get on top of his mind.

Which makes today’s fumbling all the more frustrating.

Even with Henry drawing on his vast experience – and standing in front of the massive bathroom mirror that should remove all margin for error – the knot keeps coming out untidy. Whether it’s one or both shoulders peeking out, or the blade being too short and the tail too long, or the end result being too tight or loose by look or feel.

It doesn’t take much effort to imagine what the late Carl Emil Silfverfeldt would make of this travesty his sole heir has just inched up to his collar. Henry can see it when he holds his own gaze in the mirror; the blue of their eyes is exactly the same, as is the critical look. The longer he stays like that, the easier it is to feel a hand on his shoulder and the words ‘we agreed that you would give it your best, and we are men of our word, aren’t we?’ in his gut.

This, he thinks grimly, is most definitely not his best. He would not settle for it even on an average day, let alone an occasion. Regardless of everything else, today is an occasion, and he cannot – will not – turn up in this mess when he’s perfectly capable of making it look right –

He breaks eye contact with a sigh and catches his head with his fingertips. Careful not to mess up his hair, he kneads his forehead from brow to temples, trying to disperse the thought that’s been popping up all morning.

Maybe a break is in order. He isn’t sure if he can still afford one when he’s already wasted so much time, but it’s not like the party can start without him.

He slinks back to the bedroom, removing the tie along the way. He should probably hang it with his jacket and waistcoat, but he can’t be bothered to circle around the king-size bed to get to them. On top of the dresser will do.

Both his phone and his smartwatch keep blinking at him as he adds the tie to the items already laid out next to the charging station – signet ring, cufflinks, antique pocket watch, little square box. No doubt he’s missed a ton of messages. Figuring he might as well catch up now, he grabs the phone and takes a seat at the foot end of the bed.

He could have guessed that the first batch would be from his mother, Mikaela. She’s been freaking out about Säpo at the manor house all morning, as if there was any risk of the agents suddenly ruling the venue unsafe and calling the whole thing off.

Then again, that would be a pretty smooth way out of this tie slump. Is it too late to call August or Wilhelm and ask them to fix a last-minute security threat? Surely at least one of them must have done it before.

The thought coaxes a laugh out of him, but alas. Mikaela’s texts about the Security Police hassle end with someone having reassured her that the event can proceed with both former crown princes in attendance.

She has moved on to requesting his input on something else, apparently explained in a long voice message. There’s also a random picture of stylised yellow roses.

‘Darling, I know you’re busy getting ready, but if it’s not too much trouble,’ Mikaela starts in a tone that strongly implies it will be. ‘I’m getting a lot of questions about what is and isn’t appropriate. Five separate people – for example, Cecilia showed me her card this morning, and there were roses on it. I said you said no flowers, but she insisted, so I promised to send you a picture. Let me know what you think, okay?’

Henry sighs and enlarges the photo. He doesn’t know much about flowers or what they’re supposed to represent, but his aunt probably does. He doesn’t hate the card – but that’s about as far as he gets in forming an opinion before his mother overwhelms him with the rest of her query.

.-.-.

Cutting it off here for now (and also reserving the right to edit further). I'm fairly excited for this one so hopefully I can continue working on it to finish it soon-ish!