#*scurries away to do more wips*

[uniquevoidflowers]

This is based off of @la-sera's art! Here's the link to the art piece:

tw blood and temporary character death:

“SAILOR!” Warriors yelled as he shielded himself from a Moblin. 

He saw the sailor crumple to the ground, the monster looking proud of itself. The captain saw red. Without thinking he dashed to the beast that dared to hurt Wind, his massive blue scarf trailing behind him. His sword ripped through the monster guts and flesh. The monster was dead in mere seconds. A cry from a different monster alerted Warriors and he swiftly dodged an attack. In blind rage he tore at each beast ferociously. Each swing was feral and had no real training attached to it, unlike all the other times the captain fought. The rest of the battle was a blur, but all the enemies dropped to he ground eventually. That was when Warriors realized he had left Wind bleeding on the battleground. “NO!” He shouted, internally cursing at himself.

The captain rushed to the sailor and saw that Wind was on his hands and knees shakily trying to get up but stumbling and falling limply back on the ground. Crimson red liquid was soaking the wet ground beneath the sailor and Warriors stomach churned. Wind hiccuped miserably and Warriors pulled the kid up in his arms and grabbed his long scarf. He wrapped it around Wind and felt the bitter and freezing air, but he didn’t care at all. He just kept holding on tight to the sailor, applying as much pressure as he could as his hands were slowly being covered in red. “Wars…You’re shaking…” Wind said quietly.

Warriors gave a hollow chuckle at the kid’s worry. “I just…feel cold, I’m fine.” 

“You liar.” Wind accused, and then coughed suddenly, thick blood starting to gush out of his nose and mouth. 

Warriors gripped the kid tighter, eyes going wide. He knew there wasn’t much he could do since they didn’t have any fairies or potions or…really any supplies with them. His mouth opened but nothing came out.

 “Wars?”

“Yes, Wind?”

“If I don’t make it—“

“Wind, stop.”

The captain couldn’t bear the thought of that. Letting the kid…

“Please…Wars…” Wind gave a weak cough.

“…Okay, Wind.” Warriors relented.

“If I don’t make it through this…Tell Aryll I’m sorry…I wasn’t a good big brother to her.” Wind demanded, breaking off with a shudder.

There was a small smile on the kid’s face as tears poured from his eyes. “Hey now, I don’t think she would want that. I know that she would disagree with you.” Warriors tried.

He remembered the time they were at Wind’s Hyrule and Aryll had pulled the captain aside to talk about something. 

“You make sure Link stays safe and comes home alive and in one piece, m’kay? He’s the best big brother I could’ve asked for, and I don’t want anything to happen to him!” 

“Wars…please…” 

“Fine, I will.” 

Warriors didn’t know if he was lying or not. Wind inhaled shakily and then gave a forced exhale. The captain looked down at the kid and his worry only grew. 

Was…was the sailor truly going to die here? In battle? In a different era, a faraway land that is so far away from his loved ones? No…No…Warriors couldn’t let that happen. It hurt the captain deeply to see Wind’s tiny smile in this moment. Couldn’t the kid see how much he was worth to his sister, to his friends and brothers?

Or did Warriors fail?

“Wars…” 

Warriors flinched and looked at the kid. “Yeah?”

“I-I don’t wanna die.” Wind admitted, his voice growing more agitated. 

“Hey, bud, you won’t. I-I’ll make sure you stay alive.” Warriors tried to reassure, his heart shattering into pieces for the poor sailor.

Wind didn’t say anything and just weakly held on to the captain’s scarf. A small sob turned into painful bawling and Warriors didn’t know what to do. Could he move with Wind to find the chain? Warriors didn’t know where the group had gone off to so it might take too long. But then again if Warriors didn’t find help soon the sailor would be gone. After hearing another sickly cough, the captain made a decision. “Sailor, I have a plan, okay? We’re going to try and find help and get you all fixed up.” Warriors informed him.

“M’kay.” 

The captain slowly sat up while gently holding the kid in his arms. The droplets of rain that were falling from the sky soaked the kid’s hair and tinier droplets slid unto Wind’s face. At this point Warriors couldn’t differentiate between tears and the rain. But he had no more time to dawdle so he started walking, but it felt too slow. He glanced back down upon the sailor and then his expression twisted into anguish. The kid looked to be in so much pain. “Wars…I don’t…I don’t think I’ll…I don’t think I’ll make it.” Wind whimpered.

“Wind…” 

“M’sorry.” 

The captain’s eyes flashed with despair. “No…I’ll-I’ll find help and you’ll make it.” 

“How?” 

Warriors choked again like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. How could reassure the kid when he didn’t know that himself? “Captain…”

Warriors swallowed back the feeling of his heart being torn from his chest and bile rising up his now dry throat. He was supposed to be the captain, the commander, the leader even…he was supposed to protect the kid from the unfair reality of being a hero, but here he was feeling like an idiot. Wind made a sad noise and something inside of the captain broke. Slow steps turned into the fastest sprinting as Warriors heart pounded out of his chest. “Hang in there Tune.”

Wind didn’t give a response but Warriors had managed to ignore that. 

His legs ached as he had to slow down. He panted heavily and all but collapsed on the ground. How long had he been running through this goddess-forsaken forest, was a question he couldn’t answer. Warriors looked tiredly at the sailor that was bundled in his arms and let out a gasp. “Wind, Wind, open your eyes. Please.” 

The kid looked lifeless as he hung limply in the captain’s grasp. “Wind, don’t do this to me. This isn’t funny.” Warriors said, trembling as he searched for a pulse.

But there was none. “Damn it Wind!” Warriors yelled and let go of the body as his shoulders shook.

 H e

                                                           H a d

                                                                                                                              F A I L E D

A raw scream rang throughout the air. The sky thundered harshly as Warriors weeped uncontrollably. His vision was beginning to blur as thick tears gushed out of his eyes and sad noises escaped his throat. Why, why did it have to be Wind? The bright expressive sailor whom everyone had a soft spot for. “Please, sailor, Link, wake up. Tell me this is all just a prank of yours.” Warriors begged, shaking the corpse desperately. 

In his mind he knew that the kid was dead but his heart wouldn’t listen. “Link don’t….don’t do this to me!” Warriors shouted.

He heard some light footsteps behind him and jerked around, his hand immediately touching the hilt of his sword. His eyes darted around to see a horde on enemies charging through. His eyes widened and making a quick decision, he fled with the corpse in his bloody arms. “C’mon sailor…we’re…we’re going to make it okay?” 

He knew he was talking to a dead kid but he couldn’t stop the words of reassurance flying out of his mouth. He narrowly dodged a bash on the head as he continued to rush across the forest. He pushed away branches and the rain and his tears were making it hard to see properly. The captain could hear the footsteps growing closer and closer and began to panic. His legs were still exhausted and he couldn’t run forever. “Damn it…” He muttered.

A Moblin appeared and tossed its club around menacingly. Warriors could feel red creeping into his vision once more, as he was reminded of why Wind was now….

He leapt at the monster, sword raised, and the air carried him but he just flew past the Moblin and something snagged his tunic. He let out a cry as he fell to the ground. The Moblin seemed to be…laughing at him…Further fueled, the captain rushed back to the enemy and managed to impale the beast, black blood now dripping all over his sword. The Moblin cried out and its red eyes fixated on Warriors. It ran at Warriors and managed to land continuous blows on him. Eventually the captain shoved the Moblin off of him and impaled him again. The Moblin dropped dead. Warriors spat blood out of his mouth and picked up the sailor again. “It’d be a lot more easy if you’d just wake up.” He murmured.

He could just imagine the sailor responding with something like, “Too bad.”

Warriors almost waited for Wind’s lip to begin to move and start talking. But he reminded himself that there were more monsters coming for him and he sighed and started running again. But he didn’t last very long. Too soon, he was out of breath and blood was rushing out of his nose and his mouth. “W…What?” He said.

Suddenly his legs gave out and he started seeing dancing black dots. What was going on? It was just a club that the Moblin was holding earlier…or was it?

O r  w a s  i t?

“CAPTAIN!” 

______________________________________________________

“What—we— ” 

A groan escaped Warriors as he slowly opened his eyes. When he managed to do that he was met with only light. “Wind’s—he’ll—okay?” 

What…? 

Wind…Wind…

Warriors gasped and tried to sit up, his arms shaking like they were just barely holding up his weight. “War—Wa—s?” 

Who was talking? What were they saying? Warriors blinked confusedly and tried to comprehend everything. What was the last thing he remembered? The Moblin….the rain….the blood….Wind….

He managed to grasp the arm of somebody. “W-Where’s the…the kid?” 

“He’s—okay—don’t worry.” 

 But how was that possible? He had seen the sailor’s chest still and he had seen the sailor’s blood all over him and the ground. “H…How?” Warriors asked.

There were a few moments of silence. “That’s—for—different—” 

Warriors furrowed his eyebrows wondering why his ears weren’t picking up everything properly. “———————Rest.” 

He obliged and his head lolled back on the surface he was on. His eyes fluttered closed and he took a steady breath as sleep enveloped him. 

______________________________________________________

Each time he woke up was a blur. The captain remembered swallowing something, fuzzy voices, and his heart pounding against his chest. While he was unconscious nightmares of Wind dying haunted him. When he had recovered enough he was able to understand what was going on around him. “Has Wind woken up yet?” Twilight murmured.

Warriors shot up and looked at the rancher with confusion. “Well Warriors certainly has.” Time chuckled.

“W-wind?” Warriors said.

Time sighed. Warriors started fearing the worst, had they not managed to save him? Were they lying or had he been dreaming when they said the sailor was okay? “He’s just resting right now, and….getting better.” Time said choosing his words very carefully.

“WIND GET BACK HERE!” Someone yelled.

Suddenly the kid came around the corner and into the room, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide. Wind was in a different tunic that Warriors didn’t quite recognize but there were a few bandages there too. “WARS!” Wind cried out and sprinted towards the captain.

The air was knocked out of his lungs as he was hugged fiercely by the sailor. Warriors took one long look at the kid and started sobbing uncontrollably. Time opened his mouth to protest but Twilight stopped him. Warriors cradled Wind and began mumbling apologies. “What the fuck are you apologizing for?” Wind demanded.

“Language.” Twilight called.

“I-I couldn’t save…I couldn’t save you…I saw you die…a-and…” Warriors broke off.

Wind gave a wet laugh. “You did everything you could. That’s all that matters to me.”

Warriors gave a heartwarming smile as he held the sailor closer, beyond grateful that he was with him. “You scared me.” He accused in a teasing tone.

“No you scared me!” Wind huffed.

“You both scared each other and all the rest of us.” Time said.

There were footsteps pounding outside the door and suddenly the whole chain was there, crashing into the ground. “Get off of me!” Legend yelped.

Once everyone recollected themselves they looked at both Wind and Warriors and gasped happily. “You’re awake!” Sky grinned.

Soon the sailor and the captain were tackled with hugs. Time and Twilight eventually joined in the group hug. Warriors glanced at the kid who was giggling and purposely making the veteran slightly mad at him. Soon everything would be back to normal…

Or so he thought….

[valiant-portabella-pirkko]

every now and then I just get myself thinking about the different mirror reflection moments between Flourish and Regrowth AU, and the layers they both add to each other through fresh context.

in both AUs, Pirkko sustains a severe facial injury during the battle for Orr-- in Flourish it's on the right, and in Regrowth, the left.

however, in Regrowth she adamantly refuses to leave the battlefield in spite of her wound because she knows that the Pact has no substitute for her; if she falls back, they all get overrun. she keeps fighting and fighting until no Risen remain, and by then... the damage can't be repaired even by their finest menders. she loses her left eye, which is later replaced with a mechanical prototype implant. to the casual observer it looks like some sort of high-tech monocle, but no. she was just lucky to have such gifted doctors at her side.

in Flourish, though? when Pirkko tries to insist that they need her there, that she can't afford to pull out-- Saoirse and Ceara take the lead, reminding her that she doesn't have to take it all on alone. they're a team, and they have her back-- no matter what. they promise to hold the front while she gets medical attention... so she does.

as a result, her wound is actually repaired in time by the menders, and she doesn't lose her eye-- though she does have some visible scarring around it. at first Pirkko's a bit insecure about how noticeable it is, but with time... she comes to wear the scar proudly.

that battle was the conflict that cemented their roles as a team.

and that scar is a reminder of it; a lasting symbol of their unity.

but when you add the two together, that's where you get the full story of what this event is all about; in Regrowth, Pirkko shoulders every burden, every conflict, every battle, no matter how badly it damages her in the process. she hides her pain and buries it deep; the world needs her more than she needs it, she reasons. just as the 'monocle' hides the far more severe injury she sustained, Pirkko keeps her true nature that much more hidden-- not because she's ashamed of it, but because she doesn't want anyone to worry. she's the hero who protects Tyria, not the other way around. she'll keep going and going and going until she breaks, because no one else can.

but in Flourish there are others who can. she isn't alone. she doesn't have to shoulder all these burdens and struggles entirely on her own. that's the way it was meant to be, but Regrowth Pirkko will never know this. she has no idea that she wasn't built to withstand this much pressure, and no understanding for how badly it's breaking her. Flourish Pirkko wears this scar as a symbol because she's not afraid of who she is, and she's not afraid of the world seeing her, either. she's proud to have faced this much adversity and made it through.

in Flourish it's the first step towards their cohesion as a team.

but in Regrowth it's her first step towards closing everyone out.

[taegularities]

colour me in: seven | jjk (m)

Summary: At first, it's an argument that causes the unwanted, childish distance between Jungkook and you. And then… open blazers and a lip ring.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: est. rel.; fluff, smut ➳ warnings: an argument, cute couple-y things but also they're dorks n cringe sometimes, seven jk (incl the promo pics, laundromat hoodie bf koo, and drenched in the rain koo!!), fighting over food, they're a bit mean to each other, but they adore each other too, brief mention of a rough childhood, sexual tension, taeun being everything, kissing, dumb jokes, period and pms mention!!, a photoshoot!, subtle hints to the future of the main story :'); explicit sexual content: ahh.. making out, dirty talk, oral (f. & m. receiving), brief spanking, face-fcking, light choking, sweet and rough sex, dom jk, big dick jk, whipped simp jk, petnames, multiple orgasms, sex on the couch n on the floor? :'), he loves her a$$ and tiddies, multiple positions, cockwarming!!, mention of aftercare... the ending lol :D ➳ word count: 25k lmfaoo it's oneshot sized yall 😁 ➳ a/n: hi!! welcome back!! this is part of my series colour me in, but you can read it as a standalone-oneshot!! tysm for supporting me and encouraging me, guys, it means so so much. this is also unbeta'd, so pls go easy on me LOL. and since this was a piece of worrrrk.. come and talk to me about it, it makes my day fr fr <33 ➳ listen to: seven by jungkook | full collaborative playlist 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

In hindsight, your argument was blissfully domestic after all. In hindsight, maybe even comedic.

You’ve seen these things on TV and read about them in novels; didn’t experience them growing up because your parents didn’t really fight over such harmless matters. They never needed to lift a finger in their ultramodern kitchen, filled with up-to-the-minute equipment to fill their table.

But Jungkook and you don’t rely on such luxuries. You do things for yourself. So, such a couple-y, casual life leads to couple-y, casual arguments. Requires it. Fighting is healthy; entangles two souls some more.

Which is exactly where you are now. Exactly what you’ve become: A true unit. Quarrelling over trivial, everyday things.

Just to end up folded in half, holding onto the very last of your sanity, biting back more inappropriate screams.

In regards of making up, you’re perhaps not that casual. Because he’s a relentless, brutal beast.

Wrecking you right where everything began.

Monday

The end of the day begins with a giant hole in the middle of your thoughts.

Your previously whirring brain tossed away all thoughts of advertisements and seasonal launches, vacant and dark until your senses shut down everything that wasn’t vital to survival.

Like the lights of the evening as your car passed the streetlamps. The tired faces on the pedestrian zone, the odd wrinkles in your skirt, or the scent wafting from the kitchen when you step out of your heels.

Your mind operates on reflexes and automatic movements; the ball of your palm rubs against your eyelid, realising too late that you’re probably smearing your eyeliner.

A sense of reality only truly returns when you hear a familiar voice call out your name, muffled through the walls between you.

You exit the bedroom with fingers scratching the nape of your neck, tiny steps floating over the floor and past the living room. On the coffee table, you register one or two dishes. Rice, too. Smells so good, but…

As you reach him in the kitchen, you halt at the threshold, eyes scurrying to the few pots and ladles in the sink. He’s diligent and fast; cleans up when dinner simmers. Minimal work left after the meal.

For a moment, you take in the cleanliness of the kitchen, and when your eyes move up to the man himself, you beam.

He’s wearing an apron – baby blue with little flowers and rainbows imprinted on it. His mom bequeathed him with one of her old ones, and he’s been boasting about it ever since.

You saw one with astronauts, moons and telescopes once; you might purchase it for him at some point, not least of all because it includes all the things the two of you love.

A tattooed hand pushes back his mane, messy and pointing in all directions the way it does after his showers. His fingers card through the fine tresses two more times before he turns towards you — an immediate smile, similar to yours, spreads across his face.

The tiny little dimples over the corners of his mouth distract you for a second until you see his hand at waist level, beckoning you into the kitchen and a greeting, sweet embrace.

Compared to the cold outside, his oversized, full-sleeve, white shirt offers a familiar warmth. He always smells the same, musky and fresh; not like cherry blossoms at all, but he reminds you of their softness.

Mixed with the scent of tonight’s meal, you inhale it all, wrapping your arms around him as your eyes close in exhaustion. If he wasn’t swaying you in his hold, you’d probably fall asleep, right there against his chest.

A kiss to your temple, and he asks, “Hungry?”

You’re not sure. You cuddle into the apron and whatever’s visible of his shirt, and mumble against him, “Not too much… to be honest, I was gonna shower and sleep.”

“Oh?” he wonders immediately, traces of disappointment in his voice. “But I made this for you.”

You smile again. “You did?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll eat, don’t you worry.” You take a deep breath, and then lift your head off his chest without letting go. “In all honesty. I saw the food outside and thought you had it delivered.”

“So you were gonna waste something you thought was restaurant food?”

You laugh. You’re sure you could see his rosy pout even if you weren’t looking straight at him.

“No. It just looks very good… I would’ve heated it up tomorrow. But since yours was a one-person-effort,” you pat his back in pride, watching as strands of his bangs fall back into his eyes, “we shall eat.”

“And it comes from the heart, too.”

“Right. It comes from the heart, too.”

You rub his back once, soon backing away. There isn’t much to do for you anymore, but you still grab a couple napkins, chopsticks and spoons as he carries some water into the living room.

The couch feels soft, true Heaven, when you sink into it. Your heartbeat slows down, your mind at ease; when you tilt your head, your neck cracks.

But clinking your glasses of water with someone who cherishes you enough to step back and forth in a kitchen for hours… It's a comfort that’s incredibly close to a peaceful night’s sleep.

And it’s worth the effort, too. Despite the conversation and your complaints about work, you can’t help but compliment dinner every other moment. Possibly another endearing habit you picked up from him.

But you slow down when fatigue returns bit by bit, your eye twitching when you feel a well-known tickling in it.

You’re careful of potential spices when you lift your thumb and rub your eye with the back of it, fighting the itch. For a moment, you stop chewing, and Jungkook only lifts his gaze to you when the movement against your eye continues, circling motions.

“Hey,” he says, grasping your wrist, pulling it down slowly, “that’s bad for the cornea.”

“Yeah, I mean. It’s not like my cornea's been nice to me, either.”

You resume chewing, swallowing the mushy remnants of the rice. Your attention falls back to the bowl of food, and your chopsticks aimlessly poke around for a second before he asks, “Why? You okay?”

“Mhm,” you say, nodding gently. “It’s just,” you point to your eyes, chopsticks dangerously close to your face, “that eye thing. It might be an infection or something. It’s so bad today that it’s hurting my head.”

You’ve complained about the issue a couple times — back when it was just an itch, you assumed it was the dusty town, perhaps even sleep deprivation. But the itch has transformed into a relentless pain, moving up your temples and across your forehead.

“Again, yeah?” Jungkook asks, following with a tender gesture of tucking your hair back. The pad of his thumb brushes over your eyebrow. “I’ll massage your head before we go to sleep.”

You sigh in relief, tired eyelids shutting briefly as you claim, “You’re the fucking best, you know?”

“Yeah.” He delivers a nonchalant, drama-esque shrug of his shoulder. Unmistakable smirk. “I guess I do know.”

The giggles from when you started dating still remain. You remember annoying the hell out of your friends back then, high school butterflies visible through your stomachs and in your bright grins.

Jungkook’s ears would redden, a smile even in your eyes. You can imagine how irritating the honeymoon phase felt to them — not that the two of you ever snapped out of it.

Even now, you’re drowning in it.

Well, until you’re not.

Because the moment he slings his arm around you, leaning back, his plate and bowl empty, you move forwards. Place your own dishes onto the table, cuddling further into him.

Only, he seems to interpret it differently.

“Aren’t you eating anymore?”

Not the message you intended to deliver. But perhaps… he’s not wrong after all.

Because…

While the evening ended on a gentle note, much needed, you’re done with today by now. Craving a warm bed, strong arms around you. A sweet, soft sleep.

And the meal is worth a thousand culinary stars, but your appetite keeps dwindling, and hadn’t he put so much effort and affection into all this, you would’ve probably headed straight to bed.

So you answer truthfully, “I can’t eat more…”

“Hmm.” He briefly points to your portion. “You just ate half of it.”

Brief silence. It must’ve gotten late, because among the quieter traffic on the main road afar, you hear a couple nightlife bugs chirping, too.

You look between the bowl and him slowly, blinking, unsure what to say. The arm around your shoulder doesn’t match his tone, so it feels a little awkward now.

You mutter, “I’m sorry.”

Because should you force yourself to scarf all of this down now, you probably won’t be able to sleep.

But Jungkook’s hums and insecure voice are making you feel bad — you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s the puppy-doe nature, a combination of forlorn, soft eyes and pouty words.

“Ah… It’ll go bad by tomorrow, but…” he starts, but you cut in—

“Fridge?”

An immediate shake of his head, a click of his tongue. “Not with that one. I mean, we could, but it’s gonna be all dry and unpalatable in the morning, y’know?”

You don’t fully have a right to be annoyed. Neither of you does. But the day’s been irksome, work a mess, paper sheets flying around — on top of that, you finished your blister pack of birth control last Friday.

The period, probably approaching tomorrow and meddling with your busy schedule, is already putting you in a sour mood.

So the current lack of a solution doesn’t help your drooping eyelids and still partly tumultuous mind.

You push yourself forward on the couch, sighing before you suggest, “Okay. Then I’ll eat.”

“Woah,” he immediately voices, dropping his arm. He attempts to pull the bowl out of your reach, but you grip it tight, swallowing a small bite of rice. “I’m not forcing you to.”

“Yeah, but still.”

Another sigh of frustration falls out of you, your full stomach crying, but you pull the bowl to you, another bite ready between your chopsticks. But a moment later, Jungkook pushes your hand down again, every rice corn falling back to its prior place, fortunately never leaving the bowl.

Unbelieving, you shoot an aghast glare at him, to which he responds, “Don’t force it. Seriously.”

A rice corn still sticks to your lower lip, and you pull it in with the tip of your tongue. You place the warm meal back onto the table, half turning to Jungkook, voicing an irritated, “Dude!”

“You don’t have to,” he assures, but he looks clearly offended. Looks away, rubs his thigh, eyeing every object on the table before he adds quieter than before, “You know… That’s happened a couple times in the last few weeks.”

“…What did?”

“I’d cook for you and you wouldn’t finish it.”

“Babe… The last few weeks have been tiring.”

“I know,” his voice grows higher at the end of the syllable, but then calms again after a sigh. “But we refrigerated a lot of stuff, some of which I shared with Joon or Tae the next day. Or threw away.”

“Nah.” The ridiculing smirk you respond with isn’t intentional. You drop it right away, but still shake your head in disbelief, defending, “You know I eat up most of the time, especially when you cook. Just today, I can’t do more than this, okay?”

He gulps. Two fingers scratch his ear, eyes once again skimming over empty plates or remnant-filled bowls. He drops his digits back to his thighs, rubbing once more, and then puffs out a breath between rounded lips before he comes to a stand.

And then, all he does is nod; shooting a simple, “Alright.”

His tone is stern. You recognise the expression — his eyes still big, but different now. Usually filled with warm sparkles, they look pissed now. Not because of his dropping lids or the missing crinkles.

Jungkook doesn’t need to move a lot of muscles to look angry; the lack of the glimmer is just enough. 

His lips are shut, not parted as they usually are when he focuses on something like his art or cooking or cleaning up. He’s exhaling and inhaling deeply through his nose, hands working on the dishes, but the fall and rise of his chest…

“You’re mad,” you conclude.

He looks back at you, the corners of his mouth never moving. His tone remains flat as he tries to convince you, “No. All good.”

Straightening his back, he attempts to walk away, hiding away in the kitchen until you’ve fallen asleep. He and you don’t argue too much — the little, couple-y, casual fights aren’t quite fights at all.

But they do end with a short distance until one is ready to approach the other and communicate again. A good strategy to cool your minds. You wouldn’t wanna discuss such a thing right away.

This time, however, you don’t want him to leave.

You pull him back again, holding onto the cotton shirt, and he protests with a loud call of your name and furrowed eyebrows as you insist, “No, you are mad.”

Your hand pushes against the couch, your body lifting, and you look him in the eye with a frustrated crease between your eyebrows. “Kook, I just am not capable of finishing it right now. You’re making a bigger deal out of it than you sho—”

“Yeah. Okay,” he interrupts, feigning acceptance and understanding, “it’s fine.” You scoff; sometimes, he’s truly as moody as you. “Things are different here, it’s fine.”

…What?

The sentence nearly comes out as a whisper as he finally starts walking away, and you only register it when he’s halfway out of the room. He balances the dishes in both hands, and you follow him to the kitchen.

Ask, “What’s different? Where’s here?”

“I work, too, you know? I get tired, too.”

“Jungkook,” you try again, slamming the hand against the counter; the sound’s muffled by a bright green cleaning cloth. “What are you talking about, things are different here?”

“Just.” He doesn’t seem to wanna talk. Carefully, he places the empty stuff in the wash basin, working on finding containers to dump the leftovers in them. “I get tired from working in the city, too, but I guess I grew up differently.”

…Huh.

You wait.

Let him collect his thoughts until he tells you, “In the countryside, you work for food, so you get used to finishing dinner. I know people around here rely on supermarkets, and honestly, I do, too,” his shoulders rise as he shovels the tofu dish into a box, “and I guess that’s why it makes sense why it’s easier for you to leave leftovers.”

Wow. Some statements in this world you live in are genuinely unfair.

You understood each of his words and lectures perfectly, but you still voice a little, “Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re not being serious.”

“Maybe.”

You blink. Then blink a couple times more. Observe as he closes the boxes and puts them in the fridge with a sigh. And you feel bad, you swear, you do. But that unnecessary turn of events…

“So what, you mean we don’t work for our food, right?” you counter, a hand on your waist. “We might do less physical labour, so that must mean we don’t appreciate what we get, yeah?”

Damn. And what if there’s more to that? What if—

“Or do you think it’s because I’ve always had enough money to not worry?”

Okay. Perhaps a long shot. He didn’t say it, but what if that’s exactly what his thought process was, too?

Your inner panic, invisible on the outside, grows when he doesn’t answer, lips firmly locked as if they didn’t just spew some crisp bullshit. You fold your arms, sucking air through your nose, and then demand, “Apologise.”

And when his eyes lift to yours, you freeze. God, they’re deadly. And his ingenuine laugh even more so as he throws back, “No, you apologise. Especially for assuming things I neither said nor thought of.”

“You were rude. I’m asking you nicely to take it back.”

“As nicely as I cooked for you. World’s in balance again, I guess!”

He throws his hands up, staring at you until he’s passed you by, eyes rolling. His nonchalant, idle movements rile you up more, and you can’t help but participate further in that odd exchange.

“You douchebag,” you call out, shutting the bedroom door as you reach inside, “I’m not a snob. I’d always finish my stuff, you can even ask the cook in my old house. He loved me because I wasn’t a picky eat—”

“Listen,” he interjects again, “I know. It's fine. I’ll sleep,” he points to the bed, “because this tired me out. Just drop it.”

“So you can drop it as you please?”

“Nah, just asking you to rest,” the first word comes out louder than he anticipated, his shrug vexed and vexing. He clears his throat. “And I’m sure you’re tired of this, too.”

You groan.

“And if I want to—”

“It’ll just escalat—”

“Dude, I—”

And once more, he showcases his annoyance when he glares at you from the other side of the bed, shutting you up, blanket already lifted. You anticipate another rude remark, a way of justification or to blurt something he doesn’t mean.

But despite his recent idiocy, you don’t deem him an asshole. Not to you, at least. Which proves right as he takes a breather, one knee hitting the mattress as he finally states—

“Let’s sleep over it, okay?”

The tone still isn’t as peaceful as it could be; you know it’s a tactic to dodge a fight. You might not be on your best domestic side tomorrow yet. But his question is final and his gaze even stricter.

So you reluctantly sigh, eyes still fiery as you breathe, “Fine.”

But it’s not fine. And the turbulent week ahead, filled with chaos for you and peak comedy to others, might just be about to prove it to you.

Tuesday

You chew on your bites until the taste turns bland.

Still distracted from last night’s exchange, you barely register the tart spicy quality of your dinner; a shame because this restaurant is your favourite place to frequent with friends.

Today, you’re toying with your cutlery, catching a glimpse of your grim reflection in the spoon every now and then. Whenever Jungkook’s elbow touches yours, your heart skips a bit, bleeding as much as your eyes want to water.

With how he’s smiling at your friends, appetite never faltering, you could burst into tears — because somewhere inside, you miss him despite the constant proximity.

Perhaps he does, too.

Because you notice when he drifts closer on purpose, casually putting his hand over yours. Seemingly lost in conversations, he rubs his thumb against the soft back of your hand; but when you look at him, you can’t muster a smile just yet.

It’s your ego, your stubbornness. Pieces of you want to stay pissed. You keep your cool, but try to avert your eyes whenever possible.

And when you, obstinate as last night, pull your hand from under his, you register the defeated sigh.

But instead of starting a new topic, he retracts his fingers, putting his arm on his table as he busies his other digits with his meal. When you dare a glance, the pretty curves of his blooming lips tug upwards, listening to Taehyung’s story.

Either hiding the discomfort between you or not feeling it.

Odd, because he’s your constant centre of attention.

“Yeah, I mean. Every job is stressful, you know? But it’s wholesome, too,” Taehyung narrates. You blink the silent pining away, and focus. “Like, one of my patients is an elderly man, a lot weaker than his wife. And she always comes with him, every single time.”

“She just waits for him the entire time?” Jungkook asks.

Next to Taehyung, Eun nods; she’s probably heard the story before.

“I mean, she entertains us, is more like it,” Taehyung explains. “He’s been getting geriatric physiotherapy to regain some strength, so he needs all the motivation he can get. And those two are such… dorks. They bicker all the time.”

You smile. Reminds you of when Jungkook and you first met. Persistent, pointless rivalry.

Perhaps Eun hasn’t heard all of this after all. Because as she cuts her dinner, she asks before stuffing her mouth with a bite, “How so?”

“Like. She’ll tell him to not be a baby and take that last step during gait training.”

From your right, Jungkook’s laugh reverberates like a melody from above, sickeningly sweet and amused. “Sounds like me and you at the gym, doesn’t it?”

Taehyung rolls his eyes, flicking away stray hair with his forefinger, “Yeah, only because you can lift weights that’d break my arms.”

Another chuckle from the side. Even you smile a little.

Your man is strong, alright — and you’ve always admired it, experienced it a couple dozen times.

You’ve yet to see him work out at a proper gym; the home workout sessions barely count.

Ugh. The violent heartbeat beneath your chest picks up on pace again, and you take a deep breath to calm it just a little.

“Anyway,” Taehyung continues, “then she’ll tease him how the neighbour downstairs has much more flexible legs than he does and he’ll argue how she should’ve married him… and then she tells him that she would’ve if she didn’t love his old ass so much.”

When you giggle, covering your chewing mouth behind your hand, he adds, “I swear! It’s the most standard old couple banter if I’ve ever seen one. Thought that stuff only happens on TV.”

Eun, still busy with the remnants of her meal, doesn’t look up but asks, “So they joke around like that? They don’t get mad at each other or anything?”

“They act like they do. Not a sliver of jealousy or anger in them, though. Insane… and adorable. I guess when you’re married long enough, that’s how relationships turn out. And they should, too, you know?”

Hmm…

You side-eye Jungkook for just a moment, but don’t say anything.

You don’t know what’s written in your future. No clue whether he’s a permanent presence in it, a firm part of your fate or not; you strongly hope for an eternity.

You want to picture him and you grey and old. Wrinkled hands, adorned with blue veins holding each other. Weak smiles and crinkles around his eyes, hidden behind glasses, ever-present.

If he’s your future, you hope to laugh about such fights one day. Hope to let people wonder whether you’re actually furious with each other, veiling unbridled affection behind snarky remarks.

Just… right now, you can’t laugh about it just yet. You still feel oddly offended by his words last night, and it doesn’t help when tonight seems to drift towards a similar ending.

Because as you ask for the bill at the end, Jungkook still pays. You don’t think about it too hard, letting him do, staying seated to finish your drinks.

But your exhaustion reaches a new, entirely unnecessary peak when he starts cracking his fingers. On any other day, you’d put a hand over his, reminding him not to and move on.

Today, you’re in a bad mood, and your demands come out accordingly piqued.

“Stop it.”

“Hm?” he voices, looking at you, the warm light of the restaurant reflecting in his dark brown eyes.

“This,” you point to his fingers, “stop that.”

“Why?”

“Because you know it makes me cringe. A bit annoying.”

Eun, still unaware of the tension between him and you, shrugs her shoulders, “I know that irks a lot of people, but I don’t think it’s that bad.”

“Because you do it, too,” Taehyung complains; she mocks him with a sly smirk and a quiet, Yeah, yeah. He adds, “I can’t stand it, either.”

You lift an open palm towards him, nodding, “So you understand.”

“I’ve seen you do it, too,” Eun argues with a light push against his shoulder, “multiple times!”

“But not as often as you. You start and do not stop.”

You immediately agree, “He’s just like that, too!”

To which Jungkook interjects, his voice still calm; but you still hear the growing aggravation in his voice when he starts, “Honestly, I—”

“He actually has a couple habits that are just—”

You blow a raspberry.

Your interruption triggers Jungkook. And your words, admittedly not quite the sweetest, don’t sit well with him, either, because a moment later, he’s leaning forwards again. Looking at you directly before he continues his irritating bone-cracking.

You grit your teeth and repeat, “Stop that.”

“What?” he shoots back. You flinch. “A habit you despise so much, yeah? I don’t get the same intense reaction when I do something nice for you.”

So untrue.

Fucking hell. He’s talking about yesterday again.

You exhale through your nose, possibly resembling a bull ready to attack; Taehyung and Eun shrink in front of you, grimacing at each other. You’d laugh if it wasn’t you trapped in that exasperating back and forth of exchanges.

“Oops,” Eun whispers, yet overshadowed by your words as you defend, “That’s not true.”

“Maybe,” Jungkook says, shrugging a shoulder with an outrageous smirk, “but you never get that angry when I crack them at home.”

“I just don’t say it.”

“Oh? What else do you not say, hm?”

Taehyung dares an attempt, “Guys.”

But you’re too heated, a little stupid, very ridiculous as you spit, “Like, how irritating it is that you smack your lips every other second.”

Jungkook puffs out a breath. Looks to the side, straight into Eun’s direction who sinks a little more. He curls his lower lip in, running his tongue over it, jaw clenched and sharp. If you weren’t so focused on your temper, you’d find it scorching hot.

In a harmless little fight, you’d keep annoying him until he lost it eventually, mounting you and shutting you up in the very tempting Jungkook-esque way he knows.

But not here, not right now.

Instead, he fucks you up further as he sneers, “Right.”

“Or,” you continue, “that you don’t clean up your working space after painting.”

“What?” He furrows his thick eyebrows, ignoring Taehyung’s call of Jungkook’s name. “I mean. You have all your documents scattered on the desk. I might need it, too, y’know?”

“Why don’t you say it then?” you ask, tilting your head with one cocked eyebrow of yours.

“‘Cause I wanna let you work? ‘Cause it’s important for me that you’re able to focus?” He looks away again, tutting; his shoulder moves with his deriding laugh as he mumbles, “The fuck, really.”

Somewhere inside, you feel bad. You know his words are true. But you can’t tell him yet; so you just glare at him.

As silence finally falls upon you, Eun moves towards the table again, glancing between the two of you as she wonders, “What’s wrong with you guys?”

Everything.

“Nothing,” you say.

“…You wanna go?”

You wait. Jungkook doesn’t answer. Looks to the ground. When you don’t respond either, his eyes lift to yours, still big but not as enthusiastic as usual. Intimidating even.

You stay still, so he only voices, “Uh-huh.”

And the couple, enduring your awkward moment, lets you go gladly. You pack up, finishing your drink, and when you leave your table, you notice just how many people were staring at you.

Still are.

You really embarrassed yourself in front of a crowd, huh?

As the daughter of rich parents, owning a huge ass clothing brand, this isn’t something you should’ve done. But you pray and hope that you won’t wake up to a headline, or that journalists won’t interpret your little feud as a reason to break up or some nonsense like that.

Trouble in Heaven, they’d call it. Predictable little cockroaches.

You trudge past the customers with a deep breath in; Jungkook doesn’t seem to care much, because he walks ahead, hands in the pockets of his linen cotton slacks. Doesn’t look around.

Only bids Taehyung and Eun goodbye; tells you to buckle up when the two of you get in your car; curses once or twice when he misses the green light by a second.

And when you’re at home, sighing as the night approaches its end, you shake your head. Unbelievable whatever transpired back at that place. And you thought you were warming up to each other again.

Guess it’s your fault this time.

Which is why you hum when he calls your name, watching you put on your nightwear; bed ready while you still need to take off your makeup.

His question baffles you; more so with the slightly irate tone.

“Will you still give me a good night’s kiss or?”

You roll your eyes. Don’t say anything; grab your skincare products before you get to work.

He sighs once more; you see the shake of his head before you disappear into the bathroom, hear him say, “Whatever.”

But when you come out with a light rosy scent on your skin and jump under your blanket, you still shift towards his slowly drifting body. His arm under his head, eyes closed, lower lip pouting that you target carefully and—

Press the lightest kiss against.

Immediately, you turn around. Imitate his position.

He doesn’t reach out to you as he usually does, pulling you into his arms. But you still feel the petal-soft brush of tender fingers against your arm before the touch retracts again — and eventually, you fall asleep.

WEDNESDAY

The only reason Jungkook accompanied you to the laundromat is because your clothes gathered into a huge mountain. Neglecting your responsibilities at home, you brought two bags, and he insisted on helping you out.

It's late afternoon. Work tired you out, dinner is still pending; you don’t want to be here. And the place is empty; a yawning void. Just you, alone with your tank-top and grey-blue zip up hoodie clad, messy-haired boyfriend.

The retro plastic laundromat seats tired him out, so he’s standing at the far back. His eyes follow the tossing and turning of the clothes in the washing machine, and sometimes, they trail back to you.

And you — you’re sitting in a corner, arms folded, still uncertain whether you should wait for an apology or opt for one yourself.

The distance is childish. You’re way more mature than that.

But your fight is childish, too, and you guess sometimes, even healthy couples fall back into kindergarten routines.

Once the clothes are done and dry, the journey back home approaching, he helps you out. Tramps to you, mutters a little, “Gimme. I’ll take this.”

The bag strap drags his hoodie off his shoulder a little, revealing the flowery tattoo. He doesn’t fix it; lost in thoughts and silent until home. As if he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

In the apartment, he asks, “Dinner or takeout?”

And you, learning and indisputably craving his affection in any shape or form, answer, “We can make dinner.”

“I’ll do it. Get some rest.”

You sigh in relief. There’s solace in your gratitude — today was arduous, much like the preceding days of this week. You bide your time until he’s done, and then help him set the table and clean the kitchen.

The evening passes without any hostility, but ends without many gestures of fondness, too.

THURSDAY

“You don’t need to come, too. I bet you’ve other stuff to do.”

Jungkook adjusts to your steps. He snatched a jacket way too insufficient for the frosty weather, but he won’t hurry if you don’t. Doesn’t stray from your side.

So you walk faster. Then he does, too.

He rubs his nose, shrugs a shoulder and responds, “I’ve nothing much to do today, really.”

“Yeah, but,” you pull at the sleeves of his jacket, urging him to rush through the wind, “you’ll get bored. And I’m a big girl.”

“I know that. But it’ll be fine. Wanna make sure you’re okay, too.”

He nudges your elbow. You can’t pinpoint whether he’s daring an attempt to set things right or is genuinely concerned. Or both. In some way, the tension between you lingers, and you can’t shake off the awkward feeling just yet.

So you only nod, holding off an answer for a moment. Staring ahead, you listen to the soft sounds of the city, blinded by headlights soon passing you by. A bit longer and the first snow will fall.

The consoling feeling of winter days draws closer, feels warm despite the frigid wind. Hot chocolatesque. There’s just something about wool shawls and warm jackets and old, animated Christmas movies.

One thing you miss about living in your parents’ big, fancy house in your very old neighbourhood is the chimney. The soft yellow and orange of the crackling fire, melting the cold over your skin.

Sometimes you’d sit on the fleecy white carpet, protected by a thick, warm turtleneck sweater, watching the dancing flames.

You wonder again — if Jungkook and you are truly written in the stars as one, will you move into a bigger place one day? Save money and expand the comfort of the current apartment, investing in even more soothing walls with a couple little additions.

Not the lush, exaggerated luxury you grew up with. Not necessarily anything snobby.

But casual, domestic things, like a fire side you can sit in front of, drinking tea, slow dancing and giggling in the dark. Lit by the chimney fire; familiarity.

You sigh.

“It’s been long since I went to the dentist, too,” Jungkook then says, and you hum. That’s sudden.

“You should go then.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes darting from your face to your hands. You unintentionally bury them in the pockets of your jacket the moment he reaches out for you; and when he understands that you didn’t notice, he curls his fingers into fists. “Maybe I can get an appointment now? Do they take walk-ins?”

You furrow your eyebrows. “I don’t know.” Then, upon realisation, you laugh a little and say, “I’m not going to the dentist.”

“What?”

“What?” You stare back with eyes as big as his. “Optometrist, Koo.”

His raised eyelids are nothing new. He’s attentive when it comes to you; recognises, notices and remembers every little thing. But you guess he truly has been tired, too.

And you feel bad for not considering it as much as he considered it. The reason he cooked for you in the first place, right?

You press your lips into a line, stare down to a puddle on the ground; an aftermath of the rain.

“Oh,” he makes, “why did I think we were going to— Sorry. My bad.”

In actuality, you did wonder if he knew. He didn’t ask questions when you told him you were leaving; simply announced he was going with. You were pulling socks over your ankles as his rushing form scurried across the room.

You guessed he’d figured it out. But the fact that he was ready to accompany you without a certain clue where you were heading makes you a little giddy.

Clearing your throat, you clarify, “No worries. It’s about that pain in my eyes. Remember?”

You wouldn’t be mad if he didn’t. Preceding your fight by perhaps a couple minutes, you don’t think the tiny statement still holds any relevance to him anymore.

Right?

Wrong.

“Yeah,” he answers, “yeah, of course. You thought it was an infection.”

“Mhm,” you hum, ignoring the butterfly wing slamming against your insides, “I’m so sure it’s an infection.” You click your tongue. “Itch first, and now it gives me migraines.”

“Yeah, you told me… But. It’s nothing serious, I just know.”

You look at his sculpted side profile.

You know him. Jungkook doesn’t actually know, of course — that’s not why he’s saying that he does.

But because hope is better than pure uncertainty; and he likes trying to manifest. He believes in little miracles like this. Knocks on wood a lot, tries not to voice potential disasters in case they might actually roll around.

So you take the reassurance. Walk to the clinic in silence. Attempt more small talk in the waiting room until they drench your corneas in those odd, blinding eye drops, dilating your pupils.

The brief, quick tests follow; the assistant is young and gentle, and you try your best to be a good patient. She seems to enjoy your temporarily formal behaviour, perfected in the years you grew to be a reputable heir.

You drop it once you’re in the waiting room again, awaiting the final consultation and results.

Jungkook is a restless companion. No matter how irritating, you’re used to the constant swaying and the movements of his legs. One might think he is anxious for you, eyes locking on the head doc’s office door every now and then.

Yet, he wonders, “Are you nervous?”

“Nervous?” you repeat, breathing out a tiny, amused laugh. “Nah. He’s really nice. And it’s just some eye stuff.”

“Well, eyes are important.”

The words come out quickly, but the last syllable dies gradually.

You smile.

Jungkook sometimes reminisces about a time when he’d hide from relatives or eat lunch at the back of class back in elementary school. He tires out the term introvertness, and you repeatedly retort with a certain ambivertness.

At times, he’s loud, flirty, annoying and confident — gives you a hard time believing that he ever averted a girl’s gaze or hid behind his cousins.

But then… there are moments when you see it.

Like now.

The puffy cheeks, the youthful pout, the big, big eyes flashing to the ground. Unsure what to say, unsure what you’re thinking of him.

Until he gulps, keeping his voice quiet and low as he continues, “Have you ever had a private optometrist?”

Huh. Not a question you expected. You guess starting the week with a discussion about wealth makes him think of such things these days.

“Yeah,” you say, shifting in your seat. You can still not see him clearly; his features are blurry, and you squint. “When I was younger. Big, bright places and top notch equipment.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I mean… It's not like usually used equipment, like here, is any worse than theirs. Also, same reason as why I went to a public college. Normalcy, I guess.”

“Odd.”

“…Why?”

“Because,” he draws a sharp breath, staring ahead. “Despite all the normalcy, you’re as extraordinary as can get. Money or not.”

A heartbeat passes. Among the sounds of the quiet chatter around you and the ads in the TV at lowest volume, your breath mingles with the hushed noises like a whisper.

His slowly blinking eyes are genuine, your reflection in his dark brown orbs clear. White dots sparkle like constellations in the sky, bright and plenty. It’s nice that they remind you of the sentimentality in his heart after every single serious or dumb, big or small fight.

For a moment, you keep looking. Your fingers twitch, urging to reach out, but as they start moving off your knee, you hear a call of your name.

Jungkook leans back, clearing his throat, smiles at you as you get to your feet and meet the doctor’s stare, kindly gesturing inside the examination room.

A couple more tests, a friendly conversation, more orders from his side before he gives you a diagnosis and a prescription. 

And when you head out, Jungkook’s still sitting right where you left him. One leg restless again, leaning forwards, arms on his thighs and hands intertwined. His head is hanging between his shoulders; even from afar, you see his lashes move, eyes slowly blinking.

You can’t quite explain it, but you love this point of view — when you can see his parted lips, the lower one pillowy, partly hidden behind his button nose. Cheeks round. You truly do love this watching-from-above-angle.

Even though it clearly suggests he’s bored out of his mind. Beyond done with this place, but still here, waiting for you.

You clutch the strap of your bag again, sighing, and then move towards him with light steps. The back of your fingers reaches out then, brushing against his temple a tiny moment before he detects your shoes and looks up.

“Oh. That was fast,” he says; his eyes are drooping. He had a long morning in the attic. “What did he say?”

He gets off the seat, moving his stiff neck and cracking it a little, hand flashing up to his shoulder. You explain, “I need eye drops. Two to three times a day.”

“Ah. Then we could get them right now.”

You nod, allowing a little smile, telling him as you head out, “My eyes are okay, though. Somehow, my vision has improved, too.”

Jungkook’s lips form an excited Oh, but when he sees your expression, he says, “But you seem bummed about it.”

Ah. Well.

You feel ungrateful thinking that way, but…

“In some way?” you admit. “I’d rather have an infection that can be fixed with antibiotics and won’t come back so easily instead of… you know. Having to constantly rely on eye drops. It just sounds so permanent.”

Another deep sigh; you’re exhausted as well. “And I’ll have to remember to use them.”

“Hmm,” he voices, holding the door open for you. He zips his jacket close as you step out; an immediate breath cloud forming when he exhales. “Set an alarm, yeah?”

“Yeah. Just knowing myself…”

“I’ll remind you then.”

The suggestion is immediate, albeit accompanied by a seemingly nonchalant shrug of his shoulder; jacket’s sleeves adorably pulled over his hands.

“Once in the morning. You set an alarm for lunch and then I remind you again when you take your birth control pill at night. Yeah?”

The bitter feeling of the fight vanishes a little; you try to ignore the residual awkwardness, apologies probably still due. But right now, your conversation follows a different path, so you settle on a soft, little, “Thank you, Kook.”

He always does that. Remind you of your meds.

Your vitamins, your pills, that one nose spray hydrating your nose flora to prevent your mucosa from drying out or whatever your ENT doc told you. He did last night, too.

He always does — even if it means forgetting about his own responsibilities.

You blink a couple times, rubbing your eyelids before you admit, “Still hurts. Can barely see… and the streetlamps are so bright?”

“Lemme look.”

He stops in his tracks and you follow; his hand catches your wrist, pulling your fingers away from your eyes, and you turn to him slowly. You’re still attempting to clear your vision, so he orders, “Stop blinking.”

And once you do, he moves in. Takes your face in his already warm hands, staring, squinting, humming. He looks focused, and you raise your eyebrows, waiting for a conclusion until he finally mutters, “Damn.”

“What?”

He seems impressed. Looks a bit longer. You repeat, “What? Are they red? Swollen or something?”

“Nah,” he lets your face go, already stepping back as if dodging your proximity. “But,” he starts; you stare like a puppy, only breaking when he adds, “they’re pretty as fuck.”

Your playful punch rises as if on instinct.

One part of your relationship that never changed was your bicker, starting with annoyance and morphing into frisky, flirty remarks. You consider it the foundation of what makes the two of you a unit.

You grit your teeth, but can’t bite back the smile.

“Dude,” you scold, and he covers his arm instinctively, evading the punch looming over him.

But you don’t deliver it after all, dropping your hand, shaking your head instead. You say, “If you hadn’t helped me survive today, I’d—”

You steer towards him, attempting another scare, and he plays along with a flinch just before he starts laughing again. Hums and nods emphasise his words when he agrees, “You survived like a true champ. A big girl, you said, right?”

“Sure am.”

“Mhm. …My big girl?”

“Gross. Shut up.”

The atmosphere will stay odd for a while. That’s okay, you guess. At least it allows for a bit of amusement, hard to hide as you smile a little, bite your lip.

You lower your head, veiling your beam behind your hair, but you know he sees. Matches your smile — perhaps even a bit brighter than your own.

FRIDAY

The fast approaching weekend usually eases a week’s tension. But considering the mounting workload you tackled today and the endless Saturday you’ll be dealing with very soon, your muscles don’t relax just yet.

Imprisoned behind the bars of work, your thoughts circle around the schedule for tomorrow. In that sense, you come home late and can’t quite bother with the stress that spread throughout the first half of the week.

Jungkook already scarfed down tonight’s dinner, comfortably laying in bed and balancing the laptop on his stomach. From the sound of it, he’s watching videos of various genres.

Sitting on the living room couch and indulging in a short story for just a bit, you hear the enthusiastic voices of chefs rattling down recipes every now and then. It’s a hobby of his, but you can’t help but feel bad.

He studies those YouTube videos to improve his cooking skills, and you, ungratefully, leave the rest of his effort in the goddamn fridge. You sigh.

If you had the energy and will to talk it out, you’d do it now. You couldn’t all day.

He was still asleep when you left, and after work, you went to a brief dinner with a coworker to dash through details for tomorrow. Looking at the plan, you hope for at least a sliver of fun amidst the photoshoot chaos.

When you returned home, Jungkook was gaming right where you’re sitting now. You showered, only to find him back in the bedroom, with his eyes glued to said laptop. And now, as you approach the bed to end the night, he walks past you with falling eyelids.

He rubs them with the back of his tattooed hand, a tired pout on his face contradicting the seemingly badass image that the ink usually gives him. Hard shell, soft core and all.

“Be right ba—,” Jungkook’s hazy voice informs, last syllable broken by a yawn. “Go to bed, okay?”

His palm moves across your upper arm as he passes you by, and you nod, steering towards the inviting, warm mattress. Its surface melts with your body when you drop. God, you’re exhausted; can barely think.

You don’t think it’ll take you particularly long to drift away; and just when your consciousness slips, you feel an arm around you.

A soft hug, enveloping you. He drops his face to yours, lips gently pressing against your cheek for a moment before he adjusts the blanket over the two of you.

A current of warmth courses through your veins, and you draw a deep, long breath of affection when he cuddles into you. He must be thinking you’re asleep but slowly falling out of dreams, because he pulls you in and rubs your arm.

An effective tactic he usually wields to help you fall asleep. 

He puts a leg gently over yours, his body so close to yours that you feel bits of the combustion of your heart.

Because…

Despite your stupid feud, you’re kind of happy that he’s joined you under the thin blanket, pressing more featherlight kisses against your scalp. Sighs against it.

And you can’t withhold the smile when he brushes over your clothed tummy and whispers, “My feisty little girl.” 

SATURDAY

You remember to unclench your jaw.

The stress hardens your muscles. Your limbs are stiff, eyes unblinking until they dry out. Fingers wrapped around your phone, you hold the device firmly, shutting out the telling vibrations of notifications.

This cannot be.

There are a hundred fires burning around you. Erupted chaos causes panic, and in the middle of it are you, clueless and vexed beyond measure.

It’s one thing cancelling a shoot a couple days before it takes place — and another thing to call sick at the very last moment. You didn’t think the model would ditch you like this… but now that he has, you can’t figure out how to replace the missing piece of the shoot.

Your troubled co-workers call out a dozen names, but you don’t say a word, gazing around with a crease between your eyebrows.

This whole thing needs to be out in the open by Friday, and the photographers and editors need time. So, postponing this to Monday and the release of the ads to another weekend won’t work, right?

No.

You’re at the headquarters of this brand. And you’re one of the organisers of this shoot and project. Every single shop will need to postpone if you do.

Unprofessional. Goes against the schedule.

The complaints are still on full blast when you see a calm movement from the corner of your eye. You move your head to the left, peeking through the glass door, and on the other side awaits—

A wide-eyed man, staring inside, observing the tumult like he’s stepped into the jungle. He’s wearing a white shirt, tucked into jeans, long bangs hanging into his eyes and enhancing the sweet gaze so wonderfully.

Pieces of your stress melts — but you still can’t figure out why he’s standing there.

You walk to the door automatically, throwing a tiny smile when he detects you among the staff. A big hand waves in tiny, and you open to let him in.

“Hey,” you greet, pushing back to where you stood before. He follows. “What are you doing here?”

As you come to a stand, he puts a hand on your waist lightly, drawing close to press a kiss to your temple. Then, he responds, “Picking you up?”

“Wh—”

Oh. Shit.

You were going to go out and celebrate the end of the stressful week. He’d suggested it last weekend because he already knew how hectic today would be.

Ughhhh.

You’re terrible.

Jungkook realises your forgetfulness the moment your expression changes into a guilty one. His curious, innocent look drops with his eyebrows, and he sighs when you say, “I’m sorry, Kook.”

When he stares down at his shoes, you feel a wave of shame; the noise around you fades for just a second as he half sullenly, half disappointedly asks, “Really?”

“I swear… It’s not my fault.”

It’s not an excuse; not a lie.

He looks disheartened; knowing him, stupid argument or not, he was probably looking forward to this. Fuck, you feel bad.

Despite his obvious drop in mood, he doesn’t say anything much. Instead, he nods and assures, “It’s fine. What happened?”

You look around again. From afar, you see a coworker approach. She looks hopeful and you take the crumbs, but you still explain, “Everything should be done by now. We got most of the pictures, but… one of the guys bailed on us.”

“Shit, really? What now?”

You shrug your shoulders, once again racking your brain for a solution. People here are counting on you, but it’s not you who brings the very first somewhat reasonable suggestion of today.

Only somewhat reasonable, though.

Because the coworker approaching ogles at Jungkook like a pirate at a treasure, pupils big and wondering as she suddenly says, “Hold. Did you come up with that?”

You blink.

Then ask, “What?”

“You called him here?”

“What?” you repeat, a confused, little parrott.

She rolls her eyes, “He,” she points at Jungkook with a thumb, “is not allowed in here. Usually. So I assumed you called him as a replacement.” She tilts her head. “And he’s freaking perfect!”

Per—

What? No, no, no. That’s absolutely nothing you planned or permitted.

“No?” Instinctively, you take a step to the side, right in front of his broad shoulders as if to protect him from harm. You argue, “He’s not a model. He’s an artist.”

From behind, you hear, “I’m just an artist.”

“Yeah, but,” she throws back, “you’re art, too. I won’t lie.”

Another step back until your back almost touches his chest. His fingertips graze your hip, as a warning before you stumble over his feet. You can imagine the subtle rosy dust on his cheek; he’s fond of compliments.

As everyone is, you suppose. But. 

“Hey, careful,” you tell her, disguising it as a joke, but feeling the lightest burn in your stomach when he laughs at her words.

She raises her pretty lips to a prettier smile, nodding in reassurance as she promises, “Yes, I know he’s taken.”

Another quiet chuckle from behind you, and you cock an eyebrow before he changes the topic and admits, “Seriously, I’m not a model at all and barely know what these things are like…”

To which she waves off his concerns and explains, “Oh, you just need to look good. We’d put some make up and clothes on you, a few pics and we’re done.”

Sounds easy enough. A bit like an insult to actual models, kind of putting those to shame who ran across stages for years to study, internalise and perfect their movements.

But you don’t correct her because you’re desperate, too. And right now, this sounds the easiest.

Still, he murmurs, “I’m not sure.”

“I understand if not,” she says. Her tone changes, fragments of frustration in it. “It’s just that we’re running out of options.”

Once more, you play out the upcoming week mentally. Postponing the last shoot. Postponing the release. Postponing the seasonal launch.

None of this is your fault, but you’d still be the one to get all the wary looks.

As if on cue, Jungkook squeezes your hip, and you look at him with worry painted across your face. You know he sees it immediately, but he still asks, “Is it that bad?”

You nibble at your lip, putting a hand over his as you say, “Yeah. We do need someone.”

“Is that allowed? Can I just replace a guy?”

“I’m technically the boss here, so you’d just need my permission,” you take a breath and then click your tongue, “I mean, usually we’d just reschedule, but we don’t have the time and those shoots already take hours. And in your case, we’d do all the paperwork, contract stuff later.”

“Would it help you?”

He’s considerate. Even in a stressful moment like this, the gentle tone, the deep care makes you weak. The answer’s already clear, but you still tell him, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Again, it… might take up to two hours or so.”

“But it’d help you, babe, wouldn’t it? Unless you don’t want me to. Then I won’t.”

You don’t have a single problem with this; in fact, you’d be happy to put him in front of a camera. His genuine thoughtfulness liquefies you — you’re a puddle at this point.

“Oh, I… Jungko—”

Juri intrudes, “I’m sorry,” carefully, she inches closer, nodding over her shoulder, “Just wanna say that we have a lot of designers in our team. They do logos and make the posters and all. Maybe, if they saw you — because the country already knows you as her artistic man from newspapers — they could teach you some digital art stuff.”

“I…” Jungkook starts. He’s probably thinking the same — which he confirms when he adds, “I’m not sure how me modelling for you might relate to artistic stuff. But I already know a lot about digital art.”

Yeah, exactly. Of course he does; what else did he wade through college for throughout these years?

“But,” she lifts a finger, infinite force in one word already, “have you ever tried expensive equipment and all?”

Oh oh. You feel bad.

Is that the group of society you represent? Maybe you guys are a little pretentious after all, dealing and seducing with money.

But he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t dare to challenge her when he steps next to you and says, “I can do it, but not for that digital art offer.” He puts a hand on your back, rubbing lightly and briefly, “For her.”

You fold your arms under your chest; less to show dominance, but more to press against the butterflies. There’s a type of nausea falling in love elicits, deep in your stomach where everything appears so surreal and beautiful that it makes you oddly sick.

The first time your pupils took on their heart shape was the first moment Jungkook practised that effect on you; made you realise what inevitable emotions he was pulling you into.

That effect has not faltered; your guts still twist.

At least, for a couple minutes.

Because the second your coworker-vultures attack him and drag him to the back room, something changes. Nervousness, you guess. You know the clothes that are awaiting him, but stepping out of makeup and into the spotlight leaves you gasping for air.

From afar, he’s leering at you.

Wearing a snow white shirt, tucked into his pants, priorly tousled hair still messy but styled in curls. Yes, you might know your collection — but you didn’t think it’d fit him like second skin.

Why did you doubt it, though? Jungkook could wear a trash bag and still compete against Adonis.

For a moment, he stands still, entangling his fingers, looking around. Then, he’s smiling in uncertainty, awkwardly putting his hands on his tiny waist, waiting for directions.

Juri tip-toes towards you, as if you’re filming a scene in a drama. She pulls the clipboard to her chest, one digit pointing to your struggling man before she says, “He’s adorable.”

You nod. “I wonder how he’ll do.”

“Well, yeah,” she murmurs, half distracted; but then she averts her eyes from him, looking from your nervous lips up to your furrowed eyebrows before she assures, “Worst case scenario, we’ll postpone. End of story. At least we tried.”

“Hmm… Well, let’s hope it won’t be that case.”

Which, you soon realise, it certainly isn’t.

A couple professional suggestions by the director and Jungkook gets into position. The initial movements of his hands and body are a little strange and awkward, and you can’t help but want to pull him from this chaos and wrap him in a fuzzy blanket.

But the seemingly feigned adorable stance soon shifts into something unexpectedly dangerous when he raises his chin. Thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, he relaxes his body, lips suddenly forming a tempting, slight pout.

He doesn’t usually look like that…

“Wow,” you whisper, faintly registering Juri’s fascinated nod from the side.

This is still a harmless pose, you think; one the director dared him to do. But you’re surprised by the sudden confidence, the way Jungkook doesn’t fumble or stutter or question anything.

Some of his softness shines through the moment the photographer gives a thumbs up, a tattooed hand cracking the fingers of the others. Doe eyes back, he leans forwards as if he could peek at the pictures like that, asking cautiously, “That okay?”

He looks different. Why does he look different?

“That was great! Perfect start. I promise the rest is just as easy,” the team encourages him, asking him to monitor the pictures they just took.

Jungkook walks to the strangers in slow steps, chest behind the tight, white top heaving once. On his way, he looks up to you instinctively, throwing the same thumbs up at you with a questioning gaze.

And you, still baffled, smile.

Watch as he converses with the people, his grin wide when he likes what he sees — an instant confidence boost, though you still see the nervousness in his stance. Where was any of it when they clicked the photos?

As if a demon possessed him for just a minute. Dual and dangerous.

Then again, he’s not very different in your daily life. A celestial soul on some days, catering to your every whim, never letting your feet touch the ground.

And a beast on others, inhaling your sounds like a starving incubus, never heaving your body off the mattress.

The duality doesn’t disappear with this very first outfit.

When some music starts playing and they tell him to move freely, filming the sequences for the ads, your eyeballs nearly fall out of your eyes. And you finally realise why he looks so different now.

Because the moment his thumb touches his lower lip, mimicking a wiping motion (much like he does after kissing you sometimes), you see the silver-plated jewellery glimmering from all the way from the set.

Lip ring.

Whose idea…

“What did you do back there?” you ask, near-panicking, your heart dropping into your panties.

Juri flinches, asking, “What?”

“Is that a lip ring? You gave him a—”

You puff out a breath; it’s immensely difficult to be mad at him like this. He’s been looking…

“Shouldn’t we have?” her tiny voice asks; her body shrinks a little.

“I mean. I just. It wasn’t planned.”

“Yeah, but look how amazing he looks.”

You’re seeing it, alright.

The subtle touches, the light tugging at his shirt. Movements just right. He looks all serious, like a beast, hotter than motherfucking hell. Transports your saliva into your windpipe with each look he sports.

Until you actually feel yourself choking and gagging once he leaves and comes back for the next shoot twenty minutes later.

Because why on Earth did they omit the shirt under the grey blazer?

You’re close to dashing to costume and makeup, confronting them to ask why they chose to toy with your sanity like this. Because… the lip ring is still there. His hair is suddenly slicked back. Fingers adorned with rings.

And he looks so goddamn good.

Maybe it’s your fault. You told them you trusted them, and that they were supposed to do as they pleased. And they are… they so are.

All of him, like a strong magnet, pulls you in, but you keep your feet firmly on your spot, cementing yourself in place. There’s something incredibly attractive about the way he presents himself — new, talented.

You’re fidgety, a sexually frustrated observer when he touches his jacket, pulling it open just a little. The inked hand is veiny; you see it from here, too. The light gesture allows glimpses of his chest.

Small, perked, brown nipples. Lines and ripples of his abs firm. Ending in his V-line, hidden behind the peeking underwear and blue, baggy jeans.

Heavy chains are already menacing when he shuts his eyelids and parts his lips. Worse when he leans forwards, hazy eyes staring into the camera as if he’s about to devour the camerawoman.

Jeon Jungkook is a hazardous danger to society. The world will want him — and he’ll only want you.

Fuck.

You’re drooling. Drowning in your own puddle. Crossing your legs.

And when they tell him to sit, ordering to open the button of his jeans and push it down his hips just a bit, the little yous in your brain wreak havoc.

A fire starts in the organised office of your mind, red sirens blaring, and you look at Juri as you ask, “Why is he naked?! Why’s the blazer off his shoulder?!!”

“Because,” she defends, hiding behind the clipboard; it’s not her fault. That’s what the other model would’ve done, too. “Underwear ads!”

You’re aware. You just didn’t think it’d be Jungkook ending up in this position. Perhaps you didn’t think it through; didn’t know what it’d do to you.

But his effect pools in your lower stomach; so intense, you might cry.

“What the fuck,” you mumble when he takes the jacket off, sitting up and improvising all of a sudden. A hand covers his mouth, the blazer thrown over his shoulder. “What’s the point of holding it? He’s not even wearing it.”

“Because,” she starts again, “we’re focusing on the underwear.” Where’s the focus on the underwear? You can barely see it. Are people plotting against you? “It’s okay.” She pats your shoulder. “No one’s gonna touch him, love.”

You bite your lip. You know.

You aren’t distressed because you’re mad. But because knowing that everybody will crave him and nobody will get him turns you on more.

The fact that you’re the only one he’ll look at with those starry eyes; with the hunger in his gaze. The only one he’ll press into your bed, lips close to your ears, whispering endearments and filthy, little promises.

This man wants you, and you can barely handle that truth.

New thoughts and ideas form in your mind, too wild and desperate to be occurring right in this moment. So you mentally whoosh them away, holding on for the rest of the neverending shoot until a round of genuine applause sounds around the big set.

God. Okay. Hours of torture later, and he’s done.

A shy bow. No. This monster might convince anyone else, but you know he’s not as innocent as he gives himself.

He jogs over to you, says quietly enough for only you to hear, “Don’t tell them, but that was great.” You can imagine. He backs away, looks down to his defined abs, “I need to change. And then we can head home, they said.”

You blink, perplexed and still out of words. Which he struggles to interpret, looking over his shoulder and then back to you. Unsure, he adds, “Unless you need to wrap things up.”

When a random shout echoes through the room, you awake, inhaling deeply before you tell him, “No, I. I mean, yeah, we’ll wrap things up, but that shouldn’t take too long. Should be mostly done when you are.”

He nods. Waves, and then steers towards the others, shaking hands and exchanging smiles. Short convos. Then, to the back room. 

You’re too out of your mind and tired to chat much with staff. You go through the next steps, talk about waiting for the editor to be done with the photos, list the leftover things on your to-do list before the winter launch.

And that’s it. You meet Jungkook at the exit to the hallway, relieved when the end of the day approaches. On your way back home, you converse lightly, though he stops when you yawn one too many times.

He lets you rest as you pass shops and traffic lights, and holds your hand when you get off the vehicle. Drags you up the stairs; the climb is arduous. And then allows you to get ready for your slumber in peace.

The second the back of your head collides with the cold pillow, your eyes drop shut. The world spins behind your tired eyelids, adjusting to the darkness and the silence.

A sigh of relief pushes out of your mouth; a profound sense of tranquillity calms your lit nerves. Jungkook, next to you, seems just as exhausted because the yawn as soon as he slips under the covers is long and tear-inducing.

He’s blinking away the dampness of fatigue when you look over to him; you haven’t talked much since you arrived home, but Jungkook uses the moment to say, “I had a lot more fun than I expected to have.”

You’re so incredibly thankful for his last-minute rescue. But you can’t help but think of the muscles and expressions an hour prior. The seductive gaze, the lip accessory, the ring-clad fingers.

Perhaps it’s because of the time of the month, but you feel vexed by how affected you feel.

You control your tone, though the word still sounds monotone when you say, “Good.”

Catching upon it immediately, he shifts slowly, sniffling and head propping up on his hand before he asks, “Did you not like it?”

“Oh no, I mean,” you start, “you were amazing. I just didn’t know they’d send you out naked for the world to see. Thought the plan was to close a couple buttons.”

“The stylists told me. I think it was a spontaneous change because—”

You glance at him when he hesitates. A sly smile spreads across his features, just a little guilty yet amused as he watches your curiosity grow.

“What?” you ask.

“Nevermind.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“It’s nothing!” he exclaims. “We just thought it’d look cool. I thought you’d like it, too, actually.”

You did. That’s the issue. You liked it enough for it to burn into your mind, and now you can’t shake the image anymore.

No matter how many times you’ve seen him butt naked, buried inside you without a gap between your skin — something about his confidence and eyes stirred an unknown level of desire in you.

But you can’t tell him. Because the thing you want won’t be possible right now. You keep your thoughts veiled.

Instead, you unleash your annoyance because God, you hate him for being so hot.

“Right,” is all you say.

“Hey, don’t worry. Even if they ask, I’m not doing this again.”

“Might make you famous, though,” you mumble.

He snorts, fingers sneaking to your tummy, “So what? That’s not my profession. I didn’t study to become a model. Will work on my actual efforts.”

“Okay.”

The single word forces a sigh out of him, and he shakes his head, tapping his fingers against your stomach as he whispers your name thrice. Like he’s scolding you.

And then, “Are you jealous?”

“No,” you spit without hesitation, “of whom?”

You’re not. And you know that just for the moment, he won’t believe you. Which is fine. You’ll tell him the truth once your period’s over for the month.

“Of people who might see me and like what they see.”

Okay. Jerk.

At this point, he is doing it on purpose. You see it in the cocky smile and the jesting tone and the way his fingertips draw circles over your shirt, itching to sneak underneath the fabric.

You know him.

He’s so annoying.

“No,” you repeat.

“You sure? Huh?” Fuck, not that sulky voice. You close your eyes, but he raises your chin, making your head move. “Look at me, angel.”

“Hmm?”

“You said no, but you do look a little fiery,” he tells you. Yeah, if he knew that the real reason doesn’t lie in envy or whatever the world thinks of him. “What? My girl is jealous of people I won’t even perceive?”

No.

But she does feel the tickling, flattering lust pooling in her lower stomach, Jeon, thank you very much.

“Jungkook,” you start, although breathier when he moves closer, towards your neck. “Don’t be annoying.”

Which triggers a slightly mocking tone; he tuts before he says, “Baby bails on our date today. Will fight me in a restaurant. And then I’m annoying?”

Your answer is immediate and as shameless as can be.

“Yes.”

And it makes him laugh. Hot and sudden against your skin, his breath makes you shiver more than the relentless cold outside ever could.

“Not gonna lie,” he begins, “that brat behaviour isn’t too terrible.”

“Shut the fuck up, you just—”

He just what? You don’t know. Your sentence floats between you when his nose raises your chin, freeing the path to your neck before he’s nuzzling it slowly.

You feel goosebumps at the back of your neck, hair standing up, tingles across your body where you didn’t deem them possible. Under the blanket, your legs shift, and he hurries to move one of his between yours.

Hand still on your shirt, he places a barely-there, soft kiss to your neck; his fine tresses tickle your face and you crumble.

You have long forgotten your unfinished sentence, but he hasn’t. Asks, “What?”

You bury your nails into his arm, intrigued by the little hiss followed by a subtle laugh. Growing in volume when you say, “I kinda hate you right now.”

“Oh yeah,” he agrees, stretching the second word, “I hate you, too. Absolutely loathe you.”

You silence. Hold onto him when he French kisses between your neck and shoulder. And then breathe, “Then go away.”

“Mhh. Maybe I should.”

“Maybe…”

And then, out of the blue, his teeth dig into your neck like a gentle vampire, stopping immediately when you wince desperately. A hot tongue soothes the bite, a strong hand pushing you down by your shoulder again when your body lifts off the bed just a bit.

He keeps you in place, moving to your jaw. And when you whimper in lust and want, navigating his leg closer to your core, he curses, “Fucking hell, babe.”

Then, he’s inhaling, fingers wandering from your shoulder to your wrist as lips finally clash.

His body moves half onto yours, slowly gauging your reaction to the kiss as if he’s still expecting the burst of cumulated emotions. But when you give into his gesture, granting him your tongue, his face moves further against yours.

Undecided fingers let your wrist go, getting ahold of a patch of your hair. You hold his arms again until you wrap yours around him, fingers on the nape of his neck as you pull him in.

You tilt your heads in unison, deepening the kiss, drinking him up. Let him open your lips with his, keeping them like that, tips of your tongues playing with each other.

His touch drops to your waist and down to your pyjamas, pushing them down a little, grazing your panties. But then, his teasing palm floats up again and settles over one of your tits, squeezing once and drawing a telling moan out of you.

No bra.

He loves your little habits. You live through them casually, never noticing how badly they empty his mind.

Seems your head is blanking just as much at his touches; because you look delirious, lost, breathing in and out heavily. Jungkook basks in the expression, pushing a hand to your neck.

And only when he presses in gently, trapping you in place, do you seem to wake.

Eyes shoot open, and you inhale deeply, as if saved from drowning; remember every bit of today. The lines of his abs. The lip ring. The jewellery on his fingers.

You could ask for him to go on, to wreck you thoroughly. But of all arguments stopping you from doing so, there’s one damn reason that asks to prevent the mess.

Fucking period. Would create a literal bloody chaos. And you’re exhausted.

The thing is — if you asked him, you know he’d give it to you.

He’s reckless and careless. But you can’t risk the state of your sheets and the state of your mind. You have more work to do tomorrow; also, if you continued now, you’d be tired and immobile tomorrow, you know — and you need to be awake for this.

Fully in your senses.

Ugh. Fuck.

And the last damn day of the red waterfall, too. Thinking about it, perhaps that’s the reason for your agitation this week.

In hindsight, you know you’re never bitchy like that — he didn’t give you the nickname of an angel for nothing, right? Fuck PMS. Fuck mood swings.

Your poor boy, enduring the wrath of it.

But maybe you need to act pissed just a bit longer because—

“What?” he asks.

It’s not the time. So you stop him, pushing him away lightly. Shake your head, calling forth a crease between your eyebrows, turning away just a bit.

He falls back, once again keeping his upper body up by his arm. Inquires, “I— are you still mad?”

Truthfully, you answer flatly, “I’m on my period.”

“So?” he answers, laughing until he sees your lips, pressed into a serious line. “I’m not scared of some blood.”

You knew it. He’d give in if you told him to.

But what you want can’t be received during this time of the month. What you want requires unhinged chaos, carelessness, breathlessness. Craze of many minutes, hours.

You want more than a short, cautious session that asks you to peek at the sheets and the towel you’d get every now and then. You want to fucking lose yourself in hi—

“Let’s not,” you answer, your tone nonchalant, “Just. Let’s go to sleep, alright?”

He murmurs your name, trying again; but when you turn on your belly, giving a last sign to end the night, you hear him groan quietly.

You grimace when his head falls onto the pillow with an angry thump, movements under the blanket agitated as he scolds, “My God. Alright. You wanna be pissed for an entire week, then be pissed. I can’t do more than that.”

Oof.

If he only knew. And something in you tells you that he will very soon.

SUNDAY

Too lazy to work through the preparation process in the kitchen, Jungkook and you quietly decide to spend lunch outside.

The café nearby is a place you’ve wanted to visit for quite some time now. And despite the flaky, dry sandwiches they served, you’re glad time passed quickly, the awkward conversations between you coming to an end.

When you return from the bathroom, the sky above looks grey. Desolate. The weather forecast predicted a surprisingly pleasant late fall day, but the approaching rain is obvious. Which, you anticipated more than the weather forecast did, really.

That’s why an umbrella is leaning against the leg of the table, and you grab it as you watch Jungkook fumble with his wallet, stuffing it into his back pocket.

He gulps down the last sip of his Matcha Latte, dimples above the corner of his lips as he smacks the taste away. Then, he gets to his feet, asks, “Ready to go?”

Absent-mindedly, you nod, glancing to the sky and then back to him again. He looks sweet and domestic; but you can’t quite take him seriously. Not necessarily because of the fight anymore.

It’s been far too many days to still dwell.

But because of the damn lip ring, the open jacket, the gelled back hair. His destructive expressions. Like he could devour you whole.

Jungkook doesn’t stay angry for a long time, you’ve noticed. He always tells you how his temper used to be worse as a teenager, but how he’s learned to control himself.

Agonies of childhood, relationships and friendships taught him patience. And you notice. You truly notice.

Because he hands you your purse sweetly, immediately stretching his palm towards you. A slight smile spreads across his face, and you respond with a weak one of yours. Take his hand and let him lead you home.

You’ll walk the short distance; it shouldn’t take longer than seven or eight minutes.

And as you approach home, the hand holding yours mimics the motions of the one gripping the umbrella — he brings both arms into swing, somewhat euphoric but casual when he says, “The food was so dry there.”

It’s odd, talking to him like that after several days again. But you nod slowly, and agree, “I know. But at least we know where not to go anymore.”

“Yeah. But I mean, great beverages.”

“The milkshake, too.”

He tugs you a little closer, elbows soon touching, “I still think you should’ve gotten something warmer. You get a cold fast,” he looks up with squinted eyes, “and it’s already chilly today.”

You squeeze his hand as a thank you; Jungkook cares for you in little, subtle ways, and you’d lie if you said you didn’t think of it every now and then. You answer, “I feel fine, though.”

“Okay. Hope that stays.”

His palm, soft in yours, shifts until he’s intertwining his fingers with yours, attempting a stronger grip. You lift your eyes from the ground to his face for a second, meeting a gentle smile, and feel more pieces of your heart split.

They wander through your body, along your arm and straight into his chest, merging with his own organ. If you could, you’d push him against one of the unlit lamp posts, parted lips opting for his, breathing into his mouth.

He infested your thoughts and stuck with you, no way to escape the moment you first fell for him. And somehow, he managed to keep this effect intact, digging deeper into your mind and making himself home every damn second of the day.

The desire you’ve been feeling doesn’t just stem from lip rings and talent behind the camera. But you also keep realising that you’re truly this man’s, and that this man is truly yours.

A hard truth to fathom when you’re the subject of interest to one unique Jeon Jungkook.

But you want all of him. Want him over you, around you, taking all of what no other guy will ever be allowed to touch. Want him to show you once again where you belong and that you’re in this for as long as his affection is aligned with yours.

Fuck. Home is too far away.

So you look away from him. Which he interprets in an entirely wrong way.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks, an inquiry out of nowhere that has your eyebrows kissing.

“No,” you answer.

“You barely talk to me. And,” he halts to wipe away a raindrop. Guess the clouds are gathering. “And I miss you.”

Your ribs might break. He keeps doing this to you.

“I’m not mad, Kook. Was just PMS-ing before,” you try again, adding a nickname for good measure.

“You sure?”

Jungkook is a free-spirited soul, careless to a healthy degree most of the time. There are only a few things that break his composure; familial insecurities, shitty pasts — and then there’s you.

Topping his list of priorities, you’re the only aspect in his current life that pushes him into spirals of overthinking.

And right now, he’s in the middle one, requiring a thousand reassurances. You want to answer. You really do.

But the distraction from above proves too strong the second you open your mouth. In the middle of your walk, the clouds explode, roaring for a moment before a downpour suddenly showers onto you.

The raindrops are thick, the bursting clouds aggressive.

Instinctively, Jungkook opens the umbrella, hastily working on it, and once under it, your steps pick up on pace. You wrap an arm around your body, closing the jacket, hooking your other arm with his and pushing the two of you forward.

“Shit,” you say; you look up, but can barely see anything. Only hear the thunder.

The wind grows colder, grazing the skin of your face incessantly. Despite the umbrella, the merciless rain wets your cheeks, singular drops flying towards you. Jungkook’s hair covers his face, and he shakes them off his eyes.

You gasp when a literal newspaper flies past you.

“Come on,” you encourage, already shivering. “We can talk about it at home, okay?”

But surprisingly, incredibly lost in his own head, he doesn’t give in. He adjusts to your pace, holding the umbrella in a strong grip, sighs and argues, “We can talk about it anytime.”

“Not now.”

“But—”

“Kook, right now’s not the time for this.”

Holy shit.

This man is a phenomenon. And you wish he wasn’t serious, but you know that he is. A full-on simp-y fool, no matter what.

“You’ve avoided me all week,” he yells over the sounds of the rain, sniffling, looking at the storm ahead, “we won’t die. It’s just rain.”

“It’s a thunderstorm, you idiot!” you exclaim back, moving straight forward and past running passengers. You should be home soon. “And in a minute we won’t be able to see shit.”

Jungkook must be made of cement. Broad shoulders, a well-trained body and willpower seem to combat the storm when he suddenly halts in his steps.

Immediately, you grab the umbrella, keeping it from nearly flying away; and when you remain the only presence under it, you ogle back. Watch him stand there in his red-white jacket, getting soaked by Mother Nature.

What the fuck.

You rush back, grabbing his wrist, pulling him forward as much as you can as you reprimand, “What the hell are you doing? Come on.”

“You’ll talk to me if I do?”

“Jungkook, we’ll die here, I—”

You flinch and gasp when another strong wind blows, once and for all ripping the umbrella off your hand and making it fly a couple feet from you. You watch it break through the fog of rain, mouth wide open with a dozen curses on your tongue.

“Fuck,” you exclaim, gritting your teeth, “I will. Just please, okay?!”

He’s so annoying. The way he looks at you, breathing hard, white shirt drenched and sticking to his body. You tug at his arm, forcing him to run when you do.

It takes you two entire minutes, wordless as you wish them to be, to reach his street and apartment. You tremble in the hallways, rushing up the stairs, and eventually take a seconds-long breath when you step into the flat.

It’s cold. So cold — and you had your jacket protecting your shirt. Your jeans and hair are soaked, your socks a sponge, soaked in a couple millilitres of water.

But it’s relieving when you take the jacket and your jeans off, pulling out the oversized, wrinkled shirt from under your pants, covering half your thighs. Jungkook slips out of his boots and rushes for a towel, approaching your heaving form at the door to dry your hair.

You quiver for a couple more minutes, fearing an approaching cold after all. But once settled on the couch, indulging in the comfort of thick joggers and a fresh cotton shirt, you sigh.

The silence still holding on only breaks when you drop your head back on the couch. A warm hand sneaks to your cheek, and when you open your eyes, he asks, “Are you okay?”

“Warming up…” You lean into the touch, though still irritated by his behaviour before. “Thought it’d rain, but that was a surprise.”

“Yeah.” A pause. And then, “Was a little romantic, too.”

Unbelievable.

You roll your eyes at him, head tilting, tongue prodding against the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he’s joking. The goofy smile suggests that he is.

“Was it, yeah? You just—”

You click your tongue. Think back to him nearly offering his soul to Zeus just a couple minutes ago. Standing in the heavy rain as if he was the lead character in The Notebook.

“Don’t be mad now. I’m kidding,” he says. His voice isn’t as soft anymore; frustrated when he tries again, “Talk to me. What’s the problem?”

“Seriously? I told you there’s nothing.”

“Nah, cut that bullshit. You haven’t talked to me or properly touched me all week. I’m trying my fucking best.”

“I know. This isn’t what it’s about,” you defend, shaking your head, getting to your feet, “but about that insane little stunt out there.”

And the fact that he’s been driving you crazy. The week’s distress mixed with whatever he made you feel yesterday; today’s insanity further adding to it.

When he doesn’t speak, you sigh, waving it off, and opt to walk away. But all in vain.

You make it two steps away from the couch before he flashes up, too; filmesque, you gasp at the strong grip around your elbow, getting a tiny second to process the situation before he’s twirled you around.

He probably didn’t intend it, but you nearly clash against him, stupidly losing your balance and stumbling over his and your own feet. You put a hand to your temples, fearing the worst — what if you fall and clash against the corner of your glass table?

But no. In slow motion, he keeps you in his firm hold, preventing the fall, but still letting you gently drop onto the fluffy, white carpet. Your investment. You’re happy about it now because it caught you the way the wooden floor wouldn’t.

Your movements towards the grounds are slow — or at least that’s what they feel like. But when he appears above you, pinning your wrists to the carpet hard, he’s breathless; and you think that maybe the fall didn’t happen as slowly after all.

“Okay,” he says through gritted teeth. From down here, his jaw looks as sharp as a ship’s deck, the Adam’s apple bobbing when he challenges, “You’re gonna fucking tell me what’s going on.”

Oh. He’s mad.

His eyes are burning, jaw flexed. Defined chest rising in anger.

There’s nothing going on. At least nothing that warrants another fight.

But you don’t tell him that just yet. Instead, all your perplexed mind and tongue manage is, “What?”

“I forgave you. We were both shitty that day, you know? But I still did forgive you, and you’re still being like that.” His knuckles must be paling, because his grip is iron hard. “Why?”

“I—”

“I’ll apologise if that’s what you want. I did, actually. I’m sorry, okay? There. But this is just,” fingers squeeze your wrists, and you hiss, “ridiculous.”

Your following grimace, lips twitching, eyes squinting, go through to him immediately. The hold doesn’t hurt or bother you too much, but the leg between your knees does. Jungkook wouldn’t wound you; he knows his limits.

But perhaps he thinks he’s going overboard when he loosens his fingers, pressing his palms against your skin, rubbing to soothe the missing pain.

He doesn’t quite move away, though, still stubborn when you assure once again, “I’m not mad at you anymore.”

“So you keep saying.”

“I’m not,” you tell him, heart racing at the proximity. You close your legs around his knee, irritated by the barrier. “I promise.”

He doesn’t give your gesture much attention just yet; doesn’t know that his body over yours is exactly what you’ve been craving. But he does understand the sincerity in your voice. Finally.

When he moves closer, pupils melting to fluid gems, you let out an intentional, teeny tiny moan that you’re sure he confuses for a relieved sigh. He moves his palms onto the carpet, caging you in; you keep your wrists where they are, but dig your nails into your skin.

You want to kiss him so badly. You miss him so much.

“Then tell me what’s wrong, angel,” he demands again, quieter and softer this time.

“I don’t know.”

With the fury evaporating bit by bit, his eyes look bigger and rounder again. The desperation of the week gathers in them and his expression, shooting all the way down to his tongue; and when he whispers to you next, your heart collapses, “Please?”

He’s sweet… so utterly oblivious to your true thoughts.

But you couldn’t feel more embarrassed about the pictures you’ve been painting and the words ghosting in that mind of yours. He’d do all of it, no questions asked. But… fuck.

“This is so dumb,” you answer, fingertips dragging down the carpet and then up to his waist, “like… you’ll laugh.”

The touch encourages him. His arms are shaking now, holding him up in this position for too long, and the wandering fingers along his sides and chest must weaken him like his lines affect you.

“That’s a good thing,” he answers, closer than ever when he balances his weight on his arms now, forearms touching the carpet. “I’d rather laugh than fight.”

But the closeness remains for mere seconds before he pulls back again, sitting up with a groan. Hands on his thighs, he lets himself fall on bended knees. He watches your still helpless body on the floor until you work on getting off the carpet, letting him pull you up when he offers a hand.

You ruffle through your hair, legs folding. Your pout is more directed towards yourself than anyone else; you totally realise you didn’t need to confuse him the way you did. Stupid period.

“Listen, I just…” you start, scraping your scalp.

His knees bump against your legs when he drifts closer; there’s something about the two of you sitting on your living room carpet like this.

“It’s just that I want to be able to walk tomorrow.”

And that’s it. That’s literally it.

He halts. His hand was moving up, probably to touch your face, your hair, anything soft to ease the mood. But he cancels the tender gesture, fingers falling back to his knee when he absorbs your words.

Silences with cocked eyebrows. Processes the way you lick your lips and look away, tugging at his wide shirt. And then, once he’s understood, he tsks. Chuckles.

And you, immediately on guard, push lightly against his shoulder, unsurprised when he doesn’t buckle, and defend, “Told you you’d laugh!”

“No, but,” he says, sweet crinkles around his eyes, head tilting and bunny teeth giving way to the prettiest smile in existence, “what are you talking about, hm?”

He knows. If only his feigned innocence was as sweet as his grin, too.

Still, you opt to clarify, “That thing you did yesterday.”

“What thing?”

Ugh.

“The whole modelling thing!” you exclaim, raising your hands. His beam reaches up to his eyes; his occasional giggles are killing you. “Stop. Do you have any clue what you looked like?”

He has the audacity to shrug. “They let me see the pics on their cameras. They’ll come out well.”

“Well? Dude, you looked…”

“What?”

“Dangerous. Like you could eat me up.”

Eat me up might be accurate. It’s the description floating through your little mind since yesterday.

“Ah,” he says, nodding smugly. You know he’s about to tease you. Because— “You specifically, yeah? I was just doing what they told me to.”

“What, is me specifically wrong? Anyone else you’d wanna eat up or—”

“You’re really fixating on that, huh?” Jungkook snickers. His tongue pokes the inside of his right cheek in a brief pause, and then he adds, “You’ve got a point. Didn’t think it’d affect you, though.”

Slowly, but surely, he seems to grasp his own power over you. You think he’s reminiscing about yesterday’s chaos and confidence; maybe even viewing it all from your point of view.

Because his smirk, albeit subtle, is sly when he asks, “What was it like?”

“I…” You click your tongue. “You’ll take me apart if I tell you.”

“Why so?”

“Because.” A beat of silence. You swallow to wet your throat. Then. “I’d ask you to.”

“Ah…” Another understanding nod, as though you’re lecturing him on NASA’s rocket science and he’s finally grasping its meaning. “Yeah?”

“I saw you from afar,” you point into a direction arbitrarily, as if he’s still several feet from you and not mere inches, “and I wanted to,” you inhale when a finger reaches out, straight to a vein in your neck, gentle, exploring, “let you do anything with me that you wanted to.”

“Ohh.” His palm covers your neck, as if he’s coddling you. But you know what that touch will morph into, so you sneak closer to him, lean forwards. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

“…Right.”

His thumb moves up and rubs under your jaw, then up your face and to your lower lip. The touch is soft and careful, as though gauging your reaction and searching for permission.

Your shaky, little exhale is nearly unnoticeable, but you know he catches it, and you know he already sees the consent in your eyes. But he still doesn’t lean in. Moves his eyes across your face, to his hand, to your neck and then all the way back to your gaze.

And then, contrasting the loving movements and affectionate gesture, he smiles. Mischief spreads in his stare, and his fingers retreat to the back of your neck, pulling you closer by a miniscule inch.

“So that’s what it was all this time? You’re on your knees for me, is that it?”

“Babe…” You look down, daring a joke. “Quite literally.”

You shuffle in your spot when he laughs quietly, hooking your fingers into the neckline of his shirt. You emphasise, “I mean it. Just… If you must know? I would’ve been okay with handing you all the control, okay? All of it.”

You’re aware you’re acting as though he doesn’t wreck your shit every other time, too. In fact, that’s probably how the two of you started out.

His absolute craze at the frat party, drunk. College nights when you’d confront him about your bullshit — weak excuses to make him press you against his dorm walls. A hand clapped over your mouth, your ass out, dick buried inside until you felt him in your guts—

You’ve always been at his mercy — but you want him to split you in half this time.

“You would’ve?” he repeats. “And now? Still want that?”

You look down again. There’s no shyness in that movement, no averting his beastly eyes — your focus lies elsewhere because you have a theory. Which proves true.

The swelling under his joggers, right there between his legs wasn’t there before.

So you gather your voice, and say, “…Yes.”

“Hmm. Why didn’t you tell me?” His fingernails dig lightly into your skin, and right in the middle of the tension, he pouts for a little moment. “I genuinely thought you were still pissed.”

“I was on my period…” You shrug your shoulders. “It was also late. I was so tired, and—”

He waits.

“I knew that you’d do it if I asked for it.”

“I would’ve.” What’s worse? The confirmation or the tickling breath against your cheek? When did he get so close? “I still would. If you want me to.”

“I just said yes,” you tug at the shirt, eliciting an amused grin as the tips of your noses collide, “you’ll keep asking and,” your heart beats at a million miles a minute, “just not kiss me, is that it?”

Your provocation proves effective just the right amount.

Because he opens his mouth, seemingly snarling — you can’t tell for sure, since his lips clash against yours within half a moment. Determined as his hand immediately flashes to the small of your back, supporting you before you fall backwards on the carpet.

And then he kisses you like a man starved. Like he’s run out of saliva, dehydrated. Seeks your tongue, tastes like earthy Matcha Latte and something you can’t quite define — something that’s so uniquely him.

Your kiss muffles his tiny sound, a mixture of a sigh and a moan, body impatient as he tries to push closer to you, though separated by your clashing knees. You understand — you, too, would let him smother you under his weight if you could.

So you pull your folded legs apart, shifting until they surround him and attempting to straddle him. But he’s plotting something else: his fingers hold your jaw, keeping you in place, and the hot, wet kiss breaks when he pulls away.

You catch a brief glimpse of glistening lips before he moves to trail down your body, leaning in to teeth at your shirt, pushing it off your shoulder and kissing your skin for a fleeting second. And when the shirt shifts back into position, his other hand works on your tits.

Grabs your shirt at its hem, lifting it over your mounds until they’re free, nipples perked, home to him. In a haze, the tip of his tongue touches the right nub, and you shiver.

More so when he whispers, “Am so hard for you, I’ll fucking combust.”

For you.

You’ll repent for how badly you want him in your mouth.

You caress his thigh, sneaking up until you reach the swelling under the fabric. You feel it immediately, firm as a rock, big and fat, so sensitive that he hisses once you touch it.

“No,” he commands, the word barely a breath, “no, no. Don’t or I’ll come like this.”

He says it against your neck. Warm and tickling. You feel goosebumps arise, your reactions slow, but your heart fast. His fingers engulf your wrist, leading your palm to his cheek; you feel the smileless dimple under your thumb when he darts out his tongue to wet his lips.

Then, you close your eyes; the pecks against your neck are exhilarating. The moving touch, down to your tits and then back up to your jaw is one of his favourite games; you move your hips against the carpet, soaked panties sticking against your pussy.

“You’re…” you start, fingers in his fluffy hair as he bites your nipple. You moan, your words shaky, “You’re— more into this today.”

“I mean… after everything you just said to me?” He chuckles, moving up, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. His mouth brushes yours.

“And I missed her.” Free hand between your thighs, he taps just over your clit; your lips part. “Too crude to say I can’t wait for her to swallow my cock?”

Well. Fuck.

If it wasn’t him, you’d cringe. But it is him, and the truth is that you’re dying for him to press himself onto you. To wrap himself around you, to wrap yourself around him.

You want him to cut you in half, want to be his little toy until you can barely stand.

“Maybe,” you tell him, “but I promise that she wants it, too.”

That’s it, that’s it.

It’s when teeth meet again, the kiss messy, your arms around his neck. He holds you by your waist, pulling you off the floor a little, readjusting his position, so you can climb onto him.

You tilt your head as far as you can, taking him in, drooling, lips and tongue moving wildly to taste all of him. His digits wander from your back to your ass, pushing between your cheeks and pressing against your clenching hole.

The gesture is short lived, but enough for you to rub against him. The urge to rip your panties and part your folds over his girth is profuse; to dampen his length and empty his balls just like this.

But he clenches his jaw, groaning. Halts your movement with a strong grip before pulling at your hair without breaking the kiss. You move your fingers up and down his arm, and then dash it upwards to bury them in his locks, too.

Only, instead of reaching his mane, your hand hits the glass table on your left; you grunt into the kiss and then move away to exclaim, “Ah, fuck.”

Jungkook must’ve heard the sound because he catches on right away, laughing. Gently, he pushes you off his lap, gets back on his knees and then up. He pulls you with him as he says, “Alright. Get on the couch before you hurt yourself.”

“Couch?”

You’re surprised; not the bed this time, is it?

Then again — Jungkook isn’t necessarily picky when it comes to this; cue flashback to bathroom adventures.

So you still listen. Wobbly legs drag you to the sofa, plumping onto it as you watch him follow. The bulge is huge, hotter than hellfire when he palms it and lets go again.

“Too damn lazy to get to the bedroom,” he declares before dropping back on his knees.

You thought he’d climb over you, push you back across the length of the couch. But instead, he seems satisfied with your helpless position, pushing back the carpet and table some to take a seat right in front of you.

You admire his patience — the outline of his cock presses against its confines. Does it not hurt? His expression doesn’t reveal any discomfort as he adjusts against the hard floor; the carpet barely provides any relief.

But the discomfort doesn’t redirect his focus, his touch heading towards you, urging you to remove your joggers at turtle’s pace. He throws them over his shoulder and onto the table, one leg of them dangling off of it.

Left in your panties, you watch his hands curl under your knees, freeing his way to where you want to ache. Lifts your legs, places them on his shoulders carefully, amused and delighted when your bent limbs drag him closer to your cunt.

His tenacious tongue peeks between his teeth, and he fondles your thighs before he reaches the hem of your panties. They bug him — separate your heat from his mouth; in this moment, a crime to him.

“Help me here real quick,” he whispers, and you raise your ass, letting him drag the underwear off of you.

It sticks to your pussy for a second, obscenely flooded with your gradually building arousal. You think he sees, because he halts for a second, eyes flitting up to you before he says, “I think this’ll be fun.”

“You promise?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

Well…

You shrug your shoulders, but smile tellingly, eliciting a smirk that decorates his gorgeous face, closing in bit by bit. The cool air evaporates the nearer he draws, replaced by his hot breath.

And then… just to test…

He darts out his tongue, the sharp tip of it tickling your clit. Your reaction, much desired, stirs a new type of appetite in him. Because your chin trembles just once, just for a moment. Lashes flutter, and his heart skips a beat.

As he inhales, but never exhales, you question, “What?”

“Nothing,” he assures, blowing against your sex, “just. So very pretty.”

You look down at him. His shoulders look broader from here. Muscular, hair dark and silky. His lips are colourful, handsome, nose ready to bury in your pelvis. If he thinks you’re pretty, then he’s the definition of true aesthetic.

Slowly, you reach for his hair, brushing through it before you bring his head closer to you, hinting at the obvious, and say, “And you.”

“Not like you, though…”

He waits, allowing the both of you a moment of preparation.

And then… he’s kissing your pussy. Lightly at first, up and down, a hand on your inner thigh that moves closer and closer to your folds.

He sighs once before a digit parts your nether lips sticking together, and then licks a stripe between them. You whine quietly; his eyes close. He’s beautiful like this; in a minute, he’ll look at you again, mouth swollen, and you’ll wish for his touch to last and last and last…

“Please,” you only whisper, but he doesn’t answer.

Instead, his sweet kisses turn into something more. Way more wetness, way more tongue. And before you know it, he’s splitting your legs wider, pushing in to start devouring you.

Your moans are intoxicating. They’re sudden, but not surprising, voiced against the ceiling when your head falls back. The heels of your feet dig into his back, pushing him closer when his knees are already touching the couch.

The movements of his mouth are warm, a waterfall. He eats you out until he’s slurping, drenching you further. He’ll slide in effortlessly, you already know. Will bury every single inch of himself inside you, fill you up for the rest of the day.

And your high — it builds up embarrassingly fast. Perhaps because it’s been a while; or maybe because it’s Jeon Jungkook you’re dealing with. Either way, your lower stomach aches, the knot pressing against your guts.

“Kookie,” you murmur, yet again left without an answer.

He knows not to break his focus this time; knows that you’re close, recognises it in your grip around the patch of his hair. Hears it in your desperate whimpers, louder by the second. Words more unintelligible now.

Your thigh is twitching every now and then, quivering, and he takes it as a sign to keep sucking and swirling. Then flicks his wet muscle over your engorged clit, adding to your exclaims when his nimble fingers glide into you swiftly.

Too swiftly. Two of them are barely enough; and he adds a third. Your cheeks heat up, body sliding down — partly because you’re dying inside, partly because he’s pulling you towards him.

Jungkook knows how to navigate your body, how to direct you towards a rationality-breaking explosion. And he does. He does with the plethora of lustful licks, softly circling around your clit. His nose presses against it every time he shifts downwards, tasting you thoroughly.

“I’m almost—” you voice, and he hums, vibrations torture.

It’s a game to him that he’s skilled at; he understands his moves, and he never loses. Neither today as he clamps his hand onto your waist, fingers pumping in and out of you, curling and digging, massaging your favourite spot.

They turn and twist, two fingers of his free hand settling around your clit and raising it for better access.

It takes probably half a minute longer… and then… then…

Your voice grows in pitch, nearly illegal for a Sunday afternoon, but music to his ears. So genuine and sweet. Corners of your eyes glistening. He holds your legs apart as you start begging, but all he truly makes out is the eager repetition of his name.

He wishes your shirt didn’t cover your upper body; wishes he could see the heaving of your chest, the perked nipples, the sweat on your clavicles.

But for now, this is enough.

The way he sees waves of pleasure wash over you, eyes rolled back, not looking at him anymore. Your lips are dry, your tongue probably, too, and he wants to kiss it wet again.

You moan and wince and keen, body restless. The tug of his hair becomes more prominent and palpable, but the sensation makes him smile. You’re probably barely noticing, too.

That is, until your hold and breathing finally calm down. You keep riding the wave, your head turning in odd circle-ish shapes. He kisses your pussy, helping you through it, only stopping when you open your eyes.

“Well, that was…” he says, lips as swollen as you anticipated, shimmering, “a good start.”

“Every single time,” you begin, panting, shaking your head. You watch him as he gets on his feet, moving in to your mouth. “Every single time I think it can’t get better, and then I remember it’s just the fucking beginning.”

He shifts to you slowly, grazing your lips, and declares with a soft smile, “More to come, I promise. Gonna have so much fun with you.”

“Do your worst—”

One more kiss. Shorter this time, but you recognise the familiar, lingering taste immediately. Neutral, not too bad. Fills you with pride, because he never fails to guarantee that he loves it.

But you can’t wallow in it because he retreats quickly, impatient hands freeing his golden body from his clothes. The shirt falls somewhere next to the carpet, his own joggers soon discarded, landing on top of yours and sliding to the ground together.

He’s a menace when he climbs onto the couch, knees digging in and creating a shift on each side of your body. His bulge, still hidden behind his boxers, floats in front of your face; from this close, you see the droplet of precum darken a spot of the light purple cotton.

“Next stage?” he wonders above you, stroking your hair gently, as if he’s not about to explore the back of your throat. “Want or do I rather not?”

“What do you mean with not?” Your breathing is heavy as you lift your palm and engulf the imprint of his dick. He flinches, hips moving back a bit before they come back. “Get this shit off.”

He chuckles. Brings his hand to your cheek, thumb caressing it and voice clear when he says, “You’re so cute. Being demanding and all.”

But he still listens. Gets off the couch, slides his underwear off, leaves you gaping.

Gaping at the hooked and girthy tower. Gaping at how the slit on top of his head glimmers. Gaping at the moles along the stiff length, staring at the thick veins, at the full, firm balls.

“Tongue out,” he orders; you do.

The ink-free hand pushes his dick down to you, tapping it against your tongue as you open up wide. He feels heavy, hot, the skin smooth. Your head moves forward to swallow more, but he pulls back.

Strokes himself for a couple seconds, thumb spreading the precum over his head. You drool. Watch attentively, as though you’re learning — until he eventually guides it back to you and positions it into your still gaping mouth.

Enters it slowly. Slightly salty. Then says, “Breathe. And don’t overthink it too much.”

Huh.

Well. Damn.

Because…

At times, you do worry about your expressions; about your tears when you gag around him, the coughing fits you get in the middle of it all. So that’s a surprise. Attentive. 

But your mind is blank today anyway; so you nod, moving to lick the underside of the tip, and he laughs, mumbling, “Alright. Have it, babe.”

And you do.

Slowly at first, cautious as you twirl your tongue around him. You don’t notice much discomfort just yet, thankful that he’s easing you into this. A third of his length buried inside, you close your lips around him and hollow your cheeks.

Which is probably when the invisible threads holding him back finally break.

“Okay,” he says, “you got this.”

His knees move in, more inches intruding. His fingers drift to the back of your head, and you dig yours in his brawny thighs. He grows harder in your mouth, impossibly bigger the more you drag your lips along his member.

How gratifying. You’ve craved this for hours and days. What was your argument about again?

Your head drops further back when he shoves himself inside, more and more as time passes. You imitate his prior advances — hum and close your eyes. Bring a hand to the base of his cock, pumping all that you won’t be choking around.

When you gaze up at him to analyse his reactions, he leaves your mind vacant. Because his head is raised, like yours, jawline edged and acute. Mouth open until he meets your eyes.

You hope he’s seeing something just as lascivious and mind-numbing from his perspective. Maybe messy hair, laying against the softness of your shirt. Or a cock appearing out of and disappearing behind pretty lips.

Slowly blinking eyes that shut just as slowly again, and a tongue that falls out and licks along a vein whenever your head moves to the side. Allowing you a couple deep breaths.

He must be perceiving it all, too.

Because a moment later, he gnarls, like a wild animal, and states, “This won’t do—”

—Before putting both hands under your ears, holding your head and…

Ramming his cock into your mouth.

You gasp around him, taken aback and delighted at once. Feel the effect between your legs, hoping to not defile the couch too much.

Head still thrown back, falling further, you already feel the ache in the back of your neck. Your attempts of holding onto the couch prove futile because there is nothing to hold onto, armrests too far away; so you return to his thighs.

But he keeps your body steady, held at the spot between his legs. Your head is a different story: it bounces back and forth, the exhales through your nose frantic as he pounds into your throat before he slows down again.

“Good, gooood,” he drags out, observing the glistening veins as he draws back to his tip and then moves in again. “Doing very, very well. Looks so gorgeous, baby.”

You don’t know what he’s talking about — about you, his cock, the position. Everything? 

He keeps up the gentler pace, allowing you a break. Allowing himself the pleasure of this very image. Pretty lips surrounding a pretty dick.

And perhaps your desperate, little moans, accompanied by rapid blinking, set a fuse loose in his brain.

Because a moment later, Jungkook dares a step further — cock already stuffing your entire mouth, he pushes in more. The fat monstrosity reaches far, your gag reflex not as much at bay anymore as before.

The view seems to spur him on, though, and you can imagine why. If you were him, you’d probably enjoy the drooling mess under him, too. Salivating all over his dick, you feel the gross drop of your spit land on your clavicle, throat constricting as he thrusts in.

And just when you’re about to tap his thighs — very reluctantly, too — to catch your breath, he pulls back, fingers immediately digging into your cheeks to straighten your neck and head. You cough, eyes teary, your breathing quick and uncontrolled.

Like a toy, he moves your head to the left, to the right, a sly smirk playing around his lips until he moves down to you, back arched. Amidst your panting, he presses a brief kiss to your mouth, slippery against the dampness.

And then he says, as casually as he shouldn’t, “You’d look so beautiful in leashes.”

“…What?”

But he ignores your mumbled inquiry, instead thumbing at your lower lip. His dark eyes flit from one facial feature to another, pink lip caught between his teeth. The firm chest rises dangerously when he breathes in.

“Should I come in your mouth?” he asks as if you’d ever say no; as if you don’t know that he’s asking because he won’t. “Huh? Shoot it all the way down your throat?”

“Do it, fucking coward.”

…And just like that, he moves back.

tumblr is cruel and the 1k block limit in the new editor won't let me post the entire thing at once lol so here's the rest in a reblog!!! <3

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: this one came out of no where.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s uncharacteristically grim on the plains of Debray. Rains pelt the tall green grasses, flattening them in a slanted downpour that dims the horizon. Clouds blot out the daylight and lend to atmosphere of unease in the warring lands. 

Behind the castle walls, one can forget about the bloodshed staining the counties red, though it is all the dukes and his audience can speak of. The lords that bluster through those gates, sometimes at the toll of morning, some in the black swathes of night. You can’t count them all, you can name even fewer, but they come anon and leave just as brusquely. 

A peel of thunder shakes the land and a dark line limns the curve of the horizon. What appears first as a storm cloud advances quickly through the fields, appearing more clearly to the naked eye, distant nonetheless. Men. Another party fast on the approach. 

The alarm goes up at a man’s holler. Ethred, man at the gate hollers to the other men in mail. Niam peers out from the vantage of the tower and calls back down. A hush falls and bodies scurry all around, metal clinking and boots crunching. There’s something amiss. Something you can’t quite place. 

You turn away from the window, the steam rising from the basin in your hand swirling around your head. You carry on down the corridor, wool skirts around cautious steps as you balance the swaying water in the vessel. You approach the lady’s door and give it a rap with your knee. Merinda, another handmaid, opens it from within. 

You enter without a word and place the basin on the vanity table. The duke’s daughter preens herself with a painted fan, fluttering her lashes at her reflection as her curls spill down her long back. She tilts her head this way and that. She snaps the fan shut and puts it down, touching her soft brown cheeks with a devilish grin. 

“Do you know what father mentioned last eve?” Jazlene asks with a vain flutter of her lashes. 

“What did he mention?” Her mother, Lady Rezlyn prompts lazily as she plucks another cherry from a dish heaped in fruit. 

“A husband,” the daughter grins coyly at herself, “it is well due, isn’t it, mother? Who do you think it might be? Lord Gai, perhaps? He is young still.” 

“Perhaps the Earl of Mesafin,” her mother taunts back to a disgusted gasp. 

“Do not,” Jazlene pouts, “I could never... I am much too pretty for that haggard beast.” 

“Well, then, who might you have, precious?” Rezlyn goads. 

There is a clamour in the hall that keeps the younger of the woman from answering. She rolls her eyes and darkly glare at the door. You peer back behind your shoulder as a wail goes up carrying her father’s name; ‘Lord Dustan!’ 

“What is all that?” Jazlene whines, “as if it isn’t enough with the rain and the winds. It is summer!” 

“It’s always summer in Debray, darling,” Rezlyn scoffs, “otherwise I’d have never married your father. Pray you don’t hook yourself a winter lord.” 

You peek over your shoulder as you stand near the door, in your vigil, awaiting your next order. You face the ladies again as the elder continues to feast and the younger fusses over her thick brows. You scrunch your lips back and forth, a habit that often has your jaw aching. 

Jazlene turns to narrow her eyes at you, “what is it then? What has you making faces?” 

You bow your head, appeasing her ego, “my lady, there were men coming. A party approaching from the north.” 

“There are always men,” she shakes her head, “who was it then? Anyone I should wear silk for?” 

Her mother laughs, “I warn you, daughter, that trite tongue will not endear any husband.” 

“I do not know, lady,” you answer. 

“Ugh, useless, must I work as my own handmaid?” Jazlene tisks, “come, pin my hair. Merinda find me a gown. Mother... wipe the dribble from your chin.” 

“Eh, watch yourself,” Lady Rezlyn rises and wipes her lips with her sleeve. She wears muslin in a dark shade of burgundy, embroidered with little copper finches. “Or hope you marry above me before you lash that tongue at me.” 

Jazlene merely trills with laughter. You take the pins and work at twisting her fine curls into place. Merinda brings to her a dress of teal satin and is promptly shooed away, “something pink. It brings out my bosom.” 

You ignore her bawdy jest as her mother harrumphs. You work in quiet tandem with the other handmaid. You add a touch of paint to the lady’s cheeks and kohl around her eyes. You tint her lips with pigment and she pushes out her lips at the mirror. You help Merinda dress her, pulling the noble daughter’s corset tight enough to leave her lightheaded. 

The pair of ladies, elder and younger, leave the chamber with you at their skirt tails. They sweep through the corridors with chins up. They are queens in their own minds. Their fine dresses and sparkling gems are untouched by the disparity of war. The lives lost are squares on a game board, tawdry talk for men in their studies. 

“Lord Dustan,” Lady Rezlyn mimics the earlier call for the lord of the castle, “my husband. Dear, dear husband!” 

The women go to the banister and look down upon the great hall as the flurry continues below. You and Merinda loom behind, not daring to stand at a level with the pompous nobles. You have never volunteered yourself for their impetuous lashings. 

“Woman!” Dustan booms back up, “do not trouble me now.” 

“Oh, has another lord come? Perhaps a suitor for our lovely daughter--” 

“Cease!” The duke demands hotly, “now is not the time for womanly games.” 

“Tell me it true, husband, she will be an old maid before you find a suiting son-in-law--” 

“Go away to your chambers. Now. The men who come are not to be trifled with and you lot do trifle overly much!” 

“Bah! Oh do not be so uncouth!” Rezlyn decries. 

“Father, please, is it a husband?” 

“Go before I send my guards up to put you away like thieves in a dungeon. Hear me when I warn you that this does not concern you. Not as yet,” Dustan snarls, “you would spoil this war with your puny concerns.” 

“Ugh,” his wife puts her hand to her forehead, “he does tax me. All I ask of him is to take care of us, daughter. As any husband should.” 

“I should have your lips sewn shut!” Dustan rebukes hotly, “be gone before I find a tailor.” 

The women share an aghast look. The turn back to flutter away in their skirts. You and Merinda follow them to the drawing room, closing them in as they fall onto the velvet cushions. Jazlene reclines dramatically on the chaise as her mouth mopes on a sofa. 

“Shall I be alone forever, mother?” Jazlene snivels, “why won’t he let me marry?” 

“He only wants to find the right man, that is all, darling,” Rezlyn coaxes. “He is overprotective and that is good for it means he will find a husband for you with a similar bearing.” 

“Such sweet words cannot convince me. He punishes me. When all my lady friends have wed and borne a whelp or two, I remain with the dust and stone.” 

“Do not be theatrical,” Rezlyn girds, “you are silly.” 

“I am not silly, mother. I am afraid. I am twenty and three and I have no suitor. I have only a war butchering any man who might have my hand. Why must this go on? Why must I suffer for the gripes of stubborn kings.” 

“We cannot fear. This war will be won and you will have a knight for a husband. Isn’t that better? To have a warrior you can be proud of than some bookish lord in his tower?” Rezlyn stands and moves to sit with her daughter, petting her as she cooes, “oh my beautiful, no man can resist you. You will see.” 

⚔️

Some hours pass with the restless women, pacing and chattering, about careless things beyond marriage and war. Like needlework and a banquet that should be had upon the truce. Would that the day would come sooner. 

You and Merinda stifle yawns that pass between you. The act is contagious as you stand in the tedium of the wealthy and wait for a duty to be called upon you. The hours you spend watching the women preen and swoon make you envy the stable boys and the shit shovelers. 

The noise beyond those walls continues. You heard the moat open and the clopping hooves of horses, even the clatter of carts. The voices had since hushed but footfalls carried back and forth. The wordless activity betrays an air of impatience, almost of nervousness. As the ladies within mirror the sentiment. 

Finally, as the windows darken and the candles burn brighter, a knock shakes the door. The ladies snap their heads around. Merinda is asleep on her feet as you move first. You open to a man in grey and black waits on the other side. He is not Lord Dustan’s. 

“The duchess and her daughter,” he garbles through a mouth that sounds full of salt. 

You dip your head and look to the ladies in question. There is a tension, of unease, of unknowing, of excitement turned to dread. This is not as it has been. There is not call to the dinner table. There is no buoyant introduction of a lord Dustan met as a young scamp. There is silence and fear. Has someone died? Has a battle been lost? 

The women emerge and greet the man with niceties and tight-lipped simpers. He does not pay them heed as you and Merinda exchange looks. You trail after the ladies but the man stops. He turns back, a hand on the pommel at his waist, and sneers, a furrow in his brow. 

“One of ya,” he grits. 

Jazlene says your name. She must’ve noticed Merinda swaying on her feet. If she even cares so much about a maid. You keep your head down and follow as they press on. Down the corridor and around the duke’s study, recently deemed his war room. You’ve never been within. It is not the domain of women. 

The grey and black soldier thumps on the door. Mother and daughter clasp hands. Even they can sense the unusual frigidity. The door opens from within. It is Lord Dustan. He wears a serious look on his lined face. The ladies are beckoned in and the soldier nudges you after them as you hesitate. 

Lanterns light the space from the desk at the rear of the chamber. The large table draped in maps, wooden horses, and little wooden pucks stands central on a thick rug. A figure stands behind it, head down as his burly and broad silhouette seems to sop up the shadows. 

The ladies follow the duke to stand across from the man. His head is down as he slides a horse along a road on the map. He stops it and grips it tight. He looks up and the lantern light dances on his features. You suck in a breath, as the rest do, stunned by his appearance. 

His hair is white, his eyes are a goldish yellow, pupils deep pools of black, and his square jaw is just as thick as the rest of him. You have never seen a man like him before, but you have heard of one. Of him. King Geralt of Rivia. 

You stand in similar confusion to the ladies. Their silent confoundment is broken by Duke Dustan as he nears the table. He sniffs and presses his fingers to the table top. 

“Your highness, my wife, Lady Rezlyn, and my daughter, Lady Jazlene,” he introduces. 

The women glance at each other then curtsy to the white king. He watches them dully. You fold your hands, taking it in curiously. It is rather something to witness the scene. You are so unimportant as to not be a part of it. 

“Your highness,” the recite, “it is...” 

“An honour,” Dustan finishes for them, “of course it is. We fondly welcome you and your allyship. We hope that we will be essential in ending this war. In helping you attain the peace you have so valiantly fought for--” 

The king raises his hand to silence the lord. You can’t help but quork your head. Allyship? But King Geralt, he is of Rivia, he is of the hinterland, he is the one who invaded the summer country and bid it his own. He is the foe. That is what they told you. 

“Enough...” the king speaks in a silty tone that scrapes in his throat. His eyes wander over the women and narrow. You wince as your own meet his golden irises and you shy away, putting your chin to your chest. That’s a mistake. “...words.” He slaps his hand down, “you do not win wars with words.” 

“Yes, your highness, you are correct. I know it well. It is why I invited you here. It is the very reason I made my entreaty. You have my men, they will win this war for you.” 

The king is hardly impressed by the fact. He looks back to the table and moves the horse further before turning it back. He knocks it over and stands completely straight. 

“And the daughter of Debray, your highness. To have a wife of summer’s blood, men will bend the knee. If you show them you do not mean to eradicate but to join with them,” Dustan moves to stand closer to his daughter, “isn’t she a fine queen for a fine kingdom?” 

Jazlene swoons and falls against her father. She’s fainted. Rezlyn grabs onto her other shoulder and you peek up at the chaotic scene. You come forward to help, snatching a pillow from the single couch, and you place it under Jazlene’s head as they lay her down on the floor. 

A shadow shifts as Dustan and Rezlyn fuss over their daughter, fanning and calling to her. You look up as darkness clusters over you. You see the king staring down at the scene. No, not them. He staring at you. Before he can reprimand you, you put your head down. 

You must quit that lest you find yourself at the wrong end of a switch. 

[planetflorxa]

Trash Magic

CW: Hyper-femm reader, Mommy kink, Lesbian sex, Choking, ass slapping. Spitting, Squirting, name calling just once though, scissoring, overstimulation, oral reader receiving.

a/n: ALL RACES ARE WELCOME! The picture is just for the shoes. just realized most of my fanfics and wips have have mommy kinks….That says a lot about me. I also have a dina fanfic that’s almost done it’ll probably come out s week after this on so stay tuned.

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

Your friends hated it. They hated the way you always had to sit on her lap when you guys would hang out together. They hate how you two would excuse yourselves to your bedroom and all they could hear was a loud banging against the wall. They wish they would get away from it but they lived with you. They’re just happy Abby doesn’t live there because they’d never get sleep with the way you two are always touching, But they were lucky because abby was on a trip and wasn’t set to get back until a week from today. So it’ll just be you and your friends. Well that’s what they thought anyways.

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

“Draw 8” your friend casey told you. You guys were all sat around the coffee table seated on the floor playing games and drinking. “NO” you said laughing which caused your friends to laugh with you. “That’s cheating why does uno have a custom card.” You said bouncing up. “I’m gonna go get something to eat shuffle the cards and let’s play stacks” “NOO youre such a baby” Your other friend jess said “Oh well” You said scurrying to the kitchen. “Nobody told casey to cheat that was so unfair” you said as you went on your mission to go get snacks

You were in your own world looking through cabinets to something to eat so much so you didn’t hear your friends talking to someone at the door and on top of that you didn’t hear them ring the bell. “Who’s at the door guys” you said walking to the door seeing your girlfriend come into view before they could even tell you. “ABBY WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” you said running up and hugging her almost missing how your friends rolled their eyes in disgust almost. “Hi princess, I’ve missed you” She said grabbing under your ass so she can lift you up “You’re not supposed to get back for like 2 more days” You said kissing her cheek “I’m got bored and i missed you so much” “Really?” you giggled as she walked you to your couch to sit down with you on her lap facing her. You almost got lost talking to her before you remembered your friends.

“Oh sorry guys” you said getting off abbys lap much to her dismay but she still kept a hand on your thigh. “Abby how about you play cards with us” you said awkwardly looking between your friends and her. “Please do much better than going in the room” casey said “For real you guys are so loud” jess chimed in which caused abby to blush a little turning away from you guys. “Okay enough let’s just play” you and abby both took your seats around the table just like the other two.

You guys played for around 10 minutes before you realized they were straight up targeting abby. “First me now Abby what the fuck” you said throwing you cards on the table. “What are you talking about now y/n” jess said throwing his cards on the table as well. “You guys just made her draw 15” you huffed getting up “this is why customs cards are BULLSHIT well me and abby are gonna go watch a movie” you said reaching for her hand so she could stand up with you

“NO GOD PLEASE NO” casey screamed dramatically. You just ignored her “casey please stop it nothings gonna happen just a movie okay” you said grabbing abby’s hand and walking towards your room

You lied

“Ahhhh mommy fuckkkk~” you screamed on your knees back arched the side of your face pushed against the pillow so you can breathe while she used your hands for leverage to pound into you hard. “Take it princess f-fuck i know you can” she let go of your hands instead grabbing the fat of your hips pace not faltering “Do you like the way i fuck you? You like how deep mommy’s going or you want more” you couldn’t breathe she WAS fucking so deep aimed straight at your sweet spot and she knew that. You were gushing and creaming all around her and she was so hypnotized by it. She couldn’t stop herself from going faster

Before she could think she was spitting in your asshole she then start rubbing it in with her thumb before pushing it in. “a-abby it hu-” she didn’t let you finish before smacking your ass once, twice and then three each time you squealed louder and louder. She took her thumb out your ass grabbed you by your hair to bring you closer to her then switched from your hair than throat choking you as you bended backwards. “What did you call me” she said in a stern voice “I-i’m-fuck i’m sorry” you whimpered out “Okay so what’s my name” she said not letting her hand loosen on your throat or not stop the assaulting pace she had on your pussy.

“Mommy” “that’s right fuckkk~ look at how much of a good girl you are for me” she said letting you go placing her hands back on your hips. “I want you to cum all over me okay princess” “mhm” you said barely even able to keep yourself up “words baby” Abby said whist pushing herself deeper “Aahh- yes yes okay” abby’s hasn’t fucked you in what feels like forever with each drag of her dick it felt like heaven on earth. It felt like eating your favorite meal for the first time. She fucks you so good and so deep making you cream over and over again like the only think on her mind was making you cum and it was. “Mommy i’m gonna come” you said as steady as possible.

You’re voice was probably the most steady think on you right now. Your brain was just filled with you cumming, your legs and arms were shaking from the stimulation definitely not steady and plus you were sweating all over. But she listened you and heard you. She snakes her hand over to play with your clit to make you cum faster and to make it more powerful. “Fuckkkkk mommy” You moaned coming undone squirting all over her pelvis and lower torso “Shhh it’s okay princess” she said fucking you through it trying to make it last as long as possible. It sounded so disgusting the splashing of your cunt. The sound of your moans and abby’s heavy breathing everything about this moment was so erotic she couldn’t help but to keep this going.

She stepped away from you once she worked you down. She had you flip over so you were on your back and you were looking forward to the Aftercare she always seems to bring but on boy were you wrong. Abby slipped the strap off taking her underwear and shorts off rubbing the slick that accumulated from her fucking you across her throbbing cunt. She then went up to you on the bed slotting your legs in between each others placing her pussy on yours. “FUCK ABBY NO NO IM SENSITIVE PLEASE” “shut up bitch” tears starting brimming in your eyes the pleasure was so painful but you didn’t want it to go away your toes were curling as she rubbed her pussy across yours your slick making it so easy for her or slide across you.

You were cumming quicker than you wanted to but abby wasn’t gonna stop until she came so you tried your best to hold yours in. ”fuck y/n your pussy’s so warm” She moaned. You couldn’t even respond to her you just laid there and took it back arching your arms reaching out for her. You couldn’t stop the screams from comming out you wanted to cum so bad you just need her to say those words and your prayers were answered. “Fuck y/n i’m cumming” she moaned so loud and you quickly followed her. Abby’s body was twitching on top of yours she was shaking from not being able to use your body in forever if felt like it was too much almost. “Fuck princess you’re such a good girl” She said looking down at your trembling figure that was covered in sweat that gave your skin a glow. Your eyes were filled with tears as you looked up at her she wanted so much to give you a break but she couldn’t get enough.

Abby untangled your legs from each other she then placed both your legs on her shoulders. “Mommy i can’t” you said pushing her head away before she could even come into contact with your cunt. You knew deep down you couldn’t take anymore so why were you so achy down there. You wanted her to give it to you over and over and over again probably until you passed out. She licked a long stripe up from your clenching hole to your swollen clit before going in a suckling on it. “f-FUCKK ab-Mommy i’m gonna cum” you felt like a slut but the thoughts didn’t linger too long because you were cumming fast and hard but that’s doesn’t mean abby was gonna stop she wasn’t doing it for you she was just addicted to the way you tasted but she knew she had to stop though. She give you a few more licks and slurps cursing herself for not having the heart to keep going.

“How do you feel princess” she said rubbing your head and laying beside you “Tired” you mumbled “Let’s get you cleaned up then you can go to sleep okay”

“okay mommy”

[galvanizedfriend]

KC Wip Wednesday

This is my humble contribution to WIP Wednesday! It's a scene from the rewriting of TVD S5 - Yokan's version. In it, The Originals never happens, most of the Mikaelsons remain in Mystic Falls and Klaus and Caroline are kind of a thing, but nobody knows (for sure). Remember that moment where Katherine locks herself up in a safe with Stefan to "cure" his PTSD? It's that, except it's Klaus, not Katherine. This alludes to a very Klefan past, btw. Be warned if you're not a fan.

Also, this is for @definedareasofuncertainty, who wanted me to write her Easter Klefan. 🤧 There you go, friend! And you know, not beta'ed and all that.

--

Klaus lies on his back, takes a calm breath as the heavy door is closed with a thud, engulfing them in absolute darkness. All in all, he'd say a metal box is hardly the most uncomfortable setting he's found himself in. He prefers the comfort of first-class accommodations, but he's traveled in worse. The grown man beating about beside him does make things rather unpleasant, though.

"Stop! Caroline! Get me out of here!" Stefan screams, smashing his fists against the iron safe's indestructible structure. The more desperate he gets, the more uncoordinated and weaker his movements become, thus making the effort completely useless, however accomplished in making the experience all the more miserable for him.

It's embarrassing how incapable Klaus is of saying no to Caroline whenever she asks for a favor. Locking himself up in a box with a traumatized Stefan has to be an all-time low. The things he won't do when she bats her eyelashes and says please.

"Oh, stop it," he remarks in a bored tone as he shoves Stefan aside. The old safe is rather spacious, but definitely not enough to comport two men, particularly if one of them won't stop bloody writhing like a worm in hot sand. "The more you scream, the more breathless you become." The more I want to tear your vocal cords to shreds.

"Get me out of here, Klaus, get me the fuck out of here!"

"Relax, Stefan. I'm here to help," he says. "I'm what you would call a greater agony to alleviate the smaller pain you feel being trapped inside the box. It's reverse psychology, or so Caroline read in a book. What do you think of a little werewolf venom high to speed up the process?"

"You're psychotic. You're fucking insane!" Stefan starts pounding on the box again. "Caroline! Caroline, open up! Open it now!"

"I'm sorry, Stefan!" comes her muffled apology. Even through the metal barrier she sounds thick with guilt. It was her idea, but already she's cracking. That bleeding heart of hers… "I'm sorry, I will -"

"Do not touch that box, Caroline," he commands with his full authority. "Leave it."

There's a long pause, the sound of Stefan's heart hammering away inside his chest in the box as they wait to see what she'll do. A beat goes by before she mumbles a final sorry and scurries away, likely to avoid the temptation of putting poor Stefan out of his misery.

Klaus' lips pull into a grin. "Good girl."

Stefan starts shaking beside him, his breath becoming even more labored. "I can't breathe," he gasps. "I can't - I can't -"

"You don't need to breathe, Stefan. It's all in your head," Klaus reminds him pointedly. "A vampire having a panic attack, honestly. When you think you've seen everything…"

"You're not fucking helping!"

"Pardon me. My bedside manners have gone a little rusty since the last time you've experienced them." Klaus casts Stefan a glance, sees the way his eyes widen in horror, his body growing stiff as a rod, and he can't contain the self-satisfied smile that draws across his lips. "We did once find comfort in each other's company, didn't we?" Stefan makes another panicked sound, smoothing his hands across the cold metal door above them, trying to find a way out. Klaus chuckles. "Don't worry, mate. Caroline can't hear us. Your sordid little secret is safe with me. It's just us here, alone under the cover of darkness. Nothing we haven't done a dozen times in the past. Ahh, the 20s…" he speaks around a dramatic sigh. "It was the roaring years, indeed."

"What are you doing?"

"Making conversation."

"I don't want to talk to you, I especially don't want to talk about that." Stefan nearly chokes on the last word, inching as far away from Klaus as the confined space will allow, as though the mere idea of touching him fills him with utter revulsion. Klaus knows better; it's the way he remembers exactly how it didn't what terrifies him.

Anybody who's met this watered down, colorless version of Stefan would never be able to tell how much of a free spirit he used to be. He was fun. A far cry from the shivering man beside him now. Tragic, really.

"I know you like to pretend it never happened. Frankly, you've become quite an embarrassment of your former self, so I wouldn't proudly advertise it either. This bunny-eating, crying in the dark skin you're wearing these days is someone is wouldn't be caught fraternizing with if you were the last human being on earth."

"Then leave me the fuck alone already."

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm not here for you," he snaps back. And then, putting a leash on his rising temper, he continues, "But since I have to be… I can recognize that there was something about that time we had together that suited us both, more than just for the obvious reasons."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure you do. I was a tool for you."

"A tool for self-destruction."

Klaus huffs out a disdainful breath. "I was a balm to your tortured soul, Stefan, even at a time when you embraced your true self. I indulged you because you amused me, but at the end of the day, when we were together, it was all rather transactional. It wasn't about sentimentality or a shared appreciation for extravagance. It was about the hollow inside us. The fact we were always desperately seeking to fill it with… Anything, really. Whatever we could find. Passions. Pleasure. Violence. Cravings. But it never lasted, did it? Those things lack a purpose. They're all flitting in their essence, an immense explosion of satisfaction followed by… Nothing. We were both hungry, and we kept trying to find the thing that would sate us. You had lost your mind; I had lost my home. Like drawn to like." Klaus turns his face to Stefan, finds him staring back, eyes glinting with an emotion he can't quite read in the gloom. He always did fancy Stefan's eyes, though. There is something raw about them, something honest for a change. A little opening to the truth in his soul he tries so hard to hide from the outside world. "That's what the darkness is, Stefan," he continues. "Loneliness. It's what restrains us. The monster we cannot outrun. When it all stops - the laughter, the liquor, the hunger - and everything goes quiet around us, that's when we feel it. The curse of eternity. The weight of our years, deep in our bones. And the inevitable loneliness that comes with it. You had your names on the wall, I had my letters, but when all was said and done… We were both stuck in infinite darkness. Except for a few glorious stolen moments, in that repulsive room of yours." The corner of his mouth pulls up into a lopsided smile. "I was the bigger monster you needed in order to humanize yourself. Whatever you were, I was worse, and so I assuaged your guilt. Much like me being here right now. But then of course you found religion!" He laughs, closing his eyes and facing forward once more. "Your spiritual path towards the light. Elena Gilbert." He enunciates the name like it's coated in something toxic. His general distaste for Elena goes further than the fact she has thwarted so many of his plans. It's the boring saint act he cannot get over.

"Yes," Stefan says, his voice rough. "And then I lost her."

"Right. Because she chose your brother." Klaus chuckles. Stefan shifts uncomfortably beside him, the urge to hit him palpable in the air. It only spurs Klaus on. "How so very tacky. No taste, that one. Personally, I think there's no amount of blue eyes or good sex that can make Damon tolerable. What a wanker. I just want to bash his face against a wall whenever he opens his mouth."

Stefan scoffs. "Get in line."

"It's ironic, isn't it? You were at your absolute best behavior, weeding out all of your instincts, everything that made you fun and interesting in order to fashion yourself into a fairy tale prince for her, and what does she do? She chooses the dullard bad boy. Typical." Klaus shakes his head. "Ungrateful little -"

"Shut up."

"Martyr," he finishes with a smirk. "She probably thinks she's going to fix him, doesn't she? I bet he encourages it. But that's the difference between you and Damon, isn't it? Even with all your valiant efforts, you know creatures like us cannot be fixed. We're beyond salvation."

He gets a sudden twinge in his chest, an image flashing in his mind. A smile as bright as the sun. Hair the color of wheat. He sees her shifting under his sheets, feels the warmth of her touch, the brush of her rosy lips against his skin. It ignites a sense of joy inside him unlike anything else, a sense of possession, of belonging, of having found something that is far more precious or rare than any of the hundreds of treasures he's collected over the course of his life. But along with it comes the ever-present fear. Of loss. How long before he ruins her, like he's ruined everything else he's ever cherished? How long before he hurts her, even if he doesn't mean to? Before his darkness tarnishes her and kills that smile? Before she decides he's not worth it?

"How do you make yourself worthy?" he asks, the question tumbling out of his as though of their own accord. "How do you earn the affections of someone so…"

"Good?" Stefan finishes for him, reading his thoughts. "With sunshine and rainbows shining out of their eyes? Someone like, say… Caroline?" Klaus goes quiet, all his humor bleeding out of him in a second. "You don't," Stefan answers his own question. "You'll never be good enough for her, Klaus. Just like I was never good enough for Elena. Not really. The truth is they deserve much better than the two of us." He sighs, deflating with resignation next to Klaus. "I guess we did make quite a pair, you and I."

"Then perhaps we should die together," he says with an edge of aggression, his mood taking a sudden downturn. He's suddenly irritated. With Stefan, with this ridiculous situation, with himself for agreeing to that. "You and I, in a box, at the bottom of a quarry. Over and over again, drowning in suffering for all our sins and the women we don't deserve. How about that?" Silence stretches out between them, absolute. There's no response from Stefan, but there's also no pounding pulse, no disgruntled breaths. "Oh, look," he says dispassionately. "Someone's not having a panic attack anymore. Congratulations. You've conquered your fears. All you had to do was remember there are worse things than dying."

Klaus gives one violent kick on the door, sending it flying off its hinges. He pushes himself up, stepping out of the safe.

Caroline comes whooshing in, eyes wide as she takes in the state of the safe, the way Stefan is still down, cowering from the sudden burst of luminosity.

"What did you do to him?" she demands.

Klaus' mouth inches upward into the barest hint of a grin, no mirth whatsoever. "I fixed him."

[slotmachines-fearofgod]

babby ahsoka + twins

Please enjoy this not proofread not edited not ready WIP! we need more baby ahsoka & clones in the world

---

For the first time in his (relatively short) life Rex was at a loss. 

They were investigating some temple on behalf of the Jedi. Anakin had been sent because of his intense attunement to the Force and the 501st had happily followed his lead. Rex hadn’t gotten much out of the man, just that the Jedi would know what to do and all he needed to worry about was following their lead. 

Rex was going to kill him. 

When they first landed and entered nothing had seemed off. It was an old, crumbling structure built by neither Jedi nor Sith millenia ago. The Jedi wanted it investigated due to the strange flow of energy around it, an energy that had steadily been increasing over the past month until the signal reached Coruscant itself. Rex had braced himself for mental games or mind tricks but there had been nothing. 

In fact, there had been so little sign of anything that Anakin decided it would be best for them to split up. Coming as a surprise to no one Ahsoka took Fives, Echo, and Rex along with her down the side passageways, leading them through a winding maze Rex wasn’t sure he’d be able to figure out on his own. 

Which was what led them here. 

Rex stared down at the three children in front of him and felt the vague urge to cry.

Fives blinked up at him, his big eyes full of curiosity as he looked at Rex’s armor. Rex, still frozen from where he’d busted through the door that had trapped his compatriots, watched as his second waddled up to him and grabbed his kama. 

“Fives?” Rex croaked, incredibly out of his depth. 

Fives laughed brightly, “See Echo! I told you it would catch on.”

Echo, now half his original size, scowled, “No fair. Why do you get the fun name?”

Ahsoka, his little commander, his almost-sister, his charge, stuck her finger in her mouth and immediately jammed it into Echo’s ear. 

Echo yelped, scurrying away from the girl who was grinning with her fangs out, “Ew!”

“What’s your name?” Ahsoka asked, seemingly innocent. 

Echo grumbled quietly so they couldn’t hear, still trying to wipe the spit out of his ear. 

Fives ran over to him, laughing all the way, “It’s Echo! It’s ‘cause he only repeats what the trainers say!”

“Shut up!” Echo’s face lit up red as he smacked his brother, “I do not!”

“Ow!” Fives whined, rearing up to hit Echo back, “Don’t be such a tubie!”

“I hate you,” Echo growled, “Stop being so mean.”

“I’m Ahsoka!”

Both clone cadets momentarily paused to look at the togruta girl. 

“I’m a Jedi!”

And with that their feud was forgotten. Rex sighed and walked over, accepting that this was his life now, as Echo launched question after question at a giggling Ahsoka. Fives was trying to bodily drag her away to see her do “cool Force shit,” leaving Rex to wade in between the pack to pick up the little padawan. 

“Hey,” Fives complained, “Give her back.”

“Hush,” Rex fixed him with a look, “Give me a sitrep cadet.”

Fives rolled his eyes, a move that would’ve gotten him another hour of training at the least on Kamino, while Echo stiffened into a less than perfect parade rest. 

“Sir!” Echo started, his voice just a little too loud in the echoing chamber, “Myself and CT-5555 were enjoying our downtime in the bunks. We were taking the allotted rest period to sleep and woke up here in this…where are we? Sir.”

Rex sighed, rubbing his eyes with his free hand, “We are on the planet Erot in the Outer Rim. As for the name of this place, I was not granted access to that information.”

All three kids' eyes widened. 

“Outer Rim?” Ahsoka asked, “That’s so cool!”

Rex shifted her onto his hip so she’d be easier to carry. If he had to guess, they were all about five or six standard years. They could speak plainly and fluently and had little coordination issues, but they were much younger then they’d been a mere five minutes ago. 

“Ahsoka,” Rex started, “Do you remember what you were doing in this room?”

Ahsoka shook her head, now looking around the space, “No. I was in the creche with Uzaa and we were going to class with Master Che. I was late.” Ahsoka looked down sheepishly, a blush of her own on her face. 

Rex smiled weakly, “It’s alright. We’ll work it out.”

“Who are you?” Fives piped up, never content with being silent too long. 

“I’m Rex,” he could answer that at least, “Captain Rex.”

“Captain?” Echo looked up at him with something like admiration, “Wow. Does that mean the war has started?”

“What war?” Ahsoka asked, now alarmedly squirming in Rex’s arms, “Why do you all look the same?”

Rex winced, “It…may be best if we regroup before we talk about everything,” he said apologetically, “But I’ll explain.”

Ahsoka frowned, wiggling so much that Rex gave up and just set her down, “Okay. Are we going back home?”

That was a good question. Right now Rex wasn’t sure what to do with his sort-of soldiers. And there was no way he was getting back through the tunnel system without a guide to help. 

Rex looked around the room, searching for clues or hints of what did this to them. There were strange carvings on the floor in the center and metal piping running along the ceiling, but other than that the place seemed empty. Devoid of anything and everything except for the group of four at the door. 

Rex pinched his nose as he pulled up his comm, already dreading this call. 

“Skywalker here, what’s your status Rex?”

“Uh,” Rex looked down at three innocent and eager faces, “I need a rendezvous at my position ASAP.”

“What?” Skywalker’s voice changed, now startled and anxious instead of cool and collected, “What happened to Ahsoka? She can’t lead you?”

Ahsoka gasped, “He knows me?”

“...What was that?”

“That is my predicament sir,” Rex sighed again, “I believe your padawan activated something. ARC troopers Fives and Echo are down along with Tano.”

“ARC trooper?!” Fives cried in excitement, now bouncing on his toes, “We make ARC troopers?”

Rex gave all three of them a scolding look and pressed a finger to his lips. They all looked down at their feet, adequately shamed. 

“Riiight,” Skywalker drawled, “Sounds like I should see this myself. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Bring Kix please,” Rex tiredly requested.

“Of course,” Skywalker sounded less upset now. It helped soothe some of Rex’s own nerves as he mentally cussed out stupid Force shit in every language he knew. “I look forward to seeing what this is about.”

Rex let out a breath of relief as the call ended. He sat heavily next to the kids, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. 

At least until Echo rounded in front of him. 

“Captain?” Echo asked in a small voice.

“Yeah?” 

“Are we in trouble?”

Rex softened a bit and shook his head, “No. It’s just been a long day.”

Echo hummed, “So is it true? Has the war started?”

Ah yes. The great war. The one they used to dream about as kids. Their strange light at the end of the tunnel. 

“Yeah,” Rex said hoarsely, staring into Echo’s eyes and suddenly being hit with the realization that this Echo’s brothers were still alive, “It’s started.”

Echo frowned, “But you’re not an A clone. Why are you deployed?”

Rex shook his head, “It’s complicated. We’ll explain later, I promise.”

Echo seemed unhappy with that answer, but he didn’t get another word in before Fives was bullying his way into Rex’s line of sight. 

“You said we’re ARC troopers,” Fives accused, “But we haven’t even graduated our base combat modules!”

Rex laughed softly, “You’ll get there someday. Trust me.”

Fives scowled, unsatisfied with Rex’s half answer but Rex wasn’t really sure how much to tell them. Telling them everything - Rishi, their batch’s destruction, their missions with Torrent - seemed unwise. They were still kids. They deserved to be kids. Just for a little bit. 

Rex startled as he felt a weight lean into his side, briefly reaching for his blaster before looking over and realizing it was Ahsoka. 

She looked up, her usually large eyes now seeming comically huge on her face, “‘M cold.”

Right. Togrutas were warm blooded. And she hadn’t gotten as lucky as Fives and Echo, whose blacks shrunk with them. She was still stuck with her skirt and stupid tube top. Rex wanted to rip that thing to shreds and replace it with armor. He’d had the instinct many times before but now…

Rex just opened his arms, allowing the girl to crawl into his lap with a happy sigh.

He glanced at Echo and Fives, unsurprised to find them bickering quietly off to the side. 

“Boys,” he called, his voice booming around the chamber, “Cut it out.”

Fives made a frustrated noise and stomped his foot, going off to sulk in the corner, while Echo stared after him with an angry look. Eventually the younger of the two made it over, subtly checking out of Ahsoka had left any room in Rex’s lap. 

Rex scooted backward against the wall so the three of them could sit more comfortably before he called out, “Fives. Come here.”

Fives turned around, stuck his tongue out, and turned back to the corner. 

“CT-5555,” Rex put a little more authority into his voice, “Now.”

Fives hesitated, fighting with himself a little bit, before groaning and stomping over. Rex gave him an appraising once over, finding nothing wrong with him other than the attitude. 

“What’s this about?” Rex tried his best to go for strict older brother but he was pretty sure the image was ruined by the two kids in his lap. 

“Don’t wanna be here,” Fives mumbled, crossing his arms and looking down, “I miss 4040.”

Ah. Cutup. Fives’ favorite of his old batch. 

Rex relaxed a bit, crooking his finger at Fives and watching the kid tentatively step toward him, “It’ll be alright. We’ll get you three fixed up in no time.”

“Fixed?” Echo craned his neck to look up at Rex. 

Rex winced, knowing where Echo probably jumped to, “Back home, I mean.”

Echo nodded, slumping against Rex as Fives tried, and mostly succeeded, to fit himself between his brother and his future commander. Rex held the three of them in his arms and tried to remember to breathe. 

He didn’t know what to do with this. They couldn’t fight and there was no way in hell Kamino would take Fives and Echo back. He didn’t have the first clue what to do with Ahsoka, hell he didn’t even know if they’d allow her back at the temple after this. Were the Jedi as strict as the Kaminoans? Certainly not except for the exceptional cases. The issue was this was most certainly an acceptable case. 

They sat in a tight anxious silence for the next few minutes. Rex was shielding as best he could, but his skills were rudimentary at best and he knew it was getting to Ahsoka. Adding on to that Fives and Echo kept poking each other and making faces when they thought Rex wasn’t looking. Eventually one of them was going to hit Ahsoka and he just knew that would start an all out war. 

Ahsoka perked up before the rest of them, her eyes going wide and her figure stilling. Rex let out a sigh of relief, well aware of what that meant by now. 

Sure enough, a few moments later they heard hurried footsteps and a few calls between troopers. Rex had them all stand, drawing his blasters and putting on his helmet as he walked to the door. 

Skywalker was the first in line, his face curious but not alarmed. Rex let the blasters fall when he saw him, nodding respectfully to his general. 

“Rex,” Anakin greeted him, “Mind showing me what this is about?”

Rex nodded, peeking over his shoulder to see Jesse, Kix, and Hardcase. That was good. The boys would love Hardcase. 

“Yeah,” Rex stepped aside and pointed at the trio of children, “Feel free to take a look.”

Anakin, it seemed, had the same reaction to children as Rex did. Which was freeze. 

Kix nudged him aside easily, sparing a curious glance at his general, before he too paused in the doorway. 

“Hi!” Ahsoka waved cheerily, one of her hands in Echo’s, “I’m Ahsoka!”

[little-annie]

WIP WEDNESDAY | The Honeymooner's | Steddie | Eddie's chaotic unreliable POV

It's just supposed to be a fun week away for the two friends, but when Eddie's guilt gets a hold of him and he learns if he and Steve were on their honeymoon Steve would save 30% on the room, well things get a little carried away.

---

Okay, so yes, Eddie is very excited and very appreciative of this little boy's week-long getaway that he and Steve planned and yes he can't wait to finally spend a few days without the gremlins gnawing on his ankles or demanding for a ride to the arcade. But… but he feels guilty, very very guilty. And why, you may ask. Well, Steve's paying for the whole thing, that's why. The guy insisted upon it, saying something about how Eddie's been working so hard on getting his GED and working at Thatcher Tire and helping Steve take care of their somehow combined 7 children. That he deserved it. That, "Don't worry man, you can get me back sometime if you're so worried about it."

Steve's a good friend like that. Always has been.

Eddie's not really sure how they happened, really it seems like some weird anomaly that they can even coexist in the same space let alone willingly spend the majority of their free time together, but they do. He supposes though, one particular gremlin is to blame for the colliding of their souls. Dustin Henderson specifically. At first Eddie was jealous then when he met Steve, well, then he was kinda infatuated and it's all been downhill from there. Eddie's in love now. Hopelessly, irrevocably in love. With his straight best friend. How cliche.

How fucking cliche.

Eddie huffs to himself and tries to avoid checking out Steve's ass in his way too tight Levi's as they enter the lobby of some too nice hotel in the middle of what he thinks to be some Indiana State Park. Truthfully, he doesn't remember where they are, slept the majority of the way here since they left after work and he's exhausted, but the place is nice. Cosy almost if it weren't for its vastness. Really it resembles what he'd imagine to be a lodge. A giant log cabin if you will. Somewhere he supposes Harrington Sr. probably stays for some fancy men's hunting trip or something. Looks like the type of place that'd be a resort in the winter. Large fireplaces, overstuffed leather furniture, mounts from what he assumes to be the owners hunting trips.

In all honesty it isn't what he expected, but it's still nice and well, he's not paying for it so he's not complaining.

God he doesn't even want to think about what the room cost Steve for the week.

"Checking in under Harrington," Steve's voice pulls Eddie from the fog of his thoughts as he checks in, a young giggling couple to their left doing the same.

Trying to not grimace at the sight of the love birds, Eddie too approaches the front desk, leans against its edge and watches Steve as he signs a piece of paper and hands over his ID and credit card to the receptionist or whatever the front desk lady is called, Chrissy, he assumes if the strawberry blondes name tag is anything to go by.

Idle and waiting to get to their room and sleep in until noon tomorrow, Eddie zones out, all too focused on Steve's profile as he talks. The only thing filtering through his brain is the crushing guilt of this weekend, Steve's sharp jaw and the couple next to him talking a little too loudly to ignore as they boast about their recent wedding to their receptionist, the poor young man looking far too exhausted to give a shit. But it's then that Eddie hears that same receptionist say to the couple, "With your honeymoon package, you'll be saving 30% on your stay with us. Here are your keys … -"

It's then too, that something occurs to Eddie and his mouth runs away from him as he more or less blurts out, "Oh congratulations, we're honeymooning too."

The couple squeals and congratulates them as they scurry off to their room and Eddie has all but two seconds to process what he's just done (tried to save Steve money in the dumbest way possible) before Chrissy is doing the same, saying to he and Steve, "Congratulations! Oh my goodness that's so exciting! Well, let me do something special for your little week away then. I'll upgrade you two to the Honeymooner's Package and Mr. and Mr. Harrington," the gal winks, "you'll receive a room upgrade, 30% off of your stay and free access to so many of our great amenities."

Red in the cheeks at the idea of being married to Steve Harrington, Eddie, for the first time in a long time is speechless. What has he done? They're going to have to act like a couple now or they'll get found out and kicked out. Fuck. What the fuc-

An arm slips around Eddie's waist and squeezes, his whole body going up in flames as he goes rigid.

"Thank you," Steve says, Eddie assumes to Chrissy as he momentarily blacks out and is solely held up by the muscular arm that wraps tighter around him, fingers on his waist that have never been there before.

What the fuck?

Then there's a kiss on his cheek and Eddie has never snapped so suddenly back to reality.

Steve's eyes find Eddie's almost immediately, somehow communicating at the same time, 'Are you okay?' and 'Man, you got us into this mess, act the part.'

He really did, didn't he?

Well…

Eddie leans into Steve more intentionally, trying to ignore the desperate flutter in his chest when Steve smiles and pulls him closer, his thumb gently caressing the thin fabric at Eddie's side while they wait for Chrissy to make the changes in the system and hand them their keys.

It's all so foreign, but really it's not. They're touchy, maybe in each other's space a bit too much, sometimes to the point that one of the kids or Robin feels the need to shout at them to get a room. But it's never this. It's never long lasting lingering touches that kinda make Eddie want to cry. It's never this intimate. It's normally teasing or comforting. Sitting in each other's lap just to be a pain in the ass or squeezes to the arm when they can tell the other is stressed out. Things like that. Never coupley shit. Never this.

"Honey?" Steve's voice comes as a whisper close to Eddie's ear, sweet like honey and teasing, there's a smirk on his lips, "Wanna go check out the room?"

Chrissy giggles after handing Steve the keys and disappears behind a door leaving just the two twenty-somethings alone in the lobby. Steve's arm is still around Eddie's waist.

Eddie blinks, nods like a fucking idiot and lets out a horrible, barely there gasp when Steve's hand leaves his body only to ghost down his arm and intertwine their fingers together, pulling him along.

It's not until they're in the closed elevator that their hands separate and Eddie's able to manage words again. "What the fuck did I just do?"

Steve snorts a laugh before he shrugs, leans against the wall next to Eddie and says simply, "Made our week away a lot more interesting, that's for sure."

All Eddie can manage is a groan, knocking his head against the wall to which Steve responds, "Well that and saved me a couple hundred bucks."

—------

Things only get worse once they get to their room. Not only did they get upgraded to the Honeymooner's Package, it appears they too got upgraded to a honeymoon suite.

Jesus H Christ

Steve's cackling at the door of the room, gaudy red carpet beneath his feet as Eddie shoulders past him to get a better look. And Christ alive, it's awful. So, so awful.

For starters there's only one bed. Heart shaped in all its glory beneath a mirrored ceiling with a basket of what looks to be condoms, lube and lotions stationed artfully in its centre.

Awful.

Than, there's the bathroom that's more or less a fucking fish bowl. From where he's standing, only a few feet further into the room than Steve, Eddie can see that those glass walls provide no privacy. NONE. What the ever loving fuck!? There's a huge tub and shower and nothing more than a thick pane of glass separating them from the rest of the room.

Aw-ful.

What has he gotten himself into?

[angelizs]

Hiii I just wanna request something (Srry if ur not taking requests rn) anyways can you do Ruggie,epel,riddle and lilia with a shy s/o who’s love language is physical touch (aka just hugs and cuddles half the time basically)

HII ANON I'm so sorry for taking so long!! I don't even know if you stuck around tho I hope so! and yes, I do take requests but they aren't my priority right now, as I have many other wips I'm working on, so they take forever, as you can see. still, I'm flattered you like my writing so much you'd make me a request! if you're seeing this, I hope you like it <3 

Summary: Riddle, Ruggie, Epel and Lilia with a shy S/O whose love language is physical touch (lots of hugs and cuddles)!

Notes: gn!reader, mostly fluff with some angst sprinkled in (mentions of overblots, nightmares and past traumas, but nothing too serious don't worry!), headcanons + short scenarios since a format wasn't specified, hope you enjoy it anon!

Riddle

Riddle isn't used to receiving affectionate touches, so it takes some time for him to get used to your habits. Not that he's complaining! Just... give him some warning next time, okay?

The first time it happened it went like this: Riddle, being the busy dorm leader he is, had a meeting with his dorm students to attend. He was helping you out with a subject you didn't understand and, as much as he loved to spend some quality time with you, he really had to go. As he got up, you did the same. Since you're shy, you'd usually just wave him goodbye with a cute smile, so this was quite unusual. He wasn't expecting to receive a farewell hug.

Riddle froze, unsure of what to do. His whole face was as red as Heartslabyul's roses and he was stiff, hand hovering at his side. Every place that you were touching felt like it was on fire, it was very strange. Still, it was... nice. It was very nice. The pressure from your body holding his, the pure affection transferred from such an act, the feeling of being cared for. It was nice.

You quickly let go of him, cheeks burning as well, and stuttered some parting words  before scurrying away. He stood there for some minutes, staring at the spot you had long left, face still red and thoughts running wild.

Riddle wasn't used to this at all, but it was nice, and he couldn't help but crave your touch.

(He was a little out of it during the whole meeting, the scene from earlier repeating on his head. Trey got so worried he ended the meeting halfway through.)

The next times you met, be it on a study date (you'd both deny it was a date though) or a casual hangout, Riddle would expect your farewell hugs, even look forward to them. He made sure to reciprocate them, wrapping his arms around you softly and resting his head against your shoulder, closing his eyes and taking a brief moment to just be there with you and feel loved.

Cuddles would take some more time to happen, since just the hugs were already a huge step for both of you. (Not to mention the casual touches you'd give so freely. A hand on his arms or your head resting against his was enough to make his face burst to flames and his mind be consumed by that single moment). 

It was on one of your late night studies session, you were both at Ramshackle's lounge, cups of tea gone cold on your table and books pilling up on each other. The couch was calling for you and your exhaustion from a long day of classes crashed onto you as you listened to Riddle's calm voice explain some potion's formula. Truly, you wanted to hear what he had to say, but you couldn't help but relax near him.

The weight of your head hitting his shoulder made him stop in his tracks and just stay still as he processed the situation. He normally would feel a tinge of irritation from his lecture being cut short, but he couldn't stay mad at you, specially when he saw how tired you were but insisted on keep trying to get the formula right. 

Riddle could try to clean up your table, but that would make him move too much and disturb your sleep. When he saw how peaceful you looked, completely safe by his side, he couldn't bring himself to wake you up. Thus he adjusted your positions on the couch, making you both lean down to not put a strain on your neck, and wrapped his arms around your torso to make sure you wouldn't fall in the middle of the night. Just a quick nap and he would be back at his dorm.

You both wake up cuddling the next morning. Both your faces burn in embarrassment and you're quick to get up and apologize, offering to make breakfest for him. He accepts the offer, but as you're having tea together, your hair tousled and your eyes drowsy, he thinks on how it was the best sleep he's had in a while.

From then on, you get a bit more bold in your physical touches, the shyness ebbing away bit by bit when you're near him. He still gets caught off guard at times, but he loves it. From someone who never got such things growing up, it means the world to him how you're willing to show your affection in such a way.

He'll always blush, no matter how much time passes. You find it extremely endearing. Throw in a compliment in the mix and you've got the ultimate combo to fluster and please him at the same time.

Ruggie

Ruggie found it adorable how your shyness contrasted his shamelessness. He thought you two made for quite the pair. 

He's used to physical touch, being in Savanaclaw where play fights and roughhousing is pretty common between students, so your occasional touches weren't anything new, though they were gentler than what he was used to, and he didn't give much thought to it.

That changed after Leona's overblot. When the fight was over, the feelings of helplessness came crashing down on him, the fact they'd surely lose the tournament even after all their efforts and that his closest friend (were they even friends? The doubt crept up to him) had betrayed him, uttered the words he hated to hear. The exhaustion and the fact he almost died- his friend- his dorm leader- Leona almost-

Before he could spiral any longer, you came crashing onto him, figure shaking as your arms held him close, tightly as if trying to get your bodies as close together as possible, to feel that he was there and real and alive. He could feel your heart beating like crazy against your chest, mirroring his own. His shoulder, where you were leaning your face on, felt wet. Your hands gripped onto his shirt like a lifeline. You were muttering something, voice breaking, as if saying "we're okay" over and over. 

Ruggie embraced you back, holding on just as tightly, burrying his face on your hair. He never was held like this, like he was something precious, like he truly had worth. In that moment, in your arms, he felt loved.

Ruggie's hunger isn't limited to food. In fact, you'd come to notice that he seems to be hungry to be loved too. Ever since the incident, Ruggie seemed more eager to share little touches with you, letting them linger longer, doing things out of his way to have an excuse for you to touch him, like doing little favours in exchange for a hug and, if you were feeling bold enough, a head rub. 

For him to take time out of his busy schedule to spend it with you in hopes that he'd get your affection back meant a lot to you, so you tried to overcome some of your shyness to be able to show him just how much you appreciated it and all the little things he did, even doing some acts of service on occasion for him as well.

The cuddles came some time later. You knew Ruggie had nightmares at times, some regarding his life before he came to NRC and some about Leona's overblot. He didn't want you to worry about it and waved it off, but you could see when they had an impact on him, his darker eyebags and exhaustion making it clear to you. You'd give him back rubs as he rested his head against yours, letting him decide if he'd like to talk about them or just spend some time in silence when that happened. 

One night, you were woken up by your phone ringing. You answered, still half asleep, and were surprised to hear Ruggie's shaking voice coming from the other side, breath ragged as he murmured something about being at your door. Without missing a beat, you ran down the stairs, not caring about the creaks of the floor or the coldness of it against your bare feet. You opened the door before he could even end the call, hurrying him in to get out of the chilly night air.

He looked like a mess, hands shaking and eyes dropping, chest heaving up and down. As soon as you closed the door, you embraced him, one hand rubbing up and down his back while the other patted his hair, trying to calm him down. The grip he had on you was so tight it could bruise, his voice came out rushed as he explained his nightmare. You decided there was no way you'd leave him alone that night, not when he sounded like that.

You took him to your bedroom, noticing Grim was still sleeping on his side of the room, and proposed to share the bed. You were a bit awkward as you got in a comfortable position, but seeing him in that state made you put the shyness away for a moment, focusing on making sure he was okay. You let him bury his head on your shoulder, arms wrapping around his back and hands playing with his hair until he fell asleep, waiting for his breath to soften. 

Both ended up sleeping in for the next day, but you couldn't bring yourself to feel bad about skipping class when you saw how refreshed he looked in the morning, his usual playful demeanor coming back as he joked with you while he cooked breakfeast. 

You've been showing him more physical affection since then, hugs and cheek kisses getting more common on the times you met with each other in the middle of your busy days. His ears perk up and his tail starts wagging as he offers you a cheeky grin.

As used to it as he is, there's a spot behind his ears that if you rub juuuust right will always fluster him and make him let out little giggles. If you rub it after a long day he'll melt in your arms. You got yourself a happy hyena! 

Epel

Epel is used to touch, living with a big family who'd always show affection with hugs and headpats. Therefore, when you started to show it to him the same way, he reciprocated instantly, going as far to initiate it himself, oftentimes through handshakes, pats on the back and side hugs.

If your shyness stops you from reaching out he'd notice and do it himself, helping you to come out of your shell bit by bit, not making a big deal out of it and letting these interactions be casual. He'd be happy to help someone he cares about! 

The first time you initiated a hug was very special to him. It was after he had another spat with Vil about his behaviour. As much as he pretended these didn't affect him at all, deep down he'd get hurt by the harsh words his dorm leader could direct at him. He knew Vil wanted only his best, but his methods weren't the most effective on someone as headstrong as Epel. 

He was hiding in a corner of the hallways, a secret spot he hoped not even Rook could find him in (if such a thing was even possible), head resting against his knees. His thoughts kept going back to the lecture Vil gave him this time, eyes watering against his will and making him furiously rub his face to get rid of them.

That's when a familiar soft voice was heard, making him look up at you. You had a worried expression as you kneeled over to meet him eye to eye, hand hesitating for a second before you rested it on his shoulder and asked what was wrong. He muttered that you didn't need to worry, it was just the usual routine that came with being part of Pomefiore, refusing to meet your eyes, ashamed you've seen him in such a pathetic state. 

You called his name and he turned around. He couldn't ignore it when you said it like that, with so much care, each letter dripping from your lips like honey. The hand on his shoulder pulled him forward until he met your chest, your other arm coming from behind to support his back. You told him it was okay to feel upset about what happened, that he could come to talk with you whenever he wanted to, that you'd listen to him.

He felt a rush of affection run through him as he noticed how firm your tone was, so certain. You were defending him, taking his side, and that meant a lot to him. It didn't feel patronizing, as it would sometimes happen with other people who felt he needed protection since he was so "small and cute". No, with you, it felt like he wasn't alone, like he had someone to count on to have his back, someone that trusted him and wanted him to trust them back. And of course he did, so he let himself lean into your touch fully, a nonverbal "thank you" both understood.

After that, he started to notice you liked to hug a lot. His side hugs became full ones and his heart oftentimes skipped a beat when he saw your pleased face. It felt good to see how happy he made someone he cared so much about.

The cuddles came in naturally, so much so neither of you noticed it until afterwards. You've gotten so used to each other's touch it wasn't anything novel when, a certain day, Epel rested his head on your lap as you were studying in the courtyard and started to talk about his day, complaining about the extra homework Crewel had given his class and gushing over the next spelldrive club meeting he'd have. You listened on, adding in your own two cents and laughing along, your hand playing with his hair. 

Only at night, once you're about to go to sleep do you think about that moment and notice how you two started cuddling like it was something you've always done. Your face heated up at that and you couldn't catch any sleep, thinking over and over about that. Epel was in a similar position, butterflies in his stomach as he thought about how soft your lap felt or how gentle your fingers were as they treaded through his hair. 

Even if there was a bit of awkwardness the next time you met, you quickly overcame it as you noticed how you were both in the same situation. The cuddling continued to happen more frequently, to the point none of your other first year friends even batted an eye at it. 

He likes it the most when he takes you to a ride on his blastycle and you hug tight onto him, head resting against his back, trusting him to keep you safe, it makes him feel dependable and adrenalin rushes two times more than when he rides alone. If you let him try to carry you he'd also be delighted, wanting to prove that he can (even if you two topple over after taking two steps, at least you're having fun).

Lilia

Lilia has lived for so long, touch isn't anything new to him. He'd seen the bad side of it, the hands that hurt and kill, and the good side, the hands that soothe and protect. He's done both, with his own hands. 

Raising Silver, he came to learn the importance of physical touch as an act of affection. For someone used to the violence of the battlefield, being able to experience touch as a soft thing, as a show of love, had been quite the change. He learnt to love the way fingers can run through another person's hair, the way lips can brush a forehead, the way hands can fit together, the way love can shine through little daily actions, every touch becoming a whisper of "I'm here, I care about you, I love you."

Being quite the extrovert, Lilia has no shame in showing affection for others in a physical way. A pat on their head, a hand on their back, chin resting on their shoulder, it all comes easily to him, and he's delighted when you start doing such gestures with him too! Considering your shy nature, he's happy you felt comfortable enough with him to reciprocate his antics.

Hugs aren't something he usually does, as he prefers more casual types of touches, but he likes it when you start hugging him more often! It's a good change of pace to keep things lively!

It starts small, little hugs as greetings or farewells, and then as thank you's and you're welcome's. It's like a whole language you two share, no words needed when your actions speak louder. 

It's on Halloween that it really hits him just how much these moments mean to you. The two of you decided to go check the other dorms' decorations when he was on break, arms interlocked as you walked around campus and commented on the details and costumes. Whenever a student would appear to jumpscare you, you turned to him in a hug, burrying you head on his neck, trusting him to protect you from anything that might come your way. It was the trust, the comfort, the smile you gave him everytime afterwards that made him realize that that's your way of saying "I love you" without words.

He starts to appreciate these touches even more, giving you hugs more frequently, be it to celebrate a victory or to console your sadness.

These hugs envolve to cuddling, as in one moment you'd find yourself sitting side by side, legs touching, and in the other you'd have your back against his chest as he propped his chin on your shoulder. It usually flustered you, but you've grown used to it enough to be able to relax into it.

One time, a history study session turned into him telling you stories from his past, tales of people long gone that managed to capture your interest, be it because of the enthusiastic way he spoke about them or because it was all new to you, someone who wasn't from this world before. The way your attention was solely on him, eagerly hanging onto every word and even making questions or little sounds of surprise, made him feel elated that his old stories could still entertain. 

When he started to talk about his travels, your eyes shone with excitement, the desire to discover a new world and the possibilities this chance presented. You asked him if he could show you it all someday, from the dunes of the Scalding Sands to the waves of the Coral Sea. This proposal of sharing important moments of your life with him made warmth spread through his body, fondness coloring his voice as he softly agreed.

It's not strange to find the two of you cuddling or stading closely to each other, touching in some way, be it by interwining your hands or leaning on each other. The Diasomnia dorm grew used to the sight of you huddled together on the lounge's couch, even Silver seemed happy that his father had found someone that made him feel loved.

Lilia specially likes when it's just the two of you, cuddling on his bed, and you take his face into your hands, fingers softly rubbing his skin, heavy lidded eyes taking in every detail and reaction. Such an innocent gesture, warm hands holding onto him so gently, makes him feel cared for more than grand declarations ever could. Give him a little kiss on the nose or the forehead and his chest will burst with affection, making him give you little kisses all over your face, your giggles sounding heavenly to him. 

Masterlist

[highvern]

omg hey saw that your reqs are open hehe if ure free or if ure thinking abt taking a break from your wips would u consider writing something abt jeonghan x monster!reader from the recent one you wrote :0 of course you don't have to write a whole fic abt it but i'd like to know how they ended up together! i'm so curious ... and also i think i'm just a little insane abt that fic . well. hehe.

I too am a little insane over that fic tbh it was so fun to write!

So basically when monster!reader left the lake she essentially becomes human. Naiads/sirens aren't really known for their complex emotions in mythology lol so most of what she's experienced sans loneliness has been heavily muted because she was immortal and had been in that lake for who knows how long. did y'all watch aquamarine and how she's kinda childish about emotions? think that

But she knows she's drawn to Jeonghan, she has the insatiable urge to be around him all the time, and that's the reason she left her lake because he couldn't stay there forever but she could join him in his world.

More under the cut! this ended up so much longer than I thought but slay.

Jeonghan would show her everything, and she is wide eyed the entire time because all of this existed and she didn't know about it? It makes her feel a little ashamed for believing humans were nothing more than playthings for so long. But I digress.

He takes her to the bookshop he likes to frequent, discovers she can't read obviously (not that she cares), and promises to teach her if she wants. It's fall so the fruit orchards on the outskirts of the village are full of autumn fruit that he picks for her, watching her intently as she tries them with enthusiasm. Jeonghan even takes her through the woods, walking the secluded trails he knows like the back of his hand as she watches the animals scurry in the underbrush with wonder.

And all of these positive feelings she associates with him. Even on days where she can hear the lake screaming for her to comeback, she remembers all the things she missed that Jeonghan has shared with her. And so she stays.

Winter is horrible in her opinion. Cold and dry, she feels like her skin is going to peel off from the heat of the fire she remains in front of all day, attempting to read the books Jeonghan's collected over the years. In the lake, she'd lay down at the bottom, slumbering as the ice crystalized the surface of her home this time of year. And then, when warmer days came, she'd rise to play again. But her now human body won't let her do that anymore. So she has to suffer the biting air.

It's refreshing.

One night, wind is howling and snow is piling against the glass of the windows and she just can't keep herself warm enough under the layers of wool to find rest. So she does what she always does when she runs into a problem in this strange new world. She goes to Jeonghan.

He's shocked to see her in nothing but her nightgown at the foot of his bed, half of her face illuminated in candle light. Jeonghan's seen her in far more compromising states of dress but she always looks so beautiful it makes it hard to breath. And when she complains of the cold, he offers to let her share his bed. Respectfully.

She isn't sure how that'll help but she agrees since Jeonghan hasn't led her astray yet, diving under his blankets to be shocked by the pleasant toastiness underneath. She sighs as her shivering body slowly heats up, eyes slipping shut drowsily as Jeonghan lays a few inches away, watching her.

They wake up the next morning, tangled in one another's arms. Her cheek against his chest, legs wrapped around his to soak in the early morning. After that, she comes to his bed every night under the guise of staying warm.

And then spring comes around and she practically burst from her excitement. She'll get to see the flowers and all the new life emerge as the world wakes up. The town has acclimated to her presence now, unaware of who or what she was before this life, but hypnotized by her sweet smiles and childish laughter all the same. Each morning she practically runs to the town square to look for the garland Jeonghan mentioned, pouting when it's nowhere to be seen as she goes about her errands.

"It's still too cold." Jeonghan explains, snickering at her scowl when she accuses him of lying.

So she waits. And she waits. And she never knew time could feel like this, slow in a painful way. Time had been her friend before but now she resents him.

Then one morning, Jeonghan is acting odd. Not the odd paleness he has when he falls ill or the strange quietness when he argues with his father. But a new sort of oddness she has yet to witness. He keeps glancing at a cabinet in the kitchen over her head as they eat breakfast. When she turns to look herself, his face stretches and his eyes round; like the fish in her lake.

He isn't working in the mill today so they're meant to go explore now that the ground is soft and the sun is closer. Even the wind has turned his sharp claws into gentle hands this morning.

Just as they're about to step outside to leave, Jeonghan pulls her back by her wrist.

"I got you a gift" He whispers.

Her head tips to the side, "A gift?"

Instead of answering, he crosses back to the cabinet. There's a strange rope coiled on one of the shelves, pink and red and white. And when he aproaches her with it, spreading the length from arm to arm to display it properly, she realizes he wasn't lying about the flowers.

"It's beautiful!" She exhales, enamored by the tight twine of blossoming buds. Even in her new form, she loves beautiful things.

She gentle caresses the velvety petals, completely hypnotized.

"I made it for you." He glows in that way that he does so often under her gaze. The way most people do under her approving stare but she thinks his red cheeks are the prettiest.

Together, they hang the garland over the front door. It's meant to welcome a prosperous spring and good luck for the year. Jeonghan doesn't mention it's also a tradition for newly betrothed couples to signify their devotion to one another.

Passing through the town, she examines each new decoration eagerly, Jeonghan smiling behind her as he watches.

"Look at this one!" she squeals, a braid of three lines, crisscrossing yellow, white, and lilac.

She's ecstatic the world isn't gray anymore, bursts of color dripping from every surface possible. Even the sky has returned to a cheery blue, dimpled with gossamer clouds sporadically.

And in her excitement, she does what she's seen the humans do when they celebrate. When taverns are rowdy with drunk patrons, or when a couple gets married in the small chapel at the center of town. When the women welcome their husbands back from long journeys.

She throws her arms around Jeonghan's neck and kisses him.

After he swallows the initial shock, he kisses her back.

[siderealscribblings]

Ao3's down, have some NeuviFuri WIP

__________________________________

"I see…and you're certain there are no survivors?" 

Furina paused outside Neuvillette's office, hand raised mid-knock as he heard a grave voice come from inside. 

"We aren't sure," a voice said softly. "The members of the derelict order seem to have perished in the explosion and the agents sent to apprehend them have not reported back…I fear we may have lost the squadron entirely." 

Furina's guts twisted as she stepped away from the door, quietly ducking into the library next to Neuvillette's office and locking the door behind her. When she occupied Egeria's old quarters, the first order of business was to make sure each room had more than one way out. Call it paranoia, but Furina didn't like to have her back against the wall without a way out. It was not, as Neuvillette suggested, because of her obsession with crime novels; just because The Adventures of Detective Ladybug had a secret door in nearly every installment did not mean that Furina redesigned her palace on a whim because of a light novel. 

(Though she would be lying if she said she didn't get a kick out of pressing a hidden switch behind a bookcase to open a passageway into the back of Neuvillette's office.) 

"Have you informed Lady Furina about this yet?" The other voice asked, his voice muffled by the wooden panel behind the bookcase in Neuvillette's office. 

"No…not until we have something more than dead bodies to report," Neuvillette said. "She has plenty on her mind with the centennial approaching; I'd like to know more before we take our findings to her." 

Oh you sneaky lizard! Furina silently huffed, bottling up her indignation to release properly at a later time. How many times must I tell you not to keep things from me?! 

"I understand; I’ll leave informing Lady Furina to your discretion,” the other voice said. “For now, what shall my squad do?” 

“For now, maintain a perimeter around the Beryl Region and detain anyone who attempts to enter,” Neuvillette said. “I will see to this…disturbance personally and see if the Phantom agents are still alive.” 

Phantom agents? Furina thought. What is he doing dispatching the Marechaussee Phantom out without discussing it with me first?! 

Furina managed to keep her fury contained until she heard his office door close. Summoning all her righteous indignation, she grabbed the handle of the secret door and wrenched it open. “Ah-ha!” 

Thunk! Furina’s grand, dramatic reveal was thwarted as the sliding library door jammed, freezing on the tracks after only opening about a foot. 

“I thought I heard something scurrying around in the walls,” Neuvillette sighed, watching Furina grow more and more frustrated as she tried to force the stuck door open. “Do you need help with-” 

“N-No, you just sit there and think about what you’ve done!” Furina grunted, shoving her shoulder against the bookcase. “I’ll, mngh, be with you in…just…a moment…” 

Neuvillette sighed quietly through his nose, leaning back in his chair to watch Furina give up on opening the door and settle for trying to wriggle her way through the narrow gap between the wall. 

“Thought you could, ugh, hide things from me did you?” Furina crowed as triumphantly as one could while squeezing their way through a narrow bookcase. 

“I take it you heard most of that conversation just now?” Neuvillette said, bending down to pick Furina’s hat off the ground as it rolled off her head. 

“Just the treasonous bits,” Furina grunted, her hips sticking in the frame as she glared impotently at Neuvillette. “I should have you disbarred-” 

“You will have to get through the door first,” Neuvillette said, weathering her withering glare with a patient smile. “It would be easier if you go out and come back in the front door, you know.” 

Furina had the same thought, but now that Neuvillette had suggested it she was even more determined to wriggle her way through the narrow crack under her own power. She was mortified enough that her ass getting stuck in the crack was the only thing preventing her from confronting her Iudex for his indiscretion; she was not going to back out and admit she made a mistake now. 

“I thought I made it clear that I detest it when you lie to me, Neuvillette!” Furina grunted, settling for glaring at him with her torso sticking out of the bookcase. 

“Have I lied to you or have I just not discussed this with you yet?” Neuvillette asked, tenting his fingers as he watched her wriggle with a little more success. “There was nothing to discuss until a few moments ago-” 

“Oh, but there was enough to dispatch the Marechaussee Phantom under my nose?!” Furina snapped. 

“I believe I informed you that the Phantom was investigating increased Primordial Seawater concentration around Elynas’ remains,” Neuvillette said. “I distinctly remember putting it in with the usual crime and law-enforcement reports-” 

“You know I don’t read those!” Furina growled. 

“Well, if you had, this wouldn’t be such a surprise,” Neuvillette said as Furina finally admitted defeat and slammed the bookcase behind her as she slipped back into the passage. Neuvillette heard her furious footsteps echoing in the passage, listened to the library door bang open and waited for his not-Archon to stamp her way back towards the door to his office. 

Bang! The door flew open as Furina stormed through, hair messy and coat covered in dust and grime from the passageway. Were she an actual Archon, Neuvillette might have divine retribution to fear; as it was, she could only scowl at him. 

“Explain…yourself,” Furina panted, snatching her hat back from him as he offered it up to her. “Before I have you put on trial!” 

“I don’t believe the sitting Iudex will rule against me in this case,” Neuvillette sighed, leaving Furina to fume in front of his desk as he got up and locked the door. “Seawater concentrations have ebbed and flowed over time; per your request, I have taken it upon myself to dispatch research teams to investigate whether or not these surges are anything to worry about before sounding the alarm bells.”

“Well now that people have died, can we start ringing the bells or do we want to wait for a tidal wave to drown us?” Furina grumbled, brushing herself off. “Details; now.” 

"They were in the report-" 

"You know I trust you to handle everything law-enforcement related in Fontaine; I haven't had the urge to double-check your work in fifty years!" Furina spat. "Although apparently I should have!" 

"If it gets you to read my briefs in the future, a little treason would have been well worth it," Neuvillette said. “You are aware that some refugees from the defunct Narzissenkreuz Institute have taken to conducting independent research into the upcoming deluge?” 

“Don’t say upcoming like it isn’t avoidable,” Furina hissed as though speaking it aloud would bring on the floods. “Yes and I thought we agreed to let them do what they will? The more brainpower put towards our problem, the better, no?” 

“No, as it turns out,” Neuvillette sighed. “We have reason to believe the members of the so-called Narzissenkreuz Ordo have gone a bit mad as scientists do from time to time. We secreted some Phantom agents into their ranks, as you suggested, to keep an eye on their goals…which turned out to be fairly grim.”

Neuvillette held out a crumpled sheet of paper for Furina to read, hands clasped behind his back as he studied her increasingly horrified expression. 

“S-Sweet Egeria's ghost, what have they been trying to do?!” Furina hissed, growing more incensed the more she read. “Holy Blade of Narzissenkreuz?! Circle of Four Orthants?! Tree of-what is this drivel?!” 

“The barkings of a pack of mad dogs,” Neuvillette said. “I dispatched the Phantoms to bring the Ordo in for questioning but…well, there was a violent explosion in Elynas recently and we seem to have lost contact with our agents. I was planning on departing for Elynas tomorrow to investigate but…I don’t think we’re going to find anything good.” 

Furina’s indignation ebbed away as she tossed the report back on Neuvillette’s desk. Things were too grave to be picking fights with Neuvillette at the moment; she could get huffy and bent out of shape all she wanted until lives were on the line. “Right…best to see for ourselves what this is all about. When do we leave?” 

“I hope the we you’re referring to doesn’t include you,” Neuvillette said.

“Why wouldn’t it?” 

“Why would it?” Neuvillette sighed. “A derelict order of mad scientists may have performed unspeakable atrocities on the bloated corpse-island of a relic from the Calamity in a misguided attempt to survive the apocalypse and you want to take a day-trip?” 

“Seeing as how my retainers have taken to hiding things from me-” 

“Hiding things from you by including them in reports placed directly on your desk?” 

“-it seems I must take to the field myself to ensure the safety of my people,” Furina barrelled on. "As a good Archon should." 

“How gallant of you,” Neuvillette said dryly. “And what if we encounter maniac scientists or gods know what else on that island?” 

“That’s where you come in,” Furina said brightly, patting him on the shoulder. “I have every confidence that you are equal to the task of protecting me from danger.” 

“The surest way to do that would be for you to remain in Court,” Neuvillette pointed out. 

“I was tasked with preventing this calamity,” Furina said. “If the Queen doesn’t lead, how can she expect her subjects to follow?” 

“As much as I admire your willingness to lead by example, can’t you just take credit for my work once it’s over?” Neuvillette asked in all sincerity. “You know I’m happy to let you have the limelight; just say you rode in on the back of a mighty white stallion and vanquished the oppressors or…something like that.” 

“Your skills as a playwright need a little fine tuning,” Furina sighed. “And what if you happen to die like the Phantom agents might have?” 

“I think I’m more difficult to kill than unenlightened mortals,” Neuvillette said. 

“Okay, fine; there is no earthly reason why I can’t stay behind while you poke around Elynas’ corpse,” Furina said, folding her arms. “Oh wait, no, I thought of one; I don’t want to.” 

Furina had once been reluctant to play the I’m Technically The Archon And I’m Technically In Charge And You Technically Need To Do What I Say card; how Neuvillette longed for those days. “Furina-” 

“Wh-what if some deranged maniac from the Ordo takes advantage of your absence and sticks a blade in my ribs?” Furina said, fumbling for a plausible excuse to tag along. “Maybe this is all a ruse to lure you away from the capitol to make an attempt on my life!” 

“Not even you are that paranoid,” Neuvillette said, folding his arms. “Speak your mind.” 

Furina’s lips twisted in a small pout, glaring away from Neuvillette. “...I don’t like being the only one of us not doing anything. And don’t say I do enough by keeping up appearances; not when you’re ankle-deep in seawater and fighting mad-scientists on my behalf.” 

“I’m the only one of us capable of that-” 

“Well maybe I would like to be capable of that as well!” Furina snapped. “I’m starting to feel useless and I don’t know how much longer I can go on feeling useless before I go crazy! I haven’t left the Court since Rex Lapis decided to sneak into our country and if I have to look at one more embroidery pattern for the stupid tablecloths for this stupid centennial celebration I am going to drown myself in our swimming pool!” 

Furina finished with a stamp of her foot, glaring up at Neuvillette as she fully expected another exasperated sigh. Instead he caught a glint of something that looked like admiration, his lips pursed as he seemed to be weighing her request. 

“Rumors about what these Ordo loonies are doing will make it back to court sooner or later,” Furina said, looping an arm through Neuvillette’s and looking out the window towards the horizon. “What better way to convince the people of their Archon’s strength than riding out to meet them in battle with Iudex Neuvillette? You and I both come out looking good, I get some fresh air, and we handle this without involving any more casualties.” 

“So long as you are not included in those casualties,” Neuvillette said, fidgeting with the corner of his cloak. “...if we are attacked-” 

“I have no shame running and hiding like a terrified pomeranian,” Furina promised. 

“You must do exactly as I say for a change,” Neuvillette added. 

“I will be the picture of obedience, my Lord,” Furina beamed. 

“Even if I tell you to abandon me to my death and save your own life?” Neuvillette asked. Furina hesitated, chewing on the corner of her lip before answering. 

“Not happily, but, if you ask me to leave you behind to die…I will,” Furina lied. 

[keysorsomething]

Yainiathrope

This was an old old wip but I just got around to finishing it off!!

This was inspired by a thought I had posted a long time ago, and I've seen a couple other people mention it so please enjoy !!

Cross-posted on Ao3

You sigh, looking out at the woods. It had been a long mission. It was always a long mission, but this one just felt longer. And more heartbreaking. And so emotionally draining. You couldn’t sleep tonight every time you closed your eyes the vicious images of what you saw this week flashed behind your eyelids.

The woods were peaceful. Keyword, were. You let your shoulders fall loose, leaning against a tree when you heard it. Some small, strange laughter. You jerk up, your head whipping around. You were supposed to be alone. You had taken a small walk away from camp just to keep yourself from being bothered by your coworkers, and your base was miles away from the town.

There’s another sound, this time that of a stick cracking. Someone is closing in on you. You hear a soft pit-pat of fluffy feet on the loose dirt. Your heart starts to race, you have to figure out what to do. The obvious option is to run, except if this is a hungry animal they just give chase. You aren’t too sure about your likelihood to outrun a bear.

“I have a gun,” You announce, pulling your sidearm. “It’s fully loaded. I’ll use it,” You explain. If it’s a person, they should leave. Unless they have their own gun. If it’s an animal, you may end up in a standoff. Perhaps it’s wolves. Are there wolves here? You aren’t sure, but you know if you stand off against them they’ll get bored and leave.

The silver moonlight illuminates the small space you can see through, all of the trees breaking up your line of sight. You see a glimpse of fur. And then you hear laughter. Spotted fur, brown fur. Something meant for savannahs or deserts.

It finally creeps into your full eyeshot. Baby blue eyes piercing you. It’s a hyena. A fucking hyena in the middle of the woods. It’s snarling, growling at you. Its face is covered in scars. A brutal sight. It didn’t look like scars from animal fights either. They were too steady, too clean.

Who the fuck fought a hyena with a knife? It wasn’t even a fight, from how medical-perfect the cuts were. Who managed to keep a hyena still enough to do that? And why would they do that?

“Okay, I’m not gonna hurt you,” You assure it. You aren’t sure why you say it. You may have to. It seems to study you. God, whose eyes do they remind you of?

As it creeps closer, you see more of it. It was so buff and too big for a usual hyena. It has an almost uncanny look to it. Like yes, this was no doubt a hyena. It wasn’t a wolf or a bear. That was a spotted hyena. But then, was it a hyena? It may not have been another animal, but it was just…. off. Like a not-dear, or that one photo of the husky through the window. The thought that comes to mind, looking at its eerily familiar blue eyes is the wolf muttations from The Hunger Games. How Katniss explained that they were so much like the dead tributes, with their eyes and hair. Its face isn’t the only thing cut up, with scars all along its back. Like this big, curved one going from its left shoulder that turns up to meet the base of the back of its neck.

You back up slowly, watching the hyena as it keeps coming at you. It was slowly, but you aren’t sure if it was aggressive. You’re no expert in hyena body language. It comes forward until you’re all but pinned to a tree, sniffing at your ankles. It looks up at you, maw opening. You squeeze your eyes shut, you’re going to get mauled by a fucking hyena in a place where there should be no fucking hyenas. But before its teeth sink into you, some other poor animal makes a noise off in the distance.

It scurries off, leaving you alone in the woods, spooked. You sigh, looking back at your gun. Why didn’t you fire it? You don’t know. You get off the tree, turn around, and start walking back to camp. As fast as you can without making any noise. You don’t want to call for the hyena to come back and get you anyway.

Everything is dead silent back at camp. You creep through the dark rows of tents, looking around. They’re singles, so there’s only one person in each - the benefit of working for a PMC and not the actual military - and you stumble back to your own. You hardly notice that one of the tents on your way is unzipped.

You collapse into your tent, pulling yourself in and zipping up the tent. For a brief moment you let yourself feel comforted by the thought that so many people surround you the statistical probability of choosing you if it comes through is low. Then, you feel guilty, because you like these people. They’re friends, at the most basic part of it. Friends who you trust with your life, and who trust you with theirs’. And, you mean, the hyena has your scent, so who’s to say anyone else could distract it? You go back to thinking it might pick someone else.

You don’t sleep well that night. You rarely do, the military has ruined such a simple action for you forever. But that night was an outlier with how bad it was. You barely even feel rested, like you had blinked and awoken in the morning. Maybe even like you were running in your sleep.

It was way too early to be up when you step out into the camp from your individual tent. It seems no one else is up yet, bet you feel the need to look around, just for a little bit. Maybe you’ll sleep better if your subconscious accepts that the hyena really had run off. You wander through the camp, checking on each tent’s front, noting how once more all seems fine.

You almost slam into something, and you probably would have, if you weren’t so well trained. Instead, you backpedal, standing firm as you lean away from what you were about to slam into. It’s one of your coworkers, Nikto. Someone who didn’t speak to anyone much, who was a bigger fan of staring then speaking. That was how he was now, staring down at you. He was shirtless, a towel wrapped around his waist despite the fact that his mask was still firmly around his waist. You stare back into his eyes for a moment, blinking slowly.

“I’m sorry, Nikto,” You say, and he grunts before walking past. You watch as he slips into the one tent that was open the night before beside your own, taking note of the large scar on his left shoulder.

[stabbyfoxandrew]

As much as I love angel neil I'd like to show some love to vamodrew this week 🧛‍♂️

(Altho if you love angel neil more by all means)

WIP Wednesday (4/24) | Vampire Andrew AU (Part 119)

“Oh, is that what you think?”

Kevin startles at the question, but sticks to his guns. “Yes. If you had any restraint, you would’ve been able to resist me. But you couldn’t. So you told me what you were and offered to keep me safe in exchange for my blood. Don’t you remember?”

Andrew does, of course. Because if he hadn’t made this deal, Kevin would be long dead. Terrible as it is, Andrew is certain of it. He needed a way to manage his thirst for Kevin and this worked for both of them. So he takes a bit now and then instead of slurping him down like a juice pouch.

“I remember.” Andrew answers. But this accusation has severely pissed him off. He has to keep himself on a short leash every fucking day to keep the rest of them safe. Doesn’t Kevin understand that? Do any of them understand that?

He’d like to show just how much he’s been holding back. He’d like to storm onto the court and drag Neil up here kicking and screaming and drain him right in Kevin’s lap. But that would be— so good, Andrew shakes his head— wrong. Andrew bites down on the inside of his cheek, not enough to break the skin. Just enough to ground himself.

Then with his voice low and menacing, he says, “Kevin, if I didn’t have self control there would be a bunch of smashed security cameras littering the stadium and a pair of dead strikers on that court. The only question is which of you I would’ve killed first.”

Kevin’s eyes widen. “Wh—”

“I made our deal to protect you from Riko, but also from myself. If you don’t understand that you’re a bigger fool than I ever thought possible. Now go play with your new toy before I steal him away from you.”

Kevin scurries back onto the court, unadulterated fear coursing through his veins. And Andrew nearly regrets telling him that. But it’s good for him to know. To understand exactly what kind of monster Andrew is and the things he could do if he wanted.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Quiet Ones 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a quiet life, but your peace is fractured by a chaotic man.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, short!shy!reader

Note: don't ask me why I did this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You keep to yourself. That’s the safest, the easiest way to live. You keep your head down, your eyes to yourself, your voice bottled up. 

You grip your phone as you approach the coffee shop. You stand on your toes to see through the painted windows and frown at the long queue. You won’t have to worry about that. Like everything else social, you’ve found a work around. 

You look at your phone, the app showing your order as ‘preparing’. It should be done shortly as the progress bar fills close to complete. You can bear the claustrophobia for a minute or so until it’s ready. 

You go to open the door but an arm reaches past you and does that first. You step back, patiently waiting for the other customer to precede you. They don’t move. You stare at their shoes. Dark blue velvet loafers with gold emblems on chains.  

“Go on, baby face, I got it,” the man’s voice makes your skin crawl. 

You shrink down and give a nod, throat clenching as you struggle to find your voice. You’re not much for conversation but you’re but impolite. 

“Thanks,” you force out without raising your head. 

You scurry through quickly, a bit to close to the stranger than you like, and you clasp your phone against your chest as you stand just away from the cluster of people awaiting their orders. You bounce on your feet as the noises join together to form a cacophony; the hissing steam, the clanging metal, the clinking porcelain, the calls of the workers behind the counter, and the buzz of the crowd seated or standing around the cafe. Sweat gathers on the nape of your neck as the chaos swirls a storm around you. 

You pull your phone away from the front of your pullover and check the screen. Should be ready any moment and you’ll be free of the circus. You adjust your grip on the phone, almost jittery as another customer joins the wait at the pick up window. 

You breathe out. It’s not usually this busy at this time. You have a routine. You can handle the expected. You order on your phone so you don’t need to talk to anyone. You wait outside until it’s almost done then come in too quickly claim your prize. But not today, something’s different and it’s throwing everything off. 

It’s only on Wednesday’s that you venture down to the cafe. It’s the halfway point of your week so you mark it with a taste of motivation. The same order every week. A London fog latte. Simple and affordable. Nothing fancy, nothing complicated. 

Your name cuts through the din, “...medium London fog.” 

You drop your arm to your side and set your shoulders. You march forward through the parting bodies ahead of you and reach for the cup. Before you can grasp it, someone else scoops it up. You nearly cry out in horror. Someone’s stealing your order! 

You turn to the tea thief but they make no move to flee. They hold the cup nonchalantly, turning it to read the sticker on the side, reciting the same name that just rose from the barista’s lips seconds ago. You face the stranger but again, your eyes are downward.

The blue loafers! 

“Cute name,” he comments as he holds the cup out. 

You once more try to take the cup but before you can, he has it out of reach again. Your lashes flick and your fingers twiddle helplessly. His large hand is firmly around the cup so even if you did try to wrestle it from him, you doubt you’d have any hope but to spill it all. 

You look around but no one else seems to notice. They’re all staring at their phones or talking with the person next to them. The staff behind the counter are too busy appeasing the rush of orders. 

“I’ve never tried one of these,” he taunts, “I’m more of a ristretto guy. Like my espresso.” 

You shake your head and rescind your hand, balling it against your fist. What does he want? Why is he bothering you? You said thank you. Did he not hear you? 

“Don’t get yourself in a tizzy,” he pushes the tea towards you, “there you are, sweat pea.” 

You hesitate. You slowly unfurl your fingers and reach for the cup. As you wrap your fingers around it, you can’t help but brush his. Thick and strong and unmoving. He clings to it for just a moment before he lets you have it. 

“Thanks,” you squeak again, this time louder so he certainly hears you. 

“You got a sweet voice,” he puts his hand on his hip, a glimpse of a shiny gold watch face peeking out from beneath his sleeve, “I’d love to hear more of it.” 

Your eyes round as you focus on the zipper of his thin jacket. You shake your head and meekly raise your cup awkwardly and dip your chin slightly. No thanks. 

You turn and weave your way back through the crowd. Your heart is thumping in your chest. What an odd encounter. 

More so, you’re dismayed that he saw you. That he noticed you. For years, you’ve done your best to be invisible. You prefer it that way. You don’t even think your neighbours know you exist. But that man, he seemed to see nothing but you. 

You push outside and nearly drop your cup. You try to steady yourself. You’re all knotted up and tense. You tuck your phone into your back pocket and bring the cup before you nose, inhaling the sweet scent of the foam. Something about it isn’t as soothing as usual. 

You turn down the pavement and wince as a sole scuffs close behind you. Suddenly, another set of steps walk next to yours, measured to keep in tandem with your own short legs. Blue velvet.  

You walk faster. Is he following you? Why? What does he want? He’s much taller, you can’t outpace him. 

“You know, when I said I’d like to hear more, I thought maybe over a coffee?” He suggests. 

You don’t say a word as you keep your eyes forward, squeezing your cup tight as you try not to swish it around too much. You’ve never had to deal with this before. Men don’t see you. There was a time you hated that but since, you were grateful for that. 

“I mean, I could do most of the talking, never had much of a trouble with that, jellybean,” he offers. 

You shake your head. Your throat tightens. You can’t speak. You want to scream but you can’t make a noise. 

As you get to the corner, you stop short. He steps past you but just as quickly catches himself and turns to face you. You gulp and look down at your cup. You can’t keep going. If you do, you’ll lead him right to your home. 

“What’s going on, sweetheart? You forget something? How about we head back and I’ll buy you something sugary to go with that?” 

You furrow your brow and step back on your heel. You bring your eyes up, a furtive glance at his face, brief and flickering. You just want to know what he looks like so you never see him again. 

His blue eyes twinkle, his nose is long but proportioned to his chiseled face, his hair is combed back, the sides shaved, and a thick swatch of hair lines his upper lip. He’s older than you, you know that much, but you’ve never good at gauging age. You’ve never seen him before but you can’t be sure. You don’t look at many faces. 

You pivot and cross the street without looking. You narrowly miss a bumper and get a honk in remonstrance. You can’t stop yourself. You’re panicking. You head down the next street as his footsteps follow. It’s all you can hear.  

As you pass a bin, you dump the drink. You don’t pause as it plummets heavily into the trash and you fall into a brisk half-jog. You pump your arms, puffing wildly, dizzy as you search for a saviour.  

You dash into the library. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Just for anyone to get this man to leave you alone. 

You don’t look back as you enter and head straight for the front counter. You’re out of breath as you approach the rounded edge and tap the bell frantically. A woman emerges from behind the window wall and she greets you with a confused chime. 

“Hello, can I help you?” She asks. 

“Yes, I need...” you gulp and glance at the doors. You push away from the counter and spin, searching. You don’t see the man. He’s probably waiting outside. But you never looked back. You never really saw if he was following. “I...” you turn back to the woman, “never mind.” 

You cross your arms and turn away. You cringe as you realise how ridiculous you must have seemed. Worse, you didn’t mean to bother someone just doing their job and over what? You’re own issues. You should go home, back to your reclusion, where you can’t be in anyone’s way. 

👄

When you finally muster the courage to leave the library, your journey home is slowed by your paranoia. You have your phone out, held up so you can see over your shoulder with the front camera. You watch the screen more than the sidewalk ahead of you. 

You get home without a second shadow. As you let yourself through the grated front door of the building, you can’t help but feel stupid. That man must’ve got the idea when you as good as ran in the other direction. You’re being dramatic. 

You close the camera and put your phone away. You waist six dollars in your frantic flight. You mourn the tea latte as the heavy inner door clunks shut behind you. You drag your feet up the stairs as your keys jingle on your finger. 

You apartment is at the very end of the hall. You enter and twist the latch. You slide the chain into place and hang the key ring on the little hook beside the door frame. You untangle your purse and leave it with your phone on the table in the corner. 

You shuffle the few feet to the front room and look around. You find comfort in the familiarity of your little apartment. Your hideaway. 

You go back to your desk and sign back in. You’re back later than usual but you can still make up the time. As long as there’s enough tasks left in the portal. You don’t have to let that man ruin your whole day. You’ll never see him again. In a few days, you won’t even remember him. 

👄

Wednesday. Halfway through the week.  

You scroll and click around your screen as you watch the clock in the corner tick on. Usually around this time, you’d be excited. You’d clock out for your break and go down to the cafe. As much as you looked forward to the treat, the walk alone was relaxing in its own way. 

Not that day. Despite your efforts to shrug off the strange encounter, you haven’t shaken it. So instead, the kettle boils as a bag of earl gray sits in an empty mug. You’re not going. Maybe next week. 

You’re a bit depressed but you’re too nervous to make the venture. Oh well, you’ll save a bit of money. You could find a different place next time. That might be easier. 

You stay logged in and claim a new task. Hey, you can be done work earlier if you can power through. You might even make a few extra bucks. 

The kettle clicks and you get up to pour the water. You leave it to steep, forgetting it for the screen before you. Your fingers tap endlessly across the keyboard, filling the silence as you zone in on the words, transcribing messy ink to Times New Roman. 

Your trance is broken by a sudden buzz. You sit up, the kink in your neck pangs. You need to stop hunching. The buzz comes again. Is that... It must be a mistake. It happens now and then, someone buzzes the wrong apartment. 

You get up as it sounds a third time and you shuffle down to the speaker box. You hit the button, “wrong number.” 

“No--” 

You let go of the number before you can hear the response. They buzz again. You sigh. You hit the button. 

“I’m sorry but you have the wrong number,” you repeat. 

“I don--” 

You release the button again and take a step back. Buzz! You’re getting annoyed. You hit the button. “Wrong--” 

“Got a delivery. 212.” The man’s voice drowns out your own, reciting your name after your apartment number. Your finger stays on the button as you frown. A delivery? 

“I’m not expecting a delivery.” 

“Are you...” he says your name again. 

“... yes.” 

Silence, filled with the low hum of the speaker, “so, can I come up or...?” 

“Uh, I guess.” 

You pull your finger away and hover it over the other. Maybe it’s from work? There was the one time they sent a cheap mass production travel mug with their logo on it as some incentive. A poor attempt at employee appreciation. 

You press down and hold until you’re certain they have enough time to get in. You wait by the door, ringing your hands. You hear the door at the end of the hall open on its old hinges and you peek through the peephole. 

You watch the fuzzy figure come into focus with each of his long steps. He doesn’t hold a box nor wear the uniform of a postal worker. No, he wears those blue leather loafers and holds a bright pink paper cup with a white lid. From the cafe.  

As he comes close, you get a pigeon’s eye view of the hair on his upper lip and his bold blue eyes. It feels like he can see you too as he stands smirking on the other side of the door. This can’t be real. 

He knocks and you wince as the door shifts in the frame. 

“Special delivery,” he calls through, “open up, baby face.” 

[lanitalay]

Among Flames and Starlight Chapter 1

a/n: I was going to wait until tomorrow but I just cant so enjoy the first chapter!!

Warnings: none

2.3k words

Other Chapters

Irene opened her eyes to reveal the midnight moon pouring through the frost covered window in the town house. The silver light casted a dim glow across the familiar room. She relished the feel of the sheets and snuggled up even more on the impossibly soft pillow. Keeping her eyes opened, she counted the seconds as they passed by. It was a habit she had picked up as a girl when the war was raging and her parents were at battle. She counted and counted, reminding herself that time was indeed passing, if ever so slowly. Now that the war was long over and her parents long gone she counted to remember them, to ground herself.

Sunrise was a few minutes away so she turned from the window and slowly sat up in bed. She stretched her limbs and cracked her joints before stepping onto the icy morning floor. Winter was at its peak and even with magical temperature control the cold still found a way to creep into the house. Irene looked for her pants, they had been removed from her body first when she entered the room and she could recall them being thrown in the general direction of the door. 

They were hanging on a lounge chair, next to her shirt. She frowns as she sees the slash straight down the middle of the garment. Entitled prick, she thinks but a smirk ghosts her features all the same. The sleeping body still on the bed stirs and grumbles, feeling her absence. 

“You don’t have to leave so early, you know?” Rhys says in a voice muffled by the pillow his face is buried in. 

“Hush, yes I do, Cassian will be here in a few minutes to go train. Plus Victoria and I have a dance lesson right after breakfast, I need to get ready” she slides her arms through the sleeves of her torn shirt and ties a knot to keep her chest from spilling out. 

“I hope you learn some new moves, it will make next time more… interesting” he’s resting on his elbows and he watches her from across the room. 

“You’re unbelievable.” 

“You’re incredibly attractive” she rolls her eyes but he flashes her a smile that completely disarms her. 

“You ruined my shirt.”

“I quite like the new look” he motions for her to return to bed and she can never say no when he looks at her with still sleepy eyes and messy hair. This is her favorite Rhysand, the soft, endearing male he is first thing in the morning. Before his father sees him, before he has to train for an ever impending battle, before he has to mask all of his goodness. So she always says yes to this Rhysand. Irene settles herself on his lap, thighs straddling him. He traces along her collarbones and she shivers at the feather light touch. He’s kissing and nibbling at her neck when she notices the moon is no longer visible through the window. 

“I have to go.” 

“Five more minutes” she chuckles and lifts up from the bed one last time. She pecks his lips and leaves his room. Scurrying down the hall, she arrives as fast as possible to her room, throws her broken shirt into the hearth and lights it. The room is untouched. Last night and pretty much every night this week she had slept in his bed. A necessity, because they had wanted to keep what they did in the cover of night private and Victoria, Rhysand’s sister, spent too much time in this room. 

She would scent him and what they did in an instant.

The shirt turns to ash as the sun begins to rise. 

Irene stays near the fire a while longer before going to the bathing room and getting ready for the day. 

“And one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Again!” the dance teacher ordered. Irene and Victoria twirled around the room with the rest of the class. Weaving through the other dancers and switching partners when the timing was right. They had been taking ballroom dancing classes since they were kids. It was something they both enjoyed equally. Which was rare. Sweat gathered on Irene’s brow but she did not wipe it away for fear of messing up the timing in the most complicated part of the dance. They would separate from their current partners and retrace their steps in a flurry of jumps and twirls until they returned to their original partner. 

Madame Silvie had been drilling them for hours. Irene’s feet hurt from the not yet broken-in shoes she wore. She sighed happily when Victoria handed her a glass of water and chugged it down in one go then said “that was intense.”

Victoria laughed and nodded “but wasn’t it fun?”

“It was the best dance we’ve learned, and I think lover boy over there is counting the days until he can ask you to dance in a real ball” she nods her head towards Neil, a male they had known since childhood. He stood leaning against the other wall, offering Victoria a shy grin. She covered her own smile and turned away from him, “stop that! He probably heard you.”

“It’s fine Vic, we all know Neil is in love with you” her eyes bug and Irene stifles a laugh. 

“Stop!” 

“Alright, alright, I won’t say anything else.” 

“We should go, my mother wanted us home for lunch” the girls picked up the few belongings they had brought to the class and walked back to the town house, flanked by two bodyguards each. 

Celene greets them at the door, her face stern. “Go wash up for lunch” she turns to her daughter and in a low voice warns “your father will be joining us”. 

Irene and Victoria go up the stairs without making a noise and once inside Vic’s room let out the breath they had been holding. 

“If he’s here for lunch and unannounced it can’t be good” the Princess of Night groans. Irene remains silent. 

In her opinion, the High Lord of the Night Court was the most terrifying male in Prythian. 

Cassian sat across from her. Azriel was next to him and Rhysand sat at the other end. Victoria sat next to Irene and on her other side was her mother. The High Lord was at the head of the table. Nearest to him were his mate and heir. Irene did not look up from her plate as she tried to eat. The dryness in her mouth made it impossible to swallow without gulping down water. Through her peripheral vision she saw him cut some meat clean in half. 

A gifted butcher. 

“Vallier” Irene stiffened as he addressed her. The same way he would address her father. 

“My lord” she tried to keep her words steady. But this male had been the reason she had lost everything. 

“The anniversary of your father’s death is coming up, are you planning on doing anything to commemorate?” Tears stung at her eyes. He reminded her every year. 

“I always light a candle for him and those who fell with him, since there is no grave for me to visit.” Her father had died during the war. While he was alive he had been an advisor to the High Lord. When the war between humans and faeries broke out he was ordered to fight, never having wielded a weapon in his life. Her father, Irden Vallier, was a scholar. His mother was a priestess and he had grown up in temples and libraries all over Prythian. He only moved to the Night Court because he fell madly in love with a White Haired Witch from Kovelain, a smokey isle east to the Court of Nightmares. 

He arrived at the mountain court as a scribe, and worked for centuries until he became advisor. By then the witch, Avalon, had given birth to Irene. Avalon was casted out when her coven found out about her pregnancy. It was a disgrace to her bloodline to dilute it with fae blood. Their white hair and silver blood essential in carrying out spells and enchantments. 

Irden died as a footsoldier. He was incinerated alongside everyone else on that battlefield.  That was merciful compared to what happened to Avalon. She had lived in Velaris since giving birth to Irene. When the war began, the High Lord used her knowledge, forcing her to create weapons to defeat Hybern. She was good, possibly too good. When the war ended and the human side won, the High Lord accused her of treason. Executing a witch is impossible, for they are truly immortal, no wound nor poison could kill them. Only the gods decide when a witch’s life is over. So he sentenced her to eternity in the Prison. 

Celene had taken Irene in after both her parents were gone. She was not a true witch and she wasn’t fully fae. If she possessed any magic it had never manifested and she never learned the spells that made her mother so dangerous. 

How easily she could be killed was yet to be determined. 

The High Lord’s voice rattles the table “it’s a fitting tribute” he says coldly and adds “this court has been invited to Adriata. The young High Lord Tarquin will be hosting a grand ball to inaugurate the new docks he built and the trade agreements.” Victoria lights up and turns to Irene “an actual ball!” 

“You know she won't be able to attend, dear” Celene gently reminds her. But her daughter responds with a roll of her eyes and a loud huff “there’s no reason she can’t go.” 

“As the offspring of a traitor she’s not allowed to leave the Night Court” the High Lord interjects. 

“It’s ok Vic, have fun. I have to catch up on some readings anyways” Irene attempts to soothe her friend. 

“She should go, I’ll escort her myself” her heart does a somersault in her chest at what Rhysand says. His father turns to him and raises a sharp brow.

“She’s grown up with us, father. She hasn’t spoken or heard from her mother since the war ended when she was twelve.”

“Father please” Victoria adds her violet eyes wide as she attempts to persuade him. 

“I won’t listen to anymore whining,” he scolds. 

The rest of the meal goes by in silence.

After lunch the High Lord and Celene go to the House of Wind, leaving the heirs and orphans alone in the town house. 

Cassian approaches Irene while everyone else disperses. “He’s a dick, Ire, don’t think of what he said. That’s exactly what he wants.” She runs her hands through her white hair and trying not to cry says “he remembers every year, Cas.” He envelopes her in a giant’s hug. Squeezing tightly. “I can burn the candle with you if you want company this year” Irene shakes her head, “thanks but I don’t think you can sit still for longer than five minutes let alone until an entire candle burns out.” 

“I can try” he nudges her shoulder, trying his best to cheer her up. 

The galloping filled Irene’s ears as she rode her mare across a valley in the outskirts of Velaris. This was the closest thing she could get to flying. Her mother never got the chance to teach her. So she rode across the plains as fast as her horse could take her. A horse that wasn’t really hers. Nothing was. She was a pampered prisoner. Daughter of a traitor and a casualty. Whatever she stood to inherit was taken by the High Lord as reparations for her mother’s crimes. 

She arrived at the abandoned temple she visited each year on this day, walked inside and placed a thick white candle on the altar. With some flint she quickly lit the wick then knelt before it. 

It was a simple ritual. The candle represents the life of the fallen. While it burns the mourner reminisces about the good times and the bad times. The light of the candle along with the memories are supposed to be a guiding light to the souls in the afterworld. It is done with the hope of connecting to a loved one for a moment before they return to the abyss. 

So Irene thought of her father and his scrolls and tomes and quills. She thought of his brown hair and how it had begun to gray at the roots as he got older. How he would wear glasses to read at first but then began to need them at all times. She remembered his voice and the stories he would tell her of the libraries across Pyrthian. He had traveled the realm and she had never been outside of the city limits. 

Night had fallen. The candle nearly burnt out. She recalls the last time she saw him. How his glasses fogged with tears welling up in his eyes. How he knew it would be his doom, his sword too heavy and his reflexes too slow. 

He hugged Irene that day. He kissed Avalon and without another word he went to war. 

The door to her bedroom was cracked when she returned to the townhouse. Rhysand stood by the window that overlooked the garden, waiting. 

“You shouldn’t be here, Rhys” was the only thing she could say, exhausted from the ride and the ritual. 

“I wanted to make sure you were good after today. I forgot it was his anniversary.”

“I’m fine, just tired.” 

“Do you want to sleep in my room?” Yes. She did. She would love nothing more than to crawl into his silky sheets and fall asleep with his arms around her. 

“No, I think I better sleep here tonight” she can’t tell him. Maybe he already knows. What she knew was just a physical release for him was everything for her. 

She had loved him long enough to know he did not feel the same. 

He walks toward her and places a hand on her cheek. Irene doesn’t falter so he concedes. “Alright, see you tomorrow.”

Taglist: @sidthedollface2 @acourtofbatboydreams 

[oathkeeperoxas]

wip wthursday

Carole and Ice and Bradley (and sort of Mav) all in the soup this week. Throwing Ice into uncomfortable situations my beloved

~

Mav had to do something back at base that had kept him late, paperwork that Ice had made fun of him for not having done earlier in the week, but now he’s wishing that he’d stayed behind and helped him do it, because now he’s here at the Bradshaw residence with a bottle of wine gripped in a sweaty hand, all alone. 

Their relationship with Carole Bradshaw has always been strained. Or, at least, Ice has only ever seen it strained. He wonders, sometimes, about how all this played out. Before. Before Ice came into the picture, before Goose died, before Maverick was left to parent a boy that he hadn’t fathered… Before Carole had to work full time because she refused to let Maverick and Ice support her. Before Ice knew her at all. 

“Uncle Ice!” 

Carole isn’t the one who opens the door. Bradley comes out beaming, arms up, and Ice has no choice but to bend down and pluck him from the earth. Bradley cuddles into his side, wrapping his arms around Ice’s neck so he can press his face against Ice’s scent glands. He’s still a kid, and it shows. 

Ice clears his throat, and lets himself in. Carole isn’t in the kitchen, but there’s something cooking in the oven and the plates are out ready to have food put on them. 

“Where’s your mom, baby Goose?” Ice asks Bradley. Bradley mumbles something that he doesn’t catch and snuggles in more firmly against Ice. 

Ice puts the bottle of wine down so he can use two hands to support Bradley – the kid’s getting big. Ice has never really had any contact with children before now, out of self defence mostly, but he knows that they’re often drawn to male omegas. He’d put his scent dampener on today like always, but there’s only so much he can do when Bradley sticks his nose in so close.

“Where’s Uncle Mav?” Bradley asks, popping up enough to look up at him. His big brown eyes reflect the light. Ice can’t look away from them. 

“He had to go and do some work,” Ice tells him. “So he’s not coming to dinner tonight.”

“But I was gonna show him my legos!” Bradley whines, and buries his head in Ice’s neck again. Ice pats him, feeling awkward and unsure if this is appropriate, and goes looking for Carole. 

She’s out the back smoking, and looks up when he comes out. “I thought I heard you,” she says. “You alone?” 

“Mav’s behind on his paperwork, so he’s been at the base all weekend,” Ice says, and tries not to feel a pull in his chest at the thought. He spends all week with Mav at work, basically. He’ll see him tomorrow. There’s no reason to get upset just because he hasn’t seen him for one weekend.

“I’ll have to put a plate away,” Carole says, then offers him her pack. “Whet your appetite, Lieutenant Commander?”

“I’ve got the kid,” Ice says gruffly. “And dinner. Take as long as you want.” It’s the least he can do for her. 

He takes Bradley back inside, and lets himself press his nose into the kid’s wild curls for a quick second. Fresh, young, unpresented. Family. Someone for Ice to protect. He puts the kid down, even though Bradley complains. 

“Please up, Uncle Ice!” 

“Show me your legos,” Ice tells him. “Then maybe we can go out and play in the yard for a bit with your mom watching before dinner.”

The kid needs no more prompting, scurrying off to his bedroom with Ice following after him. Goose isn’t here, so Ice needs to do what he can. Even if that means stepping into a role that he’d never thought he’d claim; even if that means making himself uncomfortable. He doesn’t like stretching like this, but he’s gotten good enough at hiding it, and Bradley needs it, so he does it anyway. 

The kid shows him the latest set that he and Mav have been working on for the last few weeks, one that Ice and Mav bought him for his birthday, and the progress that he’s made on it. Mav is the one with the engineering degree between the two of them, but Ice is pretty sure he should be able to figure out some legos. They make a mess of it until Ice’s eyes are going blurry, and then he scoops the kid up to take him back outside. Bradley squeals happily and then demands that Ice make him fly, which Ice does, lifting him above his head. 

Carole watches from just beside the door as Ice tosses her kid up and down, to Bradley’s shrieking joy. It feels domestic; it is domestic. Ice tries not to let on that the hair on the back of his neck is standing up. He’s not Bradley’s father, he isn’t–

But he knows that people know he visits Carole and Bradley. He’s permanently crossed off the Tuesday afternoon hop schedule because he leaves the base early to go and pick up the kid from preschool. Bradley’s teachers know him, and he knows Bradley’s schedule and the kid trusts him, enough to go to him and ask to be chucked into the air because he knows Ice will catch him when he falls. 

He and Carole have always been cautious around each other in a way that she and Mav never have been. Ice had always chalked it up to him being an interloper. But he remembers Mav laughing off Ice’s inquiries into whether he and Carole would ever consider trying things out between them. And he’d never asked Carole the question directly, but she’d made it clear over the years that she regards Mav as a younger brother for her to look out for. 

He’d never really thought about it; him and Carole. But he’s been thinking about it. Every time he looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being seen or followed when he ducks into Mav’s house, and every time anxiety curls in his gut when he lets Mav into his place. It wouldn’t be normal, exactly, if Ice and Carole had hit things off; they were both omegas. But with Ice’s service record, maybe it would be overlooked. He’s not looking for an alpha anyway – or he wasn’t, before Mav – and he still isn’t, even though Mav–

Mav is an alpha, but it feels peripheral to their relationship, as much as Ice is aware of it. He’s not taking the safe road with Mav; even if the expected dynamic of alpha and omega were seen between them, they’re both still men. Ice can’t have that hanging above his head, not when he has the ambitions that he has. Wouldn’t it have been smarter, to find a girl like Carole? Wouldn’t it have been safer?

He catches Bradley again. “Alright, time for dinner,” Ice says, because Carole has finished smoking and has just been watching them for a while. He wonders if she’s thinking the same things he is. He wonders if she knows. 

“One more, one more!” Bradley begs, and so Ice lifts him up one more time. 

“Okay. But you gotta eat all your vegetables,” Ice bargains, and spins him around. 

Carole has gone inside by the time they’re done. Ice carts Bradley in and finds her putting the roast out on the table. He sits Bradley down in the kid’s spot and then helps with the plates while Carole pops the cork on the wine and pours for them. 

Dinner, like the play outside, is domestic. Ice almost feels like he’s looking at the entire thing from somewhere outside himself. Carole asks him to pass the salt; he does. Bradley asks what he learned this week, a cute reversal of the question that Ice normally asks him, and Ice gives a quick two paragraph overview of the supply chain and inventory lists that he’s been organising, to Bradley’s blank expression. Carole laughs at him, clinks their wine glasses together, and drinks. 

Maybe it would have been safer to have a family that Ice could walk with anywhere in the city. But even while they eat and entertain the kid, Ice’s eyes keep drifting to the spot opposite him that’s empty; and maybe that’s his answer, and he doesn’t have to look any further than that. 

Bradley scampers off to watch his allowed hour of cartoons after dinner has been eaten, and Ice and Carole settle in, Ice with his second glass of wine and Carole with her third. 

“You’re so good with him,” Carole sighs. “And you’re so good to me. I know not every girl on this block has two eager babysitters at her beck and call.” 

“He’s a good kid,” Ice says, uncomfortable as he always is when it’s brought up that Bradley effectively has three parents. That’s not normal, no matter how you look at it. “He deserves someone to look out for him.” 

“He does,” Carole says, eyeing him up. “Did Pete really beg off because of work?” 

“Yeah,” Ice says, ignoring his own annoyance. “Too busy flying to file all his reports.” 

“I’m not surprised, and I’m sure you aren’t either. You know Maverick.” 

Yes, he knows Maverick. 

“He could try to get them done a bit sooner,” Ice sighs. “But it’s Viper’s problem, not mine.”

“I think you manage him well enough,” Carole says, and Ice can feel his heart beating, thud-thud-thud, and wonders if he’s supposed to be reading into what she’s saying. If she knows. And if she knows, the more pressing question: is she going to do anything about it? They don’t usually talk politics, besides niche and complicated Navy politics that Carole only knows about because she has Ice at her table – Mav couldn’t give less of a shit why they’re telling him to do what he does, as long as he gets to fly while he does it. Ice is the one with opinions. 

That’s fine normally, but it means he doesn’t know where she stands, on men having relationships with other men. She lets them both come to her table, so she’s not one of those omega women who think that omega men are there to steal children away – she lets him interact with Bradley, supervised and unsupervised. Same as Mav. She trusts her kid with them. So maybe–

“Mav runs on his own schedule,” Ice deflects. “Though sometimes the Navy catches up to him, as fast as even he is.” 

Carole laughs. Ice watches her teeth glint in the light of the kitchen. She could have been his; but he didn’t choose her. And he doesn’t want to. Still, by being with Mav, a door’s been closed – or has one opened? “Only happy when his tail’s on fire, hm? You know Maverick.”

Yes, Ice thinks as he pours her the last of the wine. Yes, he knows Maverick.

He leaves when Carole goes to put Bradley to bed, not wanting to intrude on that domestic routine too. He’s been involved in enough for the evening. He gets home and resists the urge to visit Mav, who surely must be done with his files by now. He’ll see Mav tomorrow. It’s fine. 

His heart tells him otherwise. He’ll see Mav, yes. But they have to perform at work. It’s not the same. Ice does his best to ignore that, and puts his running gear on instead. Maybe, if he pushes himself far and fast enough, he’ll be able to leave all these troubling thoughts behind.