#3345

[sleepsucks]

[manoelt-finisterrae]

muller cara ao mar II

© Manoel T, 2023

[honjitsuno1mai]

#3345 ＠ 新潟県妙高市中川〜高柳

[jawhip5]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Kwik•Sew Hat Pattern Adult & Children’s Sz XS-XL.

[sakotty]

空の旋律

[vanillastopbath]

3345 San Diego, CA 02/27/2023

[exotic-indians]

[dampfloks]

Dampflokomotiven 38 2267 (preußische P8) & 55 3345 (preußische G7.1)

Dampflokomotiven 38 2267 (preußische P8) & 55 3345 (preußische G7.1)

[skrubu]

00 #green #helsinki #finland https://instagr.am/p/Cpm0inYNLsb/

[sleepsucks]

[byzantiumshades]

Pairing: Lee Jeno (NCT) x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff/Smut

Contains: Kissing, body worship, dry humping, swearing, dirty talk, hair pulling

Word count: 3345

A/N: With a special dedication to @sexygrass, I hope you'll like this version of cute 'n' sassy Jeno 😉

---

“The final assignment’s gonna be easy, my ass,” you murmur angrily, trying your best to focus on the book in your hands.

Despite the fact that you’ve been sitting there for over half an hour, not much progress has been made in your reading. If only this was the area of your interest, surely you wouldn’t be bored out of your mind, but well, it’s not.

“Why me,” you groan dramatically, throwing your head back against the backrest of the sofa.

It’s not like you didn’t expect it to be difficult – you did, actually – but it doesn’t make you feel any better now that you have to finally start working on it. Not to mention that you constantly complain about all the work you have to do, and this certainly doesn’t help your motivation.

“You don’t seem to be very into it," you can hear Jeno laughing from the bathroom.

He must have heard your whining all the way from there.

“No shit,” you scoff in the answer, as you roll your eyes good-naturedly.

Trying to work at your house proved to be impossible, as everything there distracted you: there was always something better to do than reading that goddamned book. When in the morning you video called Jeno to complain, he suggested coming over to study together, as he had an exam the day after tomorrow, and you agreed.

“We can motivate each other this way, you know,” he exclaimed with the sweetest of smiles, causing your heart to skip a beat.

That’s when you realized that you’re fucked. Desperately trying to escape one distraction, you’ve happily thrown yourself right into the muscled arms of another one. Maybe you should’ve thought about it some more before giving him a positive answer, but at that moment you were way too busy thinking about how pretty his brown eyes appear in that lighting.

“So, what exactly are you doing?”

Jeno’s voice makes you jump – lost in your thoughts, you didn’t even notice him approaching you.

“Reading, or rather trying to–,” you manage to say before you look up, and the words die on your lips.

He’s standing a meter or so away from you, a warm smile playing on his lips, as he’s waiting for your answer – at this moment it really hits you how fucked you actually are.

It’s all because of your tardiness – you’re not exactly the type to arrive on time, and Jeno is no stranger to that fact. There’s no wonder he simply assumed that he didn't need to be in a rush when he came back from his training – he thought you’d be late. This time, however, you arrived exactly on time, only to catch him still walking around in his sweaty gym clothes. A bit flustered with the turn of events, he asked if you mind giving him some time to clean up and change, and you, of course, agreed without a second thought. You were completely lost at this point, enchanted by this flustered mess of a man. You should’ve known better than to think that this is going to turn out fine, really.

“Trying, huh?” he chuckles, his long fingers pushing damp locks from falling into his eyes.

You don’t know where to look. Would be awkward if he caught you gaping at his muscled chest.

“Y–yeah, I’m trying really, really hard,” you answer rather nervously.

You’re trying to control yourself and not let your eyes wander, which is a crazy difficult task. From the corner of your eye, you can see droplets of water falling from his hair and rolling down his chest: slowly travelling down his muscled abdomen until they reach the waistband of his sweats and soak into the fabric. He’s saying something, but you can barely focus, as you’re too busy gaslighting yourself into ignoring how hot your best friend looks right now.

“You’re not listening to me, are you?”

“Pardon?” you question with an apologetic smile, trying your absolute best to ignore your dirty thoughts.

To be frank, falling for your best friend is, in your opinion, the worst possible option in terms of catching feelings for someone. You can’t even pinpoint when it happened and what exactly caused you to become infuriated with him. Was it his weird sense of humour and that joyful laugh of his? His respectful behaviour towards you? Or maybe it’s all about his handsome face? You can’t tell – all you know is that there’s something about Jeno that causes your brain to turn into a mush whenever you need it the most.

“This book must have tired you out more than I thought it would,” he chuckles good-naturedly, walking towards the table where his laptop is placed.

Moving some papers to the side, he settles comfortably on the chair, and then opens the device.

“You’re clearly out of it,” he adds over his shoulder with an amused smile, turning the laptop on.

You, on the other hand, are not as amused. You’re no stupid, you’re just stupidly in love with this irritatingly handsome man.

“Of course I am,” you say, tongue-in-cheek. “You really expect me to stay focused, while you’re walking around half-naked, huh? Might throw some t-shirt on, you’re distracting me, Jeno.”

Jeno turns around slightly, and stares at you, his brows furrowed: a perfect picture of disbelief. There’s something in his expression that you can’t exactly put your finger on, but it appears to be a hint of sadness, or even regret.

“Not that you have a bad sense of humour or something, but this joke isn’t funny at all.”

Now it’s your time to be surprised, as you blink quickly trying to process his words.

“I’m not joking, though,” you say, puzzled a bit by his reaction.

“You saw me without a t-shirt countless times already,” he hums, scratching his neck as if in wonder, but you know that in his case it’s a sign of embarrassment. “What’s the difference? I didn’t think you’d care that much.”

It’s your turn to furrow your brows now. It does affect you quite a lot, actually, he just doesn’t know that.

“So you think that it doesn’t affect me that you walk around me basically naked?”

“Please,” he scoffs, turning around back to his laptop to type the password in. “It’s not like you’d like to fuck me or something.”

Your mind goes blank for a second, the wave of heat immediately hitting your cheeks.

“What are you saying?” you chuckle nervously, your heart pounding rapidly in your chest.

Jeno glances over his shoulder, clearly not understanding the reason behind your awkward reaction. He clears his throat before adding:

“Doesn’t really matter what kind of attraction we’re talking about. It’s pretty obvious that you don’t think of me as someone attractive.”

First of all, you can’t believe your ears, and second of all, you’re starting to feel a little hysteric. You take a deep breath, and put your book to the side.

“You think I’m not attracted to you,” you say matter-of-factly, trying your best to keep the tone of your voice neutral.

“Exactly,” he shrugs in the answer, not even turning around, too busy checking something in his notes.

Your heavy sigh is a little dramatic, you have to admit, but you’re done, just done with this man. Either you’re an absolute pro at hiding your feelings, or he’s just a lost cause in terms of noticing what’s going on around him. You don’t really suspect yourself of being that good of an actress – you know very well that your self-control is in pretty bad shape when you’re around him.

“You’re such a fool, oh my god,” you groan helplessly, standing up from the sofa.

Two big steps is all it takes to reach him.

“Excuse me?” he dramatically turns around, clearly offended by your words.

A quiet gasp escapes his lips when he realizes that you’re now mere centimetres away from him, invading his personal space in a way that causes a shiver to run straight to his crotch. His breath hitches slightly when you gently grab him by the chin and tilt his head back so that he’s staring up at you.

“Look me right in the fucking eyes and say it again. Say that I don’t want to fuck you.”

Jeno opens his mouth but doesn’t say a single word. The longer his dark eyes bore into yours, the deeper the flush on his cheeks gets. When he licks his lips nervously, your stare drops unceremoniously for a second before you slowly raise your eyes to meet his gaze once again.

“Cat got your tongue?” you ask with a raised brow, your tone deeply amused.

He tries to shake his head, but your grip makes it almost impossible. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows audibly, and you don’t even try to stop yourself from touching it. The fingertips of your free hand caress his skin tenderly, and you can see that he’s barely breathing at this point.

“You see, Jeno,” you hum as your fingers move up his neck, brushing over his prominent jaw, down his neck to his collarbones and bare shoulders. “All this time I thought that I was so goddamn obvious that you purposely pretended not to notice my behaviour.”

“W–what?” he stutters out, his voice a bit higher than it usually is.

How the turn tables, really. You didn’t even do anything to him yet, but he’s already reacting in such an adorable manner. Jeno is truly delightful.

“Turns out that you simply can’t see shit, and that’s it. No other reason behind it except for obliviousness,” you scoff, shaking your head slightly.

“I–I don’t think I understand,” he murmurs, blinking innocently at you, his long eyelashes brushing his cheekbones.

“You think that I wouldn’t touch you even with the tip of my finger, no?”

This time he tries to nod, but once again the grip on his chin prevents him from doing so. It’d be too easy to answer this way – you want him to use his words, you want him to state clearly what he thinks and what he wants.

“Um, well, yes,” he answers then, the tone of his voice way less certain now.

You can’t help but huff a laugh in the answer. In the meantime, the fingers of your free hand comb through his still damp hair, and it truly feels marvellous to do so. You wanted to play with his hair for such a long time now, imagining more often than not about how he’d sound if you just pulled on them – so you decide to do exactly that.

“Think again then, babe.”

You let go of his chin, and grab a fistful of his locks, pulling his head back.

“Oh fuck,” Jeno whimpers in the answer, his gorgeous neck on full display now.

Once again, you have no idea where to look but for entirely different reasons than mere minutes ago. He’s just so stunning, and you can’t stop staring at him.

“You see, if I had the opportunity to do so, I’d have fucked you senseless plenty of times already,” you hum, your thumb grazing his lover lip teasingly. “I’d make you fucking scream my name.”

His breath hitches audibly, causing your core to clench deliciously. Seeing how responsive he is to your words, your actions, makes you hungry for more. You want him so badly.

“You can’t even imagine what I’d do to you if you just let me, Jeno. You make me go crazy,” you breathe out, leaning forward until your faces are mere centimetres apart. “All this time, I thought you’re not interested in me, and that’s why I never took the first step. I didn’t want to lose you.”

“I didn’t know,” he sighs, closing his eyes as your nails scratch his head gently. “You never reacted in any way to me, I just thought that you don’t see me that way.”

“Such fools, both of us,” you murmur, pressing your lips against his forehead.

A moment later you place another kiss between his eyebrows, then one on the tip of his nose, and on both of his eyelids. You’re dying to kiss every millimetre of his body.

“Do you want me to sit on your lap, Jeno?”

Your lips brush his when you whisper the question, and he opens his eyes, sending you a stare full of emotions. You can see the want in his dark eyes, clear as the day, and a shiver of excitement runs down your spine.

“Yes, please,” he breathes out, his arms already reaching towards you to pull you closer.

As you settle on his thick thighs, his arms circle your waist tightly, holding you as close as he dares to. Judging by his carefulness, he’s still unsure of what’s going to happen next, but he’s clearly not opposed to whatever you’re planning to do. You can’t help but marvel over the wonderful feeling of being in his arms, your body pressed tightly against his. Your breast touching his bare chest, your crotch pressed against his, faces in such close proximity – you can barely think straight. In this position, you can feel his hardening cock through the fabric of his sweats: it’s not completely hard yet but clearly on the high road to be fully erect, and your mind is already in the gutter, thinking about all the possibilities.

“Such a nice lap to sit on,” you say with a smirk adorning your lips, your hips rocking ever so slightly against his.

There’s a mischievous spark in his eyes just before he says:

“Actually, there’s nothing that’s stopping you from settling yourself on them more often.”

Jeno might be flustered as hell right now, there’s no mistake about it, but that sure ain’t gonna stop his sarcastic side from showing. You can’t help but smile widely in the answer, knowing very well that he has a point now that you’re on the same page.

“Glad to know,” you say before gently pressing your lips against his.

You were imagining that first kiss countless times already, but your imagination can’t compare to the reality of his plushy lips moving against yours, the feeling of his strong arms pulling you as close as possible. At first, it’s delicate and slow, but it doesn’t take long for both of you to lose your resolve. The kisses become more hungry with time, all tongues and teeth, his hands wandering all over your body, your fingers in his hair. Soon you’re both completely breathless, and have no choice but to pull away. Your body feels way too hot, and there’s nothing you’d wish for more than to take off your clothes, to feel his skin right next to yours without any barriers.

“I wanted you for so long,” he rasps, panting heavily. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you when we weren’t together, and when we did, it was even worse because I couldn’t be with you the way I wanted.”

You kiss him again and again and again, grinding your hips against his already hard cock, making him moan into your lips. The friction created by the fabric, and the hardness of his shaft, sends little bolts of pleasure through your body. Jeno’s right hand slips underneath your t-shirt, his fingertips delicately tracing patterns on your skin, while his left hand lands on your thigh, moving up towards your butt and down again.

“Jeno,” you sigh, when his fingers brush your breast ever so slightly. “You’re such a tease.”

“Didn’t you already know that,” he answers with a broad smile, his hands touching you everywhere they can reach.

“I suppose I knew,” you chuckle in the answer, shaking your head slightly.

What a perfect combination: easily flustered, and such a sweet man, but with a sassy side, a little bratty even.

“One of the reasons I’m so attracted to you,” you add, your hand slipping into his hair to grab it once again, gentler this time.

“Another one is that gorgeous neck.”

Jeno’s laugh turns into a soft whimper, when you place a kiss just under his ear and start to slowly move down his neck, one kiss at a time. It makes you feels so good that you’re the one making him moan quietly right into your ear, causing his cock to twitch underneath you with such simple actions as kissing his neck, whispering sweet words into his ear.

“You’re such a pretty thing, you know,” you pant out, nibbling on his earlobe.

The way he smells drives you absolutely crazy, and you love the way his soft hair tickle your face ever so slightly. Gorgeous.

“God bless women’s bodies aren’t as traitorous as men’s, otherwise I’d have been utterly fucked a long time ago,” you say with a small chuckle, licking his skin as your fingers rake through his tangled locks.

“What?” he chokes out, his hands now clenched tightly on the fabric of your t-shirt, his breathing heavy.

“You can’t even imagine how aroused I can get just from observing you simply being yourself,” you murmur, peppering the skin of his neck with kisses. “Only I know how many times I’ve got off to the memory of you cooking a diner for me shirtless.”

“Seems like I should do that more often then,” he hums, placing both of his hands on your hips.

“Wonder what would taste better: my cooking or me.”

“Good question,” you laugh, your mind already being flooded with the images of Jeno cooking for you, and you licking tasty things off his skin.

You start to slowly but steadily rock your hips against his, searching for the best angle to get off. When you finally find it, a jolt of pleasure runs through your body, and you sigh his name softly.

“My name sounds so pretty when you say it,” he murmurs into your neck, his lips, tongue and teeth all over your skin.

“Since today, I’ll say it as often as you want me to,” you moan, your head falling back as he starts to massage your breast through the fabric of your t-shirt.

The sounds of moaning, panting and curses fill the room, as the humping becomes more and more aggressive, both of you getting closer and closer to your release. The seam in the front of your pants rubs onto your clit just the right way, especially with his hard cock pressed against it. It feels wonderful to finally be in such a situation with him.

“Fuck, I’m going to cum into my briefs because of you,” Jeno moans, but clearly he doesn’t mind that.

“Next time, I swear to god, I’m coming right into your pussy,” he pants into your ear.

The image that forms in your head pushes you over the edge, and you come hard. While shivers run through your body, Jeno holds you strongly, bringing you even closer as you lazily move your hips, riding your orgasm. You can’t tell for how long you’ve stayed like that, but you sure took your time.

“I think I’m the one whose underwear is ruined now,” you sigh into his neck, when the aftershocks die out, and you can feel your drenched panties in all their uncomfortable glory.

Jeno laughs softly, such a beautiful sound feeling your ears. The feeling of his thick biceps pressed on either side of your waist is certainly something else, and you know that in the future his arms will receive a lot of your attention.

“I’m not sorry at all, but I’ll happily help you take your panties off,” he says, his hands massaging your butt and thighs.

“And the rest of your clothes too, of course. Let’s not forget, I have a promise to keep,” he whispers into your ear, placing kisses all over your head.

You can feel your core clenching in delicious anticipation.

“Indeed, you’ve made a promise,” you answer, a smirk forming on your lips.

“And I promise that I’ll make you scream my name, Jeno baby.”

His cock twitches at that.

“Can’t wait.”

Copyright © 2020-2024 by byzantiumshades. All rights reserved.

[hezzabeth]

The trumpets were old plastic souvenirs painted gold, so the off-key wailing was hardly surprising. A band of disheveled people marched onto the stage, still blowing on the plastic trumpets. Surprisingly, Isabeau was among them, her face displaying a bored, blank expression. They abruptly stopped once they reached the center of the scaffold, the wood creaking under their feet.

A man wearing green tights and a shirt reading "Medieval Christmas market 3345" on it walked onto the stage. His hair had been cut into a peculiar bowl shape with a blunt fringe, and someone had painted red circles on his cheeks.

"All hail Sister Morganna! Conduit of the one true god," the man bellowed in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

“Did you bring your solar flare gun?” Dityaa asked.

“Of course I did! I never go anywhere without it,” Revati snapped back.

Revati had never seen Sister Morganna up close. During her childhood visits, Sister Morganna was a distant figure. Glimpses of her gloved hands could be seen waving from the castle windows. Every summer solstice, she would lead a parade across the park, carried by men in a gold and white carriage. Through the mesh curtain windows, her shadowy figure could be seen shifting about. Now, Sister Morganna was walking across the scaffold boldly and freely.

She was dressed in a sky-blue and emerald dress, with a thick red and golden scarf covering her scalp, the ends trailing down her shoulders. Slowly, she turned toward the waiting audience, and Revati gasped. Sister Morganna's skin was the same color as fresh lavender. A single round, circular eye glanced about—an eye that could see and understand everything, even things that had yet to be—an eye that could glance into the very nature of people.

“She’s an alien!” whispered Dityaa.

It was an eye that could read minds; no wonder she had successfully started a cult.

“Technically, she’s a human from a faraway planet,” Revati hissed back.

The "faraway planet" was the closest the solar system got to actual aliens. Over a thousand years ago, a group of scientists set off to colonize Pluto. Obviously, they vanished, the ship sinking into the darkness of space. Three hundred years ago, their descendants returned. They were, of course, different.

Sister Morganna calmly walked across the stage and raised her hand.

“Praise be to Marduk, son of the sun, radiant is he,” Sister Morganna said.

“Radiant is he,” the crowd echoed, their expressions blank.

“Who’s Marduk?” Hissed Dityaa.

Revati merely shrugged, completely confused.

“Today we bring forward two heretics, those who smother the great transition,” Sister Morganna said, gesturing towards Bridgadeiro and Aurora.

“Heretic? I don’t even understand what I did! All I said was 'Bless Goup' when my new friend sneezed,” Bridgadeiro argued, nodding at Aurora.

“And I didn’t do anything! I swear,” Aurora cried.

“Goup is a lie! A false prophet created by an ancient snake oil seller,” Sister Morganna said with a small, tight smile.

“False prophet? The rainbow mat of crystal light has been proven to work! It balances your mind, body, and spirit,” Bridgadeiro smiled, and Sister Morganna turned to him, her one eye slowly blinking.

“I can see you standing on that mat, praying to the dark,” she whispered. “Your brother, he drowned, didn’t he? On that hot summer night? You cried and prayed! You think it was her that brought him back,” she added, and the smile dropped from Bridgadeiro’s face.

“She did save him! Goup saved him,” Bridgadeiro said, and Sister Morganna shook her head.

“Oh, you’re a true believer... you poor little boy,” she sighed. “Some gods are lies, but Marduk is true and ancient. My people have lived on his surface! We have been blessed with his gifts! Praise Marduk,” Sister Morganna said.

“Praise Marduk,” the entire crowd screamed, including Revati, who found herself clapping her hand over her mouth. Sister Marduk had hijacked her vocal cords.

“Now repent and embrace Marduk or sacrifice your light to his glory,” Sister Marduk cried.

“I repent! All hail Marduk!” Aurora cried, bursting into tears.

“Well, I’m not repenting. Marduk is just another name for your home planet that blew up centuries ago,” Bridgadeiro said with a small shrug.

“Very well,” Sister Morganna said. Revati sighed, pulling out her solar gun and setting the final charge to maximum.

“Oh, you’re not going to…” whispered Dityaa, and Revati nodded, pulling the trigger.

The solar flare hit the stage in a blinding loop of ultraviolet light. Sister Morganna screamed, flying upwards and landing face-first in the crowd, her body twitching.

“Praise Marduk! This must be an omen!” Aurora smartly yelled from the stage.

The crowd, no longer under Sister Morganna’s control, began to scatter in all directions. Some stumbled towards the fallen leader, striking her with whatever they could find. Others pushed and shoved each other, stumbling over cobblestones.

Through it all, Bridgadeiro stood, completely confused, his hands still tied behind his back. People pushed and shoved, stumbling over each other and tripping on the slick cobblestones. Revati fought through the tidal wave of chaos until she reached the scaffold again. Bridgadeiro was staring down at her, completely transfixed.

“Did you just save my life again?” He asked.

“Yes!” Revati replied, climbing up to the scaffold.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen! He said it so quickly,” Aurora said as Revati began to undo her bound hands.

“It was pure instinct!” protested Bridgadeiro.

The crowd was starting to swarm towards the stage like ants around a sugar cube. From above, Revati could see the smoking, twitching form of Sister Morganna.

“What are they doing?” Bridgadeiro asked, and there was a faint creaking sound as Isabeau joined Revati.

“They’re probably going to kill her; none of them wanted to worship an ancient Babylonian god!” Isabeau said and then she smiled. An actual smile. “I can talk normally again! She’s really gone!” Isabeau cried with delight as Aurora pulled her hands free.

“She’s gone!” Aurora echoed, grabbing Isabeau. Revati watched them kiss for a fraction of a second before politely turning her head.

“Did she really control all these people with her mind? Why would she do that?” Bridgadeiro asked as Revati began to undo his constraints.

“The tornado and the second invasion messed a lot of people up,” Revati merely replied.

“You seem fine,” Bridgadeiro replied, and Revati chuckled.

“Trust me, I’m not fine,” Revati said firmly. Life on Baker Street before the tornado had been hard. But there had been drawing lessons with her father. There had been fairytales with her mother. There had been tea parties with Dityaa. Dityaa.

“Where’s Dityaa?” Revati said as Bridgadeiro tugged his hands free. There was no telltale flash of Snow White silk in the crowd. Everyone was dressed in shades of green and mud brown.

“She was out there before,” Bridgadeiro said, gesturing to the bottom left corner of the courtyard. Revati jumped swiftly off the scaffold, ignoring the pain searing up her ankles. People were pressing in from all sides, shrieking, laughing, and, in some cases, singing. A blur of purple skin and red fabric passed her head on outstretched hands.

“Did you see a girl in a white dress?” Revati screamed in general; no one answered, and the crowd pushed her forward. People were spilling out of the courtyard into the laneways. Someone had decided to start looting the shops. Revati felt herself thrown against a wall, crushed face-first into the bricks. A hand grabbed hers, calloused, well-worn fingers gripping her wrist.

“I saw her at the end of the crowd! This way!” Bridgadeiro ordered her.

“You’re helping,” Revati gasped; something hot and red was trickling down her cheek. Revati was bleeding.

“Let the crowd push you forward; don’t fight it and try not to stumble,” Bridgadeiro said firmly, still holding her hand. The crowd surged and pressed in. Revati could see nothing but gleeful faces, smell nothing but hot, foul sweat.

Then suddenly, the crowd began to break into pieces, trickling away like water. They had reached the back wall of Medieval Faire. There was a hole in the wall. A massive hole. Beyond the hole lay the freezing wilderness of Mars. People were climbing out of the hole, running into the cube-shaped snow. One of them was Dityaa, spinning around and dancing with the Duke of Io. Dityaa spotted them and waved happily.

“They’re all going to freeze to death,” Revati realized, marching to the hole.

“It looks like some of them had enough to steal jackets,” Bridgadeiro added. Revati and Dityaa rarely left the park. When they did, Amma always made them wear her old protective gear. Dityaa seemed oblivious to the cold. It was almost as if the Duke's love was covering her in a warm, sacred light.

The escaping people were beginning to join in with their dancing.

“Look! He was waiting for me outside the wall,” Dityaa yelled, resting her head on his shoulder. Revati stepped closer to the wall. Revati let go of Bridgadeiro’s hand and carefully climbed through the hole. The freezing winter of Mars blew around her, fighting against the park's atmospheric heating system. Snow began to blow around her chest, and Revati felt flushed and dizzy.

The Duke was dressed in the same outfit from the night before. The same thin jacket and trousers. Up close, his blue hair was a little too shiny. Up close, Revati could actually feel heat wafting off his body.

“The Duke was waiting for you… outside in that outfit?” Revati asked suspiciously. Dityaa’s expression froze for a moment as if considering this.

“Sissy’s right! Let’s get out of the cold, darling; I have so much to tell you,” smiled Dityaa. The Duke held up a hand. The tip of his finger turned blue.

“Ah, the sister,” he remarked, reaching towards Revati. His eyes glowed with the brilliance of true Ai, and darkness prevailed.

Here's the revised text with corrected spelling and grammar:

True, jet-black, soothing darkness.

For Revati, who spent most of her nights lost in nightmares, it was actually comforting.

In fact, Revati felt herself sink into it.

The darkness was as soft as the mattress she once slept on.

“Oh, don’t sink into it, Dimpy. It’s not time for that,” her father’s voice whispered in her ear.

Dimpy.

Revati was Dimpy, Dityaa was Rinky.

Jay would draw pictures of them flying across the stars with wings.

Dimpy and Rinky; the sisters were so close they could be twins.

“You’re not real. You died, and your consciousness is in a plastic box,” Revati muttered.

The darkness was warm and sleepy, lulling Revati into nothing at all.

“Some of me is in that box, but scientists don’t know everything. Some of me is also in you, in your sister, and in your mother,” her father’s voice said.

“And I’m guessing I’m dead?” Revati whispered.

“No, you’re just recovering from a traumatic brain injury. Someone has placed a standard issue healing pad on your forehead,” Jay’s voice replied soothingly.

“And how do you know that?” Revati groaned doubtfully.

A distant, tiny light had appeared in the dark.

A pinprick that seemed to strip away things.

“Dimpy, you know I was a nurse! Relax, your glia cells are busy repairing themselves. Look, they move like fireflies,” her father said.

He was right; more dots of light had appeared.

They buzzed around gently.

For a moment, one of them flashed, lighting up everything.

Revati, in that second, saw a much younger Dityaa handing her a doll.

“I remember that doll. I bought it the day Dityaa was born,” her father said.

“Dityaa tried to give it to me after we buried you. I told her I’d take the book of fairy tales instead,” Revati remembered.

“Once upon a time, in the ancient kingdom of Mithila, the earth yielded a miraculous gift. A baby girl was born. She was discovered in a furrow by King Janaka and named Sita. As she grew, her grace and beauty were matched only by her wisdom and strength of character.

One day, Rama, a prince known for his valor and virtue, won her hand in marriage by stringing the mighty bow of Lord Shiva.

Soon after the wedding, Rama and his best friend were exiled to the forest. Sita, full of devotion, followed.

The forest was dark and full of dangers.

The most dangerous being was the demon king Ravana,” a woman’s voice, the voice of the maternity droid, whispered.

The lights were growing stronger, and Revati remembered something.

“Dityaa’s in trouble,” Revati realized.

“Yes, she is,” her father replied.

Revati’s mind was so bright she could see her father.

He looked younger than what she remembered.

He was dressed in the blue protective outfit Amma kept packed away.

Standing next to him was a woman.

A familiar woman cloaked in a fuchsia and green saree.

“You’re the lost princess,” Revati realized, and the Princess nodded.

“Wake me up, wake me up, and I will find my daughter,” the Lost Princess insisted.

[jawhip5]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Kwik•Sew Hat Pattern Adult & Children’s Sz XS-XL.

[oreosmama]

Look Me in the Eyes (Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: During naval training, your jet crashed and burned, taking your memories with it. But the lieutenant who saved you seems to know you better than he lets on. The only issue is that he refuses to tell you his name.

A/N: pfft half yall don’t read this anyway so imma just say rooster’s hot, oreosmama out *drops mic*

Word count: 3345

It’s not the pervading scent of antiseptic and boredom that has carved its way into your skin, nestling deep into the creases of your brow and your sneering upper lip—

It’s his unflinching gaze.

The lieutenant hovering over you, with a spoonful of green, gelatinous “dinner” posed over your lips, mumbles, “Open the hatch, the F-18 needs to land.” 

He’s a staunchly built man ornamented in the same naval jacket he’d been wearing when you first came-to in the hospital room, his lofty shoulders embellished in unfamiliar patches. Over the last two days, most of which have consisted of him lording himself over you or sitting back in the chair beside your bed, his five o’clock shadow has thickened, and the wrinkles underneath his teasing eyes darkened a shade.

The F-18 bumps against your sneer, and he chortles to himself. 

You know why you’re here. 

Well, sort of.

You know that it must’ve hurt. Like a falling-unconscious-due-to-pain kind of hurt. Black and blue splotches paint your temple and upper left cheek, and each time you force a smile, it aches. The rest of your body looks the same. In the first shower you’d been allowed, you twisted and turned as much as your burning abdomen could handle and had come to the conclusion that you were glad you didn’t remember much of what had happened.

The only real issue was that you didn’t remember much of anything. 

The story you had been told was haphazardly crafted, not unlike if a toddler had drawn a house with crayons and passed it to you, insisting it looked exactly like the one you lived in. 

It goes something like this: you were flying your jet when the engine stalled, and when you ejected, your head smacked against the windshield. You were lucky—you were unconscious when you had crumpled in on yourself, snapping five of your ribs like pencils, and when you’d landed on the ground, face in the dirt—you were so, so lucky. 

But the lieutenant says differently. 

When he found you, you were awake. You were echoing his name into the stagnant desert air, screaming and sobbing in ways that still keep him up at night. 

You know because he sleeps with folded arms on the edge of your mattress, and he rattles the metal skeleton each time he flinches. And the times when he thinks you’re too buried in exhaustion and slumber, his hand finds yours, fingertips light as air against your skin.

These are the only times the lieutenant bares that part of himself to you. 

In the mornings, when you can look him in the eyes and see the guilt buried underneath, he winces a smile onto his lips and asks if you remember anything yet. 

You don't.

And he winces again. “Back to the drawing board, huh?”

The lieutenant is a nice-enough man when he wants to be. The only issue is that he doesn’t seem to want to be. 

“Tell me your name,” you snipe, dangling over the precipice of flinging Jell-O across the room. 

This is a game he never wants to play, despite how often he wins. He has the whole naval base’s hospital staff refer to him as Sir or Lieutenant-no-last-name, and each time you ask, he’ll give you the same response.

“You know my name.” 

You don't. He’s a complete stranger. He can hold you hand and feed you Jell-O and help you hobble to the bathroom; he can brush the hair from your sweat-crusted face in the mornings and, on some rare occasions where he thinks he’s woken up before you, he’ll graze a feather-soft kiss on your bruised temple.

And you still haven't got a clue. 

Because whoever the lieutenant is, the tight grip he has on your heart is completely foreign to you. It’s a grip that says you and him aren’t just something definable—you were a we in this life; the pair of you have formed a way of living in tandem, your own intrinsic tango to which nobody else knows the steps. It’s not just like or a passing fancy. It’s not just hot static running through veins. 

This is fully fledged; this is oxygen now. The rise and fall of your chest is the rise and fall of his. The absence of it must be suffocating. 

So you don't know why he doesn’t like this game. He makes a question-answer into a back-and-forth, and then he winds and winds you up until you’re ready to snap. 

It’s not fair. God, it’s not fair. You deserve to know his name. Doesn’t he know it’s not just a tickle in the back of your mind anymore? If he was the one whose name you were screaming, didn’t you deserve to know what it was?

“Why do you keep doing this?” 

You watch his lips purse, the color bleeding out of them and into pink patches on his neck and cheeks. The spoon rattles against the tray, and the glob of green wavers in its curve. He refuses to hold your gaze like always. Self-inflicted torment disguises itself as burnt-sienna irises. The life you’ve forgotten is bowing his shoulders, and your crash, no matter the fact that he saved you, is eating away at him. 

Then the lieutenant smiles, in the fractured way—the way someone might laugh at a funeral. 

“Because knowing my name wouldn’t help you. You never called me by it, anyway.”

This, oh God—this is the closest you’ve ever gotten, and you’re still wading in the darkness. A name you’d never even call him by, what a wonder that does to your psyche. 

A name was a start; it was a first impression. There was a lot in a name. 

So you’d never called him by his name… so what?

So what, only lovers knew each other by more than a name? So what, he never called you by yours? So what, you didn’t want to ever call him by his name, never felt the urge, but felt it was rather proper considering you didn’t know what to call him at all?

He keeps you doggy-paddling for it.

The hospital room is polluted with silence for the rest of the night. Slowly, you finish the Jell-O as he sits back in his chair, watching, yet not quite seeing you. You missed when his staring felt like a buzzing fly. Now it’s a thunderstorm hanging over you, foggy and dampened, and you’re struck every few seconds with a shiver. 

He doesn’t reach out for your hand when you pretend you’ve fallen asleep. Twenty minutes past lights out, he stands and heads into the bathroom, slowly creaking the door closed and locking it before the shower faucet turns on and stays on for a long, long time. 

Where his hand should be is where he laid his jacket, one sewn patch erroneously rough against your palm. With another glance at the light underneath the bathroom door, you haul the leather jacket up into your lap, tracing the ridges and folds. You trails your fingertips along the jacket, searching for… something. Anything. 

Cold metal, a zipper slips underneath your fingers, and you sit up straighter despite the outcry of pain in your ribs. 

A pocket, and inside is a small plastic card—his ID. 

That, and a small, velvet box. 

No…

No, you won’t open it. 

No, no, because he shouldn’t even have that here. 

Why—dear God—why did he have that here?

It’s not for you. That’s for sure. You don’t even want to open it. No.

It’s not yours. It’s not yours to have, especially since he hasn’t offered it to you, and it’s not yours to wear, and it’s not yours to look at, to watch, iridescent, crystal devotion reflecting the moonlight from the room’s lone window. 

But when you lift the cover and curse the stars that the man whose name you don’t even know knows you so well, knows how beautiful it is in your eyes, and even worse, how well it fits on your finger, you know it’s yours. 

Well, not yours. 

It’s hers. The one before the crash’s. 

That’s her ring on your finger, and that’s her lieutenant grieving in the bathroom. 

This is her life, not yours. All you own anymore is the absence pulsing in your chest. 

You own the spasms in your veins, the brief and lasting panic of who am I, really?, the deficiency of life and past and love; the frail hold on this reality, on that man, on this ring. 

The rest is not yours, so you should let it go. 

Then, ideally, you should be able to float away, free from these junctions to a girl you don’t know. The man who loves her loves your face. He loves your body, and your voice, and each of the words falling from your lips, perhaps in the wrong order, yes, but he’ll rearrange them in his mind so that it matches hers.

Ideally. 

Ideally, it’s not this drowning feeling, a weight like a hand pressing hard against your chest, shoving you deeper and deeper under the current. She’s the one who breathes, not you. You don’t need to breathe. You’re an accident in this world. 

The I.D. slips from your grasp and falls to the floor. 

You’ve read it. You saw the name, the rank, the naval symbol. In the dim moonlight and the single glowing strip underneath the bathroom door, his not-really-a-smile smiles up at you from the vinyl floor. 

And now you see it, chrome duct tape peeling off the jagged stitches of a patch, the one over his heart. Another of his games: his missing call sign. 

It… fits him. Strangely enough. 

Is this what you called him?

The hospital room floods with a subdued yellow light carried out by the steam of the lieutenant’s shower. He emerges with a towel wrapped around his lower body, a sheen of wet on his cheeks you’re not certain was caused by the shower. 

Like you, this is his third shower in this room, but unlike him, he’s not wearing a smirk when he exits, bare feet padding along the cold tiles. He doesn’t spare you a glance while he pilfers through his black duffle bag, the one seated on the only other guest chair in the room—the one that never moves. 

Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t look, because you hadn’t thought to take off the ring. It was a plan as half-baked as when you’d first decided to put it on. Some barbaric, frenzied part of you, the same one that had slipped it on and hugged it close to your heart, refused to yank it off. It was another you—not her nor you, but a new one that had fallen in love with him, Rooster, without memory or qualms, the one that had no issue with him lingering in every corner of your mind; no, in fact, she preferred it.

You don’t listen to her when the lieutenant pivots back to face you, a fresh pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and the rest sourced from the duffel bag in tow, one fist curled into his towel at his waist. His eyes land on yours, and your fingers slicken with the sweat of your palms, tremble like the thumps beneath your ribcage. 

At the worst moment possible, you notice, in the hazy yellow light of 10:07 PM, that Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw’s eyes are achingly akin to whiskey. It’s the dark, thick kind that coats your tongue and hits you five seconds after you sip it like a freight train; heady, terribly intoxicating, and in large doses, coaxes out the worst side of yourself at an even worse moment. 

The ring clinks against the bed’s metal framework before shuddering against the tile floor, and his eyes leave yours to watch it rattle. The skin of your left ring finger burns from the swift twisting and tugging you’d employed in a state of tipsy panic—your plan had been to slip the ring unnoticed beneath his leather jacket, the same place you’d stuffed the velvet box. 

A breath tears itself out of the lieutenant’s chest. Tan skin rises and falls once, and his grip goes white-knuckle on his towel. 

Then he pads back toward the bathroom without a word and disappears behind the slammed door. Somehow, in some terrible way, it is even harder to breathe with him not in the room after that. 

But he bursts through the door a second later, completely negligent of the violent pacing of your heart, donned in clothes wrinkled and stretched in odd places from frantic dressing. He covers the distance with three long strides and slackens back into the plastic hospital chair, the heavy creases under his eyes never having looked so deep-seated. 

You see it now. The damage this whole experience has done to him. He’s been hollowed out, rigorously gutted to the point that one last revelation might finally crack him in half and let the despair pour out. 

You’re afraid to tell him all that you don’t know. That even though you had slid that ring on and off your finger, you still don’t know him. But, God, you want to tell him that you love him, despite knowing it won’t be enough. It’s not even enough to you, and it’s all that you have. 

Usually, he wears this sheen layer of tenderness over his face; it slips off every night when you close your eyes, and he smooths it back on in the mornings in the mirror. Some days he layers it on so thick you never even notice the grief hidden underneath. 

It must have gotten too heavy to bear. 

The silence hangs just as heavy. He runs both hands down his face, pressing hard enough that his skin emerges pink, and folds his hands, knocking them against his lips. Veins in his eyes grow redder by the second, and your heart begins a slow crawl up your throat at the watery levels of his eyelines, waiting to spill. The ring sits on the floor untouched. 

“Do you,” he faltered, clearing his throat. “Do you… remember anything?”

He’s looking at you so intensely that your skin is searing. Shame washes over you, grasping your shoulders and burying you deeply into its chest. You want to cry. 

“Nothing.”

The lieutenant stares at you a second longer, stretching it out until you’re trembling. Then he looks away, down, before reaching and retrieving the ring from the ground. He observes it for just a second, the way it glimmers in night’s imperfect lighting, and his eyes squeeze shut.

Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, you’ve learned, will draw things out until the perfect moment has come. He will wait until the ache swells and culminates, with a tolerance so inexhaustible you wonder if, in all your time loving him, you ever bothered to wait up. He’s noticed how the darkness has swallowed both of you wholly, and only now does he offer reprieve. 

Bradley tells you your name.

And he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first second he saw you. 

He tells you that he can’t bear the thought of losing all that you’d had, and that his world had been crumbling apart before his own goddamned eyes ever since your jet’s engine had sputtered and died. He tells you that he’s so, so fucking sorry he couldn’t save you, sorry that your life ever got entangled so messily with his in the first place, and even more sorry that he’s so useless to help you find your way back, that you can’t seem to find your way back to him. 

And when you began to cry, he bolted up from his seat and held you, whispering apologies into your hair, and you cried a little harder, because you had found your way back to him, but he wouldn’t ever care, because it wasn’t the same path you’d taken before. 

You cry because it hurts to hold him, and even more because it hurts him to hold you. You want all of the I-love-yous he’s ever said to be for you, and you want that damned ring too. 

You want that goddamn ring on your finger right now because he’d promised you that it would be yours. That first moment he’d ever seen you, stumbling drunk in a crowded Hard Deck and spilling his beer half on his Hawaiian shirt, half on yours, that he’d make up for it by putting a spendy ring on your little finger right there, despite not actually knowing where right there was. The only one I’ll ever buy, he’d hiccuped, it’ll be yours, darlin’. 

“Rooster,” you croaked into his chest. “Roo.”

A provoked sob tore from your throat, your arms and ribs aching from how tightly you clung to him, even after he froze. You surfaced from the curve of his shoulder, hands sliding past his sides, over his thrumming chest, and up to cradle his damp jawline before drawing his face down to yours. He mumbled your name, whiskey eyes potent as ever, and you smothered the rest of his question against your lips. 

You couldn’t tell who was crying anymore. Your cheeks’ dampness was his, just the same as his lips pressed against yours so harshly, so numbingly you couldn’t quite tell where yours ended and his began. It must have been somewhere close to where his tongue met yours, making up for lost time as he fought hard and fiercely for everything he’d been starved of for three, going on four, unbearable days. His hands left their leverage against the bed and latched onto your hips, rough fingertips familiarly caressing the soft slopes of your sides, and when you offered an airy moan to him, he accepted eagerly with a tightening grip. 

You separated from him with a small cry, ribs twinging. Bradley pulled away in horror, and his dilated pupils struggled to sober up to join. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, larger hands now grappling at yours and trying to remove your grasp. “You need—ice, I’ll go get you some ice–”

“Roo, no,” you mumbled, refusing to let go of him. 

He paused, and his body shivered under your touch. The familiarity of his name from your mouth seemed as comforting to him as it was to you. His lips twitched and curled, and he breathed a small sigh. The hard lines of his face grew tender as he slid his hands down to your wrists, turning and pressing a kiss to each palm. 

His heart jumped and throbbed against your fingertips, and you had no doubt he could feel the same from yours. The heat of his damp cheeks had grown infinitely warmer under your touch, and for all the nights you’d spent with just a grasp on his hand, the change was more and more welcome. 

“Don’t leave me again,” he pleaded against the skin of your palm, voice thick and bittersweet, like honey seeping through your ears. “I don’t think I can handle that again.”

He steeled himself against your mattress with one hand when you tugged his forehead down against yours, lips just whispering against one another. You smiled. 

“Was it all the Jell-O that did you in, or…?”

“Yeah, actually,” he nodded, tongue pressed against his cheek. “It was. I hope you know we’re never having Jell-O in our house ever again.”

“Not even lime?”

“Especially lime.”

You huffed, “Fine.” You pulled away, despite how desperate Bradley was to follow you. He let you fall back against the pillows with your hand still in his grasp, and he settled onto the edge of the mattress, letting his spare hand find home in the pliant skin of your thigh. Your eyes rose to the ceiling. “But it’ll cost you.”

Soft lips brushed the back of your left hand before cold metal slipped around your finger. “One of these?”

“Exactly.”

Bradley hummed. “Gladly.”