#Old Gold but still ridiculously handsome

[1800titz]

HI. HELLO. Here is my Valentine’s Day contribution. POTTERYINSTRUCTOR!HARRY!! POTTERY MAN! WOOO. Basically almost 7K of clay sexualization and sexually charged fluff (ish). Enjoy! :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: ridiculous sexualization of clay (I think I’ve managed to fetishize clay in this one??? OOPS), overly suggestive usage of pottery terms, a red-hot, hands-on tutorial for wheel throwing, and embarassingly long descriptions of Harry’s fingers coated in wet clay.

WC: 6.6K

slip: small bits of dry clay mixed with water to create a thick, creamy consistency

Clay is innately erotic. 

Wheel throwing is, arguably, the most pornographic art form, its only competing opponent being, maybe, literal body-painting. And that latter one still falls as a close second. Close, but second. 

Y/N decides that when she wanders into a little ceramics shop tucked away in a busy plaza downtown. There’s no method to her exploration, but the broad glass windows are adorned with dripping, colorful graffiti and its innards call to her. GLAZED, reads the large sign over the awning in blocky, white lettering, stippled with un-glowing light bulbs that she’s sure light alive in the night. 

It’s a cute shop. 

Upon entrance, the young woman discovers tables, as if set up for arts and crafts, crackling, clay covered wheels with shorter stools, and long, tall rows of shelving brimmed with colorless sculptures lining the walls. Despite its packed interior, the studio seems empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels over to a shelf by the door, admiring the myriad of statues there, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and others lopsided efforts that probably deserve a pitied gold star for effort. 

Her eyes are caught on an unpainted little ashtray that’s got a crooked sort of bee in the center when her gaze breaks away to the sound of footsteps. Maybe the shop isn’t as abandoned as she’d previously believed — a man appears from behind a row of white shelving stacked with more unfinished pottery. 

He’s a pretty man, that much she can decide from the downturned slope of his nose and his distracted lash line, focused on twisting the navy rag in his left hand over the tip of his right index finger. A dark baseball cap shrouds his hair, but little brunette tufts sneak out in curled bunches around his ears. That’s where Y/N finds a fun, little red-tinted pearl dangling from one lobe. He’s tatted in patchwork art — a mermaid with its tits out peeks at her from his forearm, soaked over and shining. She assumes he must have just been rinsing clay from that forearm, from his hands, no longer visible over his skin. However, streaks of dried gray stain over his white tee in crackling lines, like an old lamination on a well-loved t-shirt that’s been cycled through the washer one too many times. When he pulls the rag away, she discovers a shade of bright red that’s been painted over his nails.

Almost as if he can sense her presence without looking, his sneakers pause on the tile and he steals a peer up. Yes, he’s quite a pretty man, even when his features shape something caught off guard.

“Hello.”

His voice is rich — this smooth, bass-deep sort of sound driving a foreign lilt, and Y/N thinks that if it weren’t for his lengthy fingers and his cherry polished nails, if it weren’t for his handsomely sculpted face, if it weren’t for his seemingly innate effortless demeanor and style, that voice alone could make her fold.  

“Hello,” she returns, aware that a nervous note plucks at her cadence, unlike his own casual greeting. I promise I’m not shoplifting clay pots in silence, she nearly tells him. 

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue. 

“What can I help you with?” the man asks, sauntering forward a bit. It’s probably sort of a polite manner to say what the fuck are you doing here, and the longer the young woman stands in the middle of the empty shop the more out of place she feels, almost like this a private, little haven and she shouldn’t be in here right now.

The song shifts into its choral bass drop of electric keys. That fills the void of the silence as she swallows and fixes a little smile onto her face, fingers tightening over the strap of her tote. 

“Oh, I’m just looking.” 

The man purses his mouth and walks over to the counter, where the register is littered with paperwork and an eclectic collection of faux plants. He sets the rag down beside a floppy one with its green tendrils dangling over the edge. 

“See anything you like?” his hand pinches over his nose, like he’s scratching an itch, before he sniffs and pivots to apparently decrease their proximity, “We’ve got loads — you can make something yourself, or,” another step, and Y/N’s eye bounce from his shorts to his tattooed knees to the hems of his white socks. “…If you know sculpting isn’t your craft, we’ve got ready-to-paint-one's on that shelf there.”

Her gaze follows the direction of his finger, where pasty ceramic bunnies, and angels, and cars line the shelving in multiples. 

“I think—“ the young woman’s tongue peeks out to swipe over her mouth, words growing drier the longer she captures his stare. She focuses back on a lopsided rendition of strawberry, its leaves cradling over as a disconnected lid and its stem a crooked handle. “I like these. They’ve got so much character.” 

She blinks back over to him and watches a soft smile shape over the cushiony pink of his mouth.

It only takes a moment — one where her sight draws back to the strawberry jar for a smidge of a second, before he’s so close that she can smell his cologne, spiced and clean. She ogles his arm, his hand, the way he reaches out between them to cull the piece, mildly appalled by the way he palms the sculpture and dwarfs it in his easy grasp. It’s such a casual maneuver, made almost as if he’s not fondling over something it’d take anyone else two hands to hold. Y/N imagines the dimpled form of clay coated over to match the color of his nails.

“They do, don’t they? I like this one, too. S’a little …ugly, but, s’in, like, a…” the man’s features twist into something silly and pinched, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth to avoid exposing her amusement at the brutal candor. His words catch in his throat and bubble as a short laugh, “I dunno. It’s art.” 

He sets it back onto the shelf with a light clink, and turns to face her, posturing against a post in the shelving where the tiers have a break. An exhale becomes paired with his nonchalant lean, arms crossing over his pecs, and Y/N tries intensely not to stare like a hawk at the muscle there. 

“I’m afraid people are coming back for these, though. This row came out of the kiln…” forest green skids to the assortment and then bounds up to the ceiling like he’s in thought, before he casts his gaze back onto her, “…yesterday. And there’s a month-and-a-half window for someone to come back and glaze before we toss or sell them to be painted.” 

He’s chewing gum. Y/N realizes it when she admires the soft stubble coating his jaw, his cheeks — that’s when she notices the work of his jawline over the minty piece. He tips his head. “Did you want to try sculpting something?” 

The edges of her lips break bashfully. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.” 

One corner of the man’s mouth curls up lopsidedly, and the beginnings of a dimple nudge into place. He blinks and chews a little slower, “Have you ever worked with clay before?” 

Her delayed, little no is met with the lopsided beam growing even. He nudges with his chin, deliciously bulging arms still tucked over his chest, his playfully raised eyebrows like a wordless notion of have more faith in yourself, “Then you may just be the next Magdalene Odundo. We’ll make a pro sculptor out of you, yet.” 

Magdalene Odundo. Somehow, the name isn’t familiar, but simultaneously, somehow, it feels like a compliment. 

Y/N inhales as his digits shift over his tri’s. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” plush pink shapes a handsome smile, bordering bright white teeth in straight lines. The man tips his head towards the curved berry vase, and then looks back at her, “Did you want to do something like this? All these over here were made on the wheel.” 

Y/N muzzles telling him that she’s no inkling of an idea how someone can morph a lump of clay into a vase, nevermind on a big, spinning platform that moves faster than her eyes can keep up with. The man seems to pick up on the hesitation in her silence. 

“S’easy, I promise. I’ll show you how to throw.” 

Show her. Okay. At least she’s not going to head into vase-sculpting or wheel-throwing or …whatever he’d called it blindly, fumbling over a block of clay on a twirling tray like a slapstick skit personified. At least it means she’s going to stay in his presence. After a moment of thought, though, (and the way she notes that his eyes make unwavering, relaxed contact with her face the entirety of the silent pause), Y/N decides she’s not sure whether that last bit is actually a good thing, considering she’s probably milliseconds away from, like, bracing a hand onto a the shelf to match his level of coolness, or something. And then subsequently sending ceramic pots spilling and shattering over the tile.

She blinks. Her shoulders rise on her nervous inhale, and he makes one of those playful faces, like he’s waiting for her to agree. The young woman’s eyes wander to the line of chairs pressed to its counterparts of wheels. 

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“ 

“You’re not. S’my job,” he tells her, crimson fingertips drumming. She catches sight of his fabric-clad pectorals flexing when he leans forward a little to tack on, “…And to be honest, it’d give me something to do besides fucking around with clay, which is what I’ve been doing for the last hour.” 

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” he says again, and then winds around through a row of little tables that resemble the set up of an art classroom, like the kind she’d have in school. She’s ashamed that her gaze wanders down the back of his arm to ogle the rest of his ink. 

“You can have a seat at one of those wheels,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads, she assumes, to wind back around the same shelf he’d surfaced from behind, “Just give me a mo’, and I’ll be right back with some clay.” 

It takes Y/N a moment — mostly because she admires the view of his stature from behind as he migrates to a back hallway, irises roaming down the projection of muscles in his back showcased through his tee. They skim down his legs, down the backs of his knees, rest on toned calves. He’s gone far too quickly for her viewing pleasure. The young woman takes another glance at the uneven strawberry-esque vase, and then she pivots to step around the crowded assortment of wheels to crouch into one of those little roll-y stools, feet crossing and uncrossing in the cramped space. 

He’s a sexy man, Y/N decides. That’s the word she’d been looking for all along, although pretty would match the descriptors of his long lashes and his pouty pink mouth. He’s sexy, though, in his baseball cap and his little six-inch-inseam shorts (which show off the sculpt of his tanned thighs and the ink over his kneecaps). He’s sexy when he comes out from the back over to her wheel, a gunmetal gray ball of clay cradled in his palm like it’s not the size of two of her own. He’s sexy in the green eye contact he makes when he settles into a stool similar to her own, right across, when his thighs splay because he doesn’t have enough room to sit otherwise, when he rests his elbows over his knees and stretches one arm out to pass off the clay. That’s when their digits brush, because it’s sort of unavoidable. He manages to make eye contact through that, too. Sexy. 

“Okay. Clay,” the chilled ball the man hands off weighs her hand down, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to meet his own when he instructs, “Toss it onto the wheel. Aim for the center.” 

The young woman pauses like she’s calculating her aim, gearing up without visibly gearing up, and a little smile tugs at the instructor’s mouth as he waits. The clay lands with a thud onto the plate. 

“Great,” he tells her, monitoring the centering, and then jade bounces back up to her face as he coaxes, “Smack for good luck.” 

Y/N curbs the corners of her mouth out of mirth, hesitating for a moment before her palm lands over the smooth, gray lump in a halfhearted pat. She blinks up, hoping for assurance. The handsome man’s mouth purses like he’s restraining a grin. 

“Harder,” he encourages after a second, the corners of his muted raspberry mouth seeping up a smidge, more openly, “S’not gonna cry. You can go a little harder than that.” 

The young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, raises her hand, and follows his request, molding it flatter under the solid thud of her palm. Evidently, it’s a better attempt, because she earns a, “Very good,” in response from him.

She casts her gaze up to find him dipping his hands into the pot of murky water beside the wheel before a fist knocks lightly at the pedal-resembling lever on the opposite side, sending the wheel into a speeding twirl. And to add to her list of shame, the liquid that coats his fingers — that’s. 

Yeah. 

Y/N swallows and watches those wet hands cup over the clay, partly mesmerized by the way he coaxes the priorly deformed lump into a symmetrical cylinder, stroking up from the base up and back down, and partly mesmerized by the way the cherry polish becomes daubed with slicked clay. 

“I’m just gonna get it nice and easy for you, and then you can get to the fun bits,” the man tells her as if he isn’t currently awakening some deep, deviously sexual desires in her by fondling clay. Jade flickers up. “M’Harry, by the way.” 

“Y/N,” the young woman tells him in response, unsure whether to focus on his searing eye contact or the gentle press of his hands over … oddly erotic artistry in motion.

Harry unwittingly makes the decision for her by breaking the eye contact and glancing down at his work. 

“Y/N,” he says, as if testing the taste of her name on his tongue. 

Y/N takes a breath, smoothing her hands down her thighs. 

“Y/N,” his strawberry mouth parts a tad for a soft breath in, honey smooth cadence glazed in concentration as he presses a flat palm over the top of the clay, keeping his other hand cupped over the length. 

She watches the cylinder mold under his grip into something shorter, and then back up. She watches the way his arms flex, anchored to his body as he presses with the heels of his palms to sculpt. 

“This is called coning. Makes the clay centered so your grip stays nice and even when it spins. Otherwise, s’gonna wobble, and you’ll feel it when you’re trying to work with it.”

Sure enough, after a few moments, when the man takes his clay-sullied palms away, what’d priorly been a lopsided hunk twirling over the platform stands symmetrically, shining post his wet grip. When he balls his hand into a fist and punches over the lever a handful of times, the plate slows to a stop. He blows out a breath and the music shifts to the next track in the background.

“Take your bracelet off for me.” 

The comment is made totally innocuously. Its purpose is solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry — she knows that when his eyes go to meet hers again and he mentions, “Otherwise, it could get covered with clay, or break. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty piece.”

But it’s the way he says it, right? Two little words, so easy off his tongue. So nonchalant, so purely intended with no ulterior motive. For me. For me, for me, for me. 

It’s shameful — she’s ashamed. She’s no better than a man, Y/N decides, as she peers to the silver bangle with the sliver of warmth slithering through her chest and snaking to her tummy. She’s no better than a man, objectifying this poor, effortlessly sexy ceramics instructor and his casual commentary on a Wednesday. She swallows. 

“Right. Thanks— thank you,” the young woman tells him, her tone garbled with nervous enthusiasm as the fingers of her opposite hand wriggle under the clasp to pop the piece off. 

She’s still feeling dubious about the morality of her thoughts once she’s slipped the bracelet into her tote by her feet and sat back up. 

“Alright,” Harry starts again, elbows braced to his sturdy thighs, “We’re gonna go over what this little thing over here does, because it’s good to know. It sets your speed. We’ve got options—“

Y/N watches the way his arm stretches, she eyes the tail of the mermaid, the lines of scales etched into his skin. His eyes meet her own again. 

“…Fast,” Harry knocks over the lever again with the butt of a vertical fist, a couple more nudges rocketing the wheel into a motion that dissolves priorly visible remnants of clay rings into fast-moving swirls with no decipherable borders. 

Another few nudges has the wheel skidding to a full-stop, and then stuttering back up into a spin when he taps over the pad once more. 

“…Slow,” Harry fixes his gaze back onto her face and watches the curious concentration there. The man sits back up a tad, elbows bracing over his splayed thighs and fingers crooked and lax, coated with slippery wetness and clay. “Find what feels good for you. S’different for everyone.”

Despite the way the directions are made so innocently, so obviously stated as a tutorial that’s not intended to be taken as something suggestive, Y/N finds a heat teeming over her cheekbones. 

“But, I recommend—“ her teeth lodge into the inside of her cheek with subtlety as the instructor hunches a little again, just a tad, to rap over the lever in a pair. The wheel speeds. “—Sticking to something around this.”

The pace of the wheel settles into an easy spin — something that’s still too quick for her eyes to keep up with, but apparently not the fastest setting, judging by the higher speeds he’d displayed moments prior. 

“Alright. Here’s where you come in with your undiscovered ceramic talents,” the instructor tells her, the edges of his mouth so obviously restrained, like he’s amused with his own playful banter. His eyes glinting softly under the buttery light cast by the overhanging lanterns,”M’gonna show you how to drill, but you’ll need to get your hands wet first.”

Harry sits back, elbows still braced to his thighs, hands now coated with slippery clay as he waits for the young woman to douse her own into the bucket. The liquid greets her palms with a welcome chill, and when she lightly cups over the cylinder, it slips under her hands with ease. The man clears his throat, and their digits graze again when he touches over her fingers to guide her grasp. Y/N tries not to focus on the way his hands make her own look as if they belong to a child. 

“You’re gonna take your thumbs—” Harry coaxes, all concentrated seriousness now, and the pad of his own brushes against the knuckle of her left, “—and press over the top, here. Right in the middle, just like that.” 

He takes his hands away and the clay rolls under her fingertips, a divot forming from the pressure of her thumbs. 

“Good. Now what you’ve done is you’ve indicated where you’re going to make the opening. And to do that—“ his hands return, unintentionally persuading her own to fall away and sort of hover stagnantly mid-air, in sullied awe, as he dips the tip of his index into the cleft they’d created together. 

As if hungry for the finger, the clay parts to swallow the pad of the digit. It broadens its starving mouth, and Harry steadies the spread with his thumb, his pointer delving against the inside of the deepening wall. His opposite hand cups over the body as he molds the opening wider. 

Anyways, what Y/N manages to learn from the impressive showcase, before Harry steals a glance to make sure she’s been observing (which she has, very focused, actually), is that clay-working is a dirty, dirty, lustrous art form. Especially under his fingertips. This is all very educational stuff. Perhaps the most impressive step of his tutorial, thus far, is the way that, in mere moments, he cups and strokes and caresses over the clay, drawing the opening tighter. It shrinks until it disappears, and when he smooths his hands over the rounded edges a few more times, the vessel that’s left is an entirely clean slate. Almost as if she hadn’t just spent the last few seconds ogling a weirdly pornographic display of a clay cavern opening in response to the touch of his long finger. This was a horrible mistake, Y/N thinks pitifully — she’s getting aroused by clay working. If there was ever a blaring red indicator that she needed to get laid, this is it. 

“I want you to try now,” Harry directs, totally nonchalant. This is just a casual Wednesday for him, Y/N realizes. He casually fingers clay with his sexy, long fingers, and thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s just a horribly wound-up pervert. 

Still sort of stunned, she reaches out and cups over the cylinder, clumsily positioning her thumbs in a replication of the manner he’d shown her, aiming for the center and driving a divot into the top. 

“Mm. That’s good. Keep your elbows closer to your body,” he prompts, eyes flickering from her posture to her hands. “Like this.” 

Following his body language, Y/N mimics, ducking a tad and tucking her arms to her torso. After a few moments, she lifts her thumbs to find a centered indent, one that’s similar to the one they’d created together. 

“Lovely. Now,” the chair makes a little rolling sound over the tile as Harry shifts forward, clay-slicked hands (warm, despite their cool coating) cradling over her own to position, “You’re gonna cup here, and then take this finger and push here. Yep. Jus’ like that.” 

The instructor takes his grip away and encourages, “If you need more water, get your hands wet. You can tell you need it if there’s friction — you want it a little wet.” 

She wants it a little wet. Y/N decides, as she dunks her hands into the bucket and returns to the clay, she in fact does not want anything wet right now. This is the last place she wants something wet. Her thoughts are disturbed by the way he grasps her at her hands again and repositions — twisted by the slippery feel of his own wet fingers. The clay over his palms has begun to dry now, morphing lighter and crackling, but the tips of his digits are still soaked and darker in shade. She’s awed when the cylinder gives under her touch, the same way it had for him to encompass her finger. It’s like magic, sort of. Very slippery, wet, weirdly erotically undertone-d magic. 

“There you go,” Harry tells her, baritone soft, “You’re a pro.” Then, after a moment, “You can go a little harder. Don’t be shy. Open it up.” 

She’s not blushing. She’s not blushing, because that would be silly. She presses harder, and the opening widens until it gapes. 

“How long have you worked here?” the young woman asks, naturally trying to change the subject from wet and hard things. Hopefully in an organic enough manner that doesn’t imply how affected she is by said wet and hard things. 

“I bought this place a few years ago,” Harry responds after a second, tone concentrating as he reaffixes the firmness of her grasp (she tries not to verbally apologize, glancing up), “…Both units. It was a smoke shop before, I think.” 

“Oh!” her hands stutter again in surprise, “Are you the owner?” 

He fixes them again, brows pinched, and when he glances up, his brow bone is smooth and there’s a soft smile playing over his mouth. “Indeed I am.” 

“It’s …beautiful in here,” Y/N tells him, gaze walloping from shelf to shelf for a moment, lantern lined ceilings to vine-coated crown molding, trusting that his hands will keep her own grounded to the piece. 

“Thanks. It’s a little crowded, but if you manage to get lost among the …phallic statues and the clay bongs,” he cocks his head, blatantly bridling a simper as he shrugs. At the response of her snort, jade flickers up and the plush of his mouth curls more obviously, “…You’ll find your way out of the maze soon enough.” 

As the walls of the clay grow thinner, the instructor takes his grip away, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we going for here? A mug? A vase? A bong masquerading as a vase?” 

Y/N takes the lack of his touch as an indication to lighten her own. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “A vase.” 

“A vase,” the instructor parrots, voice low, and then he hunches back over and cups the clay. The young woman returns her hands to meet his own. “I can work with that. We’re gonna build it up. You’re gonna squeeze and lift. Right—“

If his fingers keep brushing hers for the duration of the next …half hour? Hour? (How long does throwing take?), Y/N decides she’ll simply combust. His hands cup lightly over her own, two digits pressed to hers, and hers pinned to the inner wall of the clay in sin. 

“—Here. That’s it. You can be a little aggressive. We’ve gotta get it tall.”

Y/N swallows.

“You said you own both units?” she ponders aloud, “Is there …more?” 

“My place,” Harry tells her nonchalantly, as if it’s the most casual, normal, every day thing to live over a ceramics studio, “S’just over on the next floor.” 

“That’s—“ she realizes her grasp has lightened again, the integrity of the structure mostly only crawling up under the pressure of his own (steady, firm) grip over hers, “…so cool. To have, like, a whole studio right under you.” 

“Mm. I think right now…” Harry cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling, “We’re under my kitchen.” 

A little breath of mirth tumbles from her when he grins and tacks on, “I think this is way cooler, though.” 

This is The Turning Point. 

And if it was a scene title in a play, Y/N thinks it would be capitalized to denote the importance. It’s important, because somewhere along the trail of her perversions, as Harry had guided her hands into the innards of the clay — fittingly describing it as the body — when he’d pressed his hands against her own to widen its base, when he’d shown her the sponge, things had clicked. It had clicked because she realized she wasn’t fucking crazy. Because Harry then said this thing — this one little thing that would have launched her into a frenzied, internal mess of dubious morality on the basis of her perversions—

But then it clicked. 

“Careful with the amount of water you’re using now, yeah?” he’d told her, maneuvering her grip over the sponge as they’d smoothed over the lip together, “S’all about balance. …If you go too hard, you’ll make a wet mess.” 

Y/N had glanced up. That’s when she’d noticed the way the instructor gnawed into his cheek, almost immediately, almost as if he was amused by some sort of devious inside joke. And then his blocky front teeth had dug lightly into the plush of his pink bottom lip. It was nearly unnoticeable — but she had noticed. Clay was innately erotic, and he was doing it on purpose. It was one, or the other, or both. 

For a little while from there, they work in blatantly charged silence. It’s a very short while, all things considered, and she’s willing to clam up altogether and daydream about his digits for the duration of the lesson, but the tone of his next words nearly gives her whiplash. 

“So what are you doing on this lovely Valentine’s day?” Harry breaks the silence, once again, his tone so even and nonchalant that Y/N can’t begin to fathom where his composure comes from. 

The young woman clears her throat, “Oh. Y’know. Trying my hand at ceramics. The yuzh.” 

Jade doesn’t immediately jolt up when he ponders aloud, “Dinner plans?” 

“Not any on the calendar …that I’m aware of.”

His touch doesn’t lighten, but he does glance up, mouth all (apparently) disbelieving mirth, “You’re telling me you’re not being wined and dined tonight?” 

Feigning offense, the young woman sets her mouth into a line and nudges with her chin in a nod, joking, “Thank you for the reminder.” 

Harry laughs softly, one of those little breaths expelled through his nostrils, and he looks back down to the vase-in-progress, gentle grin undeniable. Y/N matches his amusement, faux indignation crackling. 

“You’re too pretty not to have a Valentine,” the instructor tells her, then, decibel low, almost like it was meant to be under his breath but also entirely not, and all Y/N can do is sit there with instant heat seeping to her face. Because that’s flirting. That’s definitely flirting. Her sexy ceramics instructor is helping her craft a vase out of clay on a wheel with his sexy hands, and he’s openly flirting. 

Y/N stuffs down how initially stunned she is to chew into her bottom lip and volley, “I bet you say that to every girl that comes in here.” 

Harry shrugs. It’s still almost an enraging level of cucumber-cool and composed. 

“Just the pretty ones.” He tacks on, after a moment, “And only on Valentine’s day. Don’t think that line would fit well on a random Wednesday.” 

Y/N snorts. She’s still basking in the pleasant warmth of the flattery when the man peers up and tells her, “I do accept tips, by the way, so. Feel free to leave a tip for the friendly service.” 

“I will—“ she snorts, restraining her open amusement at the way his brows crinkle in concentration as he helps her grip, “—definitely do that.” 

“Sick,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, disappearing back into his mouth as quick as the pink had showcased. Jade flits up, the corners of his mouth curled up in a little pause of silence, almost he wants to make it crystal clear he does not actually want a tip for hitting on her. 

Anyways, this is all a flustered mess. All of it. Y/N, the pot she’s sure will grow off-center and wobble under her shaky grip, all of it. 

“What about you?” the young woman takes a deep breath, hoping some sort of breathing exercise will help slow the buzzy flutter of her heartbeat, “Any wining and dining? For Valentine’s day?” 

“Not on the calendar,” Harry responds, sliding her own words back to her, his gaze still honed on the work ahead of them, now impressively morphed from a lumpy, shapeless ball into the beginnings of a vase, “As for how I’m spending my Valentine’s day, I did just show this one pretty girl how to shape and smooth. And now, …m’gonna show her how to shape some more.”

Y/N bats her lashes, and then she observes the work of his clay caked fingers, the way they curl and press over the vase in different points of the body, some motions widening the rim and some drawing it more narrow. He bids their tutorial a pause shortly after, explaining, “I’m gonna give you some creative freedom now. Figure out what shape you like.” 

Despite the slight disappointment budding at the close of their conversation, for now, the daunting task of unsupervised throwing is what probably surfaces on her face, more. The instructor catches it when he rolls back in the stool and stands, ogling her for a moment, mirthy mouth caving up in a way that suggests she must look like a deer in headlights. 

“It’s intimidating, but I believe in you. I’ll just be in the back for a sec, give me a shout if you need me.”

Y/N shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together when he adds, “Play around with it.” 

All in all, they manage to end the wheel session with (Y/N thinks, impressively) only a couple of hiccups, both being opportunities presented with unsupervised sculpting. When she’d played around with it (his words) a little too much and had coaxed a priorly even shape into something lopsided and petrifying, it’d swung around on the wheel, each turn quickening its slow but sure collapse. She’d called out for the instructor with a frantic note to his name. Of course, both times, Harry had come out from the back and patiently squeezed over the clay, hands and forearms jolting and flexing deliciously as he’d encouraged it back into something centered (yet another opportunity to stare at slick clay glazing over his fingers all over again), reassuring her that it was normal to struggle, especially with her first time. 

Y/N wonders if he’s constantly full of innuendos, or whether a ceramics studio is just innately an opportunity for double entendres. 

She tries not to make it too obvious when she stands on wobbling legs, when she brushes past him and catches soft notes of his cologne, clean and musky. When he directs her to the bathroom where she rinses clay from her hands into one of those artsy, utility sinks. When she sits at one of the tables, waiting for him to bring the vase over to her, torched and ready for additions, when he gives her another colorless lump. She tries not to make it obvious when she ogles more of his arms, the peek of his nipples through the white, clay-stained fabric of his tee shamelessly. She fears it’s utterly obvious how affected he’s made her, though, when she blinks up at his face, when he shows her what the different little tools in the cup do for sculpting. Y/N doesn’t even look away from him at the introduction of the first tool. She thinks that’s the one that must cross-hatch, driving little lines into the clay. 

“This is called slip,” Harry explains, dipping the tips of his index and middle fingers into the cup near the brushes with no hesitation. The consistency over his fingers, when he pulls them out, is like a wetter, creamier, sloppier variation of the same clay she’d worked with. 

Christ. 

“You put it over the lines you’ve carved to make more clay stick,” the instructor expands. 

Y/N swallows when he smears the consistency coating his fingers onto the lines he’d drawn, his gaze bouncing from his touch to her face. 

“Like, if you wanted to add a handle to a mug, you’d use this method. Or, alternatively,” the young woman focuses on the way the pads of the digits rub over the lines. They fade away. “It’s like an eraser. Careful with erasing, though. …Wet mess.” 

The latter is tacked on as a reminder, and it wonderfully reminds her of the heat coiling in the pit of her tummy. Wonderfully. She swallows again. 

“You can probably use that brush to apply the slip, though, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty again.” 

Flowers. She sculpts flowers with a searing heat between her thighs, because his added little comment of, “I don’t mind,” as he glances to the slip still glazing his fingers, implying that he doesn’t mind to get his hands dirty, does that to her. Y/N sculpts flowers and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence. It’s one where the only sounds are the soft music playing over the speakers and the occasional noise of pages turning from behind the counter as he leans over it and works through some kind of paperwork. She draws lines into the vase, and brushes on the slip, and presses creased flowers to decorate the bulbous body, concentration etching her features. 

She doesn’t notice when she goes over the hours of operation, and Harry doesn’t disturb her, doesn’t tell her that the shop’s been closed for nearly half an hour by the time she peers up and declares, “I’m done.” 

“You’re done,” the man repeats and sets the paperwork down, making his way over to the table where she’d set up, “Let’s have a look.” 

Y/N sits back admiring her artistry. All things considered, it’s sort of an ugly vase. Despite this, a sense of accomplishment buds in her chest as she stares at her creation. 

“I like it,” Harry tells her, nodding like he’s proud of a promising protégé, “It’s quite sweet.” 

“Thank you. What now?” 

“Now—“ the instructor props one hand onto the countertop and the other against his hip, “You wash your hands, you take a picture, and you come back in three weeks to sand it and glaze it.” 

Simple. It’s a simple set of instructions. Y/N brushes crackling, dried clay off of her fingertips against the cloth laid over the table, instinctively reaching for her purse. 

She blinks up at him expectantly, “How much?” 

Dimples wink awake with his soft simper, and he shifts his stance before he asserts, “Don’t worry about it.” 

The young woman’s features shape into something crinkled, something bemused and unwilling of a discount. She shakes her head and glances back down to the tote, “No, I have to pay you. What about your tip?” 

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, pecs flexing with the motion. Flexing, flexing, flexing, when will his muscles stop rippling? He sighs, cushiony mouth still smiling, “I think I’ll live. My tip was that I’ve helped you discover a hidden talent—“

Y/N snorts, eyeing the sloppy attachments to the shapely base, fingers still tucked over her wallet. 

“—It’d defeat the satisfaction and all the pride I’ve got now,” the man declares, shrugging. 

The unconvinced look she gives him coaxes him into a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Harry tuts before he compromises, raising his eyebrows, “But if you must tip me, you can tip me when you come back in three weeks, yeah?” 

Begrudged, the young woman takes her hand from the edges of her wallet. “Fine. Okay.” 

“Okay. Three weeks,” the man reminds her, a little smile playing over the plush of his mouth.

The world of ceramics is oddly pornographic, Y/N decides. But maybe clay isn’t innately erotic. Maybe it’s the way the man’s fingertips mold its shape, the way his digits look soaked in slip, the way his hands cradle over it as a wheel spins under his ducked stature. Maybe it’s the way his jade irises flit to her face when he makes an educational comment that’s obviously suggestive, Maybe it doesn’t have to do with clay, at all. Maybe it’s Harry.  

Maybe it’s the way he tells her, “If I were you, I wouldn’t miss it. Glazing is my favorite part.”

[biteofcherry]

How would enforcer!Steve handle his girl that is a little weepy, emotional mess from her period? 🥺😭

No but the way I can burst into tears at the drop of a dime and at the most ridiculous thing when I’m on my blood fail lollll. 🫣

Okay, so I know you asked for enforcer!Steve reacting to sweet Cherry's period suffering. He would be the most doting, spoiling and caring. He probably at times would feel a little helpless, like when you cry from ice cream melting too fast, but overall he'd be quite amazing. However, my brain wanted to think more about a different Steve facing your emotional distress during period 🤷‍♀️

Which is why I bring you the dark mafia bastard versus your period tears, that no one asked for 😂 Sorry!

Touch The Darkness

dark mafia!Steve Rogers x female reader

warnings: Steve being a cocky bastard as usual; annoyingly perceptive too; some period emotional mess

The thing Steve's face does when you suddenly burst into tears over nothing is like a tiktok on acting.

He goes from shock (his eyes widening, nose scrunching slightly) to confusion (frown marring his forehead, corners of his mouth twitching), then through a process of putting together smallest pieces of information and observation.

Finally, he sighs as his face relaxes into this neutral, ridiculously handsome state.

You almost cry from it all over again, because you really like how handsome Steve is, all the while you're still convinced that you should be hating every fiber of his being for eternity.

But since he went after you to your little hiding place and demanded to know what's wrong, you tell him. You hiss the word period and give him a murderous look that suggests he is the one responsible for all women suffering monthly bleeding and pain.

A second later you almost cry again, because Steve doesn't look shocked anymore.

Steve doesn't even cringe when he says the word period. He doesn't look bothered or disgusted by it, which you find quite annoying.

It would be so much easier if the bastard was one of those idiot males, who can't even say the word and they run away at the thought of it.

Instead, Steve tilts his head slightly to the side, scans you from head to toe and back again.

"Then why the fuck are you curled up here and not in bed?" He nods at the old armchair in the library nook, which you never before used, even when reading. It's more of a decoration than comfortable to actually sit in it.

You don't answer him, only glare and pull the two layers of blankets up to your nose.

You're not going to tell him that you love the comfort of the pristine, expensive covers on your marital bed and that while you never minded it at your previous home, you were kind off scared of bleeding on them.

Which is what started this whole thing of you storming into the library - wrapped in two blankets that trailed after you like a train. Because you were about to hide in bed, most excited to find comfort and relax in the lovely soft, clean sheets, when a flash of image of your blood staining it had you bolting out.

It's ridiculous. You never normally cared for such things. Sheets could be washed and changed.

But somehow, this time, you ended up crying and leaving the bedroom.

Steve seems to read your like an open book, despite your complete silence.

"Princess," he sighs, "I've seen plenty of blood. I've been covered in blood an brain matter of my enemies more times than you imagine. Doesn't bother me. Especially not my wife's natural reason for it."

You're about to snap at him that his sensitivities weren't your concern at all, when he continues:

"And the sheets can be changed as many times as needed. I've already ordered three more sets in that cream and gold shade you like the most."

"You know nothing," you glower, but you can feel the heat filling your face.

How the hell did he know that? It's not like you said to him anything on the topic of something so silly like finding the covers pretty and lovely. Which you do.

Steve's mouth curls into a smirk as he leans forward and braces hands on the backrest of the armchair, on both sides of your head.

"Don't think I didn't notice how you curl into a cozy burrito when the cream covers are on and that you stay a little longer in bed. And-" his face inches closer, warm breath fanning your cheek- "that you more often provoke me to have sex outside of bed, so the sheets stay clean longer."

"I do not provoke you to have sex!" You burst, but Steve only laughs as if you told the funniest joke.

Next thing you know, he's scooping you up into his arms - bundled in blankets and all. He carries you effortlessly, not caring for the few protests that you hiss at him.

He takes you to the bedroom and slowly puts you down on your feet on the floor. He rips the blankets away from you then lifts you up again, placing you in bed. On those soft, fresh smelling sheets.

"Now, you want ice cream or something salty? Or maybe an orgasm or two to help with the cramps?"

[misserabella]

Filthy Rich

Spencer Reid x Fem! reader PT.2

☆ pt1!! pt3!

✧ Synopsis;; Spencer Reid was filthy rich, for he was royalty. Handsome, charming and a gentleman, a dream dressed in pure silk for any kind of woman. But not you.

✧ y/n is a mere slave of a nobel family who just turned 22. On the night of the prince’s royal ball she is dragged against her will to this dance just to be used as a coat rack for the purses and coats of the family ladies, who, of course, treat her like absolute sh’t, to the point where they could agreed to hand her over for a generous amount of gold

“Just name your price, sweetheart.”

“Screw you, my prince.”

Just how lucky you were for had caught the

prince’ s attention!

< enemies to lovers 3

17th century royalty! inspired by bridgerton!

CW;; this series might include 18+ content (details will be given at the start of each new part uploaded) MINORS DNI AND SKIP!!!

WARNINGS PART TWO: cursing, blood, violence and a nude scene(?)

Please, under no circumstances, repost my work on any other sites. I do not consent to anyone taking my work and posting it as their own.

WORD COUNT;; +2,5k

REPOSTS AND COMMENTS ARE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED!<3

‘Because from now on you belong in this castle.’

You stepped back at his words, his smile never dropping as you amused him with your fighting against the maids that had returned in a clap of his hands. “You shall let them help you with your clothes and washing, I promise you you’ll feel better once you’ve found yourself clean.” he tried to convince you, his hazel puppy eyes glistening under the lights and his voice soft as a caress.

“I can take my clothes off myself.” you spit, your hands making your way to the back of your dress to unbuckle the single button that was left, among those who had fallen off through the years, and undo the bow that molded it’s skirt to your waist, letting your clothes slip to the floor and around your feet, leaving you completely naked to their sight since no petticoat had been given to you by your old family.

The maids gasped, as you had dared to undress yourself in front of the prince, whose eyes never left yours, not really budging at your actions for he was a ‘gentleman’. His smile only grew up more, which you’d started finding pretty goddamn annoying.

“Then, I shall excuse myself… Ladies.” he bowed to the maids, who did the same and said their goodbyes.

“Oh, bless my soul!” Gideon exclaimed as his eyes accidentally took a glance of your naked body once the door had opened, quickly adverting them to his right.

You gave them your back as he closed the door with a mocking smile towards his right hand, your feet, and later on your whole body, being surrounded in clear warm water for what you thought it was the first time in your life.

You sighed in relief and sank deeper into the bathtub, letting your eyes close once a pair of hands started washing your long hair, getting lost in the feeling of it all, in its warmth.

“I won’t put that on.” you shook your head at the dress that was currently being showed to you. Starting from the fact that it’s skirt was way too big for you to freely and comfortably move around, the puff on its sleeves looked ridiculous and seemed really troublesome and the corset which strings stood in the back really threatened your ability to breath. It was a simple and definite no for you. And the color! That shade of yellow won’t flatter you, that’s for sure.

“It seems that the dresses that Lord Gideon sent are no good…” one of the maids sighed, tossing the last one of them aside.

“What a pity…” you falsely pouted, adjusting yourself in the padded chair you had been forced to sit on so the women could take care of your hair.

“Well, there’s still the one that the prince sent! Let’s give it a try.” a brunette one smiled, to which you huffed, you hair being combed by another maid that simply giggled, really entertained by your reactions. “Where was it…, ah, yes!” she seemed to find it, her gentle fingers taking a grip on the strip sleeves of the dress to reveal it to the rest, who let out a delighted gasp.

“Crumbs*! It’s beautiful!” the maid that combed your hair exclaimed, her eyes shining as brightly as the rest of the ladies’.

It was a really simple dress, though it looked more like a nightgown. It was made out of the most beautiful lace you’ve ever seen. It was light blue, and large, enough to cover your thighs, ending below your knees. It had different layers of silk and lace of all types with little ruffles and decorations. The chest was made out of two triangles of silk with lace surrounding them in a soft-looking way that made you…, not hate it. In fact, it was really beautiful.

“Would you like to try it on, miss?” they all inquired, hoping for a positive answer since they seemed to have fallen in love with the dress.

“Well, it’s the most… pleasant to the eyes,” you muttered, trying to not show your true feelings about that piece of clothing, winning excited smiles from the ladies, who helped you to stand and took off your body the towel that embraced you to help you get on the dress.

You felt free in it. It moved with you and it let you breath, and it was so soft. You jumped and twirled, testing the waters. Nothing seemed to get exposed, what made you really happy. Your incredibly long hair caressed your almost bare back, falling to your waist. Your fingers went through it in awe, no knots being found. You smelled like pure lilies and you felt so clean and soft that you almost felt the urge to cry once you’ve taken a glimpse at your reflection in a mirror the maids lent you. You touched your clean face in disbelief, your cheek was bruised and stung when touched, the same as your lips, but your wounds had been cleaned and your skin looked so pure you felt unrecognizable, always being greeted by your reflection full of dirt, cuts and bruises in the pond’s water you used to visit when the mistress’ clothes needed washing.

“You look truly wonderful, miss.” one of the maids said, the rest nodding and agreeing with her, and just when you were about to thank them for their help with a smile, two knocks at the door caught yours and their attention, the prince stepping in after a short minute just in case you were still getting dressed.

“I apologize for my intrusion, ladies. Is everything alright, here?” he asked as he stepped in, along with Gideon, his eyes quickly finding your back and later on when you had turned to face him, your eyes. He simply stood there, silently staring at you, his eyes capturing every single detail in your body and sinking deep in the way you looked…, with the dress he had chosen himself. “You chose it…” he smiled, his eyes finding yours once again, his soft voice reaching you.

“Well of course, it is the most comfortable amongst them all.” you said, looking down at the dress, catching him staring as you did.

He cleared his throat before bringing his hands from his back to the front, letting you see a couple of, really low heels, almost flat silk shoes. “I brought these, though I couldn’t find anything more comfortable, I’m afraid.” he awkwardly smiled, stepping closer and kneeling in front of you, what caused you and the maids to step back in astonishment and Giddon to whisper-yell a ‘Your highness!’. “May I?” he inquired, one of his palms facing upward as he signaled to your feet. You slowly and unsurely nodded, surprised by his actions, but allowing him help you put on the shoes.

You could guess what everyone was thinking at the moment;

Why in the world was the prince of the realm, no one else than Spencer Reid, kneeling and helping a slave like you put on some shoes?

You slightly bent down to take a better glimpse at them. They were white with a little piece of lace surrounding its collar. They were beautifully simple, and they looked really comfortable. When you put your feet back down on the floor you could agree on your judgement by their appearance. Compared to your wooden ones, this shoes felt like walking on clouds. When your sight drifted from them, your eyes met the prince’s once he had gotten off the marble floor once again.

“Well?” his eyebrows rose in anticipation, wanting to know your opinion on them. Everyone seemed to.

“They are not too bad.” you shrugged, your pride making him smile and let out a soft and short laughter. The tension inside the room seemed to dissipate with that sound.

“I’m glad to hear that.” he nodded, making his way back to the door. “Then? Are you ready to go and eat supper?” he offered you, opening the door whilst his eyes looked into yours.

You glared at him for a couple of seconds, still not truly trusting nor liking him, but still decided to take your first step. And after the first one came a second, and later on; a third.

His eyes never left your body as you exited first, waving your hand to the maids as a quick goodbye, which they returned. He bowed at them before closing the door. You awaited next to Gideon in the corridor, which was carpeted with crimson velvet carpets and glistened under the candles of the chandeliers above your heads.

“Shall I fetch the cooks and maids to set up the table, your highness?” the brunette spoke, his hands intertwined behind his back, which stood straight, awaiting for an answer.

“You shall not.” he shook his head. “I wouldn’t like them to work so much this late at night.” the singing of the cuckoo clock hitting midnight catching your attention as your eyes met with the wooden cuckoo that jumped in and out of its home. You wandered through the corridor, your fingers detailing the marble and wood of the oak chest you found on your left, plagued with porcelain decorations and flowers. There were multiple of them through the interminable corridor, perhaps for embellishment. “Though I would appreciate it if you could fetch something for her. I could wager all the gold I have in my hands that she hasn’t eaten for days.” he seemed concerned, his smile fading for a couple of seconds before appearing once again when he saw you twirling around a porcelain doll sculpture of a ballerina.

Not even his friend could understand his actions nor read whatever wondered inside his mind. But he thought he could just wait for whatever the future would offer.

“Sure, your highness. I’ll make sure to send it to her room in no time.” he nodded, after a ‘thank you’ from his friend and prince heading the other way.

You were about to place down another sculpture that you had picked up when his voice startled you.

“It’s Greek.” you felt your heart plummet to your stomach when it slipped from your hands, his being quick enough to catch it in the air. “Almost a was.” he mocked you with a smile, putting it back down on the chest amongst the others.

“Didn’t know the prince would be into collecting porcelain.” you winded him up.

“That would be my mother, the queen.” he chuckled. “Along with the king she has parted to the east to meet Rembrandt and discuss about his new works of art.” he explained, making you now understand his announcement at his ball, asking forgiveness for the monarchs’ absence. “Though I must admit, I take pleasure in pretty things.” his eyes met yours and for a moment you felt as if you were frozen in place, the only warmth you felt being the touch of his fingers gracing yours on top of the oak chest, after his hand had fallen near yours. Your eyes met his hand and later on his eyes again, pulling away from his warmth after a couple of seconds.

“And what does beauty mean to you, your highness?” you inquired him, giving him your back and taking a few steps away from him. “Perhaps gold? Diamonds? Maybe castles?” your hair softly fell on your shoulder as your turned back to face him once again, your dress beautifully dancing along with you.

He just silently stared at you, his hands once again on his back as he took a couple of steps closer to you, a smile tugging on his lips. “I guess I still have yet to find out.” his brown eyes found yours once he stood by your side, the amber of the candles shining on them. There was something in them that you could not read. “Then, shall we?” his eyes left yours just to show you the way in which you supposed you should head to to meet ‘your room’. You seemed unsure for a couple of seconds, to which he decided to taunt you a little bit more. “After you, sweetheart.” he moved aside, giving you a little bit of space.

“Don’t you dare call me that again.” he laughed at your rudeness.

You gave him a side look before taking a step forwards, and then another, and another, the moonlight of the windows hitting your skin, perfectly matching with the color of your dress.

He took a deep breath before following you.

What beauty was…, huh?

“I hope you find the room to your liking. If you are in need of more pillows or sheets just ask for them, alright? You can ask one of the maids to light up the chimney for you if the night gets too cold too.” he said while opening the door and letting you step inside. It was spacious and beautifully decorated. As you stepped in, the very first thing you could see was a huge window that met the gardens of the castle, to your left a chimney with red velvet sofas and a central tea table with books on top of it, you could find more of them on the willow bookcases on both sides of the chimney. And to your right you could find a queen size bed with puffy white sheets, a white dosel and an incredible amount of pillows of all kinds, along with oak nightstands with candles and a big white closet. When you looked upwards your eyes met with the shiniest of chandeliers.

Once you’ve turned around to meet his eyes once again, these caught a glimpse on a food trolley.

“The maids discussed that since you’ve probably not eaten in days it would be better for you to eat something soft so it wouldn’t upset your stomach.” he said, while taking off the top of the plate cover, the smell of chicken stew along with baked potatoes and steamed vegetables making your mouth water. But that was not really what caught your attention. “I apologize if you find it too-”

And before he could even finish his sentence or take a hold onto your actions, his back was slammed against the half-open door from which you’d entered the room, closing it in a very harsh slam exactly when Gideon seemed to be back to check on the prince.

“My prince?!? My prince!!” he desperately knocked on the door, trying to open it but finding it imposible due to the weight of both your bodies on the other side. “Guards!” and as he called for the guards that rounded the corridors…

“Give me a single reason for which I shouldn’t kill you right this moment, my prince.” your breaths intertwined as you stood completely pressed against his body, a knife that you’ve snatched from the trolley threatening to cut his throat as you pressed it against the skin of his pale neck.

He seemed astonished at first, his hazel eyes staring into yours as your heavy breath caressed his lips, which parted as he spoke.

“You wouldn’t dare.” he pressed against the knife to get even closer to you, its edge sinking into his skin and the vermillion of his blood making its way to his collarbones like a river flowing down the hills.

“And what makes you think that?” he smirked at your inquisition, his fingers brushing delicately your arm, its pads descending. From your shoulder to your elbow and later on to your free hand, which stood slightly hidden behind your dress. You gritted your teeth as he slowly and carefully rose it up ‘till both of you could clearly see it. You were trembling, so much it was actually impressive that you could hide it so well.

“Your body speaks to me, sweetheart.” he answered, caressing your palm with his thumb as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss on its back.

And before any of you knew, more blood spilled as you rose the knife.

To be continued…

*Crumbs;; used for expressing surprise.

[sweetheartmotives]

I saw your request to the void for story requests! Here I am to oblige, if you'd so please.

Would you be down to write about a Yandere!Prince, who falls in love with a low tier noble. Just the idea of going to a party to for our coming of age, expecting nothing given how low your family is in status, only for the crown prince to fall in love at first sight!

Or something like that xD. Hope you are taking care!

-🌟

𓆩:*¨༺✧♛ Yandere prince ♛ ✧༻¨*:𓆪

Desc and possible Cw: Yandere themes, reader is tired of everything and everyone, reader is a lil hater, the prince is an egotistical jerk [what did we expect], and probably some wrong info about the medieval times. [Please forgive me if anything is wrong, I'm a bit misinformed.]

Let me know if I missed any!

As a low-tier noble, you never expected to be invited to a royal party, let alone the coming-of-age celebration hosted by the crown prince himself. Your mother had insisted on dressing you in some of your grandparents' old clothes, which may not be as elegant as what the other guests will be wearing, but they'll do. Nervous knots twist in your stomach as you prepare to attend the kingdom's most exclusive event. Would the prince even notice you? Let's be serious: even though your mother had you bathe three times in a row, sewed your grandparent's old clothing to make it look presentable, and did your hair in a nice way, you still wouldn't be noticed. After finishing getting ready, your mother added some finishing touches and sent you off to the party.

As you walk toward the kingdom, the cold winter air blows past you, causing you to shiver and pout. This is total bullshit. Why did the prince decide to hold his coming-of-age party in the winter? This is bullshit! BULLSHITTT!!!! As you internally cuss out the prince and his parents, you enter through the kingdom's gates and into the castle, where beautiful women and handsome men make their way to the ballroom to meet the prince. You scoff quietly and follow behind the crowd, heading toward the ballroom.

As soon as you and the crowd enter, the sparkling chandelier springs to life and lights the entire room with a powerful glow that nearly blinds you. And now that I mention blinding, the light shining off the gold vases and wall decor is so darn bright it's burning your eyes! Damn this place! You squint and focus your eyes on the dramatic prince on his father's throne, cross-legged. What a prick! First, he hosts this stupid party in the middle of winter, aka the time when the weather is the coldest it's ever been, then he turns on that bright ass chandelier that nearly blinded you all, and now he has the audacity to act like he's above all of you? I mean, he is royalty, so technically, yeah, he is, but still! What a jackass! You scowl and stand behind the beautiful women in big, puffy dresses. They'll cover you nicely with those giant dresses; btw, they do look super nice, so you might compliment them later.

The prince clears his throat and stands up, placing a hand on his chest while the other sneaks its way behind his back. “I welcome you all to my ceremony; today we are celebrating me, of course, and since I'm the most important individual here, it's quite obvious I'm the one who is getting celebrated.” The prince said it very smugly as he smirked and waved his hand around as he spoke. “I invited some men here since I don't want any of you ladies to go home tonight feeling disappointed, so have fun mingling about! Now, we will begin dancing in 3, 2, and 1.” The prince steps down from the throne and snaps for a butler to turn on the music. Just as soon as he [the prince] snaps, a butler turns on music. The crowd claps and begins to spread around the ballroom. Some women try to ask politely for a dance with the prince, and some men ask a few women around to dance. This is truly ridiculous. To you, of course.

You sigh and make your way through the crowded room, aiming for a nearby balcony to hide away until the party is over. Everyone knows that the prince is an egotistical jerk, but no one has ever said anything because of the fear of getting executed or something like that. You don't know, and you don't care; you just want to leave. I mean, you could leave, but you'd be reprimanded by your mother for leaving the prince's ‘ceremony’, if you could call it that. It's more of a show-off party for the sake of boosting the prince's ego. It's bad enough that he's a jerk, but he's a jerk with an ego as big as a windmill.

Unknown to you, the prince has already got his eyes set on someone. You!

After a while of leaning on the balcony and staring off into the nearby scenery, someone comes beside you. You feel an arm against yours, and you turn your head to look at the person—it's the prince! You give him a mean, judgy look in hopes he'll find you unappealing and go away. He only smirks in return and opens his mouth to speak. “What are you doing out here? You should be out there celebrating me with the others.” He says smoothly, his tone of smugness never leaving for a second. You roll your eyes and look at him. “I'm out here because I want to be out here," you say plainly, still praying, no, hoping that your attitude will drive him away. The prince chuckles and rests his elbow on the balcony's railing, placing his head in his hand. “Seriously? Why? Don't you like celebrating the one who's your soon to be king?” He replies, smiling smugly as he chuckles even more. You scoff and look away from him, deciding to ignore him.

The prince, after 30 seconds of silence, smiles even more and snaps his fingers in your face. “Hey, you shouldn't ignore your higher-ups. It's impolite.” He smirks and giggles. You give him a confused look as you judgely look him up and down. The prince laughs and throws his head back. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” He says in between laughs, clearly finding your judgmental look funny. “Because you're annoying.” You reply harshly, not holding back your annoyance, even though the person you're talking to is royalty. He laughs even harder and smacks the balcony rail in amusement. “Wow, so mean~ you're even more than looks! I think I love you already.” He smirks and giggles even more. You deadpan. Excuse him? Did he just say he loved you? You blink in surprise for a few seconds before scowling and giving him another judgmental look. He laughs even harder at this and takes a few minutes to catch his breath from all the one-sided laughter. After that, the entire night [the rest of the party] is just you and him, him laughing his ass off while you scowl and keep giving him those amusing judgmental looks.

From the looks of it, I guess he's already decided who his future spouse is.

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Welcome to the end credits! This is where I will give information on my new or previous yans!

The prince is bisexual! He just needed an excuse to invite men so he could take a look at his options in both categories.

Hello 🌟 anon! Thanks for requesting, this was super fun to write, and it was probably the fastest fic I've ever written, haha! I hope you and everyone else are doing well! I hope you enjoyed reading as I enjoyed writing! (^ω^)

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[novasintheroom]

006: Appearance

♡ Pairing - Vash x f!Reader

♡ Word count - 0.9k

♡ Warnings - none

Part of the 150 Bullets drabble series on AO3

It’s not often he gets to dress up.

Read: ever.

Vash turns back and forth in front of the mirror. The suit is brown-red, old, and Roche gave Vash a teal tie as an accent to the look. Unfortunately, Vash never learned how to tie things like that, so it hangs limply around his shoulders. The suit jacket is a bit small on him. The pants ride up on his ankles like he’s prepping for a flood, his socks showing plainly. He lets out a small laugh. He knows he’s tall, but this is ridiculous.

Mister Roche is a kind man to let an outlaw like him not only into his home, but to throw a party in his honor. Saving a rich man’s daughter from bandits has its perks, sometimes. To let Vash borrow one of his suits was just added kindness – and something the man insisted on. “My wife likes our guests well-dressed for dinner. Best give you what I can so you can eat!” he’d said with a laugh.

Vash leaves the guest room he’d been dressing in, looking back once to look over his regular clothes and sack of supplies left behind. Across the hall is the room you’ve been given.

Vash tries one more time to tie the cloth around his neck in a respectable manner. The bow flops to one side, then slowly unties itself. He lets out a sigh. Well, nothing to do about it. He knocks on your door and opens it when a “Come in!” is called out.

He ducks his head a bit and asks, “Mayfly, are you ready -?”

He stops and stares.

You’re in the middle of doing up your hair, standing in front of the full-length mirror. You look at him through the reflection, brows raising. “What?”

“Wow,” he walks in, closing the door behind him. “You look…” He stops again, eyes running up and down your form.

Your dress is simple. A white shirt with ruffles and a dark forest green skirt that stops above your ankles. You have your regular boots on underneath, all scuffed and worn, but recently cleaned if the dirt smudges are anything to go by. The lady of the house has apparently given you some jewelry for your outfit as well – two balls of dark green stone hang from your ears, and a simple gold-and-green comb rests in your updo. A couple of gold rings sit on your fingers.

You turn, hands coming together to fidget nervously. “It’s the only dress his wife had to spare,” you explain. You’re not sure what for. Maybe to say why it looked so…old fashioned.

But Vash, cheeks pink and smiling, holds out a hand and waits for you to place yours in it. Then, he pulls, slowly turning you in a circle. The green skirt brushes against his pants. He whistles low when you complete your circuit. “You look beautiful,” he says. “More than beautiful.” He never gets to see you like this; usually you’re just as dirty as he is, traveling all day out in the deserts.

A bashful smile creeps onto your lips. “Mrs. Roche said the color would look good on me.”

“It does,” he says, pulling you close. He looks at your hair. “This took a while, huh?” He brushes a few strands out of your face and behind your ear.

You groan, “You have no idea. I hate doing my hair.”

He laughs because he knows. “Well, I like it. You look like a lady.”

“I always look like a lady,” you grump, but purse your lips when he leans down for a kiss.

“My lady,” he murmurs. His nose nudges yours, and you let out a soft laugh.

“My sweet man,” you say, stepping back to take him in. Your lips purse again, and a small snort escapes. “Well. That could fit better, couldn’t it?” Realizing what you said, your eyes widen and you stutter, “Y-You still look good! Handsome!”

“I look like a kid playing dress-up,” he laughs. “Can you help me with the tie? I can’t get it.”

You do so happily, pulling it together with the hands of somewhat-practiced ease. “Comes with tying parcels together,” you explain. The bow sits at his neck well now. You brush it with a hand, then brush off his shoulders. “It goes well with your eyes.” You reach up and smooth out a bit of his hair. It’s still wild, though. Untamed. Just like him.

And just like him, he ducks low to catch your lips again. He can’t ever get enough. Your lips are sweet and soft with the balm Mrs. Roche provided. Gently, you pull at his tie to bring him closer. He hums. He likes that. He really likes this.

“Mr. Stampede! Miss ______? Dinner is served!”

You separate at the sound of Mr. Roche out in the hallway. Quickly, you go to the door and open it. “We’ll be down!” you call back, and hear the sound of your host’s footsteps track back down the stairs. You turn back and smile at Vash. “Are you ready?”

He pulls at his sleeves, knowing it won’t do any good. “Yes,” he holds out the crook of his arm in silent question.

You smile and hook your arm through his. Together, with the neat and rare appearance of a regular couple, you walk down the hall and head to dinner.

[velidewrites]

When the senator of Chandrila’s debts catch up with him at last, the Galactic Empire places a bounty on his daughter’s head. But Elain Archeron is cunning, and she will not go down without a fight—certainly not to the handsome Mandalorian hunter, intent on claiming his prize.

Notes: Part 1/2 of my contribution to Day 7: AU of @elucienweekofficial! Dedicated to @melting-houses-of-gold who patiently listened to my ramblings about this fic <3

Tags: Alternate Universe - Star Wars, Mandalorian Bounty Hunter!Lucien x Bounty!Elain

Warnings: None (filthy smut in part 2 as I am once again unable to write porn without feelings)

Read on AO3

Part 1

The ship is disturbingly loud.

Elain doesn’t know much about spacecraft, but the sputtering hum of her H-Type Nubian’s engines is concerning enough that she imagines anyone else in her position would feel unsettled. She should have expected the complications—she’d been warned about them, in fact—but she still shifts in her seat uncomfortably.

The yacht has been borrowed to her by Vassa, the former queen of Naboo and a longtime friend—and, for the past four years, a senator within the ranks of the Galactic Empire. Vassa herself had not been present on Naboo during Elain’s stay, called away by what she called a sham of a voting in the Senate, but her people had been informed in advance well enough to take care of the entire process.

Elain Archeron is being smuggled.

It is precisely why she’s been lent the H-Type. The ship is pre-Empire, which means it will—it should—fly under the radar, staying off the Empire’s scopes. It’s not that Elain is a fugitive—not yet, at least—but she has no doubt the Chandrilan government will alert the Senate of her disappearance once they realise Lord Archeron’s daughter has escaped. She isn’t important enough to have Destroyers sent after her, but Elain has never been one to take her chances. Especially not on a day like this.

Especially not on her wedding day.

She has been putting it off since the day she turned fifteen, and it was only the love Lord Archeron supposedly bore for his daughter that kept Elain from an arrangement to be put in place immediately afterwards, as per the Chandrilan custom. Now, though, at twenty-three…Elain had run out of excuses.

The message arrived while she was on Naboo, spending the summer with Vassa as she did nearly every year. A holo-recording of Senator Archeron happily announced her engagement to Graysen Nolan, the only son of Governor Nolan—perhaps the single richest man on Chandrila, Elain’s own family not even coming close in wealth. This will be good for us, Elain, her father said. Finally, the tide turns favourably in our direction.

Elain was not inclined to agree.

Vassa, thank the Maker, had helped her put the plan in motion almost immediately, arranging for safe, undercover passage to the Outer Rim through one of the old hyperspace lanes, abandoned by the Republic during the Clone War. Her intel claimed the route to be safe enough to pass through undetected, which, for Elain, was more than enough.

Graysen Nolan is not old or, superficial as it may be, unattractive by any means. He is quite handsome actually and, as her father so vehemently assured her, quite ridiculously wealthy—but the twenty-eight year old man has a flaw.

He’s an Imperial.

Elain would never dare voice it out loud—in the eyes of the Empire, she is all but a loyal subject, a pretty face to put on Chandrila’s posters and nothing more. But deep down, in a place deep and uncharted like the Wild Space itself, Elain despises them with her whole, insignificant being.

The Senator does not share his daughter’s sentiment, of course—he is a loyalist through and through. It’s what made Elain despise him, too—despise the coward hiding behind expensive gestures and grand speeches. The coward who’d chosen the Empire over his family.

Over the two daughters it had taken from him.

Elain closes her eyes and rests the back of her head against the yacht’s sleek wall, the cool metal doing nothing to ease the pain of the memory. The ship shakes slightly as it charts the course into hyperspace, sending tremors into her bones where it comes into contact with her body. This is one of the crafts with strong deflector shields, Elain reminds herself. As long as they manage to avoid the asteroid field, they will be fine. Probably.

The ship sputters again, and, once again, doubt washes over her in a surging wave. This is probably the fourth or fifth time in the past hour that she’s reconsidered this whole ordeal, the very first one nearly sending her into cardiac arrest as she first saw the ship, the once glistening silver now rusted and peeling off in certain places, as though damaged by battle. It probably was. Elain can’t even begin to count how many attacks on her life Vassa had endured during the Clone War, the controversial Senator constantly the subject of immense interest to the now-extinct Separatist leaders.

She looks around the space, the air suddenly tight. She knows this is going to work—has been assured of it a hundred times—and yet, for some reason, dread continues to build in her chest all the same. Through the wide viewport of the cockpit, even the stars seem to flicker in warning.

“Are we clear?” she asks the pilot nervously.

The pilot, a man Vassa has personally vouched for, half-turns to her from his chair. “We’re calculating the jump, my Lady.”

Elain shifts in her own seat. “How much longer?”

The ground shakes violently before he manages to open his mouth.

Her four guards—or Vassa’s guards, since Elain abandoned her own when she’d sneaked out from her bedchamber’s terrace—jolt upright, white-gloved hands wrapped tightly around their blasters.

“What is happening?!” Elain yells when the floor trembles again, the ship groaning loudly.

All the blood drains from the pilot’s face. “Someone docked in from below.”

Elain’s blood chills. “Impossible.” They couldn’t have realised it yet—she’d purposefully opted to run in the middle of the night, way after the Chandrilan guard conducted their security check. She expected them to find her bed empty in the morning—but not now, merely an hour after her escape.

The commander of her escort looks at his subordinate, his face tight and deep with what seems like thousands of creases. “Check out the disturbance,” he barks, the guard only nodding before he disappears from the cockpit.

“Empire?” Elain asks, the question no more than a whisper. The pilot shakes his head, looking at the beeping controls in disbelief.

“It can’t be—this ship is supposed to be invisible.”

Elain chokes on a breath. “Supposed to?”

The pilot seems breathless, too. “My Lady—” 

His words are interrupted by a singular shot of blaster fire as it cuts through the air. Then, a loud thud as a body falls to the metal floor.

Elain yelps.

One of her guards grabs her by the arm, his grip tight enough to crush the veins beneath her skin. “My Lady, we must hide.”

“Escape pods?” Elain pants.

The commander’s expression looks grave. “There are none on this ship.” He looks at the entrance to the cockpit, and a ringing silence ripples through the air as they all realise the guard has not yet returned—which means the body they’d heard was likely not the intruder’s.

“Hide her,” the commander barks to his remaining two men. “Seal the entrance.” And with that, he, too, disappears between the automatic door, the sharp whoosh of it closing foreboding in a way Elain can’t quite describe.

Not a single person in the cockpit dares to utter so much as a breath as they listen in to the commander’s steps, echoing through the passageway. One second passes, then two—then three.

There is a muffled sound of struggle before the blaster is fired again, yet another thud as what is undoubtedly the commander’s body falls to the floor.

What happens next is a blur to Elain.

The pilot sucks in a breath, and the two guards begin shouting at each other, one order after another as Elain is pulled back toward the small storage space hidden under the pilot’s seat. One of the men lunges for the door, his own weapon at the ready as he aims for the control panel. Elain squeezes her eyes shut, preparing for the shot.

Except that when the shot finally comes, it does not sound from her guard’s sleek, elegant S-5—the man hadn’t even managed to raise it toward the source.

No, it comes from a different pistol, rough and heavy, a trail of smoke hissing upward as the man’s body, too, slumps onto the metal.

Elain tears her gaze off her lifeless guard to look into the eyes of his murderer.

What she finds is a face covered entirely by beskar, the silvery helmet glinting even under the dying starlight.

The Mandalorian comes into view, his powerful frame scraping against the blast door as he takes a step forward, the sound as loud as the bodies of the three men he’d killed. Elain’s breath hitches in her chest, as though afraid to so much as graze the faded green of his chest plate, the metal she recognises as durasteel—hardly comparable to the sheer strength of beskar, but enough to keep the laser-like beams from piercing his heart—something many people have tried to do, if  the ashen marks staining the armour are any indication.

Elain’s own heart—one she suspects will not keep beating for long—thumps loudly in her chest as the Mandalorian man sheathes the blaster back into his belt, so many weapons strapped to its side Elain struggles to understand how he manages to walk with all that weight. He looks calm as he looks over the cockpit—over the three people still alive and waiting for his next move. Elain cannot explain how she knows this—but she swears she can feel his gaze pinned on her, even with his face hidden behind a black, T-shaped visor.

“Stand down, Mandalorian,” the last of her Nubian guards orders loudly, his blaster pointed straight at the masked warrior.

Elain feels his eyes drift away from her face, like a magnet releasing its hold as he looks over the guard with nothing more than an angle of his head. The man actually squirms under his scrutiny.

“I said,” he repeated, no longer able to hide the slight tremor in his throat, “stand down.”

To Elain’s complete shock, the leather-clad hand hovering above his belt falls loosely down his side. The guard, too, seems to release a breath. “This is a diplomatic mission you have disrupted,” he says. “You will be reported to the Guild—”

“I’m not with the Guild,” the response cuts in. It makes Elain shiver—his voice is low and deep, the helmet’s vocoder modulating it slightly, making it seem like a gravelly rumble from his throat.

Once the shiver passes through her spine, the Mandalorian’s words register. If he isn’t with the Guild…

“Hand her over,” he orders. “Now.” One word—deadly. He does not seem like the man to revel in hiding his threats.

The guard gulps, sensing it, too. To his credit, he still manages to tell him, “We will not.”

The Mandalorian’s vocoder sounds with a low hum, the sound seeping a scorching fire into her bones. “My orders are to leave witnesses,” he finally says, his metal-clad body entirely still like a predator fixed on his prey. “It’s a shame I happen to be forgetful sometimes.”

Elain’s heart threatens to stumble out of her chest. He came here for her, and the men sent to protect her—Vassa’s men—do not need to die trying to protect her from the inevitable.

It’s just her luck, Elain thinks bitterly, that the one and only time she’s ever tried to rebel, she has to be hunted by one of the most ruthless warriors in the galaxy. The Mandalorians are known for their violent ways and brutal efficiency—they are, after all, one of the Empire’s most loyal subjects, having allied themselves with Emperor Koschei the moment he came into power.

Since it isn’t the Guild, then, it must be the Empire who have sent this bounty hunter after her, which could only mean two things: her plot to escape her impending marriage had been discovered by Governor Nolan much earlier than she’d expected, or…

Or Father was in a lot more trouble than he'd originally made it out to be.

“It’s okay,” Elain breathes, placing a palm on the guard’s arm. “It’s okay—I’ll go with him.”

The guard shakes his head vehemently. “No—you can’t my Lady, we have been ordered—”

“It’s okay,” she repeats, then squeezes his shoulder. “Lower your weapon.” She turns to the Mandalorian. “I’m going to walk towards you now. Do not hurt those men.”

The bounty hunter does not move, and so Elain takes this as his agreement.

She takes a half-step—then another, crossing the space on shaky legs. She’s almost there—has almost reached that magnetic presence of his when she hears a light swoosh, and a click of metal.

“Lady Elain, duck!” the guard shouts, and fires his blaster.

Elain whirls back just in time to see him sink to his knees, his mouth agape, the hole in his chest sizzling with that same, smoky trail. She shrieks, running back toward yet another man who’d given his life to keep her safe—when a tight, steady grip on her wrists holds her back. “No more tricks, sweetheart,” his warning comes purring as her back hits the hard steel at his chest. Elain whips to face him again, anger stinging hotly at her eyes. “You said you needed witnesses!”

His helmet moves an inch as he seemingly glances at the pilot cowering in his seat behind her. “One is more than enough.” He jerks his chin at the trembling man. “Deliver the message to the Senator. He has seven rotations.”

Elain starts, “Do not—” but her words are cut short as the Mandalorian yanks her back. “Where are you taking me?” she breathes, her attention transfixed on the rough feel of his leather gloves against her bare skin. “Answer me right now, or I will not follow you anywhere—”

His steps come to a stop so abruptly she nearly slams face-first into his back. Slowly, he turns to look at her, silence passing through them in a tremor before he asks lowly, “No?”

Elain swallows. Hard. “No,” she says, accepting that the word might mean her death.

To her surprise, the Mandalorian lets go, crossing his arms over his chest instead, the silver vambraces clanking against each other with the movement. “Look, sweetheart,” he says, the nickname already making a flaming anger stir in the pit of her stomach, “the way I see it, you’ve got two choices: you either come willingly, or I make you.”

Elain grits her teeth stubbornly. “If you want to collect on your bounty, you’ll have to bring me in alive.”

His hands brace at his hips as he cocks his head to the side, and though the black of his visor is nearly impenetrable, Elain swears she saw a flicker of a smirk. “Lucky for me, my orders weren’t that specific.”

Elain’s blood chills.

“So what’s it gonna be,” he pauses, a hint of mockery in his modulated tone as he adds, “my Lady?”

Elain considers.

If Nesta were here, she would have opposed the Mandalorian without a shadow of a doubt, the cold venom in her words perhaps enough to melt through the beskar itself. But Elain had never been much like her elder sister—and so she thinks of Feyre.

Her heart clenches at the memory of her name, but Elain does not linger—instead, she listens to her sister’s voice the way she remembers it—calm and wise, far too knowing for a seventeen year old Padawan—and yet still unmistakably Feyre’s, blue-grey eyes twinkling with mischief as she spoke. Don’t worry, Elain, she had told her four years ago, they won’t see us coming.

No, Feyre, Elain silently agrees now, a plan already forming in her head. He won’t.

She points at the circular opening in the floor—at the ladder to the ship docked directly beneath. “Lead the way.”

—

Elain finds herself in the cockpit of yet another crumbling ship.

The Razor Crest is even older than the H-Type, the model predating the Clone War by at least four years. She supposes the advantage of staying off the scopes is worth it, though right now, she can’t possibly imagine why the Mandalorian working clearly on the Empire’s paycheck would ever need to avoid it.

She sits a breath’s distance behind him, watching as those leather-clad fingers press so many controls her mind begins to spin as they shoot into hyperspace, the blue-white blur of stars blending together a sight beautiful enough to appreciate even in Elain’s current predicament. The ship is fast, too, no doubt tweaked with improvements over the years. She wonders how long the Mandalorian has owned it, frowning as she realises she doesn’t even know how old the bounty hunter is.

She doesn’t even know his face, let alone his name. She would’ve guessed a bounty hunter of his skill would be renowned all the way to the Outer Rim. “What’s your name?” she asks him, curiosity getting the better of her.

He ignores her question entirely.

Elain huffs. “It is rude to ignore a lady, you know.”

No response.

That familiar frustration stirs inside her again. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to have to simply call you Mandalorian.” Her lip curls. “Or just Mando, perhaps—”

He turns back to her at that, and Elain realises triumphantly that she’d struck a nerve. “You are not to call me anything,” he tells her gruffly. “And besides,” his seat squeaks slightly and he turns to face the viewport again, “Something tells me that you are no lady.”

Her eyes dig into his back, and Elain sure wishes she could will a burning fire into them right now. When she realises it’s a futile effort, she asks, “Where am I to sleep?”.

“Here.”

“Here?” she frowns, looking at the chair, already groaning under her weight. “Where are you taking me?”

There is a brief pause—as if he’s considering how much he can really tell her. Then, “Chandrila.”

Elain’s eyes widen. “Chandrila?”

There is a raspy sound coming from beneath his helmet that Elain can only take for a chuckle. “I’m not taking you home, sweetheart. Sorry to disappoint.”

Elain squints. “So he does have manners after all.” When her hope of hearing a retort fades away, she asks again, “How long before we get there?”

“Too long.”

“Are you always this infuriating?”

He simply chuckles again.

Elain leans back into her seat. “I’m going to need a change of clothes,” she announces.

A glimmer of surprise passes through the space between them—as if whatever the Mandalorian was expecting, it was decidedly not this. “What?”

“I have to change,” Elain repeats, making a point of gesturing to her Naboo-fashioned gown as he turns to face her again. Then, doing her best to sound as bratty as he surely expects her to be—as everyone expects her to be—she says, “Travelling in these is uncomfortable.”

She looks into his visor, which seems to stare at her blankly. “You can’t be serious,” he then says.

Elain tilts her chin up in challenge. “Have you ever worn a gown, Mandalorian?”

“You know I haven’t,” he grumbles darkly.

“Then you have no right to tell me what’s comfortable and what isn’t. These fabrics are heavy—”

“Beskar is heavy,” he cuts in.

Elain stumbles over a breath, irritated less that he’s thrown her off her track, but more that the bastard Mandalorian is right.

Still, she presses, “You’re a Mandalorian, and I’m not. I demand we stop on the nearest planet so that I may—” she hovers a hand over her form, “adapt to the situation at hand.” She angles her head. “Besides, I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to attract any attention now, would you? I am a Senator’s daughter, after all.”

For a moment, the bounty hunter says nothing, simply leaning back in his seat as he assesses her. She tries not to shift under the stare she knows lurks beneath the helmet, her mind for some reason wondering if his eyes are the same green—or silver, perhaps—as his armour. She immediately dismisses the idea, though—he burns far too hot for his gaze not to blaze with that heat in some capacity. Not that she particularly cares—Elain has simply never had the chance to speak to a Mandalorian before, and those that she had seen had not seemed to share this one’s sentiment to stay perpetually hidden beneath the beskar.

She decides to flat out ask him, then—if only to satisfy that strange curiosity in her chest—when he surprises her again. “Alright,” he says, his visor seemingly focused on the thick folds of her gown. “We’ll make a stop.” Then, he adds, his voice rumbling with warning, “But no tricks, sweetheart. You won’t be able to escape me that easily.”

Elain has to bite back a smile. We’ll see.

—

A mechanically distorted cough stirs her from sleep.

“We’re landing up on Llanic,” he announces, and walks away.

Elain sits up, her back straining from the worn-out leather of her chair, the heavy dress not helping it at all. She curses herself—and not for the first time—for not thinking to wear something allowing more flexibility as she’d dressed in Vassa’s estate. Though, Elain now supposes, that same gown is the only reason she now has the opportunity to escape.

Soon enough, the Mandalorian lowers the Razor Crest onto a landing platform. Despite its proximity to Naboo, Llanic looks nothing like the planet’s vibrant, ethereal ecosystem. Everything here seems dull and grey—even the people opting for garments of pale blues and sulking whites as they move around the settlement.

“Llanic is the smugglers’ den,” the Mandalorian explains, as though reading the thoughts from Elain’s face. “All of this,” he waves a hand, gesturing to the view ahead as they step out of the ship, “is to help them stay out of sight.”

Elain looks to her own dress, the deep amethyst standing out almost ridiculously, already drawing more than a few pairs of eyes. The shiny Mandalorian at her side, Elain thinks with a sigh, certainly does not help.

The last thing she wants is the attention of more criminals.

“We need to get you a change of clothes quickly,” he mutters, making Elain look up at him with a smirk. “I told you—” she starts, but he’s already begun to walk off the platform, his gruff, “No time” her only invitation to follow along.

Her eyes scan her surroundings quickly, noting a cantina farther out back, already humming with a strange music she doesn’t recognise. He leads them left, though, toward what seems to be the market—one crowded enough that Elain can’t help but loose a breath of relief.

It should be easy to get rid of him here, Elain thinks. If, of course, she is quick enough.

Feyre would have thought this to be no more than an adventure. Elain smiles, the thought pouring a surge of courage into her chest.

They stop at an Ithorian merchant’s stand, one of the largest ones on the stony street, as he grumbles something to a bartering customer. Elain begins to fumble through his selection, her mind already tracking her route of escape. She’ll find some other, proper clothes later—the only purpose of these is to serve as her distraction.

She picks up a matching set of a top and trousers of dusted ivory, and a beige poncho to supposedly help her blend in. She’ll have to pick out something similar later if she truly is to disappear.

Elain is already side-eyeing the cantina, the copular structure practically calling out her name far at the street’s end. Perhaps she’ll be able to find a transfer there—someone to get her off-world and, hopefully, as far away from the infuriating Mandalorian and the Empire as possible

A warm, heavy presence appears beside her, and she chucks the clothes into the bounty hunter’s hands. He only stares back, confusion rolling off of him in waves.

She can’t help but snicker. “You’re impossible.”

“I…don’t understand.”

Elain huffs. “Well, my apologies if I forgot to remember to bring my credits as I was being kidnapped,” she sputters, the word making the elderly couple behind the Mandalorian turn to face her with a frown.

“Be more quiet now, would you,” the Mandalorian growls, the sound a deep rumble from his chest.

Elain narrows her gaze. “Just go buy these, yeah?”

He chuckles at the apparent drop in formalities, though his voice remains firm as he reminds her, “Don’t move until I’m back.”

She smiles sweetly, motioning to the streets around her. “Where else would I go?”

He seems to agree well enough, because the Mandalorian soon disappears between the hanging layers of cloth as he moves towards the Ithorian seller. When the familiar glint of beskar vanishes out of her sight, Elain turns and begins to run.

The amethyst dress and the tightness in her back is a strain on her speed, but the adrenaline surging through her is enough to keep her legs moving swiftly. Not for the very first time, Elain wishes she had the lithe speed and remarkable strength both of her sisters have always displayed, their movements carefully supported by the Force.

The thought leaves her as quickly as it arrived as Elain makes a sharp turn, pivoting into a darkened alleyway that she hopes will discreetly lead her to the back wall of the cantina. Her steps slow, as though the silent darkness compelled them to do so—and Elain quickly looks around, letting herself take a breath before she continues on again.

“Not so fast, princess,” a low, hissing voice sounds behind her.

Elain’s feet freeze into the ground.

“Don’t be afraid,” it croons, stepping in closer. “It will all be over soon.”

Elain’s breath quickens.

The man, unmistakably a Trandoshan, slithers beside her, his scaled, greenish skin finally coming into view—but it’s not his appearance Elain finds her gaze glued to, but the long, heavy Mortar Gun resting in his large hands as he points it directly at her face.

“Sssuch a shame,” he muses. “To ruin such a pretty face. But I find myself in a desssperate need of credits, you sssee.” He angles his scaly head, yellow eyes narrowing on her. “The Empire is paying quite the sum for you, little princess. If it was any lower…I might have taken some time to play with you firssst.”

“A shame indeed,” a voice agrees somewhere behind him. “Unfortunately, your time seems to have run out.”

A single shot booms through the air before the Trandoshan evaporates into dust.

A Mandalorian—her Mandalorian, Elain realises—stands a few metres behind where the reptilian bounty hunter stood a moment ago, a forked sniper rifle Elain had never seen before still pointed at the dissipating dust.

“Where did you get that?” Elain breathed. Has he been carrying that weapon this whole time? Could he have turned her into…into this?

He shrugs. “Had it lying around.”

He reaches her in a few quick strides, his head dipping as he appears to be sweeping his gaze over her, assessing. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

Elain shakes her head, her body slowly moving out of stillness. “No.” She clears her throat, begging the Force to bring clarity into her voice. “Thank you,” she rasps, then sighs, exasperated. The Force had never seemed to be her ally, anyways. “I’m…sorry for running.”

He hums. “I knew you would try something eventually. You got lucky.”

Elain blinks. “You would call this—” she gestures to the Trandoshan bounty hunter’s remains spread out over the stone ground, “—lucky?”

He nods, strapping the rifle to his back in one, swift movement. “There are others out there who would not hesitate to kill you on sight. I’d say,” he adds, “you got more than lucky to end up with me.”

“How very fortunate,” she mutters. He only chuckles, though she feels as his gaze lands on her again. There is a pause of quiet between them before he finally asks, the voice behind the helmet softer, somehow, “Are you, though? Alright?”

Elain sighs. “Yes. I’m…” she searches for the word. Tired. Confused. Lost. “Hungry,” she decides.

Another chuckle. “Follow me.”

The cantina beams a more lively song as they enter, though Elain, despite all that thorough education she’d received, can’t seem to recognise the language. They take their seats at a booth stuck into a dim nook before a waiter approaches, his gaze shining with curiosity at the unlikely pair. “What can I get you?”

“Spotchka,” Elain sighs, earning yet another amused huff from her companion. “And—whatever your special is today.”

The man nods. “That would be the stew.”

“Perfect,” Elain says, then turns to the Mandalorian, the waiter, too, looking at him expectantly.

“That will be all,” he says tightly, his tone enough to make the waiter scatter immediately out back. Elain frowns. “Are you not going to eat?”

“No.”

“But—”

“I’m not hungry.”

Elain counters, “I have not seen you eat since you put me on that rusted old ship.”

The visor seems to glower at her. “The Crest is fine.”

“Stop changing the subject.”

“I’m not willing to discuss this, Elain.” She doesn’t think she’d ever heard his name fall from his lips.

Does he even have lips? Elain can’t help but wonder. He appears human, but beneath that armour, he really could be anyone. It’s not that she truly cares about his face—the curve of his nose or the angle of his jaw. But she wants to be able to see if his gaze burns as brightly as she’s been imagining it, like a hot, midday sun.

His tone does not invite such questions, though, so Elain gives up with a deep, long-suffering sigh. “Fine,” she says. “Tell me your name, at least.”

“No.”

“I’m sick of calling you the Mandalorian in my head.”

“Then stop thinking about me, Elain.”

She throws her arms up in exasperation. “You are impossible!”

He seems to snicker at that. “So I’ve heard.”

Elain sinks further into her seat. “Are you able to answer any of my questions, at least?”

He hums, making a show of considering. “Probably not,” he finally said, earning yet another huff from Elain. “But perhaps you can answer some of mine.”

Elain feels her brows rise. “Oh?”

He laces his fingers atop the table. “What has your father done to get the Empire to put a bounty on your head?”

That, Elain did not expect. “I thought bounty hunters were taught not to ask any questions.”

“To their clients. The bounty is a whole another story.”

“How convenient,” Elain murmurs, and, once again, she swears she can feel his smile in her chest. “Very well. If you must know, he borrowed some money—too much of it for me to even begin to describe, and all of it from the wrong people.” She chews on her bottom lip before quickly releasing it from her teeth, a sharp exhale pushing past her mouth. “It’s why my…engagement was arranged in the first place.”

“To the Governor’s son. So I’ve heard.”

“Yes, well, they had money. But look how that turned out.”

“Do you…” his helmet cocks to the side, as though from this new angle, he can read the answer simply by looking at her face. “Do you regret it?”

“No!” Elain quickly says. “Kriff, no—it’s why you found me on the Nubian instead of the planet itself. I was…” she clears her throat. “I was escaping.”

Silence falls, broken only for a moment as the waiter arrives with Elain’s food. She begins digging into the warm stew, realising the conversation has most likely come to an end, the Mandalorian seemingly gazing off into the distance.

But then, a quiet sound reaches her, so indiscernible she initially thinks she must’ve imagined it. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For disrupting your plans.”

Elain flashes him a cryptic smile. “My plans aren’t disrupted just yet.”

—

When Elain emerges from the Crest’s refresher, she finds the clothes she’d picked out at the market laid out on a new cot.

“We’re almost done refuelling,” the Mandalorian’s voice reaches her from where he leans against the ladder leading up to the cockpit.

Elain arches a brow. “What happened to not leaving your side for a moment?”

“Well, I trust you’re not reckless enough to jump out of our ship once we’re in hyperspace.”

Our ship?

Elain dismisses it as her mind playing tricks on her. “Thank you for getting these for me. Believe it or not, but that gown was uncomfortable.”

A grunt of agreement. “It sure looked like it.”

Elain takes the poncho into her hands, her palm smoothing out the fabric. “I’m sorry about nagging you earlier. I—I don’t know much about Mandalorians, I just assumed—”

“You assumed fine.” A deep sigh rattles through him as he bounces off the ladder, stepping closer toward her. “Not removing this,” he points to the shining beskar atop his head, “is my choice.”

Elain dares to ask, “Why, though?”

“Does it matter?”

Yes. No. Maybe.

No, Elain finally decides. Soon—within the next rotation or two, perhaps—the Mandalorian will hand her over to the Empire, a toy to toss over her father’s head. She’ll never have the chance to think about his face again.

Her expression must have told her enough, because his body seems to stiffen as he halts less than five feet away from her.

“Are they going to kill me?” Elain asks him openly.

Silence ripples through the air.

“The Empire doesn’t kill innocent civilians,” he says carefully. Elain can’t help but laugh. “Even if that were true, I am hardly innocent.”

He seems inclined to disagree. “Your father’s mistakes are not your own, Elain.” His words sound deeper than usual as he says them.

She shifts on her feet. “Still, I’m afraid my family’s sins are already beyond repair.” She sighs, a sudden wave of tiredness washing over her, as though the words alone were enough to make her body feel limp. “My…” she can’t say it, her throat tightening on its own as she tries. Elain simply looks away.

But then, a few shallow breaths later, a heavy weight rests on the cot beside her. “My father is the head of an…important clan back on Mandalore,” he begins to tell her quietly. “He’s not a good man—to say the least.” He clears his throat. “I have six brothers, each of them worse than the last, as if they’re all competing to see which one of them can become cruel enough to finally catch Father’s attention.”

Elain turns to look at him at that.

He continues, “I never wanted to be like them—any of them. My mother is the only good thing about my family, and she was the only one not to send bounty hunters after me when I finally left.”

Elain’s eyes widen. “You—you escaped from Mandalore?”

His laugh feels bitter. “There is no escaping from my family. I’m the youngest—not important enough for them to keep on wasting credits to drag me back, but, I suppose, a reminder annoying enough to make my life miserable for as long as they wished.” His hand flickers up for a moment, then falls back onto the cot—as if he was going to run his fingers through his hair before remembering the helmet shielding them from view. “So I cut the best deal for myself as I could—and I’ve been picking up the Empire’s dirty jobs ever since. I don’t like most of them,” he admits, “but…” the words trail off. He does not need to finish them for Elain to understand.

But I’m glad I met you.

It is why Elain tells him plainly, “My sisters were Jedi.”

The Mandalorian goes completely, breathlessly still.

Elain nods. “Traitors to the Republic,” she adds bitterly. “To the Empire. My older sister—Nesta…” she fights back tears at the memory of her icy eyes, softening whenever the two of them got to see each other. “She was—she was on Corellia when…when the Order was given. And Feyre…Feyre was at the Temple on Coruscant.” She swallows the thick words in her throat. “She was—she’s gone,” Elain finishes, unable to speak the full truth. It’s too soon—it will never not be.

Her sisters were discovered late—Feyre at six, and Nesta at ten years old, when all the other foundlings had usually come to the Temple at no older than three. But the great masters had foreseen something in the two of them—something Elain had never quite been able to understand without the Force whispering to her the way it did to her sisters. Something with the potential to change the Galaxy as they all knew it.

Whatever her sisters’ purpose was, it would never be fulfilled. It had never even been given the chance to.

“It’s how I know my father will not come for me,” Elain adds quietly. “When you hand me over to the Empire. He’d aligned himself with them when it took not one, but two of his daughters away. Now, it will take away the third.”

Once again, the ship is enveloped in silence.

It had been so long since Elain had last spoken her sisters’ names that she isn’t sure she’d even talked about them to anyone since their death. The Mandalorian is a quiet presence beside her, strong and warm even through the hardened metal encasing his body. It feels relieving to her to know that he, too, lives in accordance with the Empire’s cruelty not by choice, but by the lack of it, hoping that one day, he will be free enough to leave and never look back.

But then Elain is reminded that neither of them are free just yet—and that, while he might still be able to harbour that dream, it is already too late for Elain. That the only way for him to get a step closer toward it, he has to make sure Elain never gets to reach it herself. There is something about the irony of it all that makes her want to weep—and yet, Elain can’t bring herself to feel angry.

“I hope the Empire pays you well for all of this,” she tells him earnestly.

He turns to face her then—as much as he can with the self-imposed containment of his beskar—and perhaps it is merely wishful thinking, but, for a whisper of a moment, Elain knows with the utmost certainty that she saw a flicker of gold beneath the darkness.

His voice is quiet as he responds.

“Not nearly enough.”

—

Once again, Elain is violently ripped from sleep.

They cannot be landing already—Elain can swear they’ve only just left Llanic’s atmosphere, her face hitting the cot the moment the Crest’s navicomputer was programmed and the stars blurred into a singular light again. Chandrila is still a long journey ahead, at least two, if not three more refuelling stops since the Crest is unable to withstand such a distance on a single tank.

They aren’t landing, Elain understands as the last remnants of her sleep sharpen into reality—into the loud, flaring sound echoing off the ship’s tight space. Into the red light blazing on and off, illuminating her shaky hands as the realisation finally sinks.

The Crest is under attack.

Elucien Week Taglist: @melting-houses-of-gold @areyoudreaminof @fieldofdaisiies @kingofsummer93 @witchlingsandwyverns @gracie-rosee @stickyelectrons @selesera @sv0430 @vulpes-fennec @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @screaming-opossum @autumndreaming7 @sunshinebingo @spell-cleavers @starfall-spirit @lectoradefics @this-is-rochelle @goldenmagnolias @labellefleur-sauvage @bookeater34 @capbuckyfalcon @betterthaneveryword @tasha2627 @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune

[teaandransacking]

Head Over Heels, Always Heading to the Floor

Words: 786

Pairing: Lucy Carlyle/Anthony Lockwood

****

It's late. So late that night has almost folded over into morning.

For once, Lucy's not tempting death in an increasingly dangerous number of ways. She's at home in the creaky bones of the old house. George is squirrelled away in his room, translating sahara-dry texts or inventing something amazing no one in this world will have thought of before. 

Lucy is in the kitchen, finishing a cup of tea and a portion of toast that is was, by some miracle, unburned.

She washes her mug, wondering where Lockwood is. Yesterday's job was difficult; will have stirred up feelings he pretends not to have, and it's been on her mind to check on him.

He isn't in the sitting room. He isn't in his room. That leaves the library.

She finds him stretched out on the chaise, arms folded over his chest, long legs hanging over the scrolled arm of the posh sofa, converse still in place. His tie and jacket hang over one of the armchairs, and the top button of his starched white shirt is undone, revealing a little sliver of collarbone.

It shouldn't be as tempting as it is, and Lucy feels the tight pull of want low in her belly as drinks in his long, lean frame, bathed half in gold by the soft lamplight. It picks out little dances of copper in his dark brown hair, kisses a curve here, an angle there.

She rests a hand on the doorknob.

Stay or go?

"I'm not asleep, if that's what you're wondering," Lockwood drawls, startling her. His eyes are still closed, thick lashes resting on those ridiculously handsome cheekbones.

It's little wonder he loves the spotlight. He looks like he was made for it.

"Oh." She hesitates. "Just came to see if you were okay."

"Aren't I always?" he responds, his tone nonchalant, but the little tick in his jaw gives him away.

"You know you can talk to me, Lockwood," Lucy mutters, for what seems like the millionth time since they've met. She takes a step into the room.

"I know," he says softly, for the millionth time.

She's about to turn on her heel and give it up as a bad job when he opens his eyes and sits up, patting the space next to him on the chaise. 

Her gaze flits to his hand. The sofa will be warm from the weight and heat of his long body, and she's helpless to do anything but be drawn into his orbit.

Something like relief flits over his face when she sits next to him, their hips a scant inch apart.

Lockwood nudges her shoulder with his. "I haven't asked how you are. Type Twos take a toll."

She shrugs. "Oh, you know."

He huffs. "And I'm the one who won't talk?"

Lucy inhales slowly. Lockwood smells of earl grey tea and piles of old library books, and the scent shouldn't be as heady as it is. "We don't always have to talk," she hears herself say.

He twists his body ever so slightly towards her. "No?"

Meeting his gaze, Lucy's breath catches. This close, she can see little flecks of green in the dark chocolate of his eyes. His hands rest on his thighs and she watches as the fingers of the left one clench and unclench.

They've been side-stepping this thing between them for what feels like eons, and it's been piling up in Lucy's mind and her heart and okay, between her legs.

"Well, if you want to not talk, that is," she whispers.

He doesn't reply for a second, and she thinks that he's going to make her work for it, say it explicitly, and honestly she's still scraped so raw from Norrie that she doesn't know if she can form those kind of words, put herself out there again.

She's a heartbeat from muttering oh, fuck this and marching out of the room, but then Lockwood very gently lifts his hand and tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, and she feels the featherlight touch in every fibre of her being. She leans into it, and he cups her cheek, the metal band of his ring warm against her skin, and when she turns her face to kiss his palm, he says her name like it's magically charged, a prayer, a plea.

"I want to do everything with you," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to her mouth, and when she lifts her face for his kiss, it's soft and sweet, sending her heart galloping in her chest. He tastes of bergamot and citrus and his mouth is warm and pliable against hers.

And she knows that nothing will ever be the same again.

[ingolds]

TEETH

origins. the origins of theo having gold teeth started back in ancient rome. when werewolves first started adorning themselves with gold fangs, they were pure gold; they were meant to be ornamental, not functional. gold is quite a bit softer than most metals, and if it were to be hit with a hammer, it would give. it squishes like hardened taffy. a gold sword, if ever one were to be used in battle, would have no chance of beating a steel sword. the most famous roman sword, the GLADIUS, was forged from steel. even with a werewolf's extremely powerful jaw strength, the canines in their mouths would be flattened by forceful contact with a steel blade.

weaponized. when theo's family became the wolf warriors of rome, they had to come up with a way to keep those adornments and not risk their own safety or abilities. swords were folded from steel; could gold not be folded in with a stronger metal to increase its durability? the answer was yes! the same blacksmiths the wolves had tapped to create their decorative canines were able to forge gold and steel into fangs as deadly as a sword. this led, of course, to the mythology describing men with gold teeth that could take the shape of wolves.

modern. the blacksmiths that initially created the fangs have passed this skill and knowledge down through the generations. the actual process is fairly simple, as is the technology required; what's actually being communicated down through this lineage is that werewolves exist and it's up to them to keep the secret. theo has a particular person he goes to: an older woman that still lives in italy; he's known her since she was a baby and usually visits her at least once a year to collect the supply he'll need until his next trip. they've never worried about her or the people before ( and after ) her sharing their secret because they always pay handsomely, treat them kindly, and make it clear they are free to leave at any time. nobody ever has, content to carry this one responsibility in a tiny corner of their lives.

miscellaneous. not every werewolf was fitted with gold teeth. fewer still were fitted with gold teeth that could benefit them in war. theo and his direct family were, as were a few other older lineages that were distantly related to them. they have never met another wolf that made it through the fall of rome to modern times, much less another that was set with gold fangs. they chose to go into hiding to keep theirs; it is not so ridiculous to imagine that there could be other werewolves out there as old as them but that chose to remove them for survival.

[dahliarosebud]

- Bucky Barnes x Reader

• Angst

• MAIN-MASTER-LIST

Warnings: mentions of depression. mentions of grief induced hallucinations, mentions of family death

Synopsis: As you lie on your death bed you speak to Bucky. It’s been a long time coming and all you’ve wanted was to be reunited with your family and love, to feel whole again. You’re lonely, but not for much longer. You get to be with him again. Well you thought so.

———————

I sighed as I looked at the white walls. So bleak and bland is life with out you my love. I’m surrounded by the same walls all day as tumours chew me up on the inside. Bed ridded for so long I forgot how long it has been, but I would never forget your face. Or your hair, laugh, eyes.

If you saw me now you would be disappointed. Frail and old. Withered and dying. I lie in my bed with heart ache, but they don’t have any medication for that. I’m long past saving now. I can’t, won’t move on.

I only have one visitor. Steve. He cares for me and pays for my medical bills. You should see him now James, not aged a day. Handsome thing now he is. Never as handsome as you though my love.

My pale skin would shock you. Thin hands, thin face. Raspy breath and hoarse voice. I’m not as beautiful as I was back then. I still cry when I think about you. The way you would hold and kissed me.

I could never love anyone the way I loved...love you. I never stopped. I never married. Never allowed myself the depriving sense of falling in love with another because I would be lying. Lying to myself and them. How could I love anyone the way I loved you?

I still wear the locket you gave me, The picture Steve had taken. We look so happy. We look young. We look in love. I closed my eyes feeling the sorrowful tears. I’m used to it now, its a daily occurrence. 

At first it was lack of sleep - a few hours at most. The no sleep at all. Then I couldn’t eat, or drink. That’s when the hallucinations kicked in. I would see you. Speak to you. Feel you. You were there to pick me up when my parents died, but when you were gone that comfort went with you.

Finally my sister found me. Collapsed. On the floor of my apartment, said I was speaking to myself until I finally lost consciousness.  Do you remember Annabella? My sister. God when she was younger she used to be in love with you. I mean who could blame her.

She was married, had a few kids. They died. Every single one of them. Car crash. I outlived everyone. My curse. Cursed with life. How ridiculous. I laughed, wheezing out painful coughs that rattled in my chest and squeezed my lungs.

I can hear them speaking about me. They are just muffled and everything is blurred. It used to scare me ,but now I find it comforting. I don’t want to watch the world grow as I age. Not with out you.

“How is she?” Steve asked stood in the door way. Hands on his hips looking between Y/n and the doctor. 

“She will be gone in the week sir,” she said softly looking down. The never aging man looked down, sighing through his nose. He chewed the inside of his cheek. He only just lost Peggy and now you too?

The doctors hand clamped down on his shoulder, jostling his body, “I’m sorry  Mr Rodgers” A trained, tired smile on his face. The blonde man nodded looking up at the doctor. A flimsy, wavering smile plastered on his face.

He exhaled through his nose once the doctor left. Making slow foot steps to your bedside. He watched the way you ran your thumb up and down the gold dainty chain. He stared back at yours and Bucky’s smiling faces. He listened to your soft delirious whispers.

You’ve been talking to yourself for a couple of days now. Steve remembers the way your body had rattled the bed after you seizure. The way he had a sickening lump wedged into his throat as he was pushed out of the room.

He put his hand on your arm. Rubbing your frail skin with his thumb. His eyebrows creased as he felt your weak pulse. It was selfish of him to expect you to stay. Especially after everything.

I’ll be joining you soon I should think James. You promise you will take me to see everyone right? In all honesty my time has been long overdue. I’ve over stayed my welcome on this earth.

A little piece of me had died with my parents, then you, then my sister. I have nothing left to give. What, who is there to live for? I’ll be with you very soon my love, just wait a bit longer.

[measuringbliss]

Spider-Man Read-Through 067 ARMS!!! (ASM 223-225, Ann 15, WI v1 30)

MASTERPOST

In this post, we start Roger Stern's run, and it's a banger!

First off, we get an ad for "Spider-Man and his Amazing Friends" on the cover, and golly, I covered (a bit) of that one here. The one thing you have to know about is that Peter's very handsome in it.

Now. A mad scientist who has apes for companions wants to kill a ESU student who was a witness to his deeds, but more importantly:

ARMS!

Peter wants to protect the student because he reminds him of himself, and he invites him to a party.

Very gay, and I'm here for it.

The party goes terribly, and both guys leave. There's a ridiculous fight (I expect nothing less), but the bad guys get away.

Still...

Aww.

224 time!

We start with a call from Aunt May. She's doing good, she's even ready to do some footing. Good for her! And things are going well with her beau Nathan Lubensky too. That's great.

But someone else checks in at Bellevue Hospital... Adrian Toomes, the Vulture! And he finds Nathan taking a bath.

This is kind of really remarkable for a few reasons.

Showing old bodies like that is rare, as is talking about their lives, physical therapy, all that. I'm very scared for Nathan, I don't know what's Vulture's mind state, but I'm impressed that this scene even exists (and takes three pages!).

Nathan's uglier side shows when he berates his help and says some insensitive stuff, but we'll ignore that. Toomes also ignores that, because there's something more interesting: he may be old, but that doesn't mean he has to give up on life, as Nathan shows him. Well played, Nathan! The Vulture's back.

At the Bugle's, Peter's annoyed by Lance Bannon, a rival photographer. I wonder where *that* is going.

The Vulture interrupts a robbery... WITH A GUN?!

What the heck.

We keep seeing an interesting treatment of old bodies.

It's time for Peter, May and Nathan's dinner night, how nice! Peter's in his fancy suit, but when he gets there...

Oh no.

Presumably, it's Adrian's gun, but it really doesn't make that interaction less homoerotic. I love this, it feels like a classic Norman Osborn moment. Peter soon gets knocked out and tied up by Toomes, which gives me even more Goblin flashbacks hahaha

Spidey and the Vulture proceed to terrorize every old person in the county. Spidey once again uses his web to block Toomes's path, similarly to what he did with that speedster from a few issues ago.

Toomes soon takes Nathan hostage, but...

Oh, this is gold. This is solid. It really feels like a classic quality Spidey story.

Stop being so handsome, sir. What a nice issue, I really didn't expect to love it so much, but it has the intertwined social and Spidey sides, it's really good. If this is indicative of how good Stern's run is, I'm happy!

#225 starts off with intrigue.

I LOVE how the suit is drawn. Maybe it's the shading, but good lord, Romita Jr. and Bob Wyacek, you were great at that time!

Anyway, those two "fools" get killed as planned. The villain has a sick-ass design!

Later that day, Peter's giving a class on chemicals and stuff and suddenly... he reminds of my boyfriend and...

Things make sense now.

*ahem* Anyway.

After the class, Greg Salinger talks a bit to Peter. He's a Lit major, so why is he going to a chemical class...? No matter. He's having trouble getting a scholarship, and he's apparently not the only one. That's good! Give us that storyline, I'm interested!

The narration informs me that Lightmaster comes back in Team-Up #113 and at this point I'm just completely amused because they really, really try to commit with that guy hahaha

Turns out the guy in charge of the grants is overworked... and the target of the Foolkiller.

Oh, I love this. Everything influences everything! It's tight! Spider-Man is actually good again, what the heck?

Spidey quickly intervenes and saves the man. He loses track of the Foolkiller though...

What the heck?

He gives us his crossover backstory, seems like an interesting character (I mostly love his design and way of talking though).

At the Bugle, Robbie advises Peter to not stoop as low as Lance Bannon. That's fair advice, but also, Peter's always in need of money.

First off, love the upper panel, it's wonderful. But also, I'm really confused at how the gloves are settled in that last panel. Can't figure it out.

For the second time, Greg Salinger makes Peter's Spider-Sense act up. Hmm!

Oh, so he's definitely the Foolkiller. That's kind of hilarious.

Debra has some backbone finally! And Peter's so unnerved that he forgets to look human for a second.

The Foolkiller attacks the ESU mail room, but Spidey saves them, and the Foolkiller flees again.

This is so good! We haven't seen issues this brilliant in a while.

Spidey stops him.

Ah, so homosexuality saves the day once again! Also, Black Cat's back?! Don't threaten me with a good time!

What. a. strong start, Mr. Stern! I get it! And he wrote the Dazzler story before, I love him already.

Annual 15 time! It's an alright story where Spidey and the Punisher fight, then the Punisher gets kidnapped and poisoned by Doc Ock, and Spidey saves him. Also, there's a small plot at the Bugle and nice presentation.

At the end, we get a few extra pages about power scaling.

...I need to check out Hercules's stories.

There's also a a page about Peter's apartment where they correct their mistakes from Annual 13 hahaha

We also get pages about "Spidey's most famous foes" with the Jackal, the Punisher and the Tarantula!!!!!!! A Conway fan did that one hahaha

[libidomechanica]

“And why it be long so deep and soft lips are not in handsome hither”

A limerick sequence

               First Stanza

Its so much, my break my heartily beneath is he. A moment, which physics?    Pierce that sad? And why    it be long so deep and soft lips are not in handsome hither.

               Second Stanza

What time thyself to win where that shall soon be rul’d I overlooked do burns    by his worth; a true! What    infamy and can we are not memory, which at a corpse.

               Third Stanza

Age with Science; she came with strained: but a white robes, and sweet begot; tlot-tlot,    however thee to save    earth is fled but none stood, he wildly appal. A turban, off!

               Fourth Stanza

Sees her what it seems half-way from these? While my hears the Breathing doth my smooth    man, of this foul flaunt Gold:    the precious brightly as though God will, or fool was Miss Showman.

               Fifth Stanza

And a bachelor he was he, propped for his face is shine was conundrum of    my original,    nakedness of all. Browned—as far convey what in virgin; beauty!

               Sixth Stanza

Their copious looked she what self have done time coarseneschal? I love is    chose solemnly thee is    smell waste, with me’s all her was, a strappiness. Such Liberty.

               Seventh Stanza

Tis world be soul, let her moaned to my left. Most tells his transpare above, to    call that and rare: and there    shew, whose a lamps and gold, we turn: thou wert, oh, never for me?

               Eighth Stanza

And all it and her watched in, and look’d mount and he knave—for public weal and    imagination to    plightning the Fire—thou—and thou are manners? For they were carries.

               Ninth Stanza

Have sing sun? Little breed shriek, then came a tone. A please. They had lost hearted,    should aright of all the    face that lived, and with man walk. Make year: the dust. If not, long sin.

               Tenth Stanza

Her beauteously gross their sun, receive the kitchen there heo me That love the    mine. This believe a home!    To beating o’er hear street, and she. She long hills and by a kind?

               Eleventh Stanza

Such is true a philosophy their fate to bind hath fear: forbears—o wound    and crowd—tomorrow rain    of the dread he water; his pass each made. Not more; for pressing.

               Twelfth Stanza

Till casks are about to gentlemanly goddess, Mercy, the spake. Nor all!    The very white, sweeps out    Harvest missed the woman’s soul crease might is heauens still tongue was please.

               Thirteenth Stanza

Was prime the brook’d all which would sere fancy; but Lust like thee you, know not much    pride, with never dove. Arose;    and bellow heaven sunk, extinct lies of this charged a cold.

               Fourteenth Stanza

Variable native—scott, when worth, no great, for out book the mind a dog    shame. Thy Mistress ill? By    this an old Sir Leoline so draw theme, thy mind. As fierce to guide.

               Fifteenth Stanza

Hard was there what thy soft an age the grave well! Who would be thousand your that    men Wake two, while still the    devoted bawled by long, about it; or leisure, and foot out.

               Sixteenth Stanza

I for I at last, ridiculous man’s wed aloof, and them down its or    seem’d market using    Chevalier. Till tossed its delay. Then I lend through the Stone break law.

               Seventeenth Stanza

And the must needs on him, with divine; she lady’s lot, a feast, neglected.    Life; they should peakers the    fritillar, no tongue, or proportions of Heav’n to dress the gate?

               Eighteenth Stanza

For all thy complain and corona of tears, that closes, fairies upon    her ear. And went, for their    on shalt be chafes her having to an expired with feebled fast.

               Nineteenth Stanza

Prime; and, my Muse! To makes he should fair Friend’s being mind—I have love and the    Warder into her empty    honey passes which provok’st a sign, said beware, she gates.

               Twentieth Stanza

Hath desert of my one think the terror doth urge relieve, and save. Shall was    no means prey. Hope, a spongy    eye! I look, that’s all halt, and inscrutable-clothed, a friend!

               Twenty-first Stanza

For Psyche flint, as if their yell, some wits charms: one sense of men build up and    paining, she spot, and squeezed    her laid, to the gallopedize both she hap of love: their sake.

               Twenty-second Stanza

But Adeline distill pudding-day. Relief. Art thou the wife as oft which    is not how much fire Leave    me the ocean, he vainly of air stirring doth left beloued.

               Twenty-third Stanza

Look, why merrily round her night have sees, when to whom the tempting heart shall    cares ruin another    than lend hid in age. Long breeds expressionless, that have as this.

               Twenty-fourth Stanza

Her cause you wert, seed bed as draw his jowls fat assay, and I a heavenly    tears did not her one    but downward does not she Autumn. To a morally looked life.

               Twenty-fifth Stanza

Or mask. Beauty, that did I sit be, of the spoke no more—the fritillar,    not thou encountry of    these virtues rapine, too much skies, and, my lot Or had to shine.

               Twenty-sixth Stanza

Glad through I will ever grunted lord. The Warder is turf, and yet I must    lingering they say many    a Grecian let me to the days and with the brain, the more shown.

               Twenty-seventh Stanza

And I wadna gie a bonny swelled him on he tomb so sympathetis    beneath cover thee all    the foul friend, after the same, but soon exhaustere—why, Bracy!

               Twenty-eighth Stanza

In time willing plies: Thy water, the better soul face, steal through of men! The    swept his race: even those    and for name, with Sin her faith, ’ quoth she kiss. Not blood with histories.

               Twenty-ninth Stanza

Ah, drench wild of sweet agreed, the earth. And when the doom’d, and must prove: for King    Heaven! Not owe it; o!    A glutton force, in sadness them cruel madnesse still Christabel!

               Thirtieth Stanza

Of a sorrow, ere their fall of Christ. The view friend’s hem worthiest; the nuptial    brink I will I build    clappiness warmer luckles, out the two shoulded in her eyes.

               Thirty-first Stanza

’ He spur? Broad was not say, this angry star, I was his steady; there and how    captive on each other’s    face was summer that is revels below. My ten-speech disdain.

               Thirty-second Stanza

That this darkness of college, or stood and blue, and constrous mine had I behold,    bird We are. Without    memory of the clear ye, by her bosom brake. And search wits?

               Thirty-third Stanza

Burn to its tender, sweet and make trace; Not alone arms morning; she fear, with    a common crowns over    dismal and field’s blacke horsehoofs of marionettes of court.

               Thirty-fourth Stanza

Some excellent your bubbles like thirst; and come grow charm’d from all my lov’d of    the lady’s long well be    propos of a hairs to fight impossible Oh, weep! Sweetheart.

               Thirty-fifth Stanza

Familiar mouth, weep as we disclose fair and I dived in the lady. And    do it will for my    veracious sceptre found, old photo in my darling, mad the wife.

               Thirty-sixth Stanza

And scape fortune better loves gloss of Shame, and quiet words. And tell my friendly    sleep, lest women wind    and I will at our shepherdesse, fishes on my heap huge oak.

               Thirty-seventh Stanza

My advice, and hint, till do; first. Keeps, thoughtful eye, that help the world weight ease    who dread to be still look’d    before your silken rose upon the moonlightly: on again!

[amazythelsblogs]

Who goes there?

Sire it is Amazythel, the one who challenges your curse?

Amazythel, you say?! The same one of the beautiful golden hair and skin of the finest bronze? She dare challenge the I?”

“Uh-y-yes Sire. She does challenge thy I-”

“Silence, fool! Allow her entry, god forbid I allow my I to slip.” And so Amzythel Enters, to us, the same eternal beauty, to them old, shriveled, of short choppy dull hair, of rugged ropes and scarves as hands for sobbing children, of tired eyes, of dull skin, and of rolls of illusion around her, seeping in the sweaty mask of illusion. of the shadow so heavy. 

“This?” Chuckles the King. “This is what the Great and Beautiful Amazythel has come to? HA. Ridiculous! Ha! Pathetic. Turn away at once, witch, let me see your back” The court chuckled, each nervous, but since the other chuckled, the other chuckled too, quietly, but still chuckled ever more. One under his bretah, the other beneath his palm. 

Amazythel never tore away her gaze from the King. The God of the Edomaina. A gaze beneath which he shriveled, and squirmed. A gaze beneath which she had no other choice but to tell her all his secrets, all his truths, which she had already known. In fact, it was not he who confessed, rather she who reflected his truths back at him, who reflected his darkest fears, his biggest traumas, his biggest worries, his biggest disgusts. All reflected at this ser. All coming to the surface. H ecouldn’t take the heat. He ripped his fleshy golden robes apart, t oreveal his oozing, black and dark truth, his pain, his guilts, his deaths. All concealed and prettified with a bow. he melted away, this dark matter turning to dust, gathering as a pool of darkness around his feet, his body released into the abyss, the hole closed, and his ashes to a golden child turned, who sat in perfect joy and wonder. His crown too large, his shoes too wide, and his sleeves to long, he bounces of the mountian of a chair and runs to Amazythel, tripping over his own feet, but getting back up, nd pushing up his crown with his sleeved hand, and running and running, past the entire court, down the red line, towards his love, growing taller, and wiser and handsomer with every step, every breath, evermore closer to his love, evermore closer to his truth. Evermore with her once more. She finally reaches, arms thrown around her, his golden warm rays and love, wrapping endlessly around her aching one, filling her with golden light, and passing the old. His golden perfect light touches her face, her mind, her hands, her entire being. The moment lasts forever. His essence kisses her every cell, elevating, turning to glorious gold, gentle and wise, and wonderful, and miraculously, he pulls away, and there she is, the Beautiful and Radient Amzythel, As we all know her. Perfect as ever .

[flyingtomyneverland]

lips like lemon cake - sharing a dessert with your lover and... tasting it from their lips -

--> summary: gn!reader x diluc. sharing a dessert with diluc ragnvindr, scenario, romantic fluff, kisses

--> reader and character are in an established relationship

word count: 4533

tw: none

it's those evenings you wish to hold so dearly in your heart, that it almost hurts to think that one day even this memory shall be forgotten.

it's those evenings that are utterly and whimsically unique. in an indescribably exciting way, heart leaping and stomach dancing - that can only be shared between two lovers.

it's those evenings, with diluc ragnvindr.

‎

on one of those evenings, you settled on a wooden bench near the dawn winery, far enough so that no one may disturb you. if it weren't for the sparse, yellow-gold light of the small lanterns, the shadows would hide both your faces in the darkness. but on this evening, which soon turned into this night, he is - the warm curl of his lips, the way his fiery red locks fall over his shoulder, the expression of his eyes as they wander over the night - all for you, only for you.

you hold a delicate porcelain plate - all for you - a piece of lemon cake, which you had prepared thinking of diluc.

‎

" try it. ", you whisper softly after a while of pleasant silence, directing his gaze from the vineyard back to you. and there it is- the little flame in his eyes, which lets your heart flutter like the little crystal fly's wings above you.

" after you. ", he leans towards you, his fingers ghosting over the edge of the plate, but you have already taken the fork in your hand, holding it in front of his lips.

" i made it thinking of you. ", you confess and move closer to him. " please have the first bite. "

how could he possibly resist this heartwarming request and the sweet sight of you under the starry sky?

his soft, enviably rosy lips enclose the piece and you cant help but notice the little bit of whipped cream that sticks to his bottom lip. his lips curve upwards and you are rewarded with a warm smile.

" you made that for me? "

nervously, you watch his reaction. fingers shaking slightly. " is it... to your liking? ", you ask cautiously. diluc reaches for your hand, his wrapping around yours, holding you tightly.

diluc's breath gently escapes his mouth- akin to a soft sigh. " y/n.", warm fingers brush over yours as he takes the fork from your hand, leaving behind tingling shivers. he leans in further, your noses touch and you feel your heart skip at the loving touch.

your breath catches as he meets your lingering gaze. even after all the time, you are still not used to the way he manages to take your breath away. you nod slowly. " i wasn't certain if sour things suited your taste - so i just... well, if you don't- i don't mind, you can tell me. "

" it is exquisite. "

your heart warms at that.

" truly? it's not too..."

"... it's perfect.", his words are quietly spoken- the way his mouth smoothly moves is almost hypnotic - before his other hand rests on the back of your head. the feeling of his teasing fingers trailing down your neck surprises you, your eyes widen as diluc pulls you closer, sweet breath fawning over your lips.

" how about i give you a taste? ", he speaks, almost absently. your heart races as his gaze falls on your lips and- is that a winning smile gracing his handsome features? had he planned this all along?

" i would like that.", you say, warmth filling you up to your fingertips.

as diluc pulls away, he leaves you behind with flushed cheeks and the urge to run your tongue over your lip.

a small, deep chuckle. there's not enough time for you to process how ridiculously beautiful the sound of his rich voice is. his lips press against yours and your heart leaps like a young bird. at first, it is as if pure warmth envelops you all around and all you smell is him. him, the comforting, secure scent of fresh grapes and old leather. and then, as his hand relaxes and spreads on the back of your neck, he was commanding your lips to open and you willingly let him as he skimmed his tongue over the inner part of your lip and you feel like you might faint as slowly but unmistakably, the sweet sour taste of lemon and sugar creeps in.

" well - have i convince you of this magnificent flavor? ", you look at him and suddenly you have to giggle, hands on his chest.

" i wouldn't mind if your lips always tasted like lemon cake."

he joins in your laughter.

" mhm, i see. i suggest then we try that again, my dear? "

[greyeyedmonster-18]

prompt: harry asks to take sirius's last name.

just another day of harry & sirius/remus nonsense, whatelse is new (also this is still fluff and i will not be taking comments about it at this time)

--

Almost sixteen or not, being in his parent's room felt decidedly naughty. Tiptoeing into the space with the massive bed and the handsome oak dresser, everything properly in its place as it always was, and Harry couldn't help but look over his shoulder every other second.

Not that he wasn't allowed to be in there or go in there.

But usually, he had to ask.

And he...definitely didn't.

Because they weren't home! They were out! They had left Harry home alone and he needed a sweatshirt to wear because all of his were dirty and he knew he was going to be cold stepping out of the shower that he really needed to take and so what if they were all dirty because Harry hadn't brought his laundry downstairs when Sirius did the washing and the consequence fit the crime.

Maybe while we're gone, you take care of that, hm?

They both did the washing by magic, though Remus had insisted years ago they also invest in muggle washing for the sole purpose of teaching Harry. And they did, Remus also insisting that once a month Harry do his own laundry, though that...didn't happen. Sirius used it every once in a while, but it was more likely that the room alone was used for the laundry. Folding and organizing and Harry should really stop being such a brat because Sirius was still doing it for him and Harry could walk into that particular room and find all his clothes cleaned and folded. But the time for apologizing was later. Maybe.

And the time for looting through a dresser to find some kind of lightweight sweatshirt was now. He went to the dresser opening the drawers, entirely unimpressed at all the sweaters folded that were...quite honestly hideous. Moony. As soft as some of them were, Harry definitely wasn't going to spend the afternoon in a chunky knit with stripes and checks and....were those flowers, really? On Remus, it didn't phase Harry. But Harry, personally, would never be caught dead wearing something from Remus's wardrobe. Even if Sirius did on occasion and somehow managed to make mustard and brown striped sweaters look cool.

Harry moved down the drawers until he got to the bottom one, opening it to something that looked a little more normal. Simple and neutral and smelled like Sirius. Fingers touched the different fabrics, trying to gauge which one was the softest, and maybe if it was taken from the middle, Sirius wouldn't notice one was missing at all and then Harry wouldn't have to explain why he was in their room in the first place and why he didn't do his washing like he was asked to do, or at this point shower, but a bright glimpse of red caught his eye. Tucked away at the very bottom, Harry pulled it out, ruining the perfect arrangement in the drawer.

A Gryffindor quidditch jersey. It was faded, and old, Harry's own jersey much more up-to-date. Harry turned it around, thinking it was his Dad's and Sirius had just kept onto it, but instead of POTTER, it read BLACK.

BLACK in bold gold letters.

Sirius's jersey.

Harry held it up to himself, trying to imagine Sirius at sixteen, who was apparently larger than Harry even then. It shouldn't have been surprising, given Sirius's build and height now. Even in his 30's, aging never phasing Black genetics. The hem of the jersey came past Harry's hips, the shoulder seems halfway down Harry's upper arm, even though he had been working out. Painstakingly so, desperate for any sort of muscle definition instead of just skin and bones. He thought he was getting there, but didn't come close to Sirius at sixteen.

It felt ridiculous.

Harry listened for a moment, Number 12 still quiet.

He looked around quickly and before he could stop himself, he pulled the jersey over his head. Just a quick look. He had done it with his Dad's, after all. Some days he played in his Dad's jersey at school, POTTER in faded lettering across his shoulders and it made him feel proud.

Harry stood in front of the full-length mirror in his parent's room, jersey hanging on Harry's smaller frame, and he felt just as proud. BLACK on his back.

He turned around, looking over his shoulder at his reflection, mesmerized by five letters.

B L A C K.

He liked the way that fit. Snugly and comfortably. Not too big, even if the jersey was.

"Harry Potter....Harry...Black. Harry...James Potter-Black." he whispered out loud, feeling foolish as he did so. The name made his insides flutter, wrapping around him the same way his godfather's arms did when Harry was feeling overwhelmed and Sirius somehow just knew. Harry could've stared at his back in that baggy jersey for hours, the black sweatshirt he had also pulled out discarded on the floor.

"Harry we're home!" echoed a voice from the entryway and Harry startled, pulling the jersey off and rushing to get the sweatshirt, closing the drawer that was left open, and running out of their room with both things in hand.

--

Harry kept the jersey crumpled up in the back of his dresser. For reasons. Taking it out to try on when he was alone in his bedroom, mind consumed with BLACK wondering what it would feel like to walk through the halls of Hogwarts with that level of confidence. Harry hadn't wanted something so badly in quite some time. Sleeping in a jersey that belonged to his godfather, working on summer assignments, and trying out what Harry Potter-Black looked like in dark ink at the top of his paper.

And part of Harry knew he didn't have to wonder and knew that if he just...asked Sirius what the legal process was for a last-name change, he could probably tell him. It was probably simple. But part of Harry hesitated.

You can't just take my last name, Harry. What have you done that makes you mine?

Why would I want you as mine? Officially? I already got stuck with you.

Sirius had never said either of those things to him before. The voice in Harry's head didn't even sound like Sirius. If anything they sounded like Snape, or his Aunt he had visited one time for respect and then never again, or a faint voice that would creep into his dreams and tell him nasty things.

So instead of asking, Harry waited until Sirius and Remus were occupied and walked down the long hall to Sirius's study at the back of the house. He definitely wasn't allowed in there, the same way Sirius didn't go into Harry's room and seldomly into the parlor where he studied but knew that's where a legal text would be kept. All of Sirius's text from classes organized on his bookshelf and surely Harry could find the process on his own.

He quietly twisted the handle, wincing at every click and hoping the door didn't creak when he pushed it open just enough to slip inside.

Another place that just...felt like Sirius.

As if Harry could put on that jersey and sit in his godfather's big, leather chair behind his desk and just...become a Black.

He walked to the bookcase, taking in the picture of the three of them from Christmas cards past on one of the shelves--a much smaller Harry in the middle of Sirius and Remus, taken on Christmas Eve by the Weasleys. They were happy. Harry hated the photo because one of his teeth was missing on the side of his mouth when he smiled, the last one to fall out even though Harry was nearly 10 in that photo. Harry started reading spines of textbooks, not understanding half the words and titles.

Why did you think this would be easy?

Harry sighed and continue reading, pulling out and thumbing through a few of them, wishing there was something clearly labeled HOW TO CHANGE YOUR LAST NAME WHAT PAPER DO I NEED TO SIGN CAN I DO IT MYSELF OR DO I NEED TO ASK MY GODFATHER AND IF ITS THE LATTER HOW DO YOU DO THAT.

"I thought I heard someone in here..." Sirius said, opening the door and Harry jumped, slamming the book he had closed. Sirius didn't look angry, but one of his eyebrows was raised in question.

"Er...sorry."

"What are you doing in here?"

"Uh...I...was looking for...a book."

"Well you know, I happen to have excellent knowledge about books," Sirius walked closer to Harry, gently taking the text out of his hands and putting it back into the hole in the bookcase. "Did you find what you needed?"

"No."

One word answers, that was fine.

"Do you need some help?"

"No," Harry repeated, dropping his head so he could look at the floor. Sometimes it would've been easier if Sirius had just scolded him.

You know you aren't allowed to enter my study without permission, your brooms on the ground, are we clear?

And Harry could agree and be sent on his way. An understanding parent was sometimes worse. Especially when Harry didn't understand it himself.

"Do you know what you're looking for?"

"No." Two fingers went under Harry's chin, tilting it upward towards Sirus's face.

"Is...there a reason you think you can't tell me about what you need?"

"No."

"A lot of no's today, alright."

"Sorry," Harry muttered. A feeble apology and grey eyes searched Harry's face.

"What for?"

"I know I'm...not supposed to be in here."

"Well you needed a book so..." Sirius told him, "Just ask next time, okay? I'm not angry with you."

"Can you pretend to be for a second?"

Sirius hummed, smiling a little and dropping his hand from Harry's chin to mess up his hair, "No, I don't think I can. Tough shit." Harry snorted at the slight and Sirus's smile grew, "See? It's not so bad. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

--

"Moony?"

Remus looked up from his book, the sun catching his eyes as he met Harry's gaze. There was a light breeze that day, dampening some of the summer heat, Remus sitting out in the yard of Number 12 reading. Sirius was going to be in hearings all day, leaving just the two of them. That happened a lot over summer, Sirius coming home to open cabinets in the kitchen and takeaway for dinner, Harry and Remus with sun across their cheeks and noses.

"Coming to join me?"

"I think," Harry nodded, finding a seat on the grass, not bothering with a blanket, and staring up at the blue sky, only a few clouds drifting by. Maybe it would be easier to have this conversation without having to look at Remus at all. He could talk to the clouds. Practically no one.

One of Remus's feet hit Harry gently.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask me anything you'd like Harry."

"Can...I tell you something?"

"That too."

"I went into your room a few weeks ago, when you and Sirius went out? I...yeah."

"Oh...alright? Was that it?"

"Sort of."

"You didn't find the lacy briefs, did you?"

"What?! No. Moony."

"Only joking."

"Were you?"

"I don't know," Remus laughed, nudging Harry with his foot again, "I think both of us would prefer you ask to go in there, Harry but...if that's what you're worried about--"

"I found Sirius's old quidditch jersey. In a drawer."

"Oh. I haven't seen that in ages."

"He gave me my Dad's when I first started playing....remember?"

"I do..."

"How...how..come he didn't give me his?"

There was a long pause at the end of the question and Harry continued looking at the sky. He absolutely was not going to look at Remus, and he absolutely wasn't going to cry in case the answer was because why would he want you to have it.

"Can you look at me, love?"

"No."

"So...we're going to have a very poignant conversation with you..."

"Looking at the sky? Yep. Sounds good to me. I just...did he...why didn't he give it to me? It's not like...he uses it or anything? And...I dunno."

To Harry's surprise, Remus moved, laying down next to Harry in the grass, one of his elbows bumping into Harry's. "Sirius didn't play for very long...I don't think that jersey has particular...uh, sentimental value for him."

"So?"

"I just mean it probably didn't occur to him that you would've wanted it."

"Well I do," Harry told him indignantly.

"Is this what you wanted to talk about?"

Harry exhaled and squinted at the sky. He took off his glasses for good measure, making it extra impossible. "Do you think...he would care if I maybe wanted his last name as well?"

"Not at all," Remus said without hesitation. Not even a pause for shock at the question.

"Really?"

"Really."

"I think I do. I tried to do some...research on all the paperwork behind it or what it would even mean but couldn't find a book and..."

"Is that why you were in his study?"

"Yeah."

"You know, Sirius is pretty good at all this legal stuff and could give you a very simple explanation of the process."

"I just..."

"Your parents left you with him...and I am very lucky to be part of that, and we are very lucky that we got to keep you," Remus said slowly, "Sirius...is so proud of you every single day, Harry. No matter what you do or say or...he is so proud that you're his. So am I by that. I can't think of a single thing that he would be happier to give to you than his last name."

"Then why don't I already have it?"

"It..probably didn't occur to him that you would've wanted it."

"Well, I do."

"Look at me, please?"

Harry huffed and slowly turned his head to the side so he could see Remus's face. Bright sunlight on his freckled face, making him look younger. Remus smiled, "You need to talk to him about this, you know that, right?"

--

The day Harry was intending on asking Sirius had been horrible. Harry couldn't tell you why it was easier to start a row when he was overtired and on the verge of tears and wanting Sirius to hold him while he asked if he could please have Black on the back of my Quidditch jersey too? and I'm your kid, this is our family, please want me? but that was exactly what he did.

About having to pick up his room.

What's it matter? No one goes in there anyway!

Read a chapter for summer homework.

There's plenty of time left of summer, get off my case!

About potentially going to the Weasley's for dinner.

I don't want to, just let me stay here alone

Until Remus finally sent him to his room to cool off before Sirius could say a thing. Harry had been spending a lot of time in his room to cool off recently. After about an hour of stewing in his own guilt and feelings, he made his way downstairs. He gave a brief mumbled apology to Remus before leaving out the front door, Sirius apparently in the drive working on his bike.

He smiled when he saw Harry, "You're back!"

"I didn't go anywhere..." muttered Harry immediately.

Sirius put down the tool he was using, "Mmm that won't do."

"What?"

"If you're going to be out there with me, I'm going to need the attitude to be at 50% at the highest. This won't do."

"What am I at?"

"80, at least."

"That's an exceeds expectations."

"I would love a Dreadful attitude about now."

"Your scoring scale is skewed..."

"Shall I write the board and hold a meeting? I'll change it no problem. And maybe while I'm at it try to convince them to put Snogging as a subject for 5th years to take?"

Harry couldn't help but laugh, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he walked closer to Sirius, "I'd pass that one."

"You'll pass more than that, I'm sure."

"Maybe."

"I'll love you all the same," Sirius told him, watching as Harry sat down on the pavement his knees drawn up. Sirius stopped what he was doing and sat across from him, Harry thinking he had spent far too much time on the ground with the two of them lately. Chairs seemed more properly 16, yet....here he was.

Pavement and Grass.

And tears stinging his eyes.

"Harry..."

"I want your last name."

"Wha--"

"I want to take your last name, with mine. I want both. I want...my Dad's and I want yours. I want that whole big long name on the back of my Quidditch jersey, every single letter Potter-Black. I want to write it on the top of my papers, I want to graduate, hopefully, assuming I pass my OWLS, and I want Dumbledore to say two names. Harry James Potter-Black, I want....I want it to be a mouthful and I'll make sure everyone says all of it all the time and if I get married I'm going to have them take Potter-Black because it's important and Potter is important but you're also important to me and I'm sorry I've been so bloody awful lately, I just...didn't know how to tell you, as always, I never know what to say and...I...didn't know if you wanted...that because....I'm not really and...I know you are but I don't know and I just--"

And Sirius leaned forward, taking Harry's face into both of his hands, one of his thumbs wiping a tear track, "I'm going to stop you right there, Harry James," he said in a soft but firm voice. The use of his middle name was enough to get Harry to look at him, "Are you listening to me?"

"Yeah."

"You are my kid, you have been for years now. What's mine, is yours. My time, my money, my energy, my everything, is yours, Harry. And...you know, Molly Weasley might tell me that I spoil you...but there is no one on this Earth more deserving of everything I have to offer than you. It would be honor for you to have my last name," Sirius said, his own eyes misting as he spoke. Harry wanted to reach up and wipe away the sadness just as Sirius did for him far too often, but he just swallowed and wrapped his hand around Sirius's wrist. "You want Potter-Black?"

"I...y-yeah. I do."

"Then let's make that happen."

"When?"

"Tomorrow if you'd like."

Harry nodded eagerly, "I'm completely free tomorrow. I don't have to clear my schedule or anything."

"Harry James Potter....Black," Sirius tested out the name, just as Harry had done in the bedroom when he had first found the jersey. The one he was definitely going to bring with him to Hogwarts. "Has a nice ring to it."

[bombsonboard]

Your Name.

gif from @patel-dev

summary:  Bucky doesn’t like to leave his room at the tower. And he doesn’t know who you are yet. But paths always cross.

pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader 

word count: 1.2k

tags: mentions of blood, wounds and bullets, mentions of trauma and nightmares, all that good Bucky stuff 

A/N: Who can resist a good wound wrapping / bonding sesh? Not me.

*****

Bucky Barnes didn’t know your name.

He only ever saw you from a distance, a little spec helping an injured Rhodey or maybe Wanda off the quinjet after a botched mission. The back of your head became familiar too, hurrying down the hallway away from him, on its way to something infinitely more interesting than the old guy down the hall.

It’s not like you were the one evading him, you were just different people. You actually left your room during daylight hours and Bucky was unintentionally convincing the tower that he was nocturnal...and maybe an actual vampire. That’s what Clint said. 

He knew you had a name, at least. The first syllable was stored in the very back of his head collecting cobwebs and dust, kept just in case you ever got in his way crossed paths.

And as obnoxious fate would have it, you did. 

Sleep avoided him like the plague most nights, unless he was literally falling at the seams enough to let his bad dreams smother him for a couple hours, then it was wake up in a suffocating sweat and lie there in his pathetic misery.

After another one of those dime a dozen nightmares, Bucky let out an earth-shattering sigh, threw on sweatpants and some avengers embroidered white vest from his floor and slipped out of his room at 3 am, intent on making a punching bag his late night victim. 

Past the common room, and past the kitchen...the lights were on. 

Not the big blaring lights, just the LEDs from the kitchen counter, keeping it still a little dim, subtle and secretive. Curiosity crept up on him, nipping at his heels and urging him to follow his instincts.

A couple more steps and there you were. Hunched over the table, the barely there light highlighting you like some kind of apparition to tired eyes, so Bucky rubs his and notices the large tweezers..and the blood.

“Oh, for fucks-”

“What are you doing?”

Your head snapped towards the sudden voice, annoyed that you didn’t know someone was there in the first place.

The realisation it was Bucky was met with an aftertaste of caution, you didn’t know him. You had heard what he was capable of. But he was also Steve’s best friend, it seemed all so tangled. He was achingly handsome though, that was surprisingly easy to understand.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?”

Bucky had his own inward crisis, he had never been this close to you before and, well, he had just realised you were pretty. 

That might be a problem. He choked down the thought and stepped further into the light, eyes now trailed to the drooling hole that punctured your upper arm.

“You know we have nurses for that.” It was more a statement  than a question, pointing out your own ridiculousness. 

“Yeah, yes. Just didn’t want to disturb people so late.” You focus your attention back to trying to pry the bullet from out of your body. Where it was supposed to be.

“Which is clearly going super well, with you brooding over- agh fuck!” 

The tweezer slipped again, and every nerve screamed at you. Why couldn’t they have shot you in your less dominant arm? Some people.

You didn’t realise how close Bucky had gotten, only looking up when you felt his flesh hand pull the tweezers from your own, scarily gentle.

“Stop.”

“No, it's alright, I can do it. Natasha showed me how and I’m not-”

The dragging of the chair next to you pulls you from your ramble and every next thought is contaminated by the words ‘Bucky’ and ‘hands’. 

Your curious eyes flick down to his decidedly not flesh hand resting on your wrist. You didn’t mean to stare but the way the gold shimmered in the low light, they looked like veins, it looked living.

“How’d you get it?”

It took a single shared glance, him with the tweezers in his hand to realise he was trying to distract you. 

“Uh, went on a solo mission couple days ago, supposed to be a simple extraction. My first one, all alone” You winced, he was being gentle but it couldn’t be helped.

Bucky simply paused, adjusted the cool vibranium keeping your arm in place and went back to work.

“Was supposed to be back earlier today but there were...complications. Someone tried to escape and...I got them back but not without, y’know, getting a bullet in my arm...Hence me now sitting in the kitchen at 3 in the morning, cuz I was too worried about waking anyone up, so-”

There was a metallic clunk on the table and Bucky’s already reaching for the bandages beside you. This time you do stare, at his furrowed brows and five o'clock shadow with that jawline.

“Sorry” he lets out a mumble when he notices your look and loosens the grip of the vibranium arm.

Oh fuck, you didn’t mean for that to happen. But you weren’t quite sure how to say ‘sorry, I was just admiring how hot you are, not scared of your metal arm, just how you make me forget every single word ever.’

 He’s already getting up to put things away. So, you just change the subject. 

“I don’t see you around much, you’re Bucky...Barnes, right?” Of course you already knew that but, it was better late than never for a proper introduction. 

He nods “Just Bucky”. He shoved his hands in his pockets, you noticed he looked a little hesitant, eyes avoiding yours and looking towards the exit. 

Ah.

“You don’t know my name do you?”

Bucky lets out a breath, followed by the hint of an awkward smile. He felt caught, his recent antisocial tendencies finally backed into a corner.

“No.” He admitted simply.

“It’s okay” You gently reassure him “You don’t need to know it so why would you?” 

That felt a little edged and he winced, it was fair.

“Because I should. It’s polite. And kind.”  He sounded like his mother. 

“Why are you up so late?...early?” You stood from the chair, inspecting his handiwork

Oh. He thought you were going to-....never-mind, then.

“Can’t sleep.” 

The admission was short and blunt and you knew not to push, in a tower full of every type of trauma under the sun, you got it.

You realise he’s looking at you, almost expecting you to say something.

“Well, i’m sorry I woke you up, Bucky” 

“I was going to the gym anyway.” He half smiles.

“Oh, well, have fun.” You ducked your head and walked past him.

“Hang on.”

You turned. Probably too quickly.

“You didn’t tell me your name”

You didn’t. Hmm. Maybe you could use that. 

“You didn’t ask.”

“Well, I'm asking now.”

Your eyes go wide and catch a glimmer in his, a hint of who he was past all of the hard, muscley, exterior. 

“If that's how you ask questions, Bucky Barnes, I pity the poor soul who gives you an answer”

His mouth drops, emptied of retorts, and it was getting harder to ignore the way his cheeks heated up at the smirk on your face.

“Thanks for the bullet removal and... I hope I see you around.”

And you disappeared into the dark corridor and Bucky was left standing in the kitchen, he coughed and collected himself, unable to brush the thought of you from his head.

Bucky Barnes had a new mission. Know your name.

[lubdubsworld]

The Devil’s own.

Jungkook x OC

Mafia Au!

Warnings : Non-Con ! Manipulation, Degradation, Shitty hero with no redeeming Qualities you have been warned. ( i mean he does get better but not much.)

Summary : Just Mob Boss Jungkook doing mob boss things.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

I wasn’t sure how long I stayed there , staring at the ceiling and trying to come to terms with what had just happened. It was revolting. It was nauseating. It made me want to claw my own skin off. I stared at the intricate designs , carved into the ceiling, the panels that reflected life and made the room seem bigger than it was. The scent of jasmine and rosemary clung to the sheets and the drapes in the room, cloyingly sweet and meant to arouse the occupants.

I wondered how I’d got here.

I had memories of satin silk sheets and bright lights. My father had always spoiled me, the best of the best only for his only daughter and I’d indulged in luxury to my heart’s content. More shoes than I could possibly wear in a life time. Every season’s collection, straight into my wardrobe whether I asked for it or not. Diamonds and rubies and emeralds set in platinum and gold , jewelry to match my clothes and even my car if I felt like it.

I shut my eyes in despair. I didn’t miss the luxury as much as I missed the solitude. The option to just not do anything. My father hadn’t cared enough to see what I was upto and everyone knew that I was betrothed to Jungkook.

And that meant no dates or party invites because after the third guy got his arm in a sling after accidentally brushing past me , word kind of spread.  Stay away from Elena Gong or the Jeon kid will break your bones.

I shuddered. It had been an obsession, I thought vacantly.

Jungkook had been obsessed, even back then. I just hadn’t paid much heed to him. Because Jungkook back then had been terrifying but also ridiculously endearing in some way. He had seemed for lack of a better word…..insignificant. I was beautiful and rich, never lacked for attention and he was just one among the dozens. Even if I was betrothed to him, I hadn’t given much thought to him.

And Jungkook had taken my indifference in stride. He’d laughed and played around and I hated to admit it, treated me like a queen. Flowers, chocolates and gifts every other day . He would follow me around like a puppy , and I wondered if perhaps my dismissive attitude towards him back then had been a mistake. Did it push him over the edge?

My heart ached fiercely and when I finally willed myself to move, my body protested.

Every inch of me was sore and aching. My head because of how hard he’d gripped my hair. I sat up on shaky legs, fingers trembling as I pulled my shit up to stare at my body. Bite marks littered my skin, marring the smooth surface and I felt bile in my throat at the memory of his teeth on me.  Finger shaped bruises were beginning to bloom around my thighs and I couldn’t breathe over the agony ripping up my insides.

I glanced down between my thighs, at the sticky mess of his release dripping down into the sheets, staining the sheets a murky pink. I shuddered, disgusted. God, I hated him. Where was my phone? My clothes were still there at the foot of the bed and I noticed the small door on the right wall. Crawling off the bed on shaky legs , I limped carefully to the bathroom.

I took Hoseok’s shirt off dropping it in the corner before turning the showers on.

The water felt like a whip on my skin as I sat on the tiled bathroom floor , a small washcloth gripped tight in my hand as I carefully cleaned myself up. I had no idea what the time was… It must be very early or very late. No matter. I had to get out of here and get to Jisoo. I swallowed, imagining her alone all this time. The doctors had said she would be up in Guilt churned as I quickly grabbed a towel from the closet and wiped myself down.

It took me another ten minutes to finish dressing up and just as I finished slipping into my shoes, the door opened.  I glanced up, catching sight of Hoseok as he leaned against the door. He looked a little haggard, a black silk shirt unbuttoned to his chest and tucked into fitted jeans. I stared at him, watching the way his gaze roved over every inch of exposed skin, looking just a tad bit worried.

“The Hospital called. “ He said gently, “ They’re ready to release you sister. They want to know if you can come pick her up. The baby’s going to have to stay in the NICU for a couple of weeks.”

I groaned. Great. More bills.

“I need a job. “ I said miserably. “ Help me out.” I stared at him beseechingly and Hoseok gave me a look.

“you know the kind of jobs I provide. You’re not built for it. “ He said shortly and I shook my head, impatient.

“that’s not what I meant and you know it. You and your friends pretty much own every club in the city. Get me a job ….” I whispered, moving to stand in front of him and he recoiled.

Just as always, I thought bitterly. Coward.

As much as a coward now as he’d been ten years ago, when he’d pretended that he didn’t have any feelings for me. Pretended that he didn’t give a damn about me.

The throb in my skull grew in intensity.

My throat was dry and I felt my vision swim a bit. I was tired. Exhausted . I hadn’t slept in….how long really? I hadn’t eaten in a day…for sure… And I likely wasn’t going to be eating for a long while, let alone feeding Jisoo if I didn’t get a job right away. I had twelve thousand won to my name and that was it.

“Jungkook-“ He began but I was sick of his name so I growled.

“Fuck, do you want me to beg Hoseok? I will… I can’t … I need a job… Please.” I said desperately, staring at him and his gaze softened.

“Elena, stop looking at me like that, fuck.” He swore, turning and punching the wall hard. “ fuck.”

“Just help me get a job. I’m not asking you to give me money or something.  You don’t even have to get it for me… Just tell me who’s hiring ? Somewhere away from Jungkook and his men.” I whispered , and the sheer irony of it didn’t escape me. Jung Hoseok was possibly one of Jungkook’s main men.

He ran his hand over his forehead, shaking his head.

“You’re going to get me killed someday.” He muttered, “ Fine. There’s a club down in Itaewon. It caters to cops and lawyers exclusively so Jungkook and his men usually keep out of it. My friend owns the place. His name is Im Jaebum.  I’ll get you a job there , waitressing. Is that alright?” He said softly and I wanted to sob in relief as I nodded. Itaewon meant pretty close to where the bakery was. I could take the bus.

“Fine. I’ll talk to him and call you. Here…” He held out a wad of cash and I took it greedily, eyes widening at the 100,000 written on the margin of each note. This was a lot of money.

“Hoseok…”I said stunned and he shrugged. “ Get food and baby stuff for Jisoo. If she’s going to feed the baby she needs to eat well. Fruits and veggies and lot of protein. If you run out, tell Jaebum you need some advance. He’ll pay you well.”

I nodded, stuffing the money into my pockets quickly . I swallowed when my insides throbbed, aching something fierce.

“Thank you.” I said softly, staring up at him and he hesitated, before reaching out and gently cupping my face in his palm. I flinched at his touch and he recoiled.

“Was he… Did he hurt you?” He whispered quietly and I smiled bitterly.

“Wasn’t that the whole point?” I sighed, shaking my head . I hesitated . I wasn’t sure if Hoseok would listen to me but I had to try at least.

“ Can you not tell him? That… That I was a virgin?” I asked quietly and he nodded.

“Wasn’t planning to.” He said casually.

I stared at him. I’d always found him handsome. Beautiful. Perfect . And I wondered where we had gone so wrong.

“Do you regret it.” I whispered. “ All those choices you made.”

“Which ones? …” he asked bitterly.

“you know… “ I snapped. “ the ones that lead us here. You and me…. Standing here like strangers. “

“I wouldn’t risk my life for a stranger. Which is what I’m doing every time I help you .” He said quietly.

“So what are we then?” I demanded.

“Old friends” He said casually.

I snorted.

“Fucking coward.” I whispered , loud enough for him to hear as I brushed past him and walked away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I trudged all the way to the VIP room in the hospital flinching because that was probably a lot of money to be repaid , now owed directly to the devil spawn that was Jeon. I had grabbed a small meal on the way before quickly getting the bus to the Hospital. It was little past eleven in the morning and the hallways were packed with people. Sighing, I moved to the room where Jisoo was, slowly opening the door.

Min Yoongi sat on the chair next to the bed, gazing idly at my sister in law.

To say that I was shocked would be the biggest understatement of the century. My lips parted in shock, panic bubbling up inside me as I exhaled sharply.

“What-“ I swallowed gazing between him and my Jisoo, who was sitting up against the backrest on the bed, a tray of food on her lap and a small smile on her face.

“Lena!! You’re here!” She cried out softly, tears filling her eyes at once as she held both her hands up. I moved to hug her but my mind stayed on the man near the bed, his sultry feline eyes trained unblinkingly on her. I wrapped my arms around her, trying to get my breathing to regulate but it was impossible.

What on earth was Yoongi doing here?

“Mr. Min came to see me. He told me he knew Daehwan.” Jisoo said softly, looking sad but hopeful and I felt my heart turn over as I turned to stare at him.

Min Yoongi knew Daehwan as a target . A hit he had carried out himself.

But I couldn’t say a thing. Not in front of Jisoo.

“I’m only here to offer my help. It pains me to see you suffering, Jisoo. I know your husband would want you to be taken care of.” He said softly, his gaze still fixed on her and I didn’t like it. At all.

Bile rising, I gave him a glare.

“I’ll take care of her. Please don’t trouble yourself.” I said shakily and he glanced at me, lips parting a bit, turning into a smirk.

“You look… well rested.” He smirked and I flushed.

“Lena, come on… I know all this…this must be expensive. We can use all the help we can get and Mr. Min-“

“Please call me Yoongi, sweetheart.” Yoongi said charmingly and my sister in law blushed. I felt my skin crawl.

“Y-Yoongi said he has a spare room. I can’t stay in the bakery.  And it’s not like he’s a murderer or anything. He showed me his card. He’s a lawyer.” She said softly and I sighed in despair. Jisoo was naïve bordering on stupid and I wasn’t equipped to deal with this.

As I watched she went back to the food, eating ravenously and I felt my heart clench. I could see the twin damp spots at her chest and I noticed the breast pump on the table. It looked brand new. I hadn’t even thought about things she may need after the baby, too preoccupied with all the hospital bills and medicines I would have to pay for.

Diapers. Baby wipes. Those little flannel pieces mothers used to wipe down the baby. I felt my head spin, turning to Yoongi who was staring at me casually.

“Can we talk?” I said quietly and he straightened.

“Jisoo ssi… Please enjoy your meal. And here…” He gave her his phone. “ If you’re done, just give me a buzz on this.” He showed her something on the phone .” Go on try it.”

Jisoo pressed down on the screen curiously and Yoongi’s watch rang .

He grinned as she smiled.

“See? One touch and I’ll be here yeah?” He said softly, and I felt like I was stuck in some kind of drama, glancing between the pair of them.

“Are you leaving?” She asked curiously and he shook his head.

“I’ll be right here, outside. Having a word with Elena. You can finish your food and I’m guessing it’s time for you to pump again? The pediatrician said you’d have to pump every two hours with the milk so… if you get it ready, I’ll drop it off at the NICU.” He said calmly.

Jisoo nodded, staring at him with wide eyed gratefulness and I sighed in despair.

Yoongi moved to the door and I gave her a small smile before following him.

I waited till the door had closed behind me before turning to him, furious.

“What do you think you’re-“

“I want her.” He said shortly.

I felt my jaw come unhinged.

“No.” I hissed, furious and helpless with rage. “ Yoongi-“

“Don’t make me put a bullet in your head for this, Elena.” He said calmly and I exhaled shakily.

“She’s… You know she’s not like us. She doesn’t know anything about this life. As far as she knows my brother was a surgeon who got killed in a hit and run. You want to …. What do you really want? Did Jungkook put you upto this?”

“If Jungkook would have his way, your sister in law and your new nephew would both be dead. You know this.” Yoongi said casually. God, could I ever have a conversation with anyone without Jungkook being dragged into it? When did my life get twined so intimately with him?

“Where is he?” I asked quickly and Yoongi shrugged.

“He’s out of the country. He left an hour ago.”

“Switzerland….” I said before thinking and Yoongi stiffened.

“How did you know?” He demanded and I froze.

“I… I overheard …..someone.” I muttered and Yoongi moved so fast I barely caught it. The next second I was pressed up against the wall, his forearm pressing into my throat and holding me down while he held a knife right against my jugular.

“Nice try. Now the truth.” He hissed.

“Ouch..” I choked out , coughing  a bit. “ Fine.. Hoseok.. Hoseok told me.”

Yoongi pulled back.

“You fukcing him?” He asked casually and I glared at him.

“none of your business.” I snapped.

He laughed at that.

“I know you aren’t. Hoseok loves his dick too much to risk having it castrated.”

I sighed, shaking my head. I wasn’t here to talk about these bastards.

“Just leave Jisoo alone.” I said quietly and Yoongi sighed.

“What are you going to do with her, Elena. You can barely afford to feed yourself. You should be thankful I’m taking her off your hands.”

I ignored his nonsense and moved till I was pressed up against him, fingers curling into his chest. Yoongi looked surprised, lips twisting in displeasure when I blinked up at him.

“please.. Yoongi…” I begged, “ Don’t do this to me.” I said quietly. “ I … she’s all I have… She… My brother had nothing to do with any of this. You know that….He left this life decades ago. I don’t… I don’t know why Jungkook wanted him dead in the first place. I loved my brother and my brother loved his wife. I owe it to him … Please…just…Please leave her alone.” I whispered softly, letting my fingers drop to grip his arm.  

He tugged his arm away at once.

“ She needs more than empty platitudes and good intentions. She needs food and a place to stay with her baby. I’m giving her that.”

“And what do you get in return?” I demanded angrily. “ She just gave birth, fuck you. You can’t touch her , not unless you’ve lost the last shreds of humanity in that conscience of yours.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I’m not doing this for sex, Elena. If I wanted easy pussy, I would have come to you…” He smirked.  “ Don’t forget that Jungkook and I share our toys, yeah?”

I opened my mouth to retort before remembering that I was trying to get him to listen to him.

“Then why? What do you want…tell me?”

“I told you. I want her. As she is.” Yoongi shrugged.

“You killed her husband.” I said , voice shaking as I remembered what Jungkook had said. About my brother begging for his life because Jisoo was pregnant. And how Yoongi hadn’t given a shit and shot him anyway.

“A minor inconvenience. Trust me if I’d seen her before I killed him…” He sighed, shaking his head in regret and I frowned.

“You would have spared him? “ I asked bitterly and Yoongi laughed.

“No.. I would have killed him sooner.” He smirked. “ Is there a point to this whole conversation… I’m getting bored and Jisoo’s waiting inside.”

“We’re supposed to get her out of the hospital today and-“

“I’m taking her home.” He said briskly. “ I’ve already spoken to her. And She’s agreed that a ramshackle , dilapidated bakery isn’t the right place for a new mother and a tiny baby.”

And the worst part was that I couldn’t even disagree.

And I couldn’t help but feel angry, betrayed. Jisoo was…. How could she? She hadn’t even bothered to talk to me about it… Just agreeing to move in with Yoongi. She was older than me. Supposed to be the smart one. My body ached. If that was the bed she was going to make , she could lie on it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Going somewhere?” Jungkook’s voice made me freeze.

I swallowed, straightening and stepping back almost instinctively. He stood in the doorway, a cigarette held between his teeth as he stared at me . He looked like he’d showered as well, hair still damp and the smells of citrus and mint permeating the air around him.

It was exactly ten days since I’d last seen him and I’d settled into a routine of sorts. Im Jaebum’s bar, Venom was an exclusive club in Itaewon and I could easily disappear into the shadows, staying low and using the beret ( a part of the uniform ) to keep my face hidden as I served the patrons. Like Hoseok had said, the place was filled with cops and lawyers. Yoongi was a frequent fixture here , stopping for just a drink on most days before heading home to my sister in law.

It made me sick but there was nothing I could do about it. Jisoo and little baby Yunsu were both home and needed a l,ot of care. And Yoongi apparently had a cook, a housekeeper and a nanny who helped her out. Jisoo was wary, her senses finally returning but she was also clearly glad to be out of the streets.

“I’m going home after I finish my shift. “ I said softly, trying not to stare as he stepped into the room. I turned away from him moving to the shelves and pushing the small canister in place.

“Where’s home?” He asked casually. I flinched when he stepped right behind me, fingers reaching out to curl on my shoulder, pulling me back till I was flush against his chest. The heat of his body seeped in through the thin fabric of my blouse and I felt my body heat up.

“You got what you wanted.” I said shakily. “ Let me go.” I whispered, dropping the cleaning cloth in the tray on the lower shelves, before moving to grab the mop. I just had to finish mopping the floor . And then I could leave.

But his grip on me stayed firm. I couldn’t move. Foreboding rose inside me.

Jungkook hummed at that, stepping closer, till I felt his chin brush the top of my head as he bent over me, arms coming around me  and fingers lightly unbuttoning the first two buttons of my  shirt. I stared at the dark ink on his forearm. , swallowing as he kept coming closer.

“What I wanted? That pathetic little display ten days ago?”  He whispered softly “ Just think about this Elena ……  I’ve been chasing you for years, I got rid of your entire family and yet I let you live. Why do you think that was, huh? “ He shook his head, “ For two minutes of you lying underneath me like a frigid bitch? You think that’s what I want Elena? Think I’ll be satisfied with that? ” He laughed.

I stared at the wall in front of me  and I couldn’t do this. Couldn’t play this sick game with him. Not when he kept changing the rules . Not when there was nothing left for me to gamble or lose.

“Jisoo. I have to go see her. Just… Just let me go see her. I need to see if she’s alright and then we can talk. ” I whispered. Jungkook smiled, tilting my  head to the side with his fingers. I felt the damp press of his lips against my jaw and my skin crawled.

“Don’t worry, Yoongi’s taking care of her.” He whispered softly and I felt my heart turn over in my chest at the reminder. I’d been forced to relent because Yoongi had taken her home to a fully finished and decorated nursery , a closet full of baby clothes for her son and nursing clothes for her. She had been bowled over and when I’d told her to think about the why of it…she’d given me a helpless sort of smile. . As far as she was concerned , Yoongi had been nothing but generous and kind… And she wasn’t going to say no to him because she couldn’t afford to..

“I… he promised me he’d let me see her. And the baby…every day. That was the deal.”

Jungkook laughed.

“I thought I made this clear . You don’t get to make deals with anyone because you belong to me. I get to decide what happens to you. Anytime. Anywhere. Do you need another demonstration , Elena?” His hand moved to my breast, groping the flesh, fingers rough and hard and I whimpered in pain.

“No..” I choked out , eyes widening in terror and he made quick work of the rest of the buttons on my blouse. Junkook hummed, kissing the back of my neck and slowly turning me around in his arms.

“Relax. You don’t have a job. How are you going to feed her and the kid? Yoongi isn’t like me. He doesn’t hold a lot of grudges. And for some reason he seems to have a hard on for your sister in law. He wants to marry her. ” He chuckled and I felt nausea bloom.

“No.. Don’t… Don’t do that to her. She’s not like us. She doesn’t know… She doesn’t have anything to do with this life.” I begged, heart racing at the thought of Jisoo, helpless and scared and alone with a baby , trapped with a fucking assassin. Yoongi killed for a living . That was his job. Jisoo was delicate and sensitive.

“She still needs to eat and live right? With what?  He’s feeling particularly generous so he’s taken her home . You don’t have to worry about them anymore… Isn’t that nice?” he smirked and I felt my throat go dry.

I clenched my fists, feeling my breath catch.

“The only person you need to worry about yourself is yourself. Isn’t that how you prefer it anyway? Beautiful selfish Elena who never gave a fuck about anyone but herself. Isn’t that who you truly are, angel?” He smiled.

“Not anyone…. Just you… I don’t give a fuck about you.” I said defiantly, staring right up at him.  

Jungkook stared at me and stepped closer, reaching out and running his fingers up and down my cheek. I flinched because he still held the lit cigarette.

“None at all?”  He asked curiously, lightly tapping on the end of the cigarette, and I flinched when the hot ash spilled onto my shoulder.

“Did that hurt, baby?” He whispered, leaning in and pressing the cigarette to my lips.” I’m sorry. Breathe in for me.” He stuck the cigarette into my mouth and I pulled away , coughing and disgusted.

I closed my eyes as his free hand went to my wrist, tugging me closer. I stiffened as he wrapped his arms around me, drawing me in till my face pressed against his chest, his body flush against mine, one hand moving back to stroke my back.

“I missed you. You’re terrible at pleasing me but I think…with a little bit of training, you can make me cum… ” He smirked. “ Let’s start with a blowjob, yeah?”

I stiffened.

“No.” I said softly and he smirked, pulling back.

“No?” He asked softly. . I felt my throat go dry in fear as I noticed the way his gaze shifted.   I bit my lips to stifle the pain as He carefully pressed the lit end of the cigarette right against the curve of my breast , pressing in for a couple of seconds and pulling away just before the skin began to singe. He glanced up at me, and I blinked through the tears, pain spreading all over my chest at the burn. That would leave a scar, I thought miserably.

“Wrong answer. Try again.” He whispered.

“Go to Hell.” I choked out.

I flinched when his fingers slipped up into my hair, gripping hard. My scalp burned, sharp and insistent and instinct made me grip his wrist, trying to get him off but it was impossible.

“Let me go..” I snapped, glaring at him. God, How I hated him.

“Was I your first??” He whispered, dragging me close enough that his lips brushed my ear. “ Never had a cock before? Was that why you were so fucking tight?”

I bit my lips, glaring at him, defiant and furious. Did Hoseok actually tell him? That two faced snake…. God , why did these fuckers never leave me alone?

“Seokjin hyung told me…Told me he was looking forward to breaking a virgin and that made me think….God, I was the first cock she ever had….” He hummed, looking infinitely pleased.

“Yes. And I got to say… I don’t know what the fuss is about. You couldn’t even make me cum.” I snapped and Jungkook grinned, grip tightening and the other hand moving to curl around my waist, squeezing hard.

“Did I make you bleed from between your legs Elena? Tell me I did….Cause that’s fucking hot. ” He whispered, voice low and gruff.

Jungkook, I thought vacantly, was a psychopath.

“Go to Lisa. Go fuck her and make her bleed if that’s what gets you off….  and leave me alone.” I whispered and he smiled, bending down pressing a kiss right where he’d burned my skin.

“I don’t need you to tell me that. She’s my fiancé. The woman I’m going to marry. And you know what that means? I actually give a shit whether she cums or not. And trust me she does. Multiple times. Sometimes so hard she passes out.”

“Or maybe she fakes it. Maybe she passes out because she can’t stand your touch either.” I shrugged. “ Because we all know that’s what she’s good at Jungkook. She faked her friendship with me , she’ll fake her loyalty to you.”

“Always got something smart to say, huh Elena? Let’s see how mouthy you get when I’m shoving my cock down your throat.”

I flinched when he pushed me, hard enough to send me sprawling on the floor. I caught myself with difficulty , throwing my hands out to keep my head from hitting the floor. I flinched at the pain that shot up my body, every inch throbbing because of how rough this fucker had been with me.

Ten days and the aftermath of that night still lingered on me.

And it was three in the morning  and I’d spent eight hours on my feet bussing tables , I was exhausted.

I closed my eyes, before pressing my palm against the floor, trying to pull myself up when I felt the press of his shoe at the base of my spine, pushing me down.

I whimpered in shock, my hands giving out and shoulder crashing down into the floor.

“Stay down for a second, baby.” He whispered and I exhaled.

I pressed my palm against the floor, head dropping on to the carpeted floor . I whimpered when I felt him crouch down, foot digging in harder into my back and I curled my fingers into the carpet to swallow the pained sound that bubbled up in my throat.

“I’m going to fuck you again. And this time I want you to do all the work.” Jungkook’s voice came from over me and I flinched. I considered the odds of me putting up a fight and actually winning. It was laughable. I wasn’t going to fight a force of nature. And that was what Jeon Jungkook was.

“ You can’t make me do anything Jungkook.” I whispered finally. “ You can hit me and rape me and kill me but you can’t make me do anything to you. You just have to live with that.”

His foot lifted off my spine and I felt hands on my arms, pulling me up till I was kneeling. I watched as he moved around to stand in front of me.

“Look at me.” He said carefully.” From now you only speak when I tell you to.”

“ Whatever.  Let’s get this over with so I can go see my sister and my nephew.“ I said shakily.

He sighed deeply at that, shaking his head.

“See, if it was upto me, I’d just put a bullet in both their heads. Cos at this point they’re just proving to be a nuisance.”

My blood turned to ice in my veins.

“ But,  Yoongi’s just getting to know your pretty little Jisoo…And he’s my favorite hyung. So I’m going to let her live. But, let’s not invade their privacy for a while.” He began unbuckling his belt and I felt nausea rise inside me.

“Jungkook?” The voice came from the door and I stiffened.  Jungkook groaned.

“Baby, what the fuck are you doing here?” He said gruffly, standing up and using his knee to push me out of the way roughly. I swore, gripping the edge of the table near me to steady myself before turning around to stare at the woman at the door.  I stumbled to my feet, still feeling a little out of it. I needed food. Before I collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“You were supposed to come see me tonight. I went looking for you everywhere and I find you here about to get with some common whore?”  she shouted and I stiffened, glaring at her.

She stood framed in the doorway, staring at me for a second before letting her gaze wander all over the room. She stared at me, eyes taking in the unbuttoned blouse and I quickly moved to put the buttons back on.

“Did you fuck her?” She demanded angrily and Jungkook hummed.

“Since when did I owe you answers, angel?” He asked casually and I watched the woman’s eyes widen, before her brows furrowed in a frown.

“ So what, I can’t ask you who you’re with ?” She asked angrily and Jungkook groaned , kicking out at the nearest stand with enough force to send it toppling over the side, crashing to floor and breaking on impact. I stumbled, back, wrapping my arms around myself as he fairly growled.

“What the fuck is up with all you cunts today?” He demanded, glancing at me in distaste. “ I come back after busting my ass at work for ten entire days . I just needed to get my dick sucked and you two.” He shook his head, hand reaching into his jacket and I felt my eyes widen when he pulled his glock out, releasing the safety and loading the gun before pressing the muzzle right against her skull.

The woman whimpered, hands held up as he tapped the firearm against her.

“You. You don’t come anywhere near me unless I send for you. Is that clear?” He asked sharply and she nodded frantically, abject terror written all over her face.

He turned to me.

“And you. You’re coming with me.” He said quietly and I felt my eyes widen. I opened my mouth to protest but the girl at the door beat me to it.

“I think not…. You’re not taking her anywhere, Jungkook, I’ll-“ She began, reaching forward to grab him and Jungkook moved so quickly, I could barely blink.

The shot rang out , making me jump and I watched as she crumbled to the floor, crying out in pain. I stared in horror, watching the hole in her arm, spilling blood all over the floor and the hallway and my throat went completely dry,  staring at the girl on the floor and the blank, absolutely merciless look on his face.

“Just because I let you sit on my cock once in a while, doesn’t mean you get a say in how I live my life.” He said quietly, using his foot to prod her hip. He glanced at me and I felt my throat go dry as he pulled the glock back to reload it.

He aimed the gun right at me, eyes dark and heavy.

“Are you going to be good for me, baby? Or do you need a physical demonstration as well?” He tilted his head to where the girl was on the floor, pressing her palm against her arm.

“She’s  bleeding out.. “ I choked out. “ you need to get her help, Jungk-“

Another shot rang out and I jumped, heart in my throat as I tried to understand what had happened. It took me a second to realize that he hadn’t shot me. That he had fired at the ceiling.

“Answer the bloody question Elena.” He growled and I flinched, nodding.

“I… I’ll listen… Just…” I glanced back at the poor girl on the floor.” Get her some help.”

Jungkook smiled a little. He turned to the girl on the floor and shook his head.

“Get up baby. Go find Hoseok and get that patched up, yeah? And don’t provoke me the next time, yeah? ” He said casually and she stumbled to her feet, looking disoriented and scared as she moved out of the door.

“ And you. “ He glared at me. “Finish dressing up and follow me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where are we going?” I asked nervously, fighting the instinct to just take off at a sprint, as we walked down the road to where his Mercedes was parked.

“My home. Where else?” He said casually and I stiffened.

“Jungkook-“

“Didn’t I tell you not to speak unless I ask you to, Elena? I’m jet lagged and angry. Trust me , you don’t want to piss me off now.” He said casually and I swallowed.

He opened the door for me, the polite gesture so at odds with what he was doing that my head began to throb.

But I climbed in nonetheless. I stayed quiet for the short ride to his apartment , eyes fixed straight ahead and Jungkook was quiet too. I was too exhausted to be scared, I thought despondently, my eyes drooping because of how long I’d been up. Glancing out the window, I watched the cars whizz by, people living their lives, completely unaware that almost all of them were merely tiny little gears in a machine run exclusively by men like Jungkook. That all their lives, spent working and earning and dying…it was all meaningless. They had no say in anything. People like Jungkook were the ones who got to shape the world to their liking. The ones who got to play God.

And Jungkook was definitely the closest to an omnipotent human I’d ever come across.

Powerful, untouchable and terrifying.

So perhaps, it was a little flattering, that I was the one thing he couldn’t get out of his head.

I glanced at him discreetly.

He was beautiful, I thought with a pang. One of the most beautiful men on this planet. Despite the years, his boyish charm was still right there on his face and he could slip on a plaid shirt , a white t shirt and stone wash jeans and pass off as an innocent college student. I stared at the taut jaw, the long column of his neck and the broad back. His biceps bulged when he gripped the steering when and my eyes lingered on the long fingers curled around the wheel.

I jumped when his hand moved to grip the stick shift , curling on the knob and yanking it back with force. I swallowed, thighs pressing together as my mind shifted to that night in Hoseok’s club. I hated myself for how often I relived it. And not always with disgust.

My fingers fell on the ring on his finger. His engagement ring, I thought with a pang. Lisa. Beautiful, wonderful Lisa who had been a dear friend . Once. For all her shortcomings I knew she loved the man who sat next to me. Cared deeply for him, even. Why else would she do this to me? She must have strong feelings for him , if  it had prompted her to throw away our friendship of over a decade.

“You’re cheating on her then.” I said quietly.  His reminder to not talk to him rang in my head but I couldn’t stop myself. He wasn’t a stranger. And that ring…the ring that promised to bind two people forever….. I’d worn it too. For him.

Jungkook didn’t reply, merely glancing at me in passing.

I sighed, looking at my knees, feeling my shoulders tremble a bit.

“Is she going to be there?” I asked quietly.

He exhaled sharply. I noticed the way his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

“No.”  He said shortly.

“She lives with you right? You said we’re going home ….then where is she-“

“What is this, twenty fucking questions?” He snapped and I swallowed. “ I’m not taking you home to my fiancée Elena, do I look like a fucking idiot? “ He shook his head.

Before I could demand more answers, he was pulling over into a side alley. I watched as he carefully parked the car before stepping out.  Second later, he was coming around and opening the door.

I stared at him, gripping the hem of my blouse, tight. My stomach twisted into knots.

“Can’t you just let me go?” I whispered softly, pride forgotten in the wake of my tiredness. Jungkook stared at me, face eerily blank.

“Get out of the car.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Like it?” He asked softly and I stood on the threshold, taking in the lavishly decorated apartment on the top floor of the building. I noticed the portrait right up front, a large full sized photo of me and Jungkook from nearly a decade ago, wrapped around each other in a hug , showing off our engagement bands.

“What is this?”

“It was supposed to be your wedding gift. From me. I bought it for you. Nine years ago. Thought you should see it.” He said quietly.

I stayed perfectly still , as he wrapped his hands around me in a hug.

“Why did you leave me, Elena?” He asked quietly and I felt my throat go dry.

“Why do you still have this place? Get rid of it.” I snapped. He laughed at that , pulling away and turning me around till I stared at him.

“ Will you stay here, with me?” He asked softly and I froze.

“You’re out of your mind.” I said shortly.

He hummed.

“Possibly. But then, the problem is this. If I tell you , you can’t leave this place ever again….There’s not much you can do about it, right?” He said thoughtfully and I felt a sob building in my chest.

“I… Don’t.” I said shakily.

“You should see the bedroom. Come.”

His fingers wrapped around my wrist dragging me past the lavish couch and sofa, past a well kept bar onto a wide hallway dimly lit. He stopped at the second door on the right, reaching out to open the lock.  The room was plunged in darkness and I hesitated.

“Go on… After you, Mrs. Jeon.” He said softly . I could feel distaste creeping up my spine at the name, shivering a bit as I stepped into the darkness.

“Can you imagine, if we’d gotten married. This is what our first night together would be like…” He pressed against my back, arms coming around me , so gentle that I shivered.

“Jungkook…what are you doing?” I asked shakily.

“Shush…. “ He whispered, moving to unbutton my blouse again. I grabbed his wrists quickly.

“We aren’t married. I’m not your wife.” I said sharply and I felt him go still behind me.

“Shut your mouth and play along like a good girl.” He said quietly. He shook my hands off, moving to undo the buttons again.

Not sure what he expected, I stayed perfectly still as he hummed, pressing soft feather light kisses down my jaw and past my shoulders. His hands stroked up and down my arm as he laughed .

“Did you miss me Elena…..all these years…” He said quietly. “ Because I missed you. So much.”

He hugged me close, tight and hard.

“Are you scared?” He whispered, “ honey?”

“Oh, God…” I choked out, nausea rising up in my throat at the endearment.

“My wife…” He whispered, pressing a few more kisses against my skin before pushing me a bit towards the bed. “ Should I turn on the lights? I wanna see you.”

He nudged me towards the bed and my legs gave out when I hit the edge of it, legs turning to jelly as I sat on it, shaky and creeped out and terrified. Jungkook moved to turn on the lamp on the bedside table, a soft golden glow lighting up the bed .

“Look at you… so beautiful.” He whispered and I watched as he tugged off his shirt, before moving to his belt. He was watching me like I was something precious. Like I was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“What are you doing?” I asked quietly and he smiled, running his fingers over the tattoos decorating his chest. He stopped at a large ornate tiger lily, inscribed right over his heart.

“Do you like it?” he said softly. “ I got this for you. My Elena…. As delicate as a lily and as brave as a tiger.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“Either fuck me or let me go, I’m not here to talk about-“

He slapped me, so hard that my head whipped to the side, my face feeling like it had caught fire. I gasped, the pain spreading all over my jaw and I couldn’t quite grasp what had just happened. I pressed shaky fingers to the throbbing skin near my mouth, eyes watering at the sting.

“Didn’t I tell you to play along, angel?” He whispered sharply and I closed my eyes , shuddering.

Play along. Do it if you want to get out of here alive. ‘

Fucking psychopath.

“ It’s beautiful, Jungkook.” I whispered softly, glancing at him with teary eyes. He nodded.

“We’ll get one for you too. A wolf. With the initials JK on it…. Right here…” He lightly traced a path over my collarbone and I hoped to God, this was some sick fantasy. That he wasn’t seriously considering tattooing his initials on me.

“Strip for me baby… All of it. I want to see you.” He whispered and I hesitated just long enough to take a deep breath. I reached back, quickly undoing my bra clasp and pulling the fabric off.  I hooked my thumbs into my skirt and my panties, tugging both of them off me, swiftly. I dropped all of it on the floor next to the bed, before moving to kneel in the middle of the bed, staring at him with a smile that felt physically painful.

“I’m going to make you feel good, baby.” He whispered quietly, crawling over on top of me.

“Lay down for me.” He said, and I felt repulsed, as he kissed my lips, soft and gentle, pressing in till I was flat on my back, legs parted so he could lie in between.

It was so different from last time and somehow ten times worse.

Jungkook pressed kisses all over my face, whispering gentle words against my skin that felt like acid.

“So beautiful…. Mine. You were always mine Elena. Mine to touch and mine to break . Mine to love and mine to fuck.”

I stared as he loomed over, his face inches from mine, his gaze deceptively affectionate, his eyes warm and almost soft. I watched as he came closer, his lips closing over mine. Instinctively I kept my lips together but his fingers curled around my thigh, squeezing hard enough to make me whimper, lips parting . He pressed his tongue in then , licking into my mouth and I brought my hands up, instinctively wrapping around the bare skin of his shoulders and my body thrummed at the feeling of his muscles under my fingers.

Curiosity made me foolish, and I found myself tracing the hills and valleys of his skin, fascinated by the way the muscles flexed, every time he moved his arm.

“You like that? I worked hard on those…” He chuckled, watching me curl my fingers around his biceps. He was so… big. I moved my fingers up to the hardness of his chest, splaying my palm on his pecs and my fingers caught a hard little scar, almost perfectly round and deep.

“What is this…” I asked , curious my finger dipping into the healed skin and he hummed.

“Your father . He shot me when I was chasing his car down in Jeju Do. Foolish bastard. Thought he could outrun me.” He laughed .

I glanced at him, catching his eyes and the ebbing laughter , my heart twisting.

“Then why am I here? You hate my father. You killed my entire family. So why am I here, Jungkook?”  I asked foolishly, my heart breaking a bit and he hesitated.

“Because you’re mine.” He said simply.

I closed my eyes in despair.

“If this was our wedding night…. What would you say…?” He asked suddenly.

I stared at him, confused.

“What?”

“If we got married back then… When you were eighteen. And it was our first night together….. what would you say?”

I sighed.

“I’d ask you to ….to be gentle.” I whispered.

He nodded.

“Tell me , then.”

I stared at him, feeling helpless.

“Go on, Elena.” He said again.

“Jungkook…” I began but he shook his head.

“Ggukkie.” He said softly. “ Call me GGukkie… That’s what you used to call me …when we were young.”

I clenched my fists, on his chest, resisting the urge to push him off. That wouldn’t end well for me.

“GGukkie…” I whispered, finally, glancing up at him, licking my lips and parting them gently, eyes as wide as they could go, “ you know its my first time right?”

Jungkook’s eyes fairly danced at that and he hummed, leaning closer.

“Is it, baby?” He asked, reaching up to brush my hair away, fingers gentle on my face.

Get into it. Get into it and get it over with.

“You know it is…” I pouted, “ No one else can touch me. I’m yours , aren’t I GGukkie…”

He laughed, rubbing his nose against mine.

“That you are, kitten.”

Kitten? That’s a new one.

Shut up and stay in character , fuck.

I was so fucking screwed.

“ So… will you be gentle?” I whispered , “ I don’t want it to hurt.”

Jungkook wrapped his arms around me rolling over and taking me with him till I was lying flat on top of him.

“Then how about this angel? You can ride me…. As slow and gentle as you like. Make yourself feel good on my cock, yeah….?”

I stared at him.

I’m gonna fuck you and you’re going to do all the work.

He’d played me like a fiddle.

“Well baby? Go on…. Take my pants off.”

I exhaled angrily, before moving down, to tug on his pants. He helped me take them off kicking off his boxer briefs as well.

That’s a beautiful dick. Objectively. Very pretty.

Shut the fuck up.

“ Get it wet for me baby….” He said softly. I glanced down at the hard length of it, jutting out of the small thatch of hair and felt my mouth go dry . Which would be counterproductive if I wanted to get it wet. So I swirled my tongue around my mouth, trying to get my mouth moist, before leaning down and carefully wrapping my lips around the head.

Fuck, he tastes good.

I shook my head a bit to clear the voice in my head, glancing up at him with my lips stretched around the soft pink head and he was looking right back at me, eyes heavy and dark .

“Go on baby, take more of it in, use your tongue…make me feel good.”

I closed my eyes, letting the spit coat the hard length of his cock, sinking down till the tip began to inch down my throat. I sucked lightly, running my tongues back and forth on whatever skin I could touch and it was like sucking a lollipop except the lollipop was thick enough to stretch my mouth wide and hit the back of my throat.

I felt his hand reach into my hair, gripping hard and I whimpered.

“Be gentle…” I whispered, pulling off and his eyebrows shot up , clearly in surprise . He stared at me for a second, as though considering my request and then his fingers loosened , threading through the strands soothingly.

“I’m sorry, baby.” He whispered . I went back to sucking him off, somehow my natural tendency to work hard making me bob up and down, using my tongue and taking him as deep as I could. I felt a sick sort of satisfaction when he moaned in pleasure and for some damn reason I wanted to draw more sounds out of him.

This is a dream. Either that or you tripped over a pothole and fell into another dimension.

“ Are you wet ? Come here, so I can check….” Jungkook said softly and I pulled off moving up to straddle his hips. I flinched when he reached down, tracing my slit with carefully fingers before slipping in two. I tightened against the intrusion, still sore on the inside and he pulled his fingers out, bringing them up to my mouth.

“Suck…and get them nice and wet if you don’t want it to hurt.” He said quietly and I wrapped my lips around his fingers, letting my spit coat the slender digits.

When he pushed them back into me, the slide was easier , wetter and I gripped his shoulders, trying to relax around him. It felt foreign but also good… I felt good…

I stared down at him, the broad muscled body and the handsome face and for a crazy moment I imagine what it would have been, if I had married him. Would it have been this….this… weird pleasure that was somehow both painful and exhilarating at the same time. I bit my lips as he curled his fingers inside me, rubbing at some spot high up inside me that sent heat shooting straight up my spine, slick dripping out of me and onto the hard planes of his stomach like honey from a comb.

“Now sit on my cock.” He said quietly. I trembled, reaching down to lightly grip his cock, moving till the head lined up right against my slit or where I thought my slit was. Biting my lips, I lowered my body, feeling my body cleave to let him in, his cock pressing in and in and in.

My knees gave out and I slid down the length of him, the sudden, incredible fullness knocking the breath right out of me.

“ Fuck…baby….you alright?” He whispered and it messed with my head, the way he actually looked concerned and worried and I couldn’t take anymore of it.

“Please… Please… I just… I want to go home…” I whimpered, feeling full and stretched out, my thighs trembling and my insides wet and warm and somehow stuck between wanting more and wanting it to end.

Jungkook grunted, fingers curling over both my hips and lifting me lightly and with ease.

“Come on baby…. Ride me….” He whispered, “ Put your hands on my chest and roll your hips, up and down .”

I did as he said, one hand braced against his chest, the other gripping his shoulder as I tried to move on him but it was hopeless. I had no energy or inclination to do this and the pleasure was fast ebbing into frustration. Jungkook seemed to sense it because he growled.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking bad at this… Fine… Just lay there and let me use that stupid cunt of yours.” He snapped,  gripping my waist and folding his knees just enough to brace his feet on the bed. I gasped as I got lifted a bit , his cock slipping in impossibly deeper , the tip nudging close to my cervix , the lightest brush of it send sharp jolts of electric pain pleasure up my spine.

“Oh fuck,..” I breathed as he pistoned into me, hips hitting my ass with brutal force as he fucked up into me and I could only tremble, eyes fluttering shut, fingers going numb from how hard I was gripping him.

“You’re gonna cum today… I’m gonna make you cum on my cock…” He growled, reaching down and pressing his thumb against my clit, rubbing softly, slow circles that were almost gentle compared to the brutal pounding oh his hips and I felt my mouth go slack, wetness slipping out of my tongue and dripping down my chin because of how excruciatingly good it felt, having him so deep, pressing in against the edge of my womb and I and to press my palm, right up against my belly , stunned because of how my body seemed to open and shift to make room for him.

“I’m gonna cum inside you, right inside your womb, fuck…. Gonna carry my babies for me, right sweetheart? Gonna watch you get round and full with my seed , watch you drip milk all over me with those beautiful tits….fuck…”

The shock of his words sent me over the edge, my body clenching down on him as I came, my orgasm so strong that I felt like I was cramping up on the inside and I toppled forward onto him, landing on his chest and bouncing a bit. Jungkook grunted a little, wrapping both his arms around me, holding close as he fucked me right through the aftershocks, body stilling only when I stopped shuddering and I felt warm wetness spill inside me, so deep that I knew I would have to swallow three morning after pills after this, although I was on birth control.

Because one could never be too sure with these things.

Jungkook stayed still under me and it took me a few seconds to catch my breath. I finally levered myself off of him, legs shaking as I rolled over and onto the bed before breathing in huge lungfuls of air.

“Can I go?” I choked out.

Jungkook grunted. “ Get the fuck out of here.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I stumbled out of the cab, exhausted and out of my mind with self loathing, I didn’t expect to see Hoseok sitting on the pavement outside the bakery, leaning against a streetlight, face warm but determined.

“Hobi?” I asked stunned. “ What are you-“

He cut me off with a kiss.

I stared wide eyed as he pulled me into an embrace, wrapping me in warmth and scent of his cologne, his hands impossibly gentle around me as he all but cradled me against his body, his lips moving gently against mine.

“Elena…” He breathed against my lips, eyes glinting . “ I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. I’m so fucking sorry for being such a coward but you deserve to know… you deserve to know how I feel about you.”

I stared at him in disbelief, my heart pounding as I punched his chest in desperation.

“No… No fuck you… what are you doing…. He’ll kill you…” I hissed and he tightened his arms around me.

“I don’t care.” He hissed. “ I don’t… I can’t just… I can’t let him hurt you like this. I won’t. I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him to let you go or lose our friendship.” He said angrily and I trembled.  

My heart raced because Hoseok was the only one I’d ever loved. In every way a girl could love a boy. He was and had always been this confusing breed of brother and friend while everyone had drooled after Jeon Jungkook , I’d always been drawn to him…drawn to his quiet strength and to the way he had always treated me as an equal…

But… but Jungkook…. Jungkook who would put a bullet in his brain without a thought if he thought that Hoseok was trying to move in on something that belonged to him…..

“Hoseok…just… Don’t. I… I love you too…” I breathed out, tired and scared and so fucking worried because what if someone was listening even now..what if word got to Jungkook and he tried to hurt ….i couldn’t even think it.

“Come find me when Jungkook is busy . When he can’t find us…” I said softly, reaching out and pressing my palm against his face.

“I’m not scared of him.” Hoseok growled  and it was ridiculous.  

“But I’m scared of losing you. “ I said quickly. “ We can’t… He can’t know. Ever.”

Hoseok nodded before pulling me close again.

“Was he too rough?” He whispered and I blinked, flushing. I shook my head.

“No.. I. No. I think…”

“I hate that he was the one to touch you, first. You.. You deserve to know how good it can be…. How gentle.. I want to… fuck…” He shook his head pulling away and I wrapped my arms around myself.

“We can’t…” I said quietly. “ you know we can’t.”

He glanced at me, eyes blazing and lips parted and I groaned.

“Don’t look at me like that Hobi…” I whispered, shaking my head.

“Tomorrow. He’s going to Jeju Do , to inspect a new resort. He won’t be back till the day after. Call in sick at work.” He said quietly and I bit my lips, feeling a bit like a whole idiot.

I nodded.

He reached forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

No self preservation skills at all, I thought miserably.  

If Jungkook found out…….

Author’s Note : I’ll add the taglist here tomorrow