#adding more tags on this instead of making another post but I have more thoughts:

[literallycompletelyrandom]

So I’m assuming it was Coach Ben who set the cabin on fire and um…what the fuck? Like I know you’re disturbed by their quick descent into ritual cannibalism and all that but they are in a horrible situation and they’re just trying to live! You’re really gonna force them to freeze to death because of it? Like come on, they were always going to escape the cabin. The kids are survivors, he had to know that, he has seen the atrocities they are willing to commit to survive. Like damn, I can forgive cannibalism but I draw the line at arson, I guess?

[briefinquiries]

Tyler Owens x Reader: I Choose You

Request: Anonymous said: "jealous tyler or jealous reader would be interesting to read 👀"

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: none!

A/N: not sure how i feel about this one but I gave it a go and wanted to make sure I posted!

Tyler tells himself that he’s over thinking… maybe even reading too much into things. 

But God, he swears he isn’t imagining the way that you and the reporter he’d agreed to let tag along for the next week naturally interact with one another with such ease. 

Tyler is not a jealous person– he’s confident and secure and he trusts you. Jealousy is petty and it’s stupid. And Tyler’s been trying his whole life to prove to himself and everyone around him that he’s not stupid.

Tyler has a loose shock to repair before the storm they’ve been tracking rolls in later that day. He’s currently laying on the dirt at the rest stop they’ve pulled in, with a wrench in his hand. Dani’s shining their flashlight for him, and it’s important he stays focused. And he tries… really, he does. 

But Tyler looks up just as the reporter laughs at a joke you’ve made. And then, he reaches out to touch your arm for the added effect. Tyler nearly drops the wrench he’s holding on his face at the sight. 

“Easy, T,” Dani says, studying him closely. 

He takes a deep breath before looking back towards the truck. 

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Dani asks, kicking his shoulder gently with their boot. 

“Nothing,” Tyler grumbles in a tone that screams there is absolutely something wrong. Thankfully Dani doesn’t push. 

…

Throughout the rest of the week, Tyler tries to talk himself down whenever jealousy rears its ugly head. He keeps telling himself that he’s being irrational– you’re not flirting with the reporter everytime you walk with him into the gas stations they stop at, or offer to ride with him in the van instead of Tyler’s truck, where you normally sit. You’re just trying to be friendly… make him feel at ease. 

But did he really have to look at you that way while you studied the GPS monitoring system? Or share his fucking cookies with you when everyone ate lunch in the field? And did you have to laugh so loudly at every single joke he made?

Tyler finds out on the second night he’s tagging along that Henry’s a fucking Columbia grad on top of a stupid self-proclaimed comedian. The two of you are sitting around the fire talking about graduate degrees when Henry turns towards him. 

“Did you two meet at school then?” Henry asks.  

Tyler smiles, but instead of warmth it’s laced with sarcasm. “Nope, I don’t have one of those fancy degrees, Henry. In fact, none of us but her do.” 

Henry turns back towards you and proceeds to ask more questions about your time studying meteorology at the U of A. Meanwhile, Tyler is left to simmer in his own self pity, wondering if it bothered you that he isn’t educated like Henry. 

Tyler has to spend the rest of the week fighting the urge to make it known you’re his– he’s had thoughts of keeping a permanent hand planted on your waist right in front of Henry. Maybe if he pulled you in for a kiss a little more often, and really claimed you as his, this guy would back the hell off. 

But Tyler quickly shakes away the thought. 

Because claiming you like an object is stupid, and Tyler is not stupid. 

…

Tyler grabs you a coffee from the nearest gas station and brings it back to the motel because he’s really trying to move past all this shit. You’re sitting with Lilly and fiddling with the drone when he tries to hand it to you. 

You offer him an appreciative smile that warms his entire chest. Tyler’s definitely been overreacting, because you’re looking at him with such love and admiration in your eyes. 

“Thanks, but I’ve already had some today,” you say, crushing every hope inside of him in an instant. “Why don’t you give it to Dani?  They take their coffee the same as I do.”

“When did you have time to get coffee?” he asks, trying to play it cool. 

You reply so simply, like the words don’t slice right through his heart. “I didn’t, Henry brought me one.”

Tyler’s jaw tightens. It’s a gesture you don’t notice, because you’re too busy focusing on the drone half in your lap. 

What you do seem to notice, is the way he scoffs. It makes yours and Lilly’s heads both turn. 

But before you can reply, Tyler’s already walking away. He clutches the coffee firmly in his hand and without a word, drops the full cup in the trash can outside the motel. 

…

Tyler has to remind himself that he’s not angry.

At least not at you.  

You and him have a great relationship. He trusts you and that’s all there is to it. Whether it’s Henry or whoever else–  you never gave Tyler a reason to be worried. 

But Tyler doesn’t like the way seeing you with the reporter makes him feel. Because at any moment, you could leave him for someone with a more respectable career– someone with fair skin and button up polos who just looked like they had their shit together. Someone with a college degree… someone a hell of a lot smarter than him. 

Seeing you with him made Tyler feel vulnerable, like he had something to lose– because he had everything to lose. 

…

The crew spends another week chasing in Oklahoma. The season’s winding down, but they still managed to catch two EF0s and an EF1. 

Tyler’s been avoiding you for most of the week. He’d offer the truck space to Boone and Lilly, he’d sit next to Dexter around the fire at night… hell, he would hardly even look at you. 

You turned down his coffee earlier in the week. Only after the fact did you realize that you should have just taken the damn thing. You understand that rejecting him after he went out of his way to do something nice for you hurt his feelings… But you can’t understand how that turned into an entire week of the silent treatment. 

On numerous instances, you try to approach him. But he always has somewhere to run off to. 

“I gotta help Dani with the van’s oil change.”

“I gotta see if Boone got the footage we need.”

“I gotta give Dexter a hand with the radar.”

You’re getting sick of it. 

You try to distract yourself for the rest of the week– you ask Lilly to explain more about how to work her drone, you keep on top of the radar– looking for forming storm cells, and you try to make the reporter Tyler had invited along for the week feel welcome. 

Henry’s nice– he’s completely new to storm chasing and has loads of questions all the time. You find it slightly annoying that he’s so interested in Tyler… but you get it. And even though you’re a little irritated with Tyler for your week-long silent-treatment sentence, you still want him to sound as good as possible in the article, so you talk him up every chance you can. 

You know that this lack of communication can’t last. And the second Henry goes back to Boston to write his piece, you plan to corner Tyler and force him into telling you what the hell you’d done wrong. But until then, you don’t want to cause a scene. So, you sit back, spend more time talking with Henry about Tyler, and try like hell not to lose your mind.

…

It’s more for his own sanity than anything. It’s like seeing you with Henry has caused this sudden realization to pop into his head… You can do better– and honestly you deserve better than him. The thought is all consuming. It makes focusing on anything else incredibly difficult. 

“You gonna tell us what the hell is up?” Lilly asks one day. 

Tyler’s currently standing in the bed of his truck, tinkering things that didn’t really need to be fixed just to stay busy. 

“What do you mean?” he replies without looking up.

“I mean are you going to tell us why you two love birds haven’t spoken in like three days?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tyler notices Boone glancing his way with an expression on his face that says he was wondering the same thing. 

“We’ve spoken,” Tyler says dismissively. 

“Telling her you don’t have room for her in the truck doesn’t count,” Lilly retorts. “C’mon, seriously, Ty. What’s wrong?”

Tyler sets his tool down and looks down at Lilly. “Nothing is wrong.”

Lilly rolled her eyes. “Okay, well are you sure she knows that? Cause Dani and I saw her crying in the bathroom.” 

Tyler lets out a long exhale– the thought of you upset instantly filling his insides with sorrow. But the thought that he was the one to make you upset is even worse. 

“I know it’s not my business,” Lilly adds. “But I’ve been watching you give her the silent treatment all week, and that’s not going to fix anything. I know Henry’s still here and it’s been a crazy week–”

Tyler can’t help the scoff that escapes his lips at the mention of Henry’s name.

Lilly pauses before a look of understanding washes over her. “You’re pissed that she’s been hanging with Henry.” She says it as a statement instead of a question. 

“I’m not–”

“I’ve known you for six years, don’t even try to deny it. You are– you’re jealous, aren’t you?” 

With his lips pursed in a thin line, Tyler raises an eyebrow at her. “Maybe I am. Does that make you happy? Is that what you want to hear?”

Now it was Lilly’s turn to scoff. “Of course it doesn’t make me happy. You’re being an idiot.”

“What?” 

“I said that you’re being an idiot,” Lilly says, annunciating each word insultingly. 

“Yeah,” Tyler nods. “I’m well aware that I’m an idiot, but thanks for reminding me.”

“I said you’re being an idiot, Tyler. Not that you are one. Now stop sulking and fucking listen for once in your goddamn life.”

It’s so out of the ordinary for Lilly to snap that Tyler actually does shut his mouth. 

“You invite a reporter on the road with us and then you don’t give him the time of day to answer any of the questions he has. You’re short and curt and to be honest, kind of fucking rude anytime he asks you anything. Y/N is being polite– and she’s hosting the guest you invited along. So don’t fucking blame her just because you’re insecure.” 

Tyler can feel the anger rising in his own chest, he wants to get defensive– to snap back at Lilly. But deep down, he knows she’s right, so he stifles any comebacks and instead hangs his head. 

Lilly sighs. “You’re not an idiot, Tyler. So stop acting like one.”

…

After letting Lilly’s words really sink in, Tyler decides that she’s right. For the first time all week, he’s motivated to actually talk with you and make things right. 

Or at least he is right until he sees Henry approaching you in the parking lot. He’s too far away to hear what Henry has to say. But he’s not so far away that he doesn't see the folded up piece of paper that he passes you. 

In an instant, everything Lilly had said– along with all the things he’s said to convince himself he’s been overreacting flies away with the wind. Because Henry just gave you his fucking phone number. 

Tyler turns– needing to get as much space from whatever exchange he just witnessed as he possibly can. In a few, long, angry strides, Tyler reaches his truck and climbs inside. In the distance, he hears Lilly call after him. But he pretends he doesn’t hear. Instead, he slams the door shut, starts the ignition and drives away. 

…

“Where’s he goin’?” Boone says just as you approach him and the rest of the crew. 

“Dunno. He didn’t say anything to you?” Dani asks, turning towards Lilly. 

She shakes her head, eyes squinting against the bright sun. 

“What the hell is his problem?” you say frustratedly, biting back tears. 

Stupidly, you’d let yourself get your hopes up earlier in the day when Tyler had offered you a small smile over breakfast. You had thought that maybe things were alright, and that he was finally over whatever had been bothering him so badly. 

But now you’re standing in the cloud of dust he just left behind after taking off in his truck without a word to anyone and you know that isn’t the case. 

“Here I was thinking I helped last night,” Lilly says under her breath. 

You snap your head in her direction. “You talked to him?”

She shrugs. “I tried to.” 

“Did he say why he’s been so upset?”

Lilly hesitates. And truthfully, you understand why. Everyone here was Tyler’s friend first. You were the last to join the crew– inducted into the group just by being Tyler’s girlfriend. They have no obligation to be loyal to you over Tyler. 

“Forget it,” you say defeatedly, turning away as soon as you feel the familiar burn of tears behind your eyes. “It doesn’t even matter.” With that, you make your way towards the RV, painfully aware of everyone’s eyes trained on you the entire way. 

…

Tyler drives to the nearest gas station, desperate for space to clear his head. 

He knows he’s being dramatic and irrational at this point, but if he stayed at that rest stop another second, he didn’t know what would come out of his mouth. He really really had to get it together. But he can’t escape the fear inside of him– the one saying that meeting Henry helped you recognize that you could do so much better than him.

And now you had his phone number, to reach out whenever that realization hit. 

Why wouldn’t you be interested in Henry? He’s got a goddamn master’s degree from Columbia, he writes articles for the Globe, works out every morning before they go chasing–  apparently makes hilarious jokes… 

Tyler rests his forehead against the steering wheel and groans.

…

Tyler’s gone for an hour. But when he finally parks the truck back at the rest stop, he hasn’t shaken the sinking feeling inside of him. 

In a preemptive attempt to avoid questions he had snagged a bunch of snacks from the nearest gas station. If you ask where he’s been, he can just say he had a hankering for potato chips and call it good. 

Except, you don’t even look at him when he gets out of the truck. Boone’s got corn hole set up in the dirt. It looks like Boone and Henry versus Dani and Dexter while you watch. He only watches for a moment before bringing the bag of snacks into the RV. 

Secretly, Tyler’s been simultaneously excited for and dreading the end of the week. He’s excited for Henry to leave and excited to sleep in his own bed. But he’s dreading being back in your shared house. It’ll be the first time the two of you are forced to be alone, and he knows he’ll have to find the words to describe what he’s been feeling. 

But apparently Tyler’s stupid, because he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling. 

All he knows is that he doesn’t want to lose you. And seeing you with Henry makes him feel like he’s about to lose you. Tyler doesn’t know how to say that to you without coming across as a total lunatic.  

…

You don’t want to cause a scene at the rest stop. But the minute you see Tyler head for the RV, you’re out of your seat and beelining it towards him while the rest of the team is distracted.

As soon as you hoist open the door, you find him hunched over the fridge, grabbing a water bottle. 

“What the hell?” is all you can manage to blurt out. You’re fuming and on the verge of tears. But you can’t help it– Tyler’s silent treatment has just about pushed you to the edge. 

Tyler whips around at the sound of your entrance… and maybe it was a little dramatic– but you need to get your point across. 

There’s a long pause while Tyler’s eyes study you. 

“Are you gonna tell me why you’ve been avoiding me all week?”

You’re met by more silence.  

“This is ridiculous, Tyler. Will you just talk to me?”

Finally, Tyler scoffs, “The reporter gave you his number, right?  Why don’t you talk to him?  I’m sure he’d love to talk.”

In an instant, a wave of understanding washes over you. But it isn’t overshadowed by the anger you feel. 

“Are you serious right now? You’re jealous of Henry?”

He shuts the fridge before cracking open his water bottle dismissively, ignoring your questions. 

“Tyler, are you forgetting that you’re the one who invited him with us this week? I mean, did you think he was just supposed to sit back and observe? He’s a reporter, of course he’s going to have questions… Questions that you were way more qualified to answer, but you were too busy being a jerk all week to answer any of them. So I did it for you–”

“I never asked for you to do that.”

“You didn’t have to– I did it for you!” you cry. “I did it so that he’d write you a good story– because you deserve that.” 

“Oh, how convenient. So you two just get along so well for my sake then?” he says. 

You exhale sharply. “Are you kidding me right now? We’ve spent the last week talking about you! I’ve been talking you up– telling him stories about what you do– how good you are at what you do– all the people you’ve helped–”

Tyler rolls his eyes. “Yeah right,” he scoffs. 

You pause, anger slowly melting away at the realization that he genuinely didn’t believe anything you were saying. 

“Tyler,” you say seriously. “There is absolutely nothing going on between me and Henry. I’ve been answering his questions and telling him how fucking brave and generous and smart you are–”

“Don’t patronize me,” he snaps, voice cracking just slightly. “Just forget it, it doesn’t matter.” He sets his water bottle on the counter before moving to step by you. 

“Tyler stop–” you say, reaching for him. But he’s too quick. He reaches the door before you’re able to stop him. 

“Will you please stop walking away from me!” you blurt out frustratedly, tears forming in your eyes. “You’ve been running from me all week– I just… I just want to talk about this. Please–”

Tyler doesn’t turn to face you, but to your relief, he stops before opening the door. 

“There is nothing happening between me and Henry, Tyler. I mean, I promise you, absolutely nothing– I… I don’t know how else to convince you. But there’s nothing going on. I’m not into Henry–”

“I know,” he says quickly, eyes squeezing shut. 

You let your mouth fall open, confusion washing over you. “What?” 

“I know there’s nothing happening between you and Henry– I trust you and I believe you.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “So why are you so mad at me?”

Tyler pauses and bites his lip before saying, “I’m not mad at you–” he tries to explain. “I just… I don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“I don’t understand why–”

You sigh. “Tyler, you’re not making any sense–”

Tyler’s face twists in anguish. “Why aren’t you into him?”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s everything I’m not. And I mean– Seeing you with him– it just made me realize that you can do so much better than me,”  Tyler says desperately, the pain almost palpable in his voice. “He’s got the fancy degree– he’s obviously smart–”

You’re shaking your head before he even finishes his sentence, because the idea of anyone ever being better than Tyler was even more ludicrous than him being jealous in the first place. “Tyler, you’re smart–”

“I didn’t go to Columbia. I didn’t even finish my first year of undergrad.”

“I don’t care about any of that– you know I don’t–”

“Why?” he blurts out harshly, finally turning to look at you. “Why do you even want me when you can have someone like him?”

Tyler didn’t think he was good enough for you– and that admission broke your fucking heart. In an instant, all the reasons you loved Tyler flow through your head. There’s so many, you can’t even keep up. 

So instead, you reach into your pocket and pull out the note Henry had given you just hours earlier– the one Tyler apparently saw him give you. He watches as you unfold the piece of paper, quickly revealing that it’s not a phone number. 

“It’s his mom’s cookie recipe,” you explain. “The ones you refused to try. I talked to him about how you have a sweet tooth, and I said how much you love chocolate chip cookies, so he wrote it down for me. I thought I might be able to make them for you when we got home. Because I love you– and I love doing things that will make you happy. Because that’s what you do for me– you make me happy. All the time, just by existing.”

You watch as the realization washes over him.  

You sigh. “Did you ever stop and think about how I feel the same about you?”

He pauses before looking at you questioningly. 

“I mean, you’re you,” you say, gesturing towards him. “People adore you, Tyler. And rightfully so– but I’m always worried you’ll find someone better. But I don’t get hung up on it, because I trust you. I trust that you mean it when you tell me you love me and you choose me. And I need you to do the same for me, Tyler. I need you to trust me. Because I love you– and I always will.”

Tyler exhales, his eyes watery. 

“Can you do that?” you plead. 

To your relief, after a moment, he nods. 

You don’t hesitate before closing the gap between you and wrapping your arms around his middle. You lay your head on his chest just as his arms wind around your shoulders in an attempt to make up for all the hugs you’ve missed out on this week. Because as much as you love chasing in Oklahoma or Texas, your absolute favorite place to be is at home in his arms. 

“Cookie recipe, huh?” he muses above you, chin resting on top of your heads. 

You nod. “I’m a horrible baker, but I was going to give it a shot.”

Tyler tightens his grip around you. “Well horrible baker or not, I love you and I choose you.”

You let your eyes fall shut and inhale the familiar, comforting scent of him. “You have no idea how happy that makes me,” you say honestly. 

[evangelical04]

A Single Daffodil || Valentine's Day Special

Summary: Spending Valentine's Day alone can be a little embarrassing, a lot self-deprecating. But maybe, it won't be so bad this year.

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Rating: PG

Word Count: 4.1K

Genre: angst, romance, unrequited love, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage au, businessman yoongi

Warnings: maybe some angst?? not really, it's pretty fluffy

Author's Note: hi everyone! hope you don't mind getting tagged for just a special lol. i thought it'd be fun to post something for valentine's day (especially because i don't have any plans lol), so here it is! view this as an AU of sorts since they're in college, i wouldn't call it canon. it isn't super closely proofread so i'm sorry for any errors, i just wanted to get this posted today!! hope you guys enjoy!!

TAGLIST CLOSED [follow asingledaffodil tag for all notifications]

@yoongisducky @kam9404 @sumzysworld @tarahardcore @viankiss @babystarcandyrecs @ktownshizzle @futuristicenemychaos @igot7fairlyoddparents @baechugff @pb89nv @peachytokki @ratherbfangirling @themwordsblog @daisies-and-dandelionpuffs @kimmalik @pastelpeachess @captainchrisstan @khaimahfe @kooklovee @whoa-jo @familiarlikemymirror3 @blueberriesm @llallaaa @purpleheartsandarock1 @lillmeowmeowsblog @this-most-assuredly-counts @kayleefriedchicken @ur-grandmum @sylviamuela @notarshia @minghaosimp @ilikekpop-c @maynina @rinkud @jesshujk @kimsaerom @suker4angst @mar-627 @maynina @pitchblack0309 @wobblewobble822 @praetae @yoongibaybee @weareatthebadlands

masterlist

The chilly air tickled your nose, making you stifle a sneeze. You could feel an itch scratching at the back of your throat, threatening a violent outburst and inciting a ‘bless you’ from the nearest passerby. Despite the cold winds nipping at your face, pressing small icicles like pinpricks against your cheeks, you trekked on. Midterms were approaching for some of your classes and you knew you weren’t going to get anything done at your apartment, not with Joohee shoving her way through the door with the latest sweet monstrosity she had concocted at the coffee shop across the street. 

Why was it still so cold? You knew it was only mid-February, but it felt unfair for you to still be able to see your breath and have to layer a jacket on top of your sweater on top of your long sleeve shirt. The headphones encasing your ear were your makeshift earmuffs, with the added bonus of soft and smooth jazz soothing your attitude. Finally, finally, you reached the other cafe near your place, tucked away between buildings and down stairs. You frequented the location often, finding their atmosphere more suited to your taste than Joohee’s favorite spot, it was quiet and serene, the lack of windows made time pass before you knew it. You loved it here.

As you walked past the counter, waving to the baristas who knew your face well by now, you set your stuff down at your regular table in the far corner, digging through your tote for your wallet. Triumphant, you approached the counter, placing an order for an iced tea, despite the icy weather, and treating yourself to one of their warm and savory sandwiches. After you’d collected your food, making your way back to your table, you allowed yourself a few minutes to enjoy your hot sandwich and contrasting iced tea. After this, you’d truly have to focus your whole attention. 

With only crumbs left on your plate and your tea halfway finished, you switched tabs in your laptop to your design project. You were only a third year, but your classes were already about building portfolios and perfecting your coding ability. You weren’t excited to resume working on your project, but you were thankful you had graduated from the classes where they had exams instead of projects. However thankful you had felt reading the syllabi vanished in the face of having to reset yet another bug in Maya, causing your camera to not follow the line you’d animated. More papers for your character design class weighed down your tote, only making you hunch over further in anticipation of the workload you had ahead of you. While you did enjoy this, you hoped you would be able to get into project management someday, you knew that’s where your organizational skills would shine. 

Only an hour had gone by of you sitting in the plush chair and ordering another drink, this time with a muffin, when the peaceful air in the cafe was disturbed. Three men had walked in, clad in joggers, sweatshirts, and casual looking khakis, with the tallest laughing loudly and smacking another man on the shoulder. You squinted, trying to get a better look at the laughing man, before realizing why he looked so familiar. 

Kim Seokjin was as boisterous as ever, his gap year last year proving to have only amplified his loud and extroverted presence. Joohee had complained to her parents that she hadn’t gotten to take a gap year to travel, but you knew she secretly had no interest in it, her days were too occupied with you and Hoseok. The man Seokjin had clapped on the shoulder was one you didn’t recognize, tan skin and short hair, round, wiry glasses slipping down his nose. He waved off Seokjin’s persistent hand attempting to ruffle his hair, before taking a seat at a table not far from you. When he shot Seokjin a fond smile, though, you were stunned by his deep dimples and crinkled eyes, he was certainly pretty. 

The last man, rather short compared to the other two, was another familiar face. Your eyes dragged across his bleach blonde hair, a new look for him, down his chubby, pale cheeks and pouty lips, before tracing his black sweatshirt, past his dark joggers, and sweeping over his white tennis shoes. Min Yoongi looked beautiful every time you saw him. Where you thought his bleach blonde hair, once a dark and natural black, would wash him out, it actually created a stunning contrast to his harsh glare from dark eyes. His upturned mouth curved a soft frown into his face, the occasional swipe of his tongue across dry lips making your eyes dart away. How he managed to look soft and dangerous at the same time was a wonder, but one you fully enjoyed. 

Okay, so maybe you were a bit head over heels for him considering the lack of conversation that you two had held, but that was the beauty of an unrequited crush. You could ogle and pine, glance and fantasize all you wanted without having the crushing weight of reality fall down upon you. You were fully self-aware of your infatuation and the dim likelihood of your crush being returned, but you were okay with that, or so you told yourself. 

It wasn’t as though you hadn’t tried to pursue other options, but they hadn’t worked out. Mina’s disappointed expression still burned in your memory, and it was a solid reason as to why you hadn’t explored outside further. Unrequited love was easier, there was no expectation of reciprocation, the untouchableness of your object of affection was comforting, you could confidently like him from afar. Did it hurt when you saw him with other people? Sure, but you liked to imagine that it hurt less because you never expected anything in the first place. 

Seokjin’s booming voice snapped you from your thoughts, and you instead watched them place their orders at the register. You wondered what each one would order based on their appearances. Seokjin was probably ordering a seasonal holiday special, you could practically hear everything he was saying, and he was asking for extra blackberry syrup. The tall man behind him, the one you didn’t know, seemed like a hot cappuccino kind of guy. The air around him screamed elegant academic and you could imagine him sipping from a steaming ceramic cup while writing an award winning research paper. Yoongi, though, you weren’t sure, you didn’t know him that well. A black coffee, no milk, no sugar? An americano? It was hard to place which of the bitter, dark roast drinks he’d enjoy the most. 

You turned away, what would you know anyway? It wasn’t your business. You had no connection to them, you had you remind yourself of that. Focusing your attention back on the dull grey of the Maya UI had you almost groaning out loud. You wished you could be doing anything else.

The constant chattering in Yoongi’s ear was beginning to get grating. He was trying his best to focus on studying for his upcoming finance exam, but it was proving to be impossible with Jin blabbering away about something or other. He’d stopped actually paying attention a while ago, but Jin’s voice was difficult to tune out despite Yoongi’s best efforts. Namjoon seemed largely unaffected next to him, highlighting away in his handwritten notes. Despite Namjoon being a year younger, they were taking the same level of courses, and Yoongi was sure Namjoon was going to beat him at every turn in scores. 

Not that it mattered, Yoongi knew he had a position waiting for him at Min Enterprises, right under his father. He knew he should feel privileged, he was and he knew that, but he couldn’t help the seed of resentment that grew tall and thorny inside him. He had managed to sneak a few music courses into his schedule but his rat of an advisor had tattled on him to his father. It made sense, he supposed, his father was basically the one paying the advisor’s salary. It had left a sour taste in his mouth for what his future would look like, but Yoongi couldn’t outwardly complain. He knew his friends felt somewhat similarly, but it was dangerous to discuss things like that in this sort of social circle. Yoongi had learned the hard way that you didn’t know who was friend or foe until the knife was already lodged into your back, and Yoongi knew better than to make the same mistake twice. 

“I think that’s Joo’s friend over there, Y/N,” Seokjin mentioned offhandedly, Yoongi finally tuning back into his friend’s rambling, “Should we say hi?” Jin looked questioningly at Yoongi and Namjoon, only receiving blank stares in response. 

“I mean, I don’t know her,” Namjoon said bluntly, but kindly, “And I’m kind of in the zone right now.”

Jin pouted, turning to Yoongi with a hopeful gleam in his eye, only to be met with Yoongi’s resolute frown and small shake of his head. 

“I barely know her either,” Yoongi said, more matter-of-factly than anything, “And besides, who wants to be ambushed by their friend’s older brother while they’re trying to study.”

“You guys are no fun,” Jin complained, only receiving agreeing hums from both Yoongi and Namjoon. 

Yoongi turned his attention back to his laptop, seeing the words on the screen swim together. Finance was boring and difficult, and despite his troublemaker appearance, Yoongi tried his hardest in his classes. Even if he was going to be handed a position at Min Enterprises anyway, he could at least say that he’d earned his degree with his own perspiration and grit. 

That was easier said than done, though, and the only thing keeping Yoongi going right now was the 8 hour time slot he’d booked for one of the music school’s studios for him and Joon after exams. 

“Valentine’s day is soon,” Jin began, “Just a few days out, you two got any plans?”

Yoongi knew that Jin had a date with some girl from the nursing college and he was only asking them so he could eventually talk about his own plans. 

On Yoongi’s left, Namjoon shrugged, “I’m meeting this girl from one of my classes, she asked to get dinner that night.”

Jin wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“It’s just dinner,” Namjoon said, “I’m not really that interested in her, but I felt bad saying no.”

“Boring,” Jin sung, “What about you, Yoongs?”

Yoongi shot him a glare for the nickname but it bounced off of Jin’s bright demeanor, “I don’t have anything planned.”

Jin rolled his eyes before speaking once more, “Well, I have plans, and I’m going to tell you right now whether you want to hear or not.”

That was Yoongi’s cue to tune him out again, his mind drifting to the upcoming holiday. He’d had some Valentine’s dates before, one or two over the course of college, and he’d been inundated with sweet gifts during middle and high school, but he’d never had a sweet tooth. Yoongi wasn’t interested in romance right now, though, he was focused on making sure he’d graduate in a few months. Sex and love could wait until after that. 

Well, he supposed he didn’t have a reason to delay sex, but he was sorely lacking time at the moment. He split his days between studying, basketball (when it was warm enough), and any open slots he could find at the studio. There was barely any time for dates or one night stands. He’d waited this long, he could wait another few months until he graduated and had evenings to himself. 

Listening to Jin go on and on about how pretty this girl was, though, did make him feel just the tiniest bit lonely.

Was it just you that curled your lip at the cheesy decorations lining the streets of campus? You hoped not, you didn’t want to consider how much of a grouch that made you. The constant barrage of hearts and pink kiss cut outs left you feeling a bit sick. Whether it was from the corny decorations or the reminder of your single status was a question you also didn’t want to explore. It was somewhat late in the morning of Valentine’s day when you were making your way to the same cafe as before. Your roommate was having her boyfriend over and you quickly understood the unspoken hint of making yourself scarce and decided upon enjoying an iced tea from your favorite cafe. 

Your projects were still unfinished and you’d resolved to make major headway today, considering they were due in the upcoming week. You blew out a short breath, seeing the vapor form in front of you, your weekend was going to be completely taken up by school. Pushing open the doors of the cafe, you took in your surroundings, noting how unusually empty it was. People must have better things to do on Valentine’s day, but where did that leave you?

You quickly ordered and received your food, making yourself comfy in your usual seat. Looking around the bare room left you feeling a bit upset, did everyone but you have a valentine this year? A quick glance at the two giggling baristas holding hands over the table confirmed your worries. You took an aggressive sip of your drink before opening your laptop, it didn’t matter, you had work to do. Soon, you forgot about your anxieties of loneliness in the face of intense work, focusing your full attention on the project in front of you. You were so distracted that you didn’t realize someone else had entered the cafe until they sat down across from you at your table. 

The sound of a backpack plopping down across from you startled you to attention, looking up at the person at the source of the sound. Dark eyes stared back at you with a single raised eyebrow hidden underneath blonde bangs. Your mouth opened slightly in shock before you closed it, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from Yoongi’s face. 

“Is anyone sitting here already?”

You shook your head silently, still at a loss for words.

“Cool.”

Yoongi left his backpack on the adjacent chair before going up the register to order a hot americano with four shots of espresso. You made sure to take off your headphones and strain your ears to hear his order this time, watching him wait and return to your table after receiving the steaming cup. Your eyes didn’t leave his form the entire time, still unable to comprehend why he decided to sit next to you. His expression offered no answers, impassive and unreadable, and his voice supplied none either, choosing to silently sit and start working rather than speak to you. 

You stared at him for another few beats before returning back to your own work, what else were you supposed to do? However much you tried to focus on finishing your cutscene, your head swam with racing thoughts of why Yoongi was acting the way he was. It was becoming increasingly hard to focus with his form across from you, seemingly unbothered. Nevertheless, you tried your best to focus your attention on your laptop screen and not on the relaxed figure on the other side of the table. For a while, it worked, but you were beginning to get frustrated with your lack of progress. You could feel your bottom lip jutting out in an unintentional pout and your anger grew as you ran your unsatisfactory frames again, solidifying the need for more work to be done. 

You picked up your empty cup, hearing the ice shake, and exhaling in disappointment. Standing quietly, you attempted not to disturb Yoongi’s flow, though he seemed apathetic to your presence either way. His cup was seemingly empty, set aside and no longer steaming, and you considered your next move. The barista at the register happily took your order for another tea, sending a wink to the other girl behind the counter, who giggled in response. You held in an eyeroll, you couldn’t be mad at them, the two girls were adorably cute together, but you were already annoyed and on edge from your project going awry, not to mention the frustratingly stoic man sitting at your table. 

“Can I have a blueberry muffin, too, please,” you asked before you second guess yourself. The girl nodded, ringing you up, before handing you the muffin and drink after a minute or two. You breathed slowly, this would be a big step, a peace offering of sorts. If he said no, you would just eat the damn muffin yourself. It wasn’t such a big deal, or so you told yourself as you walked over.

Wait, what if he didn’t say anything at all?

There was no time to ponder that question as you’d already reached the table. You placed the muffin down next to him with shaky fingers before taking your own seat silently, you couldn’t look into his eyes. Not having enough courage to actually say anything, you instead took a long sip of your drink and stared hard at your computer. You remained steadfast in your gaze, locked into a staring competition with the editing software, before your attention was drawn by fingers tapping by the side of your laptop. You looked up, making eye contact with Yoongi’s gaze, still unreadable. 

“Thanks for the muffin,” he said quietly, his voice slightly gruff.

You nodded, sending him a tight-lipped smile, about to return your gaze to your work before he spoke once more. 

“Seo Y/N, right?”

Your mouth parted in shock, did he really know you? Did he really remember you? You nodded mutely in response to him.

“You’re Joohee’s friend, right? Jin hyung had mentioned you the other day,” he said, taking a bite of the muffin. 

You deflated slightly. Of course he didn’t actually remember you, he only knew you as Joohee’s friend. What other reason would you occupy his mind, if you even crossed it at all. Sending another polite smile in response, you struggled for something to say. 

“You’re Min Yoongi,” you stated, immediately regretting the bluntness of the words. You couldn’t come up with anything better than that? It wasn’t even a question, you had said like you already knew so what room did you leave him to respond? Your first conversation with him in years was already failing due to your social ineptness.

Yoongi, however, seemed more amused than anything, a barely there smile decorating his face and a slight tilt to his head, “Yeah, that’s me. What are you working on that’s got you huffing and puffing over there?”

His description of your behavior made your cheeks warm, “A project for class, I have to make a game cutscene.”

“Oh,” he questioned, raising an eyebrow, “You’re studying games?”

Your cheeks flamed even brighter, it sounded so stupid when he put it like that. In reality, you were studying project management and game design, but you had heard enough reactions from your parents’ friends to know that didn’t matter. All they heard was that it wasn’t a doctor, lawyer, or business, and that was enough for them to write it off. It felt even worse to hear the same amused, almost condescending, tone from Yoongi. You knew you had idolized him past his reality, but you’d hoped he would at least be more open minded than the other people that populated your family’s social circle. You felt yourself curl inwards a bit, retracting your hand back into your lap and trying to wipe your probably crestfallen expression off of your face. 

“That’s pretty cool,” he mused, eyes looking somewhere far off instead of you, “I’m amazed your parents let you.”

An involuntary scoff left your lips, making him focus his gaze back to you, “It came with its own price.”

He chuckled humorlessly, “It always does. Sometimes it feels like our parents are more like business partners than actual parents.”

Your hand stilled on your keyboard, his words striking a chord within you. They rang true, recalling most conversations with your parents sounding like a business meeting more than anything else, even when you were a kid. You were raised by maids and nannies, even your older brother barely interacted with you, your only reprieve was Joohee. Every time your parents came into your room, rare as it was, it was always to discuss your academics and nothing else. You worked hard for their approval, but even that came with consequences, further alienating your brother from you with the implicit competition expected between you. It saddened you, in a kindred spirit kind of way, to think that Yoongi had experienced something similar. 

“Do you have something you wanted to do instead,” you asked before you could stop yourself. Maybe that was out of line. 

Yoongi paused for a moment, considering your question, before smiling wistfully, “Yeah, I do.”

You were floored by the sparkle in his eyes, a flush to his cheeks, and a longing smile almost forming on his lips. In that moment, you knew that he couldn’t stop pursuing whatever it was that made him light up like that. 

“You should go for it,” you said, words tumbling out of your mouth, “I know it’s easier said than done, but it doesn’t have to be your livelihood. Your parents don’t have to know, isn’t it better to get there without them? But you shouldn’t give it up for anyone else, only if you really, truly want to.” You exhaled unsteadily, certainly not your most eloquent moment, but you hoped that what you were trying to say came across. 

Yoongi’s piercing gaze made you squirm, worried that you had gone too far. It wasn’t your business after all, and his continued silence made you feel like he didn’t appreciate your uninvited input. You unconsciously began wringing your fingers against each other, avoiding his intense gaze. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled meekly after he continued to stare at you without saying anything.

Yoongi seemed to snap back into the conversation, shaking his head slightly, “No, no, thank you. I’ll definitely have to keep that in mind.”

You weren’t sure if he was being serious or just polite, but at least he didn’t seem mad. You were happy with that. Just about to continue your work once more, your eyes caught his mouth opening once more, his tone straightforward but not unkind. 

“I hope you take your own advice.”

You and Yoongi had been working in comfortable silence, interrupted by the occasional conversation, mainly started by Yoongi since you were still too nervous to say anything unprompted. It was getting late, but you didn’t want to leave. Sitting in the empty cafe with no windows with your longtime crush felt like a dream, and you didn’t want to wake up. 

“So, how come you’re sitting here studying and not out on some date? Shouldn’t you be enjoying your youth to the fullest,” Yoongi asks, taking a bite out of a second muffin.

You smiled, “Shouldn’t you be doing the same?”

Yoongi only shook his head, prompting you to continue.

“No special reason, I guess, just don’t have a valentine,” you said, not wanting to delve into the complicated reasoning for your single status, “What about you?”

Yoongi hums, taking another bite of his muffin, “About the same here, just too busy this time of year to find someone.”

You nodded along even though your heart sank a bit, was it really that easy for him to find a date that time was the only thing stopping him? It’s not like you were expecting him to be celibate in consideration of your hidden feelings, but it was a bit disheartening that romance seemed to come so easy to him when you struggled with it so much. Maybe you were the problem.

“Tell you what,” Yoongi starts, cheeks puffed from polishing off the last of his muffin, “Since we’re both without a valentine this year, how about for today, we’ll be each other’s valentine.”

You looked up at him in shock, “What do you mean?”

“We’ve already spent most of the day together anyway, so let’s just call each other our valentine’s for today,” he said simply, as though he hadn’t just made your heart stutter.

You knew it was casual, a joke even, for him, but you wanted to relish in this moment, just a small bit of delusion to sprinkle into your fantasies. It’s not like you had any other prospects.

“Okay,” you smiled, “I think you’ll make a good enough valentine.”

Yoongi only smiled in response, “I think you’ll do just fine, too.”

masterlist

[otomes-and-tears]

Can you do another soulmate au with Qiu and Tamarack but mc moves in at step two (I'd assume they'd basically end up the same way without the mc being there)? Qiu in particular would be interesting to see cause of how closed off they are lol

Anyway love your writing ❤️❤️❤️

♦ You can only see grey until you meet your soulmate for the first time with Qiu and Tamarack step 2 ♦

► tags and warnings: Soulmate! Au, Based on this post

► words: 2406

► A/N: Hi! I didn't know if you wanted the same type of soulmate AU or a different kind, so I wrote the same! If you're interested in seeing a different kid, just drop a request and I'll be glad to write something <3

► Masterlist

Tamarack

If the idea of a soulmate, as a child, made Tamarack indifferent, it now filled her with fear.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that, she was sure. Not like she’d ever admit to these feelings to anyone— Finding your soulmate was a goal to strive towards, a consolation on difficult days.

It’s what all romance books centered around. It’s the topic of all of the songs people listen to on the radio, the advice columns on magazines the girls much cooler than her read. 

It’s a daunting notion, perhaps, but a natural one. Her soulmate will appear when she least expects, her world will fill with colours she had never particularly wished to see, and she will be granted a companion for as long as both shall live. The other half of her soul, a missing limb she had never noticed was gone.

But how could she ever muster up excitement for it when her future was so uncertain?

Maybe her soulmate was back at her old home, at the school she’d have attended if her parents had kept her instead of leaving her with her grandparents. Or maybe, if they followed through on their promises to take her back, she’d just miss her soulmate moving into the perpetually empty, likely haunted, house in the middle of the cul-de-sac.

A soulmate could be the anchor she’d always wished for, a tether somewhere, but it could just as easily twist into another loss, another painful what-if to occupy her thoughts.

And losing the one thing you wished for isn’t terrifying?

So she continues living her life. Hoping that she’s just another person to meet their soulmate just a little later in life— her parents had met in college, after all. Things would just work out if the universe could hold out for just a while longer, until her family’s mess could finally settle itself or she was old enough to make her own choices, put down roots somewhere she was certain they wouldn’t be cruelly ripped out the soil. 

She had heard many tragic tales of the sort, after all. Soulmates that meet briefly only to be torn apart. People who are meant to each other, but who are destined to just weave in and out of each other’s lives, only having brief, blissful moments together.

She hates to admit it, but the idea of suffering such a fate keeps her awake, sometimes.

Tamarack was tired of holding her breath and waiting for other people to make decisions for her. Soulmates were a cosmic matter, beyond the reach of any plea or plan. And if people could be fickle and unreliable, she doubted the universe would be any more inclined to listen to her wishes.

Every year that passed, with her world continuing to be coloured in the greyscale she was so fond of, made her just a little more hopeful, dimming the fear and anxiety she had long grown used to.

But things have a way of changing when you least expect it.

This Halloween was different. It was her first as a teenager, and she had obsessed over her costume for weeks. How could she not? Everything felt more important this year, like the tiniest details suddenly carried the weight of her entire identity. Adding to the excitement, her Omi had mentioned something Tamarack couldn’t stop thinking about: after years of vacancy, someone had finally moved into the empty house next door.

Before she could head out for her own festivities, her omi invites her to deliver her homemade sweets to the new neighbours.

Tamarack stood on the porch of her grandparents’ house, the evening’s chill nipping at her nose. She adjusted her cape— a flimsy, dollar-store last minute addition to an otherwise well-planned witch costume. Her Omi had insisted on the traditional sweets, meticulously wrapped and sealed in clear plastic with small bows. Tamarack clutched the basket, feeling every bit the reluctant Little Red Riding Hood.

“Go on, sweetheart…” her Omi urged from the doorway, every bit as boisterous as she always was “First impressions are important!”

First impressions, Tamarack thought bitterly, only mattered if you planned on sticking around. Still, she trudged across the lawn to the new neighbor’s house, pausing at the edge of the worn wood porch, and the sparse decorations out on the lawn. It brought a smile to her face— the residents had likely not fully moved in yet, but they at the very least bothered to decorate for the occasion.

Her heart thudded as she raised a hand to knock, suddenly a little nervous. She looks back at her grandmother, who seems impatient enough to do it for her when suddenly…

The door swung open, and Tamarack’s breath caught in her throat.

A kid stood there, about her age, also wearing a costume, trying to add in the last accessories while answering the door. Behind them, she can see boxes piled into the living room.

“Uh, hi…” they said, eyes darting to the basket in her hands. “Trick-or-treat?”

Tamarack blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of the basket.

“Oh, um, no. I mean, yes. Sort of? My grandmother…”  She looks back towards her grandmother for a moment “Wanted me to bring these over.” 

Before she can offers the sweets, the kid’s mother, appears behind them— her Omi’s attention quickly shifting to the other adult as they commence introductions. Tamarack shyly, albeing awkwardly thrusts the basket forward, as a peace offering. 

Her new neighbour looks up for the first time, her red eyes meeting theirs.

It was like a silent firework had gone off in her mind, flooding every corner with color. The drab greyscale of the world she had grown so accustomed to was suddenly replaced by shades she didn’t have words for. The red of their costume was vibrant and rich, and the soft yellow light from the porch lamp bathed their features in a warmth that seemed dream-like.

Her knees felt weak, and her hands trembled as she tried to process the transformation. She glanced down at her own costume, marveling at the green hue of her skirt, the deep black of her cape that somehow seemed darker than before.

They were staring at her, wide-eyed. Their grip on the basket slackened, and a few candies tumbled out.

 “You’re seeing it too, right?” they whispered.

Tamarack nodded slowly. She leans down to grab the fallen candies just as her soulmate does. When their hands touch, they both pull back like it’s fire.  

The moment is awkward for just a second— before she laughs, and accompanies her.

Her heart pounded in her chest as a thousand thoughts jumbled together—fear, confusion, disbelief. She had spent years imagining this, dreading it, preparing for a moment that always seemed far away, out of reach.

Now, it was here.

Her world had changed in the blink of an eye, and she hadn’t even had time to catch her breath.

“I wasn’t ready for this.” 

She admitted softly, barely more than a whisper. The fallen candies back in her basket, and her heart feeling just a tad lighter.

“Same…” Her soulmate replied, in disbelief. “Well… It isn’t as bad like I feared it would be.”

Surprisingly, she shares the sentiment. 

Behind them, her Omi and MC’s mother were deep in conversation, already swapping stories and laughter as though they had known each other forever.

Tamarack barely noticed. Everything around her felt distant— muted compared to the colors she couldn’t stop staring at.

She forced herself to take a breath, steadying her nerves. This wasn’t what she had planned. It wasn’t what she wanted. But maybe… maybe it didn’t have to be as terrifying as she thought. Maybe this wasn’t the end of her carefully constructed world, but the start of something else.

Qiu

There was once a time in which Qiu longed to find their soulmate.

Back when things were brighter, easier. When the idea of finding the person that stood on the other side of their invisible string felt like an inevitability, a cheat code to meeting a new friend— their perfect equal, the way to make their life just a little more perfect. Golden grove was a little boring, but it was a little town brimming with potential, filled with wonderful things, little secrets, they knew of, and they were eager to share with their perfect match.

That hope belonged to a different version of Qiu, though.

A younger, more naive one. The boy with sparkling eyes and an eager need to please who he once believed themselves to be.

Now, it felt like a memory from someone else’s life, not their own. 

Regardless, it was a hope Qiu had held onto for an embarrassingly long amount of time. Even when things became less certain, and making new friends became a chore rather than an exciting prospect, they still hoped anyway.

Fantasised about their eyes meeting when they took their bows at the end of a ballet recital, the world blooming into colour as they found them in a crowd, eyes soft and adoring, their appearance shifting with every second they conjured their little daydream— not knowing what they would look like, but wishing that, just at having a glimpse of them in a dream, Qiu would just know.

Or perhaps in the bustling halls of school, a casual brush of shoulders with a new transfer student would change everything.

It occupied their thoughts during boring classes or frustrating days when no one understood them, no matter how much they tried to speak: the ever-shifting face of their soulmate, the kind eyes, the idea that someone would be able to tell them who they were, someone who’d instinctively know.

Not having found their soulmate, despite their increasingly desperate attempts to do so throughout their childhood, had been just another in a long list of disappointments in Qiu’s life. 

It was just another testament to a fact that terrified them: they didn’t know who they were, nor who they were supposed to be. People around them had an idea— expectations, their own stifling view of who Qiu Lin was, and the more they insisted on it, the less Qiu wished to fulfil their expectations.

Like with most other things, in recent times, they had just stopped trying.

Why should they even bother with a soulmate, anyway? They had lost so much time together already. The colours their parents had described sounded headache inducing, the idea of a soulmate stifling in a way it hadn’t before. They stopped greeting colleagues in the hallways and avoided any chance to meet new people. Their friendship circle was small, and ever dwindling— And it was better this way. 

A soulmate would just be another person to disappoint, after all. Like the list wasn’t long enough already. It was better for them, and for the poor soul tethered to them, if they didn’t meet at all.

For that reason, the first day of high school was terrifying.

Golden Grove’s only school rarely got transfers. The golden-haired whirlwind that was Tamarack, their neighbour, had been an exception. But what made Qiu particularly anxious was the sinking feeling that this was it. That something was in the air. Some deep, impending change they were too small to ever possibly stop.

They couldn’t stop it, but they could delay it, whoever.

If locking themselves in their room wasn’t an option, which Qiu was sure it wasn’t, then the solution was simple. Instead of heading straight to school, Qiu veered off course, slipping into the woods that gave Golden Grove its name. The golden leaves heralding autumn crunched beneath their sneakers as they made their way to the old bridge over the creek. It was a cherished spot, a secret place they’d often escaped to as a kid.

The boy’s club, with Tamarack as an honorary member, had once made it their domain.

They throw their gym bag on the floor, huffing as it falls with a thump on the top steps, leading to the small bridge. Qiu slumps right beside it, fishing their phone out of their pockets to shoot a quick message to Ren, reassuring him that they’d show up eventually, and putting some music on.

The crisp morning air helped clear their thoughts, even if the anxiety still simmered beneath the surface.

Skipping a few hours of school seemed worth the inevitable lecture they’d get at home. For now, they could breathe, even if just for a little.

“Excuse me…”

An unknown voice sounds from right behind them, above the sound of their music. They’re momentarily taken aback. No one ever came here. It was a local secret. Who else would be in a bridge in the woods in the early morning hours?

A gasp escaped their lips as the vibrant hues overwhelmed them. Blues, oranges, and reds assaulted their senses, a kaleidoscope of shades they had no names for.

It was too much.

Qiu squeezed their eyes shut, reeling from the sudden intensity.

The stranger staggered too, pages from a notepad— Qiu’s notepad,  slipping from their grasp and scattering across the bridge steps. Their wide eyes darted around as if trying to process the same blinding shift.

Qiu’s heart raced, cautiously grabbing one of the fallen pages. A note they had made a few weeks ago on ideas for Ren’s birthday gift. 

Had they led their soulmate straight to them without realizing it? The colours were no less dazzling now that they started getting used to them, but the feeling was slightly more bearable. The stranger’s hair gleamed like sunlight, their features sharp yet soft, framed by a hesitant, confused, smile.

“Are you okay?” the stranger asked, voice shaky but kind. They crouched to gather the rest of the  fallen pages, glancing up at Qiu with equal parts concern and awe.

Qiu’s mouth went dry. Words tumbled through their mind but refused to align into a coherent sentence.

They’d dreamed of this moment for years, yet nothing had prepared them for the overwhelming reality of actually meeting them.

“I…” They swallowed hard, trying again. “I didn’t think…”

The stranger smiled softly, offering a hand. 

“Me neither.”

Qiu hesitated before taking it.

Their hands touched, and the colors seemed to pulse, brighter and warmer, as if the universe was reaffirming the connection. For the first time in years, Qiu felt a glimmer of hope.

Maybe, just maybe, they hadn’t been wrong to dream after all.

[animefreak1145]

Church Bells(Adler x Bell!Reader x Woods)

Previous Intel

Eighth Intel | Before

Description:

The world ended for Bell after Cuba.

The whole world followed soon after.

Zombies AU | Drabble Format

Warnings/Tags: Mature Rating, Graphic Violence, Dark Themes, Trauma, Body Horror, Gore, Major Character Death, Brainwashing, Post!Cuba, Pre!Solovetsky, No Solovetsky, Female Bell, Older Man/Younger Woman, Toxic Relationship, Obsession, Menticide

Words: 4k (What's a drabble again?)

▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▛ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▟ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚

 ■ ▞ ■ ▚ ■  “Bell” ■ ▞ ■ ▚ ■ 

Day After Ukraine Mission

16:07 | February 28th, 1981

CIA SAFEHOUSE E9, “DIE LANDEBAHN” 

“You do that a lot.”

You start from what you were staring at, the codes that are so tricky and you feel so close. The intel from what you have in your hands adding a piece to the puzzle that you’re enamored with—the complexities satisfying a carnal part of you that you can’t name. Your head turns to find Lazar’s curious yet amused smile, close to the television they used sometimes for the news not at your usual spot at the too small desk with the too large computer; at the center table instead is where you chose to haunt. 

“What?” you reply dumbly, too out of your element to say a more snarky reply. The transition from focused on the task to this interruption from the man that is more of an Eema than an Abba due to how hearty he looks and feels and making sure everyone felt the same by also stuffing their face. 

“That.” You were met with Lazar’s finger in your face. You resisted the urge to stare cross eyed and instead gave him a more inquisitive look, eyes searching. Which only humored him more, releasing a chuckle. “You have quite an intimidating stare.”

You push the hand away, scoffing,

“What? At my work? Isn’t that like everyone else?”

Lazar hummed, his eyes glittering at a joke you can’t understand.

“No. You have that type of stare that will freeze lesser men. Or get slapped by someone who thinks you’re looking for a fight. Or get you put into an asylum. Only, when you decode, you have an insane smile on your face. It’d be creepy if we didn’t know you.”

“Uh huh.” You dismissed, eyes glancing at the medical office. “You should work better on your compliments if you want Park to have a drink with you.”

If Park wasn’t in the medical office room along with Adler, you’re sure Lazar would throw his old cup noodle at you. Alas, he only gave you a dry “Ha. Ha.” with a neutral expression but still didn’t leave. He wants an answer. 

You turn to him fully, elbows leaning back against the desk, petulant.

“I doubt I smile like how you describe…” Lazar snorted while you frowned at him, before shifting your gaze back to your papers. “I don’t know. I just…love puzzles. They’re fun to solve.”

“Is that what makes you stare so intently?” Lazar leaned against the television, the stand slightly creaking at the movement, his intrigue seeming sincere. Another question hidden, two subjects being asked for one answer. A wall. “The thrill?”

Is that what love is to you?

You tapped at the papers, biting your lip in thought. 

“Maybe a part…I just have this need to figure things out. To open it up—to find the numbers, the letters, the riddles. In an order that is random but it’s not. It’s just a trick. A shadow on the wall. A reason for each piece. Each hint. Every piece of the puzzle has its purpose. It’s reason for being.” You didn’t notice when you started smiling, the topic consuming you like books and pictures do. But you just kept going as you grabbed your pen and fiddled with it, miming writing numbers or letters. “Like Sims with mechanics, I think. Or you with bomb wiring. You find the hardy wires or broken pieces—and I untangle it all. I even love how difficult it could be if I find a cipher intellectual. It’s fun.”

“Sounds maddening,” Lazar replied simply, brow raising. “And painful. Maybe even obsessive.”

You shrug, staring deeply at your own pen, tone far away. As if you were speaking about another topic than this. Something other. Like a secret.

“That’s love, isn’t it? Pain and obsession?”

“Your books tell you that? Or you come to that conclusion yourself?” You pressed your lips, silent. Only glancing at Lazar(are you easy to read?) who only smiled gently before switching gears and letting out a booming laugh. “With that description of love—you very much implied Adler is in love with our friendly neighborhood Perseus.”

Your jaw dropped, a gasp being released as you sat up rigid in your chair. A defense for Adler and a denial ready only for a startling guffaw to join in.

“What the shit are you talking about, Lazar?” Woods comes from his previous spot practicing with the boxing bag, Mason side by side with his own amused gaze as they come close to the center table. Woods snorted as he leaned back against the table near you instead of taking a proper seat. “Can you imagine our own Robert Redford switching spit with a commie? Ha!”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Mason quips to his friend with a nudge while Woods expression quickly changed to offended with no heat as he pushes Mason back with a disbelieving snort. “What? Sorry I’m airing out your fantasies.”

It was strange watching them. The easy back and forth quips and teases. Lazar felt like a warm hearth and home cooked meals compared to Mason’s steady kindness of a worn animal despite its past and Woods…

You briefly think of the night prior, how charged he felt out in the field. Not eager for it yet…willing to take everything and anything out his way. But his friendly taunts and words to you too. The arcade. The room where you got the intel and the knowledge he had of you, knowing you would’ve loved to play around more with the tech and computers there if the both of you had time and not world ending doom.

You weren’t impressed by his skills. Skills are to be expected in this line of work. People can call you cocky all they want.

But how personable he is? That was different.

It was unexpected.

(Why did it feel like he’s more close to you than Sims right now? Why has everyone been so disconnected from you? Even—blue fire for eyes hidden by the shaded wall, wheat dancing in the wind, artful cracks across a canvas—)

A hand waved in front of your face, your eyes broken from its lost look as you blinked back to the present.

“Hello? Earth to Bell?” Woods was still next to you and you couldn’t help but notice that Mason moved away with Lazar to where Lazar’s station is. Still talking with friendly smiles and easy atmosphere. You blinked again before turning towards Woods, who looked at you with a mix of amusement and concern. “What happened there? Did you even listen to a word I said?”

You didn’t. You’ve been doing this a lot. Getting lost in your head. Your brain foggy and mind distant. Not as quick as you usually are. You thankfully haven’t had this happen in the field. You hope it stays that way.

Instead of giving a straight answer, your lips only rose in a dry smile.

“Sorry, was thinking just how you got the guts to punch Hudson of all people.”

Woods huffed, crossing his arms and leaning back, brushing your shoulders as he did. 

“Doesn’t take guts to punch a prick.”

“No,” your smile turns up a tad, more mischief. “Takes some balls instead. Can’t have balls without a prick nearby or there’ll be trouble.”

Woods made a choked sound, as he stared at you dumbly before slapping the table and releasing a loud boom of a laugh. You wonder how he does that. So loud. So free. 

“You got more spunk than I thought, Bell. Guess you need it to even get the idea to escape in a Ruskie tank.”

You huff out your nose, but your chest still lightened at the praise. Your smile coming easy now and tension completely fallen away. You hid it though as you turned back to your work, picking up a stray picture of the Ukraine base you took.

“Did it for you. I figured you would want to run some commie’s over.”

“Oh, I’ve dreamed of it. I would say top five of my favorite wet dreams.”

You couldn’t help it. You snorted, it bursted through your chest and it didn’t stop, only turned to a laugh. You put a hand over your mouth to try to contain it but Woods satisfied expression only made you laugh more.

“Why—why did you say that?!” You try to collect yourself but you couldn’t. Not when Woods waggled his brows as if in answer. “Pfft—should I even ask what’s top one?”

Woods shrugged. 

“No can do. Gotta protect your innocence somewhere. My mind is a crazy place. Don’t wanna scare you off.” You snort again, shaking your head at him and tried to get back to work. Woods didn’t move as you stared around at the different pictures you took with Intel. “Say, where’s the random pics you took of me?”

“Don’t worry, Woods. I didn’t take out a camera with you over the mannequin—“ You stopped when he shook your shoulder, a warning gaze that only made you bite back another smile and only glare at him with no heat as you pushed his hand off. “Calm down,” you say quietly. “I haven’t said anything. Scout’s Honor.” You raise a hand as if to show.

Woods rose a brow dubiously.

“Were you even a Girl Scout?”

“Doubtful. Looks like you just gotta hope I don’t open my mouth about it.”

Woods grunted. Yet still didn’t leave. 

“Do you normally take pics of everything and everyone? Even on missions like that?”

“I like it. I like taking pictures. Did I make you uncomfortable?” You did take a few of him before you took a picture of the base. It was nice lightning and he looked good. “I can give you the pictures I took to you, if you want. They were good shots.”

“I suppose I can add it to my scrapbook.” Woods joked before shaking his head, his eyes turning more curious as the conversation went on. Gaze more assessing as he stared down at you. “Nah, it’s fine.  Don’t mind you keeping them. After I take a look of course. I guess I’m just asking…what’s the obsession with the camera? Film is precious right?” At your shoulder tensing, you starting to get defensive, he quickly changed tactics as he rose a hand in calming manner. “I ain’t judging. Just curious. Couldn’t help but overhear Park talk to you that Adler doesn’t like wasting resources. Or some shit like that. I don’t get the big deal. But it must be if you keep doing it despite them having a stick up their asses about some film of all things.”

Your brows pinched together, gazing intently at Woods eyes. You don’t see a reprimand. Or exasperation. Or even amused exasperation, like you were just being cute while doing something disobedient—like a pet jumping at their owners even as they tell them no with an amused smile. (“Always the one who never listens. Huh, Bell? Didn’t I tell you before about the pictures?”) He’s being sincere in his interest. It was his expression that did it.

You looked away, eyes taking in the safehouse around them. 

“Ever feel like a ghost in your own body?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Woods answered roughly. You nodded next to you, him taking that as permission that he can finally properly sit next to you. You didn’t mind thighs or shoulders brushing. Comrades now. Both of you throwing your lives on the line. Getting shot  by a common enemy brings people together no other way can. 

“Well, the coma did a number on me. I don’t remember much. I can’t put a story to scars on my body. My life, my memories—it’s only Vietnam.”

“Fucked up thing to remember. That whole war was a shit show,” Woods provided. “You must’ve been young.”

You only hummed, distant. Eyes straying in the direction of the red room. Your skin prickled in goosebumps, ears falsely hearing shots and napalm strikes. You shuddered but hid it by clenching your fists on the table, eyes on your jumbled words of your work. 

“Yeah…Hue City was just the start of everything going downhill…But I guess my point is…” You don’t know how to properly say it, you can’t find the English word for this. Esurient for memories erased. The feeling of not quite fitting in everyone’s circle, even with Sims. Monachopsis. (Are you even here at all? It’s like they stare past you.) “Life is memories. I don’t have any. What’s a person if not memories? So…I don’t feel…like it. A person.” You shrug casually, mutely. Hand wandering to a picture, thumbing it. “Ghosts don’t seem to remember stuff besides a deep motive. That’s what others believe. But…with pictures…pictures are for memories. If I take pictures, I’m actually taking memories. And if take enough memories…” You struggled once more how to explain but Woods was sharp despite his looks.

“You’ll be a person again.” Your eyes darted towards him, giving him a minute nod as he seemed to consider your words with a tilt of his head. The silence between the two of you wasn’t stifling, just…there.

You felt like something was released from you. 

Unlocked. 

The key was just for someone to ask. 

“Hey, listen—“ you turned at the soft touch to your shoulder, and you noticed Woods looked uncomfortable about the atmosphere you created. Not used to sharing open emotions like this no doubt but still had what appeared like care in his eyes. “You should really talk to Mason, he—“

Your ears honed in on the medical office opening, your eyes quick to follow as your head swiveled. Everything turned silent as your eyes settled upon the body you can recognize even in the thickest of jungles or deepest of wet rice paddies. And as your eyes settled, your thoughts of ruminating toska and the sense of lacuna dissipated.

You were so busy trying to catch what Adler was saying to Park beside him, you temporarily forgotten Woods next to you. You could hear him talking. Some form of advise. 

You turned back to your work and absently nodded with a quick smile to match at him. Your lips moved to say thanks. You think you did.

You didn’t see Woods throw another look of concern towards you, of suspicion. Turning something over his head.

You forced your ears to stretch, as if with force you can have super hearing. With brute force you can have the arcane man with valleys upon his visage, with liquid nectar that bounces with voluminous silk, voice of gravel that leads to the path of victory and makes your mind hazy. 

You still had a pen in your hand, tight as you looked down with a frown at the papers. Your leg beginning to bounce under the table. Impatient. Restless. Athirst.

“I’m going out for a smoke,” Adler called out(Beckoned, Signaled, Enticed—trinket waved like a treat. Your nepenthe.) clearly, more loudly than how he was talking to Park. You didn’t turn your head as he walked out the door near the garage door, too obvious. But you did sneak a look when he exited, stealing gaze right when you saw his back before the door closed.

Except it didn’t. A small rock held it ajar.

A secret.

“What the hell?” Woods was bewildered, staring after Adler while you tried to hide the fact. Waiting a beat. Or two. Your leg bounced under the table, growing more insistent. “Doesn’t he get his fix in here anyways?”

You heard Lazar answer for Woods, something about Adler needing a change of scenery sometimes. You can see in your peripheral his glance. You ignored it as you stood up to head back to your computer desk.

“I’m taking a break too,” you say, quickly picking a book from your pile in the corner after a brief deliberation.

“Uh…” Woods face would’ve made you laugh from how scrunched up it was as he stared as you quickly fixed your work papers back in the center table, book under your arm. “Isn’t that what you were doing? Like fuckin’ a second ago?”

“No,” you answer, organizing the pictures and quickly scanning them before you do so. “Lazar interrupted me from my work. And then you did. It was an interruption. Not a break.”

“You sure turned prickly,” Woods said in answer.

You pause, seeing Woods was somehow offended. He just doesn’t get it.

“Says the cactus,” you quip with a quick smile, twitching up more at Woods huff out his nose. “I…like taking my break the same time as Adler,” You decide to answer the question in his eyes. He did listen. “It’s what we’ve always done. I read. He smokes. And right back to work we go. It works better this way.”

You didn’t wait for his reply. 

You didn’t even bother to see if he was about to.

You have the book in your hand, and you have your tether(Your eyes looks for the sun tanned gold even though it should blind you, but you never cared for your wellbeing. Protect the quiet monster like a demon enraged. Demon for monster. Monster for demon. The coin. You keep it in your pocket, whelve it—the whispered confession—the gravity of your ustulation and agastopia can burn through your pockets and skin all it wish. You keep it in. Like the pain killers Adler gave you earlier for your migraine after their meeting with Hudson about Ukraine.) outside. 

You open the door and without looking, you went to the left side of the door that’s by some unused pallets. Sitting on them and opening your book to your last point, as if you were ignoring him. (How could you?) He was smoking as he leaned against the wall beside the door. You always left of it, him always right. (▞ He’s always right. ▞ He ▙ never ▞ lies. Not to ▖ ▞ ▗ you.)

It was silent. Only the turning of your pages as you focused on reading, and the occasional exhale you hear now and then if you strain your ears. A puff of grey smoke above the two as your audience.

You don’t mind the quiet moments. You take what you can get. The two of you have too long a history for you to be uncomfortable at silence. Or needing something more. 

You don’t.

(The secret coin in your pocket burns, and you try not to flinch nor whine. You must stay sated, ▚ демон ▚ ▛ ▖ ▖.) 

A shot went through the front of your skull, your hand darting up as it seemed to go to the back of your head, a hiss to your lips. You almost dropping the book with your other hand.

“Another migraine?” He was close. You opened your eyes you didn’t realize were closed as you were hunched over your knees, spotting his shoes. 

You only offered a small nod before closing your eyes again, jaw tight. 

“I don’t…” you stop, speaking more quietly to help with the pounding. The sunlight was too much already, you don’t want to add your own voice to your own misery. “Dont know why it’s getting worse. Is this…normal?”

“It can be.” He replied simply, to the point. “Here. Take this.”

You blinked your eyes open and lifted your head to spot he took out some more medicine from his leather jacket, holding it out to the pills in the palm of his hand. At the sight, your stomach curdled.

You felt yourself pale and you don’t know why.

Adler must’ve noticed your hesitation. Tilting his head and lips twitching to a frown around his cigarette. He lifted a hand, taking one deep inhale, embers subtly lighting his face before he threw it off. He exhaled out his nose, smoke flowing smoothly. 

Your throat tightened as you stared. But not in want. It felt more heavy. More heady. Your mouth open more in a wince than for anything else.

“You know this will help. We gotta make sure you’re in shape for this, Bell.” You bowed your head in shame, book now beside you on the pallet as you clenched your hands on your knees. You heard him sigh. And now you see him, closer—he’s kneeling in front of you. One knee down, the other having his elbow leaning against it. “I don’t have to explain to you the stakes currently. You know how serious this is since you and Woods found out Hudson’s dirty little secret about Perseus and the nuke he has. You know it. We can’t fuck around anymore.”

You hunched your shoulders, as if that can hide you from your guilt. Because you spotted his glance towards your book. You can guess what else he’s hinting.

Stay a ghost or try to be a person? A part of your mind asked. You tried to not let your heart crack of no more pictures.

“I know…” you say, eyes down and to the side. Yet… “It’s just…it wasn’t that long ago you gave me them…I don’t—I mean—“ Your tongue is tied again. Like always near him. You didn’t mean to sound accusing or hinting. Adler is trained for medical issues on the field. You tried to take a breath. “I just don’t want to be a burden with all this. Slow you guys down. I don’t want to disappoint you.” You did a tight squeeze of your knees, practically white knuckled grip, a mix of uncaring at your honesty and hating yourself for it.

You felt your chin be lifted up, Adler’s forefinger doing so you can be face to face. He assessed you seriously.

“You won’t, kid.” He’s so close. Breath to your face. So calm too. Your anchor. He believes in you. If you or him leaned just an inch or two forward—he took his hand away from your face before bringing his palm with the medicine again. “Taking these will help. I’ll watch over you. Just like the good ‘ol days.” He tilted his head, a quirk of the mouth up. And you think he couldn’t be more charming. 

You ignored your past nerves, quickly taking the medicine in a dry swallow, gloved hands brushing his bare ones(Damn it all.). 

He nodded at you, the barest thing of it before he stood up. Glancing at your book again with pressed lips before facing you once more with a raised brow.

“Oscar Wilde? Here I thought you only read Dostoevsky and Nietzsche.”

“It’s a collection of some of his poem’s. And a break from existentialism and nihilism is good for the mind. But you’ve always been more of a stoic,” you shoot him a teasing look, an attempt to get your bravado back. “Our very own Prince Andrei Bolkonsky.”

Adler did a small huff out his nose.

“Just don’t start bowing.” Adler did a quick motion of his to the door. “Come on. Back to work, Tolstoy.”

You nod, marking where you were in the book before following Adler back in, your hold on the book tight. Who knows when you’ll get to read again.

Stay a ghost or try to be a person? 

(It doesn’t matter. Adler made the choice for you.)

You tell yourself it’s fine. You instead let yourself be a book for Adler—willing to be read. You imagine how he would do it, a book of you in his hands. Read through your pages, open up your spine and let his fingers run through your creases—how easily can he finish you? How many times could he, until you’re worn and wrinkled from use? Will his touch trace the abuse of a loved book?

The place where he put his finger on your chin burns.

…

The page you marked on the page reads: “Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of the fearless flight, For the greatest tragedy of them all, Is never to feel the burning light."

▞ ▚

▛

▞ ▚

A/N: Bell is a SIMP. Poor girl. The best way to tell if Bell is in love, is if she suddenly starts thinking in poetry. Bell stares intensely you say? Bell loves intensely too.

I’m also confusing myself with Dark!Adler and Soft!Adler. But again he’s both so 🤷‍♀️ Man so toxic and a red flag, he’s even confusing the author.

Also, I’m planning to write really quickly to finish up For Whom the Bell Tolls. Didn’t want to but I really want to go ahead and write for BO6. Then again, that fic was NEVER supposed to be that long or longer. Sorry if I speed through some stuff, I just want to finish it and move on then torture you all further.

Tag List: @tr1ppylady @parkeepingparker @weirdoartist21 @gojocat247 @mayaibnlaahad @dallmaistir @salvija @kylezkie4adler @asaltryefl @stupid-stinky @aurora-windu @zachfoxx121 @pyxis-stellae @makeyourpeacenow @obsessedgremlin

You have to tell me if you want me to tag you for each update or else I won't know. Or if you wish to be removed.

[lillaydee]

Shhh!!! Part 2

Celebrity!Joel Miller / F Reader

A reluctant celebrity contractor who has closed his heart for love meets a celebrity-hating Cafe on Wheels owner...

She HATES him. Thing is, he couldn't get enough of the coffee she makes...

Tag List:

@kirsteng42 @peelieblue @harriedandharassed @joelalorian @vickie5446 @inept-the-magnificent @maried01 @brittmb115 @peedrow @lovefreylove

Let me know if you would like to be added/removed from the tag list.

Dividers by the awesome @saradika

Header by Moi cause I learned how to use Canva! Yay me!

WARNINGS: Grumpy Joel (The Last of Us), Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Joel is Bad at Feelings (The Last of Us), Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Joel Needs a Hug (The Last of Us), Celebrity Joel Miller, Fluff and Angst, Eventual Smut, I'm Bad At Tagging, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, Hurt Joel (The Last of Us), Jealousy.

SERIES MASTER LIST

Part 1

***Okay, I have zero self control, I know I said twice weekly... but knowing that I have 13 chapters ready... I just... so... here you go. Don't judge me. I might space out the posting if I need to, but until then... here... take it off my hands so the impatient little girl in me can sleep tonight. (Covers face in self-controlless shame). ALSO - I MADE A HEADER!!! I LEARNT TO USE CANVA! YAY ME!***

Joel couldn’t even answer. Ellie was attacking him with more and more questions. Her questions were fast, furious, demented, even, he would say. He couldn’t even gather his thoughts to formulate an answer before another one came flying out of her mouth.

“What exactly did you say to her? Did you raise your voice at her? How did she leave? Was she mad? Why wouldn’t she wait for me if she wasn’t mad? Do I still have a job? Fuck Joel! I just went to the bathroom. I wasn’t kidnapped. Ugh! Don’t you have any self-control? Sheesh! Wait ‘til I tell Sarah.”

Ellie went on and on in the truck on the way home. Dinner was quiet. She looked extremely worried. She had texted you, apparently, rows and rows of apologies and promises that Joel wouldn’t be bothering you again, just please don’t fire her. All you replied with was a quick ‘it’s all good’, and she hadn’t heard from you since. She did her chores, and shut her bedroom door behind her, leaving Joel feeling like shit outside her door.

Joel was trying. He really was. He knew he had a problem. Well… several problems, really. He’s angry at the world. Grumpy. Anti-social. But just his luck, he got embroiled in a world where being those things became public knowledge, and put him in the centre of attention, where he did not want to be. And he’d been doing much better, he thought. He smiled, every now and again. He smiled just this morning, in fact, after he dropped Ellie off and was finally able to enjoy that coffee, the best he’d ever had in his life, in the privacy of his truck, without the teenager mocking him or making a big deal about him smiling.

But then he got to work, and things just… that day… it was just not a good day.

He loved building things. He had been doing it since he was a boy. Built a recipe box for Christmas with the help of his Papa for his Mama, and he was hooked. She looked so happy he wanted to see that joy on her face again and again. So he learnt, got better, and became a carpenter, and later a builder.

He and Laura got married young, Sarah arriving just a few months after they tied the knot. Being in LA, he never wanted for a job, there was always a need for contractors, but there was no guarantee either. Competition was fierce and plentiful. The small company he and Tommy owned were getting by, getting jobs here and there, but being small, they didn’t always win a bid on lucrative contracts, the bigger companies got them instead. They stuck to smaller jobs, making enough, but money was tight. LA was not exactly a cheap place to live in. Laura was a stay at home mom, daycare a bit beyond their budget then. They could pay their bills, their mortgage, but even in the lower end, much less classy bit of LA where they lived, saving for rainy days was a big ask, much less Sarah’s college fund.

When his wife passed, he agreed to take on a contract with a studio to build sets, mainly because it allowed him to have more stability. It offered a steady stream of income, on top of the jobs they already had. He had Sarah to think about. He had to do this, the long hours, the toll the jobs were taking on his body, all became worth it when he could come home to a healthy, happy, clothed and fed little girl with a stable roof above her head.

Tommy’s good looks and charm gave the producers some ideas. He was reluctant, knowing how the industry worked. But he agreed, it was just a small 15 minutes slot for the morning show at first. The extra money meant he could start a college fund for Sarah. Tommy did the talking and peacocking, he did the work. Small stuff, how to fix a leaking faucet, oiling squeaking doors, sanding and repainting a cabinet. Simple. Easy. They were at the studio for an hour, tops, then off to the next lot to build. Sometimes, they even had time to go do other projects around town. And then the slots began to turn episodic – five fifteen minutes slots weekly on how to fix something bigger, all shot beforehand.

Then, they started doing builds for talk shows, the ones where his team was sent in to remodel a house for some unfortunate families. Tommy was the face, he was the contractor. Next thing he knew, the studio began receiving phone calls, mails and emails asking for the Miller brothers to have a show of their own. The money, even the initial offer, was good. It would mean he could pay off his mortgage, one thing less off his mind. He could begin to save some money, Sarah could attend any school of her choosing, he could retire early. So they signed a contract – just five episodes to start.

The show was an instant hit, and their contracts were quickly renewed for more episodes. People started recognising him around town. It wasn’t too bad at the beginning. He managed to ignore most of it. He was too focused on Sarah to care. He did get less and less patient with people coming up to him for construction advice. Even getting after work drinks with Tommy became a chore after a while. Nary a day went by where some drunks were not talking his ears off about lying contractors and some lady offering a peek of her boobs at him for five minutes alone in the bathroom. It was all beginning to get too much.

As the show got more and more successful, what he called the ridiculousness began. His schedule would involve going on promotional photo shoots, where he had to sit on a make-up chair for hours getting layers and layers of make-up applied on his face, his hair teased to the heavens. He was made to wear fancy clothes and pose like an idiot for magazine covers and interviewed for articles. When he voiced his distaste for such atrocities to his agent, Angela shrugged and said he signed a contract, waving that binder in his face. So he put up with it for a couple of years. He finally drew a line when he was made to pose topless in a pair of jeans slinging a massive hammer over his naked shoulder with construction gloves and a hard hat on. To this day, even the thought of it made him cringe. He made sure his involvement in such promos and advertising was removed from the next contract by a very reluctant Angela, who moaned about the missed opportunity to sign a very lucrative modelling contract with a very popular jeans company – all that money... she had sighed. He didn’t care. He didn’t even care when the studio threatened to cut his pay for his reluctance to become a proper celebrity. He had enough to make sure Sarah was taken care of. No more posing, he said.

That topless magazine cover proved to be his biggest nightmare. That magazine flew off the racks so fast they had to reprint. The show got even bigger. People actually started following him around, paparazzies snapping pictures of him and Sarah at the park and ice cream places. He was losing privacy. He was starting to fear for Sarah’s safety. But when he woke up to a woman he had never seen before in his kitchen, dressed like some 50s housewife, merrily scrambling eggs for him and Sarah one morning, for the first time in his life, he was legitimately scared. He couldn’t rough her up, not knowing her mental state of mind, surely someone who could see nothing wrong with breaking into someone’s home to make them breakfast was deranged on some level? So he had to stand calmly while he waited for the cops, Sarah held tightly to his chest, his whispers of assurance endless in her ears as she shivered against him, trying hard not to cry, scared out of her mind.

He wasted no time at all after that, immediately getting a more secure place for him and Sarah. Gated community. High fences. Security system. Cameras. The lot. He started being deliberately rude to those approaching him, pushing cameras away from his and Sarah’s faces when someone tried to take photos of them.

The press started calling him the grumpy Miller, but the attention didn’t cease. They got worse, in fact. Photos or videos of him pushing cameras away and shouting at the paparazzi sold well. Finally, when Tommy, the more easy-going of the two, the one who at one point was enjoying the attention he got, got into a scuffle with a particularly feisty pap over him trying to get a picture of Sarah during one of their weekly dates at McDonalds, people began leaving Sarah alone, for the most part, or at least, they were keeping their distance whenever she was around. No one messes with Joel and Tommy Miller’s little princess.

But then, the age of social media began. The show got bigger and bigger, and Joel found himself to be in the spotlight a lot more. He did try to ignore the cameras that everyone seemed to have handy, and his life seemed to calm a little, seemingly unbothered by pictures of him buying socks and underwear or filling his truck being posted all over social media.

And then, a boy Sarah dated posted a selfie of the two of them, only for the post to be made viral.

The public was brutal. Sarah was criticized. Her hair wasn’t styled enough, her skin wasn’t flawless enough, her clothes not stylish or expensive enough, her body not skinny enough. She came home crying, the poor boy stood trembling in front of Joel and Tommy apologizing for his oversight. It took everything in him not to punch this scrawny kid in the face.

But they rode the storm out, and things seemed to calm down.

When Ellie came into the picture, it all started again. Someone who knew Ellie’s mother gave an interview detailing her horrific past, and the story was everywhere. And suddenly Joel Miller came back into focus, the saviour Daddy every woman was lusting for. How noble of him, taking in a kid in need like that. Suddenly the outlets that were once criticizing his grumpiness and overprotectiveness back when Sarah was still a kid were now openly discussing how admirable he was, protecting his kid like that, reputation be darned. The fact that he was a single father, a widower no less, came back up. Never remarried, never dated anyone, well, none that was confirmed, as far as anyone was concerned, drove the ladies crazy.

Aww, he was so in love with her he never let go of her memory. Swoon. Oh, does Daddy need a wifey to help him take care of his children?

Young ladies, young enough to be his daughter, were posting about bearing his children. Shockingly detailed fan fictions about him taking their virginities on his kitchen table were written and spread. He could only hope the people who wrote them were of age and made sure neither Sarah nor Ellie ever got a hold of them.

Angela told him all this with pride. You’ve made it, Joel. You’re a Daddy. They all want you. Take in in, Joel! Take it in!

He wanted to disappear into the wilderness and never return. Pictures of his were posted daily, his crotch zoomed in. People were openly questioning whether he had been celibate all this while – was that possible? Surely he got his rocks off somewhere? Why was no one coming up to share what was behind that fabulous bulge? They would shout it from the rooftops if they had the good fortune of a peek.

This was probably the one aspect of having Angela around that he was thankful for. She was adamant every single lady he had a dalliance with signed an NDA. Heck, even she signed one. He was just not interested in relationships anymore. Not after Laura. And he was too wary for one night stands with random ladies, not that he had many opportunities for such indulgences. His life was Sarah, work and home. So he made do with a few regular ladies who were willing to be his… friends… ones with benefits, so to speak. Just a few ladies on the team that he knew well and felt he could trust. Some had even moved on and gotten married, still friendly with him. There were of course, a few disgruntled ones, those who openly got angry once he made it clear he wasn’t going to take their arrangement further than just sex. He wouldn’t even let them come over to his house. Always at the set, in the privacy of his office. He wouldn’t go to theirs either. No intimacy, just sex. To fulfil a need. They were clearly not happy, those few hopeful ones, but the NDAs should keep them quiet.

The last signed NDA happened just a few months before Ellie came into his life, four years ago. He had just turned 40 then. Having decided to take Ellie in, he put more stipulations in his contract. Local gigs only, he needed to be home by a certain hour, with very few exceptions, weekends were off limits. He wanted Ellie to have a normal life at least. Sarah was already away at college then, so he didn’t want Ellie to be raised by strangers, not with the life she had. He focused on her. His sex life took a step back. He wasn’t interested anyway. Ellie should come first, with the hard life she'd had. 

Joel officially gave up. He had no idea why his life was so interesting to these people. He had hoped that if he ignored the publicity, kept his head down and just went about his life, it would all die down. He hoped that the fame would subside, and he could have some semblance of a normal life. But every now and again, something always came back up, and he was all over social media again.

To top it all off, he found no joy in the work anymore. It had all gotten so TV. Everything was planned, faked, rehearsed. He didn’t even have much say as a contractor anymore. It was all about looking good for the cameras, practicality be darned. It was all pretend. That joy on the homeowner’s faces was not even genuine, nothing compared to the joy on his Mama’s face when he presented her with that wonky recipe box he made, one that even his extremely handy Papa couldn’t fix. But his Mama treasured that wonky box to the day she died, and now, that box was Sarah’s pride and joy, her Nana’s recipes still in it, locked away to pass on to her children one day.

He longed to find that joy again. That satisfaction of building something genuine, something real, something that would make someone happy. He just wanted to feel the way he felt when his Mama opened that wrapping paper that Christmas morning.

So that evening, after a long, frustrating day where nothing went their way, but of course, made for great TV, he had a talk with Tommy and Angela. Sarah was coming back to do her internship in town, and then she would be graduating. Ellie was 16 now, she would be graduating high school soon. He had more money than he could ever need, than his girls could ever need. He wanted to retire from the showbusiness. He had one year left on his contract, and then he was done. No more. Tommy could go on should he wished, but Joel was done. He wanted to settle down. Move somewhere quiet and just live out his life. Keep sheep. Shovel shit. Anything but this.

Angela looked at Tommy, exasperation clear across her features. Talk to your brother, Tommy. You guys are in your prime, you can make so much more. Five more years, tops. Just one more contract. The show just got picked up by Netflix. Come on, we have to take advantage of this! Tommy agreed with Angela. Come on, brother, just one more round. And then we retire.

What followed could only be described as a screaming match, two against one. The yelling only stopped because his phone beeped, it was time to pick Ellie up. He left in a huff, his head replaying all the shit that he had hated about this much too exposed life he was living, the invasion of privacy, the gossip, the lewd comments, the threat to his girls’ safety. He had had enough, and of course his fame hungry brother and his greedy agent would find ways to prolong this hellish life for him, all in the name of fame and money.

And when he got to the rec centre, Ellie was not where she usually was. And she didn’t pick up his calls. He panicked, and yelled at you, thinking you were just another pesky fan wanting a selfie.

When he told Ellie what had happened, the teenager had literally taken him down with one sentence before shooting more words at him as he laid dead from that first exclaim.

“Oh my God, not everyone recognizes you, Joel, who do you think you are, Beyonce?”  

He wanted to bang his head on the steering wheel, face red from embarrassment. Had he gotten so high and mighty and vain that he thought everyone who approached him was just a swooning fan? He worked hard to stay humble, and yet he had just yelled at his daughter’s boss, on her first day of work, for simply approaching him to tell him where she was, all because he had it in his over-inflated head that he was a celebrity, and anyone who approached him must surely be a swooning, fangirling groupie.

“Woman doesn’t even watch TV, Joel. I doubt she had ever heard of you. Not like I’ve ever told her who you were. Sarah certainly didn’t. God! I can’t believe you yelled at Lily, who, by the way, is the coolest, nicest person I know. How the fuck am I going to face her tomorrow?”

So there Joel stood, right outside his teenage daughter’s room, trying to figure out how to make up for his behaviour the next day.

You went home fuming at this old man of Ellie’s. So rude. So rude! And you were quite sure he was deranged as well, and deaf, to some level. Who the fuck said anything about pictures? Who barks at people they didn’t know like that in public? You were so done with men thinking their own thoughts and comfort matter more than anyone else’s. So done.

This was all Ellie and Sarah’s fault. They had made him out to be this great, caring father who worked hard to raise them both. You actually admired the man, going by the stories they told you about him. Your own Mom died giving birth to you, and your Dad did just about everything he could to raise you. He didn’t fuck around looking for someone else to replace her, he took care of you. He became a Dad, the way a man should. Not just an earner. He was your Dad. He did everything a Mom would, save for breastfeeding. He strapped you onto his chest as he served his customers. Heck, half the town knew you just from being the toddler who grew up in the café. That was your normal, until he met Jenny when you turned five. Their old man, apparently, left Sarah with his neighbour when he’s off to work, but other than that, it was all him. You liked the sound of him. He sounded like a great father figure. You hoped to meet him one day. Tip your proverbial hat at him. Congratulate him for raising such great young ladies.

And then you met him.

Talk about never meeting your heroes.  

Never had either of them said he was a grumpy, self-important, delusional and deaf man. They must know he was like that, surely? They were great at keeping that bit of him a secret then, bravo girls for wanting to keep the fact that your Dad was an asshole to yourself. You were shaking when you drove off. You were glad the door hit him on his shoulder as you closed it. How you wished it was his face.

No one should mess with you these days. You were no longer the impressionable young woman you once were. You just turned 40. You literally did not have the time to give a shit. And no, you didn’t have any more fucks to give to anyone, let alone accept treatment like the one he gave you. It was amazing when it finally happened. You had heard rumours of women turning 40 and just said fuck it. You woke up at 4.30 am on your 40th birthday to your neighbour screeching in the shower, yet again. You had been too polite to say much before, simply asking her to keep it down whenever your paths crossed, which she decidedly ignored. That day, like magic, you decided enough was enough. You recorded that off-key screeching and sent it to the chat group for the whole apartment, telling everyone whose lovely voice that was, and which unit she lived in.

The less than flattering replies that resulted ensured that neighbour of yours, a young, vapid little thing, never sang again. Good for you, and everyone else in her vicinity. You did everyone a service that day. You actually came home to a basket of exotic fruits and flowers the next week, the bliss the silence had brought was more than enough for people to chip in and splurge on you.

You liked this new you. You’re old. Your hair hurt. You threw your back out sneezing. You needed a pee every hour. You were miserable, the world owed you one, so fuck everyone else.

And yes, fuck this man who barked at you as if you were begging him for scraps at his table. Maybe the next time you saw him you should give him a coffee ground shower, accidentally, of course. Let him scrape and dig for errant coffee ground from the crevices of his person. That’ll serve him right. Bastard. If only you were classless enough to spit into his coffee next time. The only saving grace the jerk had was the horrific thought that your Dad would roll over in his grave if you did that…

By the time you got your truck washed, you checked your phone to see about 20 texts from Ellie begging you to forgive her old man and asking if she still had a job. Your heart immediately softened. You told her it’s all good, and then your Uncle Bill called. You spent the rest of the evening hanging out with him, going home only to faceplant into your pillow, forgetting to text the worried teenager back.

Ellie walked up to you slowly. You were already entertaining your long line of customers, all in a rush to get their morning coffees to get to work. You basically didn’t have time to stop in the mornings, working alone. You could manage, of course, but having Ellie to help with the cleaning in the evenings did help a lot. At least you could put your feet up a bit, and the clean up took half the time come closing. She waited until you were readying the to go cups for the pouring espresso before meekly asking you if she still had a job. You rolled your eyes an gave her a playful ‘what do you think’ look, to which she gave a huge sigh of relief, climbing in to make herself a cup of iced tea before running off to class.

You went about entertaining your next few customers, the line usually endless at this hour, chatting with them as you readied their much needed morning dose of caffeine. They were mostly your regulars, and these five minutes on a weekday were all you had with them. You asked them about their sick child, that promotion they were hoping to get, that car they had to send to the shop, the vacation they were looking forward to, that date they were dreading, the presentation they were not quite prepared for, somehow making the wait less arduous, a smile on your face the whole time.

Someone finally paid using cash, so you focused on the till for a bit, until a clearing of a manly throat made you look up, a smile at the ready for his order.

Oh. It’s him.

Your smile disappeared. A stern, stone-face met him instead. What can I get you, sir?

His face, the hesitant one that you saw when you first looked up, turned into a flustered one. Words tried to escape his lips but mumbles were all that came out, him panicking and trying hard to tell you his order but nothing coherent came out.

“What, you couldn’t speak? What happened to the fluent spewer of hatred I met yesterday? Cat got your tongue? It’s a simple question. What. Can. I. Get. You. Sir.”

“Erm… I don’t know the name… my daughter… she…”

You rolled your eyes and turned, getting him the Americano Ellie ordered yesterday. But suddenly a thought came to you. Why don't we give him a ridiculous amount of caffeine today? Get him jumping from a caffeine high. That ought to ruin his day, at least the way he ruined yours yesterday.

You smirked as you poured in another espresso shot in his cup, and then another, and then another. You stopped when the cup was halfway full, about six shots in all, before topping it off with hot water. This should teach him. Have a great day today, sir.

You plopped the cup on the sill, your eyes lasering on him, and immediately turned to your next customer, your smile automatically back on, greeting the older lady by name, asking her if you should make her usual? She nodded, placing her card on the reader and waited for her cappuccino patiently. When you gave it to her, he was still standing there, the cup now in his hand. Your smile disappeared yet again, asking him if there was something else he wanted.

“Erm… I haven’t paid, I don’t know how much…”

You kept staring at him, not saying a word. The look you gave him silenced him. You didn’t really want to tell him you were not charging the man who raised Sarah and Ellie any money, but at the same time, you wanted to be petty and not give him any satisfaction today. “Just go, it’s on the house,” you fired, annoyance so prominent coming from you he looked taken aback. He mumbled a hesitant thank you, and awkwardly turned and walked away.

Immediately, you turned to Frank, the professor who was teaching Ellie for the summer, giving him your usual smile, turning around to get his latte.

“What did Joel Miller do to you that you were so angry at him?” he asked, a very interested smile on his face.

Oh, was that his name? You scoffed. “He was a jerk, he was looking for Ellie yesterday and snapped at me when I tried to tell him she was in the bathroom.”

Frank’s face turned into shock. “That’s Ellie’s old man? Ellie’s old man is Joel Miller? The Joel Miller?”

“Yeah, I thought you knew him. You named him. I didn’t even know his name until you told me.”

“I know him from that show, Build with the Millers. I didn’t know Ellie’s old man was a celebrity! Damn!” he placed his card on the reader, taking his coffee, telling you he would see you after class.

Oh, he’s a celebrity huh? No wonder he’s such an ass.

Oh shit. You just gave a celebrity six shots of free espressos.

Damn it.

This was perfect. Now you had more of a reason to hate the guy.

Joel closed the door to his truck, his head spinning from the encounter. You hated him. It was so clear you hated him. He stood in line for a bit before his turn came, watching you work, a sweet smile on your face. He was awestruck. How did you do that? You were so friendly with every single one of your customers. You knew the smaller aspects of their lives. You clearly paid attention. And all of them clearly liked you a lot, talking to you like you were old friends.

He watched you the entirety of his wait, and when your smile snapped shut upon realizing he was there, he panicked. His mind went blank. He had a script and everything, complete with an extremely sincere apology that he rehearsed over and over in his head since he woke up that morning, all the way to the front of the line. It all just went out of his head the moment your eyes lasered in on him.

What the fuck happened to him? He spent years memorizing lines. He could do it without much thought, and he got tongue-tied? What the hell?

He took a sip from the cup, eyes immediately closing at the potency of his coffee. He was wrong yesterday. This was the best cup of coffee he had ever had. He had always preferred strong coffee. But the ones he made himself was always too bitter and burnt, thanks to the broken, ancient coffee machine he had stubbornly refused to get rid of. This was… perfection. Strong, bitter, but there was a tinge of sweetness to it despite the fact that he didn’t add any sugar to it. Your smiling face flashed before his eyes as he took another sip and his heart suddenly felt a bit heavy at the thought that you served everyone before and after him with that dazzling smile of yours. He couldn’t get the image out of his head. Your overalls underneath your apron, the kerchief you had tied on your head, the ponytail peeking at the back, your dimples gracing your cheeks as you spoke, smiled and laughed with your customers, the last two of which disappeared from his view once you realized he was there. As he shifted into drive, for the first time in forever, Joel longed for something. He longed that someday, he would be on the receiving end of that dimply smile too.

He’ll come back tomorrow. His coffee machine was broken anyway.

Part 3

[joaosnovia]

Please make on with kenan and how he has a model gf and gets jealous when fans ship her and her co-workers saying they have more chemistry then her and kenan and likes he’s jealous when reader tells him “I have a kelvin clain shoot with __” and he’s just angry and jealous and then you can do the rest

�� - ‘who’s jeans..?’

summary:: you’re a famous model dating kenan yildiz but he gets jealous when you’re set to model with a guy that people have been shipping you with on the internet.

warnings:: self doubt, idfk atp

writers note:: okay so i wanna get as much done before school starts as possible but still please feel free to continue requesting bc i read all of them as soon as i get them and i love them smmmm! ALSO NOTE TO MENTION THAT THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE PUBLISHED LIKE 4 HOYRS AGO??

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp ; lmk if u wanna be added or removed!

kenan never considered himself the jealous type. he trusted you, knew you loved him, and never doubted it, until the internet started saying otherwise.

it started small, fans commenting under your instagram posts, comparing you and your co stars, the models you worked with. ‘they have so much chemistry,’ they’d say. ‘they’d make such a perfect couple.’

at first, he ignored it. he knew the industry, knew how people talked. but then, the edits started popping up. tiktok after tiktok of you laughing with another model, posing together, staged moments turned into something more by eager fans. ‘this is what real chemistry looks like,’ someone commented under one. ‘way better than her and kenan.’

he never let it show. never mentioned it. but the frustration built up, simmering just beneath the surface.

and then, one night, you were lying in bed beside him, scrolling through your emails, when you spoke, casual, unaware of the storm brewing inside him.

‘i have a calvin klein shoot with gabriel next week.’

he stiffened. ‘who?’

you glanced at him, confused by his tone. ‘gabriel, why?’

he scoffed, shaking his head. ‘of course it’s him.’

you frowned. ‘kenan, what’s wrong?’

he turned to you, jaw tight. ‘do you even see what people say about you two? or do you just ignore it?’

your brows furrowed. ‘kenan, it’s just work.’

he laughed, but there was no humor in it. ‘yeah? because the internet seems to think you two should be together instead of us.’

you sighed, placing your phone down. ‘kenan, you know that’s not true.’

but he just looked away, arms crossed, jealousy burning in his chest.

you reach for his arm, fingers curling around his bicep gently, but he doesn’t relax. his jaw is still clenched, gaze fixed on a point far away, lost in his thoughts.

'kenan,' you murmur, shifting closer to him, your thigh brushing against his under the covers. 'look at me.'

he hesitates before finally meeting your eyes, and the frustration there twists something in your chest. he looks vulnerable beneath the anger, and that vulnerability makes your heart ache.

'i don’t care what they say,' you say softly, your fingers tracing slow circles on his arm. 'they don’t know us. they see a picture, a video, and think they understand. but they don’t.'

he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. 'yeah, but it’s everywhere. i open my phone and it’s just… him. you. people saying you should be with him instead of me. like i’m some... placeholder.'

'your brain is lying to you,' you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. 'you’re not a placeholder. you’re it for me, kenan.'

he shakes his head, still not fully convinced, and you sigh, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek. 'you know how many people tell me i’m lucky to be with you? how many girls would kill to be in my place?' you pause, lips brushing against his jaw. 'but i don’t care about them. i care about you. about us.'

he softens a bit, his hand finally coming to rest on your thigh. 'it’s just... hard not to get in my head about it.'

'i know,' you whisper. 'but next week? when i’m at that shoot? i’ll be thinking about how i get to come home to you. how no camera or photoshoot can compare to this.' you gesture between you two. 'this is real. everything else is just noise.'

his lips quirk up at the corners, and you can see the tension easing from his shoulders. 'you really have a way of shutting me up, huh?'

'one of my many talents,' you tease, grinning when he finally laughs.

he pulls you into his arms then, burying his face in your neck. 'i just hate the idea of anyone thinking they could be better for you.'

'nobody is,' you promise, threading your fingers through his hair. 'nobody even comes close.'

he hums, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. 'just... promise me you won’t fall for him when he starts flexing or whatever during that shoot.'

you snort, smacking his shoulder playfully. 'please. you really think anyone else can compete with you? have you looked in a mirror, kenan? unfair levels of handsome.'

'you’re biased,' he mumbles, though his tone is lighter now, more playful.

'yeah,' you agree, 'biased because i’m in love with you.'

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching yours. 'yeah?'

'yeah,' you nod. 'so no more jealousy, okay? or at least... less of it. you’re too pretty to be frowning this much.'

he grins, finally fully relaxing. 'fine. but i’m picking you up from that shoot. just to make sure this guy knows you’re taken.'

'love when you get all possessive,' you tease, leaning in to kiss him softly. 'but seriously, you have nothing to worry about.'

'guess i just really like you or something,' he murmurs against your lips.

'good,' you smile, 'because i really like you too. even when you’re being a jealous dork.'

he laughs again, pulling you tighter against him. 'just don’t make me fight a model, okay? i can’t have that on my record.'

'no promises,' you joke, kissing him once more as the tension between you finally melts away.

[gunsatthaphan]

.₊ ⟡ ݁ 🏆 2024 Top 10 🏆 ⟡ ݁₊ .

hello! I got tagged by a few people for various kinds of tier-list-posts for this year, so instead of making separate posts that will probably end up being repetitive, I decided to combine them all into one Top 10 list of my personal favorites in 2024. My watchlist was not very lengthy this year, partly because I was busy with work and partly because the quality of many shows was not to my liking. I started a bunch of things and dropped them shortly after, which also included more widely popular ones, for which I did not share the general public opinion. In the course of that, I have become more hesitant to share my thoughts online, as with every mildly critical POV came a number of anonymous people breathing down my neck. Which isn't new for me but by the end of the year I have gotten tired and was debating whether or not I should make this post but then I decided that this is my blog and idgaf about butthurt anons lol. I'm trying to carry this mindset into the new year.

So here is my Top 10 of BL/GLs that I have started and finished this year. A very special shoutout goes to The Heart Killers which owns my ass 100% and I totally would have added it but since we're only on ep6, I feel like it wouldn't be fair to include it in this list - also because I sort of consider it a category of its own lol.

I had no trouble picking this as my number one, simply because it's an outstanding production with an S-tier cast and a very powerful and well executed script. I've always loved Up but Poom took the cake for me in this, I was absolutely starstruck by him and his screen presence, he's a big surprise for me and has become one of my personal favorites this year in terms of acting. I could fill books with reasons why I love this show.

I had to include this even though it's not finished but I'm really blown away by it. The GLs I previously watched were okay but did not strike me quite as much as this one. I knew I would love Film and Namtan together from the moment they got paired as they're both insanely skilled and I was not disappointed. They understand the assignment 100% and so does Snap25 and it really shows. I'm obsessed.

Speaking of masterpieces, this is another one. It didn't get much attention sadly, mostly because TayNew did not deliver the dynamic the general BL population was hoping for. Their loss. This is an amazing production from start to finish, the 4 of them are the best possible casting choice for their characters, the found family trope is one of the best I've seen and especially TayNew delivered another gem with this one. I shall never doubt them again. This is how you do bromance. Certain other shows could never. send tweet.

Ah yes. No year goes by without the obligatory Mame guilty pleasure lol. What can I say. FortPeat as annoying southern scuba boy meets snobby whiny writer on a beach. How can I look away. I genuinely enjoyed this, it feels like the story was written for them, it's a perfect fit for them and their range I think plus I'm glad that Aya finally found a GL partner that matches her energy lol. I loved both couples and even though the plot did lack sometimes, you can count on MMY to serve S-tier chemistry no matter what. A+.

This is my personal hidden little gem, a small production with not a ton of attention, let alone good reviews but sometimes those are the best ones. The beginning was a bit slow but it quickly picked up. I decided to give it a watch mostly because I was curious about Charles' followup bl role and ended up getting very attached lol. So much softness and deep emotions and mutual healing that happened here and that I appreciated a lot. This was also my first Taiwanese BL in I think 3 years(?) I loved it.

I was very excited to watch this and see what Change 2561 came up with after Pit Babe and even though I'm not the biggest fan of cooking plots, I ended up enjoying this a lot! I've been a SailubPon and GarfieldBenz connoisseur since Pit Babe and it was so nice to see them in the spotlight in this. I saw a bunch of people drop it because they found Plawan annoying but I disagree lol. I had a very good time.

I initially tuned into this for Seng and Best, just to see what they're up to these days and it ended with me eating the whole thing up lol. The unapologetic approach to topics like sex education mixed with the sweet love stories that came with it is one of the things I appreciated + enjoyed a lot. I was a big fan of Peak and Thanwa and would definitely watch another show with Seng and Best as I really love their dynamic. Latte and Almond had a good start but fell a bit flat towards the end. Still a very deserving 7th place for me.

I was sooo excited for this and overall it did not disappoint, though I think it could have been better in some aspects. The comprehensive vibe was juvenile but not in a bad way. I anticipated gmmtv would choose a trope-y plot for their first GL to test the waters and it seems they succeeded. The main reason I put it as number 8 is the AylinLuna side story which I very strongly disliked for multiple reasons I won't get into here. But MilkLove did a fantastic job and this was a very nice debut for them. Thumbs up!

This might be the most unexpected gem for me this year. I started watching it because I was bored and nothing else was on and I was curious to see Dunk in his first solo gig. Surprisingly he did a big leap forward with his acting in this and White was by far my favorite character. Lune on the other hand was my least favorite which was another surprise as I previously loved Phuwin as Peem in We Are so I'm not sure why Lune was so unlikable. But anyway this was a very nice combination of different cute little stories, LuneStar were very trope-y but White saved a great deal of it by being the third wheel lol, plus the BL sideplot was pure sugar. I'm sad we won't see Ryu and Java together again and I resent them not giving us that well deserved WhiteIvy endgame but overall I enjoyed this a lot!

Never thought I would put a Siwaj production in my Top 10 but I'm tired of pretending I didn't secretly love this lmao. So much chaos but so much fun. It's a typical ensemble show, mostly aimed at a domestic audience with lots of slapstick and horseplay comedy, but I ended up being quite fond of all the couples. The main crystallization for me was that this is PondPhuwin's territory, this is the type of show they belong in imo. They excel at this kind of comedy and they seemed very careless and joyful in this, which I enjoyed and which made them a decent main couple. The QToey plot was a bit draggy and even though it's a big cast, 16 episodes were not necessary, which is why it gets the 10th place. But overall it still deserves to be in this list.

Thanks again to everyone who tagged me; in this and other things over the year, I appreciate you thinking of me!! 🥺🧡 I didn't manage to reply to every tag but know that I see them all and I try to do as many as possible! Also a big thank you and much love to all the lovely people I talked to this year, especially @lattexalmond, @mayalunas @bl-recs-and-reviews and @my-wandering-rabbit, I love and cherish each one of you! 🧡 Happy New Year to everyone who read this far, here's to a kind and successful 2025 with groundbreaking shows lol. I'm hopeful.

xxxx

[orbitariums]

warmth | patrick zweig, art donaldson + black fem reader (pt. 1)

you guys really liked the snippet i posted so it's finally here! this will probably have a second part <3 (let me know if you'd like to be tagged for that!)

content: smut (oral f. receiving, fingering, handjob), childhood best friends trope, patrick and art are acting like high schoolers again, reader is rich bougie conniving hippie writer hybrid ...

reader, patrick and art are childhood best friends who conveniently were all in love with each other, or at least had enough sexual tension to make it feel that way. fast forward almost a decade later, and reader has made it onto the red carpet with her fantastic pen, and patrick and art have gone pro. when she invites them to her house for a star-studded friendsgiving, tensions rise and old doors open, springing forth new possibilities. this is only the beginning.

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warmth

“We should just turn around now, save ourselves the embarrassment.”

Patrick paid Art no mind, rolling down the window and leaning out of it, pressing the buzzer as you had dutifully instructed them in your email invite. 

“Too late now. Already threw away about a gallon of gas just coming up the hill to this place,” he replied, the sense of ease in his voice only egging Art on even more. 

“Exactly why we should leave. I mean, fuck. Does she have to live on a hill?”

“Residence of [last name], to whom am I speaking?” a male voice rings on the other end. 

“Uh…” Patrick starts, Art reaching up over him, 

“Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson?”

A silence filled the air. Patrick swatted at Art, forcing him back in his seat. 

“Why’d you say it like a question, dumbass?”

Art stammered,  already starting to get red in the face,

“I was --”

The gate swung open and both the boys let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you!” Patrick chimed, smirking over at Art, who seemed to be sinking in his seat. 

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Meanwhile, you were inside the mansion that you call home, flowing around the kitchen like there weren’t about fifty people milling about and mingling amongst one another. It smelled like something out of Hansel and Gretel -- from the fragrant brown roasted turkey sitting in the oven, to the gourmand scent of perfectly caramelized candied yams, to the vanilla musk perfume you dotted on your wrists. A black mini Schnauzer nipped excitedly at your feet as you added half a cherry tomato to the giant bowl of salad you’ve been prepping for the last twenty minutes. You look like a pro, like a party of this magnitude is no big deal to you.

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“Do we ring the doorbell? Or maybe… should we knock?” Art questioned, hands tied behind his back as he glanced up at Patrick for answers. 

“It’s open,” Patrick retorted, but he too stood stupefied at the door like a weary traveler wavering in horrific awe before the mouth of some epic beast. 

“On three?” Art suggested, and when he didn’t hear a response, he started to count, “one… two…”

Patrick stepped in before Art could get to three. Art scoffed, but followed behind him anyway. 

The both of them stood there silently, taking the grandiosity of it all in — the sky high dome ceiling, two grand wooden staircases directly opposite one another, the shiny verdant porcelain flooring, the Basquiat painting hanging above the wide bookcase directly in front of them. Mouths open, they looked like they were ready to catch flies. 

“Fuuuck me,” Patrick breathed out heavily. Art’s head was stuck staring up at the ceiling, so high he thought it’d never end. 

“You made it.”

Both Art and Patrick seemed to stand straight at the sound of your voice, like soldiers at attention. You almost laughed, but instead, you stood there coolly, smiling at them both with your lips and your eyes— in them, a look that was almost knowing, wise beyond your years. It seemed like a lifetime before either of them would speak. They spent half of that lifetime practically gawking at you, drinking you in. And how could they not, when you were practically draped in that baby blue silk dress, the flowy bottom dancing above your ankles. You looked more beautiful than they remembered you, calmer, secure — of course, they hadn’t seen you since they were teenagers. Now there was this air of timelessness about you that was only just poking at the surface when you were in high school, now it surrounded you. Something mystic encompassed your entire spirit, dripping from your head to your feet. They’d spent years seeing you from behind a screen, being interviewed on live TV, attending red carpets for award shows, blending in with the Hollywood mecca — another beautiful twentysomething industry talent. But the glow of the television that seemed to give everyone a perfectly filtered sheen was nothing compared to your beauty here. 

“It’s so good to see you,” Patrick broke the silence first, practically lurching forward with open arms to embrace you. His beard scratched against your cheek. You could smell the cologne that was beginning to wear off, mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke. His arms nearly sucked you in. 

When he pulled away, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the way he smiled at you so fervently. 

“Good to see you too, Patrick…” you glanced over at the mousy boy who didn’t seem to have changed much since high school. “C’mere, Artie.”

Art chuckled: a nervous huff of relief, inching forward into your open arms and nuzzling his chin into your shoulder, closing his arms around your midwaist. You could smell the aftershave that clung to his jaw, and the detergent still fresh on his clothes. 

You pulled away, but took one of each of their hands, squeezing. 

“My two boys. Man, how long has it been?”

“Oh, just a while—”

“Seven years,” Art interjected. 

“Who’s counting, right?” Patrick grinned, making all of you laugh. 

You looked at them almost expectantly, eyes wide like a doe, the slightest smile playing at your lips. They looked back with bated breaths. Always, you were in charge, always. It had been like this since the scabby-kneed days of childhood. If you wanted to play on the swings, they were there on either side of you. You were the queen of the sandbox. In middle school, they snuck extra cookies for you from the lunchroom, and they fought over who got to surprise you with the treat every day. Senior year of high school, in the hotel room in London, when you had them perched on either side of you like baby birds waiting for mother’s return— when you had both your hands on each of their thighs inching further and further up, their lips ghosting against your soft skin, had them panting like puppy dogs, only to leave the minute you heard “lights out.” 

It had been seven years since then and still, it was the same. Only this time, you were stupidly rich, thanks to the soaring success of your two psychological thriller books turned TV series. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten about them, or didn’t care about them now that you were rich and famous. You’d gotten accepted to study creative writing at Brown, Art went to play at Stanford, and Patrick went on his path to go pro. It was just the process of growing up. You were delighted to see that they were only a click away thanks to the internet, just one click away from reintegrating into your life. Your childhood best friends. 

“C’mon, lunch is almost ready.”

Friendsgiving. Who didn’t love the concept? It was a readily welcomed, wholesome idea — friends of all ages and backgrounds coming together to rehash their Thanksgiving with leftovers, stories from the year, and maybe a game of cards. Except your friendsgiving was attended by A-list actresses, Cannes festival attending screenwriters, and the odd Grammy nominated artist. And your friendsgiving was not at all an intimate affair — it may as well have been a club party. Most people were outside, dancing, shrieking with laughter, drinking, and skipping their way to their seats. Your backyard was vast and verdant green, with a pool in the center, the perimeter lined with lemon and peach trees, and miles to explore. 

“This is fucking insane, is that Dakota Johnson?” Patrick scoffed. He and Patrick had been left to their own devices yet again, while you flitted around being the hostess with the mostest, easing and gliding about. A laugh here, a clink of glasses there, and a coolness to you that stood in striking comparison with the warmth that stirred deep down inside you. A warmth that could be served with a ladle into goblets, like some elixir with magical properties only you possessed. 

“No, you idiot, that’s— oh shit. That might be Dakota Johnson.” 

Clink clink clink. 

“Everybody, hi, hi! Thank you for coming, please, sit down,” you called out, clinking your glass to get the attention of your guests. Patrick and Art scrambled to find seats, ending up at a table with people who might have been minor celebrities or art critiques or designers -- at least one of those options. 

“I wanna thank you all so much for coming, this really means a lot to me. I know these sorts of things can be really hectic, but you guys make this house feel like a home. I’m glad that some of you will be staying with me for the next few days, there’s always room for more,” you glanced over at Art and Patrick. “Some of you are new friends, some of you I’ve known for far too long. But I think it’s incredibly fucking cool that we’re all here together now in this moment, just enjoying each other’s presence. I do this every year, and every year I meet even more amazing, talented, fascinating people and you all are so dear to my heart. And now, what we’re all waiting for… lunch is served!”

A cacophony of cheers rang out as staff rushed about to place plates in front of everyone. You stood giggling, basking in all of it. 

The rest of the afternoon Patrick and Art spent attempting to blend in as best they could. They were pro tennis players, but this was another level of stardom that they couldn’t quite fathom yet. They watched you ruthlessly the entire night, unable to squash those rising feelings of attraction and yearning for you that had never quite simmered to begin with. You’d always been cooler than them, but watching you now there was a certain air to you that belonged to a grown woman, someone comfortable and confident and in their element. You were positively swimming in the sunlight the entire afternoon. It was like you had this sort of magnetic pull to all things good, rich, and warm. People wanted to be around you. And god, did this prove that. 

By night time, people were finally starting to leave. The sun hung low in the darkening sky, making the fairy lights glow stronger now. The few people that were staying with you for the rest of Thanksgiving weekend had disappeared to their rooms. Besides the waitstaff still milling about, it was just you, Patrick, and Art. The two of them hadn’t meant to stay so long, really. It wasn’t like they were forcing themselves to stick around and be acknowledged by you in a way that felt meaningful. Sure, you’d had your small talk and cracked a few inside jokes, but as much as neither of them wanted to admit it, they needed more. If it was hard to get your attention before, it was nearly impossible now. They were surrounded by so many people who all wanted to network and talk and introduce themselves, they found themselves mingling with your friends, some of them people who they’d seen on screen in the past year,  more than you. They’d been dragged onto the dance floor multiple times by multiple acquaintances, only to gawk at you swaying your hips rather than actually dance themselves. It became overwhelmingly clear, in the midst of their increasingly present desperation, that they should’ve accepted your offer to stay in this castle of a house for the weekend. Neither of them had packed a bag. 

“This is awkward, we’re the only ones left,” Art sighed, still sitting at their table. 

“Let’s just… wait, okay? She might come back out."

"And give us a little speech?"

"Yeah, asshole, maybe she will."

At that very moment, you appeared again, this time clad in a two piece linen pajama set. You didn’t miss the way both their eyes trailed up your legs as you stood in front of them, arms crossed, smiling expectantly. 

“I was hoping you two would still be here,” you said. You glanced between the two of them, that awkward silence filling the air once again. “C’mon. Let’s talk.”

You turned and walked back inside, the two of them trailing behind you.   

"Your house is fucking sick by the way. I mean holy shit," Art blurted once you got to the main entrance hall.

"Feel like I just walked into a page of Architectural Digest," Patrick added on.

You led them up the stairs. Both their eyes dropped to your ass, which poked out just a bit from under the pair of shorts you wore. Silently watching the way your body curved as you walked.

"Ha, thanks. I think I did pretty okay for myself," you replied. 

You led them to the den on the second floor and sat criss cross apple sauce on the lush green couch. Art sat on your left, Patrick on your right. Patrick spread his legs and Art had one foot up on the couch, bouncing against his knee. 

“Sorry we didn’t get to talk much. I was so busy being the host of the year that I didn’t pay enough attention to you two. My favorites.”

Art chuckled,

“Favorites? You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m serious! D’you know how much I missed you guys?”

Patrick scoffed playfully,

“All those TV interviews I watched of you? I wouldn’t even be thinking about us.”

You couldn’t help but grin, that warmth coming through once again. It nearly made the two men melt. 

“Well I was. I always think about you guys.”

Now came Patrick’s voice again, a heaviness to it that almost made you jump,

“Do you think about anything specific?”

Although it had been nearly a decade since you’d last seen each other, you didn’t miss a single thing about either of them. Patrick didn’t mince words, and he never shied away from not just hinting at, but blaring his salacious intentions every time he spoke. You tilted your head towards him, a cool smile tugging at your lips. 

“Just what good times we had.”

A silence, accented with a flood of nostalgia and a pointed reference to those “good times” permeated the air. You took a moment to gaze at the two of them ever so softly — enough for them to feel it, but not enough to make them squirm (though, they were easy to make squirm)— before you decimated the silence by slapping your hands down on either of their thighs and squeezing endearingly. 

“So tell me, where’ve you two been? I’m not the only one on TV these days.”

“Ahh, you don’t wanna hear about boring tennis,” Art waved a hand of dismissal. 

You chortled, a trademark of yours that Art and Patrick had always poked fun at in school,

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“You still laugh the same,” Patrick said, grinning like he was trying not to but was unable.

You chuckled, this time low in your throat, and turned your head to face him again. You and Patrick were similar in the sense that you were always pushing the boundaries, tiptoeing closer and closer to the line — but the three of you had never quite established where that was. At some point, you were all just too close to even think about “the line” or “boundaries” — all of you appeared clueless to societal expectations of friendship, spurting a sort of cultlike relationship where everyone else was an outsider. 

“Do I?” smiling at him like you were warning him not to tease. 

“Yeah, that little snort you do,” Patrick replied, unshaken. 

“You do do a little snort,” Art chimed in, always chirping like he spoke from a less nefarious place. 

“And if I get started on you guys’ little tennis grunts?” you grinned fully now, showing teeth, looking between the two of them and leaning back a bit.

They followed, leaning back against the couch and keeping their heads in line with yours so you were never too far away from them, each of them turning their heads to look at you. 

“No way you actually watch us,” Art replied.

“I do!” you insisted. “Seriously, if you’d asked anybody here you would know.”

“Sure, let me just strike up conversation with George Clooney,” Art shot back.

“Ha-ha,” you bleated sarcastically. “I don’t even know him… but I have walked past him once on the carpet.”

“Look at you,” Patrick smirked. “Little Miss Superstar.”

He punctuated his sentence with a hand on your knee. Your eyes flickered over to him and you caught the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat when he swallowed, felt the way he gazed up at you. You didn’t miss the desire twinkling in his eyes. 

Then Art, always second but not necessarily last, 

“She’s our little superstar, you know that, right?” 

His hand just gently grazing your shoulder.

You let them revel in the moment for as long as you felt appropriate, then huffed.

“You know you guys can stay for the weekend, right? I mean, you should.”

“Oh… no, we wouldn’t wanna impose,” Patrick said, his hand slinking away from your knee.

Another chortle from you,

“You wouldn’t be. This is a five-bedroom house. It’s fine. Besides, don’t you guys wanna actually catch up? I’ll let you torture me with tennis talk.”

Art started to stammer,

“I-I mean… we didn’t bring anything.”

“Just our idiot selves,” Patrick added.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get Charles to get you guys all set up.”

“Charles?”

“Oh, he’s my assistant,” you said nonchalantly as if it were nothing. “You’re not fighting me on this. I want to spend some quality time with my boys. Don’t make me have to beg for it.”

“We could never make you beg for anything,” Art replied, just a little too quickly. 

“I know, Art, that’s why I love you,” you grinned over at him. “So, are we all in agreement? Stay with me. Just this weekend.”

“Yes,” they both replied a little too quickly this time. 

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile. 

“You know… I really, really missed you guys. And those good times we had.”

You let the memory of that night of almosts in London resurge, let their minds run amuck with whatever teenage fantasy was still left over from that night. A moment so brief it could almost be forgotten, could even be flagged as incidental, accidental. Still, the three of you knew, even as grown adults (especially as grown adults), that it would always stick and remain unresolved, unless someone ran to the rescue with some sort of solution. Once again they held their breaths. You stood up, glanced between the two of them like you were sizing them up, and then smiled as if nothing had happened at all — you let them breath. 

“Your bedroom’s the second on the right when you leave here. Charles will help you get set up— I’ll see you guys in the morning for breakfast.”

And just like that, you were gone. The air in the room seemed to clear. Your presence was like a thousand tons of pressure weighing on their bodies and their minds. Finally, they could breathe.

They glanced at each other with the same longing, almost nervous expression — they were just two pubescent boys all over again.

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“I think we should just go for it.”

Patrick lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling with his hand on his stomach, speaking aloud as if into the clouds. Art, who had been gazing into the distance, sitting up against the wall on his side of the room, shook his head at Patrick’s words.

“What are you talking about Patrick?”

The two of them sat in the room that you had put together. They had showered and dressed in the pajamas that were waiting for them, just as you said they would be. The house was practically silent, it was the dead of night. Though you’d left hours ago, that same heaviness in the air seemed to remain in their chests. 

“You know… I mean, she invited us here for a reason, don’t you think?”

Art glared over at Patrick, his brows furrowed and his mouth twisted in a frown,

“Don’t be a creep. We’re her friends.”

“Who want to fuck her, and she knows it. Pretty sure she wants to, too.”

“That was high school, Pat. Get over yourself.”

“Like you weren’t getting your dick wet just from looking at her. C’mon.”

Art throws a pillow at Patrick. It lands square at his feet.

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“I’m just saying, she’s not innocent. She knows what she’s doing. She’s just as perverted as the both of us.”

“Yeah? So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Fucking — I don’t know, something. We should just both go over there and knock on her door.”

Art couldn’t help but sigh heavily — Patrick was always creating some elaborate plot or scheme, but rarely did he ever actually go through with something unless Art was onboard. 

“Patrick, she’s not trying to have a threesome with us. I’m not interested in your porn addict fantasies. Plus it’s the middle of the night, she’s probably asleep. Think she’s gonna wanna sleep with two idiots who fucked up her nighttime routine?”

“So then why are you still here?” Patrick retorted. 

“What? What do you mean?” Art tried to sound normal, but his defenses were up, and they both knew exactly why. 

Patrick turned so he was on his side, facing Art, making sure his words hit just right. 

“You know what I mean. You could’ve just gone home. Could’ve told her that we’ll catch her some other time. But look at you, sitting here, feigning innocence. She’ll think we’re cowards, you know. Seven years later and we still can’t come out and say what is that we want.”

Art swallowed, staring blankly into the distance like Patrick’s words didn’t sting his side. He was right. He almost always was, even if his wording wasn’t the most politically correct or precise. It was just how they were — one too careful, the other one so not. Most of the time, they came together to balance each other out: like fire and ice. But sometimes, like this time, they just threw each other out of whack – an oil spill in a pristine lake. 

“I want a friendship. If you want a fuck, go and tell her that. Goodnight, Patrick,” Art spat, rolling onto his side and turning his light off. 

Patrick sighed heavily like a petulant little boy who’d just been denied a cookie. Maybe in college or high school, Art would have been all ears, and they would have risen from their beds like triumphant kings, and gone on the hunt for their king. But maybe he was right — that was high school. They were too old now, and it was embarrassing. At least if Art had agreed, even if he didn’t fully believe in Patrick, they would’ve gone in together. And so, swallowing his disappointment, Patrick stared up at the ceiling, ruminated for just a bit, and then turned off his light, forcing his eyes shut so he’d fall asleep faster. 

1:10 AM. 

That was the time on the clock when Art opened his eyes next. He woke with a start, like there was something he was meaning to do. Then immediately, he was a bit disoriented. This room was far too big. It wasn’t his. He remembered where he was, and just what he had to do. He rose like an automaton and found his feet swinging to the floor. He threw on the Calvin Klein shorts and shirt your assistant had given him (his pair was white, Patrick’s was black), and slid easily into his slippers. 

Only once he stood did he really catch his breath, and seemingly also his determination. It was like he knew what he was doing, and he was completely okay with it. He even peered over just slightly, to see if Patrick was still asleep. And by the slow rise and fall of his body on his side, he could tell that he was. He was stuck in this dream state between idiocy and confidence, making for mindless determination as he sauntered out of the room and down the hall. He had intent, his head was screwed on straight. He knew where your room was, and he practically marched down the end of the hall. 

As soon as he reached your door, he realized what he was doing, truly realized. He stood there stock still, like a rabbit that had just gotten caught eating a carrot from someone’s garden. He was suddenly confronted by the fact that he was completely alone; your room was at the very end of the hall and completely cut off from the other rooms. Now the heartbeat in his chest was loud and clear, and the slight shifting sound of the fabric of his shorts rubbing against his inner thigh sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Nervous tics settled in, and he felt a rattle go down his spine at the recognition of what he was doing— the sheer arrogance, the assumption he was making. He thought of Patrick, and the betrayal this would be, considering he had just shut him down so profusely earlier. He thought of the fact that it was so easy for him to be so double-sided, to just get up and attempt it on his own, even making sure that Patrick couldn’t possibly be involved. How easy it was for him to be so unfair. He thought of himself, standing there with suddenly sweaty palms and a dry throat. Like a high school boy with blue balls. 

What are you doing?

He thought to himself. He almost turned around, but he heard humming from the other side of the door. No doubt your voice, and no doubt you were very much awake. He could hear music, albeit muffled. He swallowed, closing his eyes like he was bracing for impact, and sighed. If he could remember the words to recite Hail Mary, he would have. Eyes still closed, he knocked. He heard the slight pause on the other side and imagined you perking up slightly and looking around the room to make sure you weren’t just hearing things. Despite his embarrassment, the knock was firm. It was clear it was someone else on the other side of the door. And so, a few seconds later, you swung the door open. 

“Art,” you said, a hint of both surprise and relief in your voice.

“YN,” he replied, saying your name like it was a period to a sentence. 

You were clad in a cream-colored silk slip with a lace trim. A dainty gold necklace adorned your neck, flush against your collarbone. You’d changed again since the last time he saw you, and this outfit did not make it any easier for him to tear his eyes off of you, starting from the necklace, to your breasts, to your legs. The slip was short and nearly see through, revealing your thighs which looked so soft and plush. The pucker of your nipples sheened underneath the thin fabric. The way it clung to your body was almost maddening. You looked fresh as a daisy — like you’d spent hours in the bath, rubbing countless creams and gels against your skin. Art felt suddenly embarrassed like he had interrupted your girl time with his boyish, base desires. You pulled him out of it though, with a slight smile and kind eyes looking up at him.

“You doing okay?” you asked almost playfully, still grinning slightly.

“Yeah, I just uh… wanted to… talk to you,” Art said, not even making eye contact with you and instead very obviously peering inside of your room. You looked over your shoulder like you were trying to see what Art was looking at, then looked back at him. Finally, he was making eye contact with you. He felt like you were scrutinizing him, searching for something to validate this interaction, to validate him. Your warm smile didn’t look all that different from a smirk anymore. 

“Well. I am the host. Who’d I be if I didn’t indulge a late night chat?”

You stepped aside, pushing the door wide open with your back. You nodded at him like a coach, beckoning him,

“Come in.”

And so he stepped inside, and you closed the door behind you. Your room was how he’d expected it to be — reflective of your personality as long as he’d known you, but a hint more sophisticated. Everything rested on a plush chenille carpet. Your mattress, adorned with plush, deep red and green linens, sat on a large wooden bedframe, above which posters of your favorite bands and writers hung — Audre Lorde, Led Zeppelin, James Baldwin, Khruangbin. Across from your bed, there was an almost bulky yet fitting antique dresser. On top of it sat a 1935 Remington typewriter. In the corner, a leather armchair sitting beneath a scallop shade floor lamp, accented by a magnificent bookshelf behind it that was positively full. A desk, scattered with papers and pens and a pair of glasses, yet still tidy. And a vanity, where Art imagined you’d been just a moment before he came in.  And dim, yet comforting lighting. 

“Wow,” Art couldn’t help himself — he truly was an admirer of the details, the little things. And clearly, so were you. It had gotten you this far. He sauntered over to the typewriter on your desk, fiddling with the keys just a bit and tapping the top. You giggled at his nerdy lopsided smile. “This is sick.”

You smiled, placing two hands on your hips, beaming like a proud parent,

“She doesn’t work, but she’s beautiful. That’s honestly my most prized possession.”

Art grinned, truly touched. He turned to face you straight on, feet away from where you stood at the bed. 

“I’m so proud of you, you know.”

The veritas in his voice rendered you bashful for just a moment, looking down and huffing an almost dismissive laugh,

“C’mon, Art, don’t go all soft on me now.” 

Art rose to his own defense,

“I’m serious, YN! Look what you’ve done for yourself… I mean, I couldn’t expect any less, though.”

You waved your hand with a cheeky eye roll, and he started walking towards you, his footsteps causing the floor beneath to creak slightly. It was almost suspenseful, but you weren’t intimidated or in danger, just deeply intrigued and honestly, excited. You watched him, positively ensnared, as he closed the distance between the two of you.  

He took two of your hands in his own like he was putting his life into your hands. That charming smile of his reared its head, accompanied by his blue-brown eyes, sparkling and wet and smiling too,

“We both are, you know. Proud of you.”

You smiled, genuinely at first. Then, it flickered. By the way he faltered momentarily, losing grip of the power trip that he dove into headfirst, you could tell he noticed. Your genuine smile turned slightly smug. 

“Both of you? Why is Patrick not here, then, telling me how proud he is?”

Art did his best to keep smiling smoothly, cocking his head to the side slightly as if to say what can you do? 

“He’s asleep.”

“Right… it is like, one AM. I’m surprised you’re even up, or that you assumed I would be," you kept on prodding.

“Hmm,” he smirked. He shrugged all too casually, so much so that it was cocky. “Guess I’m not that tired.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, nodding sympathetically. 

The both of you relished in this little game you were playing, a game of so few words but oh so much meaning. You held his gaze for just a moment longer, watching as his flickered from your eyes to your lips and back up. Then you sat down wordlessly onto your bed, never tearing your eyes away from his. You patted the spot next to you, and he followed, taking a deep breath that never seemed to exhale. You were sealing his fate in this one moment. 

“I spend a lot of my time holed up in here. That’s why I make it as peaceful as I possibly can. Beautiful too, but not too beautiful. Otherwise, I’d just be distracted and a bit disgusted,” you chuckled at the end.

“Beautiful. Right,” Art replied, his gaze burning a hole into you.

A beat. 

“So what’d you wanna talk about, Art?” 

He knew he couldn’t be imagining the dulcet innocence in your voice that suggested anything but innocence all the same, nor the flicker of desire in your inquiring, wide eyes. All of it, combined with the slight pout on your lips, seemed to come together to create a face that was almost begging. His entire body softened. His eyes went heavy with the confession that was his utter, depraved need to have you. He slowly pulled his bottom lip into his mouth with his tongue and blinked slowly, seemingly unaware of the fact that he was leaning in more and more with every passing millisecond. You stayed put where you were, wanting him to chase you through and through. You kept that poker face, like you didn’t feel your heart racing too. As his face inched closer to yours, his hands started to roam as well, and you stifled a whimpery breath at the touch of those hands against your bare skin. For some reason, you’d always thought he’d have such baby-soft hands, but they were rough and calloused from the weight of the tennis racket that was forever stationed between them. It only made the touch that much better, made you realize how long you’d been waiting for this, his rough hands seeping into your skin like a scar of age. 

“I don’t wanna talk,” he finally said, his voice lilted with need, and his lips nearly flush against yours. 

Finally, he closed the gap between your lips. The kiss was slow and languid, but not for lack of passion. Years of distance would do that, would amplify the mutual pining. You thought, in this interaction that you knew would happen with one or the two of them, that you might be more calm and collected, still wearing that disguise of cool nonchalance, but you were on fire. Your hands were quick to wander as well, up to his face, gripping his jaw, one traveling up to his hair and finding itself tucked beneath the tufts of slight curls. And then his hands were traveling up from your knees to your thighs, to your waist, practically glued to the expensive fabric. The room was silent bar for the sound of the two of you panting like crazed virgins, and the wet sounds of your kissing. 

You needed to gain control back, and quickly. So you pulled away, putting on your best smirk. Deep down, you felt like Art knew it was an act, like he was looking right through you. But at the same time, you knew he was far too ecstatic and anticipatory to call it out or really even notice it in full. And besides, you didn’t care. It was you who held all the glory, both back then and especially now. 

“You two place a bet or something? That was quick.”

Art was still breathing heavily, gazing at you like you were the solution to all his problems. His hands were still roaming widely, like your body was an expanse of wild land, his hands gripping your shoulders and caressing your arms up and down. The confidence boost in him was visible and almost amusing. 

“No bets… but Patrick was saying…”

“What was he saying, hmm?” you placed a hand on his chest and caressed the warmth there. “Why’d you come here, Art? Thought you should close the gap, huh? Answer the age-old question? Wanting to prove yourself?”

You slipped your hand between his legs, grasping the meat of his inner thigh and glaring into his eyes. You felt how he stilled, how his confidence stuttered. Both because he’d been called out, and because if he wasn’t hard before, he was raging now. 

“No…” you squeezed his thigh, your hand ghosting over the erection that sat directly above it, forcing the truth out of him with your touch. He shuddered. “Maybe. Yeah, fuck. Yes. I-I wanted to prove myself.”

“Yeah?” you murmured, slinking towards him like a black cat. You placed one leg over his lap, straddling him. Positioning yourself so your clothed cunt was directly over his erection, which dared to rip through both his boxers and his shorts. You rolled your hips over his cock gently, just once. “This helping you prove yourself?”

You pushed him back, back, back, until his head rested firm on the pillow and you were directly above him, the shape of your entire body clear to him as you straddled him on your bed. He couldn’t speak, only stare up at you in awe, his heavy breaths loud and desperate. You only stayed like this on top of him for a minute before you shimmied down until you were at face level with his crotch. You let your hands explore the expanse of his chest and stomach over his white t-shirt, and then took the bottom of it in your mouth, pulling it up with your teeth in a motion so effortless and tigress-like that Art nearly came on the spot.

“Hmm?” you probed him to answer the question with a demanding hum, the soft fabric of his t-shirt still in between your teeth, gazing up at him from beneath wispy lashes. You let go once he was decently exposed, his tight stomach rising and falling frantically. 

“Fuck, yes,” he rattled, his hips bucking up involuntarily. 

You pushed his hips back down immediately and like a reflex, he started to apologize,

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” 

You ignored him and instead, you practically ripped the shorts off of him and started to palm him through his boxers, admiring the way his cock twitched and jumped beneath the small of your hand. You were attentive, watching as precum started to leak from his tip onto his boxers. You tsked.

“We’ll have to get someone to wash those.”

He squirmed and swallowed a wild grunt in his throat. His head was fully thrown back like he was in the most immense pleasure of his life, and you hadn’t even really started yet. You ground the part of your hand just above your wrist over his erection before peeling his boxers off. You watched as his cock sprung up in the air, thick and red and leaking. A tuft of strawberry blonde hair sat at his mound, but he was still put together. You sat up just a bit so you could place your hand on his cheek lovingly. 

“Look at me, Artie.”

Your voice was so enchanting and soft that he almost forgot you were fucking his entire mind up, and he opened his eyes and looked down at you with the shaft of his cock enclosed in your hand. 

“Fuck,” he huffed, resisting the urge to throw his head back again. 

You maintained eye contact with him as you circled your finger over his wet, pleading tip, spreading the leaking precum around the head of his dick. He glanced away from you and looked at what you were doing, causing his eyes to roll back in his head. It was taking everything in him not to give in completely, and not to cum. 

“No- no - I… I wanna make you feel good first. Please.”

Something in Art’s voice nearly made your heart drop — the wholehearted desperation and earnestness in it. It also made your pussy throb around nothing. The whole night Patrick and Art had been desperate, but now it was like you were finally seeing the extent of it. It was somehow endearing, a reminder of the love between all three of you. Art had always been a giver, and he sought out praise any place he could get it. It came as no surprise to you that he was the same now, but still, it made you indescribably horny. 

You hardly realized you hadn’t responded. That wasn’t supposed to be part of your act, but Art was still pleading all the same,

“Can I? Can I just… taste you or — f-feel you, I-”

You kept your wrist moving in slow and controlled motions up and down his shaft, studying his face as you did: the way his eyes fluttered open and closed with a pleasured squeeze, his mouth perpetually open in gratification.

“It’s so fun watching you fall apart, though,” you replied, but you found yourself working your way up anyway, sneaking your legs up his body like a snake, one on either side of him. 

He grasped onto your hips immediately, groaning at just the sight of you. The moonlight shone through the windows and brightened up the darkness of your room, illuminating your features and painting you under something like a spotlight. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, looking at you with hooded eyes. You steadied yourself, your hand reaching out to grab the bedframe and one of his hands gripped the fleshy underside of your thigh to help you. The more you inched up, the more he could see up the slip, catching a glimpse of your cotton panties, cream-colored with a tiny black bow in the middle. The print of your cunt through them was like an outline, a map to promised land. He sucked in a breath, almost like he was in pain. Your necklace dangled just inches away from your neck, like it was teasing him too.

 “Wanna taste me?” you asked teasingly, lifting your hips above his face and hovering there, forcing him to tilt his head back and look up directly at your cunt, still hidden beneath your panties. You rolled your hips, letting your clit brush against the tip of his nose. He was enamored by the scent, had to physically stop himself from taking a deep sniff. “Hmm?”

“Yes, please, fuck,” he groaned, slightly arching his back up off the mattress just to get closer to you. “Please.”

He pressed a closed-mouth kiss to your clothed cunt, his eyes closed. It was such a gentle, delicate touch that you almost wouldn’t have believed how desperate he was if it weren’t for the longwinded moan that involuntarily escaped his lips when he made contact with your core. You bit down on your lip, breathing out from your nose, and started to grind your hips against his face. He kept kissing at your cunt over and over until it was almost indiscernible what was fabric and what was flesh— your panties had gotten so wet from his mouth and your slick. The wet trace made the friction unbearable, and your pussy throbbed through the fabric onto his face. 

Through a mouthful, Art mewled,

“You taste so good. Please let me eat this pussy.”

This time, his lips peppered kisses around your inner thighs, soft but quick touches, taking in your musk. You decided to stop torturing him, that enough was enough. You lifted yourself up just a bit, and pushed up your slip. You were about to reach your hand down when you stopped and cocked your head with a smirk. 

“Go on, then,” you said. Softly, like it was a suggestion more than it was a command. And Art took it in perfect stride. 

He practically ripped your underwear off, pushing them to the side with a brute swipe of his hand that contrasted wildly with the gentle kisses he had given you before. Literally pushing your panties to the side. He looked for a second, eyes glazed over at the sight in front of him, taking in the sight of your dripping pussy. It looked so warm and wet and inviting, if he weren’t a better man he would’ve had to force himself not to bury his dick inside of you. When he felt he’d gotten a good look of it, savored the moment just enough, he wrapped his arms around your waist, smashing your cunt against his face. His mouth connected with your folds and you felt him sucking vehemently, before slipping his tongue in between your slit, pressing the tip of it against you. You cried out as he collected all the slick from your weeping center, keeping a hand on your stomach to stabilize himself, the other against your asscheek, squeezing every now and then. 

“Oh,” you moaned, immediately starting to grind your pussy against his tongue, your clit once again nudging his nose each time you moved up. Art kept up, positioning the tip of his tongue just right so you rode it each time you wound up, applying just the right amount of pressure. “Yes, Art, just like that.”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed, the vibrations causing you to clench over his face and around the tip of his tongue. Then he flattened his tongue so he could capture the entire surface of your cunt. This time the grip on your ass grew stronger, and soon enough both his hands were squeezing your ass, supplementing your movements. You kept the time you wanted, Art just assisted you in rolling up. You honestly needed it, the way your thighs were starting to shake. 

Art hummed satisfactorily again, enclosing his lips around your clit and suctioning, keeping his tongue out just enough so you could feel both sensations. You nearly squealed, your hand flinging down to push your panties out the way even more. Your back arched in pleasure, creating a whole new angle for Art to lick at and please. His fingers pressed deep into the flesh of your ass, like he was leaving some imprint. Now it was you writhing and moaning, but Art never forgot who was in control. That is, until he took firm grasp of your hips and used that to flip you over so that you were on your back. It was like he never lost contact with your pussy, diving right back down before you could even register what had happened. He yanked your panties all the way down and threw them over his shoulder. 

“Take your shirt off, baby,” you panted. 

He obliged, throwing his shirt off too, and then leaning back in so he could get to work. His arms wrapped around the inside part of your thighs, spreading you apart for him. Before you even felt his mouth, you moaned at the sight of his back and shoulder muscles flexing as he worked. He placed sloppy kisses against your inner thighs and kissed closer and closer to your mound until finally, he was wrapping his lips around your clit once again, using what he could of his tongue to lap up your juices at the same time. You were nearly trembling in pleasure, your hand flying to the back of his head to keep him secure where he belonged. He moaned in response, and you squeezed tufts of his strawberry-blond hair. 

“That’s it, I want you to feel good. Make yourself feel good for me,” he murmured, his nose buried in your cunt, eyes closed in satisfaction and concentration. You glanced down to see that he was grinding his hips ever so subtly into the bed — getting off by getting you off, and you threw your head back. 

“Mhmm. So good, Art, you’re so good.”

This seemed to set him off into a frenzy as he placed open-mouth kisses against your pussy, kissing it like it was a mouth. His tongue lapped you up and sucked you in, making precise, timed movements with the close of his lips around your clitoris. He used his hands to gently push your legs back so they were angled slightly in the air, the new angle causing you to whine. He angled his neck ever so slightly so he was licking the lips, a slender finger prodding at your wet, tight entrance.

“This okay?” he asked, just dipping the pad of his finger in and opening his eyes to look up at you, as if you weren’t lost in your own world of pleasure, eyes shut tight. You opened them momentarily, looking down at what he was doing, the sight of his face engulfed in your pussy and his finger slipping up and down your slit now. You could only manage a moan along with a strangled nod, and he obliged, sliding a slender finger inside of you. Your pussy stretched and then collapsed around his finger, suctioning in like a glove, and now he used his tongue and lips to go from your lips to your clit, all spit and drool and your arousal as he worked his finger inside of you. 

“Fuck,” a strangled grunt left your throat, your pussy tightening around his finger, which made him moan in response. “Art, fuck. I’m getting close.”

“Yeah?” he replied, muffled as it was. He slipped another finger inside of you with ease, wishing he could watch as he felt your pussy sucking him in greedily. Now the slow thrusts of his fingers became more forceful, pushing deep inside of your walls. You nearly screamed at the addition of his finger and the way he curled them inside each time they came to a stop inside of you. 

“Y-yes, fuck, just like that, Art, don’t stop.”

He moaned something incomprehensible, or maybe it was a groan mixed with a sigh, as he continued the expert deft movement of his fingers inside of you and mouth against you, bringing you to rock your hips against his face. You were muttering to yourself now: “so close”, “gonna come” until his fingers finally hit that sacred spot, his lips closed just right around your clit, spit drooling from his mouth, and you fell apart. That devastating feeling peaked in your stomach as Art brought you to your high and you gushed around his fingers and into his mouth. Your moans were girlish and deliciously sweet, momentarily wiping away that facade you’d been playing so good at all night. 

“Fuck, I’m coming!” it was like you were announcing it to yourself, squeezing your legs around his head and practically clamping down on his hair with your hand as you released. He helped you ride out that high, not stopping, but slowing his fingers and easing his lips against your pussy to keep you grounded. 

When you’d finally caught your breath, Art pulled back, his chin and cheeks absolutely soaked.  

“You taste so fucking good, YN,” he said it like it was a fact of life, as simple as “the sky is blue,” trying to ignore the fact that his load was prone to explode any second now. 

“C’mere, I wanna taste,” you implored. Shakily, he pulled himself up and above you, letting you cradle him in your arms, one around his back and the other cupping the nape of his neck, as you captured him in an open-mouthed, sloppy, slow kiss. You could feel his cock sticking out of his boxers and poking your leg and in one swift movement you slipped your hand between the two of you and pulled him out, your hand wrapping around him. He couldn’t help but take notice of how your hand fit him perfectly, like a glove. 

His hips started to stutter, quite literally, he nearly fell on top of you, gasping desperately.

“Fuck,” he drawled slowly, lips still brushed against yours, pinching his eyes closed. “T-this is s-so—”

He spoke between full-body twitches and spasms of his cock. You pouted slightly, running your fingers through his hair,

“Use your words, Artie. Whatsa matter?”

He chuckled, hanging his head low and shaking it slowly,

“It’s just I’m so — fuck,” his words morphed into a whine when you used your finger to circle around his tip, which was positively leaking with precum. “I… I’m so sensitive right now. I’ve been trying not to come for like thirty minutes.”

You both laughed, genuinely amused. 

“You wanna come?” you entreated, gazing at him with a look that almost resembled concern. 

His smile dropped as his face morphed into that of desperation, that of need, and he nodded earnestly,

“Yes, please. Please make me come, YN. Make me come h-however you want me to.”

“Yeah?” you implored, the palm of your hand closing over his tip to gather slick and then spreading it all down his shaft. “Want you to look at me while you come. Can you do that for me?”

Art felt pressure building in his chest as his breaths grew more and more erratic and he forced himself to look you in the eyes, responding with an affirmative albeit strangled whimper that was supposed to resemble the word “yes.” You rewarded him by stroking him faster now, your hand a tight grip around his shaft, the sound of his wet skin and your open hand slapping against his balls overwhelmingly lewd. His eyes fluttered closed for just a minute, and his head cocked to the right, his mouth opening while no sound came out. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his hips started to buck up into your hand, supplementing your strokes. 

“F-fuck, YN, that’s– fucking incredible, Jesus Christ. Please, I’m gonna–” he stammered, looking up at you like he was pleading with you. You simply returned his gaze and smiled, that warm, all-knowing smile of yours, and he fell apart. His entire body, hot to the touch, seemed to shake uncontrollably as he burst, thick ropes of cum spilling out of him and splashing onto your hands and your thighs. 

“Fuck!” he whined almost pathetically, his hips faltering to an unsteady stop as he released.

You kept your hand there, slowing to languid, gentle strokes as he rode out his high until you were sure he’d emptied the last of his cum in the crease between your thigh and hip. He tried his best not to collapse on top of you, but you knew he was weak. 

“It’s okay,” you reassured him, and he fell on top of you with a limp thud, groaning as he buried his face in your chest. 

The two of you lay there catching your breaths, sweaty and hot to the touch. When Art finally got up, he laid next to you on his side. His face was red, and not just because of the exertion. 

“Fuck. I’m so sorry, I-I don’t know what came over me, probably crushed you,” he laughed apologetically.

You replied by using two fingers to gather what you could of his cum, smiling writhely as you licked them clean. He watched intently, absolutely enraptured. You did it again, reaching down to your thigh and gathering up his cum. This time, your fingers prodded at his lips. He nearly rattled with arousal. Easily, he obliged, opening ever so slightly, and wrapping his lips around your fingers, sucking the taste of himself clean off. You smiled at him admiringly. He couldn't help but laugh around your fingers,

"Fuck, that's so hot. I'm so sorry."

“Don’t apologize. You did so well.”

Suddenly, Art sat up. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

You giggled, your eyes twinkling as you looked up at him, amused by this sudden display of responsibility. 

“Do I seem that fragile?” you teased.

“Oh, on the contrary. I just, I don’t know. Aftercare is important.”

So you spend the next half hour being doted on by Art as he soaped down your body in the tub. It’s the most intimate you had been the entire night, and he realized now that this was the most detailed he’d seen your body. He wanted you like this forever, being carefully pampered under his adoration, gazed upon by his eyes only. For a moment, you worried that this was somehow crossing a line, but you swallowed those thoughts just as quickly as they surfaced. The line had already been crossed when you reached out to them. Sure, you wanted to see how your two favorite white boys were doing, and you were excited to rekindle the friendship that had molded your life for so long. 

But like Art walking to your door, you knew what it was that you wanted, and you knew that you were opening up a can of worms. Besides, you really did love Art, and you loved Patrick too. It was the sort of platonic love that could only be understood by people who had been friends as long as the three of you had. The kind of love that was still there for the taking years later. It didn’t need constant stoking to keep the flame. So, neither of you made this routine— this gentle touch in the water, loofah running across your back and Art’s fingers digging into your shoulders to loosen you up — a big deal. 

By the time the water drained, you were absolutely zonked. You didn’t realize how late it was and just how much energy the whole ordeal had taken out of you. Your orgasm was so strong you were surpised you didn’t fall asleep then and there. Art used a towel to dry you off and had to practically carry you to your bed. He was lucky you didn’t see the shit eating, self-satisfied grin on his face — he liked being a caregiver, and throughout all the years that you had been friends, it was rare that you ever let him take care of you like this. 

You threw the sheets over yourself, lashes batting as you looked over at Art, who was kneeling on the floor next to you, at face level with you. He was smiling so wholesomely that you couldn’t help but reach your hand out and stroke his face, your thumb resting on his sharp jaw.

“You’re good to me, Art. You both are. I really did miss you two. I keep saying it but I want you to know it’s true. Didn’t just invite you guys here to live out some old fantasy.”

“I missed you so much,” Art could melt from the touch of your hand on his cheek. He tilted his head slightly to kiss your fingers gently, cupping your hand over his. “I know you, YN. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

You yawned,

“I’ve been a rotten friend, though. Don’t know what took me so long to invite you guys to one of these. I thought about it every year, but decided against it every ime.”

Art waved his hand, shaking his head in dismissal of your comments,

“You’re a perfect friend. We’re the rotten ones.”

“See? You’re just the sweetest,” you grinned, your eyes sparkling. “I’d let you sleep with me, but—”

“Patrick,” he concluded.

“Don’t want him to be mad you didn’t tuck him in,” you giggled. 

In the back of Art’s mind, he wondered if it would’ve gone the same way if Patrick had been the one to knock on your door. He knew it would, but it was nice to pretend that it was something he had to think about. He wondered what you would’ve done if they’d both shown up. Almost laughed to himself at how little self-control he had, while you were like a rock. 

“He’s asleep anyway, but I should be there in the morning so things aren’t weird… things won’t be weird, will they?”

You shook your head, though some part of you knew that Patrick would even out the scorecard soon enough. He always did, competitor that he was. He was so hard to resist, and it’s not like you were resisting him very much in the first place — you’d invited the both of them, it was just a quirk that Art had been the one to do it first. You’d half expected Patrick to show up by himself, if it wasn’t the two of them. But one thing about Art was that he wasn’t some stick in the mud — he could be a wild card, and if he was anything like that ball of energy he was back in high school, you knew he could get shit done. 

“It could never be weird. It’s us,” you replied with certainty. 

Art leaned in, pressing his lips against yours in a soft kiss. 

“Go back to bed, Artie. I’ll see you at breakfast,” you grinned. 

“Goodnight,” he crooned. 

“Goodnight,” you replied. 

He stood up and walked out the room, though part of him was longing to stay there for just a bit longer, if not the whole night. But he knew this was just a one-time thing, just a way to let out that pent-up tension. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t already thinking about showing up to your door tonight, and the next night, spending each warm summer night here buried inside of you, pulling his name from your mouth in pleasured sobs, making you come undone with his fingers once again. But, dutiful as he was, he walked back to their room, careful not to make a sound as he pulled off his shirt and stepped back into bed— staring up at the ceiling while he replayed moments over again in his mind. Like high school all over again. 

[chiefdirector]

I love you, it's ruining my life | Tim Bradford | The Rookie

I love you, it's ruining my life

The first day was the easiest of all. His world has come crashing down around him and yet he was still standing amongst the rubble. Tim didn't know what was true anymore, the love of his life has disappeared right before his eyes and he was helpless to change that.

He spent the entirety of the first day on the streets of Los Angeles, he rookie by his side, searching for his wife but it was fruitless. He returned home alone.

The second day was worse. Just as he returned home by himself, he woke to an empty bed, her pillows still indented from the last time she had slept there. He didn't make the bed, instead he shoved the sickening feeling that had begun to grow back down and left for work.

The second day of searching for his wife turned up the same results as the first. She was a detective of the LAPD, and yet not a single officer could offer a lead as to where she had gone. She had been taken away with the wind, never to be seen again.

He didn't want to admit it but as the days and weeks passed by, Tim oculd feel his hopelessness return. He was a police Sargent, he knew the statistics on missing persons cases. And it wasn't like she was without her enemies, there was a never-ending list of people who would want to harm her. It was a risk of the job, but yet he never thought it would effect them.

All my mornings are Mondays stuck in an endless February I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary

Despite only a year passing, there was more evidence leading to declare her to be dead rather than another name on the missing-persons list. Tim thought that her funeral would have been the hardest day; watching the empty coffin be lowered into the ground damn near killed him too, but his heart kept beating. It was agonising but he kept on living, he couldn't stop living.

The worst day came only a few weeks later. The memory of the day was fleeting; hazed by the rush of emotions and the actions taken. One moment he was in Sargent Grey's office, and seemingly in the next, he was running through the woods watching her run towards him also.

They crashed together, his arms wrapping around his body, bringing her warmth closer to him. Not matter how close she was, she needed to be closer to him; he didn't want to be apart again, his heart wouldn't be able to take it.

I love you, it's ruining my life

He never wanted to feel that pain again. To love someone as much as he loved her could only leave one of them suffering. He knew that he wouldn't survive loving her and losing her again. He needed to protect himself this time.

He knew that despite everything that happened she wouldn't step back from danger, instead she would come up with a million and one reasons why he was being unreasonable. He had only one option, to make her believe something untrue.

So the worst day came around the following morning, as he sat her down at the breakfast table they had once spent their days laughing over.

"I can't do this anymore," He said, hating himself as the words come out, "I can't live like this, waiting for the call to find out you've been hurt - or worse. I've lived through it and it nearly killed me. I can't do it again."

Panic crossed her face, as she tried to process his words, "Tim, what do you mean?"

"I can't keep waiting for the worst to happen. I love you, and it's ruining my life."

And for a fortnight there, we were forever

-------

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[chloessleepystories]

Rabbit Hole

Based on a true story

Zoe was slumped down in the back row of the classroom, scrolling through Tumblr on her phone instead of paying attention to the teacher. Like usual.

Oh, here’s a sexy picture to share. Here’s a gif to attach a few lines of dialogue to… She liked teasing the boys (and girls) online, and they liked teasing her. Especially when she was in class and couldn’t do anything about her rising horniness.

Oooh, a hypno story, her favorite. She checked that the teacher was droning on, and not looking her direction, and started reading. Just a couple paragraphs in, she knew it was a good one. She reblogged it to finish reading later, and to share it with her followers (her many, many followers… how had that happened?) and kept scrolling. Ooh! A spiral! Don’t get distracted… But uunnnfff, so easy to get distracted… to get drawn in…

She shook herself, sharing the spiral with a drooling smiley face, and moved on.

“I’m a little concerned, looking at your last batch of papers, that so many of you got to college without apparently learning how to punctuate a simple compound sentence, much less to fill it with original thoughts…” Miss Thompson was saying.

Zoe squeezed her thighs together, feeling the arousal spread through her body. She looked around. Nobody looking. Good. She knew she should be listening, should be taking notes, but all she could think about was her needy pussy.

The constant alerts from her phone kept drawing her back to the glowing rectangle in her hand. BUZZ. Another favorite blog had just shared something, Tumblr wanted her to know. BUZZ. Someone was tagging her in a pic of one of her favorite porn stars. BUZZ… 

She was powerless. She had to look, every time the phone buzzed. Every time Tumblr fed her more. She didn’t used to be like this, did she? She used to have, like, an attention span and stuff? Could leave her phone alone for a few hours? Now she was addicted… like she had conditioned herself to salivate at the buzzer. 

Or been conditioned, came a whisper. 

Been brainwashed. 

Cuntwashed.

Drippy cunt. Salivating pussy…

BUZZ. 

Ooh! a hot little gif that someone wanted her to see – “wanna ride me like this?” he asked, adding Zoe’s handle. Where was the teacher? Zoe knew she should scan for Miss Thompson again, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

BUZZ BUZZ. Three more guys wanting to talk to her privately. She was already keeping four conversations going…

This one, for instance, was telling her, in detail, what he would be doing to her if they were in a hotel room together right now. She was giving as well as she was getting, egging him on, hoping he was stroking to her words the way she wished she could be rubbing to his. This one was begging her to punish him, and reveling in her attempts to be domineering. And this one… oh, this one kept sending spirals, and inductive texts, drawing her ever downward (or trying to), making her sleepy, making her horny… making her a mindnumbed cockslave…

She tapped the little pencil symbol to make a public post.

“You guys are making me so horny!!!” she typed.

I’m supposed to be paying attention to the teacher right now but my tumblr feed is full of porn and 3 of you fuckers are having hot conversations with me trying to make me horny and IT’S FUCKING WORKING I’m sure my neighbors can smell me I’m so turned on I can feel how drippy I am goddammit I need to stroke I’m not gonna make it

That was a mistake, of course. As she knew it would be. The sharks smelled blood in the water, and circled.

“Just keep watching little slave. Soon you’ll be my little cock hungry whore”

“It’s just so nice to be able to turn off your brain for a while, ya know? Join me?”

“And when I say “horny bunny” you’ll have a powerful urge…”

“Mmm damn what a view! Your nice tight pussy wrapped around my cock feels so damn good. I’m going to enjoy fucking you hard, bottoming out hitting your womb”

“…And then one day you wake up and you’re an empty headed pink bimbo, with no thoughts in your dumb bimbo head but getting bigger tits and pleasing your Mistress’s pussy…”

Another public post:

Ogod now ur all piling on cumming our of the woodwork why csnt i turn off this app why do i keep lookin im not gonna make it im such a dumb hotny cow 

Sent.

And back to messaging, the words pummeling her brain –

Blank. Obedient. Responsive. Counting from 10. Letting your mind slide away. Relaxed. Empty. No thoughts. 8. Letting go….

Then, even before she could register the shadow over her desk, a hand snatched the phone from her fingers.

“You know the rules about phones in my class, Zoe,” said Miss Thompson. Zoe made a choked whimper, her fingers mindlessly twitching after the phone.

“You can get it back later. If you’re good.”

If you’re good. If you’re a good girl. Good girls obey.

Zoe whimpered again, as Miss Thompson walked away. She was going to have to sprint to the ladies’ room when class was over. The phone would have to wait. Her clit was throbbing… and she needed to obey.

*****

Later, after everyone had filed out, Miss Thompson carefully and (BUZZ) meticulously wiped clean the blackboard. She liked the board to be as neat (BUZZ) and tidy as her desk.

(BUZZ)

What on earth was – Oh. Right. That girl’s phone was still on the desk. Vibrating away, for some unknown reason.

She sat down and picked it up, turning it on. Silly child didn’t seem to have a lock on the –

A rainbow of porn leapt out of the screen and slapped Miss Thompson about the face.

Cocks going into young women’s mouths. A girl’s tongue on a pussy. “Zoe, are you still there?” Breasts, so many breasts. “Zoe, girl, look how hard you made me…” A maelstrom of dark and light flesh that she couldn’t make sense of for a moment, until she saw the caption “gangbanged fuckslut made airtight with BBC”… which, to be frank, didn’t ENTIRELY explain the picture to Miss Thompson, but it let her figure out what some of the shapes were…

Horrified, repulsed, Miss Thompson started scrolling. And couldn’t stop scrolling. Stories of incest and bondage. Lewd photos and gifs, scenes of decadence and degradation. She shook her head, her mouth open, but she couldn’t stop…

And the hypnosis. Over and over in the girl’s feed, the hypnosis! Glassy eyed girls with drooping mouths, baring their breasts… Women with spirals in their eyes, and cocks in their mouths… Flashing gifs with pictures and words, too fast to follow, telling her how she should be, how she must be, how she knew she already was, if she would just admit it to herself… Inductions, and fantasies, and more spirals, and submissive, drooling women, eager to serve cock, to serve pussy, to become slaves to their own needy cunts…

Miss Thompson hadn’t noticed how hard her nipples had gotten. She hadn’t noticed how wet her own cunt was, until she found herself dipping in a finger… She bucked against her hand, but didn’t stop stroking… just kept scrolling… 

Someone calling himself Master of Mystery – except with some of the letters replaced by numbers – BUZZed into a private message. “Getting pretty horny, Zoe? Pretty needy and desperate?”

“No,” she found herself typing. “I mean, no, I’m – I’m not… No.”

“Oh, you certainly sounded pretty desperate to me. You sounded like a little slut who needed permission to cum… A naughty fucktoy who can’t stop touching her princess parts even though she’s not supposed to…”

Miss Thompson bit her lip and with an effort pulled her hand away from her pussy. “I’m not Zoe. I am Miss Thompson, her teacher,” she typed.

She tried to pull herself together.

“And you should keep a civil tongue in your head, young man.”

“Ohhh! Naughty, naughty, teacher… Are you looking through a confiscated phone? And getting TURNED ON by someone else’s Tumblr porn? You are, aren’t you… Go ahead, you can admit it…”

“i” she typed and sent by mistake.

She cursed.

“I will do no such thing. I am… I am putting the phone down now.”

“No you’re not.”

She hesitated. He seemed so sure. She waited, panting.

“You won’t, because you would have already without saying anything. You would have before you got so horny scrolling through her feed.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Because you are horny, aren’t you? All pent-up, tied up in knots…”

“Yes, yes, I am, OK, but there’s nothing wrong with that”

“No, not at all. Tell you what. You seem tense. Let me help you relax. Can we do that?”

“Um”

“Just focus on your shoulders for a second. Feel how tight they are? Tighten them up even more, just for a second. Take a deep breath in. And then let it out, and as you do, feel all the tension go out of your shoulders…”

“what”

“Sshh shh you don’t have to say anything just listen. I’m going to count, and with each number you’re going to release a little tension, and it’s going to turn into warmth… warmth spreading through your body… 

“And then maybe we’ll look at a spiral together for a while… You’ll like that…”

*****

Zoe was feeling SO much better – though her legs were still a little wobbly – as she walked toward the classroom door. She couldn’t believe she’d left her phone behind! She hoped she could get it back quietly, without much fuss. There didn’t seem to be a class in there now. Maybe she could just slip in and grab it?

She eased the door open gently… and then almost dropped her backpack in surprise.

Miss Thompson was sprawled, nearly nude, in her wooden rolling chair! Her skirt was bunched around her middle, panties on the floor, white blouse and bra tangled on her desk. Most surprising of all, one hand was operating Zoe’s phone, and the other hand was operating Miss Thompson’s bushy cunt!

She stepped closer, sliding the backpack gently to the floor. The teacher’s breathing was ragged, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glassy… and sure enough, Zoe could see a spiral on the glowing screen. She tiptoed close enough to read over her shoulder.

You want to watch

To let the spiral suck you in

To let my spiral suck away all resistance

You want to become mindless for me, because it feels so good to stop thinking

Each word you read will bring you pleasure, and each second you spend watching will make you sink deeper and deeper, until you can’t help but obey…

She reached around her teacher’s body, and cupped both breasts at once.

Miss Thompson gasped, and then relaxed with a moan as Zoe began kneading her nipples.

“How are you doing, miss?” she whispered.

“Can’t… Can’t cum. Need to… but don’t… don’t have permission…”

“Mmmm.” Zoe tweaked her nipples, massaging her surprisingly full and warm tits. “I know it’s a lot to handle if you’re not used to it. I’ve been sliding into this rabbit hole a bit at a time for months, so I’ve built up a liiiittle bit of an immunity.” Partially true, anyway. “But my feed and my followers must have hit you like a ton of bricks.” 

Zoe giggled to herself, as her teacher panted.

“Who are you talking to,” Zoe murmured.

“M-Master of Mystery,” Miss Thompson gasped, her back arching.

Ah yes, thought Zoe. Also known as Kevin.

“Tell him I’m here. And ask him what I should do to you.”

“Master…” Miss Thompson typed, and after a moment, responded.

“He says to get on your knees and lick my s-slutty, juicy c… cunt.”

Zoe smiled. “That’s what I was hoping he was going to say,” she murmured as she knelt.

After all, she thought. Good girls obey.

[pillow-anime-talk]

jjba month ; first day.

synopsis: The first day at a new school didn’t look so bad. Or so you thought before you stepped inside…

# tags: scenario; friendship at first sight; school!au; kinda drama; also fluff; school bullying; sfw

includes: gender neutral reader ft. josuke higashikata {jjba 4}

author’s note: hii :)

You moved to Morioh quite recently thanks to your father, who was offered a well-paid job in a laboratory, in the very center of a charming town. Naturally, thanks for this reason, you had to change school and leave your current friends in favor of meeting new people who would help you acclimatize to a foreign place. The high school seemed to you to be a nice, well-kept and really worth getting to know. So you weren’t afraid to cross its threshold, and then with a small note in your hand go to the appropriate classroom where you were to have your first classes with the homeroom teacher.

You didn’t stand out in the crowd, quite the opposite. You tried not to disturb anyone and to get to the class without any major problems. Other students were walking around you; both boys and girls in uniforms. When you finally reached the classroom and entered it, there were already about twenty students and a teacher with glasses on his nose. The middle-aged man smiled at you, and then gestured for you to come closer and stand next to him.

“Dear students, this is your new classmate... Please introduce yourself.” He said in a calm tone, giving you the floor.

“Hello, I’m Y/N Y/L/N. I recently moved here and…” You started a short monologue, but stopped your voice when another person spoke.

“… You moved from… the zoo?” One of the girls with dyed blonde hair laughed loudly, along with four others. Slightly embarrassed, you swallowed, looking down at your black, polished shoes.

“I was born in [place]… My dad just got a job here and...”

“Who would hire such weirdos?” Another person asked, and you felt your cheeks turn warm. The teacher was unable to stop the unpleasant students from making more comments, instead looking at you with an apologetic look.

“… Is that your natural hair? Haha!”

“… Oh. Shut up, Azusa. Literally no one but you and your four clowns finds these jokes funny.” You heard a loud, but also a very calm voice from the back of the room. You looked up at the person who was the only one who had the courage to stand up to the unpleasant students; a teenager with dark hair styled in an intriguing way and a piercing gaze appeared before your eyes. He smiled at you, to which you thanked him with a nod. “And besides, I think Y/N is quite pretty and is certainly more interesting than you and your dumb friends.” He added, then turned his gaze out the window. The classroom fell silent from unwanted murmurs and voices. Instead, the teacher thanked you and asked you to take a seat.

Although you didn’t know the boy’s name yet, you knew that he was the nicest and definitely the most beautiful at heart person in the whole world. Besides, you would have to thank him as soon as possible after class.

previous day ; main post ♡ next day ; narancia ghirga

[jdorian]

Inspiration Saturday 📸

This wip is loosely based on this post of mine and based on the initial outline I expect it to total out around 20k, but I have like 3 much longer fics on my list before this, so it probably won't be written any time soon, but it wouldn't leave my mind today, so!

After a serious injury on the job, Eddie takes up light duty as the temporary Instagram Manager of the LAFD and even though he's now physically healed, he's still not ready to return to active duty. The job has its perks though; namely the new guy who joined the 118 shortly after Eddie left.

Tags and a longish snippet under the cut 💛

“Hey Diaz, sure you don’t want in on the action instead of playing around with your camera?” Buck asked, lifting his helmet a little, probably to see Eddie better in the harsh sunlight.

He had ash smudged all over his face, giving him a ragged edge that Eddie thought fit him just a little too well. His turnout coat was open, revealing just how tight his shirt hugged his body underneath.

“And what if I prefer the camera?” Eddie asked playfully. “And I told you to call me Eddie.”

“Not until you tell me what it’s short for.” Buck grinned at him teasingly and Eddie clicked the button on his camera again, to capture the way the sun hit his laugh lines; sue him, the man was gorgeous.

Buck had this weird thing for nicknames and though Eddie found it kind of endearing, he didn’t really understand why Buck didn’t just ask the team what his name was if he wanted to know so badly — maybe it was part of some kind of game that Eddie never learned the rules for.

“You know this year’s calendar is coming up.” Eddie said, lowering his camera back down to his chest.

“Yeah? Are you the one shooting it?” Buck stepped in closer, still holding the jaws of life in his hands while everyone continued packing up behind him.

“Why? Would that make you wanna do it more or less?”

Buck chuckled lightly, before swiping a gloved finger across the tip of his nose, leaving yet another black mark there.

“I don’t know. Am I gonna be the only one taking my clothes off?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively and Eddie only had time to roll his eyes jovially before he was cut off by Hen.

“Stop riling up the poor guy and help us put these away, I’m starving!”

“I’m n-not rili—” Buck stammered, all his earlier bravado suddenly gone.

“Come on Buckaroo, it’s lunch time.” Chimney chimed in as well, walking past them and dropping his medkit into the back of the ambulance.

Buck looked back at Eddie and shrugged sheepishly. “Duty calls.”

“Yeah... I gotta upload these too.” He lifted his camera with a sigh, indicating the pictures he just took.

“Well, I hope you got my good side.” Buck smiled at him with a mischievous glint in his eyes and Eddie just grinned back at him.

As if you have a bad side, he thought to himself.

“Buck, come on!” This time it was Bobby who yelled over, so they both knew that they ran out of time.

“Coming!” Buck called back, still not taking his eyes off of Eddie. “Take care, Diaz.” He added gently before he finally turned around and jogged away, leaving Eddie standing in the middle of the road, watching as the engine and the ambulance pulled away.

“Yeah, you too, Buckley.” He mumbled to no one in particular.

I was tagged by @disasterbuckdiaz and @watchyourbuck thank you mwuah 💛

✨no pressure tagging: @malewifediaz @spagheddiediaz @daffi-990 @jeeyuns @ladydorian05 @steadfastsaturnsrings @eowon @heartshapedvows @nmcggg @rainbow-nerdss @jamespearce9-1-1 @eddiebabygirldiaz @theotherbuckley @thewolvesof1998 @fortheloveofbuddie @evanbegins

[cinnamongorll]

Wildflower - chapter 1

read on ao3 🤍 next chapter 🤍 masterlist 🤍 Pairing: Joel Miller x Female OC Synopsis: Joel Miller is an infuriating constant in Alex’s life. As her dad’s best friend and smuggling partner, she can’t seem to avoid him no matter how hard she tries.  When a weapons trade off goes wrong and Alex becomes the next target in a dangerous revenge vendetta, Joel is forced to uphold the promise he made to his friend to protect his daughter from the dangers of the post-apocalyptic world. But when Alex and Joel reluctantly grow closer, and she starts to peel back the layers of animosity between them, Alex realises that nothing is what it seems and that trusting Joel might be more dangerous than anything outside the QZ walls. Series tags: dbf!Joel, age gap (Joel is late 49, FMC is 26), older man/younger woman, slow burn, enemies to lovers, mean Joel, protective Joel, dark Joel, sexual tension, smut, mutual pining, feral Joel, first person pov, angst, more tags to be added, ultraviolence Joel. Word count: 4.9k

__________________________________________

Chapter 1:

“Alex, honey, can you pass my gun?” my dad calls over his shoulder while he bends over his worn, stuffed rucksack. 

I straighten on the couch, pulling myself from whatever daze I was lost in. My focus flicks to the cushion beside me and the weapon that rests on it, and I narrow my eyes at the casualness of my dad’s request. Guns and ammo were a feature of the apartment, practically as common as the dust and bedbugs, and yet my skin still itches as my hand wraps around the gun, the cool metal sending a spark of fear across my body.

I look to the window. It’s dark, curfew is already in place. The apartment is lit by a singular flickering bulb in the corner lampshade, and the constant flashing makes my head feel like it's going to burst. I’d already worked a ten hour shift at the market, where the sun beat down on my unshaded stall, plastering me in sweat, and all I wanted to do was climb under the frigid water in our shower and pass out on my sorry excuse for a mattress. 

But instead, I’m holding a gun. 

With my other hand, I push myself off the musty couch, peppered with holes and blotched with stains I never want to know the origins of. When I'm standing, I find it difficult to move my feet. They’re rooted in place with the knowledge that my dad is leaving again, going on another smuggling trip with his partner. These are the days I dread; when he walks out that door, I never know if he’s going to walk back through it. 

The thought occurs to me that if I refuse to give him his gun then maybe he won’t leave, maybe he’ll be forced to stay. Maybe he’ll stay safe. 

“Alex?” my dad repeats, now standing opposite the coffee table, staring at me with his eyebrows raised. 

I tilt my chin up and reluctantly stretch out my arm, letting the gun dangle from my grip. My dad’s eyes lift from the weapon hanging between us to my awaiting eyes and his shoulders stiffen. I must have forgotten to wipe the disgust off my face.

“How long this time?” I ask through gritted teeth as he carefully takes the gun from me and my arm drops back to my side like I’d just narrowly avoided being burned by a potential fire. 

My dad sighs and pockets the gun, then swings his head around to catch a glance at the apartment door. When his eyes return to me I can see the worry carving deeper lines into his forehead. 

Joel was late. 

His irritation dilutes as he scans my face, and his expression begins to soften. My hands curl into fists by my side. 

“Not long, few days at most,” he answers in a pitying tone, as though I was the one who was leaving the safety of the QZ to risk my life for another job. 

I blow out a breath and turn, stalking with heavy steps towards the kitchen table. I swipe a glass from the hardwood surface as I pass, revelling in the sound it makes as it strikes off the edge. It’s the closest I’d get to expressing the anger that was building in my blood.

“You’ve said that before,” I mutter, but my words are lost in the water that rushes into my glass when I forcefully twist the tap. 

A month he was gone the last time, bypassing “just a few days” by a longshot. My eyes hit the ceiling as I stay shielded from his gaze, then I lift the full glass to my lips and take a long drink before turning back around. 

“Just be careful, okay?” I caution when my back hits the countertop and my eyes find his awaiting stare. 

The sad, pitying smile returns to his lips and I start counting backwards from ten. 

“Always am,” he attests with a firm nod.

My lips part with the pressure to voice the screaming concerns in my head, to tell him that the job isn’t worth it, that it’s lonely here without him, that one day his luck is going to run out and I’m going to be the one to pay the price. 

But none of it comes out, because before I can even consider it, a quick knock attacks the apartment door and my head turns towards it with the speed of an incoming bullet.

My dad’s sigh is loud and his footsteps are eager as he makes his way to the door and aligns his eye with the peephole, even though we both know who’s standing on the other side. I hope, for a second, that I’m wrong, that Joel’s decided not to come this time.

The spark of awareness that rushes my skin as the door opens tells me that, unfortunately, Joel is a man of his word.

“What took you so goddamn long?” my dad grumbles as he steps backwards to let Joel brush past him before he double locks the door. 

The glass squeaks in my hand as my grip tightens. Joel Miller is standing about six feet away from me, turned in the other direction, forcing me to witness the way his hair is drenched with rain and curled slightly at the top of his neck.

He stands with his large hands perching petulantly on his hips and his shoulders tight. Joel shakes his head sharply before he speaks. 

“Fuckin’ enforcers everywhere tonight, had to wait them out,” he explains as his eyes flick to the window just as a truck rumbles past, illuminating the apartment with the threat of a spotlight in the street below.

“Shit,” my dad curses as his head follows the sound.

Joel makes an impatient noise and jerks his chin in the direction of the door. “We gotta get movin’” 

The worries that wait on my lips, existing in the space between being voiced and swallowed, start to build and I feel myself struggling to force them back down my throat. Leaving the QZ was already a death sentence when there wasn’t a large enforcer presence on the streets, but with those spotlights scanning every inch of this city… they’d be lucky to get two steps out the door. 

My dad is bent over his bag again, ammo in hand as he shares it with Joel. Their quiet conversation is muffled by the thoughts churning in my mind and I feel a sense of dread settle deep in my stomach. 

My glass hits the countertop with a dull thud and the water splashes over my fingers. I flinch and inhale sharply when Joel’s head suddenly swings towards me, acknowledging my presence for the first time since he walked through the door. His dark eyes are hard and his expression is one of reluctant curiosity. I instinctually press my back harder into the edge of the countertop, at the mercy of his cold attention.

My heartbeat stutters when he quirks an eyebrow and slowly, so carefully, crosses his arms over his chest in a way that makes it impossible for my eyes to avoid noticing the muscles straining under his damp shirt. His jaw moves in another act of impatience as he seemingly waits for an apology or explanation for so rudely pulling his attention away from more important matters. 

Recovering from my momentary shock, I shake the water off my fingers and push myself from the countertop as I avoid Joel’s pointed stare. I start to make my way towards my dad, who still focuses on his packing and is ignorant to the battle of wills taking place across the room. 

I’m unsurprised, however, when a hand wraps around my upper arm, halting all movements. 

The breath that exits my mouth is shaky and I want to kick myself. Grudgingly, I lift my head to meet Joel’s furrowed brow and surveillant eyes.

“You got somethin’ to say, you say it,” he orders, his voice dangerous and husky like a knife being dragged over a ragged edge. 

At his demand for my words, my mouth instantly goes dry and I consider never speaking again. 

Joel was always getting under my skin, reminding me that he’s the reason my dad is away for days, weeks, months at a time and comes home with cuts and bruises that he refuses to talk about. Joel Miller has his teeth in my dad, making him believe that he likes this life.  

My jaw clenches with tooth crushing pressure. 

I shrug out of Joel’s grip and, surprisingly, he lets me go with one last searching look across my face. Released from his hold, I stumble as I attempt to step around his hulking figure and I clench my fists so tight that my nails begin to dig into my palm when I hear his snearing laugh rumble in response. 

“Dad,” I bite out, the ire in my voice is fueled by the irritation of Joel’s presence hanging behind me. 

My dad stands with a loud grunt and swings his rucksack over his shoulder, wincing as the weight settles on an old injury. The fight in me dies at the sight.

“What?” he asks and looks down at his watch. 

I cross my arms over my chest and straighten my spine.

“Don’t go,” I plead as I step closer to him, forcing him to look at me. “Not tonight at least, it’s too dangerous with all the enforcers hanging around.” 

There was that pity again, shining so clearly in his eyes, he didn’t even try to hide it. His poor, lonely, daughter was worried about him, what else was new? I could practically see the thought floating through his mind. 

“Honey…” he trails off and I watch as his focus darts to the man behind me. Help me out here, my dad silently asks his friend with his quick shrug.

The anger I’ve been holding back all day, since my dad told me he’d be leaving again, finally reaches its breaking point and I feel the blood under my skin start to boil, bringing a flush to my cheeks. 

“What?” I demand, raising my voice so it doesn’t tremble. “What is so important that you have to get out of the QZ again?” 

My dad’s lips thin and his gaze flicks between me and Joel. 

The groan that comes out of my mouth is overly childish and I would be embarrassed about it if I weren’t so annoyed. When my dad doesn’t answer, I lose my patience and whip my head around to face the man behind me, tilting my chin up to meet his eyes as I tighten my crossed arms. 

Joel looks down at me with a fury that rivals my own. I know I’m fighting a losing battle, I know that nothing I say is going to change their minds, but I can’t ignore this dread in my stomach. 

If I’ve already lost, I’m going down swinging. 

My anger is directed at Joel, as it often is. I find him in my apartment more often than I can handle. I come home from work and he’s there, at the kitchen table, scheming up plans with my dad that neither of them ever share. I know they sell drugs around the QZ, I’ve seen Joel lingering around dark alleyways with small bags of white between his fingers. I don’t care what he does, but I don’t want this life for my dad. 

“Can’t you handle a deal by yourself for once?” I challenge the man in front of me, and I force not to retreat when his dark eyes slide down my body, sizing me up. 

“Alex,” my dad pleads from behind me with a sigh, exasperated. He’s heard all this before. I hear him turn and walk over to the radio, leaving us to fight it out. 

“You don’t have a clue what you’re talkin’ about,” Joel accuses, and his hands land on his hips again. I can see the impatience vibrating on his skin. 

A laugh escapes my lips and I fight against the urge to roll my eyes. 

I uncross my arms and my voice drops lower as I inch closer, chin tilting up until I’m so close I can smell the rain drying on his skin. “What is it this time? Oxy? Coke?” I ask.

Joel’s lips draw back and his eyes narrow as I watch that rage he usually keeps locked up start to rattle at the bars. 

A hint of a smile twitches at my lips before I dangle the bait over the cage: “Can’t fund your own habit? Need to bring my dad into it too?” 

His hand flashes out to grab my wrist before I even notice the movement. Joel uses his hold to tug me even closer until the front of my body is flush with his. My breath catches in my throat, held back by the fearful realisation that maybe I’ve gone too far. 

Joel glowers down at me, his eyes surveying my features like he’s gathering evidence in a case he’s building against me. I’m frozen, entirely at the mercy of his burning hot judgement. 

I watch with wide eyes as his gaze darts behind me, probably checking that my dad is still focused on the radio before his mouth drops to my ear and his breath feeds the flush on my skin. 

“You wanna act like a child?” he murmurs as his other hand grasps my chin, increasing his custody of my attention. My heart is beating so fast I’m sure he can feel it against his chest. 

He’s waiting on a response to his snide question. I don’t give him one. 

I can feel the sick smile on his lips as it brushes the shell of my ear and I shiver as my eyes shutter closed. 

“Maybe I’ll have to take you with us then, keep you by my side so you don’t get into any trouble,” Joel taunts and images of me leaving the QZ, being out in the world with infected and raiders, cross my vision and fear spikes in my bloodstream. My eyes flash open and I struggle out of Joel’s grip, stumbling backwards as heavy breaths escape my mouth.

Joel rubs a hand over his jaw, looking down at me with a satisfied expression. He succeeded in frightening his friend’s daughter, the war has now ended. 

“It’s just a weapons deal, anyway,” Joel reveals when his hand leaves his face and drops back to his side. His fingers begin to drum against the dark material of his jeans as his lips turn up and amusement dances in his eyes. “But I appreciate the concern for my ‘habit’, sweetheart,” he drawls. 

My hands curl into tight fists as I feel my dad walk up behind me. I force myself to swallow down every bit of anger that Joel unleashed. He isn’t worth my rage, I remind myself. 

“Everythin’ okay?” my dad asks cautiously as strides past to the door and begins to fiddle with the locks. 

I look up at Joel and want, so desperately, to wipe that smug expression off his face but, instead, I release a slow calming breath and meet his eyes.  

“Yeah, dad,” I say cheerfully, not breaking eye contact with Joel, even when his eyebrows furrow and his shoulders tighten. “I was just reminding Joel to be careful out there, neither of you are young men,” I add with a laugh. 

My dad chuckles and slaps me on the shoulder. The movement slices through the strange thread holding me in Joel’s gaze, and I turn towards the door with a feeling of disappointment I’m unable to explain. I shake it off as Joel and my dad go through their last few checks, then the apartment door is open and I draw my lip between my teeth, biting down hard. 

“See you in a few days, honey,” my dad murmurs against my forehead. I sigh and pull him in for a hug, trying to hold back the urge to beg him to stay. 

Joel stands by the door, his hand gripping the edge as he holds it open, impatience dripping from him again and I get some satisfaction from the way his foot taps on the floor. 

“Try and fix that bulb while I’m gone, it’s given’ me a headache,” my dad says over his shoulder as he walks through the doorway, wincing when the flickering light casts over his face. 

I roll my eyes and look away, then turn to make my way towards that much needed shower I’ve been dreaming about since I got home, pushing down the worries that are still lodged in my throat. But just as I start to walk away, a hand on my arm stops me, gentler this time without the same threat, and I inhale a sharp breath when I look up to find Joel pinning me with that dark stare again.

“Don’t do anythin’ stupid,” he warns, pupils flaring. 

Then, before I can process his words and attempt to understand where this sudden concern has come from… he’s gone.

I stumble forward to lock the door and drop my head to rest on the cold wood as I fight to catch my breath. 

Eventually, once Joel and my dad’s footsteps disappear down the wall, I finally peel myself from the door and walk to the bathroom to find solace in the shock of the freezing water sputtering from the broken shower head. 

But not even the frigid water could erase the heat that lingered on my skin even hours later from the vice-like grip of Joel’s hand.  

………………………………………… 

The sun streams through the window when I open my eyes, making the room I’m lying in look far more worn and dishevelled than it did when I went to sleep.

I groan and throw a hand over my face, turning away from the reminder that another day has begun in the Boston QZ. In a few minutes, I’ll have to untangle myself from my sheets, drag myself off the mattress and mentally prepare myself for another shift at the markets.

The apartment is quiet without my dad, he’s not standing in the kitchen counting his ration cards and mocking me for wanting another five minutes of sleep. 

I lift my hand away from my eyes and push myself up, feeling the weight of those lost hours I spent staring out the window last night. They’re fine, I tell myself. They’re safe. 

I walk to the bathroom, rubbing the back of my neck, trying to erase the tension that’s creeping into my spine. The monotonous tasks involved in getting ready help to distract me from thoughts of my dad and whether he got out of the QZ okay. I brush my teeth, throw water over my face and try to control the frizzy mess that my hair transformed into overnight. 

Not long after, my boots are on and I’m out the door, splashing through last night’s puddles as I trudge along the pavement, dragging the bag of clothes I’ve been tasked with selling. Joel gets them from his friends Bill and Frank, they live outside the QZ and always seem to have a limitless stock of essential items. At first I rebelled against Joel’s order to sell the old jeans and jackets at the markets, irritated at the implication that I’d be joining this “crime ring” he was creating, but it beat shovelling shit so I agreed. 

The markets aren’t far from our apartment so it’s not long before I arrive, slowing my pace as I navigate through the many tables and their workers setting up their goods for the day. My stall is near the end of the row, away from the worst of the crowds but it still gets a good amount of business. 

I tap my foot on the ground in a repeated nervous gesture as I wait for customers to find their way to my stall. The majority of clothes stay under the table, in black bags, hidden from any enforcers who might look my way. The stock on the table has to look like I just happened upon these clothes, maybe I decided I didn’t want them anymore, maybe a neighbour threw them out…

It didn’t matter much anyways, even if an enforcer noticed it was unlikely they’d say something. This city ran on the black market, those dressed in black with shotguns under their arms were just as complicit as anyone else, but appearances still mattered.

“How much for the jacket?” an older man grunts out in an almost illegible mutter, appearing before me as his hand runs over the plaid material.

I blink up at him, suddenly noticing how busy the markets have gotten. I can hear a screaming child a few stalls along from me and I feel that headache forming again. 

“Five,” I say, rubbing my eyes. 

I hear the man make a dismissive noise with his tongue and I internally groan. I didn’t have the energy to barter this morning. 

I sigh as I drop my hands back to the table. “Four, then.”

That gets a smile growing on his face, revealing a wide toothless grin. The man nods and hands over the ration cards before he gathers up the jacket and tucks it under his arm. 

“Nice doin’ business with you,” I mutter as I count the four cards and watch as the old man stumbles along to the next stall.  

With the ration cards tucked safely in my pocket, I roll up my sleeves and cross my arms, leaning back in my chair as I settle in for a long day. 

The screaming starts up again and I flinch, somehow it seems louder this time and I wonder what terrible injustice has befallen this child. Reluctantly, I lean forward and turn my head in its direction just as another, deeper, scream joins in. Fear slams into me and I stand quickly, pushing my chair back as I round the edge of my stall.

The slow moving crowd picks up speed and the flow of people start to head towards the square opposite the markets. I stand on my toes to get a better look just as a man staggers into me from behind and I lose my balance, tipping to the side. I catch myself on the edge of the next stall and my head whips in the man’s direction.

“Hey! Watch it!” I shout at his back as he races through the crowd, disappearing as people start to push and shove their way to the end of the markets.

What?

My ears are buzzing from the chatter that surrounds me and I begin to turn in circles, trying to catch hold of peoples’ conversations in an attempt to understand what was going on here and calm my racing heartbeat, but every word just fallsl through my fingers. 

I look back at my stall, now abandoned at the edge of a crowd that was heading in the opposite direction. I grit my teeth and allow myself to get swept up in the rush. I don't know what’s going on. 

As I reach the edge of the markets, I see the old man I sold the jacket to staggering to keep up with the speed of the mob, clutching his new purchase to his chest. 

I elbow my way through until I reach out and grip his arm, holding him up. “Hey, you alright?” I shout over the noise. “Do you know what’s happening?” 

The man looks up at me, eyes wide and unfocused. My breaths rush out in quick gasps as I struggle to keep a hold of him as the crowd drags us further down the street. 

From the corner of my eye, I see him lift his trembling hand to his neck and I frown, flashing my focus between him and the mob around us. He’s staring at me as his hand makes a wrapping motion around his neck then pulls an invisible rope. 

My feet stop so abruptly that I’m knocked forward by the person behind me and I stumble, letting go of the man’s arm as I fall into the woman in front of me. 

“I’m sorry,” I gasp out as she shakes me off and I stagger to gain proper footing. I can barely hear my own voice, everything is muffled, I just keep moving, allowing myself to get dragged along like a boat about to drop off the edge of a cliff.

It can’t be, I think. They haven’t done public executions in a while, things have been calm.

My breaths are rapid and uncontrolled as I round the corner and…

I see my dad’s boots, the ones I fixed for him a couple months ago. They’re on the feet of one of the men who hang from the gallows and, at first, I can’t figure out why that is. My dad was just wearing them last night when he -  

My hands slam over my mouth as I stagger to a complete stop. I can feel several elbows dig into my sides and I’m pushed in several directions but I don’t dare move. I can’t move at all because my heart stops beating, every muscle in my body locks in place and I feel my ribs begin to shrink, pressuring my lungs to stop their inhale.

I force my bleary eyes to climb up his body, past the bloodstains that dampen his clothes, all the way up until they land on his face. 

When I was younger I found a bird who’d broken its neck. It was lying on the ground, twitching and trying to flutter its wings. I remember thinking how strange it was that his head was bent at such an angle, like someone had ripped it off and tried to stick it back on but couldn’t remember how it was supposed to look. 

That’s how I knew my dad’s neck was broken, only, unlike the bird, he wasn’t moving, he was entirely still. 

I drop my hands as I feel a scream begin to claw its way up my throat and I open my mouth to let it out.

But not a single sound is unleashed. A hand covers my mouth, blocking the exhibition of my horror from exiting my body. 

Fear plunges through me, displacing the shock momentarily as I feel another hand land on my shoulder and the firm grip over my mouth pulls me into a hard body. 

My eyes are wide, screaming for me when my mouth can’t and I begin to thrash against the person that holds me. 

“Alex, stop, listen to me,” the man grunts out when my elbow meets his chest.

I freeze. I know that voice. 

“Don’t scream,” he orders and lets go of my mouth before he whirls my body until i’m face to face with him. 

“Joel?” I croak, surprised that the scream doesn’t find its way out of my throat despite his heavy warning. 

I’ve never seen Joel so unkempt. His hair is plastered to his head, coated in sweat or water, I couldn’t tell. His eyes, always so cold and inscrutable, were wide and stricken. 

“My dad,” I choked out, feeling bile rise in my throat. 

Joel’s hands leave my shoulders to cup my face, forcing me to look up at him.

“You gotta listen to me,” he demands in a low voice that I struggle to hear over the screaming around me. I want to join these people in their grief but Joel increases the pressure on my face and I nod, using him as the anchor to stop myself from drowning. 

“There’s a sniper on top of the building to your left, and one in the building behind you,” Joel reveals, his voice sharp and steady. I feel my legs begin to give out and Joel shakes me a little to keep my focus directed at him. “Only reason we’re not dead right now is cause we’re in this crowd. But the second you start rushin’ forward and makin’ a scene, they’re gonna find you and shoot us down.” 

My hands reach up to cup the backs of his hands, my fingers are trembling when they meet his skin. “What do we do?” I ask. My brain has started to disassociate, as long as my back is turned to the horror behind me I can start to pretend that it's not real. 

A muscle in Joel’s jaw jumps as his eyes lift up to the left, before darting back to me. “I’m gonna get us out of this, but you gotta trust me” he says slowly, his lips barely moving. “Can you do that?” 

I hear the uncertainty in his voice. Trust is a foreign concept when I think of Joel, and he feels the exact same way. 

Fear has taken over my body, every inch of me is trembling. Joel’s thumb begins to rub against my jaw and my eyes shutter closed at the feeling of his calloused skin. 

“Alex,” he prompts, “can you do that?” 

I open my eyes into the deep brown staring down at me. 

“Yes.”

___________________________________

Hey! Hope you enjoyed chapter one! I'm off to France for a week so chapter two won't be up for a little while, sorry 🤍

[petit-etoile]

open  up  your  heart  (stay  soft)

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 3,626 content warnings: an extremely complicated look at astarion & a dark urge!tav. there are dom/sub undertones, s&m undertones, astarion doesn't want to be touched but he doesn't mind touching, and probably undernegotiated kink. this is self-indulgent in all honestly, i'm so sorry. originally intended to be part of basorexia. other tags: canon compliant, porn without plot, pwp, established relationship, dom/sub undertones, light masochism, frottage, blood drinking, codependency, gender neutral tav inspired by: this post. archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, @ghosts-and-ink, @b4um3pfl4um3, @gunslingerorchid, @hypopxia,  @m0ssytrees, @erysione, @odette-attackattack, @catching-fire-in-the-wind, @ashrio20, @wills-mental-illness be added to the taglist here

summary:  ‘Astarion. Do you want a drink?’  /  ‘More than anything,’ he whispers.

‘Please…’

Astarion is on his hands and knees, cerise gaze wild, one hand clutching his chest as though he’s afraid his heart will escape through his ribs. His other hand is reaching for you. It makes you wonder about the power he has given to you to hold over him. You’re afraid to ask what it means. If you’re his favorite, or if you are close and near and he is desperate.

The anguish Astarion wears on his face is mesmerizing. You reach out your hand and cradle his tense face in your palm, smoothing your thumb over the sharp curve of his cheekbone. Astarion leans his face into your touch. He scents the curve of your wrist and bites back a sharp moan. His pink tongue darts out between his teeth.

It’s easy to pretend not to understand what type of situation you’ve gotten yourself into. It’s a moment of shared vulnerability between the two of you. A play in two parts: Act I follows a concerned vampire as he worries endlessly about corrupting a pure soul, and Act II follows the mad descent he leads the soul on until the very depths of the hells are explored. Act III is when the depravity is embraced. Astarion likes to pretend otherwise, but he adores worrying over you. It’s a habit that he can’t shake now that he’s picked it up. He watches you and holds his breath, lips parted.

You see: It’s a game. A very careful, very orchestrated game.

Part of this is very healing for Astarion. In the same way it gives you power, it also gives him power  —  Cazador would have never given him the blood that he so desperately craves, but you will. You hold your hand out and Astarion places his chin into your palm, eyes fluttering shut at the tender touch. Your heart threatens to break.

What a beautiful man he is now on his hands and knees for you, and unlike those who came before you, you have no desire to hurt him. No, you think. You join him in the dirt on your knees and brush your fingers beneath his chin akin to how one would pet a cat. Astarion purrs and offers you his pout in exchange for a kiss.

Instead of indulging him, you take the hand he once offered you and place his fingers against your pulse as it jumps beneath your skin. Astarion’s pupils tighten. His mouth presses into a firm line. It might be your imagination, but his skin pinkens prettily for you.

‘Do you want a drink?’ you ask softly.

‘Please,’ he whimpers. ‘Just a taste. Only a drop.’

‘Only a little?’ you hum.

It’s the hour of the wolf and Astarion’s favorite time to prowl. You can pretend to be in control as much as you like, but you know the truth. All it would take is one mistake, and Astarion could easily devour you and drain you dry without another thought. He’s dangerous despite how you hate to admit it.

But that’s where the other’s usually forget. All your warnings, all your revelations, and the other members of your party see you as naught but who you claim to be. They are willfully ignorant of your dark nature. Astarion compliments it.

In some macabre way, tonight is a test. Will you kill Astarion, or will he kill you? If you were prone to betting, you would say that you would win. Your skill as the Blood of Baldur’s Gate is not to be taken lightly, but a vampire spawn who is hungry could easily overtake you.

If you wanted him to.

You swallow very carefully. You do want him to. It’s no romanticized obsession, but a simple longing that won’t go away no matter how hard you try. You think about it absentmindedly sometimes when you’ve done nothing but walk for miles upon miles.

Would your eyes turn red? Would the color be drained from your skin as your ichor was stolen? Would you look pretty as a vampire, carefully playing the part of a damsel at night? It would be a good disguise…but you don’t want it to be a disguise. You want it to be a reality, and that terrifies you.

You want Astarion. You need Astarion like air, like water. He’s the only thing keeping you grounded in this mess. He’s witty, cruel, rude  —  but you find that it helps you focus more than anyone else’s steadfast desire to be cured.  Like Astarion, you don’t want to be cured. The tadpole is the one thing holding that murderous urge at bay even as unsuccessful as it seems.

You watch Astarion’s mouth. You study the way his lips tremble, how the muscle beneath his bottom lip tenses as he struggles to contain himself. Still, he does his best to make sure his expressions don’t betray his intentions. He doesn’t want you to know that he’s wondering the same thing. He eyes your throat hungrily. His nails drag across your pulse like a threat. He shakes.

Astarion won’t hurt you. You’re almost certain of it. Even as the nail of his thumb digs into your pulse, you know that he is pretending to struggle for your sake. His perceived lack of control excites you.

It entices you. His bravado is exhilarating. You like that he is playing it up for your sake. It reminds you of the night he first bit you and every night after that, but this is a ceremony unprecedented by the nights before. With the slightest pressure, Astarion tilts your chin back and watches.

You repeat yourself. ‘Astarion. Do you want a drink?’

‘More than anything,’ he whispers.

Astarion caters towards a façade he knows you enjoy. He’s petulant, pouty, and his eyebrows are drawn so tightly together that he reminds you of a stray beast. You look at his mouth again. He’s unable to hide the way his mouth waters. He moves his tongue behind his teeth almost as if they pain him, as if his teeth themselves are swollen. Drool catches on his plump lip.

‘Astarion  —  ’

‘Please,’ he says, voice low. He caves to your whims. ‘Like before, a taste, a sip, a drink. I’ve been good, I promise.’ He licks his lip. ‘I’m always good, now.’

‘You have,’ you say. ‘You’ve been very good.’

‘So I should get to drink,’ Astarion suggests.

You close your eyes and pretend to consider it. The thought of Cazador denying Astarion anything sickens you, and you try your best not to grind your teeth. This is a show, you have to remind yourself. A play. This is not about you, but about Astarion. You’ll acquiesce but you would be lying if you said you weren’t interested in seeing how far Astarion would allow you to push him.

‘I don’t believe you,’ you laugh. He squeezes your neck involuntarily.

‘I’m on my best behavior,’ Astarion insists. ‘I’ll show you, in exchange for a taste.’

‘A small taste,’ you allow. ‘A drop.’

Without thinking, Astarion pets your neck. He uses both hands to trace elegant lines along your throat. He scratches his nails across the line of your jaw without drawing blood. You want to kiss him, or to bite him, or to seek pleasure but now is not the time. Astarion is letting you in. He’s allowing you ever so politely to heal him.

If you call it healing, Astarion will bare his fangs and dismiss you. He wants to call it exploration. He finds your weaknesses, and you destroy his. It’s a good enough deal in your eyes. You kiss, you laugh, you dance together, and in the dark beneath a full moon, you search for answers.

You pull Astarion to you, your fingers fisted into the curls of his hair. You lead his mouth to the pulse in your neck and squeeze your thighs together, trying to ignore how unsteady you feel. Even though it’s pretend, Astarion’s weakness makes you warm at the core.

‘Thank you,’ Astarion whispers. He swallows hard.

He kisses your pulse wetly. He sinks his teeth into your neck with ease, and you play up the way you twist and shiver, groaning softly as if the sting of his fangs isn’t a familiar, welcome pain. He drinks a single drop as promised and leans back.

There is a thinness to the control Astarion shows you. He doesn’t have the confidence to pull too far away from you, and his eyes don’t leave the puncture wounds at your jaw. He wraps an arm around your waist and swallows sharply, turning his cheek the other way as if ashamed of how debauched you make him.

‘Good,’ you whisper. ‘You really are being good.’

‘So I can have more?’ Astarion asks.

‘What do you say when you want something?’

‘Please,’ Astarion says hoarsely.

Very carefully, you guide Astarion’s mouth back to the puncture wounds. This is something entirely new for him. A control that is both welcome and curious. He laps at your neck carefully, huffing out little noises against your skin as he collects droplets of your blood on the tip of his tongue. He takes his time in tasting you, in becoming mesmerized by the taste your life’s blood has to offer. Now Astarion knows that when he asks for something, you have very little ability to tell him no.

Not when he’s like this. Not when he’s being good.

Astarion being “good” almost sounds like a conundrum. Earlier today he was advocating for avoiding duties that could be seen as kindness. Now, you’re almost certain you could ask him for his help in anything and he would oblige. Not only has he found the freedom to feed whenever, he’s found the freedom in asking you. He had hesitated before, choosing to feast upon bad men. But even the good deserve their sins.

Not that it genuinely takes much to get you to agree to anything Astarion asks. As much sway as you hold over him, he holds over you. That’s why when he overstays and takes more blood than you wanted to let him, you say nothing.

You close your eyes. You shouldn’t, but something about Astarion’s bite always causes your mind to fog up until you can’t think of anything else. There’s no more draw to do something unseemly to one of your other companions. You don’t think you smell blood on your hands. You’re allowed to exist outside that ravenous bloodlust.

‘Enough,’ you tell Astarion.

He whines against your neck.

You can already imagine the excuses. I’m sorry, I lost focus, I was so thirsty, you really do have to forgive me, and if it were any other day, you’d swallow up his apologies as though they were lyrics to a song. You have to remind yourself: Today is not about you. Astarion asked you for this. You hum disappointedly and Astarion slinks away from your neck guiltily.

Except he doesn’t feel that guilty about it. His eyes are twinkling like they haven’t in hours. The more Astarion feeds on your blood, the more color that pools into his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. There is drool and blood mixed on his chin, and he doesn’t wipe it off. He offers you his chin and you take it, and carefully, you clean his face for him and wipe it on your camp clothes. The mess is a problem for another day. Astarion shamelessly stares at your neck instead of your eyes.

As if he’s practiced being pathetic for you, Astarion whines. He leans forward without permission and tries to sip at your neck again, but you catch him just in time. The refusal causes him to fuss and toss around on the dirt, crawling to you because he can’t help himself. He catches your fingers and pulls the mess you couldn’t clean to his lips, lapping at the spaces between your fingers for another taste of you.

‘If you want something,’ you say breathlessly, ‘how do we ask for it?’

‘I want your blood,’ Astarion says bluntly, eyes burning in the moonlight. ‘Please  —  Please let me have it. I could drink yours for hours.’

Gods be good. You steel yourself against his pretty words and shake your head. If you were to speak, your voice would betray how disgustingly turned on you are. Astarion knows it too. He always does. Behind the desire for your blood in his eyes is his desire to take you in fully. Your whims interest him because he’s never experienced them. Once, he said most fled once the fangs were in, but you kept coming back for more.

Your interests. His interests. Tonight is not an exchange of blood for sex or sex for blood. Astarion takes charge of his destiny, and you follow in his footsteps. Tonight is an exchange for power and safety. Only when he’s ready will you acknowledge your own hunger.

And thank the gods he does not make you wait for long. Astarion slips a hand between your thighs and presses his palm against where you’re the most tense with such confidence and precision your positions are almost flipped. Astarion has heard you beg many times. It’s almost his favorite pastime beyond hunting. You won’t do it tonight.

‘Drink,’ you command him.

His pout vanishes immediately. There is no careful, organized action behind how he pounces on you this time. He knocks you into the grass and bites you on the opposite side of where he bit you before as if to prove a point. His arms snake around you, one hand cradling your head to keep it from thrashing against the ground, and the other around your waist so you’re forced to arch your back for him.

Astarion drinks as though he’s never tasted blood before. It’s not the first time you’ve thought about it. Every time he presses his mouth to your skin, it’s like a sinner turning to prayer. You are not a saint nor an idol of perfect disposition. You are what the gods fear most. Yet when Astarion feeds from you so voraciously but holds you so tenderly, you feel like a delicate treasure.

He eats you. Mind, body, soul. He takes away your bad blood and casts it out like a venom. You shiver despite your best attempts to maintain a rigid figure. Astarion moans against your neck. When you least expect it, he presses a thigh between your legs and grunts encouragingly. He won’t use his words. Not when there’s drink to be wasted. With the last of your conscious thoughts, you push your fingers through his curls.

Astarion tempers your masochistic streak by being the one person in the world who can truly sate it. A vampire’s bite is never comfortable, and the chill of his body is never enough to dull the pain. Sometimes you’re able to sleep through it, when he’s being as gentle, as careful as he can.

He is rough with you this evening because it’s what you need. You choke out a weak cry as you begin rutting against his leg, and although your cheeks burn with shame, it’s the best thing you’ve done all week besides sleep in a real bed. Astarion feeds from you and you grind against him, drunk on the balance of interests.

This is what you were missing in Baldur’s Gate.

Astarion is free to ask for the things he wants without fear of penalty.

You can chase punishment.

Astarion rolls his hips against yours to help distract you from the power of his bite. It’s hard to focus when you can feel his tongue lapping at your pulse and your core feels so tight and hot that you can barely think beyond how much you want him. You try to look for the stars to ground yourself, but the only stars you can see are the stars dancing in your vision.

‘Astarion,’ you whisper.

He growls in response. The sound is begrudging. He wants to do good and pull away, to show you that he knows how to be good, but it’s another one of his tests. The first night, you almost succumbed to him because you were too distracted by blood loss to be of any use. Astarion wants you to know your limits as well. You gasp and turn your cheek. It’s so hard to focus…

‘Astarion,’ you hear yourself say, ‘that’s enough. You’ve had your fill.’

Finally, he pulls away from your neck. He’s ravishing. Astarion carries a pride to himself, an assurance, that you might not have seen from him if you weren’t so intent on helping him stand up on his own two feet. He licks your blood from his lips and slowly cleans the mess left on lips and cheeks, funneling what’s left into his mouth so that he can taste you for the rest of the evening. Your eyes flutter shut at the sight and that’s when you lose focus.

Astarion’s thigh is soft between your legs. You shamelessly grind against him. You feel weak, and you know you’re pallid and sweaty and boneless, and Astarion only makes it worse. Once he’s finished licking clean his fingers, he grabs you by the hips and helps you ride out your intent on his thigh. He leans over you.

‘Watch,’ you whisper.

‘Is that a command?’

‘Yes.’

Astarion smiles wickedly. ‘And what am I watching, my darling?’

‘I want you to watch as I cum,’ you say unashamedly.

You notice it again. How your words affect him. Astarion’s pupils tighten a bit more and he truly devotes his attention to you, watching as you writhe your hips against his leg, back arched off the dirt and sticks and rock. You must be an absolute sight to behold as you bleed and chase your pleasure, but all you can think about is his face right now as he watches like you told him to.

You cry wordlessly and try not to twist away out of habit.

It’s so hard to focus, to breathe. You feel like you’re running out of time with how dizzy you’re becoming, and Astarion helps you through it so that you can fuck yourself until you find relief. You can feel a knot forming in your lower back, Your thighs and calves are burning, and your throat is so hot and warm you can’t stop from moaning.

When you do find it, that senseless pleasure so deep in your core, you’re almost certain you pass out for a few minutes. You cut off the sound of your own orgasm by clenching your teeth together and stiffening, but Astarion is there to murmur encouraging things as you navigate whatever is left of your consciousness. It’s so hard to think, to be, to exist. But it’s worth it when you open your eyes and you’re met with the softest look Astarion has ever given you.

‘You did amazing,’ you say breathlessly.

Astarion laughs, not meanly or cruelly, but a sound full of reverence. ‘I did amazing?’ he asks. ‘Look at you, my love.’

Whatever it was that Astarion wanted to work through, he seems to have managed it. He rubs your sides soothingly as you try to cool down and warm up at the same time. Your hair is beginning to curl against your skin from how much you’ve sweated and how much blood you’ve lost. Even though it’s not as much as you would in battle, you still can’t help but curl up on your side and press a hand against your forehead, desperate for some clarity.

‘There you are, my precious little love,’ Astarion soothes sweetly. He kisses your temple.

‘Did I help you?’ you ask sleepily.

He doesn’t respond at first, and you don’t have the strength to look over your shoulder to try and see what he’s thinking about. He rubs a circle into your lower back. Your stomach begins to feel a little funny, like it’s filled to the brim with butterflies.

You welcome the silence. You doze off for a few minutes, comforted by the weight of his hand against your back. Your mind has never felt so empty before. There’s always a dull roar, and now… You press your fingers to your lips to hide your smile.

‘Once again,’ Astarion begins delicately, ‘I feel like you’ve given me something I can never fully thank you for. I am not so afraid now as I was before. That’s because of you.’

‘And because of yourself,’ you mumble. ‘You ought to give yourself credit. This was but a small test, and you passed.’

Astarion’s mouth pops open like he’s contemplating arguing, but he decides against it. You feel him lie down next to you, his chest to your back, his hips to your hips, his knees against your knees. Normally, you hold him like this —  It’s a comfortable way to sleep, and you like being able to smell his skin.

‘How do you feel?’ Astarion asks you quietly.

Now it’s your turn to contemplate the severity of things. You don’t know how to address it, not when he’s sucked your brains through your skin and helped you fuck the rest of them out of your system. You rub an eye tiredly.

‘My mind is empty,’ you admit, ‘for the first time since I woke up aboard the ship.’Astarion hums like he’s conquered the world and peppers the nape of your neck in a thousand little kisses. You help him, he helps you. It isn’t a perfect system, but it’s your system. I love you dances on the tip of your tongue, and you’re almost to a dream when you hear Astarion say it back.

[cupidzone]

˚꒰ 🏹 DISCORD FORUMS TUTORIAL♡

i'm not sure if people have seen or tested out the forums on discord but i thought i'd make a tutorial on how i use it for roleplaying since i found it super fun and helpful for organization purposes!

so what are forums? discord describes it as "a space for organized discussions". much like threads, the discussions can be contained in one post which makes it easy to keep your topics in order. the part that i find most useful is that you can organize your post by tags and filter through them! now in order to get forums in your server, you will have to enable 'Community' on your server. so let's start!

♡ . ) first thing you'll do is open your server setting. there will be an 'Enable Community' that you can click on and it will take you to a page like this

♡ . ) once you click 'Get Started' it will take you through a series of questions and system settings. you will need at least one "default channel" where discord will send automated updates. this channel is necessary if you want to use forums.

if you continue with the default settings, discord will automatically create two channels for you: one titled 'rules' and another titled 'moderators-only'. the announcements made whenever there's an update as mentioned above will be sent to the latter.

NOTE FROM CUPID ! i personally like to make a single channel titled something like 'updates' and keep it locked. this can be done before or after enabling community, you will just need to change the settings to go to the new channel first.

♡ . ) once you have community enable, you're free to make all the forums you want! when you go to create a new channel, 'forums' will show up as an option like this

for this example, i'm going to show how i set up my muses' profiles for 1x1 writing server like a roster, but you can also do this for single muse / threads / sms / etc.

♡ . ) when you click into the forums channel you created, you will see a landing page like this. there are instructions on how to navigate the channel as well so feel free to read those as well! the first thing i like to do is create tags. you can open that setting by clicking either of these buttons.

(navigate to the 'Tags' section and click 'Create Tag' if you need to) it will open a popup box like this. i like to create a tag for every muse that i want to add to my roster and you're able to add 20 tags!

when you're finished, they will be listed as you see below. there are other options in forums settings that you can play around with including a 'default reaction' emoji, 'slowmode', layout and sorting option, age restriction and 'hide after inactivity'. all these are based on preference!

♡ . ) once you've saved your setting changes, you can leave this page and are now able to make your posts by clicking 'New Post' on the upper right hand corner.

this is where you're pretty much able to do whatever suits your style including formatting how you like and adding photos, all you need to make sure to do is add the corresponding tag to the post! once you're finished making it look how you want, you can click 'Post'

they will appear in the channel like this!

♡ . ) and by clicking on a post, you will be able to open it in a side view like this. if you want to see the post in full view, you will click the three dots in the upper right hand corner of the side view and then choose 'Open in Full View'.

you're now able to add more messages within the post! for me, i like to add stats of my muses and headcanons that may be useful when i thread.

NOTE FROM CUPID ! one set back i found is that you are not able to use threads within a forum post so it may get a bit cluttered depending on what you send in a forum post. so if you are wanting multiple different sections for one topic, i suggest creating a forum instead. for example, if you are wanting to add musings, faceclaim pics, headcanons and stats all for one muse, i would create a single forum post just for that muse instead to avoid having important info getting lost!

and that pretty much covers how i use forums for discord rp! i encourage you to play around with it to find a style and format that best works for you. and if you have any questions, you're more than welcome to send it to my inbox. happy writing everyone♡♡♡