#almost paradise playlist

[dawnofiight]

Hc that every once in awhile, David will find a song that he will play back to back nonstop for an entire week and then never listen to again until he finds it again.

[withleeknow]

moonstruck.

pairing: minho x f!reader genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff, angst if you squint; they're in love <3, mentions of menstruation, there's a bit about orpheus and eurydice so you're not familiar you might want to look it up beforehand idk, not as edited as i'd like. not a lot of warnings here tbh it's just pretty mild and mellow saur 🤷‍♀️ (also i don't exactly love this but i hope you'll still tolerate it anyway lol) word count: 4.7k playlist 🎧: moonstruck - enhypen // this is how you fall in love - jeremy zucker ft. chelsea cutler // pansy - taemin // tightrope - zayn

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation / masterlist / ko-fi

Minho is the kind of love that you thought only existed in movies and fairytales. Make-belief, too good to be true, out of reach.

When he rests his head on your shoulder, drifting in and out of sleep like he’s been doing for the past hour or so, you give into the urge to stare at him in wonder. An angel on earth, if there ever was one.

His long eyelashes that you could only dream to have, the slope of his nose, his pink pouty lips, his impeccably sharp jawline, and even his fluffy hair that’s ticking your cheek as you look at him as if you don’t get to see him like this every day. But that kind of beauty is something that demands to be showcased in the world’s most exquisite museum and admired by anyone who comes across it.

Minho is beautiful in every sense of the word.

And you adore him. You do. You love him with every single beat of your pathetic little heart and then some.

Surely, you must’ve saved a nation in one of your past lives to deserve someone as ethereal as him.

Turning your face to the side, you press a kiss against his forehead. The touch makes him stir awake, eyelids fluttering open as he groggily looks around and stretches out his limbs, in the limited space that he has anyway. His sleepy voice asks you, “Are we there yet?”

“Not yet. I think they said we still have about forty minutes before we land. Do you want to go back to sleep?”

Minho shakes his head, covering his mouth when a yawn forces its way out. He straightens his back to his full height sitting down, then slumps against the seat a little bit. He rests his cheek against the top of your head while his hands find one of your own to hold in his lap.

He rubs the skin of your fourth finger for a moment before he eventually stills, lightly snoring again while you look out the window, gazing at oddly shaped clouds and blues and the reflection of the sun on the waters below.

–

After you’ve checked into the hotel, freshened up and readied yourselves to explore the scenery, Minho takes you down to the beach. It’s a little chilly, spring hasn’t yet settled into summer. Even with a light jacket on, you still shiver every time the wind rushes by like it’s playing with the waters. But it’s nice – the sea breeze in your hair and the sunlight on your face, your lover by your side, his fingers intertwined with yours as you walk along the shore together. The blue of the sea almost blending in with the sky where they meet somewhere out there on the horizon. Seagulls flying overhead, families enjoying their relaxing vacation, children playing in the sand way down the shoreline where all you can make out are blurry silhouettes dancing about.

It’s paradise on earth. It’s an escape that you desperately needed. Exhilarated doesn’t even begin to describe how you felt when he told you that he’d booked a Jeju trip for your anniversary.

He’s always been the perfect partner. Always knows just the right thing to do for you whenever you need a pick-me-up. He may not seem like it, but Minho is beyond caring and considerate. He’s a man of few words but he certainly makes up for it with his actions.

“Hey,” he says, pointing somewhere ahead of you. “Remember what happened there?”

“Hmm?” Your eyes try to follow the direction of his finger, until they find a spot where two people are sitting, watching the water in front of them, content smiles passed between lips as they talk animatedly. “Didn’t you confess to me there?”

He smiles as the memory resurfaces in his mind. “Did you know I almost chickened out?”

You two started out as friends way before you got together.

Three years ago, just a few months after you’d both graduated from college, Minho asked you to go to Jeju island with him. You thought it was a little strange – though not that strange since you had been on trips with him before, but it was always in a group setting with all of your other friends. Never just the two of you.

Nonetheless, you agreed. You wanted to get out of the city anyway. You needed a change of scenery to clear your head and to recharge. Everything was starting to become too much for you - being 22 and in limbo. You felt like you kept falling behind no matter what you did. Everyone was moving forward and you were running in place no matter how hard you tried to get out of that slump.

Everyone around you was outgrowing you and your little life, and all you could do was pretend you were fine.

It was one of the lowest you’d ever felt, and you suppose that was why you said yes to Minho’s invitation. A vacation didn’t seem like it would help much, but it certainly couldn’t hurt.

A few days away, with nothing but the sun and the sea to help you get out of your own head.

A tropical paradise and Minho. It wasn’t the end of the world. There were worse things you could think of.

That, and the fact that there had always been something between you and him. Not crazy sexual tension or anything, but just enough of a noticeable spark. An inkling of something that neither of you ever acted upon.

“Did you?” you ask. “Didn’t you plan the whole trip back then to confess?”

“What? No. Why would I willingly do that when you could’ve rejected me? Then I would’ve been stuck in a hotel with you and on the plane ride back.”

You squint at him. “Then why did you take me on that trip?”

Minho shrugs. “Friendship trip to cheer you up.”

Years with him and he still makes you feel as warm as he did the first time you kissed. You gaze at him with what must be the world’s most lovestruck look plastered on your face. You reach up to press your lips to the corner of his mouth, then watch as a blush spreads across his cheeks.

“You did confess though,” you argue.

“Well, yeah, but that wasn’t planned,” he tells you. “You just... We were sitting right there,” he tips his chin toward the same spot again, “and you had my jacket on because you were cold. You were watching the sunset and you looked so pretty. I couldn’t help it. Almost chickened out though.”

You stop walking, and this makes him stop too. Minho glances at you with his head slightly tilted, wearing a puzzled expression.

“You never told me that,” you say.

“You never asked.”

Pouting, you tug him toward you until he’s close enough for you to wrap your arms around his neck. Minho is good, so incredibly good for you that sometimes you can’t possibly fathom how you even deserve him. He never meant to get anything out of it; he just saw that you were struggling and wanted to make it better for you.

Maybe you didn’t do a very good job at pretending, not if Minho could see right through you.

Before him, you had a fear of heights. Not the literal kind, but rather the kind of heights that often accompanies big leaps, big changes. A fear of falling, maybe that would be more accurate. Falling and failing and hitting rock bottom with no way to climb back up. A fear that you would always be stuck with this life forever, trapped in an existence you never asked for. A fear that no effort to escape your reality would be enough, and you’ll always be trailing ten steps behind even if you try twenty times as hard.

You pull him down so you could properly kiss him, your lips slotting together perfectly like he was made for you, like he’s the only person you’re ever meant to kiss in this lifetime. You can taste his smile, minty and happy as he moves against your mouth, his arms sliding around your waist to hold you to his body by the small of your back.

“If I had known,” Minho pulls away slightly, mumbling against your lips, “telling you that would get me brownie points, I would’ve told you ages ago.”

You roll your eyes with affection.

“So all this time,“ he says, “you thought I asked you on that trip just to get into your pants?”

“You did get into my pants on that trip!”

“Let me remind you that I only wanted to do something nice for you. You were the one who almost jumped my bones right then and there after I said I liked you.”

You slap his chest as he throws his head back in a hearty laugh. Minho takes your hand in his once more as he drags you along, savoring the cool sea breeze and the golden daylight dancing on glittering waters before the sun bids you goodbye.

Minho is the kind of love that makes you want to curl up into a ball and ugly cry for an hour straight.

In a good way, of course. In the best way possible.

So that’s what you do, on a fine Tuesday afternoon, sitting on a couch surrounded by three cats as you wait for him to come home, perfectly sheltered from the harsh sun outside.

He returns eventually, toward the end of your crying session. When he sees the pile of tissues on the coffee table, soaked with your tears and snot, his heart nearly falls out of his ass.

Minho drops everything, rushing to you like you’re on the verge of spontaneous human combustion because clearly, this is a normal reaction to have when you come home to a girlfriend who’s been sobbing in the dark for god knows how long.

That, and the fact that said girlfriend doesn’t cry very often. Not by herself and certainly not in front of others.

Doesn’t mean that you’re immune to the occasional bouts of tears whenever shark week closes in, though.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Another rush of tears breaks as you look at him. You wipe your eyes and your nose with the tissue you’re currently holding, before throwing it on the table to join the pile you’ve accumulated.

You launch yourself forward, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. The sudden force takes him aback, makes him gasp a little.

He freezes as you cling to him like a desperate koala, before his hands slowly land on your back, rubbing slowly, hesitantly, as though he’s afraid he’s hurting you.

“What’s wrong, baby? Why are you crying?”

“PMS,“ you hiccup your answer out, to which Minho only responds with a relieved Ah, his hands now moving more assuredly on your body.

“Anything hurt? Sore?”

“No. Just… missed you today. Love you a lot.”

There’s something saccharine in his gaze when he pulls back and regards you with his big doe eyes, softened and endeared, yet there’s still a twinkle of mischief peeking through the sugary glaze.

He moves to make himself comfortable next to you on the couch but still makes sure to keep a hand on you so you don’t grow impatient.

Once he’s effectively squished between you and the armrest of the sofa, he says, “You missed me so much that you started crying? You could’ve texted me, or called. I would’ve come home sooner, crybaby.”

“I didn’t cry because I missed you. I cried because I love you.”

He pretends to think for a moment. “I honestly can’t tell if I should be offended or not.”

You jab a finger at his ribs.

Sure, the mere thought of Minho brings tears to your eyes sometimes. It’s not really a secret anymore.

There’s something about him, just him, how wonderful he is and how all of the stars in the sky must have aligned themselves to make you and him happen. He’s the love of your entire life, there’s never been any doubt about it. Your other half, perfect for you.

You’ve never felt this way about anyone before, and you’re positive that you will never feel this way about anyone ever again. Your love for him runs so deep, so powerful that it overwhelms you at times, drowns you in nothing but affection for him and only him. A love that spreads like wildfire through your calm and sacred forest.

It’s cliché beyond words, that one day you would be having these thoughts about someone. You used to watch this kind of sentiment romanticized in movies, used to cringe and laugh at sappy lines in books and TV shows though there was always a part of you that longed for that kind of love.

You didn’t talk about it often, not even with the people closest to you. You always found it a little embarrassing to admit that you wanted love. To love and to be loved. There was something so utterly vulnerable in the act of yearning and isn’t it such a scary thing? To be vulnerable? You never saw the appeal in showing someone the deepest, darkest parts of you.

What if they leave? What if you bare yourself to someone and they deem you not worth staying for? How would you come back from that kind of rejection?

You suppose it always held you back - the fear of being open that goes hand in hand with the fear of being left behind. Maybe you have more fears than you’d like to admit.

Then came Minho.

No, that doesn’t sound right.

He didn’t come crashing into your life like a tidal wave and unraveled your every belief.

He was always there by your side, a calming presence that you could lean on when things got tough. A friend, a solid foundation. He’s the relief after every monsoon, the first day of sun after a long and harsh winter.

He saw you for who you were, all the messiest parts of you, and loved you anyway. In spite of your mess? Because of your mess.

He taught you that love isn’t always extravagant gestures and grand declarations that Shakespeare would applaud.

Love is acceptance. Love is staying with you on your gloomiest days and holding your hand through your dreariest moments. Love is lingering glances by the doorway before he goes to work because you’re half asleep but you’re still trying to reach for him even in your dreams.

It’s sharing joys and burdens alike. Reminders to eat and gentle wake-up calls. A photo of you in his wallet, a silly picture of him as your phone’s wallpaper. Giggling with him after he tells a joke not because of the punchline itself, but because his manic chortle is even funnier.

Love is Minho cradling your face in one hand and holding onto your shaking fingers with the other, his steady gaze holding yours, and his voice whispering gently in the darkest of nights, “Your storm is my storm.”

At the end of the day, love is pretty simple. Love is him.

“Do you ever think about Orpheus and Eurydice?”

Minho laughs, the sound vibrating where you lay your head, his hand still absentmindedly rubbing the skin of your waist over your shirt. “No, I don’t think about Orpheus and Eurydice.”

You figured as much.

Your fingers trace invisible patterns on his chest as you hum your acknowledgment. Then you ask, “If it was me, if you were Orpheus, would you look back?”

His hands pause their ministrations, a little taken aback by the question you suppose. Your brain tends to pingpong between the most random things sometimes.

“You know,“ he says with an even voice, though the corner of his mouth still curls upward in amusement. “Other people just ask the worm thing.”

“The worm thing is boring. And we both know you wouldn’t love me if I was a worm.”

“You wouldn’t love me if I was a worm either.”

“That’s true. I don’t like worms,” you agree, chuckling while your boyfriend scoffs. “Answer the question, would you look back?”

There’s no right answer because you’re not expecting a correct response. It’s a hypothesis that can never be tested because you aren’t a nymph and Minho isn’t a bard with the ability to sway all life with his music. It’s a silly thought but it’s one that you’re curious about nonetheless, just to hear what he would say. Why not?

You’ve read many interpretations of the tragedy. In some, Orpheus hears Eurydice stumble and turns to catch her fall. In others, he can’t hear her at all. The story will forever be among your favorites, one of the things that never fails to turn you inside out no matter how many times you mull over it.

Minho is quiet for a moment. You think he’s about to shoot back with a witty retort that he always has up his sleeves, probably something about how he would find a loophole and trick his way out of the deal, or that he would personally fistfight Hades to get you out of the underworld. This wouldn’t surprise you at all.

Instead, he says, “Yes, I would look back.”

But regardless of how you choose to view the myth, the ending does not change. Orpheus always turns around.

He turns around because he loves her.

Minho’s fingers slip under your shirt to brush your bare skin, angling his head sideways so he could kiss your forehead. 

Maybe he’s just saying it for the sake of being romantic, for the sake of saying what seems to be the right thing. It’s an answer that you can never give substance to, but you believe him with all your heart.

You believe him. You do.

“If it’s you, I would look back.”

Minho is the kind of love that eclipses the sun and dims the light of the moon. The kind of love that drowns out all the noise and makes everything a little more bearable. Not just the most horrible things – your fears and struggles alike – but even the smallest, most mundane things.

If there’s one thing that you absolutely hate, it’s the smell of nail polish. You hate the way it lingers in the air even after the bottle has been capped, hate how the smell of toluene stains your fingertips even after washing your hands several times with scented soap.

Though, the only time you try to tolerate it is when Minho convinces you to stay in and pamper each other. Pizzas that he picks up for dinner and tiramisu ice cream for dessert. Face masks and fancy candles that you save for special occasions. SoonDoongDori napping on various surfaces in your living room, an old vinyl playing from the record player he got you for your first birthday you shared together after you started dating.

You each take turns doing the other’s nails on the carpeted floor. It’s become somewhat of a tradition that you indulge in every month, where you would spend cozy Friday evenings indoors just because neither of you can be assed to indulge in a “proper��� date night. Being hermits together sounds infinitely more appealing to you than any other alternative.

“I’m not done,” you say, snatching Minho’s hand back after he pulls it away to admire your work. You blow on his fingers to make sure that the layer of black polish you applied earlier is dry, then you’re reaching for a bottle of beige polish sitting amongst the ones scattered on the floor. You take a tiny brush from the nail kit - one that’s rarely ever touched because neither of you knows how to do nail art - and dip it into the sand-colored polish.

“What are you doing?“ he asks, watching as you trace some squiggly lines on his middle finger, the lighter color settling nicely on top of the black even if he has no idea what you’re trying to draw. “What is that?”

“Soonie,” you say simply. “When you flip people off, you can show them Soonie.”

You don’t need to look at him to know that his attention is fixed on you even though he doesn’t give you a response. You feel his gaze on the side of your face, soft and warm and never leaving for even a second. He doesn’t say anything while you work though, maybe he doesn’t want to mess up your concentration while you’re so engrossed in what you’re doing. He only chuckles at your answer, then nothing afterward.

You don’t mind the lack of conversation. It helps you focus better on what you’re doing because you’re no artist by any means. You can’t draw to save your life, let alone master something as intricate as nail art, but this is therapeutic. It’s perfect to help you unwind after a long week - doodling your beloved cat on your boyfriend’s nails while Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls sets the ambience. You’ll get the ice cream when you’re done with your impromptu project, along with a little headache from inhaling too much of the polish scent perhaps, but isn’t that a small price to pay?

You take your sweet time with the teeny tiny details, like Soonie’s delicate whiskers and the darker strips of fur on his face. He still turns out a little wonky, a little lopsided here and there but it’s not like you expected it to turn out like a Picasso.

The real Soonie seems to sense a disturbance in the force when he wakes up from his nap and saunters toward you curiously. You pick him up and sit him in your lap so he doesn’t come too close to the fresh polish on Minho’s nails. “Look,” you say with a proud smile, pointing toward the small cat doodle. “That’s you.”

He studies it for a moment, focused on your portrayal of him but then he’s quick to decide that he’s not interested anymore before wiggling away from your lap to go join Doongie on the couch. You chuckle lightly, watching him as he walks off, wondering if this is what it will feel like when your future children enter their teenage years.

When you turn back to Minho, he’s still staring at you, a dazed look in his eyes as he blinks slowly, his hand resting limply on his thigh.

“What?” you ask. “Do you not like–”

“Marry me.”

The rest of your question dies in your throat, wilting away like cherry blossoms when summer nears. He doesn’t break eye contact, still that dreamy gaze when he peers at you. Nothing has ever changed in the way that he looks at you.

For a moment, you’re too stunned to speak. You think anyone would be when their boyfriend drops a proposal out of nowhere while you’re doing each other’s nails in your comfiest sweatpants.

Everything that you’ve been afraid of comes bubbling to the surface, every doubt, every fear, even every fleeting insecurity. They manifest as a ringing in your ears, a buzzing in your head that makes it hard to think about anything at all.

But then he shuffles closer, closer and closer until his warm breath fans your cheek, his nose nudging your cheekbone gently. It’s similar to what Doongie does sometimes when you’re lounging in bed and he just wants some love.

When Minho takes your hand and laces your fingers together in his lap, everything stills. The rumbling comes to a halt, the distant thunder fading slowly into the background of your mind palace until it’s reduced to mere white noise. “Marry me,“ he says again, and his voice is so tender that you ache. Tender and sweet and so full of wonderful adoration. If you ever have to describe what love sounds like, you would say it’s him and his voice, right here and right in this exact moment.

“A little dramatic to propose just because I drew your cat.”

He chuckles, presses a kiss to your cheek before he ducks down to deliver another kiss on the side of your neck. Then he pulls back, just enough to get a clear view of you and your now glassy eyes.

“Bottom drawer in our bedroom,” he tells you. You can’t lie; you have half a mind to leave him here and go check. “I bought the ring two months ago, but I knew I wanted to marry you two years before that. I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to do it but I realized the perfect moment doesn’t exist, because every minute I spend with you is perfect. I love you so much. It’s not because you drew me my cat, by the way. I think I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you.

“I love your weird brain and your blanket-hogging ass. I love that you’re crazy enough to listen to a song literally over a thousand times without getting bored. I even love you when you set ten alarms in the morning and still manage to sleep through all of them. I know you hate your smile but it’s my favorite smile in the world. Did you know my favorite color is the color of your eyes? The best part of my day is when I get to come home to you and the kids waiting for me. I want all of you forever. I promise I’ll love you twice as much on days that you don’t love yourself. When we’re old and gray and we look like raisins, I’ll let you go first so you won’t have to spend a single day alone. I’ll–” He stops when you let out a teary giggle, no bite in his voice at all when he says, “Please don’t laugh at me during my big romantic speech.” 

It only makes you laugh harder, though it’s just as emotional. If you focus on the other part of his sentence, you’ll only crumble into a million pieces right here.  “How very romantic of you to include the visual of us as raisins in your speech.”

Minho rolls his eyes – fondly, of course. When he pretends to squirm away from you, you tug him back by the collar of his shirt to plant an apologetic kiss on his lips which he eagerly accepts.

“Please continue,” you say, smiling against his mouth. “Tell me all the ways that you’ll love me.”

“You ruined it. I retract my proposal,” he grumbles, but his arms betray his words when they tighten around your frame, holding you close to him to steal another kiss. Then another, and another, until your faces are wet with tears and you realize that you’re both crying.

“I’m sorry,” you say through sniffles and tears. “Please keep going.”

“Make it up to me first.”

“How?”

“Marry me,” he repeats a final time. “I’ll give you a better speech on our wedding day.”

Years and years from now, when you’re old and gray and look like raisins – as he so poetically put it – you’ll remember this moment down to every miniscule detail. How the cats’ peace is disturbed by your tearful giggles and the strange look they give you before wandering out of the room, in favor of somewhere without two crying idiots. How the record starts skipping but neither of you can be bothered to do anything about the obnoxious sound. How the material of his shirt feels when you bunch the fabric in your hands because you need to kiss him, need him to be as close as humanly possible.

You’ll remember the sob that he hiccups when you tell him through choked up whispers, “Yes, I’ll marry you,” and how his lips feel when they tremble against your skin. You’ll remember the way he holds onto you like a lifeline, because he’s always been your salvation for as long as you’ve known him. You’ll remember what happens after, later that night when he finally slips the ring onto your finger. The words he whispers into the crook of your neck, “You mean the world to me,” and the emotions in his voice when you both realize this is the start of the rest of forever.

You’ll remember everything, all of it, every clumsy touch and every graceless kiss. Ugly crying on the floor and yet, it’s more perfect than anything you can ever dream of.

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 13.07.2024]

[luffington]

paradise circus ♡

➤ summary: Corazon gets extra needy when he smokes weed. (18+)

➤ pairing: donquixote rosinante (corazon) x gn!reader

➤ word count: 945

➤ warnings: modern AU, drug use, oral (m receiving), established relationship, fluff

➤ notes: lil stoner bf cora brainrot :D title is one of my favorite strains of weed! feedback is appreciated as always <3

NSFW under the break! minors dni thank uuu

Rosy pink and ruby red hues of light illuminated the otherwise dark apartment, midnight city streets lying quietly outside. Slow and rhythmic classic rock reverberated throughout the room — Corazon’s “setting the mood” playlist. The air reeked of marijuana and overly fragrant candles fighting for their life to diffuse the scent. You sunk deeper into the plush cushions of your boyfriend’s living room couch, head hazy and drowned in music. Your slightly unfocused gaze fell on the blonde man sitting on the carpeted floor in front of you, tall frame hunched over a coffee table as he rolled the second joint of the night. A quick swipe of his tongue sealed the rolling paper and he proudly showed you the final product with a goofy grin.

Corazon shuffled backwards until he settled between your legs, back pressed against the couch and head lying in your lap. He looked up at you with puppy eyes and the unlit joint resting between his plush lips. You chuckled and grabbed his heart-patterned lighter — Corazon and fire did not mix, and you tried your best to keep it out of his control when you were together. 

Fire ignited the clumsily twisted end of the joint. The blonde’s pretty maroon eyes fluttered shut as he took a long, lung-filling drag, leaning forward to exhale a long stream of smoke before returning his head back to your warm lap. 

“Thank you, angel,” he sighed with a smile. His sexy baritone voice sent pleasant vibrations throughout your body. Slender fingers brought the joint to your mouth and you noticed that it was already stained with a ring of dark red lipstick. You inhaled generously, welcoming the calming sensation that flooded every cell of your body. 

Your boyfriend always loved physical affection, but he got extra clingy when he was high. Sitting beside you on the couch, lanky arms wrapped around your shoulders and keeping your bodies pressed together. There was some bad Netflix original movie on the TV in front of you — your brain was too fried to follow the convoluted plot, and Corazon wasn’t even attempting to focus, too busy nuzzling into the crook of your neck like a cat and mumbling about how warm and soft you are. You slipped off his red beanie to pet his feathery hair and soothingly scratch his scalp. He almost purred. 

Blindly grabbing at the ashtray on the table, not daring to move away from you for even a moment, his fingers finally settled on the halfway-burnt joint. The blonde took another hit and exhaled the wispy smoke into your parted mouth. You moaned into the kiss, lips moving against his languidly. He tasted like sugary sweet cherry coke mixed with the strong earthy aftertaste of marijuana and old cigarettes. It was addicting and made your mind swirl. 

Weed inevitably made him horny. Long legs spread wide, the waistband of his sweatpants pulled down just enough to free his cock, already at full hardness after a few strokes. The movie was long forgotten and put on mute, but the light from the screen still flickered across his beautiful features.

“You’re so good at this, baby…” You’d barely touched him and there were already stars in his glazed-over eyes. He let out a delicious high-pitched mewl when you flattened your tongue and dragged it from the base of his dick to its flushed red tip. 

His long and pretty dick was always hard to swallow, stretching your throat to its limit, and especially now that the weed had made your mouth bone-dry. You swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, running the tip of it along his slit the way you knew he loved. He threaded his fingers in your hair but didn’t apply any pressure, letting you take things at your own pace. Sometimes he liked to hold hands when you sucked him off — he said it made it more intimate. You thought it was adorable.

It only took a few minutes of your warm mouth wrapped around Corazon’s length to unravel him into a whiny mess, occasionally bucking his hips into your awaiting throat. He tried his best to restrain his movements – he would never forgive himself if he hurt you – but you just felt so fucking good. The blonde attempted to muffle his embarrassingly wanton noises with the back of his hand, but you tugged at his sleeve insistently. Pulling off of his cock for only a moment to tell him how pretty his voice was, how much you wanted to hear it. His face flushed red and precum beaded at the tip of his dick. 

You hollowed your cheeks and slurped noisily at his cock, stroking the base at a lazy pace. His labored breathing and increasingly louder moans signaled his approaching orgasm. “I’m so close,” he panted. “G-gonna…” That was all the warning you got before ropes of warm cum coated your mouth. You savored the salty taste and continued to suck him through the aftershocks of his climax, throat constricting around him until he was shaking from oversensitivity. When you pulled away, a thick string of saliva connected your lips to his cock.

“Sorry I finished so soon,” he mumbled shamefully. In response, you climbed into his lap and grabbed his cheeks and kissed him passionately. He whimpered at the lingering taste of his own cum. He broke the kiss and brought the mostly burnt out joint to your lips again, black ash spilling from the end and falling onto his fluffy black hoodie (which thankfully didn’t burst into flames). He watched you inhale with a lethargic smile and a dopey, loving expression. “Can I return the favor?"

[springtyme]

𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞 ♡

Carmy Berzatto x reader || Main masterlist || Carmy playlist

summary: You and Carmy enjoys a rare moment together, free from obligations and the usual stress from the restaurant on a dreary, rain-soaked day.

word count: 1k

𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞: 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟑) 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐲 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐨𝐨𝐧

You sink into the soft embrace of the couch, the sound of raindrops pattering against the window creating a soothing melody. The day is dreary, but for you, it feels like a little pocket of paradise. Beside you, Carmen shifts slightly, his warmth radiating through the fuzzy blanket you’ve wrapped around both of you. 

It’s rare that he gets a day off, the restaurant takes up almost all of his time and energy, and being the perfectionist that he is, he hardly finds time to unwind. But today you have him all for yourself, no work, no obligations and absolutely no plans. You are gifted a whole day just for the two of you, and you have every intention of enjoying it to the fullest. 

Outside the rain is pouring down. The slick streets glisten beneath a low-hanging sky, weighed down by dark, heavy clouds, but you don’t mind it one bit. You don’t have anywhere you need to be anyway, and the rain is a cozy backdrop to your day, and it is nice to have an excuse to do absolutely nothing. The weather has transformed the horizon into a soothing tapestry, a kaleidoscope of gray and blue hues, cocooning you both in a tranquil bubble, far away from the hustle and bustle of your daily life. 

You nuzzle closer into Carmen’s chest, reveling in the quiet sweetness of the moment as he tightens his hold on you a little. You let out a peaceful sigh as strong arms engulf you; his shirt smells like fresh linen laundry detergent and the warmth radiating from him is like a gentle shield against the chillness of the old Chicago apartment. He smiles, opening his eyes, his dark blonde curls tousled. As he locks his gaze with yours, a kind of silent calmness that he all too rarely experiences gleams in his eyes, making the outside  world distant and forgotten in this moment. 

“This is nice,” you whisper, your voice barely breaking the tranquility of the moment. The subtle warmth of his body and the soft patter of rain against the window creating a sanctuary for both of you.

“Yeah,” he replies, his breath tickling the top of your head, his voice soft and content. He tips his head backward, glancing at the window as if to appreciate the rain for a moment before returning his gaze to you, his eyes soft and contemplating. “We should do this more often,” he finally adds. 

You nod, a gentle smile tugging at your lips. “Mm,” you hun, brushing your fingers through the wavy locks at the nape of his neck. “It’s nice to pause and breathe. I think you’ve been needing it.”

Carmen’s gaze softens as it travels over your features, and you can’t help but feel secure under his intense focus. “I know I need to learn to slow down,” he admits, his voice dropping slightly as if he’s revealing a secret, “but it’s hard, you know? There’s always something that needs to be done. The restaurant… it’s...” His brow furrows, making that familiar wrinkle appear between his brows. You want to kiss it, to smooth it out with a loving touch and hopefully take his worries away with it, but you know that things aren’t that simple.

“I know, Carm,” you reassure him, shifting slightly so you can see his face better. “But I think you are doing pretty well right now.” You reach up, gently caressing the side of his face, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. 

His eyes close momentarily, savoring your touch, and a soft smile settles on his lips. “I think that is to your merit. You always make me feel calmer.” 

Your heart swells at his words. “You make me calm too.” 

Carmen opens his eyes, warmth radiating from his gaze, his fingers brushing against your arm in a gentle caress that sends a tingling warmth through you. “I love you.” His voice is a low, heartfelt whisper, wrapping around your heart like a warm hug. It’s not that this is the first time he tells you this, and he always makes sure to show you how much he loves you in his own little ways, but it is not something he says a lot. You know that he is working on it, that he has a hard time believing he deserves to be loved, so expressing the love he himself is feeling can be overwhelming. But when those words slip from his lips, they feel sacred, something to be cherished and held close. 

You smile softly, your heart fluttering in your chest as those three little words fill the space between you. “I love you too,” you whisper back, your voice filled with sincerity. You tighten your arm around his waist, feeling the beat of his heart against your side, grounding you in this cozy bubble of affection.

He looks down at you, a mixture of relief and happiness washing over his face. It’s a moment that feels both monumental and ordinary. You relax against him even further, allowing the sound of the rain to blend with the rhythm of your hearts beating together. 

He tilts his head slightly, and you can see the way the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly; a small, shy smile that makes your stomach flutter. You find yourself lost in that smile. The quiet sigh of the rain seems to echo your contentment as you nestle deeper into the crook of his shoulder, feeling protected and content. Carmen leans down, pressing a light kiss to your forehead, a gentle seal on your shared words, his fingers dancing along your arm. 

Time seems to slow as you both savor the moment, enveloped in warmth and stillness. The rain continues to fall steadily, each drop creating its own little drumbeat against the window. In Carmen’s embrace, resting against the gentle pulse of his heart, you close your eyes, allowing the world outside to fade further away—because in this moment, all you need is right here. You find his hand, letting your thumb gently glide over his tattooed knuckles before intertwining your hand with his, fingers lacing perfectly, a delicate fit that feels as natural as breathing.

[hwaightme]

Impressionism

(masterlist) (taglist)

🩸 pairing: vampire!gallerist/collector!seonghwa x art historian!gn!reader 🩸 genre: fluff, noir, soulmates, supernatural, strangers(?) to lovers, art nerding 🩸 summary: a post-graduate student specialising in impressionism, you were a regular visitor to the many art galleries in the city. who knew that among the paintings you would encounter your favourite, timeless work of art? 🩸 wordcount: 12.3k 🩸 warnings/tags: questionable editing, mention of blood, fangs, wounds, suggestive, many pet names (love, darling etc), art theory/history ponderings, time skips, mention of rituals, philosophy, hwa is centuries-old, yearning hwa 🩸 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🩸 a/n: happy birthday to @starrysvn!! lheo, ilysm, and i hope you enjoy this little rambling <3 hugs to everyone, all reblogs, notes and comments appreciated! 🩸 playlist: nfwmb - hozier, who is she? - i monster, keep on loving you - cas, la vie en rose - edith piaf, a l'ombre de nous - pierre barouh, les feuilles mortes / sous le ciel de paris - yves montand, moon over bourbon street / until - sting

‘Love and Pain’ - an enigmatic masterpiece that was painted by Edvard Munch, the famous Norwegian artist, in 1895. In vibrant oil paints a dramatic scene interpreted by millions as something more sensual, darker, revealing was immortalised. Perhaps quite literally. You leaned back on one hand, feeling the coolness of the bench located in the middle of the gallery hall, careful to not let the notebook in your hands slip from your lap. ‘Vampire’ - first, it was a label for the woman with the alluring, long red locks that was leaning over her supposed lover, then it turned into a second name for the work. It was comical how Munch himself had initially stated the piece depicted nothing more than a woman kissing the neck of a man, and yet, the tale had told itself. What followed were six versions of this same subject, with a woodcut titled “Vampyr II”, followed by paintings titled ‘Vampire’ and ‘Vampire in the Forest’, and then through common acceptance that this indeed was the ‘submission of a man to the bite of a vampire’, if you were to paraphrase a critic who had been in an astoundingly similar position as you, except without the decades upon decades of other material to refer to. They had been the firstcomers, the initial perceivers to set the tone for society’s consumption of the artwork, the louder of the many voices in the artwork who often had the final say. In some senses, they were your long lost colleagues - they were there to create history, and you were there to study it.

While it was not exactly a part of the movement you had decided to specialise in, you nonetheless would never reject the opportunity to learn more about the stunning world of visual arts, trying to guess how the artist had felt in the moment, what did they see beyond what they presented to the world, how did they translate the heart into brushstrokes. You were taken by all forms of art since you were little - having grown up surrounded by items that were far removed from what you called your air, you were intrigued by anything that was external to your version of ordinary. In your case, it just so happened to be the little private gallery that you had spent almost all of your monthly allowance to visit when you were a school kid - you had been so dedicated, in fact, that the elderly guard who had often also acted as a guide to the visitors had become your first friend in the art world, something of a grandparent figure, and on multiple occasions - when the lack of eyes would allow, simply let you through with a grin and glance out of the entrance doors.

And so here you were, many years later, many hard decisions and conversations behind you, regarding artworks with an unprecedented soulful closeness that you had initially thought was unattainable. Had you believed all those who remained outside of the walls of your personal paradise, you would have been immersed in the same cycle that had been drilled into the majority of your family members, except maybe a handful who you had never met for the exact reason that they had chosen something for themselves. But you regarded your dream as the thorned path - undoubtedly more challenging, not immediately fruitful, but in the long run leading to the heaven of your design. What more could you ask for?

It was enjoyable to be alone with the paintings surrounding you, portals to new realms that any visitor could have the pleasure of exploring. And what was even more inspiring, was that in the eye of every beholder was a different universe, and no matter who one would speak to, their version of the painting would be different, even if just slightly. You huffed, amused. When was the last time you had visited a gallery with anyone else? You could not quite recall - it was likely that you had never seeked company from another because you were more than satisfied with the company of the legendary works that were regarding you from the many walls. It was possible to compose oneself, spend limitless time on every piece, study the details, and drift into one’s own musings when there was no one to ground them. This was when you dared to say you got your best work done. Even though you, of course, conducted research within university and ventured out to galleries, museums, collectors or auctions only within professional bounds, the bulk of the thinking process was carried out in times such as this. When it was just you, your notebook and pen, and a new point of focus. However, this time, you could not say you were fully attentive to the painting that you had decided to focus on, as a certain someone was appearing to share your level of interest in ‘Love and Pain’ too. 

A gentleman who could not be much older or younger than you, at most a couple of years, stood off to the right of the bench, unmoving, gaze fixated on the painting. Dressed in a pinstripe navy suit, light blue dress shirt, lacquered dress shoes and a matching navy tie, he was nothing short of being a moving work of art. Hints of a glimmer from his thin framed, elegant silver spectacles gave the man a scholarly aura, while the slicked back dark hair - evidently a lot longer than the styling would suggest, added notes of business, entrepreneurship, perhaps leadership. Nothing was out of place, not a crease, not an exposed thread in sight. Needless to say, your curiosity had been sparked.

Much like you found joy in exploring creations in the realm of the visual arts, you were fond of crafting stories about the people who were strangers in passing. You could not help it; perhaps this affinity for creative internal ramblings had come as a package with studying the degree you had selected, or perhaps this was a naturally occurring guilty pleasure that you simply had not had the chance to entertain before you cut yourself off from expectations and predetermined patterns of thought. But now, you had the full pleasure of wondering, letting your mind travel to lands far away as you took the real life masterpiece in, and pondered why the man could be here, what he could be thinking as he studied Munch’s work, and what resonated with him, and only him. 

There was a melancholia with the weight of centuries resting upon his shoulders, that much you could decipher in the stranger’s stance. Even then, there was a gentle burning flame within his heart judging by just how dedicated he was to inspecting the artwork. Like he was seeing an old friend for the first time in years, and was attempting to memorise them anew and recognise each change, bit by bit. You suppressed a chuckle, entertaining the possibility of this man finding a kinship with the painting, but chose to set the idea aside for the time being, instead focusing on sketching his emotional landscape. Was the stranger remorseful? Lonely? Perplexed? You could not quite pinpoint the answer, at least not before you noticed the man’s head starting to turn, and soon enough, his eyes were peering into your own.

They were two pools of deep chocolate, an all-consuming shade that, due to the ever so slightly dimmer lights than in the general halls of the gallery, appeared to be approaching a captivating onyx. The gaze that originated from behind the glasses, and glided across the room that was suddenly too small for two struck you, and you could feel heat starting to rise on your face, blush threatening to reveal the effect of the man’s spontaneous act of confidence. Lowering your head, you gave the stranger a sheepish grin, and pretended to make a random note, pen erratically scribbling over a filled page. He continued to regard you with that same unwavering expression, and only when you looked up again did he seem to catch himself and give you a closed-mouth smile, equally as bashful as yours, and crossed his arms. One step, another, and he was right by the painting, though careful to not obstruct your view - instead, he took his time to read the brief paragraph on the information plaque that had been stuck to the wall off to the side of ‘Love and Pain’. With the same familiarity that is common among those grieving, or in a state of existential sorrow. A bittersweetness prevailed in his aura, one that reminded you of autumn - the falling leaves in red and gold, twirling to join a magnificent carpet, but nonetheless, making a departure, albeit a nearly unnoticeable one. Had he seen many fallen leaves? Was he himself approaching the season? You gasped, but even though the sound was barely audible, you caught the stranger making a minuscule turn in response. 

His footsteps were louder than your thoughts, his departure an irrevocably impactful act that left you breathless. You did not know him, and yet you felt as though you had gotten a glimpse at multiple lifetimes, and were part of a moment that was greater than yourself. In the wordless exchange, question after question had found its root, and something told you that you should not dare attempt to craft him a backstory, and choosing to believe in anything but what would be declared by him would be a gross misinterpretation, much like one that was carried out by those who did not wish to reflect on art and look beyond a first impression. For the first time since you had made your initial discovery of the arts, you felt like you were not alone in the gallery, the other visitor’s presence remained so intense that he could be sat right next to you, scrutinising the same painting, entertaining the same thought. Was the woman with the bright tresses indeed what she had been declared to be over the many years she had been introduced to many venues, many variations of public, and finally finding a home on this wall? Did she settle with her lover, or perhaps a carefully selected victim? Would the man have an answer?

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ . It was unlike you to retrace your steps a mere few days after a visit and return to the same gallery, amble down the same halls, and seek for a new source of investigative inspiration among the same selection. This obviously did not mean that you would never return, definitely not, that would be almost criminal of you to possess such intentions, but you tended to try to cleanse your palate with alternative movements, contemporary takes and avant garde interpretations between searches which were more directly related to your studies. And yet, for the first time in a while, nothing was stopping you from your return. It felt only natural, and so right. Moreover, you felt no unease when you headed straight towards the section that housed the impressionists. An individual with an unspoken, mysterious mission, you were on the hunt for the creative streak, something that would help you ponder the next section of your hefty dissertation, and you could sense that it had to be somewhere here. And, like always, you were right.

‘Bazille’s Studio’, one of the most famous works painted by the so-called ‘tragic artist’ of the impressionists, Frédéric Bazille in 1870. In fact, it had been a collaboration between him and Édouard Manet, another gifted artist, though more renowned as a figure leading modernism, and depicted a scene of discussion and creative collaboration in the studio that Bazille had shared for a certain period of time with other spectacular figures of the visual arts, Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, who could also be found in this painting. On the walls were works rejected by the Salon, which at the time had been the one of the most influential, famous art exhibitions in the Western World, administered by the Académie des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Interestingly, above the piano on the right hung a painting which Bazille had purchased from Monet, potentially hinting at the material ties between them, and the importance the young artist had because of his familial wealth. In a sense, Bazille expressed his support, as well as showed an intimate, platonic scene of the art world where there was a moment of calm, of mutual appreciation, despite the financial troubles and tensions due to character that had been experienced in those walls.

You stepped closer to the painting, trying to detect the transition from Bazille’s to Manet’s hand, the latter of whom painted in the former to take ‘centre stage’, palette in hand. Truly seamless work, though what else could it be? This painting had been a new addition to the permanent collection, and after strenuous, detailed restoration work to give the oil paints their original vibrancy and for impeccable strokes to forget the burden of time, you had the pleasure of seeing it in person. You were an arm’s length away from yet another work essential to history, culture and the arts as a societal colossus.

While it was easy enough to appreciate the technical detail, you found yourself halting to remember the names of all those depicted in the painting, failing to finalise the list in your head. Starting from Bazille, you had determined for yourself the presence of Monet and Manet in his vicinity quickly enough, however where Renoir was, or what were the names of the two other gentlemen in the scene, slipped your mind. You rocked to the side to lean closer to the plaque that was meant to provide you with the information, however you only found the name of the painting, the artist and the medium, much to your misfortune. Clicking your tongue, you returned to studying the faces of each individual, and furrowed your brows in agitated concentration. It was simple to take out your phone and search for the answer, though you knew that just as neutral that action would be, so would be your reaction unless you were to remember, or somebody were to-

A presence to your side caught you off-guard, and you felt a shiver run up your spine. One glance was enough to determine that it was the same man from yesterday, only the outfit revealing a change. Other than that, he had the same impeccable posture and stance, as well as a thoughtful look towards the painting in front of you both. His arms were crossed, though not in a defensive manner; instead they offered an interpretation of philosophy, as though this man was carrying centuries of wisdom with him, history having pummelled down on him and yet needing to support it like Atlas; the titan carrying the world.

Today, he was dressed in a mahogany coloured suit, with a white top underneath and some black boots with thick white rubber soles - quite the transition from last time, when he had been a manifestation of a sleek and pristine office gentleman. Hair, now let down and wavy, neatly framed his face, accentuating the regalness of his features. It was astounding how you were still sure that it would be more likely to find a man of this fashion in a painting, rather than standing beside you. You kept quiet, not wanting to interfere with his musings. Perhaps it was just a silly coincidence that the two of you were at the same place and at the same time again - how else? You did not know him, and you hoped that he did not know you. Though, you truly did not mind his company, and maybe it could serve as your motivation to figure out the rest of the characters in the painting. Once again, your attention returned to the task at hand, but before you could even begin to list off prominent figures of the art world during the era of Impressionism, a deep, honey-like whisper halted you and made you hold your breath. 

“Auguste Renoir is the one seated, Emile Zola, the writer, is on the stairs, Monet, Manet and Bazille are, as you likely know in the centre, and that,” he paused to raise his hand, gesturing in the general direction of the far right of the piece, “is Edmond Maitre. Pianist, art collector, and Bazille’s closest friend.”

“I- uh- thank you. How did you know I was trying to recall? Pardon me, I must look so clueless-” you trailed off, eyes finding the floor, an action which seemed to be your automatic response to being under inspection of the man, though this time, he captured your gaze quickly by stepping closer towards you. Looking up, you found concern and apology in his eyes.

“No! Not at all, I… sorry if I misunderstood and I am sorry for forcing you into such erroneous conclusions,” he gave you an ever so slightly crooked smile, charming, very disarming and so suiting this beautiful stranger, that you were instantly prompted by your instincts to return it, dismissing doubt. 

“You saved me,” you joked, though the phrase contained within itself an unlikely compassion. Two people, alone in the same gallery, sharing a precious dialogue was something to cherish, and with all your might you wanted to make it last.

“Just as you made me regard the painting in a new light, for which I thank you, greatly,” he bowed his head, the smile not leaving his face for a moment. There was a recognition in his gaze, as well as an inexplicable admiration. What did he discover?

“I guess it might be true that no matter how many times you see a painting, every viewing brings something new,”

“Well said. Are you an artist? A critic, perhaps?” He inquired, moving closer to stand level with you, head turned slightly in your direction to spare the occasional glance. You shook your head slowly, wondering if in a retelling of your destiny you could have pursued either of the careers he had mentioned.

“I am in the arts, though rather than looking at the present I remain in the past. Art historian, well, a postgraduate. Nothing too fancy.”

“Oh? But that is marvellous, and what are you focusing on?”

“I like to call it the painting in plenair during the turn of the century. I focus mainly on impressionism, though do sometimes stray into its interplay with post-impressionism, modernism and expressionism.”

“Ah, no wonder I have been seeing you here often. Enjoying the new collection?” he asked, eager to hear your opinion. There was excitement in his voice as though you were a renowned expert and were about to bestow upon him a priceless evaluation. And this was without considering the technicality of you having only half-met. Just crossing paths twice in one week.

"Yes, of course… The collection is unlike any other I have seen. I keep wanting to return and stay here for ages." You explained, glancing at the stranger while he nodded along.

"Incredibly happy to hear it. I swear I have seen you around quite often during the past month that the exhibition has been open? Am I correct?" evidently, your rapid blinking was interpreted rather quickly as perplexion, for the man gasped ever so lightly, as if to catch his own speeding thoughts.

“I- how do you know? I do believe this is our… second time meeting?” you uttered, one eyebrow raised in suspicion, which, to your disbelief, revealed something akin to fear in the beautiful stranger’s features. Nervously, he adjusted a strand of hair that was threatening to cover his right eye.

“Not quite… you were present at the opening event, right?” he quizzed.

“Indeed, my depar- wait. But how? Respectfully, I am starting to think you know me.” you enunciated with newfound caution, while the man pursed his lips. One second, another passed in near total silence, until a chuckle escaped him and he shook his head. It appeared as though he was mentally scolding himself - his eyes held no malice, instead glinting with hope, that melancholic wisdom, and something unidentifiable, ethereal, supernatural.

“I think it is high time I introduce myself before this gets out of hand. See, in some sense I work here, and most of my days are spent in the gallery or labouring for it-”

“Ah, I see-”

“Park Seonghwa, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” with one arm folded behind his back and the other on his chest, he bowed to you like how you imagined princes in the numerous portraits you had studied would bow. And the most enthralling part was how the gesture flowed, and was so befitting. Quickly, you bowed in return, but while raising your head, you froze. It hit you why he would know. And know a lot. And would remember you, and likely anyone and everyone who visited. In a low whisper, you asked:

“Am I… correct in assuming that you are ‘the’ Park Seonghwa?” quickly enough, you realised that it was a mistake to find his eyes again - clearly, you were not ready for the intensity, nor for the intrigue that was contained within them, nor for the fact that he moved another step closer to you, the rubber of his boots dampening any sound produced.

“I never knew that there was a ‘the’ attached to my name. I simply love art.”

“Well that love translated into the creation of what is possibly the greatest gallery in the nation, if not worldwide,”

“Oh you flatter me too much, ah, your name-”

“L/N Y/N, and I, too, love art.”

“Elated to hear it,” he gleamed, and you swore the room exploded with the illumination of a thousand stars.

Stunning, awe-inspiring, ever so elegant. He was a walking dream. In that smile was concealed a certain something that had been taboo, a well-kept secret until a couple of decades ago, when those like Seonghwa had started to be fully integrated into society, and no longer had to hide, changing identity from one century to another. With that came Seonghwa’s success - you had read in an article that advertised the permanent exhibition a short blurb of his story, and how for many turbulent decades, the man single-handedly collected masterpieces, crafted a meticulous network and introduced genius artists to the world, and the world to the artists. The gallery was a magnum opus for Seonghwa - a presentation of what he had achieved as a collector, as a patron of the arts, and a celebration of his personal culture. 

You could not help but hone in on the fangs, and recall the original reason why it was even possible for Seonghwa to obtain such legendary works and have as much influence as he presently did. It was not spontaneous; submerged in turmoil, he had personally approached artists who, previously abandoned by critics and other prospective buyers, had never considered a future beyond a mysterious tomorrow. Hiding his own true nature, he crafted the tale of a ‘Park’ dynasty, and rose again and again to continue his work. Perhaps, now, some might argue that once he had revealed himself as a vampire the velocity of Seonghwa’s developments had fallen, but you would passionately argue the opposite. It was challenging to believe that any move by this stunning artistic mastermind was not strategic - the announcement had given the gallery more partnerships, more donations, and in turn, an even greater prominence in the community both among professionals and enjoyers. 

“Thank you,” the phrase spilled from your lips inadvertently. It seemed to be the only thing that was reasonable to say in that given moment. You pondered the pains that must have been suffered to make the world that you were consumed by come together, and the painting in front of you, aside from what was contained within the frame,now shined in a new light externally too, possessing its own story, resembling a search for a kindred spirit, a true home. 

Seonghwa remained quiet, the words of gratitude echoing in his heart. It was endearing, encouraging to hear such warmth from you. So, you did know him, at least the parts he had shown to the public - as was expected from someone so deeply ingrained in visual arts and history, but he could not help but identify it as something much greater than mere awareness. The openness with which you had welcomed conversation with him, the kind charm that radiated from you as you engaged in the careful verbal waltz reminded the vampire of times long, long ago when all that existed for him was drive, enamourment and art. Oh, how your eyes glimmered. His heart clenched into near unbearable agony as he read your expressions, and wondered how much you have seen, what have you yet to see, who you were in this temporary life. If only he could ask fate to tell him how much you remembered of who you had been before. 

“No, thank you, for giving this,” he gestured to the gallery around him, graceful hand unfurling as though revealing a delicate flower, “meaning, and reason to exist.”

“I highly doubt I am of much significance, Mister Park,” you responded, a soft smile on your face.

“Would anything hold the same meaning if there was no one to behold it?” he responded. You chose not to answer, catching onto the rhetoricism, “and please, call me Seonghwa. I’d like to say we are to be good friends.”

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Sitting across from Seonghwa in the cafe that was located on the top floor, above the main halls of the gallery made you feel strangely serene. Today he had foregone the straighter hair styles that you had begun to get used to, surprising you with a head of tousled, almost curled locks that embodied the world’s softness, though remained to be quite the contrast to the more formal and highly fashionable attire that adorned his stature. A suit, tastefully oversized with a buttoned double breasted jacket that was simultaneously serving as a shirt, the plunging v-shaped neckline revealing perfectly smooth skin, and what you noted to be a solitary freckle right in the centre of his collarbone. The trousers, at least from the glimpse that you had allowed yourself when you had met at the entrance to the cafe were of a loose fit, defining his waist at the top and falling to form an almost skirt-like silhouette should he stand how he usually stood: the echoes of what would be called the ‘third position’ in ballet, more relaxed, but still retaining an elegance that only he could carry. The biggest shock to you, however, was Seonghwa’s choice of shoes - a refreshing point to the visual, he had selected to contrast the formalwear with a pair of limited edition, geometrically intriguing Converses. You could catch a glimpse of one of them from over the edge of the table whenever his slightly shaking leg, positioned over the other, would rock forwards just that tiny bit stronger. 

While the setting was meant to be casual, the circumstances in which you found yourself were nothing short of miraculous. Never in a million years would you have imagined for it to be possible to be sat across the table from, quite possibly, one of the most legendary contributors to art restoration, collection and exhibition. On top of that, Seonghwa was a figure who actively bridged the gap between disparate communities, finding a common language, and using the arts as a salvation. You were in awe, and could not hold back on regarding the handsome vampire as he quietly reported your and his orders to the waiter who had floated to your table.

“Are you sure you do not want anything else?”

“Yes, I am sure. I do not wish to exploit your kindness-”

“-Not at all. I hope you do not mind that I… must make a rather unconventional order,” he smiled sheepishly, clearing his throat so as to attempt to hide his doubts, though you were uncertain as to how much of such emotions could possibly be left after what had to have been centuries. 

“An unconventional order is pouring a sugary energy drink into a triple shot espresso and calling it dinner,” you answered, eyes travelling from Seonghwa’s face to the mural on the wall a few tables away that wrapped behind him and to your left, disrupted only by the occasional floor length window that provided city vistas - rather gloomy, compared to the optimistic illumination of the restaurant. Perhaps out of pity, or out of genuine entertainment, Seonghwa chuckled.

“That does sound like an acquired taste, indeed. Thank you,”

“No need. Thank you for inviting me,” you turned back, nodding a polite bow as he softly waved your gesture off.

A silence settled across the table as you waited for your respective drinks. Your hand, had you not consciously restrained yourself, would have probably reached for the phone that you stored in your purse, but now was fiddling with the sleeve of your shirt, finding the buttons to stress test the threads that had them sewn tight to the fabric. You were not bored, in fact, far from it. You needed a barrier. The grandeur of this man’s presence was almost overwhelming. He was not a mere individual in a room, he consumed it. Had you just walked in, you were certain that your gaze would still settle on his form. Just like the concrete outside was grey, and the pause retained a divine ambiguity, Seonghwa was unforgettable. In an attempt to calm your clouded thoughts, you studied the mural once more.

“May I inquire into your thoughts on the decor?”

“The choice of ‘A Sunday on La Grande Jatte’ is wise. I am guessing you were the one to make the decision?” you heard an exhale, and once more your attention was captured.

“Alas, I cannot take full accolades for this. This stemmed from a discussion that a good friend of mine and I had one late night. Seurat just so happened to make an appearance amidst the chatter, and so… this was born,” he gestured at the surroundings. Clearly, the interior was picked carefully to fit the theme of the legendary painting. 

From the colours to the textures and the greenery that had been intricately set up across the restaurant, every detail had a meaning and a place, and did not take away from the spaciousness of the hall. It was breathable, while still giving the illusion that you were stepping into a whimsical impressionist paradise. Perhaps that was another reason why you could not quite contain your disbelief firstly in your encounter, secondly in its progression, and thirdly in your interlocutor’s warmth. 

“Spectacular, truly. I have heard you have an eye for detail, however this surpasses all expectations.”

“Oh? There is more you have heard?” he interjected, leaning closer to you and placing an elbow on the table, simply to rest his head on his hand. While this could potentially be seen as slightly unceremonious, it hinted at well-kept confidence, ownership, control. A healthy undercurrent of motivation that came with indirect praise.

“I-oh y-yeah of course,” you did not mean to stutter, but some part of you was grateful you did, for the smirk that had threatened to burst on Seonghwa’s lips was enough for you to feel ignited to elaborate, “if my memory is not failing me, you were the one to distinguish a reproduction of a piece some time ago, no?”

“Ah- yes. That was a Degas reproduction. I must say, the attempt was sincere, however when I saw the-, hm, you will not be startled, will you?”

“Please,” you urged him to continue, intrigued by the story. 

“When I saw the original, as it was being made and when it had been finalised, it would be shameful of me to not spot a fake,” he fell back into his chair, just in time for the drinks to be served. 

A coffee for you, and a non-descript beverage concealed by a semi-opaque, tall glass for him. Though, you did not need to be a detective to guess what it was that Seonghwa was bringing to his lips, and what he took a tentative sip of. The only mystery that was remaining for you was what ‘type’ he had picked - was it O+? B-? Whatever else? You joined him in the tasting, lifting the mug and indulging in the wonderful aroma of your americano. It did not strike you as necessary to opt for something fancier and lie to yourself - so you settled for your regular order, much to your joy. Familiar taste and the reliability of the caffeine hitting your system painted the scene in more comforting colours, and gradually, you found yourself easing into the dialogue more and more, until life stories, musings and a surprisingly large common ground came pouring. 

You discovered that Seonghwa possessed a unique sensitivity and attunement to those around him. Focused on the emotional experiences, he felt through time and could recount emotions like the memory was from a mere few days, rather than decades ago. He was well-spoken, eloquent, intelligent, polite in every right as he navigated through the linguistic landscape and guided you like a partner in a dance. You were spiralling oh so quickly, intrigue catching up to you and prompting you to sacrifice all of your senses to the man and the pleasantly intoxicating atmosphere he captured you in. He was enchanting, and it was far too easy to give in. 

“May I reveal something?” in a hushed tone, he inquired, a finger absent-mindedly tracing the rim of his glass. 

“Oh, a little secret?” you raised your eyebrows in jest, lightening the initial seriousness with which Seonghwa uttered the question.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Depends on how you take it. A confession might be more accurate,” he waited for you to take the final sip of your coffee before continuing, unphased by your unwavering focus, “if I were to be honest, I have been meaning to approach you.”

“Pardon?”

“As you know we have a… common awareness of each other thanks to what is housed under this roof, but ever since we first unknowingly crossed paths… I wanted to speak to you.”

Confused, you did not speak, though the words contained an unparalleled affection within them. What could he possibly mean? You chose to refrain from commenting, your hesitation prompting the vampire to continue.

“Do you remember the most recent opening night? Of the exhibition? I believe you were with someone…” he trailed off, hoping you would continue for him.

“Ah, yes, a friend of mine from university. So?”

“This might sound strange but, I distinctly remember you mentioning a name. An artist from the same era, dubbed as L/N Y/N?”

“Goodness, you overheard that? I am so sorry, it is just that said artist has intrigued me for some time, and I was half-hoping to encounter their work. Maybe it is because our names are the same but still….”

“Elusive, aren’t they?”

“To put it softly, yes. I only vaguely recall seeing… maybe one piece in my lifetime, when I was little, and then… nothing. And there is barely any information on the artist online, let alone libraries and archives.”

“Hm, indeed. I guess that makes two of us…”

“Two of us who are searching?”

“That’s right. It brought me happiness to know that I am not alone in this endeavour.”

“Then we can keep searching together.”

While you were positive that you could not conceal your interest, Seonghwa’s did not go unnoticed either. It was of course possible that he was simply well-versed in political correctness, but the burning depth of his pupils told you otherwise. Enthrallment, the discovery of a kindred spirit, recognition, the rekindling of a bond that had existed at some point long ago - all fantasies that played out in your mind as you returned that look with subtle fervour. You wondered how many people he graced with those charms. How many had succumbed to his influence, becoming a marker on his infinite life path, a fleeting second? How many had his lips known, how many had turned into a decadent treat for a genius man with natural peculiarities? While the researcher part of you was perplexed and aching for answers, the you that was caught in the moment simply let it go on, and the feeling of Seonghwa’s leg brushing against yours, and the pride blooming in your chest as he praised the few articles and papers you had published upon having claimed that he ‘knew some things about you too’ preoccupied you in the most magnificent way.

Naturally, you agreed to meet Seonghwa again. On your journey home, in the privacy of the anonymous metro, immersed in the cacophony of deafening rails and the millions travelling to anywhere, you pressed your phone to your racing heart as the vampire, the man, the beguiling Park Seonghwa sent you a message confirming so. Who knew a simple selection of words could be so captivating?

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Under the comforting thrum of raindrops on the large umbrella, you walked down the streets of the grey-coloured city, your hand lightly holding onto Seonghwa’s arm while he ensured that both of you were protected from the elements. Despite the dull light and bitterness of the cooling season, Seonghwa appeared radiant, truly timeless with every gesture and stride. The elegant angles of his face that you could tirelessly study stood out against the monotone buildings and overcast skies. His voice drowned out the sound of droplets racing one another to the ground. A miraculous gentleman who appeared in your life much like a portrait, or a landscape - a masterpiece you wanted to explore in every spare moment, and better yet, this masterpiece was equally as open to you as you were to him. 

“...essentially, yes. It is like another nationality. A marker of species isn’t too far isn’t it? Just another line on a stack of documents. Nothing more,” Seonghwa concluded his explanation, pursing his lips for a moment before letting an exhale turned dragon’s breath escape into the afternoon.

“Makes sense. So would that mean there are separate medical papers and treatment too?”

“Well… when regeneration fails us or when a given case is severe enough… yes. Though it is handled by private clinics run by other vampires.”

“There are private clinics?”

“Of course. Often they are connected to donation points too, and that is how we remain on the right side of the law and stay alive,” he nodded to himself, giving you a bittersweet smile when he noticed confusion overtake your gaze. “Blood,” he stated as-a-matter-of-factly, “I mean blood.”

In a nervous stupor, you cleared your throat and focused on a droplet that was hanging onto the edge of the umbrella, right in front of you, all the way until the gentle motion of Seonghwa’s amble provoked its abrupt descent onto the stone under your feet. 

“Ah, yes, I see-”

“If you find this disturbing, we can forget the conversation ever-”

“-I want to know you better, Seonghwa, truly-”

“Careful-”

“Sorry wha-” 

With an extraordinary swiftness, you were tugged abruptly by the arm. Not registering your surroundings, you merely went with the inertia, caught off-guard by the proximity of your face to the vampire’s as he held you against him with the arm that you had previously been resting your own on. A hand that you raised on instinct went limp and landed on Seonghwa’s chest, feeling the thick felted wool of his coat. The ringing of a bell, going farther away from you by the second, incessant but at least waking you up from the blur, was enough for you to put two and two together - a cyclist who thought they owned every part of the street, like always. You sighed.

“Reckless… my apologies I did not mean to-” Seonghwa tried to detangle himself, refusing to remain in your personal space for longer than necessary no matter how much he did want to, but his efforts were reduced to nothing when your hand moved to a hold on his upper arm - reassuring, comfortable, accepting.

“Thank you,” you interrupted, “that bike would have definitely run into me…”

“It’s nothing,” a low chuckle echoed in your ears as Seonghwa peered into your pupils, confidence that had previously wavered out of habitual caution now restored, growing into a pride as you continued to hold onto him, “the man was slow enough for there to be no risk of harm. I hope you are not too startled though.”

“Oh? You have super powers too? Do elaborate,” you jested, resuming your walk.

“I would call it more like… being a finely tuned machine. Can’t say I have bad reaction speed. Though I must say, it was a little challenging pulling you out of the way,” there was an evident intent behind the words. However, you were too curious to pay it any mind, instead preferring to find out their meaning live.

“How so?”

“I think this,” dropping his arm, Seonghwa’s hand reached for yours, and without a moment of hesitation, his fingers were intertwining with yours, his palm pressed against yours, “would be better. You know, for safety.” As if you could ever reject him. This was a fact you had established for yourself with an unprecedented certainty. His gallant disposition, attentiveness all confirmed a care for you that was impossible to ignore. 

There was something picturesque about the present after meeting this wonderful, infinite pool of art and humanity. You found yourself leafing through articles, art books and biographies with a more wistful and sentimental perspective, imagining what it would be like if it were you who was immortalised in the thousands of brushstrokes, or if you were on the other side of the canvas, how would you go about depicting the scenes unfolding before your very eyes. Timelessness - a quality shared between the art you so adored, and the man you had encountered and over the weeks, let your intrigue be transformed into a shy flame of infatuation. Perhaps it was the underlying reason why you did not reject his advances, nor cower in fear of his true nature with which he was upfront. The other, of course, was the search for the mysterious artist, an adventure that fuelled many of your dialogues, and prompted you to spend more time in the library and the archives of your university than you had ever done before - to the point where Seonghwa himself had encouraged you to take a break from your intellectual expeditions and step into the world as a casual observer. So, you let yourself drift; it finally hit you, what scenes your once again tranquil stroll reminded you of, and you smiled to yourself as you recalled the intricacies of the not quite commonly discussed representation of the Impressionist movement. 

‘Rue de Paris, temps de pluie’, painted by Gustave Caillebotte; his most famous work. Not quite as widely discussed, despite still technically being created in the Impressionist era, perhaps due to the meandering through form, realism and reliance on stronger lines rather than broad brushstrokes and the study of light. You did find it fascinating how Caillebotte’s passion for photography had seeped into this piece, however. Much like how, in recent days, you could easily find a way to mention Seonghwa in conversation, be it related to the arts or not. From the subjects in the foreground being slightly out of focus while the middle ground was crystal clear, to how the shapes of some passersby were cropped were all characteristic of photos, rather than paintings, making this particular work all the more dear to you. It was a reflection of life, of behaviour and of what had been daily back in the late nineteenth century.

Was it any different from now, aside from those grand, global topics that historians dedicated their lives to studying? If one were to whittle down to the intricacies, the miniatures that ornamented the span of a human existence, was it so terribly far away from what you were born into, and Seonghwa saw develop and had adopted? How people shielded themselves from the rain with umbrellas, and then used them as a tool to isolate themselves from other urbanites who were in a rush to take a day-long route out of their homes… and back again. The latest silhouettes of dress and accessory; the same rush to be with the times as now.

You felt your companion’s arm move, prompting you to let go and leave your hand hovering as though you were awaiting some kind of change. You bit back an unprecedented sliver of disappointment, only to be caught by surprise once again as you felt the hand settle on the small of your back. Cautious, like you were going to melt from any more pressure than the brush of a feather. A quick glance was enough to determine that you were being studied intently for any sign of discomfort - Seonghwa was ready to pull away at any moment, any sigh, and most definitely at any word. A meek smile settled on your lips, and you shyly used an oncoming stranger as an opportunity to affirm the gesture, stepping towards the vampire, and sensing the confidence of his protective measure be solidified. With glee he followed your every tilt and turn, angling away from the passing form that neither of you could focus on. The touch was electric, somehow monumental despite being so common and barely present. Your mind was on fire, pondering what it would be like to put your head on the elegant man’s shoulder, and let yourself be carried away into a terrific fairy tale.

“This really is a rainy day,”

“Seems quite sunny to me,” you respond with sarcasm, realising only after the fact that your phrase still did retain an element of truth within it. 

Sunshine did not have to be literal. It was easy to see, you just needed to return Seonghwa’s gaze, and watch as another spring flower blossomed in the soul of one you had initially assumed to be so cold, so distant. In the darkest winter was a safe haven that you could not help but lean into, and regardless of what you had initially thought, with him, you felt more human, more safe and alive than ever. He listened without fail to your ramblings, and could easily pick up the ball and balance it with his own musings that you could listen to for many lifetimes.

Lifetimes; immortality, the one concept you couldn’t quite wrap your head around. Well, the latter was technically not true, as Seonghwa had elaborated some few days ago: vampires did age, albeit at such a slow pace that to the run of the mill human being, it was impossible to notice, and if they did, it would be someone very close, and only over a matter of decades. Maybe it was this exact inability that made you want to stay and learn all there could be about the gallerist - you thought that would make you feel like you have been living forever. His wisdom was beautiful. The kindness with which he treated you, akin to that of how a spouse treats their long-time sweetheart with a mellow and comfortable affection, was not something you asked for nor expected, but something which he introduced himself with through every action, progressively more amiable when you allowed him to advance.

“Mm, no wonder I can’t quite look at you,” he mused out loud, dramatically looking off into the distance. You raised an eyebrow, curious about what was going to come after his theatrical pause, “your brightness is unparalleled,” Seonghwa chuckled, satisfied with your sigh and the way in which you pretended to be annoyed, only to dissolve in a mute giggle. “So, I do suggest we get out of the rain for a moment and stop by that book shop over there, shall we?”

Following his hand, you spotted an antique bookshop a few doors down, marked by an iron sign and ornate shop window decorations that glistened with each hit of the dancing droplets. A warm golden light emanated from the inside, the hue comparable to a summer’s day. An odd feeling of deja vu washed over you, as though you had been in this store before, even though this was quite the distance away from your home, not on any of your usual commutes and in a part of town you barely visited aside from the occasional brisk walk. It had been established over a century ago, sporting a historical plaque and detailing original to the era the date on the sign suggested. Suppressing your internal monologue, you simply nodded, fond of Seonghwa’s excitement as he pushed lightly against your back and walked on ahead. If you were any more of a romantic, you would have assumed that the shop was a representation of his heart, but you couldn’t allow yourself to think that way, at least not when you felt heat rise to your cheeks as he whispered your name, openly planning what you could look for amidst the rare editions together. You and him turned into a ‘we’ so naturally, you barely had time to blink. A new brushstroke on a canvas, brave, bold and bright. Impressionist.

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

The hypnotising improvisation on a semi-acoustic guitar, followed by a launch back into the theme of a well-known jazz song had you tapping on the counter, unknowingly following every drum beat. The bar turned cosy music venue that Seonghwa had invited you out to was proving to be every bit a wonder of the world, and paradise inside of the otherwise gloomy city which had been plagued with miserable weather and lack of daylight for atrociously long. The classy establishment was a well known favourite among the vampires residing in the city, especially those aligned with a more bohemian and art-focused lifestyle. Critics, painters, collectors, musicians, poets alike all gathered to share ideas and energy, and reminisce days long gone, while the band - one that had not changed since the bar’s establishment, revived legendary pieces one after another. 

With ease, Seonghwa had ordered your favourite drink, having memorised it after your many outings that had smoothly transitioned into dates and shared nights. He remembered every detail about you, holding each one tenderness. Your lover gazed at you as he ended a conversation with a fellow collector who had recently come to town for a few days, stretching out his hand until it just touched yours, guiding it to lie flat on the counter. Seonghwa’s palm, still retaining a pleasant coolness despite him having had a couple of drinks of his own, was another reassurance that in the buzz of the venue, you still had your person by your side. Feeling his digits tap and then proceed to brush the back of your hand, you hummed in contentment, and let your eyes travel over the beautiful vampire, who leaned back, tempting you just for fun, knowing full well that you were wholly his, and even when you turned to look elsewhere, it was his face you saw in the crowd, it was his voice that rang in your ears, it was his touch that ghosted over your skin. 

The bustier from Alexander McQueen, the gorgeous flowy shirt with ruffles and cuts so tastefully sewn and executed, the statement necklace that was worthy of being displayed at a gallery and must be the envy of many, the high heeled boots that were concealed by elegant trousers - Seonghwa was your favourite work of art, and you could never deny it. Each one of his gestures was worthy of marvel, and the care with which he approached everything - even the tending to the items which he painstakingly selected and matched for tonight made your heart skip a beat. It was boggling how each garment and accessory was either an original, or a one of a kind piece. But at the same time, you did not expect anything less of Seonghwa.

He must be impossible to depict in paintings, you concluded, shamelessly staring at your lover’s face, from the shape of his nose, to the plushness of his lips, to the waviness of his night-like inky locks. You bet many had tried, but judging by the lacking evidence in the art world, they must have failed, miserably, to create something more immortal and invincible than the model and muse. You understood them, and Seonghwa gave no signs of being perturbed. 

“So, was that the intent behind our spontaneous trip to this bar tonight?” you gestured at your surroundings, taking another sip from your ornate glass. A sharp exhale accompanied a contrasting soft answer:

“Not at all,I had the business sorted a couple of days ago, and tonight was a lucky crossing of paths to secure the deal,” cryptic as ever, Seonghwa only alluded to the matter at hand.

The matter, or how he had referred to it as ‘business’ was a particular artwork that he had been hunting, by the elusive artist you had been investigating, first in your lonesome, and then joining forces with Seonghwa. Apparently, one of the pieces, by some stroke of unimaginable luck, had been kept safe in the private collection of a ‘Mister Kim’, at least that was how he had been initially introduced to you. Until you put two and two together, and when the very well dressed and styled character had entered the bar and made a beeline towards your partner in artistic musings and romance, recognised the man as a world-famous designer and fashion icon, Kim Hongjoong. And of course, another vampire and kind soul in one. 

Their conversation had happened outside of your earshot; whether it was on purpose or just so happened to unfold that way was for your ruminations to determine, but you did overhear enough to figure out that this was a portrait, a never seen work, and was completed by the artist who as it had turned out had been closer with Seonghwa than you had initially thought. 

“Seems to be very important, and not just in a ‘collector’ sense…” you trailed off, watching as the ice in your drink cracked, “is this why you were interested, you know, back then?”

“If I were to be honest, darling, I was, and still am, a lot more interested in you. The artist was something of an excuse to get a conversation going. And I do hope,” Seonghwa turned and sauntered towards you, “this conversation does not end.” 

Even though you were sitting on one of the bar stools, the heels and stance still left him some room to look downwards, and his sultry expression, orbs glinting at you through dark lashes left you transfixed. In moments such as this, you hated to be mortal. There were so many things that you could not possibly know, and no matter how hard you would try to comprehend the vastness of the angelic man’s mind, you would always remain theoretical, and accept the grand majority of intricacies as axiom.

“I hope so too,” your voice barely rose above a whisper as his gloved hand landed on your neck, gliding upwards to caress your jawline.

“I’m so glad I found you,” his thoughts were elsewhere, you were sure of it, and yet, his gaze remained unwavering, “my eternal love”. Lips stained with bittersweet worship, the words stumbled from them to strike you repeatedly in the heart, forcing it to lose its rhythm. He was regarding you like he had stumbled upon a priceless treasure, a divinity, a paradise. Something far from you and from this planet, but by Seonghwa’s careful selection, etched in your features.

Were you the embodiment of something greater for him? You would not consider yourself to be a model example of a human being, neither were you a pretty statue to display in an exhibition. You were you, but Seonghwa kept on convincing you that it was exactly this that had captivated him and showed him a new beginning. Did you wish to believe that? Of course. But a vampire who was hundreds of years old could keep a grand variety of secrets beyond your understanding, even if he were to exclaim them right in front of you and sketch them out. His eternal love - your version of eternity, or his? A life the duration of a butterfly’s abstract dance to the heavens.

“Love?” he called out to you, eyebrows knitted in concern due to your prolonged silence. You had set your drink down, and were staring at the shine of the glossy chrome silver and pearl on Seonghwa’s necklace. “Talk to me, say anything.”

“I- hm. I think I am just tired. Yeah, that must be it. Tired so I am overthinking, no worries. I’ll just be right here and-”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you tilted your head, noting how Seonghwa immediately straightened out, and instead of attempting to tower over you stepped over to the side to set a protective hand over yours.

“This is a majority vampire bar, full of unfamiliar individuals, this whole deal with the artwork is up in the air and-”

“First of all, I don’t care. Second, you are here with me. And third, I want to trust in the fact that you would not do anything foolish nor harmful. Am I right in my evaluation?” you uttered, still not quite able to look into Seonghwa’s infinite pools of brilliant sienna and dark brown.

“I- I am honoured, but that still does not detract from the fact that we can go get some air and come back. Shall we?”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to. Hell, need to. Let us have a quick wander?”

“...I’d like that.”

In no time, the winter air hit your cheeks and you were wrapping yourself as tightly as you could in your oversized coat. In your ears the pleasant sound of the vampire’s heels rang out, echoed by the stunning road onto which you were spat out by the heavy black front door of the bar. Warm-toned streetlights liberally decorated the sidewalks and painted the night in honey, gold and copper accents. Reflections of an artificial summer in the puddles and winter chill. Downright magical. Seonghwa seeked out your hand, holding it tight and guiding it into the pocket of his own coat, smirking when you raised an eyebrow. 

“What?”

“Nothing at all.”

You were certain that you were walking through a landscape painting, every element captured by your vision falling into its rightful place, harmonising with the rest. The mumbling and music was long gone, only to be replaced by conversation of other late city explorers and the occasional rumbling of a car lazily rolling past. 

“Pissarro.”

“Hm?” Seonghwa kept looking ahead, but squeezed your hand to ask for you to continue.

“Boulevard Montmartre at Night. Painted in 1897, no?” you pointed at the surroundings with a tilt of the chin.

“Ah, indeed! Your perceptiveness never ceases to amaze me.”

“Well, thanks to you I got to see the original, so how could I not make the visual analogy?” you nudged his shoulder, earning a chuckle.

The painting was the only example of a landscape at night from the artist Camille Pissarro, making it all the more special despite it being part of a series of 14 views of the same location. Snow, rain, fog, morning, varying seasons, but only one glimmering night. It was one of the works that Seonghwa had managed to provide for your studies, resulting in a more than impressive academic outcome. Like Pissarro kept on painting the vista, your lover kept on giving, never asking for anything more than for you to share your hours with him, something you did not need to be prompted to do anyways.

“...I’m sorry I cannot reveal more than I do, at least not just yet,” he apologised, as though what he was committing was the greatest crime known to humanity and the supernatural.

As you looked up at the starry night sky, you swore you had heard these words before, uttered by the same voice, the same fingers interlocked with yours. A stabbing sensation in your cranium made you gasp, but you regained your composure quickly enough to not make it a priority for either of you. At the same time, Seonghwa’s expression altered to a semblance of… hope? Longing? You could not pinpoint it, but one of the many glowing dots above you clearly landed in his shining orbs, and he eagerly waited.

Waited for longer than you could realise in your present state.

On their own accord, your lips moved, forcing out a subconscious acknowledgement, previously suppressed. You swore the phrase belonged to another being, but it was as refreshing as the breeze tousling Seonghwa’s locks.

“I know. I can wait too.”

“Soon, my love.”

“I-I know.”

“I miss you.”

“I-” vision growing hazy, you reached to the vampire for support, which he readily provided, “I- too.”

One blink - oil paints decorated your hands, and those alluring eyes were staring back at you from a canvas. Another blink - Seonghwa was repeating your name, pressing his cheek against yours as he shielded you from falling into darkness with his strong arms.

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Your office was inviting and offered a secure haven: a collection of neutral and wooden tones, with dashes of greenery to relax the eyes. From a potted ivy plant settled on the top of a large wall-length shelving unit to an indoor palm tree enjoying the rays in its designated corner, the room was a miniature paradise. You ran your hands over the thick birch desk, cautiously avoiding the stack of documents you had arranged for yourself to go through this day. Artwork restoration reports, contracts, exhibition plans for years to come… everything you thought you would never see, and yet it was right here in your palms.

Time moved slower, or at least that was how you began to perceive it now that it was in abundance. A fountain that did not cease to bestow gifts upon you - again, something you would have never imagined prior to the curious series of events that were your previous life unfolding the way they did. One fateful meeting, and you were a changed person, staring into the horizon and labelling it as a continuation rather than as a termination of all you could achieve. The world was your oyster, and loving dedication was the price. But when the price was so sweet, and so easy, who were you to say no? If you had to pick a concern, it would be the bandages and binding on your right arm; friction from the sleeve of the turtleneck and blazer you had worn today applying uncomfortable pressure to the delicate wound concealed within. 

You stood up from the leatherbound office chair, adjusting your clothes and stepping to the window behind you to look out at the garden belonging to the gallery - a recent expansion. Grand, regal, and as the papers had emphasised, now returned to its rightful owner. You wondered just how much of the city had belonged to vampires at least for a portion of time, and you had no doubt that you would be making more discoveries soon, but for the time being, you were happy with the re-acquisition, or as Seonghwa had called it: your ‘turning’ gift. A particularly strong shift of the arm made you wince, and your other hand shot to nurse your sore arm.

“I’m so sorry darling, does it still hurt?” Unbeknownst to you, Seonghwa had slipped into the office, and immediately rushed towards you, concern painting his beautiful face through furrowed brows and a tiny scowl.

“N-no, barely. The sweater is silly-”

“Let’s not disregard ailments, shall we?” your partner gingerly lifted your arm, and after gaining permission through a few lethargic nods, pushed the sleeve upwards to reveal the bandages, “I- really, we need to apply the ointment again, that must be it-”

“Seonghwa-”

“Work can wait, I just need to-”

“My love-” Seonghwa paused his ramblings to stare back at you, puzzled, “it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Literally just a bite, isn’t it?” you smiled, the action instantly being mirrored, albeit with a tinge of remaining worry.

“Mm, perhaps I am overreacting, I can’t help it,” your thoughts were numbed by the silken touch of his lips on the back of your hand, wool against cotton as he pulled you into an embrace, “it should heal well once you get used to your new form, I am sure of it,” his tresses tickled your nose, but you ignored it, instead letting your head fall against him.

You stood almost completely still aside from the rocking side to side that was habitual for you both. A lulling motion, one that either of you revealed only to each other. A secret reserved for intimate, loving moments such as this. You shook your head in amusement and buried your nose in Seonghwa’s sweater, inhaling the aroma of his sweet perfume, recalling ‘Love and Pain’ - the painting that had marked the tightening of the invisible string tying you together. Or was it? Coincidentally, on the wall behind your lover was the real inception of your union, one that you had forgotten from one lifetime to the next. A portrait. The one that Seonghwa had been chasing, and what had been his decades-long mission came to an end.

Signed with your own hand, were initials of your name and the year of completion of the painting. None other than the beloved collector and muse, Park Seonghwa, who had posed for you, or rather a version of you, and ever since then, you were the only one on his mind. You had been the master both of the arts and of his fate.

“Please, I am embarrassed…” your partner mumbled, settling for futile attempts to position you in such a way that you would be looking out at the garden, but to no avail. Poking him playfully at the side, you induce a halt, and question him:

“What is there to be embarrassed about? That’s you. Painted by me.”

“Exactly. And you have it in your office, of all places.”

“Well I can’t exactly have you, in the flesh, on display all the time and I would like a work of art around here-”

“Shh-”

“Don’t shush me, Park. Be grateful I don’t keep the sketches out too.”

In all honesty, He would not mind if you did. You could do anything, and the vampire would adore and honour it. Whether it was in your blood or in his nature, he had never regretted almost losing himself in your favour. In your last life, he had gone against all rules set up by vampires, playing against what he swore was the devil in order to have the sliver of a chance to start again and, this time not lose you. Had his plan not succeeded, it was highly probable that he would have been erased from this planet too. But he would rather call himself a masochist than be law-abiding when it came to you.

“Next, you’ll be threatening me with a showcase of just my face-”

“What if I do?” you quipped, pulling back to boop his nose with yours, “I think it would look very pretty. Besides, now that I remember my apparent mastery of the visual arts, can’t I be a tiny bit proud, hm?”

“I would be terribly disappointed if you weren’t. Now, may I put that ointment on you?”

As if you could refuse those sparkling eyes. Promptly following him to the loveseat, which unfortunately for Seonghwa was situated right under the portrait, you sat down and waited. Your partner rushed to the medical cupboard - another new addition installed exclusively to support you as you were getting used to the vampiric nuances in your day to day. With well-practised motions, the required kit was in his hands, and in a blink, set down on the plush cushioning of the miniature sofa. You held back a chuckle as you saw the pout you so loved appear as he focused on unwinding the bandage with utmost care. Before you could feel any hurt, Seonghwa would already let go, or alter the angle at which he was tugging on the material. As soon as the plaster was peeled, you were met with the reason for your eternity and reawakening.

Two deep punctures, still a little irritated, not quite healed, but nevertheless a marking of your future and something you regarded with fondness. Wounds did not hurt when they were merely physical, especially not when you had someone who had bound their immortality to yours to tend to them. Seonghwa bit his lower lip, discontented with the ache as though he could feel it too, and took numerous pauses while cleaning up the wound to glance at you. 

“I’ll be applying the ointment now, tell me if it stings, okay?”

“Okay,” you knew it wouldn’t. You had never heard a man be so adamant on checking ingredients at an apothecary before following Seonghwa after your first appointment as a vampire. But just to appease him, you followed this small spoken routine. 

“You know… I was scared,” his voice was barely audible, and he could not look at you.

“What were you scared of?”

“Losing you again.”

“Well, I am here, aren’t I?”

Even before you were aware of Seonghwa, let alone the truth behind the portrait, all the roads still led to the same resolution. The arts, art history. Virtually synonymous, for without creation, there would not be the past, and without the study of the past, there would not be the celebration and respect of creation. Finally, you understood the beauty of evolution that Seonghwa had undergone all while remaining the same vulnerable yet legendary figure, dedicated to his vision of the arts, having recollected your own. 

“So many things could have gone wrong,” Seonghwa’s mind was reeling from the sheer terror of possibility. He had taken advantage of his high social standing as an aristocrat and pulled rank to avoid waiting for any ritual guides to step in - it was not the first time, but still only the second. And both cases were related to you. 

The first time might have been a foolish decision in retrospect, but considering the dire circumstances the extreme solution was the only one. With one foot crossing to the afterlife he was combatting the reapers, and was not going to let go of you even if it meant being pulled in. This time, when you had approached him a number of nights ago with your final agreement to his tentative proposal and kissed his ruminations away, he was ready. Years of study were not going to waste, after all. And yet when he studied the same irises as those from a time long gone, when he held the same hands, his blood ran even colder. What a gambling man he had been back then. The procedure to regift life to you had been risky, and Seonghwa, having never practised those elements of the dark arts bestowed upon his kind, had been taking shot after shot in the dark. How dare he play with your being like that? How dare he hold your existence on a sinful scale?

“But they didn’t.”

No they did not. Your confidence in him had aided considerably, he had to admit. The positioning of his fangs was perfect, and he had memorised all incantations down to the inflections. Second time a charm, but much more anxiety-inducing. Turning was not the same as revival, either. He could not stop himself from imagining the many scenarios of where he would have gone wrong, and cemented your identity only as a name on manuscripts, dissertation, paintings and reports. 

“Even the ritual, what if you did not remember-”

“I would love you just the same. Whether I had all my memories or not. That much I can assure you of. That is why I trusted you in the first place, Seonghwa.”

You did not need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. All you could do was suggest a brighter palette, and be by his side no matter what colour scheme he were to decide on. It was an artist’s duty to know when to set the tools aside and consider a painting finished. The luxury of a collector was to live through many paintings, unify the souls contained in each and sustain a chronology of expression. The keepers, the scholars, made to observe change rather than induce it directly. This was why you were all the more grateful for Seonghwa daring to change your mortal fate not once but twice, risking himself and his image in your favour.

When your partner was satisfied with his medical care, he hummed to notify you and began to clear up, at least until you placed a weak hand on his leather-clad thigh to gain his full attention. He searched for a hint in your features, eyes darting across your face at lightning speed. Relief came when you grinned brightly, whispering sincere gratitude.

Impressionism - the movement and path made by legends. A rejection of traditional practice, a new vision and interpretation of the outside world in the hues of the soul. Light, reality, immediate action. A breath that reset the arts, magnificent and radical for the time, and now, much adored. From its conception to its establishment, you were there to witness and fall in love, and now could look back at the beauty that had bloomed. His irises, your favourite colour. The speckles of various shades, your favourite details. You stared into Seonghwa’s eyes and did not dare blink. Your favourite impression.

🩸 perma-taglist: @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @uwuheeseungie @cheollipop @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @mingigoo @michel-angelhoe @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @jaehunnyy @kitten4sannie @maddkitt @lightinyreads @ren-junwrld @pyeonghongrie-main @marsstarxhwa @pocketjoong-reads @alyszaen @yeooclock @yeonjunnie @asjkdk @lucky-cat-cafe @northerngalxy

[cherryredlove]

☆ you spin me right round ☆

Modern! Record shop owner! au Aemond Targaryen x Bar owner! reader SMUT

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

You're the blooming business owner that owns the chic new bar in town, The Alchemist's Guild. All that's left to do is befriend your sourpuss neighbour, the cool owner of the music shop Targaryen Tracks. Maybe a crisis will do the trick?

Word Count: 1.9k

Themes: SMUT, 18+, rough oral smex, pearl necklace, sex in semi-public place

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

Owning a bar was always a dream of yours, and now that dream has finally come true. The place you purchased is a hidden gem on the artsy quarter of the city of King's Landing, nestled between eclectic shops and quirky businesses, with just enough foot traffic to guarantee interest. You’ve christened it The Alchemist’s Guild, and you hoped it'll become the hottest bar in the area soon.

Every bottle and glass has been carefully selected, and you’ve spent countless hours transforming the run-down space into a chic, cosy haven for anyone seeking to unwind. Edison bulbs hang from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the polished wooden surfaces and plush seating. The shelves behind the bar are stocked with an impressive array of gins and wines, and the scent of fresh herbs and citrus fills the air.

The only hurdle now? Making friends with the neighbours, particularly the one who runs the music shop next door, Targaryen Tracks.

You’ve seen him a few times, Aemond Targaryen, always dressed impeccably in black, with silver hair and an ever-present scowl etched onto his face. His shop is a world of its own, filled with vintage records and obscure music that you occasionally hear through the walls.

Today, after a couple of good days of business, you decide it’s time to introduce yourself properly. Maybe you can even convince him to partner up for some musical collaborations, adding a unique touch to your bar’s atmosphere. With a deep breath, you step into Targaryen Tracks, the door chiming softly as you enter.

Aemond looks up from behind the counter, his single blue eye meeting yours with a curious, almost guarded expression. He nods in acknowledgement, though his lips barely form a smile.

"Hi, I’m Y/N," you say, offering a friendly smile. "I just opened the bar next door, The Alchemist’s Guild. Thought I’d come by and say hello."

"Aemond," he replies curtly, giving you a once-over before returning his gaze to the record he’s examining.

The shop is a paradise for any music lover, with rows upon rows of records neatly organized by genre and era. The atmosphere is nostalgic, and you can’t help but feel a pang of admiration for the meticulous care he’s put into curating his collection. You too take great pride in organisation and decoration.

You take a moment to look around, pretending to browse. The silence stretches between you, and you rack your brain for something to say, anything to break the ice.

"You’ve got quite the collection here," you venture, picking up a random record and pretending to study it. "I’ve been thinking about hosting some vinyl nights at the bar. You know, set up a record player, get some more out there stuff playing."

Aemond’s eye flickers with mild interest as he raises an eyebrow. "That so?"

You nod eagerly, hoping to engage him further. "Yeah! I think it’d be great to have something a bit more unique than just playlists. It’s a vibe, you know?"

He studies you for a moment, considering your words. "I suppose it could work," he admits, a hint of intrigue in his tone. "What kind of records are you looking to play?"

"Honestly, I’m open to anything that sets the right mood," you reply with enthusiasm. "Jazz, blues, rock, maybe even some classical if it fits."

Aemond nods, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I might have a few recommendations."

A spark of hope flickers inside you. Perhaps this sourpuss neighbor of yours isn’t as aloof as he seems. Maybe there's a chance for some collaboration after all.

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

Business at The Alchemist’s Guild is booming. You’ve managed to create a buzz around town, and the place is packed almost every night. The combination of exquisite drinks and the cosy atmosphere has made your bar a go-to spot for many locals and visitors alike. It's become a favourite with the artsy scene in the quarter, putting you firmly on the map.

But tonight, as you’re hosting bustling Saturday evening, disaster strikes. The trusty sound system crackles and dies with a sad whimper. Panic sets in as you realize that without music, the bar loses a significant part of its charm.

As the clamor of conversation fills the air, you frantically fiddle with the cables and speakers, hoping for a miracle. But nothing works.

Just when you're about to lose hope, an idea strikes.

"Hold down the fort for me, Dyana!" You call out to the bartender you employed.

You dash out of the bar and head straight to Targaryen Tracks, where Aemond is about to close up for the night.

Aemond looks up at you as you barge into the shop, mildly surprised to see you so flustered.

"Aemond, I need a huge favour," you blurt out, trying to catch your breath. "My sound system just broke down, and I have a packed bar with no music. Can you help me out?"

He pauses. "What do you need?"

"Your records," you say quickly, hope rising in your chest. "And your record player and speakers. Just for tonight. I’ll give you free drinks for a week in return."

He narrows his eye, contemplating the offer. After a moment, he nods. "Fine. But you handle the equipment with care."

Relief floods through you. "Thank you, thank you so much! I promise I'll be careful. You can even handle changing the records if that's better. "

Together, you gather a selection of records, and Aemond helps you carry them over to the bar. With his expertise, you set up the record player, and soon, the rich, warm tones of vinyl fill the space, transforming the atmosphere instantly.

The patrons love it, and you can feel the tension leaving your shoulders as the night goes on smoothly. True to your word, you offer Aemond a drink on the house as a gesture of gratitude. He graciously accepts your Greyjoy Gin and tonic with a small smile.

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

As the night draws to a close, the last of your customers finally trickle out, leaving the bar empty save for you and Aemond. The soft glow of the Edison bulbs casts a cosy light over the room, and the record player softly spins its last tune.

"Thank you again," you say, leaning against the bar, feeling the exhaustion of the night catching up to you. "You really saved me tonight."

Aemond shrugs, a faint smirk on his lips. "It was interesting. Your patrons seem to appreciate good music."

You laugh softly, nodding in agreement. "I owe you. Seriously, free drinks for a week."

He takes a sip of his drink, regarding you with an appraising gaze. "Maybe we can make this a regular thing. Vinyl nights, as you said. I can curate the music."

"That would be amazing," you reply, feeling your heart race a little. "I think it’d be a hit."

As you tidy up the bar, Aemond helps, and the two of you chat more easily than before. You discover that beneath his stoic exterior, he has a genuine passion for music and a dry sense of humour that you find surprisingly charming.

With the bar finally clean and ready for the next day, you both take a moment to relax, leaning against the counter again.

As the last record winds down to silence, an unexpected tension fills the air. The kind that lingers between two people until someone is brave enough to try.

It’s Aemond who makes the first move. His eye locks onto yours, and you see a flicker of something you hadn't quite noticed before. You feel your body light up.

Before you know it, he’s closing the distance between you, his presence commanding and electric. He pauses, giving you a moment to stop him if you wish, but you find yourself drawn in by the intensity of his gaze.

And then his lips are on yours, firm and insistent, sending a jolt down your spine. You kiss him back, matching his fervour with your own.

Aemond’s hands are on your waist, pulling you closer, and you respond by wrapping your arms around his neck, grasping at his hair. His mouth is hot and heady, and you moan into his as his hips grind against yours.

You barely notice as you’re backed against the bar, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat of the kiss. Aemond’s hands are exploring now, tracing a path down your sides, and you let out a soft sigh of approval, urging him on.

The kiss deepens, his touch is confident, and you can feel the hardness of his cock against your tender pussy. Your body reacts, arching into him to relieve your aching sex.

Aemond unzips your trousers, moaning at how wet you are, before gliding his fingers into your soaked heat. You cling to him, mewling, and bit down hard onto his neck. Aemond’s long fingers move inside you, fingering you with a beckoning motion. His eye rolls back as you grasp his cock in your hand, massaging through his trousers.

Aemond hoists you up onto the bar's counter, kissing you roughly before kneeling, facing your soaked pussy. Your hands grip his hair, urging him onto your heat. His tongue flicks out to lick your juices, and the moan you let out spurs him to bury his face.

His long nose is shoved against your clit, rubbing you in the mot perfect way as his tongue laps you expertly. Your thighs squeeze his head tightly. One of his hands grips your soft thigh hard, the other resumes its ministrations inside your tight pussy, making you choke and feel the hot lick of pleasure push you higher and higher. You grind against his face, Aemond sucking your clit with suchbvigour that you cry out, cumming hard on him. You cream against his tongue, and he laps it all up with a deep moan.

Once your head has stopped swimming at the pleasure of your high, you wobble down and fall to your knees. His thick cock sits right in front of your face, and he slowly parts your lips with the red cockhead. It's huge, you run out of mouth room pretty quickly as his hands grip your hair. You moan, the vibration making his hips stutter, and begin to suck him hard.

"Your lips look so beautiful wrapped arouud me baby," he rasps out. "I'll cum if you carry on."

Enthused, you bob your head faster, hollowing out your cheeks and rubbing your tongue right against the slit of his tip. When you fondle his balls with your hands and swallow hard, Aemond releases a strangled cry of pleasure, face-fucking you hard and fast. He lets out an unintelligible moan as he cums. Some of it leaks down your throat, but he pulls out to cum all over your face and neck. You gasp at the hot white ropes of cum that decorate your collar bone.

Panting, he helps you up, swiping his cum off with a finger and parting your lips for you to swallow it. He kisses you gently, salty and sweet.

"Want to come back to mine?" He asks, eye glinting. You nod eagerly, kissing him sweetly. His hands hold you firmly, and you thank the Gods for your sound system breaking.

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

AN: save me modern aemond targaryen save me! love writing that so gimme ur feedback and send any requests! if u like this sort of stuff check out my masterlist!

[girlfromflor]

56 DAYS (sjy) | PART ONE

pairing: enemie!jake x fem!reader

summary: after your best friend jay made you share an apartment with jake – “the guy you don’t like” –, you have to decide whether you should or not give into the feelings he makes you experience, something possibly pleasant and definitely memorable.

genre: "enemies" (reader is in denial) to lovers, accidental roommates, summer love, also has a bit of angst

warnings: swear words but other than that, none really (i suggest you read the prequel)

wc: 1.3k | playlist: 56 days. | a/n: i decided to post this first, the second part will be the final part i promise.♡ | taglist: @manuosorioh

as you tried to recover from your first college party experience, your brain did what it always does when your peace is threatened: refused to accept whatever happened, as a coping mechanism. it was not like it would work though, since jay didn’t seem like he would let you hear the end of it any soon. you pretty much denied any possibility of understanding between you and jake and did your best to pretend you didn’t even acknowledge his existence – which you did, very much so.

after those special seven minutes in paradise that felt like total hell to recall, you haven’t had any other friendly interactions with jake, always avoiding him with all you had. if you happened to meet, you were always quite cold and sometimes even a bit rude. all things that didn’t faze the boy whatsoever, who kept on getting on your nerves and even risked poorly made plans with jay so that you two would be alone again.

“what are you doing, standing there?” he asked, grimacing as if he wanted to make fun of you, but opted for a friendly approach.

turns out that jay took it to another level and planned out – and very well – a long-term blind date, so to speak. at some point of the semester, jay mentioned a colleague moving out of the apartment he was living in and complained about how hard it would be to get someone else to live with him and share expenses. you, in an act of kindness, offered yourself to move in so you two could pay the bills together. he didn’t think twice before accepting it and, when the time came, in less than two weeks of organizing and moving out of your old place you were moving in with the man you call best friend since elementary school.

you were carrying the last item to your new apartment and everything was perfectly fine, until you came across jake lying on the couch, completely sweaty and untying the laces of his work out shoes, looking very fucking comfortable – almost like he was in his own home, you would dare say. you were in complete shock and a bit disoriented, for a moment you wondered how he was still attractive even though he was so clearly tired, but you soon ignored that thought to try and understand what the hell he was doing there in the first place. because you remembered very well having agreed with jay that you wouldn’t need help moving, there were few things you owned anyway. caught in the possibilities of what could be actually happening, you only realized that you had been standing at the entrance to the living room for a few awkward seconds, holding a box destined for your room, when jay lightly nudged your shoulder.

“what.. is he doing here?” it was your turn to ask, pointing – as best as you could while still holding the box in your arms – to jake, who was now paying attention to the two of you and, upon hearing the words that left your mouth, couldn’t help but let a smile form on his face.

“hello to you too, princess,” he said and before you could retort, he kept going, “i thought you’d have more manners with your roommate, but i guess i can’t be optimistic when it comes to you.” his eyebrows wiggle suggestively, his smile widening slightly and his tongue peeked between his teeth only adding to the image of perversion you had of him. because it wouldn’t be possible to associate him to anything other than obscenity, especially with that cocky smile that never seemed to leave his face. 

“excuse me?” you turned to talk to jay, but he was already on the other side of the room, going through the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “hey! jay, come back here. now.” you dropped the box on the floor, your arms crossed and your eyes burned holes into jay while waiting for him to come closer. “what does that mean? may i know?”

your best friend just laughed awkwardly and replied, “well... i thought you knew he lived here too.”

“how–” you stopped, sighed and straightened your posture. when you spoke again your voice was much more controlled, “how am i supposed to know if you never said that to me before?” your anger was still noticeable, but wrapped in a false cordiality that made jake strangle a laugh. this whole thing would be infinitely more fun than he initially thought.

after making everything clear – in the smallest details – with jay and for what seemed like an eternity of putting everything in its rightful place you finally went to your room, took a shower and got ready to sleep. the clean bed sheets that smelled of fabric softener and the fluffy duvet were a warm welcome after such a tiring day. you couldn’t control the thoughts that took you to a not-so-distant jake, who was now only separated from you by a room and, as you felt your eyes grow heavy and your body surrender to the much-needed sleep, you wondered what future reserved for the next few months you’ll be sharing your precious routine with the nuisance that was jake’s presence – ‘but at least i’ll have jay by side’, you thought right before falling asleep.

“are you serious?” your voice comes out exasperated in an impulse that startled both you and jay, who was talking calmly to you while leaning on the kitchen counter – wearing his signature Seattle Mariners shirt, which you questioned if he’d ever stop wearing. it was currently 7am and you were having a rather upsetting talk with your best friend. it has been really nice to live with him, even though jake is together almost every time you two do something nice. but after a few days of it, jay seems ready to part ways. in an attempt to redeem your posture and sound a little calmer and more controlled, you say “are you going to travel?” 

—☆—

and, despite you being his best friend for years, jay doesn’t even try to comfort you like you think you deserve. “it’s only for a few days, i promise you won’t even notice,” he replies. 

but you wouldn’t have that. “it’s not just a few days, jay, you’ll be gone for a month.” your whiny voice softens jay, who hugs you warmly. in the end, he knew you would miss him. “i had made so many plans for us, you know...” 

and with that, jake decides to leave where he was in the living room, walking towards where you were sharing the hug. when he gets to you, he nudges your waist. “don’t worry, princess. i’ll do anything you had planned to do with jay.” his slightly husky voice due to it being early in the morning makes your face heat up along with your body, but you blame the intense sun that shines through the window. then, he winks at you and you wonder if being arrested for murder would be as bad as they say. why doesn’t he just give up?

“tell me you’re not going to leave me alone with this idiot for a whole month,” you say, pretending that jake wasn't even in the room and jay laughs, a laugh that almost makes you forget why you were angry in the first place, but once again he decides to destroy all your optimism. “how silly, girl. of course i'm not going to leave you alone with him for a whole month, i'm going to be away for the whole summer break.”

that’s enough for you to pull out of his embrace, facing jay with all the disgust you could muster, which meant very little – very little indeed. 

and jake's voice is right there to further add to your stress, “it will be exactly 56 days with me, angel.”

[pedroshotwifey]

Trouble in Paradise (Part One)

Pairing: DBF!Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Of all the things you thought you might be doing on your summer break, falling in love with your father's best friend in Hawaii wasn't one of them.

Tags/Warnings: Nothing crazy yet! Some kind of maybe tension, pet names, talk of Joel knowing reader since she was small, reader has a dad, mom is not mentioned, yadayada

A/N: Hello my friends! I'm terribly sorry I've been away for so long. There have been a lot of...unsavory happenings lately. Want to say sorry in advance because I know this isn't my best writing, but i'm trying to get back into the groove of things. I'm hoping I'll be back to my scheduled programming (TTF, FB, answering requests) by the time this short series is done. Expecting it to be around 3-5 parts. Thank you so much for sticking with me <3

*******

You’ve been laying in your bed blasting your “chill” playlist through your earbuds since you got home from school around five. The last exhausting day of your freshman college year. Lana Del Rey, Cigarettes After Sex, Hozier, and the like have been floating lazily through your head as you watched the sun go down. 

After a long day, you’d hung your head off the foot of your bed, intent to bask in the golden glow of the evening in a baggy T and your underwear until your eyes shut for the night. You were almost asleep when you were interrupted by a sound that didn’t quite go with “Wicked Game”. 

You yank your earbuds out, sitting up on your bed. You don’t remember it getting so dark. Your cracked window allows the late summer breeze in to gently rustle the curtains framing it. Crickets and cicadas chirp loudly outside, creating a symphony to compliment the stars shining through the inky sky. 

“Sweetheart?” 

Your head swivels to look accusingly at your closed door. The name was shouted from the stairway. Definitely your dad.

You roll your eyes but get out of bed. The clock on your nightstand tells you it’s 8:02pm, so he’s probably calling you for dinner. You’ve told him before that it’s easier just to call your cell, but when has he ever listened? You pad to your door, crack it, and shout back. 

“Be down in a minute!”

Getting no response, you can only assume he heard you. You close your door back and pick up the polka-dotted pajama pants crumpled into a pile beside your bed. You tug them on through a yawn, almost tripping a few times before they’re on all the way. 

You check your mirror before heading down. You look sleepy, not like it really matters. Your door creeks as you push it open again and make your way down the stairs. The soft carpet laid in the middle of the hardwood keeping your steps quiet. It’s about halfway to the kitchen that you hear a second voice to your father’s. It sounds vaguely familiar, and your heart skips a beat. Surely it’s not—

You climb down a few more steps and stop in your tracks at the sight of Joel Miller sitting at your dinner table. You haven’t seen him since at least your high school graduation. You’d harbored a small crush on him then, but that had to have been nothing compared to whatever the hell you’re feeling now. Your entire body seems to glow with some mix of embarrassment and surprise. 

You really thought you’d gotten over this silly little crush. Then again, it’s hard to get over something like Joel Miller. High school boyfriends? Sure, no problem. But the classic DILF next door of a best friend your dad has isn’t so easy. He’s been a constant in your childhood, always kind and there for you even when your dad wasn’t. So, in other words, highly inappropriate for you to be so attached to. 

It’s easy to say the years have been kind to him. He’s a few years older than your father, so probably about mid-forties now. He’s started to gray, a fine amount of silver peppered into his mousy brown hair. That beard of his has taken the brunt of it, though. That beard you’ve imagined between your thighs so many times. 

His dark eyes seem to have become kinder thanks to the crow’s feet carefully etched into the corners. He’s wearing his signature T-shirt and worn jeans, his brown leather jacket and work boots likely disposed of near the front door. 

He smirks as his brown eyes fall on your disheveled form, halted on the bottom step. You, in contrast to the god-like figure he’s sporting, must look like an absolute mess. Despite that fact, he looks at you almost in a different way than he used to. More intensely. It makes you resist the urge to squirm. 

“Joel,” you finally manage to choke out. “Hi.” 

Smooth, you think. 

“Hey, trouble,” he returns, light amusement lacing his tone. It makes you nervous, like he’s clocked your little secret. 

He gets up from his seat, and you can tell he’s going for a hug. You shock yourself into action and take the few steps to reach him. He envelops you in his strong arms just like he used to, and you take the opportunity to breathe in his scent. Smokey pine, whiskey, and a hint of mint—just like you remember. 

You’re smiling like an idiot despite yourself as you pull away. Luckily, your dad makes an appearance before you say something embarrassing. 

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” he teases. “You remember my buddy Joel, dontch’a?” 

Joel scoffs before you can answer. “‘Course she remembers me, Scott, known her since she was damn near in diapers.” 

Your dad rolls his eyes. “Well, just to ask,” he argues. 

You shake your head. Same banter between those two for as long as you can remember. They’ve been friends since your dad’s freshman highschool year, and Joel’s senior. Everyone who knows Joel and Scott considers them to be brothers as much as Joel and Tommy.

Cheeks heated, you make your way to the bathroom to freshen up while they’re distracted. You shut the door and comb through your hair with your fingers, straighten your tank top, and wipe away the smudged mascara you didn’t care to wash off earlier. 

When you look half-decent, you wash your hands and walk back to the dining room, choosing to ignore the fact that you just tidied yourself for your dad’s best friend. Totally normal thing to do, right?

Joel is sitting back in the same spot as you found him the first time, your dad in the seat opposite of him. There are three bowls of spaghetti served, one in front of each man, and one beside Joel. You’re not going to complain about that. 

You slide into the seat next to him, flashing him a quick smile when he turns his head to acknowledge you. You swear his gaze lingers for a second, but it’s probably just wishful thinking. 

You look away and dig into your food, zoning out as Joel and your dad talk about work. Joel’s presence beside you fuels your daydreaming, his deep, drawling voice keeping it running. You wish so badly to lean into him, feel the comfort of his embrace. Maybe more. You wish, not for the first time, that he would look at you the way you looked at him. You wish he would—

You jolt when you hear your name in conversation, your spaghetti-filled fork halfway to your mouth. 

“No, I don’t think she’d mind at all, would’ya, honey?” 

Your dad looks expectantly at you. Your eyes dart between him and Joel. 

“Uh, sorry, what?” You ask, your cheeks heating for the second time tonight. 

“Helping Joel out. I know it’s been some years, but it’s just basic stuff. Plus, it’ll be in—” 

“Really, Scott, you don’t have to volunteer her if she don’t want to—” 

“No, no,” you interrupt. “I don’t mind at all.” 

In all honesty, you didn’t think your answer through. You have no idea what you just signed up for. Though, if it’s with Joel, it can’t be too bad. 

“No, really, sweetheart,” Joel interjects. “I wouldn’t wanna have a pretty ‘lil’ thing workin’ away on her summer vacation.”

You turn to look at him, flashing him your sweetest eyes. He called you pretty—you feel like you might explode. “I really don’t mind.” 

He waits for a moment before he clears his throat and turns back to your dad. “Alright then,” he says before taking a sip of his drink. “We leave for Hawaii next Tuesday.” 

You just about choke on your dinner. Your dad laughs. 

“Told you, Joel, she doesn’t listen to a damn thing we say.” 

*****

Hawaii? For two weeks? With Joel? What do you even pack?

You stare at your suitcase, waiting for your closet to help you out and throw something in there. Should you bring sundresses or work clothes? Both, right? Probably both. Maybe more work clothes. You said you’d be helping, after all. But with what? 

God, you should have just paid attention to that damn conversation. 

It’s late Monday night, and you haven’t been able to pick up on enough over-the-phone conversation to get the gist of it. You need to stop being such a wuss and just ask. But that would mean calling Joel. Do you really want to call Joel? 

Well, yes, of course you do. But do you really want to sound awkward around Joel? No, no you don’t. And you know that’s exactly what would be happening over the phone with a man you’ve never talked over the phone with. 

You groan, flopping yourself onto your bed to stare at your ceiling and overthink. You don’t want to overpack, because you don’t want Joel to see that you overpacked. But you also don’t want to underpack, because you don’t want Joel to see that you underpacked, either. This really shouldn’t be that hard. You’re about to get back up, say screw it, and throw a mixture in there, when you hear a knock on your door. 

“Come in,” you call, unmoving.

“Hey, honey,” your dad says as he creeps in. “Just got off the phone with Joel.” 

You sit up at this. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, he figured you might want some advice on what to pack.” 

Oh thank God. 

“Said he’s gonna be puttin’ you to work, but to bring some pretty clothes if you want. There’s a pool at the place you’ll be workin’ at, and a beach nearby.” 

You nod along, thanking all that is holy that Joel had the idea to give you some input. 

Your dad eyes your empty suitcase and raises a brow in your direction. 

“He’ll be here around 4:00am, so be ready by then.” He looks back at you. “I love you, sweetheart, I’ll see you when you get back.” 

He gives you a hug and closes your door. 

You take Joel’s advice and pack mostly for work—with a few pretty things just in case. 

*****

As expected, Joel’s truck is in your driveway at 4:00am on the dot. You’re in the passenger seat and headed for the airport by 4:03. 

The ride is less tense than you thought it would be, mostly because the two of you are so tired. You’re practically in a coma against the window, the dull classic country music playing quietly from the old truck’s speakers lulling you to sleep. Joel is in about the same mindset, the lazy drumming of his fingers against the wheel the only thing convincing you he’s still awake. 

Buildings pass in a dark blur, everything mushed together into one big half-dream. Joel’s scent fills the cab, sealing the state you’re in. You glance at the clock: 4:48. You blink, and it’s 5:20, the truck is stopped at the airport, and Joel is gently nudging you awake. You squint at him, the cab light rudely intruding, and you can just barely make out the faint smile on his lips. You have a strong urge to lean forward and kiss him, but thankfully you’re conscious enough to not make a complete fool of yourself right now. 

“C’mon, darlin’, we got a plane to catch.” 

You nod, trying to get your bearings. Joel slides out of his side of the truck, and you follow out of yours, getting a good stretch in before leaning back into the cab and retrieving your suitcase from the narrow backseat. When you make your way around the truck to Joel, he gently grabs it from your hand. 

You look at him, mouth open and ready to argue, but he gives you a look that makes you shut it just as quick. Your stomach flutters at the gesture, and you kind of want to slap him for it. Or maybe yourself. Either way, you keep close to him until you’re entering through the sliding doors out front. 

It only takes about an hour to get through TSA and in line to board the plane, but you’re wide awake by then. And hungry. 

“Hey Joel,” you whisper. He hums at you but doesn’t look down. 

“I’m hungry.” 

Now he looks at you. “I don’t think we got time to grab anything now, darlin’, but we should have a layover at LAX in about three hours. Think you can hold tight ‘till then?” 

You nod, trying not to overthink the conversation. It was literally a few words exchanged between the two of you, but it might be the first time you’ve conversed alone outside of your dad’s house. It felt domestic to you in a way that makes you feel like an idiot. It was one conversation. 

Of course, you have to ruin the moment by humming “Party in the USA”. I mean, it’s Joel’s fault. He was the one to mention LAX. 

He laughs and nudges you. “Quit that,” he commands, though you can tell he thinks it’s funny. You giggle but indulge him. 

“Fine,” you draw out. “Somebody hates fun.” 

He scoffs another laugh, but says nothing. 

Finally, the two of you are next to board. You stop around the middle of the plane, and Joel hoists your bags into the compartment above your seats. Then, he moves aside to let you in first. 

“By the window, darlin’,” he says.

You smile with excitement and settle in, Joel sitting next to you a second later. 

“Your dad said somethin’ about it bein’ your first time flyin’, so I figured you might want a window seat,” he explains. 

Your heart warms at this. Why does he have to be so thoughtful? 

“Thank you, Joel,” you say genuinely, flashing him a smile. It may be the lighting, but you swear you see his cheeks pink up just a little before he nods and faces forward. 

The flight goes by relatively quickly. Joel does some sort of paperwork on the little desk in front of him, and you pop your earbuds in and listen to a downloaded playlist while you read. The light romance you chose was cute, but it failed to distract you completely from the hunk of man beside you. 

You’re not sure how many times you caught yourself staring at the flex of his wrist as he wrote whatever down. It was maybe once or twice that your eyes found their way up to his bicep, possibly a few times that they landed on his lower lip, his teeth bitten into it in concentration. You definitely got heated more times than you would’ve liked. And as your book started heating as well, you had to put it down. You really hope it’s not just you that feels this new tension.

For the last twenty minutes or so, you’ve been looking out the window, content to listen to your music and watch the land go by. For the last five, you’ve felt Joel’s eyes on you. You refuse to look back at him, though, just in case it’s your imagination. 

But you swear you can feel the weight of his stare. You fidget, trying to ignore the feeling as you stare out the window and at the clouds. Then you hear a sharp sound from the speakers 

through your earbuds. 

You take them off and look back at Joel as the pilot informs you that you should be landing in about ten minutes. 

He was staring at you, and he didn’t look away. You don’t look away now, either. You don’t say anything.

“Thank you for comin’ with me, darlin’.” 

You’re taken aback. Of course you would go with him. 

“It’s no problem, Joel,” you say. He gives you a short smile. “I mean, really,” you joke. “You’re the one taking me on a free vacation.” 

He smiles fully this time and rolls his eyes. He tends to do that a lot with you. It makes you smile too. 

The speaker dings again:

“Should be some light turbulence, but we’ll be on the ground soon, folks.” 

Joel looks away after the announcement, gathering his work to put back into his bag. You shake yourself off and choose not to acknowledge whatever the hell that was. 

******

You knew LAX would be busy, but. Holy shit. This place is insane. 

You keep close to Joel as he navigates the two of you through the crowds and to your next gate. He keeps slightly in front of you, and you keep getting the urge to grab his hand to keep up, but you don’t. You don’t think you’ve ever seen this many people in one place—and you thought the Austin airport had been overwhelming. 

There are a million shops and restaurants and gates as you make your way down the massive hallways, up and down the escalators, and through trains. It takes an hour and fifteen before you can even see the sign for your gate. Your legs hurt from walking, and your head hurts from all the noise. 

You keep an eye on some of the closer restaurants you pass so that you can backtrack to them and grab a bagel or something before you have to get on your plane. You catch a glimpse of a Burger King when you’re suddenly slammed into. 

You gasp as you’re sent flying onto your ass by a man who couldn’t be bothered to glance your way to see if you’re alright. Joel whips around and sets the bags down, quickly helping you up. 

“Shit, are you alright, darlin’?” he asks, a deep concern in his eyes. Your cheeks are burning with embarrassment even though it wasn’t your fault. 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” 

Joel looks you up and down to make sure as you stand on your own two feet. He turns around, trying to scope out the man who bumped into you, and turns back when he finds that he’s long gone. 

“I’m sorry, honey,” he finally says. “People don’t give a rat’s ass here.” 

You nod, smiling at his choice of words. “I’m alright, Joel.” 

He sighs and picks his bag back up, slinging the large weight over his shoulder, and then picks your suitcase up in one hand. WIth the other, he grabs onto yours. His hand is rough but warm and comforting. 

“Just stay close ‘till we get to the gate.”

Practically glowing, you hold onto him and let him lead the way. It only takes a few more minutes before he’s telling you to sit down at the waiting area. 

“I’m gonna grab you somethin’ to eat, ‘nd I’ll be right back.” 

You decide to read while he’s on his errand, picking your book back up to a particularly smutty part. You’re not going to pretend like you aren’t picturing the characters as you and Joel as he eats her out on a countertop. You bite your lip, consuming each word with fervor.

You’re just finishing the chapter when Joel strolls up with two breakfast sandwiches, a coffee, and an orange juice. He hands you a sandwich and the latter drink, and takes the seat next to you with a groan. 

“Probably have at least thirty minutes,” he grumbles. 

You nod as you thank him and unwrap your sandwich. It’s silent for a few minutes, before you can’t bear it and break the peace. 

“What all are we going to be doing?” 

Joel looks at you, almost flustered. He must have misheard you. “Huh?” 

“Like when we get there, what are we going to be working on?” 

“Oh, uh,” he clears his throat and takes a sip of his coffee. “Mostly flooring ‘nd some drywall, but there should be somethin’ to do in the kitchen if I’m hearin’ right.” 

You nod and take a bite of your sandwich. Joel continues. 

“Should have a few days to relax, though, if we get everythin’ done in time.” 

Your stomach flips at the thought. A few days to relax with Joel. 

“Sounds easy enough,” you say. 

Joel nods again. “Atta girl.”

“Flight 332 is ready to begin boarding.” 

You and Joel take the last bites of your sandwich in silence and stand up to get in line once again. This flight is going to be longer, about six hours. 

Joel throws your trash away and comes back to grab your bags. Same as last time, you have a seat by the window. Not like it matters much in the long run, because just after Joel takes his seat and the plane takes off, your head falls onto his shoulder, and you promptly fall asleep. 

******

Thank you for reading!! Part two should be coming soon.

Itty bitty mini taglist: @callachloe @kewwrites @casa-boiardi @pastawench (love you guys)

Pls let me know if you would like to be tagged in pt. 2!

[vevobly]

Being Lottie Matthews's Girlfriend Headcanons (Pre-Crash) [Part 1]

A/N: I was thinking about making Laura Lee's first before hers because the lack of stuff with her is a fucking crime. Girl kept everyone's faith together, and when she died; all hell really just broke loose.

Whether it's a surprise to you or not, Lottie isn't overly showy about her feelings in public. It's different in private though, she's incredibly affectionate and gentle with you. Whenever this girl touches you, it's always soft and comforting. I mean, call it an exaggeration or whatever but being with her feels like paradise.

You guys get a lot of these affectionate quiet moments; her just holding your hand during long car rides, she'll brush a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, or rest her head on your shoulder when you guys are together.

Lottie's presence is extremely calming to you. When you're feeling stressed or overwhelmed, she has a way of grounding you. By that, I mean this girl can literally just bring you back to the present with her soothing voice or presence alone. She's your immediate go-to person when your own life gets chaotic sometimes.

(blf'iv z ullo) Lottie is the type of girlfriend who makes everything feel okay just by being near you. She has this way of making you feel like everything will work out, no matter how tough things get (even though you'll think otherwise).

Lottie has this almost instinctual understanding of your emotions (so don't even try anything stupid like shoving it down or whatever). She'll know when something's bothering you before you even say anything and will always be there to offer her support.

It doesn't whether it's through soft words or a comforting embrace from her, she will help you feel better without pushing you to talk about it until you're ready. She'll often say things like "I just felt like you needed this" during it, and honestly? You might as well just die early from how wonderful this girl is. z ullo

Lottie is protective of you quietly. While she isn't confrontational, you can bet this girl will not hesitate to step in when she senses that someone is making you uncomfortable or even treating you poorly a bit. gszg'h dszg blf ziv

She's the type to stand by your side and just make sure you're okay quietly. This part of her shows itself in small ways, stuff like reminding you to take care of yourself or guiding you away from situations that might hurt you (gosh you are completely fucking in love with girl). You always feel safe with her. (But much like a promise, they break so easily, don't they?)

Okay, while Lottie does spoil you a fuck ton. She's all about the small things; leaving you thoughtful notes in your locker, buying you your favorite snack when you're having a bad day, or surprising you with a playlist of songs she thinks you'll love.

Every gesture is subtle but deeply meaningful. Even though her way of showing love isn't loud (I don't know the exact word to use for it), it is constant and sincere. Every small act of kindness from her comes from a place of deep love and care. (Love burns. And if Lottie's love for you burns too bright, will it keep you warm, or will it devour you whole?)

Lottie loves talking to you, especially when you two have these really deep conversations about stuff. Lottie is always listening carefully to you, and making you feel heard (you wonder sometimes how you ended up with such an amazing person like her- it wasn't by luck, that's for sure).

If it hasn't been made clear yet, Lottie is an amazing listener. Whenever you need to vent, she'll be there for you with open ears and comforting you. She knows she can't fix everything for you so she doesn't. instead, she'll give you space to talk and figure things out at your own pace. She always makes you feel so damn understood and supported no matter what you're going through. Sometimes, you think she might have been an angel sent down from heaven. (Is she though?) I mean, she seems like one! (That's just what you think. She's a curse disguised as a fucking blessing, you're a fool for thinking otherwise.)

Lottie values your private time together hella more than anything. Whether it's just sitting quietly while you both do your own thing or having a lazy day in, those moments mean the absolute world to her. She's never bored when she's with you, even when you aren't talking. The simplicity of just being in each other's presence means so much to both of you (you're like oxygen, she needs you to live).

When she's feeling overwhelmed by her own thoughts sometimes, you'll be there for her. Just like with you, you help ground her too; reminding her to take deep breaths and where she is in the present. She's very grateful for how you never judge her for having these moments. (She doesn't know what she would do if you ever looked at her the way THEY did) That instead of being a dismissive dick and whatever, you're patient and understanding with her—you're always giving her love and reassurance when she needs it the most.

Lottie thinks a lot about the future. In fact, she's always thinking about it and including you in her plans without hesitation. Doesn't matter if she's talking about a trip you could take together after graduation or just imagining a peaceful life from Wiskayok, she always sees you there by her side (this fact alone makes you want to marry her, but gay marriage be damned because it's not legal yet).

[bxckkdoor]

ripples ౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆

SYNOPSIS  : things skz hyung line love about their chubby partner PLAYLIST : ripples - beabadoobee ; touch tank - quinnie PAIRING(S) : boyfriend!skz hyung line x gender neutral reader WARNING(S) : mentions of insecurity, skirts ( not necessarily feminine in my eyes ), i think thats all??

note : ah hi !!! sorry this took so long to get out, a maknae line version should be up soon as well ! i hope you enjoy !! ( and to the others that sent in reqs, those should be up soon as well, this week has been crazy for me ( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;)

channie:

— loves coming home to you already asleep and all cozy. you’re the best thing for his insomnia, your cute little snores lull him right to sleep. after washing up, he’ll slide into bed next to you. his hands naturally find the soft skin of your thighs and plush tummy. rubbing down your soft skin till he reaches your knee and back up again. he’ll trail up your arm to your collarbones until he reaches your jaw. brushing stray hairs from your face, he leaves kisses in their wake. you slowly stir awake.

“ channie? ” your voice is so sweet, a little hoarse from the sleep. it’s only now you realize you fell asleep while waiting for him. you hate how late he stays in the studio, perfecting and nit-picking his already beyond-perfect work. you’ll always admire how hard-working he is but that doesn’t take away from how desperately you wish he was home more.

“ mmm, hi my love, ” he giggles. words can’t describe how lucky he feels knowing he gets to love you.

— he loves how you’re almost oblivious to how much everyone adores you. you just have this energy that seeps into other people, you’re so unapologetically yourself and it’s sosososo attractive.

— loves buying you new clothes that match his so when you go out, everyone knows his pretty baby is all his <33

minho:

— he is the thigh guy ever. he loves to lay with his head between your soft thighs while he does something mindless like scrolling on his phone, turning his head to leave soft kisses on your skin. sometimes he’ll get too much cuteness aggression from hearing you recall your day and leave a gentle bite in place of the kiss, soothing it with a peck when you squeal.

“ minho! ” your voice cracks a bit but he just starts laughing, smoothing over the bite mark with a kiss.

“ ‘m sorry, you’re just so cute. “ he puts his head back to look up at you admiring your features, despite them being upside down from this angle. you’re so pretty, his personal paradise. whenever work and his mind becomes too much, you’re his getaway. his escape.

“ anyways, so then she- “ you continue to talk about the girl at your favorite coffee shop and he just watched you, love practically seeping from his eyes. you’ll never grasp just how much he adores you but he can hope you understand at least a bit of it.

— he loves how cute you look with his initials around your neck or on the bracelet he bought, pressed against your pretty wrist. he would probably pass out if you ever wore thigh jewelry, a little m adorning his most favorite part of you.

— always has his hand on your thigh while he drives, squeezing along to the music or whenever he needs to remind himself that you’re all his. he gets to have you like no one else does. ( what did i say, he’s the thigh guy ever. )

changbin: 

— hear me out, your arms. he’s so obsessed with how they wrap around him, grounding him and protecting him from all things stressful.

“ oh, hi bin- “ your sentence is cut off as he lifts you into his arms, burying his sweaty face into your neck before leaving a kiss there that makes you squirm. he had just got done at the gym. it was obvious he couldn’t wait to see you by the way he practically tackled you.

he’ll just laugh into your neck before pulling back to look at you, still holding you in his arms. his hair is curly and his cheeks are flushed. you’ll never get over how perfect he always looks, especially now. it feels like he’s reading your mind when he says,

“ you’re so perfect, you know that? “ he praises. something you’ll never know is that he thinks about you the way you think about him. you’re so flawless to him, everything about you is worth worshipping in his eyes.

“ …okay, i love you binnie but you’re sooo sweaty “ he finally breaks out of the trance you have him in but only to sulk.

“ ahh, why doesn’t my baby love me!? “ he exclaims and once you finally get out of his tight hold, it’s not for long. he’ll chase you around your shared apartment and once he finally gets his hands on you, prepare for endless kisses littered across your face <3

— he would LOVE it if you were stronger than him. he finds it so attractive if he could go head to head with him in the gym, his competitive side on full display. but he also loves being stronger than you, picking you up like you weigh nothing, and having you in his lap. he knows you might worry about being too heavy but you are such a big reason why he works so hard in the gym. he just loves being strong for you.

— he’s honestly such a show off. he just likes the idea of you never having to lift a finger, and doing everything for you without you ever having to say the word. you want water? it’s already by the bed in your favorite cup. you’re hungry? he’s already in line at your favorite restaurant before you can even text him. his acts of service love language is coming on strong.

binnie bonus!!!

— he’s another one who loves to see you in cute outfits, he adores your fashion sense so you usually do the outfit picking for the two of you. whether it be a skirt on a cute pair of shorts or some plain jeans, he’s so in love with how it all fits you. 

hyunjin:

— everything about your body. just the way you move and the way you fit against him perfectly is enough to send him into a rant about his adoration for you. to him, your body is art, perfectly constructed and molded into something that not even the most time-consuming sculptures can replicate. you are art, so of course you make your way into his.

“ hyunjin, i’m starting to cramp. ” you whine. he has so many doodles of you that he’s done from picture references but now, it’s time for the real thing. despite your complaints, he takes his sweet time.

“ just a little longer love, i’m almost done. “ he whispers, making small strokes of his pencil in his sketch pad. it really shouldn’t have taken him this long but he keeps getting distracted. you’re posted all pretty for him, holding the flowers he bought you. you’re just such a sweet sight and he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you, even if it is for a few seconds.

before he can tell you he’s done, he’s getting up and planting a kiss on your lips. having to resist touching you for so long should be a crime. just watching you be so effortlessly beautiful and not being able to show you that he’s thinking that was torture. you’re made to be loved and he’s made to carry that mission out. 

— couple pictures!!! loves taking cute pictures on your dates or going to especially pretty places to snap especially pretty pictures of you. he loves simple outfits that look good on both of you, blue jeans and white button-ups. some of his favorite pictures are of the two of you in that exact outfit, playing in fields of flowers or walking around the pretty streets of a new part of town. his wallpaper is actually of you lying in the flowers <3

— he loves to hold your waist when you’re cooking or washing dishes. whenever he’s teasing you he’ll pinch you softly. it always ends in him being splashed with water and forced to flee the kitchen to escape your playful slaps.

note : thank u for reading !! again, please send me any feedback or critiques you have !! this was so fun to write <3 my skz masterlist !!

— @bxckkdoor ᧔o᧓

[juniperdugong]

Perfection {Teaser}

No one has looked at you like that. With such admiration, such kindness. Taking in all your details and intricacies. Playing with a piece of paper and through it piecing together what was meant to be you. Eyes glancing back and forth with a smile. Oh god, why did the mortician have to have such a sickly sweet smile as he looked at your corpse? Why did your soul not leave when it was meant to?

Pairing: mortician!mingyu x corpse!fem!reader

Genre: Mortician!au, Horror!au || Fluff, Crack (simply bc this concept is not normal in the slightest babes), Romance, Angst(?)

Warnings: Mentions of death, corpses, and gore (Nothing in depth and nothing intended to disturb) || Necrophilia(?), It's more like Necro-romance, aka romantic attraction to a corpse. || Nudity || {Please let me know if there are other warnings you would like me to add}

Teaser WC: 518

Songs that inspired this fic

A/N: Hey, people...First fic and it's one based on all the different renditions of Frankenstein...Because of course, I would. My incessant need to write stories with insane premises is shining right now. If you listen to the playlist I hope you don't mind the mix of goth, rock, and folk. Oh lord, in my mind I just feel like Mingyu would be the type of hopeless romantic to fall in love with a dead person. I hope y'all enjoy!

Not proofread!

Series Masterlist

He was oh so gentle with you. The way he was careful with his movements as he heaved your stretcher onto the table. Your eyes followed him as he went ahead and gathered various things from around the room. Setting them on a table near you. A deep breath settled in him as he scanned your body. You felt vulnerable in this state, not much you could do about it but still. He got a clipboard and read through it. As he did he circled you, tapping gently at different parts of your body as he went along. Assessing your situation and what he would have to make "presentable" no doubt. Then he stopped. Pausing as he made his way back towards your head. Another sigh as he gazed at you. "You were so pretty. I wish we had met under other circumstances y/n." If a heart was in your body it would be beating so fast right now. His hand reached out and grazed your forehead. Is he moving the hair from your face? If you had working veins you would be blushing wildly. This is crazy. You've decided that this is crazy. Your soul for some reason has decided to stick to your body instead of following the heavenly trumpets towards the pearly gates of paradise. And here you were, prisoner in your own skin, unable to move or speak or do much of anything. And the only thing on your mind is the man who is preparing your body??? Oh, Christ. What the actual hell is happening? Also, why does it seem like the mortician is just as invested in you? Are morticians supposed to have organ jars in their preparation rooms? You suppose they do take care of those sorts of things, plus he's the professional in this situation, right? "The more I look at you…The more I wish…What am I saying?" he shook his head with a huff. Your eyes were open, not like you could willingly close them, but you were somehow able to see in this state. You could see the way the protective gown fell on his arm, very faintly outlining some sort of muscle. The way his breath caught on the mask, not shallowly at all either, a heavy breath. Almost like when he looked at you you had taken it away and he was grasping to get it back. The gloves that held snug to his big fingers, his warm hands, the ones that graced you gently with every touch. So caught up in memorizing his features you hadn't noticed that he was tracing your inner arm and staring right back at your lifeless eyes. "Actually, you might be perfect and these might just be perfect circumstances y/n…" he tilted his head as he said those words, gazing deeply at all of you, taking you in like some person at the other end of the bar. Why was he walking away? What did he mean by perfect? Is he walking over with one of those jars right now? Lord, you should've followed the trumpets…

{Right on time, just minutes after voting closed, let me know what you think, love you all!}

[villainofmyownstory]

Hi! I'm V (Villain or Vi) | she/her

!!!!!!!! 18+ only! MDNI (nsfw + dark content) !!!!!!!!

writing fat reader characters | my native language isn't English

WIP updated 07/30/24

Day Zero

apocalypse AU - ongoing - chapter 7

Simon "Ghost" Riley x plus size fem!reader

masterlist | taglist | AO3 | playlist

Ghost and his dog Riley regularly patrol the city. A man has his own routine, every day, for almost 2 years, has to look the same. The man knows that he cannot change his behavior because deep down he still feels that someone will answer his radio signal. He doesn't lose hope. However, exactly 730 days after "Day Zero", no one shows up at the transmitter mast. Just when you finally get there. You've been trying to get here for weeks, seeing a tower in the distance. You needed electricity, and the tower had a source of light every night. And so each of you, individually, still thinks that you are the only one alive.

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Three copies and some signatures

part 1 part2

Simon/Reader/(Johnny)

You and Simon are married. A deal, a contract made only to avoid being deported. However, not everything can be predicted, lies are slowly consuming everyone. You, Simon and his real partner - Johnny. Feelings are stronger than words written on paper.

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click 'keep reading' to see more of my works

Blurry

exhusband!Captain John Price x fem!Reader

ongoing - part 2

You visit your ex-husband, in your once shared home. The memories are painful. But only for you. Unfortunately, after that one bloody mission, John doesn't remember you. The memory of your life together, blurred in his mind.

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GIF by adultstim

part 1 Blindsided part 2 Anyone Else

for Cali’s Nameless Challenge

nameless COD member x fem!Reader

You can't get over the breakup and the fact that you were left alone. You keep coming to the place where you last saw him. To, perhaps, finally get some kind of answer. Some solace.

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Light years

oneshot #GhostChallenge

Simon “Ghost” Riley x android/hologram!Reader

Many decades of longing. A lot of years of waiting. Hundreds of light years away from an Earth that no longer seemed like a memory, but a fictional story. A fairy tale written by poets. Earth no longer existed, and life on Zeus 2 went on as if the years of intergalactic war had never happened. As if the destruction of most of humanity had never taken place. There were still a few people on the new planet who remembered their lives on Earth. A past that was a memory stinging under the ribs. A small personal utopia for the last living people. Paradise lost.

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Incapacitation

König x plus size fem!reader

| AO3

You and König contact each other every day. Literally, you talk all the time. As soon as you open your eyes you see or hear him. König accompanies you in every activity. But you are no longer together. Despite the distance between you, you still hope that he will come back to you. One day you find out that König has fallen in love with another woman. Something inside you breaks. Once again. You will not let him decide about his life again, not this time. You know better what is best for him. You know König very well. After all, you talk to each other all the time.

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Zultanite

Poly TF141 x plus size fem!reader

masterlist | AO3

After inheriting jewelry from your dearest grandmother and one visit to a fortune teller. Your life is changing. Not once, not twice…. but four times.

[lunarw0rks]

Old Bones | Epilogue

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): mild angst & language

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: The long-procrastinated final chapter of this series. Thank you for all the patience and support, for those who wanted this resolution.

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ˖⁺‧₊˚ ask box ˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | ao3 ver. | playlist ꒦꒷ O.B MASTERLIST

Epilogue

It wasn’t paradise. It wasn’t heaven. It wasn’t an excursion.

But it was all there, right before your eyes. The void of civilization — the tranquility of nature; both cruel and unrelenting, yet the closest to nirvana a human eye can see. The images you viewed through a screen were nowhere near as breathtaking as the sight in front of you.

The quaint lake house was nestled within a dense forest, the trees caked in bitter frost that traveled its way to your warm and exposed flesh. Then there was the lake, the breathtaking centerpiece in your irises. Shimmering hues of aquamarine and sage, swashing and dribbling across the rocky shore with every pass of its mellow waves. The body of water stretched for miles, farther than your eye could see. It was trees, dirt, moss, the lake, and the azure sky encasing it all.

This is what you needed, what you craved whilst cooped up in your torn-up residence. Not solitude from fleeing, not this time. Voluntary isolation was all it was in its purest, most natural form. Though you weren’t alone on this getaway, you wasted hours gazing at the unparalleled allure of the wilderness.

You had no ties anymore. No thorned ring on your left hand, no financial strain keeping you overworked until a hopeless retirement. Freedom was the newest taste on the tip of your tongue, passionate and liberating. Most significantly, Simon found a close second on that list of novel freedoms.

The lakehouse itself is charming; too charming for this type of funereal retreat.

Updated, almost completely modernized on the inside with spendy furniture and new fixtures. The wooden exterior that stretches to the inside is its only peculiarity, aside from the backwoods you’re staring at. Stained with warm, earthy tones that have weathered for who knows how long. Whoever renovated the land must’ve seen the same character in it that you did — how its very appearance hints at an enduring history with the land.

On the wooden porch, you nursed a mug and maintained your deliberating gaze. Behind you, the screen door creaked open, “y’ alright? Bloody freezing out here.” Simon spoke, and you turned around with a disconcerted jerk. In truth, you had forgotten how long it’d been, and time had escaped you.

You had spaced his presence completely. Ironic, considering you were the one who urged him to accompany you. Although it was understandable, considering the burly man was as stealthy as a mouse.

“I’m okay.” You muted, giving him your best attempt at a smile. “Thank you, Si.” That was a new one. But it felt right when you said it.

His boots hit the wood with soft thumps as he approached, as quiet as a brute could be on a creaky deck. As the door closed behind him, the loose snow built up on the overhang scattered and fell. Simon dusted off the lounge chair parallel to you and seated himself, taking in the same sight you were currently. “Don’t know why you bother. The view is the same from the window.” You turn your head, spotting the natural bounce of his leg, as if he was always in a state of unrest.

You shrug your shoulders, unsure of the reason yourself, “guess I’m savoring it. Can’t stay here forever, can we?” He responds with a whispered scoff, showing his agreement. Isolation wasn’t what he wanted, despite how he loathed humanity.

He needed the sounds of the people, the city, to feel even an ounce of being a part of them. Whether he knew it or not, Simon himself wasn’t sure either. “Suppose not. It’s too… peaceful.” His speech wavered whilst looking for the right word.

“I think we deserve some peace.” You reply, despite the irony of all the blood and grief it took to get here.

Simon fell silent again, for several seconds. The hand on his thigh began twitching a bit, his fingers stimming in a patterned motion — the way they always did when he contemplated. You had been looking at the view again until his stillness was noticeable.

“You do, sweetheart.” He affirmed before you opened your mouth again, fingers going motionless with relief.

In your chest, you felt a tinge of resentment. Questions began to buzz again, pertaining to the twisted connection you two had gotten stuck in. What the hell were you doing? Where was this going? What did he want? All those pesky answers far, far away in the distance — with no promise of ever catching up with them.

But you felt it. Every atom and bit of what you had been through with him, and what it meant. It wasn’t analytical. It was human, this need to never part with him. To think, when this all began, you envisioned a life of recluse and romantic aversion until your wrinkled body went cold.

You weren’t corrupted, or if you were, it didn’t trouble him. For that, you were plunged into the constant unease of feelings. It was the closest experience to hell on Earth; being in love with him felt worse than fearing the man you thought you were.

“What do you want? After this?” You forced out the words, despite not wishing to speak another to him. It wasn’t a series of questions — they were accusations. Perhaps pushing him out would be better than letting him in, but that didn’t seem so easy. Your heart couldn’t differentiate love and hate; they were synonymous.

The change in tone didn’t phase him. It couldn’t, it was part of the bargain, and he knew it. “Don’t know.” He huffed, standing up from his chair with a grunt.

You weren’t satisfied with the answer. How could you be? Two words? There weren’t enough in all the languages to express how you felt. The mug in your hands was set on the outdoor table, followed by a shuffle of your footing.

Now, you stood in front of him with furrowed brows. “You don’t know? So, what? I go back to the city, live in that damn house, and forget everything you did for me?”

“If that’s what you want.” Simon unquestioned, hands stuffed into the pockets of his bomber jacket. His nonchalance was going to be the death of you.

You rubbed your temple and let out a hefty sigh, expecting to see him gone when you looked up again. He wasn’t; he was still there, a doleful demeanor written all over him. “What does that mean, Simon? You, wandering around the city until you get yourself killed? I don’t want to forget you or remember you that way.”

“Then don’t.” He snapped, yet didn’t take on a stance of annoyance. “You want me in the bloody city with you? I’ll go. You want me to piss off? Say the words.” Your mouth hung open slightly, lips wavering as you sputtered.

His brows furrowed, the same as yours, but his feelings were different. It wasn’t a mix of love and hate; it was yearning. A complex, agonizing yearning that he had ceased in fighting. “I hate the bloody city, but I don’t hate you.” Simon added, sending the conversation into silence again. For him, it was the closest you’d get to those three words. Though, they might as well have had the same meaning.

Instead of retorting, your tense shoulders relaxed, as did your parted lips. You finally had your answer — still complicated — but an answer. It was the future, the path you knew you were coming back home on.

To be followed back into the city, having another half to fill the empty space of the lonely house. And how it’d eventually be furnished to your liking, dazzled with the selections you’d circled in the catalog. Put together and posed by Simon himself, and thanked with a kiss. Breaking in the fireplace, spending holidays as if they weren’t holidays at all, preventing any reminder of the sour memories you both had.

The chest you rest your head on, steady and synced with the putter of your heart. The organ isn’t healed, forever cracked and pumping to his rhythm. The hand resting on your shoulder, scarred and twitching while he contemplates what you’ll have for dinner. His pressing thoughts are trivial, coming a long way from war and life-or-death.

Of all the lives impacted by those hands, the one he’d saved mattered most.

TAGLIST: @random-thot-generator @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @illyanam1011 @stunkbiggu @bi-witch-bxtch @warm-milk-with-honey @xheera @kiamewrites @01trickster10 @m0chac0ffee @tizylish @midwesternwitchery @ramadiiiisme @tooruen @cran-berry-vodka @arctichotch @neadivana

[ironboyxs]

Let me take care of you

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Male Reader

Word count: 912

p.s. this was a request from the lovely @megamonstermuffin, I'm sorry it took so long, I'm in a bit of a creative block, but I plan to write a lot next month! in fact, I want to post a list of which fandons I write for, so stay tuned. and always remembering REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!

They were tired, but Y/N particularly was exhausted. Being an Avenger was definitely not an easy task, especially when you're not a super soldier with enormous stamina and strength greater than most people.

Y/N knew how to handle himself of course, Doctor Strange didn't take him in as his apprentice just because the boy was kind, he took him in because he was very skilled with magic. But magic can be tiring, and very tiring.

Y/N and James opened the door to their newly rented apartment, they had been living together for a month. And almost two years they were together as a couple.

Him and Bucky together was something no one predicted, not even themselves, but it was one of the best things that could have happened to both of them. Y/N was lonely, he had already learned to fend for himself on the streets of New York for some time when Stephen Strange found him, Bucky was a man out of his time, and the recent “loss” of his best friend, Steve Rogers, it made him feel even more out of place.

The two were people who didn't fit into society very well, but they found the perfect fit in each other.

"Are you okay magic boy?" - Bucky asked as soon as they arrived home.

"You know I hate that nickname" - Y/N said.

"But you're really magical" - Bucky said giving his boyfriend a kiss

Y/N liked that side of Bucky, the side of him that flirted with the boy, that was romantic, flirtatious and playful, Bucky didn't show that side to everyone.

'But seriously, you look very tired, I know today was difficult for all of us." - Bucky said again.

"Well, I may be magical but I don't have the physical resistance of a super soldier, my love."

"Come, I'll draw a bath and make our dinner."

"Bucky, there's no need, I know you're tired too".

Bucky looked seriously at his boyfriend and placed his hands on his face.

"Let me take care of you, please?"

"How can I resist those big blue eyes? Alright, let's go."

Y/N was still getting used to having someone take care of him, he had forgotten what that was like, he spent so much time taking care of himself that sometimes when people offered to help him, he felt like he was bothering them.

Bucky smiled as he looked at his boyfriend, recognizing Y/N's reluctance to accept help. He knew that his boyfriend was used to taking care of himself, but he also wanted to show that he was there to share the burden of the difficulties.

While preparing a relaxing bath, Bucky took out his phone and connected a device to the speaker, his playlist of relaxing music started playing. Soft music began to fill the apartment, creating a serene atmosphere. After a while Bucky called for his boyfriend.

"Y/N, I know it's hard to accept help sometimes, but you're not bothering me. I want to do this for you. Let me take care of you today." - He asked once again with his big, asking blue eyes.

Y/N sighed, feeling the warmth of Bucky's words. He allowed himself to accept that affectionate gesture, something that was still new to him, even after so long of the relationship.

The bath was prepared with scented salts, creating an aromatic cloud that hovered in the air. Bucky helped Y/N undress and gently led him into the hot water. He sat next to his boyfriend, gently massaging his shoulders as the water washed over them.

"Relax, my love. I'll take care of everything tonight" - Bucky said, kissing the back of his boyfriend's head.

There was another thing that Y/N couldn't get used to, in the best way possible. Whenever he felt Bucky's touches it was like he was being transported directly to paradise. His boyfriend's lips were perfect against his skin, and the mixed sensation of a flesh arm and a metal arm was incredible.

Y/N allowed himself to close his eyes, leaning against Bucky's chest. The soft music and gentle touches helped soothe his tired mind and body.

After the shower, Bucky prepared a comforting meal, something simple and delicious that they both loved. They sat at the table, sharing laughter and conversation, enjoying each other's company.

After dinner, Bucky took Y/N in his arms and carried him to the couch. He covered them with a soft blanket as they watched a movie, cuddling and exchanging subtle touches.

As the night came to an end, Y/N snuggled into Bucky's arms, feeling loved and cared for. He fell asleep with a smile on his lips, silently thankful for having someone like Bucky by his side.

That night, Bucky took care of Y/N not just with gestures, but with all the love and affection he could offer, promising to be there for his beloved, no matter the circumstances.

[sempersirens]

sempersirens' masterlist

hello! i'm dee. i currently write for joel miller (tlou) and my requests are open

i do not have a taglist, so please follow my updates blog @sempersirenswrites to be notified each time i post a new fic

last updated: 09/07/24

all fics are 18+ and have specific content warnings for each chapter. no use of y/n. mdni

a bird in your teeth

pairing: neighbour!joel x f!reader status: completed since moving into the neighborhood a couple of years ago, you've become close with the miller family. as a young woman living alone joel is protective of you, and he intends to show you how much so. part one | part two | part three | part four | epilogue

sun bleached flies

pairing: previous dark/raider!joel x f!reader status: ongoing stumbling upon the settlement of jackson whilst 4 months pregnant had almost felt too good to be true. for the past seven years, you had been able to raise your daughter, mia, surrounded by a safe and supportive community. however, your small slice of paradise comes tumbling down the day joel miller arrived. despite only crossing paths for a fleeting encounter all those years ago, you would never forget the face of your daughter's father. chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six extras: cut monologue from chapter three

yes, chef

pairing: chef!joel x f!reader status: temporary hiatus joel miller is the head chef of a prestigious michelin star restaurant in the city. after working for him for over a year, you're determined to not let his ill-temper and cutting words dampen your spirit and love for your career. you won't give in at chipping away at his tough exterior, living in the hope of finding something sweeter below the surface (request) | part one | part two | part three extras: playlist i imagine joel x reader dancing around joel's kitchen to

raising hell all over town

pairing: best friend's dad!joel x f!reader status: temporary hiatus you've been a friend of sarah's since you were old enough to steal bottles of her dad's whiskey for parties. sarah was always the sensible one in your friendship, getting you out of the trouble you usually started. but now sarah has gone off to college, who else but joel could pick up the pieces? part one | part two coming soon

the fig tree

pairing: au therapist!joel x f!reader status: temporary hiatus a twenty-something woman, on the brink of everything and nothing at all, takes on a new therapist to heal from her traumatic past. however, lines become blurred when you discover dr. miller has skeletons of his own. series masterlist

daughter lessons

pairing: jackson era!joel x f!reader status: completed (one shot) would it kill joel to just touch you?

strangers in the night

pairing: historical fantasy au!joel x f!reader status: ongoing does death truly do us part? over six different lifetimes, he finds you. no war, plague, or famine can keep him from stumbling into your life. and he is always hardened and stubborn; goodness seems immiscible to his existence. but you are always there, a lighthouse illuminating his way home. will it take the end of the world for tenderness to finally carve a home between you? series masterlist | part one

[madebyrolo]

𝘉𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘥𝘢𝘺 ོ

𝘑𝘫 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘴𝘩𝘦/𝘩𝘦𝘳

Y/n and Jj decided to have a beach date without the rest of their pouge friends. They love hanging out with them but they just needed a one on one day after everything they been through.

sort small blurb

not proof read/edited

⋆｡⋆｡° 𓆉*ੈ‧₊˚ ༘⋆

Y/n sat on her beach chair under an umbrella with hard lemonade in her cups holder. Y/n and jj decided to have a beach date taking time away from the group. They went to a public beach surrounded by family’s, friends and couples on vacation. The sounds of segals mixed with the different genres of music playing in the background including reggaeton, country and pop. The smell of sunscreen, saltwater and bbq filled their noses. Although it wasn’t the most peaceful setting they loved the community vibe. They needed some happiness and sun after everything with losing the gold.

Soon jj came back with food he got at a stand. He got them sandwiches and more beer.

“Here you go darlin’. I got you turkey” jj said handing her the sandwiches as he placed the beers in the cooler.

“Thank you love” she grabbed the wrapped paper that said turkey unwrapping it taking a big bite.

“Ooh these are so good oh my” she said with her mouth full.

“Yea maybe keep it in your mouth then..” he said with a small laugh.

Y/n gets her speaker playing the pouges beach playlist called “the bitch” with a picture of jj passed out on his surf board. Omar Apollo’s,“Kamikaze” started playing which cause y/n to immediately perk up.

“Oh my god he’s go good I can’t-” she put her sandwich in a sand free spot and got up turning up her music. She started dancing getting a few looks from people but she didn’t care. She was vibing.

“Alright y/n sit down and eat your sandwich.” Jj joked with her

“Fuck you boy, imma leave this state and never come back, never never come back.” She sang along. After the song finished she finally sat down finishing her sandwich.

After a few minutes jj got up grabbing her hand and leading them to the ocean. They had to zig zag through the groups of people but they made it to the coast. There were little kids in the shallow part, they walked passed them going waist deep into the water. The swam closer to now being shoulder deep floating in the ocean. They were farther away from the shore in a little more secluded area with just them but not too close to the surfers.

They swam and play fought in the ocean, splashing each other until one of them got pissed off. jj making sure y/n wasn’t floating or drowning as they got farther in. They floated at least 30ft above the sea floor engulfed in each other arms, jjs chin rested on y/n head. Just taking in each other presence and enjoying the peace and safety they craved.

“In a way I’m glad we lost the gold.” Y/n spoke

“Like don’t get me wrong I wanted the money but all the danger and drama that was in it wasn’t healthy.” she said as jj pulled away getting a better look at the girl.

“Yea I get it but it all would’ve been worth it if we got it.” Jj said trying to make her feel better.

“Laying in silk bed sheets on a California king, jaguars and lambos in our drive way. Endless refills of Budweiser given from our butlers.” He said with his eyes sparkling.

“Yea your paradise” she rolled her eyes.

“Still, mine or yours we would be happy and filthy rich. Full kook remember?” He said looking for a bit of happiness in her eyes.

“Would it though ? Rafe literally killed a cop, John b almost died? we were getting chased by death every. single. day. If we were to got it, who knows who would’ve went after us again.” she said as a small tear fell down her cheek.

“Even now with gold is gone. People are starting to believe John B killed Officer Peterkin. Ward with his power can put us all in jail. Or worse.” with another one trialing down.

“Hey hey hey- don’t cry. It’s all going to be okay, we have each other alright? I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” He said pulling her into a hug.

“Let’s just enjoy the sun yeah? Happy wife happy life” he said giving her a kiss in the cheek.

“Wife?” She questioned. Yes they were boyfriend girlfriend but they haven’t been together long enough to even consider getting married.

“Yes my wife?!” He scoffed giving her kisses all over her face.

“Didn’t know we got married, must’ve missed it” she giggled return.

“Ah yes everyone was there, John b, Pope, Heyward catered. Even Rafe” he joked

“Rafe? Can’t believe he got the invite AND accepted it” she joked with him

“Yea, he was jealous, saw the tears in his eyes.” He said hinting about Rafes small feeling for you.

“Oh shut it, that was traumatizing. I rejected him and he actually looked hurt yet so angry. If you wouldn’t have gotten there in time who knew what he could’ve done. You saw what his did to Peterkin.” She pushed him away.

“I’m sorry my princess. I wouldn’t let him or anyone lay a finger on you.” He said pulling her back.

“You’re not going anywhere Mrs.Maybank.”

“Oh like you can tie me down ?” She smirked looking up at him.

“Oh honey I already have.” He retuned the smirk bringing her into a deep heated kiss.

“Come on let’s go home Maybank.” She said swimming towards the shore.

“Right behind you Mrs.Maybank.”

-time skip-

Jj and y/ns car came to a stop in John bs driveway. They followed eachother hand in hand giggling from the past convo they had in the car. As they made their way through the front door jj spoke up.

“JOHNATHAN ? SARAHHH?! KIE??? PROOPEEEE!?” He yelled out checking to see if anyone was around, throwing their nicknames in.

A couple seconds pass and no a single sound was heard.

“Hmm house to ourself. What to do, what to do….” He said looking around perusing his lips acting all innocent.

“Let’s head to the guest room, might as well take it before someone else comes home right?” she said playing his game.

“Might as well ya know?” His noses scrunched up.

Jj dragged y/n by the hand entering the room locking the door behind her. She turned towards the bed before jj quickly picked her up, legs around his waist and his hands holding her on her lower thighs slowly working their ways up.

“So what did you say about tying me up?” She said grabbing the side of his face.

“Better I show you yea?” She said throwing her on the bed.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Heard there was a jj fic drought 💋

maybe I’ll do a pt.2 with a smut lmk

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚