#and the wording is like. ''rain gold and silver on me'' or something like that? which is why all of the dangly bits in that design

[b4kuch1n]

more sk8. I think the cindereki stuff is extremely stupid but I am not immune to trying to conceptualize a princess gown in any setting

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

(seven) days a week, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: It only takes seven days (a week) for Jeon Jungkook to get you in his bed to fuck you right. And showing up in weird places. And kissing in the rain. He's crazy. Okay, it's kinda complicated.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language (reader swears a lot); strangers-to-lovers; vague allusions to a loveless childhood and bad parenting (no specifics); JK might be insane and you do tell him that he is; slight crack; fluff; smut (fem reader, fucking with clothes on and off, m and f-receiving oral, light hair pulling, fingering, nipple play, choking, penetrative sex, handjob); non-idol!BTS – persistent!Jungkook x noona, def tsundere!reader lol ft instigator-cupid!Park Jimin setting them up

this directly follows Jung Kook's 'Seven' MV, so make sure to watch it (although I'm sure you've seen it if you wanna read this lmao)

--

monday.

“What? Something on my face?”

You stared at him and he stared back. Wide eyes, slightly parted lips, the look of caught prey and all. You had your hands in front of you, long fingers laced together, elbows on the table. You probably shouldn’t have scowled like that. That was a bit rude, especially to someone you didn’t know well, but this guy had been staring at you all night and barely speaking to you, even when prompted, so you were getting both impatient and annoyed at accepting this invitation.

“You wear… a lot of jewelry,” Jeon Jungkook said out loud, with awe.

You looked down at your hands. Well. The rings, the bracelets, even the earrings on both your ears, all sterling silver or white gold. You had even swapped out the lower lobe piercing for a pair of dangling dice earrings with grey freshwater pearls. You liked the cooler tone to bring some death to your warm-toned skin.

“Yeah. Is that a problem?” Your low voice had an edge of guarded to it.

A quick, nervous head shake. “No. No, it’s cool. I’ve never seen a girl wear so many chunky rings like that. I didn’t think I’d like it either, but then I saw you.”

You opened your mouth to snap out a comeback and then his words hit you.

There was no doubt that Jeon Jungkook was cute. Black-brown hair with a lustrous quality. Bright, expressive dark brown eyes. Slightly rounded cheeks with a distinct jawline. He said he had, and you could see, tattoos and piercings, something you quite liked but not a requirement. Built body, in the way that people where when they were committed to taking care of their physical appearance. Not so much in vanity, but in the way that matched how they felt that they should look in their head. Respect for that. But, in this chance that was what you had expected to be his, Jungkook didn’t taken it.

He looked the part.

Didn’t act it, though.

Black blazer, matching trousers. White t-shirt. Dressy but not too much. To be honest, the outer appearance didn’t matter much to you. It actually mattered the least. You wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Really. You were often told that you had too little patience for people, but, come on!

This conversation was awkward.

Hah.

You turned as you sensed a lively presence re-entering your icy atmosphere. Hmph. The actor playing Cupid in the instance. He looked the part too. Baby blue dress shirt with the top buttons undone. Ivory slacks, neatly pressed. Black hair perfectly curled over his forehead, framing an angelic face. Full lips forming an infectious smile that made his eyes disappear as small hands folded away the receipt and tucked his card back into his wallet.

“Ah, the waitress and I had a cute little chat,” flirty Park Jimin chuckled, giving you a little eyebrow wiggle. You rolled your eyes at him. “Did you guys have a nice talk while I was gone?”

“Um…?” Jungkook started, nearly afraid to glance at you for some support.

You gave Jimin a deadpan stare. “You trying to get her number?”

“Me? No, no!” he waved his hands, sitting back down to lean in. “She gave it to me anyway though.”

Figures Park Jimin would introduce you to a guy and also get the number of someone else in the restaurant. You deliberately hadn’t answered Jimin’s question, but he hadn’t noticed.

Jungkook, however, did.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him deflate a little and you winced in unease, not sure if you should have avoided it, but at this point the waitress had returned, lashes aflutter and gushing about how they just had to try to fried ice cream and it was on the house, as long as Jimin promised to come back, right? Right?

Jimin promised of course, of course, with a big smile.

You completely ignored him and picked up one of the pieces of fried ice cream – mango, it seemed, by the color – and placed it on one of the small plates before setting it right in front of Jungkook.

He perked up and gave you these big, hopeful eyes.

You didn’t say anything but felt your cheeks flush and your gaze shift, putting on an expression of reluctant apology. After a half second, you bowed your head just a bit, shaking off the moment and serving yourself before serving Jimin.

What?

Damn flirt didn’t even notice.

-

tuesday.

“You didn’t like him?”

“I mean, there’s nothing to like or dislike. He barely said anything. Also, Jimin, I told you, I’m not really a relationship person,” you sighed into your phone, walking quickly to the train station. “I don’t want to give this guy the wrong idea about me. He didn’t really strike me as a fuck-around-and-find-out kinda guy.”

“You said you would change your mind for the right person though.”

Sometimes you thought Jimin argued with you just to argue.

“Yeah, and I don’t even know what kind of person he is because he didn’t say shit,” you barked back to that snippy tone on the other side of the line. Some idiot honked at you and you resisted the urge to flip him the bird. Maybe he wasn’t honking at you. The hanging out the window and catcalling could be to the couple walking next to you.

You highly doubted it.

Also, maybe you just wanted to give someone the middle finger because you couldn’t show Jimin right now how much you deeply appreciated him.

“Jungkookie’s just super shy, but wait a minute and he’ll make you his.”

You rolled your eyes. Damn bad habit that you were forming ever since you became friendly with this mildly infuriating angel. “He’s not making me do anything.”

“I’m telling you; he suits you perfectly. You’re being stubborn and not giving him a chance. Anyway, I gave him your number, so don’t worry!”

“Wait, you did wha–”

The roar of the subway train below cut you off.

“Oop, you’re at the station. You’re breaking up! Can’t hear you, byeeeeeee!”

You twitched as Park Jimin hung up on you.

Asshole.

You pulled your phone away from your ear and pulled up the app to pay for your ticket. Paused for a second. New message, unknown number. Then it was your turn, so you hovered your phone screen, heard the beep, and hurried to the correct train line, finding the one to take you home. It was hectic even now, still within the dregs of rush hour, so you didn’t even think to check for the content of the text until you sat down with a big sigh, somewhat of a fwump with your distressed bomber jacket and baggy cargo pants, both made of thick black fabric. The side of your jacket slid off, exposing your bare shoulder and tight white tank top.

The guy standing about a meter away from you snuck a glance in your direction.

You tucked your tongue in your cheek and yanked your jacket back in place with the hand that was holding your phone. Noticed the screen flash, reminding you of the notification.

Fuck it.

Pressed your thumb and your phone unlocked.

Hey, it’s me. Jeon Jungkook… I wanted to say that I’m sorry about not talking that much last night. I was really nervous because you were so pretty and self-assured. I was so impressed that nothing I could think of seemed like a good thing to say, so I blanked out. I’m very sorry. I hope it is okay for me to text you like this.

An essay.

You paused for so long that you felt your cheeks heat.

The fuck?

You frowned at yourself. For some reason, even though he hadn’t talked much, you could hear the text in your head as if Jungkook was speaking to you directly. Sense the anxiousness in the typed words. See those big eyes gazing right at you with a mixture of curiosity and wonder and what-ifs. You sighed, feeling defeated. It would simply be rude to not reply.

I apologize for being too intimidating.

You sent it before thinking. Aw, shit. That was a bit short, wasn’t it? Damnnit. You saw the sending quadlet of dots spinning slowly, struggling due to you being underground. Fuck. If you sent another message now, it might be out of order and that would just get confusing. And what else could you add? Oh, geez, you didn’t even confirm it was you. The conversation with Park Jimin must have scrambled your egg brains.

The train roared out of the tunnel.

All of a sudden, the message sent and a reply instantly popped up. Actually, a serious of bubbles, rapid-fire like bullets. The confirmation must have lagged.

You’re not intimidating at all! Well… not in a bad way. In a sexy way. I mean, in a good way! In a cool way, like you’re not afraid to say what you wanna say. I really admire that in a person, so I really admire that in you. Sorry, that was weird, wasn’t it? I made things weird… ㅠ.ㅠ

You blinked slowly at the messages. It was pretty clear Jungkook had sat there and pondered over the first message for quite a while and these subsequent ones were stream of consciousness spewing. Honestly, kind of funny. Heh. You could sort of imagine it. Maybe he hadn’t expected you to respond right away. Hm, you wondered if he had hoped you would. He really was trying hard, huh. For what? What was the reason?

You tucked your tongue in your cheek and responded anyway.

Oh, you’re definitely weird, but you never know. I might like that. What’s the outfit of the day, Jeon Jungkook?

Were you fishing for a photo? Of course. He would probably scramble to put on a good outfit to impress you. To your surprise, the downloading image icon popped up instantaneously, spinning, spinning. You tilted your head, surprised at the prompt obedience. He must have snapped a pic right away when you asked. It was taking time to load though. You saw some people getting off the train and looked up, checking the stop. Oh, yours was next.

You took care not to look directly at anyone around you, keeping your sling bag in your lap.

Then you looked down to the inquisitive dark brown eyes of Jeon Jungkook with messy black hair and a black leather jacket. White t-shirt. It was a selfie, so you couldn’t see the pants. It was something borderline vain about the angle, but also a seek of approval in that parted mouth, silver ring and stud dotting the edge of the right side, flash of white teeth and slight bite of the left side revealing a small mole at the center underneath his lower lip.

You twitched.

Bold, wasn’t he?

You weren’t sure if you liked it – well, you didn’t mind it, you just weren’t sure if you like-liked it, what was he trying to play at here, trying to get your heart to beat fast or something, hmph – and you clutched your phone pointedly, your rings clacking as you prepped your fingers to type back… something, be honest here… and your fingers wavered.

Shaking a little.

You let out a breath you hadn’t known you had been holding.

Oh, the pants are blue jeans, but I’m out right now so there’s no mirror to show you.

You heard your stop being called and stood up automatically, filing behind other people getting ready to step off, the train slowing down, everything slowing down, finding yourself staring at Jungkook’s expression in the photo, why were you staring, shifting your eyes quickly, then back, it wasn’t like Jeon Jungkook could see you, ugh, this was so annoying.

Do you want to see? I can take another photo when I get home.

You let out a frustrated exhale that no one else around you could understand. Maybe not even those closest to you would get it. But you knew what it meant, and knowing also frustrated you.

Being self-aware was a bitch.

You finally sent your answer.

I much prefer this look on you than the blazer. Is this your normal fashion style?

You had worn a flowing white blouse and floaty black skirt the night before at dinner, but it was not your typical style. Well, it was, but it was one of your work outfits since you had come straight from the office. Something you wore to not get in trouble with the dress code and knowing you would have to meet up with people later. Sometimes you were a little riskier if you were feeling frisky, but Jimin had told you to look nice for the friend he was introducing you to.

But maybe it would have been better to look more you.

Then again, the restaurant was pretty high end. They might not have let you in.

Oh. Yeah. Hahaha, I wore the blazer because Jimin-ssi told me to look nice for you. I guess this is street-style? I don’t know… I’m not fashionable, I only wear what I think is cool or comfy. What about you?

You strode out of the train and briskly walked to the elevator, muscle memory already knowing where to go, typing back. Pausing when you saw the vending machine. A green tea would be nice right now.

You veered off course and headed to stand in line.

I think my friends would describe my style as dark and strong. They’re always telling me I should dress more feminine or at least in less black, but one of my core traits is not listening to shit people say. And swearing.

You tapped your card and made your selection. Waited out the whirr and clunk. Didn’t pay much attention to the world around you. It was a typical day, people passing by, no warning feelings. And, besides, your phone was much more interesting right now.

You did not just think that.

You scowled at your reflection in the glass of the vending machine before picking up your drink.

I hope I get to see you sometime soon so I can appreciate it. :)

You raised an eyebrow at your phone as you ticked open the can and started walking again, taking a crisp sip. It was slightly irritating that he was better at flirting over text than in person. Or maybe it had just been the circumstance. Come to think of it, it would have been weird if he did with Jimin right there, although you were sure Jimin wanted to be there to witness whatever unfolded. The awkwardness was probably just as entertaining to him as it would be if Jungkook had been more forward.

Hmph.

What was more irritating was that you weren’t instantly annoyed by it.

Hmmmmph.

Are you saying you aren’t intimidated by me, Jeon Jungkook?

You hurried home, following the streetlights, breathless, not because you were running, but because you wanted to be home so you could be alone with…

I’m saying I like feeling your effect on me in person.

Him.

-

wednesday.

The next time you saw Jeon Jungkook, you were groaning and setting your forehead on the edge of washing machine, screaming internally. Would have banged it against the metal if you weren’t going to lose a substantial number of brain cells. You were going to pay cash because you wouldn’t get that card surcharge if you did but, of course, of course you had accidentally shorted yourself and pocketed the wrong amount.

Fuck!

Now you were already at the laundromat. Walk back home and lug your shit to and back to get the right amount? Or just forget it and pay the extra charge? You had already put the detergent in. Fuckity fuck fuck. Technically you could go home, it wasn’t that far, but, ugh, it was extra annoying today because you had slept late and now you were grumpily doing your life responsibilities. Come back a different day? No, you had specifically told yourself to get off your ass and get that pile washed. Damnnit, if you hadn’t slept late and scrambled your egg brains, this wouldn’t have happened!

But you had been talking to Jeon Jungkook.

Ending the conversation had been more difficult than you expected. You gritted your teeth, feeling stupid for pulling such a teenage move. Still young, huh? Young and stupid.

Grr.

You heard the metal slide of the money drawer being closed and then an approval ping!

You jumped back, freaked out at the thing you hadn’t done, and then snapped your head to the sudden presence next to you. Dark blue jeans with giant holes at the knees. Gray hoodie sliding off a built right shoulder. White ribbed tank top. Messy black hair. A piercing, no, two on the right side of open lips.

Big, round, dark brown eyes.

You noticed he was wearing a few silver rings himself.

“Um… hi? I noticed you were short a little so I just…” Jeon Jungkook trailed off, giving you a hopeful look.

You gawked at him.

“What are you doing here?”

Ouch. A little too snappy. Jungkook faltered, those peepers shifting. “Ah… well…”

You bit your tongue and reeled it back. “Sorry. I didn’t expect to see you, is all. Obviously, you came here to wash your clothes like everyone else.”

He reached up and scratched the back of his head nervously. Wait. Why was he looking at you like that?

“W-Well, actually… Jimin-ssi told me you normally come here on Wednesdays to do laundry and I was nearby so I figured., maybe, I’d just check if you were here…”

You stared at him.

“You’re stalking me?”

“N-No!” Jungkook sputtered, waving his hands frantically even though you hadn’t raised your voice.

There was a bristle to your tone though. Indignation and frigidity you couldn’t hide. You frowned, narrowing your eyes, cornering him with your gaze. There were only a few people on this slow day, which was why you picked Wednesday to do laundry, but all the patrons had AirPods or other earbuds in, busying themselves with their shoving of clothing in and out of the washers and dryers. No one was going to interrupt anyway.

Not their business.

“I… I…”

“And how did you recognize me anyway? My head was down,” you remembered, advancing on him, and Jungkook took a step back, swallowing hard. Your outfit was baggy too, dark denim jacket and jeans, the tight black tank hidden by the bulk.

“I couldn’t forget how beautiful your hair is,” he mumbled out quickly, looking a little too mesmerized by your fierceness. Forget that. “And your hands were on the edge of the washer. Your rings. The star chain bracelet you wear. I…”

He was fixated on your collarbones and the thin black choker around your neck.

Or lower.

“Oi! My face is up here,” you hissed, snaping your fingers and making him jerk his head. He had stopped backing up though. You pointed at him, somewhat rudely. Actually, very rudely, but whatever. “What do you mean, check if I was here? And who told you? That idiot. I’ll kill him.”

And why was Jungkook looking at you like that?

Like he thought you were hot when angry.

He better stop that shit because you were losing your irate demeanor for some fuckin’ reason.

“I texted you almost all night. That wasn’t enough?” you half-growled, half whispered.

A tiny head shake.

Ah, shit.

You deliberately did not think that was cute.

“I liked it so much that I…” Oh no, oh no, not that honest tremble and deep gaze into your eyes. “I was hoping I could talk to you again, in person, more bravely this time.”

You opened your mouth to sink in that verbal bite and nothing came out.

The entire laundromat could flood right now and you wouldn’t even notice because you were staring at Jeon Jungkook and wondering if this audacity was freaking annoying or freaking impressive. Not this damn guy within two days leaving you speechless. Well… actually, no, never mind the technicalities.

“Are you even thinking before you do things?” you grumbled, not yet backing down.

Jungkook stuck his hands in his hoodie pockets suddenly. Hm? Nervous and shaking? You couldn’t tell, but you watched him closely, observing his body language, your eyes following those lines.

“Mmmm…” He bit the left side of his lower lip. “No?”

You strongly resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

Shy smile greeting you, accompanying the lip bite.

“I’m just listening to my heart.”

Now you visibly cringed. “Don’t say stuff like that.” Looking away slightly, somehow unable to meet those honest eyes.

“Why? You don’t like it?” Genuinely curious.

“You don’t mean it.” He did mean it and you could see that he meant it but you did not want to admit that you knew that he meant it. Yeah. “You barely know me. We only talked over text.”

“But you gave me thoughtful, frank answers. I don’t believe that you were being dishonest,” Jungkook protested, following you over to the tables a few steps away from the washing machines. You dragged your laundry bag with you and kept your voice down.

“I told you, I’m a straightforward an honest person. I won’t lie to you. And I won’t hesitate to cut you off if you lie to me,” you reminded him.

He nodded. You wanted to shake him and yell at him to stop giving you those eyes. “So I just decided to do what I wanted to.”

You cocked your head at him in disbelief. “You didn’t think you went too far?”

What was with that mischievous smile? “I’m the all-in type.”

You let out a puff of air.

“Also, you haven’t told me directly that you don’t like it,” Jungkook pointed out, leaning toward you, smiling.

You gave him a deadpan stare. “You don’t get me,” you said back flatly.

Those dark brown orbs sparkled. “That’s okay. I don’t have to get you to think you’re cool, clever, and stunning.”

Your eyebrow twitched.

“And why do you say that? Because you see how people look at me? Because you enjoyed my useless facts and tangents last night? Because you think with your dick?” You added the last question with bite, leaning forward too, having enough of this, not really him but…

The fact that you didn’t want to tell him to fuck right off.

Silence.

Jungkook was staring into your eyes.

“The shape of your eyes is so… perfect.”

You felt your ears heat.

He raised a finger and traced the air right in front of your left eye, the scent of his clean cologne drifting in your direction. “The way they sharpen in the inner corner, like a bird of prey… And your irises are so dark and striking…”

You grabbed his finger out of the air.

“Don’t be… weird.”

Why did you pause? Hello? No way you’re being like this over this guy right now.

You pointedly pulled his hand down, pinning it to the table. “Pay attention.”

Jungkook was giving you this dreamy, hazy expression. “Huh? What were you saying?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You can’t even listen.”

He leaned in closer and you caught a whiff of that delicious cologne again. “Sorry. I will. Say it again, please. I’ll listen carefully.”

The fuck were you saying again? The lights of the old laundromat flickered but you barely noticed. A common occurrence in these ol’ mom-and-pop places. And, besides, you were staring at this determined, patient smile and mentally shoving down those butterflies that you definitely weren’t feeling, nope, violently compacting those distracting internalizations into a tiny, windowless box.

“You don’t seem very good at listening,” you finally said, tight and even.

“I am,” he insisted softly. “I promise.”

“I’m too much for you.”

Or was Jungkook too much for you?

“I’m offering all of me,” he whispered to the shared air between you and him. “It might not be enough so I’ll be to work hard and do my best.”

What was he so earnest for? You hesitated, the edges to your hard demeanor softening. You didn’t want to trust stuff like this. It was so easy to get burned and you wanted to be the one to do the burning. And how could you trust people? Even you didn’t say everything out loud. Some things you could say and some you couldn’t say. It was too much trouble to believe in someone.

You had never received unburdened kindness when you were younger.

“We’re not on the same page.”

Jungkook tilted his head. “Aren’t we? But you’re reading me easily and I’m doing my best to learn about you too.”

Your shoulders released the tension. “Don’t pretend with me. It’s clear you’re a relationship kind of guy. And, while I’m not against them, I can’t deliver the same kind of devotion you are willing to give. Can’t you see that?” You removed your hand from his, not realizing it was still there.

His fingertip traced a line on the back of your hand.

Sparks raced along the base of your head.

You remained stern, feeling heavy and hot in your clothes.

“Why do you say that? You don’t think you’re loyal?” he asked very sincerely.

Your eyes narrowed. “Of course, I am. If I like you in that way and you asked me to bury a body, I’d already be digging the grave. But I’m not a flowers-and-chocolate kind of girl. That’s not how I show affection.”

You had no idea how far your clothes were in the cycle. The whole world could crash down and you would still be staring at Jungkook and his body language. His shoulders slouched a little more so he could look up at you with those pleading eyes.

Inhale still in your throat.

“Then, do you not like me?”

Say something.

But you didn’t say anything at all, gazing down at Jeon Jungkook and wondering why you couldn’t get through his thick skull that you were a bad decision. Honestly? Honestly, fine, it was because you grew up with parents that never liked each other nor their kids. Honestly, it was because you grew up too fast and with too much independence to not see the filthiness of the world. Honestly, it was because you saw the finicky innate nature of humanity of never devoting themselves to anything, much less anyone, and why would they?

People were crazy.

Call it personal experience.

You sighed.

“Jungkook, I’m not gonna lie to you. I fuck before I care about anybody. I’m only living to get my pleasure and not take care of anyone, okay? I’m barely keeping my own head together. I’m blunt. I don’t need or want romantic gestures. I just want dick. There. I’m not a good person.”

He was smiling.

Aw, shit.

“I must be favored to know you.”

You twitched, tucking your tongue in your cheek to avoid scowling, which was pretty much scowling anyway, so you failed spectacularly.

“Also, you haven’t said you don’t like me,” Jungkook pointed out. Infuriatingly. “Because it’s not true and you don’t lie. Right?” He said your name with a little too much sweetness and knowing.

You yanked your hand out of his and shoved his hard, muscular chest. He bounced back, grinning a little too happily. You told yourself to hate it and you didn’t. Fuck. “What are you even still doing here? Gonna fold my clothes for me or something?”

The energy at being offered a household chore was disturbing. “Oh! I can! I’m very good at doing laundry. And washing dishes. And cleaning. I like doing that stuff.”

“Sure, you do,” you puffed sarcastically,

“I do,” Jungkook insisted, coming around the table. “And I’m good at it.”

You scrutinized him up a down. “Yeah? Because you don’t know where else to put all that energy of yours?”

His lips parted but all he did was gawk at you. Oop. Right on the money. You were liking this expression a little too much. Maybe it was time to lower these walls a bit. After all, it didn’t seem like Jungkook was going to go away any time soon. He was pretty harmless anyway.

“I could drain you in a night,” you chuckled, smirking.

The tips of his ears were getting red at your lowered tone.

“You think you could keep up?”

-

thursday.

Ugh, it was one of those days that fuckin’ suuuucked.

Woke up late and had to rush to get dressed and bounce, then got to work and some shit was going down about missing documents and people moving papers they shouldn’t have, forcing you to play manager because everyone else had no goddamn spine to fix anything. This department would be a disaster without you. To top it all off, you had people stalling, keeping an irrelevant conversation going, leading you on a wild goose chase with no funny honking – turns out the documents were in some random copier right behind you, for fuck’s sake – and you had a very strong inkling it was because of what you looked like.

Which was fine.

Unless you were actually trying to do your job.

Then, one of your side dishes you had brought for lunch had gone off, so you ended up slightly less full than you wanted to be, and you forgot your jacket at work, leaving it hanging on the back of your chair in your rush to leave, and the train halted several stations before your stop because there was some emergency maintenance or some shit.

Fuckity fuck.

It wouldn’t be so annoying it if wasn’t so windy, but it was and you were wearing a sheer sweater with splashes of jewel-toned colors and a longline black sports bra under it – you had worn your jacket half-zipped until your boss had left in the middle of the day and your co-workers didn’t care how you looked, the dress code was stupid anyway – and black jeans, mid-rise. The rules were more about being covered up rather than being professionally dressed.

The job was primarily sitting at a desk and sorting documents, did it matter how you looked?

Or maybe you just broke the rules a little because you were a rebel.

Your stomach growled angrily and you told it to shut the fuck up.

You stood on the corner halfway between work and home, debating on whether or not to do some damage. The problem was you didn’t have any of the usual bad habits most people had. You didn’t drink, so getting stupid drunk and getting thrown out of the noraebang was out of the question. Also, you couldn’t sing. But, anyway, you barely took medicine, let alone know where or how to procure the illegal fun stuff, so that was also out. You didn’t have a sweet tooth either so you couldn’t down a whole cake with gusto, although that sounded like a great way to go.

You sulked.

You had an addiction, but you just stared at the names in your phone and felt guilty. Guilty! For what? For some guy you met literally less than four days ago? Ugh, no, this couldn’t be you right now. Seriously? Seriously? You crossed and stalked up the block, not yet deciding what to do so you kept walking until you figured it out during this internal battle. You had to keep this guy at a distance. Okay, yes, you could admit you liked him.

And that was the problem.

If you didn’t really like him, you could just fuck him and establish those hard boundaries. No issue. You had been in love before but that was a long time ago and ultimately you ended it because it wasn’t right and you weren’t good enough to be devoted to.

You breathed out hard, the unease spilling out of your insides.

It was definitely easier to not expect anything from anyone. You had spent a lot of life not having and, ultimately, not needing to rely on others, both out of necessity and simply having too much to work on by yourself. Years of fighting off bitterness that you had always tasted, years of letting go of important moments realizing that supposedly important people in your life would never be there for them, years of lashing out and becoming the shadow of the abuse you endured. Eye for an eye and all that. Keep the cycle going, until you had that moment in the eye of the storm to get hit by lightning and realize that this wasn’t right.

It wasn’t any particular thing.

Just finally accepting the creeping self-awareness that you had been miserable and were making other people miserable on purpose because you tore them open and took their hearts to find yours.

Metaphorically, duh.

So now you sort of did this martyr shit of being there for people when you could and not asking for anything back. Especially not a relationship. Intimate to heal a heart and then give it away, which totally worked if they weren’t into you, just into what you could do.

You didn’t really feel it yourself but you did get sex out of it.

Bad addiction, yeah.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket.

You ignored it.

Stepped into a chicken place and stood in line, feeling the weight of your world on your shoulders. You brain tried to reason with you that it was Jeon Jungkook’s own fault if he got hurt. He was the one who chose to spend all that time sitting at the laundromat with you talking about random shit. Your favorite video game – Persona 5, excelling in your top three most important things about a video game: music score, gameplay, and art style. Your favorite American rapper – Ludacris and the way he could rhyme the weirdest words. Your favorite movie genre – surrealist psychedelic drug movies, which earned you a confused head tilt. You had asked Jungkook what he liked. Mood lamps. Singing. Watching cooking videos on YouTube.

Had asked him if he believed in soulmates.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket as you ordered at the kiosk and paid.

You don’t think I could have met you in another life?

You stood with the other waiting patrons, ignoring everybody and your phone thrumming against your hip, thinking about last night.

I probably broke your heart.

Thinking about that smile with two piercings and a lip mole. That smile didn’t trust your answer at all.

Maybe the universe is giving me another chance to make up for my past mistakes. I can’t give up.

You made a face at past Jungkook’s answer, too taken aback all those hours ago to scowl properly. Maybe you had been too tired. Too worn down by his earnest nonsense to fight it properly at that moment. Your hand hovered over you hip, wondering if you should check it. Then dropped.

What, did you need to see him every day or something?

Your name was called and you stepped up to receive your order.

Oh, fuck, you miss him.

You yanked your phone out of your pocket and stared at it as you walked out of the restaurant, only to get plopped by a fat raindrop on the lit-up screen. You looked up to the gray sky and let out a hiss.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

You turned around and sat down, grumbling as rain poured down and you replied to Jungkook’s texts.

Stupid.

Not him. Just you.

-

friday.

“What are you trying so hard for?” you snapped.

“Why aren’t you trying hard enough?” Jeon Jungkook shot back.

It was going really well.

Clearly.

You let out a hiss and flicked your hands as if you were trying to physically get rid of his reply. Argh, this… man! The thundering rain was pouring down, down, and you were both standing under a bus stop with no intention of taking the bus. You bit back the volume of your sudden anger. There was no need to yell anyway. No one was coming out in the thick of this monsoon.

Only you and crazy-ass Jeon Jungkook.

Switched tactics. "And what makes you think your virgin ass–"

"I'm not a virgin!"

"You are here!"

And you jammed two fingers into that very muscular chest, right next to the left side of his sternum. Too fast to be stopped. The shove actually made him stumble. Or maybe it was the utter shock of the verbal and physical double jab combined with the deep growl that your voice had suddenly become. His racer jacket and black hair were slick with rain. Half of his white t-shirt soaked. Even the front of his blue jeans drenched.

You panted hard after your outburst, the anger draining away all in a flash of lightning.

Jungkook stared at you with stricken eyes.

The rain pelted down, down, beating into the silence.

“How did you know?” he breathed out.

You didn’t but somehow you did, feeling something inside of you break. Not afraid of the world. Never, never again. No, afraid of what you could do, afraid of breaking something this pure, because you broke your first love too and that past guilt still lingered. Not that you thought Jungkook loved you. He couldn’t This was only the fifth day of him knowing you.

The fuck is going on?

“I see your type all the time,” you sighed, your damp hair all over your face. “Looking for light in black holes instead of stars.” The rain had slipped off your black leather jacket. Your cropped band shirt wasn’t wet, but your black cargo pants were sodden knees down.

This coldness, however, didn’t come from the rain.

“You really should stop. For your own good.”

You looked away from him, feeling as if your own words had pierced bullet holes into your walls. Dark sky, never-ending rain, cars struggling to drive, people running with umbrellas and ponchos, arms huddled close to their bodies, and here you were just standing here in the rain, the world acting out your mind. How nice. You thought you had come to terms with everything, but obviously not. Somehow once you saw Jungkook again, once you felt his presence again, the pull was even stronger and the storm was even more intense and the worst part was that you didn’t want to leave.

You heard Jungkook’s soft, silvery voice through the gray rain.

“Why are you blaming yourself for shit that hasn’t even happened yet?”

You turned your head to look into those pleading brown eyes.

Lightning shot across the sky.

Thunder followed seconds after, eating up the night.

“W… What?”

He shook his head, dripping water.

“You haven’t hurt me. You don’t mean to, either.”

That smile, his hand extended, the inked snake on his wrist showing.

You stared at Jeon Jungkook with droplets beading on your skin but those goosebumps weren’t from the weather. Jerked your head away. What is with this gentleness? How could he know anything? He couldn’t know anything. He was just an airhead who watched too many dramas and made others believe that they could be real.

“Noona?”

You whipped your head to Jungkook, shocked at his use of the honorific. He only used it when Jimin was at the meal. Afterwards, the conversations had been clearly directed at you. Not completely informal speech, but sometimes you slipped and he did too. You never corrected him because, well.

You slapped his hand away.

Nothing was going to happen.

You closed the distance and grabbed his head, pressing your lips to his shaking ones.

It was going to be terrible. Cold. Wet. Acidic from the lingering feelings. There was no way that this kiss could be anything else with this setting.

This was real life.

Not a story.

Your hands cupped his cheeks and you sunk into his kiss. The hard edge of his jewelry and the softness of his breath, caught by your mouth, your eyes already screwed shut, nothing to do but feel, feel the way he instantly pressed back and set his hands on your elbows, pulling you closer, shuddering as your forearms pressed to his chest. A weird feeling, like two fires melting together, prickling racing across your skin, no, deeper, past your ribs and into your heart.

The storm raged on.

You snapped out of the kiss, nose to nose, water trickling in places it shouldn’t, over your eyelashes and down your neck, feeling fingers graze across your elbows. Slipping under the leather. Droplets soaking into your shirt and then warm hands lingering at the curve of your exposed waist.

Tracing your lines.

“Fuck,” you muttered.

And you kissed Jeon Jungkook again.

-

saturday.

No, you didn’t take him home. You’re reckless, yeah.

But you knew how that would go.

Not that Jungkook didn’t try. Maybe you would have done it, if you weren’t the equivalent of wet cat and equally torrenting emotions. His hands around your waist, pulling you closer, heat blossoming between layers of rain-drenched clothing, kiss after kiss, your hands in his hair, tangling those dark waves into wilderness, getting more and more breathless, heady with a feeling you knew but didn’t want to believe in.

For someone who hated lying, you sure enjoyed lying to yourself.

You had reasons.

How could this time be different if it was just following the same trajectory that you always followed?

You had to pry yourself from him, lips tingling, tongue curling, feeling your blood course through your veins and your heartbeat as loud as thunder, opening your eyes to his blissed-out expression, his own eyes still closed, pressing his lips together to savor your taste.

Damn.

You had wanted to tell him to stop it, stop it with all this falling, you were being dragged down by his vibe, clothes feeling heavy, desperate to be stripped away, but you kept your hands along the sides of his head, your exhale escaping but giving you away like a bad con artist.

Those shimmering dark eyes had opened, following Jungkook’s smile.

“You’re a great kisser, noona.”

His hands stayed on your waist, drumming his fingertips on your skin, tangible kisses creating invisible but no less real electricity.

You scoffed, corner of your lips rising.

“Shut up.”

Tendrils of his black-brown hair clung to his forehead. The rain drummed but it had lessened a bit. You had looked back to his eyes, defeated.

“Shut up so I don’t miss you more.”

One last, drawn-out kiss, tongue to tongue and you had broken from him, warning him sternly.

“Don’t follow me.”

Ran all the way home, face burning, not even feeling the rain even though it was still falling.

Now, present time, you sat at this boring farewell party in some fancy hotel with the sun blaring outside. Figures the nice weather would come out when you would have to stuff yourself in a fitted blazer dress and pretend to care about your boss’s boss retiring. Black, of course. For the formal occasion. Sadly, no one was dying except this old coot’s career.

Maybe you were a little salty that you couldn’t retire yet.

You looked down at your phone, which was on silent, noticing you had a new message.

ㅎ.ㅎ

O… Okay. Whatever that face was supposed to mean. You didn’t even bother to answer. Couldn’t, anyway, forced to plaster on a mildly interested expression as your boss gave a speech that you zoned out of. There were multiple large circular tables in the hotel ballroom. Outside the ballroom was an outdoor area with the buffet. Everyone had served themselves before sitting down, but, first, a few words.

A few was turning out to be too many and your salmon was getting cold.

Employees had been allowed to bring plus ones. Wives and husbands. There were a few empty seats, and a few significant others popped in mid-speech, trying to be quiet and politely bowing in apology. Of course, they weren’t required to be on time, having other obligations and such.

You twitched.

Was that why this was dragging on? So everyone could eat at once? For fuck’s sake, who cared if they were late. Then you noticed your boss’s wife stepping in, looking pretty and put-together in a forest green high-necked dress, holding the small hand of a kid in a lopsided children’s tuxedo with an equally confused expression.

Oh.

Come on.

You suddenly felt a disturbance in the Force.

“Excuse me. Sorry, sorry.”

You whipped your head around to see Jeon Jungkook in a black pinstripe suit cha-cha sliding in the empty chair next to you, picking up your black velvet purse and holding it out to you with a grin that made his large, dark brown eyes light up.

You gawked at him.

“Hey. Sorry I’m late.” He added your name politely and with affection, smooth as butter, criminal undercover. Even the honorific, oh, shit.

The blood drained out of your face and you tried not to think about how your co-workers sitting at the table were staring at you and him like you both had three heads. Of course, no one was supposed to be talking, so no one asked questions yet, but that was definitely going to start the second your boss was finished with his sentence.

You took your purse without another word and glared at Jungkook with such fire that you hoped he burned alive at the spot. Oh, this could turn into a murder and a funeral real fucking fast. All he did was give you those shining big peepers that made you want to strangle him. In an unsexy way.

For now.

You leaned over as the clapping started. He caught on and delicately leaned over, offering his ear to your lips.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Jungkook turned his head so only you could hear his whisper.

“I was nearby, so I figured…?”

You stared at him, plumb slack-jawed at this audacity.

He closed the distance and gently kissed your cheek. You ticked your head almost robotically, piercing eyes following his playful ones, and now you wondered if Jeon Jungkook was truly not right in the head or perfect for you.

Well.

You weren’t right in the head either.

You did text him earlier this morning that you needed to come to this party at this hotel to send off this important retiree. If you missed this, then it would have reflected poorly on you, especially when you wanted to keep your job, so, yes, it was part of the reason why you had not attempted to convince Jungkook to sleep over – not that he needed any convincing whatsoever – and the other reason was to get enough sleep so you could tolerate socializing. Did you think Jungkook was gonna finesse his way into the seat next to you? Hell no. Did you think he was gonna dress smartly and with his black hair parted neatly in the center, fuckin’ black tie pressed and collar pinned? Fuck, no.

Did you think you would like it?

No!

“How did you get them to let you in?” you hissed under your breath.

Jungkook was clapping like a seal because everyone else was. A champagne bottle was being popped. He looked systematically impressed and awed. Amazing acting. “I just said I was with you.” Glanced at you and grinned, the silver piercings on his lip gleaming. A hoop and a stud. “Aren’t I, noona?”

The urge to growl at him to shut the fuck up was silenced by your brain reminding you to be safe-for-work.

You felt a poke at your sleeve. Your co-worker sitting at your left, bleach-blond and with the curiosity of a child. Full of sudden comments and questions too, just like a kid.

“Oh, oh! You never mentioned anything about a boyfriend!” Because you didn’t have one until right now, apparently. “So handsome!” Yes, he was. You had taste. “How did you meet?” Circumstances beyond your control.

“Through a… friend.”

That was a very generous word for instigator Park Jimin.

Jungkook poked his head past you and waved. “Hi! Nice to meet you.” He was using you as a shield to avoid directly interacting with these people he didn’t know. Just chiming in with polite nods as you introduced him to the table and sitting back to let you have this uninvited spotlight that was burning you like the sun did to vampires.

Pretty close, in all honesty.

“Aw, what a sweet guy. It’s nice to meet you too. I didn’t think your type was so young and cute.”

You almost made a face of distaste. “You thought my type was old and ugly?” Oop, there goes your sharp tongue.

“Nooo.” You tried not to flinch at the playful slap of your arm. “More mature, maybe? But this is better. You don’t have to be so serious. Look at his smile! I bet that’s what drew you in.”

You glanced at Jungkook and he appropriately smiled big at the right time. Somehow, he had obtained a plate of steak. How, you didn’t care. You narrowed your eyes just a sliver. Jungkook did not stop smiling but there was at least an iota of fear in those big brown eyes. Speaking of vampire, maybe you should suck the life out of him because he was being too fuckin’ much.

“Well, he was persistent to put it lightly. Might as well give him the chance to win me over.”

Jungkook beamed like a billion-kilowatt lightbulb. Or a crystal chandelier. It depended if you wanted to say the light came from his white teeth or sparkling eyeballs.

Fuckity fuck.

You wanted to rub your temples but refrained.

You would never recover from this.

“Are you mad at me?” Jungkook asked you later.

Oh, now he wondered if you’re mad. You didn’t even look at him, dragging him away from the crowd by the elbow. Hopefully you had stayed long enough but there had been so many of the same questions that you were either getting dizzy or murderous. Hm. Why not both?

“I’m not mad at you,” you muttered.

“You kinda sound mad.”

“I’m not mad but I’m gonna get mad if you keep saying I am,” you warned. “Don’t start a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“A what?”

“Where did you park?”

His voice became small even though he was right next to you. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

The sun was blaring down on the open parking lot, it was annoyingly humid, you were socially drained, and this, not this. You spun abruptly, too much crashing down too fast, flinging Jungkook’s arm from you.

“No,” you hissed out. “No. Don’t you dare take it back. You wanna be crazy and drive me crazy, fine, do it, keep doing it, don’t stop, but own up. I’ve got enough push-and-pull jammed into my head and I don’t need you adding to it.”

It was so easy to simply give in to the rising anger, but you found yourself locked into Jungkook’s wide, taken-back eyes, drowning in them, deeper than the ocean, seeing how rueful he was.

“Don’t do that to me,” you sighed.

At least your voice didn’t crack. You didn’t want to be angry anyway.

You raised your hand to cup his cheek but paused, not knowing anymore what was what. Always been so sure until the world started getting flipped upside down by Jeon Jungkook. You always knew all of the things to do to make someone interested, all the things to say to make them swoon, and now you didn’t know anything at all because this guy showed up and jumped right in, not even caring about the damages, the fine print, or the past that lingered.

Why are you blaming yourself for shit that hasn’t even happened yet?

Jungkook leaned forward and completed the curve of his cheek into your hollow palm, now looking at you eye-to-eye with a curious expression.

The corner of your lips curved upwards.

You leaned forward, saying your next words very seriously.

“You. Are. Crazy.”

-

sunday.

You sat against the window, waiting for the document to print out.

No one was in the office. You had rolled over here out of sheer boredom, looking up at the gray-blue sky and watching shafts of sunlight phase in and out. Overtime to prepare documents for Monday. You hadn’t bothered to follow dress code, but there was a breeze today, so you wore brown plaid trousers and an old vintage t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. The faded album cover of Papa Roach’s Infest. Your oversized black leather jacket was on the back of your office chair once again.

You spun in your chair, the print job long done.

Thought back on the week.

Day one, awkward dinner and the start of a rollercoaster.

Day two, clutching your phone and waiting for replies due to the spotty service of the subway.

Day three, washing machines and dryers and long conversations.

Day four, shitty day with a nice ending to more texts. Better service too.

Day five, cold rain and warm lips.

Day six, surprise! You have a boyfriend and everybody knows!

You got up and wandered to the copier. Stacked everything up and clipped the right parts together, setting it on your boss’s desk. Glanced at the time at your computer. The blank screensaver abruptly appeared, showing you your blurred reflection.

Your fingertips lingered on your chest, the soft, worn fabric of the shirt reminding you of night after tumultuous night of the past. Time that made you, you. Scars you made by holding on too tightly to pain others gave you. The thought of scars in others that you started and they held on to. Repenting, in a way, healing the hearts that came in your path with intimacy and the passion you were afraid to show Jeon Jungkook because what if, what if…

What if it actually matched well?

“You,” Park Jimin had said to you months ago, “You need someone who thinks of you as their whole world.”

“I don’t want that.”

“You don’t want it. But you need it.”

You didn’t have Park-Jimin-being-right on this year’s bingo card, fuck.

You clocked out and collected your stuff, turning off the lights as you left the office, black boots the only solid sound around you, pulling out your phone to check the address one more time.

“Why are you wearing clothes?” you asked accusingly.

“Um…?”

You gripped the sides of the denim jacket and yanked it off his shoulders, pinning Jeon Jungkook’s arms to his sides. He immediately yelped but you silenced him by stepping through the door and pulling him to you by the button placket, tracing the edge of his open lips with your tongue.

“W-Wait, noona, the d-door…”

“I don’t care.”

Kissed him, deeply.

That now familiar scent, closer, slipping your tongue between his lips, succumbing to the flutters. In, out, feeling him collapse under you and moan in his throat, hard body stumbling into yours, hand haphazardly smacking the edge of the door.

It closed behind you.

You rolled your body into his, closer than close with too many layers in between, tangling his arms in his own jacket, swallowing his gasp and feeling him wiggle determinedly to free his hands and then they were on your face, strong fingers fanning out over your jaw, his jacket falling to the floor, hungrily following your tongue and lips with his own.

Something addicting about the addition of metal to those soft mouth.

This was your forte, the ability to make fantasies come true, and you took it seriously, throwing your bag onto the table by the door and shedding the protective layer of leather. Pressed chest to chest, holding his head and tracing his lips, slow fucking them, running your fingertips over the curve of his ears and making him shiver, noting the three hoops along his left ear.

Pressed your hands down his chest, over the smooth ribbed white tank molding to his muscular torso, down, down, kissing past his lips, to that mole underneath, down his chin, his head tipping back, your name drifting above your head as you kissed down his neck, the sharp clean scent of his cologne getting stronger.

“I thought… we were… o-oh, g-going out…”

“I’m gonna fuck you,” you breathed into his collarbones, hot and low, nicking his skin with your teeth and making him shiver. “Right now. Tonight. Maybe tomorrow too.” Undid the button of his jeans with some effort, yanking him towards you again and molding your hips to his, thighs to hard thighs, and that stiffness wasn’t only a sturdy zipper. “Tuesday as well. Fuck it.”

“The whole week,” Jungkook gasped as you unzipped his charcoal jeans.

“Yeah, good, you’re keeping up,” you murmured and grabbed his head again, catching a fistful of his black hair, kissing him hard with your other palm pressed to his hardness. Your tongue tracing the edge of his lips, breathing into his mouth and swallowing Jungkook’s wanton moan, intoxicated by the moment.

You pulled back just to yank your shirt over your head, tossing it to the floor.

It took longer for it to float down than for you to get on your knees.

“Woah…!”

Hooked your fingers on the elastic waistband of his Calvin Kleins and tugged them down, exhaling over that thick length that popped out. He smelled clean, like he had just showered, and you half-smiled, approving, closing the distance to curl your tongue around hard taut skin.

“Ooooh… fuuuuuuuck…”

Tightly taking control, using only your tongue to scoop around his girth and flick against his balls. Kisses, licks, flutters of breath, all of it, sensation after sensation, layering on the heat, adding sweetness to the obscene, his twitching cock hitting your cheek as you pressed kisses to his balls.

“Let me show you something,” you hummed and swallowed his pride.

Jungkook gasped so loud that his hands shot up to his mouth, fingers laced over his moan, one inked arm and one tan one, tilting his head back as your lips closed around him, softly, your tongue cupping the head, caressing the underside, the slit, letting him throb against wet muscle. Pushed him up to the roof of your mouth and slowly, in and out, rubbing the base of the head against your lips every time you ascended, fanning your fingers over his crotch to hold the base and cup his balls in between your index and thumb. Steady and consistent, sucking him off with deliberate precision.

You had a lot of fancy skills to show off but, for this first time, might as well give him the stripped-down version.

Heh.

So you blew Jungkook at his front door in your bra and pants with his clothes half-on and struggling to breathe.

“A-Ah, so s-soft… and so tight… h-how…”

You didn’t speed up. Didn’t put in more force. Used your whole torso, not just your head and neck, to avoid strain, holding his hips to take him deeper but at the same pace, letting the orgasm build with his heart rate, running your thumbs over his balls, a gentle caress, closing your eyes to savor it. Hard and twitching, but you didn’t let him disturb what you had going on, extending out the minutes, saturating every second with flowing, unavoidable bliss.

What?

You could match his vibe with your kind of romance.

You heard Jungkook’s pitch hike and the muscles under your fingers all tensed up. You spared a look upwards, but he wasn’t looking at you, shoving his hands into his messy black hair, displaying his prominent triceps, and moaning to the ceiling, dragging his bangs over his eyes.

“Oh my God, I’m cumming, fuuuuck…!”

You pillowed your tongue around the head and his salty orgasm flooded your mouth, spilling out and down your throat, but you cupped what you could and coated the sensitive head, pleased to hear Jungkook’s shudder and whimper of ecstasy, gripping his hair and pulling. The close-fitted nature of his tank top left nothing to the imagination, the aftershock rippling up his chest, even his hardened nipples poking against the fabric.

You swallowed.

Jungkook moaned and his head fell back again, his eyes probably rolled back.

Gotta finish him off right.

You licked around him carefully, cleaning him off and keeping him hard.

“You…”

Cocked an eyebrow as you shifted your eyes up, his cock buried in your throat, pulsing your muscles around his length. His chin was on his chest, wayward dark curls hanging down, shaking wide eyes watching you with fascination, his shaking voice full of awe.

“You know… how porn calls it a mouth-pussy? I really thought that shit was fake and sounded stupid, but… you have a mouth-pussy.”

You blinked at him and tried not to snort out in laughter.

You just raised both eyebrows and flicked his balls with your tongue. A few seconds later, you pulled back and countered with, “Really? Mouth-pussy? That’s how you show gratitude for the best suck of your life?”

“B-But it’s true!”

You shook you head and waved a hand at him.

“Clothes. Off.”

Every hour, every minute, every second.

Full of sex.

Jungkook wasn’t lying. He wasn’t a virgin. He was a little too good at fingering to be a virgin. Well, you hadn’t had his dick yet but it was pretty obvious with the slow circles on your clit and the kissing of your collarbones. Clothes didn’t even make it to the bedroom. Most of them were left by the door. Your shoulder blades and ass touching the bed, his other hand along your back and tracing your spine as he kissed across your breasts, shyly shifting his gaze back to your face to constantly check if you were enjoying it, not quite confident that he was making your heart flutter. You smirked back at him, taking his hand and pressing his fingers to your wet slit, pushing them in yourself.

He breathed out with you, watching your face as the pleasure snaked out from your core.

Two of them, taking it slow, but you shook your head and pressed his down, your hard nipple against his lips, and he followed your lead, faster, harder, your inner walls clenching around him, sighing deeply as the pleasure flowed, soft licks and tracing tongue. You let him have it, the slower, more romantic pace, spreading your fingers over his sheets and thrusting into his hand, adding to the pleasure, and Jungkook’s eyes glittered, kissing from one nipple to another with a smile.

“Harder?”

“And faster,” you agreed, licking the air between you and him.

Hey, you weren’t a virgin either and you liked it rough.

He kissed you first, entranced by your tongue, harder, faster, your hips following his hand, entangled in this beat, and then it was back to your nipples, kissing sucking, sparks of sensuality over your skin, your hands diving into his hair. Heat. Roughness. Passion, catching your breath and your head falling back, inhaling his scent and the clean sheets, the orgasm flooding through you, delicately forming his name with your lips.

“Ah, Jungkook…”

You didn’t let it stop there though.

His hand moved to pull out and you clutched his wrist and pushed him back in, your nail catching his ring finger, collecting it too, gasping at the added fullness, and you pulled his left hand out from under your back.

Jungkook watched you curiously as your rode his right hand and turned his left, thumb down.

You fitted it around your neck and positioned it correctly, grinning devilishly at him.

He got the hint.

Slightly unsure at first but you built his confidence, comfortably laying back on his bed and spreading out your fingers, moaning softly for him, rocking your hips into his hand, climbing to the high again, stronger his time. His fingers pressed inwards and you breathed out, savoring the choking, the way time slowed down, the way the sensations heightened, your spine arching, low gasp like heavy smoke, immortalizing the moment in his memory, black pupils blown out in those beautiful dark eyes, leaning forward to run his tongue over your nipples.

Your fingers curled into the sheets, thrusting into his fingers harder.

Lids heavy, drowning in the pleasure, his tongue, his hands, the way he looked at you like you were his whole world, the tension between you and him, sweet and intense and overwhelming, just perfect, your exhale only a thin wisp now, closing your eyes and moaning to the ceiling as you came.

It was a hard, thundering pulse, much more powerful than before, your shivering pussy gripping his fingers and your hips bucking. Thighs snapping closed, whining as you felt the hardness of his tattooed forearm, your head snapping to the side the second he released you, the rushing blood knocking you down and making your nerves sing, strong flinches across your arms and torso. Gasping to catch your breath.

Wasn’t his first time choking, but maybe the first time he got really turned on by it, because Jungkook was ogling you like a three-star Michelin meal.

It was like that all night.

From the first time he entered you, one condom wrapper the start of many, biting the left side of his lip and shuddering – “H-How are you so tight…? I just f-fingered you – oooh!” – and you wrapped around him tightly, smirking a little too smugly, one arm around his neck and one leg on his shoulder. Your fingers petaled around the base of his head, cupping him in the flower of your touch. Your thigh against his hard chest still trembling from your kisses. You angled your hips and he slipped in deeper, groaning in disbelief, his brows furrowing at you.

“H-Hey!”

Your tongue pocketed in the side of your smirk and you fucked him right.

“Gah!”

Jungkook, too, fucked you right.

You lead the pace so he could bring the force of his hips. Ah, fuck, right there, like that, and you let him know, the cries tumbling out and mixing with his, rushing wave after wave pressing into you, filling you with his girth and his power. You brought the intensity, the flint to his flame, the break in his pride and Jungkook was looking down at you, shoulders flexed, jaw tight and eyes hazy, clear emotion swirling within them and you saw your own gaze fixated on him, wanting him more than you wanted the sex.

Oh.

Shit.

You gasped and dug your nails into his scalp, grasping the pillow and throwing your head back, not expecting the suddenness of your high, injected into your heartbeat and pushing all the air out of your lungs, veins ablaze with heat as your core clenched, inner walls throbbing all around him. Jungkook groaned, biting his lower lip and thrusting hard, the small mole underneath shaking just as hard as his shoulders, but he couldn’t hold back any longer, squeezing his eyes shut, muffled scream as he came, his head falling back, two tones the start of an ongoing, wanton melody.

“Holy… fuck…”

Well, more like unholy fuck but you didn’t correct him.

You kind of expected him to pull out and leave, but instead his head snapped back and he dived down, catching your lips and dripping sweat on you, making you both laugh. Kiss after kiss, all over your face, and you could barely sputter out – “Oi, you’re sweaty!” – but he didn’t care, kissing all over your cheeks and down your neck, your chest, slurping at your nipples, you narrowed your eyes at that but those playful eyes just sparkled with deviousness, trailing down, down.

Slowing.

Jungkook pressed his lips to your waist, looking up at you.

Your heart thundered against your chest and sparks danced over your skin.

Somehow at ease.

“What?”

You smiled down at him.

“I don’t ever want to leave your side.”

Your lips parted to give him a snappy comeback, yeah, well, I gotta go to work, but nothing came out.

Jungkook grinned, his whole face lighting up and dove between your legs, biting and kissing the inside of your thighs, attacking them with his menacing mouth.

“Hey! Oi! I’m sensitive, f-fuck!”

Even planting a fat wet kiss on your clit for good measure.

“Ah!”

Shoving his tongue in your pussy.

“YO!”

You gawked at his audacity, twisting away from him. Infuriatingly, he followed, scrambling for your ass.

“There was just a condom in there!”

“Ah, who cares,” said the one that clearly didn’t. “Kiss me.”

“Hell no!”

After cleaning up and pinning him down on his own bed and thoroughly scolding him, somehow you ended up making out with Jungkook and his fingers were in your pussy again. It sounded very wet and squishy down there, probably because you showed Jungkook just now much you liked kisses under your earlobe. His tongue against your skin, teeth nicking, sucking hard and making you moan and grind on his hand, pressing against his chest.

“Sit on my face,” he whispered in your ear.

Which was know you ended up grasping his headboard and his tongue between your legs, the piercing pressed against the left side of the outer lips. You kept your weight on your knees, but Jungkook grabbed your ass and tipped your hips at a different angle, your clit right on his tongue, his nose against your crotch.

“Fuuuuck, you smell so good…”

You could barely hear him but you felt him speak, gasping at the strange sensation of hot breath and swiping tongue, his lips wrapping around your most sensitive nerves. He had a much softer tongue, but there was consistency there and plenty of gusto. It helped, actually, to have his hands gripping your thighs, adding the amplifying pleasure of restraint. You rode his face, matching the movement of his tongue. One of your hands left the headboard. Trapped your nipples between your fingers and pulled at them, making Jungkook’s eyes go wide and watch eagerly, licking and sucking harder.

Layered and intricate, full of sensation and emotion, gazing down at him and smirking as the sparks turned into lightning and you soaked his face, shivering, tipping forward at the flinches of climax, swearing under your thin breath, panting, snapped tension draining you and wetly sticking to his lips, his tongue, his cheeks.

He shoved his tongue into your quivering pussy and you sucked in a breath, feeling your inner walls pulsate around his curling muscle, his low, gravelly moan filling what little air there was between his mouth and you, his satisfaction vibrating through your body and mixing with your afterglow.

You slid down his chest and kissed him again, tasting your subtle sweet-sour on his slick lips.

He wanted you to jack him off hard and fast, the fingers of your other hand splayed out over his chest, forgetting about anything else, time only a construct, your phones discarded by the door, and here, in this bed, there was only Jungkook and you, his cock pulsing in your grip, your foxy expression to his desperate one, his eyes rolling back in the intensity, biting down hard on the left side of his lip, the small mole underneath shaking in anticipation, the tendons of his neck popping out.

You raised your free hand and gently stroked his cheek with your knuckle as you punished his cock.

His lower lip popped out of his mouth and he groaned, rough and breathless.

“A-Ah, fuck!”

A hot stream of liquid dripping down the back of your hand, drenching you and him in the strong scent of sex. Thick and potent, and you leaned forward and kissed him deeply, tightly holding his jerking cock and squeezing it all out of him.

“You’re amazing,” Jungkook panted, even after getting up – once again – to attempt to clean up your collective mess.

“Mhm,” you hummed, sitting beside him. He was radiating heat. “I was never worried about that.”

“Hah… You’re… You’re crazy…”

You had obtained your phone and just now sent a message to your boss that you would be taking a sick day on Monday. You have plenty of those. “Speak for yourself.”

“I mean, you’re like… um… uh, oh! A semen demon…”

“What?”

You almost threw your phone in laughter. Actually, you couldn’t even hear Jungkook’s explanation for what the hell he meant by semen demon because you were laughing too hard, barely able to breathe. There wasn’t a normal explanation anyway – how could there be? – and you kept inelegantly snorting afterward at inappropriate times. Jungkook, for his part, seemed proud for making you laugh so much.

“You look so beautiful laughing.”

Your response was quick, immediate, and lighthearted.

“Shut up.”

He snuggled his still too warm head into the crook of your shoulder.

“Will you stay?”

You gave him a look and then showed him the sent text message on your phone. There was something special and perfect about the smile that lit up his face, clearly showing his devotion and clearly seeing yours.

“Yeah, I’ll stay.”

Jungkook skipped work too. Both of you ended up sleeping in.

--

masterpost

[qvrcll]

Warnings: mentions of political marriages, strangers > friends > lovers, kissing near towards the end, mentat at mind, lover boy at heart

The ordeal is simple — at-least on paper. You and Paul are meant to be wed on the single promise of a shared goal between the two of your houses, which come down to one thing and one thing only: security. Wealth, power and standing do not surmount to what, in Leto’s words, the Emperor has planned for the futility of house Atreides. He knows, Thufir knows, everyone knows, that Arrakis wasn’t branded to be some sweetly wrapped gift that fell into his lap when the time came to reward the duke. No - matters of this sort were much too systematic, especially at a scale such as this. Something must be done, to solidify the house of Atreides upon the rain-swept expanse of Caladan. Something to bind the Atreides to their mother planet long enough, so there might not be strife or conflict that sharpens whatever blade is held against them. So, wed Paul you must.

Simple doesn’t translate so easily against the obscurity that is the real world.

In the real world, the two of you are mere strangers. The only thing that binds the two of you is the responsibility bourne from the insignias that you wear, that are soon to culminate as two adjoining houses; whilst his happen to be two thick lines of silver against his collar, yours take on a different shape, a strange alterity between curves and striking lines, and shot through with gold against the sleeve of your garments. There is it — the mere tellings of your differences, as pure as day. He wonders how the symbols will look like, meshed together and serving as one. He wonders how he will appear next to you - frail boy or able man?

Half of the time, you catch his eye simply because you are there, sitting duly next to your father and ascertaining the weight of such a marriage past paper, when all is said and done. Other times, you are a blurring fragment in the hallways, swathed in your house’s colours and too fleeting to get a hold on, sometimes even flanked by your house’s livery. Mere strangers, he reminds the indiscernible feeling in his chest.

-

“Where is your head at? Focus!” Gurney growls out, more harsh tempered than his usual mood, as he crouches and takes Paul’s fair strike for what it was - a clean swipe that was meant for his chest, which now deflects smoothly off of the older, more haggard man’s shield, and sets the room abuzz with vibrations. And so the smell of ozone worsens, Paul calculates in his head, as he shakes his head thoroughly and shifts his grip on his weapon. Gurney isn’t impressed — not in the way he usually is. Paul knows he must answer.

“This is me focusing,” Paul offers, and doesn’t grit his teeth or possess a sudden candour with his strikes because he respects Gurney. But he cannot help the mood that has blanched him - voids, how he wishes he could confess those words, verbatim, to the older man who currently encircles his passes like a seasoned ring-fighter. But the word ‘mood’ had gotten him in line last week, when Gurney had simply upped his antics with the mere mention of it, “I’m just out of breath.”

“No, you’re not.” Gurney smiles, clenching his palm around the ragged hilt of the Kindjal. He knows, Paul thinks bitterly.

“No, I’m not.” Paul confesses. He tests a low swoop of his dagger - ill-advised - and reigns his laugh in when it catches Gurney off his feet, his back staggering against the training table.

Let’s see how you like this, lad, Gurney formalises in his mind, as he presses his defence like a bull and keeps his attacks slow and pulsing through the air, blinding all of Paul’s spots, “Is it the marriage?”

Cornered for tactics, and focusing mostly on not getting cleaved to pieces during training, Paul scoffs, “Of course it’s the marriage.”

“You’re scared.”

At this, Paul counters metal with metal, bounding back when it rings against his ears, rings against the room, “I’m not scared. I’m prepared to fulfil my duty, even if I am given options,” a dull parry, which still creates momentum, and thus space, between the two men, “I’m only uneasy because I’ve never actually met her.”

“You have. Several times. Or have you been asleep throughout your father’s meetings?”

Paul stresses a firm strike against Gurney, which repels off of his own shield by how close the dagger strikes the space between them. But he’s good at catching himself. Gurney, unused to Paul’s strange and newly learnt manoeuvres, falls short. He tries to counter, but cannot, but he is most impressed for it.

“Concede.” Paul breathes, low and attempting a threatening veil, as Gurney’s back meets the floor. The old man grunts, before nodding deftly as Paul hauls him to his feet with one palm alone. They settle in different corners of the room, silence beseeching both of them suddenly - they’re not two men for silence, but in Gurney’s head, Paul is undergoing a strange part of his life. He wonders if Paul fears it in the night.

Paul interjects Gurney’s thoughts.

“Do you - have you… met her?” his voice is meek. Uncharacteristic. Gurney smirks.

“Once or twice, in the hallways.”

“And? How is she?”

Gurney laughs. The boy is eager today.

-

The next time I see her, I will speak, he promises.

Better said than done. With no similar companions his age - a course of action being the very result of his heritage, his mother reminds him - he truly doesn’t know how to properly seek you out. You are more shadow than friend, more idea than person, and the more he sees you, the more he forgets.

“Something on your mind?” Duncan nudges him with the edge of some Fremen equipment, that bothers him well enough to dredge out Paul’s concerns. Not that he needs to. It is written on his face.

“Yes,” Paul confesses, readjusting for comfort, “It’s about my marriage.”

“You speak as though you will marry tomorrow. It is not set it stone. Not yet.”

Paul scoffs, “I know that. I just haven’t met her yet. And I want to.”

Duncan, in the midst of polishing some hardware and solar devices, that smell quite faintly of hot sand and the sun, pauses to glance away from Paul’s face. When his gaze returns, it is almost teasing, a smirk ripping across his face, “You’re in luck today.”

“What?” Paul swivels and —

Oh. Oh.

You’re standing there. Hands clasped behind your back, yes. Stoic, assessing expression, yes. Clothed in rich colours of your house, as you always are in his passing vision - only this time, it is a green so deep that it comes across as black. Suddenly, realising that you have been found out by not only Duncan Idaho, but by the Duke’s son himself, you uncharacteristically let slip your own embarrassment through wide eyes.

“Oh. My apologies — I, uh, didn’t mean to intrude. I was just curious by the - er - gadgets.” you fumble for words at a rate that would be comical if not for the morbid embarrassment seizing you by the seconds. You’re shaking your head politely, smile strained and legs rooted where they are and ready to melt into the various corridors - back to your own duties, you assume. Away from company. Paul, however, stands linearly and full of purpose, face constructed of hard lines that all smile at you.

“No, please. Join us,” his voice is smooth - you’ve never heard him talk, even around those board room meetings - and his hand is extended to gesture within the space, “I insist.”

Duncan raises a brow in amusement and Paul wants to tamp his feet down with a neat blow. That pulls a chortle out of the man, which only further startles you. Paul invites you cordially to take a seat, where you fit awkwardly, like you were truly imposing. However, in a manner of minutes, that is all erased when Duncan lets the two of you weigh the objects in your hand – sand compactor, weapons, stinted devices that were far too aged to be still of use but gathering attention nonetheless. When Paul passes it to you, he feels your soft fingers pass underneath his own, where a warm feeling curdles as an afterthought.

“This—is a sand compactor?” you ask warily, tilting the device as though it would spring up on you and dissolve to bits. Duncan barks out a laugh.

“For sand compacting, yes.” he humours you. You, however, are too lost on the object, still swirling it around in your palms; eyes peeled downwards.

“Yes. I see.” you reply.

The two men dissolve into a fit of laughter. You look up, eyes helplessly trailing from one to the next. The day is easy.

-

Paul is thankful for the event, and so are you. It doesn’t solve all his problems, and his head is always probing with inquiries and worries, but he can count on the off chance of seeing you in the hallways. He can count on the fact that you will pause, meet his eyes and smile.

You’re walking the countless hallways of the estate - Caladan had so much water to offer, but no one on your native planet ever mentioned the striking architecture, the hollowed out walls and think-pieces painted across rooms. High domed ceilings, with absolutely nothing to offer but soft light. Some rooms contained scintillating glass, chairs of different shapes and mediums, tables too big for just a few affairs. Others were bound shut, but that didn’t discourage nor intimidate you, nor your entourage.

On one such day, you’re caught in your explorations by none other than the Atreides heir.

In actuality, it is you who catches him first, stood perfectly still at the end of the corridor and holding a terse expression. When he spots you, his shoulders relax and he manages to blink once, before his mouth opens underneath the realisation that you were really here.

“Hello.” his voice is strong, and carries well.

That was awkward. This is always awkward. He curses himself.

You smile, and it swipes at the ground beneath his feet, “I didn’t expect to see you here.

“This is my residence, yes?” more jest than anything else. You snort.

“I am aware. Your residence is quite beautiful. I like to wander,” you say, finding yourself fixing a meandering pace beside him, and he smiles softly when he realises that he, too, steps beside you at a similar speed, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. Never.”

It is quick work after that – by pure coincidence, that you joke to Paul that is it is methodical instincts and ground-work as a mentat that he is able to summon himself almost anywhere you are present from that point onwards, you two bump into each other more and more in the corridors, and from there, it extends to the rather large library, the training space with Gurney skirting its edges, the ever-blossoming gardens even, which held more water than shrubbery in retrospect. Meetings pertaining to your marriage held an element of amusement now, as Paul actually tries to catch your eye this time, drumming his lithe and smooth fingers against the table in a way that could’ve passed off as a wandering of his mind as his father droned on about security measures and fuel caps, but you notice.

You hadn’t, not before, but you did now. To his pleasure, you even respond in a tiny flickering of fingers against the age-old meeting table, the vibrations a blur against his obvious contentment.

-

“You look glad.” Gurney comments and Paul realises how uninvolved his attention had been on the room before him. He quickly assesses it and whatever lays within it; table, check. Light source, check. Scratchy walls, check. Gurney’s ever-gracing height, check.

When had his habits, trained and chained to duty, begun to sweep towards you?

“Do I?” Paul asks, keeping his voice as still as he can manage. He had swiped at his face to rid the itch off his brow, but he unwittingly catches how warm he is. Not uncomfortable, no. But enough to leave a mark on his consciousness. It was like he was simply losing grip on his own composure when he thought of… something. It was still fleeting in his own mind.

He is too afraid to retrace his steps and find a familiar pair of eyes staring at him in the recesses of it.

Gurney slaps a hand on Paul’s shoulder, seemingly articulate with the latter’s feelings. Old man, Paul would curse out in jest, but he merely smiles. It is strained, and strange. Paul never puts an effort into his smiles, Gurney notes.

“Something is on your mind.” Gurney clicks his tongue.

Paul blinks, swallows, “Something is on my mind.”

“Out with it.”

Paul hesitates, which is strange, because in all his fights he is the first to stoke the flame. He isn’t vengeful – at-least, he doesn’t think he is – that’s why his strikes lack a hunger for blood and instead, settle for calculation. Briefness. No means to an end just yet. Or ever, he thinks.

But with you, it’s different. That’s what he spits out, what he lets Gurney work with. How you were a supposed intrusion into his life – something he had assumed would be awkward, like a stab wound that had scabbed over and began to weakly throb in pain, always to remind itself of its own compromise to work around demise. He thought you would be that; but upon meeting you, you were anything but that. You were curious and brilliant in your own way – similar to him, yet miles apart so that you were the form of a friend he had always wished for in his youth. You talked about your interests and spent double your time inquiring about his. When your hands brushed, his own grew clammy – that’s the strangest one of them all, Gurney – And something was blossoming – was it friendship? Was it trust? Was it fear?

What was this spattering and gooey mess slipping over the swell of his heart whenever you appeared? What was it?

He talks and talks and talks until Gurney squeezes his palm over Paul’s shoulder in a way an uncle would do to his nephew who he might want to reassure. Or a brother would to his youngest companion, as if to say: I see you. I hear what you say.

“Sounds to me like there’s an awful lot of trust between the two of you,” Gurney clicks his tongue again, only this time, Paul scoffs. Ah, there he is – there is the Paul Atreides I know, Gurney smiles, “And something else too.”

“What is it?” Paul asks. His eyes are curious, brows furrowed. Gurney holds down the laugh building in his chest, and the emboldened words in red: you’re falling in love with this friend of yours, boy, and instead, pats him on the shoulder.

“Piece of advice, if you’ll heed to anything I say,” Paul straightens with attention, “Let the truth flow. Do not stop it. Do not push it back. To live with the truth, you must learn its ways and be one with it.”

That night, Paul walks back to his room with the truth beneath his skin, and listens to his own heartbeat against his pillow. The rest of him warms with the realisation of, oh, oh, oh.

-

The next time you see Paul, you think you’d done something to offend him. Or bore him. Or something other.

It had become a pleasant habit; meeting him at the Caladan gardens, opting for a spot and sitting with your backs to the grass, counting the stars as you talked. Before, conversation had tipped forth whenever. Now, there was something in the air – tension. And it is him that brings it.

Paul avoids your eyes, settling instead for the vast colouring of grey across the hallway walls whenever he caught you in it. He had stopped sending you the familiar drumming of his fingertips across the meeting table, and instead always froze up when you met his gaze, whereby he turned red with anger – or was it anger? What was it?

He’d always be staring at your face, and you would wonder if there was a piece of parchment stuck to it, or if he was merely bored around you; most days, you allowed it. It stung, yes, but you had nothing ill to hold against him. But it accumulated, unbeknownst to you, and for him to miss your question yet again made you sigh in defeat – disappointment?

“You seem distracted,” you say, not bothering to shield the hurt in your words, though you couldn’t begin to understand why and when you had ever begun to crave expect the attention of his earthen-dusted eyes, “Am I boring you?”

He straightens up, his eyes wide, which in turn surprises you, “Bored? Seven hells, no. ‘Course not.”

“What did I just ask then?”

He cringes, “I promise I’m not bored. Just…”

His fingers flex in his lap, before curling into themselves, and his cheeks warm slightly. Is it happening now? Is he doing it now? The weather was right; a typical Caladan breeze, heavy with the wetting of the sky from the day, and now shrouded with clouds and a darkness that was impenetrable. Even as the two of you laid against the bare grass, no one outside could tell either of you apart from the ground itself. In the moonlight, you were almost one with it.

“Just?” you ask. You were curious of this now, “Just what?”

“Just!” he sucks in a harsh breath, his sharp face now boyishly soft and pliant in a way you hadn’t seen it before, “I… Just promise you won’t take offence to this.”

How ironic.

“I promise, Paul,” you smile, shoulder bumping against his as you glance at the side of his face, the way his nose shapes perfectly against the dampness of the Calandan wind, “Tell me.”

Be one with it. Be one with it. It is a mantra in his head.

“I realise that I have begun to grow a certain, uh, affection for you. Yes, I like you. I don’t know how it had begun. And I know it’s foolish of me to even act this way when we are set to marry. But I know, in my heart, that—“ a breath, as he nervously glances at your now surprised face and oh, he shuts his mouth. He opens it again, panicked, “My apologies. I shouldn’t have—let me—”

“Paul.” you stop him, hands against his one arm that seems to be quivering ever so slightly – how much of it can he hold?

He waits. Bated breath.

You smile, shy and sweet and it whips against him in a way that the wind of his mother planet had never managed to. Here is my dear friend, he thinks, my dear friend who was but a stranger a long time ago and is set to marry me once talks have been concluded. Here is my friend who I have poured my stupid, ill heart to and who still looks at me with kindness.

“I like you too.”

He blinks. He looks at you when you speak and watches, really watches, how your mouth forms against the words. I like you too.

“As a companion? Or friend, at best? Is that what your ‘like’ refers to?” he asks, nervous in the face of your admission. It makes you smile, as he rambles slightly, and though his countenance is that of poise and grace, beneath he is a a boy of tender heart. Smiling, you grab the front of his thick coat lapel and watch his words die on his tongue as you place a feathery, warm and soft kiss against his mouth. It was so unbelievable, he thought he’d conjured it all up – that you weren’t here, timidly kissing him with a sheepish smile on your face, and the stars of his home glinting against your skin. He lets his finger brush your cheek, still dumb-struck.

“Again.” he whispers. His heart hammers at the sound of your breathy laugh, as you repeat the action, conviction in your palms as they lay upon his cheek, “Again, please.”

“Again?” you ask, voice soft and muted as he hoists you atop of his front, chest to chest, and gazing at him like he was everything. Within the action, your golden insignia brushes his own, silver ones so briefly that he can make out a shape bourne from the contact of either two, before they separate. You wanted him, as he wanted you. And soon, you would wed, and the image of gold upon silver won’t be so unclear anymore. Maybe, somewhere warmer and less unbelievable, he could let himself grow familiar with the reality of you. But for now, he could settle for this to be a mere dream he had grown to relish so very much. Even now, he could almost believe none of this to be real, just a trick of the mind. Maybe fatigue or delusion.

He says your name so quietly, a plea, and it has never sounded sweeter, “Please.”

And yet, the soft press of your mouth upon his convinces him that it is so much more.

-

i wanted to incorporate some inferences of paul’s character from the early novel (mentat, solitude in terms of companions, great fighter), as well as the film, whilst wanting to stray away from the destruction of house atreides after the gifting of arrakis, which would explain why the marriage needs to take place. sooo no one dies! HURRAH!!!!!!!!! enjoy :]

© 2023 qvrcll. Do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[seafarersdream]

Campaign Trail | Modern AU! (Gwayne Hightower x Y/N)

Strap in for the wild ride of Gwayne Hightower’s political rise, as seen through the eyes of his campaign manager, Y/N. From clueless debates to dodging scandalous tabloids and pretending he knows the price of a pint, Gwayne is your classic posh boy gone rogue running as a Lib Dem candidate. And it’s Y/N’s job to keep his ego in check, his speeches on point, and, occasionally, his pants on. Welcome to the Gwayne Hightower campaign. Expect chaos. Word count: 12k

TW // Strong language and profanities, characters frequently consume alcohol (including scenes of heavy drinking), boss/employee romantic trope, power dynamics, sexual and crass humor, depictions of extreme wealth and privilege (rich assholes basically).

“Bloody hell, Gwayne, are you even listening to me?” Y/N slammed her pen down on the table, the clatter echoing through the dimly lit campaign office. It was well past midnight, and the stale smell of cold pizza mixed with the faint scent of Gwayne’s overpriced cologne was starting to make her head spin.

Gwayne Hightower, the posh prat in question, barely looked up from his phone. He was lounging back in his chair, long legs stretched out like he owned the place — which, to be fair, he probably did in some indirect, old-money, nepotistic kind of way. “I am listening,” he drawled, though his thumb kept scrolling. “Something about, uh, housing and healthcare. Right?”

Y/N rolled her eyes so hard she could’ve seen the back of her skull. “Yeah, mate, just the minor detail of your whole bloody platform,” she shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You know, the stuff that actually makes people vote for you?”

Gwayne’s lips curled into that infuriatingly perfect smirk, the kind that belonged more to a model, not on some would-be politician. “You mean the bit where I pretend to care?”

She let out a frustrated sigh and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, the pretending bit. But let’s make it convincing this time, yeah?”

The office was a mess of coffee cups, crumpled notes, and campaign leaflets. A lone desk lamp threw a harsh yellow light across the room, casting long shadows on the wall. Outside, the rain battered against the windows, the only sound in the quiet street below. The clock ticked loudly, reminding them of every minute they were wasting.

Y/N picked up a sheet of paper, waving it in his face. “Look, you need to hit them where it matters. People care about the NHS. They care about whether they can afford to put a roof over their heads. Not about… whatever posh nonsense you were going on about last week.”

Gwayne finally put down his phone, leaning forward with a feigned look of interest. “What was wrong with what I said?”

She snorted. “Mate, you can’t promise a home for every hardworking Brit when your idea of a starter home is a bloody Georgian townhouse in Chelsea.”

Gwayne chuckled, and for a second, she hated how charming he could be when he wasn’t being an absolute prat. “Fair point. Alright, Ms. Campaign Manager, what do we say?”

Y/N leaned in, their faces just inches apart, and she could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. “You say,” she whispered, “that you’re going to make housing affordable, that you’ll protect the NHS like it’s the crown jewels, and that you actually give a damn about people who don’t have trust funds or daddy’s money to fall back on.”

He stared at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. “You think they’ll buy it?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Not if you keep looking like you’re about to laugh every time you say it. You need to mean it, Gwayne. Or at least act like you do. Think of it like… theatre.”

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that surprised her. “Theatre, is it? So what, am I Olivier or just a bloke in a bad panto?”

Y/N grinned. “Depends. You reckon you can handle a bit of method acting? Maybe imagine you’re someone who doesn’t have everything handed to them on a silver platter?”

Gwayne leaned back, still watching her, and she felt a strange tension crackle between them, something electric, something unspoken. “You’ve got a smart mouth, Y/N. That why I hired you?”

She shrugged, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her neck. “Nah. You hired me because I’m the only one who’ll call you out on your bullshit.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You like calling me out, don’t you?”

Her breath hitched for just a second, and she cursed herself for letting him get to her. “Someone has to,” she said, her voice steady. “And you clearly love it.”

His smirk grew. “Maybe I do.”

She felt her face flush and decided to change the subject before she ended up doing something stupid. Like kissing that smug grin right off his face. “Right, back to work. We need a slogan that sticks. Something the punters will remember. Something that makes them think you’re the real deal.”

Gwayne leaned back, eyes still locked on hers, a challenge glinting in them. “You mean something like, Vote for me or I’ll bloody well buy your house myself?”

Y/N snorted, and for a moment, the tension eased. “Yeah, that’ll go down a treat in Hackney.”

“Alright,” he said, leaning closer again, his voice softer now, more serious. “Help me, then. What do I say?”

She felt that pull again, that magnetic draw that made her want to slap him and snog him in equal measure. She shook her head, trying to focus. “You say,” she murmured, leaning in so close their noses almost touched, “that you’re going to fight for them like you’d fight for your own bloody life. That every day you’re in office, you’re not just some posh tosser playing politics. You’re there because you bloody care.”

Gwayne’s breath brushed against her lips, and she swore she saw his eyes flicker to her mouth. “And you think they’ll believe me?”

She felt her heart race, her pulse quickening. “They’ll believe it,” she whispered, “if you say it like you bloody well mean it.”

For a second, everything hung in the air between them, the rain pounding against the window like a drumbeat, their breaths mingling in the space between. And then he moved back, breaking the spell, his grin back in place.

“Alright,” he said, voice light again. “Let’s do this, then. Make me sound like a bloody hero.”

Y/N smiled, picking up her pen. “Oh, I will. And you better not cock it up.”

He winked. “Wouldn’t dream of it, love.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips. She will either kill this campaign, or it kills her first. Which she is not sure yet.

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

“Remember, Gwayne,” Y/N muttered as she straightened his tie, fingers brushing against his collar for a moment too long, “Stick to the message. Focus on the solutions, not the problems. You’re not just some arse in a suit; you’re the bloke who’s going to fix this mess.”

Gwayne’s grin was too confident for her liking. “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he replied, eyes twinkling with that familiar arrogance. “It’s not my first rodeo.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Right, because you’ve handled so many housing crises in your plush penthouse.”

He chuckled. “Come on, love. Give me a bit of credit. I’ve been prepping for this all week.”

“Yeah, and it shows,” Y/N shot back, sarcasm sharp enough to cut glass. “Now, get in there, charm their pants off, but for God’s sake, don’t let him corner you on the numbers.”

The studio lights were blinding, hot enough to feel like the sun itself had decided to join them inside. Across from Gwayne sat Martin Caldwell, a journalist infamous for his pitbull tactics and never letting a politician off the hook. Caldwell looked like a vulture in a cheap suit, his eyes narrowed and mouth twitching as if he could already smell the blood.

Gwayne settled into his chair, flashing that perfect smile. “Thanks for having me, Martin,” he said smoothly.

Martin didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Gwayne?” he said, leaning forward, voice like a scalpel. “Housing crisis. The capital’s got over 60,000 homeless households, more than 80,000 children living in temporary accommodation. And that number’s only climbing. Now, you’re here, all clean and polished, talking about affordable housing, but let’s be real — what’s your plan, really? Because people out there, they’re struggling. They’re angry.”

Gwayne didn’t flinch, kept his smile steady. “Look, Martin, the housing crisis is a massive issue, no question. It’s about more than just numbers; it’s about people, families—”

“But let’s talk about numbers, Gwayne,” Martin cut him off, eyes gleaming. “Since 2010, there’s been a 70% increase in households in temporary accommodation. 70%! That’s a bloody lot, isn’t it? How do you plan to fix that with just more of the same?”

Y/N watched from the sidelines, her heart thudding against her ribs. This wasn’t going to be easy. She’d told him to stick to the message, keep it simple, but she could already see Caldwell trying to lure him into a trap. Gwayne’s jaw tightened — just a fraction, but she saw it. And so did Caldwell.

“Look, the current policies clearly haven’t worked,” Gwayne replied, leaning in, voice steady. “What we need is a radical overhaul. A commitment to building a new generation of affordable homes, partnerships between government and private sectors, and a serious plan to cut down the bureaucratic red tape that—”

Caldwell pounced. “Right, but where’s the money coming from, Gwayne? You’re talking about a ‘radical overhaul,’ but that means a radical budget. Are you going to raise taxes? Cut other services? Let’s hear it, Gwayne. What’s the actual plan?”

Gwayne hesitated, just for a second, and Y/N felt her stomach drop. That was all Caldwell needed. The interviewer leaned in further, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Or is this just another politician’s promise? More hot air while kids sleep in shelters?”

Gwayne’s smile faltered, just a flicker, but it was enough. He could feel the pressure mounting, the audience’s eyes on him, waiting for a stumble. “Look,” he started, but his voice wasn’t quite as strong now, “it’s a complex issue, and we’re working—”

Caldwell cut him off again, like a shark sensing blood in the water. “Working on what, Gwayne? A plan that doesn't exist?”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her ears. Damn it, this was spiraling, and fast. She moved closer to the stage manager, whispering frantically. “I need to get on his earpiece. Now.”

Seconds later, Gwayne heard her voice, calm and clear through his earpiece. “Stop defending. Go on the attack. Talk about the real culprits — landlords, greedy developers, government failures. Take control, Gwayne, before he buries you.”

Gwayne’s eyes flicked to the camera, and his posture straightened. He smiled, but this time there was steel behind it. “Alright, Martin, let’s talk about the real issue here,” he said, his voice steadying. “The housing crisis didn’t happen overnight, and it didn’t happen because of the people living in temporary accommodation. It happened because of decades of government inaction, because landlords were given free reign to hike rents, because developers were allowed to build luxury flats while people can’t afford a basic home.”

Caldwell raised an eyebrow, surprised by the shift. “So, you’re blaming the private sector now?”

“I’m blaming a system that’s rigged, Martin,” Gwayne shot back, finding his stride. “A system where a handful of people get rich while everyone else suffers. And that’s what I’m here to change. To fight for a fair deal, not just for the few, but for everyone.”

Y/N could see Caldwell’s eyes narrow. He wasn’t expecting this. Good. Keep him off balance.

Caldwell pressed again, but now there was a hint of frustration. “But specifics, Gwayne. People want to know how—”

“I’ll give you specifics,” Gwayne cut in sharply, leaning forward. “First, we cap rents to stop people being priced out of their own communities. We fund social housing properly, no more of these half-hearted measures. We build homes people can actually afford, and we crack down on empty properties left to rot while families go homeless. And yeah, Martin, if that means stepping on a few toes in the private sector, so be it. Because this isn’t about comfort. It’s about doing what’s right.”

There was a pause. Caldwell seemed momentarily lost for words, and that was all Y/N needed. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

Gwayne finished strong. “I’m not here to make friends with the developers or the landlords, Martin. I’m here to make sure that every child in this country has a safe place to call home.”

Caldwell recovered, trying to regain control. “Strong words, Gwayne. But can you deliver?”

Gwayne smiled, this time without hesitation. “Watch me.”

The interview wrapped up, and Y/N could feel the tension slowly ease out of her shoulders. As Gwayne walked off set, she met him in the wings, her expression a mix of frustration and begrudging admiration.

“Nice save,” she said, crossing her arms.

Gwayne grinned, a bit of the cockiness back. “Thanks to you. You always know just what to say, don’t you?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a smile. “You were one misstep away from a bloody train wreck, you know that?”

He stepped closer, his voice low, teasing. “Maybe I like a bit of danger. Keeps things interesting.”

She felt that familiar heat rise between them, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Well, next time, try not to give me a heart attack on live TV, yeah?”

Gwayne chuckled. “No promises. But… thanks, Y/N. Really.”

She gave him a nod. “Just doing my job. Now let’s go. We’ve got a lot of damage control to do.”

He watched her walk away, a smile tugging at his lips. “And here I thought we just saved the day.”

Y/N looked back over her shoulder, grinning. “Maybe. But the day’s not over yet, Hightower.”

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

“This place is bloody ridiculous, Gwayne.” Y/N muttered as she wandered through the lavish rooms of his Belgravia townhouse, glass of absinthe in hand. The place screamed money — old money, the kind that people like her never saw outside of films or the pages of Tatler. She ran her fingers along the gilded edge of a massive mirror, its frame probably worth more than her yearly salary.

Gwayne, sprawled comfortably on a deep leather sofa, shot her a lopsided grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She rolled her eyes and took a swig of her drink, the bitter taste burning down her throat. “I mean, look at this,” she said, gesturing around with her glass. “A townhouse in Belgravia? You’ve got Raphaels hanging on your walls, for fuck’s sake. You collect rare artwork like most people collect fridge magnets.”

He glanced at the painting she was pointing to — a delicate Madonna in blues and golds, her serene face glowing softly in the low light of the room. “Not just any Raphaels. The best ones. Acquired at private auctions, if you must know,” he replied with a lazy smirk. “It’s not a crime to have taste.”

Y/N snorted. “Yeah, because that’s what everyone does with their disposable income. Attend auctions with the world’s elite and outbid some oligarch for a Bernini bust.”

He grinned wider. “It was a spirited bidding war, I’ll give you that. Oligarchs can be quite tenacious.”

She laughed despite herself, shaking her head. “You’re something else, Hightower.”

The townhouse was ridiculously opulent. The kind of place that would feature in a glossy spread titled London’s Most Exclusive Homes. Velvet drapes framed enormous windows that looked out onto pristine, manicured gardens. The walls were adorned with priceless works of art, paintings that most people would only see behind thick glass in a museum. A faint scent of rich leather and wood polish filled the air, mingling with the sharper notes of absinthe.

Gwayne had insisted on pouring her a drink the moment they got in, promising her it would “take the edge off.” And she had to admit, it was doing the trick.

“Alright, you’ve buttered me up with the fancy booze,” Y/N said, plopping herself into a chair that felt like sinking into a cloud. “Now spill. Why the bloody hell are you running as a Liberal Democrat?”

Gwayne blinked, surprised by the bluntness of her question. Then he chuckled. “You’ve been dying to ask me that, haven’t you?”

“Are you kidding? It’s been killing me,” she shot back, leaning forward. “I mean, look at you. Everything about you screams Tory. The suits, the townhouse, the art collection that could fund a small country. And yet here you are, waving the Lib Dem flag. It doesn’t add up.”

He took a slow sip of his own absinthe, letting her words hang in the air. “Maybe I like a challenge,” he finally said, a hint of mischief in his tone.

She snorted again. “Oh, come off it. You’re not in this for a challenge. You’re in it for… hell, I don’t know, but it’s not because you’re a bleeding heart liberal. So why?”

Gwayne’s smile faded slightly, his blue eyes studying her carefully. “Maybe I actually believe in something, Y/N. Did you ever think of that?”

She held his gaze, not backing down. “Sure. I just thought that something would involve tax cuts for the rich and a couple of fox hunts on the weekends.”

He laughed, a real laugh this time, not the polished, practiced chuckle he usually gave to the cameras. “Alright, fair play. I can see why you’d think that.”

“So…?” she pressed.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, swirling the emerald liquid in his glass. “Alright, you want the truth?”

“That’s why I asked,” she replied, her tone softer now.

He hesitated, just for a moment, before speaking again. “I was supposed to be Tory. God, was I ever. Family’s a line of them. Granddad, Dad, every bloody Hightower since time began, probably. I was raised for it, groomed for it. Eton, Oxford, the whole bloody conveyor belt to Westminster.”

She nodded. “I’m with you so far. Still not seeing where the Lib Dem part comes in.”

Gwayne leaned forward, his voice lower, more serious. “It was all set up. Tory membership card practically in my cradle. Then one day, I actually took a look at what was happening around me. Went to a few dinners, talked to the ‘right’ people. Listened to them… talk. And, Christ, Y/N, it made me sick.”

She blinked, surprised. “You? Sick? You love a posh dinner as much as the next trust fund baby.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t the dinners, love. It was the people at them. The entitlement. The utter lack of care for anyone outside their bubble. I realized I didn’t want to be part of that. Not if it meant towing the line on policies that only protect the people who’ve already got everything. The way they talked about people… like they were numbers, not lives. I couldn’t do it.”

She leaned back, considering his words. “So, you’re telling me you had some grand epiphany?”

He shrugged. “Something like that. I figured, if I was going to get into politics, I’d do it to actually make a difference. The Lib Dems… they’re not perfect, but they’re about giving a damn about everyone, not just the privileged few.”

Y/N arched an eyebrow. “And you’re not one of the privileged few?”

He laughed. “Oh, I am. Born and bloody bred. But that doesn’t mean I have to play by their rules. Maybe I want to rewrite them.”

She stared at him, her heart unexpectedly softening. Maybe this privileged prat actually believed what he was saying. “So, what’s the endgame then? 10 Downing Street?”

He chuckled. “Maybe. But that’s for another day. Right now, I just want to make some noise and see if anyone’s listening.”

She took another sip of her absinthe, feeling the warmth spread through her chest. “Well, you’ve got my attention, at least.”

He leaned closer, a playful glint in his eye. “Oh, I noticed.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t let it go to your head, Hightower. I’m still here to make sure you don’t bollocks this up.”

He grinned. “I’d be lost without you, Y/N.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Yeah, you would.”

For a moment, the room seemed smaller, the space between them charged, and Y/N felt that familiar pull again — the magnetic tension that always seemed to hang in the air whenever they were close. She tore her gaze away, looking around at the paintings instead.

“This absinthe’s going straight to my head,” she muttered.

He chuckled, watching her closely. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Careful, Gwayne. I’m still your campaign manager. You need me sober enough to make sure you don’t say something stupid again.”

He leaned back, his smile still in place. “Fair enough. But maybe just for tonight, we can forget about campaigns and crises. Just… be two people having a drink.”

Y/N met his eyes, and for once, she couldn’t find a quick comeback. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Maybe just for tonight.”

And for a brief, quiet moment, neither of them spoke. The townhouse, with all its ridiculous wealth and art, seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them, caught in the electric tension of what might be.

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the streets of Hackney into a grey, slick mess. Puddles formed in the cracks of the pavements, and the smell of wet concrete hung in the air. Y/N was soaked to the bone, her coat heavy with rain, but she didn’t care. She was too busy making sure Gwayne didn’t make an utter arse of himself.

They were in the heart of Hackney, one of the neighborhoods hardest hit by the housing crisis. Rundown council flats lined the streets, their brick facades crumbling, windows boarded up or patched with mismatched panes of glass. Gwayne’s designer shoes were caked in mud, and she couldn’t help but smirk as he tried to navigate the uneven pavement, clearly out of his comfort zone.

“Careful, mate,” she teased, nudging him with her elbow. “Wouldn’t want to scuff those fancy loafers of yours.”

Gwayne shot her a look, half-amused, half-exasperated. “I’ll have you know these are perfectly sensible shoes.”

“Sensible?” she scoffed. “For what? A yacht party in Monaco?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Just focus on the job, yeah?”

The rain showed no sign of letting up, but the community center up ahead was buzzing with activity. Inside, a group of local residents, activists, and a few journalists had gathered. The room was crowded, the air thick with the smell of damp coats and instant coffee. There was a mix of skepticism and curiosity on the faces of the people, and Y/N knew this was their chance to make an impression.

She turned to Gwayne, lowering her voice. “Alright, here’s the plan. Listen more than you speak. They don’t need another politician giving them empty promises. They need to feel like you’re actually listening to their problems.”

Gwayne nodded, adjusting his jacket. “Got it. No posh nonsense.”

She gave him a small, approving smile. “And for the love of God, don’t mention your townhouse.”

He grinned. “Noted.”

As they stepped inside, all eyes turned to them. The chatter quieted down, replaced by the soft hum of whispered conversations. Y/N could feel the tension in the air, the weight of expectation. Gwayne moved forward, shaking hands, offering polite nods and warm smiles, and to his credit, he seemed genuinely interested.

But she could sense the underlying wariness from the crowd. These were people who had been promised a lot by politicians, only to be disappointed time and again. They weren’t going to be won over by a posh accent and a well-tailored suit.

She nudged him toward a group of women huddled in the corner, each with tired eyes and worn faces. “Start here,” she murmured. “Single mothers. Most of them on the housing waiting list for years.”

Gwayne approached them with a disarming smile. “Hello ladies, I’m Gwayne Hightower,” he began, reaching out to shake their hands. “I’m here to listen to your concerns and see how we can work together to make things better.”

One of the women, a middle-aged lady with a mane of curly hair and an accent as thick as the rain outside, crossed her arms, eyeing him suspiciously. “You a politician, then?” she asked, her tone laced with skepticism.

Gwayne nodded. “Yes, I’m running for Parliament—”

She cut him off, snorting. “Figures. Another posh boy with promises, eh? What makes you different from the rest?”

Y/N held her breath. This was it. Make or break. She watched as Gwayne took a breath, steadying himself. “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m here because I want to change things. I know I come from a different background, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what’s happening here.”

The woman eyed him for a moment, then turned to Y/N. “And you? You believe him?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“Yeah,” the woman pressed. “You look like you’ve got a brain in your head. Why you working for him?”

Y/N hesitated, glancing at Gwayne. For a second, she wasn’t sure how to answer. But then she decided to be honest. “Because I think he actually gives a damn. As much as it pains me to admit it.”

The woman’s eyes softened a fraction. “A posh boy who cares, eh? That’s a new one.”

Gwayne chuckled, relaxing a bit. “I promise you, I’m full of surprises.”

Before the woman could respond, a young man in his twenties stepped forward, anger flashing in his eyes. “What are you going to do about the housing crisis?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “I’ve been stuck in a hostel for two years with my daughter. No council house, no help. You lot don’t care about us. You don’t have to live like we do.”

Gwayne met his gaze, a serious expression crossing his face. “You’re right. I don’t live like you do. But that doesn’t mean I can’t fight to change it.”

The man scoffed. “Easy for you to say. You’ll go back to your fancy house tonight, yeah? What do you know about struggling?”

Y/N felt a surge of defensiveness on Gwayne’s behalf, but before she could speak, Gwayne raised a hand, his voice calm. “I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes. But I’m here because I want to learn, and I want to do something about it. I want to make sure that people like you don’t have to go through this.”

The young man seemed taken aback by the directness of his answer. “Yeah? And how are you going to do that?”

Gwayne looked him straight in the eye. “By building more affordable homes, by fighting for rent controls, by holding landlords accountable, and by putting pressure on the government to prioritize housing over profits.”

Y/N watched the young man, his expression slowly shifting from anger to something closer to consideration. Maybe even hope. She felt a flicker of something in her chest — pride? Maybe.

But then, the conversation was interrupted by an older woman, her face lined with years of hardship. “Talk is cheap, love,” she said quietly. “We’ve heard it all before.”

Gwayne nodded, not shying away from the hard truth. “You’re right. It is. But I’m here because I want to prove I’m different. And if I’m not, then hold me accountable. Make sure I deliver.”

The older woman studied him for a moment, then gave a small, reluctant nod. “Alright, then. We’ll see.”

Y/N turned away from Gwayne for a moment and spotted an elderly man sitting in the corner, his hands trembling as he held onto a cane. She approached him, crouching down. “Hello,” she said softly. “What’s your name?”

“Frank,” he replied, his voice raspy. “I’m here every week… watchin’… listening.”

Y/N smiled gently. “What do you think of all this, Frank?”

He chuckled, a dry, weary sound. “Think he’s different, your lad. Might even mean it. But they all mean it at first, don’t they?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah, I suppose they do.”

Frank’s eyes twinkled. “But he’s got fire. And fire’s what we need. Someone to burn the whole bloody system down and start fresh.”

Y/N glanced back at Gwayne, who was deep in conversation, genuinely listening, and she felt something stir inside her. Maybe Frank was right. Maybe Gwayne wasn’t just a posh boy with a fancy townhouse and a taste for absinthe. Maybe he was something more.

She turned back to Frank and smiled. “Yeah, maybe he is.”

Frank nodded, then winked. “You make sure he don’t lose that fire, eh?”

Y/N grinned. “Oh, I will, Frank. I will.”

Y/N could feel the crowd’s eyes on her, a mix of doubt, curiosity, and frustration etched into their faces. This was her moment. If they were going to stand a chance of winning over Hackney, she had to make them believe. Not just in Gwayne, but in what they could actually do together.

She stepped forward, hands raised in a gesture of openness. “Alright, listen up,” she called, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the room. “I know what you’re all thinking. Who’s this posh boy, swanning in here with his fancy shoes, telling us he’s going to solve our problems?”

A few people in the crowd nodded, some even chuckling in agreement. Gwayne shot her a wary look, but she ignored it, pressing on.

“You’re right,” she continued. “He’s got a swanky townhouse, he collects art worth more than most of us will see in our lifetimes, and he probably can’t tell a Greggs pasty from a bloody foie gras. But wouldn’t you rather have one of these posh boys on your side for once?”

The crowd was listening now, intrigued. She could see the skepticism starting to crack just a little.

“Think about it,” she went on, her voice gaining strength. “He’s got money. He’s got connections. He knows the people who pull the strings, the ones who make decisions about your lives while sipping champagne in Mayfair. He’s got the kind of influence that actually moves things along. Don’t you want someone like that fighting in your corner instead of against you?”

A few heads nodded slowly. She caught the eye of the young man from earlier, still frowning but clearly considering her words.

“And before you write me off as just another one of his people,” she added, raising her chin, “I’m not like him. Not by a long shot. I’m from Manchester — Manny born and bred. My dad owns a power tool shop, and my mum’s been working as a caterer for as long as I can remember. I worked my arse off to get into university, full ride scholarship because that was the only way I was getting in.”

She saw a few faces in the crowd soften, nodding in recognition. They knew what it meant to work for everything you had.

“And now here I am,” she continued, with a hint of defiance in her voice, “standing next to this posh, pretty boy. Not because I believe in his money or his connections, but because I believe he actually wants to do some good. Because for once, we’ve got one of these guys willing to take a stand, to fight for something other than his own bloody bank account.”

There was a murmur of approval now, a few people nodding, even clapping. She saw Frank in the corner, grinning like he’d just won a bet.

“So yeah,” Y/N said, letting her voice ring out strong, “I’m all in with him. And if you give him a chance, he’ll show you that he’s all in with you too. What have you got to lose? Another empty promise? Another politician who forgets about you the second they get to Westminster?”

Gwayne looked at her, a new appreciation in his eyes. He hadn’t expected her to go all in like that, to put herself on the line for him in front of these people. She had just thrown her whole story out there, her whole self, and it was resonating.

Y/N turned back to the crowd. “We know how this works, don’t we? We know the system’s rigged, and we know it’s not built for people like us. But here’s the thing — we can’t fight it alone. We need someone who can get into the room, sit at the table, and make some noise. Someone who’s willing to push the boundaries and shake things up.”

She took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline pumping through her veins. “I’m putting my money where my mouth is. I’m working with him, and I’m going to make damn sure he doesn’t just talk a good game. And if he tries to slack off, I’ll be the first to give him a kick up the arse.”

The crowd chuckled, a few cheers going up, and Y/N felt a surge of relief. They were starting to come around.

“So what do you say?” she finished, raising her voice. “Give us a chance. Hold us accountable. Make us prove it to you. Because I promise you, he’s not perfect — far from it — but he’s got fire, and he’s got the guts to use it.”

A small cheer went up, and Y/N felt a smile break across her face. The woman from before nodded approvingly, the young man seemed to relax a little, and even Frank was clapping slowly, his grin widening.

Gwayne stepped forward, taking his cue from her. “I know I’ve got a lot to prove,” he said, voice steady. “But with Y/N by my side — and with your support — I’m going to fight like hell for this community. For every single one of you.”

A louder cheer erupted this time, and Y/N felt her chest swell with a mix of pride and something else she wasn’t quite ready to name. She caught Gwayne’s eye, and he mouthed a silent “thank you,” a look of awe on his face.

She nodded, just a small dip of her head, but she couldn’t help the grin that spread across her lips. “Don’t thank me yet,” she whispered as he turned back to the crowd, her voice low enough only for him to hear. “We’ve still got a long way to go, posh boy.”

He chuckled, that infectious grin back on his face.

And as they continued to work the room, shaking hands and listening to stories, Y/N felt something shift.

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

“This place doesn’t even have a bloody sign,” Y/N muttered, peering up at the unmarked black door set into a pristine brick facade. She shot Gwayne a sidelong glance as they stood on the dimly lit Mayfair street. “Is this one of those places where they judge you if you ask for ketchup?”

Gwayne smirked, adjusting the cufflinks on his tailored suit. “Only if you pronounce it wrong.”

She rolled her eyes, but her nerves were starting to kick in. “And you’re sure I’m dressed alright for this? I’m feeling a bit like Bridget Jones at a state dinner.”

Gwayne gave her a quick once-over, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. “You look perfect,” he said, a bit softer than usual. “Better than perfect. Trust me, they’ll be too busy being themselves to notice.”

She snorted, trying to shake off the unease creeping up her spine. “Well, that’s reassuring. So, remind me again why I’m here?”

Gwayne’s grin widened. “Because I want you to meet my father. And my sister. And because I’m tired of them assuming I’m completely useless.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “So, I’m your human shield, then?”

“More like my secret weapon,” he replied, flashing that grin again, and she felt a flicker of warmth despite herself.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” she muttered, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The restaurant was beyond posh. It was the sort of place you didn’t even know existed unless you were born into a world where five-course meals were standard Tuesday fare. Dim lighting, soft jazz playing in the background, and tables spaced so far apart that you’d need a map and a compass to navigate. A sommelier in a suit that probably cost more than Y/N’s rent stood by the door, giving them a nod as they entered.

“Mr. Hightower,” he murmured with a deferential nod. “Your party is already seated.”

“Cheers, mate,” Gwayne replied, slipping the guy a tip that was probably equivalent to a week’s worth of groceries for her.

They were led to a private alcove, tucked away behind a velvet curtain. At the table sat Sir Otto Hightower, the very picture of an aristocratic patriarch, his white hair immaculately styled, a pin on his lapel glinting in the low light — the insignia of a Knight Grand Cross of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. Because, of course, he bloody was.

Next to him sat Alicent Hightower, Gwayne’s sister, her auburn hair twisted into a perfect chignon, a string of pearls draped around her neck. Alicent was the epitome of a British socialite — impeccably dressed, with that strange air of religious guilt that seemed to cling to her like perfume. Y/N knew the type: all sweetness and light on the surface, but beneath… God only knew.

“Father, Alicent,” Gwayne said, his tone a bit too cheerful. “This is Y/N, my campaign manager.”

Sir Otto’s eyes flicked to Y/N, appraising her with a cold, calculating stare. “Ah, the one steering my son’s misguided adventure,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk but with a sharp edge.

Y/N offered her hand, forcing a smile. “Nice to meet you, Sir Otto. Though I prefer to think of it as a ‘guided’ adventure.”

Otto’s lips twitched slightly, a half-smile. “Quite. And what brings a… Manchester girl to this peculiar position?” He spoke ‘Manchester’ like it was a foreign concept.

Y/N bristled slightly but kept her composure. “Good old-fashioned hard work, Sir Otto. That, and a full scholarship to UCL.”

Alicent, who had been sipping her wine in silence, finally looked up. Her green eyes were bright, inquisitive. “UCL, how… admirable,” she murmured, her voice soft. “Tell me, Y/N, do you believe in God?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Er, not the best topic for a first dinner, is it?” she replied with a grin. “But sure, I’d say I’m more spiritual than religious.”

Alicent smiled, but there was something unsettling in it. “Oh, how lovely,” she cooed. “Spiritual… but not tethered to the truth of the Lord’s word.”

Y/N couldn’t help herself. “Well, I suppose the Lord’s word didn’t help much with the housing crisis, did it?”

Gwayne’s eyes widened slightly, and he hid a smirk behind his hand. Sir Otto, however, leaned back, an amused glint in his eyes. “I see you’ve brought a firecracker, Gwayne.”

Gwayne grinned.

Sir Otto’s expression shifted, serious now. “Gwayne, I’m concerned about this… campaign of yours. It’s one thing to indulge in some youthful rebellion, quite another to throw away your future in politics for a party that, frankly, doesn’t hold much weight.”

Y/N decided to jump in. “With all due respect, Sir Otto, that’s precisely why he’s running with the Lib Dems. Because they don’t have the same old baggage, because he wants to make a difference, not just go along with the same tired rhetoric.”

Otto’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp and assessing. “And you believe he can do that, Miss…?”

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “L/N. Y/N L/N,” she replied with a slight tilt of her head, James Bond style. Her tone was cool, collected, and a bit cheeky. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her, not tonight.

Sir Otto chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound, as he scooped a bite of beluga caviar onto his spoon. “What’s in it for you, Miss L/N?” he asked, his voice dripping with curiosity as he placed the expensive delicacy into his mouth.

Y/N smiled, her expression nonchalant, and met his gaze without flinching. “Well, money, sir,” she said bluntly. “Can’t say no to a decent paycheck, can I?”

Otto laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that seemed to surprise even him. “Ah, honesty. A rare trait in politics. Refreshing.”

Alicent, who had been quiet for a moment, leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity and a hint of amusement. “She is quite pretty, isn’t she?” she said with a small, mischievous smile. “Tell me, Y/N, any boyfriend? Fiancé? Surely someone must have snatched you up by now.”

Y/N kept her smile, though she felt the sting of the question, the way Alicent’s words seemed to pry at her personal life like a needle. She decided to answer truthfully, but with a touch of humor. “Well,” she began with a dry smile, “the last one ended because he cheated on me with his co-worker.”

Alicent’s eyebrows shot up, and even Otto paused mid-sip of his wine, surprised. Gwayne’s head whipped around so fast he nearly knocked over his water glass.

“Seriously?” Gwayne blurted out, before catching himself. “I mean… sorry, that’s… that’s bloody awful.”

Y/N shrugged, as if it were nothing more than an amusing anecdote. “Yeah, well, it makes for a good story at dinner parties, doesn’t it?”

Otto chuckled, clearly impressed. “You’ve got a tough skin, Miss L/N. You might just be what my son needs after all.”

Y/N grinned, raising her glass slightly. “Cheers to that, Sir Otto. Here’s to tough skins and thicker wallets.”

Alicent smiled, though her eyes were still studying Y/N carefully. “You certainly are… interesting, Y/N. Different from the usual lot Gwayne brings around.”

Y/N met her gaze without flinching. “Good. Because I’m not here to impress anyone, just to get the job done.”

Gwayne couldn’t hide his grin. “And that’s why she’s the best, Father. She’s real. And she’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being an idiot.”

Otto leaned back in his chair, still smiling. “Well, she’s got her work cut out for her then, doesn’t she?”

Alicent laughed softly. “Indeed. I rather like you, Y/N. And believe me, that’s not something I say often.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I think.”

As the dinner continued, the conversation flowed a bit more easily, a bit more openly. Y/N felt the tension easing just a little, but she knew better than to let her guard down completely. This was still the Hightowers, after all. They were never off-duty, never fully relaxed.

As they walked out of the restaurant into the crisp night air, Gwayne turned to her, an amused smile on his lips. “You were bloody brilliant back there. I think you might have actually impressed them.”

Y/N shrugged, her face breaking into a grin. “Well, it’s about time someone shook things up around here, don’t you think?”

He laughed, slipping his hands into his pockets. “God, I really do need you, Y/N.”

She shot him a sideways glance. “Yeah, well, don’t go getting too soppy on me now, Hightower.”

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

The campaign office was buzzing with a nervous, almost frantic energy. The air was thick with the scent of coffee, sweat, and anticipation. Papers were scattered across desks, phones were ringing off the hook, and the TV in the corner was blaring the election coverage at full volume.

The room was packed with volunteers, team members, and every random person who had decided they wanted a front-row seat to Gwayne Hightower’s political gamble.

Y/N stood by the window, staring out at the rain-slicked streets of Hackney. Her arms were crossed, her foot tapping against the floor in a steady rhythm that betrayed her nerves. She could feel the tension building in the room like a pressure cooker about to blow. This was it. Months of work, endless nights, arguments, laughter, and more cups of coffee than she could count — all leading up to this moment.

She glanced over at Gwayne, who was sitting in the center of the room, gripping a bright orange stress ball in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other. His hair was slightly disheveled, his tie loosened, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. For the first time in weeks, he looked genuinely worried.

“Jesus, Gwayne, if you squeeze that thing any harder, it’s going to explode,” Y/N teased, trying to lighten the mood.

He gave a tight smile, his fingers tightening around the stress ball even more. “What, this?” he muttered. “This is keeping me from climbing out of the window and legging it down the street.”

She chuckled, walking over and plucking the glass of scotch out of his other hand. “And this?” she asked, taking a sip. “Liquid courage?”

“Something like that,” he muttered. “How’re we doing?”

Y/N glanced at the TV, where the talking heads were dissecting the election results, constituency by constituency. “Early counts look good,” she said, though her voice was steadier than she felt. “But it’s still too close to call.”

Gwayne nodded, his eyes flicking nervously to the screen. “Bloody hell. I haven’t felt this nervous since that time I accidentally set fire to the old headmaster’s garden at Eton.”

Y/N snorted. “You did what?”

“Long story,” he muttered, squeezing the stress ball again. “Involved fireworks and far too much brandy.”

She shook her head, laughing despite herself. “Remind me never to leave you alone with flammable objects.”

Across the room, one of the volunteers called out, “Turn it up! They’re about to announce something!”

Everyone fell silent, their eyes glued to the screen as the anchor shuffled his papers, looking far too pleased with himself. Y/N felt her stomach twist into knots. She glanced at Gwayne, who was sitting on the edge of his seat, knuckles white around the stress ball.

The anchor spoke, his voice calm and measured, “And now, the latest results coming in from Hackney South and Shoreditch…”

Y/N held her breath. This was it. The moment of truth.

Gwayne muttered something under his breath, his eyes wide, and she could feel the tension radiating off him like heat. “Come on, come on,” he whispered.

The anchor continued, “It appears we’re seeing a significant swing tonight. Early numbers suggest that the Liberal Democrat candidate, Gwayne Hightower, is making a strong showing in what was expected to be a closely contested race…”

A cheer went up from the room, and Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her. But she knew better than to celebrate too early. “Still just early numbers,” she called out over the noise. “We’re not done yet!”

Gwayne turned to her, his face a mix of disbelief and hope. “We might actually pull this off,” he breathed.

She smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Might? Don’t you dare start doubting now. We’ve come too bloody far for that.”

He nodded, swallowing hard, and squeezed the stress ball once more. “Alright, alright. Deep breaths.”

Y/N chuckled. “You look like you’re about to have a heart attack. Maybe lay off the scotch for a bit, yeah?”

He laughed, but it was a nervous sound. “Can’t promise that.”

Another volunteer rushed over, holding a phone up to Y/N. “Call for you,” they said breathlessly. “Someone from the party headquarters.”

Y/N took the phone, pressing it to her ear. “Yeah? What’s the news?”

She listened for a moment, her expression hard to read, and Gwayne felt his heart leap into his throat. “Y/N?” he asked, voice tinged with panic. “What is it?”

She hung up, turning back to him with a grin. “They’re saying it’s looking even better. We’ve got a real chance here, Gwayne.”

He exhaled sharply, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “God, I hope so.”

Y/N nudged him gently. “You’ve done the work, Gwayne. You’ve talked to people, you’ve listened. Now it’s in their hands.”

He nodded, looking around the room at all the people who had put their faith in him, who had worked tirelessly by his side. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

They both turned back to the TV, watching as the coverage continued, the tension building with every passing second.

GWAYNE HIGHTOWER HAS WON HACKNEY SOUTH AND SHOREDITCH.

The words flashed across the screen, and for a heartbeat, the entire room fell silent. The anchor’s voice echoed in the stillness, confirming the impossible — Gwayne Hightower had won. He was going to Westminster.

And then, the room exploded. Cheers erupted, people jumped from their chairs, and the air filled with the sound of shouting, laughing, and the popping of champagne corks. Y/N felt a wave of exhilaration rush through her as she was engulfed by a sea of hugs and high-fives from the volunteers, their faces lit up with joy and disbelief.

“WE BLOODY DID IT!” someone shouted, and another cheer went up, even louder this time.

Y/N turned to Gwayne, who was standing in the middle of the chaos, his mouth hanging open in shock. He still had the stress ball in one hand, but his grip had slackened, and the glass of scotch dangled precariously in the other. Slowly, a grin spread across his face, growing wider and wider until it seemed to take over his whole expression.

“We won!” he shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. “We actually fucking won!”

Before Y/N could react, Gwayne grabbed her and pulled her into a bear hug, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around. She laughed, breathless, feeling the pure, unfiltered joy radiating from him. “Put me down, you idiot!” she shouted, but she couldn’t stop laughing.

He finally set her down, his eyes bright, his face flushed with excitement. “We did it, Y/N! We actually did it!”

She grinned back at him, her heart pounding with pride. “You bloody well did, Hightower. I told you you could.”

He took a deep breath, looking around at the crowd of volunteers, staffers, and supporters, all of them hugging, toasting, and celebrating like there was no tomorrow. “Right,” he announced, raising his voice above the noise. “This calls for a proper celebration.”

He made his way to the corner of the room, where a large cabinet stood. Y/N watched as he pulled open the doors to reveal a stash of bottles that looked like they’d been imported from some long-forgotten royal cellar. “Alright, who wants a drink?” he called out, holding up a bottle of whisky so rare it probably had its own pedigree.

A cheer went up, and Y/N laughed as Gwayne began pouring glasses of the finest whisky she’d ever seen. “I thought you were saving that for… I don’t know, the King’s visit or something,” she teased, accepting a glass.

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Forget the King. This is better.”

The glasses were passed around, and Gwayne raised his own high, a look of pure triumph on his face. “To everyone in this room,” he began, his voice strong, clear, “to every single person who believed in this campaign when no one else did, who knocked on doors, who made phone calls, who put up with my bollocks day in and day out… thank you. This isn’t my victory. It’s our victory. Ours. And I promise you, I’m going to make every single one of you proud.”

Another roar of approval filled the room, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel a lump rise in her throat. She watched Gwayne, standing there with his messy hair, his loosened tie, and that damned expensive whisky in his hand.

“To Gwayne!” she shouted, raising her glass high.

“To Gwayne!” the room echoed back, and they all drank, the whisky burning a warm path down her throat. She felt Gwayne’s arm slide around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, feeling a sense of relief and joy wash over her.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he murmured in her ear, his voice soft, almost lost in the noise of the celebration. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

She turned to look at him, her heart thudding in her chest. “Oh, please,” she replied with a grin. “You did all the hard work. I just yelled at you a lot.”

He laughed, a deep, happy sound, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of them, standing in the middle of that chaotic, jubilant room. “Well, keep yelling at me,” he said, his eyes locked on hers. “Because I’ve got a feeling we’re just getting started.”

She smiled, a warm, genuine smile, and clinked her glass against his. “To Westminster,” she said.

“To Westminster,” he echoed.

But then, “Gwayne, it’s your father.”

Gwayne looked down at his phone, the name “Otto Hightower” flashing on the screen like a warning sign. He shot a glance at Y/N, who was still grinning from ear to ear, surrounded by the celebrating team. With a sigh, he swiped to answer the call.

“Father,” he said, raising his voice above the noise of the room, “calling to congratulate me, are you?”

Otto’s voice crackled through the phone, formal and clipped. “Of course, son. It’s a remarkable achievement. The family is very… proud. Your mother insisted we call. We’d like you to drop by the estate at Kew so we can celebrate properly.”

Gwayne’s face flickered with something Y/N couldn’t quite read. He glanced at her, then back at the phone. “Tonight?” he asked, a slight hesitation in his voice.

“Yes, tonight,” Otto replied. “Your sister is already on her way. It’s only right that we toast your success together, as a family. You’ve done well, Gwayne. It’s time to show the world that we stand united.”

Y/N caught his eye, sensing his indecision. She smiled, trying to keep it light. “Go on, Gwayne. They’re your family. Go celebrate with them.”

But Gwayne’s brow furrowed, his grip tightening on his phone. “Yeah, but…” he started, then turned away slightly, lowering his voice. “Look, Father, I appreciate it, really. But I think I might stay here, with my team. With the people who made this happen.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, then a slight huff of breath. “Gwayne,” Otto said, a touch of impatience creeping into his tone, “these are the optics you have to consider now. Come to Kew. Show your face. You’ve won a political seat, but don’t forget your roots. You’re a Hightower. It’s time to act like one.”

Gwayne closed his eyes, his jaw tensing. “I know,” he muttered. “I just… I need to think about it, alright?”

Otto’s voice softened just a fraction. “Just think about what this means for all of us, Gwayne. We’re waiting.”

The call ended with a click, and Gwayne stared at the screen for a moment before slipping the phone into his pocket. He turned to find Y/N watching him, an eyebrow raised.

“So?” she asked, trying to keep her tone casual. “You off to the family estate then? Sounds like a big deal.”

Gwayne frowned, his expression conflicted. “I don’t know, Y/N,” he replied, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, they want me to, but…”

Y/N gave him a playful nudge. “Go on, posh boy. It’s your moment. Go drink champagne in a fancy mansion, eat some ridiculous hors d’oeuvres, bask in the glory of finally being the golden child.”

But Gwayne shook his head, his eyes still fixed on hers. “It’s just… that’s not where I want to be tonight.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean? They’re your family. This is huge for them too.”

He sighed, leaning against the table, his gaze never wavering. “Yeah, but they weren’t the ones who stood by me through this whole bloody mess. They weren’t the ones knocking on doors, calming me down when I thought I was going to blow it, or making sure I didn’t look like a total prat on TV.”

Her grin softened, a bit of warmth creeping into her voice. “Gwayne…”

He took a step closer, his voice dropping low, just for her. “You’re the one I want to celebrate with, Y/N. You’re the one who I owe all of this to.”

She felt her breath hitch, her heart racing in her chest. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, trying to laugh it off, but her voice came out a little too shaky. “You did this, Gwayne. You won.”

Gwayne shook his head, determination in his eyes. “No, we won. Together. And I don’t want to go to some stuffy dinner with my family when I could be here, celebrating with you. With the people who actually matter.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a grin, a teasing light dancing in her eyes. “Alright then, MP,” she replied, leaning back with her arms crossed. “But if we’re going to celebrate, we’re going to do this right.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And what does right look like to you?”

“No posh nonsense,” she declared with a smirk. “I’m in the mood for a proper drink. None of this ‘hand-picked by the King’s personal sommelier’ rubbish. We’re going to my favorite pub in Camden.”

Gwayne chuckled, clearly amused. “Camden? Really?”

“Yeah, really,” she shot back, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m talking Guinness, maybe some Negronis if we’re feeling fancy. Real drinks, in real glasses, in a place where they don’t care what your last name is or whether you’ve got a seat in Parliament.”

He laughed, already feeling a sense of relief wash over him. “Alright, alright, Camden it is. I’m game.”

She grinned, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the door. “Come on, MP. Time to show you how the other half celebrates.”

Thirty minutes later, they walked into a well-worn pub in the heart of Camden, the sort of place where the tables were sticky, the music was too loud, and everyone shouted over it anyway. It was packed, warm, and smelled faintly of spilled beer and fried food. Perfect.

Y/N pushed through the crowd, leading the way with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where they were going. “Oi, Derek!” she called to the barman, a burly man with a thick beard and a friendly grin. “Two pints of Guinness, and keep them coming!”

Derek gave her a knowing nod. “Y/N, love! Been a while. You brought a friend?”

Y/N grinned back. “Something like that. This is Gwayne. Gwayne, Derek. Derek, meet Gwayne, our newest MP.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up. “MP, eh? Well, blimey, look at that! In my pub? Must be a special occasion.” He winked at Y/N. “What’s he doing slumming it here with the likes of us?”

Gwayne laughed, feeling more at ease than he had in weeks. “Trying to remember what real people are like,” he said, and Derek let out a hearty laugh, clapping him on the back.

“Good on you, mate. First round’s on me,” Derek declared, pouring their pints with a flourish.

Y/N grabbed the pints and handed one to Gwayne. “Cheers,” she said, clinking her glass against his.

“Cheers,” he echoed, taking a long, satisfying sip. The Guinness was cold and smooth, and he let out a contented sigh. “God, that’s good. I see why you like this place.”

She smirked, leaning against the bar. “Told you. No frills, just fun. And now, we celebrate properly.”

Gwayne’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Alright, then. Let’s have it. What’s next?”

She grinned. “Next, we toast. To winning. To not being a total prat. And to more nights like this.”

He laughed, raising his pint high. “To more nights like this,” he agreed, his voice filled with a happiness he hadn’t felt in ages.

They drank, they laughed, and they joked, and for once, Gwayne felt like he could actually breathe, like the weight of the election had finally lifted. He didn’t have to be the polished, perfect politician tonight. He could just be… himself.

Y/N leaned in, her voice low over the din of the pub. “See? Isn’t this better than some stuffy dinner with your dad?”

He smiled, his eyes locked on hers. “Much better,” he admitted, “though I think it has more to do with the company than the location.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin. “Flattery will get you everywhere, MP.”

“Good,” he replied with a wink, “because I’m just getting started.”

They spent the rest of the night laughing and drinking, sharing stories and toasting to every little victory. By the time they were onto their third round of Negronis — and perhaps more than a little tipsy — Gwayne realized he hadn’t felt this free in years.

As the night wore on, the pub became louder, rowdier, and Gwayne found himself leaning closer to Y/N, his shoulder brushing against hers, her laughter in his ear. He looked at her, really looked at her, and wondered how he’d managed to get so lucky.

“So, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and sincere, “if I’ve got any shot at making it in this crazy world of politics… it’s because of you. You know that, right?”

She smiled, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol, her eyes bright. “I think you’re doing just fine, Gwayne. But I’m glad to have helped knock a bit of sense into you.”

He laughed, reaching out to clink his glass against hers again. “To knocking some sense into me,” he agreed, his voice soft.

She grinned, and as their glasses met with a gentle clink, he felt that same familiar spark — the one that had been simmering between them for weeks. And tonight, with the pub alive around them and her laughter in his ear, he felt like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

A few hours later.

Y/N stumbled out of the pub, her head spinning from the pints of Guinness and the Negronis they’d downed. Gwayne was beside her, his arm draped lazily around her shoulder, his laughter echoing in the cool Camden air.

“Alright, MP,” she slurred slightly, flagging down a cab that seemed to materialize from nowhere. “Time to get you back to Belgravia before you pass out on the pavement.”

Gwayne pouted, a tipsy grin spreading across his face. “But I’m not done celebrating,” he protested, swaying slightly.

She chuckled, tugging him towards the cab. “Mate, you’re done. Trust me. Come on, get in.”

She pushed him gently into the backseat and climbed in after him, giving the driver Gwayne’s address. The cabbie nodded, pulling away from the curb.

Gwayne leaned his head back, staring at her with a goofy smile. “You’re a bossy one, aren’t you?” he slurred, his eyes half-lidded.

“Someone’s got to keep your posh arse in line,” she shot back, smirking.

He laughed, the sound warm and careless, like he’d never had a worry in his life. “S’true,” he murmured, leaning his head against the window, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “You’re my rock, Y/N.”

She chuckled, feeling the warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “Alright, Shakespeare, save it for when you’re sober.”

The cab wound its way through the quiet London streets, the lights blurring past them. Y/N’s head buzzed pleasantly, and she kept sneaking glances at Gwayne, who was still grinning like a fool.

Finally, they pulled up outside his townhouse, and the cabbie turned to look back at them. “Here we are, mate,” he said. “You alright getting out?”

Gwayne blinked, looking around like he’d just woken up. “Yeah, yeah, this is me,” he mumbled, fumbling with the door handle. He managed to push it open, but instead of getting out, he reached for Y/N’s hand, pulling her along with him.

“Oi, what are you doing?” she laughed, stumbling out after him. “You’re home. Get inside and sleep it off.”

He turned to her, his eyes wide and a bit desperate. “Wait, wait,” he said, his words slurring together. “I need you to… to punch in the code for me.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “You’ve forgotten the bloody code to your own house?”

He nodded with all the seriousness of a drunk man trying to seem responsible. “I need your help,” he insisted, tugging at her arm. “Can’t… can’t do it without you.”

Y/N sighed, but she couldn’t help the smile that crept onto her face. “Fine, fine. Come on, let’s get you inside.”

He beamed, still holding onto her arm like she was the only thing keeping him upright. “Knew I could count on you,” he said, leading her up the steps to the front door.

She punched in the code he mumbled under his breath, shaking her head in amusement. “Honestly, Gwayne, you’re hopeless.”

The door clicked open, and she nudged him inside, making sure he didn’t trip over the threshold. “Alright, you’re in,” she said, hands on her hips. “Now go upstairs and sleep, before you do something stupid.”

But he didn’t let go of her arm. Instead, he turned to face her, his expression suddenly serious, almost vulnerable. “Stay,” he murmured, his voice low and soft. “Just… for a bit. I don’t wanna be alone.”

Y/N’s heart did a weird little flip, and she swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “Gwayne, you’re pissed. You need to sleep it off.”

He shook his head, his grip on her arm tightening just a little. “Please,” he whispered, his eyes searching hers. “Just… just for a minute. I don’t want this night to end.”

She hesitated. “Gwayne, I…”

But his eyes were so earnest, so genuinely pleading, that she found herself nodding, unable to resist. “Alright,” she sighed, trying to sound annoyed but failing. “Just for a minute.”

He smiled, that boyish grin that made her insides twist, and he led her inside, closing the door behind them. The grand entrance hall was dimly lit, the soft glow of antique lamps casting shadows on the walls.

They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, and she could feel her heart racing in her chest. “Okay, you’re in,” she repeated, a bit breathless now. “Now what?”

He stepped closer, his hand still on her arm, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. “For everything. For… believing in me.”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush, and she looked away, suddenly feeling very sober. “Yeah, well,” she muttered, “someone had to.”

He laughed softly, his thumb brushing against her arm. “I think… I think it had to be you.”

She met his gaze again, and for a second, she forgot where they were, forgot everything but the way he was looking at her, like she was the only thing that mattered.

“Gwayne,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Stay,” he repeated, his eyes dark, serious.

Y/N sighed then she left Gwayne sprawled out on the leather couch, one arm dangling off the side, his head leaning back with that drunken, lopsided grin still on his face.

“Yeah, sure,” she muttered to herself, looking around his ridiculously posh townhouse. “Just for a bit, and somehow I’m now in charge of making sure you don’t choke on your own tongue tonight.”

She glanced at him one more time. “Stay put, alright? I’m getting you some water.”

Gwayne gave a lazy thumbs-up, eyes half-closed. “Water… perfect idea. You’re brilliant, Y/N. Absolutely… magnificent,” he mumbled, slurring his words, his grin widening as if he’d just had the most profound thought.

She shook her head, smirking. “You’ll thank me in the morning, trust me.”

Y/N made her way toward the kitchen, weaving slightly as the room swayed around her. She was definitely feeling the effects of those Negronis. “Right,” she muttered under her breath, “just need to get some water. How hard can it be?”

She turned the corner and entered what could only be described as a space-age kitchen — all sleek chrome and glossy surfaces, like it had been designed by some avant-garde architect who’d clearly never boiled an egg in his life. She blinked at the sight of a state-of-the-art water system built into the counter, with more buttons and screens than the bloody cockpit of a plane.

“What the hell is this?” she muttered, frowning at the contraption. “It’s a water tap, not the bloody TARDIS.”

She poked at one of the buttons, and the display lit up with a series of choices: Still. Sparkling. Ice Cold. Room Temperature. Mineral Infused. pH Balanced. Alkaline. There was even an option for Artisanal Mountain Spring, which she was pretty sure was taking the piss.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she groaned, rubbing her temples. “Why does he need this much choice for a glass of water?”

She jabbed at the Still button, but nothing happened. She tried Room Temperature. Still nothing. The machine made a faint, mocking beeping sound that she swore was laughing at her. “Come on, you fancy piece of crap,” she growled, slapping the side of it. “Give me some bloody water!”

She pressed another button, and a small panel opened up, revealing even more buttons. “Are you kidding me?” she muttered, leaning closer, trying to make sense of the digital display that was now flashing at her like she’d accidentally triggered the launch codes for a nuclear missile.

“Alright, let’s try this…” she muttered, tapping another button labeled Dispense.

The machine hummed for a moment, then spat out a single drop of water. A single, mocking drop.

“You have got to be joking,” Y/N muttered, staring at the droplet like it had personally insulted her. “Come on, work, damn you!”

She tried again, this time holding the button down longer, and finally, a stream of water began to flow — freezing cold and spraying out far too fast, splashing over the side of the glass and onto her shirt.

“Bloody hell!” she yelped, jumping back and nearly slipping on the pristine marble floor. “Why is it so complicated to get a drink in this bloody house?”

Gwayne’s voice floated in from the living room, a lazy, amused drawl. “Y’alright in there, Y/N?”

She shot a glare in his direction, even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah, fine!” she called back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just wrestling with your bloody spaceship tap!”

She finally managed to fill the glass without any more incidents and turned off the tap, which thankfully didn’t require any further button-pressing. Taking a deep breath, she made her way back to the living room, where Gwayne was now lying sideways on the couch, humming some Beatles tune to himself.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the glass into his hand. “Drink. You need water, or you’re going to wake up tomorrow feeling like a truck hit you. And I’m not in the mood to deal with your whining.”

He blinked up at her, his eyes glassy but grateful. “Thanks, Y/N,” he murmured, taking a sip. “You’re… amazing. Like, really. You know that?”

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, yeah. Drink up.”

He chuckled softly, downing the water like he hadn’t had a drink in days. “Seriously, though,” he continued, setting the glass on the coffee table, “don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She felt a flutter in her chest, but she kept her tone light. “Probably end up dehydrated on your fancy couch, for starters.”

He grinned, his eyelids drooping as the alcohol started to catch up with him. “Maybe. Or maybe I’d just… still be lost.”

Y/N’s breath hitched for a second, but she brushed it off with a chuckle. “Alright, enough with the confessions. Time for you to sleep.”

He nodded, his head lolling to the side. “Yeah… sleep sounds good,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

Y/N watched him for a moment, making sure he was actually dozing off and not about to get up and start another drunken adventure. “Goodnight, Gwayne,” she whispered, almost too softly to hear.

He mumbled something in his sleep, a smile still on his lips, and Y/N turned to leave, shaking her head. She’d gotten him home, hydrated, and onto his couch. Mission accomplished for now.

[sailor-sun-18]

~`Ballroom drabbles featuring Neuvillette, Columbina and Lyney.

~`Recommended song: Love Story - Indila

~`Let me carry you away, tonight.

NEUVILLETTE

The clinking of glass filled the air, along with the never-ending chatter with words of silver and golden wine. From the ceiling, chandeliers hung in all their glory of glistening diamond lights, shrouding the room under the spell of an enchanted fairytale.

People raised their glasses filled to the brim with glittering gold and crimson; a resounding applause echoed in the room, following the ending speech of Fontaine's Archon. Her hands moved animatedly, posture poised gracefully while her tone remained joyfully flamboyant.

You raised your own cup, lips curled into a smile as you all drank a courteous sip and the orchestra started its tune.

In no time, the white marble speckled with pink and silver resonated with the rhythmic clapping of heels whose owners were lost in their lovers' embrace, so tender and filled with unspoken affection as they let themselves sway along the notes of a simple yet elegant melody.

Your fingers traced absent-mindedly the rim of your cup where most of the wine lay untouched. Your eyes gazed with wonder at the twirling couples in the centre, unconsciously mimicking their movements as you swayed from one side to another. But your hues were focused on one person alone; the distinguished gentleman holding gently your Archon in an intimate embrace that seemed to radiate softness and unspoken affection.

Lady Furina smiled, lips stretched wide as she talked to her partner, who only nodded in response, sometimes chiding with words of his own.

For a moment, you wondered if you could be held like that too.

A tap on your shoulders halted your thoughts. You turned, eyes locking with that of an old friend. Their golden eyes crinkled slightly, "How is it?" they asked, knowing very well that was your first ball, "Feeling well?"

You gave them a small smile, as you nodded, while not-so-discreetly adding another one of those delicious delicacies filled with whipped cream and chocolate, something that prompted a laugh from them. They watched as you slowly nibbled on the pastry before stealing exactly the biggest one -the one you were carefully reserving for last- of the bunch. Their laughter continued merrily, despite your enraged protests consisting of how 'true friends don't do this', to which they answered that 'friends do, in fact, this' leaving the: 'to their favourite victim- friend' rule unspoken.

Cue the gloomy aura that soon descended on your face, as if a cloud had decided your head was the perfect home for its rain.

They laughed, poking mercilessly at your -fake- misery as you wiped away -again, fake- tears.

"Would a dance lift your spirits, my dear?" they asked, their mocking tone turning softer at the end. But before they could charm their way with sweet words, seeking for forgiveness, someone grabbed your hand and dragged you away, leaving your blond-haired friend completely dumbfounded.

Long white hair greeted your vision as luscious light blue stray strands tickled your cheeks as you stared, almost rudely, at your Archon, who didn't seem to notice until you failed to respond to one of her questions. Something that made her huff, comically appalled, as she turned towards you, before freezing completely. A flash of panic in her mismatched eye drops that was soon concealed by a flutter of lashes.

But Lady Furina, always someone for theatrics, just said something so incredibly flashy that the words just flew over your head before sliding away, hurriedly but still with an air of elegance, probably to mask her embarrassment behind the tallest tower of cake she could find.

But that left you, alone in the centre of the dance floor, where couples still twirled joyfully, without a care in their love-filled worlds. You turned and turned, searching for an exit, your robes somehow fluttering along their own colourful ones, when a hand was placed before you, palm outstretched and gloved fingers curling in a shy invitation.

"Please, allow me."

The alluring eyes of the Iudex stared at you, through long eyelashes. Their pink and violet hues masking a blue so deep; it resembled that of the sea written in fairytales: so dark yet so mesmerising.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I saw you were quite flustered, here, alone by yourself."

"It's...- you pursued your lips, flustered -fine. Thank you."

You slowly lay your hand on his, as you let him sweep you off your feet. Monsieur Neuvillette smiled softly as the two of you swayed together, the music blurring into the background, accompanying the shared chatter between the two of you.

His hold on you was delicate, almost afraid, as his deep timbre gained a softer and rounder edge. He twirled you, gently, his hands never leaving yours, fingers almost intertwined.

And some time in your dance, you caught sight of Lady Furina standing on the sidelines. Her mismatched eyes locked with yours; they crinkled slightly into two crescent moons as her hands covered her lips in a silencing gesture.

COLUMBINA

Broken shards reflected a thousand images, their sharp edges accentuating your features in speckles of gold as the broken image of your reflection stared back at you. You hummed a quiet melody as you traced absent-mindedly the golden rim, following every curve. A knock came from the door; "Come in," you said, mind still trapped into a never-ending loop. It spinned and spinned like the spindle of a fairytale. Meanwhile, your maid entered the room; her warm, gentle eyes widening at the sight of the broken mirror and the small wet and red trails circling your wrists. "Oh, dear child- she gently pricked the shards from your hands, making you sit on your bed as she grabbed your stained palms, -what happened?" she asked, fussing over you as she had always done during her younger years. You didn't give her an answer, not that she needed one as her brown hues softened once again, one of her gloved hands moving to cup your cheek, thumb tracing the faint red lines under your eye, "Don't worry, dear. Everything will fall back into its place. Now go and enjoy your birthday." and moved to smooth the wrinkles of your robes. She huffed, smiling in satisfaction, "There, now you're perfect.", as you gave her a small smile of your own. Hours passed by in a blur of colours and sweet notes of wine and music. Your gaze lingered on the dance floor, irises moving from one couple to another until a bitter taste coated your tongue. You should have been there, in your lover's arms, dancing to your hearts' content until the clock struck midnight when you would place a gentle kiss on her bold, red lips. Alas, fate was cruel, and in the place of her warm embrace was the unforgiving and cold truth of cheating behind backs and unsuspecting affection. The wine seemed to turn stale in your hands, that tightened over the transparent glass until you felt the sensation of smooth gloves cover them, halting that spiraling path of self-destruction. First, there were locks of obsidian, so long that they seemed to tie into ribbons at the ends; then the white of feathers, so pure and untouched, the colour alone sparkling bitter envy in shapes of yellow roses and marigolds. Closed eyes crinkled in delight behind a lace mask. "Wouldn't want to hurt yourself, again." she said, her tone as light as the feathers she carried on her hair. Her hold seemed to tighten over yours, "Why are you here?" she said, legs dangling from the balcony with childlike glee. You opened your mouth to respond -your gaze trailed once again on the ballroom, on the same lady who donned that sparkling red dress that complimented her bold lips perfectly- when an airy light giggle came from the dark-haired lady as she stepped down, her shoes landing on the white marble with no sound. You stood there, mouth slightly agape as she neared her face to yours, lips near your ear, her laugh airy, like a faerie's bell. She looked at you, with eyes lidded -it was still impossible to see their colour- and outstretched her arm, hand poised in midair: a silent invitation. And there was something, something so extremely captivating about her, that nullified all of your thoughts because as her fingers curled around your own, bringing you to the dance floor, you couldn't find in yourself to mind. People blurred in colours around your twirling figures. Columbina -as she had previously introduced herself- smiled lightly, humming quietly to the melody, before her head tilted slightly to the side. Your eyes followed her movement where you were met with the sight of your enraged ex-fiancé, sputtering venomous words -sounding more and more like 'how could you!" and 'betray'- in barely concealed rage at her dancing partner. Your stared, flabbergasted, when the next twirl brought your attention back to your own partner, her rosy lips wide with innocence, which prompted a laugh from your own. For a moment, when your laughter clouded your judgment, eyes crinkling shut with mirth, her own hues opened, a colour so unspokenly captivating, swirling with delight, under the envious gaze of a certain lady.

LYNEY

Voices rose around the stage, whispers of excitement and trepidation filled the room adorned by colours of crimson red and pure, clean white. Couples stopped in their dance, as more and more people flocked towards the bold red curtains, holding their breath and waiting in anticipation once the orchestra reached its momentarily end; the sounds of instruments dimming with every passing second as if they, too, could not wait any longer for the famous Lyney and Lynette's Magic Show.

And their restless waiting was rewarded because, soon, lights started to dance across the stage like fireworks, while the long and bright crimson curtains unravelled like flowers, showcasing the two magicians in all their glory of ruby and aquamarine.

The first one to approach the edge was Lyney, "Welcome everyone-" arms outstretched as he welcomed the audience, his voice boisterous, thriving under the limelight. In his hand, he held a white rose that soon withered into a crown of cards falling at his feet.

He retreated a few steps as Lynette took place on his right, "-To our magic show." and finished his phrase, albeit with a more contained voice.

Among colourful flowers and fantastic tricks, you watched, eyes filled with admiration for the two magicians, basking into the particularly magical atmosphere they had created with the first and most simple tricks. And somewhere, along the way of the enchanted evening, you found your own irises locking with light lavender more than once; each time ending with a playful wink.

And as the two bowed together, bringing the enchanting show to an end, you clapped your hands, along with everyone else, who had been perfectly captivated by their sheer talent.

The previous hustle and bustle resumed almost immediately, as the violins, violas and piano made themselves known once again, taking on a more upbeat and quicker tune.

You stood on the sidelines, a glass in your hands, pristine pink rose coloured wine swirling in elegant waves. A sudden shiver crossed your arms, turning the small waves into a bit of a jumbled mess. Paying it no mind, -because the window in the back was open, allowing the cold fontainian air to sweep in with a dance of its own- you settled it on the table and moved to join the dance: a simple one with only a few repetitive steps, not too easy yet not too tiring.

You bowed curtly to your second partner, her soft cobalt irises curling upwards, framed by her long blond locks, perfectly styled in beautiful curls. The two of you danced for a bit, before the music required, once again, a change of partners.

Soon, deep hazel eyes stared at you, prompting a sudden shiver which made you turn your own irises down, blinking almost uncomfortably as you took the man's hand. And once it was time to swap, you found your arms firmly entangled with his own, as his deep laughter reached your ears.

Somehow, the music seemed to become louder, hurried, bordering on a panicked tone as you struggled to break free, nearly bruising yourself in the process.

But as his hold tightened, it soon loosened and when you opened your eyes, you found yourself lost in soft lilac ones. The magician's cheeky visage coming into vision as he winked at you, "Figured you needed some help." his pink lips curling upwards.

"Ah... thank you."

He smiled wider, "There's no need to thank me."

His hold was gentle and almost imperceptibly soft as his thumbs slowly drew comforting circles, seeking both to ground your flustered self and to ease your worries as you finally breathed, fingers curling around the expensive red and black fabric, like a small child clinging to a mother; an action he didn't seem to mind.

"Thanks..." you repeated, lungs burning greedily, a new kind of warmth blossoming on your cheeks.

"No need" he repeated, holding you closer.

The music turned louder, no longer muffled by sheer anxiety and arising goosebumps but spurred by soft words and bashful, genuine smiles.

And when Lyney bowed one last time to his new dance partner, -a fairy skinned blond young man- proceeding to head for the sidelines, to his awaiting sister. He tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing at a certain gentleman -who was conveniently his target for the night- cowering under his gaze, a lone withered rainbow rose between his hands. As he joined Lynette's side once again, his lavender irises always managed to find their way back to you, admiring the way you danced, robes fluttering elegantly behind you. And-

Ah... he forgot to ask your name.

Lynette just sighed at her brother.

[thedarkheretic156]

VIII Eternal Flame VIII

The final moon before the feast dawns on the young demigod, and with it, it's threatening consequences.

Parts: ❧ I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX❧

Warnings: Fem Afab reader, she/her pronouns. Angst, mentions of death, violence, slight nsfw (if you squint).

Even as a child, I remembered how the fire dancers in the east would tell stories of the old. Their fires in hues I had never seen before. Deep crimsons and pale yellows with greens that rivalled rain forests. That was the first time I realised that every flame was different. 

The dancers moved and their long braids swished around them, their movements sharp and lithe, not missing a beat. Fire dancing was an old tradition, performed every year, one night before the feast of manana. It was called the ceremony of the Khar-moon, the incomplete moon.

It was less a form of entertainment and more of a ritual, a portrayal of faith towards the Goddess. They said that the performers practiced all year long just for those few minutes on stage. And it never failed to take my breath away, twirling on the stage, aglow with the torches behind them, the dancers looked like flames personified.

This year, I knew the story well. It was the same boring text my aunt had grated into my brain. She would even sit me down and make me recite it over and over, until the words clouded my thought the moment, I closed my eyes. So, it wasn’t surprising that I recognised it at once. They were telling the tale of ‘the hearth’. The beginning of all life. Or what we understood of it. 

The dancer dressed as the hearth was in silver and orange, their eyes lidded, a beacon of peace and tranquillity. The music fanned, low and rhythmic as the singer began the first song.  Their clear voice rang out, rippling through the crowd.

My palms sunk into the grass as I leaned forward eagerly. My aunt swatted my ankle, “sit properly!" but the swelling music drowned out her voice.

They sang of how every fire was born from the Hearth. Each eventually taking different forms. Dancers dressed in gold twirled around the Hearth. The fire of the stove, I recognised. Gold bangles glittered around their wrists as they moved, calling fire that looked like molten gold, its flames docile and controlled.

The music shifted suddenly, becoming faster, louder just as a dancer in scarlet jumped high from between them, red flames curling around their wrists. The flame that lights the torch for war.

All the flames gathered around the hearth and bowed deeply. Paying respect to the one that birthed them. And that’s the end of the story, I thought.

“Can we leave, father? -” I started and my aunt hissed me into silence. I furrowed my brow; was there more?

It was then that another dancer jumped up front, my heart jumped at the sudden action. Their clothes were blue, flowing around them like water, replicating the shades that flickered within my flames.

It was a harsh contrast to the others dressed in shades saffron. A stranger, an anomaly.

I remembered feeling a pit in my stomach, the curiosity I had for the play suddenly dissipating like someone had put out a candle.

My flames were blue.

And I wasn’t told this part of the story.

It did not bow to the hearth, the dancer flicked their blue robes arrogantly, the fabric rising like the audacious plume of a peacock. I gulped nervously as my aunt finally pulled me back on the seat. I heard her mutter sharply but my father shushed her down,

"Leave her be Hathor." He grumbled.

I felt my breath shallow. As the head clan, I sat with my family at the very front. Placed closest to the stage, second only to the Gods. It was the highest honour, something to wear with pride, yet I wanted to crawl away. I couldn’t help but curl my fist around my father’s robes in anticipation. While every eye was on the performer, I was the one who felt the burn of their gaze.

The blue flame was different. I was told I was born with divinity. But there was nothing divine about this flame Without a shred of warmth, something born in hell, far away from the fire of a hearth.

The flames that dance on a pyre.

An immortal bound in death.

Even now, years later, as I stared at the Khar-moon high in the sky I couldn’t help but remember the performance, the fire dancers, and the pit in my stomach.

One night before the feast of manana.

I tore my eyes away from the moon, no point in brooding over that now. I looked over at Sesshomaru and he was already halfway down the hill. Prideful steps, not even bothering to look over his shoulder. So, it had taken him about 4 seconds before he went back to his mutt like ways.

I shook my head, gathering the hem of my kimono so I wouldn’t trip and land on his head. Rin and Jaken could be anywhere down the mountain. And it was about time I greeted them.

❧ 

“It’s a human village.” I realised, “We’re staying here?” I asked, genuinely surprised. Sesshomaru and his disgust towards humans was more than apparent, why in the world would he set camp in a human village?

His eyes looked back as I trotted up to him. In the darkness of the night, it was hard to tell, but there something haunting about this place. I pulled my eyes towards the village again. There was a morbid silence that coveted the landscape. The small bamboo knit cottages looked empty, abandoned. Like a painting standing still before us, there was nothing alive in this village.

“It’s been deserted…” I stated. A strange nervousness settled in me,

“Humans.” He said, his voice basically a pained sigh, “cowardly creatures.” 

I started back at him in horror, what kind of a person thinks a deserted human village is a good resting spot? Even I knew that humans emptying out entire villages was bad news. And not just the ayakashi kind, the apocalyptic prophecy kind.

“It better not be plagued.” I tell him,

Sesshomaru just scoffed in response, “Try and keep up.” He replied, “I won’t come searching for you a second time.”

I gave him a sarcastic smile before starting to walk.

A singular fire burned in the still landscape, like a dying ember. Despite everything that had happened in this short period, I had always found myself back here. Maybe it was suiting that I spend my last night with them. The khar moon was already high in the sky, and I could feel the exhaustion of the travel weigh down on my shoulders. I dragged my feet down, trying to push unnecessary thoughts away. Spending your last night in a plagued town. I thought, how poetic.

❧ 

Jaken cried more than Rin. Which was surprising.

“W-what a r-relief.” Jaken sobbed out loudly, I looked over at the goblin grinning, “You did miss me how cute.”

Rin ran into an embrace, her wiry arms clutching onto my kimono like she was afraid to let go again. There wasn’t anything childlike in the way she cried, no angry tears, no broken sobs, just silent tears of relief. I stood frozen in my place, just…unsure. My arms felt like lead, and in that moment despite how glad I was to see the human child alive I couldn’t make myself show it.

Something tugged at my heart, but I pushed it aside at once.

Humans are delicate creatures. Death comes to them swiftly, whisking them away like they never existed. Befriend them and you live on with their ghosts.

I patted her head awkwardly, “Hey it’s okay.” I said. “I’m okay.”

The child pulled away reluctantly, she nodded wiping a runny nose with the back of her hand, “are you s-sure?” she sobbed out.

I stepped back so I could give her a turn, “All good, see?”

Rin gave me a skeptical look, “You don’t look very good.” She replied.

I threw back my head and laughed, my voice ringing out in the midnight sky. I looked down at the kimono I was wearing. It was one of Sango’s pink ones, and I had really put it through hell and back. “Do you have a spare?” I asked jokingly.

Rin peeked a smile watching me laugh, a sense of relief rushing to her face. “Follow me!” she chirped, the old self I knew slipping back. I grinned at the little skip in her step as she sprinting down towards the cottage. “It’s the one behind the big tree!” she said giddily, pointing towards a bamboo knit cottage. I grabbed the hem of my kimono, not realising the easy smile lacing my lips and ran after her.

❧ 

Jaken patted down his own tears, “I’m so glad you found her Lord Sesshomaru!” He said, “Rin must be so relieved now.”

Sesshomaru grunted in response, watching the human child skip towards the cottage and the woman clutching on to the all too big kimono to keep up with her. The two of them laughed, bare feet skidding on the dew-covered grass. A human world of their own.

It had been less than a month since the strange woman had appeared, Sesshomaru shook his head, he had saved her. He assured himself. Returned her safely, yet the daiyokai couldn’t seem to quiet his thoughts. The haunting stories of the infamous blood moon somehow sneaking up on him, ringing constantly at the back of his mind.

He tossed his hair over his shoulder, turning away. Once the wretched crimson moon had passed us, he thought, It’ll be quiet again.

❧ 

Rin grinned wide, stretching out her hands to show all the space we suddenly had. This cottage was way better than any we had come across before. With all the travelling and avoiding humans, there was hardly any liveable spaces to begin with. Much less an entire village. Rin dug into one the chests in the cottage pulling out spare clothes, they had even left clothes behind. 

This place… its like the humans had just randomly disappeared into thin air. They had left everything behind. Clothes, pots of grains and rice, children’s toys scattered on the grass like they had disappeared while playing.

I jumped as Jaken snored loudly in the background. This sound I had not missed.

Rin giggled at my expression, “Master Jaken couldn’t sleep at all, while you weren’t here.”

“That’s…” I started, “Surprising.” 

I took the new kimono Rin had offered me, finally pulled off Sango’s borrowed one I had on. Man I had really put these poor clothes through the apocalypse. Every time I got a new one, I’d just get attacked by something or the other.

Rin’s eyes pinned on the bandages, wide with worry,

She opened her mouth but the words seemed to hang in her throat.

“Someone very skilled helped me with it.” I assured her, although I didn’t know if kagome’s grass medicine could be categorized as very skilled, it had saved my life like it was ambrosia of the Gods. 

Naraku’s poison had quite literally charred through my skin, clumped out the flesh. Nothing I hadn’t seen before, but this mortal body didn’t heal the way my ayakashi one did.

“Does it still hurt?” she asked timidly.

“No.” I lied. 

Her thumbs fiddled with the hem of the checkered fabric, “Who was the woman that attacked us?”

“Does it matter?” I asked. “We run into ayakashi all the time.” I said, She was so young. I thought, at her age all I cared about was chasing fire birds and setting yokai on fire. She shouldn’t feel the need to carry that much.

“This one unfortunately was the bad kind, that’s all” I tried to convince her, the lesser she knew about all this mess the better.

Rin’s face fell regardless, 

What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I just thought…” Her voice wavered, lower lip quivering as she pulled on a brave façade, “I thought you got hurt.” She completed finally.

I turned on my side to look at her. Her eyes looked glassy from the tears, the runny nose and ears red from the cold, bony elbows sticking out of the blanket and a swelling mosquito bite on her cheek.

“No one would tell me what happened.” she said quietly. “Then Lord Sesshomaru left too, and I just had to wait here.” She completed.

Sudden anger flared in me, after everything she had witnessed, all he did was take off without a word? At least I was trying to make up lies.

“But it wasn’t just that.”  Rin replied, cheeks puffed from trying not to cry, “It was that other thing.”

I turned my head towards her, “What do you mean?”

Rin’s face paled, uncertainty flickering in her eyes, “I don’t know what it was.” She started,

And I felt my heart drop. “I-, I think I saw something when we met that woman in the forest.”

“It wasn’t her, it felt darker,” her voice quivered, “Meaner, like there was something more than just the lady before us.”

She gulped, eyes glazing as she tried to remember, “It was all around her looming over the forest, like a spider made of shadows,” she said softly. 

I felt myself holding my breath.

“It’s like I could feel how-” Tears welled up in her eyes again, “Wei, it wanted to hurt you so badly.” She croaked out.

Something bitter curled in my mouth,

Rin shook her head, her voice got very low, “I don’t even know if it was real, or I’m going crazy.”

She sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, “but I know what I felt. I know it, even though I couldn’t see” her brow knitted in frustration, “And even though master Jaken said it was in my head.” her eyes finally met mine, she shuddered, “Am I crazy?”

I stared at her, out of all the things I thought she would have to say…

“You’re not crazy.” I told her, knowing that I should probably just agree with Jaken and tell her she dreamed it. Keeping her away from all of this mess was the best mercy I could grant her. And yet I couldn’t make myself lie to her. At the end of it she deserved to know the danger before us, something we would soon be facing down whether I like it or not.

“The spider…” my voice trailed, how much of everything do I even tell her. “He exists.” I confirmed.

Just the memory made the scars on my chest sting, “and he did want to hurt me.”

I pulled my eyes to the shadows on the hay roof of the cottage, dancing in the dark like the curling legs of the spider. His strength had completely caught me off guard and the helplessness I had felt in his clutches still haunted me. I hated to admit it but the thought that I would probably be dead before I see him again was relieving.

“Why?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

I shook my head, “What matters is that he couldn’t.” But he will try again and again. If he wants hellfire then I’m his only link to it. I pursed my lips,

Rin’s silence rang of hesitation.

“Lord Sesshomaru can protect us from him.” She finally said, trying to sound dutiful.

“Yeah.” I mimed out absently. Honestly I’d like to think that too. Sesshomaru hadn’t ever shown me the extent of his powers, But if Inuyasha and the others don’t stop him from mining that ore, maybe even the daiyokai of the east won’t be able to stop him.

“Could you sense him too?” she asked hopefully, “The way I did?”

I shook my head, “Not really.”

Thinking back to the encounter, my reaction was purely instinctual, I hadn’t even noticed naraku’s powers until after I was already in his void. It wasn’t uncommon for humas to see demons. But it was nearly impossible for them to sense their magic. And Rin had seen naraku’s miasma even before he had shown up.

My heart felt heavy, now the coincidences were getting too cruel.

“But,” I started, my mouth felt like sandpaper, “There are some humans who can see and sense more than others.” I told her.

In the east we called it the gift of Manana, blessed by the moon with the power of premonition. Someone who could see terrible things before they actually happened. Wei, the real Wei, had the same powers.

I gave her a pained smile, “Just think of it as a gift.”

Rin looked horrified, “I don’t want it.” She croaked out. “I don’t ever want to see anything like that again.”

“It’s not all too bad.” I replied, “I knew someone who had a similar ability. She could sense things, before they actually happened.”

Not that it prevented her death, I thought bitterly.

“So, I can learn how to control it?” Rin asked.

Wei had learned to control it, I remembered. It was painted in my mind like an ink scroll painting.

Her eyes lidded as she sat before the fire, and her face crinkling as I broke her meditation. She would hiss out of frustration when I continued to egg her on, her leaf green eyes opening wide, “even the toddlers in the village know better, y/n, Toddlers!”

I averted my eyes painfully, “I guess you can.”

Rin flexed her fingers as if expecting the magic to show up on her palms, “How do I do that?”

“I don’t know.” I replied quickly, pushing away the torrent of emotions that often-accompanied Wei’s memories.

“Maybe you could ask your friend.”

“No.” I replied sharply.

I can’t ask her. Not anymore.

They would have gotten along. I had realised that the moment I had met Rin. wet tears slipped down my cheekbones sliding over the shell of my ears.

"Wei are you crying?" Rin's sleep heavy voice called out,

I felt my vision grow cloudy. 

"No." I sniffled.

Rin hand threw an arm over my torso, "it's okay" the child mumbled, "I missed you too."

“You say you wouldn’t do that for anyone.” She had sniggered, twirling the scared bells around before bonking it on my head,

I pushed her hand away angrily and she had laughed, “But I bet you’d do that for me.”

I sat up suddenly. 

“Where are you going?” Rin asked,

“Go to sleep.” I told her, I ran a hand along the nape of my neck, it was drenched in sweat. The cottage was too warm, and my mind was too heavy with the thoughts. I pulled my hair up in a knot. It was my last night before my death, and I didn’t want to spend it under a covered roof.

❧

The spring looked prettier than usual, but it didn’t help that the water in it was biting cold.

I groaned as I lowered myself in the spring slowly. With the full moon on the morrow, there was no scarcity of moonlight. A view like that would have enchanted anyone, mortal or not. I sank into the numbing cold water, my fingers trailing over my arm absently. This body the curse had put me in had only started to feel like mine. It was brittle and lanky, so weak I dared not test its limits. But I had surprised myself with everything it did withstand.

Maybe it wasn’t that easy to kill humans after all.

With everything I had survived, I wondered how exactly death would come for me under the moon tomorrow. I let my head roll back in thought. I didn’t even have the capacity to think how I was to die tomorrow. I took in a deep breath pulling myself under the surface.

It felt calm underwater, the water cancelled out the sounds of the forest. God, what would I give to fall asleep under the surface just like this. This would be a nice death, like you’re drifting away to sleep. It would be a sad death; they probably wont even sing of me in the east. I stayed under water until my lungs screamed for air, eventually bopping my head up over the surface.

“human.”

His sight just left me frozen,

What the actual fuck was he doing here now.

It was a little pathetic how much I ogled him as he lowered himself into the spring slowly.

His body was that of a warrior, honed over the years, stripped with scars, some fading some brazen. I couldn’t imagine how many stories he had to tell about just the scars on his arms.

I tried to keep my eyes on his torso, trying not to dip any lower than the magenta marks around his waist.

But while the chilly mist rising from the spring was thick, it was not opaque enough. His shamelessness in my presence was surprising, but then again, he probably thought of me like a bug. Who covers themselves in front of insects?

Even in the hot spring, he settled down like a king on a throne. His silver hair pooled around him like molten starlight. With the damp hair matted across his forehead, and the slitted amber eyes peeking through the bangs, he looked every bit the god they painted him in the folk tales.

I averted my eyes awkwardly, heat rushing to my face. My body remembering the time he had actually let his reatsu out after we had hunted the boar. The way it had crawled over my senses, overwhelming me until I could feel it in the back of my throat- stop it. I screamed at myself, pressing my thighs together.

“What are you doing here?!” I snapped at him. Even after being in a human body my demon instinct still persisted and I did not have the time to deal with how badly my ayakashi-self wanted to ride him.

“Your scars.” He stated casually,

I looked down finally realising that I was also naked before him. I gulped, “urm, yes.” I replied awkwardly. In the moonlight it looked even worse than it actually was.

“It’s still poisoned.” He stated. “I can still smell his miasma off of you.”

I winced as he said that, brushing my fingers over the wounds. I had been afraid of that being the case, even without my ayakashi senses, I could feel the poison in the wounds, keeping them from healing properly. Remanets of his disgusting magic that have permanently branded themselves on my body.

“It will only fade in his death.” I sighed, a miasma like that is connected to an ayakashi’s soul.  

“You won’t have to wait too long for that.” He replied.

I felt very cold, “What do you mean?” I whispered out.

His voice sent chills ran down my spine. “Isn’t it obvious?” he snarled out, “I am going to seek out the spider.”

My jaw slacked, “what do you mean seek him out?”

His eyes flicked towards me, already annoyed, “Do you think I’m a coward that sits back silently, Human?” he growled,

I shook my head, “You cannot defeat him.”

He snarled in reply, the sound making the hair on my arms stand.

“Not another word-” He growled out.

I felt a lump in my throat as his amber eyes narrowed, they were truly a beautiful colour, I forced myself to think clearly, “You don’t know what he’s capable of.” I told him.

Sesshomaru grunted, “How strong he seemed to a human like you is irrelevant.” He replied, “To so much so as look at someone under my protection was a death sentence.”

“He will pay for this insolence towards me. For even thinking of challenging me. For a spider like that to do this…” he growled out, “How humiliating.”

What stung my heart was how familiar it all was. His words, ego masquerading as nobility. How selfish the words truly sounded.

It sounded like me.

“To you?” I scoffed out, my voice low.

“I am standing here and I can fucking feel what he did to my body.” I told him, the scars, the phantom pain, the fear will never wash away. “And you have the audacity to talk about how he slighted you?”

My breathing was heavy and angry. “Because that’s what it is, isn’t it?” I said, “you’re just worried about what the world will think of you, the great daiyokai bested by a spider.”

Tears pricked at my eyes, “She used to tell me revenge is selfish, and I… I just couldn’t understand her.” I mumbled out.

My shoulders slumped; I am a fool.

All my fucking life, I had created an idea of myself. The great demigod, a ruthless warrior, and I had truly believed I was meant to live that life. But in the end, it had all been so meaningless. What had that gotten me? I had lived through my immortal life haunted by Wei’s voice, buried under the weight of her death. Tortured by just the thoughts of all that could have been. The whole truth shattered around me into a million pieces. 

I buried my face in my fingers, my legs going very weak.

“What I thought would give her peace, was truly just a step I took for myself. I should have pressed that ego down. I should have stayed with her, somewhere I knew it was what my heart wanted. But I was scared that the act would be called too cowardly.”

“I failed her.” I completed. “I failed her in every way.”

The taunting voices in my head were dead silent.

“Tell me Sesshomaru.” I asked him, “Do you wish to kill him because by attacking me he questioned your authority? That you felt emasculated that someone under your protection was taken from right under your nose. Or is it truly because you wish to bring someone justice?”

He stared at me silently as I continued.

“There’s a difference, you know. A difference I just realised existed.” I shook my head, giving out a dry laugh.

“One you do for your own ego, to put someone who has defied you in their place. To tell the world that you aren’t the coward. The second…” my voice trailed away. Why hadn’t I understood such a simple thing when she was alive?

“What of the second, human?” he hissed out.

I looked up at the daiyokai sadly, “The second you do out of love.”

He actually laughed, which I soon realised was a lot more horrifying than his poker face.

He turned his head away, “It’s this trait of you humans that I cannot understand. You worry too much about your fragile lives, it’s foolish, weak.” 

I frowned, my own anger bubbling up to the surface.

“Not only that, you begged me to abandon you to save her.” He continued.

His amber eyes slitted, the mountains around us seemed to shift, “you are fooled if you think you’re not weak.”

 He’s exactly like me.

Rein in your temper daughter of the hills, the voices sang,

But you can’t put out fires from hell.

"You talk of how I'm lesser for saving Rin, yet you came crawling to search for me remember?!" I said pointing a wrinkly finger at him,

Sesshomaru looked like I had just slapped him across his face. The water around me chilled. I knew the moment I should stop yapping, but my bitter temper just continued to pour out.

“You’re the one that’s weak and cowardly.” I snarled out. “Cowering away under the guise of arrogance when all you have is your empty honour. Even the measly humans you seem to hate show more chivalry.”

His growl rang in my ears as he charged. Within a second his fingers were curled around my throat, pinning me down.

His hair fell around me like a rain of starlight, his ragged breath fanning my face as his fangs slipped out. My heart hammered in my chest, as he spoke, “You have constantly, tested my patience human.” His grip tightened around me, nails digging into my skin.

“Do it.” I spat out. The anger in his eyes flickered, taken aback with something of the same ferocity staring back. After everything I had gone through, with my death facing me down tomorrow, did he think a tantrum would scare me?

 “You’re only angry because I’m right.” I gurgled out. “Wei tried telling me that.” I told him, watching his brow furrow with confusion. His grip loosened and I pushed him away.

,It may be that mortal lives are delicate, but they aren't like flowers that wilt away. Many like battle scars leave their mark. They are immortalised in memories, daughter of the hills. Even bound to death, they are worth living.

“Maybe my death will make you realise that.”

❧

I strode towards the camp angrily, in my rage I hadn’t even dried myself, just draped my kimono over my body, screamed at him and left. 

I cringed a little, such dramatics. Couldn’t have just dried myself before making such impactful exit. Now the clothing along with me was sopping wet, water dripping down at my feet making small puddles as I walked back.

Something rustled making me halt. As I stared, a strange figure seemed to loom around the opening of the groove.

I furrowed my brow, the silhouette looked like that of a child that was crouched over. Did Rin follow me all the way here? I craned my neck, about to call her out when the figure spoke up first.

“Does mortality fare you well? Daughter of the hills?”

The voice was light and girlish, unrecognizable. My heart went still,

It couldn’t be.

The figure stepped forward, striding into the moonlight so I could see her.

It was a child, yet it wasn’t. The alarm that rang in my bones wasn’t from fear, it was recognition. The more I looked at her, the more inhuman she looked. Markings adorned her body, inky lines running up her face and arms, whorls made of runes mapped like galaxies on her body.

It was the same creature, that 14 moon before had appeared before me differently. My breath shallowed as time slowed around me.

The crone.

I raged towards the crone, but it felt like someone had tied boulders to my feet. Illusion magic? The invisible weight slammed me into the ground. The impact knocking the breath out of me.

She pointed a chubby finger at my face, “Have you learned nothing?”

I looked up at her aghast, the girl was no bigger than Rin, barefoot with windswept hair like she had just casually wandered out of a nearby village. She tossed a flat- stone between her hands, giving me a grin that missed a front tooth. “By now you should know you can’t compete with me.”

I growled angrily at her words, my nails dug into palms so hard I drew blood, while, she just watched me a mocking smile.

I knew it was the unnerving eyes, the iris was completely white, blinded by a cloudy white haze, like the moon peeking from behind clouds. Her unyielding gaze was pinned on me. I knew in that moment it was nothing but her gaze that had pinned me to the ground.

Don’t fucking stay down this time.

I pushed through the invisible weight with everything I had. The more I struggled against it the worse it seemed to get, gripping down my bones until they broke. I screamed through the pain, the pressure sending a stream of blood down my nose. The first time I couldn’t face her, this time- I will not go down that easily. With spots dancing before my eyes, I managed to drag myself up to my knees. My smouldering gaze finally met her, “Give m-!”

Within a second the pressure doubled, it felt like someone had grabbed my shoulders and slammed me back into the ground with a thud.

“Mmph!”

She put a hand to her ear theatrically, “I’m sorry, what was that?” the cheeky tone of her voice really pissed me off. “Couldn’t hear you with your face planted in the dirt.”

I looked up at her painfully, spitting out grass. “Give me...” I growled out. “My powers back.”

The kid gave me a toothy grin, “Even if I did,” She said cheekily, “You know your current body won’t be able to contain it right? Your flames are so ruthless, they won’t even show their own master any mercy.” She giggled as if it was the funniest thing in the world, “They’ll roast you from the inside out!”

I looked at her morbidly, “I miss the crone.”

The girl laughed, “We’re not much different.” 

“Why are you here?” I asked. “What more could you possibly want?” I told her, “You have taken everything. Everything.”

My neck felt like it was going to snap from the pressure, “My powers, my body, everything that made me, myself. You stripped me of my very being” I cried out.

The creature sighed, “yes, how unfortunate.”

My anger surfaced again “You vile masochistic demon.” I snarled out, thrashing on the ground as the invisible force continued to pin me, “What did you gain by putting me through all of this?”

The child arched an eyebrow,

“So your mother levelling mountains because someone ticked her off is divine, but me cursing a sad demigod is vile?” She challenged, “Such double standards.” She said clicking her tongue, “I was right the first time, your ayakashi blood does make you stupid.”

My eyes widened, my mother?

I felt my mouth go very dry, I should have figure that the scorching light wasn’t just any spell, it was divine spirit energy. No ayakashi can put curses out like that. No, I realised bitterly, it wasn’t a curse at all, it was a prophecy.

A Goddess.

She could bend everything that the moonlight fell over. Bathed in divine light, the goddess of the crimson moon.

Just like the different phases of the moon she appears different each time.

Oh seven hells. Maybe I should apologise for calling her a masochist.

My jaw tightened, “You’re her.” I gasped out, goosebumps flooding my body, “You are Manana.”

A ghost of a smile played at her lips, the blind eyes crinkling at the sound of her name, “Well then,” she said, sounding very pleased. “Now that you know, we can actually begin.”

“What do you want?” I said, feeling the exhaustion in my bones. I had fought for this stupid human life for days, scrambling to keep myself alive. I hadn’t expected mortality to be so heavy.

“What I want?” She asked, giving out another laugh, “I thought you would be rubbing your nose at my feet begging me to spare your life tomorrow.” She completed. “Tell me daughter of the hills, do you not fear the fate tomorrow’s crimson moon will bring you?”

Considering how much it did scare me, I should have been begging her for life. For most demigods in the stories, begging for mercy to a Goddess worked out well.

“Unless..” She picked up on my thoughts, “That’s no longer what you wish for.”

I pulled myself to tell her what was truly ripping me from the inside, “If Naraku holds my dying heart, he’ll get his hands on hellfire.” I said,

“But my death will prevent that” I explained flatly, “There won’t be a beating heart to hold.” I told her bitterly. My eyes met her’s with a broken smile, “it’s not much, but I can accept a death like that.” It’s the best defence I can provide the others.

The ends of her mouth twitched, “Are you really naive enough to believe that something so mundane as death would stop him?” She replied, “There’s no stopping his ambition. He’ll find a way to attain your flames even if he has to carve out your corpse.”

 No. I mouthed.

“That’s not what was supposed to happen.” I whispered out, my throat going very dry, my death won’t matter. He will continue to hunt everyone I will leave behind.

I curled my fists, “You don’t understand, this isn’t just about me anymore.” I looked up at her, trying to gather any shred of sympathy. “If he gets his hands on my flames, I–“ I shook my head, “I don’t even know what all he would be capable of.” I looked up at sudden desperation closing up my throat, “No one else understands.”

“Not Sesshomaru not inuyasha and the others, they don’t fucking understand how powerful he is.” But I do.

I felt the brunt of his powers firsthand, the poison in his miasma and how his talons tried to carve out my heart. “They will not be able to stand up to him.”

“And?” she asked.

My words faltered, “And?” I cried out angrily, My voice cracked, “The death and destruction he will bring would be a thousand times worse than what I did.”

“Human lives obviously.” The Goddess said, “Naraku’s descent into power will spark a war bartered in lives, ayakashi and humans.” She flicked the flat-stone and it disappeared mid-air.

“But it’s a war that does not concern you.” She said, “It is something you won’t even have to deal with at all. What has changed so much, that it has you pleading, daughter of the hills?”

“That doesn’t…” I pursed my lips, no longer knowing what exactly to say. I will die tomorrow. And whatever fucked up shit naraku is brewing I won’t be a part of it. Wasn’t that the easiest way out of it?

“I can’t just leave now.” I said finally, my head dropped, No matter how much the fire clan sang about glorious deaths, and how much I thought I desired a gore-y end on a battlefield. I realized I wanted to live. Even as a sad, unattractive, mortal, mountain girl. I still wanted to live. Especially now. Especially now that I’m-

My voice quivered, “I’m leaving behind too much.” I rasped out. “With my hellfire, I can give them a chance.”

“What does it really matter which tyrant holds the flames?” She tilted her head, “Do you think he would use it any different than what you did?”

The world around me went very still. Hellfire isn’t something I deserved either.  

I begged her, “I know… I know I deserve my end.” I bowed to the divinity before, surrendering every sense of ego I had, “So please, Please” -

I thought of Rin and Kagome, and all those who had shown me so much kindness. They would all fall under his hand, hounded by my flames. The same flames I could have used to protect them. Even if I can’t change my destiny.

“I don’t have anything else to barter.” I replied, “You already have my life, so I can only beg this to you.”

“You can’t let Naraku get my flames.” I told her,

“I don’t care what you have to do to this body for that.” I continued, burned, eaten by animals, “Whatever brutal death I’m fated to tomorrow” I said, “Please, make sure it rids my entire existence, and I’ll pull my hellfire back into hell with me.”

There was a momentary silence, where I thought, she would start laughing again. But the Goddess just hummed curiously.

“Fine then, daughter of the hills.” She spoke, the voice ringing out hauntingly in the grove.

My eyes widened

“Tomorrow when death comes for you, I’ll allow you a chance.”

The Goddess beckoned her powers and magic shook the forest awake. I could feel the ancient, strange spirits of the forest peek over the shadows around us. Stirring from years of slumber to witness another prophecy.

Her white iris gleamed, “Just one.”

I stared at her in absolute silence. Just like the first time I had encountered her, the temperature around me dropped, making my ears ring painfully.

The tips of her lip curled, “I’ll give you one chance to change your destiny, where you can seize back your flames, return to a life of immortality.”

As I watched, the markings on her face began to glow, knowing what was coming I shielded my eyes from the blinding light. It still seemed to sear into my skin, like I had embraced a burning star.

“Daughter of the hills, death will come for you under the crimson moon.” Her voice boomed around me, “But as the blood moon rises for my feast, I shall grant you one final bargain. Take it, and you’ll find your flames again.”

When the light died, I was still on the ground, my kimono soiled from dirt and sweat. As I came to myself, I felt my heart hammer in my chest, a singular thought running in my mind.

Even if the earth splits open and the sky shatters around me, even if it was nearly impossible, even if I only had one chance, somehow, anyhow, I had to survive.

❧

“Wei!” Rin called out in the darkness and I jumped.

In the dark she looked like a little tent, sitting up on her knees the moment I walked back into the cottage.

“Didn’t I tell you to sleep?” I sighed,

The child looked at me expectantly, “I was thinking about what you said earlier.”

I shook my head, far too exhausted to think about this again, “Rin I really don’t want to talk about this.”

“Hear me out.” She persisted as I dropped down on the mattress beside her.

“Next time.” She told me, “When I see something, we can just run away together.”   

She said it with such sincerity I wheezed. That did seem like a simpler solution.

“Don’t laugh!” Rin said, her fingers tugged the sleeve of my kimono, “Promise me.” She said seriously, “Promise me that the next time we’re in danger you won’t stay back alone.” her sound was barely was a whisper, but it hung in the icy air like a sword over my neck.

“Promise me that we’ll run away together.” 

I stared back at her,

One chance.

I tried to give her a small smile. One

A fool’s bargain, yet a bargain nonetheless.

“I promise.”

❧

GUESS WHICH SLOTH JUST UPLOADED?????

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

Hi sunny!! I’ve been dying to see a little more from the spoon of love AU, the one where Bilbo thinks he’s married to Thorin because he ate from his spoon.

So can you write me a Sweet Romantic treat with the prompt Homesick? And maybe combined with the fufftober prompt Stormy Night?

Cheers 🎃

First off, thank you so much! I'm so excited to post To Spoon Feed You Comfort in January and I'm glad you're excited too! This was quite a prompt, but I think I met the challenge. 😉 I set this during their stay in Laketown, please enjoy!

The lightning snaked across the window to Bilbo’s room, and after a few seconds the thunder rumbled enough to shake the entire house. The rain like frozen balls of ice beating against the roof had Bilbo giving up on any and all pretenses of sleep. With a sigh he pulled himself out of his oversized man bed, and started making his way down stairs. He thought perhaps sitting in front of the large parlor fireplace might help. He just didn’t expect the room to already be occupied. He froze on the last step as Thorin turned his head to pierce him with his stare, pipe hanging from his mouth.

“Master Bag- Bilbo. What are you doing up?”

“Can’t be expected to sleep with all this going on.” Bilbo gave a small smirk, gesturing vaguely to the noise of the storm. 

Thorin nodded his head as he waved him over to the other chair. Bilbo thanked him kindly and slid into the seat, trying and failing to keep from staring. Thorin was a work of art. Something to marvel at as he traced the lines of his face with his eyes. Watching the flames of the fire play off the golden tones of his skin. Making his usually sky blue eyes look dark and intense. And the silver in his hair shines gold. Having caught his staring, Thorin raised an eyebrow and Bilbo quickly ducked his head. 

He didn’t know what to say. What he could say. Ever since Thorin has learned the truth, Bilbo has been more unsure than ever around him. It made him long to go back. Back before the quest. He wondered if his life would be any easier if he had just allowed one of those hobbits clamoring to make him their husband eat from his spoon instead. He gave a bitter smirk. Probably not. He found, especially on a night like this, that he missed the gentle nature of his Shire. The forgiving weather, the lush grass beneath his toes, and the sleepy nature that didn’t demand. Didn’t rush. Left him time to his thoughts and his actions. 

“You’re thinking of home again.” Thorin mused.

Bilbo’s heart jumped at Thorin’s use of the word ‘home’. Not Bilbo’s home, but just home.

“I’m sorry, what?” He asked breathlessly.

“You have this look about you every time you think of the Shire.” Thorin clarified, his eyes glued to the flames. “You must miss it greatly.”

That was where he was wrong, and it was something that seemed to jar Bilbo. He missed his Shire but he didn’t miss it greatly. 

“I imagine it must be like you and Erebor.” Bilbo responded breathlessly.

Thorin hummed in agreement. “Being this close, it’s like I can hear the voice of the mountain again. It’s a melody that’s been missing for a long time.”

Bilbo smiled as he took Thorin’s hand and gave it a short squeeze, accidentally jolting Thorin back to the present. Bilbo cleared his throat and pulled his hand away.

“I want to give it back to you. You’re almost there.”

Thorin gave him the start of a smile, his eyes boring into him.

“I’ve thought about it, you know. What stone I would give?”

Bilbo shook his head. “Stone?” He questioned.

“Like your spoons.” He clarified. “Only it’s just a statement of intent, not outright marriage.”

Bilbo’s mouth popped open at the exact moment the lightning flashed again. He waited until the thunder was done roaring its displeasure before he started again.

“You don’t…if this is just an obligatory gesture…”

Thorin leaned forward so that their knees touched and his hand could grip Bilbo’s entire forearm. He waited until Bilbo braved to look up at him, and what he saw knocked the air out of his body.

“It’s not obligatory. Not now.”

Bilbo opened his mouth, swallowed, and tried again. But he couldn’t think of anything to say. His mind as turbulent as the skies outside. Thorin seemed to sense this, and didn’t press any further than that. He merely left a kiss on Bilbo's forehead before getting up and walking back upstairs. An innocent gesture, but one that felt like a brand upon his skin. It wasn’t obligatory and Bilbo didn’t miss the Shire greatly. The start of something wonderful sat before Bilbo, and he was terrified he wasn’t brave enough to seize it.

Trick or Treat My Inbox

[sarahwroteathing]

Cozy Season

[Wanda Maximoff x Reader]

A/N: Just a little drabble about spending time at a harvest festival with Wanda. Nothing but happy, cozy vibes here. About 700 words

The day was cold and damp, overcast skies glowing a pale grey, not quite dark enough to threaten more rain, but close. Chill air swirled with orange, gold, and scarlet around you. Once brittle and crackling beneath your feet, the fallen leaves had gained a supple new life after the late morning rains. One stuck to Wanda’s jeans, framing itself with darkened denim as its collected rainwater soaked into the fabric. She didn’t seem to notice, too enamored with the paper cup of apple cider she cradled between her palms, smiling serenely as the fragrant steam bathed her face. 

“You made a friend,” you said, tapping her thigh just above the leaf. Soft orange veined with red. 

She hummed contemplatively before reaching down to peel it away.

“She loves me…” Wanda made a show of checking for more leaves, twisting to check her backside with a thoughtful frown. “Well, that was easy.”

“I can throw some more leaves at you if you’d like,” you offered.

“It’s too late now. The leaves have exposed you.”

“Damn.”

She giggled, looping one arm around your waist to tug you closer and raising the cider towards your lips in a silent offer. You reached up to stabilize the cup as you took a sip.

“We definitely need to buy a gallon of this before we leave.”

“And some of those tiny pumpkins,” Wanda added. “And something from the bakery stands.”

“Supporting local vendors is very important. I think we’ll also need fifty fancy soaps. Maybe some candles,” you said with a sage nod that set her laughing again.

Her smile was so wide and genuine, eyes sparkling with such unbridled delight, it made you want to hold her forever. And maybe that was a bit impractical, so you’d take what you could get, brushing a kiss over her cheekbone before leaning your head against hers. And you stayed that way, huddled together and communicating with soft voices and softer smiles until the cider was gone and the clouds parted enough to afford you glances of pale sunlight. 

There were picnic tables nearby, scattered loosely within the horseshoe of stalls selling everything from honey and jam to sweaters and ceramics. Families and friends settled there, happily chatting, sharing baked treats and admiring their more long-lasting purchases. 

An elderly lady held a newly-purchased sweater up against her son, nodding her satisfaction that it seemed the right size. A little girl showed off her new bracelet to her brother, who was adequately charmed by the tiny silver acorns. A few tables away, three teenage girls and two boys were trying to throw bits of kettle corn into each other’s mouths with single-minded focus, cheering for rare moments of good aim. 

“I love this,” Wanda said quietly, taking in the small harvest festival with a serene smile. 

“Yeah, it’s cute, right?” you sighed happily. “This was a great idea.”

“It is, but that’s not what I meant.”

When you looked to her in question, Wanda was taking advantage of the parting clouds, her face tilted up to catch the sunshine. Your heart gave a little flutter, and you reached out to loop a lock of her hair around your finger. 

“What did you mean then?”

Wanda looked down, smiling at the absentminded motions of your fingers in her hair. She gave a carefree shrug.

“Just… Thanks for being normal with me.” 

You gasped dramatically.

“How dare you call me normal.” 

She gave an inelegant snort, falling into you plaintively as you laughed at her reaction. She silenced you in her own lovely way, with lips still flavored by tart apple and warm cinnamon. 

“Does this mean you’re not going to cheat in the corn maze?” you whispered against her lips.

“It means I will consider not cheating in the corn maze.” 

The two of you lapsed into giggles again, giddy and nearly overwhelmed by the easy, cozy joy of the day. The sun’s valiant attempts to provide warmth despite the damp ground and chill wind did nothing half as well as Wanda, who almost seemed to glow in her contentment and tucked herself so tightly against you that it seemed she would be a permanent fixture there. 

And in this moment, that was exactly what you both wanted.

----------------

I hope October is treating you kindly, my friends. Let me know if you enjoyed this. My first time writing Wanda

Tags: @shifutheshihtzu @internalbullshit @lilasiannerd-blog @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @iwillbeinmynest @scotlandasshole @netflixa @hardcorehippos @singingprincessstudent @sophiealiice @tinuviel015 @a-book-pressed-rose @bbparker @battlebunnyteardropsinthesun @feelmyroarrrr

[baronessvonglitter]

if love be rough with you, be rough with love | chapter 2 | "rainy day"

Dave York x f!reader

Word count: 1,638

Summary: you're put in a sticky situation when you try on Carol's wedding ring

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, brief sexual fantasy, apart from that this chapter is about longing

Series Masterlist

You've just dropped off the girls at school and, seeing that Dave is still home (a rare occasion this late in the day) you're secretly overjoyed and make an excuse to stay near him. Carol's car is not in the driveway, so you figure she must be at a salon appointment.

"I'm going to make some more coffee. Care for a cup, Mr. York?" you casually ask, watching him at the kitchen table.

He chuckles softly and looks up at you. The look on his face is slightly amused. "Sure." His deep voice sends a tiny tremor to your heart. "I'm always up for a cup of coffee."

You notice he looks less tired today and you want to ask what's on his mind, but as he's kept his dealings with you polite and professional, you aren't sure what to say. "Happy anniversary," you tell him, realizing you forgot to say it to Carol earlier. "Looking forward to dinner tonight?"

Knowing just how he likes his coffee, you prepare it just so and fix yourself a cup as well. Joining him at the table you sneak glances at him over your coffee cup - something you'd never dare to do in front of his wife. But she's not here.

You realize he hasn't answered you, likely hasn't even heard you. "Is something wrong?" you ask.

"Hm?" He looks at you, his concentration broken and for a moment you adore the lost puppy dog look in his eyes. "Sorry, my mind was elsewhere. Everything's fine, I'm just a little tired still. Late flight.. you know." He smiles but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

You simply nod and the two of you sit in a comfortable silence. A torrent of rain falls from the sky and you both watch the downpour through the windows. "Looks like Mother Nature wants us to have a cozy day inside," he says jokingly, and your heart jumps to imagine what a day like that would be with him. Cuddling, kissing, fucking on the couch while an old black and white movie plays on the TV in the background.

"It'd be nice to get under the covers, read a little until I fall asleep," you say when you realize he's watching you. "Do you have to go to work today?" He was still in his pajamas: a white t-shirt and blue plaid wool pants.

"Unfortunately yes. I've got a big meeting today." He looks you over as he sips his coffee, licks the droplets from his lips. "What are you going to do with yourself all day?"

"Well, no cozy day for me either. I have to pick up the dry cleaning then make brownies for the girls' bake sale at school. And as usual, I'll be daydreaming about you.

He nods. "Well," he stands to stretch. "I'm going to go upstairs and shower."

"Of course. Don't let me keep you." Blushing a little you get up to do some dishes. By the time you're drying them, Dave comes back down, freshly showered and dressed for work. He smiles as he approaches you at the counter and helps you, and you get a little flustered at his presence, the nearness of him. "Please, you don't have to help. You're already dressed up." And boy does he look good. Black suit, crisp white shirt, and the tie that you gave him for a Father's Day present this past summer, red with silver stripes. Plus his American flag pin. In your sweater and yoga pants you feel unsophisticated. Young. Below his league.

And of course because you're flustered your clumsiness rears its head and you accidentally drop a plate on the floor and it shatters. "Oh my god! Sorry! I'll clean it up!" You race to get the broom and dustpan to tidy the floor. Dave helps you, assuring you it's fine, and when your fingers accidentally touch it's like a little shock of electricity. Your gazes meet, but you sense too much in this brief moment, and you glance at his hands, the band of gold that gleams upon his finger. "I almost forgot, I'm picking up Carol's wedding ring from the jeweler's today," you say as you sweep up the plate shards. "She's going to love the inscription you added for your anniversary." Your face is hot, as if Dave can see through your babbling. You reprimand yourself for talking too much during your nice little moment.

"Yeah, she's going to love it all right," he says faintly, as if deep in thought.

"Any woman would love that." You stand to put the broken pieces in the trash. Inwardly you berate yourself for your timidity, for perpetuating a crush that will go nowhere, and for thinking that it even could. Dave says something but you don't catch it. And when you turn around he's gone.

That afternoon Alice and Molly help you with the baking then do their homework upstairs. Alone, you eye Carol's wedding ring in its box. You read the inscription on the back: 'Two are better than one'. Just out of curiosity you try it on your own finger, imagining that Dave has selected it for you, bought it for you, offered a life of love with this gorgeous diamond. You imagine yourself saying yes, hugging him, kissing him, telling all your friends and family.. it's a silly fantasy, but it makes you smile.

Then it gets stuck on your finger.

Carol must have the most delicate hands in all the world, because out of everything you try, nothing works. Ice, water, Vaseline: all useless. It's the worst thing that could happen, and on the worst timing. You feel like an idiotic character in a sitcom. You're still trying to force it off when Dave comes home. He sees the distress in your face. "What's wrong?"

"I did something stupid." You lift your hand and show him his wife's ring on your finger. "I just wanted to try it on, and now it's stuck. I can't let her come home and see me like this.."

He tries to help you remove it without hurting you, but it proves fruitless. "All right. Well, if it's stuck on your finger it's going to have to stay for a moment." He looks amused by the situation. "I guess you're going to be wearing it for now."

Your eyes widen and you glance at your watch. "She'll be home soon.. and you have your anniversary dinner tonight.." you feel a sense of hopelessness and you wish you hadn't been so curious about something that isn't yours. "I'll make it come off, I promise. It's my fault for putting it on in the first place."

Dave smiles warmly. "Hey, don't be too hard on yourself. It was an innocent mistake."

"Maybe we could keep this little incident just between us?"

"It'll be our little secret. I promise."

You hear Carol's car in the driveway. "Maybe you could distract her for a little bit? I think I know one more thing to try to get this off.."

In the kitchen you try a last minute remedy while also listening for Carol. You hear the front door open, and she says, "Aren't you going to welcome me home, Dave?"

With a rush of adrenaline you finally free the ring from your finger, put it back in its velvet box, and stuff it in your pocket. "Hi Carol! Please, let me get those grocery bags for you! I'm sure you want to start getting ready for your big date tonight," you say in a singsong voice. When she's not looking you hand Dave the box with the ring inside as you carry the bags to the kitchen.

You're shaking as you put the groceries away, but you're much calmer than before. You worry that Carol can suddenly read minds and that she'll know what you were doing with her wedding ring on.

"Dave and I are staying at a hotel after dinner tonight," Carol informs you. "We won't be back until the morning."

There's a little stab of jealousy in your heart, but it's not the first time you've ever felt it while working here. You hide your feelings with a smile and get to work on dinner for the girls. As Carol goes upstairs to get ready she leaves you and Dave alone in the kitchen. The air is rife with simmering tension, both of you curious about the other, yet maintaining a safe distance. Carol and the girls come down, the little ones ready to eat and the lady of the house dressed elegantly, leaving a cloud of Versace perfume in her wake. "We should head out now." She gives Dave a little peck on the cheek, causing both you and him to blush.

You think they've left, and you don't hear the door reopen. Dave comes back, looking a little shy, which is unusual for him. "I just.. wanted you to know how much you've meant to me since you started working here," he says, out of earshot of the girls. "You're more important to me than you think. You really help around the house and you watch over the kids. I'm glad you're here.. I'm very lucky to have you with us."

You've known Dave for several months, and he's not one to talk in circles. You have a feeling he's not saying something. "I'm the lucky one," you quietly reply.

Dave shakes his head. "You're really something, you know that?" His smile lights up his face.

You could stay here and flirt with him all night, but even though Carol's too much of a lady to honk the car horn while waiting for him, you let him know it's time to go. "Bye now. Happy anniversary, Mr. York."

He nods, winks at you, and leaves.

<- prev chapter

next chapter ->

dividers by @firefly-graphics & @saradika

[mncxbe]

Jimmy,Jimmy cocoa puff☆

𝑫𝒂𝒛𝒂𝒊 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: fluff♡/ slice of life/ Dazai in Greece <little warning for mentions of scars> kinktober is here so ofc I serve Dazai fluff

Escapism.

That's how this could be called. On a deserted beach somewhere in Greece, far away from home. With you under a cheap umbrella bought from a store nearby.

Colours seemed to have been sucked out of the world: the jade green and deep blue of the sea and the sky above were replaced by silver grey. Even the golden sand had a muted colour, the shade of oat milk, and rain poured down from the clouds; steadily, never ending.

But you... you were as radiant as always. Even now in this pearly light your face was bathed in glow.

Your features stood out on the dulled background. The mocha brown of your hair and eyes; the latter dotted with specs of gold, your tiger stripe red nail polish (a silly design you picked as a joke after your visit to the Kanazawa Gardens back in Yokohama, two weeks ago) and the charcoal black of your bathing suit were all so vivid.

He watched as you rose a bottle of green tea to your lips and took a sip.

"So... what do we do now?" you asked suddenly, your words muffled by the sound of falling rain.

Dazai only shrugged in response, gaze scanning his suroundings. The sky seemed to melt into the sea before his eyes, lines of droplets connecting the above and below, forming a capsule around the two of you. And behind, the rocky road that went back to town, which seemed to be flooding.

"Leaving certainly isn't an option" he replied, pointing at the swamped road and you turned your head to take a look; letting out a disappointed huff.

"Guess we gotta stay here for a while."

You moved your deckchair closer to his in attempt to shelter yourself from the rain and reached for your bag, checking to see if your belongings were still dry.

Dazai watched your every movement the same way an artist looks at his muse; with adoration, longing and just a shadow of sadness. Still, he couldn't deny how ironic this whole situation was:

"Don't let the rain upset you bella. It'll pass soon" he cooed "Plus. It could've started raining when we were in town or something."

"Oh spare me love" you chuckled in response. "It's cold and my book and clothes got wet"

Despite your complains you didn't seem mad at all. There was a certain aura of peace surrounding you at all times, especially now.

"It is beautiful tho." you added, pointing a manicured finger towards the horizon "It's like the world caved in and now it's just us left."

The brunette reached for your hand and took it in his own, softly running his thumb over your knuckles. "That wouldn't be bad at all actually"

Suddenly you got up from your chair at tip-toed towards the water, pulling Dazai after you. Your boyfriend's lips curled into a playful smile as you stepped into the water.

"Bella... you know I can't-"

"Shut up 'same. Your bandages are gonna get wet from the rain anyway. Come on"

And indeed, the humid air and droplets of rain made his loose shirt stick to his skin and he felt his bandages dampen.

And so he followed you into the grey sea, water rising around the two of you with each step you took. Ankel level, knee high, to your thighs and hips and soon enough waist. Still, you didn't stop until you were almost completely submerged.

Just then you turned to face him, hair moist and sticking up from place to place, a wide smile stretched on your lips. Wrapping your arms around his neck you pulled yourself closer to him as his hands instinctively came to rest on your plush hips.

Before he got a chance to say anything you closed your eyes and tiled your head back, allowing the cold rain to dapple your skin.

And oh how beautiful you looked. In this very moment Dazai stopped paying attention to his slowly loosening bandages, to the cold breeze that made his skin tingle; it was only you and him now.

Soon enough you began humming a tune, a nostalgic melody he recognized but couldn't remember the name of. Lulled by your song he closed his eyes, lowering his forehead to yours.

Sweet minutes have passed like this, the two of you completely absorbed in one another until Dazai finally opened his eyes to meet your own and his heart sank.

Your expression conveyed an image of pure adoration and devotion which made his blood rush to his cheeks, a soft blush tinting his face.

"What you looking at me like that for?" he teased, doing his best to cover up his emotions but failing miserably.

"Like what?" you responded in the same mischevious tone, nails lightly grazing the back of his neck.

Dazai sighed deeply, inching closer to you until his lips were touching yours and he whispered.

"Like you love me"

You smiled against his lips. "Well I do love you Osamu". You spoked those words in a matter of fact way, like it was the most natural and obvious thing in existence. But they meant so much to him. No one had told him they loved him. Ever.

Closing the distance between you your boyfriend pulled you in for a gentle kiss, cold lips lingering against your own as he uttered a hushed "I love you too Y/N"; like a promise made to the Gods.

Just then a loud rumble sounded from somewhere above, causing you to pull away and swiftly swim towards the shore.

"Shit. Maybe we should get out of the water. I heard people got struck by lightning here."

"There's no way that happened." he chuckled but followed you close by.

"I mean technically it could happen. It's an open space"

"Whatever you say bella." he said back, amused by your pointless worries.

When you got back to the beach Dazai wrapped a towel around your bare shoulders and began pulling at the ends of his unraveled bandages.

"Guess that's it for them"

You watch him pull the soaked strings of cloth through the holes of his sleeve and did your best not to look at his skin which was painfully visible through the translucent material of his shirt.

Instead you handed him a towel and reached for the bottle of green tea.

"Want some too?" you asked when he took a seat on his chair, towel draped over his shoulders.

"Sure"

The rain showed no signs of stopping so you simply laid back and made yourself comfortable in the mesh fabric of your chair, gaze lost somewhere in the distance.

Dazai took a sip of the tea, the taste of synthetic sweetener and fresh tea lingering on his tongue.

He watched you watch sea, the horizon, the mass of grey that your world was and wished, for only a split second, that this moment would last forever. That the two of you could spend the rest of eternity on this forgotten beach, far away from your actual life, in this sanctuary of nature.

And by the look in your eyes when you finally turned to face him, he could tell that you wished for the same thing.

[jaetaimjadore]

EVERYDAY VIGNETTES THAT REMIND ME OF ENHYPEN

Pairing: enhypen x reader

Genre: fluff with a touch of angst

Warnings: some suggestive themes, mentions of sexual tension (nothing explicit whatsoever), mentions of food and alcohol, please let me know if i've missed anything else :)

Word count: 1.08k

a/n: this is just a compilation of the silly little musings running through my head that i just so happen to associate with each enha member, so, really, i thought why not share it with you guys? hehehe. enjoy <33

이희승︱Lee Heeseung

Tired lovers whose heads rest upon each other in the quiet corner of a subway. Lying upside down on the sofa just because you can. Playing with another’s hands. Smiles that find two faces at the same time. Thanking yourself for exercising when you really didn’t feel like it. The shimmering lights of a cityscape at night. Admitting that you made a mistake. Remembering that you’re one in eight billion. The sultry flicker of a gaze between two eyes. Silver cufflinks. Better by Khalid. Admiring someone as they ramble on about the things they love. Sexual tension that blinds everything around it. Black button-ups. Sudden moments of crippling nostalgia. Compulsively slapping a sack of rice at the supermarket. Dedicating a hoop to someone and missing by a mile. The irresistible scent of your best friend’s shampoo. The dream that left you feeling butterflies the entire day.

박종성︱Park Jongseong

Monotone outfits. Your phone falling onto your face when scrolling in bed. Red, hot lipstick stains littered on the smooth skin of a neck. Gold necklaces and gold earrings. The calming reassurance that you tried your best. Pulling off your socks after a long, exhausting day. Waking up to the rain of a thunderstorm. The moment you realise your enemy is actually kind of hot. Eye contact that brings with it an endless wave of goosebumps. Round-rimmed spectacles sitting low on a nose. The bubble of champagne in a glass. The click of shoes on shiny tiles. Gallery visits but the art on the walls isn’t what you're staring at. Fond shakes off the head. The muscle that moves so visibly beneath a fitted shirt. A protective hand finding itself hovering over a lower back. Bumping into a glass door and playing it off cool. When one person cooks dinner and the other washes the dishes. A breathy chuckle that grazes the cusp of an ear.

심재윤︱Jake Sim

Almost losing your balance when the sand under your feet glides back into the ocean. The warmth of skin under a cool duvet. Wet smooches from your dog. That one perfect strand of hair you wish you could keep that way forever. Sudden bursts of inspiration that make you feel like you can conquer the world. Kisses on the temple. Kisses on a smile. Hands squeezing hips. Barely contained laughter. The deep regret of walking away. Jumping up to touch the top of a doorframe. Wholeheartedly believing in the five second rule. “You’re perfect to me” whispered in the early hours of morning. Key smash conversations over text. A silver chain that dangles down onto your lips. The one eye that opens to the dawn of a new day. The brief fluttering in your chest when the carousel horse rises up once again. Cold fingers that caress the skin beneath your shirt.

박성훈︱Park Sunghoon

Sunglasses worn indoors because you forgot to take them off. Messy latte art that means so much more because it’s the effort that truly counts. Loosely intertwined fingers. Long walks during the freezing winter months. Lip bites and hooded eyes in moments of lust. Looking in the mirror and loving what you see. The divine feeling of velvet beneath your fingertips. Staring up at a skyscraper and almost stumbling backwards. Letting someone win because you love them so dearly. Soft lips planted on soft knuckles. Solemn wishes made on stray eyelashes. Throwing your head back in uncontrolled laughter. Red high heels. Refusing to get out of bed on Sunday morning. Gliding your fingers through silky soft hair. Going through with something you swore you’d never do. Cat-walking your entire closet at an ungodly hour of the night. Strong arms guiding you to sit down on a lap.

김선우︱Kim Sunoo

The taste of the colour yellow. When a piece of clothing fits just right. Finding a picture in your camera roll taken by mistake but keeping it because it looks cool. The indescribable happiness of a clear, blue sky. Light academia and dark academia. The one shoulder you know you can lean on. The hoot of an owl. Realising just how close your lips are to your lover's. The desperate longing to run away from reality for a while. Elbow nudges that silently ask if you’re okay. When the raindrop you were rooting for wins its race down the window. Two warm hands cupping your cheeks. Literally Netflix ‘n chilling all night long. Golden hour that highlights the magic in someone’s eyes. Feeling young and fresh even when you’re old and weathered. New year’s resolutions that inspire positive change…even if it's just for a month. Immediately dropping your bags and jumping on the hotel bed. The hug you didn’t realise you needed so badly.

양정원︱Yang Jungwon

That perfume you caught one whiff of and immediately wanted to own. Spontaneously realising the beauty of the world around you. The flying wisps of hair that tickle your forehead on a windy day. Chequered Off The Wall sneakers. Sleeveless jumpers. The innocent brush of lips on lips. The words of wisdom that found you in a time of need. The entire grentperez discography. Safe hands stroking your head. The same hands ruffling your hair. Making snow angels in the winter. The memory from your childhood that fills you with the most happiness. When you can’t decide if you’re feeling hot or cold. Legs that entangle together among the sheets. Wondering if there really are more atoms in the human eye than stars in the universe. Nicholas Sparks movies. Falling in love with a song after hearing it for the first time. Late-night drives with no particular destination in mind. Foreheads that touch as eyes slowly flutter closed.

西村力︱Nishimura Riki

That beautiful pain in your chest when thinking of the one you love. Lifting your feet from the pedals while riding your bike down a hill. Marmalade streaks that paint the sky at dusk. The moment you realise you’ve fallen in love. The warm smile of a random stranger. Knowing your inner child is gradually healing with time. Pulling your hood up when in a particularly rebellious mood. The moment a maths question finally clicks. Pinkie promises that last a lifetime. The sheer agony of dropping the last chip on the ground. When opposites attract. The tickle of a nose in the crook of a neck. Cuddling close during a scary movie. Trying not to crack a smile when the person scolding you stumbles over their words. Watching the tide wash over the initials you’d etched into the sand. The cheesy quote that actually inspired you one day. The familiarity of your own bed after parting with it for so long. Ignoring your friend when your eyes find the person across the room.

© jaetaimjadore, 2023, all rights reserved

[charthurlover]

What perfume/cologne would the Van Der Linde gang wear

hi!! this is my first tumblr post, and i don’t exactly know how to do this or work the app, so forgive me if this is horribly worded or confusing.

anyways, this is my opinion on what colognes or perfumes the gang would wear. horses and cain included, since they are technically a member of the gang!!

Abigail -

something woodsy, maybe like the forest or a campfire, cedar wood, trees, plants.

examples:

- G-Water

- Tam Dao

- Snoqualine

Arthur -

tobacco, scent of alcohol, mud, outdoors.

examples:

- Jasmin et Cigarette

- Rien

- Earthworm

Baylock -

ashes, grease.

examples:

- Tobacco Blaze

- Garage

- La Yuquam Homme

Bill -

any popular male fragrances, or like gunpowder and fire.

examples:

- 9mm Ballistic Therapy

- High Noon

- Campfire Nights

Boaz -

dynamite, money.

examples:

- Wall Street

- Don Xerjoff

- 1805 Tonnerre BeauFort London

Branwen -

oatcakes, apples, water.

examples:

- Lostmarch Lann-Ael

- Be Delicious

- Cavalli Acqua

Bob -

blood, gunpowder, sweat.

examples:

- Vena Cava

- Richard Dark Side

- Secretions Magnefique

Brown Jack

pomade, alcohol, blood.

examples:

- Classic Fragrance

- Heeley Agarwood

- Molotov Cocktail

Cain -

dog, mud, grass.

examples:

- La Panthere Edition Soir

- Grass

- Zoologist Bat

Charles -

light florals, nature, clean fur.

examples:

- Coach Floral

- Super Cedar

- Coyote

Dutch -

blood, metal, tears.

examples:

- Vassago

- Spacewalk

- Rainy Season of Dresden

Davey -

snow, wood, fire.

examples:

- Waltz of the Snowflakes

- Tobacco Vanille

- Inquisitor

Enis -

whiskey, beer, grass.

examples:

- Tom Oud

- Stout ‘n Smoke

- Dune Road

Grimshaw -

sulfur, metal, cinnamon.

examples:

- Bloody Smoke

- Vanille Absolu

- Jupiter

Gwydion -

birds, leather, salt.

examples:

- Seemannn

- Black Saffron

- Millésime Impérial

Hosea -

moonshine, stew, metal.

examples:

- Moscow Mule

- Starfish & Coffee

- Santal 33

Jack -

water, horse, corn oil.

examples:

- Petrichor

- Cuir de Russie

- Seems Legit

Javier -

mahogany, cotton, musk.

examples:

- Redwood Leaves

- Lazy Sunday Morning

- Urban Musk

Jenny -

snow, wool, wood.

examples:

- Redwood Mist

- Battaniye

- Grey Vetiver

John -

sweat, musk, grease

examples:

- Flores Negras

- Silver Musk

- Cristina La Veneno Ni Puta Ni Santa

Kieran -

blood, grass, oats.

examples:

- Hora de la Verdad Sombra

- Figuier Eden

- Harran

Karen -

beer, guns, whiskey.

examples:

- Beguile

- Wicked John

- Kutay

Lenny -

blood, books, bullets.

examples:

- Seems Legit

- Diamonitirion - elixir atonit

- Moon Child

Mac -

metal, bullets, kerosene.

examples:

- Craft

- Iron Duke

- Nuvolari Rubini

Maggie -

dirt, stone, bog.

examples:

- Le Sillage Blanc

- During the Rain

- Swamp elixir

Mary-Beth -

books, ink, gold.

examples:

- Bibliophilia: Love of Books

- Supreme Vanilla

- Royal Blood

Micah -

rot, corn, mold.

examples:

- Saint Louis Cemetery #1

- Funerie

- French Kiss

Molly -

roses, grass, trees.

examples:

- Roses Musk

- Leila Lou

- Colors de Benetton

Nell II -

sweat, cows, pig.

examples:

- Amyi 3.17

- Cuir de Russie

- Hyrax

Old Belle -

carrots, beer, hay.

examples:

- Carotte

- Sónar

- Basilico & Fellini

Old Boy -

musk, tears, cow.

examples:

- Another 13

- Ozone

- Osmanthus

Pearson -

meat, vegetables, crawfish.

examples:

- Gino: Steak Scented Eau de Parfum

- Eau de Cuisine

- Wild Carrot Oud

Reverend -

whiskey, incense, coffee.

examples:

- 7 Loewe

- Bourbon e Fava Tonka

- Black Opium

Sadie -

blood, tears, gunpowder.

examples:

- Bull’s Blood 2nd Edition

- Cool Glacier

- Rendez-Vous!

Sean -

whiskey, sweat, bullets.

examples:

- Malt Akro

- Monochrome

- Amour Nocturne

Silver Dollar -

fire, wool, metal.

examples:

- Encens Pyro

- The Sheepfold, Moonlight

- Rosenrot

Taima -

deer, blood, meat.

examples:

- Ma Bete

- Trinity Blood

- Good Girl Gone Bad

The Count -

sugarcubes, peaches, pears.

examples:

- Pixie Dust

- Allure Eau de Parfum

- First Base

Trelawny -

doves, rabbits, silk.

examples:

- Ruğa Sablo

- Wet Garden

- Baklava Musk

Tilly -

bullets, baby powder, swamps.

examples:

- 266ts Pontiff’s Harley

- Cashmere Mist Eau de Toilette

- Haxan

Uncle -

manure, horse, cow.

examples:

- D’zing

- L’heure Fougueuse

- Zoologist Cow

again, this is my first post so i’m very sorry about it being bad or isn’t looking right for tumblr. so sorry.

[effervescentdragon]

Vampire AU - whatever pairing you want I just want biting and some rancid vibes 😹

not quite rancid, except for your hate towards certain people. but maybe funny? im still in a certain headspace, as you can see. i call this "the one in which carlos is bella swan" in my head

Carlos remembers the story Fernando once told him, about his grandfather and the way he worked in a factory. He was pretty sure the story was bullshit, but Fernando was hillariously drunk, and that's when he usually let things slip. Carlos has learned more about the incestuous fuckfest that was the grid in 2010s than he ever wanted to know that way.

He also learned more about Sebastian Vettel than he ever could imagine wanting to know, but that's another story.

The point of this story was - quality control. Nando's grandfather apparently worked in a factory furing the war (and Carlos isn't asking which one, because Fernando is old), and he complained about there not being enough quality control about - shelling? Or shelving. Carlos isn't sure, and he definitely isn't going to ask because he doesn't really care and it's not even that relevant for the story of now, except it's all he can think about when he watches Lando hiss in pain and struggle to get the new watch Carlos had brought him off his wrist.

"It's got fucking silver in it!" Lando yelps, and throws the watch on the floor.

"No it doesn't," Carlos says, more confused than he ever has been in Lando's company (and those couple of times when he fell asleep beside Lando in the hotel rooms all over the world before and after the races and Carlos woke up dizzy and disoriented and hard don't count). "It's pure gold. I know you don't like silver, so I bought you gold."

Lando scoffs. "The fuck it is," he says, pain evident in his voice as he rubs his reddened wrist. "I don't know what bullshit your sponsors are feeding you guys, but there's definitely silver in this."

Carlos frowns, coming closer and taking Lando's hand in his. His wrist is swollen and a very unhealthy shade of red. "I didn't know you were alergic."

Lando's eyes shift to the side. "Yeah, I - I'm alergic," he says. "A pretty bad allergy." He chuckles. "Life-threatening."

Carlos feels like he's missing the joke. He feels like that a lot with Lando, except it never feels like the joke is on him, more like Lando is being hard on himself.

"I'm sorry," he says sincerely, trailing his fingers over Lando's skin. "I didn't know. I'll have a word with Richard Mille representative."

Lando's eyes are huge in the dim light of the room when he looks up at Carlos. It takes everything in him not to tighten his hold on Lando's wounded wrist.

"No problem, mate. It's the thought that counts anyway." Lando shifts a bit, and Carlos lets go. "I'll be fine. Wanna play FIFA?" He shakes the sleeves of his hoodie until they are covering half of his hands.

Carlos feels like he's missing something. He feels bad about the watch, though, so he only nods. "Sure."

Lando grins at him, and it's alright.

-

Except.

Except, when Carlos says goodbye that night, he catches a glimpse of Lando's wrist.

It's pale pink, and not swollen anymore.

-

Carlos watches Lando during the post race interview. His cheeks are a bit flushed, but he's still very pale. They've just spent a whole week on the beach and Carlos has an even darker tan than usual, but Lando is still extremely pale.

Carlos can't remember Lando using sunscreen once on their vacation.

He watches Lando until Caco elbows him in the ribs, muttering "Obvious and oblivious, my fucking God."

-

"He never sleeps," Oscar says offhandedly. "He texts me the weirdest shit at like, four in the morning, and then he's right as rain in the sim at seven." He turns to Carlos. "Was he always like that?"

Carlos ignores the gnawing in his stomach at the fact that Lando texts Oscar randomly. Before he can answer, Alex does.

"Oh my God, yes! He used to be the same when we were kids, never fucking sleeping. George, do you remember that one time..." he continues, but Carlos isn't listening.

Carlos can't remember a time when they were together and Lando fell asleep first.

-

"Aren't you hungry?" Max asks Lando on the plane taking them all back to Monaco.

"Nah," Lando replies, eyeing Max's burger with a mix of apprehension and disgust. "I ate before, plus, that just looks like an extra hour in the gym, and I don't wanna do that."

Max shrugs. "Suit yourself, weirdo."

Lando kicks him under the table and then leans back in his seat, fishing his earphones out. He catches Carlos' eye as he does so, and smiles.

Carlos smiles back instinctively, as he always does. Lando's lips look very red in his pale face. When he ducks his head, Carlos thinks he sees a flash of something sharp.

It must be the light, he thinks. Or the exhaustion.

It's probably both.

-

"Do you have an oral fixation, mate," George laughs, leaning on the fence. "You're always sucking on that straw, what are you even drinking?"

Lando shrugs, flipping George off for good measure. "You have an oral fixation," he replies, pulling his lips away from the straw. "And it's a protein smoothie, you dickhead."

Carlos watches him lick the remnants of his drink away. His lips are still stained red with it.

"Does it taste good?" he hears himself ask.

Both Lando and George turn to him, but Carlos is focused on the way Lando's eyes shift to the side for just a second before he scrunches his nose. "Not the best I've ever had, but good enough." He shrugs. "New recipe. Strawberries."

Carlos has a mild allergy to strawberries, so he can't ask to try it, at least not just before the race.

Lando knows Carlos is alergic to strawberries.

-

The race was a disaster, as are most of them lately. Carlos lies in his bed, finally free after the debrief. He can't sleep. His mind turns and turns around, and for once, he isn't thinking about the race data.

His phone is opened on the Google start page. Before he knows what he's doing, he types.

allergy to silver aversion to food paleness doesnt sleep symptoms disease

-

He knocks on the door too loudly for the early hour of the morning. There is shuffling, and then Lando opens the door.

"Carlos? What the fuck, mate, it's like, three in -"

"I thought silver was for werewolves."

Lando stops speaking. Carlos thinks he might have stopped breathing, too. That wasn't what he was going to say, but fuck it, it's what came out.

"What?" Lando says slowly. "What are you talking about?"

Carlos would've thought he was crazy, except. Except Lando's eyes flicker to the side, and Carlos knows how Lando looks when he is lying.

"I thought silver hurt werewolves. That's the myth," he repeats. "But you're not a werewolf. I don't think." He takes a breath. "You're a vampire."

He isn't looking away from Lando. He can't. He stares right into Lando's eyes and sees the emotions and the calculations in them as they happen, and he isn't going away until he knows, because he isn't crazy, he knows what he knows, he knows he isn't imagining things and -

"Fuck," Lando breathes out, his shoulders sagging. "Fuck, I'm so screwed," he says, and then pulls Carlos inside his room and shuts the door, but not before Carlos sees his fangs elongate and protrude, biting into his bottom lip.

Fuck, he thinks, and then, hot.

[bloodfin]

hi yes hello having some thoughts about hands and rings and did you ever think about how 🤌🤌🤌 it is to watch someone play with the large collection of rings on their hands? how intimate it is to watch them take the rings off, one by one,,

raindrop drabble below

It was the anniversary of Rain's summoning, and Dew wanted to make the evening special. He spent all afternoon making Rain's favorite meal, and then ended up ordering it for delivery when he burnt half of it anyways. At least his not-too-sweet fudgey brownies came out well, if the noise Swiss made when he sampled one was any indication.

But Dew couldn't focus on his meal, couldn't focus on all the plans he had made for after dinner, with Rain looking like that. He had sauntered into the dining room in the single tightest black pants to have ever been made and a flowing white shirt with long, fancy sleeves. He had even dove deep into his jewelry collection, adorning his horns with a few rings, changing out his earrings, and adding a short pearl necklace.

But where Rain really went all out, as if the fine layer of mascara and high dusting of dark navy blush wasn't enough, were his hands. Every finger had at least one ring, his ouroboros ever present on his right index finger. Some were at midi-length, some stacked. All types of gold and silver, varying in intricacy and stones. In particular Dew's eyes were drawn to the blood red ruby that sat on Rain's left pinky, glinting in the candlelight.

He was salivating, and as good as dinner was, that wasn't why.

"You with me droplet?"

Rain's deep voice shook Dew out of his lustful haze, just long enough for him to snap his eyes to meet Rain's.

"Of course love," he smiled, eyes dropping back down to Rain's hands as he began to spin the ouroboros, slow and steady.

"Sure?" Rain smiled, head cocked dangerously to the side. "You seem a little distracted."

Dew flushed. "Maybe a little."

Rain hummed knowingly. He knew exactly what he was doing when he got dressed for this dinner, pulling out all the stops.

Dew sucked in a sharp breath when Rain reached across the table, studying his hands. He only wore a midi ring himself, preferring the jewelry that decorated his ears and the spade of his tail.

"So much real estate," Rain purred, studying Dew's long, skinny fingers. "We could always get you a few of your own."

Dew hummed, curling his fingers into Rain's, leaning down to kiss the back of his hand. He was pressing a line of kisses into Rain's knuckles when he snapped his eyes back up, Rain's words settling deep into his brain.

"Unless, of course, you'd rather wear one of mine."

Dew looked briefly down at Rain's hand, still clutched in his own, before dragging his heated gaze back up. His mouth was suddenly dry, his temperature slowly increasing.

"Please."

Rain smiled, pulling his hand from Dew's, examing the jewelry adorning his fingers. Dew couldn't help but stare, watching as Rain twisted each ring off of his nimble fingers, far too slow for his taste.

He chose to round the table, nuzzling into the side of Rain's neck so he could see better, listening carefully as Rain gave little details about a few pieces he wore.

"This was from you, shortly after I was summoned. It's too small now, which is why I wear it here."

He pulled off the midi ring on his right index finger and dropped it onto the tablecloth, the ouroboros below it remaining untouched.

"Mountain found this one," he explained, the dark silver twisted band joining the simple gold one on the table. Dew couldn't help but to press open mouthed kisses against Rain's neck and jaw, whining at each thunk on the table as another ring joined the ever growing pile.

"Now this one," Rain breathed, pulling the ruby off his pinky and turning it in the light, "is special. I had it engraved."

Dew squinted to see the small writing on the inside of the band, something no one but Rain and he would ever know about. His hands squeezed against the chair, the words good boy staring back at him. The ruby he'd never seen before, that so thrilled him, was meant for him all along.

He almost jumped out of his skin when Rain went to set it on the table with the rest.

"No," he whispered, reaching out to take it in his own fingers and slide it back onto Rain's. "Keep it on. Please?"

Rain hummed, turning his hand in the light.

"You're sure? The edges can be sharp, just like someone I happen to know."

Dew started nodding before repeating just how sure he was, pressing another kiss under Rain's ear.

"Wanna earn it, don't you," Rain rumbled, turning in his chair to stand. He took Dew's chin in his hand, feeling him swallow hard as his teal gaze bore into him. It would be a night of claiming, starting now. A renewal of every promise they ever made to each other, bound with a blood deep stone. Dew nodded his agreement, every plan to shove Rain up against their bedroom door slipping quickly from his mind, thanking Lucifer for the blessing that stood before him.

"Go ahead then, little one. Get on your knees."

[everytaylorswiftsongisaboutcats]

Taylor Swift Eras Tour Swift Streams w Me Miami Night 2

Ladies, Gents, and Non-Binary friends, we have arrived: live updates here we go

If any announcements, new costumes, new collabs, or MAJOR events happen they will be highlighted in red with all caps. If I’m wrong I’ll cross it out😂🤡 heads up probably won’t be as active as last night unless things go CRAZY; heart stamp for closed usually set🩷💛❤️💜🖤🩶🤎🩵🤍💙

Lover:

Classic opening

Gold & Blue bodysuit

Black Man jacket

Typical speech

Usual Lover set🩷

— Does the house always tip forward instead of burn?

Fearless:

Normal dress: black & silver / cacio e peppe

Usual Fearless set💛

Red:

This is NOT Taylor’s Version (clowning me again😂)

New-ish speech like last night addressing this final tour leg

Usual Red set❤️

Speak Now:

NEW DRESS!!! Teal? — almost Swiftbowl for me?😂 Looks like a new version of blue dress mixed with firework starry night but just blue…

lets see what Tay Nation names? It’s giving dare I say… snake scale vibes? I’m liking TEALor Swift (minus the fact it’s not super Teal unless Hq’s prove otherwise?)

Usual set: Enchanted✨💜

Reputation:

Black & Gold again

Usual Rep set so far☑️

Her smile during lwymmd was cute

Happy rain show✨

Usual Rep Set🖤

folkmore/everlore:

Green Folkmore dress

Usual folklore set🩶

Normal Betty & Champagne Problems speeches

Usual evermore set🤎

1989:

Yellow top Pink skirt (nothing new)

Usual 1989 set🩵

TTPD:

Usual TTPD set thus far

Who’s afraid of little old me? dress w Black gloves

Florence has appeared again to perform Florida!

Black suit gold coat

Normal TTPD set🤍

Surprise Songs:

NEW Surprise Song Dress! It’s PURPLE & GORGEOUS! & so pretty it gets a speech addressment (loving the sparkles)

Surprise songs are — Guitar: Should’ve Said No (another debut song?🤡) x I DID SOMETHING BAD (she’s really messing with us🤡🤡) & — Piano: loml x White Horse (HOLY MOTHER NO WORDS) “IM SO SORRY CAUSE YOU SHIT TALKED ME UNDER THE TABLE”

Midnights:

NEW Midnights Tee (Silvery Blue?… lots of Icy vibes)

Normal Bodysuit: Chevron

Normal Karma Jacket: Dark Blue

Normal Midnights set💙

She really said I can do what I want Debutation clowns & dress color debates, and I’m here for it!🫶 See you tomorrow for Night 3

[deadboyfriendd]

I. The Science Fiction Double Feature

Don't Dream It, Be it.

Summary: Eddie had a performer's heart. The world was his stage and you were lucky enough to be his audience. Though he never mentioned an acting career before this.

Content Warning: My content is 18+, Minors DNI, suggestive, no explicit smut, reader gets a lapdance from Eddie, Steve in a gold speedo.

Word Count: 1.9K

Eddie was inherently a strange person. This was a fact of life– and it was a fact that you could neither deny nor ignore. He did not abide by the laws of personal space, did not contour to the ebb and flow of the daily routine, did not care for the should be’s and inherent truths and facts-of-the-matter’s. 

You supposed only dead fish swam with the current.

You liked him and all of his strangeness, because he was an easy person to like in his closeness and insistence of constant physical connection. You liked the loudness that followed him. You liked that, in his more-or-less two decades on this planet, he had not learned any subtleties. Considering how many other people didn’t in their meanness, you didn’t think you would ever have the mind to teach him any.   

You’d figured that’s why you stood here now. 

The marquee lights loomed over you like a slovenly lover:

Tonite! Tonite! Tonite! Rocky Horror Live on Stage!

You felt underdressed, though, not for lack of coverage. In fact, you might have been the most dressed person here. With the least amount of sequins. The whole ordeal seemed very harum-scarum, devil-may-care. The thought made you rigid with fear. There is not a lack of sequins or glitter in this place, morally ambiguous figures that loitered around this place like roaches seemed to be slathered in it in the absence of clothing. There are people in fishnet tights, stockings with uneven seams positioned up the backs, onlookers in corsets and feathered teddies and coats with party hats– an uncertain amount of etiquette for this displacement of formality. 

You felt plain. Unseen and painfully looked at in every way. 

The historic theater is surprisingly spacious, though, now that you were painfully aware of yourself and how your clothes touched your skin, that feeling seemed almost cavernous. You looked down at the ticket Eddie had handed you in advance. Seat 15A. Right in the front. 

The fanfare to signal the start of the show sent the audience scrambling like a horde of glittery, sleazy roaches, settling in seats like gold in a pan. And a woman approaches the scene. She looks like a cheap recreation of a campy 50’s waitress, she holds a concessions tray over the front of her body that says DAIRY across the front. The spotlight stops, abounding and white, across her personage, affixed stage-left. 

“Lips! Lips! Lips!” The crowd chants, a riot before you. 

A large, red pair of lips appear behind her, glittering and smiling in the basking glow of the projector lighting. 

“A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, God said, ‘Let there be lips!’ And there were. And they were good” Someone shouted from the further back rows, an ensemble of hoots, hollers, and laughter to follow. In this time, Roxy begins to sing, 

“Michael Rennie was ill

The day the earth stood still

But he told us where we stand

And Flash Gordon was there

In silver underwear

Claude Raines was the invisible man…”

You’d wondered why Eddie had never mentioned an acting career before this.

“Oh, it’s just kind of a tradition. Nothing serious.” He’d told you, when you asked him last night, his long, gangling legs swinging back and forth in a vapid tannenbaum excursion from where he suspended them out of the back of his van. 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes at him. He couldn’t see it from where your head rested on his shoulder, but he could feel it in your smile, “Oh, come on, is this like code for a strip show or something?”

You’d wondered the same thing now, why he had not mentioned these friends or practices or rehearsals before this. You’d wondered why he had kept it such a secret. 

“I would like if I may…” A man in a suit reeled over a book on stage, giving brief, pregnant pauses awaiting the crowd’s response like a birdsong. 

“You may!”

He picked back up, eyes alight with mischief and manor, “To take you…”

“Take me!” Someone calls from the back block of the historic theater, and the crowd erupts with laughter. This catches the narrator off-guard, and, even from your seat in the front, you can tell he is suppressing his own laughter. 

“Perhaps later…” The crowd roars with laughter, drawn-out and hearty, though the narrator presses on, “It seemed a very ordinary night…”

“Ordinary?” 

“When Brad Majors-”

“Arsehole!” The crowd is relentless in their scrutiny of the male half of the main protagonist, and they will let it be known. 

“You’ve met.” The narrator states, simply, creating another roar of laughter from the crowd. 

“And his fiancee, Janet Weiss–”

“Slut!” The crowd is also relentless about their distaste for the female protagonist, however, you cannot tell if this title is to be worn as a crown or a dunce cap. 

“Went to see a Dr. Everett Scott…”

The crowd seemed ravenous, you had never seen a show like this before. Before long, you realized that the crowd was as much in on the script of the show as the actors were. It felt like some sort of inside joke that you weren’t in on, though you had not felt entirely ostracized. Everyone here was a freak. That title was worn like a crown. A dunce cap worn proudly for all to see. That comfort rained down over you in a shrouded confetti sea of glitter and rice at a wedding, and sprayed you with the mist of a water gun from somewhere far behind you, even shielded you beneath the news paper of a stranger, the light at the Frankenstein’s place looming like a light at the end of a deep, dark tunnel. 

You soon figure that this, at its worst, is a campy reprise of Frankenstein, shrouded in a gilded lining of glitter and sex. A prim and proper couple is engaged and travel too see the man that introduced them in order to relay the good news, though, their excursion is derailed by a blown tire in a rainstorm. 

You had managed to scrape by unscathed in your newness up until this moment, but the fanfares and excitement despite the blatant, yet somehow, still vague descriptions of its just a jump to the left, seem to expose you in its own gilded golden way. 

Despite your embarrassment, it was still surprising to see people you knew on stage, people you had hung out with once or twice, met in person, seen at the bars. Some of them were your classmates, some of them people you talked to on a semi-regular basis. You’d recognized Robin straight away, adorned in a corset and a cropped red wig. But there was one person you still had not seen yet. 

A piercing scream that could only be described as the banshee call from a white woman possessed ripples through the air in a ghastly introduction, covered by guitar fares and somehow even more glitter than before. 

Though you cannot process any other words besides: Oh my God. 

“How d'you do, I

See you've met my

Faithful handyman

He's just a little brought down because

When you knocked

He thought you were the candy man…”

There he was. In all of his glory. 

There was a certain correctness seeing him like this, the way his calloused fingers ran over the corset top and rippled the fine sheathings of the back seams of fishnet nights. The way sweat beaded down his made up face from the stage lights like a glitter– or even the way the dark glitter gilded his alabaster skin like gold flake on ancient relics. 

This was Eddie, you couldn’t quite place how, but you understood that this was where he had settled in space and time, in a choreographed symphony of stardust and feathers. How the fine matter of the universe accumulated to create this beautiful creature before you. This sweet transvestite. 

You had known about his love for performance before this, it was the premise of his very being. The world was Eddie’s stage and you had the honor of being his audience on a near-constant basis. He was beautiful then too, hair flying over a soft cotton-clad shoulder as he paraded around the backwoods. He was beautiful on stage, when the sweat beaded down his forehead and his large smile pushed on the apples of his cheeks and pinched the corners of his eyes together– much like tonight. He was especially beautiful when he wasn’t performing either, in moments of shared silence and concentration. In stolen glances and passed grins and inside jokes. 

Eddie was beautiful always, but this was a beauty that you had never seen before– an entirely new sight to behold. The only second to this had been Steve, your frat-boy adjacent, golden-skinned, all-American friend from the bars, clad in gold speedo armor. But Steve had always been conventionally beautiful, and he was no different now. 

You could see them well from your gifted seat 15A. You laughed with the crowd, called the discrepancies of Brad Majors and Janet Weiss in loud, choreographed distaste from your seat, and tried your hardest to feel at home in this crowd– which had not been hard, per se. Even from your space here, they had not been unwelcoming, though you could not help but feel constant passing glances at you as the show progressed. 

Then, it happened. 

Hot white light tinted fuschia from the film warmed your face and drowned out the flush that crept hot against your neck. This was not a backsplash or residual lighting from the stage, this was attention. And it was all on you. 

“Whatever happened to Fay Wray?

That delicate satin draped frame…” 

Eddie sang, vibrato carrying across the fuschia that tethered you together like a bind and delivering it to your soul. His eyes locked into yours, and you couldn’t not catch the smile that only you could recognize as shit-eating, your own communication horror and the exact words: you fucking didn’t. 

“As it clung to her thigh, how I started to cry

Cause I wanted to be dressed just the same…”

A mist billowed from the undersides of the stage, pooling around your feet and spilling upwards into your lap. Eddie began to descend the stairs in a sinful strut, mink stole sliding across alabaster shoulders in one sensual movement. 

“Give yourself over to absolute pleasure…”

“Swim the warm waters of sins of the flesh…”

The mink stole found its way around your shoulders and settled there, and your face burned hot with both the stage light and embarrassment. Though, you couldn’t help but tilt your head back and cackle with the movement of Eddie’s hand against the niche between your jaw and neck and the weight of him against your legs. 

You shouldn’t like this, should you? 

No, this was okay. It was more than okay actually. You only existed in this moment. You didn’t understand how you could live any differently outside of this, now.

“Erotic nightmares beyond any measure,

He was heavy and hot against you. You could feel every nerve in your body, the lacy, delicate spider web strings of fishnet tights taught and stinging against your fingertips. 

And sensual daydreams to treasure forever,

You understood your place in space and time now. You felt the stardust settle in the cave of your body. You felt the universe combust and implode in a cosmogony within your body. You knew where Eddie was supposed to be. 

You also knew where your place was, too.  

Can't you just see it?”