#and these delicous insights every now and them

[casuallivi]

The tittle alone has me kicking my feet

Then I saw the picture.... And had to cross my legs like a good little lady...🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

Yeeeeeeeey, a Cassian journey! I love, love, love when you write Cass!!!!!! Love this littles strolls about his days and to-dos, let's gooooo

Man building things >>>>>>>>>>

I, too, would like a Cass to recreate smuttiest smut with me, where do I sign?

Cassian, in turn, was watching them, while pretending like he wasn’t watching them,

Cassian is such a gossip girl! That's why he and Feyfey go so well together 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

He vetoed the short hair thing on his wife.

Forbidding Ness from doing something??!? And you??? Oh baby, that's like dangling a smut book in front of her, she'll end up doing just to contradict you 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣😂😂😂😂😂😂

You know what I like? Man who truly know their woman! Good for Varian, for knowing that his gremlin likes puppies

and his office was like his life–full of sunshine, of his Elain.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

That was sick, SICK!

Wait a minute, YOU GAVE HIM ANOTHER SCAAAAAR

Bitch, are you Zade-ing my Az?!?!? I'm onto you nikita 🧐🤨🤭😂🤣

“You are not retired,”

"Fuck am!” Az insisted. “I am not doing any fucking favours for anyone, especially him.”

Cass threw a meaningful glance at the stacks of reports and papers, which definitely indicated that Azriel was not, in fact, retired at all.

“What’s that, then?” he cocked his brow at the papers.

“Charity.”

Loooooooool, this entire exchange????

GOLD 🥇 🪙

Az rubbing his retirement in Cass face, shit-talking about Rhys WHILE living in his former house is peak sibling behavior!!!!! Now that's how you do siblings, petty, annoying, fucking mad, but still loving each other. I would not grab a glass of water for my bro, but I'll donate him organs if that fucker needed it. Got love to hate them siblings

AND ELRIEL SHARES ONE LIFE NOW?!?!?!? excuse me, I'mma

Cassian didn’t comment, but he wondered if part of the animosity between Rhysand and Azriel was due to the fact that Elain was beloved, and Feyre was the High Lady. Feared and respected, but not loved. 

Oooooh, the plot thickens!

First, I love that years have gone by! These are freaking immortals, why put the events one after the other?! Let people catch a break, age, live life, damn! And everything they've done since Bryce (love the mingling of the worlds 💕✔️) got there?? Amazing to see!

Honestly, finally some magic, power and money being used to enhance people's lives! I'm so tired of reading about how beloved they are in velaris, how the people love him, how good of a high lord he is, and yet, we see nothing of it. Show me!!!!! Apart from a library to shove broken women in, there's nothing. And now Feyfey gives art lessons to orphan... And what else? Of course they will show respect for the great curse breaker and defender of the rainbow, but war is over. After that they become... A couple that lie to each other and hides in a fancy mansion.... It's kind of sad.

And Az' monologue?!?!?!!!?!? Let me just highlight something, real quick

My human woman

My Elain

My woman

And the rest of Azriel's monologue!?!?!!!

FACTS, KING! WOOOOORD!!!!!!!

Don't you just love when quiet, lethal, man let that tongue loose - in every sense of the word, wink wink - and sent our legs trembling?!? Uuuuurgh, I love this man so much

Gwyn Berdara, Mor’s mate and wife, mirrored her, tying her long bronze locks with a blue ribbon.

I'll pass commenting on that cause you already know 🤭🤭🤭

Nesta watching Cassian with heart eyes.... I just know my boy is getting so laid tonight! My man! Is nice to see Nesta being envious of Elain's relationship for a change. Poor Elain and Azriel had to suck their thumbs in the shadows while Nessian could play I'm the sun happily and married, it's good to see they set healthy parameters of relationship (even if they are hella crazy possessive, buts that's the fae way paired with Azriel shadowsinger crazy ass, and Elain isn't far behind, that is one crazy obsessed and possessive lady, lool)

He had added tiny pink roses to the blunt black curls of his tattoos, delicate vines that wrapped around the Illyrian markings, making him an Illyrian, but also Elain’s.

You did nooooooooot

Bye, I'm done

Dead and gone

Byeeeeeeeeeeeeee

How to Make An Illyrian Baby

Elriel Month 2023

Language of Love: Acts of Service

Azriel and Cassian build stuff. For their ladies. And the ladies are very happy with the results. (Canon)

Warnings: Language, some smut

“I have too many books,” Nesta stated, looking around her library. Bookshelves were groaning under the strain of endless tomes. 

Nesta had a semblance of order when it came to her books: Sellyn Drake, war books, war strategy books, book dedicated to Cassian, which she’s been collecting for the past few years–surprisingly, there were quite a few, because he was, in fact, a living, breathing legend–and then romance novels. Light erotic romance novels, heavier erotica, and then, tucked into the bookcase that was in the shadows were her faves–the smuttiest of the smuts–the ones she and Cassian liked to recreate. Her very best one was about an Illyrian war veteran and lumberjack, who wanted to find a female to carry his sons. He travelled 500 miles through the wilderness to find his mate and give her his seed. That one gave Nesta a lot of ideas, especially those revolving around Cassian being dressed as a lumberjack. A depraved, sex-starved lumberjack. 

Her husband towered, standing in the doorway, his arms crossed on his chest, her bright hazel eyes assessing the situation.

“Do you want to donate some? To a library?” he proposed.

Yes, that would be prudent and logical to do. But Nesta felt possessive of her books. The only other thing that she loved more and cherished greatly was Cassian. He was her glorious brave general, and not that she’d stroke his ego with her words and compliments, lest his head grow even bigger than it already was, but she loved him more than all of her books combined. Yet, she could not part with the books. Each one told a story of her own life, and walked alongside her on her journey. There, on the left, were the books that she read while she was here in the very beginning, when they were just Made, and Elain sat in her room, catatonic. Below those, were the books that she read when Cassian was courting her. Fine, technically fucking her, but that was their own, private manner of courting. There were books that Elain and Feyre gifted her, books that Emerie gave her, adventure novels that Gwyn was excited about. Nesta wasn’t much for adventure stories herself–she’d seen a little too much adventure in her 30 years–but she understood why Gwyn loved them and how they took her out of her own humdrum existence. 

“No. I don’t,” she said simply, her tone even, but decisive.

“Alright then,” Cassian nodded. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Maybe the House can offer more space? Create some shelves,” she proposed. 

There was no reaction from the magical House. Usually, it gave some indication of having heard its Made mistress, but this time around, there was no reaction. It didn’t suddenly gather all the books in neat piles, and didn’t create shelves out of thin air.

Nesta waited for a brief moment and then sighed and announced, “I am going to train”.

“See you later, Nes.”

Cassian flew out of the House fifteen minutes later. He circled over the training platform, where the females were sparring individually and in small groups.

It was no longer haphazard like it was before, when they started out. Now, everyone wore comfortable cotton uniforms, and no longer exercised in leather. There were females from other Courts who joined the ranks, and who brought innovative ideas, such as comfortable shoes, made for running. Nesta and Mor were sparring together, with wooden swords, their swings packing a significant punch. Mor was dressed in a red tunic and white leggings, while Nesta remained true to her subdued palette–black leggings, dark shirt, her hair woven tightly around her head.

She’s been threatening to cut her hair short��like Elain.

Elain had shocked everyone, absolutely everyone, when one day, she arrived with a cute, but very short bob, having chopped off her long thick tresses. Cassian couldn’t believe it. Nobody could. But Nesta, who always found her hair a nuisance to begin with, eyed Elain’s short hairdo enviously and with serious intent. 

The only person who didn’t seem to be put off by the short hair was Azriel. That night, at dinner, while Elain flitted back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, Azriel insisted on helping her. Cassian, in turn, was watching them, while pretending like he wasn’t watching them, and saw how many times Azriel’s scarred palm landed on Elain’s bare, exposed neck. How the long fingers ran over the back of Elain’s neck, stroking, caressing. How his knuckles skidded over the delicate skin of her throat, and how, when they thought that no one was watching, Azriel clasped his hand over Elain’s throat and squeezed. He pulled her to him, his hand firmly circling the long, elegant neck of his not-so-secret lover, while his lips captured hers in a deep, scorching kiss, biting her lips, sucking on her tongue. The way Azriel kissed Elain–it was usually done in private, but when Cassian happened to witness it, it was utterly filthy and inappropriate. Azriel kissed Elain like he wanted to brand her. Her neck was always marked with his teeth, and now, with her short hair, the mark was obscenely obvious. Cassian wondered if it was a not very subtle ‘fuck you’ to Rhysand, who still refused to grant them permission to marry, even though he was aware of their relationship. Rhysand said that until the mate bond between Elain and Lucien was officially rejected and certified by a priestess as null and void, there would be no formal recognition of Azriel and Elain’s relationship, and they were forbidden to marry. Cassian disagreed with his High Lord on his stance, and his bullheadedness, but he didn’t have a say in the matter.

So, as it stood, Elain kept her hair short, with an elegant upsweep, which has now become fashionable across Prythian, and her neck was always marked with bruises and teeth imprints from the Shadowsinger. 

Despite how good the short ‘do looked on Elain, and how Cassian was envious of Azriel’s easy access to Elain’s lovely neck, he baulked at the idea of Nesta cutting off her hair. Nesta might have kept it braided or in a tight bun, but there was something special when Cassian pulled all the pins out and it fell like a silken waterfall around her. He vetoed the short hair thing on his wife. So far, the veto stood.

Nesta and Mor waved at him, when he flew past them, while Amren, who was lounging on a chaise and definitely not sparring or exercising, gave him a disinterested glance. No one spared him many looks in general, because most of the females were crowding around Amren’s dog, also named Amren. Varian gave the puppy to Amren as a Solstice gift, and though everyone waited with bated breath to see how she would react to this shaggy portly fluff ball of a puppy, she was…elated. Nyx burst into tears, also demanding a puppy, but Amren refused him coldly, scooping the dog in her arms and cuddling it the entire night. 

Since then, the dog hasn't left her side. She loved that damn dog more than she loved anything, and named it Amren, though it was a boy dog. Cassian supposed that the name was fine. Amren Jr. was now as large as its cranky Fae mother, and he was still growing. Cassian wondered if Amren would ever try to ride Amren Jr. like a horse.

Cassian flew across Velaris. 

It was a pretty, sunny spring day, where every tree seemed to be in bloom and bursts of pink, white, cream, purple and blue tree canopies made his flight more enjoyable.

He landed quietly at the black wrought iron fence of the townhouse. It was still a handsome white building, but Elain had repainted the front door a cobalt-blue. Branches of heavily flowering trees hung over the fence, making this a truly Fae house, with fragrant pink and azure blossoms swaying gently in the breeze.

He unlatched the gate and stepped into the courtyard. Elain was toiling on the side, planting forget-me-nots around the perimeter of the house. She looked cute, in a simple blue shirt and black leggings, with a thick headband around her short curls. 

“Hey petal!” He greeted her.

“Cass!”

“He home?”

She nodded and nodded towards the door, letting Cassian make his way in.

It was good with Elain. Comfortable. Cassian didn’t need to say too many words. The girl always had the knack for just understanding him. 

The townhouse smelled like bread and roses–as usual. There was always the rich yeasty doughy scent that permeated the air–like a bakery. But there was also a whiff of roses, as well as honey, and jasmine. It smelled uniquely like Elain and Azriel here now.

Nothing drastically changed inside the townhouse since Rhysand’s times, but it definitely wasn’t his anymore. It was Azriel’s and Elain’s. Furniture was rearranged, and the style was different–sleeker, more modern (whatever that meant). Something about this ‘modern’ thing that Bryce Quinlar had brought from her world and apparently Elain really liked. Cassian wasn’t too sure what it was, but apparently, it involved sofas that weren’t fluffy. It also wasn’t as stuffy as when Rhys lived here, because Azriel didn’t like anything ‘extra’. Things had to be functional, comfortable and minimal. 

Azriel’s office and the house library had been rearranged in the way that his desk faced the wide open kitchen. Cassian suspected that Azriel liked to watch Elain and wanted an unobstructed view of her at all times. That was the main change on the first floor–walls had been knocked down, so Azriel could always watch his girl. Whether Elain realised why it was done, Cassian wasn’t sure, but Azriel was wildly obsessed with Elain, and there was no hiding it. 

“Hey!” 

Cassian could spot Azriel from the foyer. Azriel was in his office–a bright place, with huge windows and light pouring in and bouncing off the cream walls and plain shelves. Azriel avoided the dark at all costs, and his office was like his life–full of sunshine, of his Elain. It didn’t escape Cassian that Azriel was glancing out the window, catching a glimpse of the garden and his girl working in it.

“Hey you too,” Azriel tore his eyes away from the window and looked at Cassian. “What’s going on?”

Azriel wore a simple soft hoodie–another of Bryce’s contributions–and it was Azriel’s new informal uniform. He and Elain had invested early in the manufacturing of these hoodies, as well as sweat pants, both of which became wildly popular across all of Prythian, as well as the Continent. Let’s just say that they absolutely killed on that investment and were so fucking wealthy, they singlehandedly built and supported all the orphanages and schools in Illyria, as well as training facilities for females across all of Prythian. They opened libraries, girls’ schools and vocational training colleges for Illyrian females. It was ironic that Azriel, who hated Illyrian customs and attitudes all of his life, was now the predominant supporter of the changes that were taking place there. Nesta and Elain insisted on further investments in Illyria, and now, all these hoodies and sweatpants were manufactured there. It was actually kind of incredible, the more Cassian thought about it. He had spent 400 years trying to better the lives of the Illyrian people and make something of his land, and it took something else entirely to drive the changes–a girl from a different world, and three sisters who had experienced the best and the worst of what the world threw at women. 

“You want to eat? Drink?” Azriel asked, as Cassian took a seat across him and stretched his legs.

Azriel looked healthy. Happy. It was always difficult to read him, but Cassian knew him well enough. 

“No, I am good,” Cassian assured him, watching the man’s hazel eyes track Elain outside the window. The bright light of the office really showcased Azriel’s thick raised scar that stretched from his temple all the way to his chin, slashing across his cheek and crowding his eyelid. It was a gruesome fucking thing, made by a Made dagger, and everyone knew that the scar would remain forever, though it didn’t deter from Azriel’s handsomeness. It was almost like he wore it with pride, never hiding it behind his hair, or anything else. It was a scar that he received when Elain came to rescue him from certain death, and saved him. The scar, he felt, was a small price to pay for her sacrifice for him, and her love. Because no one loved Azriel quite like Elain. She tore him from the clutches of a Death God, and fought for him, and brought him back to life. 

“I need your help,” Cassian said at last, after Azriel fixed him with a questioning gaze. Resting his laced fingers on his flat, muscular stomach, Azriel quickly announced,

“I am not helping anyone with anything if it takes me away from my girl.”

It was the first time since Cassian stepped in that a shadow popped up and circled Azriel’s feet. The shadows didn’t appear frequently anymore, and never when Azriel was at home–Azriel’s comfort and general satisfaction with life didn’t require the shadows any longer. However, Cassian knew that he brought a measure of distress to his friend right now, and he felt bad about that. 

Cassian rolled his eyes and muttered,

“You are the worst besotted person I’ve ever met!”

“I am not besotted. I am in love,” Azriel objected lazily. “What do you want?”

Before Cassian could even open his mouth, Az added roughly,

“If it’s some shit from Rhys, you can forget it. I am retired.”

“You are not retired,”

“Fuck am!” Az insisted. “I am not doing any fucking favours for anyone, especially him.”

Cass threw a meaningful glance at the stacks of reports and papers, which definitely indicated that Azriel was not, in fact, retired at all.

“What’s that, then?” he cocked his brow at the papers.

Az puffed his cheeks and said,

“Charity.”

“Charity?”

“My girl lives in this city and this Court. Her sisters too. You. I am not leaving it to go to Hel because someone missed something vital that endangers you all. I can easily pick my girl up and fly with her to my beach house which is far, far, far away from here. But..I don’t want you to be thrown in some new fuck up war, and I don’t want Nesta to become a widow, and all that,”

“Oh, generous of you!”

“I am generous,” Azriel agreed easily. “I do all of this because I can, and I have a sense of responsibility, and not because I have to. So, I repeat, if this is an order from the High Lord, you can both stuff it. So, what do you want?”

“I guess lucky for me that this has nothing to do with Rhys. But I will take that drink, because dealing with you is a pain in the arse,” Cassian sighed.

Azriel smirked and got up, going to a cart which was lined with bottles of expensive liquor. He poured them both a measure of whiskey and handed the tumbler to his brother.

Oh Cauldron boil him. Wherever Az got this whiskey from, it was sublime. Cassian smacked his lips, savouring the deep smokey taste, with hints of citrus and even cherries in it. So what if it was 9 in the morning? Good whiskey was always a good idea.

“We need to build something,” Cassian said at last, and Azriel’s eyes immediately narrowed. The thick pink scar stood in sharp contrast to Azriel’s dark skin and as he cocked his head, it became even more pronounced.

Adding quickly, Cassian said, “and no, it will not take you away from your flower.”

“I am not helping you build another cabin,” Azriel warned.

400 years ago, the three of them, Rhys, Cass and Az, built a cabin in Illyria. It was for Cassian, and it was a mammoth project, since they did absolutely everything themselves. It took a couple of years and a lot of sweat, and pain, and frustration, but the cabin stood and Cassian and Nesta went there pretty often. Nesta loved the rugged terrain, the mountains, the low, but vast skies, the dramatic waterfalls and the immense forests. It was wild and beautiful.

“Nothing quite so elaborate. My wife needs some book shelves.”

Azriel hummed under his breath and then offered a single nod.

“Fine.”

“Well, that was easy,” Cassian smirked and Az glowered at him, but it was without any bite or threat.

“How many shelves?” Azriel asked, as he went to the kitchen to rinse their tumblers.

“No idea. A lot. The books are overtaking the House and she is refusing the donate any of them,” 

Humming again, Azriel looked around the huge kitchen, which was remodelled to suit Elain’s needs. She cooked and baked voraciously, but mostly for the orphanages or to distribute the breads and the pastries to the less fortunate. Azriel was a big male, but even he couldn’t consume as much as Elain baked. She also had a bakery, where she employed human survivors of the War, who created many specialities from the Human Lands. Needless to say, the place was popular and Elain re-invested all the money that the bakery made into building housing for the humans across Prythian. 

It surprised Cassian a bit, how charitable both Azriel and Elain were, and how much effort they put into bettering the lives of others, especially children and females. When he’d asked, Azriel avoided answering for the most part, only ever saying that since he got a second chance at life, he didn’t want to waste it on destruction, but wanted to put it towards creation. And that was that.

Running his gnarled scarred fingers over the long butcher block countertop upon which Elain did most of her baking, Azriel mused, “maybe I’ll build something too…” The counter was definitely banged up–chipped in some places, scuffed, burn marks littered all over the surface, gouges from knives and scrapers and rolling pins and bowls and other utensils all peppering the once gleaming surface.

They left the house and skirted the side of the building. Azriel immediately extended his massive wing, shielding Elain from the sun. She was crouching on the ground, her hands dirty, her brow sweaty. 

“Flower, you need to wear a hat,” he admonished lightly, while she tipped her head back and smiled at him. “Your pretty face is getting all burned and red,”

“It is not!” she argued.

“You look like a beet,” he noted, and Cassian chuckled. She did. She was red and sweaty, but her brown eyes gleamed with joy.

No one would’ve thought what this smiling, soft woman was capable of. No one would’ve guessed what she did. If someone didn’t know their story, no one would believe it. It was unbelievable. It was legendary. It was the stuff of myths, where only four short years later, no one thought that it actually happened. But it did. 

Elain Archeron had bargained with the Cauldron, and offered up her own immortality to save the man she loved. Elain, the gentle flower grower, fearlessly stepped back into the ink-black waters of the Cauldron, returning to its horrific depths willingly. She, who clutched her dead lover to her chest, and who offered to share one life with him, in exchange for his own. Azriel was dead. He had no immortality. He had nothing to bargain with. He only had the love of Elain, who pleaded and begged and sacrificed on his behalf. And the Cauldron agreed. It bound Azriel to Elain’s life. One life. For both of them. If she died, he died. If he died, she died. Together. Forever. Unable to exist without each other. The Cauldron tethered them with a bond unlike any other. Elain gave up her perfect immortality, her grace, so she could live whatever years she had with Azriel. The only such bond in existence, created especially for them. Only because the Cauldron loved Elain and wanted to make her happy. Elain made the Cauldron purr. 

She was laughing now, crying “I am not a beet!” while playing with Azriel’s wing. He poked her on the head with the claw and then warned, “I better see a hat on you!”

She sighed dramatically and muttered, “fine!”

“Thank you,” he drawled and then scooped her in his arms. 

She traced his cheek with her dirty finger and then asked, “do you want beet salad for dinner?”

“My favourite,” he smiled. “With goat's cheese?”

“Yuck,’ she grimaced. “Fiiinnnneee…”

He laughed and pressed, “And almonds?”

“And almonds,” she nodded. He wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed her nose, then her mouth.

Cassian stepped aside, to give them room. 

Azriel stroked her face, her neck, before biting her at the juncture between her shoulder and her neck, sinking his teeth into her skin cruelly and possessively. She stilled in his arms, while he sucked, his mouth laving and hurting, kissing and biting her. He was always feral with her, barely controlled, completely consumed by her, and consuming her in turn. 

The bargain was harsh, but in Cassian’s opinion, perfect for them–Azriel wouldn’t have been able to live without Elain anyway. If she wasn’t with him, he’d simply hurl himself down on the ground from a great height and not unfurl his wings. Unlike most beings, Azriel didn’t fear death. Like Cassian, he walked side by side with Death all his life, and dying was the most natural thing to him. Cassian might have had a healthy respect for death, but Azriel taunted it and fought it. Though now, thankfully, he was thoughtful about it. But only because it involved Elain.

“You want to wear a flower crown?” Elain asked, once Azriel finally forced himself to pull away from her. Cassian was of mind that Azriel would just take here right then and there, on the lawn of their house. Would it surprise him? Not even a little bit.

“Sure, flower, let’s do it!” Azriel agreed easily, a smile playing on his handsome face.

She got excited and rushed to a cart, where her tools and seeds were stored, from which she retrieved not one, but two flower crowns. Azriel looked at her like she was a falling star, the most beautiful sunset of his life, like the sun at dawn. 

“Cass, you want one?” 

Well, Cassian certainly couldn’t say no to her, considering how thrilled she looked right now, so he nodded and stooped, so she could place one on his head. He was a smart man. He liked Elain, but also, he didn’t want to be beaten to death by Azriel’s boot for refusing Elain’s flower crown.

She laughed and told him ‘You look good!’

“Anything for you, petal.”

They flew to the market, and then walked down the crowded paths, while Fae gawked at them. Some dared to ask for autographs. It wasn't every day that the Commander General and the Shadowsinger were strolling down towards where lumber, metals, and construction materials were sold. Two huge Illyrian warriors, sporting flower crowns. Neither Cassian nor Azriel removed their new decorations, and didn’t really care whether they looked odd. Multiple people stopped and told Azriel to pass their regards to Lady Elain. Because Lady Elain paid for a healer for someone’s son. Lady Elain found housing for someone’s uncle. Lady Elain’s new park was wonderful. Lady Elain’s free kitchens served the best potato and sausage soup. 

Cassian didn’t comment, but he wondered if part of the animosity between Rhysand and Azriel was due to the fact that Elain was beloved, and Feyre was the High Lady. Feared and respected, but not loved. 

“Are you planning to patch things up with Rhys any time soon?” Cassian queried, as the two of the selected wood, nuts and bolts, fasteners and lacquer. 

“Not planning on it,” Azriel shrugged, filling the cart with dozens of wooden planks.

Carefully, Cassian prodded, “Is that reasonable?” 

Azriel remained placid under the scrutiny, choosing whatever he needed for his own project. Calmly, he asked, “what do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. That you’ll be the bigger male in this ridiculous standoff, and you’ll,”

Interrupting him, Azriel said, his tone dry and crisp.

“I am in love with a human woman, Cassian. Just like you. My human woman grew up believing in certain things–betrothals, marriage, weddings. Maybe it matters little to you and I, but my human woman always wanted that. She wanted love–to love and to be loved. She was betrothed and about to be married once, and she was torn from that world and that future, and given to another male. A male she didn’t know, didn’t want, and didn’t like. She was shackled with a bond she didn’t even understand, and while everyone told her how special it was, and how she should ‘give him a chance’ she was developing feelings for another male–me. She wanted me. And Rhys forced me to break her fucking heart, Cassian, because of Lucien! Because of his political agenda. When it came to him stealing Feyre from Tamlin, that was all dandy! Oh the great mate bond that was bestowed upon our High Lord. The mate bond that trumps all. Well, not only was I forced to reject the woman I love because of Rhys’s political machinations, he didn’t bat an eye when he found out that Lucien was shacking up with Vassa. In his mind, Elain had to ‘deal with the bond’, sit alone and untouched by anyone, while I was sent on missions all over the world, so he could keep us apart. 

“Elain went and did whatever Rhys commanded for the good of Prythian and his Court. She had to match wits with a Death God and bargain with the Cauldron. When it came to saving his mate and son, Rhys was dropping on his knees for Nesta, who did an exemplary and selfless thing for them. But when Elain did the same, but it was for me, and for Prythian, somehow, it wasn’t enough. 

“All I ever wanted was to offer my Elain what she dreamed of–a proper betrothal, and a wedding, and a marriage. Not some secret bullshit thing, where we have to hide it from everyone, the way we had to hide our relationship.

“But alas, we do not have the great and magnificent Mate Bond! Which apparently is the only thing that matters to Rhys. You and Nesta were mated, you were married, and you get to live your life as you please. And I am happy for you. But I live under the threat of banishment, stripped of my rank, and forbidden to marry my woman. Either I have to become an oath breaker, and a traitor to my High Lord and my Court, or I have to live in shameful silence with Elain, like we are two criminals.

“So no, I am sorry, but I am not planning on patching things up with him.”

That was the longest that Cassian ever heard Azriel speak. It was a tirade from a male who did not lower himself to tirades. There was something agonisingly sad and wretched about the betrayal that Azriel felt from Rhysand, and it pained Cassian to see things devolve like that. Five, almost six years on, and there was no resolution. And Cassian couldn’t blame his brother. 

In the end, Cassian simply said, “Elain deserves better. She deserves the world.”

Azriel nodded, saying, “that’s why I am going to build my baker girl a new counter. It’s time.”

The sun was beating down on one of the inner courtyards of the House of Wind. Thankfully, a pleasant cool breeze from the sea brought some relief, though the men preferred working shirtless anyway. 

Cassian and Azriel worked well together–they were mostly silent, knowing what needed to be done without unnecessary commentary. The camaraderie was familiar and pleasant, honed to perfection after centuries of friendship and brotherhood. Rhys didn’t like building things, and preferred to use magic when he could, so it would be done quicker, and perhaps better. But there was something about getting calluses on their hands, and the tingle of strain in their muscles from lugging all the parts and then hammering and screwing them together. There was innate satisfaction with producing something that came from them, and was built with their own hands. They’ve completed three bookshelves already, and were working on Azriel’s butcher block right now. It was a simple job, if a little tedious, but the polishing of the surface was also calming, relaxing even. While Cassian was sanding and polishing, Azriel was on his knees, attaching a fastener to the side of the block, his muscles straining and his dark golden skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat.

“We got company,” Cassian murmured with amusement.

Azriel glanced over his shoulder, and saw a bunch of females strolling about, sneaking through the columns that lined the loggia one level above. They were milling around, pretending like they had some business here, in this corner of the House, where none would ever step foot in before.

Azriel huffed and returned to his work, while Cassian heard an audible gasp from a few ladies, when they were faced with the expanse of Azriel’s bare back, clad in thick muscles and decorated with black ink. He had added tiny pink roses to the blunt black curls of his tattoos, delicate vines that wrapped around the Illyrian markings, making him an Illyrian, but also Elain’s. Cassian had seen Elain’s own tattoo–exactly the same black swirls like Azriel possessed (actually, all of them did) for luck and glory on the battlefield–and boy, oh boy, did she need it!--swirling the side of her torso, under her left arm. She also had tiny roses dotting her skin, but they were cobalt blue. Because she was Azriel’s.

“What are they doing?” Mor raised her brow, while she wrapped her thick blond hair in a ponytail.

Gwyn Berdara, Mor’s mate and wife, mirrored her, tying her long bronze locks with a blue ribbon.

Nesta, who stood still, watching the males work on fitting a shelf into the slots, said,

“Apparently building stuff,”

“What is it?” Gwyn wondered, though it was pretty obvious what was being built, and Nesta gave her a ‘I slay my enemies’ look, at which Gwyn quickly added, “I mean, why bookshelves?”

“Told Cassian I needed bookshelves,” Nesta said bluntly.

“And he just went and built you some shelves?”

“It would seem so,” Nesta agreed and cocked her head, watching her husband, until a small smirk appeared at the corner of her mouth. 

Mor was watching them too, while doing sit ups and stretches, to ‘limber up’ according to her, because she and Gwyn and Emerie were going to be participating in a sunball tournament tomorrow. Nesta thought that the whole thing was stupid, but many people around her took this game way, way too seriously and there were complex strategies being worked out all the time. One team had Feyre, Gwyn, Emerie, Cassian and Varian, plus a few other Fae, while the other team was led by Mor, Azriel, Rhys, Cerridwen, Balthazar and others.

Nuala, Elain, Ressina and a few of their friends from the city, as well as Azriel’s younger sisters were on the cheer squad, pumping up the crowds, doing stupid and risky gymnastics for no reason.

Nesta and Amren had no interest in sunball, and thought that the whole thing was ridiculous. However, they were completely outnumbered. It was for the best that Nesta wasn’t on the teams–she’d just fight with Cassian constantly, just like Feyre did with Rhys and Mor did with Gwyn. At first, Elain was also all fired up about joining, but she could barely tackle a poodle, let alone someone like Cassian or Balthazar. Besides, everyone knew that Azriel would smite anyone who’d touch her or hurt her. Elain was pouting for a week straight when she didn’t make the teams, or even the subs. It was Varian–the Captain of the Blues–who suggested that they all needed a cheering squad, and Elain just about tackled him when she heard about it. 

Nesta had to admit that the cheer squad was pretty impressive. They did all kinds of magic, Nuala floated through things, Azriel’s sisters flew and performed acrobatics in the air, and Elain played with both fire and water. 

“Cauldron boil me,” Mor muttered under her breath, “but they are pretty.”

They were pretty. The two indescribably beautiful males sure knew how to impress. Cassian was thick and agile, powerful and rough, like the mountains and the winds of Illyria. Azriel was slender and carved, elegant and devastating, dominating and calm, like the blue waters of the ocean.

Nesta didn’t much care for Mor breathing her admiration for Cassian, or Az for that matter, but she didn't say anything. 

“Yeah, you can get pregnant just from looking at them!” Gwyn announced, and Nesta winced. 

If anyone was going to be getting pregnant here, it would be her. By Cassian. 

She could barely tolerate other females looking at her husband, but she also felt a bit smug–after all, he was building stuff for her. He wanted to please her. He loved and adored her. He was hers. 

Nesta’s learned a lot in the past six years of her marriage and matehood. She learned how to compromise and what fights were worth her time, and which weren’t…and curiously, the longer she lived with her mate, the more she realised that most fights weren’t worth it. She preferred to love him. She watched Elain and Azriel, whose temperaments were very different from her own and Cassian’s, but who always set an example with their relationship. They hardly ever disagreed, and instead of jibing and nagging, they praised and supported each other. Elain only ever sang Azriel’s accolades and while Nesta figured that they probably had some disagreements, Elain and Azriel knew how to resolve them quickly and peacefully. And Nesta realised that she kind of wanted more of that, as opposed to bickering and arguing. When there was nothing to fight about, why perpetuate the unnecessary tension? So she didn’t join the sunball teams, because she wanted to keep the peace, and right now, she felt like praising her husband.

Nesta left the others behind and went downstairs.

‘Heavy motherfucker’ she overheard Cassian grunt, his huge arms holding the heavy structure steady, while Azriel scowled as he jammed and shimmied the last of the shelves into place. Through gritted teeth he hissed, ‘next time you are buying Nesta a bookshelf! Like a normal person!’

Nesta approached Cassian from behind, admiring his sweaty back, where each divot and scar, every tendon and birthmark were familiar and beautiful. She wrapped her arms around his trim waist and pressed her cheek to his spine, between his wings.

“But Nesta likes it when her husband builds stuff for her,” she protested and Cassian’s massive body shook with laughter.

Nesta never grew to like the term ‘mate’, unlike Feyre. She always preferred ‘husband’, because that’s what Cassian was–he was her husband. Her lover. Her mountain. Her soul. And she loved to ‘husband’ him in front of others. She just wished that her sister Elain could do the same one day–because no one ever wanted to marry a male more than Elain wanted to marry Azriel. 

“Hello Nes. This was supposed to have been a surprise,” he reminded her.

“Don’t know how this was going to be a surprise,” she shrugged, “when you’ve been hammering, cursing and thrusting all morning long!”

“Thrusting?” Cassian huffed and Azriel gave him a look. “I certainly haven’t been thrusting. Otherwise, I would’ve remembered it!”

Nesta laughed softly and kissed Cassian’s back, “sounded like thrusting.”

Azriel finally wedged the last of the shelves in place and Cassian let go of the bookshelf at last and Nesta ducked under his sweaty arm, as the three of them admired the fruits of their labour.

“You like?” Cass asked, wiping his brow.

“I like,” she confirmed.

The shelves were simple, but beautiful. Made by her husband’s own hands. And what could be more precious than that?

Azriel folded his arms on his wide chest and asked, “And the House couldn't have built these for you?”

Nesta looked up at Cassian and the ferocious look of pride and satisfaction on his handsome face, and stroked his cheek.

“The House knows what’s real. I only want real.”

Nesta’s hand skidded over Cassian’s thick arm, her fingers tracing the patterns of his tattoos and then she whispered, her voice husky,

“I think I need to be alone with my husband, Az.”

“I would agree,” Azriel chuckled, as he tugged his shirt back on. “All it took is a little sweat and some rudimentary building skills,”

Cassian shrugged innocently, his big hands circling around Nesta’s thin waist.

“Ladies like a builder, brother.”

“Ladies do,” Nesta confirmed, her cool unusual eyes glazing, sliding over the panes of Cassian’s phenomenal body.

Azriel smiled, saluted them, grabbed the heavy countertop and then winnowed away.

Elain was out when Azriel returned home. He had about an hour to wrangle the old countertop off its base and affix the new one. As he got to work, he pondered if Elain would be as enamoured with his building skills as Nesta was with Cassian’s, and where that appreciation might lead. 

Despite the lovely morning, by midday the weather’s changed, and thick spring clouds rolled from the sea. Azriel opened the tall doors in the kitchen, so that the cool pre-rain breeze wafted inside from the garden, which smelled exquisite from all the flowers and the blooming trees. He watched as the heavens opened up and a swift, heavy downpour came down quickly and violently. As he screwed the new countertop in place, he hoped that Elain wasn’t caught up in the storm, but, not 10 minutes later, he heard her at the front door. Felt her. Sensed her actually. Knew that she was near him now. He walked to greet her, throwing a lingering look at the new, shiny, polished, pristine butcher’s block. It looked amazing, if he could say so himself.

Elain was soaked. Dripping water from her dress, her hair, her eyelashes, everywhere.

“Beautiful, why didn’t you winnow?” he asked, standing in the doorway, watching her, as she tossed her sopping wet shoes on the floor. 

She looked at him and a lovely light lit up her face–the same light that always came out of her when she saw him.

“I love the rain,” she said simply, and then pulled her dress up without thinking about it, scrunching it up and tossing it on the floor by the shoes. 

Azriel watched her, unmoving, though he was smirking, and said, “Please, continue and don’t stop on my account.”

Before she could retort, her eyes popped open widely and she gasped, craning her neck–’what is that??’ She could see into the kitchen from here, and the new countertop was hard to miss.

“Az…” she breathed. “You…you made this?”

“Sure did, gorgeous,” he nodded and as she tried to run by him, his arm shot out and he grabbed her firmly around the waist, pulling her to him. She only wore a silk undershirt, which was also soaked from the rain, and he didn’t waste any time tearing that off of her. 

“Az,” she croaked again, because now, she was completely naked, save for her white stockings, which moulded over her plump thighs, and he was completely dressed. Hefting her in his arms, he lifted her off the floor and her legs wrapped around his waist, as she draped her arms over his shoulders.

“You made that for me?” she breathed. And the smile that bloomed on his lips was devious, enticing and a little evil.

“I heard that girls like shit built for them,” he teased, as he walked them slowly from the foyer and into the house. His large hands gripped the backs of her thighs, before he repositioned her, so that he cupped her bare ass, his fingertips positioned precariously close to her centre. She keened into him, breath hitching higher in her chest, her breasts rising and falling.

“Girls do,” she nodded, echoing her sister’s words. “I want a big, sweaty, brawny man to build me things,” she growled, her teeth biting the tip of his ear. 

“Are you describing Cassian?” he joked, those bold fingertips tracing the rim of her entrance.

“There is only one big, sweaty, brawny man in my life,” she bit his earlobe savagely, before sliding down and nipping on the column of his neck, placing slow, open-mouthed kisses on his skin, the thick veins of his throat.

“Care to test the countertop? Make sure it’s well made?” he proposed, as she sank her teeth into his skin, biting and kissing his neck, surely leaving a mark on him. His control wavered and he picked up his pace, almost running to the kitchen and slamming her down on the new surface. She yelped and bounced on the hard wood, while he roughly parted her thighs and stepped between them, sliding his sweats down and freeing the cock that was legendary. She barely managed to prop herself on her elbow, though he wrapped his arm over her back, preventing her from falling back, while at the same time, he drove his thick, heavy shaft into her. 

She screamed from the agonisingly painful, but delicious thrust, as he filled her so suddenly and completely, she had no time to process it. 

“Oh, by the fucking Cauldon,” she wailed, trying to adjust to the pressure, and the glorious drag of that magnificent pole, while he began to pound in her relentlessly, not allowing her any time to adjust. All she could do was just take it. 

A chant of “fuckmefuckmefuckme” burst forth from her lips, and he smiled a taunting little smirk, murmuring ‘language, little Elain’, shaking his head at her, as he drove so deep inside, she was left completely breathless. Falling back on the new counter at last, she could only take the merciless ramming of that massive dick, thinking that there would probably be an imprint of her ass in the surface of the counter from how hard he fucked her. 

Apparently, roughly fucking ladies on newly built things was what the gentlemen liked. 

She clamped tightly around him in no time, her breasts bouncing wildly from the force of his thrusts, and her back arched at an unnatural angle, as she careened over, grabbing his hand and squeezing hard enough to almost break it. Not that Azriel cared how hard she pawed or squeezed him. He spilled inside of her with a hoarse, feral groan, pressing his forehead to hers, while he rolled the wet stockings down her legs. 

“Pleasure to serve my lady,” he grunted against her lips, and she burst out laughing. “How’s the counter?”

“Probably left a bruise on my butt, but otherwise, amazing!”

Ten Months Later

How does one make an Illyrian baby? 

Build furniture for the mother, and then fuck her on it, that’s how.

Azriel and Elain made their way to the House of Wind. Well, they took a carriage, like normal people, and once they were deposited in front of the red mountain and the massive building within it, Azriel picked Elain up in his arms and flew the short distance to the private quarters, where Nesta and Cassian lived. 

Cassian opened the doors on the terrace and his face broke into a wide grin.

“Lemmie see them!” he demanded impatiently. 

Azriel smiled and carefully laid two swaddled bundles into his brother’s waiting arms.

Grumbling, Cassian muttered, “I can’t believe you made two!”

Azriel wrapped his arm around Elain’s shoulder and then whistled, adding smugly,

“Well, brother, I can offer you some pointers for next time…”

“What next time??!” they heard Nesta’s voice from the lounge. 

She was laid out in a wide armchair, looking cool and unbothered as usual. 

No one would tell you that she gave birth yesterday morning.

“We are definitely going to discuss the ‘next’ part,” she warned Cassian, who sat down on the edge of the chair and scooped another baby–his own–into his arms.

“What did you name her?” Elain asked.

“Parvati,” Nesta said, gently stroking the baby’s head with her finger.

“Daughter of the Mountain.”

“Well, Parvati, it’s nice to meet you. These are your cousins, Ramiel and Isabelle.”

“The three of you will do great things together.”

credit to @gracie-rosee for Amren and her dog HC

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Fight Scene

How to Write a Convincing Fight Scene

In practice, writing a realistic fight scene for your novel is one of the hardest things you’ll ever do.

That’s because fight scenes can be boring to read.

A movie allows the audience to take a passive stance and have the action wash over them.

In contrast, reading a fight scene requires the audience to activate their imagination.

The audience must participate in constructing the fight scene from your clues and seeing it play out in their mind’s eye.

That’s a lot more difficult than getting it fed to you visually.

Below are strategies for writing fight scenes.

Fight Scenes Should Move the Story Forward

The very first rule for fight writing (and writing any scene in general) is to ensure that it moves the story forward.

Say “no” to gratuitous fight scenes that only show off fancy moves or writing skills.

Here’s the easiest way to find out if your fight scene moves the story:

Delete it.

Now, read the scene before and the scene after.

Can you still make sense of what happened?

If the fight caused some type of transition in your story, keep it in.

And remember: Not all transitions are physical. Some are mental.

You don’t always have to discuss the physical aftermath.

You can also explore the mental fallout after a fight.

This can be how the fight moves the story forward.

Fight Scenes Should Improve Characterization

Because reading a fight scene can get boring quickly, it’s important that you focus on more than the bare-knuckle action.

Use fights as a way to explore your character(s) and provide more insight on the following:

Why does the character make the choices that they make in the fight?

How does each choice reinforce their characterization?

How does each choice impact their internal and/ or external goals?

Is this conflict getting the character closer or further away from their goals? How?

What are the stakes for each character? What do they stand to win/lose?

What type of fighter is the character? What are their physical or mental abilities? (Remember that not every protagonist will be a trained assassin, so they’re prone to make sloppy mistakes during a fight.)

Use the fight scene to reveal necessary information about the characters.

Be sure to give the reader a glimpse into the character’s soul and not just into their fighting skills.

Fight Scenes Shouldn't Slow the Pace

In movies and especially in real life, fights go by quickly.

But in literature, fight scenes can slow the pace.

That’s because you have to write all of the details and the reader has to reconstruct the scene in their minds.

However, if you employ certain literary devices into your narrative, you can actually create a taut fight scene.

Here are some tips:

Write in shorter sentences. Shorter sentences are easier to digest. It also speeds up the pace of a story.

Mix action with dialogue. Don’t just write long descriptions of what’s happening. Also, share the verbal exchange between your characters.

Don’t focus too much on what’s going on inside the character’s mind. Introspection happens before and after a fight, not during.

Keep the fight short. Fights should never go on for pages (unless you’re discussing an epic battle between armies, and not individuals).

Hit ’Em With All the Senses

One of the best ways to get visceral when describing a fight is to activate every sense possible.

This includes sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell.

Think of how you can use these five descriptors in your writing to immediately transport the reader to the scene.

Sight 

Perhaps the most obvious.

You’ll describe exactly what the characters are seeing and what the reader should pay attention to in the scene.

Hearing 

Is a little more delicate.

A fight scene is a perfect time to introduce onomatopoeia into your narrative.

Onomatopoeia - a word that sounds like what it is describing.

Try using more subtle examples, such as:

Boom, Clang, Clap, Clatter, Click, Crack, Creak, Crunk, Fizzle, Gargle, Groan, Grunt, Gurgle, Hiss, Howl, Hum, Knock, Plod, Rattle, Roar, Rustle, Sizzle, Smack, Splash, Splatter, Squeal, Tap, Thud, Thumb, Whine, Whisper

Taste 

Be careful with going abstract here.

Instead of using phrases like, “he could taste fear in the air,”

go for something more concrete like, “blood mixed with strawberry lip gloss was a strange taste.”

Touch 

Perhaps one of the easiest senses to convey.

Describe how the characters feel and interact with each other physically.

Smell 

You often see or hear a fight, but can you smell it?

In person, what would the fight smell like? Probably sweat.

Consider other scents, such as the ambient aroma in the scene.

Example: If the fight takes place in a car garage, there may be the lingering scent of motor oil and tire rubber.

Don’t be afraid to add that into the scene to introduce a different dimension.

When Writing a Fight Scene, Edit, Edit, Edit

A good story is an edited one.

The same rule applies to fight scenes.

A sloppy fight scene can slow the pace of your story and/or confuse the reader.

When editing your fight scene, keep the following in mind:

Don’t include a blow by blow of what happens in the fight. After your initial draft, remove non-essential details that can slow down reading.

Delete flowery language. Extra words drag the pace. Remove every single word that you can.

Consolidate characters to reduce reader confusion and frustration.

Source ⚜ Fight Scenes (Part 2) ⚜ Words for your Fight Scenes Word Lists: Fight ⚜ Poking/Hitting ⚜ Panting ⚜ Running ⚜ Pain

[dutiful-wildcraft]

Restoration Worship

Nikolai x Fat F! Reader Tags: monsterfucking, gargoyles, dubcon, overstimulation, tail sex, anal play, double penetration, squirting, cunnilingus, p in v, dirty talk.  I think thats about it, I think yall should know by now that every reader I write is fat, blacked out and wrote 3K words of gargoyle smut sooo… enjoy!

It had begun as a research effort, a little trip to the cemetery to hopefully procure some interesting insight into a little project she’d been working on for the museum. Eyes scanning over lichen covered graves and cracked mausoleums, words long faded in time. 

She’d seen the videos before. Kind strangers brushing away years of decay with a brush and patience. Who would we be without the knowledge from our predecessors after all? 

So with a passion for restoration and a need for busy hands she set to work, uncovering gracious prayers and one of the best cookie recipes she’d ever tasted set within the worn stone. 

It’s months before she comes across him. He’s a big boy, covered in lichen and the webs of spiders, stone stained heavily from the elements. Sharp claws curl into the pedestal he hunkers on, broad wings curled against his back, stone teeth bared in warning. 

Even like this he’s beautiful, strong features carved delicately in tarnished marble. 

She’d found her next project. 

A decade had passed since death had been at Nikolai’s doorstep, when he’d let the stone take him, closed himself off from the world to rest after an egregious injury. He’d watched over the lowly cemetery with weak eyes, until they too became covered. Until he’d lost himself to the void, consciousness falling into inky blackness as he waited amongst the trees. 

That is, until her.

His days had shifted from the chittering of squirrels and bird song to an incessant chatter. A soft english lilt that stirred something in his hazy mind. He likes the english. Past visions of old friends flash in his mind, warm dark skin, cigars, a mask made of bone. 

How could he forget? 

He strains, willing his senses back to life, listens harder for the soft voice amongst the tombstones. 

She talks to the dead, chattering away at graves that will never speak back to her. This graveyard is old, quiet, its occupants long passed over after they stopped burying the dead here, when their loved ones had long passed on themselves. 

She asks them questions, makes up stories, tells them about her day. She’s a museum conservator and she brings things back to life all the time. Making them shiny and new, loving them through hard work and careful hands so that others may get to love them too. 

And when she’s not talking she’s humming, or singing so off tune that even the birds grumble. But she’s laughing at herself,  looking up songs from the years written on the graves and playing those too, a little tune the deceased might be familiar with. 

Her voice bounces from grave to grave, and he realizes she’s cleaning them, scrubbing the dirt away and bidding them adieu when her task is finished. 

Sweet thing, he muses, wishing he could see her, wishing she would bring him to life too.

His dream comes true on a sunny afternoon, the summer rays warming his stone, waking him just a little more. 

She’s close, footsteps rustling the leaves at his feet as she circles him. 

“You keep watch don’t you?” she asks him seriously, and she’s right there. So close he can smell her, like blueberries and vanilla sugar, it’d make his mouth water if he could just move.

She speaks again, but he can barely register the words as warm gentle hands clear the infinite dark from his field of view. Brushing away vines and lichen.

“There! That’s better!” 

And there she is. A big soft girl, with sweet round cheeks flushed from the heat. He needs to hold her, crush her close and reward her for her kindness, but she’s gone just as quickly, promising to return to clean him properly, and his marble heart warms at the thought. He commits her form to memory, watching her soft braids sway against her back as she leaves.  

A longing seeping deep into his marrow as he lets the sleep take him again. 

She returns the following weekend, small spray rig and gentle cleaner in hand when she finds him again. She’s mindful, soft hands gently tugging at his limbs to test the durability before ambling her soft body onto his platform. It’s wonderful, to finally feel the heat of another against his skin, and he thinks if the sun weren’t touching him he could come to life now, tackle her into the soft grass and ravish her. He knows she’d be so sweet, whimpering and mewling under his touch. 

It would wait for another time. 

She works from the top down, soaking him with warm water before scrubbing him with soft bristle brushes. She’s delicate, leaning her soft body against his as she cleans, washing away years of dirt and moss. She scrubs behind his ears, in the bend of his horns, clearing the nests of insects from between his teeth. He revels in the feel of her, soft breasts and belly pressed to his skin, gentle hands stroking over the sensitive margins of his wings. Had he been mobile he’d be purring, with spread wings and stiff cock all over some gentle petting. 

He mourns when she leaves, water cooling against his stone as she packs up before nightfall. 

But it gives him time to practice.

It takes days, weeks, before he can move under the cover of night, limbs coming to life sluggishly, the world becoming more clear to his dulled senses. 

She returns like clockwork, spending the afternoons with him, chatting and humming, leaning against his platform as she eats her lunch. 

He can’t move far, just a few movements, but he gets greedy, finally willing his wings to open, letting them stretch pleasantly in the cool night air and freeze there when the sun freezes him again. 

She’s a bit startled when she returns, eyeing him with confusion and the broad reptilian wings spread proudly behind his back. Come closer love, they’ve always been this way.

Nevertheless she scrubs those too, warm hands petting over the webbing, ghost along the modified fingers of his wings. He has half a mind to wallow in the night, cover himself in more dirt if only to keep her trips regular. But he knows his time is coming to an end when she dusts away the last leaves from his pedestal. 

She has a final rest with him, his sweet keeper perched at his feet as she watches the sun disappear behind the trees. 

And finally, finally. As the soft light of the moon kisses his skin, he greets her. 

“Hello solnyshka” he purrs, voice low and gravely,  amusement crinkling pupil-less eyes, as he watches her nearly jump out of her skin. Scrambling away and whirling to take a look at the massive gargoyle.  He can see now, really see, and she’s lovely. Freckles dusting round cheeks, bulky denim and cotton hiding big soft curves underneath. 

She’s frozen, staring at him with wide eyes. He stretches, not unlike a cat, trembling slightly with the effort as he spreads his wings, lifts his hands above his head to crack his own spine, shaking away the stiffness from his tired bones. He relaxes again,  smiling at her fondly, revealing sharp fangs underneath. 

“I’m grateful for your work.” he calls again, taking a slow step off of his platform, clawed feet digging into the earth below. He is truly, his new keeper being the first ray of sun to truly grace his skin in decades. Just the light he needed to wake him from his slumber.  He needs to hold her, feel her softness under his claws. 

She swallows, clasping trembling hands in front of her. 

“I didn’t mean to be a bother, sir”

Sir.

He purrs at the honorific, but why did she think she was a bother? Had she not heard him?

“Not a bother, you’ve “restored” me” he chuckles, “quite well too” he adds looking over his limbs as he eases closer. “Call me Kolya.”

She repeats it, mimicking the accent just right, and being the polite thing she is, she gives him her name in return. It melts in his mouth like sugar, His pretty prize unaware of the hold she’s given him with just her name alone. 

“Come here, let me have a look at you”

She hesitates a moment before inching towards him, and he meets her halfway with a long stride, chin to his chest as he looks her up and down. His poor thing is so nervous. Fidgeting under his gaze, pulling, pushing and twisting at the joints of her fingers, desperate to get them to pop, to alleviate some of the tension in her body. 

He takes her hand in his, sliding a claw between her fingers to shake them loose, letting her soft little hand curl around his own. He dwarfs her, already half-hard with just her palm in his. He moves her carefully, flipping her hand over to trace a dark claw over the sensitive lines of her palm drawing a small shiver from her that has his cock twitching in interest. 

He continues, gliding his fingers up her arm, over her shoulder, toying briefly with the denim strap of her overalls. She’s bashful, keeping her eyes averted, a hot flush to her cheeks as he looks her over. 

“None of that” he chides, sliding his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her back. Her lips part, pupils blown as he smiles down at her, some of her nervousness melting away as he handles her so gently.  “So pretty, daragaya” and the stars in her eyes as he praises her break what little self control he has left. 

He’s quick, catching her round face in both hands and bending low, pressing a hungry kiss to her lips. She squirms briefly, hands flying up to grip his wrists in panic, he curls a tail around her calf, holding her neatly in place as he licks into her mouth, earning a soft gasp from his keeper as her lips part for him. 

Good gods, she even tastes sweet. 

He purrs happily into her mouth, savoring the taste of her flavored chapstick, the end of his tail flickering happily, brushing the soft curve of her ass. She’s panting now, a soft little whine bubbling from her throat at the contact. He dives low, licking a stripe across her jaw, reveling in the salt of her skin before nibbling and kissing his way down her throat, clawed fingers easily popping the cheap metal clasps of her outfit, pushing the denim away before yanking off the extra cotton shirt underneath. 

Nikolai thinks it should be forbidden for such soft curves to be hidden like that. She’s a vision, an angel with the most beautiful soft curves, and when he has her back in his den he’ll dress her in the finest silks and jewelry, pretty chains to hug her waist, dangle nicely between her breasts. Highlight all his favorite parts. He might even keep her bare, just for his eyes to see. 

She shivers in the cold, using her arms to cover her breasts as best as she could, eyes averted from his hungry gaze.  Why did she hide from him? There should be paintings of her, statues in her image. She was perfect. So warm and soft, he kneaded at the handles at her hips, clawed fingers tracing over the soft swell of her belly, the rolls at her sides, skin hot beneath his fingers. He huffs, snagging her wrists and holding them well above her head, using the extra digits at the ends of his wings to hold her there, pulled taught and vulnerable beneath his gaze.

With a sharp claw he rips away the scrap of fabric that covered her chest, large hands palming them eagerly, nipples pebbling under the warm drag of his thumbs. He hums, pinching and pulling at her perfect little tits, hard cock nudging incessantly at her belly, leaving glistening webs of pre-cum over her skin as she whimpers and gasps. 

“Kolya” she whines as he drags a hot tongue over her soft peaks, flicking his tongue over her pert skin before drawing a nipple into his mouth, nibbling and suckleing greedily. He breaks away, grinning up at her, sinking his teeth into the meat of her breast cheekily. She squirms, eyes squeezed tight and teeth dug into her plump lip as she tries halfheartedly to escape him. Though the wiggling only gives her tits a lovely jiggle that has him diving in again, nipping at her nipple just to earn himself another squeal. 

He kisses over the skin in a gentle apology before sliding down her belly, pressing a trail of hot kisses there before he reaches the seam of her panties, cute little curls peaking out around the edges at her thighs. He marvels at the dark stain of her arousal, pressing his nose into the soaked fabric and breathing deep. She bucks against his face, squirming madly to get some kind friction. Not so demure now are you?

“I’ll take care of you greedy girl, patience.” he warns, tail patting her ass fondly as he drags his tongue along the sodden fabric. He rips those away too, thick tongue sliding against her folds with little preamble, the resounding moan like music to his ears. Using his tail to tug her legs further apart, he lavishes her in earnest, slurping at her cunt like a beast, using his thumbs to spready her puffy lips apart. She’s heaven, sweet and tangy on his tongue, and he would stay here for hours, drinking her down until her legs gave out and then taking more. 

He sinks his tongue inside, licking into her tight heat as his nose brushes against her clit, humming wickedly as she cries and bucks. He takes control, dragging his claws up to grip her hips, guiding her into a nice and easy rhythm against his face. He loves every minute of it, reveling in the drag of her soaked folds against his tongue,  the broken whines as he breaks away to suck her clit. He drags her to the edge over and over, fucking his tongue back into her wet heat and nosing at her sensitive nerves until she’s gushing against his face with a choked cry. 

“So good, solnyshka” he praises, sitting back on his haunches to admire his work. He leans in, licking a hot stripe up her thigh, catching the errant rivulets of slick as they drip from her. 

“So wet, I bet we can make a bigger mess can’t we?” he purrs, dragging his knuckles against the soaked seam of her sex, drawing a tired whimper from her. She sags against his hold, chest flushed, and thighs soaked. He could devour her whole like this. 

He releases her, lifting her spent body into his arms, easing her down onto the clean pedestal that was once his. Pushing her legs apart he slides between them, sliding his neglected cock over her folds, using his tip to rub at her sensitive clit before sliding it along her body. He’s thick, head tapered to a near point, thick ridges rippling along underside of his shaft for a textured drag. Heavy balls kiss the seam of her sex as he rests there, tip drooling against her stomach. He needs her to see what she’s getting herself into, how much she’ll need to take for him. His soft girl looks up at him, big glassy eyes full of nervous anticipation. 

“I know” he coos, grinding himself against her skin, “you can take it, my perfect girl, we just need a little more room.”

He needs her pliant, well stretched to take him fully. With his claws as they were, using his fingers wasn’t an option,  but he does have another solution. Dragging a heavy palm through her slick he grabs hold of his tail, coating the tapered end thoroughly before guiding it toward her entrance, using a thumb to circle her clit as he slips inside. 

The tip is easy, no thicker than a couple of her fingers as it pushes its way inside, the glide nice and easy from her previous orgasm. He fucks nice and slow, thrusting the tip in shallowly until she’s whining for more. He leans over her, rutting his cock against the crease of her thigh as he sinks his tail in further, fucks into her with more speed, using his hands wisely to play with her tits, rolling her nipples between his fingers and nibbling at her lips to distract her from the stretch. She’s holding on for dear life, hands gripping his horns for purchase. 

Even as spent as she is, she clenches around him desperately, sweet pussy desperate to take as much of him as she can. He can’t wait to feel her pulsing against his cock. Wet and hot, and so so tight. 

He growls, rutting into her with more fervor. She’s close, chubby thighs clenching as he curls the tip of his tail a bit, just to bully more of his length inside of her. She’s lost in it, frantically kissing at his face as her peak draws closer and closer.  Sneaking a thumb against her clit she cums again, legs slamming shut against his tail as he fucks her through it, laughing as she sobs, shoving at him weakly as she gushes messily around him again, slick coating his abdomen and dribbling down the stone underneath. 

“Good girl, one more for me zoloste, I know you can do it.” He yanks her thighs apart pulling his tail from her greedy cunt and dragging her further down the pedestal, her plush ass hanging off the edge. He rests her thighs against his chest, kissing her ankle soothingly as he drags himself through her slick folds, thoroughly coating himself before lining up with her entrance. 

Even with the prep it’s a tight squeeze. He takes it slow, bullying his way inside her soaked heat, gummy walls squeezing him tight as he sinks in, whimpering as the ridges of his cock drag against her sore entrance.  He fucks slowly, pumping in shallow thrusts before he pulls out again, teasing her tired clit and pushing in again, head thrown back with victorious groan as he finally pushes himself to the hilt. 

Its a gorgeous sight, her pussy split open on the girth of him, legs spread wide and clit twitching as he fucks her with tight shallow circles. She’s a mess, cheeks streaked with tears and trembling against the stone, whimpers and little hiccups falling from her lips. He hushes her, sliding his palms against her thighs, catching her hands to curl his fingers in hers, anchoring her there as he picks up the pace. 

She’s already close, cunt clenching around him with every thrust. He fucks into her with earnest, her pretty fat pussy swallowing him down to the balls as the sticky slap of it echoes through the cemetery. 

“Fuck, taking me like you were made for it.”  he snarls bending over her to lick into her mouth, swallowing every little cry and plea as he fucks her mercilessly, soft body jiggling with the harshness of it. 

“You’ll give me anything won’t you? Let me fill up this pretty pussy.” he pants, yanking her closer, and with a sick knowing grin, his tail slides underneath her, slick tip toying with her asshole. “Let me fill this pretty ass too, wouldn’t you?”

“Anything you want, Kolya, please, please,”  she begs, his perfect girl cock drunk and hazy, tears spilling down her cheeks as she rocks into him for more. 

“Don’t even know what's good for you, silly girl, you’d let me tear you in two.” he chuckles, “ but I’ll give you a little taste.” His tip slides between her cheeks, already slick from her own juices.  He teases her there, flickering playfully at her hole before sinking in slowly, pushing just past her tight ring of muscle to fill her up, groaning at the feel of his own cock sliding against her walls. 

Her next orgasm takes her like a freight train, soft body arching and trembling as it ravages through her. He fucks her through it, pussy clenching him like a vice as he pulls his tail from her ass, sharp claws digging into the meat of her hips hard enough to draw blood as he chases his own end. 

Snarling like a beast he pounds into her, sinking himself deep as he comes with a low growl, painting her insides with long spurts. Filling her completely until his spend seeps out around his cock, spilling down her thighs and into the soft earth below. 

He holds them there like that, cock buried deep as he marks her from the inside out, his bulky head resting against her breasts as they both come down. 

His, his, his. 

His perfect soft girl, flushed and damp from sweat and slick, trembling hands carding though his dark hair.  Kind and gentle despite the way he ravaged her. 

And when she leans up, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips with a nervous giggle, he knows he’ll guard her for the rest of his days. 

[pacifymebby]

Summers in the Air Baby Heavens in Your Eyes

Oblivious Danny X Oblivious Reader, no warnings just pining

You watched him from across the field not realising the melancholy sulk you wore on your face. Your lips a sullen pout, a little frown on your brow, tiny wrinkle at the bridge of your nose.

He was photographing Cathy again. You felt like he was always photographing Cathy, or Betty, or Gale. He never took photos of you.

Not that you blamed him, how could you blame him for anything? But especially not this. Not noticing you, when you were just one in so many women who were older, hotter, more life experience and substance. More intelligent things to say. More insight into the Vandals than you could have offered.

No, you couldn't blame him for paying more attention to them than you.

And yet it pained you still, when you had to watch him watching them. The way he'd rest his head to one side in the palm of his hand, his cheek squishing against his fist. The way he'd get that quiet smirk on his lips. The depth of his gaze when he was listening intently, taking every word in.

How could the boy who sees everything, never even notice you.

It broke your little heart.

Especially today.

Because you'd tried so hard to get his attention. You'd worn your prettiest white sundress, spent too long on your hair considering you were to spend the day sat in a field drinking beer with a bunch of rowdy bikers and their wives. You'd spent too long on your make up too, your lashes long and dark, your eyeliner delicately winged. Your lips a faint kissed cherry shade. And yet Danny had all but stared for a moment and turned his head swiftly away. Busied himself with prettier, more interesting women. Because of course he didn't have time for dumb girls like you.

At least that's what you were thinking as you watched him from across the field.

"Hey y/n." Johnny raised two hands in a still wave greeting you as he wandered over to your perch on the edge of a picnic table. "Whatcha doin sittin all alone for over here?" He asked, "y'know the girls are all sitting over there with Danny..." He said nodding behind him to where he already knew you knew the girls were sitting with Danny.

After all he'd been watching you pouting over at them all for the best part of half an hour now and if he was being honest, Johnny was getting tired with the sulk on your face.

"Y'know y'too pretty to waste your time sitting around with that sad little look on you all day..." He carried on. Johnny was a man of few words, tended to stay quiet unless he had something he needed to say, tended not to say things for the sake of it. So you knew he meant it when he teased you, knew he was talking to you now with intentions.

Still that didn't stop you rolling your eyes.

"Oh sure..." You replied with a sarcastic whine. You were trying to be more like Cathy, cause Cathy seemed to hold everyone's attention when she spoke. She was more grown up, more sure of herself. Everything you weren't and no wonder Danny was always pointing his microphone in her direction, listening to her with those deep, pensive eyes. He was always thinking about something and what you wouldn't give to have him share his thoughts with you. Better yet, be the one that so occupied his mind.

"Y'know I'm sure he'd love to be rescued by the prettiest girl at the picnic..." He said then, not even smiling at you, simply knocking your elbow with his to force your sullen glare back to him.

If you hadn't known better you'd have told him to fuck off. But you didn't get to swear at Johnny. Not just because you didn't want to disrespect him when your place in the gang was so flimsy anyway, but because over the time you'd known him, Johnny had become a bit of a father figure to you. Even if it did come across as merciless teasing you knew his remarks were supposed to be taken as friendly advice.

"He's workin..." You shrugged him off, wishing that you were brave enough to take Johnny's advice.

"Nah, he's heard every story Cathys got to tell... I'm sure he'd appreciate some new material to chew on..."

You gasped then, astounded he would dare say something so loaded to you, so heavily burdened with double meanings.

"Johnny!" You yelped, your cheeks burning scarlet as you whacked his arm and shook your head at him. "I can't believe you!"

"Oh come on honey you're smarter than that... You ain't shocked..." Chuckled Johnny, letting out a sigh as he stood up, "but hey, I'm just an old man, can't make you kids listen to me can I..."

And with that he wandered off, back to Benny and the boys, back to the bikes ready to rev an engine and start another deadly race around the homemade dirt track they'd all been busy carving out for themselves all day.

And you, well, you let your cheeks squish against your fists and let out a sigh, your eyes returning with longing to Danny. Danny who for a moment you could have sworn, had been looking at you.

For a moment your heart threatened to jump right out of your throat but when you took a breath and gathered composure you saw that he had returned his attention to Catchy and her cigarette as she waved it around and spun him another yarn about her beloved Benny and the trouble he was always causing her.

You knew you shouldn't have felt so bitter, Cathy had always been so kind to you. A real girls girl who had taken you under her wing, welcomed you into the fold. You just got jealous sometimes when you saw the girls with their men. How they had that one thing you wanted so badly. A pair of arms to wrap around your body when the sunset and the chill began to settle around you. Someone to kiss your neck by the fire, tickle their fingers over your waist until you shrieked and caused a scene and made the others laugh. You wanted to be the woman all the other women rolled their eyes at. Just once.

He's taken too many pictures of you for someone who hasn't yet said two words to you. Too many beautiful pictures, and none of them, can he honestly say, are for the book. Not that he doesn't think the whole world would love to look at your sweet smile, your dewy dark eyes gazing just past the lens, just past him - much to his dismay. Not that he doesn't think people would be as mesmerised by you as he is... No. It's just that if he's being honest, even though you're not his girl, Danny has already decided he doesn't want to share you with anyone.

If only he could work up the courage to speak to you for once then perhaps he could tell you that himself.

He sat in the grass, elbow resting on his knee, chin resting on his closed fist as he held his microphone out to Cathy Cross and forced himself to tune back into another story about Benny. Fuck how he wished he could be more like Benny.

This was a story he was pretty sure she had told him before, about when her and Benny first met. How she'd given him the cold shoulder and he'd persisted. Danny could hardly get his head around that. The confidence, the self-certainty that Benny must have possessed to know that if he just kept trying he'd win a woman like Cathy over. A woman who was almost, almost as beautiful as you.

Benny who had the looks, those pretty boy puppy eyes that women loved, but with all the rugged edges of a man who worked with his hands and knew how to use them. A man with no fear, unscathed by anxiety. A man who knew exactly how to smile at a woman and slip so casually into her heart.

Danny wasn't that kind of guy at all. In fact ask any of the guys he was riding with what they really thought of him and he was sure he knew exactly what they'd say.

"He's cool yeah, for a pinko college boy..."

Yeah, he could dream, he could wear the colours and tear the sleeves off his denims all he wanted but at the end of the day that was what he was. A pinko photography major and that, that was why an absolute dream girl like you would never look twice at him.

"And 5 weeks later... I married him..." Cathy grinned, her voice singsong teasing, her hand on her heart as her eyes lit up with mischief.

Danny smiled, grinned along and tried to think of a question he could ask to keep her talking... To keep giving him an excuse to stay sitting there, pretending to look at her, when in fact he was really watching his periphery for little glimpses of you.

But in the end Cathy got tired of talking. She did as she always did and dusted herself down, gave him a wink and told him to ask some of the other girls what they thought of the boys and their "toys" as she always referred to the bikes.

"You should try asking y/n a thing or two, get a couple of lines to accompany all those pretty pictures you been snappin of her all day.... Yeah, I noticed that..." She grinned, "you boys think I don't notice anythin well, you're all dumb... Especially you honey, you're the worst..." She teased as she walked away with all the confidence of a woman about to wrap her arms around Benny Cross and demand a little attention knowing she'd get exactly that.

Danny watched her in disbelief, hoping his cheeks weren't as red as they felt. Stealing a nervous glance in your direction to try and gauge whether you'd heard Cathy's remark. Her voice carrying in the way it always did.

But you seemed oblivious. Actually you seemed exactly as you had done all day. Completely lost to the world, lost in your own thoughts. Sulking and pensive, real sorry looking. It made Danny want to drop his camera and his recorder and snake an arm around your waist. Ask you what was troubling you so that you might lean your head on his shoulder and let him tend your aching heart.

He wondered which of the bikers had broken your tender heart, tried to glance around them to see if he could see where your melancholy gaze landed. But he couldn't tell.

Every now and then he thought you might have been looking at him. Sometimes when your dark lashed fluttered slowly, your eyes glistening with a sulk, he was sure it was him you were gazing at from across the field. But then someone would pass behind him, one of the guys and he'd decide that Corky or Cal were a far more likely candidate for a girl like you's affections.

"Hey Danny..."

Danny heard Johnny before he saw him. Saw his dirty boots stop just in front of his before he looked up and saw the older man standing there in his deep blue denims, his hands waved in a still greeting. "Y'know I been thinkin you ain't gonna be able to keep riding with us..." He said. His words hanging in the air for a moment, not a hint of amusement.

Danny looked up at him with his head cocked to one side, trying to work out whether he was joking or not. Deciding very suddenly that he might not be. Scrambling to his feet to speak to him.

"What? I mean w...why Johnny?" He asked, trying not to reveal his panic, knowing however that he couldn't hide his racing heart and the sick feeling in his stomach. Not to mention the terror which had shot through him at the thought he might have earnt himself a fight with Johnny Davis. Fists or knives he couldn't take on Johnny and he didn't want to either!

"Well," he sighed with a unnerving smirk, "if you insist upon breakin my little girls heart I just don't see how you can... Ride with us no more... Don't see how that's gonna work?" He said, his smirk only confusing Danny more.

"What?" He asked, his eyes flickering between Johnny's and the space just over his shoulder where only moments before he'd had a perfect view of you sulking at the edge of that picnic table but didn't anymore.

"What's confusin you Danny? You seem confused?" Asked Johnny cocking his head to one side. His pout almost certainly mocking him.

"Uh... Well I uh, I don't know who you're talkin about Johnny..." He said scratching the back of his neck nervously, "I don't have nothin to do with any of the girls... Except when I interview them but I promise you I ain't been foolin around with nobody..."

"Yeah, yeah I know you ain't... That's half the problem..." He replied, turning over his shoulder to scan the crowd for you. "I mean look at her Danny boy, don't you think she's sweet? C'mon kid, I know you college boys ain't stupid..."

But when he turned around to nod Danny in your direction he found that you'd disappeared and he knew with a sinking heart that he'd acted too late. That you'd probably given up once again, gone and found Cal or one of the others to give you a ride back home where you would no doubt be crying your little babydoll eyes out into your pillow for the college boy who was proving to be more stupid than Johnny had imagined.

"Well," said Johnny, "you don't need me to tell you that... You been snapping plenty enough pictures all day..." He said leaving Danny to frown, his brow knitted as he watched the empty picnic bench mournfully.

"Oh well, too late now..." Teased Johnny, "she'll be off with one of the boys... Why don't you grab yourself a beer, drink yourself a bit of fuckin courage..."

And well, in your absence that was all that Danny could do. Rejoin the men who were all gathered around the fire with their girls. Drink a couple beers and try to nurse his pitiful heart as the night and his jealousy grew. Because all those other boys sitting round the fire had someone to hold onto, someone to tease and kiss. Someone to lean against them. Make them feel like a man.

And Danny had fumbled yet another picnic, let you slip between his fingers once again.

If you would like a less tragic part two please let me know x

[di-42]

May's Magnificent Fictions

First off let me share with you a little side note, because the brain wants what the brain wants. After an inner struggle I've finally decided to settle on using the noun "fiction" as countable when referring to works of fanfiction. I will stick to this. It has been bothering me.

And now for something completely enjoyable, let me present to you the lovely fics I've been lucky enough to read in May. I't's been a busy, at times stressful month and I haven't had the chance to read as many as I would have liked. I only made a tiny dent in my Marked for later list, which keeps growing and isn't it wonderful? I still have so much beauty, creativity and bliss to look forward to.

I'll try and tag the writers whose tumblr username I know, so they know how loved they are.

WIPs:

The first two WIPs of this list have made me realise that my new favourite trope is the "they never met" one. Or it might just be that both writers are incredibly good!

My Heart Was Always Yours by @addledmongoose

I love this fic and the author's other work so much that sometimes I worry the writer might think I'm stalking them or something! (I'm not! I promise! I only kind of start staring at my phone around 6pm on a Friday night UK time waiting for an update, that's all!). Anyway. like I was saying, in this fiction Aziraphale and Crowley never met until present day and, at the beginning of the story, neither of them knows the other is an angel or a demon. They have both been tasked by their respective head offices to retrieve Raphael's trumpet so Armageddon can start and they both want to find it and destroy it. So they embark on a journey together, thinking that the other is human. This story is so good. It has an incredibly well thought out plot, the characterisation of both, Aziraphale and Crowley are spot on, their interactions are funny and witty but also deep and very sweet. But the point that's dearest to me is that it shows the character of Aziraphale the respect it deserves, which sadly happens less often than it should. The way the writer describe the building of their relationship and their trust will fill your heart with warmth. The stoty has alternate Aziraphale and Crowley POVs and it's narrated in the first person, which will read funny at first but it will flow within the first couple of chapters and it will have been worth it!

This fiction is updated officially every Saturday but if you're very lucky and depending where you are in the world it might be Friday. Only a few more weeks to go, though, it's almost complete and I'll miss it (But I'll re-read it!) Rated M.

The Last Angel by @bellisima-writes

This is another excellent "they never met" story. In this universe, Crowley and Aziraphale were stationed on earth, Armageddon happened, and Hell won the war. All the angels have been killed, except one. This story only has the first 6 chapters out, but you can already see the wonderful job the author has done of thinking how Aziraphale and Crowley would be without having ever met each other, what would be the same and what would be different. And the same goes for other characters, too: so far we've had an insight of how Beelzebub is like in a different universe and hints at how other characters would behave as well. It is full of promise, it sets expectations that I'm hoping will be subverted and the writer is doing such an excellent job with it all. Please go and show this story some love, you won't regret it!

This fiction is updated weekly, definitely every Friday, but I understand from now on every Wednesday and Friday. Rated M.

The Escort by VinyamaDN @vinyama-23

Human AU where Crowley is an escort and Aziraphale hires him for a date. They start getting to know each other and the rest is history. This story touches very delicate subjects, but it's also funny and fluffy. Please read the tags. Rated E.

Whickber Street by Caedmon @caedmonfaith

Lovely human AU where Aziraphale has a bookshop in Whickber Street and Crowley opens a comic book shop on the same road. It's a slow burn, from one-enemy-to-lovers story, full of humour, charm and fluff. Featuring all the shopkeepers in Whickber Street, which is a treat! Update every Monday and Thursday without fail. Rated E.

Complete works:

And Now All Of My Garden Is Grown In Lavender by ilikeblue

I'm so grateful to my lovely mutual and penpal @dashuntsel for recommending this great human AU. Aziraphale is a successful queer romance author whose books are being adapted for TV. At the start of his career, his agent, Gabriel, insisted he claims to be married in order to gain more readers. Now that the spotlight is on him, Aziraphale needs someone to play the part of his husband. Did I mention that Crowley is Aziraphale's gardener and friend? I'm sure you know where this is going. This story has a little angst and lots of good vibes of trust, friendship, love and loyalty. And a happy ending! Rated E.

Lit by @fellshish

Fellshish is one of my favourite fiction writers and this piece doesn't disappoint. Making people laugh is much more difficult than making people cry and fellshish succeeds in the task so effortlessly! (They can also make you laugh while wanting to cry, but for that you'll have to read their other stories. This one is angst-free). Time-wise this story can be collocated after season 1 and is not canon compliant with season 2. Crowley enrolls in a literature course without realising it was a fantasy literature course. The book that will be read this semester is "Good Omens - The Nice And Accurate Prophecies Of Agnes Nutter, Witch". And the class will get to meet the author, Neil Gaiman. This book seems to describe only too well the event leading to the failed Armageddon, including things that only Aziraphale and Crowley would know. How is that possible? And what would happen if it fell on heavenly or hellish wrong hands? And, oh Satan, did someone say TV adaptation?? A truly amazing, funny piece that will make you feel better after a hard day at work. Rated Teen and up.

Gate Duty by Ginger_cat @gingiekittycat

Not really a crossover, but a Good Omens fiction with elements of The Good Place. You can absolutely read it and enjoy it if you haven't seen The Good Place. placed in time post season 1. Aziraphale is called back to heaven to Gate Duty and he's decided to go despite Crowley's protest. Crowley has Beelzebub assign him to Gate Duty as well, so they don't have to spend 300 years apart. So they set to out to judge the souls and decide whether to send them to the good place or the bad place, as they have rebranded heaven and hell. In the process they meet a few souls that you might or might not know, not the focus of the story. This fiction manages to be funny and incredibly angsty at the same time and it was incredible to see how some of the details in it would resonate with season 2, which wasn't out at the time the fic was written. Rated E.

Of Size And Other Matters by LCwrites

Lovely from strangers to lovers, fake relationship human AU. Aziraphale needs a date to accompany him to an event hosted by his brother, Gabriel. Crowley receives a text from a stranger, clearly by mistake, but why not having some fun? I really like the dynamics between them, the ease and the trust. A tiny bit of angsty pining but quickly and happily resolved. Rated E.

One shot:

Not Nice by Sad_chaos_goblin @sad-chaos-goblin

Great one shot that follows the wall slamming scene!What would have happened if the former nun hadn't interrupted their "Intimate moment"? This fic is a treat, sweet and hot and fluffy all at the same time. Rated E.

April's list here.

June's list here.

[faenos]

MEANT TO BE

a Joseph Descamps fanfiction

DISCLAIMER: This story is a fanfiction inspired by the series 'Mixte 1963. The characters, locations, and situations have been modified or expanded, but the original work belongs to its creators. I do not own any rights to the original work, and this piece is written purely for entertainment purposes and without any intent for profit.

This is not your typical 'Joseph Descamps x Reader' story simply because I don’t like writing with 'Y/N'; I prefer to give the protagonist a proper name.

English is not my first language, so I apologize for any grammatical errors or typos. I usually help myself using google translate, so iykyk.

Chapter 1 — Game of Superiority

Summary: Ophelia Montgomery is having a typical summer in Bloomsbury. She went out with her little brother for a summer walk, but as usual, he always manages to get into trouble. He plays soccer with some boys much older than him in the park, and she ends up defending him from a boy with a French accent and a cocky attitude who hurt him by hitting him straight in the face. A few days later, Ophelia receives some unpleasant news from her father.

Word Count: 5,294 words.

Warnings: Minor injury, Joseph being a pain in the ass, some sad thoughts.

📍Bloomsbury Square Garden, London. July 17th, 1963

The birds chirped among themselves, weaving light and unfamiliar melodies, as if lost in a secret symphony. Ophelia Montgomery, lost in thought, walked with a light step, absorbed in reading one of her usual novels pilfered from her mother’s private library. Beside her, her younger brother Oliver looked around with curious eyes. He had already spotted the birds responsible for the singing, perched on one of the sturdiest branches of the tree they had just passed. Now his gaze was captivated by a red butterfly that gracefully made two complete circles around his sister. Ophelia, however, was too engrossed in the adventures of the protagonist in her book to notice the butterfly’s delicate dance or its striking red color.

It had become a habit for Ophelia to take Oliver along on her walks, both out of routine and because it was her only way to escape, at least for a while, the confines of their home. Her mother, after all, would never allow her to go out alone, despite her having turned fifteen.

Still, Ophelia found comfort and joy in his company. Oliver — or Olly, as she had lovingly started calling him from the moment she first held him in her arms — was a child blessed with natural sweetness and an insatiable curiosity, which brightened every moment they spent together. His liveliness, often accompanied by an almost contagious enthusiasm, turned Ophelia's walks into unique occasions, full of laughter and unexpected discoveries. What might have seemed like a simple stroll to her became enriched with a new dimension thanks to him, filled with innocent questions, sharp observations, and small adventures that might have gone unnoticed had she been alone. Olly wasn’t just a walking companion but a bond that, with his effortless lightheartedness, reminded her of the importance of finding beauty in the simplest things.

Oliver, in fact, stood out for his innate talent for observing the world around him and his deep passion for nature. From an early age, he had shown an unquenchable curiosity about the animal kingdom, spending hours immersed in illustrated books and specialized texts that delved into the wonders of creation. His enthusiasm was contagious, and not a day went by without him sharing with anyone willing to listen—especially his sister—the fascinating facts and insights he had learned.

Every conversation with him turned into a small biology lesson, enriched by the liveliness and wonder that only a child could convey. He could recount, in incredible detail, the habits of a rare tropical bird or the life cycle of a butterfly, as if he had witnessed them firsthand. His dedication didn’t stop at theory: he often lost himself in explorations of the backyard or nearby parks, searching for traces, feathers, or insects to study and collect. This passion not only fueled his curious spirit but also enriched Ophelia’s daily life, as she ended up learning, almost without realizing it, many of the marvels Oliver eagerly shared with her.

Ophelia, on the other hand, embodied the essence of the classic "bookworm." However, it wasn’t just a scholarly attitude of always having her nose buried in books; her passion for reading had deep roots, cultivated since childhood thanks to her mother’s influence. Her mother, a university professor of classical literature, had not only passed down the fascination for literary works but had also instilled in her a love for the beauty of words and the power of stories.

Ophelia's mother was a cultured woman, driven by an inexhaustible passion for literature, to the point where books became a central element of family life. Even the names of her children, Ophelia and Oliver, were carefully chosen, inspired by characters from some of her favorite books. Whenever someone asked about the origin of those names, she would recount their stories with a touch of pride, revealing a part of her literary soul.

Ophelia had inherited not only a love for reading but also the habit of retreating into the pages of a book whenever she felt the need to escape reality. For her, books were more than mere objects: they were portals to distant worlds, fascinating ideas, and characters she somehow felt were old friends. If Oliver found his refuge in nature, Ophelia sought hers among the written lines, in the web of words that offered her both comfort and inspiration.

She struggled to admit it, but on that hot July 17th, Ophelia keenly felt the absence of her best friend and inseparable classmate, Lottie. The latter, however, was far away, visiting her maternal grandparents in Italy and wouldn’t return until the start of the new school year. The thought of an entire summer slipping by without her weighed on Ophelia more than she wanted to acknowledge.

Ophelia walked absentmindedly, clutching her book in her hands, while little Oliver told her something clever about the colors of butterflies. His words, however, faded into the void, drowned out by the murmur of the girl’s thoughts. She kept rereading the same lines of the novel, almost obsessively, in an attempt to dispel that gnawing feeling of emptiness.

With Lottie by her side, she thought, those long summer days would have felt completely different. There would have been no room for boredom or the silent melancholy that crept into her moments of solitude. Lottie wasn’t just a friend; she was a refuge, a lively and comforting presence that made every moment lighter and more memorable. Without her, summer seemed to drag on slowly, devoid of the carefree episodes and laughter she cherished so much.

"Did you hear me?" Oliver asked, tugging at her arm to get her attention. Pulled out of her thoughts, Ophelia finally looked up and closed her book, carefully placing the bookmark between its pages.

"No, sorry," she replied, shaking her head slightly to dispel her distraction. "I was lost in thought."

Her brother’s face lit up with an amused smile.

"Yeah, I noticed!" he said with a laugh, turning to face away from the path and beginning to walk backward with a mischievous air.

"Stop it," she scolded, her tone blending slight exasperation with concern. She hated it when Oliver amused himself by walking backward—a risky habit that often ended in inevitable falls. "You’ll hurt yourself, I keep telling you."

"Are you even listening to me?" he insisted, raising his voice in a faintly whining tone, waving his arms dramatically to emphasize his frustration. She looked at him with a questioning expression, not understanding where he was going with this. Oliver, exasperated, rolled his eyes theatrically.

"Can I go play with them?" he finally asked, pointing toward a group of boys engaged in a lively soccer game on an improvised field nearby. In the tall grass, the players moved with a mix of enthusiasm and strategy, alternating between goals and minor fouls no one seemed eager to contest. Ophelia watched the scene for a moment and then firmly shook her head.

"Not a chance." she replied in a decisive tone that left no room for negotiation.

"Oh, come on!" Oliver protested, grabbing her arm again and tugging harder this time. He bounced impatiently, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a nearly comical dance. The gesture brought a smile to Ophelia’s face, but she still shook her head.

"They’re much older than you." she explained, her tone patient and affectionate, almost maternal.

"But you’re older than me too!" he countered with the kind of childish logic that seemed irrefutable to him.

Ophelia laughed, shaking her head once more. "They play in a way that’s not for you."

"Oh! Please!" the little boy pleaded, tugging at her arm with more force, his tone growing more desperate. It was impossible to ignore the determination in his gaze, not to mention the sweet puppy-dog eyes he used whenever he wanted something. Finally, Ophelia gave in. She chuckled softly, resigning herself to the inevitable, and sighed.

"Fine!" she said with a nod, finally granting him permission. She immediately felt her arm released from his strong grip.

"But we’re going home in half an hour! And don’t you dare sweat too much, or Mom will start asking questions and I don’t want any problems!"

"I promise, I swear!" Oliver shouted enthusiastically while darting off toward the group of boys, who were erupting in cheers for a goal just scored by the team on the right.

Ophelia sighed, sat down on a nearby bench, and reopened her book, ready to keep an eye on her brother while trying to immerse herself in reading once again. However, the smile lingering on her lips betrayed the joy she felt at seeing Oliver so happy, even if just for one afternoon.

Oliver, meanwhile, slowed his pace as he reached one of the boys. This boy wore glasses, with a tuft of hair slightly plastered to his forehead with sweat. The older boy’s smile faded slightly as he stared at Oliver, casting him a questioning look.

"Are you lost, kid?" he asked, maintaining a mocking smirk. Oliver didn’t let himself be intimidated; in fact, he responded with a confident grin. The boy’s strange accent made him giggle—it was unusual, and Oliver thought he had never heard one like it before.

"Not at all," he replied, rocking back on his heels with a carefree air. "Can I play with you?"

The older boy, someone who enjoyed stirring up trouble and taking pleasure in making others uncomfortable, smirked even wider. His mind was already racing through the possible ways this little kid could entertain him. Not only would he get a chance to test him, but he could also have fun at his expense, along with his friends. He turned toward the others, who were already starting to grin at the idea.

"He’s asking if he can join us," the boy said, not even waiting for a response from the others. Catching the amused grins of his friends, he turned back to Oliver, slipping a hand into his pocket.

"Alright, shorty." he replied, and Oliver’s face lit up with visible excitement. "Let’s see what you can do." With that, the boy walked off toward his team, which was currently celebrating another goal.

"You’re with them," he added, pointing to the other team, who were outnumbered. "They're less than us."

Oliver nodded eagerly and ran toward the boys. He carefully watched where he was stepping, unaware that one of the players of his team had just mouthed the words, "Are you serious?" to the boy with the glasses.

He got into position and started playing with them.

From her bench, Ophelia watched Oliver’s clumsy efforts to chase the ball with an amused smile. The way he ran, full of energy and determination, reminded her of a tiny warrior fighting an invisible battle. But as always, the ball seemed to evade him with every move.

With a sigh, she shifted her gaze back to her book, Pride and Prejudice, which she had borrowed from her mother’s library. The elegant prose of Jane Austen flowed across the pages, carrying her into the world of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, who were just beginning to grapple with their misunderstandings and cold impressions of one another.

The summer heat and the distant noise of the game made it hard to concentrate entirely, but Ophelia’s fingers turned the pages naturally, as if reading were an essential part of her being. She felt a kinship with Elizabeth—more for her courage in facing pride and prejudice than for the story itself. Elizabeth’s fiery, challenging words seemed to resonate within her, inspiring Ophelia to see the world with a sharper, yet kinder, perspective.

Sometimes, she glanced at Oliver, still doggedly chasing the elusive ball, but she never truly lost her place in the story. Even the boys’ chatter failed to fully distract her.

Meanwhile, on the makeshift field, one of the older boys grinned slyly, his intentions clear. Holding the ball in one hand, he prepared to throw it. His aim was deliberate. In one swift motion, he launched the ball with considerable force, targeting Oliver’s forehead directly.

The hit landed with a dull thud. The ball smacked Oliver straight on his face, making him stumble backward in shock. Caught off guard and unsteady, he toppled onto the grass with a soft thump, his small frame hitting the ground awkwardly.

The older boy laughed mockingly as Oliver lay on the ground, rubbing his forehead in a daze. He hadn’t anticipated such a blow. Gathering himself, Oliver sat up, his confusion mingling with embarrassment.

The boy with glasses sauntered over, leaning down with a smug smirk.

"Did that hurt, kid?" he asked in a taunting tone, feigning indifference as his amusement shone through.

Oliver scrambled to his feet quickly, trying to mask the wave of humiliation washing over him. His flushed cheeks betrayed him, though. He brushed his hand over his aching forehead, determined not to show weakness.

"It’s nothing!" he replied, his voice wavering slightly as he tried to sound braver than he felt.

The older boy turned to his friends, muttering with a satisfied grin, "Look at him. The little guy just got wrecked." Then, looking back at Oliver, he raised his hands in mock innocence.

"Hey, sorry about that. Didn’t mean to. But, you know, maybe you should watch where you’re going next time."

Laughter erupted from the other boys, their jeers cutting through the air as Oliver, his face still red and his heart pounding, tried desperately to ignore them. He clenched his fists and swallowed hard, determined not to appear too vulnerable.

Ophelia, who had heard the dull thud and the laughter of the other boys, lifted her gaze from the book. The moment she spotted her brother lying on the ground, his face twisted in pain, she sprang to her feet. With speed and determination, she ran to him, gently cradling his head in a touch that contrasted with the irritation burning inside her. Concern for her little brother was immediate, but the thought that another boy had caused this stirred an instinctive reaction within her.

"A truly admirable gesture," she said firmly, her voice dripping with sarcasm, as she stared at the boy who was still laughing with his friends, as though Oliver’s pain were a joke worth bragging about. "You must feel like a real man now."

The boy looked at her, slightly taken aback by her intervention but showing no real emotion. He flicked his hair away from his forehead with a deliberate motion, clearly unused to being challenged in public. Her audacity amused him. Tilting his head to the side, he looked at her with a disdainful expression that radiated arrogance.

"Have you lost something, mademoiselle?" he asked, his tone heavy with deliberate slowness and contempt. "Or is meddling in other people’s business just a hobby of yours?"

Ophelia, if possible, doubled down. Her hands landed on her hips with determination, her posture exuding pride and fierce protectiveness for her brother. And that French accent only made her feel nauseous at that moment.

"It’s not a hobby—he's my brother," she retorted sharply. "And if you think bullying a little kid is fun, then you’re even more pathetic than you look."

The boy’s smirk stretched into an even more derisive grin. He adjusted his glasses casually, as if her sharp comment was just another minor episode in his daily showcase of superiority.

"Pathetic? Interesting. Maybe where you come from, yelling insults at strangers is the norm."

"Only when I meet people who deserve them," Ophelia shot back, folding her arms in a gesture of clear defiance. "And you’re definitely at the top of the list."

The boy paused briefly, as if weighing the force of her response, then broke into a dismissive, irreverent laugh, as if he found the entire situation absurd.

"If you’re done playing the heroine, you can go back to your brother," he said, his tone indifferent, barely masking a hint of scorn. "And maybe tell him not to get involved in grown-up games again."

Ophelia shook her head, visibly exasperated. "Grown-up? Where are they?" she quipped, her voice sharp with fiery irony. "All I see here are a bunch of idiots." With a decisive motion, she turned to Oliver, who clung nervously at her side. The smile that had lit up his face earlier was now completely gone, replaced by an expression of embarrassment and sadness.

"Come on, Olly, let's go home." she said, trying to bolster her brother but also eager to walk away from the scene that disgusted her.

As they walked away, the sound of the boy’s laughter still reached her ears. Ophelia felt an overwhelming urge to turn back, but she kept her gaze fixed ahead. Meanwhile, the boy watched them leave with amused interest, continuing to laugh with his friends, though a flicker of curiosity about Ophelia’s boldness glimmered in his eyes. Ophelia, however, didn’t falter and kept walking, angry and proud, despite the furious pounding of her heart at the intolerable sense of helplessness.

"I told you," she said after a while, her tone laced with mild regret but free of reproach. Her little brother walked beside her, his head hung low and silent as a fish. Ophelia sighed as she looked at him—she wasn’t truly angry. She knew Oliver wasn’t at fault. He had simply stumbled into the cruelty of someone who enjoyed causing trouble. Yet she couldn’t suppress her irritation toward that boy with his smug smirk and arrogant demeanor. How dare he pick on someone so much smaller than himself? The thought kept buzzing in her mind, fueling a simmering anger she tried not to let out on Oliver.

Oliver, meanwhile, walked in silence. His eyes no longer wandered in search of butterflies, snails, or ants on tree trunks as they usually did. All he saw now were the pebbles on the path, which he kicked absentmindedly, one after another. Ophelia immediately noticed the change—her little brother’s lively smile had vanished, swallowed by a shadow of mortification.

"Hey," she called softly, stopping and crouching down to his height. She gently placed her hands on his arms, her gesture radiating warmth and reassurance. When she spoke, her voice was a tender whisper filled with affection.

"It wasn’t your fault, Olly. Sometimes these things just happen."

Carefully, Ophelia brushed his hair aside to examine the spot where the ball had hit him. There was only a red mark for now, but soon a bump would appear. She touched it lightly, taking care not to cause him more pain.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

Oliver shook his head decisively but then, in a hesitant whisper, admitted, "A little."

Ophelia stood up and took his hand.

"Come." she said with a gentle smile, leading him toward the ice cream truck parked nearby. She pulled out some coins from her purse, preferring to use her own savings instead of her mother’s money, so she could replace them if asked. After choosing Oliver’s favorite flavor, she led him to a quieter bench, away from the field and the boy who had upset her so much.

Sitting beside her, Oliver nibbled at his ice cream with a now relaxed expression. After a few moments of silence, his voice rang out, "Sis?"

Ophelia turned to him, surprised by his suddenly tender tone.

"I love you." Oliver said, his smile timid but sincere.

Ophelia couldn’t help but laugh softly. "I love you more." she replied, leaning down to plant a light kiss on his head, carefully avoiding the bump.

Then she straightened up and added with a note of irony, "But now we need to figure out how to explain that bump to mom."

Oliver looked at her with a mischievous expression, the ice cream now reduced to a blue stain on his tongue. "I could say you did it!" he suggested, leaning forward with a playful tongue out.

Ophelia raised an eyebrow, pretending to be stern. "Don’t you dare, little rascal!" she replied, shaking her head, but with a smile that betrayed her deep affection.

As her little brother laughed, Ophelia threw one last glance toward the field, where the French boy was still chatting with his friends. His arrogant laugh echoed in her ears, sharp and annoying.

She turned back to Oliver, who had resumed watching a group of pigeons pecking hungrily around, searching for crumbs. The scene brought a faint smile to Ophelia’s face as she let out an amused thought while pondering the most plausible excuse to make up.

"We could tell them you were looking for snails or ants under a tree, and distracted, you hit your forehead against a low branch?" she suggested with a slightly ironic tone, pointing to an overhanging branch nearby. Her voice was firm, but she had deliberately chosen a simple yet believable alternative, aware that a more elaborate explanation would raise suspicions.

Oliver, finally diverting his gaze from the pigeons, lifted his eyes to her and nodded, though fear still showed on his face. "Do you think she’ll get angry?" he murmured uncertainly, almost hoping his sister could ease that worry.

Ophelia leaned slightly toward him, her smile gentle and reassuring. "No, she won’t." she replied sweetly, stroking his cheek to comfort him. The gesture managed to bring out a faint smile from him, which was enough for Ophelia to feel relieved.

Though she knew the bump would still attract her mother’s attention, Ophelia was determined to protect her brother from any feelings of guilt. She sensed how fragile Oliver was in that moment, and her goal was clear: to make him believe that no matter what had happened, he would always find unconditional support in her.

—

In the following days, the small red mark on Oliver's forehead swelled, turning into a visible bump. However, their mother accepted the explanation about the tree branch without suspicion, believing it to be true. Oliver received a light scolding for his distraction, while Ophelia had to endure a long lecture on the need to watch over her brother more carefully and stop losing herself in her thoughts.

Despite a thread of frustration at the unfair scolding, Ophelia took care of Oliver with affection in those days. She spent a lot of time with him in his room, organizing games and telling him stories to make him forget the incident. Meanwhile, her mind slowly drifted further from the French-accented boy, relegating him to a vague and annoying memory.

Between a card game and a drawing session with her brother, she even found time to finish the book she had started at the park, finding in the final chapters a pleasant escape from the worries of those days.

The warm light from the chandelier illuminated the sturdy wooden table, where the dishes were arranged with almost meticulous order. The Montgomery family dining room, with its walls covered in bookshelves full of well-organized volumes and a window overlooking the flowered garden, had an intimate, family atmosphere. Ophelia, sitting across from her mother, had her face partially hidden behind the glass of sparkling water she was drinking, trying to mask her discomfort with a barely perceptible sigh. Oliver, beside her, was laughing as he recounted his misadventures with his friends, but his enthusiasm felt distant, like Ophelia wasn’t fully present.

The conversation flowed without much substance between the family members until it was her father who interrupted the delicate flow of words. Edward Montgomery set his fork on the plate and, with an elegant gesture, turned to his wife, Catherine.

"Catherine, dear," he said in a calm, almost solemn tone, "I received confirmation from our colleague in Paris: the restoration of the Royal Abbey of Saint-Jean-d’Angély has officially begun. The project will span a long period, and our role is crucial. As the lead architect, I’ve been offered the chance to temporarily move to France to supervise the work."

Ophelia finally looked up, captivated by the revelation. She hadn’t expected something so significant, let alone that it would affect her own life.

Edward continued, his voice calm and measured, but with a subtle note of determination. "We’ve discussed it at length, and after considering the opportunities, we’ve decided it would be best for us to move for a year, if not longer. It will be a unique opportunity, not just for me but for the whole family. The French culture, history, architecture... it will be an experience we can’t afford to ignore."

A cold silence fell over the table. Ophelia felt her heart race. She had no intention of leaving London, her city, her life as it was, her friends, her routine. She bit her lower lip, trying to keep calm. Her mother’s voice finally interrupted her thoughts.

"Edward, do you really think this is the right time?" Catherine asked, though her tone held a certain approval beneath the veil of concern. "Ophelia has just started her fifth year, the most important one before the final exams to access higher education, and Oliver is in the middle of primary school. Moving might disrupt everything. London is their home, it’s our home."

Edward looked at his wife with a barely perceptible smile, as if his proposal were already an unchangeable truth. "I know, Kate, but we can’t ignore the magnitude of this opportunity. In Saint-Jean-d'Angély, Ophelia will have the chance to face a different reality, to grow in an environment that stimulates her curiosity. Also, the project will require my commitment for an indefinite period. We can’t let an opportunity like this slip away."

Ophelia, hearing her father’s words, suddenly felt overwhelmed. Her fingers, still holding the glass, trembled imperceptibly. She couldn’t fathom the idea of leaving her London, of moving to a foreign country where everything would be different. Her life would change in an instant, without asking for her opinion.

With a smile that masked her frustration, Ophelia spoke, her voice barely audible but firm: "When will we move?"

Edward looked at her, but the answer seemed to come with the same naturalness with which he had announced his project. "In September, darling. Soon, so. There’s not much time."

Ophelia felt as if a huge weight had been placed on her shoulders. She looked at Oliver, who didn’t even seem to notice the gravity of the situation, too absorbed in his games and childish ideas.

"I don’t think I like the idea." Ophelia murmured, not hiding her displeasure.

Edward looked at her with an enigmatic smile, as if he had predicted her reaction. "I understand it’s not easy, but I assure you it will be a change that brings benefits for all of us. It will be an opportunity. Once you settle in, you’ll see."

Ophelia didn’t respond immediately. She looked around, observing the house she loved, the garden she knew like the back of her hand, and suddenly everything seemed distant, out of reach. A year in France, far from everything she knew. It was an idea she couldn’t process.

At that moment, her mother, who had not participated in the conversation assertively, spoke with a voice that, while trying to sound understanding, had an undertone of determination: "Ophelia, I’m sure you’ll find a way to adapt. This will be a challenge, but also an opportunity for growth."

Ophelia felt suddenly overwhelmed by loneliness, as if that proposal, that already decided future, was a step she had to take with no possibility of changing direction.

"And then," her mother continued, giving her a smile full of solidarity. "You’ll finally benefit from your French studies."

The rest of the dinner passed in a heavy silence. Her father’s words echoed in Ophelia’s mind, blending with her fears and uncertainties. On that warm summer evening, her life was already taking a turn she had never imagined.

Ophelia tossed and turned in bed, unable to find a position that would bring her comfort. The soft light from the bedside lamp cast gentle shadows on the walls of her room, a sanctuary she would soon leave forever. The thought clenched her heart, a knot of conflicting emotions that seemed impossible to untangle.

Before retreating to her room, she had stopped in Oliver’s bedroom. She found him already under the covers, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm that knew no hesitation. Talking about the move, her little brother had eagerly imagined a school full of adventures and new friends, as if the change was a promise of a whole new world to explore.

"Do you think there will be kids in France who will play soccer with me?" he had asked, his eyes wide with innocent curiosity.

Ophelia smiled at him, an almost instinctive gesture, trying to hide the weight on her chest. "I’m sure you’ll find them," she replied as she tucked him in. Oliver was her opposite at that moment: where she saw uncertainties, he saw possibilities.

Later, her mother came into her room to say goodnight. Catherine, with her affectionate yet resolute smile, spoke to her about the beauty of living an experience in another country, the richness she would find in meeting new schoolmates and growing in a different environment. Her words, though full of good intentions, seemed to Ophelia like a mosaic of unreachable hopes.

And yet, what really weighed on her heart was the thought of Lottie. Her best friend, with whom she had shared every secret, every dream, and every laugh, would be left behind, anchored to the life Ophelia would leave. She knew that letters and phone calls wouldn’t be enough to bridge the gap of distance. With Lottie, there were no filters, no need for explanations: a glance was enough to understand each other, a laugh to get through tough moments. Leaving her meant leaving a part of herself, a bond she feared she would never rebuild with anyone else.

Lying in the dark, Ophelia felt trapped between the duty to appear mature and the desire to scream her discontent. Her mind kept returning to her father’s words: "A unique opportunity." But an opportunity for whom? For him, surely. For Oliver, perhaps. But what about her? Where did she fit in this grand plan?

She realized that her heart was torn between the desire to please her family and the instinct to stay anchored to her life. It was as if London was a part of her, a place that had shaped her, that knew every thought and dream of hers. Leaving it meant leaving behind a part of her identity.

She pulled the covers up to her chest, holding them tightly as a solitary tear slid down her cheek. No matter how much she tried to convince herself that everything would turn out fine, the truth was she was scared. Scared of what she would find, but even more so of what she would lose.

The silence of the night deepened, and Ophelia closed her eyes, seeking refuge in the memories of days spent with Lottie, of Oliver’s laughter, of the quiet moments in the house that would soon no longer be hers. Before falling asleep, she made a silent promise to herself: no matter how difficult it might be, she would not allow this change to break who she was. London would always remain inside her, and whatever awaited her in France, she would find a way to stay true to herself.

CHAPTER TWO: Long time, no see

Author's Notes:

THE FIRST CHAPTER IS DONE. Hope you enjoyed it!

This is an introductory chapter where the characters are introduced, but it lays the foundation for the story to come.

For those wondering, JOSEPH X OLIVER will get their redemption! Maybe... later on.

Thank you for reading! Leave a comment and repost if you’d like!

faenos ©

[donttxtathebeach]

Forever & a Day : an inside look

A Drew Starkey x Supermodel!Reader SMAU and Real Life Story

pairing: drew starkey x supermodel!reader

Authors note: this is my first series on here, it is basically just a written out version if my dreams ! disclaimer: Christina nadin and Camila pictures are used for certain parts pictures ( i'm aware that it would be catagorized as an original charaacter fic because of them, but thet only are used for certian parts. I hope that makes sense) otherwise it is mostly pictures from pintrest.

this won't contain smut; but there will be some angst and fluff

warnings: none

insight:

Forever & a Day is a journey of childhood friends, fame, love, and rediscovery. Y/N Williams, the supermodel who has been in the spotlight since she was a toddler, finds herself reconnecting with Drew Starkey, her childhood best friend turned Outer Banks star, after years of separation. Once inseparable, their bond was fractured by the complexities of growing up and the overwhelming pressures of fame. when both of their worlds colliding once more, Y/N and Drew learn to navigate the delicate space between their shared past and their very different presents. From the chaos of the fashion world to the drama of Hollywood, they face the challenges of reconnecting amidst their individual successes, evolving identities, and the unspoken emotions they’ve carried with them over the years. As their relationship unfolds, expect a multitude of emotions: friendship rekindled, hearts rediscovered, and the undeniable pull between the lives they’ve built and the connection they’ve always had. Will their love withstand the pressures of fame, distance, and time? Or will they find that some things are better left in the past? Follow along as Y/N and Drew embark on a journey of growth, understanding, and the complexities of love.

Starring:

Y/n Williams- (Starkey later on ) 26

( Christina Nadin & Camila Morrone are used for specific vibes otherwise it is just pictures from pintrest that fit the vibe i'm trying to go by)

Y/N Williams is practically synonymous with the world of high fashion. Discovered at the age of one for a Gap campaign, Y/N’s ascent into the industry has been nothing short of extrodinary. By the time she was six, she became the youngest person to ever walk in high-end fashion shows, securing her place as a true favorite amongst gen-z. Now 26, Y/N is not only a household name in the fashion world but also a cultural icon who transcends the typical model stereotype. With her statuesque frame , classy yet beachy style, and a walk that seems to stop time, she commands attention on every runway, from Paris to Milan. But there’s more to Y/N than just her look—her authenticity, paired with a quiet yet captivating charisma, has solidified her as a fashion It Girl, the ultimate muse for designers like Chanel, Versace, and Dior. Despite the glitz and glamour of her world, Y/N has managed to keep a grounded persona, offering a refreshing contrast to the often chaotic lives of her peers. she is a very private person, consiering her job. Behind the polished exterior lies a woman with deep emotional layers, raised by a mother who grew up in Greece and a father who lovoes her uncondiotionally. Y/N’s global upbringing has shaped her into someone who understands the value of family, culture, and balance. She’s a passionate advocate for body positivity and mental health, using her platform not only to promote fashion but to speak out for causes that matter to her. However, her heart belongs to her childhood friend, Drew Starkey, whose presence in her life is a constant thread throughout her journey.

Joseph Andrew Starkey (Drew Starkey, 31)

In The world of Hollywood heartthrobs, Joseph Andrew Starkey—better known as Drew Starkey—has carved out a unique niche for himself as both a beloved actor and a fixture in the fashion scene. Best known for his portrayal of Rafe Cameron in the hit series Outer Banks, Drew’s rugged charm and effortless charisma have made him a breakout star. But there’s much more to Drew than just his roles on-screen. Off-camera, he’s a true embodiment of Southern elegance, blending his laid-back roots with a hint of the rebellious spirit he portrays in his characters. Drew’s friendship with Y/N Williams dates back to their childhood days, where they played parents in many diffrent games of family with drew's younger siblings , laughed together, and watched echother grow into the people that they wanted ton be. Now, as the actor’s career skyrockets, the two navigate the complex web of friendship, love, and fame. Drew may be known for his devil-may-care attitude, but those who know him well speak of his deep loyalty and protective nature. Whether he’s attending a glamorous event with Y/N or working on a new project, Drew remains steadfast and true to his roots. As his bond with Y/N continues to evolve, so too does his understanding of what it means to love and be loved in the public eye.

Sofia Richie Grainge (26)

As one of the most sought-after supermodels and influencers of her generation, Sofia Richie Grainge is the epitome of effortless chic. Having started her modeling career at a young age, Sofia quickly found her own voice in an industry dominated by more established names. Her unique mix of California girl-next-door charm and high-fashion allure has made her a favorite among brands like Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana, and Prada. But behind the polished exterior is a woman of substance—Sofia is a childhood friend and confidante to Y/N Williams, and the two have remained inseparable since their first meeting on the set of a Gap campaign. With her signature blonde hair, radiant smile, and impeccable taste, Sofia exudes a natural, sun-kissed glamour. Known for her ability to seamlessly transition between the runway and the red carpet, she is the definition of versatility in the fashion world. Off-duty, Sofia is a champion of wellness, mental health, and finding balance in an often chaotic world. As her marriage to Elliot Grainge unfolds in the latter chapters of the story, Sofia’s journey serves as both a testament to her resilience and her growth as a woman, partner, and friend.

Hailey Rhode Baldwin Bieber (28)

Hailey Rhode Baldwin Bieber, a name synonymous with high fashion, beauty, and influence, continues to cement her place as one of the leading style icons of her generation. Whether she’s walking in a runway show or sharing glimpses of her life on Instagram, Hailey has become a global ambassador for effortless style and understated luxury. Known for her impeccable taste and love of pared-back yet chic fashion, Hailey can effortlessly switch from streetwear to couture, all while maintaining her signature minimalist aesthetic. But beyond the headlines and the campaigns, Hailey is much more than just a model. As a trusted friend to Y/N Williams, Hailey plays a pivotal role in the narrative of Forever & a Day, offering wisdom, support, and a touch of humor when things get complicated. Hailey’s relationship with Justin Bieber is another layer to her story, one of love, growth, and the navigating of fame in a world that’s always watching. Despite the glitz and glamour, Hailey is grounded, practical, and fiercely protective of her closest friends—particularly Y/N, whose journey through the highs and lows of fame is one Hailey understands deeply.

Brooke Starkey (28)

Brooke Starkey is the quintessential “cool girl” of the Starkey family—the real childhood best friend and the catlayst that startedt y/n and drew's love story. If it weren't for her and her persistance, Drew and Y/n would not be where they are today. —a little bit of Southern sass, a whole lot of smarts, and a heart full of loyalty. As Drew’s younger sister, Brooke has always had her own spotlight, especially within the Starkey family dynamic. Fiercely protective of her older brother, she’s the voice of reason when things get chaotic, offering guidance and no-nonsense advice. With her sharp wit and grounded nature, Brooke stands as the family’s rock even when the spotlight shifts to Drew and Y/N. Brooke’s personal life is just as compelling as her familial role, and as the story unfolds, she navigates her own journey—one that’s filled with both moments of introspection and excitement. Whether she’s supporting Drew and Y/N or stepping into a role of her own, Brooke proves that strength comes in many forms.

Mallory and Austin Williams

Maliah Williams (44)

( face claim :Gisele Bundchen )

Maliah Williams is the embodiment of grace, wisdom, and an unwavering devotion to the ocean. A marine biologist by profession and the founder of a marine animal sanctuary off the coast of south Carolina, Maliah has spent her life protecting and studying the creatures of the sea. Her love for the ocean runs deep, cultivated from her Greek roots, where the sea is more than just a backdrop—it’s a way of life. Having Y/N at the age of 18, Maliah’s path into motherhood was anything but conventional. While others might have viewed it as a challenge, Maliah embraced the responsibility of raising her daughter alongside her career and passion for marine life. In a way, she grew up with Y/N, navigating the complexities of motherhood while pursuing her dreams in the scientific community. The mother-daughter bond is something deeply special between them—while Y/N was out conquering the world of high fashion, Maliah remained a steady, calming presence in her life. Maliah’s sanctuary, which she runs with fierce dedication, has become a haven for injured marine animals, where she combines her scientific expertise with her love for the creatures she’s dedicated her life to saving. This sanctuary is not only a place of healing for marine animals but also a reflection of Maliah’s own journey: a sanctuary for both the vulnerable and the resilient. Her calm yet commanding presence mirrors the tranquility of the ocean she protects, and her wisdom guides Y/N as she navigates the pressures of fame and personal growth. Despite the challenges of balancing work, motherhood, and the demands of running a sanctuary, Maliah has always managed to stay true to her roots—offering Y/N a sense of stability and grounding amidst the whirlwind of her supermodel career.

Austin Williams (45)

Austin Williams is a man of contrasts, embodying both the laid-back, free-spirited nature of a surfer and the disciplined, thoughtful precision of a pediatrician. Born and raised in Charleston, South Carolina, Austin’s journey is one of resilience and deep commitment—both to his family and his calling. Nearly 19 years old when he became a father to Y/N, Austin entered parenthood young, but with an unwavering determination to provide a life for his daughter that was worlds apart from his own difficult childhood. Raised in an abusive household, Austin’s early years were marked by hardship. He learned early on that survival required strength, grit, and a steadfast commitment to his dreams, even in the face of adversity. The scars from his past were not something Austin wore on his sleeve, but they shaped the man he would become—someone who would fight for a better life, not just for himself, but for his daughter as well. It was this desire to break the cycle and give Y/N a life full of love, opportunity, and safety that became his driving force. Austin’s dual careers as a professional surfer and a pediatrician speak to his ability to balance his passions with his responsibilities. As a surfer, he embodies the freedom of the ocean, finding solace in the waves that have always called to him. Yet, his commitment to healing others as a pediatrician shows the depth of his character. As a father, Austin is a steady presence in Y/N’s life, offering wisdom, guidance, and unconditional love. His parenting style is a blend of gentle nurturing and firm guidance, always ensuring that Y/N knows she is supported, no matter what challenges she faces. Though he’s the picture of calm, Austin has a quiet strength—he’s not just there in times of celebration, but in moments of struggle as well, providing Y/N with a foundation she can always return to. Austin’s complex history and the lessons he’s learned from overcoming his own trauma make him an invaluable source of wisdom for Y/N. He’s the kind of father who leads by example, demonstrating resilience, kindness, and the importance of finding peace in one’s life—whether in the quiet of a medical exam room or in the freedom of the ocean waves.

Abbie's Corner:

I hope you guys enjoy a little glimpse of my dreams !!

[fipindustries]

the first lesson

"belief" chuckled the old man as he turned a delicate glass that contained some opulent limonchello "let me tell you something about how wizards trade in belief"

he was bald, with wild curly hair growing to the sides like the branches of a bonsai tree. he was also rather fat, not in a way that made him look flabby but rather round as a whole. his body could be easily drawn as a circle from which his head poked out, if some leeway for stylization were allowed to the artist. he wore a dark suit and dark round glasses as well as a simple goatee.

"do you lock your doors at night with a key?"

"uh... yes, teacher"

sitting in the small round table at the bar, across from him, was his student. a nervous lady, taller than him and far thinner, with a suit similar to his, dark and antiquated. they looked like undertakers. maybe they even were.

"wise thing to do, given your residence"

The student pursed her lips at this but made no comment. for reasons she could not understand her teacher was fond of making fun or criticizing her economic situation. and for sure there was a lot to complain about, she would do as much regularly, but her teacher seemed to be weirdly fixated on this. he would drop comments about it, cheerfully and casually and she would not respond to any of them and little by little the grains of sand would keep accumulating in the back of her head.

"so every night, before you sleep, you lock the front door of your room with a key, you put the key in the locke and you turn it once, and then twice, and you make a habit out of this, so much so that you do it unconciously, it is an automatic gesture with no thought put into it at all. you dont think to yourself 'now the door is locked', is just a truth of the universe, unacknowledged and yet all the same internalized"

"is this a story or is this your speculations about my life?"

"everything is a story if it's not meant to be literally true, maybe it is true, but that is not my intention"

"very well continue, teacher"

"so the next day, when you wake up and need to step out into the world, before doing that you unlock the door. now this is very important, you don't have to take a few moments to collect yourself and wonder if wether you locked your door last night, you dont have to take stock of your memories and recall that indeed you put the key there before going to sleep and locked the door tight, you just unlock the door because it is a deeply accepted truth that the door is simply locked"

"and the only way to unlock it is with a key"

"the only way indeed! very good!"

she didnt need to add that comment, and if it had been simply up to her whim she would have remained silent and let the man continue his lecture. but she had learned that her teacher enjoyed these interjections, however superfluous they might be, he always recieved them with joy and enthusiasm, as if she had solved a mystery or shown a deep insight. this was another of his weird quirks that she entertained simply because they seemed to make her interactions with him more frictionless.

"and now," he continued "imagine one day you go to a party and drink copious ammounts of alcohol, quantities large enough to make you dispossesed of your wits, not that i suggest you would actually do such a thing, at least not on the regular" the teacher gave her an unwanted wink "so your friends carry you back home and you stumble your steps up to your front door and once inside you are so out of sorts that you simply forget to lock the door, after which you fall into your bed and go to sleep"

"is this something about how my compromised state makes me believe for one night that ill be safe even though i havent locked the door or something?"

"not at all, you sleep soundly all night without being attacked, who knows, maybe burglars and robbers were busy in other houses or other parties, getting themselves merry and drunk, whatever the case may be you wake up the next day with no memory of last night, with quite a hangover, sadly there are no pills or medicines that can aid you with your malady at your home, so you will have to go to the corner drugstore to get something to let you handle your headache"

the student pursed her lips once again. there was a drugstore at the corner of her street, so this story not being about her seemed just a fraction less likely, but then again, there were drugstores at the corners of many streets.

"so you unlock your door and step outside, it's a lovely day with the birds singing and the sun shining and you go to the farmacy and buy the medicine you need to handle your hangover, end of the story"

"but how could i have unlocked the door if the door was already unlocked?" she said mechanically, knowing that this was the obvious question the story was baiting.

"exactly! very good my student!"

an overstated praise for a trite question. maybe her teacher just enjoyed being humored.

"for you see, to you it was not a matter of assuring yourself that the door was locked, to you it was simply a truth of the world, as profound and unquestionable as that things fall down"

"i see, and that is the level of belief i have to master in order to do magic?"

"more or less, yes" said the teacher sipping the limonchello.

"seems difficult to achieve without extensive use of manipulation, doublethink, brainwashing or psychodelics"

"hmm? what do you mean?"

"that...to internalize a belief that profoundly, seems hard to do without a lot of mental effort, without a rather strong amount of self deception and psychological trickery"

"i really dont know what you're talking about, you just have to believe, is the easiest thing in the world"

"it's... not, it's very much not, to believe, to truly believe, to actually thoroughly change one's mind about the nature of reality, against proof, against evidence is basically impossible"

"is that what you believe?"

"is-" oh, that was the trick. she had to internally stifle a groan. her teacher had pulled another of his dumb rethorical tricks. he seemed to be just as delighted when she failed to catch on as he was when she stated the obvious.

"that is the first belief you have to change, indeed is the first belief that all wizards have to change when they start" he said, chuckling again.

"that is the first spell that every wizard casts" she said, completing the thought.

"now" said the teacher, pulling out a small box with a large lock on it from his cape. he placed it on the small table, in the middle of the glasses, and then he pulled a key from a pocket. he put the key on the lock and turned once, and twice. then he put the key back into his pocket. "i want you to open this box"

the student looked at the box. so that was her challenge, to find the way to believe in her heart of hearts that this locked box was actually open. no, not even believe in hear heart of hearts, not even to know, really. this had to be something that trascended awareness.

she took a big gulp from her beer. she was going to fail the test so she wanted to steel herself to be embarassed.

obviously it was impossible for her to rewrite her brain right there and then and she was not even going to try. there was going to be no clapping while saying that she believed in fairies. that was just not how actual beliefs about the world were formed.

if it was a trick that all wizards had to master, she didnt have the instruction or the tools for how to do it. she looked at the box a little more. her hands hovered over it, hesitating. the moment she placed her hands on it and failed to open it, the test would be done and she would have failed and the was no circumventing that. she just wanted to delay the pie to her face a little longer.

of course, because she was her, she couldnt help but actually pause and still try her best to find the answer to the conundrum. she covered her mouth with one hand and scratched her mane of curls around her head with the other, like she did whenever she was deep in thought. her brow deeply furrowed with concentration.

And then she realized the true nature of her test. how dissapointing. it was a dumb trick of course. she placed a finger on top of the box and said "abracadabra"

She then opened the box.

"marvelous! marvelous! exceptional! very good my student! not even i did better than that when i was faced with the test!" exclaimed the teacher while clapping enthusiastically.

She was well and truly tired of her master's condescention.

"you didnt lock the box when you put the key in, you unlocked it" she said, rolling her eyes "the box was unlocked all along"

"exactly! precisely! the box was unlocked all along, just like the door in my story was locked all along!"

"no! no that is not the same thing!" insisted the student banging the table with her fist "in your story, someone believing that a door is locked changes reality retroactively to make it so that the door was always locked, but in my case the box was actually unlocked all along!" the ruckus made one of the waiters show up with a confused look in his face

"well yes, that is the point, that is what changing reality retroactively is supposed to look like, like it was unlocked all along" the teacher turned towards the waiter "thanks for showing up, what is the cost of these beverages, garçon?"

"that would be 30 in total"

"ah! very well, now you see i am a magician, so allow me a bit of flair" said the master waving his hands around in a very theatrical way "your fee is inside that box being held by my lovely assistant, my dear girl would you hand the box to our waiter?"

She rolled her eyes and gave the box to the poor confused man. who grabbed it and tried to pry it open. but he couldn't.

"um... is the box closed?" asked the waiter, out of sorts.

"oh? it should be opened, try again" said the old man.

the waiter struggled a little more but he could not open the box in any way. finally he turned to the teacher with forlorn expression.

"i give up, what's the trick?"

the old man reached behind the waiter's left ear and pulled out the key.

"here why dont you try with this"

"that is a really old trick" said the waiter while he unlocked the box and pulled out the money from inside it. he returned the box by forcefully pressing it against the old man's chest.

"what i nice lad!" said the teacher, while putting the key into the lock again and turning it once and then twice again. "anyway, where were we?"

the girl was just looking at he teacher, a mix of confusion, annoyance and a little bit of fear on her face.

"ok, how did you do that" she asked.

"i didnt do anything, you did, you opened the box"

"no, that... that was a trick, the lock is a clever mechanism or something"

"you are thinking like a magician, and i am asking you to think like a wizard, you opened this box, my dear girl, because you believed that it was opened, you already did this trick once, now all you have to do" said the man, placing the box back into the table "is do it again"

she hesitated.

"this is still a trick, right? you rigged it somehow so that if i try ill be able to open the box?"

the teacher laid back on the chair, very satisfied with himself. he crossed his fingers over his belly. she somehow felt that this, out of everything he had done that night, was his most sincere display of pride in her.

"what do you believe?" he said

she reached for the box.

[desafinado]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ confessing to them hcs

i swear i’m stronger than these emotions, but they’re taking over me

°｡⋆ alhaitham, kazuha, kaeya x reader

°｡⋆ fluff, alhaitham a bit ooc bc i haven’t finished sumeru storyline, kaeya’s has a twinge of angst, overall very ouch (in a good way)

note: ahhhh kazuha’s is my favorite one in this batch… and ik alhaitham might be a bit very ooc, but i like the idea of him becoming more shy and moving delicately around your feelings once he notices he has that effect on you.

(diluc, zhongli, kaveh,) | (alhaitham, kazuha, kaeya)

alhaitham ♡

how do you have the courage to jump off a cliff without any wings? that was basically how you summarised the conundrum of talking to alhaitham.

you only really saw him in passing, seeing him pass the corridors, eating in the cafeteria, out in port ormos. 

you never bothered to approach him other than for work, but despite some of the negative rumours about his attitude, your interactions with him were quite pleasant.

“you have my sincerest thanks for your insights. i trust you’ve been well?” “y-yes…” “and, you’re okay, right now…?” “a-ah, yes!”

over time you grew accustomed to his surprisingly amicable disposition towards you, but you could never quite be the first one to approach him.

it was weird, because you could interact with everyone else just fine. you were someone who took initiative amongst your peers, but also handled affairs with a gentle and understanding touch.

anyways, he continued watching out for you. in meetings he’d send a glance your way every now and then as if he was only talking to you, he’d also pass by your office after hours with some tea.

you put it off as him being good at his job, making sure everyone’s functioning and productive. hell, that was what drew you to him in the first place, why you were so scared to strike up a conversation with him.

you admired all his authority, hard work and efforts… i mean his genius was an amazing thing to witness.

so, it only made sense that you'd rather him perceive you as a meek background character than a bumbling flustered idiot.

that all changed, however, when he asked you for insights and advice regarding "emotions" and being a bit more cautious of others’ feelings.

you don't know why he asked you, and frankly you didn't really care. you just wanted to help him the best you could.

"how about this? your ideas are intriguing, but…" "ohh, good so far!" "they could desperately use some fine tuning." "just uh remove the desperately part, and you’ll be set."

to be honest, he doesn't even follow your suggestions half the time, but you being there instantly lightens the mood by 50%.

you saw him in a bit of a different light after then; he was still a genius, of course, but you saw parts of him you’d never expect to see otherwise, and you loved him much more for it. 

you hoped it wasn’t obvious in the way you shared a bit too much about your day with him or how you’d let your hand stay on the small of his back a little longer than necessary.

ironically enough, he was the one who got a bit more shy towards you, though much more present. instead of announcing his presence and letting himself into your office with some tea, you’d find him knocking quietly waiting for your affirmation.

he was acting a bit more soft and gentle, as if he had been defeated and something sent him running.

you were quick to catch up in this attitude change of his, as it was even seeping into his attitude with others (“that man…alhaitham… being soft???”). you knew nobody else was brave enough to ask, so you might as well do it yourself.

once again, a delicate knock played itself against the door to office. you looked up at your paperwork, an amused sigh escaping your lips. “come in, alhaitham.”

you heard some shuffling before the door opened to reveal the man, himself; his eyes weren’t completing darting around, but you definitely notice the way they almost restrained themself from looking at you. he closes the door before sitting before your desk; he sets a cup of tea in front of you.

“for you. i know you’ve been a bit more busy lately, the recent changes in the akademiya surely contributing to that.”

you chuckle softly, earning a raised eyebrow from him. “what’s funny?” his voice was firm and slightly rushed, like he needed you to answer right away. you shake your head and pick up the cup between your palms. “you say that as if you don’t bring me tea every day anyways.”

“i do, don’t i?” he looks down and mumbles faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. his bashful gesture only eggs you on further to ask what exactly is going on with him. you take a quick sip of your tea before probing him.

“so, you gonna tell me what’s been up with you lately?”

“ah, you’ve noticed.”

“of course, i think i’d be a bad friend if i didn’t notice.” you watch his embarrassed smile curve into a childish pout. you know it shouldn’t, but it only makes your cheshire smile grow wider. “by now, you should know you could never be such… anyways, if you’ve noticed the shift, i guess there’s no hiding it.” you put down your cup, bracing yourself for whatever revelation comes next.

“i guess i just wanted to accommodate you better. i know you were quite shy when talking to me initially, and you do seem much more comfortable around me now.”

you hum in acknowledgement, knowing he has a bit more to share. he was always like this, sharing only what he deemed necessary, but you always knew he had more, you just had to give him that space.

“you look better like this, spending more time with me. uh i mean, i like seeing you unafraid of my presence, being curt with me. i…”

he finally meets your eyes, and you’re entranced by that look. your head starts to feel dizzy as you focus on the vision of him to keep you grounded. “oh, alhaitham… you d-don’t need to dance around my feelings, i…” 

his eyes widen, and he quickly grabs your hand; you’re shocked by his touch, but you’re certainly not deterred by it. if anything, it’s only helping you process whatever is going on.

“i don’t want to lose you, dear, isn’t that obvious? i don’t care what those others think, as long as it means that you’re still standing by my side.”

“a-alhaitham, wait i–”

“you love me, correct?”

you freeze up, pondering if this was still reality; if alhaitham had really known and if you were really faced with the task of answering such a question. you suppose you should’ve known, nothing ever really gets past him.

“i didn’t know how to approach it, that’s why i— you already know i’m not best with those sorts of things. all i knew is that i couldn't lose you over it; i didn’t want to upset you, i didn’t want to overwhelm you. i couldn’t bear to watch your adoration turn into hatred and angst, especially when all my flaws became more apparent.”

your free hand caresses his cheek, trying to brush away his fears. “alhaitham… if you knew i loved you, you should’ve also known that i love you just the way you are. knowing you better, i only fell harder, and… if we’re being honest, i don’t think i could ever hate you.”

he looks up at you, the desperation is clear. “neither could i… i mean, i believe my feelings for you are obvious now, so would you like to give it a try? loving me, i mean. ” your eyes crinkle and smile from eye to eye. 

“let me love you, and i shall.”

kazuha ♡

spring was always your favourite season, but kazuha’s presence made it all the better.

hanami: flower viewing, usually done during cherry blossom season.

hanami-zake: sake specifically for hanami; fallen cherry blossom/s are typically immersed in the sake.

you could listen to his mellow voice for days on end, short haikus and poems whispered amidst the pollen in the spring air.

you were friends for the longest time, and after a few cold years in inazuma, you had finally met again without any worries, care for time or need for secrecy.

before he had escaped away, you both hung around the same small group of friends.

one of your favourite memories was participating in hanami with them; perhaps it was the bare beauty of the flowers or the intoxicating hanami-zake, but you both especially enjoyed each other’s company far too much during this period.

tangents about how beautiful life and nature is, ramblings of small yet imaginative ideas you both, and simply basking in what the tomorrow could possibly bring.

this of course changed with the death of your mutual friend, and it seemed like you were the only one standing by and holding out hope for the kazuha. everyone else had left, either too scared, angry or hopeless.

you definitely did feel pity for his situation, but that wasn’t why you didn’t abandon him. 

you trusted him, his will, and his actions, and a big part of you wanted to believe that he would come back a hero to inazuma.

once he caught wind of this, he started exchanging letters with you, appreciative of your trust in him, and frankly, he could use a familiar friend.

while you both addressed the elephant in the room, you mostly talked about your feelings. you shared your sadness, anxieties, grievances, and small moments of happiness.

you could talk to him about anything, as he could; you quickly became a dear friend to him, a reminder that someone had seen all of him and still trusted him.

you didn’t fully understand it at the time, but you so painfully yearned to hold his hand and give him all the affection he deserved.

letters turned to secret meetings in the dock, and secret meetings eventually turned back into normal ones; his name being cleared and inazuma welcoming him with open arms.

the day he came back and you saw the most precious smile you could imagine to see, that was when you fell hard. a few other people got to him first, but you didn’t mind. the view of him getting the praise he deserved was delightful.

“don’t forget about me, now that you’re a great hero…” “i… i could never!”

you were only teasing, but the moment his head turned to find you. he ran towards you and pulled you into the warmest of hugs, even raising you up.

it felt different, different from all the other times at least. it made your heart race, your face flush and your fingers tremble ever so slightly.

it was a few days into your catching up with one another, when you decided to bring up these strange, unnecessary, but almost enjoyable feelings.

“zuha?” 

he hummed in acknowledgement, gazing at the clouds,. your head lay on his lap as you both rested in the middle of a field. there were a few clouds, but the sun still shone bright upon you, the both of you.

“i have some… feelings i need to share.”

he looked back down, raising an eyebrow. you both never really shied away from talking about such in letters, so he was quick to note the uncertainty in your voice. “oh? share away.”

you swallowed a lump in your throat before speaking; it wasn’t as though you were revealing some scandalous secret, so you didn’t understand why your body was acting the way it did.

“i’ve been having some feelings for you recently.”

kazuha almost choked on his own saliva, hearing you be so straightforward. sure, he recognised the ambiguity in your voice, but he certainly did not expect this. he was a bit shy, but did want to express that he returned such feelings. “o-ooh! that-t’s… um…”

“it uh makes me uncomfortable.”

for the second time, the shock is more than apparent in his face. he’s horrified by your admissions and his own actions; he’s frozen in place, sputtering out apologies. “a-ah, i’m sorry! let me just get that and y-you can stand up and-”

“kazuha, wait a minute.” you chuckle, brushing the flower chain off your face and onto the grass below. you lightly take his hands, intertwining his finger in yours; your grip is firm, but not by any means, rough. he quickly realises you’re trying to calm him down, and he lets you do so.

“i didn’t mean it like that. i meant like… its as though i’m running a marathon whenever we hang out. it isn’t negative feeling, but it is a new one.”

you speak slowly, squeezing his hand at every other word. you’ve never seen him this way, a flustered and bumbling mess, but it is quite a cute sight; something you wouldn’t mind seeing again. fortunately for him, you do have enough courtesy to help him calm his heart.

“ah, i see.” his breath evens out, and he lets out a sigh of relief. for a moment there, he really thought you were revealing your annoyance and/or hatred for him. after processing your words, he has a good idea of what’s really going on. he gives you a kind smile and squeezes your hand in response.

“hmm… could you describe it further, darling?”

“ah.”

you let out a small squeak at his nickname; he’s called you it before in letters so you don’t know why you’re being so bashful about it. you feel a blush spread across and wish you simply fade into the wall.

“like right now, actually… i… when y-you call me such things, touch me in certain ways.” his gaze on you only softens as you continue speaking so timidly; on the other hand, you want to turn away, bury your face in the grace, but you want to get your point across. “t-the way you’re looking at me, right now.” your voice comes out a bit quieter, but all the same to kazuha.

“hmm… i think i understand how you’re feeling. just one more thing…”

he asks inches his face closer to yours, lips above yours, as though it was the sun’s light grazing the grass.

“would you perhaps want to kiss me right now, darling?”

you nod a little too excitedly, any self-restraint you had flying out into the sunset. you’ve never really considered it, but the mere mention of the idea seems really good. he lets out another quiet chuckle, you can feel it against your cheek.

“then i think what you’re feeling is love; love for me to be more specific. you need me to give you an example of my love for you?”

kaeya ♡

it all started when you both ended it. you argued day and night about the smallest things; you suppose that the stress from work and transitioning into adulthood had taken its toll on you both.

since then, there was only one thing you both agreed on, and that was how you would be very much better off without each other.

you cried, a lot. it was a mix of sadness and frustration. 

sadness, because you genuinely did love him, you wanted to make him happy. frustration, because you never did make him happy, you knew he’d be better off without you.

if love was the only thing needed to sustain a relationship, maybe you wouldn’t be here, but life got in the way and you both had greater ambitions. under all that fighting, you knew that you just didn’t want to hold each other back.

you knew you couldn’t stay when that pain was so fresh, you needed to clear your head. you moved away for a bit, planning to return in two years time.

and those two years passed by quietly, until you found yourself being welcomed back to monstadt.

only, it seemed your feelings for kaeya had only grown more complicated as you watched him bloom.

he thrived without you, he had grown to be quite a noble captain, charming everyone from children to grandparents. he was someone the whole community could rely on, someone who strived to do good for the welfare of everyone.

because of this, it was pretty hard to miss him. whether it was his name being the subject of tavern gossip or your observant eyes spotting him in the shadows, you just couldn’t avoid him.

you’d scoff, roll your eyes, do anything to show you didn’t care, but it was clear that you cared enough to perk up when you heard his name.

you were so proud of him and the person he’d become. it was safe to say that you remembered why you’d fallen in the first place, that playful smile, moonlight blue eyes, and inviting familiar warmth.

your memory of meeting him was blurred by adrenaline, he had approached you noticing you were awfully quiet among everyone else. he made conversation with you, making you laugh within a minute. you opened up, he did the same. you trusted him as he did you.

right now though, you were falling harder this time around. you intended to deny it though, deny it until it broke you.

today, you were having a busy day, visiting old friends, seeing all the new sights you had missed out on, when you saw him approaching you.

you knew you weren’t equipped to handle whatever it was he had to say; you didn’t need to hear it.

you ran, letting the adrenaline take you far far away, and soon enough you found yourself by the monstadt lake. the wind was blowing as fiercely as your heartbeat.

you tried to squat down to catch your breath, but your tiredness got the best of you and misstepped.

bracing for a cold splash into the lake, you closed your eyes and let gravity take its course; only that coldness came in another form.

“you’re being dramatic, you know that?~”

he chuckled, arms around your waist quite snuggly. sure, you had been fantasising about him holding you like this, but it wasn’t welcomed at the moment. he pulled you back up to some even land before letting you go. you huffed and crossed your arms, not in the mood to deal with his cheekiness. your eyes never met his as you spoke up. “what do you want?”

he feigned hurt, dramatically placing a hand against his forehead. “so cold, dear. not even a thank you, how are you, or hello.”

you were quickly reaching your boiling point, so you decided to step away before things could escalate any further. before you could take another step, however, he gently grabbed your wrist; you looked up at him, eyes wide, and it seemed that he was surprised by his actions as well. his touch was as cold as the last time you met, but this coldness now felt much more like frostbite.

his eyes darted up into your eyes and back down to your wrist before he let you go, flinching away. a faint blush spread across his cheeks, one you certainly could not see under the moonlight. “sorry, i– you dropped this.”

he hastily fished out a key from his pocket; it was your house key. the moment you recognised it, you wanted to fall over in embarrassment; maybe you did deserve to be in the cold waters. he was right after all, and you were being dramatic. you looked down at his palm and hesitantly took it from his hands, as he explained further.

“you dropped it by ms. blanche’s shop.”

“thank you.” your voice was soft, almost inaudible; a stark contrast to your initial hostility. kaeya frowned, watching your timid movements. “do you hate me that much?”

your swiftly looked back up at him, the hurt in his expression was more than clear and genuine, at least from what you could tell. “no. i… i just–”

“after these past couple of years, i was excited to see you again, dear.” his voice falters as he tries to push through his own self-disappointment. “i-i didn’t realise i hurt you that much, that you didn’t want anything to do with me.” he sighs, finding the courage to look into your eyes; he’s a coward in that moment though and his fears and insecurities are eating him up.

you pity him, and you know you’re starting to succumb to defeat.  “you don’t scare me, kaeya. its… its my feelings for you that scare me.”

“is it that strong? you really fear you might hurt me or—”

“it’s not hatred, kaeya.”

that takes him by surprise, and his thoughts start running miles per minute. “sadness? disappointment? frustration? please, i need to know, please.” his voice is almost cracking at this point, eyes glassy. he gently takes your hands in an attempt to plead with you to set him free.

you never were the best at denying him, and you thought you’d set yourself free too.

“it’s love, kaeya, it’s… i still love you, and i’m afraid it’s striking me harder this time. look how far you’ve come without me.” at that fact, you find hot tears running down your cheek. “i’m happy to see you so happy, kaeya. it just hurts that i missed it.”

“i’m not. i’m…” he’s taken aback, but he tries to articulate himself. he takes your cheeks into his palms, gently guiding your gaze to his eyes. “i was lying earlier, you know? saying i was excited to see you was an understatement, dear. i missed you everyday, i wondered if you were doing fine without me,  and seeing you come back, having seemed to forget me i just…”

“kaeya…”

“can we start back just before things went wrong? can you give me… can you give us another chance?”

it’s that same desperate look as his touch softens and he waits for a response. despite your trembling from the rush of emotions, you feel that things can’t be clearer. you acted fast to meet his lips, giving him your decisive response. it was a simple truth that had never left you, even as you left him; you always loved kaeya alberich, and now, you knew he loved you just the same.

requests are open!! please do not reposts on other sites.

[narrans]

My Borrowed Son | 3 | Earning Trust

Amanda knew immediately the second she crossed the threshold of her home that she was in over her head. The minuscule boy in the palm of her hand needed intense care, and his size, being no bigger than her thumb, was going to be an immense challenge. 

Still, Amanda knew she made a promise to this boy, and she refused to let him down now - especially after they first met. She had earned a fragment of trust, and she intended to keep it. 

Finally making it past the mountains of boxes, she stepped into her kitchen and set her hand onto the counter. The slight jostle made the poor boy whimper pitifully. 

“You’re okay. I’m here,” she reassured just as she had done the whole way home. Seeing him in full light, Amanda wanted more than anything to give him a bath, but more importantly was the fact that he needed food. One handed, Amanda fished out a bowl and a standard can of chicken noodle soup and began heating it in the microwave. 

She wished she could give him something a little more nutritious and home-made, but that would have to wait. At the moment, her life was upside down. Everything happening was the last thing she wanted, but it was what she needed. 

While the little boy stayed huddled in her hand, Amanda continued to work. She realized after fumbling around for a minute for a spoon that she had nothing in her house that would be small enough for the child. Amanda, as her thoughts bounced around her skull like a bouncy ball, didn’t want to scare the child with a spoon that he could sit on; but he also needed something to eat the soup with. 

The boy watched with his insightful eyes, keeping eerily quiet, while Amanda searched. 

Feeling the pressure of his eyes, Amanda suddenly came up with an idea, but she’d need the boy to listen to instructions for this to work. She snagged a dish cloth from her sink and ran it under the water, moving delicately to not startle the little boy. When it was just barely damp, she turned off the water and held out just a little corner for him. 

“Could you rub your hands on the cloth? Okay? Rub your hands on the cloth,” coaxed Amanda as she mimicked the motion with her thumb and index finger. The infinitesimal child blinked uncertainly before inching himself across Amanda’s palm, making a tingling shiver shoot up her arm, and imitating the motion, rubbing his hands on the cloth. 

Her mind was absolutely numb. This boy was absolutely amazing. At every turn, she was discovering something new about him and what he understood. Did that mean he could speak as well?

The thought was fascinating, but it would have to wait because, just then, the microwave dinged. Amanda moved instinctually at her own pace simply to look over at the kitchen appliance, but it was enough to jostle her hand and make the boy whimper and take cover against Amanda’s curled fingers. 

“Oh… oh no… It’s okay, sweetie. I’m sorry,” muttered Amanda as she curled her fingers a little tighter. The boy whimpered again, hiding his soft brown eyes as he kept them shut tight. His breathing was rapid, and he was trembling ever so slightly. Amanda could feel him against her fingertips. It made her heart hurt, so she tried coaxing him a little more. “I’ll move slower. I promise. You’re okay.” 

Seemingly convinced, the sandy haired boy to open his eyes once again after a few minutes and looked back up at Amanda. To her, it looked like he was seeking reassurance in her eyes, and she freely gave it. 

“There you go. See? All better,” Amanda encouraged. Moving slower now, Amanda retrieved the soup, a soft drink cap, and the loaf of bread from the kitchen counter. With the items neatly organized, Amanda dipped the cap into the warmed soup and tested the temperature to make sure he wouldn’t get burned before daring to lower both the cap and the little boy to the kitchen counter. 

Goodness… he’s so small. He looks like one of those little salt and pepper shakers, Amanda thought as she kept her hand on the counter, the boy still sitting on the edges of her fingers. He was looking around at all of the cabinets and drew his legs in toward him, obviously intimidated. 

To make this a positive experience, Amanda acted quickly and pinched off a corner of bread and offered it to the boy. His little features furrowed in confusion as he carefully took the bread from in between her pinched fingers. He rotated around so he could face her but didn’t leave the safety of her hand. 

It wasn’t ideal, but it was the only option she had. She didn’t want to force the boy off. If her hand was where he felt safe, then that was where he should stay. 

Amanda moved the cap of soup onto her palm in front of the boy before pulling her own bowl toward her. 

“Here now, watch me, okay? Just dip the bread into the soup, like this,” instructed Amanda. Keeping her hand steady, she took her own piece of bread and dipped it into the liquid, swirled it around, and then brought it to her lips for a bite. The soft brown eyed boy watched Amanda do this several more times before looking down at his own piece of bread and, to her amazement, dipping it into the broth in the lid, imitating Amanda’s behavior. 

Thankfully, Amanda didn’t need to continue repeating the action because the moment the bread and salty soup touched his lips, the boy began to eat ravenously, broth dribbling down his front and into his already filthy clothes. 

Now really able to see him, Amanda saw that the little boy’s outfit consisted of a shirt with a faded yellow button on his front that took up most of his chest and a big green button on his back that was like the one on his chest. He was barefoot, mud caked in between his toes, and his pants were obviously soiled. 

It made Amanda’s heart twist in her chest. How long had this boy been out on his own? 

When the little pinch of bread was gone, the most pitiful look filled his eyes as he looked back up at Amanda eagerly, to which she happily gave him another piece. He inhaled three fair sized bread pinches before he showed signs of slowing down. It was on the fifth piece that he slowed and stopped, simply holding the bread close and nibbling on the edge absentmindedly. 

Amanda knew she would need to get some utensils for him, but now was not that time. Now, after the boy had some food in him, she managed to convince him to drink a little bit of water before she shuffled both of them to the bathroom. 

A bath was in order. 

She stepped up to her bathroom sink and began to run some warm water. She found some vapor bubble bath that would probably do the little boy some good and added that to the running water in the sink. 

At first sight, however, the boy whimpered and scuttled across her hand to grasp her thumb with all of his might. He was shivering violently and fell to his knees. Amanda kept her free hand cupped near her thumb in case the little boy accidentally lost his balance. Perhaps it was instinct, but the boy’s ability to balance on such a malleable substance like a hand was incredible. 

She couldn’t pause to marvel at him now, however. 

With a feeling like a punch in the gut, Amanda tried figuring out how to convince this child he was alright and that the water was alright. 

Did something happen related to water to make him so afraid? Amanda wondered. The horrid thought that he had been swept away in a rainstorm from his family made her heart clench. Just keep reassuring him. Show him it’s okay. He trusted you with the bread, right? 

It was a weak argument, but it was all she had. 

“It’s okay sweetie,” coaxed Amada, speaking once again in a low, sonoric tone. “It’s just water, see?” With that, Amanda carefully placed her other hand under the water and moved her fingers around, splashing the liquid around the sink. The little boy continued clutching Amanda’s thumb as he whimpered. 

She had to try something else. Then, she got an idea. 

Amanda cupped her one hand and caught some of the water in it before pulling it away from the faucet and holding it up to the little boy. 

“Here, see? It’s just water,” reassured Amanda as she tapped the puddle of water in her palm while holding it up to the boy. 

He turned his soft brown eyes to Amanda before looking back at the water. Tears still staining his face, he leaned forward and barely touched the water with the tip of his finger. 

The miniscule boy instantly retraced his finger and huddled against Amanda’s thumb, but a smile from her and another reassuring, “It’s okay,” had the boy tapping the liquid until the tears stopped. 

It would take Amanda another twenty minutes to coax the little boy under the stream of water where she gently massaged soap into his hair and over his clothes. While she worked, she watched the boy’s eyes drifting further and further down, drowsiness overtaking him. The sight was adorable beyond words. Though tentative, his trust mixed with exhaustion was making this little boy fall asleep in her hands. 

Amanda dried him off, careful not to jostle his head, and carefully constructed a toga-like outfit. Cutting away the little boy’s clothes was nerve wracking and made Amanda’s heart ache at seeing all of his injuries as well as his little ribs, which were clearly visible. There were also numerous bruises on his body as well as scratches, some of which ran from the base of his back to the top of his neck. 

Was he attacked by something? How long has he been out there? Where are his parents? Did he have parents? 

Amanda organized a shoebox with some snacks, water, and bedding and set the unconscious boy inside. Evidently, he had fallen asleep in her hand while she put together a space for him.

His little forehead furrowed as he twitched and turned into the bed Amanda made for him.

Now, more than ever, she needed to find out about this little boy, and, beyond that, she needed to find a way to protect him - no matter what.

~~~~~^*^*^*^*^~~~~~

Continue

Previous

Beginning

[hot-astrology]

The Shunned Yoni

We all know creation and birth stems from somewhere. From the most sacred gateways that nature created The womb vagina or ; the female genitalia which symbolizes generative power. The woman is delicate, graceful and loving at same time, forceful, impactful, insightful, and a creator. How can we call this realm mother earth and not think women were here first or the creators only a true creator could create and be humble while their creation becomes egotistical while claiming to be the original archetype From their mesmerizing eyes calming vice diplomatic minds soft touch hypnotic walk and seductive aura. From the spiritual abyss, every angle, precise detail was made to flow with the oceans waves, their calming nature can settle the storms, or be fierce as the storm. So much history and powers lays beneath these ripples in the sea. As the tear drops of sorrow and betrayal fall upon the blueish lake. Shunned no more, openish enters the heart, truth reveals the veil, expressiveness leads way, acceptance is here to stay.

As an active plot to pacify her & her waters, her descendants, her priestesses, her daughters, her initiates, her love, but most disrespectfully her waters. She was made as an extension, and as the image of god. She started in darkness, she is the water they poisoned. Look inside, and you'll see that you are purely her mirror, because you are her. She was demonized, and in the end turned against. Hell hath no fury like a black woman scorned.

The deepest part in you resides, this is the sacrum area. You hold future generations and civilizations within you yet they seek to destroy and disrespect you. Let there be no mistake, that you are the force and the life way past than what science can understand or comprehend. Do you remember? Do you remember your throne, and those you taught. In the end, they turned against you. Used your teachings for their new world, and white washed yours away just for a seat on your throne. There's a part of you that lays deep in the water waiting to be awakened and take back what's hers. They took the seed of life and realized they could not imitate because they did not have it within them. There will be a storm that awakens that seed, she is abrupt and comes like nothing you've ever seen before. Deep Down, we as women have been taught to hide our sexuality or that it was a bad thing. However, these days feminine sexuality has been more accepted, and broadcasted for everyone to see. In a way, this is good but also bad, because the sacredness of this has been corrupted and the true meaning is lost in ignorance.

In the womb, we grow, and develop in water for up to 10 months. Our bodies are mostly water, and the planet we live on resembles this. All Life must be formed through liquid, it is the most fertile, and feminine. Think of a plant without water, and sun, but water especially nothing will sprout. Whether it be alchemy, or astrology, the most feminine elements will be water, and earth. water is the 1st element, signifying its power. water can heal, and destroy you. The yoni is simply a portal, entering into a sea of memory, and mysteries. When we look into the mystery of outer space, galaxies, stars, plane-ts, and black holes. Then you begin to look within yourself, your own body, you see the sayings, "As above, so below" " As within, so without", and the most telling " Your body is a temple". You see the answer manifest, and replicate inside of you.

The power of the yoni, is nothing to be taken lightly, and is actually a symbol of life and death. If all women collectively agreed to stop reproducing, that would simply be the end. For this reason, there has been a demonization placed upon women whether that be our bodies, hair, features, etc.

There is such a huge attack on the water spirits right now. Looking back to the astrological take on this matter, the sign pisces is the last and final sign of the zodiac. This is a water sign. In christianity, the symbol "Vesica Pisces" is a very prominent symbol representing Jesus Christ who "walked on water." Ironically, this symbol represents a fish, and the pisces symbol is a fish. If you look closer at the shape of this symbol, you'll realize this looks similar to the vaginal canal. Pisces is known to be the yin most, and the darkness which the creator resides in. In sacred geometry, there is the flower of life and seed of life, both using the symbol vesica pisces within those shapes. Within all of this, we begin the covering up of our primordial origins, within christianity, and many modern-day religions. the presence of priestesses, goddesses, empresses, and queens have been stripped and burned away. We know by now that the source of creativity, love, and rhythm comes from depths of the darkest waters, which pure yin. So what does that say about the bible or the said authors. let alone, the books, and the most important teachings that have been taken out of the bible, and also many others. This wasn't the only crime, but while erasing her presence, they tried to take away your magic, your creativity, and use your sexuality (which is your ability to manifest, and create) for their gain. As I ponder upon this, I am compelled to question: How many chapters of HIStory are indeed tales of men, or could they be the untold stories of women masked in masculine guise...

To close this out, let your mystical minds wander.... Think about how, in Christianity, to get baptized, you are laid into the waters to be reborn or cleansed from sin. Or, how a woman's water breaks signifying life & birth, or how you couldn't survive without water for more than 2 days.... Things like these make you wonder....

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐭

𝑶𝒖𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔: 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐳 𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐮𝐳 || 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢

[alphabetboyluvr]

throttle - jjk | five

one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

warnings - jk and yoongi showdown (by showdown i mean they just glare at each other a bit), THE BUSAN CHRONICLES BEGIN!!! anyone who has read throttle know how important busan is for these babies he he, depictions of sex that aren't smut (i'd argue?), hair pulling, she's on top, existential crisis thoughts during it all, unprotected sex, creampie, HELLO KIM TAEHYUNG, he's a sleaze, ANGST, cc watches jk wank himself off <3, a lil mutual masturbation moment, cute kisses <33, cums on her tummy <3, character insight! backstory! ugh! i love the busan chapters! i'll upload the rest of the busan chapters now too

word count - 18.5k

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

Jungkook has a face straight from a nineties rom-com. Boyish charm, eyes that linger; teeth that nibble on thin lips, and a smile that breaks like sun through a thunderous sky.

You're convinced that if he actually was a movie star, you'd watch every single film he was in - twice, at the very minimum. Maybe one would even become your comfort movie, for the days when real people felt like too much to handle; solace through the silver screen. 

His nose slopes and points so delicately at its tip, that you always find yourself staring; marvelling. Wondering how an angle so simple could have you at such a loss for words. Eyes are wide and dark, they're like a vat of melted down dark chocolate, slowly hypnotising you with every stir of the rich delicacy. 

It's when he smiles, though, that you really find yourself lost in everything he is. It's radiant, the way those plunging, round eyes of his crease at the sides, a deep line forming beneath them. His brows raise, and the dewy skin on his cheeks begins to tighten as they apple, and then his teeth - pristine, you think, ignoring any imperfection - are on show. You're home. 

Home in his laugh, in his happiness, in the way that he always seems to be like this around you. Home in how he always finds an excuse to be touching you in some capacity, home in the sanctuary of unspoken words, and home in the hopes that maybe one day, he'll be brave enough to say them.

Hope is a funny thing, though.  So much to gain and yet so much to lose - but if you never really had it, can it be considered a loss at all?

You're musing about this when Yoongi comes in through the side door, palms slick with motor oil, a few streaks staining his face and his shirt from where he's been a little bit careless. He cocks a brow, and throws you a cautious, coy smile. 

"What are you doing here?" He angles his body away from you, almost as if he suspects you're about to throw something at him. His tone is slow, reserved, a little bit accusatory, if you do say so.

"My job?" You question - but you know exactly why he's asking such a thing. 

You're always getting Jieun to cover you these days. He thinks you've barely worked enough shifts to cover the rent this month - and he's right.

He just doesn't realise that you have money sitting in the bank from stocks and bonds that had been purchased in your name when you were just a few months old. Rich people shit. Shit you wished you didn't understand, but were thankful for nonetheless. You may not be on good terms with your family, but you're not ignorant of the fortune you've had as a result of their choices. Having the ability to run from them is a privilege in itself.

"You still remember how to do it?" He teases. "Don't forget to offer the customers a receipt, and make sure you always pull up the right pump tab. Don't wanna be charging a soccer mom for some asshole's jeep tank."

"I remember, Yoongs," you say with a roll of your eyes and a narrowly hidden smile. He likes this smile of yours; the one you don't want to give but can't help but deliver regardless. "Thanks for the crash course, though." You thread your fingers together and stretch them in front of you. The way they click together has Yoongi looking at you like you've just shagged his dad. "Sure you don't wanna work my shifts all the time?"

"I'm sure," he nods. "Not a chance in hell I'm covering for you again."

And then there's that look on your face; the one he can never resist indulging in. 

"Don't you dare," he says.

But you've always been up for a challenge.

"Yoooongs," you sing, voice high and sweet, like a hit of coke up his nose and down to the back of his throat, washed clean with Ribena. He knows what's coming, and he knows he won't like it - but he does like the way you bat your lashes for him. "Watcha doing this weekend?"

There's a resistance, but the invisible string that tugs on his lips is stronger than he cares to admit. He smiles, and you know he's where he's always been; wrapped right around your little finger.

"Why?" he deadpans, not hiding his infatuation well. "You asking me out?"

He laughs as if it's not what he wants more than almost anything in the world; as if he doesn't know it's the last thing in the world you'll be asking.

You laugh too, but it's to cover the guilt that weighs down on you. You thought he'd be over it by now.

"Not exactly."

"You should really start dating someone who respects your work schedule," Yoongi jokes, but it's kinda totally not a joke. He doesn't say it, but he'd always respect your work schedule. Would never ask you to make compromises for him; would never ask you to prioritise him.

But Jungkook doesn't do that, either. It's your choice.

"I'm not dating anyone," you say. It's childish because even though you aren't technically dating Jungkook, you're not exactly not dating him either. The 'what are we' talk hasn't happened yet. You're not ready for it. He won't ever be ready for it. You don't know this though, so you just think you're at the same stage, which is a whole lot more comforting. Think that things will progress naturally. Fall into place when they need to.

"But you're about to ask me to cover for you so you can go on a date, no?"

"...No?"

I mean, you're not. 

You're not going on a date with Jungkook. You're going to his childhood town. So you're telling the truth - no dates involved.

But fuck, he'd held your hand as you stood beneath his shower together, telling you all about how he was going to take you to his favourite places, and you'd giggled when he told you that he'd force you to go swimming in the ocean with him, even if it was below zero.

You'd told him that it was fine, that you love winter beaches, and then you'd challenged him to a race from sand to shoreline. He'd agreed, of course, and then your laughter had dissolved into the pitter-patter of his shower, the warm water running over your body like a poor imitation of his hands, which were preoccupied elsewhere.

So no, you're not going on a date.

You're not dating Jungkook, full stop.

But you are existing together. Most nights these days. He works a night shift here and there, and sometimes you just need a little alone time - but more often than not, you'll head to his after work and wait until he finishes whatever he's working on. Your toothbrush has moved from the bathroom cabinet to the pot by the sink. 

Your presence is undeniable, even if you are in denial.

Feels like you're lying to everyone, including yourself. 

Especially yourself, actually.

Yoongi's back stiffens, his soft gaze that once was on you hardening as he glances out towards the forecourt. He nods curtly to his line of vision, and you know. He doesn't have to say anything because you can read Yoongi like a book.

His eyes look green in this light.

Beneath his breath, he mutters, "Speak of the devil."

And what a devil he is; dressed down in a pair of dark jeans with a black raincoat pulled over his head. You're down so bad that you're enamoured with the fact he's dressed for the weather, as if he's not a fully grown man very much capable of making such choices. 

You think it's cute, and imagine him looking out the window as he was getting ready, heading back to his wardrobe for the anorak upon seeing the rain.

By the time you turn back around to tell Yoongi to fuck off, he's gone; snuck out the back to finish whatever work he was doing. He's not interested in watching you play happy families with some fucker he knows isn't worth your time. Jungkook could have been a brain surgeon, a charity worker, a fucking saint, and Yoongi still wouldn't have cared. 

And by 'wouldn't have cared', he'd have been internally seething and ignoring the very existence of him, regardless.

"Just can't stay away, can you?" You say as you turn on your heel to walk away from Jungkook as soon as he enters the store. You're getting around to the cashiers' side of the till, creating distance.

Not because you want it, but because you think it might make him want you more.

It does.

"The cashier at Kang's ain't half as pretty," he flirts, and you swear that smile of his might send you to an early grave.

"Checking out other women, are we?"

"I'm here, aren't I? Not at Kang's?"

You want to argue with him just for sake of the flirt, but that anorak is really doing a number on you. All you wanna do is squish his cheeks and tell him how cute he looks in polyurethane-coated nylon.

"Touche," you grin, but it's muffled as he rests as palm on the kiosk and uses his other hand to pull you closer and steal a kiss. It's a risky move. Something he shouldn't really be doing. Not when there are three windows behind him. 

He's on display like a puppy in the pet shop windows downtown. Anyone could drive by. Pull in. Anyone. Daegu ain't as big as it likes to pretend to be.

"So, I'm lying," he says, voice sweet and low. "I actually do have an ulterior motive."

"Mhmph," you breathe through your nose, rolling your eyes. "You're a boy, Jungkook. I know you didn't drop by just to ask how my day was."

"Okay, one - ouch. And two - I always want to know how your day is."

For a chronic liar, he's refreshingly honest when he wants to be.

"But?" You encourage, not wanting to skip the flirting, but anxious of the outcome for whatever it is he's here for.

He pokes at the bagged sweets like he so often does, his tattooed fingers gently prodding and pushing them about with no real purpose. He appears distracted, but he's anything but. You know this now; know it's just a Kookism.

"Buuuut," he takes his time, dragging out the word because he knows it will drive you insane. "I was thinking why don't we just head over to..." he pauses. Suddenly feels uncomfortable declaring the plans you have so publically. What if he hadn't noticed someone behind a shelving unit? What if your coworker is listening in? He carries on as if he didn't skip it, but waffles so much you don't have a chance to interject. "Straight after work? We go straight from here? You finish round about now, don't you? I know we were gonna wait till the morning, but I got itchy feet, baby. Wanna get outta this place."

You nod as his questions pour out like a broken faucet. You don't have to worry about your shifts, 'cause Jieun's already swapped with you. You'd struck a deal to work her typical early shift that day in return for her covering you over the rest of the weekend. 

Truthfully, you weren't going to ask Yoongi to cover for you earlier - you were just going to ask if he'd watch the shop for 5 minutes until Jieun arrived so that you could escape a little earlier than you were meant to. He'd only just started his shift, opting for a later rota than usual. Weird, but not weird enough for you to question it too hard.

"Lemme just get changed," you smile, having come straight to work from Jungkook's apartment that morning. 

The way you're always in each other's company, it's as if he'll suffocate without you around - which admittedly does feel like it's true, but it's more so that he's scared of what could happen if he's not there watching over you. Scared that someone will interfere with what he's doing. Scared the rug will get pulled from beneath your feet before he's gotten a chance to scatter pillows on the ground beneath you.

Running late, you'd skipped dropping by your place that morning. You weren't feeling all that fresh, despite the shower you'd had at his that morning, thanks to the second-day clothes you'd arrived in, so had opted for the uniform spares in the back rooms. The sizings were all off, and you're pretty sure you felt filthier in them than your own clothes, but it was rare for you to ever feel all that hot in your work uniform.

Jungkook is left alone in the shop as you head to the backrooms. He figures your colleague will be out soon enough to man the tills, so goes about looking a little busy. Eyes up the stale pastries that are definitely past their best in the cabinet next to the till. Reads the magazine covers, and wonders why the fuck people care so much about celebrities.

It's as he's flicking through a copy of Drivers Weekly that he hears a cough. "We prefer it if people don't read the magazines in the shop."

His eyes land in the direction of the voice, towards a man who is shorter than stature than Jungkook, but somehow feels taller. Broader. Stronger. A better man. Competition. 

"You must be Yoongi, right?" Jungkook nods, voice a little hoarse. He's on edge. Doesn't like the way Yoongi is looking at him as if he can see straight into his soul - not that he'd find much there. 

That's the trouble that comes with making a deal with the devil; he'll eat you from the inside out. It won't be long before Jungkook implodes, bones caving in on themselves. He's got a little while left to go until then, though. Maybe some major organs left to harvest. A little bit of liver for all the soju he's gonna need to drink to get over this, and the tiny sliver of his heart that belongs to someone else. 

To you. 

"Heard a lot about you," he continues. 

Yoongi laughs. It isn't kind. "Funny. I've heard fuck all about you."

He stays stoic as he watches Jungkook purse his lips; shoulders rising ever so slightly and dipping again as he nods, letting out a scornful laugh. "Right."

Despite all he's done, all the stupid little mistakes he's made, Jungkook isn't dumb. He knows how to read people - and currently, Yoongi is a pair of burning red capital letters: F. U. 

A petty remark rests on the tip of his tongue, one that could spark and ignite the dry wood of the bridge between the two men. There's no water beneath it yet. Jungkook would incinerate the entire structure.

Best not to. Not yet, at least.

"Hey babe," he calls instead, loud enough for you to hear, and direct enough to crawl beneath Yoongi's skin. You muffle a response to let him know you're listening. "I'm just gonna wait in the car, alright?"

"Okay!"

"Don't keep me waiting too long," he flirts, but he's looking at Yoongi. He's smirking. Eyes narrow. Winning. "We've got a hotel room to check into."

It's childish and he knows it, but he wants Yoongi to know exactly who's gonna be making you cum that evening. 

You're cringing, knowing that Yoongi will be mentally imploding, but you also think that Jungkook is none the wiser. "Go wait in the car!"

"There's a place just off Gwangalli," Yoongi says, his attempt at looking unbothered fairly convincing - but not to Jungkook. He's convinced that everyone wants to fuck you just as much as he does, so would have always figured Yoongi was jealous. "A shoreline hotel. She really loves it. Maybe you should book a room there next time."

The insinuation is clear; Yoongi knows where you like to stay. For all Jungkook knows, maybe he's even stayed there with you.

But Busan is Jungkook's old stomping ground, and funnily enough, he does actually listen to you. He knows all about the hotel you love, and the fact you've never actually stayed there. Just dreamt of it; bridge views over the harbour, sleek marble coating the walls.

He also knows that it's overpriced and that there's a far better hotel just a few blocks up that doesn't get half as much attention. It's the place he's booked - 'cause fuck taking you home to meet the family - for the weekend. 

Apart from the final night.

He's got you the hotel you love for the final night.

He'll say goodbye to Busan with you, just as you feel like you're saying hello.

There's an acute awareness that things between the pair of you won't always end happily, so he's trying to make the memories sweet. Giving you happy endings to daydream about when you forget that you hate him, as you inevitably, eventually will.

He's so caught up thinking about it that he forgets to reply to Yoongi. His train of thought is interrupted by Yoongi once more, his voice low this time. He's trying to avoid being heard by you.

"Just... be careful with her."

Silence in the wake of Yoongi's request deafens them both. His words are weighted. Jungkook knows Yoongi is telling him to take care of you, but part of him can't help but wonder if it's a warning. Maybe he should be careful of you, instead. 

He's not the only one with secrets. Naive of him to assume he is.

"Thought you were waiting in the car?" You smile as you finally emerge. 

Jungkook's eyes are on you immediately, and suddenly you're not the only one with a chime in your stomach. There's one in his too, and it's humming to the beat of his heart.

He'd already figured that you'd stolen one of his shirts before he woke, thanks to the fact your dress was hooked over the back of his desk chair that morning.  It's grey and faded, a billion sizes too big, resting just below your midthighs. You're wearing tights again, because of course you are.

He knows, within about a second, that he isn't gonna be able to make it to Busan without being inside of you at least once. There's gotta be a side lane close by that you won't get caught in. Shit. Maybe he should just take you in the back rooms right now. Yoongi'd get over it, he's sure. 

Cheeks a little hot, Jungkook is cringing at himself as he feels the blood rush to his cock. He can't be getting a semi in a GS-fuckin'-25. Wouldn't be the first time, but-

"Kook?"

"Sorry," he says with a smile, and pretends as if he was listening all along. "Was just talking with - sorry, what was it again? Yooji?-"

"Yoongi," you correct sweetly, eyes so smitten that Yoongi thinks stabbing himself in the eye with a motor oil dipstick would be less painful.

"Yeah, that. Didn't really how much we have in common. Both love our cars, real penchant for good soju..." Both wanna rail you so hard you forget your own name. "Interesting guy."

You look over to Yoongi, and it's clear as anything that he doesn't agree with a single word of what Jungkook is saying -but you think Jungkook is trying, and that only makes those eyes of yours even drunker in lo-

"You not have a hotel to get to?" Yoongi grimaces.

"Pollution's bad today, baby," Jungkook mumbles softly into your hair, ignoring Yoongi. It's said out of concern for you, but also for himself. 

It's easier for him if your face is a little obscured; easier to deny that you're the one he's holding onto for dear life as he leads you out of the shop. You think nothing of it, pulling up the mask that had been resting below your chin before the cold wind gets a chance to hit your face.

He's not wrong - the midday skies are clouded, a thick smog obscuring the mountain peaks that you love to look at so much. You love the winter sun, but it has you wishing for rain. It always clears the skies a little more; brightens the world up.

Daegu is dreamy, in the obscure, nightmarish kind of way that made you eat cheese before bed as a child. The best kind of dreams were always the ones that made you feel something - and as Jungkook starts up the pony, you're terrified. 

It's not a big deal. Going to Busan is casual. But being invited into a world that is exclusively his? Well, that's not casual at all.

It's weighted and deliberate, and intentional. He wants you there. Wants you in every aspect of his life, and yet you haven't even had the 'what are we' conversation yet.

You wait until Jieun arrives, just a minute later, before you make your departure. She says goodbye with a knowing look, and Yoongi is already out back working on breaking up a written-off car that came in for parts earlier that morning.

Jungkook's hand is on your back as he guides you out, the mask he had insisted on you wearing for air pollution purposes obscuring your face. It doesn't stop his eyes from darting all over the place, making sure he hasn't missed anyone lurking. He knows he's getting sloppy; that he could trip up at any point, and fall at the feet of the men who had sent him into your shop all those weeks ago.

But as the pair of you pull onto the highway, your dainty hand resting at the top of his thigh, nothing but the open road ahead of you and the smell of your perfume wrapping around his senses, he doesn't care.

He'd do it all again, he thinks.

In fact, he thinks he'd kiss you sooner, just to get a few more in. Your days are numbered. He knows you're not gonna last long enough to see the cherries blossom, and maybe it's better that way.

When he got into this mess, he was in search of a spring day to break; the seasons to change, and life to renew. The deeper he gets, the more futile he realises that dream was. You're the only thing he wants to see bloom, these days.

Such a shame he has to cut you from your roots, and watch you wilt instead.

────────────

Jungkook doesn't know what 'home' feels like anymore, and hasn't done for quite some time, now. He doesn't know what it feels like to be completely content, nor at ease, within his own body. 

Sometimes, though, when he's behind the wheel, the balls of his feet pressed to the pedals, he thinks it might feel close.

When the scent of gasoline seeps through the vents, and a toxic combination of burnt rubber and wiper fluid clouds the atmosphere behind his tinted windows, it seems like he could have a grasp on what it means to be 'home'. Or to have one, at least.

Maybe that's why he clings to the idea of you so much, and the way that your hair smells like gasoline. 

It's a trick of the mind; a subtle deception that perhaps you could feel like 'home', too.

He thinks of this as his car rolls onto a street he hasn't visited in what must be years, by this point. 

He's silent, glancing over to where you nap peacefully in his passenger's seat. Light scatters through the branches of trees which are yet to bloom, refracting as it hits the pale stone in your necklace. The underside of your chin is painted in rays of rainbow light. Your throat, too. Impossible, he thinks, for someone to be so ethereal without even so much as trying. Thinks that you're magic. 

But magic isn't real. He knows that deep down, beneath the scent of your hair and the taste of your rainbow stained skin, you're not real, either.

You're an illusion; a projection, just like that refracted light. 

Still, he smiles as you begin to stir, neck aching from the uncomfortable position you've had it in for the last thirty minutes. 

"Morning, sleepyhead," he teases, while you squeak and stretch your body out at far as you can. Palms on the dash, your head feels all stuffy and horrible, the nap only serving to make you feel even more sleepy. You bring the back of your hand to cover your mouth as you yawn, brows raised, eyes closed. 

"We here?" you mumble, turning to face the road, only to find the view is obscured by cargo lorries ferrying things to the harbour.

The shipping container next to you is a deep navy blue, its history etched onto the corrugated steel with white chalk markers. It rusts at the joints, paint flaking off and scattering into the atmosphere. It's remarkable, you think, how even things built to sustain the most brutal of weathers can still have areas of weakness.

"Just about," he nods, turning the radio up a little louder now that you're awake. His phone is plugged into the aux for once, but it sounds like it's still your playlist going. It's not. He's been crafting his own, taking note of the songs you like, and adding his own into the mix. Subtle integration of you into his life, perhaps. "About 10 minutes away from the hotel."

You hum a response as you sit up a little straighter, a frown on your face. You hadn't meant to sleep through the journey, but late nights with him and early starts at the gas station have really been doing a number on you.

Jungkooks thinks he's benefitted from your sleepiness, as it made you so bloody endearing that he found himself wanting to let you sleep, instead of pulling into a vacant side-road to sort out the awkward hard-on he's had since the moment he saw you in GS25 earlier on that day.

There had been a brief moment, when the pair of you had stopped by your place to pick up your travel bag, that he'd considered making a move - but you were excited to get going, and so was he.

Why waste time in Daegu? He wanted out of there. Wanted to be elsewhere, anywhere. Wanted to hold your hand in public, with your mask off and your hood down, just to watch the way other men would double-take you. 

Maybe because it's unknown - being with you, without fear of getting caught - or maybe it's because his intentions with you have changed in recent weeks. Whatever reason it is doesn't matter, though. The outcome will still be the same.

You watch as the cargo trucks begin to roll into gear, and then you're chasing the sun, heading towards your destination. Jungkook hasn't told you anything about where you're staying, just that he thinks you'll like it. Part of you hopes it will be that hotel you love along the shoreline, and as he takes a right onto the next road over, edging closer and closer to the shore, you think you might be in luck.

These hopes are short-lived, though, when you see a sign with the branding you know so well - even if you've only ever seen it online - and watch it disappear in the rearview mirror.

Funnily enough, there's no disappointment that follows this realisation. You couldn't care less where you stay. All you seem to care about is who you'll be staying with.

A smile tugs at the corner of your lips when his indicators begin to tick, and his hand, flat against the wheel, begins to pull clockwise. The place he's turning the car in to is nice. Too nice. There's a surface level car park, for starters, not one tucked beneath the first floor of a drive-in motel, like you'd half been expecting. 

The exterior walls are finished with European style red bricks; purpose-built and not in keeping with the dated architecture of its surroundings. There's an attitude to the building; attention-seeking without trying, refined yet unassuming. It reminds Jungkook of you, in a way. Reminds him of how no matter what you do, his focus always seems to be on you.

"Had this place on my bucket list," he says. "Opened up around the time I left town. Always said I'd stay here if I came back with someone else."

His last comment is unnecessary. He doesn't need to tell you he'd never brought anyone home to Busan, and yet he does, because it somehow feels important. 

A hotel resident swings through the front door as you're getting out of the car, and you can't help but notice that the chime is eerily similar to the one of the GS25 door. Identical, almost, to the one in your stomach. 

"Pretty," you muse, adoringly looking at the ivy that trails up and down the side of the building. 

"Prettier in summer," he says, taking your luggage from your hands and tilting his head forward as if to say 'ladies first'. "There's another vine running through it that blooms like nothing I've ever seen before. It's too cold for it to flower, yet, I think."

You smile as you listen to him talk, enamoured that a man so brash and bold can be so delicate and gentle when he wants to be. Mindless chatter fills the space between you as you enter the lobby, and wait for the concierge to check Jungkook's booking on the system, just to find out there's been a free upgrade.

"Wish she hadn't announced that," Jungkook mumbles in your ear as you head towards the elevator. "Totally would have pretended I'd splurged out on the upgrade instead."

You laugh, and tell him that he's stupid - and that you also saw the room rates by the front desk, so in your eyes, even the standard rooms are a splurge.

He shrugs, and insists he got it cheaper online thanks to some bullshit discount he can't be bothered to lie too deeply about. He wanted to experience this hotel, and he wanted to experience it with you. He'd have paid the price, whatever. 

Chances are he'll be making the money back in a weeks time, thanks to you, anyways. 

Thanks to you. Because of you. In spite of you. Whatever. Same difference. 

Same disgusting guilt that coats his skin like oil and drips from his body. Dare you strike a match, he's sure he'll set fire. Ablaze with the glory of whatever the fuck he feels for you; the flames of his failures smoking him to suffocation. Failure to act quick enough, failure to control himself, failure to do wrong by someone that feels so right. 

He shakes the thoughts from his head, his guilt steeped stomach a constant aide-mémoire.

"613," he reminds you of the room number as you reach the sixth floor. 

It's not quite the top floor, but it's far enough up that your view of the harbour will take your breath away, you're sure.

He laughs when you squeal in response, thankful for the fact you don't try and downplay your excitement like he knows you would have done when he first started seeing you.  He assumes you're comfortable now. Assumes you trust him. Assumes you feel safe. Assume, assume, assume. You're rubbing off on him, it seems.

He's got a rucksack on his back, and your own bag hooked is over his shoulder, yet he still uses his free hand to hold onto your waist as he walks behind you. He's so desperate to keep you close; fearful of what could happen if you ever were to part. His fingers grip a little tighter when you take a stride further than he anticipates, and he doesn't shuffle back when you finally reach the door. He rests his chin on your head instead, and watches the light on the door handle flash green when the room key taps against it.

The pair of you walk into the room in the same position, your back pressed to his chest, his strides wide behind you, so that he can walk in time with you. It's clumsy, and awkward, and hard to synchronise, but both of you are laughing so much that you're almost distracted from the view that floods in through the wall-length windows. Almost.

You stop in your tracks when you see it, gasping at the sight. Jungkook looks up from your hair, his arms tight around you, to see what you've noticed - and then he notices it, too. 

"Holy shit," you say, unable to articulate anything else. 

The ocean in front of you spans for miles; endless upon the horizon, with nothing but Gwangalli bridge standing in its way. Boats dapple the vast expanse, tiny and delicate, obscured by the incredible distance between you. 

It's blue. Blue, blue, blue; the skies, the sea, the way you feel sorrow in your chest from never having seen anything so beautiful before.

Jungkook is smug as he whispers into your hair, "Boy did good?"

You've not even looked at the crisp white sheets, yet, freshly laundered on a  queen size bed, nor the decadent hotel decor that you're sure will be identical in every single room. The other rooms don't matter to you, though; just 613, and the boy with bleach blonde hair who had driven you to Busan in his bright red pony. 

The stuff of fairytales, some might argue.

"Boy did good," you whisper back, turning your head to steal a kiss. He smiles into your lips, your body his to move as he pleases, as he begins to walk you to the bed. 

A soft puff of air blows around your body as it lands on the outrageously fluffed duvet. He crawls onto the bed with you, one hand on your cheek, the other laced with yours above your head. 

"View like this and all you wanna do is waste it?" You grin into his lips, voice as sweet as his touch.

He's quiet as he presses his lips to your throat, slow as he trails his tongue down it.

"Not a waste,' he says, as his teeth graze ever so gently. The firmness of his crotch is devastatingly erotic as it presses against you. "And fuck the view. Rather look at you."

You go to argue against him, but he's adamant you're far prettier. Tells you if it means that much to you, though, he'll be willing to take you from behind so that you can look at the view - which is how you end up wrapped in a duvet, hair a mess and mascara a little smudged half an hour later. 

You're sat together on the floor, backs against the side of the bed, looking out at the view as his arm drapes around your shoulders. His lips are nestled into your hair, because it seems to be his happy place, but neither of you are talking. Just existing, like you so often like to do together.

There's an unspoken understanding that this is an unusual occurrence for the both of you. 

He doesn't do romance. He doesn't really do anything that would ever indicate a shag is more than just a shag. He'll compliment, and he'll charm, but he'll never say any words of actual worth. Not like he does with you. He doesn't cuddle, doesn't snuggle, doesn't kiss outside of the realm of a fuck. Again, not like he does with you.

When you turn to face him, catching the countenance in his eyes as he looks at you - chin, nose, eyes, lips, eyes again - you know that any kiss that could follow would be fatal. 

It would seal the deal that neither of you have been brave enough to make.

There's hesitation. His breaths are heavy, prick still a little plump beneath the sheets that covers his modesty, but he's not hard. Not horny. It's not what's leading his thoughts, nor his actions. 

And then, suddenly, but somehow also so perfectly predictable, he kisses you. 

It isn't simple. It isn't just because he can - but it's also not for any ulterior motive, either. It's soft, his lips not as hard against yours as they usually are. They squeeze your bottom lip, then release. And then he does it again. No welcome intrusion of his tongue. No hands roaming to your chest. No smile as he does it. 

But why would he be smiling when he's terrified? 

He just kisses, and kisses, and kisses. He makes no further moves, not even when you let the sheets slip, nor when you hook your leg over his lap and move across to straddle his thighs. You're so incredibly wet, his touches minimal, yet so deeply intimate, that he can feel you leaking all over him. His cock is flushed, stiff, and stood to attention, resting against the base of his abs. 

Still, he doesn't really touch you. His wrists are resting on the top of your thighs, but his palms aren't lying flat. They're open, not balled into fists, and you can't quite figure him out. You feel shy and insecure, because why isn't he touching you? Doesn't he want you? 

But then you go to pull away from his lips, and he whines and shakes his head.

Come back, baby, he wants to say, but it gets trapped in his throat, and all he can get out is a little grunt. 

He knows he's being pathetic. Knows that he must look like a fucking weirdo.

Part of you wants to laugh; wants to ask where the man who ate his own cum out of your pussy and spat it into your mouth is. 

Most of you, though, is consumed by the sheer terror that's encompassing him. You feel it too. All of this is so unfamiliar, and scary, and alarming and yet so... safe. 

His palms finally lay flat, prowling to your ass, where he squeezes as if to say hello. Eventually, he pulls you further up his lap. You're raised above him, the heat of your pussy so warm, and welcoming, and inviting, that he simply can't hold back any longer. 

No words are spoken, you simply nod. 

You aren't kissing anymore. Just looking at one another. He doesn't drop his gaze when he lines himself up with your entrance. 

It's only when you sink down onto him that his eyes close, as his head leans against the corner of the mattress. The expanse of his throat is pristine, not a hickey in sight, and you like it this way. It - you - somehow still feels like a secret. One shared, but one that is safe. Just for you. Just for him. For one another.

Jungkook lasts longer inside of you than he thinks he will. The silence is only broken by hushed whines and dulcet groans. Your hands rest on his shoulders, and stay there the entire time. It's almost like you're both petrified that changing position will change the way that you're feeling. You look at one another like you're holding hands across a tightrope, dependent on one another to stay alive. 

If he falls, so do you. 

But it's not the falling he's afraid of. Not really. He's been enjoying the freefall for the past few weeks, now. It's the inevitable crash and burn that scares him.

There's something about the angle, the way he's got you deep and slow, that has the tightrope tying itself in pretty little bows around the bell that lives rent-free in your stomach. 

Jungkook sees the way that your brows begin to furrow. He grunts as your lips rest ajar, restless gasps shying away, hiding in your throat. His hips keep at the pace he's set. He knows what's happening, and even though he's spent the last couple of weeks desperately trying to not let happen, he knows he's gotta let you come undone. 

He wants you to. Needs you to. Needs to know that it's not just him that can't control himself.

It's euphoric when it happens. His arms wrap around your back, pulling your chest to his, and only then does he realise how hard your nipples are; how much your entire body has begged him for this. He squeezes you so tightly that your back clicks, but he doesn't really worry because you're shaking on him, muscles out of control as the orgasm he was fucking into you finally cascades over your body. 

You're thankful for the way he's holding you close, your pussy so tight that Jungkook finds himself whining into your neck; and then he's kissing it, pressing his teeth to your skin, holding them there as his muffled moans vibrate against you. 

'Shouldn't-' he thinks, even his thoughts stuttering and getting all confused. 'Shouldn't do this. Gonna end in tears. Gonna end - shit. Gonna fucking end. Shit. So good. So fucking good.'

Pussy so good he swears he'll fuck it forever, and then his thoughts catch up with him, and he's spiralling all over again. 

'Fucking disaster. Heaven in human form. Temptress devil dressed as an angel. Shut the fuck up, Jungkook. The fucking audacity,' he begins to scold himself. 'Prick. She never fucking lied -' And then his head is battling against itself. '-but she did though - she didn't - did-'

"Shut the fuck up."

He doesn't even realise he's said it until your laboured breaths and spent body seem to falter, but you fail to muster up anything more than a "Hmm?"

You're sure you must have heard him wrong.

"Nothing. Not you," he husks in your neck, though he can't really get his words out 'cause he's seconds away from spilling into you. "You sound so good, baby. So good. Gonna make me cum so fucking hard." He knows he shouldn't be encouraging it, but he can't stop. "Keep moaning for me, baby. Let me know how good I feel."

You hum a laugh, so sweet and saccharine that Jungkook thinks you must be laced in some kind of addictive substance. It's the only way to explain how he feels. He's an addict, hooked on you. 

The moans that roll off your tongue aren't fake, but you let yourself be a little louder for him. 

"Like that," you tell him. You're already done, spent, but you want him to feel just as good as you do, even if his size has you feeling a little sore by now. You encourage him, knowing that it'll become painful if he doesn't finish soon. 

It almost feels like there's something holding him back, though. You think he's just edging himself. You don't notice the way the lines in his forehead crease together in such a way that they almost spell out words. You'd have studied them, if you had noticed. Would have convinced yourself that you could read 'trust,' in the lines, and not 'traitor,' instead.

You move your hips against his, ass bouncing against the top of his thighs in a way that you haven't done for the entire session. He's been working so hard for you that it's about time for you to return the favour, it seems. 

The way his neck stretches back, eyes shut, lips pouted and perfect as he fails to formulate anything other than "fuck, baby," lets you know it's appreciated.

'I'm going to fucking hell,' he tells himself. 'When I die, which seems like a sooner rather than later kinda thing, I'm going straight down to the pits. Pussy like heaven, so fucking good that it's a sin. Angel. Angel, angel, angel, baby. Gotta have you. Can't let anyone else have you. Fuck, no. Shouldn't. Shouldn't have you. Fuck it. Need you. Oh, god. Like that. Like that.'

He pulls on your hair so that you're sat up straight as he rams into you, your fucked out face the only thing he wants to see when he finally succumbs to your body. He nods at you, as if he's trying to say something that you don't quite understand. Letting you know he's close? Letting you know that he feels the same way, too? It's unclear, but you're in no position to ask - so you just nod back, and let the rapture happen.

"Shit," he all but whimpers, and then he's in purgatory; heaven and hell meeting at some kind of divine intervention as he spills all that he is into a vessel of freedom that he isn't sure he can afford anymore. "Jesus Christ," he chokes, the mess of his load leaking from you and down his shaft. 

The lines in his forehead have smoothed, now, brows open, eyes half-closed. He laughs, once, twice, unable to stop himself. He forgets it all in the wake of his orgasm; his turmoil, your troubles, the turbulent path he knows he's about to go down. 

All he can think about is you, him, the present, the physical. The right now. The way that you're in Busan, and how the dreary streets of Daegu can't hurt you. 

Rather foolish of him to think that little deaths would have you falling in love, when he's the one whose head feels like cotton candy, heart beating like a butterfly bursting from its cocoon. 

The screen of his phone is alight on the dresser, again. You had noticed it earlier, but neglected to say anything; mainly because you didn't want to lose the moment, but also because you feared that whoever was on the end of the line could have you losing him, too.

The freedom of your arrangement, the unspoken boundaries, affords you great comforts, but also leaves you with lingering doubts. You aren't naive. You know that men his age - men in general - aren't ones to be trusted with your heart. Platonic, romantic, familial. Not a single man has ever deserved to hold it in their hands, and any that you have given the chance to have dropped it at the first hurdle. It's a death sentence, you think, giving Jungkook your heart.

So you simply won't.

But in the comedown of a fuck that really didn't feel much like a fuck, more like a meeting of minds, bodies, consciousnesses - fuck it - hearts, you find yourself thinking that maybe it would be nice to try. 

You're still in his lap when he stands, his cock inside of you, even if a little soft, now. He's gentle, and slow, taking you with him, picking you up and wrapping your legs around his hips. There's comfort in his silence as he leads you to the bathroom; familiarity in his feverish need to shower.

His phone continues to ring out on the dresser, silent and sinister, the glow of his screen the only source of light other than the moon that pours in through the windows. He clocks it as he turns to close the door, while you let your body become acquainted with the pressure of the shower on your skin.

And then, he presses the door firmly shut. The world can wait just a little longer, even if only for a night. 

Tonight, he's yours, even if you never asked him to be. 

He's yours, because he knows that come next weekend, you really will never ask him to be.

But you're just as much his. 

He'll wrap you up in a fluffy white towel, and lay down with you in white sheets, that are creased only by the illustrations of your entanglement. He'll give you a tissue, white, to clean yourself up with, after he loses himself inside you once again. He'll laugh with you, teeth on show, white, as you talk into the early hours of the morning. He'll watch the moon reflect in the ocean waves with you, white, until you both fall asleep.

And you'll feel all pink; rosy cheeks, blushed lips, bubblegum heart and peachy pigmented skin from his kisses that bloom like posies. Pink like the early dawn skies over quiet ocean waves, and pink like your favourite wine that can get you tipsy with just a few sips. Pink and pretty like his lips that pout even when he's asleep. Pink like the pads of your feet as you tiptoe to the bathroom to get a glass of water as quietly as you can. Pink, like the faint light next to the plug socket where his phone is plugged into a charger. Pink, like the tiny light at the top of his screen to let him know he has a flurry of unread notifications; missed calls. 

Except it's not pink at all. 

It's red. 

Your eyes are just tired, and you're deluding yourself. Just like you have been of every single red flag that Jungkook has presented to you so far. 

But when you look at the mess of blonde hair that belongs to the man hidden in the white sheets which have kept you warm all night, everything is pink again. 

"Sleep," he mumbles as you crawl back into bed, his arms wrapping around your waist to hold you close. His lips rest in the crook of your neck, a lazy kiss delicately finding its home there. 

"I'm sleeping," you whisper, the white lie nothing more than a joke that you're both in on.

"Promise?" he sleepily humours you, to which you smile.

"Pinky."

────────────

There's a magic to sea air.

It's not quite Disney, and definitely isn't Hogwarts, but it's something. It makes you feel all excited, and giddy, and like the world is at your feet. If you say the right words, or swish and flick a little bit of driftwood in the right order, then maybe you'll find that the world isn't all that hard to acquire.

Because maybe it's not the sea air that's magic. Maybe it's just what comes with being beside someone like Jeon Jungkook.

You quickly learn that there's a side to him you never knew. It's one that's incredibly mundane, but just as refreshing as the peach teas he points out to you on every cafe menu, 'cause he knows how much you like them, and doesn't want you to miss out on the opportunity to indulge in something you find such simple pleasure in.

Jungkook smiles.

He smiles a lot.

He smiles at the harbour views, at the elderly as they walk past, and at the market stall owners who charge him far too much for a stick of strawberry tanghulu. He smiles when you ask him about his life in Busan, and he smiles when you get distracted by every single dog you walk past, regardless of the conversation you've been engaged in.

He smiles when you tell him you fancy Italian for dinner, instead of engaging in an awkward back and forth of 'what do you want?', 'no, what do you want?'.

He smiles when you reach the halfway checkpoint of the Igidae coastal trail. You're leaning on the wooden bannister, clearly out of breath but pretending to look at the view instead - and it's a beautiful view, at that. Clear blue skies, waves that crash and mellow within the same second, and an endless cerulean sea.

He thinks about all the possibilities out there, and half-wonders if maybe he could just get on a boat with you and say goodbye to the choices he's made.

The only choice he's been sure of lately is you, and when his horizon is blocked by your sloping shoulders and claw-clipped hair, he's pretty sure you're the only opportunity he wants to experience from now on.

He's never walked this trail before, but he wanted to show you the best of Busan, hoping it would convince you that you're also seeing the best of him. As he pulls on your hand, pointing out the little numbers some poor soul had scribbled on the stairs to reassure other hikers how many were left, you're positive that you'd walk the trail a thousand times over, just to be met with his smile at the end.

Because Jeon Jungkook smiles.

He smiles and he smiles and he smiles.

He smiles over dinner, in a tight little hole-in-the-wall pizzeria, that at least attempts to make pizza authentic, even if they do have '+corn, 500w' next to every single option. He smiles when he tells you to put your card away, 'cause it's on him, and then he smiles when you trip on the ledge between the restaurant and the street.

You don't fall because he's holding your hand with a grip so tight you swear your fingers might actually fall off.

"One beer and you're legless," he teases, his hold on your hand tightening as he loops his arm over your shoulder. It's a warm embrace; one that fills your nose with the scent of his aftershave, and plasters an equally large smile on your face. He's infectious, it would seem, and not once has he insisted that you wear a mask since you arrived in Busan.

"Fuck off," you laugh, walking down the street together as if this is how it's always been.

Not a single person gives you a second glance, not even the middle-aged men sat drinking outside of the bar at the end of the street. It's dark, lamposts and decorative fairy lights guiding you home, the city alive with the hustle and bustle of whatever happens after dark. The noraebangs in the area are all hostess bars, and the actual bars are packed, so home is where you're headed. There's no company you'd rather keep than one another's.

"I love this place," you muse. There's a vibrancy here that you've been missing in Daegu, but if you were to take a moment to think about it, the cities have nothing to do with it. It's the boy, and the lack of distractions from him, that you really enjoy.

"Home sweet home," he replies nonchalantly. "Ain't nothing like it."

"You miss living here?"

Your question is met with silence. You leave it a moment, thinking that Jungkook is just debating his answer. Perhaps it isn't something he's ever given much thought to before. That seems like a safe assumption to make.

The answer would reveal a truth that Jungkook isn't quite ready to admit to just yet - but he wants to admit it. Wants to tell you everything.

All the things you should know, and all the secrets he wishes you'll never find out.

It's inevitable that one day you will find out, and he wonders if it would hurt more coming from his tongue. Regretfully, he thinks it will. To lie is to be merciful, or so he tells himself.

"You're so-" he begins so decidedly that it's almost a surprise, yet he cuts himself off. It's like he shocked even himself with the outburst. He glances down to his hand - the one you're holding onto - laughs, and then gazes back to the end of the street, where the dark tide is rolling onto a shallow beach. With a shake of his head, he says 'fuck it' to his reservations, and tries out a little honestly. "You're fucking with my head, you are."

There's a smile on his lips despite the accusation, and it has you smiling, too. You think nothing of it more than flirtatious banter.

"Oh yeah?" You toy. "How so?"

He knows this tone of yours, and knows you've taken it well; knows that all he can do is play along, so as to not raise suspicions. He doesn't mean to be so erratic with his thoughts, and in turn, his words - but he isn't kidding. You really are fucking with his pretty little head.

"How are you not?" He flirts back. "Can't think straight when I'm around you."

He watches as you drop your head, your nose all scrunched up, in the same way his own nose scrunches up whenever you're too kind to him. The only difference is he doesn't believe he's being kind at all.

You deserve more than he can - or is willing to - give you.

There's untapped potential between the pair of you, that will sadly remain that way. He figures he should make the most of this while it lasts; hold your hand as much as he can, get lost for days in the scent of your hair, and make you laugh for hours on end. He knows he'll miss hearing it when it all ends.

You don't know it yet, but you'll miss it too.

Maybe you'd do things differently if you knew that your time was limited.

"You're stupid," you reply rather childishly, because it's the best your bashful brain can think of. "Is that why you nearly hit me that night on the bridge? When you were racing? Too distracted by how much of a mindfuck I am?"

"You have any idea how much easier my life would have been if I had just hit you?" He muses, looking down at you.

You wait until he's finished his words to look back at him, but you wish that you hadn't, 'cause there's a look in his eyes which makes you think he isn't lying.

It should scare you - but like an uncomfortably awkward damsel in distress from a vampire movie, crushing on a bloke who is definitely a little bit too creepy for anyone's liking - it doesn't.

"Far easier," you guess, not letting your smile drop. "Waking up next to me must be torture."

"Waking up next you," he nods. "Sharing my aux with you, paying my water bill after learning just how much you like showers hot enough to kill a lobster. Hate it all."

"Oh god, me too," you say quickly before his lips cut you off for a second, only to let you finish a moment later. "Hate it so much. So glad we're on the same pa-"

This time, it's not the lips of the boy you like a little too much cutting you off, but the voice of a boy you're sure you could grow to like just as much, if ever given the opportunity.

"Well I fuckin' never," a voice booms from across the street in your direction.

You ignore it, not really thinking anything of it - just some rowdy lads who are talking amongst themselves after a few too many beers, you assume - until Jungkook's head snaps in the direction of the voice.

His expression is startled, but quickly softens to his usual boyish disposition. There's a defensiveness, though, to the way his hand tightens around yours - until he drops it altogether.

"Kim Taehyung," Jungkook beams, adjusting his posture so that you're partially shielded from the man across the street, who's checking both sides to make sure it's clear before he crosses.

He's handsome, in a way that's entirely different to Jungkook. His broadness isn't exclusive to his shoulders, but the way he carries himself, and the sleazy smile that rests on his lips where a cigarette fits snug. He exhales, and crosses the road, the grin on his face only getting larger.

"Jeon Jungkook," he nods, greeting him with such familiarity that you feel all embarrassed.

You've no idea who this man is. His name has never been mentioned before. In fact, no names have ever been mentioned. There's little you know about Jungkook.

Sure, you know how he mindlessly fidgets, and how he whines when your tongue strokes against his taint, but what do you really know about him? Nothing of any value. Nothing that signifies you're of any value to him.

"And who's this?" Taehyung asks, but Jungkook's reply only further confirms your assumptions.

The question is addressed to you, Taehyung looking just as dangerous as that cigarette in his mouth is. He's a slow burn, you think, the kind of boy who'll grow on you, and before you know it, you'll be just another victim of his charm. It's unsurprising that he would be acquainted with Jungkook. After all, the company you keep is a reflection of yourself.

You look to Jungkook, who looks over his shoulder back to you. He's not really looking at you, per say, not how he does when you're alone. When he turns back to face Taehyung, you see the way his cheeks rise to smile, and you don't mind his coldness all of a sudden.

But then he opens his mouth and you think if you weren't such stone-cold bitch, you'd cry.

"Just a friend from Daegu. No one special."

It's humiliating, granted, but any reaction would only serve to embarrass you both - so you simply keep quiet, and smile. Your brows lift a little, eyes on Taehyung, who takes a toke as he looks between you and Jungkook.

He's smirking as he exhales, like he knows Jungkook is full of shit.

"Well, fuck me. I gotta find myself some friends in Daegu. Taehyung," he says as he holds his hand out for you to shake, with a look on his face like he hasn't eaten for a week.

There's something about him that's refreshing. He's an asshole, yes - undeniable - but at least he doesn't pretend not to be, like Jungkook does. He's undressing you with his eyes in the same way that Jungkook does with his hands. And for what Jungkook just said? You're pleased. Maybe you should let Taehyung take you home instead - after all, according to Jungkook, you're just a friend from Daegu. No one special.

"Uh-uh," Jungkook shakes his head. He's teasing, but he steps further in front of you, blocking Taehyung from your vision. "I know what you're like, Tae. Hands off this one."

The way he's talking makes you wanna turn on your heels and walk all the way back to fucking Daegu. Whoever it is that's currently shielding you from the danger of a fuck boy isn't Jungkook. Not the Jungkook you know at least.

"I'm just a friendly guy," Taehyung jokes back. "You know me. What brings you back home? Haven't since you since the wake. Been a while."

Jungkook's back stiffens, but Taehyung doesn't notice.

"Just some family stuff. Thought I'd make a weekend of it." He tilts his head back towards you. The movement has Taehyung's eyes on you again. To feel so unapologetically desired is thrilling, but it kind of makes you sick. You want Jungkook to hold your hand. Signify that you're his. Tell Taehyung that he doesn't stand a chance. But of course, he doesn't. "Thought I'd show her around. Visit some old haunts. How have you been?"

"All good," Taehyung replies, not really interested in what Jungkook has to say. It's formality, really. If he cared that much about what Jungkook had been up to, he would have made more of an effort to keep in touch. "Saw your brother yesterday, actually."

God, it's like one sucker punch after another. A brother? You've no idea who this man is.

"Seeing him tomorrow," Jungkook nods, and again, it's bloody fucking news to you. "He good?"

"Baby's keeping him up all hours apparently, he looks fucking exhausted. Met the baby yet?"

"Nah, nah, tomorrow," Jungkook says, and you're surprised by how... mundane the conversation is. You can't tell if they're friends, or if there's something more troubling at play. Everything feels coded, but you're struggling to read into it. You're too fixated on how much of Jungkook's life you're unaware of.

"Oh, nice," Taehyung replies. "You should come by the boxing club while you're in town. Be good to see you. I'm sure the boys would be pleased to see Busan's finest back where he belongs." He looks over Jungkooks shoulder to you, again, and smiles in that sultry way you're sure enables him to never go without a bed to sleep in. "Bring your friend with you. Think we could all do with a new friend."

The way he talks is crude. It's unapologetic, and if it were any other man, you'd probably be repulsed - but you're too busy being pissed off with Jungkook to care.

"Think I could do with a new friend, too," you hum back, lips pouty, chest a little pushed forward. "See you there?"

"Oh, I'll be waiting," Taehyung almost fucking moans.

Jungkook presses the pad of his thumb across the tops of his fingers, one by one, clicking them in their sockets. His frustration is evident, but the grave he's in is one that he dug himself.

You may feel like you don't know him, but he knows you. He should have anticipated that you wouldn't play nice after he said something like that.

But oh, on the contrary - you think you are playing nice. Very nice. For Taehyung, you'll be the nicest girl in the world.

And that's all Jungkook can think about.

It's intrusive, the thought of just how nice you can be.

He's thinking of your hair, all nice and tied up in a ponytail, and how Tae's hand could wrap around it. He's thinking about your pretty little knees, and how good you look when you're on them. He's thinking about your chest - God, he fucking loves your chest - and how it stands to attention when you're cold. And of course, you'd be cold, 'cause he's imagining all of this happening in the back rooms of the boxing club. At least you wouldn't be able to come, but he's barely been making that happen lately, anyways.

If there's one thing he hates more than the idea of you with Tae, it's himself.

Taehyung says his farewells, and lets his gaze linger on you for far too long, and says "you've got a look about you, friend from Daegu. Something familiar," before heading back to where he came from. The gaggle of lads he was with are still waiting for him. It seems as if he's in charge; the ringleader of sorts.

It intrigues you.

But he doesn't entice you the way that Jungkook does.

There's no softness to him, not like Jungkook with his big, round, chocolate button eyes and ever-scrunched nose.

You're mad at him now, though. Pissed. In fact, you begin to walk away as soon as Taehyung is gone, because you simply don't want to be around him any longer. You're even thinking about booking yourself in for a separate hotel room. Fuck his gestures, and fuck the effort he's made. Means fuck all, now.

Who the fuck does that? Who brings you to their hometown - into their life - and turns around and dismisses what you are to them so cruelly? He'd paid god knows what for that hotel, driven the pair of you to the city, paid for everything despite your protests, and asked for nothing in return.

You know full well that if you'd have gotten back to the hotel before the Taehyung incident, and had been too tired to fuck, or just not in the mood, Jungkook wouldn't have cared. Even sex wasn't something he seemed to think he was owed. Not like most guys.

He'd have probably stroked love letters onto your back with the tip of his index finger until you fell asleep, instead.

See, there are - or at least there were - no expectations with Jungkook, which is probably what makes this all so disappointing for you. Foolishly, you thought you had a good one in him.

He's a man, though. How good can they ever really be?

Heels clicking against the pavement as you walk, you sound far more powerful than you feel. You want to take your stupid fucking shoes off and launch them at his stupid fucking head. How dare he reduce to nothingness.

"Hey," he calls after you, as if he hasn't just torn your heart out, hands all bloody while he toys with it. "CC! Hold up!"

There's a trail of blood as you walk that leads to the hole in your chest, and so he follows it like a bloodhound in search of its prey.

He repeats his call when you ignore him, catching up with you far too easily for your liking. You don't like getting caught.

"What?" You snap, arms folded across your chest, but you keep on walking. A gaggle of girls walk by, far too drunk to be in heels that high, and they coo a little bit as they clock Jungkook. You find yourself sneering. "Oh look. Some more friends for you to make."

"Hey, c'mon," he reaches out for you but you shake him off, so he tries again, a little harder. It doesn't hurt, and if you want to, you can pull away.

Shamefully, you can't bring yourself to. Those with the power to hurt are also apparently those with the power to heal - and all you want is for him to put your heart back where it belongs and kiss it better.

"You know I didn't-"

"Didn't what?" You fight, because that's all you're really good at. "Mean it? Mean to say it? Or didn't think that this actually meant anything?"

"Fuck," he seethes a little, teeth gritted and jaw sharp. He loosens his grip on you, and rubs the pads of his fingers against his jaw instead, tongue pressing into the side of his cheek. His nostrils are flared, and there's bite behind his bark. "Don't turn this into something that it isn't."

"I'm not turning it into anything," you say so calmly that it's almost unsettling. "But turn it into what? A lovers tiff? No worries. We're just friends, babe. Can't turn it into one of those."

"You're being unreasonable."

"I'm being perfectly reasonable."

"CC-"

"I've got a name," you remind him. "Maybe use that, instead. CC feels a little... I don't know. More than friendly? And we wouldn't wanna blur those lines, would we?"

"Christ. Can you stop?" he pleads, the frustration he feels overwhelmed by the desperate need to control the situation. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

"I don't think you know what you meant, Jungkook," you shrug, because fuck letting him think you're hurt. "You just let some guy fuck me with his eyes, because according to you, we're just friends. You saw that, right? You saw the way he was looking at me like a piece of fucking meat? And you let him."

Jungkook doesn't say anything for a moment. His body is stiff, as if he's rebooting; calibrating to find an answer. Yes, he had let Tae do whatever the fuck he liked, because it was easier than explaining the truth of who you are to him. Safer. In his eyes, it had been a lesser of two evils, but you're seeing Jungkook as the only evil.

Your chest is beating so hard in your chest that the thump, thump, thump has drowned out the chime that's usually there.

"No," he tries again. "It's not like that. I know what I said, but it's not what I meant."

And then you do that thing again. You calm yourself, your voice so serene and superficial that it makes his skin crawl. He can tell how angry you are, and yet you're so fucking pleasant. It's psychotic - but how can he complain about your anger when you're fucking smiling at him like he just saved a bird from drowning?

"You don't have to explain, Jungkook. It's cool"

"No," he protests, but it's met with vacancy behind your eyes. "I do."

"No," you say, tone firm and assertive. You don't need to be let down gently. Your feelings don't need to be spared. "You know what I'm like. I need to stop making so many assumptions."

Ouch. He can practically feel the dagger you have for a tongue slicing at his heart.

"Well what did you assume?" He asks, because playing along seems like the only way he can get you to engage in conversation with him.

"My assumptions are mine," you say quietly, walking closer towards him, until your index finger can tap against his chest. "Maybe if we were friends, I'd share them with you. But I don't share with people who only know how to take. From the look in Taehyung's eyes, it seems like he knows how to give a thing or two, so who knows, Jungkook? Maybe I'll share with him."

Jungkook is silent.

It's a threat. He fucking knows it's a threat.

All those missed orgasms seem like a terrible idea, now. He thought he'd been helping, thought that you'd just think he was an idiot, like any other guy who didn't know where the fucking clit was. Thought it would help slow the feelings that are developing regardless.

But you knew he knew.

He's a fucking connoisseur. He's had you coming undone in ways that no other man has ever gotten close to. For him to suddenly forget how to make you tremble on his fingers was laughable.

You'd chosen not to mention it, because foolishly, you thought that you were the issue - but if he's gonna hurt your pride, then you're gonna hurt his right back.

You shake your head, and walk to the curb, raising your arm for the taxi that's hurtling down the road. There's a screech as it comes to a stop, almost like a reset button being pressed.

You feel a weight being eased from your chest, glad to have finally put him in his place for the no-gasm issue, but a new weight is just as heavy on your feet. You open the door, think about getting in, but can't. For some reason, the idea of leaving without him has you close to tears.

Asking the driver to wait just a minute, you turn to find him fixated on you, those soft chocolate eyes of his so warm as they stare you down. His brows are lifted, mouth firmly pursed shut, but you can see from the way his chest is beating that he's breathing heavier than his lungs can really manage.

You've never seen him cry, but you think you might tonight.

"C'mon," you eventually say, knocking your head to the side. You've a lot fight in you, but far more fear. You don't know what you mean to Jungkook, and you're not gonna kid yourself and pretend like you feel secure in it - but you know what he means to you. The idea of him staying elsewhere has you feeling all feeble and pathetic. You don't think he would, but you know that he could. "It's late. Let's just go back to the hotel."

He stuffs his hands into his front pockets and looks down, the usual confidence he wears masked by a thin layer of shame. It has a sheen to it; a stain. He's not the man that he wants to be for you, and he knows you're starting to wise up to it.

"Kook," you encourage, but he still resists.

He doesn't deserve this; doesn't deserve you. Doesn't deserve the olive branch you're extending, when he knows he should be on his knees begging like a dog.

He could do that for you. Beg like a dog, in his own, fucked up, kind of way.

On his hands and knees. Begging.

In fact, he thinks it's the only thing can do for you right now.

And so he gets in the taxi as you ask, and stays quiet.

The drive is silent, but taxi rides often are, so he tries to ignore it. When you go to pay, he holds your hand back, and offers up his card instead. The grip he has is gentle, but it burns like the heat of a thousand matches, and when it leaves, you're left smouldering. You don't want to lose the heat, no matter how much damage it can do.

Silence permeates, and dulls the chime in your stomach that you'd expect to hear in a hotel elevator with Jungkook.

So much silence.

Silence as the door to your hotel room clicks open, and silence as you kick off your shoes. Silence when your bag is tossed on the bed, and silence when Jungkook's shoes join your own.

There's silence as he walks to stand behind you while you look out onto the midnight sea, and there's silence when he presses a kiss into the crook of your neck.

There's silence when he whispers your name, and silence when you hum in satisfaction from the way his lips feel against the expanse of your throat.

Silence so loud that you want to scream.

Silence so loud that you wouldn't be able to hear the scream regardless.

Silence, silence, silence that is so fucking loud, you must be deaf.

But you can hear the small intakes of breath that he takes between the kisses he peppers on your skin. You can hear the click of his lips, and the way he whispers 'I didn't mean it,' as if it would eradicate the hurt caused by such a simple exchange of words.

And then his hands of fire are creeping beneath your shirt, and you're all warm and pliable for him.

You so desperately want proof that he didn't mean what he said, and if there's one thing you're sure of, it's that he doesn't fuck you like you're just a friend.

So you think you might just let him.

He can tell you're apprehensive and he knows why, and that he has to prove himself to you. Moonlight pours in through the window, and you're bathed in it like some kind of ethereal goddess that will surely disappear when dawn breaks. He has to make this last.

He strips you of your clothes, and funnily enough, it isn't the most vulnerable you've felt in the last few hours. In fact, you feel confident, now. You know what you're doing when it comes to matters of the body. Matters of the heart? Not so much.

Your capabilities for either of those aren't required now, though. This is all on him.

He encourages you to the bed, so you sit by the foot, and wait for instruction.

"Lie down," he says, eyes remarkably on yours, and not your tits instead. It must be a first.

It's curious how softly he looks at you; almost like you could break.

Maybe it's because he knows he has to be extra careful, because he's the only one capable of breaking you.

And so you nod, because maybe, just maybe, he could fix you, too.

In fact, when he gets to his knees and grips his palms around your ankles to drag you closer to the end of the bed, you can almost feel your heart swelling. Healing.

Y'see, it's familiar, and safe, and certain; Jungkook will fuck you, and you will mistake the way he kisses you when he cums as a declaration of something more than what it is.

For now, though, he's only thinking about ways to get you off. Anything is on the table. He'll do it all. Do whatever you ask. Do things you're too afraid to ask.

He spreads your legs apart, and spends longer than is normally comfortable staring at you. He's appreciating it; the way your lips slowly part, a little damp and so delightfully warm. He loves your scent. Wishes he could bottle it up - but for now, he'll settle for drinking from the source.

When his tongue strokes against you, it's slow. The pressure behind it feels intentional, the warm studs of his tongue piercing making your toes curl from just one touch. He exhales against you, then inhales because - fuck me - you smell divine. His tongue licks again, languid and flat, his head nodding ever so gently. The change in movement has your hands gripping onto the sheets, a shallow affirmation of 'fuck, Kook, yes' spurring him on.

He hums against you, and you swear it's better than any vibrator you've ever had. It's almost as if he's saying something, but can't get his words out - which would make sense, given the fact his mouth of full of your pussy. His tongue points, as his palms rest on the underside of your thighs to angle you a little better for him.

He pushes his tongue into your entrance, and it has you mewling. Wetness seeps into his mouth, sweet and musky, just how he fucking likes it, and he's doing that thing where he whines against you again, and you swear you might just cum right there and then.

It's noticeable, though, how your grip is on the sheets, and not him.

Your heels are digging into the duvet, not pressing against the top of his spine, and your fingers aren't in his hair.

Still, your pussy is leaking onto his tongue, and arguably, he could be fooled into thinking you've let down your guard for him.

But you haven't really.

He can see this; the way you've detached sex, and the pleasure that it coexists with, from the emotional intimacy he's fostered with you.

It's like he can touch you, but you're scared to touch him. You're using him - and he knows he deserves it.

When he pulls away from you, clear strings of slick connect his mouth to your core. The sheen covers his lips, his chin, the tip of his nose. Moonlight drenches him, and in turn, so do you. He watches how your chest heaves as his fingers come to replace the pressure from his tongue on your pussy.

Your body may be his, but you're not.

'Touch me,' he wants to say, but he's embarrassed by how badly he seems to have fucked up the one good thing going for him - and so he pushes his fingers into you, hoping that he'll be able to get you forgetting about the fact he's no good for you; get you wanting him like you used to.

And you do.

Oh god, you do, so badly.

There's nothing you want more than to have your fingers tangled in his hair, have him hissing when you pull a little too hard, keeping him locked in position against the mess he's made - but you're embarrassed. You fear that by taking any kind of leading role, you'll be forcing him to play along to something he isn't really all that into.

As much as you could pretend like you don't care about what happened earlier, it's chewing you apart, inside out, making it harder for you to get there.

Your body keens for him, though. The sounds of his fingers working your pussy are lewd, and only amplified when he spits on it in that way he always does. It drives you insane, but even now, you're floundering.

"Hey," you whisper, and your hand finally comes to rest against his hair. He leans into your touch, heart stiff in his chest as it appears to stop beating altogether. How a touch so simple can have him so damn wrecked is beyond him. He hums a response, and is met with a gentle tap against his bleached ends. He looks towards you to find you looking back, and the stillness of his heart is replaced with a beat so loud he swears it sounds like a thunderstorm is hurtling across the ocean. "Stand."

Your voice is soft, and Jungkook is confused, but he doesn't question it. He does as he's told, because quite frankly, he'll do anything you want at this point. He'd get on his knees, on his back - fuck it, he'd even get face down, ass up, if that's what you wanted - but you don't. Not now, at least. Maybe another time.

Right now, you want him as vulnerable as you feel.

When he stands, he keeps his fingers inside of you. He's gentle, massaging, making sure the movements aren't too rough. You've never shied away from things getting a little heated, but there's a time and a place for that. You don't want it hard. You want soft. Soft, soft, soft, like his eyes.

"Clothes," you say, almost timidly, unable to string your words together in a way that makes coherent sense. He knows what you mean, though, and slowly pulls his fingers from you, not caring to wipe them off. You're pristine, in his eyes. He couldn't care less about how dirty you could make him. He'd wear it like a badge of fucking honour.

He takes his shirt off first, eyes never leaving yours. He can see the way your heart is beating beneath your chest, and decides pretty quickly that he needs your tits in his mouth at some point before the night is done. His favourite fuckin' feature of his favourite fuckin' person - when he's horny, at least. He could list a million things he likes just as much, but his brain kind of just short circuits when he can see your chest looking all heavy and pliable and like it belongs in his mouth.

There's a clang, the metal of his belt tapping against itself, his tattooed fingers working quickly to rid himself of all his constraints. He pulls it from the loops of his trousers, tossing it on the bed just in case he'll need it later.

Your lips rest ajar, but you close your legs a little, watching him unbutton his jeans. He lets them drop, revealing the white of his Calvins.

He usually wears dark boxer briefs, which are always welcomed by you - but there's something about the white that has you salivating.

The outline of his cock is thick. He's stiff, and there's a tiny tell-tale mark of precum leaking from his tip. The contrast of his honey skin against the crisp white is the kind of visual you'd expect to see on a Hollywood billboard; not in your hotel room with you.

He'd worn them deliberately, expecting this kind of reaction, but had anticipated a far different feeling in the room.

The look on his face doesn't match the confidence that his strong body oozes. His wide eyes are just as vulnerable as yours. You both look like you're gonna fucking cry, which is actually kinda funny, when you think about it - but you don't laugh.

Perhaps that would be the most vulnerable thing you could share with him, and he with you: tears. There's a heaviness between the pair of you, the weight of unspoken words, hidden truths and deceptive intentions, which have led to the cluster fuck that is the relations of which you engage in.

It's just fucking, but it's also not. Not really. If it was just fucking, he'd be railing you right now, just like he did on that very first night you spent together.

But instead, he's cautious as he asks, "Where do you want me?"

You have to bite your tongue and stop it from saying 'inside me.' You're trying to keep your heart safe. Distance is needed. You're scared he's gonna steal it if he gets too close.

Pulling your legs up, cross-legged in front of him, you give him a look that he doesn't understand, but one that he knows means no harm.

He thinks you're asking permission to move, so he nods, and is proven right. You crawl a little further towards him, on your knees, until you're at the end of the bed. You sit up on your knees, shorter than him still, but the height is more matched than it is when you're standing on solid ground.

You give him that look again, and so - of course - he just nods. He's yours. You can do whatever you fucking like to him. He'd take anything you'd give him, pleasure or pain. He's stoic in the way that he stands, but you can see his jugular vein beating like he's just gone three rounds in the boxing ring.

Hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, right where the V of his hips meets the fabric, your eyes are on his.

It's torture, knowing you could be watching his thick, swollen cock spring free, but this isn't about the sex. Not really.

He bends a little, pushing his underwear to his ankles, kicking them off to the side and resuming his position in front of you. You still haven't looked at his cock, even though the thought of it has slick wetness seeping onto your inner thigh.

Your hand finds one of his, and pulls it to his cock. It throbs as you wrap Jungkook's hand around it, nodding at him, before retreating.

He's stood at the end of the bed, naked, hand tight around his fat, leaky cock, eyes on yours as you sit by the pillows. Your legs are crossed, knees up, covering your chest, light from the moon washing over you both.

He looks heaven-sent in this light. A white halo whisps around his fluffy blonde hair, the thick lines of his tattoos defined, his body carved from marble. And yet there's still a softness to him. It's in his eyes. Big and round; home in human form.

And so, for all the fear, for all the ways he has you scared about his intentions, for all the sheer instances of turmoil you put your heart through, none of it really matters.

In this moment, you feel safe.

"Wanna watch," you say quietly. You can see the way he swallows, his chest doing a terrible job of hiding the fact he actually seems to be a little bit nervous.

"Watch?"

You nod. "Wanna watch the way you get yourself off."

The request is simple, but it feels more complex than that - and it is. You want him vulnerable. You want him weak. You want him falling apart all over you without even so much as a single touch from you.

In his heart of hearts, he knows all this.

He knows, and still, he wants to do it for you.

There are sins to repent, and this feels like a start.

"Wanna see the way you touch yourself when you think about me," you continue, because you like the way his eyes look so pure and chaste at such a request.

There's a shadow to his face, the moon only illuminating half of his body, but it runs deeper than that. Divine feminity is a gift from the celestial body that watches over you, and it overcomes him, too.

Despite the hardness of his muscles, the metal of his piercings and the stiffness of his cock, he's so, undeniably soft for you.

Soft and velvety, just like his eyes. Soft and timid, like the boy who cried wolf and finally got caught. Soft, and softer still, when he says your name in such a hushed tone it barely reaches your ears.

"You do that, right?" You ask, though the answer is granted by how utterly enthralled he is with you - or at least, your body. "You think of me when you touch yourself?"

He nods, licking a slow stripe across his lower lip, before biting down on it.

His tight fist begins to roll up his cock, slowly bringing it back down again to the base of his shaft. There's a hypnotic quality to the way his foreskin retracts, exposing how red and flushed the tip of his cock is. There's desire burning through it, and he needs you - your pussy, your mouth - to soothe it.

He knows he isn't getting it, so instead, he revels in the pain that comes with being refused your body.

He's tepid as he starts, but his pace quickly builds, and so does the way he's moaning. It's a miracle you can even remember how to breathe. His torso is tense as he lets the pleasure run over his body, head tipping back, the expanse of his throat thick and wide, just like his cock.

He hums, imagining the way your pussy is leaking as you watch the show he's putting on for you.

He's not a performer, not by any stretch of the imagination, but the way he moves his body has you thinking that maybe in a past life, he could have been. You'd pay good money to watch him on stage. You'd devote yourself to him. Watch from the crowd as he sold himself to a thousand people every night. He'd be the main event, the headlining act, and maybe if you were lucky, he'd stick around for an encore.

What a shame, you think, that he never took advantage of his boyish charm and deliriously handsome face - but more fool him. You're the one who gets to reap the benefits, as you watch him now, free of charge, front row seat.

And yet, somehow, he seems to adore the crowd more than the crowd adores him. It fills your ego. Has you convinced that you've ruined this poor boy's life. Maybe you have.

"You're gonna think of me for the rest of your life," you tell him of your conclusion from your perch up by the pillows.

He so often talks in definitive certainties, that it's only fair you return the favour - but, remember, you're just friends, according to Jungkook. Best not to get ahead of yourself.

You find yourself prowling down the bed on all fours, stopping just beyond his reach. There's something primal about his gaze now. Predatory - but you aren't his prey. You're not going to get caught.

"Give it twenty years," you simper, rolling onto your back so your ankles are by the pillows, eyes on his cock as you tilt your head back. Kneading one of your boobs, you let your other hand dip between your legs. "When you're married, and your poor wife can't get you hard anymore, it's gonna be me who you think about."

"Shit," he hisses, both hating and loving what you're saying. Hating it because you're probably right, but loving it because, again, you're definitely right.

"It's gonna be me," you repeat. "When you get hard in your car, 'cause another girl has put her hand on your thigh. It's gonna be me you're thinking about."

He wants to protest. Wants to tell you that there'll never be another girl. He'd be lying, probably, but fuck knows why he'd ever give you up. Would have to be insane, you think, or something like that.

You know just as much as he does, that symbiotic energy like yours doesn't occur all too often.

"When your couples therapist asks what you think could be done to spice up your dead marital bedroom, it's gonna be me - gonna be this, right now - that you think of."

"C," he husks, unable to even get the full term of endearment out. There's a clammy sheen to his body now, his arm jerking at such a pace his veins are all engorged and pretty, just how you like them.

"It's gonna be me," you say again, barely a whisper, but it's enough.

And he agrees. "It's gonna be you."

Victory and defeat all in one blow; you're his forever, but it's likely he won't be yours.

He senses the heaviness behind his words, and the weight they've put of your chest, so he tries distraction as a method of easing it.

"Open your legs," he husks, the final syllable catching in his throat. When you do as you're told, he fucking whines.

The slickness pooling around the top of your thighs is sticky and hot, strings of clear fluid connecting your legs - all of you - together as you spread yourself for him. He nods, and it's your turn to obey, now.

Your fingers begin to rub at your clit, and Jungkook almost just give himself upright in that second. He swallows back the saliva that's pooling in his mouth, his cock growing hotter and heavier in his grasp. The way he's pumping himself is gonna have him finishing far quicker than he'd like, but he can't stop.

Not when you're looking up at him like that. Not when you're matching his moans.

"Don't stop," you almost beg as you see him begin to ease up. Returning his eyes to yours, his lips are parted. His hand continues to jerk, just a little slower.

"I gotta," he whines, but does as he's told, his grip a little looser than it had been. The muscles in his abdomen are tight. His balls, too. You want them in your mouth.

He watches as you turn, resuming the position you'd been in earlier.

As you wrap your arms around his neck for support, Jungkook finds himself grunting, picking his pace back up. He can smell you, your gasoline hair and sweet pussy, and it has him unable to think straight. Unable to do anything other than jerk himself off for you, because it's what you want.

The world. He'd give you that. If you wanted it, he'd give you it. He thinks he'd give you anything. Everything. Whatever he could.

The only thing he can't give you, not really, is himself.

And so he'll settle for everything and anything else your heart could ever desire.

But as your lips meet his, he knows that he's fucked, and that the only thing you really want is him.

Your kisses are slow, and tepid; a stark difference from the way his hand is working his cock, but it's everything he needs. How selfish, it is, that he still gets what he wants.

Unaware, you pull away, pressing your foreheads together, lips brushing his as you say, "you're gonna cum for me, now."

He tries to ask where, but you just kiss him instead. You kiss, and you kiss, and you kiss, and he's so fucking consumed that he barely notices when he starts gasping against your lips. His body begins to stall, muscles mirroring the way he begins to stutter, and then it's happening.

The tip of his cock is pressed against your stomach as he begins to unload himself, once, twice, and then he's sensitive, and trying to pull back, but he's still coming and - "Oh, fuck, babe" - he's painting you white with the innocence of the way he feels about you.

It's everywhere by the time he's done; your tummy, the underside of your breasts, dripping down to the mound of your pussy. He can barely fucking breathe, so caught up in the way it always feels to have you kiss him through his orgasm.

His hands grip your jaw, pulling you in for more, because he needs to distract his mouth from the words he's scared are gonna tumble from it. You both ignore the fact they're covered in the seed that's just spilt over onto them. It's nothing new, after all.

It's not like he's gonna declare love, or anything fucking ridiculous like that, he just doesn't know how the fuck he feels - and that's dangerous.

Unpredictability only leads to messiness, which it could be argued is what's happening right now.

Still, Jungkook hooks his hands beneath your ass and moves onto the bed with you, and thinks it's a pretty nice problem to have.

His cock is firm still, nestled in the warmness of your pussy as your legs wrap around his hips. Neither of you care about his cum, and it's interesting how often you seem to be covered in one another, with no desire to rid yourselves of it.

He didn't make you cum, but it was your choice, this time.

It's funny, because you're one who is scared now that an orgasm could have you falling in love. You don't want to give him that power back. Not yet, at least.

Your kisses dissolve into light pecks, the pair of you unable to hold back from worshipping one another. But you must, for it's foolish to idolise mortal Gods.

"This doesn't seem very friendly, Kook," you whisper.

Your chest feels uneasy as you joke. He closes his eyes, hanging his head in shame against yours, knowing that it was him and his inability to ever say the right fuckin' thing that had you refusing to fuck him that evening.

He's not stupid. He knows you stopped him from making you cum. He knows why. And he hates himself for it.

He presses a kiss against your cheek, once, twice, and works his way to your lips. It's goofy, the way he's planting little seeds of love all over your skin, but only time will tell if he'll water them. For now, you think you'd quite like to imagine the wildflower garden that could bloom in their wake.

"It's cause it's not, CC," he admits. "It's not very friendly at all."

And then, you just can't seem to help yourself as you tease, "Even if I'm just a friend from Daegu?"

He smiles, because he knows you're trying to soothe the burn of his words. Naked, spent, and vulnerable, Jungkook rolls off of you, repositioning himself so that you can rest your head on his chest. Still, neither of you care to get cleaned up. There's no disgust, nor discomfort.

More fool the both of you for thinking that this isn't love.

"You're my only friend from Daegu," he whispers, pressing a kiss against your hair. It's not strictly true, but he sort of wishes that it was. Wishes he knew you before he knew them.

"What about your other friends?" You ask gently, because maybe it's your fault you don't know more about him. Maybe you just haven't been asking the right questions.

Jungkook pulls the comforter over your body, 'cause he can feel how hard your nipples are against his torso, and guesses that you aren't exactly still horny now that you're asking him shit like this. Again, there's zero care for clean up just yet. Zero care for anything but one another.

And then you tack on an extra little question that has Jungkook mentally groaning.

"Who's Taehyung?"

Convinced that you're snug like a little comforter-human-burrito, Jungkook holds you tightly. He's still stark bollock naked and doesn't really care to be covered, but he wants you warm. Wants you happy.

And knows that your happiness, now, rests on open communication.

"I knew Taehyung in high school," he eventually admits. "We were both on the boxing team, and we were friends, but -" he stops, and laughs a little. "Well, I kept beating him. So on the days I'd stay behind and work on my form, shit like that, Tae would..." Jungkook sighs. And then he laughs again. "This is so embarrassing." He gently shakes his head, and then thinks fuck it. You deserve the truth, so the truth is what you're gonna get. "I started going to club more often, thought about going pro. I was pretty serious about it. Got to the point where Tae couldn't compete with me - but one thing he could do, apparently, was fuck. And I didn't know, but apparently, he could turn that into a competition, 'cause on the days I trained alone, he'd go hook up with my girlfriend."

It doesn't upset Jungkook anymore. Not really. Annoys him a little - and means there was no way he was letting Taehyung think you meant anything more to him than just casual sex.

"Shit," is all you can say.

"Yeah," Jungkook sighs. "Went on for like, 6 months. I didn't know till my dick started fucking burning. Turned out he'd given her chlamydia from someone else and in turn, me."

"Bastard."

"Right? At least wrap it up if you're gonna fuck about. Anyways, after that, it was rare for him not to pursue any girl I was interested in," Jungkook finally admits, and it feels good to get it out. Good to share. Fucking fantastic, actually. "Me saying what I said... It was a defence mechanism more than anything, and I'm sorry. I just didn't wanna give him any reason to try it on with you."

You nod slowly, because there's a lot to unpack. "What happened? With the girl?"

"We broke up," he says honestly. "That was the nail in the coffin, really. He's done it with a few other girls I've dated or fucked since then, to the point where it's definitely a pattern of behaviour, but I tend to avoid serious relationships. If I'm being honest, I haven't had one since."

"Since high school?"

God, it's mortifying, he thinks. "Since high school."

Heartbreak is a funny thing, though. You're similar in that regard. Neither of you ever want to give another person the power to break the one thing keeping you alive. It's just asking for trouble.

Then again, every single fucking thing about your 'friendship' is asking for trouble. Maybe it's fitting.

"I'm sorry," you say, because you're not sure what else to say. He squeezes the comforter bundle you're in and shrugs.

"Don't be. Just please don't have sex with Kim fuckin' Taehyung."

You laugh, because such a thing feels absurd - but it would do. You trust Jungkook. You care about Jungkook. Care for him. Care for his opinions, his well-being.

Would be a shame if that ever were to change.

But that doesn't feel like a possibility right now, so you simply don't think about it. Instead, you ask the question that you've been holding back, because you wanted to at least look a little compassionate before you got ahead of yourself.

"So what you said to him about me," you begin, and he rolls his eyes, 'cause he knows exactly where you're going with this.

"So what I said about you."

"You lied."

"I lied, CC."

The way he whispers it back to you has you all giddy and docile for him. He's dangerous, in the most delectable way.

"You like me," you accuse, and you're met with a shallow kiss, his lips curving upwards because he can't help but smile at how fucking smitten you look.

"I'm terrified of you," he smiles. "The way you make me feel scares the living daylights out of me, CC. This isn't... I'm not good at this. I mean, hello? Been out of practice since high school."

"Mmmm," you interject, questioning his statement. "You've fucked plenty of girls since high school."

His eyes roll again, because he knows you're just trying to get him to be specific.

"What do you want me to say, huh, CC?" He nudges his nose against yours, his grin prevailing as he sinks them down into a kiss. "That I spend my whole entire fuckin' day thinking about you? You stay at my place all the time. My Netflix account reckons I'm halfway through season one of Gossip Girl." You smile. It's a guilty pleasure. You watch it at his place when he leaves early for work, or on the days you arrive before him. "There's a spare toothbrush by my sink, and it's yours."

The way he emphasises 'yours' has the chime in your stomach ringing like a church bell.

"I haven't been serious about anyone since high school, so yeah, I'm a bit out of practice. I don't wanna put labels on things or move too fast or say things I can't take back. I just know it would really fucking sting if you slept with Taehyung," he smiles, attempting to lighten the fact he's basically just put his heart on the line for you. "So please just... don't."

The issue is, Jungkook's forgetting himself.

He's forgetting that you're not just you. He's not just him. The way you met wasn't organic like you think it was, and he's letting himself get wrapped up in the idea that the pair of you are just normal people who found one another despite all odds.

The thought creeps into his mind, but frankly, he wants it to fuck off. So he kisses you. Slow and deep. Just him, and you.

If he'd have met you under different circumstances, he'd have probably already asked your father's permission to-

And then it hits him. The reminder that he can never have a happy ending with you, all thanks to your fucking father.

Jungkook asked you to come to Busan for a reason. There are things you need to see, things you need to understand before it all goes to shit.

"I want you to come somewhere with me tomorrow," he husks against your lips, your noses stroking gently against one another. "Somewhere important. I've got some errands to run, and I'll see my family alone, but after that, I wanna show you something."

You nod to confirm that it's okay. Of course, you don't mind him seeing his family alone, and you could do with running a few errands yourself, so it works out well. He's opening up. Sharing. And that's all you can ask for.

It has you thinking that maybe you should do the same for him.

"Thank you," he whispers.

It's a loaded phrase, and you're not sure which part he's thanking you for, but you accept it nonetheless.

This is progress, you think.

Funny, 'cause Jungkook's the blonde one. If anyone should be a dumb bitch, it's him.

But the blonde is fake, and he's smarter than he should be after all those blows to the head in the boxing ring.

You're private school educated. Could have been anything you wanted. Could have had the world. Your daddy worked hard to make sure of it.

But as Jungkook leads you to the bathroom, stripped of everything except for the stain of his sex, you think you already have the world.

You think, for once, you finally have something good that isn't the result of nepotism or political fear.

Your daddy worked hard. He worked real hard. He gave you the world, and then some - but the world doesn't come for free, and there's a little collateral that he never counted on caring enough to fuck with his self-made solar system.

Yeah, your daddy gave you the world.

But it's Jungkook's job to give it back to its rightful owners, whether he wants to or not.

And so, as the shower begins to heat up, and the pair of you are doing what you do so well, his phone begins to buzz in the bedroom. It goes unnoticed. It's not Jungkook's priority anymore, which leaves him in quite a predicament.

The outside world can wait for a moment. He's letting himself indulge in the fantasy of you one final time.

What a brilliant, intangible fantasy you are.

But fantasy is just that;

a lie.

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one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

[godihatethiswebsite]

Desert Oasis

✽ Johnny "Soap" Mactavish x f!reader (The Mummy AU)

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part 3 - A chance discovery and a bit of mischief

These little drabbles keep getting longer and longer...

Life had been slower since your parents passed from sickness a few years back. One of your father's business associates now handled company matters, but was kind enough to keep you informed of the goings on regarding shipments to the museum. It felt like there wasn't much to do nowadays after a few unsuccessful seasons in society, spending most of your time either upkeeping the estate left to you or in the company of your cousin who practically lived in the house with you the last few months.

Passing by familiar friendly faces weathered and old from years in service, you weaved through various wooden containers packed full of priceless relics, getting a first look as they were unloaded before any of the public could get their sights on them.

A noise drew your attention from the delicate Nubian bracelet you'd been admiring. There was a slight commotion when one of the smaller crates overturned onto the warehouse floor, a very flustered new hand getting chewed out by a man three times his age as the surrounding workers started gathering everything up. To his luck there was nothing fragile in the container, but you'd seen something small roll under one of the carts and had quickly hiked your skirts up to grab whatever it was.

Sitting back on your heels, you stared at the dark little metal contraption in your hands, educated mind picking apart every hieroglyph as you rose from your spot on the floor and walked back over to one of the unloaders. Scanning the manifest for the crate in question, you found nothing indicating towards the little box's presence even after having one of the others turn their eye to the paperwork to double check you weren't missing something. None of them had seen anything like it before, nor you to be sure.

You decided to take it up to Dr. Price for his insight, mind a little too curious to wait for the other museum curators to get their hands on it first to give you an answer. You hoped he wasn't indisposed with other matters, glad to find him alone in his study peering over the dreary headache inducing paperwork that kept most of his attention during the day.

He allowed you to interrupt his work, rounding his desk to place the item down in front of him with buzzing excitement. At first he stared at it with furrowed brows, turning it this way and that with analytical intrigue, happy for the brief distraction from the mundane. He must have caught something you missed as his eyes flashed, positioning his fingers just so to press down on something, surprising the two of you with the way the device snapped open into an almost star shape at the bottom.

Price's interest suddenly turned to that of indifference once he turned it over, revealing the hollowed out interior that at some point must've housed something you think.

But... there! What is that marking on the inside?

Gently removing the box from his grasp, you angle the interior of it towards the light to inspect the writing you'd glimpsed. Where the markings on the outside seemed to have been purposely stamped in during the initial creation, the symbols within looked to have been added with something sharp after the fact in the ancient Egyptian equivalent of chicken scratch.

It wasn't a word you were overly familiar with - your brain taking a moment to pull from long ago knowledge - but you couldn't help the gasp that followed as you whispered the name, "Hamunaptra."

The scoff that followed from Price had you feeling very much like the little girl the adults had chuckled at when you'd first shown them the book you'd found full of myths and legends, softly chided for believing in such nonsense and corrected on the differences between fact and fiction.

"Got more important things to do than go huntin' down ghost stories, love." Price spoke up at you from his spot reclining back in his chair, hands folded casually over his abdomen as he gave you the look usually reserved for long suffering parents.

It didn't matter what you tried to say afterwards to convince him to maybe consider the possibility the tales were even partially based on some element of truth. He dismissed you away with a wave of his hand, brushing off your words before instructing you to take it back down to the warehouse so one of the employees could put it away with all the other knick knacks in storage.

You left his office with your head down from your scolding, a bad taste in your mouth at not being taken seriously even if the rational part of your mind told you what you'd always known: the lost city of the dead was just a myth invented by ancient Arab storytellers to amuse Greek and Roman tourists. This was a topic of interest for the occassional treasure hunter, not scholars.

You quickly deposited it right back where you'd found it before taking your leave of the museum, having had enough excitement for one day and needing some time to cool off from your disappointment.

It was only a few days later when you'd found yourself sitting out on the balcony with your dearest cousin Kyle (freshly back from a months long trip to Tanta and mostly sober), recanting him with the circumstances and conversation surrounding the artifact. Even now it was a subject that seemed to plague your mind, having done your best to try and ignore the way it scratched an itch you hadn't felt in many a year. You wouldn't admit outloud to the various drawings you had in your sketchbook of the item in question shoved beneath your pillowcase.

Kyle listened intently to your ramblings, slouched forward in his wicker chair idly swirling two fingers worth of whiskey in his glass before suddenly speaking up after a moments contemplative silence. "Want to find out if it's real?"

Now it was your turn to scoff, rolling your eyes as you tucked your legs up under yourself in a decidedly rare unladylike fashion. Typical Kyle trying to lure you in with fresh bait to go off and do something deemed irresponsible and imbolic by normal society. You casually reminded him it was just an old wives tale, but he shrugged unbothered as he raised the glass of amber liquid to his lips, one side raised in a slight smirk.

"You just leave that part to me, dolly. I'll get your answer for you."

He'd practically disappeared after that, only coming home late into the evenings well after the staff had gone to bed and leaving early in the mornings before the sun had barely risen. If it wasn't for the pantry being pillaged no one would have ever suspected him of hanging around the estate in the first place. At least it gave him something to think about other than the memories you knew still haunted him. And Kyle had always loved sinking his teeth into a challenge.

It wasn't even a week later that you'd come back from a promenade along the river to discover your cousin lounging in your bed as if he owned the place, hands behind his head staring at you with a Cheshire cat grin that you knew could only spell trouble.

Imagine your surprise when he told you he'd managed to track down info about a man who'd claimed to have seen the fabled city with his own two eyes.

Your first instinct was to call nonsense on the idea. Preposterous. Ridiculous. Absurd. You didn't know how your cousin came to that conclusion, but surely he had been swindled by cheap honeyed words half drunk at a bar. He stood behind you in the mirror as you sat at your vanity, pulling the pin keeping your hat in place to take your hair down, his hands on your shoulders and expression adamant as he held your gaze in the reflection.

You could see the mischievous youth from yesteryear in the sparkle of his eyes, ever ready to take on the world and the challenges brought forth by it. But it was overshadowed by the man he'd become, molded by hard work and dedication to king and country. He rarely spoke of the horrors he'd seen in the British Army, but they were evident in the lines of his face. Kyle had always been a handsome lad who'd chased plenty of skirts in his time, capable of charming the stripes off a zebra if you let him. But you knew he had experience well beyond the comprehension of your comparably simple life.

If he was looking at you with such surety, then you knew better than to keep spouting words of disbelief.

What you did object to however was the part where he was trying to convince you to sneak into the museum and steal back the little metal box 'for insurance purposes'.

"Who said anything about stealin', dolly? We're merely borrowin'." Yeah, right. As if the terminology would matter to the authorities should you happen to get caught.

You cursed his sly mouth and persuasive personality as you found yourself wandering down aisles and aisles of unsorted artifacts, scanning shelves and half empty crates for the item in question. The collection in the storage rooms was large enough that you could spend hours inside and hardly make a dent, but you were keeping your eyes out for the more recent additions towards the front. It had been hardly anything to walk in there past the loading bay crew with a pleasant demure smile on your face as if you belonged there just as much as them.

You'd almost given up in frustration when you spotted it hidden behind an elaborate stone bust of Sekhmet, easily glanced over as if hidden in plain sight. No one was the wiser when you whisked it away into one of your pockets, strolling back out past the men with the same carefree attitude you always carried yourself with. They didn't pay attention to the way your hands shook in the folds of your skirts from barely restrained nerves nor the way you slouched against the nearest building to calm your racing heart. Mark your words, you were going to whip Kyle for this.

Now all there was left to do was to go meet back up with him to hunt down the man he had assured you about. You wondered where you might go about even finding such a person...

<< ✿ Previous ✿ << ✽ >> ✿ Next ✿ >>

[Edited 5/8/24: changed formatting, title, tags, and numbering system]

[whirlpool-blogs]

Matthew Tkachuk Daddy Issues primer

1) https://floridahockeynow.com/keith-tkachuk-rips-the-florida-panthers-calls-them-a-soft-team/

“This is do-or-die for the Panthers right now,’’ Keith told First Up with Korolnek & Colaiacovo. “I watched them the other night and I know I am staying at Brady’s house and Brady’s team played really well. They have some jam and, you know, I am a little disappointed with the Panthers.

“They are a soft team and they are getting everything they deserve right now.” To continue on that point, Keith Tkachuk said for the Panthers to snap their losing streak in Toronto, they need to bring a little more toughness to their game.

“Instead of trying to get autographs on the ice from Matthews and Marner,” he said, “they probably should check them a little harder. Whatever it is, it is disappointing. I know I sound like a frustrated person, but I know every time I come and watch Ottawa, they may not be the most talented team but they’re going to play hard. Perhaps Florida could take a page out of their book.”

2) https://www.sportsnet.ca/nhl/article/senators-brady-wins-tkachuk-battle-bettman-hints-lebreton-flats-a-little-small/

There was a “Brady is Better” chant at a game when the two brothers played each other, and Keith was at that game. Some speculate that Keith started it.

3) https://www.bladeofsteel.com/Keith-Tkachuk-explains-why-he-would-not-throw-his-hat-for-his-son-hat-trick-goal-126638

Keith refusing to throw his hat for Matthew’s hat trick, even when Taryn and Brady were also at that game.

4) https://theathletic.com/351173/2018/05/13/in-the-tkachuk-family-its-chantal-who-is-the-captain-of-the-house/

[On the family chalkboard in the kitchen] “It’s always like, ‘Happy birthday’ or ‘Welcome home, Brady!’ or ‘Can’t wait for you to leave, Matthew,’” said a chuckling Keith Tkachuk.

xxx

[A little insight into Matthew being the intense one and Brady being easier to get along with]

It’s an interesting snapshot because Matthew, a fiery competitor who was twice suspended by the NHL last season, is smiling, while Brady, a happy-go-lucky personality, is scowling.

“This picture is great because now it’s the opposite,” Keith said.

“That’s so true, so true,” Chantal said.

xxx

Chantal reads everything about her boys, too, noting that she is a subscriber to The Athletic.

“I like it,” she said.

“Except when they gave Brady a bad draft rating,” Keith said.

xxx

Keith then reminded his kids, “You guys better get your butts to the store and get some cards for your mom.”

“Actually, Matthew bought me a Mother’s Day gift this year,” she said.

“He had to have gotten you something that benefited him,” Keith responded. “What did he buy you, like eight beers or something?”

“No, Lululemon shoes,” Chantal answered. “He’s a great gift giver now that he has his own money.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Matthew said.

5) https://theathletic.com/229963/2018/02/02/he-has-that-face-you-just-want-to-punch-matthew-tkachuk-isnt-about-to-change-the-way-he-plays/

“He has that face you just want to punch, according to other players,” said his father Keith.

“I’m sure if I played against him, I’d go after him, too.”

“This kid, I find a lot of flaws in his game because I’m his dad, and that’s what dads do.”

“I love the fact that he plays with an edge,” said Dad. “I told him that I’d rather see him sit out a game for being too aggressive than sit out a game because he’s soft.”

6) https://www.bardown.com/brady-matthew-tkachuk-s-parents-explain-why-they-re-happy-their-kids-aren-t-in-the-same-conference-1.1121784

Chantal, by the way, told me she is happy Matthew and Brady are not in the same conference. Keith said: “I’m glad too. I don’t trust Matthew.”

7) https://theathletic.com/1984477/2020/08/10/its-distinctly-matthew-tkachuks-postseason-presence-drawing-rave-reviews/

“Keith wanted Matthew’s coaches to push him as hard they could. He would tell me, ‘You can be more demanding,'” said Granato. “It’s delicate because, as a coach, you have to consider how hard you can push a guy. And you love the guys you can push harder. Those are the guys you fall in love with as a coach. With Matthew? There was no limit.”

8) https://www.sportsnet.ca/nhl/article/tkachuk-brothers-vibrant-personalities-stem-from-colourful-st-louis-roots/

Keith said he remembered watching Matthew on the After Hours segment on Hockey Night in Canada as a rookie, conducting the whole interview with his head down.

“I said, ‘What are you doing? Get your head up and talk,’” said Keith.

“But now it’s like this (as he snaps his fingers).

“I watched Matthew interviewed last night and he was pretty good. He adds some normal stuff to it that people like. It’s not about the same answers. He does a good job.”

9) https://theathletic.com/4503016/2023/05/10/matthew-tkachuk-florida-panthers-nhl-playoffs/

From his father, Keith Tkachuk, he learned to accept responsibility: "You didn't win? Play better."

10) https://www.tumblr.com/matthewtkafuck/190505229656?source=share

Keith: “Matthew’s in love, but with himself.”

11) https://www.tumblr.com/raliegh/680996428961726464/lettucemakar-matthew-daddy-issues-tkachuk?source=share

Q: "What sort of text message do you think you'll get after getting five points against the team your dad works for?"

MT: "Um, I'm not sure, I'm sure he would have, I don't know maybe I'm putting words in his mouth--I'm not even going to say it, what I was about to--but he probably wanted it to be an OT game but for us to play well. Um, I don't know who he wanted to win the OT game but uh, no he, he, it doesn't matter what team he works for but he's obviously my [and] my brother's biggest fan and great mentor and obviously not only him but my linemates and teammates know how much I want to win against those guys, hometown team lots of people watching, same as, we got a lot of guys from Toronto, its like when we go to Toronto we want to win that game for the guys that are from there, tons of people watching so, I don't know exactly what he'll text me. Maybe he went to bed early and I won't even get a text I don't know."

[justporo]

Deep Insights

A Night of Fake Smiles and Hidden Lies: Chapter 11

Astarion has promised Tav that "when I'm done with you, everyone in this room will either be you or be with you", so they share a final dance.

Or you could say, they dance the fantasy version of an intimate tango.

Author's Note: I haven been REALLY excited about this chapter. Mainly because it was a scene I've had in my head for a very long time... Writing it nearly broke me, describing these poses - nuh uh, not happening again soon. But I hope you enjoy these two basically getting it on on the dancefloor...

Songs: Habanera (Carmen) - Bizet (their final dance!)

Pairing: Astarion/Fem!Tav (You)

Warnings: light smut

CHAPTER LIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER |NEXT CHAPTER (coming soon)

~~~

Another dance ended. Astarion slowly brought you to a hold while the last notes of the waltz chimed off. As you stopped you noticed that you were quite out of breath, but in a way that felt pleasant. You looked up at your soulmate who answered by bowing his head slightly to you, leaning his forehead to yours while you were trying to catch your breath. You let both of your hands rest on his shoulders.

Your chest was heaving as you closed your eyes shortly to enjoy the touch of Astarion’s cool skin on your own heated one. One of his hands wandered up your arm, his other he lifted to your face.

Your mysterious host had been right: dancing had made your blood pump. And the heat you felt from racing around the giant room was easily supported by other origins of warmth flooding your body while you could practically feel Astarion take in the sight of your flushed face. Some of the raw joy you had felt from being twirled around until you felt dizzy rose up again within you, bringing a fierce smile to your lips.

Delightfully cool fingertips wandered over your face. His index slightly tapped down the tip of your nose, then your lips – making them smile more – before it went on over your neck and then deeper still, along the neckline of your dress – making your smile turn sultry and having you bat open your eyes again. You observed him from under your brows. Saw his piercing red gaze drink in every last detail of you, causing your heartbeat to gallop again.

“Dare say, my love, did I make you lose your breath?”, he asked while he hooked his thumb onto your chin, raising his head from yours, his expression becoming haughty. Then his hand wandered deeper again, fingertips pressing to your exposed skin.

Your heart tumbled treacherously at his playful words. And from the way his eyes glinted you knew he felt your thundering heartbeat under his fingers.

“You always do, Astarion,” you answered truthfully and felt how your quickening pulse made your chest rise and fall even more.

“Good,” the vampire replied and splayed his hand flatly over the delicate skin of your exposed neck and slowly dragged it upwards until his thumb and index were loosely around the base of your throat. He pressed a quick, quite forceful kiss to your slightly parted lips. And you knew the rush of dancing was not just getting to you alone.

“Don’t catch it yet, darling, I’m not done with you,” the pale elf promised, tongue in cheek. You loved the ambivalence in his words – deepened by the low, almost rumbly tone of his voice.

Then he withdrew, quickly and elegantly, leaving you to almost stumble.

“Not done yet,” you parroted helplessly and saw Astarion roll around his tongue in his mouth. His expression had become mischievous.

“I’ve promised you that when I was done with you everyone here would want to either be you or be with you. I tend to keep my promises, my heart”, he replied with a quick courteous bow before he elegantly turned on his heel and quickly hurried towards the orchestra.

Your heart tumbled for an entirely different reason now as you were too stumped to do anything more than look after him hurrying towards the musicians taking another short break.

“Astarion!” you scream-whispered while he was already halfway there. He heard you, but he only threw you a kiss over his shoulder without even slowing down.

The man obviously had a plan. And you didn’t particularly like that – his plans tended to end up in chaos and landing you in a whole mess.

Suddenly, you felt very alone on the emptying dancefloor. You saw your elderly neighbour carefully be led off by her noticeably younger beau. And more couples left until you were basically the last one in the middle of the ballroom. That realisation didn’t exactly calm you. In attempt to deal with anxiety laying claim on you, you wrapped your arms around yourself as much as the draped silk flowing down from your elbows would allow.

Observing how Astarion spoke with the elven singer, you tried to be inconspicuous. You wouldn’t have needed to be worried though. As you looked around some more, you noticed that the unravelling of manners and sobriety you had noticed earlier had certainly continued.

Before people had seemed haughty, backs had been straight in an effort to show superiority. And insults and viciousness had at least been hidden by a sheer layer of civilisation, like palmed blades hidden in plain sight. But sharp tongues seemingly weren’t in their sheaths anymore. And the same was clearly the case for some base desires: as your eyes wandered over the crowd, you felt like some of the excess from everywhere else in the mansion had now reached the core of the festivities as well. As if the crowd as a whole had gotten more than just a little too much to drink, manners and stances becoming slouchy and sluggishly while minds loosened up – along with laces and buttons - to indulge in fantasies that were usually neatly tugged away behind tightly laced up corsets or heavily starched collars.

The atmosphere as a whole had become more sinful: intoxicating – but slightly unsettling if not threatening as well.

Your head snapped back to Astarion who had just said something to make the elegant, elven singer laugh before she placed a hand over her heart and bowed graciously in thanks. Your eyes narrowed a little, knowing exactly, that Astarion was working his charms on her. And for what, you didn’t know yet. You weren’t sure you wanted to find out either.

Shortly after, your vampire returned to you while behind him you saw the singer and some of the string players move into position to start performing again.

Astarion came back to you with a huge, mischievous grin splitting his face as you heard the strings pick up a melody already. The rhythm immediately felt awfully familiar. Not a waltz, but another dance Astarion had been very eager to teach you. Mainly because it had involved moving so close to each other that it had easily felt as intimate as letting yourself be seduced by the vampire.

In any case it had led to the same conclusion – more than once.

If that was really, what Astarion had planned, he’d be playing with fire. The thought immediately sent heat throughout your body. You looked around once more and to your own shock noticed that a few heads had turned towards you and Astarion – noticing that something unusual was about to happen.

The vampire prowled closer to you, red eyes focused on you as if you were his newest piece of prey as the elven singer’s voice began to rise over the strings. You saw her sway sensually to the music, hands stretched out lightly while her eyes were closed – taken and fully fulfilled by the slowly swelling music.

And you felt how the music and her ethereal voice started to tug on you, luring you with its spell while Astarion closed the rest of the gap with his expression speaking of how much he anticipated what was to follow. With a quick last step, he grabbed one of your hands and with his other arm pulled you flush against himself. Immediately he started moving with you again, not leaving you a second to hesitate.

He moved his face close to yours while you both slowly eased into this dance. “Now, my love,” he began to whisper into one of your pointy ears, his cheek almost pressed against your temple, while his hand on your back pulled you even closer. You felt how his thumb brushed over your back.

“We can keep this tame, my sweet, or we can give the people a show. Which” – he stopped moving with you, one of his feet leisurely placed between yours and as he continued whispering into your ear with a low voice, he used it to gradually slide your legs further apart, his body shifting forward “will it be?”

But instead of answering you just gave in to the motion, let yourself be swept away by your vampire.

Your pulse began racing, breath quickened as his movement made you slowly lean back and more onto his steadying arm while he slowly but unyieldingly slid your backfoot further. The hand on your back held you securely.

His crimson eyes were piercing into you. You saw how his pupils widened and his lips parted as an almost feral kind of joy spread over his face while he held you like this.

When his knee came in, you had no other choice but to slowly let your foot wander up his leg before finally hooking it around it.

And even then, he didn’t stop. The vampire leaned further, until he had you hovering bare inches above the polished wooden floors from which the golden light of the chandeliers reflected. Your leg was almost straddling his hip now and your skirt had ridden up, bunched up between your entwined legs now. Cold air blowing in through the still wide-open glass doors to the gardens brushing over your now naked skin, sent shivers up your spine. And the way Astarion sent a glance down your bodies to gaze at your exposed leg sent countering jolts down, resulting in a treacherous throbbing between your now helplessly spread legs.

You gasped when Astarion looked into your eyes again, corners of his mouth curling up, showing his fangs.

And when you slowly let your head fall back, exposing your neck to him, his eyes were immediately drawn to where your pulse was racing so close under your skin. You heard him gasp as well.

He craned his neck to reach your throat. The tip of his nose felt cool on your throat. You closed your eyes, focusing on everywhere your bodies were touching and gasped once more when you felt Astarion press an open-mouthed kiss atop the curve of your exposed neck.

This couldn’t have possibly felt more sensual and intimate if you had been completely naked and the only two in the room. The throbbing between your legs became stronger.

Astarion’s lips left your neck.

“So, we give them a show. Very well, my love,” he exclaimed cheerfully while you began to grin with your head still fallen so far back, your partner couldn’t even see it yet.

With swift grace Astarion pulled you both up again.

“I hope you’re ready to scandalise some nobles, my darling Tav,” the vampire pondered as he held you close, one eyebrow raised high. A dangerous smile was your only answer. And so, you began to dance.

This was slower than before. Your and Astarion’s movements were characterised by controlled, swift elegance as you swept over the large open dancefloor.

The rush was caused less by the dizzying speed now but the fluid, sensual motions you shared with Astarion. Your bodies were so close it felt almost illogical how you were still able to move to dance.

Shortly, you noticed that you had quite an audience now but you completely forgot about it when you looked at your partner again: Astarion’s ruby eyes were ablaze, only focused on you. His one hand was firmly entwined with yours and lifted high, his other on the small of your back continuously pulling you back in and slowly wandering lower.

There were barely any other couples still dancing around you, leaving you offered to the other guests  similarly to how the servants carried around crystal glasses on their silver platters: meant for their enjoyment, ready to be consumed. You were aware of that, as was Astarion. But neither of you did care: this was your evening. You merely cared about your own entertainment. The vampire had only eyes for you anyways as he watched you closely, forehead almost pressed to yours. He observed and delighted in how you let your hips shift from side to side, both your legs swept between each other time and again and he led you around on his arm as if parading for all of the world to see what was his.

Sometimes he had you lean away from him, out of his embrace, showing you off even more. And when he pulled you in after letting you turn under his arm, he basically crushed your hips into his, resulting in you almost moaning whenever he did that. Astarion looked at you, acting as surprised as you felt, but then the grin of a cheshire cat crept onto his face and he made you lean back, held firmly against his body by his arm.

A telltale throb between your legs as you had no choice but to comply with the vampire’s movement had you try and rub your thighs together to subdue it. But of course, Astarion noticed, eyes immediately boring into yours. You would never get away with something like that.

“Is it getting a little heated for you, darling?” he purred and leaned you even more until you were in a similar spot as in the beginning.

Then to make it worse he disentangled his fingers from yours and grabbed one of your thighs to make your leg loop around his hips. And all of this with a quickness that did nothing to resolve the heat rising up within you. In fact, it had you gasp and involuntarily buck your hips into him. To that Astarion’s eyebrows jumped up shortly and he hummed in content. His grin was unwavering, only growing lewder. At least he was enjoying himself mightily it seemed.

“Astarion, we’re still in public!” you hissed when you felt his hand on your back wander even lower, moving to your butt.

“Not prone to a little public fun, my sweet?”

His voice was dropping lower in time with his hands. With the music still spurring you on it must already seem ridiculous how long he held you there – and how. His arm was firmly around you, so it was easy for Astarion to make you rub against him just a little bit. Against where you clearly felt his desire for you grow as well, not unaffected by the show the two of you put on.

Your eyes flew down along your body in shock, unbelieving how the pale elf dared to act while being fully on display for Baldur’s Gate’s high society – even though they were mostly fully out of it by now anyways. The skirts of your blue dress were carelessly bunched up and you felt how the garment – however beautiful it might be – restricted your ability to move.

Astarion’s teasing had been more than enough though. A small lewd moan left your lips which you tried to stifle as quickly as possible by biting your lip. But you had also felt that it hadn’t been just you that was getting agitated from how you moved to the sensual music. And when your eyes wandered back to your partner’s face you saw that he was biting his lip too. His adam’s apple was working in his throat.

Maybe it wasn’t just that he dragged you a little too close to the fire, but that he was quite possibly about to burn himself as well.

You licked your lips. An idea forming in your mind.

And if you saw an opportunity to turn the tables on this man at his own game, you would take it.

With one of your hands you pushed against his chest, nudging him to stand up tall again. And he did – with you still in his arms.

You followed his movements and used the opportunity to inconspicuously get some more friction out of it. Astarion’s mouth opened and formed a grin.

He knew he was in for a treat now.

“I’m always up for fun, Astarion, but I don’t need you to take me on this dancefloor with the whole nobility of the city to witness,” you muttered and then pushed him back with your hand on his chest.

The vampire staggered back a few steps looking a little surprised - but intrigued. Then put on a performance of being hurt. “A downright shame, really, darling.”

But you didn’t even look at him and his histrionics even more. While the music drifted around you and beckoned you to finally get back to the good part, you bowed down and grabbed the hem of your skirt. The silk was beautiful. But you were used to nothing this pretty lasting long in your hands, anyways. So, with both of your hands you tore and felt a satisfactory rasping noise as you pulled the fabric apart.

Meanwhile, Astarion was truly shocked by your actions right now. He stared on in horror as you tore up your skirts up until there was a somewhat straight rip almost up to your hips.

The vampire wasn’t sure if he was more scandalised by your behaviour or how your naked leg was almost fully on display now.

But when you came over him, grabbed his hand once more and leaned onto him in an attempt to get back at him. He wasn’t left with a choice. His glinting burgundy eyes spoke of nothing but longing.

Using your full bodyweight, you moved onto him quickly, forcefully. Daring him as you pressed your knee high up on his thigh while still leaning, until you were almost kneeling on his leg with your now free leg.

The vampire let it happen, caught a little on the backfoot figuratively and literally, as he stared at you in awe.

“You little minx,” he whispered while he recovered his wits and delighted in letting his hand wander up over your bared thigh. “I know I picked the right one with you.”

You let your eyelashes flatter at him dramatically at his generous praise.

And then, to go a little further you rolled your hips a little, evoking a surprised but not unpleased groan from your vampire. His arms wrapped around you tighter.

“You’re making it increasingly difficult, to not take you right here on these polished wooden floors, darling.” He almost growled the last word.

Good, you had him where you wanted him. You rolled your head around to loosen the muscles.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish then, love,” you gave back and then withdrew your leg from his, eager to finally get back to dancing.

The vampire grunted but wouldn’t be told twice as you started moving again.

All nervousness had left your body now – and with all possible shame - as you had basically fully forgotten about the world and the party around you. Instead, you felt confident now, bold even, as you began swaying your hips with new vigour and Astarion did his absolute best to make you look your best.

Your skirts flew around you as you kept dancing and the vampire made you lean, sink into him, take bold turns – and always pulling you back into him. And with each time a little closer and more forceful you felt like. His gaze was burning into yours and you clearly saw the hunger in them. A desperate craving that you were very well responsible for.

You kept dragging and sliding each other over the shiny wooden floors. Knees and thighs and calves brushing and rubbing against each other. Sometimes on accident, but more often on purpose when you hooked your legs around each other for a moment – only to move away again. It was a constant game of cat and mouse now, trying and testing how to get a rise out of the other.

The looks you threw each other became increasingly fiery.

Had you told Astarion not to take you with everyone around watching, this barely made a difference anymore. Not that either of you cared still, with the state that you were in. You didn’t dare think about what would happen once the music stopped – but you couldn’t wait to find out.

Fittingly to that thought crossing your mind increasingly clouded by lust, you heard the crescendo announcing the end of the piece. Your gaze fell on Astarion’s face: his curls messed up a little, falling into his face and his gaze that was positively glowing at you from narrowed eyes, lips unconsciously agape.

His pointy ears seemed to perk up when he noticed the music coming to an end.

You saw the vicious grin just before he grabbed you, made you spin a final time, before he moved your knee up as high as possible against his torso and made you lean back one last time in a dramatic end pose. Your leg covered by your skirt was sliding up his body while he held you and made you dip. Your other leg was bare, fully and stretched out as he hovered you mere inches over the floors when the music chimed off. And then he held you there – at his will.

Some of the guests seemingly deemed it appropriate to clap for your performance. You noticed it somewhere off in the back of your mine. Because what was right in front of you was gripping your attention far more.

Your breathing was hitched, as was Astarion’s. His eyes wandered hungrily over your form, eyebrow twitching, when he noticed just how much of an insight the slit in your skirt revealed.

The corners of his mouth curled up and with his swift hand he moved the skirt before it could slide off even further.

“Let’s leave something to the imagination, shan’t we?” he murmured while his fingertips lingered just where your leg connected to your hips. He was still looking down at your body. You could see his lashes and how they cast some shadows onto his cheekbones. Red eyes glowed under them, telling you how much the vampire wanted nothing left to just imagination.

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[resilientmosaic]

The Trump appeal

What does anybody like about Donald Trump? It’s a question many people ask theirselves, and no answer comes to mind. But it’s something that for me has long seemed obvious. Either I’m wrong or everybody else just doesn’t get it. Let’s compare answers.

To be sure, Trump is somebody with almost no positive qualities. He’s not strong or intelligent, he’s not resilient or brave, he’s not inventive or aspiring. He has no respect for the law, for his country, for his oath of office. He looks and dresses like a clown. He barely won the presidency and was never popular with the American people. His administration was awash with crime and corruption and incompetence. His presidency was by all means a failure. The greatest myth about Donald Trump is that he’s wealthy and successful. He’s only wealthy. People don’t realize how much he inherited, nor how little he’s done with any of it, aside from every now and then trying to do his own thing and failing. If not for his rich father, none of us would have any idea who this person is, because by every measure but his bank account, he’s worthless.

And he lies. My goodness, he lies constantly, shamelessly. He doesn’t even care that we can tell he’s lying. If you prove he’s lying, he’ll just lie some more. He barely even tries. He’s not a clever manipulator. He’s not a mastermind. He just has no respect for the truth, so he lies brazenly to your face and expects that nobody is ever going to do anything about it. That probably gives us a small insight into the kind of sad, privileged upbringing he came from.

If all of this is true, then how could such a person have a cult of personality around him? How could such a person maintain a loyal following, such devotion from his followers, through thick and thin? Trump’s supporters don’t just think he’s a competent executive. They downright love the man. It’s almost sickening.

The only honest man in Washington

In the Danish folktale, The Emperor's New Clothes, a king is tricked by men who claim to be selling magical robes invisible only to those who are incompetent or stupid. Eventually everybody is playing along, pretending to see robes that aren’t there, each person believing they’re the only one who can’t see them. It takes the innocence of a child to blurt out that the king has no clothes for everybody to realize they’ve been had.

If you’re a politician or public figure, you’re expected to be polite and uncontroversial. It’s called being politically correct or something. For example, a politician might say “rural folks with little economic and education opportunities”, instead of “stupid hick fucks”. We try to phrase things sensitively, delicately, to avoid offending your own constituents. There are various notions of things that one should and shouldn’t say, if you’re trying to have broad appeal and be a uniting leader.

That’s what many people are sick of. They see it as a dishonest game that politicians all play together on stage, akin to the people who go along with the lie of the emperor’s robes. Trump, then, is the lone truth-teller, somebody who blurts out the truth that we all know, but nobody else is brave enough to say. So often when Trump is criticized for saying something that Mitt Romney would never, it’s actually an example of what his supporters consider his best quality.

Trump is, in short, the guy who says what we’re all thinking. That’s his power. That’s what people love about him.

Think about his various controversies. Early in his first campaign, people said John McCain was a war hero. Trump challenges this, saying he’s just called a war hero because he got captured. If you look into it, that’s sort of true. McCain was captured and tortured. He didn’t get called a hero because he ran bravely into battle and saved a bunch of people or something. He flew a plane in the Vietnam war, and his plane got shot down at some point and he was taken prisoner for 6 years.

Many people saw this as Trump being a disrespectful jackass. Others viewed it as Trump being defiant, irreverent, not playing into the politically correct game the media wanted him to play. Why does he need to give McCain some kind of deference or respect just because his plane got shot down? A lot of people watching thought to theirselves “hmm, good point actually”. They were happy to go along with that war hero narrative in the past, but Trump snapped them out of it by challenging the orthodoxy.

I remember when Trump made headlines by referring to a bunch of poor countries like Haiti as ‘shithole countries’. Polite society hissed, but people throughout the rest of society thought “well yeah, I mean, they are shithole countries”. Trump isn’t wrong—he’s just saying the thing you’re not supposed to say. How brave! And oh how honest of him!

In recent memory, during the 2024 race, Trump said he didn’t know Harris was black. He mispronounced her name. It turns out lots of people in the country also thought she was Indian or something, or weren’t sure what her ethnicity was, and despite her being vice president for the last four years, a lot of people were also mispronouncing her name. Trump tapped into the stupid zeitgeist. The crowd thinks it, Trump says it. The other politicians and newscaster know-it-alls are drinking their lattes, meanwhile Trump is on stage going “wait, muh-malla’s a black? .. person?”

Trump said he doesn’t like paying overtime. Years ago, he said he tries to get out of paying contractors. And he tries to get out of paying taxes as much as possible. For a lot of people, this is stuff all rich people think. Trump is the only one honest enough to say it out loud. So it’s actually to his credit that he does. Of course he’d like to pay people less, and pay less taxes. What’s the problem, news media? Don’t like someone who tells the truth?

Hey, remember when John Dingall died and Trump joked about how he’s in hell now? Funny, speaking his mind even when it might be shocking. Do you remember that time he made fun of a disabled reporter? That’s right, he doesn’t give a shit. Remember all those times he referred to the press as the enemy of the people and called CNN fake news? That’s right, he stands up for himself, even when the media doesn’t like it. Remember that time he made fun of Chris Christie for being fat (even though he’s also fat) and called Ted Cruz’s wife ugly? He’s not afraid of the establishment politicians. Hey, remember when the Access Hollywood tape came out and Trump says he just walks up to women and grabs them because they’ll let him if they know you’re a big star? That’s our Trump—tellin’ it like it is.

As soon as you start thinking about it this way, everything clicks into place.

High class, but low class

Who first said Trump is a poor man’s idea of a rich man? No, wait, was it a dumb person’s idea of a smart person? No, that can’t be right. ... I just looked it up, and apparently the origin is disputed, so whatever. The point is that Trump is, indeed, a special kind of rich person. He’s not like those other rich people. He’s not refined or highly educated, he has no appreciation for art, or really anything deep, meaningful, or challenging. He’s tacky, classless, he has no taste. He covers things in gold because he thinks gold is what rich people are supposed to like. His favourite food is McDonalds. He orders his steak well-done and puts ketchup on it. He doesn’t use big words. He talks like an idiot. Hell, he even types like an idiot (or gets other people to type like an idiot for him). Bill Burr once said he likes George Bush because he makes him feel like he could be president too. In the same way, Donald Trump makes people feel like they could be billionaires. Because why not? If this fucking imbecile ended up rich, why not you?

In a twisted way, I think Trump has a mind closer to the working poor than the mind of other billionaires. Think about it like this: if you gave some random truck driver billions of dollars out of the blue, what would they do with it? They might immediately go grocery shopping. Buy a house, a car? Go to the doctor? But after all of those immediate things come to mind, how would their life end up like, if they didn’t run out of money? I’m sure some poor people would end up pursuing something spiritually enriching and meaningful, giving to charity, travelling the world, surfing, trying new things, playing with cheetahs or something.

But people who are particularly shallow, with closed minds and no curiosity about the world? They would probably end up a lot like Trump. He basically just lives in hotels and eats fast food and plays golf. His biggest goal for a long time was trying to get himself on television because he wanted attention and fame and recognition. He kept throwing some of his money at business ventures that would fail and were just an excuse to plaster his name on stuff because he wants to feel like he did something. He goes around perving on little girls and married some random trophy-wife model and paid to have sex with porn stars. Every so often he would go on TV and self-importantly ramble about topics he knows nothing about, but some reporter would talk to him like he’s important because they know he’s rich.

Trump and a lot of random guys in society are on the same wavelength. Trump thinks the way they do. That’s why all the stupid, ugly things he blurts out are appealing to them, and they think of him as ‘their guy’ despite the fact they know he’s a billionaire. Because he’s kind of like how they’d be if they were billionaires too. He’s high class, but he’s low class.

I wonder, is the future of politicians just going to be simple-minded people blurting out every dumb thought that comes to mind, hoping to channel the spirit of the masses like how Trump did? Let’s pray.