#black history pouch

[creativity-island]

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[astraystayyh]

Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess; i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter ii. to remember

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader. (3racha cameo)

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. allusion to mc having a bad family history with alcohol. suggestive in the end (allusion to sex but no smut). reader had she/her pronouns.

word count : 11k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me/already gone/enough.

chapter i. skz quotes series masterlist.

A.N: PT. 2 IS HERE!!!! i hope you'll enjoy this one, she's my baby and i put so much work and thought into her, so feedback is highly highly appreciated!!! thank you to my @forlix for being with me every step of this journey, i love u the most<33

Day 33. 

With a gentle, absentminded sweep, your fingers trace the delicate contours of your wrist, a faint dance with the pulse beneath your skin– the cocoon of the soul you’re gradually growing accustomed to. It is a trying task, you've found out, to no longer yearn to flee from your body, leaving the weight of your worries for your bones and flesh alone to bear. 

A subtle fragrance floats in the air surrounding you- the familiar gardenia and honey tones of your sweet perfume. It is a scent you reserve for special occasions, such as this one- your first date, in three months according to the world, in more than a year for your memory. 

You swiftly retrieve a mirror from your pouch, checking your appearance for the tenth time in mere minutes. Your nude lipstick is still, unsurprisingly, in place, and you smile reassuringly at your reflection. She smiles back, though sometimes you half-expect her not to. In defiance, perhaps, maybe even repulse. 

The melodious chime of the café's bell captures your attention, and the man you've been awaiting finally enters. He confidently strides in, clad in a blue polo and black slacks, an evident effort poured into his appearance. 

Standing before you, his warm, gleaming eyes meet yours, effortlessly melting your lingering worries. You smile at him, he beams at you. 

“Did I keep you waiting?” Changbin, your date, asks as he pulls the chair adjacent to you. 

“No, just in time.”

Two weeks ago. 

Day 17. 

“Use me. Use me to remember,” Minho whispers, the distance between your lips resembling the thin edge of a blade. 

You close your eyes, the world narrowing down to the sound of your heartbeat, a rhythmic drum drowning out any attempt at coherent thoughts. Kiss him, your heart chants, kiss him and all your memories will flood back. But what if they don't? What if the abyss persists before the brightest beam of light?

A tender kiss lands on your forehead, gently interrupting your tumultuous thoughts. Minho’s lips are as warm, as soft as you remember them. They're now imprinted into your skin, no longer a hazy memory beyond your reach.

His hands cradle your hair, smoothing it down, making the ringing in your ears soften. You surrender to his gentle embrace, to the soft tide of emotions rippling from him to you, pulling your wounded soul to safe shores. 

“You need to forgive yourself,” he whispers, his words echoing against your skin, lips still pressed to your forehead. A rush of warmth overwhelms you, all your senses coming to life, ringing the alarm- he sees you, he sees through you.

“None of this is your fault,” he assures, a sudden cooling balm against your scorching wounds. These are the words you've been aching to hear. You didn't know, but Minho did, reading between the lines of your quivering lips and your reluctance to look into his eyes. 

He knows you better than you know yourself. 

“Don’t blame yourself, please.”

“But all I do is hurt people,” you confess, tears streaming down your face like a relentless downpour, soaking Minho's hands. 

You expect punishment to strike you, bolting lighting aiming straight for your heart as you finally admit to your biggest sin- the shadow of sorrow that trails your every step. It is the way it has always been since you were a child. It is what you fled from. 

What you don't expect is for tenderness to cradle you instead— in Minho's warm hand as he gently guides you to his chest, your ear resting above his steady heartbeat. Its rhythmic cadence akin to a lullaby- you shouldn't apologize for existing, you hear it sing to you. 

“If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you. you’re forgiven, okay? I forgive you. Today and tomorrow. I'll forgive you until you'll forgive yourself.” 

“Okay,” you nod, muffled words against the fabric of his shirt.

“Now, will you please come back with me? The cats will miss you a lot if you don’t,” he suggests, pressing his cheek onto the crown of your head. 

“I don't want to leave them,” you reply in a small voice, dewdrops gathering in your eyes at the thought of running again. 

“You don’t have to. It’s your home too.”

“Okay,” you sigh in acceptance, relief, encircling his waist with your arms. He is all inviting, like an open book, and you're resting between his pages, scribbled with love confessions for you. 

The world stills, waves slowing their relentless crash against the shore, as you draw in a deep breath from the pits of your soul. You don't remember all you’ve once felt for Minho. But you know it must have been safe, like stumbling upon a haven and then learning it was specially carved for you. 

“I miss you, Minho.”

“I know, I miss you too.”

Day 19. 

“Minho, can you come to the kitchen please?” your voice reverberates through the house, weaving through the air and reaching the bedroom where Minho has been ensnared, his less-than-graceful complaints echoing loudly for the past hour. You had sealed him within without explanation, only making him promise not to leave the room until you told him to, much to his dismay, and deep down, amusement. 

He chuckles lowly to himself as he rises from the bed, before making his way to the kitchen. There, he finds you near the doorway, hands concealed behind your back, dusty flour adorning your cheek like an artist’s absentminded paint stroke.  

“So…,” you trail off and Minho smiles, crossing his arms before his chest.  

“So?”

“A situation may have happened.” 

“Which situation?” he inquires amusedly, attempting to peer past you into the kitchen. Your extended arms block his view.

“You know how I got a concussion from the car accident,” you ask. 

“I do.”

“I think it may have affected my cooking abilities.”

“But you didn't have any to begin with?” he muses, tilting his head to the side innocently. 

“Shut up,” you playfully admonish before clasping your hands in a silent plea. “Will you help me?” 

“Mm, what are you making?” he inquires, leaning against the doorway.

“Pudding.”

“Pudding?”

“For you.”

“Oh.” 

A blush creeps up Minho’s neck as he grapples to find a reply, his surprised gasp hanging into the air. You giggle faintly, entertained by his sudden speech impairment. 

In response, Minho takes a step forward, delicately brushing away the flour on your cheek, his thumb hovering near the corner of your mouth. “How did this get here?”

“Huh?” you sputter, pink splashing across your cheeks like spilled Rosé. 

Minho is testing your waters, dipping one toe in, hoping he’ll find your reassuring embrace lurking beneath the surface. Did you blush from the heat of the stove or his touch? Minho doesn’t know. Minho needs to find out. 

“And you also forgot this,” he lightly pouts, reaching over your head to the hanger behind you, caging you between his arms. 

He’s sacrificing his heart, placing it on the frontlines of hurt once again. Yet, when you look up at him, dewy eyes flickering to his lips, Minho feels a single match lighten up in his core, not enough to burn all his doubts. But enough to signal hope. 

Hope is a perilous possession, akin to cradling a fragile glass that threatens to shatter at the slightest tremor. Hope is the only thread Minho can now hang onto. 

“You forgot your apron,” he finally says, withdrawing two aprons from the hanger. He drapes one over your head before placing a hand on your shoulder, gently turning you around. He silently ties the strings into a ribbon, his fingers brushing against your spine. He can distinctly remember the feel of your bare skin beneath his fingertips, silky, smooth, intoxicating. 

“There, a pretty knot,” he whispers, not moving back an inch, waiting for you to swivel around. Yet, you remain silent, undoing your hair from its loose ponytail. Your hair cascades over your shoulders, resembling the unveiling of curtains, and Minho senses something unfurling in the depths of his stomach.

“Tie it for me?” you whisper, handing him the hair tie without looking back. Your fingertips brush against each other, and Minho inhales deeply.

“Sure,” he says, voice thick with emotion, he needs to drink water. He needs to drink you in. 

He gathers your hair strands in another low ponytail, trembling hands as they brush against the nape of your neck, akin to powerless leaves before the autumn breeze. He’s close, so close to you, so much his chest almost brushes against your back. 

As soon as he’s done, Minho swiftly steps back before doing something he’ll surely regret, like placing a tender kiss on your shoulder, or worse, confessing that he misses the simple act of brushing your hair at night. 

“So, pudding,” he clears his throat, rolling up the sleeves of his white hoodie. your eyes follow his movement, lingering on the veins protruding on his forearms. Minho feels a bit foolish for wanting to flex for you. 

“It’s really easy actually. bring me two eggs?” 

“Sure,” you grin, heading for the fridge as Minho retrieves sugar from the cupboard, throwing away the odd liquid mixture you managed to conjure. 

You stand beside Minho, eyebrows furrowed as he explains why the milk needs to be brought to a boil before adding the cornstarch, or how adding the vanilla at the very end will help preserve its flavor. You listen intently, nodding along, and the tension between you dispels, leaving place for something comforting, familiar– you’re erasing the remnants of his sobs, the sight of him crumbling over the green kitchen tiles. 

“Let's leave it to chill,” he finally says, closing the fridge’s door. 

“Okay,” you nod, packing away the butter. Minho leans against the countertop, an ember of curiosity ablaze at the tip of his tongue

“Why did you want to make pudding?” he asks and you freeze in place. 

“To see if I’m capable of not being a lost cause,” you respond playfully but the undertones of your voice indicate otherwise- laden, charged. One more match that you could light up? 

“Really?” he says softly, taking one step toward you. 

“No,” you giggle faintly and he nods, a gentle smile unfurling on his face, gradual as the eclipse of a moon.

“It was supposed to be your birthday gift. That's why I locked you in the room. I even bought little birthday hats for the cats, silly I know, and very late, but, turns out I’m a horrible-” 

“I wanna see the birthday hats,” he cuts you off.

“Really? They’re really ugly.” 

“It's my birthday gift, right?”

Five minutes later, you and Minho are seated on the floor, legs crisscrossed, three perplexed cats before you, and on their heads, obnoxiously neon green hats.

“They look so…” you tilt your head, assessing the view before you. 

“Stupid?” Minho suggests, eliciting a startled snort from you that swiftly transforms into an almost maniac cackle, which in turn, catches Minho off guard. He gazes at you bewilderedly before succumbing to a fit of giggles, which intensifies your laughter, as you punctuate his shoulder with light hits, tears streaming down your face in an attempt to regain composure.

One hundred matches light up in Minho’s heart at the sight, all at once.

“My God, they look so stupid, I’m so sorry,” you laugh harder, your body collapsing to the ground, hands tightly clutching your stomach. 

They can laugh again, the house sighs in relief, something other than sobs can still echo within my walls. 

Day 22. 

“I miss the sea,” you sigh softly, cradling a cup of chamomile tea between your hands. Minho, absorbed in his book, glances up to find a melancholic expression etched on your face—a poignant blend of sorrow and longing that he knows weighs heavy on your heart. 

“We saw it over at the bridge, no?” he ventures tentatively, setting the book aside on the living room table.

“Yes, but I miss the sand, and the waves lapping at my feet. I miss feeling the sea, not just seeing it.” 

“I’d take you, in a heartbeat,” he says assuredly, ready to bring you the moon if only you dare ask. “But it's far, and you can't get into a car.” 

“I can try.” 

“You can?” he questions, hope budding in his eyes.

“I mean- I want to, it's just… I don't know,” you retract, nails drumming anxiously against your cup, gaze lost into the amber liquid.  

“Talk to me, yeah?” he smiles softly, draping a reassuring hand on your arm. His thumb swipes across the slate of your shoulder, and an impossible knot in your throat untangles. 

“The accident took a lot from me. My health, my memories, a year of moving forward.” You quiet down, eyes meeting his in a barely veiled vulnerability. Silence speaks of your hardest loss— him. 

“Can you help me get the sea back?”

Minho’s radiant smile is louder than any spoken agreement.

…

Thread by thread, drop by drop, your fears unravel as Minho lowers all the car windows’ before gently guiding you into the car seat, dispelling any prospect of feeling confined within the vehicle. 

He remembers everything, even the panic that gripped your being when you went into his enclosed car, nearly a month ago. 

“Can I blindfold you? It might help, so you wouldn't see the car lights since it’s night,” he suggests.

“Yeah, that'd be nice,” you agree, your hand lightly gripping the car seat.

“Hey, hey,” he calls out gently, “I'm here, okay? The second you feel overwhelmed I'm stopping this car.”

“Will you drive safely?” 

“Of course. I promise you.” 

Your nod is met with the softening of Minho's eyes, as he delicately tucks a strand of your hair behind the curve of your ear. 

“I'm proud of you,” he whispers, tone laden with so much tenderness, love, that your throat becomes a garden, vocal cords bound not by thorns but the delicate blossoming of flowers. 

With a gentle touch, Minho wraps a tie around your eyes, cocooning you in a tranquil darkness. His hand seeks yours instinctively, fingers intertwining with yours akin to the wind weaving through the strands of your hair.

In this moment, every fracture within you is delicately filled by Minho.

He starts driving, a soothing piano instrumental playing out of the car’s speakers- his hand still in yours. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a soothing path across your palm. 

“Follow my touch.” A gentle sweep to the right, an invitation to inhale slowly. “In,” his voice guides, and you draw in a deep breath.

Another caress to the left, a silent directive to release your confined breath. “Out,” he whispers, and you exhale, surrendering to the rhythm orchestrated by his thumb.

He raises the music’s volume, his touch becoming a maestro, speaking silently to you. You’re grateful for it, for the way in which he’s driving- avoiding curbs and speeding, safely, making the wheels float across the road. 

Your heart still constricts in your chest, anxiety squeezing your veins, bleeding them dry, but you focus on Minho’s thumb, you let it guide you, like a compass navigating the dark tunnels of your heart. 

“We're almost there,” he reassures as he stops by a red light. 

“I look silly, right?” you reply, giggling a bit. 

“What?” he asks, confused. 

“I can feel you looking,” you clarify. 

“How so?”

“My right cheek is tingling.” 

Minho snorts incredulously. “What does that even mean?”

“You have a piercing stare. You're like melting through my skin and vibrating my bones.”

“Idiot,” he chuckles. My my my idiot, Minho grieves to say once again. The human heart is peculiar, he learns day after day, mourning the loss of a myriad of minuscule things, even words. 

“And, you don't look silly,” he clears his throat minutes later, as he finally parks by the beach.  

“You look pretty,” he utters, unraveling your blindfold, and you blink, caught between the sudden light and the weight of his words. “You always do,” he concludes, a whispered confession that lingers like the afterglow of a sunset, painting your world in golden hues.

“Minho, I…” you trail off, eyes landing on the vast sea ahead, blending into the sky in an alluring shade of turquoise. “We're here!” you shout bewildered, a magnificent grin on your face. 

“We are,” Minho smiles, drinking in the delight in your expression. 

“Oh my god I missed the sea!” you giggle as you undo your seatbelt, quickly opening the car’s door and taking off running. 

Minho follows closely behind, captivated, as he watches you glide across the shore, the sand ricocheting off the soles of your shoes. You look like a fairy, bending the wind to your will, coaxing it into a choreography that mirrors the rhythm of your movements, your messy footprints marking your pathway to happiness once again. 

Upon the sand, you finally settle down, and Minho walks over, sitting beside you. Both of you quietly gaze ahead, entranced by the moon's silver glow caressing the water’s surface. Each shimmering wave resembles glistening diamonds, a celestial mirror reflecting the lights in the sky.

“Have I ever told you why I love the sea?” you speak after a while, tone softer, more content. 

“You did.” 

“Can I tell you again?” you say. Can I tell you what I still remember? He understands. 

“Of course.” 

"There was a beach near our home, back then," you reminisce, a nostalgic aura enveloping your words. “And whenever I felt lonely I used to go there and watch the waves, to calm me down. But, one time, I was really overwhelmed so I ended up crying. And then, coincidentally, it started raining too.” 

Your eyes widen slightly, a hint of amusement in your voice. “At that moment, I chuckled at the timing, how the sky was crying with me.”

“Ever since that day, I liked to believe that the sea is made up of the sky’s tears, the ones that fell in sync with those of humans, so it'd comfort us. And the tears grew from a pond to a river, to a vast ocean, as humans cried more and more. That's why sometimes the sea’s waters are gentle because those are tears of happiness falling somewhere. Sometimes they're stormy, since someone is crying out of anger. Sometimes they're melancholic, just relentlessly crashing against the shore, because someone is in pain. Like we are.”

A tranquil hush falls over the night as you quiet down, before turning around to meet Minho’s teary eyes, mirroring yours.

“And if the sea persists through tempests and tranquility, if it goes on despite the myriad of emotions it holds within, then so will we.”

Hope isn't fragile, as Minho once believed. Hope scrapes its bloody palms against the rough surface as it climbs defiantly to the pinnacle once again. Hope picks out rugged stones with weathered hands and builds a home out of them. Hope is strong, it clutches onto the thinnest threads so we’d endure and endure once more. As many times as we need to. 

“Well, the sky isn't crying right now,” Minho notes.

“I know,” you smile softly, “Because we're holding on to hope.” 

Day 26. 

Under the soft glow of the TV, Dori settles comfortably on your shoulders, nuzzling her tiny nose onto your face every now and then. Soonie and Doongie are a bit far away, playing with a piece of yarn, captivated by its vibrant red threads. 

It is an ordinary, comforting setting to watch a movie with Minho, on a Sunday night, a bowl of popcorn nestled on his lap while his cats lounge around. So familiar that the world around you blurs, like the vague brushes of an impressionist painting— a vivid déjà-vu sensation clinging to your body. You’ve lived this scene before. You want to live it again, now and in the future. More and more. 

However something is different— your skin tingles, a buzzing sensation that travels from thigh to knee to hand, as if your body knows that something’s amiss. Minho’s touch perhaps, his palm casually resting upon your skin. 

You don’t know where this urge is coming from— to lay your head on his shoulder, to have him run his fingers through your hair. Even more, to lose yourself in the nutmeg and peppermint notes of his cologne, to disintegrate your worries into his hold and rest. 

“Would you mind if some of my friends came over?” Minho speaks up suddenly, cutting off your trailing train of thought. 

“Hm?” you hum absentmindedly before clearing your throat. “I mean, no, I don't mind. Who are they?”

“Han and Chan. They’ve been asking about you for a while now.” 

“Sure, this is your home.”

“It is yours too,” he says, gaze locking onto yours. His eyes are like a dark tapestry woven with threads of stardust- you’d never tire of looking into them, into the universe they seem to cradle within. 

Do you know that there is a galaxy inside you? You almost slip out, words in an urgent race against your mind. You barely stop them at the tip of your tongue, before smiling and peeling your eyes away from his, painfully, like scratching a burn scab long before it heals. 

…

“They’re here,” Minho announces as someone knocks on the door. 

“Okay,” you smile, a tad nervous. You’re not even sure what for. 

“If they annoy you too much tell me, I’ll kick them out,” he reassures, raising his brows playfully at you. 

“That's mean,” you giggle, albeit soothed by his words.

“They already love you,” he grabs your wrist, his thumb gently swiping over your pulse. “No need to be worried.” 

He drops it, as though a countdown is ingrained into his brain— never to touch you for more than ten seconds. Wouldn't it be selfish, pathetic even, to ask him for more? 

As Minho heads to open the door, you linger in the living room, idly fidgeting with the hem of your sweatshirt. It is a weird circumstance to greet strangers who know you— you may have brushed against their shoulders in an alley and not known who they were. 

Your thoughts dissolve as two men saunter into the living room, stopping in their tracks once their eyes land on you. They’re both beautiful– that is the first thing you note, closely followed by how relieved they seem to see you. Simultaneous soft sighs escape them, gentle smiles blooming across their faces. Tentatively, you return the gesture.                          

Minho takes the initiative to introduce them. “Yn. This is Chan,” he points to the man on the right, clad in black from head to toe, his smile grows wider, his eyes disappearing into moon crescents, two dimples peeking gleefully on his cheeks. 

“And Han,” the younger man, sporting a Supreme t-shirt despite the cold, beams at you, highlighting his round cheeks, and an adam-apple that weirdly resembles a heart. 

“I want to hug you but Minho put us on a strict no-touch notice because of your ribs,” Han speaks first, a small pout tugging at his lips as he glances at Minho, who simply rolls his eyes at his words. 

“You can never keep something for yourself,” Minho sighs, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. You stifle an amused giggle. 

“And she technically doesn’t remember us so it’d be weird for her to hug a stranger,” Chan notes, offering you an understanding smile. 

“Hey, I didn’t mean it in a creepy way! more of ‘Oh my god I’m so happy you’re alive, thank you for still being here, I was so worried about you’.”

“But were you worried?” you ask, tilting your head to the side.

“Of course, I-”

“Then why weren’t you at my bedside?” you question, an eyebrow raised, and Minho chuckles at your words. 

“W-what?” Han asks, glancing worriedly at the two men by his side. 

“Why weren’t you there sobbing when I woke up? It doesn’t look like you were worried,” you muse, throwing a wink to Minho who walks over to you.

“Right, you should’ve sent her a pic of you crying,” Minho adds, as you drape a hand on his shoulder. 

“A picture for every day you didn’t come see me,” you say solemnly as Han’s face grows paler by the second. 

“I-I didn’t, I really was worried, I swear, I kept asking Minho every day about you and…” he trails off as giddy smiles break out on your face and Minho’s before you both burst out laughing. 

“You guys are evil,” Han laments, as Chan pats his back in faux sympathy, a string of giggles falling from his full lips. 

“I’m sorry. we made you dinner to make up for it,” you grin and Minho looks at you pointedly. 

“He made you dinner,” you correct with a huff, and Minho smiles, satisfied, raising his brows smugly at his two friends. 

“Let’s choose a movie then!” Han claps, turning to the TV as Minho sidles by his side.

“I’ll set up the table,” Chan announces.

“I’ll help you,” you offer, and he nods, clearly grateful for your assistance.

You’re taking out four plates from the cupboard, Chan effortlessly bringing out the glasses, clearly familiar with the nooks and crannies of your home, when he suddenly speaks.

“How are you, Yn?” 

“Do you want the truth?” you ask back, and he grins. “Always.”

“I’m okay. Right now. I don’t know if I’ll still be tomorrow, you know? It all fluctuates so much.” 

“Mm, I understand,” he says, and something about his tone indicates that he isn’t saying this just to comfort you. “And that’s okay too. What you went through wasn’t easy, but good times will come again. They always do, you know, just like the sun always comes back after the rain.”

“The sun,” you repeat, as you glance out at the living room, where Minho is laughing at something Han just said, his head tipped back, bunny teeth peeking out. 

Perhaps the sun rays were by your side all along. 

“Thank you, Chan,” you beam at him. “Truly, for being worried about me too.”

“It's nothing to thank us for. We care about you, even though you don’t remember us,” he pouts, a hand on his heart in mock offense. 

“Hey, it’s not my fault I got amnesia!” you chuckle. 

"Excuses!" he drawls with a playful tone as he exits the kitchen, and you can't help but laugh quietly to yourself. You recognize what he's doing—making light of your accident to alleviate the weight on your heart.

The night blurs in your memory, but this time it is tinged with happiness and laughter. The three men recall fun stories of their time together, a seven-year bond rooted in love and care, albeit silently. You witnessed it in the details—Chan ensuring the food was on their plates first, Minho peeling shrimp for Han, the latter rubbing Chan’s arms when he complained of being cold.

Then you saw it directed towards you– how they put on the movie you wanted and watched in anticipation as you took the first bite of food, draped the fuzziest blanket around you, and rushed to your side simultaneously when you stumbled on your feet.

You were loved, although you didn’t know of it. The accident took away your memories but it didn’t plague theirs. 

“Thank you,” you beam at the two men as you walk them to the door. Opening your arms wide, you invite them in for a hug. Han embraces you first, a large smile on his face, and you gently beckon Chan in too. “Easy,” he whispers in Han's ears, careful not to put any pressure on your ribs. They both pat your back as you wrap an arm around their respective shoulders before leaning away.

“I’ll call you,” Minho bids them farewell, tipping his chin forward. They wave to him before finally leaving

You close the door, leaning against the auburn wood. Minho watches you, a soft smile playing on his face.

“Good?” he inquires, closing the distance between you.

“Mm, good,” you reply with a smile as he halts just an inch away. His intoxicating scent envelops you, permeating your bones and flowing through your veins like liquid warmth.

A torrent of memories floods your mind—images of you pressed against this same door. It is dark, a stark contrast from your first memory, a lone lunar beam of light slashing through the night. Minho’s hands grip your waist with a fevered urgency, while yours entwines around the nape of his neck, in passion, in hunger, almost as if you were deprived of him for so long.

You angle his mouth closer to yours, his lips pressing against your own repeatedly, a desperate attempt to brand the contours of his mouth into your soul. His hair, a cascade of midnight silk, tickles your fingers with an electric charge, like the crackling of the air before a storm. His tongue sweeps across your lower lip, seeking entrance, one you willingly surrender, white flag easily thrown to the ground. With every kiss, your bodies meld together, so much so that you could merge into the door, disappearing into the shadows as one.

“What's wrong?” Minho breaks your trance and you snap out of your reverie, a bright flush adorning your cheeks. 

“N-nothing,” you stammer. 

“You’re all red, do you have a fever?” he asks, coming closer, his hand pressed to your forehead. His woody scent envelops you once again– everything about him is enticing— his cologne, his lips on you, his fingertips dragging underneath your shirt, his eyes piercing yours, undressing you before his hands ever could.

“Yn?” he questions and you grab his jaw, angling his face away from you. 

“Stay like this, don’t look at me for a moment.”

“What?”

“Just… please,” you say and he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief, and yet he complies, his side profile now facing you.

How does he live with these memories each time he looks at you? 

You take in a deep breath, focusing on his silhouette. It might seem counterproductive to fixate on the same man consuming your thoughts, but how could you not when he was mere centimeters away, his eyes averted from yours?

You exhale softly as your gaze glides along the graceful curve of his neck, a solitary mole resting just beneath his sculpted jawline, leading the way to his plump lips, a cupid's bow delicately carved by the hands of the divine archer himself — crafted to be kissed, to be adored.

Your eyes trail up, tracing the high bridge of his nose, another mole perched at its pinnacle, sharp and smooth as if chiseled by a master sculptor, one who dedicated months to perfecting his artistry. His eyes are a mesmerizing brown, punctuated with long lashes that flutter like the delicate wings of an angel with each slow blink.

Minho sweeps aside strands of his hair, his fingertip delicately fluffing them upwards. It dawns on you, a sudden revelation of the necessity of art — to immortalize such beauty for generations to come.

You imagine admirers gazing upon Minho, sighing in sheer amazement, their hearts tightening with emotions that words struggle to encapsulate in the face of this epitome of beauty. Inside and out, you reflect, inside and out. 

“You told them not to drink around me, right?” you ask softly.

A blush grows from the base of Minho's neck to the tip of his ears, like roots expanding into the soil. He sighs before finally looking at you.

“I did. How’d you figure it out?” he wonders.

“I asked Han if he wanted a drink, but he refused so categorically that I assumed he didn't like alcohol. But most of his stories were of him drunk,” you chuckle quietly, and Minho shrugs sheepishly.

“We get loud when we drink. You don’t like that,” he says simply as if it’s a given, an absolute certainty that he’d do anything but make you uncomfortable.

He's beautiful, the light of his heart basking his face in a glow that even Michaelangelo's skillful hands wouldn’t be able to replicate.  

And he loves you. 

Till when? Your heart sounds out in alarm. Till when will he love you? What if the grains of sand slip away from the hourglass before you can reciprocate his love? Two stars colliding at disparate speeds, never converging into a singular entity, destined to erupt and scatter into cosmic dust.

How long do you have left? How many more days will he love you for? 

How many more days do you have to love him back? 

Day 30. 

Minho is sick. 

He tried his best to conceal it from you, as he came back from his dance studio, strands of his hair clinging to his forehead, a thin sheen of perspiration above his right eyebrow. Yet, his uncharacteristic silence betrayed him, as he quietly retreated into the shower, emerging with a solemn expression on his face. 

Seated on the bed, book long forgotten by your side, you bit your lip tentatively. “You're okay?” you inquired, perched on the edge, concern etched in your gaze.

“Mm, just tired,” Minho responded, his attempt at reassurance falling short as he laid down on the floor mattress. “Can you turn off the lights?” he softly requested. “Hurts my eyes.”

“Yeah, of course. Will you sleep now?”

“I think so.”

“Okay then. Good night, Minho,” you uttered gently, the veins in your heart tangled with worry. “Good night,” he whispered in return.

In the stillness of the night, you were roused by soft whimpers escaping Minho's lips. He writhed in apparent discomfort, his features contorted with an unseen anguish. His pupils moved furiously underneath the thin layer of his eyelids, betraying the tumultuous thoughts raging in his mind. 

You've never seen Minho so disrupted in his sleep, mouth slightly hung agape as if he struggled to breathe in the depths of his dreams. Your worry for him came back to haunt you ten times fold.

You lean over the bed, gently shaking his shoulders. “Minho, wake up.”

“No... no-no, don't-don't go,” he whispers, caught in the vines of a restless dream, seemingly wrapping around his mind, trapping him in. “Minho, come on wake up,” your pleas grow more insistent, but so do his. “Don't go, s-stay,” he implores, voice broken, prompting you to abandon your bed and join him on his mattress.

“Minho!” you call out, shaking him until his eyes finally flutter open. He gasps for air— as if inhaling his first breath on this earth, shooting upright, wide-eyed and disoriented. 

His gaze locks on yours and he instantly cradles your face in his sweaty hands, bringing you closer to him until your noses bump into one another. “You didn't go,” he whispers, and you shake your head. “I'm here.”

“Fuck,” he swears, releasing his hold on you and sinking back into the pillow. 

“Minho, what's wrong?” you ask softly, afraid you're treading on stormy waters.

“I… I don't know. I don't feel good,” He admits, fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt, as if the fabric morphed into a vise around his throat. A flush creeps up his neck, red dots splashing across his ivory skin. A droplet of sweat traces a slow path down his temple, as the white fabric clings uncomfortably to his warm skin.

“Do you have a fever?”you ask, placing your hand on his forehead, sensing an unusual heat radiating beneath your touch. “Minho, where is your thermometer?”

“Bedside drawer,” he breathes out.

Fetching the thermometer, you gently tug at his chin, opening his mouth to check his temperature. “Stay still”" you instruct, watching anxiously as the numbers climb steadily.

“40°C, fuck Minho, you have a really high fever,” you exclaim as he shuts his eyes, an unmistakable weariness claiming him, rendering him malleable, akin to the silk pillow he's resting on. 

“I feel dizzy,” he admits, burying his face into the covers. 

“You need to take a cold shower now,” you urge a sudden lump materializes in your throat at the sight of his suffering. 

“It's okay, I'll just sleep.”

“No, no, it's far from okay!” you almost exclaim, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as if you were peeling an onion—your own emotional layers unraveling, exposing the depth of your concern for Minho.

“Minho, please, you have a really high fever,” you plead, feeling an unexpected surge of panic at his unwillingness to cooperate.

“Yn… are you worried about me?”

“I am.”

“It feels nice. Please be worried about me more,” he mumbles, eyes still closed, eliciting an incredulous laugh from you. 

“You are so unbelievable, my god,” you pull him up and he doesn't resist, nearly stumbling on his feet.

“Okay?” you ask, running your hand through the nape of his neck.

“Mm,” he hums, burying his head in your shoulder. “Sleepy.”

“I know, you'll sleep after the shower,” you reassure softly, guiding him to the bathroom, his entire body weight leaning onto yours. There, you turn on the light, your right hand holding Minho's waist tightly as you lead him to settle atop the toilet.

“Can I take off your shirt?”

“Are you planning to undress me?” he smiles lazily, hooded eyes locked onto yours.

“No, I just-” you stammer, but he’s quick to cut you off.

“Because I don't mind.”

“I can't believe you're flirting with me while you're sick.”

“I always am, I can't help it,” he says, raising his hands as a silent signal for you to remove his shirt.

“You're awfully candid tonight,” you observe, seizing the edges of his shirt and drawing it over his head. His tongue glides across his lips, his gaze drawing tantalizingly slow over your form, and you clench his shirt tighter in your hands. He's the one with the fever, yet it's you who feels ablaze, flames of longing licking at your every sense.

“Come here,” you beckon, the icy water now flowing as you turn the knob. He reaches his hand out to you, and you grasp it, guiding him under the frigid cascade, soaking you both.

“C-cold,” he stutters, and you nod, your breath escaping in short, visible puffs.

“I-I know, just a little longer,” you reassure.

2 a.m. is a peculiar time to shower, the water droplets echoing against the tiled floor is the only sound that can be heard. That, and your labored breaths in tandem with the chilly embrace of the water filling your bones. The quiet makes way for other unspoken sentiments to surge forth, electric and palpable, heightened by the way Minho gazes at you through the liquid curtain, his hands clinging tightly to your arms for stability.

Droplets of water weave seamlessly through his hair, and an unexpected pang of jealousy grips you— you envy the liberty of those water beads as they thread through his locks, tracing the contours of his broad shoulders, nestling in the enticing recesses of his collarbones, without fearing the consequences of such acts. You don't dare look further down, wary that the rivulets on his skin may lead to your own undoing. Instead, you close your eyes thanking the stars that you weren’t wearing a white shirt, which would have turned translucent by now. You don’t even want to contemplate the consequences of such a premise.

After a few minutes, you turn off the water, stepping out of the shower and swiftly enveloping Minho in a towel.

“Go change, I have some spare clothes in here. Oh, and don't wear a top,” you instruct.

Minho chuckles quietly and you roll your eyes. “Shh. Make sure to dry your hair too.”

Taking your time in getting dressed, you peel off each wet layer, depositing them into the washing machine, before donning a spare pajama from a cabinet. You stroll to the kitchen to pour Minho a glass of water and retrieve medicine from the drawer, lingering at the counter long enough to ensure he'd be dressed by the time you return to the room.

You knock softly before opening the door, and the sight of Minho freezes you in your tracks. The room basks in warm, orange hues from the lamp's glow, playing upon Minho's skin and casting enticing shadows on the contours of his muscles—a masterpiece created by the skilled hands of light. His toned arms rest between his legs, back against the headboard, and an inexplicable urge to flee washes over you, your heart sinking to your knees in the face of his long-avoided vision of beauty.

You swallow the tumultuous thoughts raging within you before handing him his medicine, which he drinks diligently. Pressing your palm to his forehead, you're relieved to find a slight reduction in his temperature. “It will go down more once the medicine takes effect,” you assure.

“One of my students had a nasty cold. I think I got it from him,” he explains, and you nod, your hand lingering near his. Your fingers twitch as his pinky brushes against yours—akin to birds fluttering their wings in anticipation, awaiting, aching for a release from their cage, at last.

“I'm tired,” Minho sighs, closing his eyes. “Lay down,” you gently instruct, and he complies, resting his head on the pillow.

“It's cold,” he whines, swaying like a child throwing a bedtime tantrum. He's endearing, melting the frost that had gathered in your heart.

“You have a fever, silly,” you chuckle, pushing strands of his hair from his forehead, twirling them around. “Your hair's gotten longer,” you muse as you braid a tiny section of his bangs, only to undo it again.

“Can you play with my hair some more?” he requests softly.

“Of course,” you reply, threading your fingers through his locks, jet black as if all the stars in the sky collided, leaving behind nothing but a dark abyss.

“Please stay healthy, Min. Take care of yourself too.”

“But I like it more when you take care of me,” he pouts, before sighing shortly after. “I'll probably regret a lot of my words tomorrow, right?”

“Why is that?” 

“Because you don’t feel the same for me,” he confesses, leaving you silent, grappling with the echoes of his words. What do you feel for Minho?

The question jolts the breath from your windpipe violently, an unyielding force crashing against your lungs till the answer finds its footing on your tongue.

“Can I ask you something?” you finally speak, cringing at the sound of your voice disrupting the fragile quiet. 

“Anything.” 

“Where did your scar come from?” you inquire, gesturing towards the mark just below his belly button.

“I got surgery a long time ago. I’m kind of self-conscious about it,” he confesses, a bit shyly. 

“Really? But it’s beautiful, it looks like a strike of lightning,” you sincerely remark, coaxing a tender smile from Minho, unfolding like the gradual sunrises of autumn.

“This is exactly what you told me months ago.”

“Did I?”

“Mm, and then you traced it with your fingertips,” he grabs your hand, hovering it over his stomach. You can easily slip out of his grasp; you choose not to. 

“Like this?” you murmur, tracing his scar gently, fingertips grazing his skin like a lit fire, subtly enough not to scorch. His flesh tenses beneath your caress, muscles constricting as you navigate from right to left—a trajectory of dusty stars akin to the Milky Way, his skin soft to the touch, rippling beneath you with thinly veiled goosebumps.

“Yes,” he breathes out, his gaze wide, running furiously over your face. Yet, your attention lingers on his skin, shadows dancing across its surface, its honeyed hue a shade you wish to sear behind your eyelids. Your hands ascend and descend, mapping his body which blushes in response, as if his very being memorized your touch, imprinting your fingerprints onto its memory. You slide down his forearms, pausing over his fragile veins, seemingly offering you his life.

Silence envelops you, punctuated only by the weighty exhales escaping you both, for there are feelings that words cannot encapsulate, no matter how much human languages strive to, ultimately succumbing to the profundity of silence— the one language only souls comprehend.

Your hands ascend to his neck, thumb grazing the tender skin cradling his pulse. It resonates throughout your bones, echoing from his being to yours as if you’re harboring two lives within you.

“You… you could've kissed me over at the bridge,” you whisper, bringing to light the question that’s been lingering at the back of your mind. “Why didn't you?”

“I wanted you to kiss me because you wanted to. Not because you longed for our past or our future. I wanted you to want me in the present,” Minho explains, vulnerability seeping into his words, like honey melting into a warm cup of tea. 

“I’m scared,” you admit, your voice a fragile murmur, even as your head leans forward, hair cascading around Minho’s face, enclosing him in an intimate curtain. Minho gently grabs your hand and cradles it against his cheek, pressing a tender kiss to the center of your palm. 

“Right now. Do you want me?” he asks simply, offering himself openly to you. 

Do you want him?

After a momentary pause, you tentatively lean in, planting a gentle kiss upon his forehead. A resonant exhale escapes him, as your lips trace a path along his cheeks, leaving behind a trail of tiny kisses. Moving to the tender skin beneath his eyes— as easily bruised as your emotions—you bestow soft pecks to it as if seeking forgiveness for every tear he shed in your name.

His eyes remained closed, his trust evident in the surrender of his being to you. The answer to your internal query is written all over his features— the hushed exhale escaping his body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the tranquility nestled between his eyebrows. 

Yes. Yes, you do.

Your lips finally meet Minho’s in a delicate union, unmoving like rose petals folding onto one another. A surge of warmth emanates from the depths of your heart, coursing through your entire being like sunrays, submerging your soul in a tranquil white glow.

Leaning away ever so slightly, you press a tender kiss on his lower lip, enclosing it between your own. Your hand cradles his jaw, running gently through his damp strands. Your lips move against his slowly in a saccharine kiss, parting, only to meet again, in the same tenderness, perhaps a growing one as you become accustomed to the contours of his lips, to the languid moves of his mouth, following your rhythm. You were leading the dance, his lips mere puppets to your heart’s wishes. He didn't rush you, only allowed you to kiss him, whichever way you wanted. 

A pause, a moment suspended in time, your hands trembling as they rest upon his cheeks, his palm hovering above your own, offering a comforting press. The gesture reassures you in your curiosity that won’t be satiated, urging you to seal your lips on his with a tentative fervor. The world outside dissolves into a distant murmur, the seconds blending into a timeless run, you slamming the door before your worries protesting at the entrance of your mind. Tomorrow, you’ll find the answers. Tonight, you are kissing Minho.

As you press a final, lingering kiss to his velvety mouth, visions of you at peace flood your being. You see yourself sinking into the warm pool of your aunt’s country club, you see yourself walking on the beach with sand molding to the contours of your feet, you see yourself laying on the grass while observing sunrays weaving through the trees. And then, amidst your most serene memories, the act of pressing your lips to Minho stands out, the warmth of his mouth against yours eclipsing all other sensations.

Leaning away, you rest your forehead on his shoulder, and Minho's hands cradle your hair.

"Which lip balm do you use,” you giggle against his bare skin, relishing in the sweet taste of his lips.

“Yours.”

Day 31.

Minho’s nose is buried in the crook of your neck, his arm draped across the expanse of your stomach. He sinks further into you, binding himself to your body, anchoring his hold on your being. You are warm, your skin is soft to the touch and Minho doesn’t want to wake up from this tender dream, akin to plummeting into a sea of silky pillows, falling into a blanket of clouds. 

Except, he's awake, Minho realizes with a jolt. He blinks repeatedly, allowing the sunrays to stream to his eyes, his pupils dilating once they settle on you— so much their obsidian depths swallows the brown of his irises whole. You stir beneath his touch, making your cheek press upon the crown of his head. He's fully awake now, snatched from the velvet threads of his dreams made up of you, thrown into your arms once again after thirty-three days. 

A soft gasp escapes Minho’s lips, the air stolen from his lungs as if it was yours to claim. Echoes of the night replay in his mind— a fever, you tending him to me, a cold cascade of water, you tracing his scar, and then, the kiss.

You kissed him. A long shiver runs down his spine at the memory, a subtle twitch that stirs you from slumber once again. 

What does one kiss mean? The question dances wildly in Minho’s mind. More importantly, what do you want it to mean? 

Minho whines softly, closing his eyes for a few seconds, relishing in the fragrance of your hair, in the serenity that floods his being each time he’s around you. This was his most restful slumber in weeks, because you were near, his mind recognizing you, relaxing underneath your touch, drifting to a mindless sleep. 

Reluctantly, he untangles himself from you, a bittersweet departure from your arms. Work was calling his name. 

He prayed you’d call his too soon. 

….

You wake up to an empty bed, the only lingering trace of the night you spent being the tingling of your lips, as if aching to be kissed once again. You sigh, running a hand through your face. It was much easier to succumb to your heart’s wishes when it was late at night, when minho laid bare beneath your touch, so enticing in the gentlest of ways. When you were cradled by the moon’s soft glow, blanketed by the night’s cloak of darkness.

But it was light now, the sun was glaring as it streamed through the windows, exposing all the flawed ways of your mind.

What does one kiss mean? 

Nothing, if it wasn’t minho who you had kissed. If it wasn’t as tender as the meeting of your lips. 

The tomorrow you believed far quickly came, and you still beheld no answers. A few hours drifted by and you still knew nothing. What does this kiss mean? It's late afternoon and you’re strolling through the park nearby and you can't find an answer. The question rings in your mind as you sit by a bench, and you still don’t know.

“You seem preoccupied,” a voice quips up nearby and you startle. You hadn’t even noticed the man sitting by your side. His arms crossed before his chest, making impressive muscles constrict beneath the snug fabric of his black shirt, a cascade of fluffy black curls sat at the top of his head, a slight smirk etched on his lips.

“Pardon?”

“I said you seem preoccupied.”

“No i heard that,” you roll your eyes subtly, “do i know you?”

“No. You just look worried, that's all.”

“You really don’t know me?” you ask, a tad apprehensive, unsure if this was someone else your memory faulted you of. 

“No? Are you a celebrity of some sorts?” he inquires, tone much more cheerful, angling his body towards you.

“No, i’m not,” you giggle, before quieting down, an exhausted sigh escaping your body. “Is it that obvious then?”

“Yeah. I’m afraid so,” he pouts sympathetically, tone almost desolate and you huff, burying your face in your hands.

“Do you need help with something?” he offers after a while, his concern evident in the frown of his brows. You are comforted by the anonymity of talking to a stranger, you were but a blank canvas to him. You wouldn't see him again, anyways. 

“I feel lost. I can't seem to find the answers I'm looking for.”

“Maybe you’re just not asking the right questions.”

Oh. 

The guy claps his hands suddenly, long before you could dwell on his words and their implications

“I actually have a question for you!” 

“Ask away.”

“Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“No?” you chuckle, amusement dripping from your voice. “I don't know you?” 

“That's the point of a date.”

“Are you this bored?” you smile, arching an eyebrow at him. 

“I'm not bored. I just need to take my mind off things,” he shrugs, a slight smirk on his face. but you somehow see beyond it, right into the dull twinkle of his eyes. Maybe he also couldn’t find the answers he was looking for.

“So you're using me?” you fake outrage and he giggles, a high pitched sound that reverberates through the playground, making some kids nearby stare at you. You stifle a surprised laugh. 

“I'm not using you if I tell you upfront why I asked you out.”

“You are right, but i decline your kind offer,” you say solemnly and he nods, shaking his head in defeat.  

“Here is my card, in case you change your mind. Or need a little escape, call me,” he smiles, handing you a sleek black card before getting up and dusting his pants. “See you,” he says, as if he was sure you'd call him back. you stare in disbelief at his retreating figure, before glancing down at the card. 

Mr. Seo Changbin, you read, CEO of Gold’s Gym— the largest gym branch in the country.

Oh wow.

The amused smile lingers on your lips as you gaze ahead, lost in thought, contemplating the words spoken by Changbin. Maybe he was right; perhaps you are afraid of asking the right questions. Sucking in a deep breath, you decide to take the longer route home, eventually finding yourself outside your favorite bakery; the one you discovered on one of your many walks with Minho.

You go to open its door when an unexpected tingling at the back of your neck freezes you in your tracks. Your heart tightens in your chest as you turn around slowly, greeted by the sharp eyes of two familiar faces—Lia and Mari, your coworkers from before your accident. A tentative smile graces your lips, but the alarms of warning in your mind intensify. 

“Hey, yn!” 

“Hey, guys,” you greet back, taking a step backwards from them. 

“How have you been since… You know, your accident,” Lia pouts, but the question lacks sincerity, as if they were wearing masks before you, concealing their true intentions. You wonder which one they'll put on next.  

“Good, i’ve been good,” you force a smile, as their eyes move up and down your body, judgment dripping from their gaze.

“We wanted to come see you but we didn’t know if you were still at your listed address. Since your boyfriend lives there.”

“Oh, um, yeah, I still live there.”

“But didn’t you forget about him?” Lia feigns ignorance and you feel anxiety picking at your skin like relentless protruding needles. You want to run. 

“Lia that’s rude. I think he's her ex-boyfriend now," Mari chuckles, mockery palpable in her tone.

“Poor Minho, he must suffer a lot. Say hey to him from me,"Lia smiles, a chilling feline grin, her eyes narrowing down like a hawk peering at his prey. 

“I will.”

“We’ll see you at work. If you’re still able to keep up with the tasks,” they leave, ugly laughs echoing after them, and an urge to throw up overtakes you, the scent of pastries furthering your nausea. You hasten your steps toward your building.

You’re almost safe, almost, keys trembling in your hand as you struggle to enter your apartment, when the door adjacent to you opens. Your neighbors smile at you, although it is a gesture tinged with pity. You painfully smile back before slamming the door.

Yeart hammering in your chest, you press your back against the door, hand clawing at your throat. 

“Did you know she got into a car accident, and apparently she forgot her boyfriend?”

“Really? They were so cute though.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame.”

Their words suffocate you, stepping atop your lungs, syllables choking you from within. Is this what everything thought of you? Did they all pity you for the accident? For forgetting your lover? Did they see you as a burden, a parasite plaguing his life? Is this what Han and Chan saw when their eyes lingered on you? Is this what the librarian and florist whispered to each other each time you passed by? 

You didn’t know these people and yet they had their minds set on you, fixated storylines you couldn’t change, no matter how much you tried to rewrite them.

Your thoughts spiral like the unloosened screws of a ticking clock. Minho, the unanswered questions, the expectations of others—everything converges in the base of your mind, making your ears ring cacophonically within your skull.

You slide down the door, fingers trembling as you take out your phone then Changbin’s card from your pocket. You dial his number with haste. You needed a breather, to talk to someone who knew nothing of you, of who you were, of who you could be. 

“Hello?” his voice booms clearly through the phone.

“Changbin,” you breathe out. “Let's go on a date tomorrow.”

You were asleep when minho came back from work, your back turned towards him, soft exhales escaping your body. He didn't want to disturb you, so, he made sure to come earlier the next day, a strawberry and cream pastry in his hand that he knew you loved. Perhaps, you’d both talk about your kiss today, what it meant for you both. 

But, he doesn’t find you home. The only indication that you had just left was the lingering scent of your perfume, tickling his nose as if to mock him. Poor minho— the gardenia and honey tones spelled out in the air; the one fragrance you strictly reserve for dates. The one you used to put for him.

It looked like you found your answer after all. 

Day 33. 

“Did I keep you waiting?” 

“No, just in time,” you smile as Changbin pulls the chair in front of you, settling down with ease, a pang of confidence coloring his movements.

“How are you, today?” 

“Better, i think,” you falter under his scrutinizing gaze, your facade cracking. “I don't know, it’s all complicated,” you sigh and he nods, signaling for the waiter to take your drinks order. Chai latte for you, hot chocolate for him. 

“Spill, what’s preoccupying you?” he leans forward, arms crossed on the table. 

“You don’t even know my name,” you giggle, looking around at the warm interior. Cozy, faint music playing in the background, taupe chairs and amber tables, the smell of cinnamon rolls wafting through the air. Minho would like it here. 

“What's your name?”

“Yn.”

“Okay, Yn,” he emphasizes, a slight smirk on his face. “Spill.”

You shake your head as the waiter places down your drinks, wrapping your fingers around the heated cup, hoping the warmth would seep into your being through your palm lines. 

“Did you want to become a therapist by any chance?” you muse, arching an eyebrow at him.

“No, it’s just fixing others' problems helps me forget my own,” he winks and you snort at his honesty. it was admirable, how frank he was to a complete stranger. 

“Fine, it’s a long story, but basically…” you lick your lips, wondering what’s the best way to go on about this. “I got into a car accident and I lost my memory of the past year and so.”

Changbin winces at your words and you sigh. “Yeah. Except I was in a relationship before…”

“And you totally forgot about it?”

“I did. It hurt him a lot.” 

Changbin nods in understanding, taking a sip of his drink. He places his chin on his palm, carefully eyeing you. 

“But how does that make you feel?” 

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You're the one who lost your memories after all.” 

“I feel guilty for forgetting such a relationship.” 

“Why is that?”

“Because everyday i can see why I fell in love with him.”

“And you don't love him now?” 

“No,” you quickly say before pausing, shoulders dropping under the weight of your questioning. “I don't know. It's complicated.”

Changbin absentmindedly tugs at the charms of his bracelet, gaze flicking down to his wrist for a couple seconds, before locking on yours intently.  

“Describe him to me in one sentence.”

“You sound like my annoying French teacher,” you roll your eyes and he huffs, not offended in the least. “Look, I just want to know my competition.”

“Do you have a retort for everything?”

“What can I say? I'm witty and all that,” he shrugs confidently and you giggle before quieting down, muling over his question. “In a sentence…” you muse, fingers drumming along your cup. You don't even realize that a fond smile has unfolded on your lips, but Changbin does.

“He's the light rain that falls during spring, that makes the flower bloom and the smell of earth waft through the air. He brings things back to life, in a way.” 

Changbin smiles softly, tilting his head to the side. “Can you really not see it, or are you hiding the truth because you're scared?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Yn, he brought you back to life.” 

“I… no.” you pause, voice faltering. “Did he?” 

You see Minho pushing you on a wheelchair to your home. Minho protecting you from your mind. Minho washing your hair. Minho making you tea. Minho baring his soul to you. Minho helping you cook. Minho bringing the sea to you. Minho holding your hand. Minho comforting you before comforting himself. Minho forgiving you so you'd forgive yourself. Minho devastating himself so you'd piece your heart together. Minho, minho, minho.  

“Fuck, he did,” you whisper in realization, as a grand feeling swells in your heart suddenly, pushing your heart against the confines of your ribs. Flowers bloom into your entire body, petals melding into the coursing blood in your veins, butterflies fluttering their delicate wings across your chest, an effulgent light flooding in like the sun was spilled inside your very core. 

“Aren’t I so smart,” Changbin grins, satisfied at the awestruck expression on your face.

“What should I do?” you ask anxiously, gripping the edges of the table. 

“Go talk to him. Don't waste any more time.”

“You are right, oh my god,” you grab your purse, standing up abruptly. “I have to go, I…”

“It's okay, don't worry about me, I'm always the side chick,” he sighs in faux sadness and you giggle, swatting his shoulder. 

“Thank you so much. I'll repay you for this, I promise!” you start walking before stopping and turning around. 

“Oh and Changbin?”

“Yes?”

“You know what to do too. They made you that bracelet right? You haven't taken your eyes off of it.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, “those are my lines.”

“They are mine now too,” Laughter dances from your lips as you flee the café, taking off running to your home. It was near, merely a five-minute walk, nestled beside the playground where you encountered Changbin. Yet, urgency propels your steps, a fervent need to reach Minho swiftly. You had wasted thirty-three days, three million seconds that could’ve been spent with Minho. You don’t know how many more breaths the universe might extend, what if the stars tire of your reluctance and blow the winds of his love to another soul? You couldn’t stomach it. 

You climb up the stairs, chest heaving, breaths escaping your being in an erratic rhythm. you didn't even know what to say, your words remained unscripted, unsure of what confessions will spill forth when your eyes will meet Minho's. Yet, you're not worried. You know that whatever surfaces would be surging from your heart. 

What you don’t anticipate is for an uncharacteristic silence to find you at home, the scent of your perfume faintly wafting into the air. Minho sat in the living room, a bag by his side, his head downcast. The cats watching you from the corner of the room. 

A desert- dry sensation clings to your mouth, your tongue heavy as if crafted from lead. Your once vibrant excitement extinguishes, much like a match blown out, leaving only a lingering stench behind. 

“Minho?” 

“Yn,” he responds, eyes actively avoiding yours. “I was waiting for you. I... I'll be gone for a few days, a week at most.”

“What? Where to?”

“I already told my parents to come pick up the cats so you don't have to worry about feeding them. The fridge is stacked, so you-” his voice falters, “so don't worry about that either.”

“Minho... what-what are you saying?”

“I need time away, alone. I'm sorry, I tried, I tried so hard, Yn, but there is only so much I can take,” he whispers, and your heart shatters, tiny million pieces blown away by the wind.

“Minho, look at me,” you crouch before him, your hands resting on his knees. He still avoids your gaze.

“Minho, please,” you plead, and his eyes finally lock on yours. They glisten with tears, reflecting light akin to a celestial mirror.

“My heart hurts so much, but it's not your fault. Loving me once doesn't mean you'll love me again, and it's okay if you want to see other people. I just... I need to go somewhere, for a little. I need to make room for the pain because it's overwhelming me,” he confesses, his words eating at your insides. Was it too late? Have you lost him?

Minho gently takes away your hands before standing up. Fear overwhelms you as you watch his shoulders drop, his eyes glazing over the walls one last time. He will come back, but not here, not to you. He's bidding goodbye to the home and you because you killed his hope. He would leave everything behind but echoes of him that you'd be sentenced to hear alone, every day, every night.

“Minho,” you seize his wrist, “Minho, don't go.”

"Why?" he asks in the smallest voice you've heard from him. He's like a river cut off by a dam, yearning to run back home, to flow the way it used to, back to you. His heart rings loudly in his ears, pain overwhelming him, yet your touch calms him down. You are the knife and the medicine, the scorch and the cooling balm; you are everything at once.

“I'll make room in your heart, I'll take out all the bad weeds and start again. Just don't go.”

“What do you mean?” He's breathless, hope inflating in his heart, clouds parting to reveal the sun.

“I know things won't go back to the way they used to. I don't think I'll ever remember everything, but I want you to tell me,” there is a lump growing in your throat, but you push it away. Your voice breaks and cracks, yet you still speak. You need him to know.

“I want you to take me to all the places we've visited and then tell me how we fell in love in them. I want you to show me how I loved you,” your hand trails down his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, pulling him closer. “I want to learn you, what you like, what you hate, what makes you angry and what makes your heart flutter.”

“And I want to love you, not because you love me, but because my heart chose you," your hand travels up his arm, settling right down at his cheek. Your thumb swipes across his tender skin. “I choose you over and over again. It's you, Minho, it's always been you.”

“You want me again?” he says tentatively, eyes wide, pouring onto yours—your galaxy to love, to admire, to peer into for the rest of your life.

“I want you. Please don't go.”

���Swear it, please.”

Instead of ephemeral words, you softly press your lips to his, as you did last night. “I swear,” you whisper against his mouth. “I'm falling in love with you,” you peck his lips, hand snaking up against his neck, moving his mouth closer to yours. “Not falling,” you say, pressing your forehead to his, nuzzling his nose against your own. “I'm coming back. I'm coming home.”

“You came back to me,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

“I'll always do,” you promise, a grin overtaking your mouth. “Can you kiss me, Minho?”

Minho blinks in amazement, his eyes darting all over your face, each blink resembling the capture of an image. He's stitching this moment into his mind, the hue of your cheeks and the gleam in your eyes. He missed the way you're looking at him, the slight shiver running through you as he brushes his lips against your own, slowly savoring the feel of you so near. His hands find your jaw, cradling it softly, and then he kisses you, just like how he dreamed of doing for the past month.

The kiss is dizzying, far different from your previous one. You’re no longer grasping at elusive cigarette smoke, fleeting through the gaps between your fingers. You are no longer awaiting a beacon of remembrance to shine upon your mind. You have minho, and he's delicately nibbling your lower lip, eliciting a soft gasp from you. His tongue glides across the tingling expanse, soothing down the pang of hurt, asking you for more. You willingly give it to him in a fervent, whirlwind kiss, his hands finding solace in the curve of your waist, while yours become poets, weaving tales in his hair, tugging at his strands the way you've always yearned to. 

It is muscle memory, to press your body against his, to gasp into his mouth, to match the rhythm of his tongue, the way it circles tantalizingly around yours, the way you groan against his mouth, as he briefly parts from you, his giggle a sweet prelude to meeting your lips once again with increased fervor. His tongue weaves words against the roof of your mouth— I missed you, I want you, I love you.

Minho snakes his hand around your lower back, guiding you back until his legs find the couch. He eases you down, fingers hooked through the loop of your jeans. You kiss him again, a cadence as natural as breathing. Time unravels, rewinding to mend the fractures in his heart, erasing thirty-three days of heartbreak in mere seconds. You kiss him, again and again, thirty three days of longing exploding in your touch.  

“Are you crying?” you whisper against his lips, your thumbs delicately swiping across his damp cheeks. Unaware of his flowing tears, he closes his eyes, embarrassment coursing through him. “I'm here,” you reassure, peppering his face with kisses – from his ear to his nose, cheeks to the corner of his mouth. “I'm here, honey. I want you.”

“Only me?” he questions, tone fragile.

“Only you,” you kiss him again, tenderly, inhaling life through his lips. “Let me show you how much, hm?”

Your lips trace a path down his neck as you draw his shirt over his head. An ivory canvas, he is meant for you to mark, to touch however you desire. Your lips graze the scar on his stomach, kissing it in the way you've ached to do since two nights before.

You're sinking to your knees before him and yet you’re the one in control, rippling shivers all over his skin. He’s impatient, needing you close, so he quickly pulls you up, before hovering over you, his hands drawing everywhere, running wild across your body. He missed the plush feel of your skin, the contours of your body that he yearned to explore once again. He's a prisoner deprived of the light for so long, sinking into the sun once again. 

Minho's eyes never leave yours, as he touches you, moves in you in ways your soul seems to remember. He's gentle, removing strands of your hair out of your eyes, smoothing down the side of your head. All encompassing, drinking in your moans and groans, burning you up and soothing you all at once. “Good?” he asks, again and again, waiting to hear your affirmation before picking up speed again. Your answer is yes each time he asks, as he seals the void in you, the one he's been carefully stitching up for the past weeks. You store his glazed eyes and scrunched eyebrows in the gallery of your mind, you make room for new memories with Minho. 

You're overwhelming him, in the most beautiful ways, contradicting feelings coursing through him like a rain flood. He's aching yet relieved to have you beneath him, lost in waves of pleasure so he grabs your hand to anchor himself, entwining his fingers with yours, before bringing it to his mouth, placing a tender smile on your palm. You beam at him, trust reflecting in your eyes as you bare your being to him. It is a rare fortune to be chosen by you not once, but twice, he can't believe how lucky he is to have you as his guiding star.  

Your eyes never leave Minho’s, a shimmering pool mirroring your emotions. You see everything you feel in him—your better reflection. You had missed him, you were home now. “Miss you,” he whispers as he buries his face in your neck, seemingly hearing your thoughts. “Missed you so much,” he mumbles as your hands tangle in his hair, tears descending gently upon your cheeks, as they are on his. “Please don't leave me again.”

“I won't- I won't,” you promise, as light floods your vision, reaching the pinnacle of your pleasure. Colors burst before your eyes in a kaleidoscope, resembling shades of Minho— the warm brown of his eyes, the honeyed hue of his skin, the pink tint of his ears whenever he's embarrassed, the red of his lips, swollen as they kiss you. Tonight and tomorrow and every day after this one. 

Day 1.

In the hushed aftermath, your head rests upon Minho’s bare chest, listening to the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat, calming down as the seconds trickle by. His arm curls around your body protectively, keeping you from slipping off the couch. Your knuckles trail up and down his shoulders, soothing the places where you had scratched too hard. His hand seeks yours, delivering a kiss as tender as the silence enveloping you—quiet and secure. The forgotten past doesn't matter; you will rewrite your story once more.

“Do you think our designated stars are sad somewhere far away?”

“Why would they be?” 

“I don't know. Don't you think it's bittersweet how they missed out on so many days of loving one another?”

“I don't know, did they?” he muses, planting a tender kiss on your shoulder. “I think mine loved you all the same.” 

[seren1tyhaze]

Dive

PAIRING: doyoung x afab reader (ft djj)

WORD COUNT: 8.9k (got a bit carried away)

SUMMARY: your best friend drags you out to a club to be her wingwoman as she meets back up with a stunning stranger and you cross paths with the hottest man you've ever seen in an expensive suit and a cross around his neck

THANK YOU: @strwbrysunday you know how important you've been in getting this across the finish line and you're a literal angel. thank you so much <3 thank you to all my friends who watched me brainrot over this over the past week and inspiring me to keep working on it with your positive words.

WARNINGS: explicit smut, smoking, drinking, drug reference, profanity, heavy religious imagery in a sexual setting (and I mean HEAVY - so if this is going to bother you, this isn't the fic for you)

PLAYLIST: Dive by DoJaeJung, Angel by NCT 127

This was clearly inspired by the Doyoung D&G promo images with the rosary and the rest was history...

I can dive, I'm diving into you

—

Ouch. You pinch your eyelash with the curler as you lean in closer to the glassy mirror in your best friend’s bathroom. You knew you should be wearing your contacts but had forgotten them at home and you weren’t going to hear the end of it from her if that was the excuse you had for ditching her for the night.

It had been an exhausting week at work but somehow your adorable firecracker of a platonic soulmate since childhood had dragged you to her apartment as soon as the clock hit 5:00PM in the co-working space your small start-up you both worked for shared with some other local environmental companies.

She had shed off her casual work clothes hours before, now wearing a glittery black dress, hugging her hips tightly, strings ruched up the side revealing plenty of thigh, covered with nude fishnets. You envied her long and bouncy locks that flowed down her back, reaching up to touch your straight hair that never cooperated with the curling iron.

“What is it?” she asked from behind you, catching you staring. 

“Is there something on my dress?” she spun around, craning her head to look at her own ass in the mirror.

You started to speak before you realized she was showing off, dropping to the floor quickly before slowly standing again, shimmying her rear as she started to sway to the faint music coming from her living room.

You rolled your eyes with a huff, curling your other eye’s lashes and applying a few coats of mascara.

“Loosen up, angel,” she called back as she moved into her walk-in closet to select her shoes and handbag, using her pet name she had been calling you for years.

You finished up the rest of your makeup, cleaning up the little pile of products and packing them back neatly in their small pouch before examining yourself in the mirror. Your dark hair fell almost to your shoulders, eyes accentuated with smudged dark liner and cheekbones dusted with a bright coral blush that complimented the glossy color across your lips. You had let your best friend convince you to dress up more than you usually did, since she said the club you were going to tended to cater to a more affluent clientele. 

A skin tight white leather crop top pushed your breasts up nicely and you had even let your friend dust some shimmering glitter across them with a large puff earlier. You smoothed the matching devastatingly short skirt and adjusted the lace up black boots that travelled up your long legs and over your knee. You felt confident in the outfit and only slightly uneasy about the night ahead. Your friend had a tendency to scan for her prey of the night the minute you entered a venue and often spent the night locking lips with half the dance floor or as she did the weekend before, dancing on stage with the burlesque dancers at the late night speakeasy.

Standing next to her as you both did final checks in the mirror, you looked like the moonlight and sunlight, night and day, devil and angel. A dangerous pair for any person to come across in a crowded club with these outfits, to say the least. You giggled as your friend planted a glossy kiss to your ear before pushing your hair back into place, following her out of the spacious apartment.

“WOO!” shrieked your friend, waving long fingernails at a tall, slender man leaning against a private booth tucked near the DJ. A warm grin spread across his plush lips and you couldn’t help it when your heart jumped a little in your chest. How your friend always found the most attractive people to surround herself always surprised you (not like you were complaining).

She had met Jungwoo the weekend before at a rave and had gabbed your ear off about the attractive and rich heir to a fortune who lived downtown in the middle of all the weekend excitement and had fed her drinks all night long while clutching onto her hips as they danced. She hadn’t gone home with him but instead had gotten his number and promised to meet him out the next weekend. The next weekend was now and out the two of you were.

Jungwoo was absolutely stunning, bright white hair damp, long, and hanging around his cheeks and across his forehead. He wore a sheer blouse unbuttoned halfway, exposing much of his toned chest and loose grey slacks that didn’t leave much to the imagination when he moved.

Taking careful steps through the crowd, you followed your friend who now had her hand held close to the lips of another man, this one dressed in the remains of an expensive suit, tie loose and sloppy around his neck with several buttons of a crisp pale blue shirt undone. He had dark hair slicked back to reveal his stunning face and his eyes glittered when he pulled them to yours to greet you.

“This is Jaehyun, Jungwoo’s roommate!” she giggled, a glass of champagne somehow already in her hand as she grinned at Jaehyun’s tender kiss to the back of her hand.

“Lovely to meet you, girls,” Jaehyun spoke deep and smoothly, his voice like velvet.

You cleared your throat with a small smile and shifted your weight in the uncomfortable shoes, eyes darting past the two men in front of you to a third seated in the booth.

Goosebumps instantly dotted your bare arms as you raked your eyes over one of the most attractive men you had ever seen. Even seated, you could tell he was tall with a broad frame. His hand was stretched out across his knee, high end designer fabric covering every inch of his body.

As if in slow motion, he lifted his head from his phone, placing it next to him to take a long sip from the short glass of dark liquid on the table in front of him. He brought his dark eyes up to meet yours and as soon as you made contact you watched his adam’s apple move in his throat, gulping as he peeled his eyes down your body.

You moved a hand to grip your other forearm, suddenly self conscious but equally intrigued, cocking your head slightly to the side. Your vision blurred briefly and you cursed yourself for not remembering your contacts as your loss of focus refused to let you make out the expression on the mystery man’s face.

“Doie - don’t be rude, say hi!” Jungwoo slurred out, taking a strong hand to the small of your back to guide you into the booth and directly next to Doyoung.

“Hi,” he spoke, quiet and soft, pulling his hand off his knee to extend a handshake to you.

You chuckled lightly and let him shake your hand, taking a moment to inspect him further now that you could see him better.

The white collared shirt under his suit jacket was tight (almost too tight) with the top buttons straining against the fabric enclosure. He had a soft jaw and plump lips, dark hair styled in a way that was kept but still messy in a sexy way. When he smiled his eyes crinkled in the corners and his neutral facial expression was hard to read when he wasn’t speaking.

You let your eyes wander down to his tight pants before shaking your head, begging your dirty mind to control itself. It hadn’t been that long since you had hooked up with a stranger at a bar but long enough to let your mind wander within minutes of meeting this man.

Doyoung reached across the table to pour you a glass of champagne from the bottle in the ice bucket and as he did, you noticed a glimmering chain around his neck. As he leaned further, you saw the small black beads on the chain catching the light and much to your surprise, a cross slipped into view briefly.

You sucked in a deep inhale at the sight - this man was wearing a fucking rosary around his neck.

Flashes of hours kneeling for Easter vigil mass, heavy clouds of incense in your face as you held the thurible in a floor length white robe, dark smudges on your forehead, and getting tipsy off communion wine in the church basement with your cousins flew across your mind as you watched him laugh at something Jaehyun said.

Jungwoo swore loudly as he dripped tequila across the table, attempting to pour five shots evenly. You can’t pull your eyes away from Doyoung, watching as he bows his head lightly, wincing ever so slightly at the curse words.

Who the fuck is this guy?

Taking a long drink from your champagne glass and tossing back the shot that is handed to you, you reach into your bag and dig out a carton of cigarettes, pulling the ashtray at the center of the table closer to you.

Pulling a loose stick with your lips, you instinctively gesture towards Doyoung who moves a hand quickly to decline. You shrug and move a bit closer to Jungwoo who is taking a long drag from a neon green vape. He chuckles and tosses his hair from his eyes as he watches the interaction.

“You’re better off making moves on Jae,” he says to you on his exhale. He tosses an arm around your shoulder, nudging your bare shoulder lightly with his thumb, cocking his chin up to draw your attention to a smiley Jaehyun swaying to the music, slightly off beat, as your friend tries to get him to salsa dance with her.

“Doyoung is a little more on the conservative side. Doesn’t smoke, doesn’t like getting high, barely gets drunk, takes his grandma to church on Sundays, all that,” Jungwoo adds, giving you a softer smile as he pulls your eyes into contact with his.

You narrow your own eyes slightly, not sure if this is some twisted attempt at reverse psychology to push you even more into the arms of his friend. While he was wearing the rosary, that didn’t necessarily scream “priest”. He was in a high end club’s most desirable VIP booth, surrounded by drinks and other substances, with two party boys that looked like models.

“Well he’s taken every shot that’s been poured for him, so I don’t know about that ‘not getting drunk’ part,” you quip back, taking a long drag from your cigarette and blowing it behind you through tightly pursed lips, intentionally avoiding Doyoung’s direction.

“Yeah he and Jaehyun lost some big account today, I think he’s just blowing off some steam. Plus he owes me,” Jungwoo winks as punctuation, making it apparent that he wasn’t going to elaborate on the end of that statement.

Throughout the night you learn that Doyoung and Jaehyun work at a big investment bank, Jaehyun sharing a small apartment with Jungwoo in the middle of all the city nightlife, the three of them having known each other since they were kids. Doyoung seemed to have never moved on from their strong faith-based formative years, holding onto these ideals even years later and still an active member of his family’s church community. When he checks the time on his phone you see the smiling face of an older woman pushed up against his, assuming this to be the grandmother Jungwoo mentioned before.

He’s quiet as you chat with him, having to do most of the talking, but is kind and puts some of your nerves at ease even when your friend is off in the middle of the dance floor doing god knows what with god knows who.

Despite his reserved nature, you feel his eyes trained on your every move, following your lips and hands as you smoke another cigarette, the way you cross and uncross your legs with ease, despite the short skirt that has a tendency to ride up when you wiggle in your seat.

You watch him in the same way he watches you, the way his hair falls into his eyes every once and a while and instead of pushing it away with his hand, he shakes his head lightly, flicking his eyes up as if to chastise the loose strands. When he leans forward to take a sip of his drink or gesture to the waitress, his toned chest is exposed by the undone buttons on his shirt.

As much as you hate to admit it, his very presence is intoxicating and it’s affecting you more than you would like. Goosebumps crop up on your arms and you suddenly feel chilled in the warm room, sending a shiver down your spine.

A loud laugh draws your attention across the booth and you are met with the sight of your friend feverishly making out with Jaehyun, sandwiched between him and Jungwoo who has his hand up the hem of her dress, laughing into her neck.

You whip your head back towards Doyoung, giving an awkward smile to him before the chill sets over you again. You train your gaze downwards, examining the patterned carpet on the floor and the laces on your thigh high boots, picking at the edge of the string. You startle at the feeling of fabric being draped over your shoulders, looking up to see that Doyoung has placed his suit jacket around your shoulders.

He keeps his arm wrapped around your shoulder after placing the jacket and you suddenly feel an additional set of eyes on you as you lift up to meet Jaehyun’s gaze. He’s staring at your slightly spread legs, running a wicked tongue across his bottom lip as it quirks up into a wry smile.

You feel Doyoung’s grip around your shoulder tighten and turn to see his face close to yours, your heart jumping in your chest when you feel his breath across your cheek. You can’t bear to break eye contact with him, despite the fact that you desperately wish you could see Jaehyun’s reaction.

“You seemed cold,” he murmurs to you, lips almost brushing across your skin as he speaks close to your ear. He smells delicious, like soft musk but still clean and warm. You mentally take note to slyly ask Jungwoo what cologne his friend wears.

“Thank you,” is all you can muster and you resist the urge to drop your head to his shoulder, suddenly feeling lightheaded in the haze of alcohol, nicotine, and the blaring music of the club.

Doyoung reaches to the table for his glass, arm never leaving your shoulder, rolled shirt sleeve revealing a large and intricate cross tattoo on his forearm. At the sight of the ink you are jolted back to the reality that this man is not who you want him to be. You would normally have a hand palming his groin in the dim lights of the club, moaning into his mouth as he gripped the exposed skin on your back and whispered filthy strings of words into your ear.

But no, you had to bag the “Holier than Thou, Man of God.” Of course you did. This was not going to be good for your libido.

Your friend is suddenly dragging you by the hand to the bathroom, moving surprisingly fast in her towering heels.

“Sooooooooo, angel,” she whines from the single use stall she pulled you into after locking the door.

“What are you about to ask me to do?” you sigh, fixing your hair in the mirror as your friend hikes up her dress to pee.

“I’m going to take those two home with me,” she bluntly tells you, as you predicted.

“Yeah I think anyone in this club could have told me that,” you reply, rolling your eyes for dramatic effect. You didn’t really care what she did, only frustrated now that you had to make the hike home in an expensive taxi or wait for the unreliable train service.

“It’s fine, babe, I’ll get home okay,” you add, mustering the sweetest tone you can for your oldest friend. She deserved to blow off steam as much as next person, but you loved staying over at her luxury apartment on the weekends and the lazy mornings you spent sipping homemade cappuccinos and doing face masks.

“You’re the BESTTTT!” she nearly shouts, throwing her arms around you, damp hands fresh from washing them in the sink getting your skin wet. You laugh at her, congratulating her on getting her dick wet and ushering her out of the small room with a smack to her ass.

Back at the booth she wastes no time murmuring in the ears of the two eager men before they share a steamy three way kiss that results in Jungwoo tugging Jaehyun’s bottom lip with his teeth, looping an arm around his slim waist.

You are flicking through the various ride share apps on your phone to find the cheapest option, boots feeling uncomfortably tight on your feet after a long night. Last thing you want to do in this outfit is sit on an empty train and make the long walk uphill to your apartment complex once you arrive at your stop.

“What are you doing?” Doyoung asks, face suddenly close to yours again. There’s a level of concern in his eyes that you cannot read when he speaks to you.

“Calling for a car home, I don’t have the luxury of living right here downtown and had plans to crash at hers. I’m assuming my job doesn’t pay as well as yours and Jae’s,” you reply, only lifting your eyes up to meet his after you’ve spoken.

God his eyes are so pretty.

“Why don’t you stay at mine, I can sleep on the couch and my driver can take you home in the morning,” he offers, picking your phone out of your hand and locking the screen.

You open your mouth in protest before thinking more on the offer. His driver?! You would be crazy to turn him down and your friend is already halfway out the door headed towards what will undoubtedly be a night to remember.

You nod and quickly stand, holding a hand out for his, guiding him out the back door of the club. He’s making a call on his phone in a hushed tone while you slide your long coat over his blazer, still wrapped around your shoulders, Jungwoo giving you a  small smile and wiggle of his fingers as he slides into the back of a cab.

“I love you angellllll,” your friend slurs out dramatically, knowing she is far less drunk than she appears, playing up the antics for the men around her. Jaehyun has an arm tucked loosely around her waist, grinning ear to ear as the evening wind ruffles his dark hair.

You pull your friend in for a hug before she ducks into the car, latching her lips immediately onto Jungwoo’s exposed neck, drawing a chuckle from you on the street.

Jaehyun pauses before getting in the car, dipping down to whisper right along the shell of your ear.

“Angel is it? I don’t know about that,” he practically moans out, voice breathy and deep.

“Seemed like a devil in disguise in that tight little skirt, slutty legs spread in the club for our sweet and innocent Doie,” he laughs out, laying the degrading tone on thick. His finger is under your chin, tipping it up to force you to look at him. Your heart is pounding and flying around your chest and you can feel your cheeks burn.

Suddenly there’s a hand on your back and you don’t have to look to know that Doyoung has stepped up behind you.

Jaehyun gives you a wink, pushing past you to plant a lingering kiss on Doyoung’s cheek, before turning and disappearing into the car.

Before you can say anything to Doyoung, a black town car replaces the cab in its spot on the busy street, Doyoung moving quickly to open the door for you, helping you in with a strong hand. He closes the door softly before moving around to the street side to slide in next to you, greeting the driver in the front pleasantly.

Your head is spinning and you desperately hope there is time to have a cigarette before going upstairs to Doyoung’s apartment, feeling anxiety creeping up in your chest.

Despite the spacious backseat, Doyoung can’t help but be pressed up against you, twisting to look at you as you make small talk. You watch him when he answers questions you ask and listen to a small story about a frustrating email exchange at work, as if the two of you had known each other forever.

Distracted by the beaded chain around his neck again, you reach over, taking the cross gingerly in between your pointer and middle finger, inspecting it. The metal is cold in your hand and nostalgia rushes over you as you hold it in your hand.

“I dip it in holy water every morning to help keep me grounded and ask that God bless my daily travels,” he offers, smiling lightly at you as he explains in earnest. You know by now that he isn’t lying, that there would be no reason for him to.

“I kiss it as well, asking him to bless my words and calm my mind in a world filled with temptation,” he continues, unwilling to break the heavy eye contact.

He reaches out and draws your fingers to his lips, still holding the cross, and kisses the small metal piece, catching the tips of your fingers with soft lips. They are warm and plush, sending jolts of electricity through your hand and to your chest. You have to shift in your seat to calm the throbbing in your core. This gesture shouldn’t be turning you on this much and you know now that if there is a hell, you surely are destined to take residence there.

The tension in the car is thick as you shiver, hand moving before you have a chance to think, bringing his hand and yours to your own lips, copying his kiss. You watch him gulp and pull his bottom lip in between his teeth as his eyes darken at the sight of the cross pressed to your lips.

Oh you are so royally fucked.

You watch him as he absently brushes the back of his hand against your own in the elevator ride to the top floor of the sleek and modern building. He lets his fingers tangle with yours briefly before holding his hand out when the door starts to open, bringing the foyer of his apartment into view.

You let a gasp fall from your lips, taking in the beautiful space around you. Lights flick on as you reach down to release the knot holding the laces of your boots in place, stepping out of them carefully by steadying yourself on a small table adorned with realistic looking fake flowers. 

You try to keep your boots tidy under the coat rack, slipping off your coat and hanging it up and checking yourself in the small mirror above hooks of dangling keys. You notice one key with a Kuromi cover, smiling lightly and wondering if he had picked that out for himself. He will tell you one day that it is the key to his mailbox and one of the kids from his Sunday school class brought it in for him after they said Kuromi reminded them of Doyoung.

You follow him to the open living area which melts into the compact kitchen adorned with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. He’s opening the door to the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of water and pouring two glasses.

The apartment is warm but minimalistic in style, adorned with shades of cream, black and gray. You half expect to see a statue of Mary where the tv sits but there’s barely any religious imagery present. Maybe you had misjudged him after all.

As you close the space between you, you let his blazer slip from your shoulders, catching it and folding it gently in your hands, looking up towards him through your long lashes as you lean your hip against the cold edge of the counter, offering the blazer to him. Instead of taking the jacket from your hands, he leans forward, brushing a thumb across the high point of your cheek, examining your face.

“Let me know if there is anything I can get you to feel more at home, I want you to feel comfortable,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down briefly to your lips before meeting your gaze again.

You feel butterflies in your chest and despite how tired you know you should be, your heart is pounding and core tightening at how close he stands to you in his beautiful apartment, finally able to hear his voice clearly without the sounds of the club or busy streets of the city. It’s velvety smooth and even and his lips tip up at the edges when he finishes his kind statement. You want desperately to push up and capture them in yours but instead nod slowly, taking one of the glasses of water into your hand gulping down some of the cool liquid to try to quell the arousal building within you.

He brushes your skin with his thumb once more before taking the jacket from you, moving to his bedroom and returning moments later with a couple pillows and a large blanket, which he leaves on the plush couch.

“I don’t mind just sleeping out here,” you offer, scanning the comfortable looking room, knowing if you slept in the living room you might be able to more easily slip out unnoticed in the morning. You’ve never been one for tender mornings in bed with a one night stand and this situation shouldn’t be treated any different. You don’t believe he will actually make any move beyond what he has, despite the brief intimate moments you’ve shared since stepping out of the club.

“No no, I insist, take my bed. The bedding was just changed this morning,” he makes sure to note and you realize how rich this man truly must be if he avoided mentioning who exactly changed the sheets. Surely not Doyoung, with his thousands of dollars of clothing and jewelry on his body and on-call car service and penthouse suite.

He moves to open the door to the balcony, cool but comfortable night air flooding the living room as he hands you a vintage glass ashtray from the media cabinet.

“In case you need one before you go to sleep or in the night,” he offers, smiling lightly at the shocked look on your face.

“Jungwoo is always hanging around here when I’m working late and I’ve learned there is no way to stop people from doing something they want to do. I can’t change my friends and I wouldn’t want to. I have things in my life and things I have removed from my life but that is my own decision and shouldn’t affect my relationships with those I love,” he adds, fingers brushing over yours as they make contact to pass the item to you.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll take a shower quickly and then let you have the bedroom and bathroom. If you need it, there’s a toilet near the elevator and some fresh fruit in the fridge,” he continues, resisting the urge to brush his lips over your bare shoulder.

You thank him and take your purse out to the balcony, closing the door lightly behind you but making sure it latches fully. Stepping forward towards the edge of the balcony, you quickly light a cigarette and feel calm wash over you as you watch the flickering lights of the city skyline. The cool air feels good against your cheeks and exposed abdomen, needing desperately to cool down. You try (and fail) to not let your mind wander to thoughts of Doyoung in a steamy rainfall shower, steam gathering on glossy mirrors and hot water racing down toned biceps and thighs.

You burn through it eagerly, extinguishing the cigarette in the ashtray and disposing of it in a small bin attached to the balcony’s railing before heading back inside. Doyoung is emerging from his bedroom in a tight white tank top and loose grey sweatpants, bare feet padding across the plush throw rug.

“I left you some clothes and towels on the bed but help yourself to my closet if you need something warmer,” he mutters awkwardly, the power balance shifting slightly as he stands in front of you in casual clothes, black rosary still visible proudly on his chest.

“I’ll wash up, if that’s okay? If you’re tired and want to sleep, don’t worry about waiting for me to finish. I usually stay up pretty late and I’m sure you have early mornings,” you ramble, scratching at the back of your neck, suddenly feeling nervous.

“Take your time, I usually read for a while before bed,” he gestures to a small leather bound bible on the coffee table. Of course he does.

In the shower, you let the water rush over your body, using some of the small skincare bottles to wash your face and step out, massaging shower oil into your damp skin. You sigh into the warm white towel fresh off the warming rack and feel like you’re living in a dream. 

Can’t I just stay here forever?

You know your modest apartment waits for you a few miles away, with your own much smaller and dingier balcony where you like to sketch in your journal as you watch birds settle on the hanging flower baskets. You could never see yourself living full time in the cold of the city, barely any green space and garbage littering the streets.

Checking outside the bathroom door before emerging, the coast is clear as you step back into his spacious bedroom, lightly touching the clothing he had laid out for you. A large and faded t-shirt that appears to be from a church camp is folded neatly, logo barely still visible. 

A package of unopened cotton boxer briefs is next to the shirt, knowing he must have been panicking thinking of how he could offer you something to wear without it seeming creepy. But he seems to at least have experience taking care of stranded tipsy guests (even if they usually were just Jungwoo and someone he brought home from the bar). You pull the shirt over your head and it falls easily to your mid-thigh, skimming over your hardened nipples, painful as they make contact with the cool air from the vent.

Sliding on the boxers, you pull them up to your waist and the shirt covers them fully. You decide against the sweatpants next to the shirt, knowing they will be far too long for you and opt to instead roll on the pair of long socks before placing the pants back on the dresser. You listen at the door for any noise from the living room, hearing a light hum of music you can’t decipher. Pressing your ear closer you recognize Debussy floating through the air and let out a small smile.

You’re about to tuck yourself into the king sized bed before you realize you didn’t bring the water glass in with you. Scanning the room you don’t see one and silently curse yourself.

Sliding the door open quietly, you stick your head out tentatively, his head lifting to look at you. He looks absolutely adorable, bundled up in a fluffy blanket with his small bible in his lap and two scented candles lit on the table. The music did turn out to be Debussy, playing softly on a record player in the corner.

“Is the music too loud?” he asks, moving as if he is going to turn it off.

“No no, it’s beautiful,” you breathe out in reply, sliding out from the door and covering your chest with your arms, self conscious. This causes the hem of the shirt to hike up, exposing a sliver of the white briefs covering your lower half.

Doyoung’s eyes trail down your body, as if wanting to mentally capture this image of you dressed in his clothes, standing sheepishly in front of him. He pushes away thoughts of you on your knees in front of him, mouthing along his length through his sweatpants while he tugs on your silky and damp hair.

“I, um, just came out for some water,” you add, crossing to the counter to grab the glass before returning to stand awkwardly next to the couch.

“Why does she call you angel?” he asks suddenly, pulling an arm up on the back of the couch, unintentionally opening up a perfect sized space for you to sit next to him.

You smile lightly and cross to sit next to him, perching on the edge of the cushion so as to not crowd him.

“My middle name is Angelica,” you replied softly. “She just took a liking to the pet name many years ago.”

He smiles softly at this explanation, suddenly aware that his other hand has strayed to the hem of his shirt hanging loose on your torso.

“Angel…” he tries, feeling the way it sounds in his voice, feeling the way the words taste as they roll off his tongue. He smirks, pinching the fabric at the edge of the shirt in between his fingers and releasing it.

“Can I call you that?” he breathes out, suddenly closer to your face than you had realized.

“Only if you’re a good boy,” you manage to say in an even tone, hand finally reaching out to touch his chest, flattening against his toned pecs, metal beads digging into your palm.

His eyes flutter, brain clearly short circuiting at the mention of praise, fingers stilling but breathing becoming more labored.

“Can I please kiss you?” you ask, eyes and voice hopeful. You palm the cross on the rosary, holding it tightly in your hand as you pull gently, bringing yourself closer to Doyoung as your eyes slip shut, not waiting for a response.

His lips are on yours suddenly, pressing firmly as his hand flies to your lower back, pressing you flush against his chest, capturing your hand in between your bodies. You refuse to let go of the rosary, pulling tighter so he’s forced to deepen the kiss.

You feel his hand push up the back of the shirt and up your back, as if reaching for a bra to unhook and you can’t help but smile against his mouth, knowing he is far less innocent than he seems.

You rise up on your knees, moving your legs to straddle him on the couch, suddenly feeling something firm against your bare thigh. Your grin grows, nuzzling against his nose teasingly.

“Well, well, look who isn’t such a good boy after all,” you growl out, unable to control how horny you are for this man under you.

He pulls back, breaking the kiss, brows furrowed in confusion at your comment. Reaching between your bodies, he pulls out the leather bible and you flush deeply, unable to process that you thought it was his erection.

You avert your eyes from his and reach an arm up to touch the back of your neck nervously but his hand quickly grabs your wrist as he moves your hand to his lap, eyes darkening. When he pushes you down against his sweatpants you feel him harder than you thought he would be, not to mention way bigger than you thought he would be.

“Who said I was a good boy, angel?” he asked quietly, almost sounding annoyed with you. He grips your wrist tighter, pulling you closer to him before capturing your lips in his again.

It takes you a moment to respond, brain foggy at the name and sequence of events that had just unfolded. It doesn’t take you long to recover before slipping your tongue into his mouth hungrily, fingers lacing his hair to pull him desperately close.

You can’t help but move quickly with him, spreading your thighs to grind slow circles into his clothed crotch, biting back moans that bubble in your throat.

Hands are suddenly tugging at the hem of the shirt and you quickly oblige, peeling off the thin cotton and discarding it on the floor. Your chest is heaving as you sit on his lap in just the white boxer briefs, nipples erect and back arched to push your full chest towards him.

Doyoung hungrily licks his lips, eyes darting over your body as if there’s a time limit to the amount of time he has to look. You know you look good and he knew from the minute he saw you walk in the club that you would be on his lap, tits bouncing as he pressed up towards you with an experimental thrust. A small groan slides from his spit slicked lips as he slides one hand to your lower back and the other to cup your breast.

“Good God,” he lets out before lowering his mouth to your nipple, flicking eyes up to watch as you tumble contrasting curses from your plump lips.

He moves his mouth expertly, tongue laving over the sensitive skin, teeth dragging against your tight nipple. His hand on your lower back feels huge, fingers spread wide and gripping at your flesh as if you will disappear if he loosens his grip.

“Fuck me right here,” you can’t help but mutter into his open mouth after a particularly loud gasp flies from your mouth when you feel the tip of his dick collide with your clothed clit.

He pulls back, face seemingly questioning himself, eyes flicking over to the coffee table with the bible before turning upwards and fluttering shut.

You’re amazed at how this man can have his tit in your mouth one minute and then the next…

“Wait, are you praying?!” you ask in shock, stifling the laughter that builds in your throat.

He peeks at you with one eye open, smiling lightly before closing his eyes again and humming out an incoherent reply.

“Amen,” he says softly after a few more moments have passed.

You don’t have time to question him further when he quickly pulls his shirt over his head, revealing tight and toned abs and letting his broad chest crowd you in what could only be described as a bear hug. He pulls you close to his chest and you can feel his heartbeat reverberating through your own skin.

“The angel wants to get fucked, does she?” he growls as he digs his nails into your back.

“Let’s see what we can do about that,” he adds before flipping you over suddenly, standing above you as he slides the boxers down to your ankles, leaving your socks on.

He then moves his hands to his own waistband, removing the sweatpants and revealing his hard cock, already flushed and angry with arousal. As he bends down, the rosary dangles from his neck and you can’t help but stare.

You’re laid out, exposed in front of him as he drops to his knees, nudging your knees to widen in front of him. Your eyes are wide as you watch him, controlling and calculated. You have to ask yourself the same question you asked in the club, who the fuck was this guy?

“You asked if I was praying earlier,” he speaks quietly, long fingers dragging along your sensitive inner thigh, avoiding where you want him the most.

“I just like to thank God before I eat,” he adds, eyes glimmering with mischief as he pushes forward, tongue licking a long stripe along your dripping core, sending shockwaves throughout your body.

Your brain is swimming with pleasure at the filthy words he spoke and the way his mouth is warm against your burning core, tugging on his hair and slipping your hand down to his neck to stroke the shorter strands there to encourage him.

His muffled moans send vibrations along your folds and shivers up your spine as he laps at you like it’s the fucking last supper. You feel your release close, thighs pulling in to tighten around his face. He shoves them back open every time they threaten to suffocate him, giving him access to every inch of you. 

Your orgasm creeps up on you and you are suddenly screaming his name, head thrown back on the back of the couch, vision blinding white. Your eyes are clenched shut as you make every attempt to slow your heavy breathing.

You feel warm hands under your thighs and realize he's lifting you from the couch. You let your arms fall lazily around his shoulders and your head loll over as he carries you to the bedroom. Laying you gently on your back, he’s suddenly leaning over you, lips brushing against your jaw, peppering kisses up to your ear and leaving more along your hairline.

“That was heavenly,” you sigh out, feeling dizzy from the soft gestures.

He smiles and pushes your hair from your face, leaning down to kiss you. You can’t get enough of his lips, every time they press over yours you’re drawn in closer, wanting more and more.

“I know you said you wanted me to fuck you on the couch and as much as I would love to bend you over and slam into you, I want to see your face when I make you cream on my dick,” he says as if it’s the simplest and most normal sentence on the planet. He sits up, reaching a veiny hand over to the bedside table and into the shallow drawer there.

Your mouth hangs open for a moment until you feel his fingers on you again, rubbing slow circles on you, gathering your post orgasm arousal as he tears open a condom that is carefully dangling between his lips. He slicks up his rock hard erection with your wetness before sliding it on and running a hand through his now messy hair.

You adjust yourself on the bed, propping your knees up so he can crawl between them. He brings his face close to yours and drags his tongue lazily against your lower lip before pushing into you. 

Your eyes widen, feeling the stretch of his massive cock and the look on his face when he finally feels himself inside you. You swear he’s seen the second coming of Christ and you wish you could take a picture of the pure bliss.

It doesn’t take long for him to pick up a consistent pace of pumping in and out of you, grunts and moans falling from his lips and sounding almost like he’s singing. You almost come at the sight of the rosary dangling above you and moving with each thrust, knowing how fucking filthy this is but how it’s the most turned on you’ve been in ages.

He’s close and you don’t know how much longer you can last after him so you hook your legs around his back and push on him, silently begging to flip over. He obliges and lets you return to a similar position from the couch, him seated against the pillows and you rising up and down on his cock. This drives you insane, watching his face contort in pleasure as you ride him, letting his name fall over and over from your lips like your own prayer.

“Angel, I’m so close,” he moans, pulling you so tight against his chest that you feel yourself becoming one with him. You move together, moan together, and release in strangled cries together. 

You pull back, out of breath and struggling to compose yourself, glancing down at your chest to see an imprint of the cross in between swollen breasts. He has a hazy, happy grin across his face and you know you have to look the same in this moment.

He reaches out, brushing pads of his fingers across the imprint on your chest before dipping down to kiss at the cross mark.

You think your heart might explode in that very moment, suddenly visualizing the two of you holding hands in a church pew or leaning over candles, lighting them and bowing your heads in silence.

What the fuck has gotten into you?

–

Once he finishes tucking the plush duvet around your naked body, he lays flat on his back, exhaling in relaxation for what sounded like the first time that night, and humming out an almost angelic note.

“And on the seventh day, God looked at all he had made and rested from the work he had done,” Doyoung paraphrased, grinning at his joke, turning slightly to nuzzle his face into your bare shoulder.

Your cheeks warmed and eyes welled as you watched your dark haired lover drift off into sleep, arms laying beside him, not clinging to you as they had been all night, as if fully relaxed at how you seemingly fit so easily into his bed, into his life.

Checking the time, you unlock your phone, lower the brightness, and fire off a couple check-in texts to your friend and one to your mother asking if you completed your sacraments as a child and if she knows where your old prayer book is. You can’t believe this man is reigniting this in you and while you know no amount of good sex is going to fully pull you back into a toxic institution, you see the good in him and wonder if there is a world where the two of you can balance his faith and your more progressive views.

The next morning comes quicker than you had anticipated and light is streaming through the sheers covering the floor to ceiling windows. You glance over to see a still sleeping Doyoung, surprised once you check the time, knowing he probably starts his day at the office before you. You check your phone, frustrated at how quickly it will soon be the time when your boss is checking in to see if you are working from home or coming into the office. You send off a quick message to let them know you will have a late start to the day, working from your apartment.

They reply with a teasing tone, noting that you and your friend must have gotten into some fun the night prior since she had called off entirely. Oh boy, couldn’t wait to hear about that.

You roll over, seeing Doyoung’s eyes open in narrow slits, running a wet tongue over his dry lips.

“Morning star,” he smiles at you, placing that same strong hand on your lower back, pulling you gently closer to him.

“Hi,” you squeak out, giggling as his fingers brush lightly over your spine, tickling you.

“Can I make you coffee?” he asks, pressing lips softly to your temple, holding there and breathing in the scent of your hair, still faintly holding the floral notes from his shampoo.

“You don’t have morning prayers to get to?” you tease, pushing your lips towards his, silently asking for a kiss.

He pulls back, knitting his brows together and almost rolling his eyes.

“You really have me all wrong you know,” he starts, pushing strands of hair from your face before cupping your cheek gently, just as he had in the kitchen last night when you first got back.

“Yes, I have my beliefs and values that ground me. But that doesn’t mean I abstain from every activity marked as a sin in the bible,” he continued, his voice even and strong but not mean.

“I would have thought that would have been obvious by everything we did last night,” he added, pressing a little more firmly on your lower back, gliding his palm down to the slope of your ass to grasp at the skin there.

You gulp audibly, startled by his candid admission. Maybe you did have him all wrong. Maybe you judged this book by the cover too quickly, your opinion shadowed by everything you knew from the devout adults you had grown up around. You had always assumed it was black and white, no gray space between for any compromise.

All you could do in that moment, overcome with emotions you weren’t quite ready to acknowledge, was pull him close to you and connect your hips with his to slowly create friction between the two of you. You hungrily captured his lips in yours, sighing into him as his fingers gently tugged your hair and brought you to another two unholy orgasms.

–

You don’t bother showering again, opting to take Doyoung up on that ride home from his driver who arrives in less than fifteen minutes, despite the morning rush hour traffic. You’re soon stepping out onto the busy streets, feet back in those painful boots and coat wrapped tightly around you to cover your revealing outfit you still can’t believe you wore out all night (but probably have to thank for this entire encounter).

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t a lost little angel!” comes a familiar voice, catching you as you are approaching the black car, the driver standing with a neutral expression waiting to open the door for you.

“Jungwoo, hey,” you start, stepping towards the man who is placing his motorcycle helmet on the seat, arms crossed as he leans gently against the expensive bike. 

He’s wearing low rise leather pants with a matching belt adorned with a large silver buckle. His jacket is open and you can see a tight and cropped red shirt underneath, exposing much of his toned abs and navel. Nude color blocking rose up the sides of the shirt, covered in black crescent moons and he is wearing a stack of gold chains tight around his neck. A large green stone is dangling from his ear, moving as he speaks.

His hair is fluffy from the helmet, eyes smudged lightly with dark liner, most likely still from the night before. He looks absolutely unreal and your mind drifts to images of your friend pressed between him and the equally sexy Jaehyun in the crowded bar, stirring tension deep in your core.

“How was your night?” you add, stepping closer to him, curious about what your friend had gotten into.

“I’m sure just as sinful as yours by the look of this walk of shame,” he almost sneers back, tone unmatched to the large grin covering his face from his lips to his eyes. He grabs your phone from you and punches his number in, punctuating with a sultry wink. His eyes are flicking up and down your body dramatically, making overly exaggerated facial expressions at you.

You roll your eyes at him, turning to head to the car, wagging your fingers at him seductively and putting extra emphasis in your steps as you know he has his eyes glued to your ass as you slide into the car.

When Doyoung emerges from the shower with a towel tied low around his waist he finds Jungwoo lounging in his favorite chair in the living room, flipping through a magazine he had left here the week before. He looks up to make eye contact with Doyoung, smiling and letting a low whistle slide out his lips.

“Don’t start, Woo,” Doyoung warns curtly, pouring two cups of coffee and preparing them the way they both like.

“Look look, I have Father Lee on speed dial, he’s ready to do an emergency confession for you in the lobby of your office if you need it this morning,” he laughs back, closing the magazine and accepting the mug.

Doyoung rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to reach over and slap the back of Jungwoo’s head. He knows his friend is exaggerating but he had consequently already sent Mark a text that he would stop by the church later that day for a chat. Having one of your oldest friends be a priest that was known for being more on the liberal side had its perks.

“Just because I don’t flaunt my escapades all over town or upload racy videos into the shared DJJ iCloud album, doesn’t mean I’m not getting my dick wet,” he replies after a long sip of much needed coffee.

Jungwoo almost spits out his coffee at the vulgar comment, lips twisting up into a wicked smile as he watches his friend, relaxed and shirtless mid-morning on a work day.

“Something’s different about you, Kim Doyoung,” Jungwoo chuckles, tapping back into his conversation with Jaehyun from earlier, who had frantically texted him from the office that Doyoung hadn’t shown up for their morning meeting and wasn’t replying to any of his texts.

“I guess you could say I was touched by an angel,” Doyoung replies wickedly, winking at Jungwoo before standing and letting his towel fall from his hips, whipping it at leather clad knees before walking slowly back into the bedroom.

Jungwoo’s eyes widen and a smile spreads across his face, watching his friend’s toned ass move away from him and examining the red marks dotting his broad back.

“Oh Jaeeeeee, I have an idea for something that could be fun and oh so messy,” Jungwoo whispers into the phone as he steps out onto the balcony, lighting a blunt in the cool morning air, surrounded by the sounds of the bustling city below.

~~

Part Two TEASER + Tag List NOW LIVE HERE

[galedekarios]

references in gale's banter on selection

just thought i'd go through a few of his selection lines that stuck out to me.

Oh, what a tangled Weave we web!

reference to: "oh what a tangled web we weave" from a poem by sir walter scott:

"Like so very many of Shakespeare’s lasting observations, it’s  a beautifully expressed aphorism that uses just a few words to describe one life experience so perfectly, and is so true, that it enters into the English language and becomes one of its most powerful idioms – one that will last forever. ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave/When first we practice to deceive’ means that when you lie or act dishonestly you are initiating problems and a domino structure of complications which eventually run out of control. The quote is from Scott’s epic poem, Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field.  It’s an historical romance in verse, published in 1808."

the next one is is a play on a line from a shakespeare play:

All the world's my stage and you're just a player in it.

the play is titled 'as you like it' and the line appears in the following monologue:

"All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely Players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His Acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."

the next one appears to reference a poem:

The path less travelled.

i think this is in reference to the well-known poem by robert frost, 'the road not taken':

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

i think this ties in well with gale's wanderlust, his wish to explore different worlds and planes of existence.

the next one is a waterdhavian saying, which i already took a closer look at in one of my metas:

'Doth thy mirror crack?' Apparently not.

Early on in his learning of magic, the long-dead and locally famous first Lord (revered in Waterdeep for his role in establishing the city as it is today) Ahghairon said, "I am no wizard. I am a dabbler but no master of magic; it seems no mastery burns within me." These are famous words in Waterdeep, still known by most Waterdhavian children and all adults, and are oft referenced, as in the dry comment "No mastery blazing forth yet," or "A dabbler but no master, eh?" (Comments applied to skill trades and crafts, not just to magic use.) Tuezaera Hallowhand was a famous "lone cat" thief of Waterdeep in the 1200s DR who disappeared suddenly and is thought to have come to a violent end. She once robbed a wizard, and wrote this on his wall with a fingertip dipped in his favorite red wine: "I take things. You take freedom with your spells. Which of us is the greater thief?" This statement, too, is well remembered, and usually echoed in Waterdhavian speech by someone using the last (questioning) sentence of Tuezara's inscription.  Laeral, Lady Mage of Waterdeep for some years (when married to Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun), once publicly rebuked an overambitious wizard of the Watchful Order of Magists & Protectors thus: "If I hurl spells but think not of consequences, I am nothing. If I take lives but count not the cost, I am nothing. If I steal in the night and see not the faces of the devastated come morning, I am nothing. If I make decrees like a ruler but undertake none of the responsibilities of the throne, I am nothing. And if I do all these things in the name of the Watchful Order, I am less than nothing. Doth thy mirror crack?" These scornful words are remembered and used almost daily in Waterdeep even a century later, though almost never as the full quotation. Rather, someone will ask scornfully, "Doth thy mirror crack?" or "Hurl but think not?" or "Take but not count cost? Be nothing, then!" [source: waterdeep: dragon heist]

i think this one is very neat:

No gloom, all doom.

because i believe it references xan of evereska from baldur's gate 1. xan is infamous for his gloomy nature, often talking about his doom, the folly of the quest, etc. some of his lines include the following:

"We're all doomed! Run while we're still able." "If we are doomed to fail, could we at least do it faster?!" "Eh. Onward, to futility!" "We're all doomed." "Life is so hollow."

i think it's not so unlikely because gale also references other characters from the baldur's gate series and the forgotten realms overall, like elminster:

Elminster's not around, so might as well.

as well as halaster blackcloak, a mad mage residing in the undermountain in waterdeep:

I hope Halaster takes good care of Tara while I'm away.

as well as another character from the games, edwin odeisseron:

Don't make me go all Edwin Odesseiron on you.

edwin, a red wizard of thay, was a companion in baldur's gate 1 and 2.

No rest for the wicked, I see.

a common idiom that originated from the bible:

No rest for the wicked begins as no peace for the wicked in a 1425 rendering of the Old Testament’s Book of Isaiah 48:22: “The Lord God said, peace is not to wicked men.” The sentiment is echoed in Isaiah 57:20, which in the King James Version reads: “But the wicked are like the troubled sea, when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt.”

another bible reference may be:

Seek and you shall find me.

You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart. 

from jeremiah 29:13.

more folklore than an idiom, but:

The witching hour.

Origins. The phrase "witching hour" began at least as early as 1775, in the poem "Night, an Ode." by Rev. Matthew West, though its origins may go further back to 1535 when the Catholic Church prohibited activities during the 3:00 am and 4:00 am timeframe due to emerging fears about witchcraft in Europe.

i couldn't find the poem in full, but i was able to find the line that references the witching hour:

Along whose banks at Midnight’s witching hour (So wayward Fancy dreams) aerial Beings pour!

another shakespeare reference is:

What fools these mortals be.

which is a line from a midsummer's nights dream:

“Lord, what fools these mortals be!” is used in Act III, Scene 2 of A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare. The line is spoken by one of the best-loved characters in the play–Puck. Here is the short quote in which the line appears in:  Captain of our fairy band,  Helena is here at hand,  And the youth, mistook by me,  Pleading for a lover’s fee.  Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be! Puck speaks this line to his king, Oberon, while the two are watching the four Athenian main characters lost in the forest. These four lovers, whose love affairs are at the center of the play, are behaving in a way that Puck finds foolish and amusing. It should be noted that Puck bears some of the responsibility for the complicated relations between Helena, Demetrius, Hermia, and Lysander. 

this one is, i believe, a dnd reference most likely:

May the dice roll in my favour.

i did however have the immediate association with alea iacta est:

Alea iacta est ("The die is cast") is a variation of a Latin phrase attributed by Suetonius to Julius Caesar on 10 January 49 BCE, as he led his army across the Rubicon river in Northern Italy. With this step, he entered Italy at the head of his army in defiance of the Senate and began his long civil war against Pompey and the Optimates. The phrase, either in the original Latin or in translation, is used in many languages to indicate that events have passed a point of no return. It is now most commonly cited with the word order changed ("Alea iacta est") rather than in the original phrasing. The same event inspired another idiom with the same meaning, "crossing the Rubicon".

Gone with the Weave.

this is a reach, but my mind always went to 'gone with the wind' (margaret mitchell's novel and the 1939 movie adaptation of said novel) when i heard it in the game.

nothing in depth here, i just wanted you all to know that, haha. (((':

A rough tempest I will raise.

this may be another shakespeare reference and this time it's from 'the tempest':

Prospero: Now does my project gather to a head: My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time Goes upright with his carriage. How's the day? Ariel: On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord, You said our work should cease. Prospero: I did say so, When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit, How fares the king and's followers?

on researching, i found a reddit post that also discusses this likely reference.

the last one i want to end the post on is:

Your knight in magic armour.

this line is still bugged and thus i couldn't find it on the wiki, but it's an assist line for a romanced protag.

it obviously referenced the knight in shining armour:

The present-day use of this phrase is, of course, figurative and refers back to the notion of gallant knights saving fair maidens in distress. The reality behind that imagery is dubious and it no doubt owes much to the work of those Victorian novelists and painters who were captivated by the chivalrous ideal of an imagined court of Camelot. Nevertheless, knights did wear armour and that worn by royalty and the high nobility was highly polished and did in fact gleam and shine. The earliest reference that I’ve found to the phrase in print dates from the late 18th century – in The British journal The Monthly Review, 1790, in a poem called Amusement: A Poetical Essay, by Henry Pye: No more the knight, in shining armour dress’d Opposes to the pointed lance his breast

but it also features heavily in art, across various periods in time, like these from john william waterhouse:

i did see someone on reddit also discussing the creator and destroyer line in reference to various deities throughout history, which i thought was interesting as well.

anyhow, thank you for reading! i may have overlooked something so feel free to add your own thoughts!

🖤

[cozzzynook]

bumblebee was born with door wings.

It was known throughout Autobot territory that having anything relative to something deemed decepticon labeled you an automatic target. Sparkling or not, Autobots were not as kind as the history archives liked to preach and Bumblebee knew this first hand. Discrimination was a factor Bumblebee was far too familiar with seeing as he was born with door wings though he could not fly and had a ground alt mode. His alt mode was that of a car built for speed, he was no Blurr but he could rival him with how fast he could go. His driving was practically like flying once his wheels hit the pavement.

Not to mention his slender frame rivaled that of a seeker, he wasn’t bulky like a grounder something that put him at a disadvantage. He was not tall either, making him a prime target for bullying inside sparkling centers where all the other bitlets were not only bigger but stronger.

The overseers of the center always turned a blind optic to his bruises and dents. Not sparing him much energon since they didn’t like looking at his bright yellow painting even when his black paint came in albeit late since his frame was never given the proper nutrients to grow.

Bumblebee spent his early protoform days in a sparkling center since his creators were offlined when he was only days old after his emergence. His creators were not lucky. It was a high act of treason for an autobot or grounder to bond with a decepticon and seeker even if the war had ended, Autobots did not take lightly to such unions.

They were hurrying to get to neutral territory when they were caught and offlined. He was left to rust in his carriers gray arms before being found by a traveling bot who dumped him into a sparkling center out of pity for his fresh young spark.

Sometimes, on the nights his stomach rumbled and his door wings were once again scratched and painfully bent he wished the traveler had left him to gray. His young processor saw things weren’t going to get better at the sparkling center what with how all the others were adopted and he was sneered at.

So one night he snuck into the energon storage with a pouch and grabbed as much as he could before leaving. Life on the streets weren’t truly different for him save he was beaten less but he did have to hide more. Many bots gave him looks that made his tanks turn and he did his best to steer clear of them.

He knew to be weary of decepticons and autobots alike seeing first hand how cruel autobots could be all because he was born wrong and he knew from listening to the overseers how cruel decepticons could be. He wasn’t one to care for reading history or reading much in general but he did put it to use after teaching himself to read that decepticons had a point in their early cause. Even his young processor knew the counsel should’ve listened to their demands and reached an agreement. That could’ve spared so many pointless deaths including his creators.

He knew never to speak on his thoughts of course because Autobots spoke of being the side dedicated to peace while showing they had a pretty messed up definition of what peace actually was.

“Hey! Get lost!”

Scurrying without looking back Bumblebee was off.

His time running from bullies showed him he was fast and life on the streets taught him he could be even faster. Taking energon when absolutely necessary, speeding off with anti virus medicine that no bot would waste on him, dodging Elite guards who tried to take him into custody so he could be placed in a sparkling center. Yes, Bumblebee learned he was fast and he was good at utilizing it well into early adulthood when he would dodge servo happy mechs who wanted to touch him.

He wasn’t blind he knew his frame was desirable. He was small, lithe, and curvy in all the right places that left mechs and even a few femme’s glancing his way. At first it annoyed him. Being looked at meant trouble and as much as he wanted the attention, any attention when the days were crushingly lonely, he didn’t want to be damaged because someone thought they’d be doing him a favor ripping his door wings off again.

The first time it happened he was still a sparkling in the center. An overseer thought they’d be helping both of them by removing the ugly nuisance from his back. His memory file painfully kept the scene of him screaming energon murder as he laid in a puddle leaking his life away. The looks other overseers gave him after they were reattached made his circuits and mesh quiver even to this day.

“Look out!”

He turned his helm away from the mech sizing him up like a fresh cup of energon in the sunrise with his arms covering his chest plates when his optics met sight of large ship hovering in the sky before missile fire rained down on them.

He’d never run so fast in his life, transforming mid jump over a graying frame that laid on the ground before high tailing it. There was no stopping, no corner unfazed by the many mechs and femme’s running to safety and no where to go where the screams of innocent mechs and femmes alike were cut off only to be replaced as the process repeated over and over.

He was exhausted by the time the ship left. The autobot insignia was hidden but word later got out that it was an Autobot elite guard ship hunting down two notorious decepticons who were hiding in their area. They hadn’t managed to capture them so the group decided to take them by surprise and ambush them.

No apologies were given to the mechs and femmes permanently disabled by the elite guards reckless decision. Those that died were labeled a “tragic loss” and were used to encourage bots across Cybertron to join the Autobot forces to help snuff out any more decepticons so another incident like this would not be repeated.

Bumblebee remembers feeling an array of emotions when he heard the broadcast. He remembers seeing the poster with Ultra Magnus not long after covering the area and bots believing the nonsense. He seemed to be one of the only few bots who saw something wrong with all this besides those permanently disabled. Neither he nor they said anything though. It would be disastrous for them, the outcasts and undesirables, to speak out against it. They were already hated by their people for being different Bumblebee knew the mechs and femmes who were permanently damaged would no longer live the same life. They’d be just like him.

Tossed to the side.

Bumblebee suddenly felt like his body was covered in the life energon that splattered on him as he raced to survive the onslaught. He felt his optics sting and the late night break in to a “communal” cleaner did little to wash away the long gone life energon.

‘How can they live with themselves?’

Bumblebee asked himself this question countless times as he took what energon he could find before leaving the half destroyed town. It wouldn’t do him any good staying there not when bots were looking for another to take their anger out on. Many of those bots were joining the military and hoping to become Elite guards themselves. Bee figured it was misplaced hope and a need for safety.

He got it, he really did.

If he could blend in he would but sadly he can’t. He never could. Not with his yellow paint, door wings and femme like frame. He wasn’t proud of the way he learned to use these things to his advantage. It wasn’t always a guarantee he could scrounge up some energon without getting caught and since he was no longer a sparkling but a young grown mech, he needed to be careful not to get caught. He didn’t want to end up in a detention center.

It was hard at first. Truth be told it was still hard. Going to half decent but mostly seedy bars working for his keep to have a place to rest his head and keep energon in his tank. He wasn’t stupid. He knew this arrangement was not only dangerous but temporary. Eventually his luck would run out within twelve cycles and he’d be asked to accompany the bar owner to a more..private room. He always left immediately after saying he would meet them down there.

It led to him traveling a lot more than he originally planned but he eventually found some semblance of settling when he entered a camp full of seekers. There were a few grounders like himself, most likely mated to some of the seekers. He stayed clear of them seeing them just made him think of his creators and his processor just wandered to trying to remember what they looked like. So he tried to keep to himself no matter how lonely he was. He wanted to chat and get close with others, by nature he was a friendly mech and loved talking but he couldn’t risk doing so. Not here.

Not when he was always at risk of being hurt or…used.

“You know you don’t have to be so distant. It’s different here,” a grounder spoke, “a lot of seekers here just want to online peacefully and us grounders just want our sparklings and mates safe.”

The mech tried to put a servo on his shoulder but he flinched away, standing straight a moment later he looked anywhere but the mech and scurried off. His circuits were nervous for cycles after that encounter. Other grounders started coming to him trying to talk and soothe him as if he was a sparkling in distress and not a grown mech himself.

He didn’t need them trying to creator him, he was fine on his own and had been all his life cycle. They could frag off snd creator their own sparklings. It made him so irrationally angry every time they tried to take care of him he wasn’t some bitlet that needed consoling he was a grown mech that entered carrier heats alone when he was just a youngling living in a back alley. He was mech who survived the acid rains in the dumpsters or bots back garages in corners to not he seen. He’d kept himself from being interfaced by older bots all on his own.

He didn’t need them! He never needed a creator before when he was a lone sparkling and he doesn’t need one now as a grown mech.

“Aren’t jou a little young to be drinking jour sorrows away?”

“Aren’t you a little fragger for bothering someone in a corner who wants to be left alone?”

Okay so maybe he had a foul intake but he was justified, he wanted some peace to wallow in a bar he wouldn’t be asked to interface for shelter in for once he wanted to relax not this.

“Quite ze mouth on jou little one. Careful. Jou don’t seem ze type to be good in a mech on mech brawl,” the mech laughed in his foreign accent. He blamed the high grade in his systems for making him think it was attractive as well as warming his pleasure sensors.

“Yeah well you don’t know what kind of mech I am so frag off and leave me alone,” okay maybe he sounded bratty but he just wanted the mech to go away.

“Suite jourself,” the mech said with a slag eating grin in his vox. It made Bumblebee look up from his glass he was going to give this mech a piece of his processor until he looked at the mech. He was tall, really tall. Arms thicker than Bumblebee’s frame with a beautiful jawline that could offline. His face plate was a shade of blue he could never grow tired of seeing with the most beautiful red optics he’s ever seen. In the back of his processor he knew that meant this was a decepticon mech former or not he wasn’t sure. All he knew in that moment looking at the beige and purple painted mech was that he was beautiful, stunning, a sight he was truly gifted to behold.

His intake was left partially open as he swayed on unstable pedes before grabbing the counter to balance himself. His high grade filled helm was hard at work rushing energon south as his private plating grew hot. He could feel his valve growing wet with sticky energon slick and he knew he had to get out of there.

His seal was still in tact thankfully but with how attractive the mech before him was he wasn’t sure how much longer that would be the case.

“Oooh? Nothing to say hummel?”

Bumblebee made a face at the name worry tinting his blurred optics as he gazed at the mech but the small part of his processor that was logic won out and he stumbled away from the mech. Forcing himself to be silent as he left the bar. He didn’t have a place to call his yet but the archive building always had a room they let mechs and femmes stay in who had no hab suite. Here in the camps shanix wasn’t as big a need like in the capital and their surrounding cities and towns. He still had less than the average bot but he had enough for fuel and thats all he really cared about.

He was just at the archive back-way when he stumbled and lost his peding. The rush of cold air didn’t turn to concrete and vaguely he could feel two warm servo’s on his hips before being lifted into cool arms. The bot that helped him was a mech and a muscular yet lean one at that. They were quite large with how far from the he was but he didn’t feel in danger. He couldn’t identify what he felt if he was honest.

Warmth. Comfort. Soft. His body wasn’t on edge for the first time he knew of. He almost missed the word he’d been unfortunate to experience until now.

Safe.

The mech holding him managed to make him feel safe when he didn’t even know them.

“Jou shouldn’t get so full on high grade especially since jou aren’t a regular size for that kind of high grade.”

‘Oh great, this mech again,’ he would’ve rolled his optics if he didn’t have such a helm ache.

“Put me down,” his vox was half static as he tried to get feeling into his frame. His servo’s wouldn’t listen to his circuits telling them to move and his digits just hung limp against the mech’s chest plates. They were thick, made for flight and battle. Oh how his private plating pulsed with life at the mere thought.

‘Why did I have to like em big?’

“And vhere vould jou go hmm? Do jou live here? In this little hole?”

Bumblebee had enough energy to get upset at the incredulous tone but not much else. He wanted to helm butt the nosey mech but he didn’t have the energy to.

“Not your business, put me down,” his venting wasn’t even and his frame was getting hot from all the high grade and his valve’s pulsing. He hoped the bot couldn’t smell his arousal, he really wanted to frag the mech but at the same time he didn’t want to risk getting sparked or a virus.

“Are jou sure jou want me to put jou down? Jou could barely stand on those little stabilizers just a moment ago. Jou think jou can make it inside?”

“Why do you care? Just let me figure it out on my own and go away!”

He was starting to lose his temper and his valve was starting to leak with every passing word from that thick accent. He wanted the mech and he wanted to feel his spike breaching his valve and breaking his seal but there would be consequences to that and the mech was most likely a decepticon. He didn’t get a good look at his chassis to see the insignia but Bumblebee knew he had one.

“Feisty little mech hmm?”

“I’m not that little,” with a sudden burst of energy Bumblebee managed to catch the mech off guard as he twisted in his arms. Lifting a servo to try pushing the mech away he was restrained faster than he knew possible.

“Interesting, jou have quite ze speed I’ll give jou that hummel,” the mech smirked unfazed, “but i’m faster,” he said leaning in face plate to face plate.

“What do you want from me?”

“Jou are interesting.”

“I’m not a pleasurebot,” Bumblebee glared, servo transforming to a stinger canon. He has never offlined another bot in his life cycle but he was willing to blue screen one on their aft if he needed to.

“I never saw jou that way little one. I simply think jour interesting. I’ve never seen a bot with yellow paint or wings as beautiful as jours especially since jour a grounder.”

That made Bumblebee freeze.

No bot had ever called him interesting, let alone beautiful. And his door wings? Well, they were betraying his vulnerability full throttle as they flicked and postured nervously. A tint of eagerness in how they didn’t pull away from the mech’s direction. Vents stalling for a nanoclick as his optics focus on honesty and want in the red optics bewitching him.

“you..you think i’m…”

He couldn’t get the words out his vox couldn’t form a single sentence and his optics betrayed him by blurring with leaking fluid.

“i..don’t..,” that ache in his spark coiled something fierce vice grip holding him immobile in the mech’s arms. Those red optics didn’t pity him, didn’t judge him, understood him.

“I vant to, hummel,” the soft blow of air from his derma’s cooled the heat clouding Bumblebee’s fave plate, he wanted more, so much more. “I vant to touch jou, show jou just how beautiful jou are, hummel.”

His derma’s wisp the tip of his audial and brush against the mesh under his optic. Bumblebee could feel his horns flicking with excitement, with need, reacting to the mech’s touch. He wanted more. Needed more.

His own dermas inched forward, soft vent brushing blue mesh as his optic lids fluttered, chest plates pushing out slightly to touch the mech more. He could feel his breast mesh beneath his plating grow aroused perking to rub uncomfortably, begging to be set free. He wanted this mech to touch him, caress him, feel him.

He needed him.

Needed to be more than just a no bot fading to the background for safety. Hiding away from bots who wanted to lend him a helping servo, never staying in one place for long out of fear. His overseers still had him listed as a criminal for running away with a lot of energon and the seedy bar owners and patrons he served high grade to wanted his valve and seal for their own disgusting servos. He dodged plenty elite guards who identified him as a survivor to the raid on the small town he once inhabited.

Turns out they not only used it to make the towns people enlist and join the autobot ranks, they down played the damage truly dealt. Hid how many sparks were snuffed out and how many bots were permanently damaged because of their horrible decision. He had an idea of what they would do to convince him to keep it under wraps and he wanted no parts in that.

All the running, always watching his back, never able to trust another bot or simply talk the way he wished he could. He wanted nothing more than to be a normal bot.

His derma’s touch the beige helm before he realizes, thats all it takes for the mech holding him. He’s being carried somewhere, their entering the deepest parts of the seeker district where some of the more dangerous mechs cohabit. They come to a building he recognizes as a seekers home. Its built for a lone mech instead of a trine and Bumblebee feels his nerves jumble as they enter inside.

His optics wander the room as he notes paintings hanging from the walls beautiful and perfection in every sense of the word. Molding clay in a corner with stone and hammers opposite of them. Paint lies in a cupboard far too high for him to reach but perfect for the mech that shifts to cradle him.

A servo brushes so gently across the side of his helm holding his jaw to tilt making him look up. Red optics are warm to him now. A color he thinks he’ll forever find comfort in so long as its this bot before him.

He’s shy now, blue coating his cheeks as he feels the heavy thrum of the mechs spark pulsing through his thick armor. He’s a war build seeker that much he’s sure of, his gaze wanders to purple wings and his own flutter at the sight. He can’t help it. They’re so big, much bigger than his own and they could fly. He wished his could fly.

“Jour wings are beautiful,” the mech whispers, olfactory sensor rubbing his, asking for permission that Bumblebee grants him.

The kiss is slow, searching, fluid, curious.

They both want to get a feel on one another, servos tightening around his waist, his arms hooking behind the beige helm, stabilizers hooking beneath the large chassis. Digits digging into the armor when he feels dermas press harder onto his own. The mesh is soft, so soft he almost thinks the mech freshly glossed them just for him. He feels the cool shift in the mechs frame grow warmer, the shift in metallic wings fluttering. He’s vaguely aware of the bot taking him to the berth. High grade heightening his sensor nets while lowering his fire walls and the logic in his processor.

He feels his private plating heat unbearably, his vavle spasming as his back hits the soft sheets. His wings fan out in a desirable display and his hips rut against the mechs strong upper thigh that rests between his legs sinking into the berth. Their dermas part and Bumblebee flicks his optics open their hazy drunk on pleasure he knows will only grow. He’s faintly aware of the room growing in heat from their warming frames, the windows begin to fog and his olfactory senses pick up the scent of energon slick and transfluid, it makes him look down.

The mech on top of him has his private plating retracted he has no valve that much Bumblebee realizes as he feels his own private plating tremble in anticipation. But the sheer size of the mechs pink and blue energon transfluid dripping from his engorged black spike with bioluminescent purple and blue lines in an attractive pattern he wants has glossa to lick and trace, has Bumblebees private plating snap open.

He looks away in shame as his pathetic spike shows itself. It was small even for someone his size he wouldn’t dare compare it to the large spike about to penetrate him. He’s sniffling upset already thinking he’ll bd mocked, wings insecure as they shift awkwardly. But the beige and purple mech doesn’t allow him to wallow. Those purple wings flare to capture his attention and the icy digit lifts his head to look at him. Warmth enraptures those beautiful red optics and he’s left starstruck.

Subconsciously he’s aware of his servos lowering to hold both sides of the mechs face plate, feeling the seductive jawline move as the mech spoke. Words uncharacteristically gentle aimed his way has his chassis quivering and his optics warming in leaking fluid as he whimpers a pitiful whine at the mechs words.

“You’re a carrier,” the words are understanding, careful, sweet even, “I’m a sire mech, hummel,” Bumblebee didn’t really know much about sire mechs he only knew they couldn’t carry like he couldn’t sire. He had to know all that being a carrier entailed since he was one but he never bothered to learn much on sire mechs. He knew regular bots could spark bond and have a piece of their sparks enter-twine before going into a protoform. That was the norm of how their species reproduced.

And then there was mechs like him and the mech above him, the rarities who carry in tanks and sired through transfluid and spark energy. A carrier mech could end up sparked through either just like a sire mech could spark a mech using their chamber or transfluid. Usually the two types only stuck to each other simply because they were not only made for each other but because it was easier that way since a regular bot would have complications with either types and regular bots didn’t like their types.

“I’m sorry,” it felt right to say for some reason. He didn’t live a life he wished for others to experience and so he assumed the other mech may not have as well.

“No need to apologize hummel, jou did nothing vrong. Especially since i get to have jou here,” the mech said lowering himself. That thick spike dragging up his thigh plate made his hips rut and a smirk pulled at blue dermas that leaned back down to kiss him. His servo’s moved on their own, holding the mech’s chassis and shoulder optics fluttering as his neck moved back, wings spread out in invitation across the sheets. Hips lifting to rub his vavle along the thick pulsing spike that dripped transfluid onto his seal. He felt his valve squeeze on nothing and his grip tightened as he whimpered. He wanted the mech, this mech right here who showed him kindness he often ran from and rejected.

With him it felt different.

Maybe it was the high grade working in his systems, maybe it was the unparalleled beauty he saw in the mech that left him wanting more or maybe it was the growing heat that curled and coiled in his tanks with each touch the mech provided him. He didn’t know and he didn’t bother to care.

He just knew one thing.

“Spike..please,” he moaned as their dermas disconnected with a trail of liquid connecting them. His shinning optics took in the purple tint of the mechs cheeks and he felt his cheeks warm. This large mech was blushing at the sight of him, spike pulsing and hard because of him. Dripping the most delicious smelling transfluid onto his valve, all because of him.

“Hummel, are jou sure?”

“Yes, please,” Bumblebee pleaded, “break my seal, claim me as yours, mecha.”

There was a softness, a vulnerability that was partially guarded as the mechs red optics glossed slightly. A cool vent that left Bumblebee reaching up to pull the other closer as his wings lowered to stretch then spread in invitation. A shy invitation with shy confidence on Bumblebee’s part as he initiated a soft tender shaky kiss. Feeling the mech return it, servo holding the space between his door wings as he tightened his stabilizers around the mechs waist.

Digits slide to his valve and wait, he pushes his valve closer to them and the mech answers his welcoming. Sliding the first clawed digit inside breaking his seal. He gasps in pure pleasure, the mech inhaling his air sliding another inside. Twirling his digits slowly, working the fresh folds open careful to stretch them as slick pink fluid coated black clawed servos.

The dermas kissing his neck cables nipped at them, those sharp denta sent a shiver down his spine. Oh how he wanted the mech to open his chassis and bite his teat glands. He knew he couldn’t lactate but he wanted the mech to have the fun of trying.

‘Maybe I really do have carrier protocols that can be activated.’ That in itself was a surprise since he swore to himself he would never have a sparkling let alone take care of one.

The sudden pulse from his valve had his optics clouding for a nanoclick. The mech holding him had slipped two more digits inside him, he was impossibly tender and completely thorough in his stroking. He felt that sudden spike in heat wracking his frame his vents were starting to have trouble cooling him down and the mech bit a little harder when he felt the small bot in his arms gasp in pleasure.

“Jou like that? Hmm? Have I found jour bundle of nerves?”

Those skilled claws lightly rubbed the bundle of nerves and he felt his interior node spasm at the soft touch. His helm fell back at the sudden rush of slick fluid that spilled into the mechs servo. He felt his legs lock tighter and his hips rutting in tune with the mechs digits his own digits dug deep into the mechs shoulders scrapping his paint. And before Bumblebee could apologize he saw the mechs wings twitch in appreciation.

“M..mecha..your wings..so..ahhhh so beautiful,” he moaned. He wanted to touch them but he knew he didn’t like others touching his door wings so he was sure a full seeker wouldn’t want a mixed bot touching his own and Bumblebee didn’t think he’d be granted permission.

“Blitzwing.”

“H-huh?”

“My name, mein designation is Blitzwing,” the mech now known as Blitzwing, soothed to him pressing his helm against Bumblebees.

“Blitzwing,” the name felt like honey and riches on his tongue. He found himself repeating the designation over and over again as his valve pumped out slick fluid into the mechs servo. He felt so good all over, his frame may be hot and his tank felt like it would burst at any moment spilling out of his valve but he could care less. He chased that feeling, the unwinding bundle that threatened to swallow him whole as he bucked his hips keeping pace with the beautiful mech before him.

With the beautiful mech named Blitzwing that his optics just couldn’t get enough of.

“Hummel,” his groan was delicious to his audials but when Blitzwing pulled his servo back he whined like he was struck with pain.

“I vant to be inside jou, mein hummel, please,” Blitzwing moaned lining his spike to Bumblebee’s valve, “can I?”

When Bumblebee didn’t say anything Blitzwing pulled back ready to comfort him but Bumblebee’s stabilizers pushing him forward so the head of his spike could slip inside him, well it made them both groan.

Bumblebee’s valve was hot and soft to the touch, sucking Blitzwings spike in like a bot starved of the most delectable energon known in bot history. Blitzwing almost overloaded from just being inside the yellow minibot alone. He tried inching in slowly, allow the yellow mini time to adjust to his impressive thick spike but the yellow bug kept squirming and wiggling trying to lower himself onto his spike that he bit his lower derma to keep from thrusting in all the way.

“Careful zere hummel. Jou may rip something,” Blitzwing groaned as he almost bottomed out, servo curling around the yellow mini’s curvy mesh waist while the other held the back of his helm, Blitzwing watched the curve of his spike imprint the mechs tank. He felt his spike twitch spurting hot transfluid inside the soft meshy organ. Oh it felt so good to be fully sheathed inside the mech nestled in his arms.

His beautiful face plate was overwhelmed with pleasure, chassis heaving heavy vent after heavy vent in an attempt to cool his frame. His hips were twitching on his spike, he could see how full the mech was, so full of him that he almost slipped and overloaded inside him.

He didn’t want to hurt the neutral bot especially since he just broke his seal but he did want to make this experience last as long as possible. He wanted the mech in his servo’s to be ruined for anybot else. He didn’t want the yellow beauty to find comfort or solace in another mech or femme like this that wasn’t him.

He carefully cradled the mech closer pressing them chassis to chassis, covered spark plating to covered spark plating. Sucking what little air the mech had blowing cool air into his intake as he slid his glossa inside. Roaming every inch of the mechs intake when he felt servo’s hold his wings.

The sensation made him jolt in surprise.

This mechs touch, his small servo’s, his tiny digits, feeling along the expanse of his purple wings, feeling along the groves and long healed dents was the best feeling he’s ever had in his entire life cycle.

Blitzwing was so embarrassed his cheeks shaded complete purple as he moaned loudly, overloading inside the little mech who arched his back strut with impossible flexibility. Overloading slick fluid that sloshed and poured free from his valve mixing with the transfluid that dripped onto the sheets and down Blitzwings thigh plating and knee guards.

Blitzwing felt his wings fan out and stand at attention the same as the mech in his servo’s. He felt his processor crash for a moment, frame shaking making him thrust into the yellow mini’s interior node pushing him to overload once more. The sweet cries and moans coming from the bots leaking intake had his spike pulsing at attention and he couldn’t help himself.

Half crashed with his processor fritzing from overheat and excessive pleasure he kept thrusting. Their spark chambers thrumming at racing pace as they tried to connect through both the bots armor. Blitzwing had never been very vocal when interfacing save for some dirty talk but he couldn’t stop the moans and pleasurable grunts and growls as he soaked up all the attention his hummel was giving not just him but his wings as they interfaced.

He hadn’t touched the bots wings since one did not touch a carriers wings without permission. One didn’t touch a sire’s wings either but for this mini without question he made an exception.

“Ah, Hummel,” he felt his vox growl dangerously as another overload was building in his tank and circuits. Even with his ice powers blowing cool air on the air from his pistons it wasn’t enough. The windows were steaming, the berth was creaking as the metal frame slammed the wall making an ignored crack. The bot in his servo’s was trying to meet the rhythm of his thrusts his valve puffy and stretched out. Pink and blue energon surrounding it as their fluids mixed.

Blitzwing tried to stifle a particularly loud roar by biting so hard into his derma he spilled energon. His spike impaled the yellow mini’s interior node over and over until his little hummel overloaded with a loud cry of static before dragging his digits down Blitzwings wing plating then frizzing out into recharge. His frame spasmed in reaction to Blitzwing overloading inside him completely unaware of the large mech falling to his side and crashing into recharge after roaring loudly accidentally turning his thrusters on and firing his pistons. The last thing Blitzwing saw flashing across his hud before completely falling into recharge was that his processor had activated the protocol every seeker dreamed of.

His conjunx programming.

Neither mechs were in a rush to online their optics. Blitzwing was heading back into recharge when he felt his frame being moved and his arms lose the small warmth he’d held throughout the night cycle. His processor immediately took that as a threat making his optics shoot open and his pistons blare to life ready to shoot when a startled yelp rung in his processor and a flash of yellow dropped down.

He was quick to catch the little mech before he hit the floor boards, yanking him back into his arms as his optics searched for the threat. When he saw the berth room was empty save for the two of them he tilted his helm confused.

“Hummel, are jou okay?”

The mech in his arms was shocked and looked pretty shaken up though Blitzwing noted how he leaned into his touch instead of scurrying off.

“Hummel?”

“Stop calling me hummel. Thats not my designation.”

“Then what is jour designation? Jou never did tell me.”

“…”

The yellow mini looked down, face plate shifting to a hurt expression. His optics weren’t entirely clear but it couldn’t have been from the high grade. His scans showed the two worked it from his system during their first shared overload. His protocols were buzzing with worry something that didn’t show on his face plate but it did in his optics and closed off em field.

Deciding he would wait for an answer Blitzwing pulled the mech back onto the berth careful of sore stabilizers and his exposed puffy valve coated in dry transfluid and energon slick. He laid his back strut and wings comfortably against his pillows making sure the mech was comfortable against his frame. He could see the paint transfer on his thigh platings and he couldn’t stop the grin on his dermas. Em field motioning towards the mini he felt him jump slightly at the outside emotions.

“..b-127.”

His vox was low, it didn’t feel right to Blitzwing. The mech before him seemed so closed off, so closed in on himself Blitzwing was surprised he hadn’t split a circuit open. He knew the little mech had fire in him, that much was proven when he told him off at the bar. Sure he could be shy but that felt right. This. This didn’t feel right. And a designation like B-127? Thats not a real designation but he knows the yellow mech isn’t lying to him. So why was that his designation?

“B-127? Thats quite an odd designation for jour creators to give jou little one.”

“My creators offlined when I was few cycles old. Thats why I never got more than a sparkling center entrance number.”

The little mechs voice was cold and wavering as he spoke no matter how much he tried to stifle it Blitzwing could feel his em field howl with distrust, pain, longing, loneliness and sorrow at such a deep spark clenching grief. He was sure he could guess the type of life cycle the younger mech was tormented with. He knew well what the door wings on his back meant. The moved acted as wings a seeker would emerge with. He didn’t have the build of a grounder yet he knew the mech couldn’t fly. Sure he had a chassis like a grounder with no cockpit but that was it.

His plating was not build like that of a battling autobot but that of a civilian. He thankfully wasn’t framed like a pleasure bot but his natural frame was close. The yellow plating on his stabilizers went just above his mid thigh. His pedes had a small sharp strut to them and his hip plating wasn’t protective in the slightest. His tanks had no protective save for his back strut, the black plating blended well accentuating his curves that led to his yellow door wings with black opening handles just below the low window. His neck cables and upper chassis were exposed but his spark casing and tit glands were covered thankfully. His helm covering was yellow with black covering his audials, he had a strip of black on his forehead. That made Blitzwing get a good look at the antenna that drooped with his bots sad expression.

One he didn’t like.

“Jou didn’t vant to designste jourself?”

“Why should i? Not like anybots gonna call me by it.”

“It can be for jou, yellow one.”

“Yeah? And what if I don’t care about having a designation?”

‘Stubborn,’ Blitzwing smirked shaking his helm, “i think jou do but if jou prefer to be stubborn about ze subject.” Suddenly Bumblebee was pressed against the sheets. Blitzwing spike impaling him making the lingering transfluids sloshing inside of him slide back into his tank. His optics automatically began to haze as he felt some of the large mechs weight pressing him down. He never knew he would have a pleasure pressing kink, it was something he hoped the mech wouldn’t realize.

“Vhat if I told jou I wanted something to call jou other than the assigned numbers ze center gave jou. Hm?? Vhat if I vanted something better to moan during our bouts of interfacing? Hm? Ve seekers like spoiling our mates. Especially by calling their designations so every bot who hears us vill know who ve belong to.”

Blitzwing said the words as smooth as an icicle. They chilled him to his core in a way he felt heating his tanks just like the previous night cycle.

Bumblebee couldn’t stop his back strut from arching into Blitzwings middle plating. His valve slicking hot energon makes it so much easier for Blitzwing to pull his hips back, the tip of his spike keeping Bumblebee��s valve stretched as he made some excess transfluid and energon slick that was mixed together squelch out before it was roughly shoved back inside with a powerful thrust.

“Jou deserve a beautiful designation to be moaned in jour ear, hummel.”

Bumblebee felt his tank lurch and his gestation pouch pulse. His optics blew wide open at the assault on his interior node, lifting his helm to open his intake and defy the mech laying so comfortably on top of him. Ready to argue his words and the use of his magnificent spike that cured a loneliness he’d never known could be filled until Blitzwing slammed into his interior node again knocking his processor and vox off from their regulatory.

The mech was stroking him so deep with every pump of his spike he was sure that Blitzwing intended to hit the bundle of nerves on his interior node and even try slamming into his gestation pouch. The realization made his valve pour and he couldn’t stop his digits from digging into the sheets and as he arched perfectly into Blitzwings frame.

Blitzwing glued his frame to the mech below him and he decided his mating code picked a perfect mech to match him with. Sure he wished he could’ve gotten to know the mech better and know him for longer but if his sweet expressions were anything to go by. The parting of his dermas as static slipped free, his seductive arch, his tight little valve that went from relaxed to squeezing his spike like his spark depended on it. Every hum and whine and mewl the mech let out was far too great for Blitzwing not to bend down and steal for himself like the selfish decepticon he is.

“Nnnnnghhhhh,” those noises were music to his audial’s. He couldn’t help but open his optics as he kissed the yellow mech depely. Seeing up close for the first time just how beautiful the mech truly was. Smooth faceplate, glossy painted frame streaked with his colors with an incredible curvy femme like frame to pede. Not to mention his door wings.

Blitzwing wouldn’t ever admit it to any other mech besides himself and maybe his hummel but those wings. He watched those wings twitch with sad expression for literal joors as the yellow mini sat at the bar drinking high grade too high for his frame. He wouldn’t have really cared if it were another mech about to be taken advantage of. He knew what the bar tender wanted by giving the mech such expensive and tasteful energon. He hadn’t really cared until he saw just who the mech was.

He didn’t really know the yellow mini outside of seeing him in passing since the day he wandered into town. Expression blank in a way all too familiar to his own when he used to live in the slums of Vos and Kaon. He didn’t have a place to call his habsuite or home after his creators offlined. Surviving the cruel streets taught him to look as reserved and untouchable as possible. The same look he once adorned on his face plates was the same look the yellow mini possessed as he went about in town.

Many tried to chat with him and each bot was either rudely turned down or he shut them down before walking off. He intrigued Blitzwing at first, his first time seeing the mech up close he was in his alt mode. Seeming to be cruising to himself far from the other grounders who drove and raced together. Blitzwing admired the sleek form of his alt mode as he watched him from afar, vox stolen along with his helm and processor as he watched the yellow mini transformer into root mode and walk into the archive halls. Those wings were pressed flat on his backside, one that Blitzwing admired in its entirety as he took in the shapely aft and slender stabilizers that had small heel struts holding casual grace as they moved.

He was star speckled when he first saw the mini and ever since he kept his optic out for him. Engine almost purring at every chance he got to see his cute little aft bent over as his door wings bobbed in natural response. He never saw himself having a thing for grounders but seeing as the mech was half grounder half seeker he was more than happy to make an exception.

So seeing the little mech all alone at the bar with a cup of high grade had been a gift he was not willing to pass up. No he wasn’t intending to berth him but it had been a welcome surprise. One he wasn’t planning on letting him escape from. He was more than happy to show his hummel all the ways in which they were perfect together and if it meant starting in the berth room, well.

He was more than happy to get their odd courtship started.

“Ah! Ah! Bli-bLitzWing!”

“Go ahead, hummel,” Blitzwing moaned into his intake, glossa sliding inside for a quick taste before slipping out, “I vant to hear all of jou. Every whimper, every gasp, every whine. Go ahead. Don’t hold back on me. Mein hummel,” Blitzwing uttered against his derma, ever the secret romance bot, “Let me feel jour body tremble.”

With a loud optic leaking static cry Bumblebee felt Blitzwing intwine their digits together digging them further into the sheets. Spilling energon transfluid into his valve and gestation pouch as it burst from the round tip of his spike. Filling his tank quite noticeably as it swelled from not only his humungous spike imprint but the sparkling fluid drenching him with pure creation.

He couldn’t focus his helm circuits long enough to know the difference between opening his intake or his valve that greedily drank as if his life energon was at stake. His vox wouldn’t shut off no matter how many times he tried to shut his dermas and even the sheets he bit down onto wasn’t enough to stop the pleasured cry as he felt his spark chamber crack open.

The loud rumbling hum of a spark too big to be his own roared behind him. The life wisping energy of his untouched passionate bright orange spark began to mix in perfect harmony with Blitzwing’s mixed hues of orange and red life spark energy.

The two were in awe and amazed by the colors of each other’s spark. Blitzwing would never have guessed the yellow mini had orange in his spark or that a spark could even be pure white. Sure he’s heard rumors but thats all he thought they were rumors. He never believed they were real for a second but oh how wrong he was.

‘Orange and red? I’ve read about them but I never thought I’d see a bot with one! I never thought I’d see another bots spark at all to be fair…’

While Bumblebee and Blitzwing were awed at the sight of the other mechs spark and the beauty of the others essence, they completely forgot one important detail.

Their sparks were merging, becoming one, permanently.

The two mechs had just permanently sparkbonded becoming conjunx and hadn’t even realized until their energies permanently sat mixed within one another and their chassis closed.

Lingering specks of energy littered the air around them. Their digits were seemingly glued as their frames melted to each others. Bumblebee could feel a wave of warmth, confusion, anxiety and the ache of an overthinking helm in the pit of his tank and in the center of his spark. He reached his em field to touch it and the feelings burst to life with a static screech of his vox as he felt electricity burst from within.

His valve clenched tight around Blitzwing’s spike making the mech shake. The larger had been caught off guard by the sudden pleasure and discomfort around his spike after such an optic stopping moment as seeing a spark as ethereal as this. By Primus his spark put the stars in their galaxy to shame. He felt the symphony of the arts floating around his helm and the urge to paint his now bondeds spark on canvas to capture its immortal flawless core.

He needed to build. To craft such perfection and magnificence for him to behold in and out of the mechs presence. No not the mech presence, his mechs presence.

The yellow mini was not just a random bot anymore. This yellow mini who captured his attention without lifting a digit or batting an optic his way, was his.

And oh how he feared the clicks passing by as his affections and fascination grew.

“Hummel,” the mech groaned, digits clasping the mini’s tighter as he felt jolts of electricity stinging the core of his spark with fear and a warmth he’s never been granted past his creators.

“We bonded, oh frag we bonded!”

The panic settled in the form of his vox and vision glitching with fuzz and discolored sights in leaking optics that burned to his over working vents. He could not bring himself to release Blitzwing but he couldn’t bring himself to stop panicking.

“I just bonded with a mech I don’t even know! Oh frag I’m bonded to another mech! Frag, frag, frag!”

“Are jou telling me jou think jour on the femme attraction hummel?”

The raised taunting mesh above red optics annoyed Bumblebee especially when he could see the smugness in Blitzwing’s expression, though he refused to acknowledge his wanting to comfort the hidden fear in the mech he grasped tighter. Not because he cared and felt grounded by something as simple as touch but because he was running on high energy. He could delude himself for the moment he’s earned it.

“Shut up,” his cheek curves were blue with energon as he avoided that stiff smile, “its not that! I just don’t know you.”

“Vell ve are bonded now. Ve have all eternity to get to know ze other,” Blitzwing said accepting this a bit easier. Sure he was freaking out on the inside but the use of slightly taunting humor and the pretty mech still beneath him helped soothe him. That and he was still pumping transfluid inside the little mini and he was becoming fascinated with just how vast their size difference was. He was aware of his war frame being bigger than most bots but he was so used to being around other war frames and average sized bots, even heavy weight bots, that he forgot about mini bots.

Though now that he looks at the mech he didn’t exactly fit the form type of a mini bot. His protoform was far too…curvy and slim in all the right places to be a mini. They tended to be more round and husky, stout really. They were perfectly balanced in being heavy weight to make up for their short stature. But this mech didn’t seem to be stout he wasn’t even chunky. He was just curvy and little too slim.

‘Kind of like…oh..’

It would be best not to ask.

‘It vould be best to wait until ve’re more familiar vith each other to talk on our pasts..though I’m sure I know ze answer..’

“This isn’t funny! Do you have any idea what we’ve done?!”

“Jes.”

“And you’re just okay with that?!”

“Jes.”

“You don’t even know me!”

“I know enough. I can spot a good bot from a bad bot and jou hummel are a good bot.”

That seemed to catch his hummel’s attention. He was glad for it, he could feel a warmth grow within their new bond. A pulse of something thready beginning to form and a piece of his spark broke as he pin pointed the emotion.

Praise.

His hummel had never received praise or appreciation before.

‘Just how lonely a mech are jou?’

His mating protocols were kicking into gear. His instincts spurred him to drown his bonded in the affection he so desperately craved and needed. There was an abundance of emotions and needs both physical and mental that his hummel had never received. So many things were empty inside his hummels spark and the memories he barely touched were only of pain and basic mecha comforts. The care and affection he sent out through their bond was unrecognizable to the mini and as he heard sniffling and felt shoulder struts shake at the rush of overwhelm and confusion from below, he did his best to guide and comfort him through the torrent of unfamiliarity.

It took two joors to get his hummel to calm and by then the lunar and solar cycles events and lack of fuel had caught up to them. He wanted to get his hummel and himself fuel but the tiny servo resting on his spinal column had stopped him. He knew then he was weak for the pretty mecha as he curled around him drifting into recharge. Though the nights recharge was not helpful.

After bonding bots will share certain memories through the conjunx endurea bonding and it will be completely solidified. There would be no surgery or repairs capable of undoing their bond. Blitzwing had felt it necessary to share this information with his hummel who responded by loosely holding his larger servo between their chassis. He didn’t meet his optics but closing them and leaning close did more than words could.

Currently he was shifting an optic back at his hummel, he was sitting at the large table watching nothing but that was to he expected. Blitzwing knew a lot of memories of his life cycle were not at all pleasant. Sure he had moments where things were good but the horrors he committed in the great war. The painful experiment he went through granting him the ability and title Triple changer along with his long held curiosity and attraction to his hummel before meeting faceplate to faceplate.

Well, he was surprised his hummel was still sitting at the table let alone being in the same home as him.

Blitzwing attributed that to shock and his hummels own personal history of horrid memories one would like to leave behind. The care center, the casualties autobots often caused, the discrimination and hatred he faced on cycle to cycle basis. Coupled with having to survive on the streets while hiding carrier status at such a young age. Blitzwing stood no chance in shutting down his protective protocols the moment they onlined from recharge.

The yellow mech was finally able to escape his arms because his tank rumbled for fuel which is why they were in the fuel room. If his protocols deemed it safe Blitzwing would be carrying his mini mech around as he prepared them an early cycle fuel. He learned from the mini’s memories he never received a home fueling. Blitzwing was determined to change that no matter how much it tugged at his spark to think he could still taste his carriers home fueling while his mini mech has not.

“Here, jou need fuel and zis vill help jou feel better.”

“Thanks,” his vox was tired, empty, overwhelmed with his past and Blitzwings important memories through the ages he’s been functioning. They both were having a tough time seeing what the other had been put through. Neither were having any luck being separate for more than a nanoclick—another side effect of their newly formed bond.

Blitzwing hadn’t been making their morning fuel for a full eight clicks before both their frames grew cold from lack of touching the other. He was sitting beside his hummel before he’d realized he still needed to make his own morning fuel.

“Here,” he felt something warm press against his dermas, smooth liquid tickles the sensitive mesh filling his olfactory senses making his tanks growl. He opened his dermas allowing the energon blend to slide down his pharynx with a soft groan.

“No, jou must fuel,” Blitzwing took his own energon and held it to the smaller mechs dermas, “drink.”

The flush of blue to the minibots cheek plating was adorable. Blitzwing accidentally activated his internal cams taking in the slow rise and fall of his chassis watching his intake curl around the cup as he finished the last of his energon.

“Jou’re beautiful.” Blitzwing spoke without conscious, his words deepened the blue along his hummels cheeks to color his entire face plate. “I vill imagine this face in the midst of every battle, I vill gaze at jou every lunar cycle and every solar break. For I vant jou to be the ethereal that greets me every dawn und every dark that guide me through every trouble that aggrieves me.”

“You-you liquid tongued mecha! Stop it,” his hummel exclaimed covering his optics with black and yellow digits. “We aren’t in the heat of interfacing you don’t have to play smooth with your vox. I’ll frag with you again just not until I can walk properly on my stabilizers.”

Slowly inching his hummels digits away, Blitzwing locked optics with him, “I mean every word I say, whether in ze berth or not. Jou are mine now mini one und I make it a goal of mein to spoil that which is in mein possession.”

“Oh yeah? Well last I checked I’m my own bot conjunx or not so stop trying to velvet vox me,” the yellow mini spoke with fire that ignited Blitzwings spark.

“I hope to see jour fiery spirit more often, hummel.”

The curl of blue derma was enough for Bumblebee to try frowning at the larger mecha but the sound of their tanks growling made him look away with a huff.

“Let us properly fuel then ve can talk more, hm?”

“Fine,” his hummel said with defiance that turned liquid when Blitzwing pressed his dermas to soft grey mesh on his hummels forehelm.

The cute static and beep was much appreciated on Blitzwings part, though not so much on his hummels part who swatted him.

Halfway through the solar cycle and the freshly bonded conjunx were relaxing in each other’s arms. Content to feel the others spark thrum while talking things through.

It was obvious between the two Blitzwings home would be shared and the room Bumblebee was staying at would be given back. They spoke on Blitzwings status as a decepticon and what that meant for Bumblebee.

“Jou von’t be forced to join the ranks but jou vill be vith me if I am ever called for battle, should there be a battle. Jou von’t ever have to fight if jou don’t join but I vould feel better if I could train jou to defend jourself. Neutral or not, being vith me brings danger that I vill do anything to keep jou from.”

Bumblebee felt assured oddly enough. Sincerity flowed through their bond and he reached out in acceptance. He knew Blitzwing was high ranking from his shared memories and learning he’d been living in small towns like this for almost three million stellar cycles. After Megatron gave the call to hide Blitzwing did just that as he awaited for Megatron to call upon him once more.

“Truthfully I am not so sure I vant him to call me. I rather like living in peace especially since I have jou now, hummel.”

“What does that mean?”

A raised brow and Bumblebee specifies.

“Hummel. What does it mean? You keep calling me that so it has to mean something.”

“It is ze german vord for bumblebee. An insect found on certain planets. I once ventured on an insecticon ruled planet. Jou remind me of the few I witnessed fluttering about. Especially when jou bob jour wings.”

That made Bumblebee blush and as his optics grew wide. His intake fell when he felt the form of a memory tug at the back of his processor. He was confused on what it was until he felt Blitzwing smooth a digit over his servo and he looked into the large mechs optics.

He felt himself lean in and his processor opened allowing the image of a large insectibot with his colors bob and flutter around a gigantic organic planet before landing. He had to admit Blitzwing was correct in the resemblance, though he didn’t have any fuzz or fur on himself he did have similar antenna save for the sharp quality.

“Jou remind me of them. Though zey aren’t anyvhere near as beautiful as jou mein hummel.”

There was silence for a long time as Bumblebee replayed the memory on a steady loop in his brain module. Blitzwing sat patiently enjoying the awe on his hummels face plate until the silence was broken.

“Bumblebee.”

“Hm?”

“My designation,” Bumblebee uttered with some hesitant but budding confidence, “my designation is Bumblebee. I want that one. I want that to be mine.”

His vox was small, personal, mystified.

Blitzwing felt a warmth in his spark grow that he didn’t know possible. The care he held towards his hummel grew and he knew then he this was truly it.

His hummel. Bumblebee.

‘This is the mech I vant for the rest of my life cycle und the next.’

He was never one for smiling but for Bumblebee he knows it will be easy.

“A beautiful designation, mein Bumblebee.”

It felt like cyberhoney on his glossa and he knew then he was sparked further.

“I guess being with you won’t he so bad, Blitzwing.”

The delicate kiss on his dermas further cemented his revelation and Blitzwing rested a servo on the back of Bumblebee’s helmet pulling him closer to deepen it.

He did not want to interface with his hummel. He just wanted to feel him and his em field reflected as much and so did their bond.

Blitzwing was more than happy to feel the sentiment returned.

-

First & foremost Free Palestine & Free Sudan & the Congo. Please share their stories & protest so that the cruelty they face may be stopped.

Second - I did not expect to make this story so long in the beginning. I hope all who read it enjoy.

[yuri-is-online]

A Pocket Full of Posies and WTF is up with Rollo's Hankie

Before we begin, a slight disclaimer: yes, Medieval beliefs about disease and how it spread were weird. They did not have the ability to know about germs because those are literally microscopic and germ theory would not be "discovered" until the 1860s. THIS DID NOT MEAN THEY WERE STUPID AND IF I SEE YOU SAYING THAT WE WILL FIGHT. Anyway-

If you have been kicking around on the internet for a bit, chances are you might have heard the "dark history" fact that that the "Ring Around the Rosey" nursery rhyme is about the Black Plague. That's probably not true but the reason it was originally theorized to be the case has to do with Miasma theory, and the use of strong scents (typically herbs and flowers) to ward off the "bad air." What does this have to do with Rollo huffing that handkerchief every time someone talks about magic? Well we'll get there but first just what the hell do I mean by bad air?

Miasma Theory in Practice

The Black Death/Bubonic Plague was a roving pandemic that gets it's name from the first wave that bitch slapped Europe from 1347-1351. There were technically three forms of plague kicking around by I am not a scientist and we are here to talk about that. Given that this was, as stated in the disclaimer, pre-germ theory the ideas people had about why this was happening and how to prevent it wildly varied, but Miasma Theory was so popular it actually stuck around long enough to duke it out with Germ Theory when scientists started talking about that.

The basic idea is that diseases like the Black Death were spread from bad smelling air. This theory was proposed by Hippocrates, as in that guy from third or fourth century Greece we aren't even sure existed, but it was a pretty universal belief, we have sources from Ancient China that also reference the idea that bad smells can make you sick. This "bad air" was thought to come from decay; in the case of the plague, dead bodies were believed to have released it (hence all the "bring out your dead" stuff), as were cracks in the earth, and sewage. ALL AIR WAS THOUGHT TO HAVE A LEVEL OF MIASMA, but smell was the best way to tell if you were in danger of getting sick; basically if it smells like shit out then you are in danger because there is only so much of it you can breathe in before you get sick. So when you end 1351 with 40% (that we can confirm!) of the population dead, how exactly do you keep yourself from huffing in all that invisible miasma?

Roi du Mouchoir

Well you make the air you breathe smell nicer of course! And this is where we get to Rollo's hankie.

The "posies" in that nursery rhyme doesn't actually refer to one specific flower. It's a type of small bouquet, which apparently are also called nosegays or tussie-mussies? It's also the technical term for those tiny groups of flowers that make up a corsage. The idea was that people would carry around things that smelled good, like flowers and herbs, and any time you smelled something bad you would bring the flower out of your pocket and hold it up to your nose just like Rollo does with his handkerchief. Literally, people usually kept those nice smelling flowers in "Plague Bags," which could refer to nicely sewn sachets or just neatly wrapped up in cloth. Eventually these got super fancy, and evolved into these really elaborate pouches people put potpourri in, but given how strict Rollo seems to be with himself (and everyone else) I've chosen in my own fan fic to interpret his posies as being the common kind, which would be rosemary and lavender. Today they are thought of as being soothing scents that calm you down, and that does seem to be what he is trying to do with all those deep breaths.

I got a lot of this specific information from this article here which is on a wonderful website curated by a professional perfumer I highly recommend poking around if you are interested in learning more.

Cool Story But?

"Sure Yuri, all of that is neat but isn't Rollo's handkerchief a reference to Esmeralda's scarf?" Yeah probably. I don't really think it has to be that deep, but I do think this stuff is cool and well-

Malleus's name is likely a reference to the Malleus Malificarum, a book I have a PDF of on my computer because of course I do that was published around the same time that this theory of disease would have been kicking around. It's about- well the author says it's about "witchcraft" but that's another paper for another time, and why they are super evil and bad and should all die. Specifically why they should all be burned at the stake, it's a fun read. And sounding oddly familiar to certain events...

That's all to say, sure it probably isn't that deep but with all the other really well researched and designed character choices, I would not be surprised if it was.

Semi Unrelated Fun Facts:

Bridal Bouquets are thought to have started, in part, as a way to ward off Miasma and keep the bride healthy on her wedding day.

Miasma theory was still super popular in the Victorian Era and lead to a lot of public clean up projects as people thought that they could get rid of disease if they got rid of all the sewage everywhere. And hey they were right, just not for the reason they thought they were.

Yes a lot of people thought the Black Plague was a punishment from God and a sign of the end times. I will remind you that 40-60% of Europe's population DIED IN FOUR YEARS. I'd assume something supernatural was out to get me too tf? Seriously these people were not stupid, they just lived in interesting times.

If you are wondering "hey I heard Plague Doctors stuffed herbs in the long beaks on their masks, is this why?" Yeah it is! Gold star!

I love you for making this far, thank you for listening to me friend and I hope to get back to entertaining you soon (っ˘з(˘⌣˘ ) ♡

[panelshowsource]

https://www.thetimes.com/article/david-mitchell-interview-upstart-crow-marriage-to-victoria-coren-and-fatherhood-5g73ccfzn

please, if you can do this you are absolutely incredible

sure anon, you just go to archive.is and plug in the link 😉

full article below the cut

When the Peep Show actor and panel-show regular David Mitchell was a boy – clever, introspective and a doted-upon only child for eight years – he had his “special costume trunk”. There was a lime-green and brown jumper for Star Trek, a black mac for Doctor Who and an 18th-century king. One day, when he was strutting around in the mac with his trousers stuffed into his socks, a plastic sword by his side and a piece of string tied round his waist, some older boys knocked on the front door and said they’d kicked their ball into the Mitchells’ garden. As they trooped through to find it, Mitchell hid behind a tree in shame, “oppressed”, he remembers, “by the feeling of being a weirdo. I was just a small boy and not quite as normal as I’d have liked.”

Cut to today. Mitchell, 44, is in the street in Waterloo in London wearing brown linen trunk hose, a leather codpiece, knee-high brown leather boots, a white linen shirt with Shakespearean collar, a brown leather doublet and belt and pouch. His already very high and clever forehead (Oxford private schoolboy, Cambridge history student, Footlights actor and writer) has been lifted a few inches higher still with the help of a bald cap and prosthetic forehead – “Although David has a brainy forehead, it’s not as brainy as Shakespeare’s,” says the woman in charge of his costume – and then a wig over the top. Ahem. We all know it’s rude to stare, but passers-by are clearly thinking, “WTF? I’ve just seen a bloke dressed as Shakespeare astride a Santander bike.” In his 2012 memoir, Back Story, Mitchell writes, “Is it normal to feel you’re not normal but want to be normal? I think it probably is.”

I had been hoping to sit down and talk to Mitchell while he was dressed as Shakespeare, whom he resembles convincingly in the upcoming third series of Upstart Crow, a clever and funny BBC Two sitcom about the Bard’s family life, written by Ben Elton with precisely Mitchell in mind as Shakespeare, albeit a younger David Mitchell. “But they couldn’t find a younger me,” he says, “so they had to put up with me instead.”

But Mitchell is in mufti, a pair of crumpled chino-type trousers, brown shoes and a nondescript navy T-shirt with a collar. His hair is pretty much as it was when he was the young boy hiding behind the tree, a standard issue kid’s bowl cut combed into a parting. Although he still loves a bit of fancy dress, codpieces and doublets and the like (the bald cap can get a bit tight and uncomfortable after a long day filming, he concedes), clothes continue to cause him agony. For years, his mum bought them for him (through the Cambridge years and later still), but now it is a role that has befallen his poker-playing wife of six years, Victoria Coren Mitchell, herself a comedy panellist and writer. “I’m very happy to put them on,” he says of what she buys for him. “To be fair, she’s never tried anything …” he trails off, but I think he means “modern or cool”.

“It’s just a slightly tidier version of the sort of thing I was wearing before. She knows the one thing I want my clothing to be is unremarkable.” And then there is the unchanged haircut. Coren Mitchell must know which battles to pick. “Not because I like it, or hate it, but because to change it at any point would have provoked comment … That would have made me cringe,” he writes about keeping the cut. The beard has stayed, but he has admitted he would have razored it off if faced with protest.

For years, Mitchell’s identity, to the public at least, but also to himself during the dark days of ready meals and no girlfriends in his Kilburn flat (“contented squalor” is how he puts it ), has been inextricably linked with the fantastically well-drawn, tragic character of Mark Corrigan (written for him), whom he played in Peep Show. He starred alongside his comedy partner Robert Webb, who got the part of Jeremy, the much cooler and more sexually successful flatmate. They had been writers/performers since meeting at Cambridge, but Peep Show made them, bringing them to an audience beyond student comedy fans. The essence of Corrigan’s believability was the fact that the show’s main writers, Sam Bain and Jesse Armstrong, based many bits of Corrigan on Mitchell himself: the nerdiness, the hopelessness in love, the pudding haircut, the clothes bought by his mother. But, Mitchell says, “The big difference between me and him – perhaps I am kidding myself – is that I’ve always been a fundamentally happier person, because he doesn’t know what he wants. For me, despite everything, for years not knowing if I was ever going to have a significant relationship, blah blah, the one thing I did know was that comedy was my crutch. Professionally at least, I’ve always had that source of hope and contentment.”

The deep irony of Mitchell’s life was that as his career, a dicey profession in any case, began to rocket, he was at his most emotionally desperate. After meeting Victoria Coren briefly at a drinks party (which she can’t remember) in 2007, he met her again at a film premiere. He writes in his autobiography Back Story, “I changed then. Everything that happened to me after that moment, even incidental things, are in a different context, a new world where different things matter.”

They dated briefly and he fell hopelessly in love with her. But timing was not on his side. Coren had lost her father and began seeing somebody else. She let Mitchell go honourably and kindly, what he calls “a reluctant brush-off”, but it broke his heart. He was sure there would never be anybody like her again. This inner melancholy fed into the character of Corrigan. In this respect, man and character were identical. He admits now that he told nobody about how dreadful he felt. “I didn’t talk about the state of my life to my friends,” he says. Journalists were always trying to fish around for comparisons with Corrigan. In 2009, when Mitchell was mourning the loss of Coren, on Desert Island Discs Kirsty Young talked about Robert Webb becoming a father. She asked Mitchell if he wanted that for himself. Mitchell said rather glumly, “I think I do.” There followed a white lie when he said, “I don’t think I have an ideal woman.” The fact was, he did.

Mitchell was not blind to the fact that he and Webb had had the most blessed career path, sprinkled with Baftas and endless opportunity: writing, acting and, for Mitchell, the panel shows The Unbelievable Truth and Would I Lie to You?. And so he felt his “wishes”, his luck, had been used up on his career. And then in 2010, Coren, like Princess Charming, came back into his life and suggested they try again. Reader, he married her two years later.

As Mitchell sits before me, he is beaming. “I’m trying not to look smug,” he says. “I feel very lucky. If I had thought that [asking her to marry me] would not have seemed mad earlier, I would definitely have done it. I am just incredibly proud that someone like Victoria wants to be with me. She has these amazing qualities, but fundamentally, we clicked. I fell in love with her. Being with her, it’s made me fundamentally more secure. A high percentage of the lurking terrors I felt for years, the things that I felt I’d failed to face up to as a proper human being, have gone.

“I do feel that there is someone in my life who I can say anything to. For years, I never talked about the things that worried me and now there is someone whom I trust, which creates a completely different context in which I can exist.”

Being loved, and loving, has taken away Mitchell’s profound sense of self-doubt. “I think I realise now that people judging me adversely, in superficial ways, doesn’t matter. Now I don’t mind looking a bit daft, like taking the bins out in my pyjamas. I don’t mind seeming like a bit of a twat any more. I don’t worry about projecting an image. There was a certain brittleness [before], and being worried about being laughed at in a way I was not in control of. I don’t really care much about that now.”

Do you take the bins out in your pyjamas?

“It has been known. I only wear my pyjamas all day if I have decided I’m ill. But I do think when I’m perfectly well I have always moved on to day clothes at some point.”

For diehard Peep Show fans reading this happy-ever-after fairy story and lamenting the replacement of their unhappy hero with a well-balanced, emotionally healthy middle-aged man who understands it’s good to get out of pyjamas before lunch, fear not. Mitchell confesses that having worried for years about not finding happiness, he now frets that somebody will take it away from him. Honestly! There’s no pleasing some.

“I’m a worrier,” he says. “I worry that something is going to go wrong. A horrific accident or an illness or, on a less serious level, a career mishap. I think that is probably how I avoid feeling guilty for being so lucky, that I worry that something is going to go wrong.

“I truly thought that because my career had worked out, maybe I didn’t get to have everything. And now I’m very happily married and I have a lovely daughter. I feel, ‘Hang on. Surely I’m luckier than I deserve?’ But that’s a definition of luck, isn’t it?”

Mitchell beams again. Their child is three and called Barbara. “She’s amazing. Extremely talkative and she likes imagining things, telling stories and being characters and explaining to me who she is in one of her stories.” Just think of the Coren Mitchell dressing-up box in their northwest London home. All those BBC codpieces and doublets knocking around for a second generation of bright dresser-uppers.

In the old days, Mitchell used daytime TV to procrastinate while writing. Now, it’s playing with Barbara and watching Peppa Peg and Hey Duggee. “A few minutes of feverish [work] activity followed by 45 minutes of time slipping through my fingers, some of that with Barbara.”

The announcement of Mitchell’s marriage brought astonishment beyond his close circle, for the fact that he and Coren seemed such an unlikely couple. But Mitchell says that he is similar to his wife (although he plays bridge, not poker). Both find the kind of socialising that comes with showbiz excruciating. They would by far prefer to stay at home with a DVD and supper on their knees. “I find places that are rife with acquaintances very stressful. I am not sure on what level to greet them. Do I hug them? Am I shaking hands? I sort of feel whatever I do will be wrong.

“Now, though, it’s nice going to a party [with Victoria] because you think, ‘We’re here; we’re in this room. It is a very high-stress moment, so let’s talk to each other for three minutes, catch our breath and then go, ‘OK, now we can go over there.’ Sometimes we separate or sometimes we just move together, depending on how confidence levels are going. At least eight times out of ten, I’d rather be watching a DVD and having some food in front of the telly. If you are happy at home, you’ve much less motivation to find the social confidence. You think. ‘Why are we even here? What’s the earliest point we can reasonably go?’ ”

In a year’s time, Mitchell will be thrust into the world of the school gate, a positive lion’s den of half acquaintances, small talk and necessary pleasantries with relative strangers, set against the backdrop of a bad day, or any anxiety going on about your child. “That genuinely hadn’t occurred to me,” he says, “but, yes, you are right. I remember that from being a child myself.” As he says, at least at parties there is alcohol to help everybody, other than “the minority of shark-like sociopaths who are very happy moving through the water while everyone else is sort of terrified”.

Mitchell’s relationship with Robert Webb is still strong, although their careers are more independent these days. “We’re closer friends now that we don’t work together so much. For several years it was incredibly intensive.”

Webb does not star in Upstart Crow, which, incidentally boasts Kenneth Branagh and Lily Cole in its final Christmas special. In the autumn, Mitchell is set to star in a film with Steve Coogan, yet to be officially confirmed, but he is back with Webb in the new year for the filming of another series of Back, the acclaimed TV series that reflects the old dynamic of their comedy partnership. Mitchell plays Stephen, a bitter son displaced by the return of his parents’ long-lost foster son, Andrew (Webb), and is eaten up by jealousy and inadequacy as Andrew seems to threaten his plans to take over the family business.

In his private life, Webb has been a good ten years ahead of Mitchell. Mitchell confesses that when Barbara was born, he took months off work. “Looking back, one of Rob’s children was born in the middle of a Peep Show shoot and he had an afternoon off and then a weekend, and then he was back filming on the Monday. I think I felt a sense of. ‘Oh, that must be quite difficult,’ but when I look back now, I go, ‘What? How did that work?’ I think I let him go through [becoming a father] without really reflecting on it. At the time, I was probably half-thinking, ‘What? He’s having a baby now, and we’ve got to get this shot.’ Only now have I allowed myself to realise, ‘Oh right. That was a massive moment [for him].’”

There are some jokes Mitchell has made in the past, particularly about children, that he would never write now. And he won’t read anything that makes him worry about the world Barbara will grow up in. “Victoria finds the dramatisation of a certain sort of horrific thing totally ceasing to be on any level of entertainment.” They did watch Broadchurch together, starring Mitchell’s close and long-term Cambridge friend Olivia Colman, but series one, about the murder of a child, was before Barbara’s birth.

Mitchell’s life has spun 180 degrees. Where once he was a relative loner – an only child for eight years – his private life is filled with people: nieces, nephews, brother and sister in-law, parents in-law. “I do enjoy it, but I also don’t know what your relationship with a cousin or an uncle or niece is supposed to be, so I’m learning that.

“I think in middle age, I am getting a sense of what a life is. I get the sense there is an arc, and if I see as many years again as I’ve seen already, I’m lucky. The life I had in Kilburn didn’t carry on for ever. I was ultimately unhappy and then something happened. I met Victoria. My life is totally different. I see that you can have periods of feeling completely unchanging and then a change will happen and can happen so many times, and then you die.”

Perhaps this is a maudlin element of Corrigan still lurking beneath? Loving Barbara as well as Victoria, Mitchell says, “I worry terribly that the world is terrifying in so many ways … There’s electricity and sharp corners and all of that, but also I want a world for Barbara to be secure and happy and prosperous in.”

If Mitchell once asked himself if it was normal to want to feel normal, well, aged 44, he might finally have got there.

[jungle-angel]

Your Ornaments Are History (Bob Floyd x Reader)

Summary: You and Bob wouldn't trade your cat, Pumpkin for the world, but there's a reason that you don't like to let her near the Christmas tree

Tagging: @floydsmuse @desert-fern and @bobfloydsbabe

Bob hummed along to the music playing from his phone in the kitchen as he began frosting the cookies that had come out of the oven. He couldn't wait until things had quieted down and you both had vacation time from work, seeing as he and the rest of the squad had gotten tickets to see the Trans Siberian Orchestra performance at the beginning of the month.

He felt that familiar curling around his legs and the cheeky little meow coming from Pumpkin, your black cat who had chosen you and him as your family on Halloween night one year ago. "Hey, out, outta here Pumpkin," Bob told her firmly. "Go see if there's pack rats in the basement."

Pumpkin sure enough, ran off and disappeared. "You sure you wanna be scrawling notes this late in the afternoon (y/n)?" he asked.

"Bob we've gotta get everything ready for when the lesson blocks at school change," you told him, scrawling a few notes into your notebook. "Fortunately for you, you've got everything you need. I on the other hand, have nothing to work off of."

"You sure Ancient Egypt didn't produce any epic poetry or literature?" he asked.

"A hundred percent certain," you answered rather flatly.

Bob gave it some thought, his lopsided grin turning down a little into a thoughtful frown. "Ok," he said. "Ok.......let me think a minute......what's the closest you might be able to get?"

"We already did Gilgamesh," you answered. "And Homer and the Viking Sagas."

"Damnit," Bob hissed under his breath.

You suddenly snapped your fingers. "Wait, I've got it," you said suddenly. "I forgot about The Tale Of The Court Of King Cheops and about The Tale Of The Shipwrecked Sailor."

"Don't you also do mythology lessons too?" Bob asked.

"Well........yes," you said a little sheepishly.

"So Ancient Egypt shouldn't be too hard to figure out, right?"

"No I wouldn't think so," you answered. "Besides, it's not like we're......"

"MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!"

The loud curse from your husband gave you only a split second before you heard a crash in the living room and Bob running to pick up the Christmas tree that Pumpkin had managed to topple over. You could practically feel his nostrils flaring when you both heard that cheeky meow once again from the slinky black cat who wore the biggest grin on her face.

"PUMPKIN YOU ARE SO LUCKY I HAVEN'T TURNED YOU INTO A PURSE!!!!" Bob thundered.

Pumpkin meowed again and skittered off to her favorite hiding place, the mother-in-law apartment in your basement where Bob's parents had taken up residence. The front door creaked open a minute later and in came Joe, Bob's father, carrying a brown paper bag full of dinner supplies.

"What the fuck happened to your tree?" he chuckled.

"Cat," Bob answered.

Joe burst out laughing. "I knew that little shit was trouble when she showed up on Halloween night!"

"Love the cat to death Dad," Bob told him. "But if this is gonna be an ongoing issue....."

"Put some fuckin lemon and orange peels in it," Joe said. "That's all you've gotta do. It worked when we had Tootie living under our roof."

Bob let out a disgusted groan as Joe helped him stand the tree upright again. Bob shuddered at the memories of his sister Aly's so called "devil cat", a mean old thing who had scratched Bob and his brothers more times than he could count. Hell, that damn cat had scratched his brother Eugene's little boy when he had been a baby three years ago. But Bob had to admit, Tootie had been a smart little shit who had quickly figured out how to use the toilet in the basement bathroom.

Joe went into the kitchen and peeled a few lemons and oranges, leaving the fruit to be used for later baking or cooking. "Let'em dry for a good day and a half then put'em in a pouch and hang'em from the branches," he explained.

"Thanks Dad," Bob said.

"And don't worry," Joe added. "I'll show the little footwarmer later who the real boss in this house is."

You snickered a little as Bob went back to his task. "You really think he'll do it?" you asked.

"If we hear a scared meow coming from the basement we'll know it worked," Bob chuckled. "Although I have a feeling I won't wanna look out the basement window for a year."

You laughed picturing Joe scaring the shit out of Pumpkin. Yet you and Bob both knew that for as much trouble she might have caused, that damn cat was one of the best things to ever happen to your family.

[veshialles]

#Veilguard30 - #1: Joining

not sure how many of these prompts I'll end up doing, but I wanted to take an honest crack at a few, at least. original prompts by @pavus. Featuring my poor tortured and conflicted Warden-Commander, Kieshara Tabris, and an unknown Warden-Acolyte I made up on the spot. Probably set sometime after Awakening & Witch Hunt, but also some point during my canon-continuation/canon-adjacent fic, A Quest Of Her Own.

It was her most dreaded duty to perform since the promotion. Every aspect of her service, tumultuous as it was, had been a gamble between life and death for the people around her. But none seemed so cruel as this. While she held much disdain for the secrecy of it all, Kieshara had already been reprimanded by the order for revealing too much too soon. A leak that was threatened to be violently patched if further incidents occurred.

History weighed on her mind as Kieshara’s pale fingertips reached the cherry oak box and passed over the carved griffon emblem, trying not to think of the hundreds of times this sacred ritual had been done before, by those who had long since heeded their Callings, or otherwise followed their oaths to the inevitable end. Finally, she opened its wrought iron hinges to reveal the delicate glass vials within. 

They were all of them stained a dark sickly red, just the same shade as the pendant she kept worn under her tunic; the glass was tainted as the blood held within them was. The blood of darkspawn, and the late Archdemon Urthemiel, slain by her very own hands. Beside them, a small jar of lyrium dust gave off a gentle rhythmic glow, and though she could not hear its song, it highlighted the ripples in a leather pouch of herbs in the adjacent divot. 

It was all here. Everything they needed.

Turning to face the silver chalice placed upon the altar, Kieshara set the box down. Traditionally, the blood was to be collected by the recruits themselves, but in the wake of The Blight, and the ensuing raids, there was no shortage of darkspawn blood. Even still, she began removing the box’s contents with utmost precision; there must be no chance of waste. There would be enough of that later, should any of the recruits fail. 

Lifting the first vial from its case, she poured the entirety of its contents into the ritual cup, and the second, and the third. The putrid smell of iron and rot wafted up from the slick surface, as she took the fourth vial in hand, allowing a single drop of her slain enemy’s essence to fall into the mixture, where it billowed in the murk like black tendrils. Kieshara stepped aside, allowing the Warden-Acolyte to make the final adjustments; precisely measuring the lyrium and herbal blend, before whispering unintelligible incantations.

The Acolyte was a human woman with wavy blonde hair that peaked out from beneath her hood. Kieshara did not even know her name, and thought it best that she never find out. She hated how this role had hardened her heart, but the simple truth was it would make their work easier, knowing what they were about to do. 

With a flash and a fizzle, it was done. The woman nodded and retreated to the edge of the room, leaving Kieshara alone to stare at the sunburst emblazoned on the side of the Joining chalice, a symbol older than the very Chantry itself. Surely no loving Maker would create a world such as this.

How many will die this time?, she solemnly wondered, staring into her own eyes through the vile concoction’s ripples. How many have already lost this battle? How many more after this? But this was the duty that could not be forsworn, as she had once been told. And having witnessed the horrors of the Blight firsthand, she needed no reminders of why these sacred rites were so vital in their fight against the dark and hungering hordes. 

Steeling her resolve, she rehearsed the monologue she had prepared in her mind, the one she had been given years ago, just as countless Grey Wardens had recited before her. Just as many would be doomed to recite after her. Looking up at the other Warden, she nodded. One by one the new recruits filed into the room, the door silently locking behind them.

Softly, Kieshara began. “At last, we come to the Joining…”

[msfcatlover]

Death Mask Steph

Oh boy. This is the big one. I've agonized over this, and getting the design right has been... ugh. Nevermind. Here we go.

Death Mask needs to draw on Red Hood and Steph designs. (I would draw from Black Mask designs, but frankly Roman's designs are all kinda boring? He's a skull-head in a suit, and basically always has been; it's simple & effective, but there's not a lot to iterate on there.) Steph's suits tend to be armored one-pieces, but layering is so crucial to most Red Hood designs, that balancing the two has been... tricky.

(I've already shared the Stephanie Brown Costume History page. Unfortunately, the n52 designs page seems to be just descriptions with no pictures, and the page for her n52 appearances doesn't give you many good angles. So here's Steph's "Future's End" & "Future State" designs, as the stand-out missing designs, in my opinion.)

The absolute vital part of any Red Hood inspired design is, of course, the helmet. It's also been the biggest pain. Jason's had some good helmet designs and a lot of bad ones over the years, and (as I've previously stated) finding a full reference page for them is basically impossible. So here's what I'm going with.

Steph starts with a sleek, sculpted black metal base. Say something like this model of Jason's Injustice helmet. The primary difference would be that Steph's helmet opens up at the front rather than the back; the faceplate would be hinged at the top of the head, and it would swing up & forwards to reveal her face.

(Using the Injustice helmet as a base because it more than most looks like it really should open from the front. I'd also say the sides would also be able to open wider, so that it can still fit snug without being a pain to get in & out of. Not that anyone would ever bother to draw that detail, but I think it would look neat opening up in 3 directions all at once.)

Next, most of the face plate is covered by a sculpted skull. This is how she invokes the whole "Death Mask" idea, as well as purposefully stealing Roman's gimmick. Below the teeth are a couple understated tubs & valves, evoking a gasmask---something like this.

(Kinda a Red X look, I'm realizing now that I'm digging through my reference folders all at once... Anyway, this piece seems to be by Laura Sheridan, but her website seems to be down, you can only buy her art seemingly 2nd hand, and I can't find this picture listed anywhere but pinterest.)

The edges, mechanical bits, and any detail work added should be done in copper.

Within the eye sockets are two recessed glowing lenses, like Jason often has, though Steph's glow a dark magenta, casting light that borders on red.

(Obviously, these lenses change size & shape to show emotion through the mask, like you do. They're not designed to---in fact, logically all the bat-masks are designed like this in order to help hide the wearer's emotions---but that's comic logic for you.)

Below the helmet, Steph's suit is mainly made up of reinforced black leather motorcycle pants, a black undersuit, and an armored vest like this.

(But black. Obviously.)

However, she accessorizes. Steph has added a decorative metal ribcage to her armor, as well was plates mimicking a spine. The ribs should be copper-colored, while the spine can be either metallic or black.

(Depending on who's drawing them, the ribs could range from purely decorative to practically another layer of armor. And following the links from pinterest, both of those artists have apparently taken their rib-art down, which is once again very disappointing.)

Steph wears a chunky utility belt which sits crooked on her hips. I personally think it should be black (maybe brown?) with either copper, ivory, or dark magenta snaps/clasps holding the pouches shut (pick one for all pouches, not a mixture). She has a gun holstered on each hip, one on each thigh, a set of throwing knives (3-5) on the front of the belt, and wears her sickle-swords strapped criss-cross on her back.

The swords themselves are made from a copper-alloy, retaining their coppery color, and easily double her reach (are about as long as one arm.) They have a hilt not dissimilar to an Egyptian khopesh, but a completely different blade; Steph's swords have a much more exaggerated curve, and crucially, they're sharpened on the inside of the crescent, where a khopesh is sharpened on the outside. They legitimately look like a crescent moon sickle, stretched out to sword size.

(Khopesh hilt, and genuinely the best crescent sickle sword I can find for what I'm picturing. Steph's would be in much better shape, obviously.)

Steph keeps it understated-but-still-stated with knee-high, buckle-up, black leather motorcycle boots.

(These are mid-calf, but it's the closest I can find that aren't completely over the top. Also, any artist who figured out how to make the laces work without losing the straps would win my unending love for the symbolism of Steph clearly still mimicking her big brother but trying so hard to hide it.)

Steph’s sleeves are armored in black metal plates, ending in sharpened black gauntlets. I don't care much about the specific structure, I just really want that clawed look.

(Shorter would be more practical for finesse work, while longer claws could be worked into her fighting style. I am going back & forth on whether this should be both arms or just one of them, because I’m a sucker for asymmetric designs, but I think it might be a bit too much with all the other details.)

Finally, over top of it all, Steph wears an uneven ivory-colored hooded shawl made of layers of thin, wispy fabric. It hangs down her back to her waist, but bunches up in the front over her collarbones. It's purposefully designed to look tangled & messy, hiding her body shape with all its bulk & fly-aways, and is flimsy enough that grabbing hold of basically any part of it will just leave you with a fist full of torn fabric.

This is the hardest to find examples for, but... okay, so it's shaped roughly like this:

(If anyone can find the non-pinterest source for this one, I'd hugely appreciate it; all I'm getting is a dead twitter link.)

It's layered like these:

And it's made from material like this:

(This definitely gets swapped out for either a white scarf or a brown trench coat pretty regularly, just because those are easier to wrap your head around/draw. I think both could work & be cool, but Steph is trying to give off “undead vibes” with this original costume, and this gives her a more ghostly look which… okay, is heavily inspired by this Jason design.)

Also, Steph's hair is still long, but she ties it up in either a french or dutch braid before going out most of the time. Dutch is for going out in public or to the gym, where she'll lift it off her neck in a ponytail, french then gets coiled into a bun inside of her helmet.

(I am undecided on whether or not she also has an undercut.)

[ququb444hm]

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭, 𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝

part 30 / sassy man apocalypse ☆

masterlist

warning(s): *REUPLOAD* bc i didnt like the first one n i am in love with angst/comfort, possible typos, profanity, kys joke

rain pitter-pattered against the glass windows of mr. ramirez’s classroom as soft jazz filled the empty conversations of college students writing out their history essays due at the end of the week. 

“aw man. what the hell.” rin groaned as he accidentally wrote down the wrong citation on his worksheet. “mori, do you have white-out? i keep fucking messing up and i’m so close to throwing the whole paper away.”

rummaging through his green pencil pouch, the sandy blond shook his head with a frown. “think i might’ve forgotten it in my dorm, sorry. nn* might have some though,” he stood up from his chair, walking over to yn’s table which was as quiet as ever.

(nn = nickname)

keiji had just left to go use the bathroom a few minutes ago, the seat in front of his being vacant also because that student barely came to class, today was no different. the girl who was assigned to sit in front of yn was fast asleep and the other kid who was supposed to be in front of kozume had moved to talk to their friend across the room. this left yn and kozume alone together. awkward. 

but yn didn’t seem to care... or to notice.

actually, she didn’t even seem mentally present.

mr. ramirez was still getting used to being in a physical classroom after persistently having asynchronous classes for almost two years because he simply “didn’t wanna get out of bed.”— he often supported his statement by falling asleep after his short lectures and with the current weather, it was easy to do so. 

so whenever yn had history class, it was basically a free period. which was very much needed after the conversation she had the previous day with shoyou. just what did he mean when he said kozume was scared of letting himself be happy? so focused on the question at hand that everything around her all mushed together into an unimportant blur. the pen in her dominant hand moved on autopilot, creating messy scribbles all over her notebook– seemingly illustrating her disordered mind.

“yn, do you have any white-out? cause oh! uh-” mori peeked over her shoulder, seeing the black ink pour out of the pen and dance like there was no tomorrow all over the lined paper. “uhm.. yn?”

noticing her unresponsive behavior, kozume placed a gentle hand over hers, squeezing it ever so slightly. “hey,” his soft touch mixed with the familiar comforting sound of his voice lulled yn’s tangled thoughts, bringing her back to the present moment. “are you okay? mori was trying to talk to you but you weren’t responding.”

“hm? oh.” collecting herself, yn turned to face her friend with a smile. “sorry, mori.”

the libero raised a brow at the interaction, his eyes lingering on the physical contact of their hands that still continued even with yn snapped out of her daze. “uh yeah, all good, nn. rin just needed some white-out 'cause i forgot mine. so i’ll be taking this-” he situated himself in between yn and kozume’s chairs, purposely hovering the top half of his body over their joined hands (with his ass poking out because of the weird position) to emphasize his nonverbal disapproval at the blond, before dramatically grabbing the white-out and dragging it to the edge of the desk, successfully (and awkwardly) separating their hands in the process. “pleasure doing business with you.” he chirped, giving kozume a dirty look before trudging back to his own table.

“sorry.” kozume mumbled, turning his attention back to his work. he internally groaned, scolding himself for what he did. ‘couldn’t you just tap her shoulder? but noooo you just can’t keep your hands off her. stupid.’

“it’s okay.” yn reassured. “actually, kozume i-” the sound of the chair next to her sliding against the vinyl flooring made her stop her sentence– keiji was back. “nevermind."

as time drew on, it was finally the end of morning classes, and yet it was still pouring outside. even heavier than when class started.

“be careful out there!” mr. ramirez warned, watching as students bustled out of his class and into the rain. “make sure to turn your essays in by friday, midnight! each minute after the deadline is my increasing disappointment in all of you!”

“you sure you’re okay going with him?” mori asked for the fifth time as yn packed her bag. kozume blankly stared at mori, wanting to get out of the class as soon as possible because he could feel keiji staring at them, eavesdropping on the conversation. he internally begged keiji wouldn’t try to confront him about walking with yn. 

but, in all honestly…he was a little happy that yn had asked. even if it was because of tetsu. he missed her. every single fiber in his body yearned to be with her. hate coursed his body ever since that night. but only for himself. he wouldn’t, couldn’t, never blame anyone else, even keiji, for his actions because he knew that in the end, he was the one that told yn all those cruel words. so when yn asked if he could accompany her to pick up tetsu, he was grateful that they were able to have some time alone. just the two of them.

yn sent her friend a comforting smile. “i’ll be okay, don’t worry about me. just let coach know we’re gonna be a little late m’kay?” mori sighed, knowing he couldn’t change her mind even if he physically dragged yn away from kozume– they’d just find their way back to each other one way or another.

“see you.” rin murmured, ruffling yn’s hair before walking out with mori.

“which building is tetsu in?” kozume asked, getting his umbrella ready.

yn fixed the straps of her bag, waving at mr. rameriz as she and kozume exited the class before answering, “pretty sure it's on the second floor of T building.”

“ohh.”

“is that okay?”

“yeah. that’s okay.”

the walk to T building was quiet and a bit tense. yn fidgeted with her hands, shoyou’s words still circulating through her mind. she wanted answers from kozume. she wanted him to tell her why things were the way they were between them. but she didn’t want to force it out of him. she wanted kozume to come to her first. her eyes focused on the path in front, letting the sound of the rain calm her down. 

kozume on the other hand, he couldn’t stop staring at her. he never could in the first place. yn was just so spellbinding, and the rain wasn’t helping in the slightest. he had so much to say, but he could never find the right words when it came to her. he stopped in his tracks, holding onto the umbrella tightly. his free hand pulled at the hem of yn’s jacket so they were facing each other. “yn, i’m sorry.” his voice was soft. it was almost hard to hear over the harsh rain. 

the sudden gesture caught yn off guard. “wha..?” kozume’s apology, though expected because of how much they both knew his words affected yn, came out of nowhere. “kozume-”

“i know i haven’t been honest with you, but i..” he pursed his lips, mind going blank as he stared into yn’s inquisitive eyes. “i don’t know what to do.” his voice sounding desperate. sounding lost.

“kozume,” every time she said his name, it felt like a stab to the heart. he missed how her voice was laced with so much love when she’d call him kozu or koz, but now his name seemed foreign as it rolled off her tongue. she placed a comforting hand on his, returning the gentle squeeze he gave her previously. “you’re my friend before anything that happens. i don’t know what’s happening with you, and it physically hurts to have you push me away, but i’ll always want to be someone you can talk to.” her thumb rubbed the back of his hand, soothing all his anxious assumptions of how the conversation would’ve turned out.

her touch was so soft and warm, a heavenly contrast to the heavy rainfall. kozume’s features relaxed, his head falling forward to rest on yn’s shoulder. her other hand reached to caress his head. “i don’t want to keep hurting you.” he mumbled.

“i don’t want to keep getting hurt either, kozume.”

“i know, i’m sorry yn. please be a little more patient with me. i didn’t mean anything i said that night, i was just overwhelmed and i regret taking it out on you.”

yn continued running her fingers through his blond hair. she slowly nodded, letting his words sink in. “i don’t forgive you for what you said, and how you constantly kept confusing me before that night, but i’m not mad at you, kozume.” her hold on his hand tightened in just the slightest. “it hurt when you made me feel you liked me back and kissed me only to call everything a mistake, and it hurt when you told me you weren’t being honest with me just now. you hurt me kozume, but still, i don’t want to lose you.”

the two stayed in their positions for a few more minutes. allowing themselves to bask in each other’s comfort. yn was the only good thing in kozume’s life, he knew that. and for a moment he let himself forget just how much he needed her. but he wouldn’t make the same mistake again. 

he knew he had to talk to keiji.

“what took you guys so long?!” tetsu fussed. after what was about 15 minutes since the bell, the two had finally made it to tetsurou’s class. “and why is my sister wet, kozu!? i thought you had an umbrella??” he quickly removed his own jacket, placing it on top of yn’s smaller figure. 

“it’s raining hard as fuck out there.” kozume groaned, also damp from the rain

“why do you guys still have practice anyway.” yn shivered, wrapping herself in the added fabric. “i know your game is coming up but what if some of you get sick?”

“no pain, no gain!” tetsu insisted, grabbing kozume’s umbrella from him and pushing the two out of the class. “now we gotta hurry..coach called me like three times telling me to get my ass to the gym!”

yn checked her phone to see if she had gotten a call also,

2 missed calls from milo’s dad 🫶🏼 1 missed call from SUNAVABITCH 🤣🤣 3 missed calls from alcoholic (coach) ⭐️

“well, fuck.”

part 29 secret little personal diary <- | masterlist | -> part 31 old man

note(s): me when i lie n say i'll finish this before thanksgiving break but i didn't >p< (IM SORRY.) anyways.. am i or am i not dragging their argument too long like.. let's wrap it up kenma! also i don't like the ending..but i wanted to post SOMETHING so i might change it later. next part is also written.. but AFTER that r a few text msgs :3

✩⡱ taglist !! + @writing-for-the-hell-of-it @sherryuki-callmeyuki @anny-bah @ast4rg1rl @sukunasrealgf @dani-shitting-around @whokillednyx @vernon-dursley @limaswife @sugawara-levi @sixxze @ryoiii @literally-a-ferret @444sunarin @llearlert @lloyd4x @usermins @2baddies-1porsche @vernon-dursley @lyzisbitchingagain @h3xi2g0n3 @l0v3do11 lmk if u want to be added (msg or inbox)ヾ(･ω･`；)ﾉ

[nodawnesperia]

Can you give more information for Eugene and the twin, Lucilla and Liberta?

Character Profile: Eugene

Starting with the second ask, this one will take a bit to fully get through since it has three characters but I'll do my best to deliver anyway! Enjoy a bit of Eugene and a continuation of Gavus' story!

Name: Eugene

Age at the time of the Barred Gate breaking: ???

Current age: ???

Affiliation: Hypogean (?)

Appearance: Eugene hasn't truly changed much from his canon appearance. The Trickster's Cube was taken from him after Liberta and Lucilla were old enough to fend for themselves and while that certainly bothers him, he really isn't in a position to fight that decision. Underneath his clothes, his back is littered with scars. He also wears two bracelets, one black and red on his right hand, and one white and gold on his left. Liberta and Lucilla originally gave the white and gold one to Gavus but the Celestial entrusted it to Eugene to hold onto.

Personality: While he may be a Hypogean, Eugene is more concerned with chasing whatever he finds interesting. However, he doesn't pursue his interests with the cruelty and sadism typical of others of his race. In fact, Eugene has an outstanding sense of justice and cares for those who cannot help themselves.

Backstory: "Hey there! Missed me?" The voice echoed through the mine making Kadrin jump. Wiping the sweat off his brow, he glared at the Hypogean trying to seem casual as he leaned against the wall. Of course, the facade fell apart as soon as one of the large gashes on his shoulder came in contact with the frigid rock. It was a surprise to see him here but for anyone who knew him as well as Kadrin did, it was more about how he got caught rather than why he would be sent. "A Hypogean who isn't a guard in the mines? What did you do this time?" He could tell Eugene appreciated his attempt at a joke. He shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. "Oh, you know, got a little bored up on the surface, babysitting two little devils and dealing with an annoying pigeonhead. Thought I'd take a vacation." "Horrible taste in location," Kadrin muttered, taking Eugene's arm and slinging it over his shoulder as he helped him walk deeper into the mine shaft. They'd only get in trouble if they continued chatting away for much longer. Once the patrols passed them, Kadrin quickly took them down a side tunnel not illuminated by the magical crystals abundant in the main shaft. He laid Eugene down and quickly opened his waterskin, pouring some of the warm water onto a piece of cloth. Sure, Eugene probably wouldn't die from these wounds but they couldn't have been pleasant either. "No need for that," the Hypogean weakly tried to shrug him off, "I just need a little nap and I'll be right as rain in no time..." "Save the heroics for someone who cares." He had no patience to deal with Eugene's theatrics. And luckily, the Hypogean didn't protest. Kadrin worked in silence for a bit but quickly noticed his friend was starting to fall asleep. "Hey, don't do that. If the guards find you here asleep, you'll get beaten even more." Eugene sighed but shook off the fatigue as best as he could. Kadrin could now make out that some of his wounds appeared to have been cauterized and made a face at the realization. "How'd you managed to piss off the other Hypogean commander too?" Eugene let out a weak chuckle. "You know me, I'm charming like that. Though it's still Conrad's fault. That old brute can't let things go..." "Wasn't that the whole reason Annih had you two fight in the first place?" Plopping down to sit once Eugene's wounds were at least somewhat cleaned, Kadrin offered Eugene some of the stale bread in his pouch – a gesture that his fellow prisoner much appreciated. "Yeah, well, seems like I was the only one who got that. Doesn't surprise me he didn't." Eugene muttered while stuffing his face like a starving man... Which he probably was. "Somehow caught wind of Gavus, showed up with Kane, and the rest is history. By the way, your cooking sucks." The dwarf elbowed him in the stomach, though not as hard as he would've had Eugene been alright. "Be glad I'm splitting it with you at all. That was my rations for two whole days what you just scarfed down." He remained silent for a bit before asking the obvious question. "And where is he?" Eugene pulled a face like he bit into a sour grape. "Who can tell at this point? I hope he was smart enough to get away. Maybe reunite with the kids or something. Then they could come bust us out of here." Kadrin was about to ask for something more when a figure stepped into the entrance to their little hiding spot. The guard cracked his whip and they both knew better than to push their luck even more. Kadrin heaved a sigh as he grabbed his pickaxe. He threw one last look at Eugene before heading off in the direction of his next workstation. He hoped Eugene was wrong. He hoped those three would be smarter than that.

[sunniedesi]

Future Diary "The Live World"

Did you know that back on July 29th, 2012, there was a live concert for almost all Future Diary songs? Well, this little gem in Future Diary history is known as The Live World, a concert held at Shibuya AX to promote the Future Diary anime. It featured not just Yousei Teikoku and Faylan (the artists who made the OPs and EDs for the show), but also the voice actors and singers of the character theme songs.

For those unaware, each Future Diary character has at least one theme song to their name. These songs come from the “Future Diary Inspired Album,” which had two volumes. Yuno and Minene were the only characters to receive two songs each, as well as an extra song with their love interest. You can find the first and second volumes of this album on Youtube thanks to SingerOfW.

All of the character themes were performed at the live event along with the OPs and EDs, except for the 4th’s and 5th’s themes. “The Creator,” a song attached to the pilot of the show, was also not performed at the event. The reason why these three songs were discarded from the concert are unknown; however, I assume it had something to do with time constraints and lower popularity than the rest of the songs. 

The event was recorded and sold as a Blu-Ray with almost three hours of content. The Blu-Ray disks of the performance began sales on November 29th, 2013, along with the sale of the Future Diary Blu-Ray Box. The recording was divided into two disks. It also included two bonus gifts: an eight-page booklet and an additional 9-minute recording of the making of the event. This 9-minute recording has yet to surface online.

There was also a raffle for a free ticket to the event. To enter the raffle you had to get the three volumes of the limited edition Blu-Ray CDs. Volumes 1 and 2 came with application tickets, while volume 3 came with the postcard you were supposed to mail the tickets in.

One of the more important aspects of this concert is that Madness Rain and HAPPY END, the OP and ED for Redial, were first unveiled at the event. Future Diary’s “Next Project” (which we now know as Redial) had recently been announced by that time, and the release of these two songs made anticipation for this project grow bigger. This is evidenced by a blog post I found from a girl who attended the concert, who shared her own thoughts of what she speculated this “next project” to be:

It seems like the ‘next project’ isn’t a ‘Paradox’ story, but an original story; however, since I saw Akise-kun on the visuals of the OP, it can’t be about the first world, so I think it might be related to the third world… (Source.) 

Speaking of blog posts, Esuno also made an entry on his blog talking about his time at the event! The entry reads:

Today I went to ‘Future Diary’ The Live World at Shibuya AX. We were not allowed to take pictures inside so I only have a picture of the entrance (insert photo that wasn’t archived by the Wayback Machine T-T). It was a passionate and fun concert. I enjoyed the performances from a seat on the second floor. Both Kawahara-san (12th’s VA) and Shiraishi-san (Kousaka’s VA) made great MCs, the music and the visuals from the anime were wonderful; a very fulfilling three hours. Thank you to all of the performers, and especially the audience who came all the way in this heat! (Source. Side note: Esuno’s blog doesn’t exist anymore, so that’s why the link is on the Wayback Machine).

The Live World also had some of my favorite Future Diary merchandise. Here’s a list of all the merch sold at the event: 

A pamphlet, neck strap and clear file with the same image as the event poster:

A purple T-shirt inspired by Uryuu Minene, which has an image of speakers blasting on the front, and an image of a grenade on the back:

The event set included a black T-shirt, a drawstring bag, and a waterproof phone pouch (you could use your phone screen even if it was inside the pouch):

A pink sign light:

A pink towel scarf:

A “neck cooler” (a type of scarf filled with cooling beads):

There were also two T-shirts sold, unrelated to the event, made by a company called MARS SIXTEEN. This company makes anime-related goods, like these MN inspired T-shirts. Sadly, there are no pictures of the red shirt, though it is said that it had the DEAD END graphic on the front, while the picture of the 12 diary owners was on the back. The Yuno shirt also came in gray instead of purple:

Bonus: not merch, but here's a random staff shirt I found (terrible picture quality, I know):

Videos of the event can be found on Youtube, namely of Yousei Teikoku’s performance of Kuusou Mesorogiwi, and also all of Faylan’s performances. However, none of the character theme songs played at the event have surfaced on Youtube. 

… That being said, the contents of both Blu-Ray disks have been uploaded to a site called BiliBili (it’s like a Chinese NicoNicoDouga). Here are the links for disk 1 and disk 2. 

Before I end this post, I have to talk about the 12th’s theme, performed by his voice actor: Kawahara Yoshihisa. When I tell you my jaw dropped to the floor… this man showed up on the stage, fully decked out in 12th’s costume. Mask, belt, tights, everything. Kousaka’s VA, Shiraishi Minoru, also showed up dressed like a middle schooler. Let me tell you, Esuno wasn’t lying when he called them great MCs, they absolutely stole the show. The backstory of why they agreed to dress up for the concert is in the second track of the Radio CDs, which I talked about on my last post, for anyone interested.

Part 2 here

Part 3 here

[yourlocalbreadenthusiast]

Hi. I exist.

Ello. I'm a Pinterest convert who happened to join at the same time as the great Reddit migration, so that's fun. Anyways, figured I'd make a post to give people some info about me.

I'm in a large number of fandoms, including (DEEP INHALE), SCP Foundation, Wanderer's Library, The Owl House, Gravity Falls, Amphibia, Generation Loss, Murder Drones, Marvel, Star Wars (Somewhat), FNAF, DnD, Wings of Fire, Percy Jackson universe, Grishaverse, The Dragon Prince, Nimona, The Hunger Games, and probably some other I forgot to mention.

I'm also a bit of a nerd and hyperfixiate on both fictional and nonfictional things, I know wayyyyy too much about things like Chernobyl and Plague Doctors. I also sometimes write as a hobby and am learning how to art, still kinda figuring it out though. Due to the writing thing, I know a lot of incredibly random facts that I shouldn't, as well as just random science stuff.

I like helping people, so don't be afraid to reach out with questions or concerns if you need help with something. If you want info on things, I'm more than happy to help. Here's some things I know a lot about:

The Black Death, Plague Doctors, Chernobyl, oddly specific horrific events in history, the fandoms I've listed above, the lowcountry region of USA (Southeastern coast, I live in South Carolina about 15 minutes from the beach) and the ecosystem of said area (Marshes, swamps, beaches, and our temperate forests), mythology (Greek, Roman, Egyptian, and some Norse), SCIENCE, and other things I'm probably forgetting.

Seriously gimme asks I wanna be a living encyclopedia.

For writing, I mainly like to do fantasy, some sci-fi, and a bit of horror. I'm far from consistent with when I write, you know how it is with motivation.

This IS a safe space blog for LGBTQIA+ people. I don't care if you're straight, gay, lesbian, bi, pan, omni, somewhere else on the spectrum, like asexuals, aromantics, and aroaces, or maybe you're enby, or maybe you're trans or genderfluid, or something else I forgot to mention. I do not care. You are all welcome here, my only DNIs are if you're going to be rude. One of my mottos is "I'll respect your opinion as long as your opinion doesn't disrespect anyone else's existence or rights."

I sorta use a persona for some areas of Tumblr, such as Wizardblr, so here's a reference for that:

Name: Dr. Corvius (Will respond to Doc, Doctor, and Crow), Official Title is "Corvius The Plagued."

Appearance: Dr. Corvius appears human at first glance when wearing full attire, but this is not the case. They are actually an avian, with feathers covering most of their body and rough, scaled skin similar to that of bird feet covering their hands, forearms, lower legs, and their feet. Their fingers have short claws on the ends, and their feet are structured like that of a crow. They don't wear shoes, as their feet are not well shaped to even wear them, and they frequently perch on branches and the like, which is far easier with their talons exposed. They do have wings, and usually will tuck these in under their mantle, giving the appearance of a feathered cape. They wear the outfit of a plague doctor, with a long black robe, mask, and other accessories, including a pouch of supplies. They also carry around a plague doctor stick, which doubles as an arcane focus. Under their plague doctor mask, they have an actual beak. (Essentially just take a Kenku from DnD and give it wings, and a plague doctor outfit.)

Abilities: They are a magic practitioner, specializing in necromancy, alchemy, chaos magic, and experimentation. She is also good with medicine, and despite not being licensed in any way, is incredibly good at healing people. Birds, specifically corvids, seem to follow them around, and will obey their commands. Their "flock" consists mostly of crows and ravens, but has a few magpies and rooks as well. This Flock is actually tied to her, so protection spells and immunities that she has extend to them. They can make noises like that of corvids, allowing for communication with their flock, and can also mimic sounds.

Behavior: They are generally a wise and intelligent person, taking the logical approach to things. They are kind, and are always willing to lend a helping hand.

Background: [ERROR: DATA LOST]

(The persona reference is a WIP im writing this late at night and I gotta go to sleep, I'll finish it later.)

(Contact me if you want an autopsy or reanimation done)

Ok byeeeeeeeee

Stealing these crows from this post

[pessimisticoptimistsblog]

A/N – I know this is a day late, depression has been rough this week, and the amount of details in here had me pulling my hair out. This is entirely back story for my OC, very minimal Lucifer. Also, barely proofread, but I needed to get it out of my drafts so I don’t delete the whole thing and my account. Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

CW: language, I think? Also, the phrases and her mom's accent are Scots. Hopefully, the page I used to reference it was accurate

Chapter 6

My History

Caelwen’s eyes snapped open at the sound of birds. She hadn’t heard birds, real birds, in centuries. Propping herself up with her hands, she looked around to find the source of the sound; perhaps Lucifer had made a chirping rubber duck? But instead of the dark reds, pinks and blacks of the fallen angel’s workshop, she saw trees full of green leaves and patches of yellow flowers scattered in the tall grass around her. This couldn’t be hell, so where was she?

The last thing Caelwen remembered was Lucifer above her, casting the spell to break the seal Adam had placed on her. What the fuck happened?

"Hullo! Hou'r ye?” A voice sounded behind Caelwen. The brunette spun around into a crouch to face the stranger with her fists raised. Taking in the woman before her now, Caelwen’s shoulders slumped in disbelief. There stood her mother, wavy light blonde hair tied back with a leather cord and warm brown eyes shining, just the way she looked the last time Caelwen saw her.

Caelwen dropped to her knees fully, making no effort to stop the tears beginning to stream down her face.

“Well? Hou’r ye, love? Been awhile, hasn’t it?” The mother’s smile was bright as she walked closer to kneel next to her daughter. “I’m so happy to see ye, though, the circumstances aren’t ideal” she spoke in a whisper and wiped away her daughter’s tears.

Caelwen’s eyes darted over her mother’s face, taking it in before launching herself into the older woman’s arms. Caelwen squeezed her mother tight, terrified she’d disappear, and sobbed loudly. The last time she had seen her mother, the woman was being dragged off by angry villagers while Caelwen had hid inside a hollowed out tree.

“Now now, wee one, enough of that – we don’t have much time. There’s some things I need to tell ye.” Caelwen pulled away slightly, looking up at her mother in confusion. “You’re sleeping, love. Breaking that seal did a number on your mind and soul, you would’ve died if not for Lucifer’s magic being stronger than your father’s!” She said with a half laugh.

Caelwen raised a hand to her chest, remembering the burning pain from before she passed out. She looked to her mother, opening and closing her mouth a few times, too used to not having a voice to remember what it felt like to use it. “W-what, what do you-,” Caelwen coughed a few times, her throat dry.

Oh! Here, drink. It’ll help.” Her mother handed Caelwen a small pouch filled with water.

Taking a few eager gulps and wiping the couple drops that escaped from her chin, Caelwen tried to speak again. “What do you mean ‘we don’t have much time’? What’s going on?” Her voice was hoarse and quiet.

“Well, ye can’t stay here forever! That man, Lucifer, is losing his mind over you. Ye’ve been asleep for a week, Cae’. Poor thing hasn’t been away from your side for more than a few hours. Ye found a good one, better than I did a’ least!” The blonde woman chuckled while brushing Caelwen’s hair away from her face.

The younger girl blushed at the talk of Lucifer; even though he had told her she hadn’t misread the signs, it was still so odd to hear he had been caring for her. “Do you mean Adam? Is that what we need to talk about?”

“Aye. With you being fully intact now, it’s time ye know everything. Adam and I met not long after me ma and da passed, sweating sickness, and I was doin’ my best to maintain the house. I’d had gentlemen coming around for weeks, but Adam was so charming. He told me he was a knight for the king, didn’t know he meant God at the time o’course, only found that out when I had you! He’d been so kind, told me he’d marry me once he was released from service. When I told him I was carrying you, he got so angry – told me to take something, anything to get rid’a ye and then left. I couldn’t bear to do it, so I started running. After the first few months, I couldn’t hide ye. People started to notice the bump. And that I was alone. They all thought I was a harlot, then a witch, I was barely able to find food and shelter before I’d be shunned. And then I had ye, and you were so perfect! But, ye had these wee little nubs on your back. And after your first year, they’d grown and had feathers; that’s when I realized your da wasn’t human, he’d been the only man I’d laid with so I knew it'd been him.” Caelwen’s mother paused, a sad smile on her face.

Caelwen looked puzzled for a moment, acknowledging what her mother had said. “I don’t remember having wings until a few weeks after you died. How could I have had them when I was a baby?”

The older woman chuckled slightly, “I’m getting to that. When you started toddling around, I couldn’t hide them in a swaddle and a child from a village we passed through saw them. Thankfully, her parents thought she was dreaming. I started looking for ways to hide them and remembered something my ma had taught me. My ma was a witch, but a clever one, no one ever knew except me when she told me as she died. She’d always told me before I knew what she’d meant, that healer women always had the best books. The next village we reached, I found a healer and asked if she knew of a book that might help. She only helped when I told her who my ma was and what I truly needed, and thankfully, I kept the secret well. She also helped me with the seal we used, but she’d tied the seal to my life, so once I died, so too did the seal.”

“And that’s why they only showed up after you died. And grandmother being a witch, explains why Adam believed you bewitched him, everyone back then believed it ran in the family.” Caelwen laid back, staring up at the blue sky before her as she thought over everything she had learned.

“Aye, but there’s one more thing. Your great-great grandmother made a deal with a demon that all of the daughters in her line would honor him and spread his name in exchange for protection from evil men. If we ever failed to uphold our end, we’d all suffer for eternity. But if the demon ever allowed harm to befall her line, that daughter would gain abilities to aid her in the depths of hell. That’s why you were able to survive so long with half of you sealed off, the demons deal took effect when Adam hurt you.” The older woman looked off into the distance as Caelwen sat up, processing everything she had learned.

“What about you, though? Men killed you, so why didn’t you survive in hell?”

“Before they could try me as a witch, one of the farmer’s wives had given me a drink with mandrake. I died before the men could do anything, and I didn’t stand much of a chance when I landed in hell.” Caelwen’s mother had a sad smile on her face - she never should have trusted that woman.

The two sat in silence for a few minutes, taking in everything around them and enjoying each other’s presence.

There was one more mystery for Caelwen, though. “How are you here then? If you’ve already died in hell, how are you here telling me all of this? Even if it is a dream, I couldn’t possibly have any of this information in my subconscious.”

“A deal I made before I died in hell, so that when you made it down here I’d be able to tell you everything I never had a chance to while alive.” The older woman paused, looking at the sky. Then, as if getting a signal, she nodded and turned to Caelwen. “We’re out of time love, you need to start trying to wake up. Come here,” she held her arms out to her daughter.

Wrapping her arms around her mother, Caelwen held her tight, not ready to leave the warm embrace. Her mother pulled away, brushing loose hairs away from Caelwen’s face, then cupping her cheek. Brown eyes gazed into green, “A love ye, Cae. Be safe, please, and kick yer father’s arse for me?”

Caelwen leaned into her mother’s hand, closing her eyes and laughing slightly. “I think I can do that. I love you too.”

When the Nephilim reopened her eyes, her mother was gone, and so was the field. Now surrounded by the inky blackness of her mind, Caelwen crossed her legs and tried to focus on waking up.

~In Hell~

“I’m sorry Charlie, I can’t come today… yes she’s still not awake… I know, but I-…” Lucifer was pacing the floor of his room, shrinking into himself as he spoke to his daughter. He hated to disappoint her, again, but Caelwen could wake up at any time, and he wanted to be with her when she did. Sure, it had been over a week now, and the doctor he'd sworn to secrecy had said it may take a while still, but what if it didn’t and he wasn’t here?!

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Charlie. I’ll- I’ll be there in an hour, okay?... Yeah, see you soon.” Lucifer ended the call before walking closer to his bed. He looked down at Caelwen’s prone form, her hair splayed around her peaceful face. Grabbing her limp hand, Lucifer squeezed it, whispering, “I’ll be back tonight. Can’t keep letting Charlie down, right? Heh…” He laughed awkwardly, releasing Caelwen’s hand and darting out the door before he could change his mind.

Later that night, Lucifer returned home, drained. He loved helping Charlie and bonding, but dealing with the sinners of the hotel was far from enjoyable. Lucifer walked into his room, removing his coat and vest and rolling up his sleeves. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up while briefly glancing towards his bed and then moving towards his bathroom.

Entering the bathroom, Lucifer looked at his reflection, releasing a heavy sigh. He closed his eyes and hung his head for a moment before his brain finally caught up with him. Lucifer’s eyes sprung open, and he threw open the bathroom door to look at his bed. There was Caelwen sitting up in the bed, green eyes glittering as she tried to hide her laughter behind a hand.

Calewen had stared at Lucifer as he walked into the bathroom, wondering if he had noticed her. She had been awake for a couple hours, long enough to mull over all the information she had learned and stretch out the stiffness in her joints.

“You’re awake? How- uh, how are you feeling? Any pain?” Lucifer questioned the Nephilim in his bed. When she shook her head, he let his shoulders relax. “Did it… have you tried to talk? To see if it worked?” Lucifer nervously fiddled with his fingers as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

Caelwen cleared her throat slightly, “It worked. Thank you, Lucifer!” She smiled brightly at the fallen angel before her. “And thank you for taking care of me while I recovered, I’m sorry to have worried you.”

Lucifer smiled tiredly, “I’m just happy you’re okay. And that it worked!”

Noticing the bags under her companions eyes, Caelwen pat the bed and started to rise, “We can talk more in the morning, you look like you could use some sleep. I’ll head to the guest room, it’ll be nice to stretch my legs!”

Before she could swing her legs over the side of the bed, Lucifer was pushing her back down. “No! No, stay, please! I can go sleep somewhere else, no need for you to push yourself!”

Caelwen looked at Lucifer’s panicked face, raising a brow and grabbing his hands that held her shoulders down. Lucifer, realizing what he had done and the position they were in, jumped off the bed, half tripping over his feet as he backed away towards the door.

A quick, high-pitched goodnight was the last thing Caelwen heard before Lucifer had disappeared in a puff of red smoke.

A/N – I’m stopping here for a few reasons, but mostly because this chapter has kicked my butt and I hate it. Sorry it’s a bit shorter than normal, but this took like 2 days to write. Next chapter will be a bit more of like fleshing out the relationship.

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@leximus98

[kiwiplaetzchen]

Remind me again as to why this is of utmost importance?

The Hybridean Black pressed amusedly unto Euphemia’s mind. They often talked whenever she made such treks down Hogwart’s exceedingly convoluted halls, but today’s daily update was…a bit less mundane.

He’s positively everywhere, Eleazar! I was taking out my curlers just this morning, and there’s his grubby little paws going for my jewelry box. I spoke with Bassie about those notes he needed for History of Magic and he’s yanking at our blasted laces under the desk. I tried to have a cinnamon roll Felix baked for me between classes and oh, would you never have guessed! Beady peepers staring into my soul as if I’m the second coming of Christ.

Mmm, mhm. And- you said the minuscule speck of fur with rabbit palpitations is called…?

Nosey, I believe. Why?

…You are fretting over a minuscule speck of fur with rabbit palpitations. Named…Nosey. I am going to assume this is even more human frivolity of which I understand very little.

Zar.

Euphie.

The Ravenclaw audibly huffed, tossing her hair rather sassily. Having finally made it to her destination (evidenced by the impressive trail of shiny baubles and pastry crumbs)- Euphemia sat with her legs folded off to the side, cradling a pile of fresh honeycakes atop her lap dressed in wicker and cloth.

Well in any case, I’m going to take this gift basket to his den and properly introduce myself. We might as well be acquainted if he insists on trailing me better than my own shadow.

I am going to return to the stag you interrupted me from feasting upon.

That…sounds wonderfully revolting. You do that.

Cheers.

(This is in response to a certain nosey Niffler always trying to steal my heart with their like-spams. Cameos for Ask-Sebastian and Ask-Felix-Åberg, too! <3)

While the Ravenclaw seemed entirely absorbed in her own thoughts, she hadn't noticed that, amid the bustling students and echoing footsteps of Hogwarts' winding halls, the very teal menace she sought was already hot on her heels.

Nosy had been trailing her for quite some time now, slipping between legs and darting under robes like an expert. She may have been eager to introduce herself, but the little Niffler was well ahead of her plans.

Nosy's eyes sparkled with mischievous delight as he watched his chosen victim for the day - the girl had been a particularly amusing target lately. And he certainly wasn't done yet. If anything, he was even more intrigued now, for a new, sweet smell wafted enticingly from the basket in her arms. The little Niffler sniffed the air, mesmerised by the aroma, and felt his mouth start to water. There was no way he would give up on that!

Blimey, if anything, Nosy absolutely deserved whatever delicious treat she was hiding inside of that basket! Not only has he been following the girl the whole day - no, being the diligent Niffler he was, Nosy had even cleaned up after the clumsy thing!

Each time Euphemia dropped a shiny bauble, he would swoop down, scoop it up, and pop it into his belly pouch with a self-satisfied little giggle. What an attentive little menace was!

But his devotion to this pursuit wasn't just about shinies. There were, of course, the crumbs that fell from her basket and dotted the path with irresistible treats. How was a little Niffler like himself supposed to resist those? Sebastian might have tried lecturing him about not eating everything he found on the floor, but Nosy saw no harm in a few extra nibbles here and there. To Nosy, each crumb was a gift, surely meant just for him!

As Euphemia finally stopped and sat down, the basket of honeycakes balanced delicately on her lap, Nosy paused, tilting his head as he watched her closely. There was something... odd about this human. Nosy had an uncanny sense that she wasn't entirely alone. But, for the life of him, the little Niffler couldn't figure out precisely what it was. Shrugging off the strange feeling, he settled his gaze firmly back on the basket. The sweetness wafting up to him was irresistible, and his little nose twitched eagerly. It was time for his next move!

With a determined flick of his tail, he quietly crept closer, eyes locked on the basket. This was going to be a very profitable day indeed, thought Nosy with a satisfied honk.

With the girl still blissfully unaware, Nosy Stealthily climbed up onto the bench behind her. The Niffler paused a few times, scanning the area for any prying eyes and ensuring that the coast was clear. Satisfied, he reached into his belly pouch and slowly, centimetre by centimetre, pulled out a shiny fork, his gaze never once leaving Euphie.

Finally armed and ready, Nosy leaned over the edge of the basket, balancing his weight as he fidgeted with the fork, aiming to spear at least two honeycakes in one go. If luck was on his side, this would be the heist of the day. His nose twitched with excitement as he poised the fork just right.