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violetsiren90 · 2 years ago

Text

What the Moon Saw

Pairing: Yoongi x f!Reader

Genre: One-shot; non-idol AU; friends to lovers; young love; summer nights, angst/fluff/smut

Summary: Having been with each other through thick and thin, you and your childhood friend, Yoongi, realize that nobody knows how to say goodbye.

Listen to: "Nobody Knows" by The Lumineers

Drabbles: Stolen Tides; Beacons Ashore; The Lighthouse Keeper; Under the Hunter's Moon

Content Warnings: 18+ (minors dni); allusions to domestic abuse; divorce of parents; cigarette smoking; infidelity (not between main couple); kissing; hickeys; making out; hand jobs; oral sex (female receiving); loss of virginity (female); moments of body insecurity; unprotected sex; cumming inside; cockwarming; characters are ADULTS at the time of their sexual encounter; LOTS of emotions

Author's note: I moved. Like, a block away from the beach, and the views and the vibes have me ALL up in my feels. I wrote this in two nights and then sat on it. I wasn't sure if I was going to post it or just keep it in my heart because parts of it are so personal to me. BUT, here it is. I want to give inspiration credit to @orchidyoonkook , because I will never ever be able to write young love or Yoongi without being influenced by the beauty that is Under the Willow Tree. 💕 If anyone chooses to read this little love story of mine, I hope it brings you something wholesome!

If no one has told you yet today, you are loved and worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

You inhaled deeply, taking the salty air into your lungs as you gazed out over the cliff side and across the rippling blue that stretched on and on until it met the soft pink glow of the horizon. Your eyes tracked the tide lapping at the smooth sands. You slipped off your heels to meet the cool pavement, but you could feel it already - the soft golden grains molding to meet your steps. These shores hadn't borne your footprints in over a decade, but here you were, drawn back again by the hypnotic crash of the sea and the lonely call of the gulls. It felt as though you had never left. You leaned over the railing of the rickety staircase that wove its way down the cliff side into the sand and scree. Your gaze trailed down the steps, one by one, until you saw it, jutting out halfway down: the lip of a ledge in the rock face. Your breath caught in your chest. Old, familiar feelings of a time gone by washed over you. The years rolled back like clouds from the sun in the western sky.

You were nineteen.

You shivered, drawing your knees up and hugging them to you as sat on the thick woolen blanket you had laid over the cool stone of the ledge. Even on a summer night like this, you should have worn something more practical. But you had worn your cotton sundress with the cherries. He had once told you that you looked like the main character in that dress, and it had been your favorite ever since.

You watched the moon dance on the dark water and thought about all it had seen. It had been watching the little alcove from the beginning. It had seen you the summer after your first year of middle school, wrapped in a blanket with book between your hands, as you took refuge from the emotional turmoil that shook your house nearly every night leading up to your parents' divorce. It had seen the boy one night, wandering the beach with a cigarette and busted lip, trying to smoke away the tears in his eyes. It had seen the boy climb the stairs, only to discover his favorite hiding place was already harboring another runaway. It had seen you look at him - skinny limbs in a jacket and ripped jeans not lanky on his small frame, tussled dark hair, round face, little bleeding pouted lips, dark sharp eyes wide with surprise - and consider that he was likely the most beautiful thing you had ever laid eyes on. It had seen him offer you a cigarette which you refused. It had seen him ask you for a light, which you didn't have. And then it had seen you become friends. Best friends. It had watched you become all that the other truly had in the small, beautiful, painful world of a child. And now it would watch him amble up the beach one last time to find you there.

Yoongi. He had been so upset when you told him that you were leaving for college, but he had tried his best not to show it. He was always like that, keeping things deep inside. You had to wait and watch and listen and coax them out. You could always find the right time to do it, when he felt safe to let you. Most nights, though, it was you pouring out every little thing in your heart. Yoongi loved it when you did that. He would listen with the softest little smile and warm eyes, creasing in the corners, as he watched your hands move with as much animation as your voice when you spoke. His nearly-silent breathy laugh would come like a breeze off the sea and waft around you, lifting your spirits and cleansing your soul. His rare, full smile spreading in breathtaking beauty over his face, pulling his upper lip away from his gums. There were the good times, and the bad ones. On hard nights you would hold each other in silence, letting the beat of the other's heart and the steady undulation of the tide carry you through to the dawn.

You remembered the first time you had awakened in his arms after such a night. The light had just started to stream over the tops of the cliffs, painting the water in rose gold. You had shivered, feeling the dampness of the cool salty air in your hair. And then you had looked up and seen him there, holding you, still fast asleep. His face was angelic, little pink lips just parted, chest rising and falling with the swell of his breath, and you swore you could endure anything life threw at you if the first thing you saw each day were his dark lashes resting gently on the apples of his cheeks. Yoongi had finally stirred and blinked down at you, just gazing silently - the little warm smile in his eyes rather than on his lips. In that moment, something had changed. In the weeks that followed, you thought you had never felt so many things at once.

You felt giddy. You felt a little sick. You felt like you could fly.

You were in love.

You were in love and you had very nearly worked up the courage to do something about it when you saw it - that horrid little purple bruise right below his ear. You had asked him if his father had done it and he had been confused at first. But when you brushed your fingers so softly over the mark, his eyes had widened and he had recoiled, pulling up the collar of his jacket to obscure it from your view. He had insisted that he was fine and not to worry. But worry you did, all the way up to the day you realized what the little bruise really was. Then your worry morphed into something different. You felt sick again, but this time it felt like a burden. You had chided yourself for being so stupid. He was beautiful and sixteen, of course he was involved with girls - girls that weren't you. Your heart broke. You pieced it back together with the succor of his friendship, and, soon, you started seeing other boys too. But you never let them give you purple bruises. You didn't want them from their lips.

As the seasons went by, you remained tethered to one another. Regardless of friends or suitors who would come and go, you knew each other in a way that no one else could. A way that didn't require words. Laughter bubbled up without effort or restraint. Fights ended in tears and forehead kisses and never lasted more than a few moments. Never past parting. Until one day a few weeks ago when he had told you that a boy you were going with was seeing another girl. Yoongi had never liked your boyfriend, and so you had reacted badly, gotten defensive and let yourself be angry with him for telling you. You had snapped at him to mind his own business. When he had insisted that you were his business you had said no you weren't, not in that way. He had gone quiet. So quiet. And then he had left. And he hadn't come the next night. Or the night after that.

You were so angry and anxious, and you told yourself you wouldn't wait for him another night, so you stayed home for the rest of the week. Then, on the third night away, you had tucked yourself into bed only to imagine Yoongi waiting for you, alone in the darkness. You had whipped off your covers and gone to find him in your pajamas. When he had seen you he had jumped up, throwing his cigarette aside, and crushed you in his arms. He had hugged you from the other side of the railing, not even waiting for you to climb over, then lifted you to stand before him on the ledge where he had enveloped you in his arms again. You had tried to apologize, but he wouldn't let you. And then you told him what you had been dreading to tell him all summer: you were leaving. He hadn't reacted. He had just held you in silence. But there was something different in him now, something that had his eyes trained immovably on the horizon. Something that wouldn't let him look at you. Something that distracted him from all you had to say as his thumbs brushed softly over your arms. He had looked at you so strangely before you had parted that night.

Now you were meeting one last time before you would watch the little coastal town and all its hurts disappear in your rearview mirror. You needed a second chance and this scholarship might be your only shot. Your reverie broke as you noticed a figure shuffling down the waterline in the bright light of the waxing gibbous. The figure sprung nimbly, with practiced steps, up the stairs, and lightly vaulted the rail, landing with a soft thud, catlike, a few feet from where you sat. He stepped forward, standing over you as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He was wearing tight khakis, white tennis shoes, and a plain white tee under his green military jacket. With a smoke tucked behind his ear and that little smirk on his lips, you thought he might be cooler than Steve McQueen.

"Got a light?" he asked coolly, shoving the pack of Marlboros back in his pocket. You rolled your eyes.

"Of course not, Yoongi. And why on earth do you always ask me that when you've got one anyway?"

Yoongi smiled to himself as he brought a lighter to the little yellow-tipped cylinder between his lips. It was a secret kind of smile, the kind that made you want to snatch the cigarette from between his teeth. But tonight wasn't for fighting, even the bickering kind. He eased himself down beside you with his signature careful grace. You sat in silence, gaze trained out over the water. While you were looking elsewhere, he relaxed, and you tracked his movements in your peripheral vision. You would do this sometimes, especially when he was particularly guarded. He had always been bad at eye contact, but if you gave him a little space he would let down his walls, and you could read him like a book. Just now, he had let his gaze settle on you. Smoke hissed through his lips, his mouth hanging open just a little in that way it did when he was lost to his thoughts. His eyes roved over you in a way that made you mouth go dry. You swallowed. He suddenly shifted his gaze, coughing a bit.

"I like this dress," he offered, like an apology.

"I know," you murmured with a smile.

"Yeah?" he questioned, brow furrowing, as he took another drag. He was quiet for a beat before pressing out another question. "Paul headed out east too?"

"I broke up with him," came your answer, but without a smile this time.

"Yeah?"

"Oh come on, Yoongi," you bit out, "You knew that was going to happen. That's why you told me!"

His jaw ticked ever so slightly.

"You know that's not true. He was cheating on you. I couldn't let you be in the dark about it - get hurt by another one of these assholes who don't deserve your time in the first place."

You sighed, frustration rising unbidden again as Yoongi casually hurtled the unspoken walls you had erected to make things easier.

"What I deserve is my business. I don't go chastising you for letting random bitches suck on your neck and god knows what else so that you don't feel lonely."

The remark had been soft but laced with venom, and you had regretted breaching your own resolve against negativity the moment the words had spilled from your lips.

"Random..." He stared at you intently, surprise and confusion mingling with another indiscernible expression in his eyes as they traced over your features. You were trying to think of a way, any way, to salvage the conversation when he huffed out a laugh.

"You did know what it was!"

"What?"

"That hickey you asked about sophomore year."

Your stomach flipped.

"How do you even remember that?" You blustered in incredulity.

"How do you?"

He was staring at you knowingly with those achingly beautiful dark eyes that always saw you. It was one of the things you loved most about him. But right now it was terrifying. Right now you wanted to escape, only, there was nowhere to go. So for a moment, just a moment, you didn't hide anymore.

"Because," you swallowed, trailing your eyes back up to his, your voice shaking a bit as you whispered, "I remember everything."

A beat. Two. You didn't make a disarming jest, or a hurried qualification. You didn't even blink. In a flash as quick and heavy as a summer storm, years of yearning filled your eyes like intangible tears, holding his face in your gaze before casting it back out over the sea. Yoongi had froze where he sat, eyes trained immovably on you before he suddenly stood, tossing his cigarette and cursing as he took a step toward the edge, weaving his fingers through his hair.

"What?" you asked, almost defensively.

He didn't turn around, but you could hear the emotion in his voice, his head bowed as he wrestled with the words.

"Nah, that's not fair. You're leaving...You're leaving and you're gonna make it even...even harder right now?"

Turns out you weren't the only one who had been building walls with invisible bricks. You jumped to your feet.

"Oh, so this is my fault? You've been telling me my whole life to get out! You convinced me to apply to the Ivy Leagues! You spent the last weeks pushing me away! I don't understand what you want from me, Yoongi!"

He turned toward you, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth, eyes on the ground.

"A clean break," he said lowly, "Not from you...for you. I just wanted you to run, no guilt no pain, and not look back."

You felt a lump rise in your throat as you shook your head.

"That's not how it works though. I was always going to look back. Whenever I was frightened or lost or uncertain. Whenever I woke up in the morning or closed my eyes to sleep, or laughed, or...or felt so much joy I didn't know what to do with it. I was always going to look back, Yoongi," You took a deep breath, "I was going to look for you."

Hot tears slipped down your cheeks as you grabbed his arm and pressed your wet face into his shoulder. You could feel his body shake with little sobs.

"Don't," he croaked out, "don't look for me."

"Sorry," you huffed a tearful laugh into the fabric of his sleeve, "I don't think my heart will listen to you. Pretty rough deal when it's yours after all."

You had tried to say it like a joke. It had come out like a promise.

Yoongi stilled. Everything stilled. For a moment, it was as if even the sea and the sky and the moon held their breath. He let his hands fall from where they covered his face. As he lifted his head and turned, you dropped his arm, thinking for one horrible moment that he meant to push you away. But he didn't. He reached for you, and gently, firmly - like every move he ever made, like every word he ever spoke - slipped his hand around the nape of your neck and pressed his mouth against yours.

You gasped softly against his lips.

Sweet, methodical, insistent. He slipped his tongue against your bottom lip and you tilted your head to slot your mouth against his, deepening the kiss as his tongue brushed languorously against your own. He tasted like mint and cigarettes and him. You could do this all day. A little dagger pierced your heart at the thought that you only had tonight. You stumbled back, tugging him down beside you onto the blanket. You pushed him to his back and slipped onto his lap, leaning down to reconnect your lips with his. He chuckled into your mouth, his cheeks still wet with tears.

"Slow down," he hummed.

"No," you murmured in simple defiance, kissing along his jaw before dipping to press your mouth to the soft flesh of his neck.

You licked softly, experimentally, along the side of his throat, and his fingers tightened against your waist. He tasted like salty skin and the alcohol of that cheap musky cologne he wore and Yoongi. You leaned back, supporting yourself with hands on either side of his head as you looked down at him.

"Can I?" you asked with a shy smile

"Hm?" he hummed, large, lithe hands massaging your waist.

"Leave a mark?"

His eyes squeezed into little crescent moons, and his mouth pulled up into a full smile he couldn't repress. He chuckled again, reaching up to brush his palm over your cheek, and nodded, tilting his head to the side to expose the creamy skin of his neck. Your heart hammered in your chest as you leaned down and placed an open-mouthed kiss to his throat before sucking until you had pulled a low, deep groan from him. You pushed up again, surprised at the sound, new and lovely, to find him flushed - his blown pupils darkening his eyes, and a little wet patch of smooth skin growing rosy against his throat. You felt a thrill rush through you, making you tremble. You leaned down and marked him again and again, pulling sweet moans from his lips until his neck and collarbones were littered with the proof of your mouth. You lifted your face to kiss him again, but after pressing his lips to yours twice, he pulled back.

"One more," he whispered, taking your hand from his face and guiding it down to the slight firm swell of the top of his left pec.

His eyes played over your face as you felt it softly against your fingertips - his heart. In a valiant fight for your composure, you pressed your eyes shut and buried your face in his chest. He ran a hand over the back of your head soothingly. You raised your face to meet his gaze again, choking out a little sob at the depth of its gentle affection. You slipped your fingers to the collar of his cotton tee and stretched it down and to the side, revealing his bare chest. With reverence you pressed your mouth to his skin, fulfilling his request.

No sooner had you raised your eyes to his again than he was pulling you against his lips and rolling you to your back. His weight sank into you as your mouths moved together and you thought, maybe, under his warmth was the only place you ever wanted to be. Your body responded to him seemingly of its own accord, your legs weaving around the backs of his thighs as a thrumming ache intensified at your core. As he moved to kiss your neck you found your hips rolling up, seeking relief for the sticky ache at their center, and you were met with a firm knot in his groin that pressed just where you were neediest. Your high-pitched whine was a sharp contrast to his low growl into your shoulder. It was intoxicating - his sensation, his sound, and you undulated against him over and over to slake your want on his growing hardness and hear his breath come quick against your ear. He began to rock against you in return, and soon you were whimpering into his neck, beads of sweat cooling on your forehead against the night air as each rut of his hips became overwhelming and not enough.

"Yoongi, please," you begged in a breathy moan, lightly squeezing the back of his neck and turning your damp forehead against his soft cheek.

He pushed up to look at you, brushing away the little hairs clinging to your brow. He looked as needy as you, but a little uncertain.

"What is it?" he asked. You knew he knew. You leaned up and kissed him chastely before letting your head fall back against the blanket.

"I want you," you murmured, suddenly barely able to look at him as the words formed on your lips.

Yoongi dipped to press another kiss to your mouth before sitting up and back on your thighs, and gently tugging you up with him. You noticed the bulge straining against the front of his khakis, and he winced slightly as he wiggled to adjust against your legs. He took your hands in his, that little smile tugging at the corners of his pink lips, tongue darting out lick at them as he considered you thoughtfully. Impatient, you pushed his jacket off his shoulder, which he fully shed and cast aside, and ran your hands over his cotton-clad chest. His muscle jumped when you grazed down over his stomach, which you thought must be as soft and lovely as the rest of him.

"Are you sure you want this to happen right now, with me?" he asked tenderly. You looked up at him, your brow pinched in question. "Your first time?"

You scoffed, your face heating as you looked away, brushing bits of sand from the blanket.

"How do you know if it's my first time?"

His little smile spread into a grin.

"Because I know," he offered, a bit smugly.

You toyed with the hem of his shirt.

"I'm sure," you murmured. And then you looked up at him. "Have you ever..."

"Yeah," he responded, almost like he was sorry, as he glanced down and took your hands in his again. He bit the bottom corner of his lip. "I don't have a condom."

You felt your heart pounding as the concept of him taking you where you sat became increasingly real.

"So pull out," you offered nonchalantly, hoping you sounded far more experienced than he knew you were.

He nodded. You snaked a hand between you to dance your fingers over the strain against the crotch of his pants. His hand flew to encircle your wrist and still your movements. He took a deep breath.

"It might hurt you at first. Maybe the whole time," he said, his thumb brushing in a pendulum motion over your arm. You nodded.

"I know. I don't care."

He smiled again, regarding you for a long moment.

"Okay," he said, nodding and licking his lips before taking your jaw delicately between the rounded pads of his fingers. "But you have to promise me one thing."

"Hm?"

"You still have to leave in the morning."

You heaved a sigh. Oh, Yoongi. You thought you might cry again, so you nodded, pulling him down over you once more.

"Promise me," he murmured against your lips.

"I promise," you breathed.

You kissed slowly, greedily, learning each other's mouths and mapping each other's faces and necks. At some point he dipped below your collarbone to drag his lips along the tops of your breasts. Your hand flew into his hair and he looked up at you, dark eyes seeking permission. You nodded, bottom lip clamped between your teeth as he tugged down the stretchy bodice of your sundress to reveal a simple beige bra that clasped in the front.

"It's not sexy," you remarked apologetically.

He shook his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes, and dipped to kiss the tops of your breasts as his fingers found the clasp.

"Shhh, it's just the wrapping," he whispered as he snapped the garment open, letting your breasts fall into view as they pushed aside the fabric cups that had confined them.

He cursed under his breath as he brought both hands to your tits and kneaded them gently, sliding your pert nipples in the spaces between his fingers. You mewled, arching your back to press your chest up into his grasp. Before you could truly revel in the feeling of his hands plying your supple flesh, they were gone, but your whine of protest was cut short by a sharp keen as his mouth replaced his fingers. He suckled and nipped at one bud and then the other, and each time he released one with a pop, you were certain you had been rendered temporarily unconscious. Soon he was sitting up and smirking down at the panting, writhing mess of you beneath him. You saw him grimace again as he adjusted his stance, and you reached for his zipper, only to find your hand caught in his.

"No yet," he chided lightly, a twinkle in his eye, "I have to make you cum."

You drew your arm back and cast it over the top of your face, suddenly shy at his remark.

"To get you ready for me," he explained again in a murmur as he pushed your dress up to your rib cage.

He traced his hands lightly over your naked waist and you shivered. He moved to his knees, pushing your legs to either side of him. He hooked his fingers into the top of your pink cotton panties, when you suddenly felt yourself sitting up, your dress falling back over your midriff. You were a sight - wild hair and your tits half out, still panting for breath while worry painted your features. Yoongi pulled his hands away and sat back, confusion in his widened eyes.

"I don't shave," you rushed out, "I know some girls do, but I've never tried. And...I don't know, I'm kind of a mess down there right now..."

Yoongi's face softened and he leaned forward to press his forehead to yours.

"I don't care," he whispered. You huffed out another sigh.

"But...but what if you...don't like it?"

"I know I will."

"How?"

He bumped your nose with his, swallowing again as his hand found yours.

"Because I love you."

He only let the words hang in the air for a millisecond before he was crashing his lips into yours again, passionately, as if it was the only way he could convey his conviction.

He loved you. You could have died. But he was pressing one of the kisses you would always remember into your lips like an oath, so you didn't. And then you let him bare your skin and lay you down and tell you that you were beautiful. You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes when you felt your heart believe him. How were you to leave in the morning when his soft, warm words felt like the sun?

He ran his hands over your sides and thighs, dipping to trail slow, deliberate kisses down from your navel until his chin brushed the soft, curly hairs of your mound. Your breath caught in your chest as the cool air hit fresh slick dampening your sex. He leaned back again, regarding you with warm eyes, and took your hand in his, placing it over your lower lips.

"Do you touch yourself?"

You stammered. He had asked you as simply as if he were inquiring about your favorite flavor of ice cream. With effort you admitted that you did. He stroked over your hand.

"Show me how. What makes you feel good."

You nodded slowly, feeling yourself tremble a little as you moved to stroke your middle finger in beckoning motions over your swollen clit. The motion that should have been almost automatic and familiar felt new and lewd under his gaze. As you dipped to gather more arousal from your entrance you watched his Adam's apple bob in his throat and his hands tighten where they gripped your thighs.

"You're soaked," he murmured as he stooped to press a kiss to your belly. Then he did something that would be seared into your brain for all eternity: he scooped up your hand and brought it to his lips, sucking your sticky middle finger into his mouth. You gushed at the sensation of his lips and tongue, wide eyes locked on his as he slowly let your finger slip free.

"You want to know how you taste?" He asked, not waiting for an answer before humming, "So fucking good."

"Yeah?" you asked breathlessly, propped up on your forearms to watch as he laid down between your legs.

"Mhm. Sweet. Like honey."

He kissed into your pubic hair, slipping one of his long fingers to trace over your clit the way you had showed him. You gasped as you watched him work you up, something inside you growing taut like a bowstring. And then a kind of pleasure you had never imagined, the kind that made you want to melt and scream, rushed through your trembling body as a single finger pressed slowly past your entrance while his mouth found your clit. You found your hips bucking to meet his thrusts as he pressed in a second finger. You felt a slight sting at the stretch, but the exquisite pressure of this knobby knuckles caressing your walls overwhelmed any pain, and when he pressed the pads of his fingers to massage a spongy patch of muscle, you cried out, gripping his dark locks.

"Yoongi!" you moaned as he repeated the motion, and when he took your clit between his lips to suck you came.

You came hard and in waves, rolling your hips into him until you were clamping your thighs shut at the raw sensitivity of overstimulation. Yoongi sat up to rub his hands over your shaking thighs and heaving belly before leaning back down to kiss you and return your spirit through his lips from the astral plane.

"You did so good," he cooed, "Came so easy for me."

"That's good?" you asked between pants. He chuckled into your neck.

"Mhm."

"It felt good, Yoongi, really good." He dropped a kiss to your shoulder, and then mumbled into your skin.

"You still want to go all the way?"

"Yes," you whispered, pulling his shirt up his back and running your hands over his bare skin.

Yoongi sat up and pulled the shirt over his head, tossing it to lay with his jacket. He was slender and milky, as you had expected, but his shoulders were surprisingly broad, and his upper chest firm. The soft swell of his belly was dusted with a trail of delicate dark hairs leading down from his navel. You reached instinctively for the button of his pants, and this time he let you. Trailing the zipper down, he helped you shed his tight pants and boxers, sighing in relief as he freed his erection. You bit your lip as your hand trailed over the velvety skin of his shaft. Even this part of him was beautiful, you thought - not overly long but thick and proud with a pretty vein and a smooth tip glistening with precum. You had been so consumed with drinking him in that you only now noticed the little needy whimpers falling from his lips as you stroked him. You squeezed a little firmer, pumping him with more confidence.

"Like that?" you asked, unable to look away from the sweet sight of his face as his eyebrows knitted and his head tilted back.

"Yeah, just...no, no, I won't last," he groaned, his hand stilling yours.

When he met your concerned gaze he reached up to stroke your cheek.

"Feels too good," he murmured reassuringly, then he guided you back down on the blanket, balling up his jacket and slipping it under your head.

He lowered himself carefully over you, skin to skin, as he kissed you again and again, his right hand toying with your breast and trailing lower to caress your clit. You could feel the heat rising in you again, and an aching want inside growing deeper and hungrier with every shock of pleasure. When he trailed his fingers through your folds to find you thoroughly wet he leaned to the side, gliding his length between your lips, his smooth tip brushing over your bud. You cursed, fingers digging into his back and he huffed a little laugh, eyes sparkling down at you.

"Dirty girl," he chuckled, before kissing the tip of your nose. "Are you ready?"

You felt a squeeze of trepidation in your chest, but you pushed it away.

"Yes," you assured him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

For a long moment, he just stared down at you, the same look in his eyes as the morning you had first awakened in his arms, but so intent - as if he was trying to commit every feature of your face, in this moment, to memory. Finally breaking his gaze, he glanced down between your bodies, aligning himself with your entrance. His eyes flicked back up to you as he slowly, slowly breached your core. When he had pressed in past his tip you felt the searing stretch he had warned you of. You closed your eyes, drawing in a sharp breath.

"You okay?" came is worried voice, "Want to stop?" You shook your head.

"No, just do it," you panted through the pain, "I want it to be you."

You pulled him down to press your mouth to his. Every kiss between you seemed to say something. This one said that you trusted him in a way you would never trust another.

He was so gentle. Pressing in slowly, giving you time to stretch around the thickness of him, kissing you sweetly through your whimpers, until he was fully sheathed inside you. Tears filled your eyes and trickled down your cheeks. You were so full of him.

"Why are you crying?" he cooed, touching his forehead to yours.

Your hands clutched his back as you raised watery eyes to his.

"Because I'm yours, Yoongi. Yours first and no one else's." He buried his face in your neck.

"Take me, Yoongi," you whispered desperately into his ear, "Take me like I'm yours."

You felt him let out a tiny sob against your skin and then he started to move. He kept a slow pace at first, carefully gliding against your tight walls, unaccustomed to his presence. You could feel him jerk and twitch as he moved, and thought he must be restraining himself. You found the worst of your pain had passed, and all you wanted in the world was to make him cum.

"Don't hold back," you hummed as you rolled your hips to meet his thrusts.

He didn't need you to tell him twice, instantly setting a quicker, sharper pace that had his balls slapping your ass and his pelvic bone pressing to your clit with each forward snap.

"You're so fucking tight," he mumbled, a dazed look beginning to overtake his features, "You feel so good, baby. So good." You wove your hands into his hair, pulling him down to kiss him as you breathed in every curse, whimper, and moan. And then he was looking down at you with dark, wild eyes.

"I'm gonna cum, sweetheart, where do you want me to cum?"

You didn't have to think.

"Inside," you answered breathlessly.

"But I'm not..."

"Please, cum inside me, Yoongi. Please," you whimpered, tempted to wrap your legs around his waist - your desire for him transcending every fear of consequence. But you wanted to give him the choice.

He raised himself up on his elbows, his thrusts coming impossibly harder and more erratic, and then he came. You watched him in exaltation as he threw his head back and cried out, emptying himself inside you. So beautiful, you thought, with his hair clinging to his brow, his chest heaving and flushed, and his face drawn in the throes of his release. You did wrap your legs around him then, and he collapsed, his head falling to your breasts as he gasped for breath. You tangled your fingers into his hair, caressing his head. You were swollen and sore and messy, and yet the thought of him abandoning you was unbearable. And the moon saw it all.

It saw you stay each other's as long as possible. It watched you both try to hide your tears as you pulled on your clothes. It watched you fight desperately, and fail, to put your heart in words. It watched him silence you, and hold you, because you didn't have to say it. He knew. It watched you fall asleep in his arms one last time.

You opened your eyes. The gulls were crying and the pale morning sunlight was spilling over the tops of the cliffs. The sea was soft and plashing and cerulean. It was the most beautiful of the ninety-three mornings of summer. But you didn't notice - all you saw were dark lashes on the apples of soft cheeks. You watched his breath rise and fall as the sun tipped over the horizon in the east, the dew trickling down your face as salty as the sea.

When Yoongi's eyes fluttered open they met your red ones, and he pressed is forehead to yours only for a moment before pulling you up to stand.

"Get outta here," he whispered shakily, hands still clutching your arms and brow still tilted into your own.

"Come with me," you choked tracing your hands over his chest.

"I can't leave her with him."

"I know." Your fingers traced over his heart and the little bruise you knew rested under the cotton fabric.

Yoongi wept.

"Go," he whispered, squeezing your arms. You nodded weakly.

"Go, goddamn it, go!" he cried, as you shook with sobs, then he crushed his mouth against yours.

Time didn't stop, you didn't have any - so you stole every second you could.

And then you kept your promise.

You shivered as a zephyr sprang off the water to whip around you, disrupting your thoughts. You tugged at your blazer. It had been a long time since you wore a sundress with cherries.

It was time to let them go, the little girl huddled in a blanket and the boy with the bleeding lip. They had held your hands for so long. They deserved to be free. It was time to let them go, so you did.

With a deep sigh you cast one last wistful glance back over the great blue expanse as the sun sank into the sea.

The moon was just a silver slip in the sky that night, but it saw. It saw before you did, as you turned to go, the breath catching in your chest when a low, soft voice behind you asked,

"Got a light?"

-Fin-

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asterlae · 2 months ago

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Hey i finally finished Apollo Justice :D and with it i have finally played by myself all the ace attorney games i had watched a gameplay of

Fun fact i actually came in contact with ace attorney first throught apollo justice, it was the firs AA game i watched a gameplay of

So here are my thoughts after experiencing it by myself

I liked it if im being honest, like a lot , i missed the feature of being able to present profiles to people, and also wanted more characters to reacto to me presenting the attorney's badge, also would have loved to mantain the prints dust, luminol testing for all the cases, instead of like, trying out a different tool to investigate every case, but I still enjoyed it

Im still mad about the logic of turnabout serenade and turnabout corner, wtf is that, the cases were fun but i mostly tried to ignore their logic for acussing the defendant, specially with machi tobaye

I love trucy a lot, as a character, like, she acts so childish and yet you can see that she understands almost everything happening around her far better than the majority of people around her. One of my favorite examples of this (i consider this as an example taking in consideration what we learn about her trhought the game) is on scene at the beggining of turnabout corner, when phoenix its trying to get apollo to work for him and he goes like "oh well, if you dont help, trucy wil have to change of school, again" and then trucy its like "oh no, i just had started making new friends...", like, i have a feeling trucy understood very well what phoenix was trying to achieve there and decided to act her part bc she is a performer, and I actually think that bc of that she and klavier understand each other quite well

Like he was the one acknowledged trucy the most during the trials whenever she demostrared to have a deep observation of the case, not only that but we have the fact that we know Klavier also acts as a performer, showing a smile, acting all relaxed, but then being really perfectionist.

Anyways i could go all day talking about klavier and trucy but, the post its not about them and it would have to be in spanish bc I dont think i can express everything i think about them

Then we have apollo as a new lawyer. I like him, i like his chords of steel, i like that his color is red, i like his design, i love the bond he crestes with trucy, i really want to see him develope in the same way we saw phoenix grow as a lawyer

As i said in other post a love this phoenix, he has this so morally dobious and depressed energy around him that i like so much, and his tension with kristoph its just great

I will maybe draw krisnix in the future but i cant assure anything bc it kind of feel like phoenix being a cheater

Now i finally will continue with the great ace attorney!!!

I stopped mid game bc im the kind of person who likes to leave the tasty thing to the end, and although i love apollo justice my obssesion with tgaa its bigger, and also, it has misteries i dont know anything about (mostly), and my new wife, kazuma

About spirit of justice and dual destinies... I dont think i will be plsying them in the near future, for various reasons, jut the main three are:

1. I dont have the money for that, like i was able to afford tgaa bc it was the cheapest of all the collections, and it was on discount, like yeah, no, i cant afford that, and even if i could i think that investigations would be my priority

2. Its bc im not very convinced by what i saw when i watched a gameplay of DD, mostly bc I wasnt expecting phoenix to go back so quickly to baing an attorney, like, I was watching the first case, and was like "ooh cool, we have a new lawyer along side apollo", and when athena had that kind of panic attack and phoenix appeared i was like "cool, we will have him as a co-counsel, helping athena ground herself and giving her some asistance throughout the case", but then i saw him take the lead as the defense, and have athena as co-counsel and I was left so disapointed, like this is a tutorial case, why arent we continuing it the rookie new lawyer?, so yeah, i will probably watch a gameplay of it, but Im not sure i will try to play it

3. Is that im way to used to seeing these characters of the main games in pixel art style, im fine with tgaa bc they arent characters I have met before, with them its still hard, but its easier to get used to see them in 3D, but im not ready to do that transition with, phoenix, trucy or apollo

Anyways this is my comentary of apollo justice, we will soon continue with me getting all excited over a dance of deduction

#my art #fanart #sketch #apollo justice #trucy wright #phoenix wright #aster rant

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rikomoriyama01 · 1 year ago

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7, 9, and 11 for your tag game 💜

nah love i need you to answer all of them but yeha only fair i do mine to lul

What is your favourite character in the Foxes? I don't really have favourite there i think Neil will be my favourite in future right now it's Renee

And favourite in the series aside form this one? I will let you guess

Drop your beloved head-canons about both! Renee does not in fact believe in god she participated in Christianity for sense of community it gives her, Riko is deathly allergic to peanuts and wishes he was born a girl but not in the trans way. He just know his life would be better if he wasn't a man. I also feel very strongly about him having adhd/bipolar .

Fic(s) you are always happy to recommend or fic tropes you will always read. https://archiveofourown.org/works/12283962/chapters/27922614#workskin Little Boy blue , I generally can be baited into reading any fic where riko is treated with bit more nuance than flat line Disney villain. I adore extreme hurt with happy ending

Which of the books is your favourite The foxhole court i enjoyed this story much more without seeing it's full development also loved Kevin much more before he was pushed aside, my first idea of what this story would be was much different .

Opinions on AFTG audiobook release? Worth a listen juts to laugh at girls voices , but i adore Renees soft tone in it, I think it,s main reason I adore her sm actually.

If you write/draw/create aftg stuff, what is your favourite work of yours?

i adore this fan art a lot bc it,s funny light hearted has clever joke that references rikos obsession with court numbers and has fox jean and riko on it + riko kind of looks like girl here and i think it's very hot look on him

welp the numbers got fucked

Favourite event/plot point in the books Foxes reaction to seths death and seth death, it set really god tone for rest of the story and was the only event that genuinely surprised me bc i did not expected anyone from hero team to drop dead

Least favourite part of canon (can include Extra content) The fact that both foxes and ravens are groups of abused individuals but one word ,, mafia" is enough to put blame for all bat things on riko only even though he was pawn to his caretaker the way she wrote jeans abuse list it feels excessively edgy for sake of begin edgy i find nothing deep or sad about this i can also write down random list of numbers and attach to it words like rape and broken bones

If you could sent Nora an ask and get answer, what would you ask about? i wouldn't ask about anything bc her giving me answer i'm not looking for would feel bad

If you could make an idea of your choice canon to aftg, what would it be? I'd have a riko make a joke about how foxes should be in prison by now considering they are dressed the part (orange) (and most of them broke the law) id also replace neils car lighter burns with something else bc they are annoying to draw

Feel free to share some random hot takes if you like Andrew "murdering" their abusive mother is creepy as fuck and her being abuser or him only teenager with not fully developed brain is not really making this any less creepy and i enjoy his character because of this I don't mind aaron being homophobic , i'm cool with those character being murderers abusers and bigots , it's fictional characters they had not hurt anyone in real life so i don't really care about their fictional flaws and enjoy interacting with their content all the same I don't like only one of the foxes and i don't think this fox should be part of this team i don't really care about story and whatever, it's my personal bias so discussing it deeper makes no sense unless you want to unpack my past and all people who lead me to feel that way rlly

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elemmacil · 1 year ago

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UM EXCUSE ME I'M SO HERE FOR THE 1920s PZA au?????? That's such a good concept?? If you get around to posting it pls pls tag me I'd love to read it 😍 and the rest of your WIPs sound super cool! — @johaerys-writes

!!!! Aahhhhh!!! I will do so!! ❤️ So while I posed the initial idea in a Hades discord a while ago (though I think a more general jazz age au had come up once before that) the au as a whole really quickly took on a life of its own. A number of people have contributed to it and have written/are writing their own iterations, and drawing(!), it’s basically a collective effort that’s been super fun to watch unfold. Key items are Achilles being gender fluid him/her and Patroclus with a war injury that requires him to have a sexy knife cane haha. There were dayssss where nothing except jazz au was being discussed, it was glorious.

You should definitely check out this fic by infinitesle! But also since you tagged me for the wip Wednesday, I’ll take the opportunity to share a lil sumthin-sumthin from my own wip. 👀🤲🏼 (Tentative title????? “if that isn’t love it’ll have to do / until the real thing comes along”.)

Flushed and laughing softly, Zagreus lets Achilles reel him in by her grip on his shirt collar. His knees sink into the sofa’s plush, patterned velvet cushions, and one of his hands lands on the jut of her hip. He can feel the band of Achilles’ lingerie, the floral lace, beneath his palm through the thin green silk of the dressing gown. He had something prepared on the tip of his tongue, something cool and clever. Whatever it was flees him beyond recall. From her heavy, hooded stare Zagreus’ eyes drop, helplessly, to where Achilles’ dressing gown gapes open. Her chest rises and falls, a little unsteady. Between the swell of his breasts, small whorls of hair glint like spun gold in the lamplight. A perfect match for the long curls hanging past his shoulders. Achilles shifts, slightly, and her gown gapes wider. The breath punches from Zagreus’ lungs. Someone’s already left a bruise, there. Patroclus. “The night isn’t getting any younger,” Achilles tells him, low and amused. “Just kiss me.” There’s nothing Zagreus would love better, just now. Or perhaps ever again. The flush must reach up to his ears, he can feel how hot they are; as their laughter subsided Zagreus’ nerves have risen again. But Achilles’ wine-red lips part slightly as Zagreus leans forward, and Zagreus’ heart damn near beats itself out of his own chest because of that alone. Oh, she does want him. She wants him. Isn’t that something else? Something that could drive a man mad. Make him leap as high as the stars. Fly him to the damn moon. Beneath his, Achilles’ lips are warm. Soft. Zagreus can’t help the sound he makes. So much and so little about Achilles is soft, Zagreus thinks; his grief cuts, her anger bruises. Even her joy is bright enough to hurt, if you stare overlong. Zagreus has never heard Achilles sing and not wanted to cry, a little. When they first met he thought there wasn’t a damn thing in the world that could touch Achilles. Not truly. But then Achilles began opening up to him, in fits and starts, little by little. Until Zagreus finally understood what Patroclus meant about diamond scratching diamond. ‘Cause Achilles is tender as anything, when his hand brushes Zagreus’ cheek in the hall. When olive eyes land on Patroclus’, across a piano. When Achilles used to let tears streak his face in the middle of the night, or when her breath hitched on the last refrain of Sweet as the Mourning Dew. When he laughs, rumpled from sleep and slumped over an armchair. Or when, as he is now, as Zagreus lifts a hand to brush her hair over her shoulder and gently cup the back of his neck, he feels the way Achilles begins to melt like butter left in the sun with a shivering sigh— Ain’t nothing in the world that could hurt Achilles, he knows, save for Patroclus. Save for Zagreus, now.

#elemmacil writes #that’s a long snippet but I didn’t want to break it up skdkfkfk

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the-broken-quill · 1 year ago

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Season Headcanons for the Small Magics gang

Spring // Thomas Flarety: I think there isn't a better season to assign to Thomas than spring. Spring not only signals a conclusion (the end of winter), but new beginnings (the start of spring, duh), and I think this symbolism works really well with Thomas. It's kind of hard to put into words, and I think you'll only really understand what I mean if you read the books yourself (shameless plug here: GO READ THE DAMN BOOKS, THEY'RE PHENOMENAL). Thomas Flarety is everything and nothing all at once: he's the son of a merchant in this small town who's gets fucked over astronomically by an entire religious institution and then becomes the sole target of said institution for literal YEARS and is only able to fight back because he can see (and use) magic. Aside from that, he's also just an aspiring student with a thirst for knowledge and a love for old books just trying to make his family proud. Did that explain anything? Yes and No. TL;DR: Thomas Flarety is spring, try and change my mind.

Summer // George Gobhann: While it might seem like the most contradictory, I think summer fits well with George if you squint hard enough. George, to me, is the stereotypical 'tough guy/brawn over brains' kind of guy who uses brute force or physical action to solve his problems (I mean, he did punch a guy so hard he died in the first book so...). He maintains this kind of, guarded and stoic front for most of the series until the final book where his walls start crumbling and everyone is able to see the full extent of just how everything that happened has impacted him. I think assigning the season of summer to George also kind of draws attention to the fact that he kind of comes full circle; it's summer when Thomas returns home and meets Bishop Malloy, which is what sets off the events of the series, and it's summer (I believe) when everything gets "resolved" (don't quote me on this, I might need to re-read the series again).

Autumn // Eileen Gobhann: She's got red hair and a fiery personality to match, which I think works well with the overall visual aesthetic of autumn; the trees start changing around this time of year and I think pairing the season of the harvest is appropriate for Eileen. While everyone in the gang changes dramatically throughout the series, I think Eileen is the one who changes the most, and in the most ways as well. Based on the social/cultural norms of the time period in which the books are meant to be set (I always thought of them as being like, slightly medieval/fantasy era-esque), Eileen experiences the most radical change and I think that aspect of her character development coincides the best with the shock of fall when you step outside one day and all the trees are swathed in fiery golden hues. There's a lot more I could say about her character overall because she's really just fantastic, but I do want to keep these (relatively) short.

Winter // Henry Antonius: He's the son of the Duke of Frostmire, so while I might normally assign him to summer, and George to winter jut based on their personalities, in terms of actual character I feel like winter is more fitting for Henry. As much as he is a flirtatious bastard, Henry is tough and resilient. He's able to keep a cool and level head in unexpected situations, and he's incredibly smart. At the same time, though, he also exhibits the same playful lightheartedness that comes with the winter season; I can definitely picture him getting into some gnarly (and also extremely competitive) snowball fights. He's also just a cool guy (pun absolutely intended) in that he's kind of that stereotypical “everyone wants me” popular guy. He'd be like, the hot love interest in a shonen anime, I think; he's handsome, wealthy, intelligent, and good with a sword. If you overlook his drinking habits, he's a total catch! What more could anyone ask for?

#the small magics series #small magics #the small magics gang #thomas flarety #henry antonius #george gobhann #eileen gobhann #blorbo #blorbos from my books #character study #kind of #headcanons #I love my blorbos so FUCKING much #please go and read the books #I am begging #I need more people to scream about this with #this is literally my favourite book series in the whole world

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luveline · 3 years ago

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honeybody | tasm!peter parker x fem!reader

summary something about music makes you desperate to feel it. something about Peter, pretty and magnetic and light, multiplies this immeasurably. or, you and Peter want to try everything [wc: 12k]

warnings fluff, friendship, idiots in love, falling in love, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, intimacy, the intangible breadth of the human experience or something similar, mentioned/implied past self-harm (nothing graphic)

the honeybody playlist

You perch on the edge of a yellowing cushion, nose tickled by the sweet sick smell of pot and cheap beer, and worry about being by yourself. Are you overstaying your welcome? The room is crowded to the point of awkwardness, two girls crammed onto the sofa besides you having a lovers quarrel, perfect noses turned up at each other.

You look down at your covered thighs and rub your thumb over the smooth material, thinking. If I go home, I can sleep. But, if I go home, my life remains the size of my room.

"They're nice pants, I agree," a voice says.

You look up, mostly worried to be laughed at. And he does look like he's laughing, Peter something.

"Hi," you say, shy and not knowing if that's what you were supposed to say.

The perpetual amusement on his face wanes ever so slightly, replaced by something soft. "Hi," he says back, and then, glancing at the arguing couple next to you, "Do you want a drink?"

You say yes, eager to escape from the unpleasant smells and tensions of the main body. Peter something from Biology 102 juts his chin, a gesture to follow. He leads you into a kitchen similarly crowded but smelling more of salt and cocktail mix than smoke. Your shoes stick to the floor as you follow him to the drinks.

"What a terrible assortment," he says, groaning at the countertop of booze, unimpressed.

You can't think of something to say back. He turns to you with his eyebrows pinched, guilt evident in his face.

"We have classes together, right?"

"We did. Biology. You're Peter." You cringe as you say it.

He only smiles. "I am Peter. You're…"

You tell him. He winces and nods like he remembers, and maybe he does, patting his thigh. "I remember. You changed classes?"

Your turn to wince. "I dropped out."

He looks shocked for a moment, kind brown eyes wide like a child's. He's the type of handsome to give you chills if you think about it.

"Well, that's something exciting to drink too."

Exciting is not the right word. However, he's pretty and giving you attention. You let him make you a lukewarm mix of things and drink it like it's water, leaning against the cool front of the refrigerator. Peter towers above you, chin basically flat with his neck to see your face, too close for comfort because of the rowdy nature of the party. Still, as he speaks, you decide you like his closeness more and more. He has a nice voice, soothing, and when he chuckles halfway through his own joke you decide he has the most attractive laugh any boy could ever hope to have.

"I mean, I'm sorry you dropped out but I envy you for never having to see Professor Müller again. She's twice as scary as she's ever been."

"Has she divorced her husband yet?" Your words are careful, concise, likely too soft for the volume of the room.

He hears each one perfectly and his laugh is a riot of butterflies in your stomach.

"No, they're hanging in there."

Small talk is tricky. There are intricacies you likely haven't learned. He's looking down, and you're looking up, but meeting his eyes is hard. You glance at his broad chest again and again to the point where you could likely draw the Bruce Springsteen shirt he's wearing with your eyes blindfolded.

You find he isn't put off by your quietness. He fills any awkward gaps with chatter without steamrolling you. He listens. He smiles.

"I came with Avery," you say, bending the plastic cup in your hand. It crunches.

"I like Avery," he says agreeably. "I mean. I don't like her. Like like her." He clears his throat. "She's nice."

"I'm surprised she's put up with me this long. Um, you know, she told me you sell photos. To the Bugle. You're a photographer?"

He scratches the back of his neck. You push your lips together all lopsided as he smiles like he hadn't wanted you say that, and you go to correct yourself.

"I mean, I'm sorry, was that-"

He leans in a little closer and drops his hand. You're close enough to kiss, and that realisation makes your heart skip. "Don't be sorry," he says quickly. He's almost whispering. "Only, it's a secret. I don't know how Avery knows."

"It was in the-" you get distracted by his eyes, unflinching, and look down at his stupid shirt for salvation, "-girls chemistry group chat. Apparently."

He sighs and leans back. Why he's stressed over this is not apparent to you. When he straightens quickly you pretend you hadn't been staring at his jawline.

"Are you in this chat?" he asks.

You shake your head..

"I can't imagine how they would know," he says mostly to himself.

His lips perk up from their thoughtful frown, a beatific smile taking its place. It's an image you're sure to replay in your head for weeks, this normal conversation, this interaction with somebody who's talking to you just to talk to you. You can't believe how pretty he is.

"Isn't it a good thing, to be credited?" you ask gently.

"Have you seen the photographs?" he asks without a hint of sarcasm.

You shake your head, a palpable wave of relief washes over him. You pretend not to notice.

"It's a good thing," he agrees. His hands drift to his stomach. "Are you hungry?"

You're not. "Yeah."

"Wanna go get something? Ditch this popsicle stand. Smells like an ashtray in here."

You think it might be a really bad idea to disappear into the night with a guy you've just met properly. Still, you're lonely, and stupid, and somebody lovely wants to go get food with you.

You find yourself elbow to elbow with him in a greasy McDonald's, illuminated by neon and laughing harder than you have in a really long time. It's the first meal you've eaten in months that isn't a microwave meal in bed. It's nice. You like it. You like him.

"Oh, gross."

"What?" he asks, a milkshake covered fry an inch from his open mouth.

"That's weird."

"It's 'weird'?" he asks, extremely amused by you. There's a fondness to his disbelief. "Have you ever tried it?"

"No," you admit, watching in disgust as he eats it.

Your mumbling amuses him tenfold. He giggles to himself as he plucks a fry from the bottom of his carton, translucent with grease. He dips it generously in his open milkshake and offers it to you.

You don't reach for it. He shakes his head, bewildered, and moves his hand slowly to your mouth.

"Try it! You might like it. It might be your new favourite flavour on the entire planet, and you'll have me to thank for it."

You doubt that.

Honestly, you think you might lick the tables if he asked you to and the shame of it makes you flush white hot as you take the fry from him and eat it.

"Do you like it?" Peter asks eagerly.

You wrinkle your nose. "Can't tell."

He picks up a second fry, dips it in his thick shake and passes it to you fast. His fingers shine with grease. You take it from him.

"Atta girl," he praises.

You melt under his watch. You're embarrassed that he's looking at you like he is - attentive, soft - though there's a thrumming pleasure that comes with his company.

You chew the hybrid food in your mouth and find it isn't half as bad as you worried it would be.

"Yeah?" he asks smugly, nodding until you nod with him.

"Yeah," you say, laughing, eyes shying away from his. "It's nice."

"I knew it! Knew you'd like it."

"How did you know?"

"I can tell. I've got amazing intuition."

You dip one of your own fries in his shake and tilt your head back to avoid spilling it down your shirt, smiling so hard it makes it difficult to chew.

"Your photos in the Bugle, what are they? Like, nature shots?"

The smile slips off of his face. He thinks for a moment, tapping the table with his fingertips, staccato.

"Do you want to be friends?" he asks you, brown waves falling into his eyes as his head inches to one side.

You bite your bottom lip and start to smile, then lose it, worried he's pulling a prank on you.

"You're fun. We mesh. And if you agree to be my friend, I'll tell you who I take photos of," he sells at your hesitance.

"Yeah," you say. It comes out weird. You clear your throat. "Yeah, I wanna be your friend."

His smile flashes, soft then contagious, ridiculously bright. He brings his phone out of his pocket, his screen smashed to pieces and held together with clear scotch tape, and clicks in the code, bringing up a small folder of pictures.

"I take photos of Spider-Man."

You blink. You look between the phone and your new friend, letting out an excited gasp that startles him.

"You've met Spider-Man?" you ask, louder than you've spoken all night.

He gawps at you. "Well," he says bashfully, seeming in two minds from your attention. "I mean… you could say that."

"No fucking way," you mutter happily. Then, before you can stop yourself, "What's he like? Is he nice? Is he funny? People always say he tells good jokes."

His cheeks are pinking. "I'd say he's pretty funny."

"Wow. Peter, this is awesome," you tell him truthfully.

"Oh," he says, eyes hard to read. "Thank you."

You pass the phone back to him. "Of course. Wow, Spider-Man. Hey, you don't take them on your phone, do you? They're so crisp."

"Crisp," he repeats.

"You know, high definition," you sing-song.

"I have a camera. A few cameras. I fix them."

"You fix cameras?"

He tells you all about it, and he doesn't stop at cameras. He can fix everything. Laptops and TVs, video game consoles and fancy mechanical keyboards. You listen in awe.

"Well, what do you do? For fun?" he asks.

You waver. "I'm a waitress."

He raises his eyebrows. "For fun?"

"I mean, no. It's my job. I just, I don't know what I do for fun." You bring your hands together and run your wrist with the pad of your thumb, suddenly unhappy with yourself. "I guess lately I work and then I come home and, you know, do all the things you have to do."

You cringe at yourself. Peter starts collecting the rubbish and mess you've made on the table, slipping everything inside the beaten paper bag, eyes flitting in your direction as he says, "Hey, that's alright. Life gets really busy. Having a full time job must be pretty hard, yeah?"

You nod mindlessly, grateful for his rescue. "Yeah."

"Before your job, what did you do for fun?"

You don't expect the question. "Anything. I would do whatever," you say eventually.

"Skydiving?" he challenges.

"Well, no."

"Paintballing?"

"No, but-"

"Go karting?"

"You asked me for my hobbies, not my bucket list," you complain with no real heat.

His laugh echoes through the entire restaurant. You look around to see if anyone cares and he doesn't, reaching out to grasp your wrist lightly, a friendly clasp that makes your skin burn.

"Maybe we should try doing some of these things. Get you your hobbies back. Hobbies make everything worth it. What's the point in working so hard if you never have time to slow down?" he asks earnestly.

You beam, staring at his hand. There's no sign that he's just touched you, no mark, no burn, nothing. It doesn't make any sense.

He finishes off his drink and shoves that in the paper bag too, turning to you with a question already on his lips.

"How about skateboarding?"

"You're overthinking it," Peter says, watching you hesitate in front of his skateboard.

The sun shines like sticky hot toffee in the sky, piercing the autumn cold. The skatepark complex is busy, more busy than you expected, kids and teens and twenties like you and Peter fighting for space. You and Peter stand off to one side, away from the bowls and congregation.

"I don't want to fall," you confess.

"I won't let you," he says firmly. "Get on."

He offers his hand. You bite your lip, feel the sun warm the back of your head as you stall.

"I'll help you on. It's easy, I swear."

You put one converse-heavy foot on the board. Peter had texted you to wear shoes you didn't mind getting all dinged up and you'd realised that was every pair of shoes, besides your flats for work. He also insisted on bringing knee pads and a helmet. You feel like an idiot. He obviously doesn't mind how you look considering he's tightened the helmet so much your hair is crushed and messy.

"Is this really necessary?" you'd asked.

He'd rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"Look," he says now, "move your foot back a little bit."

"It's gonna move."

He puts his foot behind the wheels. "There, now it won't. Angle your foot, like this," he shows you with his own, though it's the inverse foot and you get confused. He's patient. "Good job. Now this one, straight on the curved part."

You wobble and grasp his wrist too tight in your fingers. He moves a little closer. "Alright. You'll push with this one," he says, pointing at your foot on the back of the board, "from this side. But don't worry, I'll show you. For now, let's just practice standing."

You giggle breathily, nervous at being so close to him. "Not something I thought I'd ever have to practice doing."

He laughs with you.

"I know. As soon as you can balance, everything will feel a lot less scary."

You wobble again. He sighs sympathetically, a half smile on his lips. "Want me to hold you up?" he asks.

"Yes. Please," you agree.

You can't help the tiny gasp of fright that leaves you when he lets go of your hand, though he's quick to wrap his both hands around your waist, steadying you on the board. He moves his foot from behind the truck and you're suddenly aware of the boards freedom to fly out from under you.

You grab onto his arms unthinkingly, feeling the unmistakable curve of defined muscle. It only furthers your dizziness.

"You're good," he murmurs, fingers flexing on your waist. You can feel his touch in your ribs. "How do you feel?"

"Fine."

"I'm gonna move you back and forth, okay?"

He does. It's odd. You sway forwards and backwards, barely moving. It's not as scary as you think it is.

"You can use your hands for balance if you want but most people get away with having them loose at your sides," he tells you. His instructions are slow, said with a melodic cadence.

His words click. "Oh, right. Sorry," you rush to say.

You pull your hands away from him quickly and almost topplez ending up with your hands right back where they'd been moments before, scared at the change in your balance.

"Hey, you're good to hold onto me. Whatever you want to do," he reassures you.

He moves you for a few minutes. You're distracted by his touch and his proximity, of his smell and trying to work out what it is, and then worried about your own smell and how you look, and if you're making a good impression in his head. This is the first time you've seen him since the night you'd gone for food, though he'd texted you every now and then, friendly things, between the waiting days. The weekend had approached quickly. You offered the scarcity of your spare time to him in an uncharacteristic display of courage, texting him:

I don't have work tomorrow if youre still okay to teach me how to skateboard

Omg yes I've been looking forward to this all week!! You know where Maloof skatepark is?

Yeh. Do I need to bring anything??

Just yourself and a pair of shoes u don't mind ruining, I'll bring everything else :D

"Okay, climb off."

"Which-?"

"This foot first."

You clamber clumsily off of the board and his hands linger on your waist for a warm second. He climbs on the skateboard swiftly, movement smooth as honey. He's agile.

"I'm gonna push with my leg," he lifts it up to show you. Impressed isn't the right word. "It's really easy, I promise you. You're gonna get this in no time."

"Do you want the helmet?" you ask him.

"No, sweetheart, you keep it."

It's almost like being struck. He demonstrates how to push off, how to put your foot back behind you. You're too busy buzzing with something unfamiliar to pay attention.

"See how I'm bending my knees a little bit?" he asks.

You nod with no clue. He comes to a controlled stop and kicks the board up with his shoe, something that in consideration is mildly impressive but has you squeezing your palms closed tight. He braces it against his leg.

"Are you thirsty? I've got drinks," Peter says.

You sit with your backs to a cold metal wrought fence sipping Sunny-D, the climbing sun cutting through the afternoons chilly weather until you're basking in it, lifting your face with your eyes closed.

It's not quite peaceful, the childish hubbub and the sound of wheels, blades and metal screeching loud in your ears, but it could be. You can imagine how it might get to be white noise.

Peter nudges you with his elbow. "You're like a cornflower."

"A weed?" you murmur, bemused.

"No!" he scrambles at your teasing tone. "They love the sun."

"Like sunflowers."

"Sunflowers aren't really flowers, either. The part that looks like a flower is a capitulum of florests. That's why the middle is weirdly big. It grows like the wood of a tree."

"So the sunflower isn't a flower," you say, tilting your head towards his. "It's just a plant of- what did you say? Florests?"

"It's a plant covered in lots of little flowers, basically," he sums up for you.

"A plant made of flowers."

"Exactly."

"I'd know this if I hadn't dropped out, I assume."

"That and a handful of other tiny useless facts."

Useless or not, he's hot when he talks, when he explains. You might think he was glaring at you, his eyebrows pinched, his mouth almost pouting like he's mad with himself for needing to concentrate. Whatever it is, it's pretty. He looks like a painting, you think. The Fallen Angel.

He stops thinking so hard and lifts his head to drink. You watch him swallow and wonder after what kind of friend he wants you to be.

"Flower or not, all I meant was that you look like you're enjoying the weather," he says after a moment.

"It's nice. I like the warmth."

"You're not too hot?"

You look down at your hoodie. You are warm, but you won't take it off. "Nah," you say, smiling peaceably.

He takes a second to digest this. His own hoodie is tucked away in his backpack, bare arms on show and a sight. You trace the small arm hairs with your eyes, then his veins, then a scar so silver it would be invisible without the sun's exposure.

"You wanna try again?"

You get up reluctantly and he sets his board back out and tucks his foot in front of the wheels. You step on, wobble, find your balance. He's more gentle with you than you think he should be. It's like he's known you for years.

"Can I move my foot?"

You nod.

"Just stay steady. You have your knee pads, but I'll catch you if you fall anyway. All you wanna do for now is stand on the board."

You trust him to do what he says he will and catch you. You take in a deep breath as he moves his foot, knees slightly bent, arms at your sides, trying your best to be steady.

"Hey, amazing! Alright! Look at you!" Peter cheers, ecstatic.

"Should I be moving?" you ask through a small smile.

He shrugs and moves backwards, close enough to grab you but far enough away that you have space to get comfortable on the skateboard by yourself.

"Do what feels right," he advises.

The sun hits him, turns his hair alight. He's the prettiest boy you've ever met, his eyes dark in the halo of light, eyebrows darker. Light kisses the hills of his cheeks and taper, carving deep shadows under his jaw. You falter on the board, distracted again, and his jaw clenches, his hands reaching out to scoop you up before you can fall flat on your face.

You're one foot touches down and the other slides out under you, skateboard rolling. Peter laughs straight away and you follow his example, giggling as his fingers hook under your arms. You barely feel them. He smells nice. Vanilla, you think, mixed with something aromatic. Amber, maybe. Whatever it is, it's warm. He smells warm.

You remember to pull your foot off of his board and feel like you're made of jelly. He pulls his hands off of you but doesn't move away, peering down at you in question.

"Did something surprise you?" he asks curiously.

"I- yeah. I don't know."

"Wanna go again?"

You get up on the board again. It takes time and mishaps. Peter doesn't ever let you hit the ground.

The sun edges further and further into the sky. By the time it's begun its descent you can push off by yourself, able to traverse a few slow feet without falling. Peter throws his arm over your shoulder when you dismount by yourself and shakes you gently.

"Amazing. You're a real Tony Hawk," he compliments. "Next time we'll see if I can get you turning. You don't have anywhere to be, do you?"

"Nowhere."

"Wanna get something to eat? There's a place nearby that does Pão de Queijo, you'll love those."

"Is it like the whole milkshake thing? 'Cos there's only so many stamps on my freak-of-nature card left."

"Very funny. They're just cheese puffs, swear. Maybe we can get milkshakes on the way for a completely unrelated reason," he says, a vexing smugness behind his joke.

"Ew, Peter."

"Ew," he agrees.

Do you want to go to a painting class with me

Yeah it's like a Bob Ross rip off at the creative arts centre . They have all the stuff there we just have to pay like 49 dollars

a painting class?

Which is on me if u say yes obviously

You want me to go paint with you ?

Yeah it'll be fun

I don't own anything

Peter we can do all that stuff for free at my house if u want to

wait

is painting one of your pre job hobbies???

oh awesome. if that's OK with u then sure we might as well. also a relief cos its 49 each so that's like 98 dollars for us to paint waterfalls :0

yeh lol. i have the stuff

You stare down at your phone. Your answer blinks but you can't make yourself press send. You know you don't have to organise these big things to spend time with me, it says. Only, what if he does? What if your friendship doesn't work without something to do? You've known Peter for three weeks now and gone skating every weekend, though last time you'd given up early and insisted he impress you with tricks. He had delivered, and your mouth had been bone dry by the end of it. He'd barely broken a sweat.

You delete your draft and start anew.

Do you have a tarp or a big sheet we can lay down on the floor? I have carpet and I rent

I'll get you a tarp, sweetheart

You scream to yourself and push your phone deep into the sofa cushions beneath you. It chirps and you leave it. It chirps again and you scrounge for it.

look at this video https://youtu.be/A5L8bdYY9FY

he's eating a tomato

You laugh to yourself, giddy with the pleasure of having a friend. Giddy that it's Peter.

A rattling knock at the door.

A text before you can get up.

I'm outside maybe

You open the door in your painting clothes with your hair intricately done to look messy-pretty. Peter is wearing his usual nice clothes, thigh hugging jeans and his brown jacket, but under it is a shirt that smells like burning.

"S'my soldering shirt," he says quickly, apologetic.

You smile and hope he reads it for what it is; It smells like it. Also, I'm happy you're here.

He shrugs off his backpack.

"I brought sandwiches," he announces. "Like, thanks for inviting me, no I'm not going to murder you sandwiches."

"Peter, I never thought you were going to murder me."

"Good. May says hi." He pulls a plate from the bag, cookies covered in saran wrap.

"Oh my god. Why don't you say hi this way?" you tease, accepting the plate from his hands. The cookies are still warm. You could scream. "Is it rude if I eat one now?" you ask him.

"It would be rude if you didn't. I sw- rushed here so they'd stay warm."

"Thank you."

Beforeyou can psych yourself up, you step forward and hug him with one arm. You'd argued with yourself for hours this morning while cleaning if this was an acceptable thing to do. Friends hug, don't they?

You do it quickly, reasoning that if he finds it weird then at least it's short. You pull away before his arms are even properly around you. Peter looks mildly confused but is ever a boy of endless generosity and so has the kindness to pretend you're not acting socially inept, instead setting his sights on your apartment.

"It's bright," he says.

You read it as a comment on lack of decor.

"White," you agree. "Can't mess up if it's all the same colour."

The walls, the rug, the cabinets. Though they're all a dull offwhite. It's horrible, you think, really horrible, but you're so afraid to try and to mess up that you've never bothered.

Peter stretches the plastic tarp he's acquired out over your floor as you eat one of May's cookies, sighing at the taste of sugar and chocolate chips. You hold the cookie in one hand and use the other to weigh the tarp edges down with four worn paperback books.

"You read a lot?" Peter asks, beaming. You can't understand it.

You nod and finish up the cookie.

"That's a nice hobby to have, sweetheart." Again with sweetheart, so warm it makes your fingers tremble. "What kind of stuff do you like to read?"

You tell him the bare bones of your reading habit as you spread your freshly-dusted art supplies out onto the trap. You'd bought fresh turps and canvas and laid them out already.

"What are we painting?" you ask him.

He nods to himself and opens up his laptop from his rucksack, moving it so you have a good view with YouTube already paused.

"That's not a waterfall," you say.

"It looks pretty, though, don't you think?"

It's an aurora borealis tutorial. "It might be above my skill level."

"Not mine. Don't worry, I'll get us through it."

You'd primed the medium canvases with a thick layer of white gesso. Peter rubs his fingertips over the smooth surface deliberately and turns to you.

"I thought we'd take our time. I know the idea is to paint along with him but we aren't in any hurry. I watched it twice last night and I really think we can manage it," he says, confident.

First, three stripes of a turquoise-green. Mixing that colour is a struggle that you both giggle through. You add white, Peter adds green, you add too much blue and he adds too much yellow. Eventually you get something right, the both of you already smattered in flecks of oily colour that transfers onto the pristine canvas, marring them. You look at each other with wide eyes.

"We can just do the stripes across them," Peter says.

"The background is dark," you agree. "It'll cover it up."

You paint big green stripes. Peter tips linseed oil on his jeans and you have to take a break to clean it up, kneeling knee to knee with him and dabbing his leg with a rag.

"I'm really sorry I don't have anything for you to change into," you apologise.

"It's not your fault," he says, quiet, so close you can feel the heat of his breath on your forehead.

When he's mostly dry you, in what is the most arduous and quite frankly terrifying step, fill in the gaps with a blue so dark it's almost black.

"The wine-dark sea," you murmur.

Peter looks at you in a way you can't decipher.

"You know, Homer?" you ask.

"I don't know," he says, shaking his head. His voice is cloudy with something as he asks, "Explain it to me?"

You look down at your painting and make small, careful strokes, working to cover the last corner. "I don't really know everything, but; they didn't have a word for blue, or maybe they didn't have a perception of the colour blue, back then. Culturally."

You go silent with concentration as you fill in the last stroke of dark paint, attempting to be as neat as you can be.

"So they were all colourblind?" he asks.

"Maybe," you murmur. "I don't know, I don't think so? I think it might've been about language and how they used it rather than just not seeing it at all. Homer once described Zeus' eyebrow as 'blue', like a synonym for 'dark'."

It feels weird to disagree with him. You're worried about being pedantic, looking out your peripherals at him. He's leaning over his canvas with a stripe of paint up his arm like a turquoise vein, his shirt sleeve, soft with age, curling up. You can see a chest-aching silver of his muscled bicep. He doesn't seem annoyed at all. In fact, he seems pleased.

"That's awesome, in a way. Don't you think so? And what, blue was just dark or dark red?"

"I'm not sure. I don't really remember. I read about it a long time ago," you say hesitantly, afraid of sounding stupid.

"Maybe we can have a look after we're done painting. I'm sure you're right," he says lightly, sitting back on his calves with a pleased smile. "We are literally modern Picasso's."

Well, they did look quite abstract.

You paint gentle lines of purple atop the black, taking it straight from the tube with your brushes, waiting your turn like little kids. It becomes invisible as it blends, lying in wait for the white paint meant to go on top.

You clean off your brushes in the turpentine and squeeze out a big dollop of titanium white.

"This is the tricky part," Peter informs you over the instructor on screen. "We have to use a lot of white, keep the lines really skinny and blobby but also try not to mix it with the blue underneath too much. Think you have the chops?" he asks, voice low, like a formidable opponent from some texas ranger movie.

You don't.

"Yeah, we can do it. Looks easy," you say, eyes on the screen.

It's finicky. The white smudges and gets dirty fast. You don't suppose it will matter when you do the final brush strokes, but still. Peter's perfectionism begins to show and he grows quiet with concentration, white stripes arcing over his canvas in delicate hand.

"The fun part," he declares when he's done. "You have a big brush, right?"

"Only the one," you say, sorry.

"That's okay, I like sharing with you."

Peter goes first, slowly and then with more confidence when the beginning stroke goes well. He drags the dry brush from the bottom to the top over still wet paint. Where the white spread upwards it lightens the turquoise green and purple, and the aurora borealis is born on his canvas.

You both look at it in shock.

By the time he's finished you're beaming. It's so pretty, so simple.

"I can't believe I made that," he says, then flushes pink.

He clears his throat and cleans the brush off in turps, wipes it dry on the painting rag. He hands it to you and you take it impulsively, but after a moment you pass it back.

"Will you do mine for me? Please?"

"What? You don't want to do it?" he asks, incredulous.

"I'll mess it up."

Peter takes the brush from you though he looks like it's the last thing he would ever want to do. His shoulders relax, down in fashion with the corner of his mouth.

"Why would you think that?" he asks.

You shift uncomfortably. "I just would."

His face goes stony, and he looks like he did at the skatepark, that flash of fallen angel. His eyebrows furrow and there's a particular sullen quality to his pout. It's gone as quick as it came, overwhelmed by something like determination.

"You try it. If you mess it up I'll finish it off for you. Final offer."

"That's the only offer you've given me."

"Exactly."

It goes without a hitch. Peter squeezes your forearm gently, says, "I knew you could," and leaves a white-lilac fingerprint behind. Later, when he's left for the night and you're lying in bed with your arm still phantom tingling, you look at the paint mark and figure that it makes sense. A physical mark of how you feel. A soft colour of a soft touch.

Peter waits for you outside the hotel restaurant where you waitress on Friday, 5PM, and looks exceedingly happy when he spots you like he hadn't expected you, despite your being his one reason for standing there.

He has a bag hanging from the crook of his elbow and his earphones wired in. He pulls them out when he sees you.

"Watcha listening to?" you ask.

"Aw, look at you, sweetheart," he cooes instead of answering.

You don't understand, looking down at your waitress skirt and tights, your white blouse and black overcoat. Your name tag is shining silver in the lamp light.

"What?"

"Aren't you cold?" he asks, handing you the drinks tray.

Before you can answer he's shrugging out of his jacket, transferring his bag from one hand then the other.

"Here." He takes the drinks back and passes you the jacket. "Let's swap."

"Peter, I can't wear your jacket."

"I've got this hoodie on," he says, gesturing to his dark blue hoodie with a grin.

Your cheeks burn. You pretend it's from the cold breeze, pushing your arms into his jacket quickly, shy but thankful for the warmth. It's thick and warm from his wear, corduroy with a puffier inner lining than you were expecting. Chills line your arms as his heat sinks in.

"Where's your jacket?" Peter asks.

"It put it in my locker and then I lost the key, and the super isn't here on Fridays. So."

"Typical."

"Of me?"

"Of the super. Four day work week! The nerve of that guy."

You laugh and start to walk, prompting Peter into motion. He wraps your stiff fingers around a warm cardboard cup unnecessarily. You almost question him aloud. You bring the cup to your nose and sniff, quickly forgetting your question as it's replaced by another.

"Pete, what is this?"

"It's a honeycomb latte from Tim Hortons. You've been trying so many new things, I thought you'd like it. I'll get you something else, though, if you hate it."

You sip. It's nice. "This is grim," you lie, and it's so obvious it shocks a laugh from him. You're gifted a peek at the underside of his perfect jaw, his lovely neck as he tilts his head back.

"How will I sleep tonight?" you ask after another burning sip.

"It's decaf, bug."

"Bug! Like an insect."

"Exactly." He grins. You take a big mouthful of latte and feel it heat you up inside out.

He tucks his phone in his pocket but pulls the wired headphones through and offers an earbud to you. You plug it in your ear and listen to his music as you walk mostly in silence. It's nice to decompress after work, nice to enjoy his company without having to talk. There's so much talking, all day, and it's a comfort you can't believe you're privileged enough to have for him to be by your side, hands swinging, almost touching, between you.

"What song was that?"

"Raspberry. By Grouplove."

"And what song is this one?" you ask.

"Honeybody."

You smile to yourself.

"What?" he asks, grinning, words all soft and warped with humour.

"I've never heard any of your songs before."

"You hate them?"

"I really don't. They suit you."

He grins and starts to sway, his drink sloshing, the bag hanging from his wrist rustling with his movement. You step around a mysterious mark on the sidewalk and when you return to his side Peter holds his hand out. You take it and he's suddenly pulling you in, your face by his face, giggles bubbling out of you when you realise he's serenading you in a falsetto.

"Oh, honeybody, whatcha doing Sunday? Maybe sippin' a coca cola with me, babe?" he begins.

It's ridiculous, and it makes you laugh, the beat of the song easy to fall into as he stretches your joined hands between you, his shoulders moving in dance.

"Hands down on the ground, I'm begging you to please - honeybody, please me?"

He laughs as he sings, words off kilter and high pitched. You smile so wide it hurts your cheeks and try not to spill your drink as his eyes flare wide and he spins you around. People must be looking at you, they have to be, the streets are quiet but not abandoned, and no one can hear the music but you - it must be something awful. And, as someone who is always so paranoid of what people think, you realise you don't care. This is fun. Your heart is racing as you dance, you skirt flaring in the breeze as you almost skip into dance moves, head bobbing left to right.

Honeybody, want ya body.

You dance through an instrumental pause like idiots, and then hum along to the words you don't know when they start again, Peter moving your hand in his back and forth over the empty air in time with the music.

It's magnetic in its awkwardness. Why do people dance? Because something about music makes you desperate to feel it, and something about Peter's pretty face open with the simple joy of singing in the street multiplies that. You're not sure you could've kept still if you wanted to, a vestibule of immeasurable slap dap joy.

The song slows, swells, and you and Peter calm yourselves down now that the pop-y baseline is fading. You turn to each other and smile and laugh breathily, embarrassed and so disgusting stupid happy it hurts your cheeks. You let yourself look into his eyes, their amber flecked, sunwarmed-honey brown, ink black pupils blown wide. He drops your joined hands back down but doesn't let your fingers go, swinging them forwards and back between you. You don't just let him, you help, and you find that you love the weight of his palm in yours.

The new song is slower but still jumpy. The singer has a deeper voice, a very deep voice, and you can't make out what he's saying until the bridge.

I'm just a lover boy. I'm not cut out to be cruel.

You look at Peter and reckon it of him. You can't imagine he's ever been cruel in his life.

"What is this one called?" you ask, tightening your fingers around his.

"Low beam," he tells you smoothly, an impersonation, grasping your hand back with a similar pressure.

"I can't tell what he's saying," you confess.

He tilts his head and listens to the song, humming and then singing, his voice steady and deep but without the passionate inflection of the singer, whose voice has climbed into a higher pitch for the next two lines. It sounds nice, and Peter's voice sounds nicer.

"I know what you're all about, I know what you're on. Baby let me down, I just don't belong."

You barely have time to think about how much you relate to the singer's words before Peter drops his voice down all sticky-deep and croaky.

"I know what you're thinking, you can take me for a ride. Baby let me have it, 'cos I'm never gonna hide, you can keep on running-"

He tries to keep singing his dramatic rendition and can't, your roaring laughter too infectious to ignore.

How could you not laugh? He sounds so ridiculous, his impression of the singer so outlandish and yet spot on. You laugh hard enough that you have to bend over in the street and press your thighs together, gasping for air. You know it's the euphoria of dancing with him making you dizzy, know that this giddiness is a collection of all the ways he's made you feel high with the pleasure of being cared about.

Peter's own laughter fades before yours, though he's not immune to each fresh wave, each shiny giggle. You wheeze and he snorts in response, pulling his hand from yours to pat your back sympathetically.

"Alright, bub, laugh it up. We have places to be. Get it all out of your system."

Get it out of your system! You laugh until tears well in your eyes.

"If you don't stop laughing I won't heat your grilled cheese up. You'll have to eat it cold."

You gasp, half mocking as the giggles taper. "Not my artisan-style grilled cheese! The horror!"

You're not blind enough to miss the fondness on his face as he looks down at you. "Exactly: the horror."

"May won't let you do that to me. It's, like, a human rights violation."

It's his turn to laugh. You stand giggling in the street with his hand buried in the fabric of your borrowed jacket, clinging to you for dear life. You only manage to sober up when his drink tips over the lip of the cup and miraculously drips into the opening of the plastic bag suspended from the crook of his elbow, ruining your sandwiches.

"There's a phone call for you at the front desk," someone tells you.

You rush to the desk and accept the phone from the secretary, leaning over the top, and raise it your ear. Nobody ever calls you, really, and it's unlikely they'd know you were here: you're picking up someone else's shift, a night shift.

"Hello?"

Peter's voice, without greeting. "'In the 1980s a theory gained prominence that after Greeks mixed their wine with hard, alkaline water typical for the Peloponnesus, it became darker and more of a blue-ish color. Approximately at the same time P. G. Maxwell-Stuart argued that "wine-eyed" may simply denote 'drunk, unpeaceful'.'"

"Where'd you read that?" you ask quietly, peeking out the corner of your eye at the secretary. She seems to be uncaring.

"Wikipedia."

"So the wine-dark sea isn't red?"

"I think it's up for interpretation still. Wikipedia isn't exactly the best source. But certainly not red in our context," he says. You can hear how tired he is from the slight monotony of his voice.

"So it's not red to them, because they saw blue as a dark red," you say, not really arguing so much as thinking out loud. "It's 'cos their wine was blue?" You confuse yourself.

"That's what I thought at first, too, but if you look at other languages from the same time period, it's very common for their syntax to also lack any mention or translation of the word blue."

"I'm too stupid for all of this, Pete. You'll have to work it out for me."

"You're not stupid," he says hotly.

"I'm not not stupid."

"You're not stupid. Don't say mean things about my friend."

You laugh at the seriousness of his tone. "You got it, boss. Anything else? I gotta get back."

"Right! Sorry, I called you to ask you out, not to theorise dead languages with you."

Your heart stutters. "Ask me out?"

"There's a rerun tomorrow morning of Big Eden at the movies near your place."

"What time?"

"Like, 8AM."

You check your watch. It's already 10PM. "Will you be okay with waking up early? You sound really tired."

He laughs nervously. "What?" he asks, voice pitched up. "I'm fine. Of course I will be. So that's a yes?"

"You're all scratchy… but yes, that sounds fun."

"Is it ugly? My voice?"

"It's nice," you say, too honest.

His answering silence makes you want to slam the phone back into its receiver. A sound like fast wind statics the line.

"What was that?"

"What was what? You finish soon, don't you?" he asks.

You sigh. "Yes, thank you God. Fifteen minutes."

"You'll text me when you're home?"

"Sure thing. Catch you later?"

"Catch you later," he repeats, voice edged with lightness. You put the phone back and slink off to finish up your duties before clocking out and retrieving your things from your locker.

It's cold and dark. You pin the feeling of being followed on plain paranoia. You hear the strangest sound, a thwip like wet paper towels hitting the floor, and it freaks you out badly. You rush home.

Peter's timing is impeccable, your phone pinging as soon as you've locked the front door.

Home?

Yes sir

Plans tonight?

Calm down my racing heart and then knock out for moveis tomorrow :33

Racing heart??? Everything OK?

Yeah, just scary sometimes walking home. I felt like someone was following me

His reply takes a little while.

Fuck. Next time I'll meet you there? Even if we don't have plans, I'll walk you home whenever you want.

You smile to yourself.

Yeah. that would be nice. Thank you Peter

You're so tired in the morning that your eyes burn. You don't care. You haven't seen Peter all week and there's a hole the size of him in your palm. You meet him outside the movie theatre and instantly narrow your eyes at him.

"Peter! What the fuck?"

"What?" he asks, sluggish, dressed briskly in a white shirt and olive green pants. His rucksack bulges on his back, hopefully full of contraband.

"Your eye!" you say, furious. "What do you mean, 'what'? You have a shiner!"

You catch his face in your hands, less gentle than you mean to be. You breathe out and try to be careful, tilting his head down and to one side to get a good look, gasping at the extent of it, a horrible wine stain of purple red on his cheek.

"Peter, did you go to the hospital?" you murmur, chewing your lip.

You brush your thumb over the very edge of his eye. He wraps his hand around your forearm and strokes down, a little bit of the worry you're feeling dripping away with it. You can't get over how messy it is, how his eye is squinting shut with it.

"May looked at it. It's ugly but it's fine."

"How did you do this?" you ask, and maybe he can hear how weirdly close you are to tears, because he tightens his grip on you and meets your eyes.

"I'm alright," he says emphatically. "I- I ate shit on the rails. Everything's fine."

You hadn't expected seeing him hurt to evoke such a visceral reaction. You clear your throat and tuck it away, blinking rapidly to push any wetness from your eyes.

"Jesus Christmas, Peter," you whisper.

"Jesus Christmas," he repeats dryly.

You drop your hand from his face and ball it into a fist, faux annoyed with him. His hand remains on your arm, slowly climbing up, and the press of his fingertips is a small heaven. Your annoyance doesn't last long; you're too concerned about his face to hide it.

"Are you really okay? Maybe you should go home."

"Are you kidding? I missed you all week, I'm not going home. I would've come with a stab wound."

You might have smiled if his bruise wasn't as awful as it was.

"Peter…"

"Come on, it's Big Eden. I guarantee you'll cry and I already bought the tickets," he says this with a mischievous, self-satisfied grin.

You look at the white t-shirt he's wearing with a little goblin man riding a skateboard, want to laugh at it, want to cry about his face and kiss it better or at the very least hold a tincture to it for a few hours. He's injured and it must hurt like a bitch, and yet he wants to watch a movie with you. That softens your resolve. You're quickly finding that Peter Parker is hard to say no to.

"Well," you say, rolling the words around in your mouth, "if you already bought the tickets…"

He cheers and readjusts the strap of his Jansport on one shoulder before leaning down to kiss your cheek. "Yes! Alright, let's do this thing. I have a ridiculous amount of snacks in this bad boy."

You sit smack dab in the middle of the theatre. Peter is at first a pillar of strength, whispering jokes and forcing snacks not suitable for your early morning appetite into your hands. He grows less talkative as the movie continues and soon, with a struggle and a half, he's lightly dozing, his head thrown back.

You can't decide whether to be enraptured by the movie or the sleeping boy besides you. Again, you're overtaken by this want to kiss his aching contusion like it might help.

The movie plays and all you can do is look at Peter's face.

"Listen, you know what they say when you get lost in the woods? If you stay put, stay in one place and don't wander, they'll find you."

You reach out your fingers an inch from his face, half an inch.

"And I was just hoping you'd let yourself be found this time. I was hoping you'd let us find you. But you keep wandering and-"

You touch his face. He stirs and you can't pull your hand back in time. You're not smart enough to lie, find you don't really want to, and he sees your hand and presses his own overtop without saying anything.

You twist in the padded velvet seat. Peter slides your hand up his face, towards his eye, leans into your touch like a cushion.

You worry he's fallen asleep again when his mouth ticks up into a small smile.

"Was I asleep for long?" he whispers.

You shake your head. He drops your hands from his face and pulls them into his lap and they stay there for the rest of the movie, catching teardrops.

You cry too. A lot more.

"This was the first movie I saw as a kid where I realised it was okay," he says quietly over wide shots of the town, "for me to love boys the same way I loved girls."

That prompts a fresh wave. You sniff them away, squeezing his hand in his lap and feeling that overwhelming fondness for him that you always feel these days, as well as the pleasure and thankfulness that comes with being trusted brazenly.

"Yeah?" you ask, eyes shiny.

"Yeah."

The lights come up as the credits begin rolling. Peter, despite his obvious fatigue, gets up quickly. He pulls his rucksack on and wipes his eyes, wincing when he brushes against his awful bruise.

"Maybe not the best movie to watch with a black eye," he says self-deprecatingly.

You're busy trying to think of how to say what you want to say.

"Thank you. For bringing me to see the movie with you. And for telling me," you say, looking down at the red carpeted floor, it's sprinkling of popcorn, descending the steps to the doors.

He nudges you with his elbow. "Thanks for coming with me. And waking me up before the best part."

You blush at the memory. If he thinks you woke him on purpose you won't correct him. You don't want to make a big deal of his coming out to you if he doesn't and so you follow him quietly out of the theatre and into the bright day. His eye looks better in the light.

He sees you looking. "Hm?"

"Your eye looks less awful now."

"Must've been the cloud cover this morning, enhanced my shadow," he says offhandedly.

It really must've been. You feel sore from all the crying and can't imagine how he feels.

"You could've warned me about the movie, Pete."

"No! The best part about Big Eden is watching it for the first time and having it destroy and rebuild your heart."

And don't you just feel yourself falling for him a little bit more?

You bump his thigh with your hip. "You're evil, Parker."

He laughs loudly.

You try to keep too much hopefulness out of your voice when you ask, "So you're busy today?"

His smile turns disappointed. He explains how much studying he has to do for an exam on Monday and apologises for bringing you out just to ditch you. "I'm really sorry. I love that movie and I was selfish enough to want to see it with you but if I don't study for this I'm gonna flunk the class."

You wave your hand at him.

"It's really okay. I'm glad we had the morning together. No hard feelings," you say breezily.

He walks you home and tells you to text him and promises to try and reply, dropping a kiss in the centre of your hairline, hands braced on the top of your head. His smile tugs at his bruise as he walks away backwards, waving at you and nearly mowing down an old man and his dog. You pretend to shut your door, stand there listening to his panicked apologies through the crack, hungry for those extra seconds of his voice.

Peter's room is busy. A million photos, a surprising amount of them featuring you, decorate the walls, the side of his wardrobe, wherever he can fit them. Some are Polaroids, some are 4×6s on Walmart paper, some you're not sure about. There's the ones he's obviously taken on his phone - you painting, you walking towards him outside the movie theatre, you on his skatebaord, determined. Photos he'd taken with his F2 from your escapades - bowling, go karting, air hockey. You hold your puck in your hand, hair a mess from the fierceness of your competition, wearing the usual glee that comes with his company. You stand outside the 7/11 with a slurpee in a bucket on for bring your own cup, cherry and blue raspberry and piña colada all mixed together in a rainbow mess, pink and blue sticky syrup down the front of your shirt. Peter, having encouraged you to try the F2, with his own slurpee, his inside a heavy casserole dish. So heavy you'd thought there was no way he could carry it - you'd struggled with the bucket, it's flimsy plastic handle untrustworthy - and yet he'd marched it home. A second picture, Peter on the floor in his living room with your slurpees and two comically long straws made of normal sized straws and sellotape for the occasion, Constantine playing on the TV. A third, you cross-legged on the floor watching the screen, half your slurpee gone and the movie now changed to chicken little. That always made you laugh to remember, how he'd demanded something fun after Constantine's hellish nightmare.

Slightly aside form the photos is your aurora borealis painting.

"We'll swap. I'll have yours and you'll have mind. That way we can't look at them and pick out all the mistakes we made," Peter had suggested.

He was right. Having his painting propped on your dresser is nice, and you don't ever look at it and think about its flaws. Your own is a different story.

You turn your face from it. Where you lie flat on your back in Peter's bed he sits at his desk, head down, finishing up some practice questions. His allowance of your company is a win, you think. He'd been reluctant at first, unusual for him, as he let you do most everything you asked to do.

"Please? I'm so bored here. I won't make any noise."

"It's not about noise, it's about FOMO."

"FOMO."

"If I know you're there I'll want to know what you're doing and then I'll want to do it with you."

"I won't do anything. I'll just sit on your bed silently. Please? At least let me be bored somewhere interesting. Please."

You watch him work, his earphones singing their bumpy song, dark head of hair bobbing as he goes. In the perfect life, you stand up and pull his hair from his face and he pulls his desk chair out and sets you in his lap, and everything is soft and lilac forever, his fingertips colouring every inch of your body, every centimetre of your hands and your arms and your chest and your neck.

You feel awful for thinking it of him and quickly bring your hands up to hide, covering your eyes with your palms. Your heart beats so loudly you worry he can hear it from where he's sitting.

The squeal of his desk chair's wheels. His music, louder as he pulls out his earphones.

"Are you okay? I'm getting distressed vibes," Peter says loudly.

You rubs your hands down your face and hold them to your cheeks. "Leave me alone."

"Don't be like that," he says, standing from the chair. Your watch his arms bulge as he does, how the muscles move and contract with his weight.

"Budge up," he demands.

You stare at him.

"Come on."

"You're not done."

"I am now. Move over, heathen, it's my bed."

"I had to plead with you to let me visit because I'm a 'distraction', but when I tell you to work I'm a heathen."

You move over until your arm is pressed into the cool wall. He sits down with his back to your knees, pulling his sweatshirt over his head in that infuriating way that boys do, flashing his naked back at you. He sheds the sweatshirt on the floor to your shock-horror and looks over his shoulder, hair disheveled.

"I was always gonna let you come over," he says, like it's obvious, "just had to mess with you a bit first."

"That's mean," you bemoan.

He raises his eyebrows and lies back, his spine pushing into the soft swell of your tummy. You hear it click.

"Peter, oh my god."

He sighs as he stretches, using you like a roller. You blush at the sound he makes as he readjusts, your brain labelling it as a moan even when you begin it not to. You try not to breath weird as he curls up on your abdomen, a touch, face pressed above your naval, eyes on your eyes. Peter can't be comfortable in his position but he looks like there's nowhere he'd rather be. It makes you nauseous.

You turn your face into his pillow and decide you can't deal with this right now, and you won't. Peter's hands are clasped together, knuckle of his thumb pressed into your ribs. Your own hands lie at either side of you, itching to move, to touch, to hold.

You ball them into fists.

"What should we have for lunch?" he asks.

"What do you want?" you ask, a poor imitation of a normal person.

He hums to himself in thought and you still as you feel his hand traverse the curve of your ribs. He traces the pattern of your shirt gently, fingertips touching you so slightly you might convince yourself you'd imagined it if you couldn't see his arm moving out of the corner of your eye.

"The sandwhich house outside the 71 station had signs up for po' boys," he suggests, almost murmuring.

You squeeze your eyes shut. "You like shrimp?" you ask, slightly wheezy.

He flattens his hand with a laugh. "I like po' boys."

You can't help it, you hate yourself for it, but the heat of his hand as he slides it lightly over your ribs makes you tremble. He doesn't say anything, but his hand quickens, as if to soothe, trailing back and forth over your rising abdomen. If he moves his hand up a few inches-

"Or I can make mac and cheese," his hand pauses as he turns it over in his head, "I can make breadcrumbs. Oh, there's imitation lobster in the freezer. We could have lobster mac and cheese." He raises his head off of your tummy and smiles at you. "Right?"

You force yourself to speak, scared to move, "I'm not sure I'm very hungry."

He nods and lays back down, rubbing his face gently against the material of your shirt. It catches on the beginnings of his stubble. Your entire body flushes, a too hot feeling blossoming in your chest.

"PB and J?" he offers.

Your hand shakes as you raise it behind him, warring with yourself. He's rubbing my chest. I'd hardly be the weird one if I stroked his hair, you think. Would I?

You touch first single strand, then the outline of a curl. Peter turns his head before you can, crushing his curls, face to his ceiling with a dispirited grumble.

"It's no use," he says, hands scrubbing his face. "Too many options."

Then, as if remembering himself, "Oh, sorry. I'm crushing you," he says, sitting up.

"N-" you physically stop yourself from protesting his departure and instead pull yourself up before he can try anything heartstopping again.

A pointless exercise, you realise, when he moves to fix your hair for you, flattening your bedhead. He pauses with his hand over your ear and smiles triumphantly.

"Cereal," he says.

You grin, appeasing. "Cookie crisp?"

"Yes! Absolutely. Cookie crisp. And Apple Jack's."

"Not at the same time, though."

Peter's silent. He stands up and makes for the door, refusing to look at you.

"Not at the same time, though, Peter. Right?"

"You don't have to eat it!" he complains, rolling his eyes.

You follow him down the stairs. Your socks are new and slippery. He's quick, and in your scramble to catch up with him and prevent any atrocity you mist the last step and gasp.

Peter doubles back. "What?"

You laugh, forcing mouthfuls of air into your lungs in relief.

"I missed the last step," you admit, waiting for his judgement.

He smirks like you knew he would. "Aw, doll, can't even get down the stairs by herself."

"I can." You hate yourself for how his words make you stammer. "It's your fault, I was chasing you."

"You were chasing me?" he asks, something evil in his eyes.

You take a step back that you don't have and fall onto the stairs as he takes a step forward. You want to laugh but Peter doesn't, and so you don't, sitting on his wooden stairs with your hand wrapped around the banister, looking up at him worriedly.

"No," you say.

He takes your face into his hands. His black eye is healed. The only colour on his face is the beauty mark just below his nose.

His hands are hot. They cradle your cheeks, fingers pushed under your ears, tilting you up. He's playing a game of intimidation with you, you know, and you swallow, his touch calming but his proximity nerve-wracking.

"You think you could catch me?" he asks, amusement written clear as day on his pretty face.

"For cereal," you clarify, bargaining for your life.

"Right, and if you caught me? Then what?"

"I would have stopped you."

"Yeah?"

You stop with your lips parted. He strokes your cheek with his thumb. You feel suddenly overwhelmed and he must see that, because he pulls his hands from your face with enough gentleness to turn your stomach.

"Hey," he says. "I'm kidding. I wouldn't hurt you, you know that?"

And your eyes widen. "Of course I know that," you tell him quickly. You drop your head into your hands and feel your skin where his hands had been. "I didn't think that."

"You looked pretty freaked out," he mumbles.

You hold your hand out and he takes it, pulling you back onto your feet, chest touching his chest. He shuffles back. His fingers move down your hand to squeeze your wrist. Weeks and weeks of this. He's more familiar to you than anyone has ever been before, yet you have so much left to learn.

You want to reassure him. No, Peter, you didn't make me uncomfortable or anything. It's just your hands feel like they were meant to be held to my face. I want to hold them there.

You wrap your arms around his waist like a coward. Your face disappears into the strength of his chest. He wraps his arms around you without a word.

"I know you wouldn't," is all you can say.

The picnic blanket is a kaleidoscope of colours against the rich green swatch of grass where you lie. Peter sits with one leg up in the opposite corner, your game of uno between you.

"I think you're slipping cards," Peter accuses.

"How could I? I don't have sleeves. Or pants."

"I know what you're like," he says.

He's right, you are slipping cards. A wad of them are sticky under your sweaty thigh. Peter gives the handheld fan he's propped up across from you both a good wack to get it going again.

"I thought you were an engineer," you say. "Uno."

He lays down a +4 and you sigh, picking up an extra four cards.

"It's fixed. It's fixed, it's just temperamental. It has personality." He sounds personality out. Per-suh-nah-li-ty.

"Uh-huh," you say.

"Uno."

Fuck. You put down a yellow and he sighs, picking up another card.

"It's actually offensive to me that you think I'm slipping."

"It's offensive to me that you think I wouldn't notice."

Another card, another.

"Uno."

He puts one down. "Uno."

You pick up. He picks up.

"You notice nothing."

"So your leg, it's flat to the blanket for no particular reason?"

"Uno," you say, your one card wavering in your hand. You refuse to lie to him but won't tell the truth, either.

"Uno. You have a bad poker face."

You place your last card. "I win."

He puts his last card down on the blanket and steadies his gaze on your. His eyes flit to your leg. He throws himself at you.

His weight pushes your back flat to the picnic blanket and his hand pushes under your thigh. His fingertips dig into your leg and he scoops up a handful of your cheating cards, moving off of you and brandishing them.

You giggle and stay lying down. He drops them on your chest, red cards stark against your short white summer dress.

"I knew it. You lose."

"I won!"

"You forfeit for cheating!"

You concede, simpering. He kneels between your legs, looking only at your face, and then he catches sight of your legs and he stops smiling. You know he sees them.

He looks at your face, as if to say, argue with me about them.

"It's okay," you murmur.

He follows a white, raised line once. His hands are steady and kind. His fingertips feel like the kiss of a soft mouth.

You bring your legs up and push your knees together, folding them to the side and away from his view. He straightens your dress to hide your underwear and you can barely bring yourself to be embarrassed. His fingers linger, pinched in the white of your skirt.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"I promise."

His relief is palpable.

He crawls backwards on his knees to clean up the mess of cards. You listen to his movements, his breathing, the shuffling of cards as he puts them back in their cardboard box and the zipper of his bag. You think about the mess of scars on your body and how he's seen them, too inattentive to notice his creeping approach.

He dangles a daisy picked from the surrounding grass in front of your eyes.

"You're my best friend," he says, love sewed into the seams of each syllable. "The best friend I have ever had. Nothing will change that."

You accept the flower and sit up, passing him the last red card from under your ribs.

"Why did we agree to come here?" Peter asks into your ear, leaning over the sofa where you're sitting.

"You didn't miss the smell?" you ask him innocently.

"Or the taste," he informs you, arms hanging either side of your head.

He rests his chin in your hair and you poke your tongue towards his cup until he gets what you're saying and holds it to your mouth.

"Me neither," you say after you've swallowed. "Yuck."

"Shall we go home?" he asks.

You tilt your head backwards and watch the underside of his jaw move. He raises his head to look down at you. It's weird, like he's upside down.

"We shall," you declare.

Peter pulls you off the couch side through the apartment, down flights of stairs and onto the street, which smells better than the stuffy tang of beer that had lingered at the party by a small, almost invisible margin.

The sky is split by our star's descent, a brilliant mix of orange and pink and white and blue, clouds dancing across it like lovers, unhurried.

You and Peter walk much the same, crossing streets and ducking through cold alleyways until the road to his aunt's house appears in the distance, hands brushing against hands, dancing around each other.

A car drives past playing sweet classical music. Another blares heavy rock. A dog sticks his head out of the window and wags his tail, tongue heaving. You and Peter wave at him excitedly.

The sun sinks further through its rainbow sky like the fat yolk of an egg having escaped its shell, almost bobbing against the honey yellow horizon, a wave of light.

There's no music to be heard as Peter knits his fingers through yours, pulling you towards him. You spin into him like it's a game, the edges of your skirt flaring out, the petals of a baby blue tulip over your thighs.

You spin out for the simple pleasure of watching it. Peter digs through his pocket for his phone and sets his music to shuffle. The first song to come on is all you need.

You spin out, spin in, arms joined and high in the air. Away again, in, you trip over your own feet and drop your head into his chest, something akin to peace wrapping itself around you like sheer ribbon as you laugh breathlessly.

Peter says your name. You lift your head from his chest and see reflected on his face how you're feeling now - light, pure light.

"I think you're my honeybody," you tell him, beaming.

He raises his hands to your neck, moves them up in synchrony to your face. He ebbs like a wave, hands falling down, pushing under your arms as he pulls you into a hug, leaning backwards. Your shoes leave the ground, Peter hugging you so tightly it aches, face buried in your hair. He sets you down on sure footing and kisses you, misses your mouth by an inch. You both giggle incessantly, fingers on faces and pulling each other in until you get it right.

By the time you make it home the sky is dark as wine.

𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

thanks for reading ❤️

tasm taglist @pomminine @isabelleonabicycle @decafcoffew @runawaywithmyghost @joebobisachickenfart

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heli0s-writes · 3 years ago

Note

Thinking about Stevie on this rainy day…

Sunshine boy needing you after a long day of having to tell everyone else how good they’re doing now he wants to hear it for himself….🥵😌

a/n: the first thing i’ve written in a month, hallelujah! 1.k words of soft, tired steve being seen and adored, and delicately praised-- can you tell i really love him??? thank you for sending this in :’)

title is from doja cat hehe 💗

28 Ways Masterlist

refresh, give me two (s.r.)

He's a dead man walking.

He trudges back into his apartment with his crumpled civvies on, having peeled the layers off in the car and managed to cram his long legs into running shorts. No one tells you that keeping a low profile comes with consequences- the most aggravating one being having to navigate the tiny space of a sedan as you tug off soot-covered Kevlar.

No one tells you a lot of things.

Like how being an introvert is extremely counterintuitive to being Captain America. Like how it still feels like a role he has to get into the right headspace for— stepping into someone else’s shoes again and again. He takes on the voice and everything, pulls it out of a practiced box in the middle of his chest and hopes when he gives orders, it doesn’t tremble.

Captains don’t tremble.

Steve Rogers, however, does. Steve Rogers comes home more beat from having to simply direct a small squadron than he ever does after 12 rounds of fighting a large one off. He can navigate being on the receiving end of an ambush like the back of his hand, but on that platform— that position where he’s got eyes, ears, attention focused on his every directive— it’s much more complicated.

There, he’s required to be attuned to everyone’s needs. He’s required to know his teammates’ well-being, motivations, emotions. He requires the right people at the right place, at the right time, in their right state of mind. When the hours drag on and he can feel morale plummet into a state of purgatory— a dead zone of bleary vision and aching muscles— he’s required to come in and keep on pushing.

So he pushes. He steps into that voice and posture and he gives a speech. He tells everyone not only what’s at stake if the mission fails, but what’ll come with its success. He puts himself on the line, too. He’s in charge; he’s at stake. But he’s not invulnerable. He’s human, he’s fallible, he’s on their side- here, now, but also tomorrow, and the next day.

When they roll out of the mission scuffed but alive, he pats them on the back, says thank you, good work, and personally shakes everyone’s hand. He chatters and asks them about their partners and kids and that casserole recipe the office has been wild about to keep it friendly.

It’s- a lot.

And it’s not until he’s slumped inside, against the cool wood of his locked door, does he feel it course throughout his body like an ocean wave shattering. It breaks on him, and he knows he’ll withstand it, but cliffsides aren’t immune to nature’s ceaselessness, and he wonders when it’ll begin to show that he’s so, so worn.

A small voice humming draws his attention from where he’s shucking off his shoes. Down the hall it beckons, lilting notes interspersed with airy breaths and Steve tracks the scent of lavender toward the bathroom where you are and smiles when he reaches the entrance.

“Hiya,” you greet at the edge of the tub, fingers wet from stirring the water around. “Come on in, soldier.”

He gives a light chuckle, his lids slipping shut for a second as he lets his lungs fill with soothing camphor and warm mist. “That all mine?”

You gasp, playfully offended, “Now why would I draw this bath for you when I, having spent an entire day lounging around while you were off kicking evil in the ass, deserve it more?” Then, eyes sparkling, you gesture him in, “Course it is.”

Steve chuckles louder this time, rucking socks and shirt off his body. You reach forward from your perch and slide his shorts down, too, kissing the jut of his hip bone and then again at his abdomen like you simply couldn’t help it, and he can’t help smiling in return.

He moans with each inch the water envelops him. Until he’s submerged up to his chin, he moans, and he’s pretty sure he sounded like a dying animal along the way— but it feels so good.

He sinks as low as he can, lolling his head to the side and resting his temple on your thigh.

There’s nothing but his breathing and the shy trickle of water as it shifts around his body. You keep the bathroom soft and silent with a half-dim wall scone, and he’s always reminded of how thankful he is for the quiet, for you, for home.

No role, no shoes, no orders, no speeches. He nuzzles into your leg, kissing the side of your knee as you massage his scalp, pouring water from your palm over his dirtied hair. The day glides out of him into your hands, and without prompting, you know everything that he needs even before he does.

“Proud of you,” you murmur, “You did good, Rogers.”

“Hmm,” Steve groans back, woozy from the temperature, from your kneading, from how it sounds so much better coming out of your mouth than his. How it’s nicer to hear than say, and how afterwards, he doesn’t have to engage in a conversation he’s already imagining is ending.

How it always leaves a buzz inside of him and how, of course, you seem to know.

But you don’t ask him any questions, you don’t excite him anymore because his body can’t really handle it just yet. You only let him rest in the presence of your company.

After a while, when he feels refreshed enough, rebuilt enough, to move more than a couple of inches at a time, Steve arches up to request a kiss, warm all over his skin and inside his belly.

You touch your lips to his gently, brushing his nose with yours along the way— a doting, delicate gesture he’s grown to adore.

“This all mine?” you sigh into his mouth and his stomach swoops.

Timidly, he replies, “‘Course it is.”

“Mmm,” you confirm, “Atta boy.”

He swallows your praise like a fluttering bird in his throat, and when Steve’s heart trembles for air, for another, he doesn’t mind one bit.

#steve rogers #marvel #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fluff #fanfiction #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagines

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lowlights · 3 years ago

Text

Helmet Hair

Pairing: Din Djarin / The Mandalorian x f!Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings and A/N: 18+ This is fluffy as hell, y'all. There are some adult situations, breeding kink if you squint- but this is Din Djarin so that almost goes without saying. Talk of birth control and babies, just a bit. Married people. Grey boxer briefs. Mostly I just wanted to give Din a soft moment of normalcy and some TLC. In this world the Crest is here and so is Grogu. Everyone is happy.

Thanks to @coastielaceispunk and @shiftingsands14 for being the best beta readers in the world.

You could get used to this.

Grogu was toddling through the willowy grass that almost came up to his little chest, terrorizing the local amphibians. This small, green planet was uninhabited and didn’t even show up on most maps, which made it the perfect place to celebrate your honeymoon with Din. Here you could just take a breath and enjoy each other as a family.

A family. Clan. Aliit.

You had whispered your vows at the wedding ceremony several days ago, but you could still feel your heart clench at the memory of lifting Din’s helmet off as though it was happening this very second. To see him - really see him - at that moment was one of the happiest times of your life. Din had given you a hand to hold as you traveled through the stars, promising forever in an expanding eternity, and you had done the same. In fact, it was you who had first extended your hand to draw the Mandalorian close to you that fateful night in the ship. Since then, it had just never occurred to Din to let go.

Your newly minted riduur was currently easing himself down into the crisp, cool waters of the stream right next to where he had landed the Crest. You watched as he waded into the clear water in nothing but his dark grey undershorts, eyeing him from where you were sprawled on the ramp and soaking up the heat of the suns. You were close enough that you could see the near imperceptible tensing of his shoulders and the goosebumps that bloomed over his entire upper body as the water finally reached his chest.

Suddenly, you remembered the little kit you had purchased on your last stop before reaching this secluded paradise and hopped up to go fetch your acquisition that was tucked inside the ship. Quickly emerging back into the sun with the kit, a towel, and a crate in tow, you took a glance at Grogu who had curled up in the small clearing next to the firepit. He had clearly tuckered himself out and had probably eaten too many frogs for his own good.

You made your way down the ramp and walked the few steps over to where Din was swimming around in the water. You set your items on the ground and stripped off your thin shirt and flowing skirt, leaving you in your underclothes. Here, Din finally took notice of you as you bent down and pulled out a bar of shampoo from the little canvas bag.

“I was hoping you would join me,” Din said as you dipped your toes into the slightly frigid stream from the safety of the water’s edge. He started to swim in your direction, eager to be with you. “Best way is to just do it,” he called out, noticing your hesitancy at the temperature.

“Alright, love. I have a surprise for you.”

You swiftly walked into the stream and down a series of jutting rocks, letting out a little shriek but soon adjusting to the now-pleasant feeling of the water slowly weaving past your body. Din was quick to pull you into his arms.

“Much better,” Din said as he nuzzled into your neck. Still holding on to the soap with one hand, you ran your other hand through his untamed hair. You loved his curls from the very start, back when you could only feel them in the darkness. You loved holding on to them when Din kissed his way down your stomach or threading your hand through them when he would crowd up against you in the fresher.

You adored the wildness of those darkened honey locks, but it had been weeks since Din had cut his hair and he was left with a near-permanent case of helmet head. “My love, can I do something for you?” you asked.

He answered with his face still pressed into your neck, slowly guiding you around the water with his feet comfortably touching the bottom. “What’s that?”

“Can I cut your hair?”

Din paused in the water and pulled away from you just enough to look into your face. “No one’s done that for me since I took my creed.”

You knew this was the case, and that Din had done a good job taking care of himself all these years as he traveled alone. But he wasn’t alone anymore. You continued running your hands through his hair, tucking it behind his ear as you said, “I want to take care of you a little bit.”

Din smiled as he easily twirled you around in the water, your legs wrapped around his waist. “My thoughtful wife. I think that might be - nice.”

You chuckled at his hesitancy and leaned in to give him a small kiss. “First thing’s first, Din. Gotta wash your hair.” You pointed to the rocks where you had waded into the stream, stair-stepped perfectly for your task. You took residency on the higher rock, and Din was able to sit on the lower rock, nestled between your legs with the water hitting him almost at the neck.

“Get your hair wet for me?” you asked sweetly. Din briefly dunked his hair under, using his hands to push it back as he emerged from the water. You dipped the shampoo bar into the current and started rubbing it in your hands. When you were satisfied with the lather, you dropped the bar in the grass and softly dug your fingers into his hair, scrubbing with your fingertips.

The groan that left Din’s mouth was so loud that you looked over your shoulder to make sure Grogu was still asleep. You peeked around to see Din’s eyes closed and his facial expression slacked in pure pleasure. Smiling to yourself, you used your fingernails to scrape along his scalp, eliciting another low moan. Whispers of the citrusy-woodsy smell of the shampoo took over your senses as you continued to work the shampoo deep into Din’s hair.

You loved that you could do this for him. That you could give him a moment of joy. Leaning in, you whispered, “Does that feel good?”

Din worked his way back even further into you, wrapping his arms around your legs. “Mesh’la, don’t stop.” You didn’t, working up the suds until every bit of his hair had been scrubbed.

“Alright bucket head, time to rinse. Lean back.”

You maneuvered yourself and Din so that you could wash the shampoo out in the water, Din’s eyes still closed. You took your time, massaging his scalp and neck, and tilted your head back to let the suns’ rays fall on your face as you worked. After a few minutes, you looked back down.

Din was looking up at you, smiling. His face was relaxed, like the stress of the universe had never existed for him at all- save the worry lines that more often than not crinkled with smiles instead these days.

“Hi, baby.”

“Hi, cyar’ika.”

You leaned down and gave him a slightly awkward but adorable upside-down kiss. With a final squeeze of his shoulders, you stood up and made your way to the large towel to dry off. When you were dry enough to put your clothes on, skin already warming in the bright heat, you took the towel and used it to dry Din’s hair, leaving it sticking up at all angles.

Laughing, you went to look away and noticed...Din. Stars, those grey shorts were clinging.

“Maker, Din, you better put your pants on right this second. You’re going to scandalize our son.” You were joking, and quite honestly it was for your benefit that your husband gets dressed as soon as possible otherwise you would have to have him right in this field. Never mind that it had already happened. Twice.

Din laughed and started tugging on his clothes while you stepped into yours. “Kid’s still asleep, don’t worry.”

You grabbed the crate, the small bag, and your towel, pulling them into a little clearing in the grass. You motioned to Din to take a seat on the upturned crate, and he quickly obliged.

Din’s curls were already springing to life in the sunlight, and you started raking your fingers through them once the towel was secure around his shoulders. Grabbing the scissors out of the bag, you stood behind him and started sectioning off his hair with your fingers. You made quick work of it, having grown up giving your young brothers their haircuts as well.

You moved around to stand in front of Din, brow furrowed in concentration as you tried to contain the chaos atop his head without losing too many curls.

“Din, what the-” you gasped.

He tugged you by the waist to him, and rested his nose in the valley between your breasts, over your almost sheer shirt. He inhaled deeply and pulled you impossibly close, trapping you with his knees.

“Din Djarin, I am holding shears. Don’t be a menace,” you scolded. He only laughed at you, releasing you just enough to allow you to continue.

The next thing you knew, soft coos came from between the two of you. When you and Din separated a bit and looked down, small green hands were making grabby motions. Grogu was awake and clearly begging to sit in his father’s lap. Din reached down and lifted him up, positioning him on his knee. Grogu watched intently as you continued moving around, tidying up Din’s hair and making small cuts here and there. Grogu started climbing his dad’s arm, tugging himself up to sit on Din’s shoulder.

You watched as your son started running his little hands through Din’s hair, mimicking your own motions. “Oh sweetie, you’re helping mama? What a good boy, taking care of your buir.”

Din muttered under his breath, “Just don’t let him hold the scissors.” You stifled a giggle.

After a few more snips, you checked your work and hummed in satisfaction. Stowing away the shears, you picked up Grogu and brought him back to the ground. He was immediately distracted by some flying insect and took off to play. You removed the towel from Din’s shoulders and started brushing off any stray hairs.

You leaned into his neck and blew, watching the short hairs scatter into the breeze. After repeating this motion a handful of times, you heard Din lowly say your name. A warning.

Moving to the front, you leaned down to face level and softly brushed off a couple of hairs that clung to his proud nose. His dark eyes were blown wide, his desire clearly evident. “Isn’t it nap time for our child?” he asked, drawing you down to sit on his leg.

“Nope. He just woke up.” You couldn’t resist letting your hand play in his hair, twirling the now shorter curls around your finger.

Din leaned into your touch, once again closing his eyes. You would never get tired of seeing how affected he was by your hands on him. It was only fair, he had been able to watch you come undone these past months.

Grogu let out a squeal of joy, and you both looked over to see him running up the ramp. Din rested his arms around you, and you settled your arms around his shoulders, still toying with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Do you want one? Of your own?” Din asked, not looking at you.

You answered without hesitation. “You know I do. I love our son, and he is ours forever. But, I would like to give him a brother. Or a sister. Or both.”

At that, Din looked at you intensely. You could see his breathing speed up, ever so slightly. “I know we promised to raise warriors in our vows, but I would never force you into anything. I j-just-”

“Din,” you cut him off. “I can stop taking my birth control today if you want me to. Because I’m ready. Whenever you are, I’m ready too.”

Din surged forward, grabbing you by the back of the head and smashing his lips into yours. He kissed you like you would disappear if he let go, as though if he came up for air you would fade into the wind. You tried to communicate through your kisses that he never had to worry about being alone again.

You broke apart at the sound of a crash coming from inside the Crest. “Love, let’s go make sure we can handle our only child before we add any more,” you said with a laugh, standing up from Din’s warm embrace and taking a step towards the ship.

He held on to your hand, pulling you back for a moment. “Thank you. For taking care of me.”

Your heart melted, and seeing the gratitude and love on Din’s face was overwhelming. “Always.” You moved to walk away again, but he still held on to you.

“Also, you better get the kid to sleep early tonight.”

“I promise, Din. Now, let’s go.”

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littlepadika · 4 years ago

Note

🎀 pink (Din)

🧼 laundry detergent (fake dating)

🍄cottage core (innocent kink)

with some fluff and smut included maybe?? 🥺👉👈💘

Hi @ppslutt I don't think we've interacted so hello! Thank you for this request! Omg i am both soft and amused by this idea. Hope you like this... Din is such a cheeky bb but at the same time a feral fucking machine hehe

500 follower celebration (closed now)

Warnings: Asshole ex boyfriend, protective mando, innocent reader, unprotected piv smut, fingering, 18+

source: @reilink

"Can I sit here?"

Din startled. He had been glaring holes into the metal table at the cantina for so long he almost forgot there were other people around. He was in between bounties. Waiting for Karga to come up with something worth his time.

He nodded at the seat across from him which you fell into. He would usually say no, preferring to be left alone, but you were hardly a threat. Young and apparently unarmed. You looked stressed. Eyes darting all over the room. Were you in trouble?

"Thank you." You tapped your fingertips on the table. "My ex is here and I don't want him to see me alone."

"Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No." You stare down at your lap. "I just don't want to talk to him."

That made sense, but Din couldn't understand why you were talking to him specifically. Most people feared Mandalorians. He expected you to want to hire him or ask him to kill your ex. You glanced over your shoulder. Din followed your gaze, identifying the man in question, an arrogant looking human with his arm around a girl with her back to you both.

"I'll leave you alone in a minute." You turned your attention back to him. "What's your name, sir?"

"Mando." He grunted. You replied with your name. Din's ears perked up when he heard it. The sound of it echoing in his mind. He had never heard such a name before. "Have you ever seen a Mandalorian before?" Din couldn't help but ask.

"Is that what you are?" You felt embarrassed at his amused tone. "Am I supposed to bow or something?"

Din chuckled, which came out as a crackle through the voice coder. "No. But people tend to stay away from me because- because we're killers."

"Oh." You swallowed a gasp. It never occurred to you to be afraid. "I didn't know. I've never been off world."

"What the fuck are you doing here?" You snapped your head up to see your ex standing over you, an angry look on his face. "I thought you didn't like going out."

"I-I can go where I please!" You jut your chin out.

"Fucking bitch. You're just spying on me, aren't you?" Your ex spat. Din clenched his fist, not liking the way this bastard was speaking to you. He could easily break this man's arm and hardly break a sweat.

"I'm not!" You cried shrilly. "I didn't know you'd even be here."

"What are you doing with him?" Your ex turned to Mando with a sneer. "Tryin to make me jealous?"

"Obviously it worked." You glared. "Now go away."

"No hang on- you're gonna come with me and we're gonna talk."

"I think it's time for you to go." Din rested his hand on his holster, his voice impossibly low. You shivered in your seat.

"Whatever." The man gave up, backing up a little. "Good luck with this one, Mando. She's a prude."

You looked down in shame feeling angry tears sting your eyes. It was hard to believe you once loved this asshole. Din felt his temper flare in his chest. Your ex finally left, looking over his shoulder a few times to watch you and Din.

"I'm sorry." You wrapped your arms around yourself. "I'll leave you alone now."

"I don't mind." Din said, surprising himself. He hated seeing you so upset. He thought about going up to that bastard and putting a hole in his chest, but that wouldn't make you feel better. "Can I get you something?"

"I don't know." You looked up at the bar trying to read the menu overhead.

"What kind of fake boyfriend would I be?" Din joked, hoping to see you smile. It worked. You let out a small giggle into your hand that made Din's heart constrict strangely. He ordered you a Tatooine Sunset.

"You don't want one?"

"No. Thank you." Din hesitated before adding "I don't remove my helmet."

"Ever?" Your eyes widened.

"Not in front of people."

"Oh." You took a small sip. "It's really yummy. Thank you."

Din noticed the prick from earlier still watching you both. "Come over here, ad'ika." He tapped the seat next to him.

"Why?" You asked, looking up from your cup.

"Because that nurf herder is watching us."

"Oh." You frowned, moving to sit next to Mando.

"Lean into me."

"Like this?" You asked again, tilting your head onto his cold beskar paldron.

"Yes. Good." Din nodded, enjoying the look of anger that passed over that bastard's face. "Sit closer."

"I-I am." You blushed, moving until your legs were pressed against him. He wasn't super comfortable with all the metal.

"On my lap, ad'ika." Din patted his thigh. He was being bold but something about your instant trust in him made him want to hold you closer. Feel your soft body on his. You go bright red as you stand and then perch on his knee. His gloved hand covered your lower back.

"Look at him." Din instructed, smirking behind his helmet.

"Oh he's so mad." You giggled. "This is fun, mando."

"It is, ad'ika." Din couldn't' help but agree.

"Wh-what does adeeka mean?" Your tongue got caught on the syllables.

"It means 'little one'."

"I'm-i'm not a child." You frowned, ducking your head. A weak objection as you were sitting in his lap right now.

"It's not just for children." Din placed another arm around your legs, pulling them more securely onto his lap. He regretted that he was in full armor because he could not feel you but that was also probably a good thing or else he'd be hard. You smelled divine.

"Mando he's still staring." You whispered against his cowl which was surprisingly soft.

"Shall we make him even more uncomfortable?"

"Mhm." You nodded, kissing Mando on his cool beskar helmet, where his cheek would be. "How's that?"

"You can do better than that." Din encouraged, enjoying the little game.

"Oh yeah!" You grinned, feeling your competitive spirit rising. "How about this?" You lowered your head, leaning against his neck, kissing him through the cowl. You could feel his warm neck and strong pulse against your lilps. He swallowed hard, his hand tightening over your thigh.

"We should walk out now. Really make him jealous." Din suggested, mostly to stop you from giving him a full on erection.

"Oh yeah." You hopped off his lap, taking his large leather clad hand in yours. "Come on."

Once outside in the warm sun you laughed at your antics. You had never had so much fun. You used to fear your ex. He was mean and cruel. You felt safe now that you had Mando. You tried not to worry what would happen when Mando was gone. Din watched you hungrily, beaming up at him, your face lit up in the daylight. He subtly turned off his tracking view in his visor so he could just see you without any distractions on his screen.

"Thank you Mando."

"You're welcome." He let go of your hand making your face fall. "What's wrong?"

"I want to keep playing."

"What do you propose?" Din felt his cock twitch behind his flight suit.

"I think he would be really jealous if I had marks on my neck." You suggested boldly. Din shook his head in disbelief.

"You are not a prude, you know that? I'm sorry he said that to you."

"I was only a prude with him. He was ugly." You grimaced but recovered. "You're beautiful, Mando, and I want- I want you. Not just to make him jealous but I want you."

"Oh Ad'ika..." Din chuckled. "We can do both."

This led to Din taking you in the alleyway behind the cantina. First he knelt down between your legs and fingered you until you were dripping into his hand. He wanted to watch your little cunt squeeze and flutter. Your little mewls grew louder and louder until you came with a cry. Din loved how innocent you were. You didn't even know how to be quiet. You didn't hide your pleasure. He hoped your shitty ex was listening. Hearing your sounds that he never got to draw from you.

Next he stood lifting you up with ease onto his hips. You were already delirious from your first orgasm you shot up to the stars when he entered you. You tightened your legs around his waist, holding onto his broad shoulders. All thoughts of being seen or herd left your mind. You were overwhelmed, Mando pushing into every corner of your senses along with your pussy.

"Fuck..." Din grunted, feeling your hot walls suck him to the hilt. It had been so long he realized how sensitive he was. And you were so tight. He held your ass up, pulling it to grind into him with every stroke.

"Oh Mando!" Your head fell back against the wall. "This-it's so good."

"Mmm you feel amazing, ad'ika. So fucking perfect." Din watched your face slacken with the pleasure he was giving you, your plush lips teasing him. He wanted to feel them. He wanted to put his lips over every inch of you. Your eyes were drooping, staring right into his visor.

"Stay with me, little one. Look- look at us." He fucked harder, leaning back slightly despite the ache in his lower back, watching the point where your flesh met. Your little swollen clit was sitting right on top of his dick, smashing against his pelvis with every stroke.

"Oh-Maker-I'm gonna cum again." You cried, scrabbling against his shoulders for better leverage. You wanted to fuck him back. Din readjusted his grip allowing one hand to be free to circle your clit.

"Who's making you cum?"

"You! You, Mando!" You cried feeling your stomach go incredibly tight then spasming with your orgasm.

"You think anyone else could make you feel this?" Din sped up also nearing his own climax. His voice was rough and torn up, cracking and stressing the voicecoder.

"No-no one else!" You answered eagerly, wanting to please him. "I don't want anyone else."

"Good girl. Fuck- you want to be mine?" He felt his cock twitching. He was seconds away from cumming inside of you. This was the last chance to pull out.

"I want to-be yours- please." You nodded vigorously, looking up at him so he could see you meant it. You dug your heels into his lower back. His grunts became short and quick with each thrust then he came abruptly, crashing his forehead against yours. You gasped feeling the spot where you were joined grow incredibly wet.

"Stars..." Din hissed feeling his pleasure prickle down his spine into his cock. "You mean it, ad'ika?"

"Yes. Show me the stars, Mando."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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duskholland · 4 years ago

Note

i honestly can’t stop thinking about mob!tom and like being a little brat for him, thinking i’m all tough and like.... spitting in tom’s mouth.... and he’d love it i think??? and then he’d switch it and be back in control and choke me and spit in my mouth..... fuck

you didn’t ask for a blurb but istg reading this set me on fire so ... here we go... the battle for dominance from your worst (or best?) nightmare, ft mob!tom......

mob!tom || wc: 1.8k || 18+ nsfw content minors dni!!!

warnings ↠ sir/good girl kink, dom!tom, brat taming, degradation (slut shaming), choking, spitting, pussy + face slapping, a gnarly battle for dominance ft fingering and face-fucking. i missed writing dom!tom. god.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

You don’t challenge Tom often, but when you do, there’s no point holding back. He’ll be firm with you no matter how far you take it, so you may as well push the limits as far as possible. You like the punishment that follows, crave the degradation and the battle for dominance that ensues.

You aren’t scared to fuck with him, which is why you manage to get yourself into this position: Tom, pressed against the bedroom wall, your figure boxing him in. You have your hands resting on his shoulders, firm fingertips keeping him there, even when he tries to passively shove you off.

“Now, what do we have here?” Tom asks, voice smooth and entirely too innocuous considering you’ve just slammed him up against the wall. He remains completely unbothered, blinking at you blankly, eyes only showing the smallest amount of intrigue.

You hum. “I’m in charge today,” you decide, but your words don’t come out as strongly as you’d intended. It’s almost as if your body knows exactly how the night is going to go. “I’m going to dom you.”

Tom laughs. His face splits with amusement as he looks you up and down sceptically. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “I’d like to see you try, darling.”

Scowling, you square up. “I can dom you,” you tell him. You move one of your hands from his shoulder and teasingly draw it up to twirl around the base of his neck. As you try out a variety of pressures against Tom’s throat, his interest increases. He starts looking at you with a little more interest, his eyebrows pulling together as he watches you experiment. You get the feeling that he’s just biding his time, waiting to see what you’ll do, but you use it for your advantage.

“You’ve never once given any indication that you’d want to try and dom me,” Tom says. He looks you up and down before laughing again. “You’re lying to get a rise out of me.”

You narrow your eyes. “Am not,” you lie, despite him being completely right. You don’t want to dom him—you want to make him snap. Pursuing this goal, you don’t hesitate to bring your fingers away from his throat and run your fingertips over the ghost of his mouth, pressing your thumb against his lower lip. “Open,” you say, taking Tom’s favourite command and turning it on him.

“I don’t think you want to do what you’re trying to do,” Tom warns. “You’re not going to like what I do to you if you keep this up.”

You jut out your chin and tap his lower lip again. “Open,” you repeat.

Tom complies, but only after another mirthless laugh. It’s almost scary how cool he is, how calculated. There’s no hint of insecurity as he opens his mouth, and it’s clear that it doesn’t matter the positioning—he’s in control, and you’re not.

That isn’t going to stop you from pushing him to the very edge, though. You stand closer, meeting his eyes teasingly before sucking the moisture to the front of your mouth and spitting into Tom’s open mouth. Your spittle lands on his tongue, and you step back, moving very slowly as if around an animal that risks pouncing.

A moment passes, the air between you frozen, thick with tension. Tom shifts, sighing for only a second before he overpowers you. Acting swiftly, precisely, he pushes off from the wall, commanding enough force to slip free from your grip. You huff as he pushes you against the wall instead, so forcefully that you feel an ache in your back. Before you have time to question him, his hand is on your throat. Tom growls, pressing the length between his index and thumb up against your neck, choking you lightly as his other hand goes to your mouth.

He doesn’t need to say anything. His lips are pursed, energy rippling his eyes until they’re almost black. He hasn’t spoken since you managed to spit in his mouth, and you realise there’s a purpose behind that. Tom yanks your mouth open, pressing his thumb harshly against your tongue until you’re wide enough for him to step in closer. He grunts before spitting into your mouth, the pressure leaving your throat as you feel the mix of his and your saliva, hot against your tongue, rolling back towards your throat.

“Brat,” he spits. He cups your chin and holds your mouth shut, staring at you, unmoving, until you swallow. Tom looks entirely too composed. Whilst you’re panting, your face warm, he seems unaffected. His hair is still gelled, his cheeks pale, and his eyes dark. It makes you shudder. “Why are you being so needy?” Tom tilts his head to the side. “You want attention, hm? My needy little brat, trying to act tough so I’ll put her in her place?”

You whimper. Tom laughs coolly, then leans closer. You think he’s going to kiss you, but instead, he licks over your mouth, denying you what you want as he brands you with his spit instead. He’s messy, hand returning to wrap around your throat. As he pushes you back against the wall, his other hand moves down, shoving between your legs until he’s able to cup your heat. You’re in a skirt without panties, meaning there’s no hesitation in his actions. Tom’s able to touch your bare pussy, his fingers cold as they trail through your slit.

“Fucking hell,” he adds, glancing up at you. “You’re so wet.” To prove his point, Tom curves two fingers into your heat, your walls giving way after a few pumps. The feeling of his slender digits rubbing up against your sensitive spots makes you cry out, your eyes fluttering shut. “Such a pathetic little slut, hm? Getting off on being a brat with my hand around your neck? Fucking hell…”

You try to speak, only for the words to come out slurred and incoherent. It’s hard to focus with Tom’s fingers pistoning into your heat, your walls clamping down around the stretch of his hand as his thumb twists up to play with your clit.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he mutters. Tom pauses, leaning up to briefly kiss your cheek before his hand slips from inside your heat. He doesn’t pull away, though. Tom brings his hand down over the front of your cunt, slapping over your clit once, twice, thrice, the jolting stings making you cry out. He doesn’t stop until you’re squirming, your folds hot and pulsing, entrance weeping arousal and pulsing around nothing. “Get on the floor, brat.”

Tom pushes you down, but his touch is gentle. When you’re on your knees, his hand stays on your cheek, fingertips rolling across your cheekbone, encouraging your actions as you undo his belt and pop his top button reflexively.

“There’s a good girl,” he mutters. “Knew you didn’t want control.” Tom pulls away from you and pushes down his jeans and boxers all at once, leaving you with the sight of his cock, flushed and erect. He holds his length in his hand, skimming his thumb across the beads of precum that pool at his tip before smearing it across your lips. “Say thank you,” he adds, huffing a sigh. “You haven’t forgotten your manners, have you?”

“Thank you, sir,” you whimper. His precum seeps across your tongue, and you feel ravenous. “Please let me suck your cock,” you add, opening your mouth wide for him. Tom’s fingers slip into your mouth, and he coaxes your tongue out, leaning over and eyeing you carefully before spitting again, his spit landing on the tip of your tongue.

“I’ll fuck your throat until it’s raw,” he promises. Tom steps forward, guiding his cock to your mouth. He runs it over your tongue, the heavy, warm weight making you moan. Again, he pauses, cupping your cheek gently. “Touch my thigh if you want to tap out,” he adds. He doesn’t do another thing until you nod, reassuring him that it’s okay, that this is what you want, that you trust him. Tom hums, then he jerks his hips and pushes his cock into your mouth.

He fucks your mouth hard, relentlessly, his bulbous tip pressing against the back of your throat with no warning. Tom doesn’t give you time to adjust, not even as you struggle to fight your gag reflex. As your eyes well with tears, he holds the back of your skull tightly, keeping you as still and compliant as possible as the hot beads of water start to spill down your cheeks.

“Such...a good...brat,” he groans. You moan around him, feeling the stretch of his length aching your lips. “Take it, there’s a good girl…

His cock is so big, so heavy on your tongue. It takes everything in you to keep your fingers away from your cunt, but you know better than to cross that line. If the hunger behind his actions tells you anything, it’s that he’s pissed, and you don’t want to push him. Not too far. Not when Tom’s entire aura is one of steeled dominance.

“Shit, darling… Such a hot little mouth. ‘M gonna cum.” You look up at him, admiring the red flush to Tom’s face and the tensing of his jaw. He groans as he sees you, choking and crying around his cock, sounds of obscenities electric in the air. “Shit, shit. You’re going to swallow it, yeah? Needy cockslut. I know you fucking live for this.” He gently slaps your face before roughly pushing his fingers into your hair. “Greedy girl.”

You moan around him, and it’s the final straw. Tom peaks with a yell of your name, his hips pushing deep against you until your nose nudges up against the curls of his pubic hair. His seed shoots down your throat, spilling warm against your tongue, and you do your best to swallow, continuing to keep your mouth soft and pliant under he’s satisfied.

Tom pulls away after a few moments, opening his eyes to look at you as he pants. His hair is messier, cheeks stained a dark red, a blissed expression dominating his face. He’s quick to help you to your feet, and your wince at the pain in your knees fades as he kisses your lips softly.

“Good girl,” he mutters. “Good brat.”

You bite your lip, standing back and looking at him. “Can I cum now?” you ask.

Not for the first time this evening, Tom laughs at you. You feel your expression fall, and it only seems to spur him on further. He smirks before kissing the tip of your nose again, both of his hands moving to hold your waist.

“Oh, darling,” he murmurs, voice dark. “What a silly question.”

#wrote an entire essay today + still had time to exhibit **** behaviour on main #you know it #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #tom holland x reader smut #smut #mob!tom x reader #mob!tom x reader smut #mob!tom smut #mob!tom #myblurbs #tomblurbs #tom.filth

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rmdently · 3 years ago

Text

03 | square sun and banana fingers

pairing: sub teacher!jungkook x teacher!fem!reader

genre: fluff, angst, comfort, slice of life, slow burn, abbott elementary au, teacher au, co-worker au

rating: pg-13

synopsis: Jungkook thinks you're so good at your job.

warnings/tags: oc being a master at rendering jk speechless, misuse of emergency budget smh, say hi to librarian!yoongi

w/c: 680

previous m.post next

"I'm really sorry! Um, it won't take long, promise, I just need to—" Jungkook says, rushing to collect the finished artworks of his students, shaky hands and all. "Then we can go."

"Jungkook, slow down." You chuckle, adjusting the strap of your bag, which you brought with you after Jungkook dropped your papers on your desk. "Just take your time."

But he's persistent.

"You must be hungry. I don't want to—"

"I think you received more than I did."

Jungkook freezes from where he stands behind his desk. He looks over to you, eyebrows furrowing. His piercing follows the movement. "Sorry?"

"The drawings," you clarified, pointing to them.

"Oh, no, no, that's ridicu—"

"It's true! They must love you."

I wish you do, too.

But "You think so?" is what he says.

"Yeah," you stand closer to him, "can I see them?"

He hands you the drawings, and you look at them one by one.

He doesn't know how you know that that's a playground. He could've sworn it was a construction site.

And that square sun could kill a flat earther.

"When you see a really big circle, that's usually the head, and those banana shapes are the fingers," you say as if it's easy.

Jungkook looms over you from behind, and stares at you, stunned. "Wow, you're really good at this."

You stiffen for a moment because of his proximity, and his clean, powdery scent that engulfs your nose. As if prompted by a switch, you play it cool by shrugging in response.

Then, the next artwork catches your attention.

"Oh... my gosh... Jungkook..."

You lift the piece of paper towards him.

"This is you as Spiderman! Oh my gosh! So cute!" you coo. "Your students amaze me!"

"M-me as... Spiderman?" He's still processing that part. He realizes just now that the thing in the middle was actually a person. It's as tall as the buildings surrounding it that's why he wasn't able to tell them apart.

"This, I assume, is the web thingy coming out of your wrist." You point at something that looks more like a bunch of crooked lines.

Jungkook can't control the laugh that comes out of him.

This is the first time you've heard him laugh.

Like laugh laugh.

It's loud and genuine and infectious.

You laugh, too.

He regains his ability to speak a few moments later. "I'm gonna put this on my fridge," he says, wiping at the corner of his eye.

"You know, I've never heard you laugh like that before."

Just like that, he's back in that shell of his. "Um, sorry, I— is it annoying?"

There is a tug at your heart. This is certainly not the reaction you were expecting.

"No! Nonononono!" you reassure him. "That's not what I meant. I like it! A lot! You have a nice laugh."

It's more than nice, actually, but he doesn't have to know that.

Jungkook covers his ears the way he does when he's extremely shy, then makes it seems like he's just scratching them when he meets your gaze.

You clear your throat, and take it upon yourself to move the conversation along. Jutting your chin towards the little chairs, you ask "Um, they make you happy, don't they?"

You return the papers to him, and he's careful not to let his hand brush against yours because you've already put him through so much in the amount of time you spent alone in this room.

He places a clip on the papers before putting them in the drawer. "Y-yes... they do."

You nod. "Well, I hope you stay... for the kids."

He opens his mouth to speak, even though he isn't sure what to say, when someone suddenly knocks on the door.

The door cracks open to reveal Yoongi, the school librarian.

"Aren't you going home, lovebirds?"

He smirks at the flustered looks on your faces.

"Since you were too busy canoodling or whatever, there's currently a huge tarp of Ms. Kang being set up outside. No doubt that's where the emergency budget went."

"Ughhh."

55 notes · View notes

rekrappeter · 4 years ago

Text

find yourself somewhere, somehow

pairing: fred weasley x fem!reader, slight cedric diggory x fem!reader

summary: you and fred are madly in love with one another, but have never expressed your feelings to each other. every one else knows though. what if that one secret ends up ruining the friendship you both have been trying to save?

warnings: mutual pining, inaccurate Harry Potter timeline, swearing, typos

notes: some of this was requested, some not. this is my 3rd time trying to post it, please give it some love, I actually quite like it <3

“I think I’m going to ask Angelina to the Yule Ball,” your lips macked together at your best friend’s words, letting them fall on deaf ears as you narrowed your eyes at the words on the page in front of you. You could feel that the twins’ gazes were on you, and you tried to suppress any form of annoyance or jealousy passing across your face. A heartbeat passed before Fred Weasley spoke up again, “Did you hear what I said?”

You looked up at the red-haired boy sitting in front of you, your attention being pulled away from your study notes that you were carefully highlighting. “You were talking to me?” you asked, feigning confusion.

Fred gave you a puzzled look, his brows creasing together, “Who else would I be talking to?” he said, his voice lowering as Snape strutted by the table you were sat at. You all turned your attention to your parchment quickly, letting him pass before Fred tapped the top of your book to get you to continue the conversation.

“George,” you deadpanned, your eyes flickering to his twin.

“I heard about this all night long,” George said, distaste evident in his voice and he rolled his eyes swiftly. You stiffened a giggle, watching Fred knock his shoulder with his, his own amusement evident in his smirk.

“So, what do you think?” Fred beamed, a twinkle in his eye.

“I-” you paused, glancing down the table at Angelina who was laughing quietly at something her friend said. There was no doubt she was beautiful, no doubt that she was good enough for your best friend and you would be ecstatic for Fred if she did accept his offer. You would be, really, if it wasn’t for the massive crush that you harbored for him since you were twelve years old. You remembered the moment it happened; he was trying to teach you how to play quidditch outside of The Burrow during the winter holidays and something went horribly wrong when you were two meters off the floor - you lost your nerve and tumbled off the broom, but Fred was there underneath it to soften your blow. You remembered staring into his eyes deeply, your mouth parting in shock at the sudden wave of feelings that welcomed you when you were so close to him. He ended up dislocating his elbow that day, but he never blamed you for it.

You felt someone nudge your hand, bringing your gaze from Angelina back to Fred. You plastered on a fake cheerful grin, nodding your head excitedly, “Go for it, you will be great together.”

Fred was waiting for your blessing, and within minutes of you edging him on, he had secured a date to the ball happening in two weeks’ time. For the remainder of the study hall, you had to listen to Fred gush about Angelina and you had to do everything in your power not to groan and lose your cool. You avoided eye contact with George, knowing that he’d give you an unimpressed look. He knew how you felt about his twin, despite you never truly admitting it to him. You’d brush off his question and change the subject, but it wasn’t hard to see the admiration you had for him.

“Do you have a date yet?” George questioned, looking down at you. You were walking through the castle on the way to the great hall, the twins on either side of you. He hadn’t heard you talk about going with anyone or thinking of asking anyone. In truth, you had hoped that both you and Fred would be dateless the day of the ball and ultimately end up going together - but that plan was ruined.

You pursed your lips, keeping your stare forward as you shook your head. “No, I don’t.”

Fred draped his arm around your shoulder, you stumbled slightly at the heavyweight. “Imagine we have dates, and you don’t, who would have thought?” You knew that he was only teasing and sometimes he never uses his brain before he speaks, but that didn’t lessen the irritation that exploded inside of you.

“Shut up,” you snapped, your retort falling in between his rambles of how surprised he was that you didn’t have a date. You pushed yourself away from him and stormed off in the direction of the common room, not feeling hungry anymore. Fred gawked at your figure rushing off, glancing at George to ask what was wrong with you.

“You’re an idiot, that’s what’s wrong with her,” George sighed, shaking his head at his twin. He walked into the Great Hall, Fred trailing behind slowly. “Where are you going?” George turned to face him, placing a hand on his chest.

“To-”

“Don’t be stupid, you upset her so go fix it,” Fred sighed, knowing that he was right. He twisted on his heels and walked the familiar way to the Gryffindor dorms. Exasperating the password, he jumped through the entrance and spotted you sitting down on one of the love-seats. The common room was empty as expected, the light from the fire gleaming across your face. When you looked up at him, he saw the tears streaming down your face just before you wiped them away quickly. He hated the fact that he made you cry, but sometimes he just couldn’t control how he rambled on. He never thought about how his words affected you because often you would join in on his jokes but he didn’t know that this would be a sensitive subject for you.

“What do you want?” you mumbled into the sleeve of your jumper, bringing your legs up to cuddle into your front. Fred sat down beside you, wrapping his arms around you. He ignored the pain in his chest when you pushed him away from you, shuffling down the couch slightly.

“y/n,” Fred whined, “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“The fact that I don’t have a date to a once in a lifetime event? Yeah, it’s not a big deal, Fred.”

“You still have plenty of time to find one,” he said, “It’s not for another two weeks.”

“I don’t want to be someone’s last resort,” you cried, the emotions getting the better of you, “I wanted someone to be excited to go with me.” You looked up at your best friend, your vision slightly blurry from the tears forming and he looked like a lost puppy staring back at you. Fred was never one to be good with comforting you when you got upset, it was usually George who was the twin you’d go to for problems. Fred was great as a distraction, he’d bring you out and do something fun with you. This was new territory for him.

Fred wrapped his arms around you again, and this time you let him. He sighed in relief letting his head fall on top of yours. “I’ll take you, I’ll forget about Angelina.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes with an effort, “That’s not what I want, Fred.”

“You don’t want to go with me?” He said, a teasing taunt in his tone.

Placing your hands on his chest and pushing yourself up to look at him, you ignored the way his eyes followed your hand and trailed up to your face. His lips parted slightly, and he felt the sudden urge to close the gap between your lips but he refrained himself from doing so. Fred wasn’t the most observant person out there, but he knew that kissing you wouldn’t help the situation. “You know I would love to go with you but you asked someone else first,” you tried to play it off as teasing, but the sorrow was evident. Fred sighed, nodding his head, and the long strands dangled over his eyes. Giggling, you brushed them away with your fingers, letting your touch linger. “You need to cut all this.”

“You don’t like it?” Fred pouted, his bottom lip jutting out.

Your eyes scanned his face, the soft look in his own orbs making you wonder if you ever felt the same way about you that you did him. Considering that you’ve been friends for years without anything happening, you came to the conclusion that it was just a one-sided thing. You were the pathetic one head over heels in love with your best friend. “Your hair looks good anyway.”

“Whoever asks you to the ball will be one lucky bitch,” Fred gleamed, jumping up from the couch and pulling you up with him, “I’m starving!”

The next few days passed with little memory of the conversation between you and Fred. Everything went back to normal; the trio that consisted of yourself, Fred and George returned back to being impractical jokers and the comments about not having a date to the Yule Ball became nearly nonexistent. With the Ball drawing in quickly, you tried your best to hide the panic that was looming inside you. It wasn’t a big deal to show up alone, if that’s what it would have to result in but it would be nice to be able to dance with someone while your best friends are dancing with their dates. You started to write up a list of potential candidates but from a discussion in Charms with a Ravenclaw, everyone that you thought you could ask already had a date.

It was like everyone knew that you didn’t have a date to the biggest event to ever happen at Hogwarts. It was the sympathy looks from first-year witches, and snarky chuckles from sixth-year Slytherins that had their dates since the ball was announced. With a simple roll of your eyes, you smile regardless of what they think of you. If it resulted in you having to dance alone or in a group, you didn’t care. The Yule Ball was merely two days away and with a dress picked out, you couldn’t even think about the effort of having to change the colour to match some random guy’s bowtie.

You had excused yourself from the Gryffindor common room where your friends were gathered around to go to the Owlery to send the letters that were piling up in your bedside drawer. “Do you want me to go with you?” Fred hollered as you were dunking out the entrance.

“No, I’ll only be quick.” You called back, and started the short journey. A feverish chill had settled across the castle, people were on edge with the unknown of what the Triwizard Tournament could bring, and yet the bubbling murmur of excitement for the ball still settled over the fear and apprehension. You jumped up the steps, leaping two at a time but what you didn’t expect was the top step to be covered in ice. The moment your foot landed on the step, you knew you were done for. A squeal passed your lips and you were on route of tumbling backwards down the stairs, just as a hand grasped your wrists and pulled you up. Your breathing was heavy, ragged, as your life flashed before your eyes.

“Woah there,” A deep voice interrupted the memory of when you were five years old. You opened your eyes and met the stare of Cedric Diggory, his grey eyes wide. His pink lips curled into a smile of relief, and he helped you steady yourself. “That would have been devastating.”

You shook your head in shock, your eyes falling down the long stairs that you were almost laying at the bottom off, surely acquiring some broken bones on the way. “Th-thank you, Cedric,” you smiled at your saviour, before glancing down at how his fingers were still wrapped around your wrist.

“Oh, sorry,” he mumbled, pulling back and taking a step away from you. “H-how are you? I haven’t seen you since-”

“The World Cup,” you finished, nodding your head at the memory, “I never thought Hogwarts was that big until this year, it’s filled with students now,” you mentioned, taking into consideration the extra students that were welcomed to Hogwarts at the start of the year, “I’ve seen you of course, you’re the big celebrity this year.”

A light blush danced across his cheeks and you weren’t sure if it was the wind or your words having the effect on him. “I wouldn’t call myself a celebrity,” he chuckled, running his fingers through his brown hair.

“You were really great in the first task, I did go looking for you but you were in hospital because…” you trailed off sentence, watching Cedric grimace at the memory of getting burnt by the dragon during the very first task. You slowly started to walk around Cedric to the entrance of the owlery, “I have letters to post, so I better get going… but best of luck for -”

“Do you have a date for the Ball?” Cedric blurted out, the cool composure that you were so used to seeing him dawn on gone. He let out a shaky breath, the cold air creating a cloud in front of him.

You chuckled slightly, “Haven’t you heard? I’m the only sixth year that is completely undateable.”

“Well, not the only sixth year,” Cedric blushed again, he gulped, making his Adam's apple bobble slightly.

“I thought you were going with Cho,” your brows creased in confusion. You remembered the conversation with Hermione and Ginny from nights ago when you were quickly brainstorming the last single men in sixth year that could potentially ask you out but Cedric was linked with Cho Chang, much to your dismay.

“I was…” Cedric sighed, “But she called it off last night, s-she wasn’t comfortable going with me as a champion and have all eyes on her.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that.”

“Would you be my date?”

“Me?” you gawked, looking around for the twins to pawn this off as some sort of joke but your red-haired friends were nowhere in sight.

Cedric nodded, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I would have asked you sooner, but I kind of thought you’d be going with Fred and when I heard that he asked Angelina, I was a bit confused.”

“Myself and Fred are just friends,” you smiled, “B-but I’d love to go with you, Cedric. It’d be a shame for both of us to go alone when we can go together.”

You returned to the Gryffindor common room with a large smile on your face. Your friends were still lingering around the fire, trying to get the warmth into them after having Quidditch practice after their classes. Fred stretched over the couch, looking over it with hooded eyes, he must have been sleeping. “What took you so long?”

You swatted his legs off the empty cushion beside him, and took a seat before his legs draped over your lap and you sighed in content. “Bumped into someone, guess who has a date to the ball?” you teased, a smirk tugging at the side of your lips. That gained the attention of Harry and Hermione who were studying, Hermione’s ears perking in excitement.

“Who?”

“You’ll see,” you teased, giggling at the yells of protest. You glanced over at Fred, who was unnervingly quiet. “You okay?” you mumbled, placing your hands on his legs and pulling at his leg hairs playfully.

Fred didn’t answer straight away, his eyes scanning your face before he nodded, “Who is it?”

“You’ll see,” you repeated, chewing on your bottom lip.

“You’re not even going to tell me, your best friend?”

“Nope,” you popped, a yawn passing your lips. You ignored Fred’s dramatic pout, moving his legs off your lap to lay down on the couch beside him. It was normal for you to do this, but something about doing it now made you tense. You couldn’t pinpoint it but when his hand rested on your hip to make sure you didn’t fall off the edge, you felt dizzy and lightheaded. You closed your eyes tightly, but when you breathed in, all you could smell was Fred’s aftershave. It wasn’t strong but it was enough to make you woo.

Fred watched you softly, how your features became relaxed the moment he placed his hand on your hip and he wondered if he was being foolish not making you his. He constantly ignored his brothers pestering, even Percy had confronted him one christmas. “Are you excited now?” He breathed out, watching your eyes flutter open.

“I was always excited, but now I know I won’t be left alone when you’re off dancing with your date,” you replied. It came out more snappy than you expected and judging from the taken back look in Fred’s eyes, you knew he took it in the way you didn’t want it to be taken.

“Look, I did offer to take you-” Fred pressed but you shook your head, dropping your forehead onto his chest.

“Can we not get into this? It doesn’t matter anymore, we’re friends, Fred. You shouldn’t feel obliged to take me to dances, we’re not kids anymore.” Fred’s face dropped into the crease of your hair, breathing in the scent of your shampoo and he nodded shortly. You both lingered in each other’s body, ignoring the gaze from your friends. George looked at Ron, giving him a pointed look and Ron shrugged his shoulders in return. It was obvious you were both so in love with each other, and neither of them knew why you were delaying the inevitable.

Fred’s eyes scanned the crowd that were gathered in the Great Hall, that was overly decorated in white fairy lights and drapes that turned the bland gold room into a beautiful, magical event. Despite the gorgeous angel standing next to him, a wide smile on Angelina’s face, he couldn’t stop himself from looking at you but you were nowhere in sight. The worry started to settle over him, his overalls becoming slightly sweaty. “Is that y/n?” Angelina’s voice tore through his thoughts, his eyes following to where she was pointing.

His mouth fell open at the sight of you, a wide smile on your face as your arms linked with Cedric Diggory’s, who was leading you to the dancefloor. His eyes scanned your body, his breathing hitched at how beautiful you looked. He knew Ginny said you were stunning in your dress but he didn’t believe how gorgeous you were until he saw you himself.

“Wow, she’s beautiful,” Angelina whispered, eyes flickering between Fred’s face and your figure.

“Yeah, she is,” Fred breathed out, his grip tightening on her waist.

“Why didn’t you ask her?” Fred’s attention fell from his best friend to his date, confusion sweeping across his face and Angelina rolled her eyes. “Fred, everyone knows that you’re in love with her.”

“Wh-what?” he sputtered out, but he didn’t argue any further. He knew by the pointed look that his date gave him that he wouldn’t be able to charm his way out of this situation. His shoulders deflated and his eyes flickered to your smiling face, his stomach churning at the sight of Cedric’s hand resting on your lower back as he spun you around elegantly.

Angelina stepped towards the dancefloor, following the lead of everyone else, and started to lead Fred in the moves before he took over. His red hair was brushed around his face, and his pout grew with each second passing. “It’s not too late to tell her how you feel.”

“That’s the thing, Ang, it is.”

“Fred, don’t be so naive. She’s in love with you too, it’s so bloody obvious,” Angelina chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief. Fred spun her around to the beat of the music, lifting her off the floor like he’s practiced it so many times. Fred was trying to come up with some sort of joke to maneuver the conversation topic from you but his mind was blank - actually, the only thing that filled his mind was you. The way you laughed so loud, the way your eyes twinkled underneath the torches, how you’d devour a cheese burger in half a second, how you were always so keen to participate in their jokes but always the first to flee the scene in fear of getting caught. “I don’t know if I should be offended or-”

“I’m sorry,” Fred cut her off, feeling slightly guilty for using her as a decoy. “Let’s enjoy tonight.” He announced, taking one more look at you for the night, just missing the longing gaze that you were sending his way. There was no one else you’d rather be dancing with than him, despite the Hufflepuff prefect making you feel extra special tonight, his attention solely on you. It just wasn’t the attention you yearned for.

The days following the Yule Ball were a mixture of madness and chaos. They blended into one as you were whisked away to the Burrow for Christmas break with your second family, only minutes after seeing your own family for the first time since the start of the new school year. You always knew how hectic this time of year got but you never minded it much, you always enjoyed being surrounded by the Weasleys and the smell of Molly’s homemade double chocolate chip cookies made it all worthwhile. Except this year was slightly different.

It was always Fred that picked you up from your front porch, but this year it was George. You always shared a room with the twins while you stayed in The Burrow, but this year you were lodging with Hermione and Ginny. Fred was always the first person to run down the stairs and take the seat next to you in the morning for breakfast, but this year the seat was always the last one vacant. It wasn’t only you that noticed this either, Ginny and Harry had been whispering about it all day long, Ron and George pondered what could be going on between the two of you, and it was Hermione that confronted you about the odd behaviour. But you only had one answer, ‘I haven’t a bloody clue what is going on’.

After the vaguest of conversations with Hermione, you trotted up to the twins’ room knowing that George was outside helping Arthur with the chickens he wanted to invest in. Fred was nowhere to be seen, the best bet would be his bedroom. You knocked quietly on the door, peeking your head through the open gap and seeing Fred laying on his stomach in the single bed. The image was laughable, his long legs dangling from the edge of the bed and the quilt a thousand different colours kicked to the floor. His arms were tucked underneath his pillow and his face was pointed away from you.

“Freddie?” you whispered, trying to get his attention. Fred’s eyes squeezed tightly at your voice and he tried desperately to calm his breathing. Maybe if you thought he was asleep, you’d leave him alone. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to speak to you, it was more so the fear of blabbering out how he truly felt about you and the prospect of ruining years of friendship. He heard his bedroom door click shut after seconds of silence, and he was just about to twist towards it when he heard your sock clad feet shuffle through the room. “Freddie?” you asked again, but he didn’t budge.

You sighed and chewed on your bottom lip nervously, you didn’t want to wake him up. He wasn’t the friendliest person after being bothered while sleeping, but your heart ached for feeling his warmth again. You unconsciously found yourself laying on the smallest bit of bed that was available to you, your arm wrapping around his torso to hold yourself up. His back was to your chest, and he shuffled slightly to let you get comfortable but you didn’t pay much mind to it. You nudge your face into his t-shirt, letting his scent take over all your senses and you place a soft kiss on the material. “I miss you,” you whispered into the silence.

Fred was staring blankly at the wall, his heart hammering against his chest as your fingers grasped his t-shirt with all their might. He reached for your hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it softly. Your breath hitched in your throat but you didn’t say anything. You just lay there next to him in peace and quiet, your uneven breaths mixing with his.

“y/n, this letter is for you,” Ron called from across the table, holding an off-white envelope. You looked up from the bacon and scrambled eggs on your plate in shock, you never got letters sent for you to The Burrow. Your parents would usually call to check up on you and all of your close friends were gathered around the table.

“Who’s it from?” Fred wondered as he occupied his usual seat next to you. The previous night where you fell asleep next to him brought everything back to somewhat normal. He was finally acknowledging you in the mornings and spending his time with you. You shrugged, tearing the letter open and your eyes widened at the signature written so beautifully at the bottom. “Cedric Diggory,” Fred scoffed, a roll of his eyes gaining the attention of his brothers around him.

“Cedric Diggory wrote to you?” Ginny gleamed, her eyes widening in delight as a contrast to Fred's displeased look.

“What did he say?” Hermione asked. You were about to stand up from the table, and excuse yourself but from the peering eyes of your friends, you knew you wouldn’t get far without their curiosity minds following you.

“Just read it aloud,” Harry cheered, and he frowned quickly when Hermione shot him a look to be quiet. But Ron soon joined in and it was like a dominios effect, you sighed and gave in, clearing your voice to read the letter for the first time.

“Dear y/n,” you started, interrupted already by Fred’s sigh of annoyance, “I had tried to contact you at your family home but they have directed all my calls to Weasleys’ household. I have tried several times to get in touch with you but seem to be having trouble - I have left messages. I hope this doesn’t come across as desperate or obnoxious but I would thoroughly enjoy it if you were to accompany me to Hogsmede this weekend. I look forward to hearing from you..” you paused, before whispering the last part, “yours, Cedric Diggory.”

There was a deafening silence as you finished the last syllable, the words blurring in front of you on the parchment as you tried to make sense of the letter. Of course you had a great time at the ball with Cedric, but you never had any intention of getting romantically involved with him. Not when your heart was obviously set on someone else. Your mind was brought back to the kitchen of the Weasleys’ when the girls in front of you gasped out loud, squealing as they grasped for the letter to reread it. The boys lost interest the moment you started to speak, except for Fred, who fell back in the chair and began finishing his breakfast.

“What is your secret?” Ginny gawked. “Cedric Diggory wants to go on a date with you!”

“I-It’s not a date,” you mumbled, sitting back down. The tension between you and Fred was back, the hour of normality that you were blessed with vanished. “It’s not a date,” you repeated, but your words were aimed at Fred, who creased his eyebrows in confusion.

“It sounds like a date to me and a bloody good one at that,” he flashed you a smile, but you could see beneath it. Something was different between the two of you, like the aura has shifted and you’ve become one. It didn’t make sense but the way Fred was feeling, you could feel it too. How his heart was hammering and his stomach was infested with annoying butterflies. It’s how you felt when you looked at him.

“We have plans for the weekend,” you reminded him.

“Cancel them, it’s okay.”

“No, Fred, it’s a tradition. I can’t just cancel them.”

Fred sighed, tidying up his plate and standing up from the table. You followed his lead and left the group to analyse the letter, you went to call him but he swiftly turned around. Your chest hit his, his taller figure hovering over you. “I’ll make it easier for you, I’ll cancel them. There, you’re free this weekend.”

“What are you even talking about?” you sighed, frustration getting the better of you. “I never said I wanted to go out with him.”

“Why wouldn’t you not? He’s Cedric freakin’ Diggory!” There was no room for arguing, no matter what you threw at him, he’d have a comeback so you just sighed and gave in. Waving the white flag of surrender for the day and it wasn’t even ten in the morning.

There was a lake not two miles from The Burrow, it was hidden beyond trees taller than churches and you’d have never found it if it weren’t for the adventurous boys that you grew up with. You were supposed to be nestled in the corner of a tavern with the Hufflepuff Quidditch Captain, sharing a warm butterbeer and having that first date jitters but instead you found yourself looking over the frozen lake. It was always frozen at this time of the year. You had a large black coat on, fake fur decorating the hood as you breathed out and created your own night time clouds of air. You had your skates by your feet, too cold to change into them.

Every year on the last night before returning back to Hogwarts, it was a tradition with you and Fred to ice-skate across the lake. It was the one time that you were guaranteed to feel free and relieve any stress that has been building up on your shoulders. But it didn’t feel the same alone and you couldn’t bring yourself to put your skates on. You fell back against the grass that was decorated in white snow from the downpour earlier that day, letting out a strangled scream that you’ve been holding in.

“Bloody hell, what was that?” A grin erupted on your face and you sat up, looking over your shoulder to see Fred standing there in a brown tattered coat, his skates dangling from his fingers. He had a yellow bobble hat on his head, his hair tucked beneath it.

“You showed,” you smiled, kicking your shoes off and pulling your skates on with great difficulty. Fred followed your lead, sitting down next to you.

“Of course I did.”

You sighed, strapping the laces, “I wasn’t sure if you would, you’re acting really strange lately.”

Fred gave you a sympathetic glance, a small smile tugging on his lips as he watched you stand up and stretch your gloved hand out to help him up. He took it, using his strength to lift himself up so you didn’t have to use a muscle. You slowly made your way to the iced surface, letting Fred test it out and he skated away in circles. “Freddie,” you called back, pouting slightly.

A raspy laugh left his lips as he shook his head in disbelief and came back to you, letting you grasp onto his arm as you took your first steps onto the ice. “You do know you can skate, right?” Fred asked.

“I just need your help for the first five minutes, you know that,” you chuckled. You both skated around the nature-created rink, silence settling between you. The moon overlooked the two of you skating around, hand in hand - the perfect pair in a state of ignorance. Fred let go of your hand, skating in front of you and you couldn’t help but laugh as he showed off his skills. His lanky legs are quite talented at twisting around one another. Fred looked up at you, your smile beaming at him and that’s when he lost his balance, tripping over his own feet and tumbling to the ice. Your eyes widened but you were going to quick to stop and you fell over his limbs, your chin banging off the ice.

“Fuck, are you okay, y/n?” Fred scrambled over to you, his hand cupping your chin and seeing the blood seeping from the cut. His worry was cut short when you erupted into a fit of unstoppable giggles, ignoring the pain that soared through your face. The image of Fred’s face falling flat on his ass will forever be sketched into your mind now. “Shut up,” Fred huffed, his hand dropping from your face.

You crawled over to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you tried everything in your power to stop from giggling but you couldn’t. It got to the point that your laughter became so contagious that Fred’s chest began rumbling with his own laughter. You sat in the middle of the ice rink, asses soaked and cuts on your face as you laughed for what felt like hours.

“I missed this,” you announced in a heavy sigh, your stomach hurting from laughing so much.

“I’m sorry for acting like an idiot the last few weeks,” Fred said.

“What was the story with that?” you asked, reaching to fix the hat that was crooked on his head. His hands wrapped around your wrist, his gloves fingers maneuvering to hold your hands close. Your eyes connected with his, your breath hitching at the sight of his brown orbs telling you everything before he spoke a word. “Fred..”

Fred sighed, dropping your hands and scrambling to stand up. You followed his movements, skating to where your shoes and belongings were left. His broad shoulders were slouched as he got off his skates and you weren’t sure if he was going to walk away again. “Fred, please don’t shut me out again.”

“I-I-” Fred mumbled, his eyes screwing shut before fluttering open again, “Why didn’t you go out with Cedric tonight?”

The question took you off guard, confusion evident in your expression. “I told you already, we had plans! We do this every year!”

“You cancelled plans with a future boyfriend for me?” Fred asked, trying to clarify the situation.

“What are you talking about, Fred? We’re best friends, I’d always choose you over-”

“Is that all we’ll ever be?” The words made you dizzy, the question heavy with every emotion you’ve ever felt for Fred. You looked up at him, your socks getting soaked as you stood there in shock, your shoes forgotten about. “That… That question came out more forced than I wanted it to, but I just need to know, will we ever be more?”

“That’s not for me to decide…” you whispered, seeing his expression falter, “You’ve never- you’ve never told me how you felt about me.”

“I thought I made it obvious.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, “By taking someone else to the Ball? Or by encouraging me to go on a date? Or when we were thirteen and you told George that you only seen me as a sister-”

“Okay, they weren’t my finest moments, I’ll admit that..” Fred wanted to slap himself for being so stupid and naive, “But do you feel the same way that I feel about you?”

“If you think that I’m the most amazing person in the world, that you can’t live without me, and that you’re sick of spending every moment with me and not being able to kiss me… then yes, I feel the same..” you breathed out the words, your chest beating rapidly. When Fred processed the words, a large grin filled with relief washed over his face. He took a step closer to you, and you took it on yourself to close the gap between your bodies. He dipped his head and connected his lips to yours, his hands placing themselves respectfully on your waist as you wrapped around his shoulders. The kiss wouldn’t have been deemed the most magical - your teeth hitting off one another and your tongues sloppy mixing together, but when he pulled away and laughed, your heart deemed it to be the most magical moment in your life.

#harry potter fanfic #fred weasley #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x reader #weasley twins #hp #harry potter fandom #cedric diggory #cedric diggory x reader #harry potter writing #fanfic

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kithtaehyung · 4 years ago

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The Five Huntsmen (Teaser) | PJM

➵ title: the five huntsmen (m) ➵ pairing: prince!jimin x princess!reader(f) ➵ teaser wc: 2.8k ➵ total wc: tbd, possibly 20-30k ➵ fairytale: the twelve huntsmen ➵ genres/rating: 18+ ; angst, fluff, smut ; fantasy, royalty, strangers(?) to lovers ➵ warnings: language, ANGST, fighting, weapons, blood, betrayal, shifters (humans to animals, vice versa), final nsfw warnings to be added to full fic when posted but nothing’s needed for the teaser ➵ summary: you and prince jimin have promised to marry, but his father falls deathly ill, so he ventures back home to see him one last time. news of your lover choosing to wed another princess leaves you thoroughly distraught—until your mother tells you there’s fight in you yet. besides, isn’t the handsome heir to that throne in need of elite guards for protection for his coronation? perhaps the likes of hooded, masked huntsmen you had secretly been training with ever since you could run? ➵ note: this fic will be posted as part of the bangtan grimm event hosted by the amazing @hobeemin!! hope you’re all ready for some fairytales coming to life with a bangtan spin. i may break this up into chapters depending on the ending word count, as well. ➵ taglist: open! message me, comment, or mention in a reblog to be added! ➵ tentative release: september 6th, 2021, 8pm est

“That one looks like you.”

“If that one looks like me, I can’t believe you haven’t fled by now.”

Your beloved prince chuckles beside you and, while your palms are tenderly pressed, you can’t help but compare the sound to the very clouds floating across your vision. Like the scent of honeysuckle and verdpine that twirls around your prone forms, his soft laughs are some of your favorite things.

The pair of you didn’t plan on cloud watching at first. Your stroll through the castle gardens was supposed to be a quick one since the kitchens were almost done with the afternoon meal. But you didn’t mind the way Jimin suddenly planted his bottom on a random patch of soft grass, even softer fingers tugging you down to join him. You definitely berated him for being the cause of dirtying your dress, though, at which he simply winked in triumph.

His hand squeezes yours into the cool ground as he hums, “Maybe I have a type.”

“Puffy and fleeting?”

“Puffy… Fleeting… Lazy…”

Your nudge against his shoulder kicks another chuckle out of his throat. “I am not any of those things.” You ignore the look he sends you as he shifts his head.

“Right. And I’m not a prince.”

“I am not lazy.”

“But you are puffy and fleeting?”

“Looks like someone doesn’t want to stay for supper.”

Without pause, Jimin rolls his form over your side. “I don’t need to stay for that if I can have you right now,” he murmurs, the words dripping onto your face and painting it one shade darker.

“Oh?”

“Mm,” he purrs, drawing the syllable out. After a flicker of mischief you catch too late, Jimin’s whole tone suddenly changes as he yells, “Think fast!”

Fingers dive into your side, launching you off the ground with a gasp and tugging yelps out of your throat.

“Laughter suits you more than words,” your prince loftily jokes as you swipe at his thin wrists, trying to get back at him through your giggling duress.

You also attempt to nudge Jimin with one of your knees, but he has your dress mercilessly pinned.

No matter. When he’s busy attacking your sides, you jut your arms out to tackle his armpits, shouting, “I should say the same to you!”

Love and mirth swirl around the garden as you and Jimin try to best each other. Though his hands are quick, yours end up quicker, eliciting the loveliest of cackles and unabashed noises.

“Okay, okay! I surrender,” he relents after a series of your attacks. The pair of you settle back into the grass, chests heaving and cheeks burning. “You’re really cutting down my dignity today.”

“Shouldn’t you be used to this by now?”

“I am.” The prince takes your hand and wraps it around his torso. “Which is why I will be prepared for when we’re married.”

Affection blooms in your chest as you smile, knowing that he will be your greatest companion, your softest, sturdiest shield. Your marriage will be the joining of two already thriving kingdoms—Avarest and Zenborn—sealing their protection and fortune even tighter. But more than that, you know that he will be a gracious man, a generous lover—and you will be just the same. “Good thing, too,” you whisper, eyes alight with starfire. “I’ve trained you well.”

Jimin’s face softens with content, stray locks rolling across his forehead as he looks at nothing but you. Though sunlight bathes the garden around him in gold, his smile outshines it all—endless, breathtaking. “I love you,” he whispers ardently. “I’ll always love you.”

“And I you.” In a burst of passion, you cup the back of his head, digging your fingers into his soft strands while you claim his mouth with confidence. At his soft groan, you harden your embrace before situating yourself on top of his now-dirtied dress robes.

Not that either of you truly care.

Your knees dig into the grass on either side of him, and you smile at the tender hands swimming in the waves of your dress. “Forever.”

“No more talking,” Jimin whispers, brows furrowed and impatient. “Kiss me.”

You oblige, latching your lips onto the expanse of his neck. The swipes of your tongue push deeper the more your prince moans underneath you, and you can start to feel a bulge lifting your belly, despite the multiple layers of dastardly clothing between.

Jimin shoves your face away from his neck with his jaw, clutching your lips right after. Everything is heightened when he does, as if your passion brings out the best qualities of the surrounding flora. Right as you yank Jimin’s hair and demand him to ruin you for all the daffodils to see, a calm voice weasels behind you, taking you and your prince by surprise.

Immediately, you twist your body around. Standing with the air of someone with terrible news is one of your soldiers, still shifted. You know the otter’s name—for you know everyone’s in your castle—but it is irrelevant. “Pardon me, Princess. And Your Highness.”

Your ascent back to your feet is stiff, with Jimin straightening and staying by your side. When the armored shifter doesn’t divulge any further, you fake patience, “You have news for me, dear?”

The poor otter’s reply comes out stilted, “It’s… It’s news for Prince Jimin.”

“Me?” When you turn towards your lover, his brows are already deeply set, his feet seeming to move forward on their own accord. “What’s wrong?”

“Your father,” the soldier sighs, claws nervously tutting and voice shaken. “King Park has fallen ill. Word is that he doesn’t have much time.”

“What?” Jimin’s eyes threaten to fall when he shakily responds, giving way to suspicion. “He was in great health when I left. What happened?”

Your otter soldier shakes his head before explaining, “I’m afraid I don’t know for sure, Your Highness, but... rumors are that he got injured by a viperboar while out on his hunt.”

“Great Valahara,” you whisper piously, reaching out to clutch Jimin’s billowy sleeve. “My love…”

When he doesn’t budge for a moment, worry sprouts quickly from your heart; when he turns, it fades into a dull aching, and you want to wipe the rush of tears from his eyes.

Your prince’s voice is clogged when he whispers, “I must go to see him… Before he...”

“You must,” you agree, though laden with longing already. “Go.”

“Your horse is ready, Prince Jimin.”

When the man ignores the otter and positions himself in front of you, you can tell he’s trying his best to memorize your face. “It may be long before I see you again,” he whispers, eyes downcast and pink-rimmed. And he is right.

“I’ll be here. I will wait for you.”

A forehead presses into yours. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“But you must.”

Trembling fingers grip your own, giving them a good squeeze before a kiss is planted in the ridges of your bones.

“I’ll always love you.”

“Forever.”

You don’t know how much time has passed since your prince departed. But you know that the ache you feel in your chest creeps further and further into the rest of your limbs, like the slow approach of frost before winter’s claim. Trudging. Lethargic. The constant longing weighs you down like an anchor plummeting deeper and deeper into the Wandering Sea.

But you don’t let it keep you there. You busy yourself doing many things: helping your mother delegate duties around the castle, assisting your father in constructing new roadways as Avarest grows and grows.

And even though all of these tasks keep you moving, the one thing that always wakes your spirit, without fail, only happens in the dead of night, when even the duskfall owls flap to their treetops to sleep.

Your dagger clashes with another as you block your opponent’s fourth blow, angry orange sparks bouncing between your black clothes.

Training. Sparring. Fighting.

That is what keeps your veins alight, your blood pulsing—the pure blood of a princess that’s adored by many, never known to fight when the stars are at their brightest.

A low kick threatens to take out your knees, but you leap backward before propelling yourself towards your attacker, your low stance almost allowing a hit before your blow is defended. One, two, three metal clangs later, you’re still both left unscathed.

Almost no one knows of these late nights you spend in Hobsknock Forest, hidden from civilian life deep within its perimeter. Only high flying animals would be able to spot your hideaway—a clearing littered with weapons, broken training equipment, and boxes of replacements.

It’s one of the bases of your Kingdom’s masked assassins, created by your mother herself.

The Huntsmen.

Your feet find purchase as you cross your arms to avoid a dagger to your head, and your knee launches up in an attempt to catch their solid stomach. A full fight of punches, dagger swipes, and kicks erupts, your muscles burning and singing with each hit.

“Someone’s enjoying this a bit too much,” your masked sparring partner notes, his eyes shining and smug.

You block a punch and grab his arm. “Talking about yourself, Taehyung?”

He’s going hard tonight. Whenever this happens, he’s either bored out of his mind or they have a mission coming up. Regardless, you don’t care; in fact, the exertion is a great way to blow off the steam you’ve kept condensed inside of your bones.

He wrenches himself free before slicing at your side, and you jump backwards to avoid the swipe. “You seem pretty eager to me,” you observe with a huff.

Stopping for a moment, Taehyung assumes a fighting stance. “I am,” he admits. “We’re leaving soon.”

“For?”

He throws himself forward, barely catching you off-guard before you tilt to the side and scrape your dagger against his. Rude.

Grunting while pressing his weapon against yours, your partner sighs, “I’ll tell you, but you won’t like it.”

“What do you mean,” you seethe, thrusting your arm out in a quick succession of strikes—all parried.

He leaps to the side to swipe at your abdomen, but you quickly dodge by rolling away. “He’s gone,” the masked boy breathes out. “King Park is dead.”

He doesn’t give you another chance to speak because he launches himself forward, his long legs allowing him to cover the entire distance you created. Grunting, you keep your defenses up, your feet backing up with every swift clash.

Metallic hits ring across the clearing, arguing with another sparring match happening beside you and the sound of a bowstring tightening for another training shot.

When your back hits a tree, you duck to avoid a neck blow, splinters raining on your head before you roll and skid a few meters away.

But Taehyung stops when he sees you breathing a bit harder than normal. Taking his grace period to catch your breath, you wipe a hand across your forehead, puffs warming your cheeks behind your mask. “And?”

“We’re tasked to help… Him.”

Oxygen threatens to abandon you. “...Jimin?”

His voice is hardened when he confirms, “Yes. But there’s more.”

Suddenly, a stern voice addressing your partner juts into your conversation. You whip your head to the side to see Seokjin—the eldest Huntsmen—giving his younger friend a knowing look as his bow rests against his leg.

You don’t look away from him as you respond to Taehyung, fire erupting in your eyes. “Just tell me.”

“His coronation is coming up.” When you side-eye your partner, he’s deftly playing catch with his weapon, the black metal barely grabbing the light of the moon in its edges. Snatching his dagger from the air, Taehyung continues, “And he’s set to marry a princess from Balon. I don’t remember which one, though. They have way too many.”

Your heart suddenly doesn’t know how to function, its beating ceasing and its pathways closing. Gulping to try to dislodge the emotions in your throat, you struggle to even respond, words and pleas and disbelief dying on your tongue.

Jimin?

Your prince?

To wed… another?

Around your dagger, fingers tremble. Your eyes, unblinking.

There are voices around you, whispers that get closer and closer. But you don’t register them. They mean nothing. Everything means nothing.

“I’ll always love you.”

“Princess?”

Your focus snaps into place as you feel a tense hand on your shoulder. When you finally look around you, all four of the young men you have been accompanying that night are regarding you with caution. Worry.

They’re Huntsmen, after all. They must have sensed your distress before your esophagus even closed.

Regarding the one with his hand on your shoulder, you blink before starting to breathe again. “I’m fine, Hoseok,” you whisper. “I just… It’s shocking, is all.”

The man removes his hand from you after giving a reassuring squeeze. “We know. I’m sorry.”

Fiddling with your weapon as you start to gain control of your fingers, you shake your head. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

Turning, you nod to another one of your Huntsmen, your friends, your closest companions since childhood. “Yes, Kook, I’m sure. I just need to be alone.” You start to walk away from their concerning stares, the weight of them beginning to suffocate.

When you reach the edge of the clearing, you throw your weapon into the ground, the dagger’s top glinting in the night as you immerse yourself in the shadows of the forest canopy.

It is much later when you visit your mother in her study—knowing she will be there, as she always is—to see if what they say is true. When she sadly validates their claims, you fling yourself on her lap, distressed and confused and utterly betrayed.

Why didn’t anyone tell you? Why did you have to find out this way?

“A messenger hawk flew in just this morning,” the Queen whispers, smoothing your hair with both her words and her fingers.

But you cannot be consoled. You don’t know what to do. The both of you were going to be betrothed. To each other.

How could Jimin forget so quickly? There’s no way he could have… Right?

“We were supposed to wed,” you choke on your solid fist.

“Why speak as if it’s already untrue?”

“You received the message,” you sniff, bitterly. “It’s already set in stone.”

“You don’t know for sure unless you find out.”

A pause. When you look up into her caring eyes and search them for answers, you see sparks of rebellion, flecks of what she’s trying to convey.

Is she telling you to question it?

Is she telling you to find out… yourself?

Brows furrow and lips purse as you rasp, “Mother… What are you saying?”

“I believe you already know.”

“But why?”

“The ones that never question things never end up with what they truly want,” she whispers as she brushes over your hair once more. “Even I didn’t bow down to royal customs, didn’t accept them as fate. I would be a hypocrite if I told you any different.”

“But he betrayed me, mother,” you sigh, hot tears leaking from your eyes.

“How do you know that for sure?”

Something in you turns like a key in a lock, opening a box of suspicion that leaks into the rest of your body. The Queen has a point. What if something happened? What if there’s something you’re missing? You’ve been bombarded with so much emotion that it has clouded any logic or judgment.

But… You’re the princess. You must stay in your kingdom. How are you supposed to just show up unannounced in another part of the realm and expect everything to be okay? What can you possibly use as an excuse to go other than jealousy or rage or suspicion?

All of your doubts and fears are plastered on your face, but your mother swipes them away with a gentle thumb. “Be smart, and keep a sharp eye,” she advises. “I’ll deal with your father.”

“I…” How is she able to instill this much trust and responsibility in you? You have a firm relationship with the Queen, but this isn’t something you ever thought she would let you do. “Mother, I don’t even know how I would go.”

“But I do. After all… You’ve trained with them all this time.”

You freeze.

What?

There’s no way she knows about that.

You’ve made sure to keep that secret hidden from everyone. From the time you begged them to let you train with them as a little girl, you made sure to suppress that part of your life. All the times you snuck around, the nights you slipped into your covers fresh and clean for the mornings, the times you deftly fibbed about your activities.

Tonight, you even made sure to wash after training and dress into your flowing night clothes. Your voice is disbelieving as you breathe out, “How do you know?”

The Queen simply smiles down upon your quivering gaze. “Because while your clothes and scent may lie…” Loving fingers travel along your arm. “You cannot hide the strength under your skin, or the energy in your eyes.”

She knew this entire time?

Why hadn’t she said anything?

You want to ask your mother so many things, unearth other secrets she has about her past—but she ends the conversation before you utter another word.

“There’s fight in you yet, child,” she says, hushed. “Now go. The Huntsmen leave at dawn.”

to be continued...

a/n: ahhh if you made it to the end, hello! i am SO excited for this piece and i’m having a blast writing it, so i hope you all enjoy it, as well. :D taglist is open so message, comment, dm, or mention in a reblog if you want to be added. i wanted some fantasy au’s on my blog so HERE WE GO!! lastly, here’s the link to my masterlist if you want to peruse, and my inbox is always open if you’d like to chat!🏹

#bts fics #bts imagines #bts reactions #beegrimm #btsgoldnet #purplearmynet #clubjimin #jimin angst #jimin fluff #jimin smut #jimin x reader #teasers #blacklist term for fics:#*ryenfictalk #ryenwrites #*latest #bangtaninn #btshoneyhive

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