#can never have too many white muses

[foolinafable]

It's for the best .ೃ࿐

Keith Kogane x Fem!Reader Synopsis: locked in a cell, the white paladin remembers her happier times and hopes that she can make it back to a certain black paladin. Word count: 3.7K Tags: slight angst, flashbacks, mentions of torture but not graphic, set tentatively around season 4 Notes: Apparently, vld is having a resurgence so send in some requests!

You knew it was for the best. Sat cross-legged in the confines of your cell with a small smile on your lips, contented, knowing that you have done everything you could, that this wasn't in vain- rather it was what was supposed to happen. For the betterment of the entire universe, sometimes sacrifices need to be made. You remember telling Keith something similar during one of his many brooding moments. Now wishing that you could remember which conversation it was or maybe just that you had paid more attention to your time together, especially now you didn’t think you would ever see the boy with the mullet again. 

You were sat next to Hunk, the pair of you looking up giddily at Takashi Shirogane, the famed astro explorer. He was speaking to the class about his recent accomplishment as he had just broken the record for the fastest orbital velocity. Everyone had tried the flight simulator and despite not being able to get passed level 3- like the rest of the class you were still excited by the prospect of meeting the youngest pilot to ever lead a mission in space. Even more happy that you had done better than James Griffin in the simulator- as he never stopped going on about his good grades and how much better he is. So to wipe that smirk off his face made it all worth it. As you and Hunk were fangirling in the corner you heard Griffins whining causing your attention to go back to the simulator, where apparently one more person was having a go. The pair of you walked towards the commotion as the annoyed brunette sounded out “No way! Keith made it past level five?! Thing's got to be broken.” That was the first moment you saw him, well properly at least. The young boy with a mullet and a ‘disciplinary issue’ if you were to listen to what your teachers told you. He walked away from the training simulator with a grin on his face and you couldn’t help but smile too. Especially when he looked your way as he walked off. 

‘He doesn't even know you're gone’ you muse to yourself, and it’s true. The last you had heard from him was on the other side of a screen during a planning meeting with the Blade surrounded by your teammates, who similarly had yet to know the fate of the white paladin of Voltron. They would soon realise when you don't return through the wormhole and when they find your lion broken and alone. But then it will already be too late, as the galaran ship that held you prisoner was already galaxies away taking you towards inevitable doom. You think you're pathetic, as you are already giving up but what else can you do, your weapon is gone, lion missing,  and you are locked in a cell with only your body inside of it with nobody even knowing where you are- not even you. Worry roots deeply inside of yourself as you think of your friends, a lump in your throat growing at the thought of them discovering that you're gone- they have all lost enough already. You’re sure Lance would try to be enthusiastic, claiming that they found Shiro so they could find you. Still, even he would know the saddening truth that the galarans won’t make the same mistake twice as he tries to hide his tears from Pidge who would be clinging to Hunk, begging him to tell her it’s not true- she only just got her brother back and now she has lost her sister- blood related or not. You knew it would destroy the team if you couldn’t get back to them and what worries you is that you're struggling to see a way that you can.

It was nerve-wracking, waiting to find out who Iverson and the rest of the teachers decided to team you up with for the simulators. It was a big deal, as this was going to be your team for the rest of your time in the Garrison. Last year you couldn’t wait for this moment, but maybe that was because you were certain that the boy with the mullet would be by your side as you were as Shiro put it “the only person that can put up with him” but he left, dropped out without so much of a goodbye, and you could understand, the loss of Shiro, Matt and Sam was difficult for everyone but nobody took it worse than Keith and you suppose it made sense as Shiro was all the boy had. You shook the thoughts of him out of your mind when Iverson finally came into the room, twiddling the rings on your rings on your fingers as you stood near Hunk who looked ghostly pale and going on queasy as you both prayed that the older man would do you both a solid and put you two together. You listened as he called names into groups, feeling somewhat better when Griffin was put in a group that didn't include you. Then your name was called and you were told to stand next to a tall Cuban boy wearing blue, you smiled as you walked up to him and he smiled back seemingly just as nervous as you were, then a smaller boy with round glass and a green jumper joined the group, your eyes squinting when looking at him, almost as if you had seen him before but you couldn’t place where. But before you could question it Hunk's name fell out of Iverson’s lips, you looked up in alarm as you saw Hunk coming towards your group, shocked that your prayers had been answered. The fear that was eating away at you was dulled slightly as he came to stand next to you. Sure it wasn’t the team that you wanted but maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Being in space has always made your internal clock question how long has passed, but it seems to be worse when alone in this cell. You believe it has been a few days based on the number of trays of food delivered to your cell, the only interaction with another you’ve had this whole time. At least you think, as you find yourself waking up exhausted with pains and aches all over your body, but you have no memory of doing anything or even anyone coming into your cell in the first place. You thought you would've been face to face with Zarkon or his witch by now, but as time passes, you struggle to believe that would happen at all, which causes a pit to develop in your stomach as the unknown of your future begins to dawn on you.

You can still hear the conforming hum of your lion in the back of your head, trying to reassure you that all is well but as the days pass by you begin to believe it less and less simply repeating to yourself that it was for the best.

“Things could’ve been a lot worse” you theorised. Sat with Pidge in this trash heap with your lions completely shut down. At least you were together and there were (up to now) no enemies trying to kill you both. To be honest, you wouldn’t want to be stuck here with anyone else. After Pidge finally revealed to everyone that she was in fact a girl, something you had figured out back in your garrison days, not long after you had become a team and saw the photo of her and Matt taken prior to the Kerberos mission, but you only knew because he had shown it to you first, during one of his many tutoring sessions with you. You liked to think that while Shiro was Keith’s mentor, Matt was yours. A sentiment he very much enjoyed, so much that Pidge later told you that she had already known who you were when she met you. A fact that made your heart swell. Your friendship with Matt was one of the many reasons that Pidge thought of you like a sister and the main reason you looked after her so much- you wanted to look after her for him while he couldn’t and while this mindset got you into many arguments with Keith over putting her safety over your own you wouldn’t change a thing because you knew it was the right thing to do (Also Keith couldn’t really say anything as he constantly put himself in harms way for everyone on the team.) You couldn’t help but feel protective over her as she was the youngest out of your ragtag bunch and was annoyingly the only one you could baby as you were the second youngest of the group as Lance loved to remind you. While being here with Pidge definitely made you feel a little better, you couldn’t help but be relentlessly worried for the rest of the group, as they always found some way to get into trouble- especially Lance and Keith. It was like trouble sought them out, always getting into some sort of issue whether it be with aliens or with each other. So you couldn’t help but double over in laughter when Pidge using her junk-made paladins started an argument between the fake Lance and Keith.  Eventually, you both decided that you had waited around for help long enough and decided to try and find your own way back to the castle. Pidge made you gather together materials to make a home beacon signal in hopes that it could reach the castles of lions to allow them to find you two. No surprise to you Pidge’s brilliance worked its magic as the castle of lions appeared in the sky from a wormhole, the pair of you hugged each other happy knowing that you weren’t going to grow old on a trash pile as you had both dramatically claimed. You two were more than ready to return to the fight against Zarkon to save the universe and hopefully, find Pidge’s family.      

You dream of him, black hair, violet eyes and his grumpy temperament clouding your thoughts as you try to rest. But, when you wake cold and alone in that dark cell you are reminded of the present and how you need to try and stop yourself from dreaming of the past.

Thought it was “just goodbye for now” you bitterly mumbled as you awoke from another dream of him. This time the memory sticks with you- of the goodbye you shared as he left to find himself with the blades, those were the words he uttered to you as you blanketed him in your embrace. That it was temporary, that you two would come back together again and you remember how you smiled through your sadness nodding at his words, believing him truthfully- as you always did. But you are now struggling to believe it anymore and you don't know if you are more mad at him for uttering those words or yourself for trusting them to be true. Up to now, all attempts to contact your lion have failed miserably but you can still hear your lion if you concentrate enough- as though you two are connected to the same string and you pray that it never snaps, clinging onto it like a lifeline.

You were buzzing, tapping your hands against your legs as you bounced on the balls of your feet, waiting for Pidges Lion in the cockpit while the rest of the team looked at you, amused. Lance, clearly feeding off your joyous attitude, ruffled the hair on your head, messing it up slightly. You turned to the boy, pouting as he withdrew his hands, using your own to try to flatten whatever mess he had made as he giggled at your reaction. A smile quickly returned to your face when Pidge stepped out of her lion with a familiar boy following behind her, you ran towards the pair, wrapping your arms around Matt’s shoulders in welcome, your smile only increasing when he hugged back with just as much gusto, you could hear Lance muttering something about someone being jealous if they were here to Hunk and Shiro but you weren’t paying close enough attention to anything he said, instead, you were very happy that the man who you would call a brother was really okay and just like Shiro had survived the Kerberos mission. When the family reunion had ended Pidge introduced Matt to the rest of the group, except for Keith as he was yet again away on some mission with the Blades. You watched amused as Matt’s eyes landed on Allura and something similar to what you see in a romcom played out as he screamed “You are so beautiful!” you struggled to keep the giggles to yourself as you saw Coran turn red in anger, clearly seeing this as an inappropriate way to talk to the princess and finding humour in Lance’s clear jealousy as Hunk made the boy walk away from the group. You decided to do something similar telling Pidge to give Matt a tour of the castle ship as you walked away with Coran and Allura, pulling both the alteans away with your hands.

Calming down an angry altean was albeit harder than you expected, especially when Allura was of no help at all as she was just laughing at how worked up the older man had become, but you understood it was because he felt so protective over her especially since there was no Alfor to help him and she was like Coran’s little girl so nobody would ever be good enough, you whispered just as much to him as Allura was talking to her mice and that seemed to make him less annoyed, knowing that somebody else understood him. It wasn’t until later when gossiping with Allura about your lives before all this, that she mentioned that it wasn’t just Matt’s interaction with her that annoyed Coran but also his interaction with you, claiming that he always got annoyed when others in his eyes tried to “flirt” with you, her or Pidge. However, she quickly noted that he never got annoyed or got Lance and Hunk to intimidate Keith like he did anyone else when it comes to you a comment made your cheeks burn.   

You startle awake to the sound of your cell door being opened, eyes darting towards the light, confused when the door continues to open, eyes squinting from the light now surrounding you for the first time in weeks as you try to identify the body in front of you when a voice gasped out and a familiar voice spoke your name. All worry evaporated from your body as Matt Holt wrapped you in a hug and you knew for the first time in weeks that everything would be okay and that maybe Keith was right- it was just goodbye for now.

You now sat in the control room of the ship you had been captured in surrounded by freedom fighters. After hearing over hacked intercoms about it carrying ‘precious cargo’ for the emperor, they had infiltrated and taken control of the ship.

“And that was me was it?” you mused looking towards the Holt boy to which he cracked a smile sending you a simple nod in response. You had changed into your white and silver spacesuit and your bayard had been retrieved for you. Now more than ready to return home to the castle of lions, to the paladins and to him. 

The first thing you saw, unsurprisingly, as the ship came out of the wormhole was your lion, growling in happiness, bounding towards her paladin only stopping when she was at the front of the ship, eyes locked onto you. You smiled gleefully at your lion feeling your connection stronger than ever, as though the string that attached the you two was unwavering, unbreakable. As soon as the ship reached the castle of lions you were enveloped in the paladin’s embrace, you would’ve fallen over when Pidge launched herself into your arms, legs wrapped around your middle like a koala,  if weren’t for Lance keeping you balanced by surrounding you in a hug from behind. Hunk joined the misfit group of cadets finishing off the group hug similar to how they used to in the Garrison when they, for once, completed the training simulator much to Iverson’s shock. Thoughts of worry could be seen swimming through Shiro’s eyes as you caught them when looking up, he nodded at you, the tension flinging off him like water down a hill as you turned back to your family holding Pidge and Lance by the backs of their heads, smiling and reassuring them that this was real, that you were real as tears dropped from the twos eyes. You could feel Hunk’s laboured breaths, clearly trying to stay strong for the group as the rest were blubbering messes. Walking away from your embrace and towards the freedom fighters with Shiro shaking hands and thanking them for getting you back to them as the trio dropped towards the floor, holding onto each other like it was the last time. 

It was only later when you had changed into your everyday wear, speaking with Allura and Coran holding both of their hands, stroking them gently that the paladins noticed the new scars decorating your arms and some scorch marks adjourned your neck along with bruising that you wouldn’t comment on. Or rather that you couldn’t as you claimed to not remember anything except for the dark room you were kept in and then Matt saving you. Another change was your hair, which had a white streak in it, you simply chuckled at the development turning to Shiro claiming "We match now" causing everyone to laugh and they supposed it fit you well - “As she is the white paladin” Lance claimed.

It was only when Coran transferred your memories temporarily into a crystal that they all saw what you endured on the ship, you were beaten and tortured for answers, electrocuted, burned for sport and tested on by some druids. At that point, they stopped watching as Shiro was looking rather green, probably from remembering his own time with those vile creatures. But you mused that you were lucky as you still had all your limbs and according to Coran who looked at your scan results from the healing pod whatever they were trying on you didn’t work as you were the same as you were before, “except for a few scars and a new hair colour that is” He pondered twiddling his moustache. And he was right of course you didn’t feel any different, maybe a bit more anxious at night and a few more nightmares but who could blame you after being trapped in a dark room for weeks. Of course, the memory loss was slightly concerning but they all believed it to be a coping mechanism to keep you sane and you were glad that you could only properly remember the dark room, that it was all that really haunted you at night and that those things you saw on the screen projected from your mind didn’t and you hoped it stayed that way.

The entire universe that was apart of the coalition let out a sigh of relief when it was revealed by Allura on comms to the members of the alliance that the white paladin of Voltron had been found and returned mostly unharmed.  However, nobody’s relief could be felt greater than that of Keith Kogane who had been fighting with Kolivan for weeks when they received the information of your disappearance and probable capture, he remembers the way his legs nearly gave out from under him when during a meeting with Allura the altean claimed that Voltron couldn’t come to the rescue this time as they were missing a paladin- missing you. He Surprisingly didn’t even need to sneak out on a blade ship to try and find the castle of lions to see if it was true, rather Kolivan who was probably fed up with his moping simply turned to the boy and gave him ship and co-ordinates simply asking him to back in time for the next meeting. The older Galaran didn’t think he'd see the boy move so fast, mumbling annoyed about how much more work would get done if he did. 

You didn’t hear him on comms asking for Coran to allow him into the cockpit, too busy in the training deck with Shiro and Allura showing them that despite being out of action for a few weeks you were ready to get back out there because as you told them “the galra don’t wait for anyone” and that “this revolution wasn’t going to fight itself.” You didn’t even hear your teammates asking for you to come to the control room over comms, far too busy fighting the training dummies and your comms device left on the side. What you did notice was when you were lifted from behind, a pair of pale arms grabbing you by the waist causing a gasp to erupt from your throat, You spun around ready to attack until your eyes met his, and then your sword dropped to the floor as Keith held you in his arms, staring intensely at you as if you would disappear if he dared to look away for even a second. You quickly returned the embrace, arms circling his back as you threw your head onto his chest, almost unbelieving that he was there, his arms moved, crowding around your head pulling you impossibly closer to his body as he noticed the white strand of hair, his fingers pressed against it confused as he rested his nose atop your head, breathing you in, reminding himself that this was in fact, real and not just one of his sick dreams he has been having since finding out you were gone. 

Being held in his arms made everything real, and you thought that if you had to through everything all over again just to have this moment, in his arms, you would. It was all be for the best if you ended up in his arms at the end of it all.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 22: heirloom

Masterlist flufftober 🎃

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The idea that in just a couple of days you were going to marry Spencer Reid felt unreal.

Your dream had always been to get married and start a small family with a good man: one who was gentle, hardworking, and, of course, kind.

Spencer adored you. There wasn’t a moment in the day when he wasn’t attentive to your needs, and even when work demanded a lot of his time, he made sure to stay in touch. He cared about you.

You doubted there were any words to describe the feelings you had for him. Love seemed like too short of a word compared to how you would practically give him your life if it made him happy. You were sure that the main reason you could sacrifice everything for him was that you knew your fiancé would never ask you to do such a thing.

You had gone to pick up your wedding dress from a fashion house that specialized in modernizing them, so you could wear what had once been your late mother’s dress. You thought it would be a nice way to honor her and let her know that you were now walking down the aisle, just as she had always hoped to see.

“Knock, knock,” you heard a voice at the door of the room that was serving as your dressing room.

Your future husband was wearing a dark brown tweed jacket, and his wavy hair fell gracefully around his face. Maybe it was the excitement of your upcoming wedding, but you found him more and more handsome, with that fair skin and those pink lips that made you want to cover him in kisses.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“No, I just tried on the dress a moment ago, and everything is perfect,” you said happily. He approached you, put his arms around your waist, and stole a kiss. “I look pretty.”

“You always look pretty,” he added. It seemed that this mutual adoration was shared because, at that moment, Spencer was looking at you as if he saw the sun, the moon, and the stars in your eyes.

“Do you want to see the dress?”

“No,” he quickly replied. “It’s bad luck.”

“Seriously?” you huffed, incredulous.

“They say it can ruin the ceremony or the marriage, and that’s the last thing I want.”

“For a man of science, you turned out to be quite superstitious.”

“Better safe than sorry,” he murmured, pouting a little, which you had no trouble kissing away. “I want everything to be perfect.”

“Something’s going to go wrong, that’s inevitable. Maybe I’ll trip on my way to the altar, your suit will catch fire, a guest will get aggressive, the priest won’t show up, we’ll get completely drunk, have sex, and I’ll get pregnant…”

“Everything sounds catastrophic except the last part,” he mused, making you laugh.

Your fiancé had been more affectionate lately, and you let him kiss your cheek. Slowly, he sniffed your face, moved to your hair, and finally nibbled gently on your earlobe, sending shivers down your spine.

“Spence…”

“I brought you something,” he whispered, his voice velvety near you.

You missed his warmth when he pulled away, rummaging through his pocket. You waited patiently and then saw him offer you a small burgundy box.

“But I already have my engagement ring, handsome,” you laughed, showing him your left hand.

Spencer shook his head and said it was something else, so curious about the contents of the box, you did as he asked. Inside was a beautiful gold locket, with a light blue surface and a white engraving of a bird flying near some flowers.

“It belonged to my mother,” he explained. “It’s kind of a family heirloom. It was supposed to be passed down through the daughters, but Mom only had me. And the week I was in Las Vegas, I asked her if I could give it to you.”

“Is that a hummingbird?”

“Yes. They have many spiritual meanings, but in this case, symbolize that our love is light, joyful, and enduring, as hummingbirds can travel great distances despite their size. It could also be a symbol of hope for a bright future for us.”

As he explained, you felt strangely moved by it all. You had never received anything like this before, and you always thought this kind of tradition was reserved for aristocratic or wealthy families. But no, your future life partner was offering you this treasure because he wanted you to continue that tradition, implying that one day you would have a daughter to pass it on to.

“There’s nothing inside.”

“You can put whatever you want in it.”

“I’ll put a picture of my husband,” you said with a smile, reaching up to place your hand on his cheek. “I love it. Thank you so much for giving it to me.”

“Mom was so happy. She loves you a lot.”

“And I love her. I’m grateful she’s letting me steal her son.”

“And she thinks the opposite. She’s happy to know I’ll be in good hands, with someone who loves and cares for me.”

You were drunk on love for him. You knew that, like everything in the world, relationships had their complications, but sometimes you liked to think Spencer was the perfect man for you.

Children always assumed their parents were soulmates, and you knew with certainty that yours wouldn’t be wrong.

Suddenly, one of your hands moved on its own to his hair, twirling a lock around your finger.

“How strange would it be if I put one of those golden curls I love so much in my locket?”

“In this situation, it’d be romantic, actually. But if you were a stranger, it’d be classified as stalking and could escalate to homicide.”

Laughter burst from your chest, and he smiled to himself, pleased he had made you laugh.

“I still find it hard to believe we’re getting married. It’s so strange.”

“In a bad way?”

“No, no. I mean, it feels… like a dream. I feel too happy for it to be real.”

“Well, I assure you it’s very real,” he assured you, holding you tenderly.

Even if Spencer didn’t tell you he loved you (which he did all the time), just looking into his eyes would be enough for you to know. Those honey-colored eyes, like a deer’s, that refused to look at anyone but you.

A phone call interrupted your moment, and you caught a glimpse of the contact name: David Rossi. Spencer greeted him kindly but somewhat confused, and as the conversation progressed, his frown deepened. You heard him tell the man several times that it wasn’t necessary, that he didn’t want him to go to the trouble, and he shook his head more times than you could count. But apparently, his friend was insistent on the matter, whatever it was.

“Is everything okay?”

“Rossi wants us to go to a wine tasting now. He says he’ll cover the cost of all the drinks for the wedding reception.”

At that moment, you understood why Spencer had been so adamant in refusing, and you were quite surprised by the offer. David knew you, but you didn’t expect him to offer something on that scale.

“Isn’t that too much?”

“I tried to tell him, but he’s as stubborn as a mule. He insists it’s a special occasion since the baby of the unit is getting married.”

A soft exclamation escaped your lips, and Spencer chuckled, not entirely pleased that you agreed with the nickname.

“Everyone loves you so much. We love you so much.”

You stood on your tiptoes to give him one last (or so you hoped) kiss on the cheek and hurried to grab the bag with your dress. You were about to leave when you stopped in your tracks, telling him you had forgotten something.

“What is it?”

“I forgot to ask for your help fastening my locket.”

He smiled and happily obliged, taking special care with the task. From that day on, the piece of jewelry became practically a part of you. And, as tradition dictated, it was passed on to your daughter when someone was worthy of receiving it.

[moonriverrise]

Steve has a secret, well “secret” may not be the correct way to describe it. He has something for himself, thats what. Ever since he stopped playing basketball and doing swim competitions once he graduated he's had way more free time, which at first he filled with shifts at Family Video, or bothering Robin.

Then, when she started school he started doing art more. Which, may come a surprise to many, as he never really talked about his interest in paintings and old art.

Greek sculptures that are able to show life in a still ethereal way, while still being able to twist it at their will. Renaissance oil paintings, capturing tragedy yet still being able to portray it as beautiful, in their own terrible twisted ways.

He likes sketching on paper, painting on canvas. His paintings aren't usually too different from the things he sees around him. Honestly thats the only things he paints, people, his friends, places he goes, things he sees that stick with him, dreams, moments that play on repeat in his head.

Around his Junior year, after the Demogorgon, Steve had turned the sad basement in his sad empty house, into his own space. A place where he can go and do his art, hang it, play music on his walkman, or using the record player he got from a pawn shop a few months prior. Somehow the basement is the only space that actually feels like his in his house, not even his bedroom.

Steve’s art was not very consistent to be honest, mostly the kids and Robin, landscapes that he liked, the Demogorgon/dogs, the Mindflayer (he needs some way of getting those out of his head, and somehow drawing them down feels freeing.) He does have a few paintings of Nancy from when they were together, she’s become less of a model for his work after everything though.

The last time he painted her in a painting alone, was one of that bathroom in a girl he barely knows’ house, a spilled drink on Nancy’s dress, and red solo cups littering the counter.

Steve’s art shifts though, after a moment that will never leave his mind. He knows who Eddie Munson is, obviously. How could he not? Honestly Steve isn't that surprised Henderson and the others befriended the guy, he does run a DnD club.

But then, Henderson needs a ride home after their club meetings because his mom is working late, and then Lucas and Mike’s parents are also asking Steve to pick them up too. Babysitting duty, as per usual.

Steve arrives a bit earlier than he planned. He didn't have any project to consume himself into, hitting an art block begrudgingly. But then, Steve sees Eddie Munson, sitting on a fake throne, watching the kids and other club members argue, he has his chin rested on his fist, and he's wearing a white tank top, showing off his shoulders, given the fact it’s still September.

The lighting of the small theater room captures Steve’s interest like a moth to the flame, and he is regretting having left his sketchbook at home, even though he never draws around the kids or anyone he knows.

Eddie Munson’s face and curly locks fill up the pages of Steve’s journal and some canvases for months after, and Steve rarely genuinely complains about coming to pick the kids up.

Afterwords, months later from that day. Chrissy Cunningham dies, and Eddie Munson almost goes with her. God, or whatever deity that was looking down upon him, was on Steve’s side in that moment, when he was able to revive Eddie and then drag him out of the Upside Down.

Steve gets closer with Eddie after that, they become actual friends. Steve was so used to witnessing his muse from afar, it was so…exciting, to see Eddie in all his glory, just a few feet away, and his smile being directed at him.

“Do you even have any hobbies, Harrington?” Steve blinks. Him, Eddie, Robin, Nancy, and the party, are all hanging out by the pool. Steve is lounging on one of the chairs, sunglasses over his eyes as Eddie talks beside him.

“What?” Steve responds.

“I mean…I like barely ever see you do anything besides sort Movies at Family Video, or boss around the kids. Like, what do you do when we're not all together?” Eddie asks, moving his hand a little as he talks. Steve thinks for a moment.

“Funny,” Steve answers instead. Eddie scoffs.

“I'm being serious, man! What do you do?” Eddie laughs a little, most likely at the ridiculousness of it all. What would Steve know, Eddie is like a puzzle, and Steve has to take every minute slowly, deciphering everything he lays out for him, via tongue or action.

“I don't know, what do you do?” Steve says, almost carefully.

“Band stuff, DnD, Writing,” Eddie lists. “And I guess saving the world now, but thats a bit of a side hussle.” Steve scoffs.

“Whatever, man.” And thats that, they don't talk about it again. But it sticks with Steve, because his friends really do think he doesn't do anything with his life. It's not like he has college classes to study for, so what does he do?

Later, maybe two or three weeks after, Steve decides he wants to show Eddie his space. The two of them are alone, Robin is in Nevada, visiting her grandparents, so the trio’s usual movie night is cut down to a duo’s movie night.

Although Steve finds himself mostly focusing on Eddie and his beautiful hair sitting next to him, than watching ET. The little alien scares him a bit anyway. Eddie notices him staring though, his eyes flickering to meet Steves, then a smirk spreading across his lips.

“We are watching a movie, lover boy.” Eddie says. Steve goes red, his gaze shifting to his lap. Steve furrows his eyebrows then stands and shuts the TV off. “Woah! Hey!”

“I want to show you something.” Steve says, it's a bit quieter than he meant it to be, but his tone indicates something to Eddie, which has him staring at Steve, starstruck.

Steve walks out the room and hears Eddie follow him. He gets to the basement door and opens it, flicks on the stair light.

“Basement- woah- okay, guess I'm getting murdered. Thought I’d go out in a more metal way than this.” Eddie says as they walk down. Steve laughs a little and shakes his head.

“I just think you should see this.” Steve says. “Nothing life threatening, I promise.”

“Alright, I trust you, Stevie.”

“Good.”

Steve turns and flicks on the light as they step onto the concrete. The lights flicker on, revealing the paintings on the walls and art supplies on the tables and counters.

“Woah-” Eddie says. “Is this, all your stuff?” Steve sighs, he folds his arms and faces Eddie. He looks shellshocked.

“Yeah.” Steve says. “You said I don't have any hobbies, I do, actually.” Eddie looks around, walking slowly.

“Is that Henderson? Why is he wearing yellow gloves?” Eddie asks. Steve walks over to a painting of Dustin from Steve’s angle while they were walking on the train tracks, a bucket of raw meat is in one hand and he's wearing the headphones for his radio.

“D’Art,” Steve says. “That was when we were leading him away. I made that one after everything happened. I was trying not to think about the Demogorgon stuff and everything, so I just drew him. I have one of Max from that day I never finished painting in a stack I think too.” Eddie doesn't say anything for a minute after Steve is done explaining.

“You can paint.” Eddie says, though not like a question. “These are beautiful…” Eddie looks around and walks to another one he sees. It's one of the Byers and Hopper’s, all hugging while laughing. El looks the happiest. Steve had painted that after they had all gotten together after everything. “Why…didn't you tell anyone?”

“About what?” Steve asks, folding his arms as Eddie brings up a hand to touch the painting.

“This- Steve, you're amazing at this. These are…” Eddie trails off as something catches his eye, he slowly starts to walk towards a big painting propped up behind one of the tables laid out in the middle of the room. Steve walks to him to see which one he's looking at.

An angel, knelt over a puddle, crying as it stares at his reflection, which is blurred and dark. He stands in a forest, his wings are long and huge, sprawling out above him.

It’s one of Steve’s bigger ones, the inspiration came from a dream he had after they had read about Icarus in his english class back in Highschool.

“It’s… magnificent.” Eddie whispers. Steve smiles gently at Eddie’s reaction. Eddie backs up a bit and looks away from the painting. “Is that me?” Steve follows his eye, to the painting. Eddie walks towards it, Steve stays behind him. It’s the first one Steve ever made of Eddie, the one of him on the throne.

“Yeah, it is.” Steve says. “I made that the first night I came to pick up the kids.” He says. “The first time I met you, actually met you.” They share a look.

“You are incredible, Steve Harrington.”

[andersonfilms]

❝ THE NIGHT WE MET ❞ ✶ ABBY ANDERSON !

it's here! the first installment of a series i've had the pleasure of creating with emi. thank you to my muse, the wonderfully brilliant @abbyscherry. we've put our blood, tears, and all of our queerness into this. happy to post and get this out there. in the future, there will be many parts to follow! enjoy <3

tags. eighteen+, nsfw themes, sexual innudenos, masc!reader.

it’s typical. the basement fills with smoke in the air, nearly anyone is on something. the anxious feeling ties in her stomach, lacing a hint of restlessness in her nerves, making her more sick than she needed to be. too much, too fucking much. a moment needed to find her own heartbeat. she allows the smell of weed to fill her lungs when she steps in. she personally doesn’t really know anyone. 

except you. she’s too nervous to make any type of introduction. you’re not really friends. no. abby just knows of them and she’s almost positive you don’t know of her. these type of parties always occur on friday night in the warmth of spring? never white of her radar. 

but even she has to admit, it seems nice. 

everyone’s smoking, chilling, having a good time and abby comes down there for a hit but everyone is occupying any space to sit. anxiety wraps around her neck, an unsettling feeling, so she decides to head elsewhere until she hears an unfamiliar voice. their voice extends to her like sweet honey she’s dying to taste. “abby, do you wanna hit?” abby nearly starts hyperventilating because you know her name. she nods “i, um, i was just doing to head upstairs. nowhere to sit.” abby shrugs nonchalantly. “if you want to take me up on it, my thighs are available for you, baby.” 

fucking crimson red. abby knows her cheeks resemble the color. she’s done for. one conversation and she’s practically on the floor. you take another hit, the smoke filtering out of your irresistible lips into the foggy air. you slouch further as you open your thighs even more, abby’s gaze flickers to your crotch before meeting your eyes once again. she’s never seen anyone smirk so proudly. you’ve got her right where you want her, hardly having to move an inch to catch anyone’s attention. abby isn’t any different. 

“‘m too big. it’s fine, i’ll just go back up.” you’re frowning. eyebrows raised as if it’s a challenge. 

“well, maybe for some of the other girls who like to hang around with you,” abby’s confused. have you been watching her? oh god. “but certainly not for me. so, why don’t you be a good girl and take a seat.”

with caution, slowly, she’s making her way over to you. each sends a shiver up her spine. what the actual fuck are you doing to her? taking another hit from your blunt as your eyes never leave her. watching as she adorably walks up to you. when she’s close enough, standing right in front of you, you’re whispering softly and only she can hear “sit down on my lap, pretty girl. i got you.” the second she does, it’s heaven on earth. 

“are you sure i’m not too…heavy?” abby questions. she’s always been quite conscious of her size. tall, built, but you don’t seem to mind. “light as a feather, babygirl.” passing for a moment you ask her if she wants a hit. her eyebrows burrow at the small, the rolled blunt in your hands. “just weed baby, but don’t feel pressured.” abby nods in acceptance. you reassure her as you slide one of your huge hands on abby’s thigh, rubbing slowly as the other becomes occupied by holding the blunt up to her lips, and asking every few seconds if she was okay, and if she wants to keep smoking more or stop. 

abby’s hair is down, but it’s in the way of seeing her freckled face so you whisper in abby’s ear “baby, is it okay if i move your hair to the side? wanna see your pretty face when i talk to you.”  abby fumbles over her words like a lovestruck idiot. “yeah, um, you can move it.” she feels their fingertips graze her neck as her blonde locks are pushed to the side. she whines at the loss of your lips pressed against her ear, but oc isn’t going to comment on it. yet. “so much better, baby. now i can appreciate just how beautiful you are.”

abby’s noticing all the glances thrown your way the longer she sits practically on you and gets a sudden confidence boost and leans back into your chest— your hard, defined chest, that she can feel, and her cheeks redden if that’s even possible when you’re arm is tightening around her waist, holding her protectively as your eyes harden, glaring at everyone staring. “want another?” you mumbled, lips grazing the shell of her ear, the hotness of your breath sending shivers down her spine. 

“m’okay for now” she smiled shyly, fingers reaching out to fumble with the ones you had around her, playing with them for a few seconds before looking around, the buzz of smoking going to her head a little. “s’cool”

“hm?” you’re chuckling, moving your head at a better angle to see her. “what’s cool, pretty girl?”

“my head’s fuzzy” abby giggled, eyes fluttering closed as she slumped her head back against your shoulder. “s’good though. feels good. i like it” she smiled.

“yeah?” you chuckled against her ear, hand creeping up her shirt and you rubbed her skin gently. slowly. comfortingly. “s’that good, pretty girl? you want anymore or are you done?”

“don’t think i can handle anymore” she mumbled, tired all of a sudden. 

“s’okay” you smiled, leaning back, her body following and getting more comfortable. her cheeks are flushed again, glad she’s facing away from you so you can’t see how flustered she really is over your touches and words. “want me to get you a drink? beer? water—”

abby lifts her head and her blue eyes sparkle when she’s turning around in your lap to look at you, giving you a good view of her crimson cheeks and you can’t help but smirk down at her. “no, m’comfortable” she pouted.

“s’good, don’t want you to be uncomfortable” you’re talking to her, and abby swears she’s trying to pay attention to what you’re saying, but she’s more focused on your voice itself. At how raspy yet soft it is. how gentle it sounds against her ear. almost whining at the subtle touch of you pushing her hair to the side again, fingertips ghostly brushing against the skin of her neck. sending shivers down her spine. 

she hates the way she can’t control the little sound she let’s out when your nose runs up and down on the side of her neck, smiling smugly against her like you already know what you’re doing to her. “wanna do something?”

her eyebrows furrow, lips forming into a pout as she turns her head to look at you. “do what?”

abby’s cunt clenches around nothing when your face is suddenly so much closer to hers, a smirk forming on your lips at her confusion. “body shots” 

“b-body shots?” she’s stammering, unsure if you’re being serious or not. “with you?”

licking your lips, you finish smoking and chuckle at her, the smoke cloud showing just enough of your face for her to see. “yeah, baby. body shots, with me” 

“now?” 

her face flushes even more red, if that was possible when you chuckled, but nodded nonetheless. “yes now, if you want to, the choice is all yours but i’d like to”

why was she nervous all over again? was it the way you were looking at her? was it the way you were smiling, tucking strands of hair behind her ear? or the way your breath fanned against her lips and it made her want to suddenly to kiss you? it could be any of those reasons, or all.

“um—” she giggled, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger, and nodded shyly at you. “yes, please”

with a pat on her side from your hand, abby stumbled off your lap, almost falling over her own feet in the process and couldn’t help but laugh loudly when you’re reaching out, wrapping your arm around her waist that she giggles uncontrollably into your chest. “m’sorry” she manages to get out amongst her small giggle fit.

her giggle had you laughing, holding her tightly in your arms. “are you okay?” you choked out, a few tears ran down your face as you slipped your hand up her shirt, and rubbed her back slowly. helping her calm down in a way you somehow knew would work. “you wanna get some air before?”

“no. i wanna do it with you”

“oh?” you smirked, chuckling under your breath.

“what? no! n-not like that!” abby shook her head with another stammer that made you laugh, lifting her head up, and blinking repeatedly under the lights. “wait that came out mean, i didn’t mean—”

“pretty girl, relax, s’okay”

abby felt her confidence grow as she walked away from the large crowd. your hand resting protectively on her lower back, making sure no one gets too close to her, and your eyes darted around, wanting her to have the best night possible and no get randomly bombarded with other people. 

she chose you to spend her night with. 

you weren’t going to let anyone ruin it. 

interlocking your fingers with hers, you cocked your head to the side, eyeing up the few that were in the kitchen. drinking and giggling away, probably high out their mind and not really sure what was going on anymore. too high to give a shit that you were both standing there, waiting for them to leave. which made a smirk appear on your lips when abby’s giggling again behind you, trying her hardest to stifle the sounds upon your sudden cough, a small hint for them to get out. “thank you” you bowed sarcastically as their quickly rushing out the kitchen, still laughing to themselves. “let’s get this party started, yeah, pretty girl?” you’re grinning, wiggling your eyebrows at her. 

wearing nothing but a white button down, no bra, cleavage on show with the three buttons undone minutes later. laying down on the countertop, abby’s sprinkling salt along their sternum. you smirk at her shaky hand. “you alright babygirl?” your raspy down flooding to her slippery cunt, as if every bone in her body wasn’t already nervous enough. she pauses as she grabs the lime on the countertop, placing it by the shot of tequila. 

mhm….you can’t just let this slide. the pretty girl you met tonight is just so shy, you feel your clit pulsating. the weed from earlier making your head feel lighter at the thought of her tongue licking your body. your tattooed hand with fingers decorated with rings grips her chin forcing abby’s gaze down to you. 

“grab the lime and shove it my mouth. want you to pull it out of mine with yours. how does that sound, babygirl? wanna feel my lips some more?” your drop your hand, letting it drop between her tits, until it reaches the waistband of her jeans. digging your fingers in, letting your skin kiss the skin of the v-line exposed. you pull her towards you even more forcing abby to bend over. her face impossibly close to yours. “be a good girl and stuff my mouth, angel. i’ll return the favor later…if you want.”

pale skin floods with crimson, she bites her lip, unable to say a damn thing. what the fuck is she supposed to say to this? with all her might, she stifles the giggle begging to be released, concentrating on the task at hand. the simple one you’re making incredibly difficult.

“i made it so easy for you. kicked everyone out, jus’ you and me, but you if you don’t want to do this, all you have to do is say the word. i’ll only get my feelings hurt a little bit.” you offer a small smile as abby lets her eyes drift to the salt perfectly laid across your sternum, fuck, you shouldn’t look this good. 

“i do—” abby pauses, collecting her next thoughts together before speaking. “i just, i’ve never done a body shot and you’re um very…” 

“what babygirl? i’m very what?” you’re eating it up now. practically getting off in the way abby fumbles with her words. grasping at straws as you watch her gawk at your toned chest. “stop.” the pretty blonde pouts. 

“you know you’re so—” god, why can’t she just fucking say it? “s’just a lot. you make me nervous. i kept getting looks. especially from the the girl in the white cropped top with your name on it.” 

“if you have something to ask, i’m all ears.” she’s cute, god. not even yours and she’s already jealous. it should turn you off, but it’s the most adorable thing in the world. plus, she’s being so sweet about it too. the itch for a taste if her only increases. “are you single?” you simply nod, letting the words soak in, gauging her reaction. 

“have been for months. just some don’t like getting left behind s’all. everyone with eyes can see i’m taking interest in someone new. i don’t let just anyone sit on me.” your hand grabbing onto her hip, thumb rubbing softly over the bone. “c’mon baby. i know you’re shy but don’t you wanna use me?”

she’s quite for a moment and it’s clear you have to take the lead. as much as the blonde is a bundle of joy, she’s an even brighter ball of shyness. either way, you’re itching to satisfy the craving. 

“do you want me to tell you what to do?” abby perks up at the question, desire pooling in the pit of her stomach. all of this, from the very beginning of her night with you, is completely new. with the roles reversed she feels backed into a corner. for the first time, she knows it can feel good like this. 

abby nods, but it’s not enough. “no babygirl, need to hear you say it. tell me you want to.” even in your haze, you wanted to make sure she was good with everything. abby’s heart doubles over, her heartbeat unable to rest. 

“i do, um, want to.” abby mumbles, scratching the back of her neck, a hint of smile hidden beneath her pink lips, swollen from all the insistent biting. “mhm, alright then. let me talk you through it, yeah?” 

oh. 

“first, you’re gonna lick the salt lined up on my chest. then take the shot like a good girl. and i’m going to put this lime in my mouth and you're going to take it out and get a taste.” you reach for the lime, sinking your teeth into the wedge, giving her a small nod telling her you’re ready. 

now or never, abby supposes. 

for far longer than necessary, she stares at your chest as if she’s inspecting each speckle of salt. the tattoo along your sternum doesn’t really calm any, only heightens them. painfully so, you’re patient. waiting for her to make the first move. 

her grip extended as she bends over, each arm on either side of you. giving her some room operate. the last thing she wants is to be awkward about it even if she feels she already has been. her head leans down, abby’s hair tickling your skin as she looks at you, blue eyes entranced as she flattens her tongue on your skin, licking one bold. 

you’re looking down at her in awe. truly, you half expected her to chicken out but she didn’t. welcoming the salty taste in her mouth, she looks at you with half-lidded eyes, tongue smoothing her lips as if she’s expecting there to be more of you. pushing herself off slightly, she takes the shot of tequila. 

she nearly gags on the burn in invading her throat. not one for drinking typically, and if she does it’s certainly not straight liquor. you find the innocence inviting. abby’s crimson cheeks flaring up in embarrassment, shaking her head violently as she tried to disguise her feelings, making you giggle. 

abby rolls her eyes playfully as she leans over once again, wet lips barely touch your own, before the lime is brought into her mouth, sucking on until the sour acid overflows and drips down her chin and onto your chest. 

but abby doesn’t think about what she will do next. suddenly, it’s a reflex. her tongue is licking up the excess of liquid on your chest, cleaning up the mess she made. a quiet whisper of abs, is let out as you feel her wet tongue. you want to laugh. you almost do, until she’s licking her way up to your neck, kissing your jaw softly before pulling off your body. 

“someone really wants a taste of me.” you tease, watching her blush but the need doesn’t fade. lost in the red of her gaze causing her to nibble on her lips.  you sit up with ease, now eye level with her. “you’re way too high tonight, feel like it’s my fault. i think i’m a bad influence.” you cradle her pretty face in your palm, thumb caressing her soft jaw. 

“was it too much?” abby questions, eyes pleading with acceptance. “no, not at all. if anything, just made me want more.” you talk a beat to look at her. it’s a privilege, getting to witness her up close, wide-eyed as she tries to figure you out. she won’t. not yet at least, not until you let her.  

“next time i can make it too much for you, if that’s what you like.” you tilt your head to the side. “not everyone likes it like that, but some girls do. i’m willing to bet you do.” your fingers reached up to her nose, following down the bridge and the bump in her nose. “you just give me a call and let me know, babygirl. alright?” 

“i don’t—” she paused, suddenly interested in the dribble of lime on your lip, and she can barely stop herself, again, when she’s using the pad of her thumb to wipe it away. the action quickly had you looking at her with wide eyes. not expecting her to do something so bold when the most of the night she’s been too shy to even look at you. but this makes you laugh, and flick your tongue out and catches her thumb. grinning at her abrupt squeak.

“you don’t what, babygirl?”

“have your number” she breathes out, almost breathlessly. her body tingling at the feeling of just your tongue against a part of her body. even if it was just her fucking thumb. it was something. “so i can’t, you know, call you”

nervous and shy abby was one you needed to meet again.

“do you want it?” you’ve got that stupid fucking smirk on your face again. a smirk that abby wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss it off you or smack it off your handsome face. either way, she’s nodding shyly and absentmindedly fumbling with the ring on your thumb. oblivious to your smile at her nervous habit. “words, use them, yeah?”

abby pouts, hating or loving, she hasn’t really decided yet, on how you can make her do things that she wouldn’t normally do. especially shutting her up by using certain words. you cocked your head to the side when she’s nodding again, lips parted before her baby blue eyes connect with yours. “yes” she clears her throat, “i would like your number”

“and i’d like yours so find me a pen, pretty girl” 

moving away from you, abby missed the sudden safeness you gave her. tonight was the only conversation she had with you, but she already felt safe. the comfort of just your hand on her lower back, she missed. “does this house even have a pen? i don’t even see a trash can anywhere” she grumbled, pushing her hair over to her other shoulder. the action not going missed by you.

“pretty girl, are you good?”

“no” she sighed, rummaging around in several of the draws, opening the cabinets, and finding no pen in sight. rolling her eyes dramatically as she slams shut the final draw again. admitting sudden defeat to an inanimate object. really mature abs.

you cleared your throat, eyebrow raising when abby turns around, looking at you like she just got caught stealing something from one of her friends to find you smirking, your right hand in the air, holding a pen. “if you spent less time being bratty, you would be able to find a pen” you chuckled, shaking your head. 

abby makes her way back towards you, slightly more confident once she’s in reach to steal the pen from you before you had chance to do anything, and holds it with a grin. “m’not a brat” she mumbled, tilting her head to the side in thought.

“sure you aren’t. what are you doing?”

“m’trying to think where i wanna put my number”

“on me?”

“on you” she nodded, tutting under her breath and trailing her finger up your chest. giggling when you’re sucking in a deep breath “can i put it here?” she asked softly, those eyes locking with yours again.

“uh huh” you nodded, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. “you can put it wherever you want, pretty girl. as long as i walk out of this house with your number, then m’fine with it”

abby didn’t need to be told twice. placing her free hand on your other arm, using the other than was holding the pen to slowly, teasingly you thought, to write her number on your skin. the coldness of the tip of the pen had you sucking in another breath, her fingertips brushing against you had goosebumps rising on your skin afterwards. “there” she smiled, leaning back slightly and passing you the pen. “done”

shakily taking the pen from her, you laughed a little breathlessly and shook your head. “where do you want my number?”

“wherever you want” she’s using your words against you and it makes you laugh once more. 

a shiver runs down abby’s spine when you’re picking up her arm in your hand gently, stroking her skin with your thumb slowly and leaning a little closer, into her space, to press the pen, and ink against her arm. your breath tinkling her as you write each number slower than she wrote hers. teasing her back, aware of how much you’ve already got an affect on her. 

a crimson blush coats her cheeks when you’re pressing your lips right at the end, gasping softly when you bite down on her skin gently. “think that’ll be a good reminder of me until we meet again, sweetheart?” you asked, voice slightly deeper than it has been all night. 

she nodded dumbly with a shy smile. “yes” came her quiet reply. 

her eyes widen when you practically jump off the counter and wrap your arm around her waist, tugging her into your chest. her lips parting when you press yours against the corner of her mouth, and you can’t help but smirk when you’re stepping away from her, no longer in her space, a space she refused to let others into, but loved you being that close and pouted. “i look forward to seeing you again real soon, yeah, pretty girl?”

she’s watching you stumble out the kitchen like a lost puppy. heart thumping in her chest and music ringing through her ears when you turn your head a final time and blow her a fucking kiss. how is she going to go on about her day when you’re already the only thing in her head?

hope all my masc gays feel feed ... hehe <3

[shakingparadigm]

Once again, I can't really gather my thoughts cohesively on this right now, so please bear with me. Just musing, so the ideas here might be a bit disconnected.

As a prodigy artist well-versed in more than just singing, it's no suprise that art is a prominent part of Till's character. Everything associated with Till seems to carry his eccentric artistic talent, right down to the abstract symbols painted onto his otherwise blank white t-shirt.

(Till's sketching and drawing seem to go hand-in-hand with his songwriting. Doodling and composition are two of his hobbies, and he's stated to be talented at both.)

(His appearance in TOP 3 emphasizes this messy, artistic angle. The symbols painted on the wall are similar to graffiti tags, usually associated with youth and rebellion. Furthermore, there is paint splattered on his face, staining color onto his disheveled hair and baggy clothes.)

(Even amongst the TOP 3, Till is presented with the most color. Between Luka and Ivan's main colors of white and black, their formal attire and elegant, charming personas, Till looks rather out of place.)

(Till's personal/special talent is floral art.)

Art is an integral part of Till's character, something that defines him and his desire for self-expression and freedom (it's no suprise that when Till loses his will to live in ROUND 6, he's dressed in plain and monochromatic clothes that lack any of his own artistic touch). Despite the ties between creativity and freedom, Till's talents are regularly taken advantage of and even tampered with due to the treatment he receives from his owner.

Guardian Urak is an eccentric segyein. A hustler, materialistic and rather pretentious. He shows great pride in Till's "uniqueness" and artistic ability, boasting that he has raised the best human-pet in history. In order to create the success that is Till, however, Urak had to execute his methods on several other pets beforehand. His practices include the thorough abuse of his human pets in order to coax out their talents, pushing them to their limits with harsh training regimens and painful experiments. Violence is a tactic utilized heavily within Urak's line of business, and the human pets under his ownership are the most openly abused.

Urak is said to abuse his pets to the point of severe mental issues. It's due to these mental issues that his previous pets have failed to achieve victory, showing great promise but never making it to the end. He seems to believe in the idea that the peak of a human's talent is tied with their instability, that the more talented a pet human is, they more likely they are to be a freak.

Urak pushes forward with the mistreatment of his humans despite their suffering. He believes it to be a part of creating exemplary art, playing into the idea of a tortured artist. Urak's pets were incredibly talented and top contenders for the title of champion. If not for their heavily deteriorated mental states, they would have brought Urak to victory long ago. It's quite clear that he does not intend on changing his methods because the humans he produces are some of the best products around. He doesn't want to change his methods, he wants a human that can withstand them.

Till's style is already established to be unique, nicknamed a "black sheep" in his official magazine page, emphasizing individuality. His brazen aggression in ROUND 2 caused him to attract much hate, but twice as many fans, too. The bashing of Freddie was framed as a bombastic and somewhat avant-garde performance act, referred to as art. Till's public persona was that of an eccentric and unpredictable artist, a highly reactive contrarian pet who presents both a high risk and high reward. Urak has produced another tortured artist, except this one is different (in his words, unrivaled). A higher caliber of pet, bringing him the closest to winning he's ever gotten thus far.

Till's various artistic talents seem to be things that he has developed on his own, stemming from his own desires and interests rather than something forced onto him by Urak. In one of VIVINOS and QMENG's livestreams it was stated that Till is inherently gifted, a creative genius since birth. Till uses his abilities as tools of rebellion and self-expression, writing his own music, vandalizing and adjusting segyein-provided material and outfits in order to make them more his own. It's unfortunate that even Till's attempts at rebellion are taken advantage of and instead used against him. Constantly battered and bruised, isolated in a cell, forced to endure experimentation, all of his artistic ingenuity and creations have been taken by the segyein and used to promote him as a product. He has been turned into a spectacle, his misery and abuse put on display for others to gawk at. Suffering for the sake of art.

[breakyourrxles]

❥of floral lace (m)

↳ Wedding planning is a stressful enough job as it is, without the added trouble of a handsome best man who can't seem to take his attention off of you.

But when it comes to 'meant to be,' maybe he knows something that you just don't quite know yet.

best man!bang chan x wedding planner!fem!reader — strangers to lovers, meet-cute, unrequited (?) pining, explicit sexual content. [11,2k wc] cws: alcohol consumption, protected penetrative sex, Chan wants it bad-bad, a lot of teasing and wanting and flirtatious banter.

In February, the weather is still cold. Bitter and icy, some days. Windy, with occasional snow, and it’s days like this that make it feel as though the warmth of spring and summer may never come. Sometimes, it’s the small reminders that life – the world itself – is ever changing. Spring will always come, winter will always end.

Such is life, isn’t it?

Walking up to the glass and platinum plated front doors of the expensive building, Chan muses the thoughts. Despite it not being for him – simply being an accomplice, of sorts – being involved in the wedding party tends to bring about the thoughts of ones own, personal love life. Life in general. Cycles of love and loss, all encompassing. A tall, white, building in a busy and upper class side of town – not where Chan is from, but where the bride-to-be was from. Completely foreign while simultaneously being familiar in proximity. Stepping forward and reaching for the door with his dominant hand, opening it for the couple and attempting to push his long, blonde hair out of his eyes with his other hand, the woman that his best friend would marry looks towards him kindly and chuckles – a comment about knowing the struggles of women with long hair versus the wind, and Chan smiles in response to her.

He likes her. Always had. Nothing romantic, but he was proud of the choice that his best friend of many years had made in a life partner. Chan often found himself hopeful that he, too, may one day make such a choice for himself.

The three enter the building as he continues the attempt of wrangling his hair – best friend in question, Lee Minho, laughing under his breath as to not disturb the quiet ambiance of the room they had just entered.

“Are you gonna cut it before the wedding?” he asks, lightly nudging Chan in the arm, and Chan looks at him in a slight state of shock, as if the thought had never even dawned on him for a second previously.

“Should I?”

“You don’t have to.”

Looking around, briefly at their surroundings: white furnishings, carpeting, walls – gold accenting mostly, with hints of forest green among the well-kept plants and coming together along the counter outline of the desk – he feels wholly out of place. It was much too expensive for him, and if he ever were to be planning a wedding in the future, it likely would not be here.

He brings himself back to the conversation, “does she want me to?” referring to the bride in question, and Minho only shakes his head. “No, she doesn’t mind.”

“I’ll be with you in just a second!”

A woman’s voice calls from another room – back behind the desk they stand before. Beige envelopes and paperwork lightly strewn across it; it’s somewhat messy, but nothing completely unmanageable, and the phone begins to ring at that moment.

Chan hears the same voice that had just called to them curse lightly under it’s breath. He cracks a smile at the break in character, as it were.

It’s in that moment that he finally lays eyes on you – beige pant-suit and hair in a ponytail, pen in mouth as you fly around the corner and attempt to answer the phone with the item still snug between your teeth before you realize that that simply will not do, hurriedly tugging it from your lips and lightly tossing it on the desk in front of you. You look up to the party of three in front of you, waiting patiently, and smile.

“Just a second.”

“No problem, take your time,” the bride insists.

Chan can only watch on in awe, though.

It’s a relatively quick phone call, confirming an appointment for flower arrangement the following week and then it’s all eyes on the individuals in front of you. You look at the bride, the groom, and then Chan – quite obviously not the one getting married. Messy, wind-swept golden hair and beady brown eyes – but in jeans and a hoodie with a small spot on it that looks akin to a child who had accidentally spilled some sauce on himself and forgot to clean it up.

A little charming, due to the fact that he’s good looking. Turns out that can get one pretty far in and of itself.

“Right so,” you begin, taking a deep breath before continuing, “what can I do for you?”

Minho and his soon-to-be wife begin the discussions that they had gone there for, Chan listening on and truly as if he were playing the part of the son that had been dragged along for the ride due to no childcare being available. Your eyes can’t help but creep towards him every now and then – watching the way that he looks around the room, almost as if in awe of the sights – not that the interior was anything to call home about. You found it charming, his simple appreciation for…white, you supposed.

Calling for them to come into the back with you, the group sit at a table filled with thick binders with numerous labels atop them. Things like “reception,” “flowers,” “lighting,” anything that you could think of and even many that you hadn’t lined the table, and Chan considers for a second that maybe he won’t get married, after all.

He brings his attention to Minho, who happily dives into one of the binders – evidently delighted by the prospect of wedding planning. A complete disintegration from the stereotypical male response – the response that had just immediately come to Chan, himself.

He figures that maybe you have to be there, then.

“These are the more basic, common options up at the front on these pages, they’re labeled with this color,” you point out towards one of the binders displayed in front of Minho’s fiancee, “the further back, the more expensive and intricate the options become. It’s good if you have a budget in mind so that we can plan accordingly, of course.”

And of course, Chan is listening. Of course he is. But he can’t help but get lost in his own thoughts, as well as he watches you work. Taking notice of your smile and how pretty it is, the few loose strands of hair that have fallen away from the rest that lie bundled up into a tie at the back of your head. Chan watches your eyelashes when you blink and notices their length, and how pretty the color of your eyes are. Your earrings – expensive looking, hopefully not expensive in price, he thinks to himself as he loses himself in wishful imaginative thought – because if the two of you were to date, he wouldn’t be affording anything of the sort, and Chances are, that if they were expensive, then you wouldn’t be interested in dating him, anyways.

Chan had a habit of romantically getting ahead of himself, that much was evident.

“Chan?”

A sudden, vocal intrusion once again pulling him back to earth, it’s the sound of his best friends voice calling towards him. “You okay?”

“Oh,” he says, clearing his throat and sitting himself up in his chair properly. “Yeah, sorry, was spacing out. What’s up?”

“What do you think of this color? We need an outside opinion, that’s what you’re here for.”

Chan leans himself forward and out of his chair to look over the shoulders of the couple. Napkins. They forced him to stop fantasizing about dating the cute wedding planner for napkins.

Because obviously what he had been doing was of much more importance.

“Um, I like the lavender.”

“See, I think I like the pink, actually,” the fiancee replies.

“Keep in mind you don’t have to commit to anything today,” you remind them, “this visit is really only to get an idea of where we want to go, we’re not setting anything in stone.”

“Says you, I’m planning our own wedding,” Chan thinks to himself in response.

With pinks and roses decided among numerous other items, it’s a couple of hours later that the four of you bid farewell. You shake the hand of Minho, and the bride-to-be hugs you – much to your surprise, but with Chan, it’s a bit more awkward of a goodbye – due to the necessity of his being there in any capacity being up for discussion. However, you smile, thank them all for coming, and wish them well on their day.

Little do you know, however, the plans that the airhead friend have already set into motion.

According to him, of course.

The sound of the doorbell rings through the room as you look up from your paperwork in the back office. Gently pushing things aside in an attempt to find your schedule book, you gaze on in confusion to find that you have nothing on the agenda for this hour – and with the firm not taking walk-ins, you fail to guess what it could possibly be.

It does, however, make more sense upon finding out what the wind had blown in today.

“Hey!”

You’re shocked to find Chan standing at the door. Less the shock of it being him, and more the shock of him looking just as disheveled as he had the few days prior when you had met him. How could an adult man be so not put together, and especially on this side of town? It’s something you contemplate but only for a moment, as you are forced to address him now that he is presented before you.

“Uh, hey, so we don’t take walk-ins—“

“Oh no, it’s not like, a thing, I was just asked to drop by to relay some information.”

“Why you?”

“Was in the area.”

“You were in—“ and you pause, trying to think of a polite way to carry on with the thought, “—the area.”

Chan sort of realizes that the gig is up at that moment, in his shorts and his hoodie in twelve degree weather, and smiles gently. “Yeah.”

You roll your eyes, but motion for him to follow you into the back office with you nonetheless in order to take notes about whatever it is that he had gone there for – chuckling to yourself about the fact that he showed up to a very expensive office in winter, wearing shorts.

You don’t even want to do the soul searching it would take to figure out why you find that endearing, perhaps best left for therapy.

Sitting down in your chair, you pull out the file for the bride and groom in question and pick up a pen. “Has the client changed their mind about something we had discussed the other day?”

“Yeah,” Chan begins, but it’s slow, as he looks around and takes in the sights of the somewhat chaotic back office space that you call your own. You gently, playfully, call out a “hey” towards him to bring him back to the topic at hand. “Oh uhh, yeah, so instead of the pink, they decided on the lavender after all.”

“Interesting, your choice,�� you respond.

“You remembered?”

Realizing what you had done, that you had, in fact, remembered what his input had been, you feel a bit of the heat of embarrassment rush into your ears – but attempt to play it cool.

“Of course, you were a part of the planning.”

He doesn’t respond, and only smiles down at you, shoulder holding him upright against the wooden frame of the doorway.

“And they decided on lilies instead of roses, also.”

“Good choice,” you answer, scribbling onto the paper in front of you and quickly penning something over the mark to replace it. “I preferred the lilies, myself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Chan answers, and it’s so smooth it sounds as if he never said anything unusual at all.

You know he’s flirting with you, you simply choose to ignore it.

“Is there anything else?”

“No, just those two things.”

You stop, furrowing your brows in confusion and taking a moment to truly consider the oddity of the scenario before you. “Why…didn’t they just call me, why did they send you in person? These sorts of matters can be dealt with over the phone.”

But Chan merely shrugs and continues smiling at you. “Dunno, didn’t ask.”

You don’t take yourself for much of a detective, but figure it’s pretty simple to see what’s going on here. It’s cute, but you’re not interested.

You stand, motioning out towards the main lobby of the building and walk ahead of the man.

Chan takes it upon himself to view all of the ways in which you exist before him. Your hair, your eyes, your clothes.

Perhaps a moment where most men would objectify you, Chan is merely finding all of the intricate details, all of the little things – tiny ways in which he can talk himself into falling in love with you.

And you’re just trying to get the work day over with.

“I think if it were my wedding,” Chan begins, elbows on the desk and chin placed into his palms as you sit at your swivel chair and gently look up towards him as if he’s somewhat of an inconvenience to you. “I think, forest green and gold, a bit like this,” he says, pointing towards the detailing of the marble just under him. “What about you?”

“You think about wedding planning?” you can’t help but ask, unusual for a presumably straight man. You consider for a moment that you had been picking up all of the wrong vibes from him. Maybe he wasn’t into you, after all.

“Yeah, well,” and he pauses, thinking again, “well, truthfully, I hadn’t until the first day we all came here. I have been since then.”

“That’s cute.”

“So what about you?”

“I have work to do, if we’re done here,” you respond, ignoring his question entirely and instead meeting him with a tonally cheeky reply, avoiding eye contact as to not laugh.

“Answer me and I’ll leave then!” Chan whines in response, and you really wish you didn’t find this sort of behavior endearing in any way.

But you sigh in defeat, putting the pen that you had just picked up back down in a huff and looking up at him in gentle irritation, “fine.”

“Burgundy,” you start, pushing papers around to find a tablet of color swatches beneath them, and you point to a color on it with a freshly manicured nail. “Similar to this, more blue-toned. and then—“ you pause, pushing the present swatches aside in favor of different ones that you had located in the meantime. “Gold accenting, like this. And yellow roses.”

“Why yellow?”

“I just like them.”

Chan knows that he responds to you, although if you asked him just after he had left what he had said, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. Instead, the man loses himself immediately in thoughts of a quickly developing crush. He watches your fingers dig through papers and point to colors – watches the way that your lips move with the words that you speak and the way the corners of them pull up when you talk about the things that you like in particular. It’s all in the way that you so matter of a factly say that you “just like” yellow roses – no other thoughts, no other reasoning. Just because.

Chan wonders if this is love – an absolutely, mind-numbingly, all-encompassing smittenness for another person that you barely know anything about. Juvenile and reckless and for all of the wrong reasons. Love at first sight. The honeymoon period that hasn’t even begun yet, and Chan was full-swing all the same.

And you wish it had been different for yourself – a child-like innocence to him that you found so charming and disarming in so many ways. a cute crush that surely would never develop past the phase in which it had already reached – you found yourself daydreaming about cute dates and picking out colors with him regardless, before shaking yourself out of it and returning back to your work.

bad idea, dating the clientele – even if only tangentially related as such.

“Hey.”

The smile on his face carries through the simple, verbal notion and you manage to pick up on it, even with all of the hustle and bustle going on around you.

That doesn’t stop him from having scared the shit out of you, though.

You watch Chan grin in response to your sudden yell and turn, “Jesus Christ,” escaping through your lips in exasperation and he still only carries a hopeful, happy curl of his lips.

“Bad time?”

The irony of the question being, of course, that he is asking it all the while you pick up the numerous sheets of paper, spools of lace, and other such items from the floor – items that had been suddenly relinquished from your grasp at the ill-timed intrusion of a man, a man not even getting married.

“Yes, you could say that—“ you respond, an attempt not to sound rude but perhaps failing ever so slightly. He was being irritating, after all. “—if we’re going to talk, then we’ve got to talk and walk,” you say, finally pulling everything into your bag and swinging it over your shoulder just before hurriedly rushing out from behind the desk and past the man before you – nearly dumbfounded in appearance at the way you move about in the middle of the day – even if for work. “I’ve got places to be, so make it quick.”

Rushing down the sidewalk, heeled shoes clattering against it, Chan watches in amazement at his inability to keep up. He wonders how you muster up the strength and ability to do this day in and day out – and with a smile on your face, at that.

“You need to take this,” you finally say to him, stopping only briefly enough to push some of the things in your hands, into his own. “Make yourself useful.”

“Happy to,“ he begins to respond, but only to watch as your back turns towards him again – ponytail in full swing, rushing back towards where ever it had been that you had been roped into stumbling towards.

Chan stops to smell the flowers – literally. As a few of varying different types had been thrown into his arms – but it’s quickly off to the races again, as to not disappoint.

And he can’t help but watch in complete, smitten, awe of you as you dart in and out of shops and doorways as you go. He never goes in with you – waiting patiently out front of where ever it is that you end up in the next moment, but he finds that he is never waiting long – that you work quickly. And he knows that he doesn’t know the workings of your job, your career, really at all, so maybe this is normal, but he smiles to himself at the way that the details of the situation don’t even really matter to him. Chan makes sure to watch you in a sort of make-shift slow motion that he crafts himself from scratch in the moment – capturing you and your essence and all of the things that he finds himself oh so quickly becoming enamored with, even just the way the wind some times catches your coat, it feels like a movie to him…the way his heart seemingly gets swept away in the same gust.

You step out of a building, as Chan is mid-thought, watching your every movement as he does. You don’t even notice it. Notice him. Not really.

He knows that.

Smiling, you bid the client farewell and give a sigh of relief towards the man that had aided you in your short, but fast-paced journey. “Thank you, sorry to make you—“

“Go out with me.”

The question arrives as a shocking on, albeit looking back on the situation, perhaps it should not have. You actually do give it some thought, as well – which in and of itself comes as a bit of a surprise to you, as well.

And you’re almost disappointed when you have to turn him down.

“Tonight, let’s get a drink.”

“Chan, that’s nice of you but—“ pausing briefly, you consider how to word the dismissal delicately…and sort of in a way to not shut down the possibility of going out in the future. “I have too much work to do tonight, and tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

You don’t want to talk to him like a child. Like someone to pity, but the refusal always finds a way to come out that way anyways. You watch Chan smile at you all the same, nodding to himself and simply saying “okay” as a response.

“You have a good night then, alright?” he adds, turning to head towards where home would be, and you’re not sure which part it is that’s yelling – the head or the heart – but one of them certainly is not being quiet about it’s desire to change it’s mind about the drink matter.

But you stand strong. There’s always more men.

“I will, you do the same.”

“I will.”

Chan loves watching you work. Hell, suffice it to say Chan fell in love watching you work. And perhaps it’s too much, too quick — something he tells himself from the logical part of his brain. You don’t even know her, dude. Which is true and he knows it, but the truth is that Chan has sort of taken it upon himself to fill in all of the blanks in the most shining, beautiful ways that he can. A man that lives on the precipice of a romantic comedy at all times — he’s always only been waiting for this moment. for someone like you. Someone to come in and sweep him off of his feet, as it were.

Just a hopeless romantic, that Bang Chan.

“Now’s not really the best time—“ you manage out towards him, mouth full of safety pins and fingers attempting to fumble through loads of white, shimmering fabric.

Dress fittings, the best part of the whole getting married gig, to some.

He doesn’t reply, carefully discarding himself from the doorway as to not be an obstruction physically in the same way that his presence is in every other way. He does smile, though. Halfway. A sly curly of the lip that you catch before pressing more pins into the bodice of your client.

Chan watches the whirlwind before him — feeling like the exaggerated display of floral lace and shiny shoes being tossed up and around like in the cartoons one sees when growing up weren’t actually that far from the truth — he smiles all the same, because he’s charmed by it all.

He especially takes note of your tied back hair and the way your jacket had been discarded probably long before he had arrived. How it appeared as though your day had already been a long one, despite it only being the early afternoon.

It’s the first time that Chan thinks to himself that you might really be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

But his attention is pulled back to reality, a woman gently leaning towards him and softly addressing him — as if she had known that his thoughts weren’t there with them at the time.

“Are you with the bride?”

Taken by surprise, Chan shakes his head — hands up in submission. “Oh, I’m with her!” he says, and points towards you as you continue diligently working on the fitting before you.

“Oh my God,” the client suddenly exclaims, turning towards him so suddenly that it sends you reeling. “You’re getting married, too!?”

Fuck sake.

“Wow, what a coincidence, huh?” the staff smiles towards Chan, before heading towards the small cooler behind the counter and pulling out a bottle of champagne. “We certainly have to celebrate this!”

It’s a roller coaster, for sure — and as hilariously charming the confusion is, Chan’s eyes can’t help but stay glued to your figure. Scanning your reaction. A chance you don’t hate this? A chance you might be willing to play along? Play pretend? Just for him, just for today?

The staff member comes back over to Chan without any time wasted, handing him a glass of bubbly gold liquid before sauntering over to you and handing you the same. Drinking is pretty strictly against the rules while on the job — except in situations where not drinking could cost you the job, of course. It’s up to your own discretion, case by case basis.

Suppose we’re pretending we’re getting married today. Just another check mark off of the list of completely insane things that the job every so often required of you.

Chan finally makes his way to the back and towards you, gently smiling — it says sorry that this happened, but it’s kind of fun, right? And you wish that you could deny him the pleasure of being right.

“So, have you started dress shopping yet?” the bride asks, eyes sparkling and excitement lacing her voice. You found it so lovable — the absolute delight that she seemed to receive from just the mere prospect that someone else might be just as happy as she was — who were you to ruin her day, then?

“N-no, not yet,” you stutter out, bashfully smiling towards Chan and then quickly away from him, because what the fuck? “I’m quite picky.”

You can see Chan trying to reign in the curl of the corners of his mouth at the response. He’s enjoying it way too much for your liking, possibly more than the client before you.

“You should try something on with me! Oh my God, please!” she gasps, grabbing at your free hand and shaking it gently. “Please! It would be so fun!”

“Oh, I—“ suddenly looking up towards Chan — full on smiling, now — and back at the client, you feel a bit outnumbered. “I shouldn’t, I’m working…”

“Yeah, for me!” she answers, hands on her hips in a playfully authoritative way, “so I think if I want you to try on a dress with me, that you should probably do it!”

It’s a mischievous threat, not backed by any actual ill-will, but you do have to consider any possible implications behind it — she is a big client, an expensive client.

You should probably just do what you’re told, right?

Running your hands down the front of the beaded bodice, it’s sort of an impulse to avoid your own reflection in the numerous, angled mirrors before you. Set up to show you every inch of yourself — you find irony in the fact that you wish to see none of it, because it feels wrong. It’s out of place, and not how you had dreamed your first dress try on to be — to appease a rich, pushy client and for a man that for all intents and purposes, you don’t even know. Playing dress up and pretend at your big age, it wasn’t the ideal outcome.

You hear the woman call out for you — indiscernible words that you know the meaning of all of the same. Hurry up, come out, become a spectacle. But you had already agreed, and the faster you begin, the faster it will end. You look up, finally making eye contact with yourself in the reflection, and your heart drops — but not for any of the aforementioned reasons you had expected. In a flash, all of your previous concerns simply melt away, just like that.

You looked beautiful. Ethereal.

And in the moment, you became painfully aware of all of the years that you had spent attending to the romantic wants and needs of everyone but yourself. Seeing yourself in the dress became an acutely stark reminder that maybe — just maybe — it was time to allow yourself to focus on you.

And despite barely knowing the man before you, watching the way his eyes lit up at the sight of you as you gently strolled into the room — as if he had never seen a sight more beautiful in his life — you think to yourself that if this guy can look at you this way, then imagine the way that someone who loved you would look at you.

Irony.

A few hours later into the evening, the sun setting and air cooling, the four of you say your goodbyes as the staff locks up the shop and the client joyfully heads off and on her way. When only the two of you are left — you and Chan — you let go a heavy sigh of relief, one that feels as though it had made a happy home in your chest, never to be evicted or removed in any way.

“What a horrifically stressful day,” you start, as to set the tone of the conversation and not let the man before you get any ideas that you may have actually enjoyed any part of the goings on of the day. “But she was happy, that’s all that matters.”

“Is that so?” Chan replies, a hint of doubt in his tone. “You really hated it that much? You looked pretty.”

The compliment sends heat rushing to your face. Since when was that a side effect of engaging with this gentleman?

“I guess it’s good that you played along,” you say, pulling your messy ponytail out and beginning to put it back up into a more well-maintained one. “It’ll be a really positive memory for her, and that’s my job, after all.”

Chan simply watches you, taking in every moment as if it’ll be the last because really, who knows.

“Anyways, since she was so happy, if you don’t have anything going on tonight—“

“Yes.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” you respond in a playful-yell, slapping at his arm, but Chan only laughs.

“I do know what you were going to say! You were going to ask me out! I said yes!”

“I wasn’t going to ask you out!” you quip, slightly embarrassed by how transparent you had seemingly been. “I was going to agree to going out with you, since you had asked me before, they’re different things, actually.”

“Ah, I see,” Chan replies, only playing along with your asinine explanation but not willing to push it any further because in the end — he was getting precisely what it was that he had wanted all along. “Well in that case, I know just the place.”

Only a few blocks down the street and a quick right, Chan stops and holds his hand out as if you usher you ahead of him. Gray, stone steps trailing down into what appears to be a basement, hole in the wall type establishment — you’re almost a little concerned. This is an upper class area of the city, and this is where he takes you? And it’s as if the man just behind you is capable of reading your mind, chiming out “just trust me, you’ll like it.”

You open the door, holding it for him to follow, and the dimly lit atmosphere almost sweeps you just off your feet. A beautiful, antique adorned establishment, decorated as if to appeal to numerous generations before; but in the most swanky, high class, way. The type of surroundings that just about anyone from any walk of life could find charm in.

So shocked, you forget that you had stopped to take in the sights.

“Come on, let’s not linger in the doorway,” Chan says as he passes, cheeky-toned and knowing that he had caught you.

Shrugging your coat off, you hang it on the rack and take a seat next to him at the bar. Drinks are ordered and quickly served due to it not being a busy night, and Chan wastes no time getting into the nitty-gritty of what it was he was interested in: you. Everything about you. Where you’re from, where you live now, where you went to school and what you studied and your hobbies — it’s all things that he, of course, has a genuine interest in — but that doesn’t change the fact that they are but stepping stones to the meat and potatoes of what it was that he really wanted to know.

Your relationship status. Are you single. Are you looking. Are you open to the possibility of falling in love, and not just with anyone, but with him, specifically.

Although, perhaps he would not be one to lean so hard into the tail end of the obvious.

“Truth is,” you begin, shimmering glass of red wine pressed delicately to your already stained-red lips. “I’ve been single for a while. Sort of on purpose, I suppose. I wanted to focus on work and really get my career going for a while before I put time and effort into adding another person into my life.”

“Is that serving you?” Chan questions, his own glass mirroring yours against his mouth.

You pause for a moment to consider the answer — remembering how you felt in that fleeting moment back at the dress shop, seeing yourself in that dress. Was it serving you?

“Yeah, I think so,” you finally answer in an accompanying nod, “I think it’s important to be able to be happy by oneself before attempting cohabitation of some sort.”

And Chan chuckles in response, much to your surprise. “'Cohabitation’ makes it sound so clinical, like the concept of dating someone is a science experiment.”

“Isn’t it sort of?”

“Yeah, suppose it is, in ways.”

“What about you?”

And now he pauses, thinking himself through the slew of potential replies that bounce through his mind in an instant — some more insane than others, admittedly.

“Happily single, but always open to the possibility.”

“I think that’s a good way to look at it.”

Chan takes a slow sip from his glass and eyes you intently, as if trying to gauge your interest in his answers based purely off of a single, minute, change in facial expression. Hell, he wanted it so bad he was willing to make it up himself.

It’s the gentle curly of your lip at his reply that catches him off guard — burned into his memory forever and always — or at least until a moment were to come that the two of you would have made enough memories together that such an insignificant one need not be held onto for so long anymore.

Drink glasses emptied and coats slung back over shoulders, the two of you head back out and onto the chilled sidewalk to head your own separate ways. You can’t help but take notice of the way Chan looks at you — eyes shining in the florescence of the street lamp just behind you — the first time that you acknowledge to yourself that you think he is handsome, as well as the first time you acknowledge that feeling in your chest that you get when he happens to come around.

It’s a bad time.

“Look, I had a nice time but—“

Chan rolls his eyes in response already, and you haven’t even finished the sentence.

“What? You’re a client…kind of.”

“I’m not, and on top of that, I can assure you that they would not care at all! They’d probably think it was cute, actually. I’m sure Minho would already have so many stories to tell at our wedding from the first consultation.”

“Well that’s not reassuring,” you snort, “telling me I was already so memorably unprofessional from the beginning, huh?”

“Only in my eyes, don’t worry, they loved you.”

“Chan!”

“Come on, I’m kidding,” he replies again, “it’s not a big deal, they wouldn’t think anything of it. You’re making it into a bigger deal than it would be in your head.”

You know that that is likely the case. You also know that it’s just so easy to say one thing — like that one is ever so willing to look for love — and then construct the simplest walls given to you to avoid it at all costs.

The two of you still in silence for a moment, as if in a stand-off of sorts, but you more than capable of breaking the silence and constructing just one more wall — for good measure, of course.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” you say, with finality. “Thank you for tonight, I had a nice time.”

Chan thinks to himself as he watches you walk away, that if it were any other woman, in any other circumstance, he would have already live and let live. That even in watching the way you turn him down and walk away, that you’re still simply the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. Musing about every word that you said and the way in which you said it — how your glass of red wine stained your lips just the perfect amount that it made it nearly unbearable to not kiss them, how pretty your hands looked around the wine glass and how cute your smile was every time he said something that — purposefully, of course — you found mildly irritating.

Making his way to his empty apartment again, and standing just outside, Chan knows that there is progress made.

But what are you running from?

When you hear the jingling of the front door, and look down to your planner to find nothing having been scheduled for that time, you know that trouble is awaiting you in the lobby — trouble in the form of a kinda beefy, 171cm handsome gentleman by the name of Bang Chan.

Eh, suppose things could always be worse.

Lazily buttoning the deep maroon button of your vest as to look presentable, you look up and lock eyes with him as you come around the bend and into the front of the establishment. Chan — in all of his glory — a fitting pair of jeans for once and a shirt to match, you’re a little surprised. Had he made the effort all for you? Charming, if not for the fact that you told him you weren’t going to date him only a week prior to now.

Some men have a problem taking ‘no’ for an answer, unfortunately, sometimes it’s kind of charming when that’s the case, as well.

“Honey, I’m home!” Chan chimes, and you roll your eyes as you make your way to the front desk and seat yourself down.

“Yes Chan? Can I help you?”

“Always.”

“With something involving my job in some capacity.”

“Oh, right, that!” he answers. You know that he knows what you mean, he’s always just doing his utmost to be as much of a problem as possible. You’re not happy about how charming you find that, either.

“So, rehearsal dinner is in two weeks, on Thursday.”

“I know that, it’s my job to know that, I already talked to the bride two days ago.”

“Well I’m not here to tell you about it, I’m here to ask you to be my date to it.”

The brazen admission takes you off guard. It wasn’t really the first time Chan had ever asked you out, but this felt…different. Perhaps because of the night at the bar not too long prior.

You weren’t particularly fond of the way it made your stomach flip, either.

“I’ll be there, but for work, not for fun.”

“For pleasure, I think is how they call it,” he corrects, and you’re not proud of what the implications of that do to your mind.

You clear your throat, Chan watching all the while with a grin, and avoiding eye contact altogether, you stand again — pulling some items from the counter top into your arms and heading into the back from where you came.

“Right, well,” you say, attempting to play off how flustered you’ve now become in his incredibly flirtatious presence. “I have work to get back to, so, I will see you at the rehearsal — because it is my job and I suppose that you will also be there.”

With a smile on his face and eyes never leaving your form, before you’re able to scurry off to freedom, one last thing leaves his lips — because of course it does.

“Do a little something nice with your hair, it’s an occasion, isn’t it?”

You had never felt the need to keep a pillow to scream into in the back end of your office prior, but perhaps now were as good a time as any to invest.

On rehearsal night, catching your reflection in one of the mirrors of the wedding venue, you sort of wish that you had been a stronger person. You wonder how it was, exactly, that this man that you truly, barely knew, had managed to wear down your resolve in such a way that you were playing dress up for him. No, your attire not different than a typical work day — you were still on the clock, after all.

But your hair. And you can’t stand the way Chan looks to the floor with a smile when he first catches glance of you. Well, can’t stand it, and also sort of adore it.

“So, the brides mother, father, and sister we’re thinking of having here — but if there’s something that I’m missing, let me know so I can arrange it in a way that—“

“Hey there.”

Frozen in place, you don’t have to turn to check who it is anymore, and meeting eyes with the catering planner you had been speaking to, you smile gently before motioning that you need a moment, and turning towards Chan. “I’m working, can you give me a moment?”

“We need you to sit in for rehearsal, we’re missing someone.”

“Absolutely not, are you crazy?”

“Come on, you only have to pretend you have a crush on me, you don’t really have to have one.”

Turning back to the caterer in an instant, you insist that you’ll email the finalized plans over to him right away in the morning before finishing your conversation with Chan.

“If you keep interrupting me at work, I might not have a crush on you, real or make believe.”

“I think it’ll take more than that,” he replies with a cheeky grin, and nodding his head over towards the table, “now get over here and pretend you’re in love with me.”

It’s sort of sick, how easy it is for him to talk you into it. All of it. Any of it.

When the seating plan goes smoothly, and all of the wedding participants stand to take in slow views of the rest of the venue ahead of the big day, as you finish off some notes, Chan saunters over towards you with two glasses of wine in hand. “Come out with me?”

Stepping out and onto the large, white stoned balcony, you sigh in relief at how smooth the night had gone. You explain to Chan that — even in spite of having done the job for years, there’s always parts of every new client experience that feel brand new, that you feel as though you’ve never done before. Chan gazes on intently as he watches you speak with vigor, with self-respect, and with love and adoration for yourself. He thinks, in that moment, it might truly be the sexiest thing about you — at least, thus far.

When the gentle wind blows your lightly curled hair to one side and sends a shiver down your spine, Chan reaches out and pulls you towards him — into his warm embrace.

“It’s still chilly this time of year, yeah?” he says, and it’s almost a whisper. Perhaps the quietest you think you’ve ever heard him.

You opt out of responding verbally, and silently enjoy the warmth the man brings to you.

“Hey,” he says again, suddenly, and pulling you from him ever so slightly. Again, you choose not to reply, assuming that there were to be more words following up such a statement.

But you were soon to find that to not be the case — as Chan leans down and into you, plush lips gently pressing into your own.

The warmest you had felt all evening, you think to yourself — and perhaps interested in more where that came from, after all.

A short drive in Chan’s car lands the both of you in front of your apartment building — a gentleman, having offered his services of bringing you home in one piece — albeit, the thoughts of being torn apart by him figuratively becoming more and more of interest to you as the moments near him pass. Surely, one glass of wine wasn’t enough to throw all caution to the wind.

Unless…?

“Can I walk you up?”

Grabbing your belongings from the floor of the front seat, you chuckle. “Not much to walk, my building has an elevator.”

“Wow, fancy,” he replies smugly. “Didn’t know you had elevator-money in this sort of economy.”

“Go to Hell, yes you can walk me up, sheesh.”

His playfulness was what really had you, and you hated to see it. Broken down by the childlike innocence and joy of someone who was becoming more intriguing, more desirable, and more sexually attractive by the second. Truly, what had happened to your resolve?

Manicured finger pressed into the up arrow button, the elevator is silenced completely — no indication of it ever having registered the button being pressed at all. You press it again, and still nothing.

You sigh.

“Broken?” he says.

“Probably just asleep,” you quip back, “yes it’s broken. Have to take the stairs I suppose — you don’t have to come, I live on the fourth floor, I’m sure I can make it.”

“Better safe than sorry, really.”

Rolling your eyes, the both of you head towards the stairwell — all the while you hoping the slamming beating of your heart against your chest won’t reverberate through the echoing halls of the winding concrete cave that you are about to enter.

Floors two and three go without a hitch — well, mostly. It’s between three and four, that you realize there was never any Chance of you getting out of this stairwell unscathed. Or un-somethinged, at least.

He had plans all along.

“Hey,” Chan quietly calls towards you from behind, a hand reaching out and snatching your wrist from behind. It’s gentle, but enough to have you stumbling ever so slightly. He catches you — turning and pressing your back against the cold, white, wall — and them himself even harder against you.

Hot breath ghosting against the skin of your face, Chan’s lips fail to make contact with your own — instead opting to press into your jaw, and then your neck — and not without the direct contact of his hard thigh wedged into the apex of your own.

You’re a little ashamed of how little it took for him to pull from you a verbal response. It wasn’t much, but a breathy whine all the same — and you can feel the curling of his lips against you in affirmation that he had, in fact, heard it.

“I want you,” he whispers into your flesh, and the admission makes you dizzy with desire, pressing yourself down and against his leg for friction even more — as if to say that you felt the same way.

“Do you want me?” he follows up, mildly irritated at the fact that he’s asking, given the physical cues, but you still manage the breathy “yes” that he had been waiting oh so long for.

Chan thinks that it sounds so much better than he had ever even imagined it would. Unfortunate that this was not to be the time nor the place.

Pulling away, the loss of body against your own leaves you confused and frazzled — chest heaving and eyebrows furrowed, but you choose not to speak, because surely he would.

Because what the fuck?

And right on cue, “not now, I mean—“ he pauses, looking down at the tenting in his own pants and adjusting as for it to be not as obvious in the case of running into other people. “Not here, or now.”

“My apartment is right there—“

“I know,” he nods, “trust me, I want to — obviously — but I like you, so—“

“You can’t have sex with someone you like? Are you one of those Madonna-whore type guys? I knew there had to be something wrong with you.” You spiral off, adjusting your pants and trying to gather yourself properly. Chan merely laughs in response for a moment.

“No, it’s nothing like that, I’m perfectly capable of fucking you,” he answers clearly, and with decisiveness. “And I will, presumably. But let’s get to know each other a bit more first, yeah?”

“Oh my God,” you exclaim, a little annoyed at the games that Chan seemingly loves to play with you, and yet, willing to continue playing them on his terms all the same. “Fine, I guess I’ll get to know you or whatever.” Playful sarcasm dripping from the tail end of your response.

He laughs, gentle smile taking his features — and in his mind, all of the ways he plans to have you when the time is right.

When Chan shows up to your place of employment only three days later, it’s bad timing. The truth of the matter, is that it’s always bad timing, that’s the nature of a fast paced job such as your own, though. Shoving items into a bag and slinging it over your shoulder — followed by desperately trying to free your ponytail from the confines of the sling as you run towards the door, you only manage out with a “let’s go, move, move!” as you rush past the man in the doorway.

By now, Chan knows better than to ask very many questions. He’s quick on the uptake. He knows what he may sign up for upon arrival. Today? A handful of miscellaneous binders — sticky notes and fabrics sticking out of the tops, bottoms and sides of them.

“Already comfortable with bossing me around, huh?” he says, a brisk stride catching him up to you on the sidewalk as the both of you hustle down the concrete path.

“You know how it is,” you say, “if you’re gonna be here then I’m gonna put you to work.”

“I kind of like it,” flirtation lacing his voice. “Being told what to do by a beautiful woman definitely isn’t the worst way to spend the day.”

“That’s what you like? I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Maybe, can’t give everything away on the first date, I’m not easy.”

“So I noticed.”

You take notice of how easy it is now to engage in these types of conversations with him. Cute, curly blonde hair flowing in the breeze as you both run-walk towards the destination a couple of blocks away — you’d be lying if you said that it wasn’t a charm point — his absolute willingness to go above and beyond already. Carry things. Help you at work. Hell, he had sort of already showed up for you better than a lot of the guys you had dated in the past.

And now the flirting — playfully toying with each other in tone and topic that borders, if not fully crosses, the line of appropriateness — especially with you being on the clock.

Not that anyone is with the two of you to monitor the conversation. Or know that he took you home the other night. Or any of the other misdoings of that particular evening.

“Place is up here, did you come by for a reason or do you have a sixth sense for when I need help carrying things?” you ask, finally slowing down when the time on your phone insists that you have perhaps a minute or two to spare extra.

“Yeah, actually—“ he starts, slowing down next to you and stopping to face. “I wanted to ask you to be my date to the wedding.”

And you’re floored. That’s your immediate, gut, response anyways, but the more you grant a second to it, the more unsurprising you become.

He either genuinely does not understand how your job works and what proper boundaries are, or he just truly does not care. You’re fairly certain you know which it is.

“Chan, I’m working the event—“

“No, I know!” he interrupts suddenly, and for the first time it appears as though he had actually put some thought into it, and the inappropriateness of such a situation. “It can be our little secret. Just between us two.”

Looking down at your phone to check the time, and following it with an exhausted sigh, you roll your eyes. “Then what’s even the point?”

One corner of Chan’s mouth pulls up, and now you know he put thought into this. Which may or may not be advised, after all.

“The real fun would be after the event, obviously.”

Visually, you give off no tells, that of which you’re sure, but inside? Screaming, at the top of your lungs.

You’re not entirely sure if he means sex, or a date, or sex and a date or what he means at all. A man with something sly constantly up his sleeve, you simply had to assume: all of the above.

And so, you agree.

Weeks pass, and you’re surprised by the fact that when the night of the wedding comes around, Chan is actually no where to be found all of the time prior. The man that could not resist the urge to bother you at work, suddenly ghosting you? Were you being ghosted? Did he lose interest? Perhaps the allure of sleeping with the cute wedding planner had worn off all just before the big night itself. Tragic, you think to yourself, you didn’t even get to sleep with him, after all.

But when he meets you for the first time at the reception near the open bar — a smooth hand brushing the small of your back — so brief that no one nearby would ever catch it, the glimmer in his eye is enough to let you know that the plan is, in fact, still on.

And through the sound of a private bathroom door slamming against the wall, and your back up against it — met once again with the enticingly crushing weight of him against you as his mouth meets your own in fervent, needy kisses — you forget why you thought it was ever off anyways.

“W-we have to go back out there, Chan—“ you manage out between mouths and gasps of breath, fingers curled into the white coat of his blazer. “You wore white? That’s so tacky.”

“Not my choice, bride wanted it,” he answers back in similar neediness and much more expressed disinterest in the topic. “I want you.”

“Last time you said that—“ and Chan kisses you on the mouth hard again. “—last time you said that you didn’t do anything about it.”

“And I can’t again, not yet anyways.”

“Not into exhibitionism?”

“I don’t perform well under pressure.”

You laugh as he pulls away from you, allowing you to straighten yourself up to go back out into the public eye. “You’d be terrible at my job.”

“I know, just the most soft-dicked wedding planner ever, it’d be humiliating,” Chan chuckles, leaning back to check himself in the mirror as well before reaching forward and placing his hand on the door knob. “Good?”

“Good.”

As the reception carries on, you stand back to watch from a distance — available when necessary but for the most part, out of the way. For all intents and purposes, the large portion of your job was finished. The clients were happy, and the night a beautiful one — dimly lit fairy lights and silver plating along white, linen tables. You watch as Minho and his bride share a dance together, smiling into one another's eyes. Truly and madly in love.

A moment later, you catch Chan’s from across the room — a look held in time longer than it would typically be held. You feel it in your chest more than anything, and more than that, you’re hopeful that he might be catching the same.

When the night festivities finally come to a close — shaking more hands than you remember ever having mingled with in all of your time working with the client, Chan finally makes his way over towards you as the crowd dissipates — two glasses of wine just as he had offered on the rehearsal night, and you grin at him knowingly.

“Remember what happened the last time I had a glass of wine on the terrace with you?”

“Nothing much, as far as my recollection goes.”

Following him out and looking out towards the view, a breeze passes by the both of you — warmer than the last time, inviting, almost. Your gaze pulls from the trees and the buildings before you and towards the man next to you — handsome and charming and seemingly full of love and passion.

Had he…all of the things that you were looking for in a man?

Feeling your piercing gaze, he turns towards you — ashamed at your gawking, you chuckle lightly and bring your wine glass to your lips, but Chan only smiles in adoration of you.

Inhaling, Chan begins to speak.

“I’m not going to sleep with you—“

It’s sudden, and sends Chan visibly reeling — so much so that you feel the need to amend the statement in earnest.

“What I mean is like, like a one night stand…hook-up sort of thing.“

Eyebrows gently furrowing, Chan remains silent as he watches you talk through your thoughts in real time, not wanting to interrupt where ever it was that you were intending on going with this.

“I— I have feelings, so,” you stutter out, avoiding direct eye contact and instead, choosing to speak to the golden liquid in your glass. “So I don’t think it’s a good idea, is all. Sorry.”

Silence takes the balcony briefly. Seconds that feel like years to you, but in real time, Chan responds quite immediately. To that, you are thankful.

“What? Of course I’m interested in you. I’ve always been interested in you,” he says, “I don’t carry around binders full of color swatches just for any ol’ woman I want to sleep with, are you kidding me?”

“Chan shut up! I’m being serious!”

“I know, I know—“ he giggles, avoiding your playful slap to his arm. “I am, too. I’m serious.”

And taking a step forward, Chan leans down into you once again. It’s not the first kiss that the two of you have shared, and hell, not even of the night.

But it was different. It was new in all of the ways that love is and can be. The blossoming feeling of being seen and held by the one person that you wish to perceive you.

Walking back inside as the catering staff begin cleaning up the remains of the evening, Chan turns to you and takes a deep breath, as if somewhat insecure about where to go now.

“So,” he begins, the word exhaled through his mouth as if attempting to mask it to be as unheard as possible. “Want to come back to my place, then?”

You look at him with feigned surprise before replying, “aww, look at you. You look so shy now. What happened to tough guy in the bathroom a few hours back?”

“Tough guy has to perform now, if you say yes. Remember what I said about pressure?” Chan laughs in response.

You lean in to whisper, as to not allow any passerby into your banter. “Are you warning me of something?”

“Doubtful, but imagine how good it’s going to be if you go in with low expectations.”

“You’re so annoying.”

Turning off his car, you take a deep breath before grabbing your bags and moving towards crawling out of the passenger side of the vehicle.

“Nervous?” he asks. It’s obvious, after all.

“A little, I guess? Kind of silly since I’m a grown woman.”

“Not really, pretty normal,” he says, opening the car door and ushering himself out as well. “On the bright side, you don’t have to climb any flights of stairs, my building elevator works.”

“Elevator? After everything you said about mine! Jerk.”

Finally stepping foot into the mans apartment, you realize in the moment that you had never given even an inkling of a thought to what it would look like prior.

Nice furnishings, a clean kitchen area, and a bed that’s made — despite a relatively small apartment, it was well kept, and if you didn’t know any better you would think that he weren’t a single man at all.

“Want anything to drink?” he asks from behind you, rustling around with keys and coats by the door. You hum in response that you don’t need anything.

The next thing you know, you’re being hauled off towards the bedroom, in a set of arms much more muscular than you ever remember them being.

Dropping you back first onto the mattress, Chan wastes no timing climbing up the length of your body and nestling himself between your legs — mouths making contact yet again, and more needy than ever before — Chan only stops long enough to pull his own shirt off and over his head, thrown across his bedroom before settling back down and against you.

It lasts only momentarily, however — the heat of the moment quickly over taking him as he becomes acutely aware of how much clothing you are wearing and how much he desperately does not want that to be the case. Ushering himself up and onto his knees, he begins fingering at the buttons of your blouse, and smiles as your own hands reach down towards the buttons of your slacks.

“Can I take this off?” Chan asks hurriedly, already gently pulling you up and off of the mattress as if he anticipates the affirmative response. He receives it, of course, and slings the fabric along with the previously discarded of his own.

“In a rush?” you giggle, lying back down and watching his hands work in a rush against all of the confines keeping the distance between his skin and your own intact.

“A little bit, should I slow down?”

“No, it’s okay, we have more time for slowing down in the future.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Chan responds, motioning himself in reverse to create space to pull your pants from your legs. “That reminds me though, be my girlfriend?”

“You’re asking me now?” you laugh, the only clothing remaining on your body a pair of panties.

“Should I wait until i’m in?”

“You should shut up.”

“I’ll take that as a 'yes’ then.”

Chan makes fast work of his own jeans, kicking them along with his boxer briefs off before climbing back onto the bed, and you realize that you’re staring.

And unfortunately, that he notices, too. A cheeky grin, followed by a bright redness to his ears. It’s not often that you see him shy, but you can’t help but enjoy the sight.

Well, both sights.

Reaching down and hooking fingers into the remaining fabric, he pulls them from you and wastes no time pressing two fingers against — and then into you. A dull stretch, relieving in a sense — the feeling that this is finally going to happen, and apparently you had desired it much more than you had thought going in.

Chan leans down, pressing his mouth against yours only to trail his lips down your jaw, up and over towards your ear. Gently pressing his hand into you, you exhale a whiny — and you can hear the way it makes his own breath hitch.

“I want you,” he whispers into you, and if not for the fact that you knew it would finally happen, you might be annoyed by the admission.

“Please,” is all you can groan out, but thankfully, it’s all that he needs.

Pulling back and off of you again, Chan leans over to his dresser, opening the small wooden drawer and fishing out a plastic packet before ripping it open with his teeth and gently motioning it along himself.

As Chan leans back down into you, you feel the beginning of his gentle intrusion — guided by his hand in the beginning, then by the sharp inhale of your breath at the stretch. Forearms flat against the mattress on either side of your head, biting into your lip and eyes screwed shut — Chan groans under his breath as he presses himself all of the way into you, fully buried in your warm, wetness.

“God—“ he exhales into your mouth, you swallow it down happily, his admission of submission to you. “You feel amazing.”

“You feel—“ you begin, feeling as though it necessary of you to meet him halfway in the discussion. After all, no one likes to be left hanging all alone. But it’s the slow, drag of his pull out, followed by another velvety push inside that catches the words in your throat and only allows them out in the form of a groaned out “fuck.”

Only a few more strokes before Chan is able to get his head screwed on properly again — enough to make use of himself at least — and settles into a slow, strong pace against you. Bringing a hand up, he finds your hair and wraps fingers into it — not pulling, but as if you keep you grounded, keep you in place for him — for the both of you, in a way.

“Ch-Chan, I—“ you whisper against his cheek, voice shaky and seemingly already fucked out. 

He snaps his attention to, albeit a bit surprised by the fact. “Already?”

You nod quickly. Followed by a sigh of relief from him.

“Oh thank God, I'm so cl-close—“

Digging your nails into his strong shoulders, you feel your abdomen tighten in impending release, and it’s only a few more strokes before he’s pulling it from you — teeth gritted hard, unsure about the potential of a noise complaint from any neighboring people and not wanting to risk it — you groan loudly into the flesh of his arm, only causing him to meet you the same — three, four especially hard, rough pounds against you before he’s clenching his eyes shut and emptying into the barrier between you.

Rolling off of you to lie in next, chests heaving even in spite of the short session, Chan tosses his arm across his face and chuckles to himself after only a minute or two of silence between you.

“I’ve been waiting to do that for weeks.”

You giggle, snuggling up towards him. “Yeah? I could tell.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” he snaps back, bringing his closest arm to you up and around you. “Give me time, it’s been a while, alright?”

Tying off the condom eventually and getting up for glasses of water, he hands you one as the both of you sit at the edge of the bed.

“Burgundy and gold, right?”

The sudden thought catches you off guard, because what does that have to do with anything?

“Wh-what—?”

“Your wedding colors, burgundy and gold, was it?”

And now you’re really caught off guard, because he…remembered that?

“Yes, how do you remember that?”

You watch him smile, looking down into his glass of water before turning back towards you with his grin never diminishing. Chan leans in and kisses you on the forehead delicately before answering the question.

“Gonna be important,” he begins, “can’t hire you to work your own event, now can I?”

♡ send me your thoughts and feelings in my ask.

—this is a oneshot, there will be no part 2.

[sxfterhearts]

tainted

DAY 3: phonesex/sexting/foreplay/dystopia with choi jiung

🕸 genre/pairings: dystopia!au - lower working class, dom!jiung x upper class, sub!reader

🕸 warnings: smut nsfw (mdni) | phone sex, mutual guided masturbation, slight degradation and corruption kink (consensual), name calling, praise, forbidden relationship

🕸 word count: 2,567 words

⛧°。 ⋆༺ ☠︎︎ ༻⋆。 °⛧

“This is gonna be the last time, I swear.”

“You said that the last time we did this.” 

“Well… I just can’t help myself, especially not when you look like that. C’mon, take it off for me, sweetheart.” Jiung coaxed in a seductively low register, a smirk working its way onto his pretty face. His greedy eyes were glued to his phone screen, following your every move from behind his wispy black bangs. 

What can he say? He really couldn’t help himself. Phone in one hand, the other inching towards his crotch, the urge to rub himself in search of sweet, sweet relief was too strong to fight off. So he didn’t – Jiung simply gave in to the temptation, diving head first into his desire for you.

The past hour had been pure torture. Not only was he absolutely swamped at work with unrealistic deadlines, but he also had to force himself to stay awake for the weekly government broadcast at the assembly hall. Jiung didn’t understand why they made it compulsory viewing every Friday – the content was repeated every week: stay within your factions, don’t interact with outsiders and abide by the curfew. For all he cared, the drawling voice could’ve been speaking in an entirely different language and he wouldn’t even have noticed. 

Not when you were the sole centre of his attention; the only thought that preoccupied his mind.

It was forbidden – whatever this thing you had going on between the two of you, anyway. Neither of you had a clue what this was. Being from different factions meant the odds were never in your favour. From birth, no, from the moment you were conceived in your mothers’ wombs, you and Jiung lived completely different lives. You were from the upper class, and he was from the working class – the lowest rung of society’s ladder; the scum of the earth. You had all the riches and gold, and always dressed in pristine whites. You were the epitome of poise and purity. Jiung was always tainted in shades of dirt, murky browns and dusty greens. Everywhere he went, he carried the earthy stench of the forest, a byproduct of spending endless days chopping wood and farming land for the government – the very government your family helped to form.

He was beneath you, metaphorically and physically. Right now, you locked yourself in an abandoned bedroom, one of the many in your father’s mansion, far away from prying eyes and curious ears. Being the daughter of a high-ranking government official came in handy, especially for raunchy phone sex escapades with the most irresistible boy you’ve ever laid eyes on. 

The first time you made eye contact with Jiung was when he came to deliver wood for the fireplace in your father’s study. You felt an electric spark then – both of you did. The air was thick and heavy with tension. And let’s just say you definitely felt an unmistakable wetness pool at your nether regions from watching him lift and chop big chunks of wood like they were weightless. It made you wonder how he would manhandle you in bed too…

You threw the phone onto the four poster bed before launching yourself at the mattress, obscuring the phone camera with a view of your chest that had Jiung salivating from the other end of the line. “Do you think they’ll know?” You mused, spreading yourself out and getting comfortable.

Jiung scoffed. Of course you were stalling – you were an upper class girl with all the time in the world to enjoy life’s simplest pleasures. Him, a humble forest boy, did not have the same privileges. As they always say, time is money. And right now, while he’d love to entertain your musings, he really had to get back to work soon. The forest had to be cleared and the trees were not going to chop themselves.

Plus, he was starting to get impatient. That’s what spending one whole hour eye fucking each other across the hall did to him, he supposed – him, a mere nobody amongst the crowd, and you, standing on the assembly stage, looking down at the commoners like the charming, law-abiding bureaucrat you were raised to be. Oh, if only people knew what went on behind the (smoke)screens. “I doubt it. These phones are ancient, none of the current systems will know how to break the encryption. But we’ll never know for sure – they’re always watching, Y/N.”

You hummed in response, lips curling into a devious smile. You liked that thought. “Then let’s give them a show.”

“That’s what we always do, baby. Now hurry, I’ve waited long enough.”

“What’s the magic word, Jiung?”

Blood rushed towards his cock at the way your saccharine voice wrapped around the syllables of his name. He imagined the same lips, oh so pink and kissable, wrapping around something else of his instead. “Quick, we don’t have time! You always do this, I need to go soon.”

“Always so impatient.” You tsked in feigned disapproval, but deep down, you liked it. You liked how Jiung couldn’t get enough of you, how he needed you so desperately, like a burning desire within him that could never be satiated. Even after ending every video call with a promise to never watch each other cum ever again, he always came running back to you, begging to watch you touch yourself. To him, nothing could beat watching you get off on him and his voice.

“Your shirt, Y/N.” Jiung insisted, voice firm and hard. Almost as firm and hard as his thick cock, straining against the confines of his dirt-stained work pants. 

Your pussy pulsed in response, leaking helplessly at his harsh command. After all, as the darling daughter of the most respected upper class family, you were raised to obey orders. You were always a good girl, and always eager to please. You propped the phone up against the pillow and got on your knees for Jiung, ensuring that your upper half was within the frame. With a sultry grin, you dragged your hands up your body, shivering when your fingers came into contact with your stiff nipples.

“Y/N,” He warned dangerously, but you liked playing games. His words fell on deaf ears as you kept playing with yourself, maintaining the slow pace. “Why would you even forget your bra? You like that everyone can see your nipples, huh? Is that it? Slut.”

“Yes, Jiung. I’m your slut.” You moaned, fingers pinching your buds through the thin fabric of your collared button-down. You were a good girl, but you loved bending the rules every now and then, with and for Jiung. And Jiung loved that he tainted you, the girl who embodied innocence and purity. He loved that he stained your whiteness with his dirtiness, like how he dreamed of painting your soft, supple skin with his hot cum.

Jiung cursed under his breath, and you heard him fumbling on the other end of the line. He scrambled to get his bottoms off and sighed in relief when his heavy cock was released. “Go on, what are you waiting for? Touch yourself for me.”

A dark, twisted part of you loved being spoken to in that way. The tension that built up from having to stand still in front of everyone while Jiung undressed you with his eyes got you all worked up. Now, it already felt like a release to take off your clothes and shed the persona you were forced to put on for the rest of the world. Because you knew when Jiung called you like this, you were reduced to nothing more than his girl; his slut. 

So you did as you were told and spread your legs on either side of the phone. You wore a maxi skirt that went all the way to your ankles to remain modest, but you couldn’t imagine what others would say if they saw you exposing your skin, let alone flashing your wet panties to Jiung, of all people, on the other side of the call. 

“Shit, you’re soaking, Y/N. So wet and we haven’t even got started…” Jiung mumbled, head spinning at the wet spot on your lacy white panties. His finger thumbed over an identical stain on his boxers, teasing himself as he spread the precum around his tip.

“It’s because you always look at me like that…” You whined, hands itching to touch your centre. But you knew better than that; you knew to wait for his instructions.

“Like what?” He smirked cockily. 

“Like you want to eat me up.”

“So what if I do? Hmm?” He hummed in response. “You know I’d do anything to eat your sweet pussy, my love.”

You moaned desperately, body heating up at his choice of words. “Jiung…”

“My sweet girl… Go ahead, touch yourself over your panties.”

You obeyed, lips parting in a sigh as your fingers came in contact with your centre. You placed pressure against your hole and felt yourself clench around nothing. Oh, you would give anything and everything to have his calloused fingers inside your gummy walls instead. But alas, it would never happen.

So you settled with this instead. Having his addictive voice guide you to completion over the phone was better than not having him at all. “Push your panties aside for me, yes, that’s it. Put a finger in.” Jiung instructed. He released a breathy moan when his fingers wrapped around his length and began stroking himself.

Your middle finger slipped inside your entrance easily given how soaked you were. It was a relief – small, but a relief nonetheless. You pumped your fingers in and out, maintaining a steady pace. From the corner of your eye, you could make out Jiung’s handsome face contorting in pleasure as he stroked his cock, matching your pace.

“How does it feel? Tell me, baby.” He breathes out, always a sucker for your strained voice and soft whispers.

“Good…” You trailed off, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. “Ah, but I wish it was your fingers inside…” You whined.

Jiung grunted in reply to your whiny cries, increasing his pace. “So do I, baby. Been thinking about stuffing your tight pussy with my fingers all day. I’d get you all stretched and ready for my cock. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes!” You cried desperately.

“I know you would, my little slut. Everyone thinks you’re such a good girl, but look at you now. What do you think they’d say? Put another finger in for me, go on.”

You obliged willingly, breath hitching at the feeling of being stretched further. Jiung was hypnotised, his eager eyes glued to the phone screen to watch your walls stretch and accommodate an additional finger. He couldn’t help but imagine replacing your fingers with his throbbing length and thrusting deep inside, over and over and over again until you both reached your climaxes. He loved tainting you; loved ruining the perfect image that the world sees of you.

“Jiung…” Your soft voice pulled him out of his trance. “Wanna see you, please…”

He knew exactly what you were asking for. He lifted up his shirt and angled the phone upwards, giving you the most delectable view of his thick girth and the numerous tattoos littered on his skin. You watched, transfixed, core pulsating as he stroked his cock hurriedly, harsh pants leaving his parted lips.

“How’s the view?” Jiung questioned with a handsome smirk on his face. 

You hummed in approval. “You’re so hot, Jiung.” 

“Right back at you, sweetheart. One more finger, c’mon. You know you can do it.”

Your lips fell apart in choked moans when you added the third finger. It could barely fit. You felt so full.

“God, you’re taking them so well. Doing so good, baby. Are you close?”

You nodded, cheeks flushed at the wet sounds your cunt made as you pumped your fingers in and out. 

“Me too. Rub your clit, yes… Good girl, just like that.”

“Jiung! Jiung, I’m close, Jiung…” Your mind was flooded with thoughts of Jiung and Jiung only, as you chanted his name repeatedly like a sacred prayer. You were so close, rubbing quickly to chase your release. 

“Yes, Y/N, so good, you’re doing so well for me.” Jiung moaned, mirroring your actions. He was running his mouth and babbling at this point. “Want to cum in your tight pussy and fill you up. I’ll stuff you full of my cum, put your panties back on and make you keep it inside… The world needs to know who you belong to.”

“You, Jiung! I belong to you, only you!”

“Fuck!” He swore, not expecting you to say something like this. It was so intimate – you took him completely by surprise. It was like a switch flipped inside him. The next thing he knew, his orgasm hit him like a ton of bricks and he was cumming messily all over himself. 

Watching his cum leak out in hot spurts made your walls clench tightly on your fingers. The image of him reaching his climax threw you over the edge, pleasure coursing deliciously through your veins as you reached your sweet release. 

It was intense this time, more intense than any of the previous calls. Even though you weren’t in the same room, you could feel the air had shifted. 

You both took a moment to compose yourself, to steady your breaths and heartbeats. But just as you were about to break the silence, you heard footsteps approaching the room.

“Damn it, I have to go.” You stared at him, panicked, yet your expression was uncertain and conflicted, like you were experiencing a whole range of emotions in a matter of seconds. 

Jiung was staring so intently at you, waiting for you to say goodbye and end the call. But why did he feel so reluctant this time? 

“I –” He started.

But you cut him off. “Sorry. See you, Jiung.”

You ended the call. For a few seconds, you just stared at the black screen, selfishly allowing yourself to imagine what life would be like if you could be with him in person, and not just through a phone screen. 

And then you realised that today was Friday, and the maids were out looking for you to get you ready and all dolled up for dinner at the government house. Instead of returning the phone to its usual resting place under the pillow, you pocketed it for a change. You weren’t too sure why, but your gut was telling you it was the right thing to do.

You ended the call. For a long time, Jiung just stared at the black screen, selfishly allowing himself to imagine what life would be like if he could call you his, and not just through a phone screen. His lower body and tattoos were still covered in cum, and he curses into the darkness when he realises…

“I think I’m in love with you.” He whispered, his words drifting off into the endless void between the two of you.

[7:49pm] jiung: sent a photo.

[7:51pm] jiung: can’t stop thinking about you

[7:51pm] jiung: i need you so bad, please y/n…

[7:51pm] y/n: me too, i want you inside me

[7:51pm] y/n: you can use the maid’s entrance. i’ll sneak out of this dinner, meet me in 20

[messiahzzz]

i have been thinking a lot about mystra’s relationship with gale, how reducing her to “his ex” really is an understatement. she was and still is so much more than that. moreover, using the term “ex-girlfriend” in relation to her plainly feels wrong and diminishes the influence she has over him, as well as the role she played in his life since his childhood (and it also trivializes the abuse he suffered through her).

there are several instances where gale gets defensive when his companions mention or ask him abt mystra. he claims that their relationship was no less real even though most of their interactions were incorporeal.

we have already established that gale is an unreliable narrator in this particular case, still not having fully come to terms with the fact that he was groomed, manipulated and abused. he ping-pongs between bouts of realization (even in his romance), gaining clarity that he was merely used and eventually discarded and that mystra never truly cared for him, back to making light of his situation, idealizing her once again. realizing the extent of his trauma, that he is indeed a victim in this scenario, unlearning what he has been made to believe from a young age is a slow and painful journey. he is in the process of healing, but it takes time. time he deserves just like anyone else.

which makes me wonder what their relationship really looked like, once the lines between teacher, muse, and lover began to blur. i also feel like one of the reasons why part of the fandom still struggles to identify mystra as his abuser, is because she is a white woman who initially presents herself in a soft-spoken, benevolent manner… and well, the fact that gale himself is ambitious to a fault and a lil insane about the promise of power. he also briefly mentions "crossing mystra’s boundaries” when he confides in tav and tells them about his folly. (“i am, after all, the villain in this story.”) which led to a looooot of misinterpretations.

leaving the overall lore and mystra’s treatment of her other chosen aside — what we can discern from her interactions with gale in-game, is that mystra is civil as long as she remains in control and gale follows her demands, but as soon as there’s even a slight mention of challenging her power or defying her rule, she rather quickly changes her tone.

there is also one particular exchange between them that just won’t leave my head:

“you were many things to me, but never a threat. and never a savior."

even if we choose to blatantly ignore the fact that mystra is a deity, his goddess - there is no possible way that their relationship ever could have been equal by any mortal standards. the power imbalance that comes with her being his teacher and a symbol of his admiration, plus the sheer control she holds over him and his powers are simply too great. don’t even let me get started on how it is a common tactic of abusers to isolate their victims from any outside influences so they can exert full control over them. and how up to meeting tav and their merry band of misfits, every single soul he was close to was inevitably tied to mystra in one way or another. he briefly mentions his colleagues and then there’s elminster, also mystra’s chosen and former lover, and tara, who is a fine wizard in her own right. he spend so many years in service of her, dedicating his life to her, that now there is no one left he can truly call a friend. most of his little anecdotes and stories he tells are restricted to his childhood and university days, everything else was mystra.

evidently, ordering gale to detonate the orb is the most efficient course of action in her eyes. he is just as expendable as any other mortal, after all. maybe once significantly more useful given his status and the extent of his powers, but she doesn’t feel sorrow nor remorse for ordering him to end his life. his death is simply the most convenient means to an end.

another thing i would also like to briefly touch upon is the trigger/detonator itself. a dagger to the heart. it could have been literally anything else, a simple incantation. it is well within mystra’s power to stabilize the orb and also to remove it from his body entirely. but no, what she requires of gale is to stab himself. one might argue that it was simply a cinematic choice meant for a more dramatic effect, but it really leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. especially considering the fact that she is commonly known and referred to as a jealous goddess. it almost makes it seem like yet another form of punishment or mere pettiness. after his long period of isolation, gale is now surrounded by fellow humans. people he cares about, even perhaps people he might eventually consider good friends — which is enough of a reason for him to not want to die, to keep going and try to find another way, rather than to blindly follow mystra’s bidding. now there’s a group of people who support him and are genuinely invested in him staying alive. hmmm...

[sleepyparalysisdmon]

Let Me Hear You Say

The three times that Minghao resists confessing, and the one time it accidentally slips.

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: mentions of alcohol consumption and being drunk.

This is part of the Three Times series. This one is inspired by this reaction.

One

“I’m here!” You bust into Minghao’s studio, tossing bags, a coat, and half a dozen other things down in a chaotic mess. “Traffic was terrible,” you moan, collapsing onto the small couch in the corner. 

Minghao looks unimpressed with your dramatics as he peers over his canvas at you. “You sure do know how to make an entrance,” he muses. “What kind of trail of destruction did you leave on the way here?”

“Just a few things knocked over, I don’t think anything broke this time.” Some might think you’re joking, but Minghao knows you’re serious. You’re a bull in a china shop on a good day, and an F-5 tornado on a bad day. He secretly thinks of these comparisons affectionately. “What are you working on?” 

“I don’t know, to be honest. I had some colors in mind and I just went with it,” he mumbles, stepping back to see what he’s done. You join him glancing over the canvas. You give him a wide smile. 

“I like that shade of blue.” 

“So predictable,” he chuckles. “Make yourself useful and mix me some more of it then. And don’t waste paint.”

“No promises!” You exclaim, taking his palette from him and going to the work bench that holds all of his paint collection. When you hand the palette back to him a couple minutes later, he examines the color closely. It’s so, so close that it’s nearly imperceptible. Bull in a china shop that you are, combined with the skills in some arts that you lack, he’s kind of proud of you that you’re willing to stand still and focus long enough to get so close. He doesn’t have the heart to correct you. He never does when he can tell you’re really trying. 

But you’re pouting anyway, glancing between the palette and the canvas. “It needs more white.” He holds the palette above your head when you reach for it. 

“No, it’s fine. I told you not to waste paint. It’s so close I barely noticed.” 

You smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’re just saying that. It’s obviously too dark. Give it here. I’ll add a little more white.” 

“No.” Minghao is already dipping the brush in the color you mixed. “I like this one better anyway. Don’t forget the ratio you used. I want you to write it down.” 

“Okay,” you sing, grabbing a pen and paper from his work bench. Once you’re done, it goes it the collection of Y/N’s Colors, a special little spot in the corner stacked high with little scraps of paper. He wonders if you notice how often those colors reappear in his works. Probably not, which is just as well.

Two

It’s Minghao’s day off and you drag him to the art gallery. You say there’s a new collection that you’re interested in seeing. It surprises him, because it’s usually him that’s dragging you to places like this. It’s usually too quiet and not exciting enough for you, and you bounce on your feet, trailing behind him until he’s ready to go. 

This time, you’re many paces ahead of him on the sidewalk, turning excitedly to get him to hurry up. “Since when do you rush for something like this?” Minghao asks, watching you bounce up the stairs to the entrance. 

“You’ll see.” Your eyes are a little wild. You grab his hand and start tugging him like he’s not moving fast enough. Usually you both would start at the beginning and slowly make your way through the room, but you’re tugging him somewhere in the middle. You come to an abrupt stop and he nearly bumps into you. “This is the one I wanted to show you.”

You point to a photograph. It’s black and white and a little out of focus, but that’s the entire point. He recognizes the style and doesn’t really need to look at the little placard underneath the photo. “You didn’t tell me you submitted something,” he admonished, admiring your work. 

You sort of squeal and shake his arm. “I didn’t think they’d accept it. I found out yesterday,” you talk fast. It’s only because he’s known you for a while that he can keep up with your motor mouth. “I guess someone had to pull out last minute and mine was a back up. It’s small, but isn’t it cool?”

“It is,” Minghao says genuinely. “This is great, Y/N. I’m proud of you.” He pushes you towards the photo. “Come on. Pose for a picture.” 

“Oh, no Minghao. You know I prefer to be behind the camera,” you whine, resisting his shove. 

“I won’t post it. It’s just for me,” he promises. You sigh, standing next to your piece. He snaps a quick photo before you decide to bolt. He lied a little. He didn’t post it on social media, not even his private accounts. But he did get it printed and framed for his studio. He hangs it up high so you won’t be able to reach it and get rid of it easily if you ever notice it. 

Three

Woozi whistles when he flips through the pages. Minghao spins in the chair, waiting for a response. It’s not too often that he presents lyrics for the group’s use. He’s better at other forms of media, primarily visual aspects. Still, sometimes he tries his hand at it and gives it to Woozi to do with it what he will. 

“I could use some of this,” Woozi finally says. “I’ll credit you if I do.”

“Don’t bother,” Minghao waves off. “You know that’s not what’s important to me.”

“I know,” Woozi chuckles. “You make it pretty obvious what’s important to you.”

Minghao raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, my focus is performance and choreography.”

“I know that,” Woozi rolls his eyes. “I meant, it’s obvious who all of these are about. You should really do something about that.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Minghao says shortly. “They’re just lyrics. They aren’t that serious.”

Woozi hums, though he looks a little bit entertained. “Denial is a really strong start, but not very convincing though. What’s so wrong with just telling her?”

“Tell her what? She’s just a friend.” 

Another eye roll, and Woozi goes back to his computer. “Fine, have it your way. You can deny that, I guess, but you can’t deny the writing credits you’ll get.”

Minghao leaves the studio before he can be roped back into that conversation. 

Four

Later that night, he agrees to go out with some of the members for drinks. He’s distracted and keeps taking whatever is handed to him, drinking faster than he normally would. He’s busy replaying the conversation with Woozi in his head. He’s never said it out loud, never admitted it, and no one has ever called it out so blatantly either. He’d always preferred it that way, maybe because then it doesn’t feel real and he can shove it to the back of his head to deal with later, or never. Something about Woozi’s direct comments make it hard to ignore, makes it feel real and it’s a little suffocating. 

He’s nearly asleep at the table when he loses the grip on his glass. His eyes snap open, scrambling for it, but it’s not that it’s slipped. Rather, a hand his tugging it away. He recognizes the hand because he’s watched it mix paint for him more than a few times. He releases the glass and puts his head in his hand, rubbing away the headache that’s formed somewhere between his eyebrows. 

You rub his back, voice teasing. “Having fun?” 

“Loads,” he mumbles. “What are you doing here? I thought you had to work.”

“I did. I’m already off. Jun called and said you might need a ride home,” you say lightly. Minghao checks his watch and groans at the time. He’s lost hours dozing at the table, it seems. You laugh, patting his back. “Come on, you can crash at my place. It’s closer.”

He lets you throw his arm around your shoulder once he’s standing and he hopes it doesn’t look like you’re carrying him, though you kind of are. You help him into the car and even buckle his seat belt. If he were sober, he’d never let you do that, but he’s a little overwhelmed by how nice you smell when you lean in close. He must doze off during the drive, because he wakes up to the smell of your perfume again as you’re leaning over him to unbuckle him. 

Inside your apartment, you help him out of his shoes and help him lie down on the couch. “Feel like you’re going to be sick?” He shakes his head and prays it will stay that way. “Okay, be right back.” In what feels like both a spilt second and a hundred years, you reappear with a bottle of water and a few aspirin. “Take these, get a head start.” He does as you say and then curls up into the pillow. A fluffy blanket comes over him. 

“Thanks. Love you.”

You laugh and the sound makes the corner of his lips turn up. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said that. Who knew you’d be such a sweet drunk?”

“Just to you,” Minghao mumbles. 

“Aww, am I special?” You chuckle, brushing back his hair. 

He hums in agreement. “Yep. Love you. In love with you.”

You guffaw, standing up. “Okay, honey. Get some rest.” He’s pretty sure he’s asleep before you even turn the lights off. 

He wakes up the next morning to the smell of coffee. It’s strong, mostly because when he opens his eyes you’re waving the mug under his nose. He rears back, groaning at the sudden movement because his head is pounding. You laugh, placing the mug in his hands. “Aspirin is on the table. Take some more. Breakfast is coming up.”

Later, in between bites, you ask, “So did you have fun last night?”

“I don’t know,” Minghao mumbles. “Don’t remember much to be honest. I didn’t do anything stupid, did I?”

“It depends,” you smile, taking another bite. “Does confessing your love for me count as stupid?”

Minghao chokes on his coffee, nearly spraying it across the table. “I did what?”

“Yeah,” you say casually. “I don’t know if it was the alcohol talking, but you said ‘love you’ twice, and then ‘in love with you’ once. It was very sweet. You’re very sweet, even if you didn’t mean it.”

Minghao’s silent for a long time and you let him be, probably thinking he needs a minute to collect himself from the embarrassment. But you’ve got it all wrong. He kind of wishes he had the liquid courage he did last night. He can’t really look at you when he says, “I meant it.”

You stare at him for a few long seconds before finally smiling. “Good.” You’re up on your feet and he never knows how you have so much energy, but you’re bounding around the table and cupping his face, pressing the smallest peck to his lips. 

He’s momentarily stunned before he’s pushing you back. “Oh, come on, Y/N. I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet.”

“I have a brand new one under the sink. You better hurry.” He does, jumping up to run to the bathroom. He can hear your laugh echo down the hallway and thinks this will probably the first and last time he’ll ever be relieved to have gotten drunk the night before. 

[bellarkeselection]

1 - Welcoming the Bridgerton’s

Part 2

The Venus Muse

Here's the first chapter y'all! I am sorry to say that I couldn't tag some of you that asked to be added. If you could give me an update profile tag I will add you that way.

Buckingham Palace was always busy with something going on. The royal castle had many children over the years running around it. I knew this place better than anyone else could imagine. And that truth will help me change my life forever. 

“Your highness, which tiara would you wish for today?” One of my handmaidens named Sunset asked me. 

She was standing by my table vanity that had quite a few tiaras sitting on top of them. Sitting on my bed the fabric of my golden dress swayed when I walked up to her. “The one with three center jewels and the pearl necklace.” 

“Of course, my lady.” She nodded where I lowered my head and she set the tiara in the center. 

The tiara sparkled when the light bounced off the light coming through the window. I stood in front of the tall mirror eyeing my gown that was golden, short sleeves decorated in lace and was long where you couldn’t see the short brown boots I wore unless my dress flew up from the wind. “Sunset, do you think my mother shall begin pressuring me this year?” 

“It is not my place to speak on.”

I reassured her otherwise. “Don’t worry about prying ears. I am asking for your opinion.” 

“I would say she seeks what is best for you, Lady Y/n.” Sunset answered with a shrug of her shoulders. 

Someone knocked on the outside of my door before another lady in waiting peaked her head inside. “Princess, your mother is coming this direction.” I nodded brushing my hands down the front of my dress. 

The door of my bedroom opened for me to see my mother, Lady Danbury and Brimsley all walking up to my room. “I yearn for someone fresh, someone unexpected,  to turn this season on its head. That is what we need. There is no room for indifference.  Apathy is a blight the monarchy simply cannot endure.” 

“Of course, Your Majesty. But remember, a young lady cannot be a diamond until you anoint her as such. So if for any reason you do not find one among the candidates today…” 

My mother cut off her friend. “Do you think she will return?  We have heard nary a peep from Lady Whistledown since last season ended. Perhaps the writer came to her senses. Perhaps she realized taking on her queen was a bad idea, and she will never publish again.”

Lady Danbury responded. “It is a convincing theory, ma'am.”

“Or she simply left for the country, as the rest of us did in the off-season, bored by the lack of any real gossip.”

Lady Danbury made a noise. “Hmm. “

“You do know what that would make her, then?” My mother Queen Charlotte trailed off. 

I finished her sentence being fair too noisy, needing to listen to the conversation of the famous gossiping writer. “One of us.”

“My darling daughter, you look radiant as ever.” My mother turned away from her friend to face me. 

I sent her a smile waving to Lady Danbury to not be rude. “It’s good to see you, Lady Danbury.” 

“Good to see you too, Princess Y/n.” She smiled. 

My mother clasped her hands together in front of her puffy white dress. “I have been needing to speak with you and what this evening needs to entail for you and your happiness.” 

“You wish for me to marry a prince and provide heirs for the crown.” I rolled my eyes already thinking of the answer she would say. 

Yet to my surprise she said almost the opposite. “I wish for you to have happiness and many children. It would help if your husband was royalty, but it is not a requirement.” 

“It isn’t?” Knitting my brows in confusion. 

She takes my hands in hers. “I didn’t get the chance to search for love on my own. My brother arranged my marriage with your father. So I secretly hope that you, my firstborn daughter, can have some fun.” 

“Mother, I…that means so much to me.” I smiled through some happy tears. 

Footsteps came down the long hallway and around the corner before we saw my father’s servant named Reynolds. “My Queen, my princess. I have news.” He bowed with a hand behind his back. 

“What is it, Reynolds?” I asked him. 

He shifted his gaze to mine. “You're father is having an episode, Princess.” 

“Oh…” I made a noise in discomfort. I knew of his illness 

That was the secret my mother and the rest of my siblings and I kept hidden from thr world. They needed to believe that the king was just always busy and so his wide made the appearances out on the town. “Hmm it appears we may have to cancel the ball tonight for the Bridgertons.” My mother sighed in defeat knowing her husband came first. 

“We shall not cancel.” My mother and Reynolds’s both shifted their attention over to me when I had spoken up the opposite of what they assumed would need to be done. “We should not cancel because I can represent the family in your place, mother.” 

She tapped her chin in thought. “I suppose that could solve our problem. I don't wish to cancel the months of preparation that were put into this.” 

“Exactly that would be a tragedy.” 

The queen turned to her husband's helper with instructions. “Inform my husband I will come to his aid. Brimsley?” 

“Yes, your Majesty.” 

She gave him a different set of orders. “Inform the Viscount Bridgerton that my daughter shall be appearing tonight before myself.” He bowed and went in a different direction then Reynolds. 

“Thank you, mother.” I smiled curtseying to her before we parted for the evening. It was quite a few hours before the ball with our castle subjects and the Bridgertons would even begin. By the evening the moon was shining up in the sky and the grand ballroom was lit up like a christmas tree. 

Standing silently outside the currently shut double doors I stopped fiddling with my dress when one of the royal guards gave me a head nod saying it was time. I could hear the announcer's voice before the doors had even begun opening. “May I present to you her royal highness. The daughter of King George and Queen Charlotte, Princess Y.n of England.”

“Thank you, sir.” I whispered to another guard that came to me when I had made my entrance through the doors feeling all eyes on me. Sucking in a tiny breath he escorted me to the small throne before we unlinked arms leaving me on my own. The small crown on my head had never felt so heavy as it did right now. “Greetings my subjects. I am here to announce that my mother got called away tonight for an emergency. But she saw no reason why this event couldn’t go on as planned. So with that in mind let me extend a warm welcome to Violet Bridgerton and her family for traveling here for a few months.”

Everyone began clapping and cheering with an older looking woman who had dark brown hair up in a crown on her head that came up to me and gave a lovely curtsey. “Princess, it is a pleasure to get an invitation.”

“I hope I can get to meet your family greatly over your stay, Lady Bridgerton.”

“Princess Y/n, may I ask you something?” Someone called my name causing me to lift my gaze up noticing someone moving through the crowd. The figure paused beside the Bridgerton woman who seemed to give the man a confused but amused depression on her face. 

I clicked my tongue and answered the stranger's question. “What is your question, my lord?”

“I was wondering if you would accept my offer for a dance together this evening.” The stranger seemed similar to the woman he was standing beside him. I was fairly certain they were related, but which son was he if they were. 

He extended his hand up to me and I smiled, placing my smaller hand in his larger one. “I accept so long as I know which Bridgerton are you?”

“Benedict, Benedict Bridgerton.” He replied leading me out and onto the dance floor with the entire room having theur eyes focused on the two of us.

Comments really appreciated ❤️

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[diremoone]

under the clouds, in my heart | g. satoru

it’s these kinds of days that make Satoru the happiest — that remind him of the wonderful things he has in his life now; thunderstorms where his wife and children are safe and protected inside of his home are all he could ask for

w — post canon! gojo, canon-divergence, pregnant! reader, former first-year student! reader, mentions of underage relationship, mentions of being in a former! student-teacher relationship, Papa Satoru & Mama Reader, Satoru and Reader have a (growing) big family, this ended up shorter than I anticipated

a/n: another fix it fic you guys 🤧 this one has been in my drafts longer than 236

[ apart of the TFFTS universe! ]

He loves seeing you cozied up in his sweaters, no matter the time of year (he secretly keeps it colder than normal in the summertime so you’ll put them on, but he’ll never tell you that). He loves how the hemline rests at your knees, a testament to the cute height difference between the two of you.

With your pregnancy belly, like now, sweaters only seem reach mid-thigh.

Ah, he’s not complaining.

He’s back from a mission overseas a day early, one he committed to speed-running like a demon so he could get back to his growing family. It wasn’t too necessary, considering he doesn’t have to do many more missions nowadays. The only reason he was summoned was because of his long, long influence, to which he most definitely used to get back faster.

But the universe hits his Pause button the second he warps back into his lovely home. For good reason. His heavenly blue eyes take in the scene in front of him, soul imprinting this memory into itself for eternity.

Seiji, his five-nearly-six year-old firstborn, was curled up on your lap, head using your thighs as a makeshift pillow. Traitor. Satoru can hear little snores escaping his lips at the awkward position his head is in. But if Satoru tilts his head, he can see his son’s protective decision from where his head and body lay.

Sanari, his sweet daughter, is curled up by your left arm. Her white curls of hair are splayed out on the pillow behind her as her head rests on your shoulders. Satoru chuckles. He can clearly see drool at the corner of her mouth pooling onto the sweater of his you’re wearing.

Lightning lights up the sky outside. And suddenly, the gushing sound of rain is all Satoru can hear — a downpour. Huh, the clouds had been just as white as his hair earlier. He supposes anything can happen though.

He can’t even see outside anymore now. The greenery has been completely overtaken by the opaque gray of the intense rain and thunderstorm.

Satoru’s head snaps back to you and his sleeping offspring. As much as he wants to join, he can’t bring himself to. He wants to do anything besides ruin the picturesque moment in time before him.

Just look at the family he’s made for himself.

Ah, but the squirming toddler in your arms may do just that anyway. So he doesn’t debate taking Junpei from your arms as he begins to scrunch up his adorable little nose.

Besides, Satoru’s sure you’re bound to wake up soon. His Six Eyes tells him that because the cursed energy from within your tummy is starting to become restless, the twins are finally waking up.

A big family hadn’t been on his mind. You both agreed on leaving your family with Junpei as your youngest. Especially with you falling pregnant so soon with him after having trouble with Sanari’s pregnancy and birth.

But things don’t always go to plan, do they? Satoru muses.

Taking the littlest that'll soon be a big brother wakes you from your nap. You inhale and exhale deeply as your eyes flutter open, blinking quite a few times before your vision clears.

“….’toru~” Your sleepy inhale sounds like a cute sniffle; he can’t help but grin. “You’re home?”

“Surprise, baby,” Satoru mumbles as he sits down and leans over the couch and over your pregnant belly to sweetly kiss your lips. “I’ll be home for awhile this time,” he adds softly. One arm holds his son, the other wraps around the back of your shoulders, hand resting on your upper arm to gently pull your body into him to deepen the kiss. You can’t help but giggle against his lips, and he smiles and giggles into it in return.

Lightning brightens the sky, this time for the longest you’ve ever seen. And following it, is the mightiest thunderclap you’ve ever heard. It makes even your husband jump, surprised by the deafening boom. Your lips separate from Satoru’s, who’s looking out the window with you, impressed by the power of Mother Nature.

It wakes Seiji and Sanari, who despite their maturity for their age, show their age by the fat tears pooling at their eyelids. Junpei, fully awake, begins to cry too, slightly louder than his older siblings. The toddler buries himself into his daddy’s shoulder for comfort and protection. And when the other two see their dad, who’s back home early, they jump to him and do the exact same, hugging him and burrowing into his chest and neck.

You’d take a picture had your babies not been so scared.

When your hand rubs Seiji’s back, the little boy turns to you, eyes watery with fear. He takes two little steps on the couch and softly stumbles into your outstretched arms. He rests his bottom on your thigh, head burrowed into the crook of your neck, little hands balled up into fists with the sweater you were wearing between his itty bitty fingers.

“Come on, Seiji. Off Mama’s belly,” Satoru says, a slight tinge of worry to his voice as he sees him lay a little too heavily on your rounded middle.

The little boy gasps lightly and moves. “Sorry, Mama. Sorry babies.”

You chuckle and kiss his tiny forehead. Satoru presses his lips to the side of his son’s temple, his free hand reaching for his sides to tickle him, saying things about how cute he was.

Sanari takes the moment to detach from her daddy’s side and dives back into your ribs, albeit much more carefully than her older brother. She sniffles, still scared from the clash of thunder, but much calmer now that both her parents were home and awake. She burrows her head under your arm, almost behind your back, leaving her nose room to breathe in the cool air and the sweater that smells like both you and her papa.

It’s so cute, Satoru thinks. She’s the complete opposite of him. She’s the more quiet and reserved one of her siblings. And he still suspects that she still will after her younger twin siblings will be born. Satoru has a feeling, knows in his gut that they’ll be the most extroverted of his children, bouncing off the walls just like he does every day.

Though not so much anymore, heh. He’s still a childish person at heart, but his age is slowly getting to him, slowly beginning to chip away at his ability to be the flamboyant jujutsu sorcerer he used to be. He can feel the ache of time and age begin to take root in the bones of his body that had been so tempered.

In its place, however, took fatherhood, took a new and different kind of responsibility that he was more than excited for — days filled with new challenges, watching his kids grow as he smothers them with love.

His former students were more than capable of handling the load he used to. There’s plenty more of them nowadays than there is of him. With most of them all Special Grade sorcerers, too, he muses. Including you. But you don’t partake in missions like that, mostly being in the reserves of jujutsu society and using your reverse cursed energy like Shoko has.

Especially since becoming a mom.

Satoru sees the rainy day lulling you back to sleep. Being five-and-a-half months pregnant with twins, while also caring for three more while her husband was away would make any woman tired.

His offspring, however, were wide awake.

“Go upstairs and go to sleep,” Satoru says quietly. He sees the waves of fatigue hit every time you blink several times in one go. Your happy expression is getting harder to hold as you grow tired all over again, and Satoru thinks he’s going to have to carry you upstairs, fearing you falling.

But you, ever-stubborn, refuse. “I’m okaaay,” you reply, yawning into the words.

The white-haired man chuckles and shakes his head. “Go to bed,” he says, this time in a more commanding tone. “I’ll wake you up in a couple hours with food ready.”

And when he makes that face, the cutesy one that also means he’s more than happy to carry you to bed, you don’t argue. He does, however, help you up off the couch and watches from the bottom of the stairs to make sure you lose balance and tip backwards. Satoru blows you a kiss, to which you chomp down at, mock-devouring his kisses. He gasps, fake offended, and it gets the giggle out of you he’s hoping for before you go into the bedroom.

Satoru’s heart swells with adoration and love. It overflows even more as he turns back to his two sons and his daughter. God, he almost wants to cry. What did he do to deserve such happiness in his life? After everything he’s done, that’s happened to him, when did the universe decide a beautiful wife and sweet, adorable children were in the cards for him?

He doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s going to hold his family close to his heart and protect them until his last breath.

a/n: this got published at a completely random time lmao, where did this even come from? this’ll flop for sure but everyone who reads pls enjoy anyway

[bakugoushotwife]

The Honeymoon // sasuke uchiha

a/n: this was a great request! i hope i did it justice :)

pairing: sasuke uchiha x female!reader

summary: sasuke makes love to his wife for the first time on their wedding night.

cw: fingering (female receiving), biting/marking, a little blood, nipple play, unportected penetrative sex (m + f), breeding

wc: 3.2k

You can hear your heart pounding in your ears. Your face was growing warm, especially under his amorous yet still cool stare. You stand in front of him, bare except for the white silk slip made to serve as your wedding night lingerie. You bite the inside of your lip, waiting with bated breath for any verbal indication of his enjoyment. The two of you had been…somewhat intimate in the years leading up to your ceremony, but this was different. This meant something, it meant your marriage was real and undeniable. He had felt the outline of your body beneath his hand before, seen the valley between your soft mounds and caressed over them. He has placed sweet kisses on your lips and on the blank canvas that was your neck, but this time would be the first real time, where he gets to claim his wife as his. 

His body was warm too, his complexion just kept it a secret. His shirt was already off, the act of undressing each other after the party was hasty and clumsy, but now he stood across from you without knowing where to begin. The dress clung to the sweet dips of your body, your nipples poking through the delicate fabric due to the slight chill in the air and your own excitement. Your hair was still hanging around your face so perfectly he didn’t know if there were words in existence to describe your beauty. The makeup you wore was minimal, in his opinion, lovely. You were naturally stunning, a fact that was never more obvious to him than right now. 

The moon was high in the sky, dancing across your skin and making your eyes glow brighter than his own sharingan. The tension was growing thick, the slight tingle he felt spreading across his body the only reason he hadn’t spoken yet; he was nervous what may tumble from his lips. His wife, her body so beautiful and waiting for him. He didn’t know what to do with himself and he certainly knew he didn’t deserve this, but he’s able to hold off his self-loathing for now; for the vision of you, breasts spilling over the neckline of that skimpy dress, sharp teeth nibbling on a perfectly pouty lip, is enough to make the world stop turning. 

You fold your arms behind your back, holding your hands. It only made your dress slide up and your tits more noticeable. You tilt your head to the side and blink at him, shifting your weight to your other hip. “Is..do you not like it?” 

He’s almost startled by the sound of your voice, but his brows pinch together so you know he’s heard you. He shakes his head, the one side of his mouth drawing up in amusement. “That’s not it at all, my dear. I’m sure you’ve noticed that you’ve left me speechless.” 

Your cheeks darken, and you coyly tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “Oh, I…I’m glad to have that effect on you.” You smooth your hands down the silky fabric that stops just below the large swells of your ass. 

He steps forward, placing his hand on the dip of your waist. “And so many more effects, my love.” He muses, moving that same right hand to cup your jaw, the rough callus of his thumbpad swiping over your soft bottom lip. 

Watching it sink in around his digit combined with your doe eyed stare sends a pulse to his cock, and he knows touches like this won’t last him any longer. His eyes gloss over with a new desire, and he comes closer until his hips press against yours. You bite at your lip again at the feeling of his semi pressing into your pelvis. Your arms snake around his neck, and his possessive hold on your face draws your eyes upwards to look at him. His lips hint at a smile. 

“I think it’s time to properly make you an Uchiha.” He rasps, his deep voice even thicker as you back up, falling back onto the mattress. He watches you the entire time, obsidian gaze trained on your every move. You can see his chest begin to heave before he’s even really touched you. The way you scoot back on the bed, propping yourself up on the pillows and spreading your legs for him was enough to do him in, any modicum of self-control he’d managed to hold onto long gone. 

It’s overkill when you smile. Your affection is so clear, the hazy lust clouding your eyes is just too much to bear. Your lips part so sweetly when you challenge him. “Then take me, Sasuke.” 

This time he does smile, though most would consider this a smirk. He hated the stiff dress pants he was in anyways, and so did his now throbbing cock. It was easy to shove them off, hissing when his length slaps up against his dark happy trail. You bite down on your lip once more at the sight of him, feeling a pulse in your cunt immediately. It was almost embarrassing, how wet you could feel yourself getting, blushing as it slicks the insides of your thighs. You sit up to remove your slip, surprised by the lewd way he spits into his hand before stroking himself. His dick was as pretty as the rest of him; he was long and curved at the end, the tip closer to a blueish purple than pink. He sighs in relief at the pressure, putting his knees down on the bed and walking towards your now completely naked form. He lets go of his pretty shaft in favor of feeling your chest, seeing all of you for the first time. He turns his sharingan on, smirking at you as he does so. 

“I want to remember this one, sweetheart.” He coos, calloused but nimble fingers rolling your perky buds in between his index and thumb. He grins as your hips move, your body so responsive to even his smallest of touches. “I…want to make sure I do this right.” 

His voice is soft, but still husky with his need for you. Even his face is softer, less stoic and anxious. He leans over you, letting his frame dwarf yours, chest on chest and lips on lips. He closes his eyes to enjoy the feeling, your mouth was healing, it felt like the first sip of water after an exhausting fight. It felt like recovery, like a fresh start. Your fingers tugging on the ends of his soft hair felt even better, he loved knowing you wanted more of him, needed him closer. He’s happy to give that to you, his tongue sliding against yours. He relishes the little gasp you give out as he shows you how dominant he can really be, pinning your tongue easily before sucking on it. He only did what came natural to him, and he wanted to taste every part of you. He was unafraid to show this desperation, that’s why he married you, you could read him like a book and let everything flow from there. He feels your body melt into the sheets, your mind surrendering to his will with no questions asked. He groans at how obedient you are, even without a word being said. He bites at your bottom lip, grunting when he tastes a bit of blood. 

He really is supposedly a changed man, and for the most part, his dark urges have left him be. But watching his pretty little wife writhe beneath him and succumb with just his kiss…it makes him wonder what else he can do to you, what you would enjoy and all the things you get to try now. Tasting your blood on his tongue followed by the sultry moan that slips out as he bites you only drives him further. 

“Oh? Is that something you enjoy, lover?” He almost teases, though you catch his genuine interest. His face is inches from yours. His eyes flickering to the pulse jumping in your neck. You nod, and his smile becomes wicked. “What do you like?” 

You know he’s stroking his ego now, wanting to make you ask even if he desires nothing more than marking the canvas that is your neck. It makes you smile, even if you’re a little breathless from his teasing. “I like…biting. I trust you..” 

He nods, needing no more encouragement to sink his teeth into your dainty flesh, eyes fluttering shut again when you hiss and arch off the bed. The taste of your skin was nothing new, but it felt like uncharted territory now that you bear his last name. He would never hurt you, and he knew how to read your signals. But for now, he sucks deep bruises down the side of your neck, his languid tongue soothing over any sore spots. Your moans egg him on, his hand groping at your chest again. 

You like the way it feels, the burning sensation mixed with the sweet satisfaction only soaked the sheets beneath you, your hips moving against nothing, poor puckering hole left with nothing to clench around. He chuckles at the sight of you, impossibly needy and moments away from begging for more. He was wise enough not to bite too deeply, but part of him was growing unruly. He knew he needed to restrain himself to keep from hurting you, and as if you could sense his unease, you whine for him. 

“Sasuke…don’t have to be easy, we’ve done all this before..” 

“I know, I just want to make you feel good–”

“Feels good when you bite hard, wan’ you to feel good too–even if I bleed.” You mumble, grabbing his wrist and dragging it towards your bucking hips. He gets the hint, though his gaze is still trained on you as he lays beside you. He’s warped by your words, knowing he can push a little further than he’d been before. He knows you trust him to stop when necessary, and he can’t help but think you want to feel him let loose too. He grins, giving your neck a few gentle pecks as he slides his body just a little lower. He knew your neck was good and marked already, and far too dangerous to draw blood from. So he distracts you a little, sliding his fingers along your middle and sighing at the soaking mess he finds there. He draws up some of your slick so his digits glide in circles around your cute clit, the shaky gasp you make only makes his grin spread. You whine with every move he makes, eyes closed with pleasure. His fingers work you perfectly, your stomach sinking in the best way possible. Your mouth hangs open, and you’re useless already. You can only move your hips in rhythm to his strokes, chasing your own high. His cock pounds at the sight of you, and he sees the stickiness of his own pre-arousal glistening on your hip from where he’s pressed against your side. He moves the curled tresses of your hair, clearing a path to his ideal target, your neglected chest. He leans in, suckling on the nipple while his fingers snuck into your tight hole. He groans against your skin and your moaning pitches up. 

Even his sinewy fingers stretch you open, and the feeling burns for a second before it turns into pleasure. He loves the sensation of your silky walls clenching down on his digits, his palm still nudging your button with every pump. He’s grateful he sat up this way, his body angled to worship your chest and cunt simultaneously. He shudders at the thought of what he was trying to do, working you up to your peak. His tongue moves over to a random patch of skin above your saliva-coated bud, teeth scraping at it periodically. You can feel a light sheen of sweat cover your body, hips bucking into his hand wildly. 

“S-Sa-Sasuke—I’m close…wanna cum for my husband..” You purr, your brain a white-hot wasteland of pleasure. At your words, he can’t help but sink his teeth into your skin, groaning at the sounds you make. His fingers fuck into you faster, his teeth burrowing deeper until that tang of iron seeps into his mouth. You don’t cry out in pain, in fact, your legs shake around his hand and clasp around him, hips stilling. You whine and whimper and squirm, the sudden flood he feels around his index and middle confirms that his bite sent you over the edge. He grins, his tongue lapping at the shallow wound he left, fingers slow to a stop as your mewling does. He leans up, his lips gently pressing into your cheek. 

“Did you like that?” He asks, the subtle anxiety of losing your shared virginity creeps back into his mind, maybe he took it too far despite your insisting. You grin though, parting your legs again and letting your head flop over to meet eyes with him. 

“It was perfect, honey…can’t imagine what this is gonna feel like.” You whisper, jutting your chin in a way that tells him to get on top of you. He hums, kissing your temple again as he gets to his knees in the opening you gave him, lifting your leg to dangle by his hips. It gives him the perfect view of you, your gorgeous cunt glistening with the orgasm he brought you. It makes a sense of pride and need throbs through his body, his cock aches. He grunts again at the sight of his cockhead sliding around in your slick and prodding at your clit, sending jolts through your body. You watch him, mouth still agape, just admiring how the tufts of his black hair point in all directions because of your fingers carding through and tugging at it, his eyes are hungry and half-lidded as they stare down at you, lips swollen and red from intense kisses and sucking at your skin. He looks like a god, pale skin and lean, strong frame, a big hand keeping your leg against him as teases your entrance. 

You moan and jump, every squeal of yours prickling the back of his neck and making the tips of his ears turn red. He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to have you. You were just too perfect, the marks he’s left on your skin driving him insane. You love his crazy possessiveness, and he had the desire to possess you in every way. How much better could that be than by letting you walk around with the evidence of his carnal craving? Could he be so lucky to give you a honeymoon baby? You had big plans to rebuild his clan, he knows, you’re insatiable need for a baby almost worse than his to put one in you. He groans as you wiggle closer, trying desperately to get him to slip inside. He can’t help but chuckle at that. 

“You’re adorable, Mrs. Uchiha. Be patient.” He hums, moving his hips so he could slide right in, the mess you’ve made is more than enough to lubricate you both. He stops at the hilt, watching your face scrunch at the adjustment. His sharingan takes in the scene, memorizing your face changing from pain at the tight fit to unimaginable pleasure once he starts to move. His head falls back with a groan, the impossibly tight and warm squeeze made his balls twitch immediately. “So good for me, god you feel incredible.” 

Your mouth drops open to speak, but you know you can’t, only gripping at the ripples of his biceps and tugging him closer. It feels like you’re being split in half, the length of him allowing him access to your spongy spot just by sinking all the way in. He obliges you, leaning forward so you can hold him, grinning at the neediness drawing up your eyebrows and leaving you speechless. His slow rolls turn into sloppier ruts, the shakiness of your breath and the way you claw at his back the indicators he needs to know he’s fucking you good. You wrap your legs around his hips, eyes rolling back in your head. You begin to shake like you did earlier, and that tells him you’re close. 

He hums, sitting up from your hold and spitting on your pussy, letting his thumb spread the saliva over your clit again. He smiles when you jerk, the sight of your pleasure more than enough to send him spiraling. You can feel his cock jump inside you, causing you to clench down on him.

“Nngh~” He groans, hand holding your hip still. “My good girl’s gonna make me cum.” He husks, the desire in his tone giving you goosebumps. “And she’s gonna keep it inside, right? So she can give me a kid?” He asks, to which you can only nod vigorously. He hums, shaking his head in gratitude of your obedience, feeling your cunt gripping and letting go in sporadic spasms, he can’t hold himself back anymore, groaning as his hot load floods your womb and stuffs you full. He keeps rocking into you slowly, noticing your hips still working yourself down. “My beautiful wife.” He sighs lovingly once you both still. 

You beam, chest still heaving. He reaches out to push your perfectly styled hair—now a perfectly styled mess—out of your face. He leans down to kiss you softly, as full of love as everything else. 

“You really do look so gorgeous like this…now that I’ve had you I don’t understand how I can be expected to do much else.” He smirks softly, admiring your fucked out expression and lovebites one more time. “I’m so happy we’re finally married. I never thought…I never thought I would be happy. Much less like this.” 

He smiles warmly down at you, letting your legs fall. He doesn’t care if you two make a mess of the suite, this is what it was meant for. He kisses your forehead one last time, letting his weight fall to the side of you instead. 

You giggle at his remark, having been on cloud nine all day long. The love you’ve nursed since childhood has blossomed into the love you will know for the rest of your life. He lifts his arm up, signaling for you to lay on his chest. He loves holding you like this, and you feel so safe tucked in his arm. You lay your head on his pec, hand over his heart. He smiles, and kisses the crown of your head. He truly never imagines a life where he was a married man, worshiping his wife on their wedding day. He was sure he was bound to a sour future, full of loneliness and darkness. Your voice brings him back, the weight of you against his body reminds him of what is real. 

“You think you’re happy now? Just wait until you watch me swell with the baby you gave me tonight.” You hum, looking up at him so adorably that he wants nothing more than that. He squeezes you to him, and in a way, his touches tell you more than his words ever can. You know you’ve turned him on again by the statement—and the way his hand kneads the plush of your ass—but…it is your honeymoon after all.

[blingblong55]

Did you care?- König

Part 1 is here

F!Reader, angst, no happy ending, cheating

"König!" you laugh, the waves of the warm summer ocean crashing against you. His family had invited you with them that summer, the first girl he ever brought home. He never told you that though. "Oh my Liebling." he laughs with you, taking you deeper into the ocean. It was then that he knew how strong love can be. Hours later, as you chased his little nieces and nephew along the shore, his family told him something he still remembers.

The accident, that is when you knew he still cared. At the age of 37, that is when he became a father to a woman he never loved. A car crash and stitches, that is what brought you to him. A father and a boyfriend, never to marry anyone else that isn't you, that is what made him a coward to his girlfriend's family. "R/N, König has gotten into a car accident." his mother called you around 2 am, her voice so tired and filled with fear. You dropped everything, including the late-night dinner you were having with your then-partner.

"Love, where are you going?" he questioned you. "A friend needs me, she...she broke up with her boyfriend and she needs me." The first of many lies you told to keep him safe. You didn't cheat but you lied to visit the guy you will always love. As you drove to the hospital, tears ran down your face. It was fear, regret and shame. "Hallo, ich muss einen Patienten finden-"

"R/N." his mother came rushing to you, tears on her face. You hugged her and walked with her to the waiting area. His father was there as well, you hugged him too and after minutes of breaks and cries, the story lay in your hands. The mother of his child ran away with his kid, he begged and cried for her to return. She lost their kid, got arrested and after a week of looking, he heard his child was found. One drunk driver, that is all it took to have you sit there, holding the hand of his forlorn mother. His child was under the custody of the police and he was in a grey room.

"You think you'll ever end up marrying me, R/N?" he looked over at you as you hung up decorations for Christmas. "I don't see myself ever marrying and there are times I fear of it. Just know this, I know I am meant for someone." He nods and keeps the ring in his pocket tucked away. "Yeah." was all he answered. You looked at him as he looked away at some decoration.

"For you, that is who I am meant for. I don't want a ring, a dress or a ceremony, I want this, this life you and I already have." you wished to say but those words never came out. Month after month you gave him clear clues that you wanted to be the one he lived with, old and grey.

You didn't even notice when his parents had gone to his room. You sat and stared at the white wall. The two years and a half that you spent trying to forget him all come crashing down. One phone call from his mother and you were there at his disposal. Many ask, what parts of life flash before someone as they near their possible death? For him it was you. The day at the beach, Christmas, the drunk karaoke, silly argument over movies. "Harry and Sally stayed together!" you protested. "Mein Liebling, Harry and Sally are two of the people I know will not make it to old age together. It was a kiss, maybe Sally left after that."

The one thing that he knew flashed before his eyes was the conversation at the beach years ago. Once you were let into his room, you sat by his bed. Parents out in the hallways, you held his hand. Fear was to die alone but this image was the current fear. Tears ran down your face, it didn't matter that he cheated years ago, that you two hadn't spoken since but what mattered was him now. You stoked his hair and kissed his forehead with trembling lips. Before, you couldn't stand him, but he was in this world alive and that brought you tranquillity. The thought of him no longer in it, that was the fear. Who cared if he moved on, he was alive, healthy and happy.

The muse to the blues you whistled, the kiss he gave you on the mysterious bruise, the cliche dance in the kitchen at midnight, and now you sit there, looking at his scarred face. You whispered for only him to hear, "That evening in December, when you were going to propose, I would've said yes, I was meant for someone, remember?" You stood up and walked out of the room. "R/N, will you stay?" His father asks. "I'm sorry, I have to meet someone early in the morning but keep me updated." You kissed his father's cheek and hugged his mother.

Meanwhile, König lay in that bed, eyes teary as he heard your confession. The ring he wanted to give you was on a chain that hung by his neck. Always to be by his heart. "Liebling." he whispers. "I want to marry you, over and over again." That is a promise two young lovers made.

"When we get old, you and I better retell the story of us," you say as you lay in the green grass. "And I will tell it to you every night," König spoke softly. "Every night," he holds your hand. "I will always tell you the story of how I met the greatest thing in my life." He smiles and sighs happily, "And I'll make you fall in love with me all over again." He meant every word, he wanted the spark of love between them to never die, for them to always be in love. "I'll always fall in love with you as if it was the first time, every single time." He cared, more than you'll ever know.

"You never let her go, my son." his mother sternly says. He sighs and looks over at you, his youngest niece hung by his arms, his nephew chasing you both. The giggles from the children and your laughter, yeah, he wants that life with you. "You think she'll want to?" he asks his parents. "If not today or in a year, I know she will." He looks at the ring and nods. "When I marry her, can you both please not give a long speech?" This caused his parents to laugh and nod a little.

Maybe the movies and all the news articles are right, in some universe, you and him are together. And in that universe, he has his three kids, a wife and the picket fence to his home. A home with you, two hearts that beat for the other. He cares.

Tags: @sunshiinegaz @liyanahelena

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 38

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: I've been awake since 2am.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

After breakfast, you get ready to go into town with Frigga and Hela upon their vaunted ladies’ trip. An air of uncertainty persists around what exactly that means. Flowers, shopping, and what else?

You try not to let the mystery overshadow the Odinsons’ hospitality. You’d hate to come across ungrateful after all they’d done. Odin and Frigga hadn’t asked for anything in return all while receiving you with an open hand. Just like with all things, you go along to get along.

The drive has you in a sort of trance as you watch the landscape pass. The lush greens and speckles of violet and pink across the fields, thickening to looming forest of coniferous pines and towering oaks. Finally, the wilds thin into even ground and open into a township with a painted wooden sign.

The buildings are old but well-kept. Not like the large city with its pitted brick and steaming sewers. Every street here is like those that surround Laufeyson’s own estate. Curated and pristine. Just like the Odinsons themselves.

You pull in at a large gated lot. The iron barrier is overgrown with flowers and as you enter, you gape around at the expanse of petals and stems. You’ve never been anywhere so spectacular.

You trail behind Frigga as she browses the selection. You shy away from Hela but she’s hardly concerned with you as she admires a bunch of dark roses. You peer around as an assistant approaches at Frigga’s signal.

“What do you think, dear?” Frigga calls to you, “we want white for the event. Lilies, baby’s breath, gardenia?”

You blink and give some thought, “what about daisies?”

She smiles, “daisies, so simple but pretty.” She turns to the assistant, “do you have many?”

“We should have a few boxes ready for delivery,” she answers.

“Wonderful, we will have some daisies. Oh, and we could have some wisteria hanging. Mm, and miss, white tulips? You have those too?”

The assistant scribbles on her pad, “we can do those as well.”

“Hydrangea,” Hela insists as she approaches, standing behind you, “for the posts.”

“Yes, certainly, hydrangea,” Frigga repeats with a sharp point to the assistant. “Oh and lastly, I spoke with Val about the moonflowers, tell me they’re ready.”

“Yes, Mrs. Odinson, we have those set aside already.”

“Good, good,” Frigga remarks, “well, we’ll look around a bit more and let you know if anything else is required.”

“Yes, Mrs. Odinson,” the assistant nods and prompts strolls away.

“You wouldn’t like a splash of red, mother? Maybe some black?” Hela muses, “this Walpurgisnacht will be blinding.”

“Oh, tosh,” Frigga dismisses, “we have a theme. Which reminds me, darling,” she turns to you, “do you have a white dress packed?”

“White?” You blink, “um, no, I didn’t…”

“Not to worry, it’s why we came to town,” she tweets.

“Oof, mother,” Hela cringes. 

“Well, I know you certainly don’t have suitable attire,” Frigga reproaches.

“Actually, I’ve a marvelous white jumpsuit selected for just the event,” Hela challenges, “I can listen, I just often choose not to.”

Frigga gives a pinch look before she returns her attention to you, “well then, our task will be easier. I think chiffon might be nice…”

“You know, mother, I do feel as if I’m being replaced,” Hela snickers. You send her a guilty look but her smile holds no malice. She winks and arches a brow. “And yet I do think this little creature will look delectable in white.”

“Mm, yes,” Frigga side-eyes her daughter, “you do have a way with words, don’t you?”

“Oh, pardon me, I should be more like my brothers, would you prefer Thor,” Hela mocks and reaches for your hand, taking it as she caresses it emphatically, “oh lady, you are beautiful, I should wonder if what you hide under your skirt is equally as stunning–”

“Hel,” Frigga exclaims, mortified as she snatches her grasp away from you.

“Ah, alright, Loki,” Hela clears her throat and stiffens her posture, adjusting a non-existent tie, “yes, you are rather adequate. Hm, very acceptable.”

“Don’t,” Frigga commands, “you didn’t have to come if you’re only going to make a joke of it.”

“Oh, mother, that’s simply what it is, a joke,” Hela bats her lashes, “loosen up. Is that not what this day is for? To enjoy ourselves?”

Frigga sighs and shakes her head as she turns away. Your mouth slants as you watch after her nervously. Hela clucks and flicks her fingers dismissively, “once she has a taste of wine, she’ll let go.”

✨

You stand in the fitting room, staring dreadfully at the two hangers. One chosen by Frigga, the other by Hela. They are both beautiful but you’re not certain either of them suit you. You feel the long chiffon as you mull over the choice.

“Well, darling, let us see,” Frigga calls through the curtain.

You wince and recoil. You pull down the longer of the two, the flowy chiffon that caught Frigga’s eye. The one-shoulder cut cinches to draped skirt which drowns you. You look at yourself in the mirror and frown. The fabric seems to drown you.

You turn with a swish and pull back the curtain, stepping through awkwardly as you tug the skirt out of the way of your feet. Hela makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a gasp. Frigga fawns and daintily touches her cheeks.

“Oh, gods, that is gorgeous, isn’t it?” She comes forward and pinches a fold in the skirt.

“She looks like she’s caught in a snowstorm,” Hela muses, “please, she won’t be able to do much in all that.”

“I suppose,” Frigga backs up and folds her arms, “but I like the style, perhaps we might find something similar with less length.”

“Try mine,” Hela demands.

You look between them, not daring to argue with either. They seem to do enough of that. You spin and sweep behind the curtain once more. You shed the chiffon layers and pull on the satin sheath. There isn’t much to it. Thin straps and not much length, a slit up your thigh. It’s more lingerie than a dress.

You peek out shyly before you make yourself come out. Frigga’s face flushes and her lips part. Hela smirks and tilts her head as she bites her lip.

“Oh, fabulous,” Hela remarks.

“She cannot wear that,” Frigga throws a hand up.

“Why not, she has nice legs.”

“That isn’t… appropriate.”

“Well, mother, she can’t dress like an old matron either.”

“It was a perfectly nice dress–”

“For 1912,” Hela shoots back.

You shrink before them and let their back and forth fade into the background. You glance over the rack of white garments and zone out. You just want this to be over. You’re tired of being pulled back and forth like a game of tug-of-war.

Your name draws you back and you focus on the women watching you. You wince and teeter on your feet, “sorry, I was distracted.”

“I was saying,” Hela intones, “we should let you choose.”

“Me?” You blanch.

“Well, it is your dress,” Frigga utters reluctantly.

“Oh, but I… don’t know much about… clothes.”

“Never too late to learn,” Hela insists, “go on, have your pick. Surprise us.”

You glance back at the rack and wiggle your fingers. You slowly approach as the two other women retreat, still muttering to each other. You push through the hangers; too heavy, too stiff, too sheer.

You think you like this one. A simple sheath lining with a mesh overlay, little crepe flowers sewn into the out later. The straps are slender but the bodice is straight cut. It’s wonderful and dreamy. You take the hanger and quickly scurry back behind the curtain.

You switch out the short dress for your pick. You look at your reflection and nearly stagger. You love it. It’s adorable. You go to the curtain and brace yourself. What if they don’t like it? You exhale and ready yourself for disappointment.

You step through and the women face you. Neither say a word as they look at you. They consider you, eyeing you head to toe. Oh no! It’s hideous, isn’t it? You have no taste.

“I love it,” Hela chirps, “what about you, mother? Isn’t it gorgeous on her?”

“I… it’s so… you,” Frigga squeals, “yes, it’s perfect. And the little flowers. Ugh, amazing.”

“Really?” You stand on your toes nervously.

“You must have it,” Hela insists, “next, shoes… the pairing must be perfect.”

“Shoes…” you murmur. Does it ever end?

✨

Your day doesn’t end after the boutique. The tumultuous night slumps in your shoulders and droops in your eyelids as the hours stretch on. Your next stop is a sleek white building with sparkling glass doors. As you enter, the sterile lobby has you minimizing yourself in fear of staining the pure white tile or breaking the crystal counter.

Frigga and Hela strut towards the woman who stands behind the glass table and greet her breezily. She welcomes them by name as you trail behind like a mouse. You don’t belong here. Not a place like this. You might be with them but you’re not one of them.

Once more, you sink into a daze, trying to distance yourself from the present. From those feelings of unbelonging. Those old wounds from the schoolyard when you stood by the fence and kicked rocks, not daring to provoke anyone with an errant gaze.

“Dear,” Frigga jars you as she gently touches your arm, “did you have ID?”

“ID?” You say dumbly, not processing her request at first.

“They serve alcohol so it’s required to check-in,” she explains.

“Oh, um, yeah,” you clumsily grab your purse and unzip the top. You dig out your ID card and hand it over. Frigga has a brief glance at it before handing it over. The twitch beneath her eye worries you; has it expired?

You wait as Hela taps her short nails on the counter top. Finally, the woman behind the counter approves you for entry. You still don’t really get what this place is. There’s no signs aside from the marquee in swoopy cursive; Hvergelmir.

Another woman appears and takes you through an angular doorway. You’re guided to a private room with robes on hooks, cushioned benches and small cubbies. You watch Hela and Frigga as they remove their heels and set them on the low rack. You do the same, doing everything they do at a delay.

They tuck their bags into the cubbies and undress without shame, keeping only their underwear on as they wrap themselves in the silken robes. You face the corner as you strip and pull on a robe yourself.

It isn’t until you move on to the next room that you realise what this place is. A spa. You’ve never been to one but it’s exactly like you’ve seen on television. You recline as a woman smears your face with a mask and places cucumbers over your eyes. It’s relaxing even if it feels a bit strange.

After laying there for what seems like forever, a woman comes in to offer stemmed glasses of sparkling wine. You remove the sliced veggies from your eyes and accept one in kind with the other women.

“I think I might get a wrap,” Hela declares, “I need the cleanse.”

“Mm, I think I might do the steam room,” Frigga drawls before she sips from her glass. You take a tiny sip, reminding yourself of your last indulgence and the disaster that followed. Hela downs half the glass in a single gulp.

“What about you?” Hela looks at you pointedly. “Would you like to join me for the seaweed wrap?”

“Um, what is that?” You ask.

“Oh, darling,” Frigga sits up and grabs a leather folio, “have a look. You can choose whatever you like.”

You accept the little booklet and open it up to the laminated inside. You read through each item and the description below. The steam room sounds uncomfortable, you’re not a fan of sweating, and the seaweed thing sounds slimy…

“Mud bath?” You read allowed.

“Good choice,” Hela praises, “I might join you after my wrap.”

“Oh, okay,” you close the book and put it on the small round table close to you.

Frigga picks up the small golden bell and rings it. The same woman appears and Frigga lists off the treatments for each of you. She’s led away first, then someone comes to fetch Hela, and finally, you’re taken away by another woman with a high ponytail.

The woman helps you cover your hair with a towel and hands you back your wine glass. She leads you into a room with long rectangular tubs filled with reddish brown muck. She points you to one at the end and you put your glass on the little ledge that juts out from the side.

She helps you remove your robe, “you can keep your underwear on if you like. We can provide a fresh pair after, but you may want to remove your bra.”

You nod and dip your head down to unhook your bra. She reaches to take it and you hesitantly hand it over. She hangs your robe from a hook on the wall and leaves you there. Alright, so you just get in?

You step over the high wall of the tub and lower yourself into the warm mud. It doesn’t feel too bad. You slide around slightly before you’re able to find your bearings and reclining against the slanted back. Is this relaxing? 

You close your eyes but not for long. You end up staring at the lines between the ceiling tiles. You stir the mud with your fingers. You feel childish, like you're making mud pies.

You stop as you hear voices. You peek over for just a moment as someone else enters. A tall woman with a swirl of black hair escaping the towel on her head strides in, her tall figure draped in one of the ivory robes. The attendant takes her to the tub across from yours.

You try not to watch as she opens her robe, revealing her sleek body shamelessly. She eases into the tub with a sigh and the attendant leaves. You keep your eyes up as tension fills the space.

“The mud is nice today,” she says, startling you.

You nod and look at her as she stretches her arms around the walls of the tub. Her chest is barely concealed by the muck.

“You don’t come here often. I’ve not seen you around.”

You shake your head, “first time.”

“Ah,” her blue eyes gleam, “special occasion?”

“Erm, not really, I… Walpurgisnacht,” you pronounce the word delicately.

“That’s not for a few days,” she intones.

“You know it?”

“Yes, of course, everyone around here does. And this year, with Frigga hosting, it will be a spectacle.”

“You know Frigga?” You wonder.

She laughs, “of course I do. Who doesn’t?” Her tone is dry and her expression haughty, “how do you know her?”

“Um, I… work for her son,” you utter flatly.

“Thor?”

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you correct her.

“How amusing,” she smirks, “what’s your name?”

You answer, your chest binding up tightly. You feel like you shouldn’t be talking to her. Something about the way she grins.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she purrs, “I’m Sif. You might tell my ex-husband I send my regards.”

You swallow dryly and stare at her. Your heart is pounding and your ears ringing. Sif? In the flesh? She’s absolutely gorgeous. You can see why she haunts the Odinsons. She’s perfect. 

Now you know why you will never live up to Laufeyson’s expectations. Why he’s so hard to please. Compared to her, well, you can never compare to her. She is immaculate.

[itsagrimm]

Dollhouse

Simon Riley X you

CN angst, patriarchy and effects on those who can have children, family planning (this is not a euphemism you dogs)

700 words

The idea came to me in a dream. Little short note so i won't forget.

Cover als always made by me. it's from Abhörstation, Berlin.

You woke up with an ache in your heart.

As always when your boyfriend went on deployment he had to leave early.

As always you got up to make coffee and chat as he packed his bags.

Did you get the socks from the laundry? No idea where your aftershave is. Take the green shirt. It suits you.

Sharing one last cup over breakfast together had become your tradition just like getting up together before his trips. Then that last kiss came before he left through the door.

Stay safe Simon. I miss you already. Come back quickly. I love you too.

The click of the lock closing behind him with painful finality.

Nothing ever prepared you for that part of your relationship when you were alone. You browsed through forums and group chats among military spouses, feeling empty and cheated that no one prepared you for the solitude of it. Or are you the only one not cut out for the waiting? About how much time of your life you spent on standby, waiting for Simon to get back and do all those tiny things and big plans with you? Are you doing this correctly?

Maybe I am not cut out for this – you mused as you looked over the space you shared with Simon; his seat now empty. The book he read yesterday right next to pots of plants you bought together on the windowsill. Photos of you and him in frames over the couch he lounged on last night. Memories frozen in time. Memories in waiting. Like you, sitting here waiting for him to come back and pick up where he left.

You never doubted him. Whatever happened while he was away never left you unloved, forgotten, replaced. But love is not the only thing that you needed. Him catching you in a searing kiss when he returned, carrying you back to the bedroom and feeding your lonely skin until it was plump and satisfied from caresses was never the problem. Simon was never the problem.

It was you. No amount of perfect love and devotion, of passion and desire could make up for you being alone despite your relationship. Standing alone at parties and nursing that one white wine spritzer. Going to family events. Dealing with life on your own and talking to yourself every evening about the day that you had.

Simon is away. Yes, I worry but he will be back soon. I am sure it will be alright.

Sometimes the guilt ate at you. His job was dangerous. He could get hurt. He could die. And yet here you were thinking about how hard your life was. How his life was spent in visible excitement with his buddies sharing a beer after a mission, his captain giving him a pat on the back, people asking him if he was fine. And you were kept in a state of continuous invisible anticipation for him to return to you, hopefully in one piece.

Besides, how many out there would love to live the life you had? Being a perfect little wife one day and dolling up for Simon with that military check paying for that shared life. Keeping a perfect little doll home for him to return to and play civil life for a bit. Being a perfect little single mum to the Riley-kids he would father with you only to never be around for them because of his job.

The thought made you gasp out in worry for the unborn children you weren’t even sure you wanted. Children with dark brown eyes. Children that would leave your fingers trembling from the tiring task of loving and worrying about them. Children that made you wonder where they were and if they would return to you in one piece as if that was not a concerning thought. Was this normal? Or another thing you were failing at?

God, you feared yet wished for that family so much. Hoping for Simon to return right now and asking him how he felt about starting on having kids this exact moment. But your rabbit heart new better and you froze as you reached for your phone, opting to send him “safe travels” instead.

Maybe one day you would grow brave enough to tell him all that. And hopefully he would be brave enough to listen.

[grandhotelabyss]

Advice/hard truths for writers?

The best piece of practical advice I know is a classic from Hemingway (qtd. here):

The most important thing I’ve learned about writing is never write too much at a time… Never pump yourself dry. Leave a little for the next day. The main thing is to know when to stop. Don’t wait till you’ve written yourself out. When you’re still going good and you come to an interesting place and you know what’s going to happen next, that’s the time to stop. Then leave it alone and don’t think about it; let your subconscious mind do the work.

Also, especially if you're young, you should read more than you write. If you're serious about writing, you'll want to write more than you read when you get old; you need, then, to lay the important books as your foundation early. I like this passage from Samuel R. Delany's "Some Advice for the Intermediate and Advanced Creative Writing Student" (collected in both Shorter Views and About Writing):

You need to read Balzac, Stendhal, Flaubert, and Zola; you need to read Austen, Thackeray, the Brontes, Dickens, George Eliot, and Hardy; you need to read Hawthorne, Melville, James, Woolf, Joyce, and Faulkner; you need to read Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Turgenev, Goncherov, Gogol, Bely, Khlebnikov, and Flaubert; you need to read Stephen Crane, Mark Twain, Edward Dahlberg, John Steinbeck, Jean Rhys, Glenway Wescott, John O'Hara, James Gould Cozzens, Angus Wilson, Patrick White, Alexander Trocchi, Iris Murdoch, Graham Greene, Evelyn Waugh, Anthony Powell, Vladimir Nabokov; you need to read Nella Larsen, Knut Hamsun, Edwin Demby, Saul Bellow, Lawrence Durrell, John Updike, John Barth, Philip Roth, Coleman Dowell, William Gaddis, William Gass, Marguerite Young, Thomas Pynchon, Paul West, Bertha Harris, Melvin Dixon, Daryll Pinckney, Darryl Ponicsan, and John Keene, Jr.; you need to read Thomas M. Disch, Joanna Russ, Richard Powers, Carroll Maso, Edmund White, Jayne Ann Phillips, Robert Gluck, and Julian Barnes—you need to read them and a whole lot more; you need to read them not so that you will know what they have written about, but so that you can begin to absorb some of the more ambitious models for what the novel can be.

Note: I haven't read every single writer on that list; there are even three I've literally never heard of; I can think of others I'd recommend in place of some he's cited; but still, his general point—that you need to read the major and minor classics—is correct.

The best piece of general advice I know, and not only about writing, comes from Dr. Johnson, The Rambler #63:

The traveller that resolutely follows a rough and winding path, will sooner reach the end of his journey, than he that is always changing his direction, and wastes the hours of day-light in looking for smoother ground and shorter passages.

I've known too many young writers over the years who sabotaged themselves by overthinking and therefore never finishing or sharing their projects; this stems, I assume, from a lack of self-trust or, more grandly, trust in the universe (the Muses, God, etc.). But what professors always tell Ph.D. students about dissertations is also true of novels, stories, poems, plays, comic books, screenplays, etc: There are only two kinds of dissertations—finished and unfinished. Relatedly, this is the age of online—an age when 20th-century institutions are collapsing, and 21st-century ones have not yet been invented. Unless you have serious connections in New York or Iowa, publish your work yourself and don't bother with the gatekeepers.

Other than the above, I find most writing advice useless because over-generalized or else stemming from arbitrary culture-specific or field-specific biases, e.g., Orwell's extremely English and extremely journalistic strictures, not necessarily germane to the non-English or non-journalistic writer. "Don't use adverbs," they always say. Why the hell shouldn't I? It's absurd. "Show, don't tell," they insist. Fine for the aforementioned Orwell and Hemingway, but irrelevant to Edith Wharton and Thomas Mann. Freytag's Pyramid? Spare me. Every new book is a leap in the dark. Your project may be singular; you may need to make your own map as your traverse the unexplored territory.

Hard truths? There's one. I know it's a hard truth because I hesitate even to type it. It will insult our faith in egalitarianism and the rewards of earnest labor. And yet, I suspect the hard truth is this: ineffables like inspiration and genius count for a lot. If they didn't, if application were all it took, then everybody would write works of genius all day long. But even the greatest geniuses usually only got the gift of one or two all-time great work. This doesn't have to be a counsel of despair, though: you can always try to place yourself wherever you think lightning is likeliest to strike. That's what I do, anyway. Good luck!