#can you tell that those are suppose to be his classic robes?

[sourgummibears]

First attempt at making Danny

He’s very squishy and sad looking but also now he can hold hands with Dwight!

[flashhwing]

This Man 👨 Is NOT 🙅‍♂️ Aedan Cousland! 🚫

He Is A Ferelden👨‍🌾 Mage 🧙Named Hawk 🦅

Do NOT 🙅Let Him Into ⛔️ Your Landsmeet!!!

[fleeting-sanity]

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The sunset was a cool shade of purple. Vyria’s lightsaber swings added streaks of blue to it, somehow quite relaxing to watch. But what was not relaxing to Riornivo was his chest. It wasn’t frequent, but everytime it constricted, it’s as if his blood got thicker and clotted, refusing to flow throughout his body. He tried his best to hide the suffering by closing his Jedi robes around his body, concealing his posture.

Which did the opposite instead. Vyria stopped abruptly, surprising her half-brother with a long jump to land next to him. 

“You’re sick. Let’s go.”

“I’m not. Even so, I can heal myself, remember?”

“But you haven’t. C’mon Spiky, agree with me just once,” as Vyria’s volume climbed, clearly upset. “Stop treating me like I’m less than you two. My words never seem to matter!”

“Ria!” Riornivo exclaimed, also upset and in pain. “Don’t say that. You’re never beneath anyone. Wh-I… I'm so sorry. I’m sorry you feel that way…” as he immediately lowered his voice, subduing his emotional response for a more empathetic point of view. She did just miss out on speaking to her father, and it hurt him to know that his sister was feeling that way.

“Then listen to me! I just want to help, damn.”

Vyria easily dragged her brother by the arm with her unnatural strength. Halfway towards the base, the constriction came back with a vengeance, causing Rio to writhe down to his knees. Vyria managed to quell her panic enough to call the base’s medical personnels, then resorted to carrying her tall brother in her arms for a faster trip. They met at the entrance, and Rio was then carried on a stretcher. The wounded Jedi couldn’t think straight, but the prime malady was in his mind: worrying the people around by seeing him that way. Vyria insisted on being next to her brother’s side, but she was barred entry to the emergency room.

The biological diagnosis yielded no results, but his pain could be seen physically. There was a dark core on his chest, and the doctors diagnosed it as a respiratory disease even though the medical data disagreed with them. Then came the Jedi healers. They dismissed the doctors for privacy, to which the doctors protested but relented.

“Looks like a classic dark side corruption, but… it should affect the mind too.” 

Rio confirmed his state of mind, grimacing when he recalled the moment of Valkorion’s occupancy in his mind becoming public knowledge. His sister peeking then entering the room reinforced this; the reason behind why he was so reluctant to let her know about his condition was the lack of obscurity. But he could never fault her for being the kind of Jedi who accepted help from others, unlike him. 

“Snowy… could you please call Lana here?”

This time, Vyria did not hesitate and sought out Lana right away. The golden-haired Sith arrived with an additional Sith: Lord Scourge. Lana quickly caught the meaning behind Rio’s facial expression, and it’s not about the pain he was experiencing. But before she could do something about it, Scourge voiced his intention. “I need this room emptied.”

“Let me guess: that includes me.” Vyria sneered.

“Yes.” 

“Snowy… it won’t be long.” Rio’s weak attempt at placating.

“You know that’s not why I’m–nevermind!” As Vyria huffed away with the rest of the Jedi healers. The feeling of hurting and reinforcing his sister’s insecurity competed against the physical pain, with his mind being the ultimate loser. He should have followed her advice of less combat, but how was he supposed to protect those who needed help without being there for them?

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. We need to do something about the wound he left.” Scourge stated. 

“Scourge told me about the battle. But you need something done first. Tell me.”  

He appreciated how direct Lana was, trying to fight off the pain for a coherent sentence. “Can you… uh… keep this--this… under wraps? I don’t want–agh!”

“Understood.”

He tried summoning a healing salve to dull the pain, but it was futile. “I don’t think you’re infected. But I just want to be sure. I’ve contacted some of my Sith acquaintances.”

“S-Sith–Scourge, I just- I just told Lana-”

“I know. I will deal with them after they do what they’re supposed to. You need help with a dark side wound–they know better.”

“No… please don’t. I…”

Talking to Scourge proved to worsen his condition, but before he could protest any further, another sharp pain took his consciousness away. He was caught completely off guard by how fast the wound progressed. His entire world plunged into darkness. Maybe it was death, but as much as he desired it, there were still others who needed him. Maybe he has fought for too long.

Perhaps Tenebrae finally got him.

But he wasn’t the only one who remembered the wound inflicted during the battle. It was witnessed by a number of people, and they all sought Riornivo out only to not see him. Because he was taken away from Odessen to seek other methods of healing after every attempt failed. He was no longer breathing, still as a statue with dark streams flowing through his veins. Rionnic paced back and forth next to his twin, looking disheveled and restless. 

“No, I can still feel him through the Force. You all do as well! I’m sure there’s other ways we can try. I’m not giving up on him.”

The young Emperor was the only one agitated, while the others were sullen and hopeless. Vyria revealed to him about their father’s spiritual visit, stating that the late Jedi wouldn’t appear if it wasn’t a dire circumstance. Kira suddenly stood up, then hurriedly exited the underground chamber of the ruined Dantooine Jedi temple. She returned with Satele and Scourge. The former was clouded with guilt but was more focused on trying to help her former student.

“... His body contained the infection. Which is why we can talk and own our minds. But that comes at a cost. I… unfortunately exhausted all avenues known to me.” Scourge lamented. His successor interjected with his own idea.

“Can’t we do that… mind trip again? We purge the corruption away from him.”

“Vitiate is no more, as you can feel it through the Force. This is corruption on its own, without its master, without cure.”

“I might know someone…” Satele stated in a doubtful tone. All eyes were on her. “But he might need a few days to get here.”

And those days passed with Vaylin feeling cautiously endeared from meeting her little nieces. But that high slowly washed away with a feeling of uncertain anxiety. Deep down, she knew why. Guilt raced its way to the top of her mind. Her feet mindlessly brought her out of the ship, while her ears tuned out her surroundings. 

That Jedi. She remembered the moment they shared in that ultimate battle. But she also remembered how she cradled him, and he had never looked worse. Worry and longing joined the mix of emotions, resulting in her wanting to act on it. And the guilt?

It was because she prioritized her own misgivings over his well being, which was irrational. He would have wanted her to take care of herself, whether mentally or physically. If she had not gone to Ord Mantell, she wouldn't have met her delightful nieces.

She applied yet another disguise and bid farewell to Chonky. Serrus should arrive soon enough to watch over her pet gizka. She wasn't sure how much longer or how well she could keep her existence secret. But the image of Rio being tossed aside towards death’s door kept rewinding in her mind, and it has been a few days. Most importantly; albeit an unrealized fact, was that she missed him. 

Onwards to Odessen, no matter how daunting it would be.

Serrus gave her a tip that a patrol squad of Knights would switch their station for the weekly cycle between Zakuul and Odessen. When asked about why there was an extra Knight in the squad, she bluffed about a classified delivery for the Emperor. She lowered her voice register as best as she could, and ditched her accent. To her surprise, it worked.

“It’s probably something for his son,” as the Knight next to her tapped a finger on the small box she was showing. 

“Yeah, seems pretty lightweight. Let’s go, I wouldn’t wanna be late for the Emperor.” Vaylin added. The box's actual content was a civilian disguise should she need a change. Seconds later, the shuttle departed from Zakuul to the planet she invaded not too long ago. When they landed at the military base, at first she followed the squad’s route to get inside the base, then they were required to split up into sections. That was her chance.

“I understand… it’s okay to cry it out, Ria. Then you can rest. I know you’re really tired,” consoled the blue twi’lek girl she had tried to murder back then.

“I just… I’m sick of seeing him on his deathbed. But this time I feel something’s different…” cried the silver-haired girl that dueled her aboard Arcann’s exploding battlecruiser. His sister.

Deathbed? Were they talking about him? However, before she could eavesdrop any further; “Hold on, who’s there?”

Vaylin quickly retreated while subsequently apologizing. The conversation planted a spiking feeling across her body, and that image of him dying resurfaced. Her steps became aimless, so much so that she failed to pay attention to a whole man bumping into her. The man immediately recognized her through the disguise. “What are you doing here?”

“I… I-I was-” Vaylin stuttered, but her brother quickly pulled her away for more privacy.

“You’re here for him isn’t it?” Arcann asked gently.

“What happened to him?”

Arcann was quiet. He then turned around with an apologetic smile, clearly trying to carefully construct his words around her. Even behind the Knight helmet, he could sense the anxiety seeping out of his sister. “He’s now at Dantooine. I know you remember the battle. We’re trying to… treat him. He’s… hmm… he’s asleep.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“You would seek him out and risk being uncovered. Which is exactly what you’re doing now.”

She failed to come up with a counter to that. But that didn't deter her from wanting to see him, and frankly, she felt a little offended. "Maybe I'm tired of sneaking around. I want to be in your shoes, walking around freely after everything you did." 

Arcann felt the venom of her tongue. Rather than continuing the conversation and probably riling his sister up, he shrugged, offering a parting proposition.

"I'm about to go visit him. If you're coming, that means I'd have to reveal your identity to them, because he is strictly guarded..." as he shook his head, bracing for the next sentence, regretting how hard it was to not make Vaylin upset. "His twin might not grant you entry."

Said evil twin however, was shocked upon discovering who Satele and Scourge was bringing in to help. Vyria trailed them closely with such a haggard expression, far removed from her usual upbeat self. It was an elderly man wearing robes known to Rionnic, bringing war flashbacks and building up his Sith rage.

“You’ve clearly lost your mind.”

“Perhaps, but I feel he is the best bet we have… much as I doubt it. Ultimately, the decision is yours.” Satele lamented, while leaving the chamber with Scourge.

“You’re going to turn him into a Dread Master again, aren't you?” Rionnic threatened by pointing his crimson saber at the man, faster than the speed of sound.

“Red-Red… Please, listen-listen–I don’t care as long as he’s… he’s alive!” pleaded Vyria, shakily.

"You watched him get corrupted and that's what you had to say?"

"Be a little selfish! You're Sith! Your nemesis is your master!" As Vyria tearfully marched towards Rionnic's lightsaber blade, continuing her desperation in a calmer manner. "You said you're not giving up on him."

Which made Rionnic’s arm drop, and his lightsaber turned off. 

“Hurry. Time is a fleeting concept.” The man finally spoke, startling both siblings.

Rionnic was a family man. His brother might have caused endless problems with his stupidity, but he couldn’t imagine not seeing that smile ever again. There was definitely guilt for letting Vyria work almost alone on finding their brother in the five years Riornivo was in carbonite, while he was busy searching for his own family. He slowly walked towards his twin, laying a hand on his face, cold and lifeless. Vyria’s hand joined his, forming a cup caressing their beloved brother. Both siblings's eyes met for a non-verbal agreement. The chamber was emptied except for Riornivo and the former Dread Master.

“Children these days.”

The old man began levitating Riornivo’s body by controlling his Architect Wings, forming a makeshift cradle to support his posture. He further examined the wound, then reached deep into the Force to rewind his patient’s past actions. The battle inside Satele’s mind, the spiritual visit, the encounters with Malgus, but what made him shake his head was what he did during the invasion of Odessen. It gave him a clear cause of the situation. He then meditated for a while, preparing himself for the task at hand.

And thus Calphayus donned his Dread Master crest once more.

[engie-ivy]

Yes, he's in the hospital and doesn't remember anything about himself, but it's actually not that bad. His memories are sure to come back in a matter of days, and until then, he can spend time eating, sleeping, reading, daydreaming about that ridiculously attractive Healer...

(The aim is Funny and Fluffy Wolfstar)

It's Like the First Time

“Everything seems to be in order,” the Healer Trainee, Aubrey, says. “As we expected. How’s the dizziness?”

“When I’m laying down, it doesn’t bother me,” he replies.

“That’s good,” Aubrey smiles. “The dizziness and light-headedness should gradually disappear over the upcoming days, and then the memories will come back after.”

He nods. He’d be more worried about all his memories being gone if the Healers at St Mungo’s weren’t so certain they’ll all come back in a matter of days. Dizziness, light-headedness, and amnesia; it’s a familiar picture when being hit with a Confundo-charm from a defective wand, which the Healers have encountered many times before and has apparently happened to him during some friendly duelling.

It’s always the same picture: the dizziness and light-headedness slowly lessening, and the memories all coming back at once after two to at most five days. Like, one moment you know nothing, and the next you remember everything.

Well, he doesn’t exactly know nothing. His semantic memory is intact, meaning he has basic knowledge and remembers facts and skills. He knows he’s a wizard, he knows the hospital is called St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, he knows the people in the lime green robes are the Healers, he knows that since he’s a wizard he probably went to Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, and he knows perfectly well how to perform a wide variety of charms, jinxes, hexes and curses. (So luckily those years at Hogwarts weren’t for nothing)

What he doesn’t know is anything about himself. His episodic memory, memory for any kind of life events, is completely gone. Who he is, what he does, what he has done, who he knows, it’s all gone. His own mum could walk into the room, and he’d think she was the laundry lady. (Luckily, she seemed like a very nice lady, and had thought it rather funny)

The only thing he knows about himself, not because he remembers, but because it’s the only thing they told him, is that he’s someone named Remus Lupin. Apparently, in the past, trying to fill in the gaps has proven to be more frustrated than helpful for the patient and, as the memories will come back on their own anyway, quite unnecessary. Therefore, they don’t tell him much else, and all he can do is wait.

Past experience has also shown that the patient often finds it quite stressful, and even frightening, to be surrounded by lots of people who all know him, and whom he feels like he should recognize, but doesn’t. Therefore, friends and family are only allowed in limited numbers, one new person a day, which started with his mum.

His mum had brought him his favourite novel, saying that he read it so many times, and would always wish he could erase it from his memory just so he could read it again with the same sense of anticipation. Well, she had figured this was his chance. Now, all he can do is lie in bed, read his book, and eat food, which is... Well, pretty great actually.

He doesn’t have anything to worry about. How can he worry about anything if he doesn’t remember anything? It’s like having a little break from life and all its expectations and responsibilities. (Though the fact that he’s so happy about having no worries, makes him think that this Remus Lupin normally worries quite a lot)

When a Healer comes to see him, he suddenly knows something else about himself: he’s very, very gay.

The Healer has a classic, aristocratic beauty to him, with his sharp cheekbones and full lips, and his eyes are of a clear grey, that appears silver, which contrasts quite nicely with the strands of raven black hair that have fallen from the messy bun on top of his head. And no one has the right to look that good in lime green robes, which he fills out pretty well with his lean, muscular body.

The Healer gives him a soft smile, and really, if he smiles at all his patients like that, the whole hospital must be diagnosed with palpitations. “How’re you feeling?” the Healer asks in a warm, deep voice.

He wonders whether his semantic memory has failed him after all, as he suddenly seems to have forgotten how speaking works. “Erm...” he says, very eloquently.

The Healer frowns, and looks at Aubrey. “Isn’t the confusion supposed to be gone by now?”

Aubrey looks from the Healer to him and back to the Healer, while a knowing smile appears on her face. “Don’t worry,” she tells the Healer. “He has been perfectly responsive and coherent all day.”

“Has he had some Anti-Confusion Concoction?”

“He’s had a small dose, as the confusion was already wearing off on his own.”

“Are you going to give him Memory Potion?” the Healer continues his questioning.

Aubrey shakes her head. “We have already given him Mandrake Restorative Draught against the spell’s physical effects. Adding Memory Potion might make the dose of Stewed Mandrake too high. As we can be certain all memories will come back on their own, it isn’t worth the risk.”

The Healer nods thoughtfully. “So only a daily dose of Restoration Potion until all effects have subsided, I assume?”

“Yes,” Aubrey agrees. “Based on past experience, that’ll in all likeliness be sufficient.”

The Healer turns his head back to him, and that soft smile is back in place. He opens his mouth to speak, but right at that moment, a bright flash can be seen, and a gazelle made out of shining white light is standing in front of them.

“I’m so sorry to disturb on a moment like this,” a stressed-sounding voice of a young woman comes from the Patronus, that is directing itself to the Healer. “But you’re needed back at the HADA department immediately! We’re having an emergency.”

The Healer curses under his breath. He takes a step towards the door, but then stops to look back at him with a pained expression.

“He’s in good hands,” Aubrey says.

The Healer nods. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he tells him, before hurrying out the door.

Though his mum was right, and the novel is really good, he has trouble focusing on it from that moment on. He’s constantly interrupted by thoughts of bright, silver-grey eyes. Merlin, he’s seen the guy once, and he’s acting like a twelve-year-old with a crush!

Telling himself off for it doesn’t stop him from looking up hopefully the moment he catches a glimpse of lime-green robes. It’s quite a disappointment when the Healer that walks in to check his vitals is a greying, grumpy man with a face that seems to be twisted in a permanent scowl. Asking him where the good-looking Healer went to seems kind of impolite though, so he just sits and nods whenever the Healer grumbles something unintelligible.

“So, why have I gotten a different Healer?” he asks Aubrey later, trying to sound casual.

“Different Healer?” she asks, not understanding.

“Yeah,” he says, feeling to his great annoyance that his cheeks begin to flush. “There was this older man checking up on me, while before, there was the young man with the broad shoulder, shining dark hair, sweet smile, pretty eyes...” He trails off.

“Oh!” Understanding, and a not insignificant amount of amusement, appear on Aubrey’s face. “Oh, he wasn’t not your Healer, sweetie! He was visiting.”

“Ah,” he sighs disappointedly. So the Healer had only been here for some sort of second opinion, and he probably won’t be back. It was too good to be true, to have a Healer like that around as a nice distraction.

“Healer Black works for the Healing Against the Dark Arts Department,” Aubrey continues.

“You know him?” he asks.

“I know of him. But honestly,” she adds with a wink. “Everyone working at St Mungo’s knows of Healer Black!”

He chuckles. “I suppose he cannot not catch your eye.”

“It’s not just his appearance,” Aubrey says. “Healer Black is the leading expert on healing Dark Arts-related injuries and combating curses from the Dark Arts. He has invented novel Healing Spells and revolutionized the protocol for treating curses. Healers from all over the world consult him on their cases, and patients come to see him from all over the world.”

“Wow...” he sighs again, but this time it’s a more wistful sigh. He doesn’t even care anymore that he sounds like a love-struck teenager. Maybe Aubrey will write it off as a side-effect of the Confundo-charm. He briefly wonders about that himself, but as those bright, silver-grey eyes come to mind again, he knows he’s under a whole different kind of spell.

“Yeah,” Aubrey smiles. “He’s quite a remarkable man.”

“So I guess I won’t be seeing him again then,” he says dejectedly, letting his head hang. He wonders why they’d sent that Healer to come see him in the first place, as he surely must’ve had better things to do.

He hears a choked noise besides him, and he looks up at Aubrey, who seems to be stifling a laugh, with her hand pressed against her mouth. “Don’t worry, love,” she says with obvious amusement in her voice. “I’m sure you’ll be seeing more of him.”

The young man sitting next to his bed has been talking about his wife and their baby for an hour straight. Though it really isn’t so bad. His stories are quite amusing, and the man is very charismatic. He has sparkling eyes, and hair so messy, he had immediately checked whether it wasn’t storming outside when the man had entered. He has a disarming smile and a contagious laugh, and is surprisingly easy to talk to. He says his name is James Potter, and he’s Remus Lupin’s best friend.

He has to give Remus Lupin a pat on the back for having made such a nice friend. Honestly, the idea of socializing with new people, trying to make friends, does not appeal to him, and he’s glad to know Remus already has them.

“And I just went to see Sirius,” James says. “Well, more like I was speed walking next to him in the two minutes he had to get from one room to another. He still managed to apologize twenty times though. Normally, I’d say he should be sorry, but the poor guy seems to hardly have any time to eat or sleep.” James shakes his head. “Did you hear what happened? Three children were playing in the woods, and they must’ve accidentally touched an unknown cursed object. They were brought in barely conscious and with a mother completely beside herself. So of course, ‘the widely renowned and highly acclaimed, capable-of-the-impossible Healer Black’ was the only one who might save them. And he has, as they seem to be recovering,” James adds, relieved. “But really, there aren’t many excuses that would justify him not being here, but having to save children’s lives is definitely one of them.”

“Thank Merlin those children are alright. That sounds- Wait,” he says, before sitting up. “Healer Black? You know Healer Black?”

James blinks at him. “Ehm... Yeah?”

“Merlin, that man is so handsome!” he exclaims. “He was here for like two minutes, before he got called away to other patients, but I just can’t stop thinking about him! He already looks perfect, and now you’re telling me that he’s some kind of miracle Healer saving children’s lives?” He sighs. “It’s just not fair.”

At first, James still looks confused. Then his eyes widen in understanding, and his mouth starts twitching like he’s trying to hold back laughter.

He doesn’t blame him. He’d laugh at himself too, with how ridiculous he’s been acting over this random Healer. He just hopes he won’t have embarrassed Remus Lupin too much once his memories have returned.

“Don’t worry,” James says, in an amused voice. “Healer Black will come back as soon as he has the time.”

Now, his own eyes widen. “You really think he’d come to see me again?”

James lets out a strangled noise and starts coughing, which he strongly suspects being a laugh quickly covered up by a cough. “Yes,” James replies, suppressed laughter still sounding through in his voice. “I really think so.”

He knows it’s rather pathetic, but as he’s got nothing better to do, he did it anyway. He practiced what he’s going to say to Healer Black when, or if, he comes back.

He’ll tilt his head slightly downwards, so he’ll look up at the man through his lashes, and then he’ll give him a coy smile, while softly saying ‘Healer Black. It’s so good to see you again. I’ve heard many great things about you, and what you did for those children is truly admirable.’ Luckily, flirting seems to fall under semantic memory.

However, when the moment comes that Healer Black enters the room again, his carefully constructed plan falls apart.

At first, he’s stunned that yes, Healer Black really looks like that, and he hasn’t made it better in his head. Alright, the man has bags under his eyes, his robes are rumpled, and his hair is slightly greasy and so much strands are peaking out of his bun, making it look more messy than what would qualify as a normal messy bun, but he still looks like the most beautiful person in the world. He doesn’t even notice Aubrey and James walk in after Healer Black.

He opens his mouth to deliver his carefully practiced lines, but the words die in his throat as Healer Black... Well, flings himself at him. He literally splays out on top of him, hugging him close and pressing his face in the crook of his neck. “I missed you so much,” Healer Black murmurs against his skin.

He freezes. Yes, he has forgotten quite a lot, but he’s still pretty sure this is not the standard operating procedure for Healers to greet their patients. “Erm...” He says, once again ever so eloquently.

Healer Black lifts his head and looks up at him in confusion, but he can’t possibly be more confused than he’s feeling.

James scrapes his throat. “Remus, may I introduce you to Healer Sirius Black-Lupin, your husband?”

“So neither one of you decided to tell him?” Healer Black has crossed his arms over his chest and is glaring at Audrey and James.

“I’m sorry, Healer Black!” Aubrey squeaks. “I know I should’ve told him, but it was just too cute, watch him be all smitten with his own husband.”

He isn’t really listening. He’s openly staring at Healer Black. Apparently, he bloody married the guy, so it’s allowed, right?

“I don’t know how you pulled this off, Remus Lupin,” he whispers under his breath. “But thank you, and kudos to you, mate, kudos to you.”

As he looks at Healer Black up and down (at some point he’ll really have to stop referring to his husband as Healer Black, probably), he suddenly really wishes for his memories to come back fast, as there are some things he’d really like to remember.

Though on the other hand, he thinks, biting his lip, maybe ‘Healer Black’ won’t mind freshening up his memory in the meantime?

“Ugh,” Remus groans, hiding his face against Sirius’ chest. “I can’t believe I was practically drooling over you!”

Sirius chuckles while he’s rubbing soft circles on Remus’ back. “You were cute.”

As a reply, Remus just groans again.

“I’m sorry, though,” Sirius says, suddenly quietly. “It wouldn’t have happened if I had been by your side as I was supposed to be.”

Remus lifts up his head to look at Sirius. “Hey, none of that! You were saving lives.” He presses a quick kiss to his husband’s lips. “You wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else, and I wouldn’t have wanted you to be anywhere else.”

Sirius smiles softly at him, and Remus lays his head back on his chest. “Besides, it was a good reminder that I should be more proud of my accomplishment to get Healer Black to marry me.”

Sirius barks a laugh, that Remus can feel vibrating in his chest. “And how exactly was me down on one knee practically begging you to become my husband ‘you getting me to marry you’?”

Remus smiles fondly, happy that that memory is safely back in his head. “And it was nice to feel like having a new crush again,” he continues. “ All exhilarated, enraptured, and in awe.”

“Oh, Moony,” Sirius sighs, pressing a kiss to the top of Remus’ head. “I feel like that every time I look at you.”

[comehomeducklings]

Present [Part 1] (Obsession)

A/N: Please don't copy, redistribute, and/or post my work on this site or any others. This has taken my time and creativity to come up with the story's characters and plot.

Also, I swear my writing gets better. It's a little rough right now but I'm planning on rewriting them.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Tom Riddle's Moodboard

Main Character's Moodboard

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

1943 ~ 6th year

No sound above whispers could be heard throughout the great hall. The food on the table hasn't been touched by a single hand. The very thought of eating churning all our stomachs. Not during these times. Our heads turn every now and then, afraid of what might sneak up behind us. The death of Myrtle and others has shaken the entire school. A murderer is among us, trust is such a foreign concept now.

Dark purple eye-bags lay beneath every single student's eyes. No one is allowed to go home for the holidays. They aren't allowing us to leave, we are stuck in this cloud of darkness and uncertainty. No owls are supposed to be sent out. As the head girl, I'm responsible for every student's life and responsibilities. I have to know where everyone is at all times. It gets tiring at times, but necessary nonetheless.

A nightly routine consisted of all my dormmates huddling around each other. No sleep would come to us all night. We wouldn't move from the same spot until light shown from the windows. Our beds are all pressed together in the farthest corner of the room from the door. Our wands never leaving our hands in case of danger. Every little sound made from the outside provoking us. Even to the point of going mad. Potions used to stay awake, slowly wearing off as the morning arose. No sleep, we can't afford that luxury anymore.

I would leave the dorm to wait at the portrait for our assigned house professor to come. They would tell me it was safe for everyone to head to the great hall to get breakfast. As soon as they were done I quickly went to everyone's dormitory to wake them up, if they even slept at all. I would then inform them that it was safe to step out of their dorms. After everyone got situated I would have the students form a line and lead them towards the great hall. 1st-3rd years would occasionally hold the folds of my robes. Fearing that when they blink I would be gone. Leaving them alone to deal with the dangers that lurk in the school.

Not once have I lied about how they are going to be all right. That would be cruel. These students don't seek pathetic nurturing words, they want a protective force watching over them. So many clubs and activities have been canceled. Hogsmede and quidditch proving as a prime example. No one complained though, quidditch players too afraid to even step out of the castle's walls even if they were allowed.

Back to the present, I hold my good friend's hand as she slightly shakes from anxiety. I can see it in her eyes, the doubt of making it alive eating away at her brain. The spark once present in her shiny green eyes being blown out. Amelia, her name being. She's been biting her nails again, to the point where it had bled. This can be backed by the dried-up blood that is present at the tip of her finger's nail.

A booming voice can be heard, "You are now being dismissed to head to class, your houses head girl and boy will be assigning the group you'll be heading off with."

First period has been removed from every perfect and head's schedule. During this time we search the whole castle for any wanders. We make sure everyone is where they are supposed to be. If someone got lost or went to the wrong class we escort them to where they need to be.

After every class, students have a limited amount of time to get to their next lesson. Although, perfects and heads get more time to make sure everyone is where they are needed quickly. Then we hurry to our class after scanning the halls swiftly.

The once safest school of the wizarding world giving birth to the dark ages. More bodies have been found littering the schools. Most of them not found until their ghosts appear before us. Every single one not knowing how they died. Like the murderer is invisible upon meeting the victim. I originally suggested it could have been done by poison. When the bodies were checked, no traces of poison had been traced.

Professors have been waiting for the person who is responsible to slip up, to give us a clue. I don't think that will happen though. The process of these killings has been too thought out and well planned. I wouldn't be surprised if these mass killings have been planned months before, even maybe years. I've been talking to the ghosts to try and gather all details, even the potentially useless ones. When our headmaster made us heads keep tabs on everyone, the killings stopped for a short amount of time. It was like the mastermind was creating a way to best us, to get past the "little inconvenience." It didn't take long for them to find the weak parts in the plan.

What we have got though, is that every single student killed has been a muggle-born. A classic case of an unfair stigma around the poor wizards and witches. They never were able to catch a break. Amelia, one of my close friends in the friend group. She's a muggle-born, hence the shaking of her hands. I've been keeping a closer eye on her, she doesn't leave my side. She comes on my patrols so I can keep her in my sights, with of course the permission of the teachers. There are only two times that I can not watch over her. Those two times are covered by my other friend Devyn, a pure-blood. She also helps keep her safe, not letting her go anywhere by herself. The two times are because she's in two different classes than I am. One of them being a study hall.

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

"Professor, how will this class help us now? Reading teacups for predictions should be the least of our worries right now," a student at the back of the room exclaims.

"The said predictions could lead us to the future before it happens. Our worries lay exactly what will happen in the future. If anything, this is one of the most important classes we'll take this year," I say, continuing to read the teacup.

"Precisely, thank you. Now go back to studying, I'll be coming around to view your interpretations."

My tea leaves look more like a blob with a cross going through them. A weirdly shaped blob. I already know there is a cross, but what about the blob? I tried shaking it a little, looking at the leaves from different angles. I already crossed off a club, falcon, and the sun. It could be an acorn, but I see a slight hole in the blob.

Could it be...

"A skull that is." I jump at the sudden voice near my ear. My teacup almost falling from my grasp.

"Pardon, a what?"

She points towards two holes in the blob, one of them I just mentioned, "I saw you already found one hole, there's the other. How it's shaped could be a little difficult to see since the cross is through it, but it's there."

The professor takes the cup from my hand and lays it on her desk. Some of my classmates look at me in curiosity, but they soon lose interest and go back to their own tea leaves.

A cross and a skull, that sounds about right to how my school year is going so far. I scan my book to see exactly what they mean.

A skull, danger in your path.

A cross, trials and suffering.

"What d-did you find?" A Hufflepuff boy to my right asks.

I don't want to scare the poor boy, he's already frightened enough as it is. If my future got around to the school, everyone would start being concerned about me. I'll barely get any of my duties done if I didn't already get it taken away for my safety. Last thing I need right now is even more panic.

"Nothing much, the future is still a little foggy."

"That's, um, good. I couldn't really read mine either," he chuckles lightly, almost seemingly forced.

Our professor claps her hands together, "Class is dismissed, read up about your predictions if you haven't already. No homework today."

I gather my books and push in my chair. Right before I could reach the door where other students are waiting, the teacher stops me.

"I'll have to tell the headmaster about this, I shouldn't keep it a secret."

"No, please don't. If you must, only tell Albus. I can't have this messing anything up, I'll become vulnerable."

The professor looks around the room, her eyes wandering franticly. I'm sure I am asking a lot from her. I really need her to keep this a secret.

"Oh alright, you're my best student. I just would hate to see anything happen to you. I'm informing only Albus to see if he can keep an eye on you."

"Thank you so much, I swear I'll be careful." A huge weight is lifted off my shoulders. I can't be worrying about my future when I have to worry about everyone else's.

I leave the classroom and start heading to my next class. Potions have always been one of my favorite classes. Mixing a bunch of toxins into a pot is a specialty of mine. I'm quickly scanning the halls for any wanderers, making sure everyone is at class. My feet take me to Potions in a hurry. I don't want to miss much, trying to make the class as informational as possible.

"You shouldn't be running, you still have 3 minutes of checking the school."

It's always him, I even tried changing routes to avoid him. His idiotic smirk, thinking he actually did something. All he did is waste my time and train of thought.

"I'm allowed to run Riddle, it's not a rule. I already checked the halls I was assigned, did you?" I really have no energy for this.

Tom peers down at me, somehow still wearing that infamous smile. Eyes bright, filled with mischief and knowledge.

"I have, double-checked as well. I'm sure you only checked once. Such irresponsible actions, I still wonder how you nabbed the head-girl spot."

I choose not to answer, not giving in to his baiting. Does he think I'm that stupid? That easily bothered by a simple test of my patience.

"You could have just said you wanted to walk me to class Riddle. No need to be shy with me."

"Shy, a concept I would not know of. Might as well bring you to class, since I'm heading there myself. Wouldn't want you to be in danger, since you consistently prove you can't handle a simple check of the hallways."

"I told you Tom-"

"Once is not enough, you should know that by now," he interrupts me, feigning a sudden serious facade on.

We start heading towards Slughorn's room. I'm a little behind his figure. Mostly looking down to make sure I don't step over his feet and fall. He sometimes walks with me, very confusing if I may say. Hating my skills, probably still hates me. You can often find us arguing if we are ever partners in class together. The usual game we play, how many questions can we get right by the end of class. Last time he won by one point, my sour mood not helping the atmosphere.

"You look rested, more than me at least," I smile tiredly. My whole body slightly sagging forward from exhaustion. He looks as proper as someone could be. His skin is a little pale though, brighter than usual. Almost like he was sick, his eyes look darker too. More sunken in, the shape of his skull more prominent. His looks still annoyingly well presented.

"Yes, you do look rather tired. I see other things have prioritized above your looks."

This man, the audacity of this man. The only reason I'm not at the top of every class. Our number 1 student count being evenly split. I have to bite down on my tongue forcefully to not say anything back. I'm too tired to truly come back with anything witty, so I choose to save myself from the embarrassment. Instead, I slightly step on his robe on the ground causing him to trip up a little.

He quickly sends a warning glare my way and then continues walking. I smile slightly, knowing even if it was petty, it was worth it.

Riddle doesn't even hold the door for me when we walk in. Causing it to slam dangerously close to my face.

"There you two are, I was afraid you weren't going to make it," Slughorn exclaims excitedly. "Turn your textbooks to page 246, we are going to learn how to make a Polyjuice potion!"

I glance at Tom, his eyes only focus on the words before him not realizing my gaze is on him. I wonder if he'll make this a competition as well. Knowing him, as well as me, anything but competition is out of our character. He looks up catching my eyes, I tilt my head. Trying to silently communicate from afar.

His head turns to Slughorn, then back to me. He nods his head and that's all it takes for both of us to come to an understanding. Whoever can answer the most questions, and create the best potion gets bragging rights.

I don't intend to lose.

[tennessoui]

omgggg yes number 45 gimme some number 45 obikin PLEASE

ok,,,,,,this is no. 1 Soulmates + no.45 in love with best friend's partner but it kinda got away from me so it's almost 2k and also like there's world-building im awful at snippets. This is obikin but also mentions of qui-gon/anakin BUT it's a fake relationship. it's not in the story, but the premise obi-wan doesn't know is that anakin needed coruscanti citizenship to get their healthcare for his mom, and qui-gon decides to help him out by marrying him to give him automatic citizenship i uh might continue this if people like it because it was fun to write whoops

“We met at the spaceport three days ago,” Anakin says with a demure little smile, curling further into Qui-Gon’s outstretched arm. The soft lamplight glints off the golden band Anakin’s wearing on his finger. Obi-Wan has had a hard time looking anywhere else since arriving in his old master’s quarters, has had a hard time thinking of anything else except that he’d always imagined Anakin wearing a more bronzed shade of gold.

It had been a shock to hear that while Obi-Wan had been out on a mission, Qui-Gon had returned to Coruscant with a husband in tow. Yes, alright, short courtships aren’t rare anywhere in the galaxy, especially between soulmates.

But Obi-Wan knows intimately well--better than anyone else in this room--that Anakin and Qui-Gon aren’t, in fact, soulmates.

Mace seems to be thinking the same thing because he states, with a slight question in his voice, “I was under the impression that your soulmate had passed into the Force, Qui-Gon.”

“We’re not soulmates,” Qui-Gon corrects placidly, arm moving away from Anakin’s shoulders--Obi-Wan can breathe again--so he can fiddle with the cuff around his wrist, which hides the faded name of his mate. “But now that the Jedi Order has lifted its marriage ban for non-Soulmate couples, I thought, why spend the rest of my life alone?”

Anakin catches Qui-Gon’s hand and places a kiss on the back of his fingers. Obi-Wan is going to scream.

When Anakin looks up to the assembled Jedi watching, he doesn’t look at Obi-Wan once. It’s the worst thing in the galaxy, the fact that other than very briefly an hour ago, Anakin hasn’t looked at him at all. It’s been five years. “And I’ve met my soulmate, but they…decided they didn’t want to stay with me, that they didn’t want me.”

Obi-Wan inhales sharply at this and forgets to bite his tongue. “Maybe your soulmate had other obligations that they had to fulfill,” Obi-Wan bites out.

He’d thought Anakin ignoring him had been awful, but that’s nothing compared to the pain of having him look at him with eyes as cold as Hoth. “I think I’d know more about my soulmate than you would, master Jedi. Ah, I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

Obi-Wan almost tells him to check his wrist if he needs a reminder about Obi-Wan’s name, but the words get stuck in his throat.

It’s probably for the best.

Obi-Wan’s spent five years and the duration of a war hiding the name of his soulmate from the Jedi Order, and he can’t say it now. His other half has made it quite clear that he can’t say it now.

“Excuse me,” Obi-Wan says, standing suddenly. He knows he should stay, should sit through the rest of the intake interview the Council gives to all non-Jedi sentients that marry a Jedi, soulmates or no, but he can’t. He’s the youngest person to sit on the Council in written history, he’s survived a war, trained the stubbornest Padawan of her generation, and this--this--looking across the table at Anakin Skywalker, dolled up and petty and full of hatred for him as he wears another man’s ring, Obi-Wan’s former master’s ring--this is going to be the thing that kills him.

Luckily, no one tries to stop him as he leaves. Maybe they think he’s just reacting to the fact that his fifty-eight year old master came home with a twenty-five year old husband. Maybe everything he’s feeling is written out on his face. Maybe he should never have tried to hide Anakin away. Maybe he should have called for extraction from his deep cover mission as soon as their hands had touched and their soulmarks had appeared. Maybe these past seven years should never have happened.

Force knows Obi-Wan would sleep easier if he had never walked into that Tatooine bar. If he had never met Anakin Skywalker.

He tries to meditate in his favorite spot in the Room of A Thousand Fountains, but it’s an impossible task. Mostly, he sits in a classic lotus position and broods.

A few hours later, when Obi-Wan thinks he’s recovered some of his composure, the person who’s always been able to ruin it sits himself down in front of him with a lot of unnecessary noise.

“When you talked about this place, I thought it sounded like the biggest waste of water in the entire galaxy,” Anakin’s voice sounds...normal. Like they’re picking up the thread of a conversation they had just dropped a moment ago, as if five years and a wedding and a war don’t stretch between them.

But if Anakin wants to talk to Obi-Wan like they had before, he’ll try his hardest to meet him there. Slowly, he opens his eyes. Anakin’s lounging back, still wearing the ceremonial robes of a Jedi’s bride, the loose blue silk barely hanging onto one of his shoulders. Obi-Wan wants to close his eyes again, immediately. “The greenery wouldn’t be able to survive without the water.”

Anakin nods, looking around as if slightly disinterested by it all. When he’d been eighteen, he’d soaked up every story Obi-Wan could tell him about the Temple, about the Jedi. Those piercing blue eyes find him again. It’s as if he knows Obi-Wan’s thoughts, because he smiles in the most humorless way. “I used to think I’d live here, and then I could see for myself if the beauty was worth the excess.”

“And?” Obi-Wan asks. It’s all he can get out of his throat. It’s very clear what Anakin isn’t saying. That he used to think he’d live here with Obi-Wan. That they'd be--that they'd be.

“Now I understand that there’s no winning that argument. What one man sees as a waste, another might see as a treasure.”

Obi-Wan can’t do this. He thought--maybe he could--but. He can’t. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, moving to stand on his feet. “I hate to leave, but I must attend to--”

Anakin scrambles to his feet and latches onto Obi-Wan’s covered wrist. “Do you?” he asks intently, his hold tightening. “Did you?”

“This--this is most inappropriate, Chosen Skywalker, please remove yourself from my person.”

Anakin, blast him, moves even closer. Obi-Wan wonders if he can hear his heartbeat from that far away or if it’s just in Obi-Wan’s ears. “You have to tell me,” he demands. He’s always demanded things from Obi-Wan. Stories, and kisses, and comfort, and promises. Obi-Wan had given him everything he’d asked for, up until the very end.

Unsurprisingly, nothing has changed.

“Tell you what,” Obi-Wan snaps, yanking his wrist away from Anakin’s touch. Even through the covering, his skin feels burned. “Tell you that I hated having to leave you? Tell you that I’ve thought about you every night since then? Tell you that there was a war, that I had to fight, that I didn’t choose to go? That I had a duty to the galaxy, to the Jedi, to my family?”

“You had a duty to me!” Anakin snarls back, squaring his shoulders and shoving forward into Obi-Wan’s space. “I was your soulmate and you left me and I waited and you never once called me, never once tried to visit! And then the war ended and you never came back!” His voice breaks and the flood of words Obi-Wan desperately does not want to hear breaks with it for just a second. “Why didn’t you come back? I don’t...I don’t care that you had to fight. I knew I couldn’t leave with you, not until I had freed my mom. But you just. You left.”

“I’m not the same man I was, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says softly. His voice shakes and he has to turn his head away from his soulmate’s watery blue eyes. “The war--it changed me. It hurt, to fight and kill and strategize on how to more effectively fight and kill the next day. Four years of that, and I knew at the end I wasn’t fit to be anyone’s soulmate, least of all yours.”

When Obi-Wan had first met him, Anakin had been laughing. His head had been tipped back, curls falling over his shoulders. The noise had been loud and honest. He’d been radiant in the Force. It had taken weeks for Obi-Wan to really believe something so bright could be the other half of his soul.

“I wanted to,” Obi-Wan whispers. “Every night I wanted to, and it only got harder after the war ended. I never stopped wanting to. Wanting you.”

“How am I supposed to believe you?” Anakin asks. Obi-Wan wants to ask him why it matters if he believes him or not, but Anakin’s words from earlier float back to him. They decided they didn’t want to stay with me, that they didn’t want me. He can’t let Anakin continue to think Obi-Wan didn’t want him, not when he wanted him so badly he ached from it.

With shaking fingers, he moves to pull down the collar of his robes, just far enough that he can pull out the japor snippet he’s worn around his neck since the day Anakin gave it to him. He slowly lifts it over his head and presents it to his soulmate. Anakin’s eyes are wide with wonder as he stares down at the necklace, worm almost smooth by how often Obi-Wan had rubbed the carving with his thumb. “Always, Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs, reaching out to grab Anakin’s hand and dropping the wood carving into his palm. He carefully folds the man’s lax fingers around the necklace.

Hating himself for doing it, but needing to do it anyway, he brushes his lips over his fingers in a ghost of a kiss. Beneath his mouth, the wedding band feels warm from Anakin’s body heat. It’s a shockingly cold reminder.

“May the Force bless you and your Chosen, and reunite you at every end of your every day,” Obi-Wan whispers the Council’s official blessings for newly-wed couples into Anakin’s skin.This is the last time he’s ever going to touch him. He doesn’t want to let go.

He must. He does.

[salandition]

Its,,,,, so basic but Maybe Leon and Reader are training out near Circhester and get caught in a snowstorm? They find an old cabin amongst the trees and tHeReS OnLy OnE BED and they have to keep warm,,,, (Love your writing btw)

A/N: yes, the classic trope. I will gladly take a bite out of it :) Also this one kind of really dragged on, so it’s a bit long lol took me way too long to finish. if any of you recognize the title, ur a real one 

Chilly Down (Good Times, Bad Food)

Leon x Reader

--- --- ---

You feel like you should have expected something like this to happen. Despite what a great guy Leon is and how fun it is to hang out with him, he was sort of a magnet for trouble. He had an ability to draw in unfortunate events wherever he went it seemed. 

So you’re not completely surprised when you and Leon are hit with an unexpected snowstorm while training together outside of Circhester. Are you a bit miffed about it? Yes. But surprised? No, not really. 

“Training with the Champion is great and all,” you yell over the storm, one arm in front of your face to uselessly protect you from the snow, and your other hand is holding tightly onto Leon’s. Grabbing hold of him was almost more important than making it out of the storm- if you lost sight of Leon during this, you might never see him ever again. He’d find some way to end up on an undiscovered continent, you just know it. “But I think I’ll pass on your invitations after this!” You finally finish, continuing to trudge through the snow with him. 

“You know, usually I’d argue, but I think that’s fair,” Leon laughs, and then immediately shuts his mouth as a rush of cold air hits him and tries to travel down his throat. He hacks a few times- a few ice crystals probably hit his uvula or something- and then you feel a harsh tug on your hand. “Look!” 

Leon points toward a dim but very much real yellow glow in the distance. Immediately, the two of you head for it- desperate for any shelter you could be given. Part of you was doubtful, wondering if it was just some luminescent Pokémon or a random streetlight. Though even a streetlight would be better than nothing- that would mean you were back on the route’s path and could find your way back to Circhester if you were lucky. 

But it wasn’t a random streetlight. Thank whatever Gods that may exist- the light was coming from a big, sturdy wooden cabin, a sign being viciously blown by the wind read that it was even a hotel. What are the odds? 

“This is literally the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Leon yells as you both make a run for the cabin. 

“I believe it!” 

You almost fall with the amount of force that you and Leon enter the cabin with- both frantic to get out of the biting cold. You actually do fall, tumbling into a roll on the ground and snow scattering everywhere as Leon fumbles for the door and slams it shut before you bring too much of the storm inside. 

Heavily breathing, you don’t even notice the lady behind the counter before she coughs. 

Leon looks up with a beaming grin, laughing as he huffs and puffs, leaning against the door. “Hell of a storm, innit?” 

Not the smartest thing to say, but the lady gives out an amused snort anyway. 

“I’m assuming the two of you will be purchasing a room?” She tilts her head with a gleam in her eye. Something tells you that business isn’t going so well if she’s working in a hotel in the middle of nowhere and she’s still charging when you’re both obviously stranded- but hey, that’s life. You look up to Leon as you stay on the floor, hands on your chest as you continue to try and catch your breath. 

“Let me see,” you huff and wheeze, “those Champion benefits,” another huff, “big guy.” 

It’s not that funny but Leon laughs so hard that he starts to slide down the door, knees buckling beneath him, and you think that’s really funny so you start laughing too, rolling on the floor. The lady watches all the while, and if you notice a flying Rotom recording you while you and Leon lose your minds over nothing, you don’t say anything about it. 

Once Leon manages to shuffle over and pay the woman at the desk after your post-adrenaline delirium, she gladly shows you over to your room. You’re suddenly feeling exhausted after trudging through a snowstorm, so you don’t pay much attention to what she says as she leads you there- but it’s not like you need to. Leon does most of the talking as he keeps you steady with an arm around your shoulder. 

You don’t notice the look the woman gives you, nor do you notice the look Leon gives back. All you feel is the comforting rub of his hand on your arm, and it’s nice. 

“Enjoy your stay, you two,” is the only thing you pick up from her before the door is shut and you’re left alone in your newly-purchased hotel room.

There’s an important detail here, and that detail is the fact that there’s only one bed, and you’ve never shared a bed with Leon before. Sure, you’re friends, but you’ve never been the cuddling-type of friends. This detail is completely missed by both of you as luck would have it because as soon as you and Leon manage to remove your clothes, you’re out like a pair of lights the second your backs hit the mattress. 

No, the problem and important detail doesn’t really announce itself in your mind until morning comes. Well- afternoon, actually, if you managed to look at a clock. 

When you awake- at first, it’s not strange. It’s not strange until you recognize the hand around your waist, hair in your face, and legs entwined with yours- which is definitely not something that’s a usual occurrence for you. Recognizing all of these details, your eyes snap open, and you begin to take in the situation as it is. 

Leon and you both stripped down to your underwear, definitely cuddling, and definitely in the only bed available in the room as far as you can see. And from what you can tell with how the walls shake and the windows vibrate, the storm is still going strong. 

Right. 

“Leon,” your voice is hoarse from sleep as you smack your lips, your hand lifting up to shake Leon’s arm that’s wrapped tightly around your waist. “Leon, you daft idiot, wake up,” 

“Mmmgh,”

“I’ll… I’ll steal all your Pokémon, and run off to another country. Wake up, Leon.” The threat is creative, but lacking any real malice behind it as you continue to shake Leon’s body. A few more rough shakes and he finally blinks his eyes open. 

“Where… where am I?” He mumbles almost incoherently as he blinks a few more times, lifting himself up on his elbows as he takes in his surroundings. A bit of drool falls from the corner of his mouth. 

It’s kind of cute, but also kind of gross, and Leon is still kind of on top of you in nothing but his underwear. You begin to wonder if he’s ever going to notice- but finally, his expression seems to come to life as his mind wakes up and he looks up and down your body again. 

“...Right. Yeah, my bad.” Grunting, Leon finally rolls off you and to the other side of the bed. You want to laugh at the pinkness of his ears and cheeks if you weren’t vividly aware you probably looked exactly the same, so you bite your tongue for now. Apparently, the both of you have agreed to ignore your partial nudity for now as Leon holds his head in his hands, keeping his gaze off you as he asks, “why on Galar am I so tired?” 

“Maybe we were supposed to die,” you snicker, sitting up yourself and bringing up the covers as you do, trying to stay somewhat-modest. “And now our brains are realizing we’re actually alive and it doesn’t know what to do.” 

Despite himself, Leon giggles. “Yeah, maybe.” 

The window shakes from more pressure of the storm outside. It gets your attention for sure, and you realize that you should probably check your phone to see when this storm would even end. Very, very slowly, you shuffle out of bed, analyzing the floor and looking at how scattered your clothes are. It takes your tired mind a minute to find your bag, but when you do, it’s not good news. 

Of course there’s no service. 

“Ugh,” you groan again. “This sucks.” 

“Put on some clothes,” Leon says from the bed and you roll your eyes.

“They’re drenched, mate, and so are yours,”

Leon’s head snaps up from his hands at that. “Really?” You’ve got no reason to lie about that but he scatters toward his clothes anyway, feeling the damp and dirty texture of them with his own hands, as if that would change their outcome. You’re definitely not checking out his butt as he bends over to pick them up, because that would be silly and childish. 

Very nice view, though. 

Leon sighs. “Of course. Don’t suppose this hotel has a store of any sort?” 

“Good one,” you laugh. “Probably not, but I’ll check the bathroom for robes-“

“Oh, let me do it,”

“Why?”

“I’ve really got to pee, mate,” 

“Right on, then,” you point him toward the direction of the bathroom and Leon immediately makes himself sparse. You can only laugh as you watch him go, and while you wait, you gather all of your wet clothes and start to hang them all around the room so they might dry while you wait out the storm. 

“Good news,” Leon comes out of the bathroom and you look over your shoulder, seeing him hold up two white, fluffy robes. He tosses one your way and you catch it easily, wrapping yourself up quickly and Leon follows suit. “So, roomie,” Leon raises a brow at you, hands on his hips, “what do we do now?”

You wave your phone that’s in your hand. “We got no service, so we should probably check in with that lady who was at the desk if she knows anything about the weather reports.” Your eyes move to look at the bed. “And maybe you should talk her into changing us to a room with two beds.” For both of your sakes. 

“Right,” Leon nods. “Let’s go, then.”

More bad news, though. The lady didn’t know anything about the weather other than the fact that these storms usually lasted a day or two, so, in her own words, ‘if you’re lucky, you won’t be here much longer, but I can’t assure that. Also, you’re charged per night, per room.’ 

And all the rooms in this shotty little hotel only had one bed, so the idea of getting privacy at night was a lost cause. You weren’t the biggest fan of wasting your money or Leon’s on two rooms, anyway, especially since the owner seemed to be somewhat rude. So that’s nice. 

‘At least she had food’, Leon had told you positively, and you suppose he was right. She had a rather weak list of a menu, but ‘at least there was a menu’ so you wouldn’t have to eat whatever berries you had in your bag. The two of you seemed to dance around the fact that you were going to most likely be sleeping partly nude again tonight, except this time you’ll both be a lot more awake and conscious of it. You distracted yourself with the mediocre food that tasted mildly burnt or undercooked, no in-between, and playing with what Pokémon could fit in your small hotel room instead until both of your eyes were drooping and you couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. 

“So.” You stand on one side of the bed, Leon on the other. Both of you stare at each other with your hands on your hips. 

“So,” Leon nods. 

“Should we… make rules?” Looking down at the bed and up at Leon, you know that technically you guys could try to stay on your side of the bed and probably not touch each other all night. 

But you were keenly aware that this man is a cuddler and you had a subconscious habit to scoot over to the warmest thing while you slept, so it seemed like physical interaction was going to happen one way or the other.

“I think that’s a bit pretentious,” he scratches his chin and shrugs. His nonchalance is downplayed by the heat on his cheeks and the sweat on his temple. “It’s fine if we… Cuddle. Right?” 

You suppose so. “I guess,” you purse your lips. “Typically friends cuddle with clothes on, though. And these robes are too awkward to sleep in.” 

“I mean, we did it before.” 

That’s true, but again, both of you were a bit delirious. But you can’t really argue with that, and you’re getting tired of dancing, so you nod and sigh. With a burst of courage, you square your shoulders, narrowing your eyes. Leon looks at you strangely before he squawks, his hands flying to cover his face when you remove your robe, the material falling and pooling around your feet. 

“Some warning!” He chokes and coughs. You laugh through your embarrassment, quickly getting on the bed and under the covers. 

“Come on. We could be sitting here all night. Lose the robe,” you cheer him on and Leon glares at you through the spaces of his fingers. “Lose the robe! Lose the robe!” 

“Stop!” He laughs and you giggle along, but it slowly ebbs and abruptly comes to a halt when Leon does, in fact, lose the robe. It’s too much to ask for him to not notice how you stare, so of course he does- humming proudly as he snuggles under the covers. “Speechless?” Leon smiles. 

“Don’t push it, I saw you ogling me the first time,” 

He coughs when you smirk. 

“Fine. Come here and cuddle me if you’re so smart.”

“Fine, I will!”

“Do it.”

“I’m gonna.”

The two of you lay under the covers, Leon’s arms open and beckoning, and you- frozen, not moving an inch. It’s not until he gives you a cocky look and starts to wiggle forward that you finally bite your lip and shove down your ego, rolling over to his side. It should be awkward, and it is, but only because the two of you somehow manage to fit together perfectly and that’s a bit odd. Your head resting against his collarbone, his arms wrapped snugly around your body, your legs entwined in a comfortable and fitting manner. It all happens almost instantaneously as if you’d both done this for years, as if it was a habit.

“Not that bad, right?” Leon murmurs in your ear and hums when your fingers trail little patterns across the skin of his waist and back. You mostly just did it to ease your nerves, not realizing how intimate the action was, but you figure it’s fine if Leon seems to like it. His hands explore your hair and the nape of your neck, the feeling making you curl further against him with a sigh. 

“Not bad,” you whisper. “Still odd.”

He hums but doesn’t prod the conversation along any further.

Several odd minutes pass, your breathing slowing as your body relaxes against Leon’s. Right as you find yourself on that warm, lulling cusp of falling asleep, there’s a brushing feeling against the top of your head. Leon’s body shuffles and lowers on the mattress and you’re about to whine a complaint about him moving around so much- but you’re silenced by the feeling of lips against your forehead. 

The hand that was previously teasing the skin of your neck trailed up and lightly grazed your cheek as Leon’s lips moved across your forehead to your brow. The actions are relaxing, yes, but your body tenses regardless because friends don’t do this. 

“Leon,” your whisper is like a shout compared to the dark silence in the room. Leon freezes up instantly at the sound of it and when you open your eyes, his head is angled in a way with his lips still pressed against your temple so you can’t see his expression. “...What are you doing?” You lick your lips nervously.

“...I thought you were sleeping.” Is all he has to say. You can’t say anything in reply to that because it’s fairly obvious to the both of you that no, you weren’t sleeping. “Um.” The air that leaves his mouth is hot against your skin.

From where your head rests, snug against his chest, you can almost feel the thundering pace of his heart more than you hear it. You idly wonder if it’s possible for hearts to beat in sync with one another. 

“Leon,” you say again when he doesn’t offer any explanation. He sucks in a shaky breath, his arm propping up from under him as he finally comes into your field of view; his eyes downcast and refusing to meet yours as he scoots away from you and lays his head back on his pillow. His hand lowers from your cheek down to your waist, touching your skin and then jolting back and insecurely moving against his chest, instead. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, “that was a bit creepy.” 

You remember the feeling of his heartbeat, and you don’t think that’s creepy at all. 

You reach your hand forward, tenderly cupping Leon’s jaw as he had done to you. Finally, he looks at you- his golden irises shining like glowflies in the darkness. The moment held between you now is a stark contrast to the harsh snowstorm outside- if you strain your ear, you’d be able to hear the whistling of the wind and the creaking of the trees. 

For now, all you can hear is your heart in your ears and the voice in your head saying kiss him, kiss him, kiss him. 

You’re aware that friends don’t do this. They don’t look at each other like this and they don’t press their lips against each other so softly- meekly. Lovingly. Maybe if you’re experimenting, maybe if you’re a different type of friend. But you and Leon aren’t like that, you’ve never been like that. 

So if things are different now, that’s something that’s a treasured secret between you, him, and the snow. 

[robininthelabyrinth]

prompt: time-travel fic for the untamed BUT the time travel is an accident, its body-and-mind, and the junior trio (or quartet) have unexpectedly appeared on a battlefield in the middle of the sunshot campaign instead of the small town they were on a nighthunt in moments ago. fairy is there?

“I feel like I’ve had nightmares about this,” said the one wearing what looked like Jin sect robes in color and gaudiness, except for the fact that the cut was classic Yunmeng Jiang.

“I feel like I’ve had wet dreams about this,” the taller of the Lan sect disciples, a clan child immediately recognizable by their outfits and the cloud pattern on their forehead ribbons, said.

“Jingyi! What the fuck?”

“Listen, the whole demonic cultivation thing is really cool,” the tall Lan sect kid argued, and now Wei Wuxian really was full-on eavesdropping where before he’d been mostly ignoring them. Someone in the Lan sect thought he was cool? One of Lan Wangji’s juniors, even? He had to hear this. “The whole spooky effect, the darkness, you can’t say you don’t find it –”

“I don’t care what you find it! I don’t even care if you think it! But you shouldn’t say it!”

“He’s right, Jingyi,” the shorter Lan sect junior said. “You’ll be writing lines for three days when we get home.”

“If we get home, you mean,” the Jin sect junior muttered. “Where even are we? And who’s the guy playing Chenqing?”

Wei Wuxian was mildly offended. Who in the world knew enough to recognize Chenqing on sight but couldn’t recognize him?

“I’m pretty sure that’s Senior Wei,” the shorter Lan sect junior said. “Just, you know, not…Senior Mo.”

“Oh. Right. Got it. Why is he just standing there, though?”

“Maybe he got distracted? I don’t know.”

Wei Wuxian shook his head and lifted Chenqing to his lips again. Whatever was up with those weirdo juniors, they were right: the middle of a battlefield was no place to get distracted.

He was three lines into the next song when he heard them start up again.

“He’s really much better, isn’t he? Better lung capacity, more skillful handling…”

“I didn’t want to say anything, but you’re right. Hey, Senior Wei! Good flute playing!”

“Yeah, well done! Please never swap Chenqing for a piece of bamboo and make all our ears bleed!”

Okay, what the fuck.

Wei Wuxian finished the song through sheer force of will before turning around and making his way over to where the juniors were standing. Not a single one of them looked even remotely troubled by him; one of the other ones, in the colors of Baling Ouyang, even gave him a jaunty little wave.

“Who are you?” Wei Wuxian demanded.

“Wow, grouchy,” the one called ‘Jingyi’ said.

“Wouldn’t you be?” the Jin sect one said immediately, and, weird. Since when do Jin sect cultivators come to Wei Wuxian’s defense? “He’s fighting a war!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, young mistress –”

“Don’t call me that!”

The calmer Lan sect disciple coughed. “Jin Ling, maybe you should ask Senior Wei what you wanted to ask him?”

Maybe they should answer his questions. Questions like who the fuck where they and what in the world they were doing on a battlefield where they were clearly not supposed to be.

Still, they were pretty chatty – Wei Wuxian figured that if he let them talk, eventually he’d figure out what was happening.

“Right,” the Jin sect disciple – Jin Ling, apparently – said, then turned to him. “Shishu, we seem to have gotten lost –”

“Hold up,” Wei Wuxian said, breaking immediately from his internal vow to let them talk. “Shishu? Are you - are you Jiang sect?”

“Uh, yes, I’m the Jiang sect heir, at least technically, and that means I can call you shishu,” Jin Ling said. “We’ve been over this a dozen times already!”

“Technically, Jin Ling, you haven’t,” Lan Jingyi chirped. “It hasn’t happened yet, remember? You haven’t even been born yet –”

“Oh, right.”

“What is going on here?” Wei Wuxian asked, and now his voice just sounded plaintive.

“Oh,” Jin Ling said. “Didn’t we say? Time travel.”

“I still think you shouldn’t just tell people that,” the Ouyang kid said.

“We’ve been over this. There’s no way we’ll be able to figure out how to get home without Senior Wei’s help.”

“If you’re the future Jiang sect heir, why are you wearing sparks amid snow?” Wei Wuxian finally remembered to ask, though actually, looking at the kid’s face, it really did look a lot like Jiang Cheng. “Why’s your name Jin Ling? Who named you?”

“My mom?” Jin Ling said blankly, clearly misunderstanding the question. “Obviously?”

“Yeah, I mean, we’d all know if his uncle named him,” Lan Jingyi said. “It’d probably be something like Princess or Flower Petal or –”

“You shut up about my uncle! And for the hundredth time, Fairy is a perfectly good name for a dog!”

Yeah, okay, Wei Wuxian was convinced that the kid’s uncle was Jiang Cheng. But if his maternal uncle was Jiang Cheng, that meant…

“You’re shijie’s kid?! With – with the peacock?! But they aren’t even engaged anymore!”

“They got back together later,” Jin Ling said. “You can’t say anything, though. I don’t want to get wiped out of existence.”

“Don’t worry,” Wei Wuxian said, clutching at his head. “As soon as this is done, I’m going to pretend that this was all a drunken hallucination.”

“You were drinking before a battle?” the shorter Lan sect kid said. “Senior Wei! You shouldn’t!”

“Pretend,” Wei Wuxian said, somehow feeling guilty. “I said pretend! And anyway, who are you to lecture me?”

“He’s your son,” Lan Jingyi said. “You gave birth to him, or so you’re always saying.”

“…what? No. He’s a Lan.”

Wait, maybe that’s not the part that should be weird here.

“Of course he’s a Lan!” Lan Jingyi said. “You left all the work of raising him on Hanguang-jun, you scum! The least you can do is let Sizhui have his surname!”

Wei Wuxian needed to sit down.

“You’re not being very nice,” the shorter Lan sect disciple – Sizhui? His son? With Hanguang-jun??? – told Lan Jingyi.

“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity,” Lan Jingyi pointed out in return.

“He has a point,” Jin Ling said. “And anyway, technically nothing he said was a lie.”

Wei Wuxian covered his face.

Forget drunken hallucination. He was going to need therapy after this conversation.

[babyjamiebarnes]

Build-A-Bear

Part Ten

Featuring: Bucky x Stark!reader, dad!Tony, Peter Parker, Steve, Sam

Warnings: mentions of smut (bondage, anal play, breeding kink, slight voyeurism), language, mentions of arson

Summary: Now that reader is stuck back at her apartment, she can finally feel safe again — until that safety is completely compromised. And more than her physical safety is put on the line.

Author’s Note: I’m so fucking stoked for this chapter!!! This is when it starts to get wild!! I hope you all like it! If you even read this, you should let me know who you think the person in question is (you’ll know what I mean when you read it lol). And as always, feel free to buy me a coffee if you want!

Tags: @amourmarvel @fangirlvoice @kennedywxlsh @devilswaldorf @what-the-hap-is-fuckning @alyispunk @fredweasleysbitchh @wearegroot @sunflowerbebe107 @prestigious-tea @brckenmemories @angelbabymed

Series Masterlist

Spending the next two weeks sequestered in your apartment wasn’t terrible, but it just cemented your assumption that you couldn’t even pretend to be normal anymore. At least when you were at the Tower, you felt like another face in the crowd compared to the Avengers.

Accommodating your work from home setup wasn’t easy, but you all made it work. Peter worked with you when he was back for a weekend. He even helped you go through more of your fan mail, if you could even call it that. There were some parcels that were genuine fan mail, people wishing you well and young girls saying you inspired them to pursue STEM careers; there were some death threats that you had to send to local law enforcement to investigate; there were mostly creepy letters from men you could only assume were older than your father. One man wrote that he wanted to find out if you smelled as beautiful as you looked. Cringe. Another wrote about how he wanted to suck on your toes until they were wrinkly. Gag. The worst was a man who said he wanted to be sandwiched between you and your dad. Barf.

Steve and Sam used the scanner your dad made to check all your mail before it was even brought upstairs. None had been poisoned or set to explode, but some contained explicit items that you were more than happy to not see.

It was still slightly traumatizing when Steve waltzed in with a package in his arms and said, “Hey [Y/N], I didn’t toss this one because it doesn’t look like it’s from a person. Did you order something from… Romantix?”

You paused mid-chew as you, Bucky, and Sam all sat in your living room enjoying a nice Saturday lunch. Bucky wasn’t fazed, continuing to eat his food; Sam, however, busted out laughing.

“What’s in it, Steve?” Sam asked loudly, clearly trying to rile you up.

“Uh, all the scanner showed was a couple small golf balls -- I think -- and what looked like a top? And a remote.”

Sam kept giggling to himself, Bucky and Steve both looked confused as hell. You moved to grab the box from Steve but Sam beat you to it, tutting at you as you reached for it again.

“Uh-uh. We should open it to make sure everything is safe,” Sam teased.

“Everything in there is safe, I promise,” you swore. When you tried to steal the package back, Sam yoinked it further from your grasp with a devious smile. Your cheeks were burning hot at the thought of the inevitable. Sam was going to open your box, Steve was going to turn red as a tomato, and Bucky was… well, hopefully he was going to take you to your room for the rest of the day.

And before you could try to snatch the box away again, Sam ripped the packing tape off and pulled out the first item: kegel balls.

“What are those?” Steve asked.

“Don’t worry about it!” you shouted, grabbing the vacuum-packed, heavy silver balls from a still giggling Sam. He reached back into the box and you realized you may just have to suck it up and let him have his show-and-tell.

“Here’s that ‘top’ you were talking about,” Sam joked. And in his hands sat… the butt plug.

“Sam, stop! Literally no one here needs to see this except me and Bucky,” you whined.

“In that case, I’m curious. What else is in there?” Bucky asked, leaning forward to peek inside.

“Bucky! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

Sam shrugged and handed the box to Bucky so he could rummage through it instead. You couldn’t really complain as much now that your boyfriend was doing the snooping instead.

“What the -- oh,” Bucky said as he lifted the next item: a remote… tied to a pair of thin black panties.

“Why would those come together?” Steve asked. You weren’t sure if he was serious or not because he may have been born in the early 1900s, but he would’ve had to have checked out modern porn and kinks by now, right?

“Do you want to tell him or should I?” Sam asked with raised eyebrows. His lips were quirked in an annoying smirk. Bucky sat with a similar expression; at least you knew he had brushed up on modern sex.

“They’re vibrating panties,” you deadpanned. Steve fortunately didn’t look too surprised, he just raised his eyebrows and nodded.

“What’s next, Buck?” Sam prompted him to continue unpacking.

“Oh -- oh -- oh yeah. We can have some fun with this,” Bucky laughed as he lifted up the collar and ball gag.

“Damn, [Y/N]. You’re a freaky freak,” Sam laughed. Bucky didn’t even deny this; he just laughed with his friend before continuing with the last items.

“And…” Bucky started to explain. He quickly cut himself off when he saw what was in his hands -- and covering the bottom of the package. Dozens of pieces of lingerie, from skimpy little lace pieces to a loose-fitting satin teddy to a sheer black robe. “Oh, that’s for my eyes only,” he finally said.

Sam and Steve grumbled in response but didn’t push it. They probably realized getting a full reveal of the shit you and Bucky wanted to mess around with was more than they would’ve gotten if you had your way.

And just as you hoped, Bucky took you to your bedroom for a few hours. You found out you didn’t love the plug and the ball gag made you drool, but the collar had a little leash Bucky was able to pull on while hitting it from the back... you liked that one.

From that day on, you made sure to tell the boys when you’d have a package coming in. Bucky definitely perked up at the mention of more mail like that coming his way.

•

Two weeks after the Romantix debacle, Peter was back in town and stoked to help you go through mail again. He didn’t like all the creepy letters, but he was really good at making you laugh at them instead of constantly cringing and gagging. Bucky and Steve even sat to help, but Sam said if he was going to keep cooking for everyone, he didn’t have to sort through mail. And none of you wanted to pass up on his classic New Orleans recipes.

You all sat around your dining room table with your small dining TV playing old episodes of “Criminal Minds” as background noise. The amount of mail you received definitely dropped with time, but you’d still have a hefty pile at the end of the week. The creepy letters were shredded but you liked responding to the nicer letters, so there was a “shred” pile and a “respond” pile on either side of the “open next” pile.

You were all working in near-silence aside from the quiet dialogue on the TV and the occasional clink of pans from Sam in the kitchen. With four of you working, you’d be able to read through everything in about half an hour. As you neared the bottom of the pile, you grabbed a large manilla envelope and felt the weight of whatever was inside. It couldn’t have been dangerous because the boys scanned everything, but you carefully tugged it open nonetheless. You held it upside down and gently shook out the contents: a letter, a smaller envelope, and a DVD. A few people sent mix CDs or fan videos on DVDs and flash drives, so you were initially excited about this one… until you started reading the letter. The choppy typewriter print quickly turned muddled as your blood froze in your veins.

My darling [Y/N],

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? No, I don’t think I shall. I’ll cut to the chase instead: I’m the reason the world knows who you are. Guess I’m a little loose-lipped. Oops! But I needed you to know I’m serious somehow. Or else you wouldn’t see this as a true threat.

I know your little secret. I’ve seen more than I originally planned, but you gave me plenty to work with in my free time. You look beautiful while you sleep; you look even more beautiful in the throes of passion. But I’m not looking to have your body.

Unless you get $2,000,000 to your little doorman Matthew to bring to me by the end of the week, the enclosed pictures will make their way to the desk of daddy dearest. And we both know he won’t appreciate seeing who is penetrating his daughter.

And if that $2,000,000 doesn’t find me by the end of next week, the video on the DVD will be released to the world.

I look forward to our next interaction.

Your hands shook as you tore open the envelope to see what pictures this person allegedly had of you. At first, they were just creepy candids of you walking down the street, nothing the paps wouldn’t have. Then they turned into photos of Bucky escorting you through crowds… and then photos of you in your apartment.

You were sleeping in your bed in one. Then standing in your kitchen making breakfast in one of Bucky’s shirts. And then a shirtless Bucky was cradling your face and kissing your forehead.

The next picture was of Bucky standing behind you in the kitchen. His pajama bottoms — the pair you got him for his birthday — were pooled at his feet. One hand was pressing you to the counter, the other was hoisting your leg up to the granite as he drove into you.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, unable to speak. As you frantically flipped through the rest of the photos, your eyes flooded with tears and your breathing grew more erratic, grabbing Bucky’s attention, then Peter’s, then Steve’s.

But their concern meant nothing to you as you processed the images before you.

You on your knees with Bucky’s dick clearly between your lips. Bucky on his knees with his face pressed between your thighs. Your legs wrapped around Bucky’s torso as he moved you on his cock. Bucky’s hand wrapped around your throat as you rode him on the couch.

All the images looked like they were taken through your windows, like someone was somehow standing outside your apartment despite being stories above the ground.

“What’s wrong, doll?” Bucky asked softly. He gently touched your arm, drawing your view from the distressing imagery to his attempted comfort, though it unfortunately did nothing to calm you down. Not this time.

You looked up at him with tear-filled eyes but couldn’t bring yourself to speak. All you could do was shake your head and push the letter to him. You watched his eyes quickly scan the words before reaching for the photos. He didn’t snatch them away from you or even try to take them. He just held his hand out and let you shakily hand them over.

And then you saw the pacific blue of his eyes turn dark and stormy, his jaw clenching as he flipped through the pictures of you — you and him. His breathing grew more and more ragged the more he saw, until he threw the photos to the table with a loud, “Fuck!”

Seconds later, Sam dashed into the room as Steve sifted through the photos. Even Steve grew irritated at the sight. Peter and Sam quickly followed suit, only glimpsing a few pictures before getting the gist of the rest.

The room was silent aside from your quiet sobs. You and Bucky both stared at the disc lying between you until your eyes met. His usually pale blue irises were nearly black.

“I’m scared,” you whimpered. Despite being scared himself — and angry and frustrated and confused — he reached out to pull you into his lap and hold you. Keeping you close always made him feel better, even when it felt like the world was crashing around him.

“Close the curtains,” he demanded gruffly. Steve and Peter immediately jumped up and started pulling all your curtains shut, throwing your usually bright apartment into near darkness.

Bucky held your face between his palms, forcing you to look in his eyes.

“I know you’re scared, but we need to see what’s on that DVD.”

“I can already guess what it is,” you said through your tears.

“Yeah, me too,” Bucky agreed. “But we have to make sure.”

You simply nodded. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, helping your breathing slow at the reassuring gesture. He led you into the living room with the DVD in hand. Steve and Sam stood in the living room, Peter sat on the couch. They all looked concerned for you, but tried not to show pity. You could tell they were all upset about this too.

“You can leave the room if you don’t want to see what I’m sure we all know is on this,” Bucky said. His voice was deep and gravelly, almost like his morning voice, but… mean.

You and Bucky sat together on the sofa across from Peter, all eyes trained on the TV as the screen faded from black to a slightly fuzzy shot of your bed. Seconds later, you and Bucky came on screen. And there was audio.

You giggled as Bucky’s body pushed yours to the mattress. “What are you gonna do to me?” your voice sounded.

“I’m gonna put a baby in you,” Bucky’s voice growled. “I’m gonna cum inside this tight pussy until you can’t take it anymore.”

“Jesus,” Sam grumbled. You would’ve laughed if the situation wasn’t so serious.

Bucky only let it play until clothes started coming off. That’s when he knew they actually had a sex tape of you two, especially considering the nearly two-hour time frame on it. Sending explicit pictures of you and Bucky to your dad was one thing, but releasing a non-consensual sex tape of you two was something else entirely.

“What are we gonna do?” Peter asked quietly. Your tears had finally stopped, but the concern in his voice almost sent you over the edge again. He was such a sweet kid and he didn’t deserve to deal with the stress of this with you. But you also knew he was your best friend — practically a brother — and he wasn’t going to let you fend for yourself through this, even with Bucky by your side.

“We have to give them the money,” Sam replied. “We can find out who the door guy gives it to and arrest them or track the bills, but we have to get the money.”

“I don’t have the money,” you confessed. Everyone except Bucky seemed surprised. “I make $200,000 before taxes. Before I got this new role, I made half that. Even if we don’t deduct taxes and the expenses I do pay for, I wouldn’t have even close to two million.”

Everyone went silent again until Steve finally spoke up.

“We need to talk to the doorman.”

•

Bucky stormed out of the elevator, rushing ahead of everyone with murder in his eyes. He gripped the front of Matt’s suit and shoved him against the wall, shaking the letter in his face.

“What the fuck is this?” Bucky was seething.

“What?” Matt squeaked. His eyes were wide as saucers. He was clearly not expecting this confrontation. Bucky just shook the letter again to draw the doorman’s attention.

“Wait. You got one too?” Matt asked. Bucky’s grip loosened as he stared at the shorter man in confusion. You instinctively looked at Peter, who looked just as baffled as you. “I-I got a letter like that. In my locker. This morning.”

“Show us,” you demanded. Bucky released him but Matt’s eyes saw the posse of Avengers behind you (save for Peter, who he probably assumed was either a friend or boyfriend — secret identity and all that) and he rushed all of you to the locker room.

It was a small room since there were only a dozen doormen in your building, if that. He opened his locker and revealed a letter that was nearly identical to yours, but with no mentions of his looks and a much different threat.

“They’re threatening arson?!” you nearly shouted. Bucky and Steve read the letter before handing it to Sam and Peter to check out as well.

“They included pictures of my mom and sister,” Matt explained, clearly scared of what might happen to him and his loved ones. “They know where I live and they know who I live with. I-I would’ve taken this to th-the police but I didn’t want to risk it.”

“They have the later date listed for him,” Sam said. “You had one week to get the money or they’d tell Tony, two weeks or they release the tape. Now we have two weeks to save his family.”

Everyone in the room fell silent once again. Eyes fell on you as Peter quietly repeated his earlier question: “What are we gonna do?”

Despite all eyes on you, you turned to Bucky, who continued to study the letter. His jaw flexed as he thought and if this had been any other time, you would’ve kissed the tension away.

“We’re gonna tell Tony.”

[demivampirew]

The Fantasy

August x Reader x Sy one shot

Triggers: smut; threesome; agressive sex; *nal; male dominant. (some fluff too)

You can find more of my writings in the Masterlist

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A/N: It’s almost 3 am but I couldn’t help myself, I needed to write this 🤭

"Your neck is so soft and delicate," the tall handsome man told you as he kissed it and wrapped his hand around it. His tongue explored your smooth skin until it reached your mouth. The taste of liquor on those heavenly lips was intoxicating and the hair of his mustache gave you tingles. You were giggling as he continued to gently kiss your neck when you noticed a man sitting across the bar looking at you. It wasn't strange for a man to look at you after it was normal for men to desire you, but the intriguing thing about that man is that it looked like the man who was tasting your skin at that very moment. There were a few difference between them, though: one had a lot of hair and a mustache, the other had a bushy beard and shaved head. The one sitting on the table had camel coloured cargo pants and a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt; the other had suit pants, a shirt and a tie. Even the energy was different. The one kissing you seemed to have more aggressive energy than the other man, who looked more serious. You grabbed the handsome man's chin and made him look at you and then you nodded in direction to the other guy. - I think I just found your doppelgänger.- you laughed playfully, biting your bottom lip. - He's my brother.- he explained without paying to much attention and putting his lips back of your neck. After grabbing his hand and smiling at you kissing partner, you walked towards the table were his twin was sitting. You sat next to him and the other brother sat next to you. - Hi, nice to meet you. I'm y/n- you introduced yourself smiling- And you are? - People call me Sy or Captain Syverson.- he replied. - Captain? Are you in the military?- you questions curiously. - That's right, ma'am.- he confirmed. He had a thick Southern accent. - Why do you have a Southern accent and you don't?- you asked, first pointing at the gentleman you were talking to and then to the one who could no stop kissing your neck. - Because when our parents got divorced, he went to live with my mother in Georgia and I'll stay here with my dear father.- the well-dressed man explained. When he mentioned his dad, he did it sarcastically, it seems like they did not get along, but you felt that it was better not to ask. - But didn't you tell me your last name was Walker?- you questioned confused. - I legally changed my name after I moved. I do not want to keep anything that relates me to that man and he has our mother's surname. - So this is the reunion you planned for me, brother? Am I supposed to spend my night watching you play with the lady? I thought this was a night for us to get some drinks and get acquaintance after a long time of no seeing each other.- the military man reproached his brother. - Relax, Jack. Have a drink, maybe find yourself a lady.- he suggested and his brother rolled his eyes. - Let's go. I'm sure both of you would be better off in your place and I can't spend one more minute listening to this crappy music.- he suggested. It was no surprise; a man who listens to classic rock would not like dancing music.

Since your home was the closer one, you offered them to go there. You had an empty room with a comfortable bed for Sy to sleep in if he wanted to. He shrugged and accepted the offer.

After getting to your place, the Captain went straight to the spare room and his brother waited for you to change inside your room. You came back from the bathroom wearing a black mini skirt - it was no much longer than a thick belt, with a thong underneath and a matching bra and high heels sandals. You walked towards Walker and he grabbed you by your ass, pressing his huge hands and grabbing it. He was sitting at the edge of the bed and made you sit on his thighs facing him. He exposed your breasts without taking away the bra and started to suck your nipples. He was no delicate but that was even more appealing. You felt his erection pressing your pussy and you were already wet. To be honest, you weren't just aroused by the attention that man was giving you, but because you kept imaging what it would be like to be with his brother too. He was extremely handsome as well and his attitude excited you. - May I ask you a question?- you asked. - Sure.- he said without much care, concentrated on sucking and bitting your breasts. - Would you be offended... Do you think your brot...- you said but stopped yourself at the thought of how weird it could be for him to hear that you had the fantasy of being with both of them.- You know what, forget about it.- you dismissed the question but he stopped what he was doing and looked at you raising an eyebrow. He seemed amused. - If you want to fuck my brother too, I don't mind. But you'll have to ask him and he's not that freaky.- he explained as he laid back, putting both elbows on the bed and smirking.

- Come in.- Syverson said after hearing a knock on the door. - Hi, I just wanted to see if you needed something.- you said entering the room. You covered yourself with a satin robe. - Everything is great, thank you.- he replied. - Were you trying to sleep?- you questioned. - That was the plan. Unfortunately, I don't sleep much. Too many years on service...I've seen too much shit that takes my sleep away.-he sighed.- Sorry, I don't want to spoil your night.- he apologized. - It's ok, don't worry.- you assured him. You walked slowly and then sat on the side of the bed. He looked at you confused but captivated. You slowly put your hand on his face and delicately started to stroke it. His eyes were fixed on you. You could feel the goosebumps your touch provoked on him. You got closer and kissed his lips. - Maybe I can help you forget about the horrible things for one night.- you whispered and he froze. You unzipped his pants, peaking at his face to make sure he was ok with that. He didn't speak but there was no need for words; his eyes said everything: he wanted you. You slide his briefs and grabbed his cock and let a big amount of saliva to fall on his member so it would hurt him as you moved your hand up and down, slowly at first and the fast. After a few minutes, you let him feel your mouth. Your beautiful soft lips caressed the skin of his manhood as your tongue circled it. He got desperate to taste you. He grabbed you by your hips, making you sit on top of him as he kissed you as if that was his last day on earth. He couldn't wait to be inside you, to please you.  As he was trying to take off your underwear, you cupped his face and gently looked at him. - I want you. I'm with your brother, though.- you said.- I...he said...he said he'd be ok with you joining us, but you don't have to if you don't want to.- you explained- but I want you, be sure of that. Although, I'll completely understand if it isn't something you are comfortable with. You pressed your forehead against him and then got up from the bed and walked to the door and before leaving you turned around to face him and said "think about it" and left. -I thought that you were never coming back.- Walker said amused. You took off the robe and went back to your previous position. He tasted your breasts and pussy. August liked it rough. He fucked your throat until he saw tears coming from your eyes and doggy style was his favourite position. He would grab both of your arms and put them on you back and he pounded you hard. After his first round, he continued sucking your nipples when someone knocked on the door. You walked to open it and Sy was at the other end, looking at you, speechless by looking at your naked breasts and the rest of your body. - Would you look at that... I didn't know that you had it in you, brother.- August said smirking devilishly at his brother as he lied naked on the bed, looking at his brother with amusement on his face. - I knew this was a mistake.- he said after looking at his sibling and turned around and was about to walk away when you stopped him. - Sy wait! You stopped it! - you gave August a warning look and he rolled his eyes and stood up and walked into the bedroom's bathroom.

The military man looked at you as your eyes fixed on his and you grabbed his face and kissed him sweetly. He pulled you closer to him, embracing you and then picked you up by your thighs and walked inside the room, placing you on the bed. Out of the two brothers, there was no doubt Syverson took the price for the best at pleasing a woman with his mouth. He hit the right spot with every movement of his tongue. He got on top of you and you felt him inside of you. The brothers could be so similar yet so different. August was the kinky one, the aggressive lover, the one who expected tears from the woman. Sy, on the other hand, was the passionate one. He made love, he wanted to feel the connection. You were interrupted by August clearing his throat. "I saw her first, brother. I have no problem sharing her, but I have to be there too, that's the deal" the tall man with the mustache reminded you. Caressing his face, you whispered to him "Just concentrate on me, and close your eyes if you want". He laid on the mattress and you got on top of him. You started to ride him and made him close his eyes while you took August on your mouth. You tried hard no to make too many sounds as he fucked your throat so Sy wouldn't lose his arousal by remembering that his brother was on there too. It was indescribable the pain you felt to have them both inside of you at the same time. Both of them were much bigger than average and them fucking you at the same time was something unimaginable. August was the one fucking your ass so he ruthless pounding style had you on the edge. But to say that you were in pain it didn't mean that you weren't having the time of your life. That was, without any doubt, the best sex you've ever had. After fishing, August left you to entertain his brother for a little longer and went into the other room to catch some sleep. Now, having you all to himself, Sy put quite a show. He showed off his talents at oral again and fuck you again and again until sunrise. He wasn't quite imaginative or dominant as his brother, but he brought another thing to the table: he was a true lover. He would make you feel like the most unique woman on earth. You woke up at noon and your body laid almost entirely over Syverson's. He had woke up earlier -or maybe didn't sleep at all. He kissed your forehead and caressed your face with his thumb.

- Good morning...or afternoon.- you greeted him, chucking. - Good afternoon.- he confirmed. - Were you able to sleep? -you questioned moving slightly to be able to look at his face. - Yes. My brother woke me up when I heard him left.- he explained and you remembered the crazy night. You looked at each other and laughed. - I'm sorry if I made you do something you weren't comfortable with.-you apologized. - That's ok, you didn't force me. I stay because I wanted to.-he assured you.- You know, my brother thinks I'm vanilla when it comes to sex. I'm not, though. It's not because I felt weird about being in a threesome with my brother that I doubted for a moment ...it's because I liked you too much and I didn't want to share you, but he was right, he saw you first. - He might have seen me first and had me before you as well... but you're the one I would like to keep seeing if you want to.- you said. - Absolutely.- he agreed.

[alexs-ummers]

goodnight

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Summary: Draco struggles with his feelings: for you and the world around him. 

Words: 2142

notes: requests are open! let me know what you think of this and what you want to see next. 

There was something almost enticing about loving someone when they had no idea. Draco thought this anyway, but he also likes to toture himself, believing he was not worthy of a gentle love. The enticing part was the glances at you. He could take as many as he wanted because nobody but Draco knew just how hard his heart was beating. He could watch every hair tuck, every smile, every move that you made and you wouldn’t suspect a thing. Maybe that was the excruciating part: that you never returned those glances. There was just no place in this world for a love so soft that only you could provide. There was no world in which the two of you would live happily ever after. Not with the mark on his arm, not with the Dark Lord making house calls.

He watched you from across the Great Hall as you ate dinner with your friends. You had asked to hang out later to work on potions homework. “Oh, but you’re so good at it Draco, won’t you please help me?” He could never say no, even with the transfiguration homework he had piling up. He never wanted to see a frown on your face, certainly not one of his own doing.

He was too deep in thought to realize the trickling of students going out the door. It wasn’t long before you stood in front of him, waving a hand to get his attention.

“Draco?”

“Oh.” He looks almost surprised to see you.

“Did you forget?”

He shakes his head, standing up from the Slytherin table. “No. Actually, I was just thinking about it.” He was also thinking about how perfect you seemed to look, though there wasn’t much different about your appearance. This just seemed like another side effect from being in love. God, this was starting to become a sickness for him, something he needed to be rid of to go back to his normal life. He’s never felt like this. He sometimes even feels physically sick. You are only a casualty in a world like this, a weakness.

You had no idea of the storm going on within his thoughts. “Great, let’s go.” You beamed, unaware still of the pull Draco had towards you. He’d follow you anywhere if destiny allowed it, but alas.

Draco and you took a seat in the common room of Slytherin. Most people cleared out if they saw Draco here, especially when he was with you. It seemed as if they were somehow intruding on something.

“Tell me what you need help with.” Draco says, pulling out his parchment and quill. Homework would usually be done side by side, working together to solve problems, but Draco could do it all on his own if he needed to. He didn’t want to, though. He liked the alone time with you where all your attention was turned to him. He could sit close to you, so close that the words he shared could only be heard by you.

He’s already fixated on you, all his attention in one place. It was something you really loved about studying with Draco, he took it very seriously. “Well, Slughorn is having us research Amortentia before we brew it. I just need help answering the questions.”

“Do you know what Amortentia is?” Draco tests you.

“Well, yeah. It’s a love potion.” You roll your eyes, starting to answer the question on the parchment.

“It’s the most powerful love potion to ever exist.” Draco feels like he’s already under its effects. “It causes infatuation, so I guess I wouldn’t call that love.” Draco smiles a little to himself, answering the question on his paper. “Now, tell me what it looks like, what it’s characteristics are.”

You continue studying and answering questions with Draco’s help. It never seems like you have enough time with each other, the fire already beginning to die out. He offers to walk you back to your room as the light dies and the glow fades from your face. You accept, as always.

“Goodnight, Draco.” You always stand at your door, always hoping for something spectacular to happen. It never does. Draco has self control, more than anyone else you know. He has a wall built between everyone, it hurts to think about how he even has one with you. It’s something you’ve grown to accept.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” Saying goodbye is always the hardest. It always was, during breaks, after dinner, after class. It felt like leaving a piece of lightness within him. You were so good. He wants to kiss you goodnight, on the cheek, on the forehead, on the lips, but he doesn’t. He can’t. He has a long list of reasons he shouldn’t.

“Goodnight, Draco.” You tease, as he stands there. He always did this, lingered for longer than he should. There was something between you. Something unspoken, you knew it. You would die for each other. Feelings like these were dangerous to act on, they were too strong. Surely, you’d end up with a broken heart.

“Will you meet me in the morning, at our spot?” Draco doesn’t ask this of you often, usually only when he needs a close friend. You know something is on his mind when he asks.

You nod, raising a hand to touch his cheek gingerly before you decide to retreat into the darkness of your bedroom. “Of course. Now, get some sleep.” He’s overthinking, he still is even when you touch him. It barely elicits a reaction, at least a noticeable one. He’ll dream of the touch for nights to come.

++

It’s a chilly fall morning, but the sun still decided it was the perfect time to wake you up. You had to meet Draco after breakfast, anyway. The wind whispers outside, reminding you to grab a jacket. It’d be a bone-chilling day. You seem to rush through breakfast, hurriedly telling your friends goodbye.

Draco is sitting against the tree when you arrive, still deep in thought like he hasn’t left his mind since yesterday. He was usually much more talkative during studying, cracking jokes, teasing you. You suppose he has been different since he came back from home. He doesn’t talk about his home life much, but you hear the rumors. You opt to listen to what Draco will tell you personally, which isn’t much.

You sit next to him without a word.

“I was thinking,” Draco starts.

“I can tell.” You take notice of the dark circles underneath his eyes and the disheveled hair. The classic Draco didn’t get any sleep.

He lets out a small chuckle despite the ache in his chest.

Draco spent all of last night, tossing and turning. He had a list of all the reasons it was a stupid idea to start a relationship with you. There was another growing list of reasons why he should, but he couldn’t be naive, he couldn’t give in to childish behavior. He couldn’t be fucking weak.

“I think…” Draco swallows, his thoughts doing a 360. He had the intention of telling you he loved you. “I think we should stop being friends.”

You’re taken aback. “Excuse me?” A 6 year friendship down the fucking drain, just like that? Your face grows warm, your stomach turns.

“I think we’ve grown apart.”

The tears pool in your eyes and you can’t begin to process his words. “Draco-”

“I’m serious, Y/N. I can’t do this.” Draco storms off from your spot by the lake, leaving you alone in the fall weather with a broken and cold heart.

You’re not sure how long you sit there in the bitter weather crying out all your pain.

++

Days pass, weeks pass, and nothing is the same for Draco. His mood worsens. He doesn’t sleep. He has no light in his life, but he knows now that’s all life has in store: darkness.

The two of you pass each other in the hallways, make eye-contact during potions, and dream of each other at night. It’s the only place Draco allows you to be.

A month passes before Draco can’t handle the loneliness anymore. It’s selfish of him, but he wants to see you. Things are stirring up within the darkside of the wizarding world. There’s talk of killing Dumbledore and Draco has yet to prove his allegiance to the Dark Lord. He already suspects that he’ll be tasked to do the job. He hates himself for risking your safety, but regrets not being there to keep you safe. Perhaps, you’d be safer with him. Surely, they would understand. He’s being naive again and he knows it.

He passes a note back to you during potions, he’s surprised you don’t rip it up instantly and throw the pieces in his face. It’s what he did to your heart, but he knows you too well. You would never hurt him like that, not like he did to you.

The note reads, “Our spot, 9 PM.” You roll your eyes, how dare he? He thinks he’s entitled to everything. Despite these thoughts, you put the note inside your robes. You’d return to the thought after you weren’t stressing over the potions homework.

It’s after dinner when you begin to think of him. You decided to go and meet with him. The rumors were dreadful around the school. Draco, a death eater, working for Voldemort. It terrified you, but you wanted to hear the truth from him. You couldn’t imagine the weight upon his shoulders, the family name… You sighed, checking the clock.

Draco stands at the tree. It’s dark, but the lights of the castle illuminate your silhouette.

“Hi, Draco.” You greet him, your demeanor cold, arms crossed. You didn’t expect to welcome him with open arms, not without an explanation, an apology, maybe not even then.

“Y/N.” He struggles with the urge to reach out to you. “I…” He looks away from you. He feels the itching of the mark underneath his robes. The secrets wanting to claw themselves out of him.

“You’re sorry?” You roll your eyes, sitting down at the tree.

You’ll be patient with him, you’ll at least give him that.

He wants to laugh a pathetic laugh. “Yeah.” He takes the spot beside you, arms touching, just like you used to.

“I know.” You respond.

“It’s not enough.”

“No, it’s not.” You gaze at the castle, wondering what had happened over the years. Draco never used to act like this, he was never an overthinker, a worrier. “It’s true, isn’t it?” Never would you bring up the rumors before, Draco hated them. He hated what others would say about his family, about him, about his relationships and his friends. But the world around you was changing. Voldemort was back.

“Yes.” He waits for you to scream at him, to run into the castle and tell everyone it’s true.

You don’t say a word. A hand grips his own. He feels the dark subside momentarily, he feels the light you bring him. You squeeze his hand. You don’t look at each other, there’s tears in both of your eyes. It’s too much to acknowledge that right now.

It’s silent for a while, just savoring the feeling of your hands gripping each other like it’s the only thing grounding you to this world and it is.

“I’m terrified.” This applied to everything in your life. Terrified for him, scared for your relationship, scared for the wizarding world.

“Me too.” He finally looks at you, moving his hand to touch your cheek. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Y/N.” He’s silent for a moment, “To us.”

You melt into his touch, nodding your head. Draco could tell you a complete and utter lie and you would believe him.

Draco knows now that there’s nothing better than knowing you’re loved back. The torment seems to subside when he’s holding you. You sit like this until the lights within the castle begin to fade. Draco offers to walk you back to the dorm. You accept, as always.

You don’t let go of his hand until the very last moment. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He nods, feeling exhausted from the intense emotions. He still doesn’t want to leave your side, but he won’t rush this. He must nurture it, keep it safe and protected, like he promised.

“Goodnight, Draco.” You give him a small smile, still waiting for something spectacular.

He was always waiting for it too and the feeling finally bubbles over and he’s pressing his lips against yours. It’s short and it’s just what you needed. It makes you never want to be away from him. You want to be feeling a part of him always like a way to stay grounded. He presses one last kiss to your forehead, for safe measure.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

[rhysismydaddy]

Naughty Neighbors pt. 1 (Elriel)

Synopsis: Elain’s stuck in a dead end relationship, bored beyond belief with her life. When she befriends her brand new neighbor, it’s like taking a breath of fresh air. But with each day of friendship, she grows more and more drawn to him and the past he’s desperate to escape. His smile is all she thinks about, invading her head at the most inconvenient moments. He’s made his intentions with her perfectly clear, but she’s determined to resist his charms. She won’t allow him to turn her calm, quiet life upside down. Right?

I’M SORRY THIS HAS TAKEN SO LONG. Moving did NOT go smoothly, and my professors are taking online classes a little ~seriously~ even though they haven’t started yet lol. 

Part 2 should be out by Wednesday, and it’s in Azriel’s POV :))))) This one’s a slow burn ladies and gentlemen, so get ready for some pent up desire 

______________________________________________________________

Elain rolled over in bed, somehow too hot and cold at the same time. Gods, she was miserable. Her boyfriend was next to her, snoring loudly, and the sound did nothing to help her worsening mood. 

She was so exhausted-- when you owned a flower shop, wedding season was always hectic--but sleep had been refusing to find her for the past hour. 

It didn’t help that she had a moose-sounding man in the room. 

Reminding herself that she loved him and definitely didn’t want to strangle him in his loud ass sleep, she rolled over and pulled a pillow on her head. 

Somehow, after two years of dating, she hadn’t gotten used to how loudly Lucien snored. 

Thank the gods we don’t live together, she thought, then admonished herself for it. 

They would eventually. 

She just had to get used to it. 

The pillow over her head became suffocating, only adding to the over-heating problem, so she threw the covers off, grabbed a robe, and walked out. After going up a few flights of stairs, she found herself on the roof. 

It was the place she always went when she was stressed or sad or just needed to see the night sky. She’d even started a garden a few months ago, so she started to head over to check on it. 

But then she saw who was sitting on the bench in front of her rose bushes and paused. 

Paused and stared, because the man sitting in front of her wearing dark clothes and a smirk was both classically beautiful and dangerous. 

He was the kind of man most men would do anything not to fight and women would do anything to bed. 

Smoke curled around him, and the shadows somehow seemed to cling to his tall frame. The stranger dwarfed the small bench, large frame taking up enough space for two. Even though he was sitting, she could tell he was well over six feet. And built like a Greek god, if the way his black, long sleeve t-shirt clung to his chest was any indication.  

He was the most attractive man she’d ever seen, and that was without taking in the strong, clean shaven jaw, hazel eyes, and hair the color of spilled ink. 

And oh fuck, he was studying her, too. A shiver ran over her as she realized she was covered in just her robe. 

Her body begged her to both run far away and draw closer, and for some reason, she listened to the urge to do the latter. 

“Who are you?” she asked as she walked through the maze of flowers. 

“Who are you?” he shot back, not answering her question. Her body reacted to his voice alone, goosebumps raising at the cold but somehow soothing tone. 

A breeze caused her hair to swirl around her as she replied, “I’m Elain. What are you doing here?”

He jerked his chin at the cigarette dangling from his fingertips, but that wasn’t exactly what she’d been asking. “No, I mean what are you doing here?”

“I live here, Elain.”

She realized she shouldn’t have told him her name, because now he could say it in that sexy, very manly voice of his and it would do strange things to her sanity. 

He said her name like a lover would, soft and sensual, but also coldly amused. He sounded like he knew her, like he’d known her for years. 

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.” His eyes are laughing at her now, but he didn’t sound mean. 

"Which apartment?”

“4B.”

Elain’s eyebrows pinched together at that news. She lived in 4A and hadn’t even noticed she’d gotten a new neighbor. Then again, she’d been at work all day. “Oh. I guess we’re neighbors then.”

A small smile graced his full lips, and she studied it before forcing her eyes back to his. “Lucky me.”

Oh, gods. Was he... flirting with her? 

She didn’t even know. It had been so long since someone had that she’d forgotten what it sounded like. 

So she rolled her eyes good naturedly, leaning against the brick railing encasing the roof. 

“Sneaking out for a smoke?” His voice was like gravel and smoke, and his hazel eyes raked over her body in a way that made her shiver. 

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He nodded, then extended the cigarette to her in question. She smiled but shook her head and said, “I don’t smoke.”

“A good girl, then.” He didn’t sound at all bothered by that statement. And once again, his hazel eyes skirted down her body. “Do you want to sit down?”

There was almost no room on the bench, but it beat standing on the edge of the roof on such a breezy night, so she walked over and sat as far away from him as possible. 

It was still way too close. 

Her arm was pressed against hers, allowing her to feel the dense muscle covering it. She doubted she could wrap both hands around it completely, but she shut down the urge to try as she crossed her legs casually.

The warmth from his body seeped into her, goosebumps raising where they touched. “You’re warm,” she commented stupidly. 

“Are you cold?” he asked, hazel eyes scanning her face, then dropping slightly. 

No small amount of horror grew when she realized what he’d glanced at. She crossed her arms over her chest, then scowled when he grinned. 

Her eyebrows flew up, though, when a heavy arm landed across her shoulders and tucked her into a warm, firm side. 

Oh, gods above every place they connected was tingling. Heat rushed into her--both between her legs and from his side.

She needed a heat CT. 

“Is this your garden?” he asked, taking a puff of his cigarette and blowing the smoke away from her. 

She nodded, then realized her head was pressed against his chest. Elain pulled away slightly, then asked, “Will you tell me your name?”

His hazel eyes were dark, like molten caramel. She felt lost in him. “What will you give me in return?”

Every inch of her body went taut and loose at the same time. Her thigh was suddenly warm, and she looked down to see his hand resting on her skin. The back of his hand was covered in scars and tattoos and his palm was covered in callouses, but it was nothing but gentle and warm on her thigh. 

Her maybe-neighbor was perfectly still, his face cool and composed while he waited for her to react. But his eyes told her exactly what would happen if she leaned into him just a tiny amount. 

And gods, she wanted to. 

Something was holding her back though. A small voice was screaming at her, and a disgusting amount of guilt crept up her shoulders. Almost jumping out of her skin, she remembered whose existence she’d forgotten completely. 

Lucien.

Her boyfriend. 

The man she’d been attempting to sleep next to not an hour ago.

She pulled away, instantly missing his warmth. “I have a boyfriend,” she said unceremoniously and with about as much enthusiasm as someone declaring grandma was dead. 

His eyes went a little darker, even as the corner of his lips twitched. “Hm.”

“I should go.” That was beyond true. 

Lucien was trusting, and their relationship was relaxed, but practically snuggling with another man wasn’t right. Even if it was all she wanted to do at the moment. 

“Okay.”

“I hope we can be friends in the future,” she said, trying to maintain polite normalcy. “But only if you tell me your name.”

Once again, those amber eyes slid over her, and she was very, very grateful she’d crossed her arms. “We’re never going to be friends, Elain.”

The way he said it didn’t feel like a rejection; it felt like a challenge. Her body thrummed, even as she shook her head slightly and started back down the stairs. 

The picture of his face followed her all the way into her apartment, sticking in her head until she fell asleep with a soft smile on her face. 

~

The next morning, she woke up and had breakfast with Lucien, who hardly glanced up from his eggs as he asked, “Where’d you go last night? I heard you get up.”

Her heart started to race even though she’d done nothing wrong. Technically. Calming her voice, she said, “I went to the roof to check on the garden. Couldn’t sleep.”

Lucien just shrugged, knowing this was pretty typical for her. 

She knew she should tell him she’d met their new neighbor, but for some reason, her mouth stayed shut. Probably because she didn’t even know his name. 

It definitely wasn’t because she’d almost kissed him. 

“I have to go; I have an early meeting.” He worked at a corporate finance place downtown, so this wasn’t exactly groundbreaking. He got up from the table, navy suit slightly wrinkled, and kissed her brow. “Thanks for breakfast. I’ll come back Friday, okay?”

This also wasn’t news. He stayed at her place a few nights a week, most of the time Sunday and Friday. She didn’t go to his that often because she didn’t have a car and liked to walk to work. 

Elain nodded and smiled, then went to get ready once he’d left. 

Were twenty-four year-olds supposed to feel like this? Like they were stuck on a conveyor belt, destined to do the same thing for the rest of her life?

It sometimes felt like she’d gone to sleep and woken up in the life of a fifty-year old housewife. 

Whenever he stayed over, he liked coming home to a clean house and meal, so she cooked for him, pretending to love it, when in reality, she’d be just as happy eating takeout on the sofa. 

She greeted him with a smile, and they talked and watched TV together, then went to bed at the same time every night. 

And gods, it was starting to get boring. 

Even the sex was starting to follow a routine. It wasn’t written down, but Elain had noticed they slept together at the beginning of the month, then not at all for a few weeks. 

She missed the beginning of the relationship, when they were so in love and crazy about each other they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.  

She didn’t expect fireworks after being together for so long, but... it had only been two years. And despite never mentioning it, Lucien was bound to propose at some point. 

Could she do this for the rest of her life? Go to work, come home, cook, go to bed? Did she love him enough for fifty years of the same routine?

That thought shocked her. Of course she did. 

He was perfect for her. He didn’t keep secrets, had a good job, and treated her with kindness and respect. So what if the fizzle had worn off? 

So what if she got more turned on sitting on a cold bench next to a complete stranger than after actual foreplay with her boyfriend?

It meant nothing. 

At least, that’s what she told herself as she put on a light blue dress and sandals and fixed her hair. 

Once she was ready, she walked outside and started down the street to her store. It was only a five minute walk, one of her favorite things about her apartment’s location. 

“Elain,” came a low voice from right next to her. 

Surprised, she turned to see her brand new neighbor walking next to her. Just like last night, he was dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt. But with the light she could make out his features better, and it did nothing to sway her of how attractive she found him. 

“Good morning.”

He smiled, and she found herself mimicking the expression. 

I mean, when someone who looked like a villainous Prince Charming smiled at you, you smiled back. 

“Better now,” he told her in a low tone, still smirking. 

“You’re a horrible flirt,” she laughed, brushing off how the comment made her skin tingle. 

“Horrible?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lighting one as they walked. “I’ll have to step up my game then. You look beautiful today.”

“I amend my statement. You’re a mediocre flirt.”

He blew a cloud of smoke around him and rolled his eyes, and she grinned agian. She did that a lot around him, she realized. It was easy to. 

There was just something alluring about him. He was dark and cold and beyond mysterious, but also sensual in a way she’d never seen before. It both threw her off guard and made her want to be reckless for once in her life. 

“Where are you going?”

“Work. I own the flower shop down on third street,” she told him proudly. The shop was her life’s work, and it made her insanely happy to tell people about it. 

“The Archeron?” he asked, and her brows shot up in surprise. “I work across the street. Start today, actually.”

“Oh, at the tattoo place?” 

The idea of getting a needle stabbed into her skin over and over again made her nauseous. 

Azriel noticed her expression. “You ever come in, I’ll give you a discount.”

“I’ll absolutely never take you up on the offer, but thank you. If you ever want a lovely bouquet, feel free to come on in.”

His hazel eyes met hers. “And what if I just want to see you? Do I still have to buy flowers?” There was a blush on her cheeks, and his eyes darkened when he saw it. “I like making you blush.”

Gods above, the man wasn’t giving up. 

She was surprised to find she didn’t want him to. 

She deflected anyway. “Fine. You’re an average flirt.” 

“Oh, baby girl, you have no idea.” They were somehow already in front of her shop, and he looked through the window and grimaced. “On second thought, if I want to see you, I’ll just knock on your door. Lot of flowers in there.”

“That’s kind of the point,” she reminded him, blocking out the picture of Azriel coming over to her apartment. “If I want to see you, who should I ask for?”

Humor flickered across his hard features, but he still shot down the request. 

“If you need me, I’ll be across the street encouraging people to make horrible decisions.”

Laughing, she unlocked the store and watched him walk away. Somehow, even though it was broad daylight, he was a spot of darkness on the street. 

She didn’t even know his name, but she was tempted to follow him, just to see his smile again. If seeing him smile made her feel that happy, how would it be to hear his laugh? 

More than anything, she wanted to find out.

And Elain knew right there that he’d been completely right: they would never be friends. 

______________________________________________________________

Part 2

@cursebreaker29 @sjmships @starrynightsbooks @lovemollywho @januarystears @astreia-oniria @wineywitch202 @captainthefangirlofhp @perseusannabeth @girl-who-reads-the-books @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @a-bit-of-a-cactus @aesthetics-11 @bamchickawowow @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @savemesoon8 @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace @poisonous00

[wri0thesley]

Tight - Prosciutto x Fem! Reader (Kinktober Day #5: Corset)

NSFW. 18+ ONLY. AFAB reader, fem pronouns. Breathplay via a corset and tight-lacing. 4.5k. 

Prosciutto likes the classics. You surprise him one evening by going classic-style. 

Your boyfriend is the kind of man who likes the classic things in life. The furniture in his apartment is antique (some of it, you gather, is heirloom furniture from a family that considers buying declasse - Prosciutto tells you, with a curl in his lip, that his parents think that it’s a horrible shame if a person doesn’t have furniture they stand to inherit). His drinks cupboard is well-stocked with old scotch and cognac and whiskeys, all of which he can tell you the full pedigree of - he drinks those, too, from cut glass in all shapes and sizes that he also inherited. His clothes are impeccably cut, carefully pressed - he has a tailor who calls out to him by name and greets him with a smile. 

His cigarettes are expensive. He has a gramophone that sits in the corner of the living room, that he asks you often to put an old record in and simply closes his eyes, beckoning you to come sit on his lap. You teasingly call him ‘old man’, and tug at the ascot about his neck and he smiles a lazy, crooked smile at you that sends butterflies careening into each other in the pit of your stomach. 

“Perhaps,” he says, that smile on his face. “But with all of this around me, and you by my side . . . can you blame me for wanting to enjoy it, amore?”

You can’t. You also can’t fault him for wanting to unwind at home - though you are not privy to what goes on whilst he’s at work (“For your own good, innamorata,” he sighs, kissing your forehead, as you pointedly do not stare at a bloodstain on his lapel), you know that Prosciutto is tangled in shady business, as were the family he inherited so many expensive antiques from. It runs in his blood, you think - and you see that in him, sometimes, when someone cuts in front of him in a line or drives recklessly or hits on you when he’s beside you. You see how his icy blue eyes harden and his jaw sets, his face frighteningly severe - and every time, you press yourself closer against him, grounding him, and he softens. He tries to leave his ice at work - for you, he’s all fire. 

You live a domestic life, together - as domestic as a life can be with someone like him. You take turns cooking dinner and doing the housework - you good-naturedly argue about where the best restaurant in town is (Prosciutto’s presence is always enough to get you a good table). You budget together, continuously surprised by how good he is at finding deals and bargains for a man with such excessive and expensive taste. You sit beside him on your slightly threadbare sofa - it needs to be taken to an upholsterer, but the last one hadn’t wanted to touch something made so long ago - and watch Prosciutto’s favourite old films together. 

It’s the films that give you the idea, really. 

Prosciutto’s eyes watch the women on screen with their perfectly coiffed hair and their neat dark lipstick, their waists impossibly small. He likes old-fashioned musicals in technicolour with swinging skirts and petticoats and neat blouses and cardigans - but he also likes gritty film noirs, femme fatales in lingerie and feather-trimmed robes, seamed stockings visible beneath skirts that cling tight to a perfect hourglass. You poke at him, teasing him for it - and he shrugs, unconcerned. 

“People knew how to dress then,” he tells you. He doesn’t say that he doesn’t like how you already dress - he knows what practicality is, after all. But it’s his eyes as he watches those silver screen sirens that really make you think that, just once, you’d like to surprise him. And it’s that thought which leads you to do a little covert shopping without him. 

-

You’re meticulous in your planning. You always are - it’s one of the things that Prosciutto loves about you. You plan. His life is so chaotic, that it’s pleasant for him to have one constant he can count on - and you are only too happy to be his. You make sure it’s on a day that he should be home from work fairly early (he does not tell you exactly what he does, of course, but you pick up from his questions and queries and vague remarks about what you’re having for dinner the nights that he won’t come home until dawn). You lay out everything you have on your shared bed, watch videos about things you don’t know how to put on, painstakingly check sizing and shade matching. You want everything to be absolutely perfect for Prosciutto. 

Your boyfriend has an eye for detail, and though you know he won’t actually complain if the hue of your underwear doesn’t match, you want him to see you as a perfectly finished full experience. 

You’re enjoying seeing it all laid out like this, too. 

It’s supposed to be Prosciutto’s turn to cook dinner - that’s one of the reasons that you’d known he’d definitely be coming home tonight. When Prosciutto cooks, you generally have your meals later in the evening - thankfully, his favourite dish takes time to prepare, and as you gently step out of your clothes and look at the outfit laid out on the bed, the oven is doing its merry work. 

You allow yourself to be slow putting it on, knowing that you have ample time - you’d needed ample time, as you battled into the garter belt and stockings. How did people do this every day, you wonder, as yet another one of the little buckles unclipped itself from the back of the thin nylon and you twisted your body into an unnatural position to fix it. 

Once it is properly on, you have another little fuss as you ensure that the back-seams of the stockings line up neatly. Prosciutto might not care, you think, but he’ll appreciate it even more if not a single hair is out of place. There. You do up the bra, the shape of it a little rounder than you’re used to - overwire seems to have been more popular, and the overall effect changes your figure dramatically. 

But not as dramatically as the last part of your underpinnings. You pick up the corset with trembling hands. The helpful young woman in the shop who had fitted it for you had shown you how to put it on, showing you which of the laces to pull to ensure that it tightened in the right place, how to pull them around to your front so that you could do your own lacing up. She’d told you how to always do up the busk in order, from bottom to top or top to bottom (never start with a middle catch) - she’d told you to make sure that the gap at the back ran perfectly parallel. 

You don’t feel like you manage to get it quite as tight as she did when she did up the garment for you, but as you tie the laces up and look at the full effect in the mirror, you still feel amazed by just how different you look. It’s not merely the newer, smaller waist you’re sporting - but also how it makes your hips seem more dramatic, the other curves of your body - how it straightens your spine, improving your posture, making you look prouder and more present. 

You can’t help but run your fingers over it, amazed at how different you both look and feel. You’d worried it would feel tight like a vice, like all of the uncomfortable corset stories you hear people mention when they talk about the Victorians (about displaced organs and fainting) - but, although it is tight against your skin, it’s not uncomfortable. It’s more like the feeling of being tightly held by a lover than it is your ribcage and organs being squeezed beyond repair. 

The dress you bought is black, because it seemed simpler and classier than choosing a hue that Prosciutto might not like as much - a simple v-neck with three quarter sleeves and a full skirt made of a light stretch fabric, that fitted you well when you’d tried it on without the underpinnings but looks even better with everything else. 

The makeup, carefully - red lipstick, winged eyeliner. The hair, brushed out, gently pinned into place. The small amount of jewellery - a rope of pearls that Prosciutto had given you. 

There. That’s everything. 

You almost don’t recognise yourself in the mirror this time - you feel . . . transformed. Like you’ve stepped right out of the scenes in one of the movies you and Prosciutto spend lazy evenings watching. You hope that he appreciates it - as you leave the bedroom, a little anxiety begins to make itself present low in your stomach that perhaps you have misread him entirely and he’ll hate it. But you have spent too long getting this surprise ready, now. There’s no time to grow nervous - you have to be like Prosciutto himself. Stern, exacting, determined in what you decide to do. 

Besides, if you take the corset off now, dinner will burn. 

-

Prosciutto swallows as he looks at you, the bob in his throat evident even below the ascot. His blue eyes take you in, crawling down the length of you as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. 

“Welcome home,” you say to him, a little breathless. “Dinner’s on the table.”

“Dinner’s right in front of me,” he says, his tone dark. You repress a shiver at the possessiveness in his tone - you needn’t have worried. It’s very obvious from the way he’s staring at you that he likes his surprise very much, and the hunger that he shows in just his expression and his voice already has you squirming to press your thighs together. “But if you really want me to eat the food first . . .”

You pout a little, for show. 

“I’ve spent all evening preparing for you,” you say, biting your lip. One of your hands comes up to play with the rope of pearls about your throat, Prosciutto watching you with all of the intensity of a hungry wolf watching a rabbit. “You’re not going to enjoy it and make me feel like a perfect little housewife?”

“You’re perfect for more than that, amore,” he says, but he still steps inside, peeling off his jacket and hanging it on one of the coat hooks. 

His eyes do not leave you for a moment as you dish up - as your hips wiggle, just a little, when you bend to pick things up and move them around. As you pour his drink for him. Prosciutto is never shy about how much he watches you, how much he wants you - but this is even more than that, and it makes you feel heady and breathless with need. And the fact is, too, that you feel incredibly desirable dressed like this for him, and you wonder if he sees your proud head and your squared shoulders and the confidence makes him want you more. 

The dinner is torture. The two of you are both clearly distracted - and although the food is cooked well enough (perhaps a little overdone, you think, admitting to yourself you spent quite a lot of time in front of the mirror just admiring the change in yourself), it is obvious that the both of you are hungry for other things. When you take the dishes away and leave them in the kitchen sink to soak, Prosciutto is behind you in moments, arms wrapping about your waist. 

“That can wait,” he breathes against the shell of your ear, and you feel your body clench and throb in desire for him. “I think right now, the bedroom is a more suitable place for you to be.”

You are hardly going to complain. You don’t complain, either, about how when his hands slide off you, he palms at your body, feeling the shape of you beneath the dress’ fabric. You are breathless ascending the stairs to the bedroom, and you do not think it is entirely because of the corset. 

He kisses you, hungrily, as the door to the bedroom closes behind you both - teeth digging into your bottom lip, uncaring of how it will mess your lipstick. His other hand comes to tangle in your hair, pulling out the carefully arranged pins - you’d been expecting that. Prosciutto loves making a mess of you. In return, you untie his ascot and toss it to one side, fingers running down his shirt to pull at the buttons. 

He growls against you, pressing you bodily against the door so that the handle bites into your spine. You gasp at the feel of him grasping the zip of your dress and tugging, and his full lips curl into a smile. 

“Step out of it, cara,” he says. “Let me look at you, after you got dressed up all pretty for me.”

You do. Shrugging out of the sleeves, you let the fabric pool around your feet, stepping out of it still in your neat heels. Prosciutto’s gaze lingers over the shape of you, drinking you in - throat bobbing once more at the corset and stockings and garter belt. 

“D-do you like it?” You ask him, a little shyly. He raises his eyebrows in surprise - he grabs hold of one of your hands and guides it to his crotch, pressing it against the expensive fabric - his cock presses hot and heavy there, practically pulsing beneath even the lightest graze of your skin. 

“I love it, tesoro,” he says. “You couldn’t guess?”

“I guess it’s nice to get some affirmation in words,” you say. Prosciutto smiles at you again, a smile that makes your knees feel like they are about to go from beneath you. 

“I could talk about you all day,” he tells you. “But first . . .” He crooks a finger, moving across the room until he’s stood by the mirror. “Come here.”

You follow him, standing in front as he directs. His hands come to rest on the curve of your hips, tracing the lines of your body, hot. They send trails of fire wherever he touches, even through the fabric of what you’re wearing. Your heart almost skips a beat at how they look on your waist - and he growls low at that, too. 

“You look very nice,” he breathes into the shell of your ear, sending gooseflesh all down your neck and shoulders. “But I think this could be laced a little tighter if you had some help, hmm?” Deft hands undo the knot, taking hold of the laces in either fist. “I’m sure it can’t be all that easy alone . . . but I might be able to assist.” 

He tugs slightly, and the corset constricts a little more. You breathe in, surprised - and Prosciutto chuckles. 

“I think,” he murmurs, “I’d like it on you if it were a little too tight.”

Prosciutto dominates in the bedroom, and you’re only too happy to let him - there’s a subtle shift in his tone as he speaks that remind you that he’s in charge, and you swallow the sudden lump of need in your throat. Prosciutto’s cock, clothed but prominent, pokes you in the small of your back as he says; 

“Tell me when it’s too much.”

“Okay.” Your voice shakes only a little, and you see Prosciutto smirk in the mirror as he steps back and tugs again, this time for longer. The corset squeezes you about the waist, the hug getting tighter and tighter. 

Prosciutto gets another few inches of compression, easy, winning little gasps from you until you say, breathlessly--

“I don’t think I can take any more.”

The voice comes from higher than it usually does, your body not quite able to echo in the same places that you’ve grown familiar with. You’re still perfectly able to breathe, but you find yourself unable to take a deep, shuddering breath of the kind that you’d like to when Prosciutto’s hands dip between your thighs, caressing the skin that’s touchable between the garters. 

“You put this on last, didn’t you?” He purrs into your ear, his clever fingers sliding over your closed slit. “You’re so good to me.”

You had, after having read that if you put underwear on last, it was simpler for your lover to fuck you with the stockings and garter belt and all the other accoutrements still taut against your body. You hadn’t wanted to get dressed up for Prosciutto only for him to immediately rip it all off of you - your boyfriend, you knew, would appreciate the show of you coming apart underneath him still in your neatly turned out costume. 

You hadn’t bargained on just how the corset would enhance your other senses. You hadn’t realised that, with that pressure at your waist, his fingers on your thighs would feel so all-consuming. That when your body clenched around nothing, you’d feel even needier for touches than usual - that every brush of his lips over your collarbone would feel like his mouth were on fire. 

“Come on,” Prosciutto says, tugging on your arm. You allow yourself to be manipulated by him, your head swimming with need the more he touches you, your breath coming in short little pants. You let him push you softly onto the bed on your front, as he helps you get into position on your hands and knees. 

You feel dizzy like this, worrying all of the blood will be rushing to your head and that you’ll pass out - but then Prosciutto is moving pillows, putting them beneath your head, getting you as comfortable as you can be.

“Not that I don’t like you on your front, amore,” he says, as you feel his hands grip your hip, sliding up to your waist and then down again so that they brush over your ass - almost bare, aside from the garters that stretch down to keep your stockings taut. “But taking hold of your waist in this position . . . Mm, you’re shaped like a heart like this, you know.”

Fingers slide up your inner thighs, making you jump and whimper, your body bucking backwards in search of more of his fingers. He makes a chastising noise, clicking his tongue. 

“All in good time,” he says to you. 

The silk pillow feels cool against your hot cheek, and you try and concentrate on that as Prosciutto takes his sweet time. Every brush of his slacks against the back of your thighs or touch of his fingers and hands makes you feel like you’re about to pass out - and he can tell, you know he can. You know he must see the tremble in your body and hear the soft sighs and pants falling from your mouth, as fingers glide over your slick folds but don’t go further than that. He’s enjoying seeing you lose yourself. 

You’re not enjoying being denied. 

“I’m enjoying my surprise,” he tells you, and you can sense the smirk in his voice as his thumbs spread open your sex and you feel cool air on your heated skin. “You’re enjoying my enjoyment too, aren’t you?”

“I want you to touch me,” you mumble, half-dazed from the position you’re in and the lack of air that you’re getting. “Prosciutto . . .”

You know you’re whining, and so does he. 

“I am touching you,” he says, his tone calm. A thumb slides up the slit, between the plumpness of your lips - and you whimper again as he brushes your clit, uselessly rocking your hips backwards. “Is it not good enough?” 

“Please,” you say, a little desperately, as he shifts on the bed and you hear his zipper. Hope flares in your heart - and then, the heat of his cock, slick with his precome, is against your thigh, smearing wetness there. 

“You’re cute when you beg,” he tells you. You moan uselessly, as he moves again - this time, he presses the head of his cock between the lips of your sex, and you feel yourself tense in preparation for the feeling of him pushing it inside you. Oh, you can’t wait to feel filled up by him - you know how deep he’ll go when you’re in this position from past nights spent in bed together, and you know that the tightness of the corset will just enhance how good he feels inside you--

He doesn’t fuck into you. His hips move, but they don’t sink into the hot confines of your heat - instead, he rocks his hips forward with a silky glide, and the head bumps at your swollen clit, making you moan aloud again, the sound breaking in the air. You feel pathetic with how much you want him. 

“I could fuck you like this,” he muses, pulling his hips back and rutting against your folds again, using the slickness of your thighs and labia lips like a cocksleeve. “It feels good - and you look so pretty, amore.” You moan out his name, frustrated, and you win a chuckle that’s like dark velvet. “And if I’m perfectly honest, principessa - knowing how badly you want me inside you makes me want to deny you even longer.”

A hand trails up your thighs, round the curve of your ass and hip, to cling to your waist. You fit in his grip well, fingers pressing against the spiral steel boning. He squeezes, and it makes the corset feel like it squeezes you a little tighter too, a choked moan falling past your lips as his cockhead brushes your clit again. 

“D-don’t you want to hold onto my waist and fuck me into next week more, though?” You manage. Every word feels like a challenge, past the way the corset clings to the lines of your body and the way that Prosciutto’s cock makes you struggle to think of anything but the pleasure that’s being dangled in front of you. 

Prosciutto laughs. Another hand comes up to hold the other side of your waist. You feel small in his grip - you haven’t always felt like that, but it’s amazing what a tightly laced corset and a cloudy mind and the haze of lusty need can do to one. 

“Alright,” he breathes into your ear, the head of his cock catching against your entrance. “You’ve got me there.”

Your brain entirely whites out as Prosciutto’s cock begins to stretch you out, filling you up inexorably, pinning you to the bed beneath him. You realise the groan of enjoyment you let out is not at all befitting to the pretty, demure fifties housewife you’re pretending to be - but then again, you’ve never watched a movie where one of their handsome husbands fucks them into the mattress in their corset so deeply that their toes curl, so perhaps they do make those noises and you’ve just never heard them. 

He goes impossible deep like this, making you feel like he’s never going to bottom out - but bottom out he does, your entire lower body singing out in need, your breath coming in pants and gasps. 

“Good,” he coos, “you’re taking me so well, principessa - how do I feel?”

You can’t do words right now. Instead, you moan brokenly, dragging your hips forward, begging him to begin vigorously fucking you instead of just leaving his cock sheathed inside of you. This gets a hiss from him, the tightening of his hands on your hips - but it also drives him into action, and as he pulls out and drives his cock straight back into the silky clutches of your sex, you see stars. 

He groans at how easily you take him, how your hips snap back into his, how you feel in his grip - and there’s nothing in the room for minutes but the slap of his thighs and hips against yours, the plunging wetness of his cock inside you, your broken moans and gasps. The shortness of breath that the corset is causing makes every stroke seem that much more frenetic, every press of his body against yours like electrical impulses firing in your brain. You’re helpless to do anything but rock, moaning and whimpering--

And your facilities are not much improved by one of Prosciutto’s hands sliding about your waist, fingers between you and the bedsheets, finding your clit to gently rub at it in firm little circles. 

It’s too much. 

Not being able to breathe properly, the sensitivity of your skin, the way that Prosciutto seems to be looming over you in every sense of the word - the pressure about your middle, and now the calloused finger coaxing your walls to pulse and flutter around Prosciutto’s cock. Your vision blurs, fingers tightening in the fabric beneath them, thighs trembling as you try and push your orgasm away lest you pass out completely - but it is impossible. 

All at once, the orgasm hits, your walls pulsing wildly about Prosciutto’s cock, sucking him in deeper and tighter than you think he’s ever been. Prosciutto himself lets out a strangled groan, surprised by how sudden and intensely your peak has hit you - the feel of your walls hugging him so tightly must push him over the edge, too, because his cock twitches wildly inside you and you feel the surprising rush of hot come paint your inner walls with his seed. 

He does not still his hips as he pumps out his last few drops, and it helps ease you over your orgasm - your vision flashes, your chest tight, breath seeming to become all stuck in your throat instead of in the air as the force of your body’s response hits you, white noise licking at your consciousness. Before, orgasms have felt like tides against a sandy shore, coming up and covering your body - this one is lightning flashes, overwhelming, leaving you gasping brokenly as aftershocks still leave you reeling. 

The fingers on your waist move, and you feel a pressure ease, Prosciutto pulling out of your dripping sex at the same time as he loosens the corset and you’re able to take a great gulping breath of air, collapsing entirely in a mess on the bed, uncaring of how Prosciutto’s come and your own slick are sliding down your thighs. 

Feather lights kisses down your spine, as the fabric is lifted away from you and your back is bare for Prosciutto’s kisses. You know that there must be marks from the corset marring your skin, and Prosciutto kisses every place you think they must be, his body hot and hard and comforting. 

Heat settles beside you, arms drawing you into an embrace that you tiredly accept. The brutal pace of the fucking and the days of preparation leading up to today catch up to you, your eyelids sagging.  

“Did you like it?” You mumble, sleepily, into the crook of your boyfriend’s arm. Prosciutto makes a little noise, dispelling a puff of air that might be a laugh. 

“I’d like you in anything,” he says to you, dropping a kiss on the top of your head. “But yes . . . yes, I liked it.” His eyes look at where the corset lays discarded, unlaced on the bed after he’d loosened it for you. “It was expensive, hmm? I’ve seen the prices of that kind of thing.”

You stifle a yawn.

“Yeah,” you say, snuggling into him. “Kinda. I know you hate to waste money. I think I should wear it again.”

Prosciutto chuckles. 

“You took the words out of my mouth. Yes,” he murmurs. “I think so too.”

[hellowkatey]

angstpril day 16: silence

Only a Moment Later

"Status, Anakin?" Obi-Wan's voice crackles through the commlink with a pointed pitch Anakin knows well. High-speed pursuits are probably his master's least favorite activities, even though on Coruscant it's difficult to classify this as "high speed". Medium-speed at best.

"He's keeping his distance, master. Not exactly trying to lose us."

"Not everyone knows those fancy maneuvers you like to do so much,"

"I hate to break it to you, but turning is not considered a fancy maneuver."

"I didn't mean-- you know what I meant."

Anakin smiles at the quiet sigh beneath his tone. Jabs at Obi-Wan have gotten so much more satisfying now that he's a knight and can't get lectured about "respecting your master". Maybe if they ever put him on the council he will get to recite the classic speech, but for now, he can get away with a few snide remarks before suspiciously getting assigned to babysit the younglings.

"Yeah, yeah, but this is different. He's just... staying in his lane. Just far enough ahead these kriffing temple speeders can't--"

"Language, Anakin,"

"Are you really concerned about--" he sighs, shaking his head. "These lousy temple speeders can't keep up with that new model City Runner 5000."

"Ah yes, the new model City Runner," Obi-Wan's voice is dripping with sarcasm. "So much stealthier than the 4000."

It is actually, Anakin thinks to himself. Superpowered thrusters they usually put in ships fit for hyperspace. "Point is, it's like he wants us to follow him."

"Perhaps he does."

Anakin glances over his shoulder where Obi-Wan's fighter glides on the outskirts of the Coruscanti traffic lane. He hopes he can see the look he's aiming in his direction, even though he knows that is physically impossible.

"I hate that tone."

"Tone? What tone?"

"You know the one."

"I don't think I have any--"

"The let's-spring-a-trap tone."

He hears Obi-Wan click his tongue, but through the commlink, it just sounds like a burst of static. "I don't think that's a real type of tone, Anakin."

Smug bastard. "And you say I'm reckless."

"You are. Now instead of putting your energy into being cheeky, how about you work on catching up with this spy before he gets away a drive full of battle strategies."

Right, the mission. Anakin grits his teeth and reroutes the backward shields into the thrusters. Obi-Wan will cover him. His ship surges forward, pressing his back into the seat. He weaves through the traffic, doing a few barrel rolls in the process. His former master's sighs are picked up through the commlink, which only makes him push harder.

They reach a six-way junction, and to his dismay, he has to slam on the brakes to avoid colliding with a school transport. Moments later, Obi-Wan's ship comes cruising by his, and he can actually see his smug look across the few meters between them as he passes.

"So much for fancy flying," Obi-Wan says dryly, and Anakin jets out from his momentary backtrack with a new determination. He won't lose this guy.

It doesn't take long to catch up to Obi-Wan. The spy has led them into the shipyard district, and the landscape free of the usual barriers of skyscrapers gives him a whole new playing field to utilize. He presses past Obi-Wan's fighter, leaving him in his exhaust. Anakin accelerates close alongside a shuttle, the spy only a few speeds ahead. If he reroutes the rest of his power from the forward shields-

He only has time to gasp between the moment the Force prickles along his spine, and the moment a fiery explosion erupts from the warehouse located on the other side of the shuttle. His ship dips and is thrown away from the blast, the belly slamming into the side of the shuttle with a force that makes his entire body fold in half and then feel as though it's been torn apart.

And he's rolling, or so it feels like. The shield of his ship has become so cracked it's hard to tell what is outside of the cockpit-- if anything. When he finally comes to a skating stop, he runs his hands down his body, shocked that besides a ringing in his ears and an aggravated welt where his seatbelt held him from flying out of the ship altogether, he seems unscathed.

Then comes the shuttle. Somehow he managed to slide across one of the ship runways ahead of it, but now the massive ship barrels at him with unbridled momentum. It's last-ditch, but he reaches out with every ounce of the Force he can, concentrating on the massive ball of energy surrounding the shuttle. He can slow it but not stop it.

His windows, previously only cracked, now blow out completely, and he grips the handholds of his pilot chair for dear life as he's slammed another few meters.

And then, all is still. Anakin finally senses things have come to a standstill, and he unbuckles from his seat. Standing is iffy at first-- he has to grasp onto the wall of the ship, which he comes to discover is covered in broken glass. As he stands on the dashboard so he can see over the entire area, he wipes the newly shed blood on his robes.

A large fire blazes in the place of the warehouse, and the entire area is filled with the smell of ship fuel. The building itself has been completely decimated. He stares in awe at the various ships that were thrown out of the road, their passengers stumbling out of the wrecks with the same bewilderment as he has, but also mixed with some appropriate hysteria.

And then his heart drops.

Obi-Wan.

Anakin jumps out of his ruined ship, the spy completely forgotten. He starts running, not entirely sure where he's running... where he supposes Obi-Wan's ship would have landed. He was right behind me.

"Obi-Wan!" his voice is hoarse and his voice cracks from the smoke filling the open air.

He was right behind me.

Behind him seems to have caught the brunt of the blast, and Anakin kicks up piles of ash still hot from the explosion as he jogs desperately through the carnage. It's here he stops, turning around in circles continuously in case his former master will suddenly appear in the next rotation.

He's here, he's alive. He has to be here.

Anakin can feel their bond, prominent and frequently used within his mind. Though it's obviously the most logical way to find Obi-Wan, he is hesitant to reach through it.

"Obi-Wan!" he screams again. His voice is accompanied by the sirens quickly approaching, and the screams of the other people mirroring his confused stance. It's too loud. Too busy. I need... I have to--

He shuts his eyes, opens the bond as wide as he can. 'Obi-Wan?'

Silence. Anakin feels like he's choking.

'Obi-Wan, answer me. Tell me where you are, where your ship landed. I know you're okay, I can feel... you have to be okay, Master.'

There is still no reply. No gentle strum along the bond, their usual quiet indication that yes, I'm here and I hear you. Nothing.

So he runs again. It's the only thing he can think to do. He runs, his head on a constant swivel as he takes in the faces of those who survived the crash. He runs through his legs are aching and his body is sore and stiff and his lungs are screaming for him to stop and rest, but he can't because Obi-Wan is here somewhere and he can't say anything but he's here--

He's back near his own ship, which has since erupted in its own flames. How he did a loop, he doesn't know, but for the first time, he notices a darkness a few meters from where he skidded to a halt.

As he walks closer, everything in him tells him to turn around. To walk away.

He doesn't listen.

When Anakin peers over the edge, he peers straight into an aeration vent-- a seemingly bottomless pit that goes all the way to the first level of Coruscant. The ringing in his ears amplifies, feeling as though the air around him is being sucked out by a vacuum.

"Obi-Wan?" he says aloud, barely a whisper as he drops to his knees at the edge of the vent.

There is no response. Only silence.

[hansolmates]

jeongguk; a royal exchange (02)

feat. the rom-com college!jeongguk x princess!reader au no one asked for

she’s the man!au where the princess impersonates her brother yoongi in order to finish his degree on time while yoongi is thrusted into princely duties. jeongguk is in the mess purely through room arrangement.

notes: p.2 is a straight up roll of pure crack and fluff. lil sexy for like .2 seconds. super self indulgent and inspired by the princess diaries. princess is stressed the whole time and we live to see her suffer

w.c: 7.1k 

01, 02

“I’m sure this is probably the hundredth time you’ve heard since you’ve landed, but welcome to Illyria! The palace welcomes you to your new home away from home.” 

“Ho-ly,” Jeongguk slaps a hand in front of Taehyung’s offending tongue, in case swearing is forbidden on royal territory. Wouldn’t want their scholarships taken away over Taehyung’s potty mouth. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Hoseok, sir?” an exchange student from a university in New Zealand (yet Korean-born, ironically) pipes up, “why does the infrastructure of the building look like that?” 

The student is referring to the ravines of gold metal that stream the walls of the palace. While the architecture is classic, the sheen of the metal definitely gives it an air of regality. 

“Good question, Namjoon. The castle is wired and designed after our main export, Illyrium. The element was discovered in the early 1850s in what is now the ruins of Oros,” Hoseok quips brightly, patting the stone affectionately. “It has a conductivity percentage of 106% percent, more than silver. It is also quite durable.” 

Namjoon’s deep laugh echoes throughout the pavilion, “I was just asking because it makes the castle so beautiful. Thank you.” 

Jeongguk takes the time to snap more pictures of the castle, switching between his Sony and his phone. He zooms in on a low balcony overlooking the terrace they landed from. A figure rolls into his shot, stumbling barefoot with a ruby silk robe swishing between steps. You’re tired, sleep-laden as you clutch a snow white mug between your two hands, leaning your elbows against the metal bearing. You’re staring at nothing and everything, glazed over your backyard that seems to stretch on for eons. 

“You’re right,” Jeongguk marvels at your visage between his lens, “absolutely beautiful.” 

“Can I please get a better assignment, Jimin?” 

“Your highness,” Jimin frowns, following after you, “you love teaching the exchange students, what has changed?” 

“Exactly, Jimin,” you sigh, stopping in the middle of the hallway. Jimin’s nose nearly bumps into yours, “nothing has changed. I teach students every quarter, the same subjects every time. It’s not to say that I don’t love teaching,” you exhale, blowing into Jimin’s honeycomb bangs, “but can’t I have a more challenging assignment? Conversing with dignitaries, renovating the town square, I’ll even do culinary!” 

Your poor secretary squeaks, pushing up his rose gold iPad to carve some distance between you two. “You-you know those jobs aren’t suitable for a Princess,” Jimin cuts himself off once he sees your eyes soften in defeat, “b-but! I’ll see if Hoseok would be willing to take on another class? And maybe we could arrange a presentation to the King in regards to your proposals?” 

“Right,” you smile sadly, folding your arms and stretching the tight blazer your mother forced you in, “as if another Google Slideshow will impress him.” 

Jimin squeezes your shoulder, as if he could tell you all the things he could never say through body language. “Showtime’s in two minutes, your highness.” 

You nod, making haste to the large double doors that lead to the main living room. Normally, the scholarship program’s presentation is done in the throne room, a big show of bravado and an ego booster to your family. However, this particular class is entirely post-grad and under ten students, so you figure they were placed in a more intimate area for the sake of comfort. 

Jimin pulls a lint roller out of nowhere, careful to catch every bit of dust that dares meet your presence. You tug uncomfortably at your collar, and give the signal to the door bearer. You fight the urge to flinch at the usual bombastic announcement. 

“Introducing, the Princess of Illyria!” 

The students and staff are bowing when you enter, and you send a look to Yoongi, who only offers you a lazy smirk. It’s a look you’ve feared since childhood, an explicit tell that he knows something you don’t. Nevertheless, you tack on a smile, standing in front of the ten students who are still dutifully lowered. You have to hand it to them, the undergrads would already be turning heads to get a peek at the princess. 

“You may rise,” you voice floats. As mother always said, your voice must replicate a dandelion seed, bouncing in the wind. 

The student directly in front of you elevates, a pair of doe eyes taking his sweet time to appreciate the view. 

Jeon Jeongguk gives you a lazy smirk, mirroring your brother’s. The smile evaporates from your face, taking in the handsome man that you lived with for two months over two years ago. His eyes have certainly not lost their spark, but his hair is trimmed and showing off his forehead. A Sony camera wraps around his neck, held tightly by a strong pair of hands. He’s even dressed brightly, wearing a navy blazer over a plain white tee and a pair of dark jeans. Something twinges in your heart when you see that a familiar pair of black combat boots remain. 

Jeongguk is the first to break eye contact, deciding to at least pretend to care about Hoseok’s presentation on the flatscreen. An overplayed video about Illyria’s history drones on, while Hoseok and Jimin are exchanging schedules in between. You’re sure that Jimin is passing on your word about choosing not to teach this quarter, and now it’s personal. 

This urges the students to take seats on the couches, while staff floats around with various pastries and refreshments. 

Your family takes their respective seats, and you fight the urge to pinch Yoongi as you hiss, “You knew about this?” 

“Surprise,” Yoongi sing-songs, munching on a linzer cookie. “I handpicked all the students.”

“Couldn’t give your sister a heads up?” you snap hotly, making sure no one was looking as you pop a whole cream puff in your mouth. 

“Sorry,” Yoongi leans over the shell of your ear, “Your hot ex-roommate is here, just wanted to let you know before you eat the dessert table.” 

You mouth a fuck you, taking a stab at him under the table with your heeled foot. 

After Yoongi’s not-so-subtle reveal of each other’s identities in a crowded Chinese restaurant two years ago, you’ve since cut off all contact with Jeon Jeongguk as you resumed your life as Princess of Illyria. Simultaneously shocked, but not surprised due to the obvious hints of suspicion, Jeongguk had forgiven your lie and allowed you to leave in good spirits. You remember leaving him at the front door of your dorm, hugging you warmly and bidding you safe travels. 

It confused you, because it would've been easier to leave if Jeongguk had gotten angry at the complete breach of trust and kicked you out. 

Hoseok is now presenting a slideshow of the intended schedule and itinerary for all students. You’re now glaring at the back of Jeongguk’s head, trying your damn hardest not to shove three brownies in your mouth in the presence of guests. Your tiny dessert spoon picks pathetically at the measly crumbs, and Jimin is urging you to smile from his position opposite you. 

“And as always, our lovely princess will be conducting our class on Modern Illyrian Anthropology and will be organizing your field studies!” Hoseok practically shouts across the room, where you’re sitting wide-eyed with your family. You feel Yoongi reach over to dab the crumbs off your lips, enjoying your suffering. 

You shoot a look at Jimin who was supposed to take care of things, and he gives you a pained expression that reads don’t fire me.  

With a tight-lipped smile and feigning ignorance to Jeongguk’s interest in you teaching, you reply to the expectant students, “It’s always a pleasure to teach, I promise to not bore you with Illyrian history, that’s Hoseok’s job.” 

“Hey!” he scrunches his nose, then turns to the students who are hiding their giggles, “Better get on her good side if you want a nice field assignment.” he warns good-naturedly, giving you a mock glare. 

You suppose giving Jeongguk a field assignment far, far away from the castle. 

After the long-winded presentation and a handful of brochures, the royal family is escorted out to retire for the day. As the youngest in the family you're the last one to leave.

Out the doorway you hear Taehyung utter, "That's her? What a babe!" 

As to not arouse suspicion, it takes longer than anticipated to get a private moment with Jeongguk. No one but Taehyung and Jimin know of your circumstances, and it is to remain that way due to the fact that you and Yoongi committed fraud, royal or not. 

Jeongguk is a quiet student, surprisingly. Choosing a seat by the window, he spends most of your classes doodling and looking out the pavilion. As stimulating as Namjoon and Irene’s questions are, you’re a little disheartened at the fact that Jeongguk has made little effort to talk to you, even if it’s as impersonal as classwork or office hours. 

Today Hoseok’s teaching, and that gives you ample time to work out where you want to assign the students for field study. You’ve shaken off Jimin for now, and you’re currently roaming the halls with your phone, checking off your schedule. 

Called the Museum of Modern Illyrian Art for Namjoon … check. 

Sent staff to the villa in prep for the kiddies’ weekend getaway … check. 

Sent e-vites and physicals to the Genovian royals … next.

Find a quiet corner to stress cry before 2:30—

A hand flies out of nowhere, grabbing your waist roughly and throwing you in a small room. The hand clasped over your mouth swallows your scream as the door shuts tight. 

The captor turns on the singular lightbulb, grinning at you like a madman. “Hey Princess—what the fuck!” 

You grimace, putting down your switchblade that was dangerously close to Jungkook’s jugular. “What the hell, Jeongguk! I could’ve killed you!” 

“Dang, princesses are something else nowadays. Where on your body are you hiding knives?” Jeongguk marvels as if he wasn’t ten seconds away from being dead!Guk, patting down your lavender pantsuit in a way that’s highly inappropriate. “What are you, Ty Lee?” 

“Self-defense secret,” and under your breath you add, “and Mai’s the one who hides knives. Ty Lee’s the acrobat.” 

The grin easily returns to the tall boy’s face, burnt eyes shining against the naked bulb. This is the most emotion you’ve got out of him since classes started, and it’s doing nothing to ease the butterflies in your stomach. “So, come here often?” 

“To the storage closet?” you snort, “not particularly.” 

“And where’s a place I can go that you do come often?” 

“My office hours,” you deadpan, “in which you haven’t visited, by the way. As a friend and as a teacher, I’m insulted.” 

A low whine erupts from his throat, and he leans against the shelves, long arms spread across the three-ply toilet paper. “But your little secretary’s always there. It’s awkward when we’re not alone. I don't know if I should act like a friend or a student. Speaking of, where is he?” 

“Ah, Jimin’s getting Starbucks.” 

“Lit, can you tell him to pick me up a pink drink?” 

“No,” but you send a text to Jimin anyway. “Shouldn’t you be in class?” 

“I’m supposed to be coming back from the bathroom,” he air-quotes, “AKA, running around the palace until I can corner you.” 

You sigh, fiddling with the hem of your blazer. 

“Are you annoyed at me?” and for a second, Jungkook’s eyes betray a hint of vulnerability. “Am I being too forward? Or do you not want to catch up? I don’t know, I figured you’d be excited to see me but you’ve just been so busy.” 

“Jeongguk,” you put a hand on his shoulder, ceasing the rambling. He opens his mouth to add more, but you squeeze his bicep. “I’m not annoyed at you. I’m annoyed at the situation. I’ve missed you,” you offer him a shy smile, and he returns a small, hopeful one in return, “but you’re right, it’s been really busy with the usual duties and I’ve been a little on edge with keeping things together without letting any secrets out.” 

You’re also confused as to why you’re still harboring feelings for him, but that’s another secret you keep to yourself. 

“Well, your duty is doo-dy.”  Jungkook huffs, but is placated by your confession. “Don’t worry Princess, I’ll think of something.” 

A knock startles the both of you, and Jeongguk squeaks, brandishing a plunger in defense. With a dainty finger, you push the plumbing tool back to the ground, as the knockings did not stop. 

“Ohmygod—am I going to be beheaded for kidnapping the Princess?” Jeongguk panics and checks his phone, realizing his bathroom break turned into a straight up game of hooky. “Do you guys still behead? I mean if you’re pulling out knives from who knows where—” 

“Guk, relax,” recognizing it immediately as a code between you and your brother, you swing the supply closet open. 

Yoongi looks between the two of you, gauging the situation. When he notices that no, you two did not just romp between the 3-ply and were in fact only talking, he huffs. “Losers,” he mutters under his breath, hiding a grin as he leaves you two to splutter. 

It’s already well over twenty minutes past your class time, but Taehyung just wouldn’t shut up. 

You can’t blame him, he’s thrilled that you managed to snag him a field study with your personal couture designer. He’s lit up like a good boy on Christmas eve, getting his present early. He’s gushing about how excited he is to use authentic Swarovski crystals and rub noses with the fancy fabrics. 

“I’ll make you the perfect dress for the upcoming gala, Your Highness.” Taehyung’s vibrating in a manner you never imagined on a human before.

“Thank you,” you reply awkwardly, “I’m sorry, but what gala are you referring to?” 

He shrugs, “I’m sure there’s a gala you have to go to sometime. I’ve just always wanted to say that, makes me feel special.” 

“Tae,” Jeongguk is sitting on your desk, heels bumping into the mahogany. With a stiff jerk of his head, Tae’s lips morph into an ‘O’ and he finally gets the hint, bowing to you and scurrying off. 

“Y’know, his fashion’s kind of eccentric.” he nods over to the excessive fur lining on Taehyung’s slippers, “I’d make sure your designer keeps a close eye on him.” 

“And what do I owe the pleasure of your presence,” you click, “twenty minutes after class?” 

Jeongguk has the audacity to roll his eyes, rolling his head back to crack out the stiffness. “The chamber choir, really?” he exhales, dropping the itinerary you spent the better half of your nights preparing. 

You raise your eyebrows, “What? It pertains to your major.” 

“For the past six years all I've done is eat, sleep, and breathe music,” he says, and you’re suddenly reminded that you had a glimpse of that version of Jeongguk two years ago. A slave to the music, as much as he loved the subject, it sometimes felt like a tether that weaved far too deeply under his skin. “Can’t my field assignment be something different? More eclectic?” 

“Do you have anything in mind?” 

“In fact, I do.” Jeongguk lolls his head to the side, chestnut bangs falling softly. “For my field study, I want to shadow the Princess’ duties.” 

You slam your hands down, standing up so you’re nearly nose-to-nose with the young man. “Are you crazy? Do you want Yoongi and I to get caught?” 

“Listen, I’ve thought about it all throughout class—”

“—what? You didn’t listen to my lecture?—”

“—and today in class you mentioned that you graduated with a Master’s in Public Affairs, because in fact I always listen to you,” Jeongguk presses a finger to your lips when you try to cut him off, “and lo and behold, one of my minors was in public affairs! What better way to get more experience in the business when I have the master right in front of me?” 

“I don’t know, Guk,” you try, mulling through all the possible situations and horrors that could occur because of it. 

“Princess, we’re killing two birds with one stone!” Jeongguk pleads, giving you the puppy eyes, “not only do I get a far better field study assignment, but it’s far better because I get to spend more time with you!” 

You hate how absolutely weak you’ve become under his gaze. In the span of less than three weeks, Jeon Jeongguk has re-entered your life like he never left. He wanted to spend time with you. The selfish part of your brain says you wish the same. Who are you to deny such a simple desire? 

“Fine,” you spit out, putting up a front and pretending to be annoyed, “but you better not get all huffy around Jimin.” 

He shrugs, throwing his bag over his shoulder. “Worth it.” 

“You’re different,” Jeongguk states bluntly, actively ignoring the way Jimin tries to push between you two. Jeongguk continues to press into your shoulder as you weave through the gardens. You’re picking flowers for a specific theme arrangement and pattern. A diplomat from Spain is coming and he is bringing her young daughter. You've heard that she’s recently taken in interest in constructing flower crowns. 

“Well, two years can do that to a person,” you reply airily, dropping a tiger lily in the wicker basket Jeongguk insisted on carrying. 

Having Jeongguk follow you around like a duckling is fun, to be frank. Jimin is no longer hyper-focused on you, forcing him to spread his attention between you and your overly-attentive  student. Jeongguk can’t attend every single one of your events because some of the information’s sensitive, but when he does it makes your job feel less of a job and more like a fun group project. 

Like when you and Jeongguk would stumble in the farmer’s market every Sunday morning, hungover but aching to fill your bellies. You two were walking zombies, forcing yourselves out of bed to feed yourselves. But it was always fun because you were together, whenever it was Jeongguk’s turn to pay, you’d sneak in more KitKats for yourself. Whenever it was your turn, Jeongguk would smuggle more cartons of banana milk. 

“No, no. It’s not that,” your friend admonishes instantly, “your personality’s still the same, even though it was Yoongi-fied. Your heart hasn’t changed,” you turn your head sharply towards a field of carnations, concealing your flush. “I mean, you’re more confident.” 

“In other words,” Jimin pipes, looking up from his iPad, “an air of regality.” 

You scoff, putting a hand on your hip and looking expectantly at the two boys. “You’ve changed too, Guk,” you reason, shaking your head. “Old Jeongguk wouldn’t be wearing white dress shirts and shoving princesses in closets.” 

“You shoved the princess in a closet—!” Jimin starts, having half a mind to cancel the field study all together.

“Well, Old Jeongguk didn’t have a chance to really get to know you,” Jeongguk twirls a baby’s breath between his fingers, tucking it in-between your ear. “That’s New Jeongguk’s job.” 

“So, you’re the Princess’ head of security,” Jeongguk tilts his head to look up at the slightly taller man, his visage covered by a pair of shades. The bodyguard is never really present, only when citizens enter the castle or you’re out of town. “You know you’re inside, right?” 

The man only slightly inclines his head to acknowledge Jeongguk’s prodding. Hmph, he looks like a talker. 

“If you’re her head of security,” Jeongguk leans closer, trying to avoid any further attention to his conversation, “do you know where she hides her knives? Because sometimes she wears those tight pencil skirts and I can’t help but wonder—”

“That’s classified.” 

“Alright, where do you hide your knives—”

“Also classified.” 

“Jeongguk,” you relent, sliding your footrest next to your throne, “leave Seokjin alone and come here, please.” 

You can’t blame him. It’s always been a pastime of yours to ruffle Seokjin’s feathers, but you must admit that meeting with citizens is a long and frankly, boring process. The routine is fairly simple, the citizen bows and offers something for the table, and in return you lend your ear and offer assistance if possible. 

“For your table, Your Highness,” the next citizen bows, carrying a foil-lined tray filled with fresh baked bread. 

“Smells delicious, Bertrand.” you beam, ripping open the tin to snatch a hot slice off the top. Rosemary and thyme are egg washed atop the brown bread, and you proffer a piece to Jeongguk, as you could imagine the poor guy is as antsy as ever. “And may I introduce you to my student, Jeon Jeongguk? He’s studying my diplomacy for his field study.” 

Bertrand tips his head, “Lucky you, she’s a true leader.” 

Jeongguk nods shyly, nibbling on the crust. “Truly an honor.” 

Jeongguk offers to bring the gift to the table with the other offerings across the room, and you nod, conversing lightly with Bertrand. His worries are simple enough, he feels pressured by a catering request from an Illyrian Duke, and wishes to serve a party fit for a royal. In resolution, you offer to send a palace chocolatier and chef to help with the preparations. Jeongguk returns to his seat next to yours just as Bertrand leaves. He pulls up his iPad, feigning notes that he should be writing while observing you. 

The next citizen hobbles over, holding a large ivory wicker basket covered by a beige tarp. “For your table, Your Highness,” they bow, “I hope you like omelets.” 

If you weren’t on the throne with an audience of one-hundred, you’d be delivering a very confused expression, coupled with panic. “May I?” you inquire, forcing a smile as you lift open the tarp.

In the basket there are two small jars of marmalade, and one huge chicken sitting fat and proud that its skin overflows between the gaps of the wicker. Its head twitches in your direction, barely turning because its neck is hugely bulbous with excess weight. Its beady little eyes mock you. It smells fear. 

“Her name’s Dixie,” the citizen supplied helpfully. 

“Holy shit,” Jeongguk whispers next to you, but not soft enough for it to not echo in the throne room, “Dixie, you are a thick chick.” 

“Jeongguk!” you exclaim, which causes the whole room to reverb at your shrill cry. 

Of course the chicken has to freak out, flapping its wings and freeing itself from the confines of its package. The animal dives for you, and you press yourself as much as you can against the throne. Jeongguk knows no bounds, throwing himself in front of you to catch the large bird. Feathers weave unto his umber tresses as the bird meets gravity, Jeongguk unable to calm down Dixie. 

 It’s more or less a wild goose chase (chicken chase?) after that, Jeongguk follows Dixie down the platform and around the throne room. The citizens and staff are clutching their stomachs in laughter, endeared by the young man following the chicken. Jimin is laughing and slapping Seokjin’s shoulder, his face breaking in an unabashed smile. 

And you can’t help but laugh along with them, trying to smother your giggles by covering your face with a silk fan. You peek over the thin fabric to see Jeongguk looking especially concentrated on his mission. It wasn’t like the chicken was going to escape the throne room because the doors are closed, but surely it will be a workout as Dixie’s a trooper and isn’t going down without a fight. 

“Don’t worry Princess, I got this!” Jeongguk’s voice reassures you from the far edge of the throne room. He’s taken a break, but the glint in his eyes show he’s committed to catching Dixie as she scuttles in circles.

He flashes you a breathtaking smile, all gums and pearly whites as he runs a hand through his wavy locks. Your smile falls slightly, and you clutch your fan tighter at the realization. Oh, you are besotted. 

“Hoseok’s had me on my back about teaching a full class before your weekend getaway but I’ve long decided,” you lift your chin haughtily in a way only princesses do, jutting out your lip in confirmation, “that you should enjoy the time you have here. Summer’s almost over. You all should get a headstart on your packing so you can get to the beach early.” 

Your class erupts into hoots and hollers, the Powerpoint presentation about the minerals of Illyria long abandoned. Two months have already passed, and in a couple weeks they’ll be saying their goodbyes. A twinge of sadness hits you as you relish in your students’ happy smiles. As each semester passes, each group leaves something behind you’ll never forget. This summer, as much as you taught them, you’ve learned a lot from them as well.

Students are already starting to pack up, but Namjoon’s butt is firmly planted in his seat, raising his hand. “Sorry, I have a question.” 

You smile goodnaturedly, already used to his usual spiel. “I can email you the Powerpoint and we can go over whatever you want on Monday.” 

“Ah, no. I was wondering if you were coming with us,” Namjoon mutters sheepishly. 

You’re surprised, even moreso when Irene and Yerin insist that you should go. “Yes, you have to go!” Yerin bounces in her seat.

“Oh,” you blush, “I can’t. I don’t normally go on these things, wouldn’t it be weird to have your teacher at your party?” 

“Hell no!” Yerin gasps shamelessly. It’s one thing you liked about this class, after class is over, they always managed to make you feel normal. Maybe it’s the closeness in age and education, but they remind you so often that you’re still young. After all, they weren’t Illyrian, and while outside of class they put on the whole shebang for you, it didn’t take long for them to get comfortable around you. “We can show you what real college life is like! We can roast barbeque on the beach and tell scary stories!” 

Taehyung snorts, already halfway out the door, “I’m sure the Princess doesn’t wanna see you shitfaced in the ocean.” 

You placate Yerin with a small smile, “I have to work after this, but I’ll see what I can do.” 

Namjoon walks up to your desk as the rest of the students file out. He runs the spine of his journal along your desk, “Prince Yoongi and Hoseok will be there too, if it makes you feel any better. Hope you can come.” 

The room is soon vacated, leaving you and your Star Student alone. 

“‘I’ll see what I can do’, really?” Jeongguk rolls his eyes, plopping himself atop your desk. Your eyes snap to the way the dark denim cords around his thighs, and you make a deal of slamming your laptop shut. “C’mon, of course you wanna come. I’m not taking no for an answer.” 

“Not really,” you admit. “I used to really like spending the weekend at the villa. I loved getting to know each class and know what it feels like to be like you guys,” you downplay yourself, stuffing books and electronics in your briefcase. “But ever since we roomed together two years ago, I can’t bring myself to go anymore. It’s not the same when you’ve actually had a taste of it.”

Jeongguk’s eyes soften at your confession. You could feel that he wasn’t prepared for your honesty, and you don’t blame him. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I leave in two weeks, you know.” 

“I know.” 

“Can you at least try to come, for me?” 

You lift your head up to reach his eyes, looking equal parts nervous and vulnerable. You’re suddenly thrusted back to two years ago, cornered in your dorm room where Jeongguk was upset at the thought of hurting him, lying to him. You didn’t want to hurt him, or yourself. 

But as Jeongguk’s large hand reaches across the desk to your smaller one, you don’t think to pull away. 

“Your Highness!” Jimin interrupts the two of you, and Jeongguk snatches his hand back with a glare. Jimin ignores him, looking breathless as he leans against the door of your classroom. “Your 3 o’clock is ready. We have to hurry if we want to get through the crowd.” 

With one last look, Jeongguk excuses himself, brushing past Jimin with a gruff “Bye, Princess.” 

“Today’s not your day to meet with citizens,” Yoongi mumbles next to you, looking disapprovingly at the way you wait for the next citizen to approach you. 

Seokjin holds the crowd off as you converse with your brother, who looks ready to leave to the villa. He’s dressed in a plain white t-shirt, foam slides and baggy slacks. If it wasn’t for the family crest proudly presented on his right breast pocket, he could easily be mistaken as the average citizen. “Mother insisted,” you reply shortly, growing more irritated by the second. 

“Really?” his brows disappear under his bangs, “because from the way she said it, you were looking for work.” 

Caught, you turn away from his watchful gaze. “I have a problem, okay?” you say stiffly, “I needed a distraction.” 

“Alright,” Yoongi shrugs, leaning close to your ear to murmur, “where’s the dead body?” 

You slap his arm, “Yoongi! I didn’t kill anybody!” 

“At this rate, it looks like you’re wasting yourself away.” Yoongi replies bluntly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “C’mon, Loverboy was all pouty in my room not too long ago. Don’t disappoint him.” 

With that, Yoongi turns on his heel and walks off. Citizens bow at him like dominos as he exits, your break definitively over. 

Whatever is blooming between you and Jeongguk, is and never will be fair to the both of you. In your eyes Jeongguk isn’t the type to settle, not relationship-wise, but life-wise. He wanted to grow and cultivate his art, and taste freedom every step of the journey.

You weren’t freedom or growth, and you could only hope he realizes that before you become too selfish. 

“Your Highness?” you break out of your reverie when a young woman your age looks at you shyly, “My name is Wendy. I didn’t get anything for the table but, I got you a caramel macchiato.” 

She brandishes a venti iced caramel macchiato, condensation dripping from her fingers. Your face lights up, accepting the caffeinated drink. “I really needed this!” you perk up immediately, taking a sip and letting the cool flavor soothe your tastebuds. “Thank you, Wendy. What is it that you request?” 

“Advice,” she admits, a blush creeping from her neck. She looks down at her work boots, caked in grime. “I’m an engineer who works in manufacturing Illryian technology.”

“We are eternally grateful for your service to this country,” you reply evenly. Engineers are highly revered in your country, as your economy is dependent on their brilliant minds. 

“But I have fallen in love with a man who is under my station, and wishes to find work elsewhere,” she bites her lip, her eyes growing glassy. “I haven’t told him my feelings yet, however I’m also worried for my family who finds men like him to be unworthy of an engineer like myself.” 

“Ah, bound by duty and expectation.” you reply grimly, “a rock and a hard place, huh?” 

“Yes, forgive me for my crassness. I felt as if you would understand my predicament.” 

Putting your drink down, you reach for her hand. Oil and dirt cake her fingers, and she attempts to pull away as to not soil you, but you hold on tighter. “Tell him how you feel, Wendy.” you whisper, a conversation so intimate it’s only proper it be for her ears and her ears only. “Whether he leaves or not after you tell him is his decision. However, I assure you it will hurt far more if you don’t give yourself a chance.” 

Her voice cracks, “But what if it doesn’t work out?” 

You start to feel a little teary at her candor, and you run a thumb over her palm. “Then you’re one heartbreak closer to happiness. Nevertheless, you are a strong, intelligent, beautiful woman. Don’t let your fears reject that.” 

Wendy finds the strength to squeeze your hand, and you belatedly realize that if this piece of advice was personified, it’d be slapping the shit out of you. 

“You came!” 

Hopped up on bitter caffeine and potential regrets, you stand in the living room well past midnight, party in full swing. Jimin trails behind you sans iPad, feeling lighter in a pair of trunks and a black tank. A playlist of Namjoon’s organizing is blasting from the surround sound, coupled with the flatscreen television projecting an intense lap of MarioKart. Irene and Taehyung are shoulder to shoulder, concentrating on getting that Mushroom Cup. The sliding doors that lead from your villa to the beach are cracked open, wide enough to hear the conversations the other students are exchanging. 

It was always nice to have your villa occupied like this. Less empty, more familial. 

Yerin is the first to greet you, throwing her arms around you and smelling like seasalt and vodka. She’s drenching your clothes, clad in a yellow polka-dot one-piece. “This weekend’s gonna be killer,” she whispers in your ear, causing the hairs on your neck to rise. For a petite thing, she really wastes no time cutting to the chase. 

You detach yourself, holding up a bag of pastries. “Snagged some munchies for your inevitable drunk crash,” you smirk, placing the container on the kitchen island. 

Yerin gapes, red tinted lips mouthing an ‘o’ at your language. “You’ve been hidin’ out on us, haven’t you Princess?” Yerin then brushes past you, ready to get her fingers on the confections. You’re over her shoulder, pointing out both Illrian delicacies and pastries she’s familiar with. 

After Irene snags the Mushroom Cup they’re joining you at the island, lips coated in powdered sugar and jam. The girls laugh when some powdered sugar gets into Taehyung’s hair, Irene patting him a little too hard on his bangs. 

“You’re here!” 

You whip around to see Jeongguk sliding the glass doors hurriedly, bare feet slapping across the tiled floor to reach you. He’s dripping wet, ocean water rivering around his body. Your eyes can’t help but follow the flow of the cool liquid, finding purchase between the planes of his chest and honeyed abs, glowing from the heat. 

Three years of your life were spent studying preparation and execution for war or nuclear threat. Unfortunately, at this very moment you feel way more prepared for war than Jeon Jeongguk standing in your villa, looking like that. 

Instead of the usual pleasantries, you hold up a leather wallet. “You left this in the classroom,” you chide. 

It’s a baldfaced lie. Somehow, Jeongguk’s wallet had conveniently ended up in your office between reams of paper. The bastard himself has the audacity to feign surprise, coral lips gaping in relief. “Wow, Princess. Totally not a ploy to get you to come here.” 

“Right.” 

“Give it here, I’ll drop it off in my room.” 

“Wait, wait!” you hold up both your hands, centimeters away from Jeongguk’s pecs. You’re nearly eye level with them, and you force yourself to look up at his smug face. “You’re dripping wet on the tile! Your feet still have sand you heathen! Do not get our carpets dirty!” you hold the wallet to your chest protectively, “where’s your room?” 

He tilts his head adorably, droplets flecking from his slicked back mane. “Third door on the right.” he doesn’t dare to argue with your sudden passion to keep your villa clean. 

You nod, “go enjoy the water. I’ll be right out.” You don’t give him a chance to reply, kicking off your sandals as you reach the cosier part of the villa. Soft carpet meets your toes as you pad off to the guest bedrooms. 

Jeongguk managed to snag the corner room, albeit smaller, it’s a single with a full mattress. You see his Superdry backpack open on the floor, its bottom worn with the white lining peeking through. Despite only arriving in the afternoon, his fresh scent is palpable. You drop the wallet on his desk, and you notice that his laptop’s still on. 

The Macbook Pro glows confidently, his screensaver revealing a photograph of you on your balcony. 

“Snooping around, Princess?” 

You whip around, seeing Jeongguk appear fully clothed, running a towel over his hair. He is no longer dripping water or sand, but he still smelled like salt and fire. He nonchalantly closes the door behind him, taking a seat at the foot of his bed. 

“You know it’s illegal to take unsolicited pictures of royalty, right?” 

“And who should I answer to, hm? The Princess?” he teases, face blooming from the fluffy white towel. 

You’re not upset about the picture, he knows that. But there you sit, slumped over his desk, looking forlornly at his picture of you. 

“I’ve locked the door,” Jeongguk pipes up, looking at you worriedly. “Yoongi mentioned that the room’s are soundproof. He said you looked upset today. Tell me what’s on your mind.” 

The room feels smaller, swallowing you whole. You’re tired from today’s events, both emotionally and physically. Jeongguk is having nothing of it, reaching between the two of you to pull the arms of the desk chair, wheeling you between his thighs. 

“Jeongguk,” you start, “why weren’t you mad at me when you were right? Right about me hiding something from you.” 

His brows furrow, “You made a sacrifice and protected your brother. Why would I be mad at that?” he says honestly, “sure, I was upset at first. Who wouldn’t be? But you did it out of love.” 

You smile wanly, knowing that there wasn’t going to be a chance that he’d be upset at you. It was out of your devices. “I wanted you to be mad,” you admit, wringing your fingers between your skirt, “it would’ve made it easier to leave.” 

“It would’ve, wouldn’t it?” he replies, his voice cotton soft. “After you left, Yoongi wouldn’t let me talk to you on the phone. Said you needed time. But I got him to tell me stories about you, stories that made me realize that I missed getting to know you.” 

It’s then you feel the weight of today express itself onto your cheeks, the wetness dampening your skin. You feel his thumb brush away the tears. 

“Tell me,” Jeongguk requests softly, “tell me what you really feel.” 

You let your head collapse in his hands, relishing the warmth and comfort it brings. “I feel hurt. And confined.” 

“More,” Jeongguk bids, his other hand squeezing your thigh, “let it out, Princess.” 

You are a strong, intelligent, beautiful woman. Don’t let your fears reject that.

“I miss acting like fools at the grocery store, falling on top of each other half-asleep.” Everything tumbles out shamelessly, like a waterfall. “I hate how frustrated I am when you call me Princess, because while it is my title, it turns me on in the most devastating way when you say it.” you drop your head in the crook of his neck, embarrassed to see his reaction. “I want to laugh with you, hold you, I want you, so badly. But I want you to be happy, to make music and art, and travel the world to find your muse,” you shake your head, pushing yourself away from him. “I feel so stuck here, I can’t hold you back when you’re free and—”

“That’s enough bullshit,” and he’s kissing you, a clashing of teeth that has you sensitive and reeling. His hands grasp your cheeks, and you’re stumbling in your chair as the wheels make moves on their own. You squeak against his lips before you’re wheeled back to the bed. Hot hands pull you forward to teeter your body onto the bed, keeping you in place. 

The man in question breaks apart, but close enough that his lips brush against yours when he speaks, “I’ve never kissed a princess before,” Jeongguk says wryly, cupping your cheek, “but if you make one more gripe about freedom and your stupid self-righteousness and I’ll stop.” 

A pure, unprepared whine escapes your lips, shame be damned. 

“You’re my muse,” he plants a kiss on your forehead, “I bothered Yoongi for weeks, working tooth and nail for that scholarship,” a kiss on both your nose, “you’re what it means to feel free.” 

And that’s all it takes for you to surge forward, toppling over him until he’s pushed against the headboard. Capturing your lips with his, you catch droplets of saltwater and a flavor that’s so distinctly Jeongguk, feeling high off the taste. 

Your skirt rides to your waist, your underwear damp from the ocean and arousal. You straddle him, feeling so unbounded and free as Jeongguk lets you do what you’ve both wanted to do. With a roll of your hips Jeongguk grunts, forehead pressed to yours. “Princess,” he rasps, meeting your thrusts, “we have until Christmas to do this, no need to rush.” 

Wait, Christmas? 

Jeongguk grins, kissing away your surprise. For now, you’ll ignore the burn between your thighs. “Before we left today, Yoongi and I asked the King, your father, if he would consider extending my scholarship for a full semester. I mentioned that Yoongi and I had some unfinished projects from undergrad,” he pecks your lips, “and he’s going to help me produce a full album for my final thesis.” 

“That’s amazing!” you cheer, pulling him into a hug. “I’m so proud of the two of you!”  

“Mhm,” he nuzzles your neck, pressing featherlight kisses to your skin, “can’t produce anything without my muse around, so I’d say Illyria is the perfect location.” 

Your fingers thread into his damp locks, and you feel your heart swell with happiness. Here, under the gaze of the beautiful boy who wanted to offer you his heart and his world, you felt free. 

extra.

It takes the strength of both your hands to pull Jeongguk in the storage closet, but it isn’t like he’s putting up a fight anyhow. 

“Come here often?” you drawl, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Impressive,” he chuckles, “usually it takes you an hour to shake Jimin off ya. It’s only been thirty-five minutes.” 

“I just wanted to show you something funny,” you pull up your Instagram, and play the featured video. While it was posted weeks ago, it started to pick up traction after Yoongi liked the post this morning. Jeongguk is dashing around the palace, sweating bullets and cooing “c’mon Dixie!” to the sprinting chicken in the throne room. 

“You’re viral!” you giggle, “you put Illyria on the social media map!” 

Under the lowlights, it’s still easy to see Jeongguk’s skin has gone placid. “If I ever hit it big, that shit better not haunt me,” he groans into your neck.  

“Please,” you roll your eyes, “every famous person has a backstory. Aubrey Graham had Degrassi and the Yodeling Wal-Mart boy–”

“Are you really gonna compare your boyfriend to the Yodeling Wal-Mart kid? Tell me what you really came here for,” And like a teenager, Jeongguk reels it back in, winding his hands around your waist. He gives you bedroom eyes like it's a session of Seven Minutes in Heaven, “so, we’re gonna make out or what?” 

[robininthelabyrinth]

Complications - ao3 or part 1, part 2

-

Nie Mingjue brought his hand down on the desk with a little too much strength, causing an audible crack that sounded not unlike thunder.

Wei Wuxian, who’d been pacing in front of his desk for longer than Nie Mingjue cared to contemplate, froze in place.

“Your increasingly less subtle insinuations aside, Sect Leader Jiang is, to the best of my knowledge, fine,” Nie Mingjue growled. “Now I’m going to ask for the second time, and this time I want an actual answer – why are you making your family disputes my problem?”

“Family disputes?” Wei Wuxian squawked, reverting back to his usual arrogance in his irritation. “My sect leader is missing, and your Nie sect has taken over his position in battle –”

“Someone had to, since you didn’t,” Nie Mingjue said, and watched as Wei Wuxian flinched. “I’ve already told you that he requested that I do it. I don’t actually think you doubt my word, and it’s already been over two months since he retired from the battlefield – why are you making such a fuss now?”

Wei Wuxian’s lips tightened.

“Is it because of the prisoners of war you brought back?” Nie Mingjue asked.

Wei Wuxian tensed. “What makes you say that?”

“Wen Qing was once a very promising doctor,” Nie Mingjue said. “And you have been very obviously looking for someone, the way you’ve been tearing through the battlefields and visit all the prisoner of war camps afterwards – you were clearly looking for her. The only thing I don’t understand is why.”

Wei Wuxian crossed his arms over his chest. “You said it yourself; she’s a doctor.”

“I’ve never heard of her having that sort of specialization, but I suppose anything is possible,” Nie Mingjue said. “But at any rate, it’s rather besides the point now, isn’t it? I just received word from my brother that although it came early, the danger was passed without great difficulty –”

Wei Wuxian actually grabbed the letter off of Nie Mingjue’s desk in an action so mindbogglingly rude that Nie Mingjue’s brain took a few moments to process that he’d actually done that.

“Wei Wuxian!” he roared.

“This letter doesn’t make any sense,” Wei Wuxian said, as if that was the problem with what he’d just done. “Are the references to him having good hips supposed to be some sort of code – ah!”

The last one was due to Baxia whistling through the air as she tore towards his throat, stopping only a hair’s breadth away.

“Do you know what you did wrong?” Nie Mingjue growled.

“I read your mail without asking for permission,” Wei Wuxian said, his eyes wide and round as the moon. “I was rude, and insulted you, and, uh – am extremely irritating?”

Nie Mingjue waved his hand and Baxia returned to her place, though he didn’t bother pulling back her menacing aura.  

“You’re not normally this disrespectful,” he growled. “Explain.”

Wei Wuxian’s shoulders were up by his ears. “You said there was a danger,” he mumbled. “I didn’t…was it really that serious?”

Nie Mingjue’s eyebrows went up. “Do you even know what the fatality rates involved are, especially when it comes as early as that?  It was extremely dangerous. Luckily, it seems everyone is safe.”

“Everyone? Did he – were other people put at risk?” Wei Wuxian started pacing again, much to Nie Mingjue’s annoyance. “I don’t know how qi deviations work. Was anyone else hurt?”

“Qi deviations?” Nie Mingjue said blankly, and unfortunately he put together that Jiang Cheng had apparently not told Wei Wuxian at approximately the same moment that Wei Wuxian figured out that Jiang Cheng had (apparently) lied to his face about where he was going.

“He said that was why he was going to ground with the Nie sect!” Wei Wuxian was all but exploding, his face bright red in futile anger. 

It occurred to Nie Mingjue that it was actually a relatively rare look on him, no matter how much people said things about the effects of demonic cultivation on the temperament. An interesting thought, to be followed up with at a later time.

“Because you had experience with – damnit! I can’t believe he – should have known – why did he go with you lot anyway? Sure, he likes Nie Huaisang well enough, but he could have gone to where shijie is, or with his grandmother, or – something!”

“Young Mistress Jiang is with the Jin sect; that would have been a disaster, and obviously there was no way to justify the risk of bringing her closer to battle just for his own comfort,” Nie Mingjue said, his own anger extinguished by the sheer amount by which he’d fucked this up. He hoped Jiang Cheng would forgive him. “And neither the Jiang sect or the Yu sect can spare doctors the way my Nie sect can.”

“What was wrong with him, then, if it wasn’t his qi or his golden core?” Wei Wuxian demanded. “Do you know? You do, don’t you? Why would he tell you and not me? Why –”

“Da-ge! Da-ge, are you here –”

Nie Mingjue closed his eyes briefly. That was the last thing he needed.

“Huaisang,” he said without opening his eyes. “Are you allowed in Heijan?”

“No,” his younger brother said without the slightest hint of shame as he came in through the opening to Nie Mingjue’s tent. “But it’s not like you’ve actually had any problems beating off the Wens for ages, and I hitched a ride on the post; I’ll go back first thing in the morning.”

“The post is for carrying mail, not idiots!”

“You say that, and yet – Wei-xiong! Hey! What’s gotten you in such a mood?”

Nie Mingjue opened his eyes and Baxia immediate began rattling a vicious warning. “Put my brother down this instant.”

“Sorry,” Wei Wuxian said, dropping his hands from Nie Huaisang’s robes with admirable speed. “But you wrote the letter – that means you were with Jiang Cheng, weren’t you? He’s all right?”

“He’s fine,” Nie Huaisang said, brightening. “The danger’s passed, and everyone’s healthy and loud. Incredibly loud. I’ve never heard such lungs.”

“Should you be mentioning that?” Nie Mingjue asked, eyes sliding towards Wei Wuxian. “If Sect Leader Jiang was planning on explaining himself…”

“Oh, no, he asked me to tell Wei-xiong about it,” Nie Huaisang assured him. “He said the conversation was the only thing he could think of that was likely to be more excruciating than what he’d just experienced, so I volunteered.”

“Excruciating? Jiang Cheng?” Wei Wuxian’s voice was getting a bit dangerous. Also, shrill. “Nie-xiong, don’t keep me in suspense like this! What’s wrong with Jiang Cheng?”

“Nothing! He’s fine now, like I said,” Nie Huaisang said. “And your shizi is doing great, too. Like I said: lungs.”

“My…shizi?”

“So it’s a boy, then?” Nie Mingjue said, and held out his hand.  

“I hate you personally, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang informed him, and put the promised scroll in his hand. “Why do I keep gambling against you? I always lose. At least I’ve smartened up and no longer bet saber training time…”

“Shizi,” Wei Wuxian repeatedly blankly, as if he’d never heard the term for martial nephew before. “Jiang Cheng – a shizi – but that means –”

Nie Mingjue and Nie Huaisang exchanged looks and went over to Wei Wuxian at once, Nie Mingjue catching him by the arms and guiding him down into a seated position while Nie Huaisang brought him a jar of fortified wine.

“We’ve been calling him A-Lian,” Nie Huaisang said helpfully. “Well, I have, anyway. Jiang Cheng’s just been calling him ‘brat’ the same way he did the entire pregnancy, but he smiles every time he does so I think it means he’s happy.”

Wei Wuxian was counting on his fingers, so Nie Mingjue reached out and grabbed his hand to make him stop.

“Yes,” he said, as kindly as he could manage. “It happened at that time. He got over it. Now you know, and now you have a shizi to help take care of. Dare we all hope that means that you are finally going to stop fucking around with demonic cultivation and get back to helping him the way you’re supposed to?”

He wasn’t expecting Wei Wuxian to break down into tears.

“Oh, no, I know that this is; it’s fine, I’ve got this,” Nie Huaisang said, and Nie Mingjue had never been happier to hear those (highly uncharacteristic) words. “Don’t worry, da-ge. This is the classic Yunmeng pre-confession bout of emotionality. I’ve seen it at least a dozen times with Jiang Cheng these past few months. Bring more wine and we’ll get him through it intact.”

Wei Wuxian’s sobbing just got worse.

Nie Mingjue decided to go get more wine. Possibly back-up assistance as well – someone Wei Wuxian liked who could help comfort him.

Wait.

Did Wei Wuxian like anyone?

“Sect Leader Nie,” Lan Wangji greeted politely – he was coming back from a patrol. “Is there any chance that you’ve seen Wei Ying?”

Nie Mingjue squinted at him. “You call each other by your given names?”

He hadn’t noticed that before. Though to judge from Lan Wangji’s taken aback expression, he might not have noticed it either.

“Never mind,” Nie Mingjue said. “You’ll do.”