#carefully choosing the way to answer that question that makes me feel the least like i'm exploding into a hundred million pieces

[greaterspawnislands]

77! ^_^

i goddamn knew you'd ask me this one why couldn't we flip it around? why couldn't you ask about gravy here instead of dms?

77. What’s your kink?

some level of sensory deprivation i think. hard to say without actually trying it out but im pretty sure i'd be into that

101 Questions

[bluntzah]

SPARK UP ♡ HAMZAH.

ⓘ ⋮ WC: 3.2k words.

ⓘ ⋮ CONTENT: 18+ CONTENT, making out, smoking, sexy asf. if my work isn’t to your taste, feel free to leave but negativity has no place here.

ⓘ ⋮ SUMMARY: poor hamzah, stressed and pouty, weighed down by the misery of his sick friends. if only there were a way to ease his frustration, to make him feel better…

THE DOOR SWUNG OPEN, the old, creaky door of your room slowly rattled with a groan as your best friend strolled in. You didn’t even flinch, fingers moving with ease as you rolled the blunt, the familiar scent already pervading the air with its smell.

“What’s that?” he asked, and you nearly rolled your eyes. Not because he’d interrupted you: you could do this blindfolded — but because the question was stupid. The smell was obvious, sticking to the room despite the spritz of perfume you’d tried moments before. He knew exactly what it was.

He just wanted a hit.

“What does it look like?” As if the scattered rolling papers and the scent weren’t enough evidence. You didn’t bother turning around, fingers working efficiently as you crushed the weed into fine pieces.

Hamzah flopped onto your bed with a dramatic sigh, the mattress creaking under his weight. “Come onnnn,” he drawled, stretching the word out. “Just let me take, like, at least three hits.”

He fucking wishes.

You didn’t even hesitate, shaking your head as you focused on sealing the wrap. “Buy your own.” And you meant it. Last time you shared with this motherfucker, not only did he have the audacity to complain about your lip gloss making it - in his words -“soggy,” but he also damn near finished the whole thing himself.

“The high just doesn’t hit the same when it’s your own,” Hamzah mused, then paused, brow furrowing like he was already second guessing himself. “know what I mean?”

“No.” But you did. You just liked to fuck with him, liked the way he’d start tripping over his own logic, scrambling to make his point sound less ridiculous. He always did - back then, and even more now.

Hamzah let out a sharp breath, already annoyed. “Yeah, okay, so just fuck me then, right?”

Normally, he would have brushed off your saying with a roll of his eyes, a scoff, or a flick to your forehead. The two of you had a certain banter, a dance of sorts, that usually left you irritated and grinning despite yourself. His words, while sometimes sharp, always carried banter.

But this time was different. This time, there was a tension in his voice, a real edge that cut through the usual playful tips. It caught you off guard, making you pause. You found yourself turning back, glancing over your shoulder.

Hamzah lay there, hands tucked behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. The pillow, your pillow, rested on his bicep as he lost himself in thought. He seemed oblivious to your presence, his brow furrowed slightly as if deep in thought of something only he could understand.

With a sigh, you decide to let the matter drop, choosing instead to be the good friend Hamzah needs right now. "What happened?" you ask, your voice casual but concerned. "You've been off all day."

"Nothin'," he replied. You raise an eyebrow at Hamzah's response, giving him a sidelong glance. You know him well enough to recognize the signs. The quick, almost snappy tone, the evasive answer. Something's bothering him, it's not like him to brush you off like this.

Nodding slowly, you finish rolling the blunt, licking the paper carefully to seal it. Turning to face Hamzah fully, you cross your arms and meet his gaze head on. "Don't give me that 'nothin' bullshit," you say. "You're always a real snappy fucker when something's got you all worked up. Spill it already."

Hamzah pauses, considering your words. He fidgets with his beanie, adjusting it slightly on his head as he gathers his thoughts. Then, with a sigh, he sits up and swings his legs around to the same side of the bed as you. The pillow fell to the floor with a soft thud.

As he moves, his knees brush against yours, the contact subtle. He glances down at the point where your legs touch before meeting your gaze.

“Work,” he replied, his voice stripped down to a single syllable, delivered with a shrug: careless, almost dismissive. But his dark eyes told another story, tracking the way your fingers reached for the pink lighter on your desk, the way your nails tapped against its plastic surface before the flick of your thumb coaxed a small flame to life.

You hummed a quiet, expectant sound, pressing him to elaborate without words.

But he didn’t, so you let the silence stretch, let his answer settle between you as you brought the blunt to your lips. The glossy shine of your lip gloss caught the light as you took a slow drag, hollowing your cheeks. You ghosted the smoke, holding it just at the edge of release before drawing it back in, letting it unfurl inside you.

When you finally exhaled, the smoke curled lazily into the air, dissipating into nothing.

Hamzah’s mouth, half open in the middle of speaking, slowly parted wider as his gaze lingered on the way your lips wrapped around the blunt; glossy, plush. For a second, he seemed to forget what he was saying. “Uhm, Martin and Mandy are sick —“

He barely got the words out before you exhaled, sending a stream of smoke straight into his face. The moment it hit him, he choked mid sentence, the burn catching at the back of his throat.

A harsh cough tore through him: once, twice, five times in a row.

His chest shook with it, and by the time he managed to stop, his eyes were watering, blinking rapidly as his vision swam at the edges.

“You —” He broke off, still breathless, rubbing at his face as if that would clear the haze. “Okay, stop that.” Hamzah gestured toward the blunt.

You shrugged.

“And my electricity is out,” he went on, exhaling. “I can’t even do anything at home.” his elbow dropped onto his thigh, palm cradling his jaw as he watched you take another slow drag. The blunt rested between your thumb and pointer finger. Smoke curled around your lips before you inhaled it back, letting it sit in your lungs for a second longer than necessary.

“And we need something posted by tomorrow,” Hamzah finished, voice flat, but his eyes never left you.

You leaned back, letting your mind drift for a moment, the haze of the blunt loosening the knots of your thoughts just enough for a solution to slip through. And when it did, it felt obvious; so obvious that you almost laughed. Of course. Why hadn’t you thought of it sooner?

“Do like a ‘smoke with us’ or something,” you suggested, exhaling the words along with a slow ribbon of smoke. It was perfect, really. Especially since your sister had just visited a few days ago and left you with more weed than you knew what to do with.

Hamzah sat with it for a moment, eyes flickering in thought before inevitably settling back on the blunt between your fingers.

“That means you’ll share?” he asked, licking his lips slightly, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

No shit. But since he was already stressed, you figured there was no need to add your attitude to the mix. “Yeah,” you said instead, exhaling lightly. “Get your phone out, or whatever you use, and I’ll roll another blunt.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the way Hamzah’s face lit up, his grin flashing white. You turned away before he could say anything, swiveling in your chair to face your desk. With ease, you pulled open the top drawer, fingers brushing past scattered papers and lighters until you found what you needed: a fresh wrap and your little white tube of weed.

Popping it open, you pinched a few pieces between your fingertips, the familiar scent filling your senses. You worked the weed between your fingers, breaking it apart, the familiar rhythm settling you into focus.

Behind you, Hamzah moved, slipping one hand behind your chair while the other pressed flat against the desk; right beside where you worked. His presence loomed, chest nearly brushing your back as he hovered over you.

“Why don’t we just share one?” His voice curled into your ear like smoke. You didn’t pause, rolling your eyes instead. “You complain too much about my lip gloss,” you muttered, pressing the crushed pieces into the wrap. “So, to shut you the fuck up, I’m making your own.”

Hamzah straightened slightly, but his hands stayed where they were: one gripping the back of your chair, the other still pressed against the desk. “I don’t mind,” he said.

Is he serious right now? You turned to look at him, your movements sharp, forcing you to tilt your chin just slightly to meet his gaze. He was still leaning over you, close enough that you could catch the faintest trace of his cologne beneath the scent of weed and smoke.

“Oh, you do,” you countered, eyes narrowing. You could count the number of times he had complained, each one irritating you more than the last. Because, hello? You wanted to enjoy your blunt in peace, to feel good with every slow drag, the warmth settling in your chest just right. It was a whole experience; the pull of smoke, the heady ring, a song playing low in the background, setting the perfect mood.

Hamzah didn’t respond, simply reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He and Martin had been losing their minds trying to come up with a new YouTube video, hard to do when one of them was sick and the other’s electricity was completely shot.

But now? Now, he had a plan. Thanks to you and that clever mind.

Excitement flickered beneath his calm act as he powered on his phone, the screen glowing to life. His lock screen flashed up first; a photo of him, Martin, Mandy, and you, all crammed into the frame. With a glance at you, he swiped up on his phone, apps flashing across the screen before he tapped on the messages app and selected Martin’s contact.

HAMZAH: Nvm, got it under control 🍃🍃

MARTIN: Zahhh?? 🤑🤑

HAMZAH: Can’t spell Hamzah without that Zah 😛

“I’ve honestly never gotten high with someone on camera before,” Hamzah admitted, glancing at the lens as you adjusted the lighting slightly. The two of you were tucked into the coziest corner of your room, right where your small personal library lined the wall. Two beanbags sat on either side of a low table, and Hamzah was already sinking comfortably into his.

On the table in front of you, the two rolled blunts rested beside the heart shaped ashtray, the camera positioned just beside them, angled perfectly to capture everything. “Is the lighting good?” you asked, stepping back to survey the setup.

Hamzah glanced at the camera and nodded. “That’s actually perfect.” Satisfied, you gave a small nod in return before settling back into your beanbag chair.

The video started with bickering: sharp insults and lazy eye rolls before shifting into something more relaxed. You both sparked up, tapping the glowing red ends of your blunts together in a toast before taking the first slow drags.

From there, the energy shifted into an easy rhythm: attempting ghost challenges, showing off smoke tricks, laughing at failed attempts. Eventually, the blunts burned low, and you put them out, the conversation melting into stories - random memories, inside jokes, moments that had you both grinning through the haze.

At some point, hunger kicked in, and you ordered food. While waiting, the talking didn’t stop, if anything, the high made it even funnier, each topic spiraling into another until only laughter was heard.

And when the food finally arrived? You both absolutely demolished it. You ordered these sandwiches, and the moment you took a bite, it was easily one of the most delicious things you’d ever tasted.

Once you had devoured every last bite, the two of you made your way back to the beanbag setup, sinking into the cushions as you picked up your blunt again. The room was foggy, the conversation flowing as the camera rolled, capturing each lazy inhale, each slow exhale.

“Can I get a hit of yours?” Hamzah asked, reaching out with one hand, his fingers making an impatient grabbing motion.

Without missing a beat, you swatted him away. “You have yours right there.” And he did. His own blunt sat in his other hand, already burned halfway down from the greedy pulls he’d been taking. The ashtray in front of you held the evidence: most of it his.

“Remember what I said earlier?”

Unfortunately, you did. Something about how hitting someone else’s blunt always made the high better for some inexplicable reason. But instead of admitting it, you exhaled slowly and deadpanned, “No.”

Silence pulled. The only sound was the faint crackle of burning paper as you took another slow drag, the smoke curling past your lips before disappearing into nothingness. It was so quiet that you finally glanced over at Hamzah — only to find him already watching you.

Not just watching. Staring.

His gaze was locked onto your mouth, eyes red and all, following every movement like he was trying to learn it. Your brows pulled together slightly, confusion flickering across your face as you studied him in return. “Are you okay—?” “—Wanna try something,” he interrupted at the exact same time, his voice cutting through yours.

You paused. “What?”

Hamzah’s eyes flickered between your blunts before he lifted his own, the slender roll pinched effortlessly between his fingers. He didn’t answer; not with words, at least. Instead, he brought the blunt closer, hovering it right in front of your lips, a silent invitation.

Your gaze shifted between him and the smoldering tip, hesitation flickering for only a second before you leaned in slightly. Lips parted just enough, just the perfect amount to wrap around the end of the blunt.

You took a long, slow drag of the blunt, feeling the rich, earthy smoke fill your lungs as you held Hamzah's gaze. Your eyes remained locked on his, watching as a flicker of something danced in their depths. The smoke curled in your mouth, lingering, but before you could exhale, his voice cut through.

“Don’t exhale it.”

There was something different about the way he said it: almost more like a command than a suggestion. He leaned in, face mere inches from yours. Heavy lidded gaze flickered to your lips before he gave the smallest tilt of his chin.

“Back to me,” he murmured, voice low, almost lost beneath the hum of the room. For a second, you hesitated, mind replaying his words just to make sure you heard him right. Back to me?

But then there were red rimmed eyes, dark and low, like he was sinking into the moment, and you couldn’t tell if it was the high or something else entirely. The messy grown out buzz cut, the way a few strands stuck up slightly, making him look even better in that lazy, effortless kind of way. It did something to you. Something you weren’t sure you wanted to name.

Your mouth went dry — no, worse, it watered, whether you liked it or not.

You leaned in fully, pushing yourself up from the beanbag just enough to close the space between you. Your lips parted, breath warm and slow, and for a second, his mouth; slightly chapped, slightly inviting — grazed yours.

You exhaled.

The smoke poured between you, curling into his mouth as he took it in without hesitation, without flinching.

It wasn’t until you pulled away, the heat of him still in the space between, when he finally exhaled, the smoke uncurling in soft, ghostly tendrils.

The two of you sat there, unmoving, staring at the camera as if waiting for it to tell you what the hell to do next.

As if pulled by some hidden force, the two of you turned to each other in perfect sync.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, threading through the soft strands as if remembering the texture, while your other hand gripped the firm curve of his bicep. His own hands found you just as quickly: settling at your waist, the other cradling your face in hot dog style. and, as if the moment had been waiting for you both, your mouths met.

His top lip slotted perfectly between yours, a sluggish, passive press that deepened as he drew you in, sucking softly at your lower lip before angling his head just so — nose grazing your cheek in a way that sent a tickle down your spine.

His eyes fluttered shut, savoring the taste of you, and God, you could drown in this. The drag of his lips, the way he kissed. The taste of weed remained on his tongue, a misty thing that made you chase after it. You parted for a breath, only to press back in; once, twice, three times — greedy for more, drunk on the way he melted into you.

It still wasn’t enough.

So you moved, swinging a leg over his lap, settling yourself against him as his hands instinctively found purchase at your hips, steadying you as you adjusted.

And, just like before, he tilted his head, nose brushing your cheek, breath warm against your skin as you found his mouth once more. There was only this: hands, mouth, the heady taste of smoke, pulling you deeper, deeper, deeper.

Your fingers tightened around his bicep, loving in the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch, a silent response to the squeeze. The sensation sent a quiet thrill through you, a warmth that curled low in your stomach as you hummed softly into the kiss.

As you both began to pull away, Hamzah caught your bottom lip between his teeth, dragging it slightly before letting go, leaving it to swell back into its usual, kiss-bitten fullness. A breath of something unsaid hung between you, thick as smoke.

You stared at each other, the realization of what just happened slowly sinking in, seeping into your skin like. And then, as if some invisible tether between you both had been stretched too tight, you hesitated, pulling back ever so slightly.

Your lips parted, a thought hovering on the tip of your tongue, but nothing came. The words dissolved before they could form, leaving you to press your mouth shut again. From where you still sat on his lap, Hamzah looked up at you, brown eyes glinting. And for the first time, you truly saw them — not just as his eyes, but as something impossibly beautiful. Warm, liquid honey, rich and golden, so sweet, so — fuck.

A beat of silence followed between you. Then, all at once, the tension cracked. A quiet chuckle, hesitant at first, then another. The sound tumbled into laughter, bubbling up from your chests, startled and breathless, like neither of you could quite believe what had just happened.

Because — what the fuck was that?

Hamzah’s laughter softened into a grin as he lazily lifted a hand, pointing past you. You followed his gaze, realization dawning when you turned slightly; your back was to the camera. “can’t post that,” he exhaled, still catching his breath.

You only shrugged, leaning in, your lips a whisper away from his. “Good,” you murmured. “It’s just for us.”

And then you kissed him again, pushing him back into the beanbag, his body sinking into the plush fabric as your fingers curled around the soft fabric of his hoodie.

HAMZAH: Nvm video didn’t work out 🙃

MARTIN: Aw man :(

[matsunoluvr]

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ how you tamed monster!sylus…

warnings: descriptions of some violence, blood, injuries, rushed ending (lol)

character: sylus

link to master list here!!

author’s notes: i saw some theories that sylus is actually inhuman and i’d fucking love if in a past life MC resonated and ‘tamed’ him which is why he’s particularly fond of her, like i’m such a sucker for ‘inhuman’ things gaining humanity through love

my requests are open since i’m running low on ideas hehe :3

more under the cut!

monster!sylus was indifferent to everything at first, if you got hurt you got hurt. why would he feel anything?

he’d hurt many things before, killed many things before. such trivial matters did not bother him.

that was until, somehow he managed to get hurt.

watching you, a human, far more fragile than he could ever be panic over his wound was confusing for him.

the way you frantically dug in your bag to wrap his arm in gauze - his blood seeping into the pale cloth as he watches you, intrigued.

he could stop the bleeding at any moment, any time, but he doesn’t. instead, he opted to watch you flailing over his injury with a neutral expression.

only when he noticed his human form growing a little pale did he decide to stop blood flow to the wound, choosing to inspect the bandage you put on him carefully.

“What use is this?”

picking at the uncomfortable material, you scold him and tell him to ‘keep it on until it heals’ - monster!sylus decides not to tell you he already healed the site as soon as you finished fussing over him

the next time he got hurt, he decided not to heal himself and instead present his injury to you.

holding up his finger which was (basically) broken in half, he looked at you expectantly.

if you weren’t so utterly dumbfounded at the nonchalant manner in which he presented you with a severely mangled appendage you might’ve made a comparison to him and a cat looking at its owner after bringing them a dead rat

monster!sylus who proceeded to watch you freak out a little, fix him up then scold him (again) for being so reckless.

he was interested at the care you took to make it as painless as possible (it was safe to say you were terrible at it, he was trying not to wince the whole time. yeah he was a monster, but why are human bodies really fucking fragile and sensitive?), eyes flitting between your hands and your face

this was probably the first instances of sylus receiving care, being cared about, and holy shit he didn’t know what to do

monster!sylus that would inwardly sigh every time you’d ask him ridiculous questions such as “have you eaten today?” or “do you think the sunset today is pretty?”

half the time he would scoff or shrug it off, the other half he would respond

when he responded he noticed the excited buzz in your voice as you’d give your own opinion on it - something that he grew to care about

“What do you think of this flower, isn’t it pretty Sylus?”

“It is?”

“It is! At least to me- [insert you talking about your favourite flower].”

*Sylus watching you with intent, beginning of a smile forming at the corners of his mouth.*

monster!sylus who, at one point, sat under a tree with you, looking over the N109 zone towards linkon when his deep voice split through the silence

“Do you like me?”

the sudden and blunt question probably shocked you - your flustered response causing him to grow confused

what was wrong with the question?

was the point of asking not to find out answers one wants to know?

he would simply sit and stare at you until you responded, no matter how long it took you he waited

monster!sylus who finally realised what it felt like to be cared for when you answered ‘yes’, the warm sensation flooding his senses, and he was utterly confused.

it wasn’t as if you’d devoted yourself to him, nor had you sworn your loyalty for life - but the idea that you liked him…

he gave you no response, looking off into the distance as he tried to process the information.

when you asked him ‘Aren’t you going to respond?’ he’s give some bullshit answer along the lines of “You haven’t asked me anything.”

he knows what you were asking.

for some reason, he can’t say anything back.

monster!sylus that slowly began to seek your presence, your company. waiting for you to show up became tiresome, he wanted to be with you.

showing up out of no where - when you were on a walk or entering your residency, he would all of a sudden appear and demand your attention (which you secretly didn’t mind giving).

each visit he’d stay longer, get a little closer, feel a little more.

you taught him how to laugh - well at least give an amused huff, how to do his hair ‘properly’ rather than having it sit erratically on his head.

moving his hair out of his eyes, you swoop it into a neat parting muttering something about not hiding his ‘pretty eyes’, arching over his lids and settling neatly.

however after looking in the mirror, he immediately ran his hand through the hair causing you to almost murder the man on the spot

you taught him how to appreciate cuisines, especially the different variants of drinks.

“This is what brand of wine? Ah… I see.”

you taught him how to treat wounds, how to cook simple foods, each visit a little date on its own.

monster!sylus who inevitably grew fond of you, watching you with a small smile no matter what you did.

if you ever pointed this out, he’d just shrug his shoulders and carry on with whatever he was doing before.

he didn’t notice at first, but you’d somehow managed to work yourself into his life - despite having tried to rid you many times before.

now, your company was second nature. for a solitary creature, he had never before had the chance to appreciate companionship.

you taught him how to.

monster!sylus who quickly learnt your interests. you loved the small, infant cats that would roam the streets - every time you’d stop at a shop, buy some food and nudge it towards the creatures.

you’d take him to ride on a horse - which he complained about being ‘too slow’ and that he could run several paces faster, so you introduced him to motorcycles.

sitting behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as you both sailed through the night air, the city lights your stars.

monster!sylus who you sat next to, head resting against his shoulder.

“Relaxing so easily against me, have you forgotten what I truly am?”

if you’re confused, he’ll spell it out for you. he’s grown used to your obliviousness after all.

a monster

a being birthed by abhorrence, the dirt and filth that humans try so desperately to conceal. no amount of flesh, skin and bone could hide that fact, no amount of blood that spills against his hands could cloak such a stench.

cruel, disgusting, selfish. malevolence was second nature.

sylus who learnt what it felt like to be unconditionally loved in your gentle embrace.

eyes widening with surprise, he’ll ask you if you’re scared of him, you say never. you say that you could never be disgusted by him.

you tell him with so much conviction it may as well have been indoctrinated in the stars.

he couldn’t help but smile at your innocence, your ability to love the unlovable.

sylus who learnt how to feel fear as he watched the wanderer pierce your body - blood spurting from your chest.

his hands are covered in blood - palms slipping against your chest as he tries to plug the hole in your chest.

the warmth of your body, your soul, gushes from you in violent pulses - sylus can feel your trembling breaths, his eyes wide with panic. he fumbles around, cursing louder and louder as he watches you fade away.

“Fuck- fuck. Hold on, keep your eyes open - I can do something about this just wait.”

sylus who watches in despair as the life drains from your eyes, feeling the sharp throb in his eye propel his evol at the wanderer that murdered you

monster!sylus who rips the wanderer’s limb by limb, ensuring that the subject experienced each and every sensation as its soul parted from the mangled corpse

no mercy was shown as he suffocated the creature to death, crushing it’s neck as it squealed.

monster!sylus who stood over a corpse. the corpse of the person who taught him love.

monster!sylus who didn’t attend your funeral.

you never taught him how to grieve, never taught him what to do when you’d leave him - damned with immortality.

monster!sylus who never got to say the words he wanted to.

he could only see you where you lay, sitting helplessly by your tombstone.

it feels as though he’s been stabbed, a burning wound ripping down his throat. he knows the answer now.

“I love you too.”

AN: not proofread as usual i had fun writing the beginning but i had no idea how to finish it - i feel like sylus and MC had a tragic end which is why he’s so forward with his love for them now that he knows he loves them and that their time together can end any moment, unlike their previous life this life he’ll make sure MC knows he’s theirs! :3

[p0orbaby]

Request😍: y/n and alessia or leah (you decide! find your tumblr side and aaalll the stories of them. It leads to jealous alessia/leah bc of y/n being with other girls (like getting jealous when your partner cheats in your dream). Reader has to handle the situation and in the end manages to make less/leah focus on all the fluffy/spicy stuff there is about them. If you want to make it smutty (what we all love hehe): they eventually get inspired by tumblr and choose another story (you can decide which of all the good alessia/leah x reader smut on here) to reenact. Thank you!!! (If you dont want to write this feel free to repost for another writer, also you can switch the roles who is jealous, i dont care:)

i amended this a little, pls don’t hate me

it would be harsh to call this a crack fic but i honestly giggled the whole time writing it 🤭

-

You find Alessia on the sofa, her face illuminated by the blue glow of her phone screen. At first, you think she’s watching one of those oddly specific TikToks she loves—something about cats playing table tennis or an American teenager ranking their favourite crisps. But then you notice the furrow in her brow, the way her teeth tug at her bottom lip. Her expression is equal parts confusion, disbelief, and mild offence.

“Everything alright?” you ask, setting your keys on the counter.

She doesn’t answer immediately, which is a bad sign. Alessia always greets you the moment you walk through the door, even if it’s just to ask what you’ve brought for dinner. Instead, she tilts the phone slightly so you can see the screen.

“Do you know about this?” she asks, voice clipped.

You lean over, squinting at the screen. The webpage is clunky, its layout straight out of 2012, and the title reads something absurd like ‘Sunlit Smiles and Shadowed Hearts’. Your name is prominently featured in the summary, alongside a few other recognisable ones.

“It’s fanfiction,” she says, answering the question you haven’t asked yet. “About you”

You blink. “About me?”

“And other people,” she adds, her tone sharp now, like the edge of a too-clean knife.

The penny drops. “Wait—what?”

She sits up straighter, turning the phone to face you fully. “Look. This one has you with… God, Tooney. And this one—oh, this is just brilliant—you’re married to Ona. Married! Like we’re just some passing fling”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, which, given her expression, would be a tactical error. Alessia doesn’t do jealousy often, but when she does, it’s like an overdramatic romcom villain plotting their revenge.

“Well,” you say carefully, “at least they’ve got good taste?”

“Good taste?” she repeats, incredulous. “One of these has you sneaking off with Mary behind my back during a post-match interview!”

“Creative, though,” you offer.

She glares at you, tossing the phone onto the cushion beside her. “This isn’t funny”

“It’s a little funny,” you say, sitting down next to her.

“It’s not,” she insists, crossing her arms. “Do you know how many of these there are? And how many don’t have me in them at all? Like I’m just some side character in your life?”

You try to suppress the grin tugging at your lips, but it’s no use. “Less, you do realise this is all made up, right? None of it’s real”

She huffs, her cheeks pink now. “I know that. But still. It’s insulting”

You reach for her hand, gently uncrossing her arms. “Alright, let’s look at it this way. I’m obviously very popular. Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not when you’re popular with everyone except me”

“Oh, come on,” you tease, squeezing her hand. “I’m pretty sure there’s stuff about us too. The fluffy, romantic, borderline inappropriate kind”

Alessia hesitates, her gaze flicking to the phone. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you say confidently. “Because we’re the superior couple. Clearly”

That earns a small smile, though she tries to hide it. “You’re an idiot”

“And yet, here I am, fully committed to proving my devotion,” you say, reaching for her phone. You type in a search, scrolling through pages until you find what you’re looking for. “See? Right here. This one’s about us”

She leans over, peering at the screen. Her eyes scan the words, and slowly, her frown starts to fade.

“This is… cute,” she admits reluctantly.

“Exactly,” you say, draping an arm around her shoulders. “So, no more being jealous of fictional versions of me, okay? They don’t get to go home with you. I do”

She turns to look at you, her expression softening further. “Fine. But I’m still not over the Mary thing”

You laugh, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Noted. I’ll make it up to you”

“You better,” she mumbles, but there’s no real bite to her words anymore.

It’s only later, as you’re cooking dinner together, that you catch her sneaking glances at her phone again, her lips twitching with the beginnings of a smile. If she’s reading more of those stories, you don’t mention it. Some battles are better left unpicked.

[onlyswan]

summary: in which jungkook loves to see you smile and you are the god of mischief.

idol!jungkook x reader, est. relationship / fluff / word count: 2.6k

content/warnings: mention of childhood insecurity, mention of biting during s*x, jk is very touchy, they watch a movie and the guard thinks they’re doing sumn nasty bc they’re both a menace honestly 😭, jk accidentally bites his lower lip and bleeds

> in which masterlist!

note: hi !! this is a repost of a drabble i wrote two (?) years ago but accidentally deleted lololol so if you’ve read it before that’s why! but this is now an edited version with a new title <3

—

“baby,”

jungkook calls your attention out of nowhere, pausing the movie playing on the tablet you’re holding. the frown painted on his face is difficult to miss.

“i have a question.”

“so randomly?” you raise an eyebrow. “ask me then.”

“why do you cover your face when you’re happy?”

the wide-eyed look of genuine curiosity on his face is identical to yesterday’s, when he asked you what the word ineffable meant after hearing it in a song.

the question prompts you to take a glance at the screen, where a sophisticated woman has a hand over her mouth as she giggles with her elite acquaintances about an old but classic rich husband joke.

“it’s not that it bothers me, i just- i’ve noticed it lately and i-i wish to see you smiling and laughing more freely, you know?” he tries his best to choose his words carefully, offering you a kind smile as he lovingly caresses your head. “it makes me happy when i see you happy.”

“oh,” you blink at him, mind going blank as you attempt to form an answer in your head. his touch isn’t exactly helping you either— you just want to melt into him and not think of anything at all, float on cloud-nine and stay there forever.

however, seeing as he asked you the question out of the blue, he must’ve been thinking about it a lot. you’ve only been dating for a few months, so it’s understandable for him to eagerly seek the answers to his curiosities and observations. if anything, it feels nice to learn he gives this much attention to you— possibly notices things you don’t even know about yourself. for a split second the thought crosses your mind, that beyond a consciousness, you are tangible and real.

“it’s a habit i guess? when my teeth were falling out for the first time as a kid, i became insecure, so i decided that i’d just smile without showing my teeth from then on. like this.”

you demonstrate by lifting up the corners of your lips.

“and yeah-”

as if he’s helplessly pulled by the magnet of attraction, he leans down to kiss you and interrupt your sentence.

“i’d cover my face when i couldn’t contain my smile or laugh. and even when they grew back, it felt weird. like my smile didn’t belong to my face? if that even makes sense.”

“yah, that’s not true! you’re very pretty whether you’re smiling, or crying and-” his warm hand cups your cheek, and he stupidly grins as he’s about to say something cheesy. “even when you’re just breathing.”

the corners of your lips rise again. this time, it’s genuine.

“oh? how romantic.” you scrunch your nose cutely, and his heart flutters.

you hold onto his wrist, revelling in the way his thumb softly traces shapes on your skin.

“i’m over that, though. it was so long ago. i don’t think about it obsessively anymore at least. it’s really just a habit i haven’t gotten rid of.” you reassure him, meaning every word that you say.

we all have our secrets and fears that we keep only to ourselves, that much is understood between the two of you. there are circumstances in which withholding information is necessary. however, the one big promise you made to each other is to never lie. honesty and trust. ease and consolation. every word, every syllable hanging from your lips an addition to the naked history of your love. passed down stories. confessions. blurry memories. shutter sounds. curses. laughter. song dedications. that much is true.

“why are you looking at me like that?” you bite the inside of your cheek to conceal a smile, beguiled by his love drunk eyes seemingly stunned by your mere presence beside him.

“like what, baby?”

you shy away from his gaze. “like you’re either thinking that i hang the stars on the sky every night… or that you want to eat me alive.”

to confirm your words true, he takes your hand and sinks his teeth on the flesh of your palm where your thumb is connected. his wide doe eyes peer at you innocently, sparkling like of a little kid eating the fluffy pancakes he’s been craving since last night.

the latter might sound like a joke to others, but jungkook does eat you alive. almost. basically. you’re not even shocked at the act anymore. soon enough, you’ll memorize the mark of his teeth carving their mark on your skin, both in sexual and non-sexual setting.

“babe,” you send him a bewildered stare. “i really don’t think i taste as good as you make me out to be.”

he parts away with his eyebrows knitted in disagreement. “not true. you’re yummy.”

“oh, shut up!” you burst into a fit of giggles. your hands automatically attempts to fly to your face, but he has your wrists bound with his secure grip. you don’t resist. you only laugh harder when your sight lands on your hands tangled together.

“there’s ____’s beautiful smile.” he coos, proceeding to pepper your face with appreciative kisses.

and you fold. your back lands on the soft mattress, and your belly starts aching from laughter when he purposely blows on the spot on your neck where you’re most ticklish. hot tears gather at the corner of your eyes, and jungkook watches them fall down your temples as his lips graze your skin and your body shakes underneath him.

tears of joy and pleasure are the only tears you’re going to shed, he promises himself. you’re going to smile and make flowers bloom everyday, he promises you and the earth.

—

your teeth chattering from the cold is a shy away from your awkward smile, he notices the endearing resemblance as you shiver beside him.

“hmm, what did i tell you about cinema one?” he teasingly asks as he draws back the armrest that serves as a divider between the two of you.

“that it’s fucking cold in there-” you surrender, tone sounding annoyed. “here. whatever!”

“and who still decided to wear their smallest pieces of clothing?” he continues to taunt you while he pulls you into his body’s natural warmth.

you sigh, whether it’s in relief or annoyance, you’re not quite sure.

“i just wanted to wear my new cute clothes.” you whisper-shout.

the giant screen is still playing trailers of the upcoming movies this year, and you’re already mentally updating your calendar to accommodate them despite your hectic schedule. a two-hour vacation, you would always describe films.

he chuckles, and more shivers run down your spine at the deep and raspy sound being so close to your ear. “you do look cute today, baby.”

he catches the cloth of your skirt between his fingers, and somehow, he ends up squeezing the soft flesh of your thigh. you swallow thickly, unconsciously closing your thighs together and trapping his hand in between them.

“thank you, handsome.” you grip his wrist to move it away. you tut. “no silly business, though. i really want to watch this movie.”

his shoulders drop dramatically in disappointment. “okay… want to sit on my lap so i can keep you warm then?”

you look behind you to see that there’s no people sitting on your side, so no one’s view would get blocked if you were to agree to his proposition. the room is practically empty, with a few scattered people sitting on the sides.

you spend the first fifteen minutes of the movie in comfort and bliss, with your boyfriend’s arms wrapped around you. he took off his jacket earlier, and he splayed it over your lap as to not neglect the goosebumps rising all over your freezing legs.

“so stubborn,” jungkook muttered under his breath while he was taking off the jacket, an amused smile etched on his lips. you would’ve felt bad, but you knew he likes doing these things for you, so you only playfully stuck your tongue out at him.

look, to be fair, it is your first time in this cinema. you’ve been on many dates at this theater with jungkook, but for some reason, you’ve never watched a movie in cinema one until tonight. it’s cold in the other three cinemas as well, the kind of cold you’ve gotten comfortable with, so when jungkook booked the tickets last night and told you ‘it’s really cold in there, wear something warmer,’ you thought he was just being ridiculous.

hah, how cold could it possibly be? right?

fine, jungkook is right. you are stubborn.

and you prove it once more when a flashlight shines over your face. the security guard holding it approaches your seat- wait, no, jungkook’s seat. jungkook is your seat. what?!

“i’m sorry, but only one person can sit on the chair. please comply.”

you trace the direction of her eyes to find jungkook’s hands tucked underneath the jacket on your lap, resting on your inner thighs to steal their warmth. you send him a sharp glare, but it doesn’t affect him one bit. he only shrugs, obviously hiding a smirk as he pretends to be the most innocent person in the room.

you pull up the armrest next to you with a pout, slipping back into your original seat against your wishes.

“he was just warming up his hands. i promise!” you whisper not so subtly to the guard.

she only clears her throat and awkwardly nods in response, walking up the stairs to observe the rest of the movie watchers.

you bury your face in your hands as your body vibrates with mirth mixed with humiliation, and jungkook’s jaw nearly falls on the floor.

“sometimes i can’t believe you’re real. how do you never get shy?”

“i was just clearing things up!” you whine, hitting his arm using the side of a closed fist, which he massages with a squeaked ‘ouch.’ “you’re the one who put me in a compromising situation!”

“well, nobody told me taking care of my girlfriend was a crime!”

you carry on with watching the movie after that embarrassing scene, and you’ve forgotten that you’re cold until you’re uncontrollably shivering again. you begin rubbing your arms in a pathetic attempt to get rid of the goosebumps, but you eventually abandon all hope.

you sadly look over at your boyfriend to plead for help once more, but he has gotten too engrossed with the film to feel a pair of shaking pupils beseech him intensely. he finally opened the box of popcorn he’s been saving for the climax.

and he was the one who wanted to do something other than watch the movie.

you grimace.

you are no stranger to his confusing attention span.

after carefully studying the room to ensure the guard is no longer in sight, you unceremoniously climb on jungkook’s lap again. your actions cause some pieces of popcorn to fall from the box, and he scrambles to stuff them all in his mouth before the powder stains any of your clothes. yours are new, after all.

his face displays a puzzled expression, screaming i thought this was supposed to be a compromising situation?! and his soft rosy cheeks on the other hand-

“you look like a chipmunk who got caught in the headlights stealing food with its mouth full.”

the screen flashes a frame of the clear, blue sky in the aftermath of a ferocious storm. it sends the fleeting sunlight to shine on your face— just long enough for him to capture the image of how pretty you are when you giggle, and most of all, how your hand moves to cover your face, but drops on his arm before it could reach its intended destination.

he recognizes it as a conscious effort, and he feels a tug in his heart. his sweet, precious lover. you will never do anything wrong in his eyes, he thinks to himself as he hugs you closer for a kiss. the feeling of your smile against his lips might just be one of his most favorite things in the world.

he pulls away with a toothy grin to match yours, offering you the box of popcorn. the beautiful smile you claimed to not belong on your face lingers as you turn it down and sip on the lemonade instead. and then it simmers down to your usual mellow smile, to a deep frown, until your lips quiver as the resolution of the film reduces you into a puddle of tears.

jungkook likes to keep mental notes about you.

an excerpt from today:

1. how to make ____ smile? act cute.!! :)

2. how to make ____ cry? watch a son and mother reunite after eighteen long years.

p.s. i think i cried harder, but quieter ????

3. how to make ____ angry mad furious? kill off the said mother unnecessarily at the end of the movie for the sake of shu shock value.

the lights turn on all at the same time as the credits start rolling down on the plain black screen. your body slumps back on your boyfriend, drained by the series of overwhelming events that transpired in the past two hours. he waves his hand infront of your face, but your eyes remain unfocused and unblinking.

“this is the worst movie i have ever seen in my life. four out of five stars.”

he snorts at your unseriousness. “that is the most stars you’ve given this month. and it’s the 29th.”

“see? it’s the worst! i’m going to have nightmares!” you cry out with an exaggerated shudder, grabbing his forearms to envelope yourself in his embrace.

“honestly, pushing her off the cliff was a bit too mu-” his sentence gets rudely cut off when your shoulder accidentally hits his chin. you scrambled to go back to your seat, and this escalated to him accidentally biting the inside of his lower lip. the unusual mix of the bitter and salty taste of metal permeates his tongue as an unexplainable expression spreads across his face.

on the other hand, you’re too preoccupied with mischievously smiling at the guard standing down on the floor. she measures you up with a displeased look worse than earlier’s, but much to your relief, she proceeds to walk out after scanning the room one last time.

“baby!” jungkook yells in pain to grab your attention, jutting out his bottom lip to show you the wound that you inflicted.

“oh my god- shit, shit, shit-” you curse, digging your hand in your bag in search of your handkerchief. “i’m so sorry!”

you press the cloth on the bleeding, profusely apologizing to him with a wince. “i panicked! i’m sorry, i’m sorry!”

he pushes your wrist away for a moment, doe eyes squinting at you accusingly. “you just wanted to play around with her, didn’t you?”

you chew on your bottom lip, the sight of blood that has stained the handkerchief sends a pang of guilt across your chest. “sorry… her face- she was just so funny.”

“fuck, why are you like this?!” he throws his head back with a bright laugher that echoes throughout the theater. “ah, you’re so adorable!”

“come back here!” you scold him, holding his face in your hands to crane it back down.

he juts out his bottom lip again, but his body continues to vibrate with lighthearted chortles.

“does it hurt?”

“it hurts…! i think i might seriously cry!” he answers despite his high tolerance for pain, distorting the truth so that he could drown himself in the gratifying feeling of being doted on by you.

he writes another mental note as you inspect his wound, repetitive bloopers playing in the background of the love bubble the two of you share.

4. ____ likes playing games with strangers. must protect with my life.

—

taglist in the reblogs! send an ask/dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

—

[sirenontheloose]

GOOD MORNING

Sometimes, a simple conversation changes everything.

GENRE: fluff??

After finishing your morning routine and sending your 5-year-old daughter off to daycare, you decide a coffee would be the perfect way to kickstart your day. Being a single mom has its challenges, sure your daughter is an angel, no doubt, but she can also be a handful at times. Even so, you wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world.

As you step into the bustling cafe, you make a beeline for the counter, ordering your usual, a strong, bitter black coffee paired with a flaky croissant. While you wait, you scan the room. It’s packed, as expected since it is the beginning of the week, and you spot only one available seat. Grabbing your order, you carefully navigate your way toward the dark-haired woman sitting alone in the corner, her nose buried in a book.

"Good morning" you greet with a warm smile, trying not to sound too eager. As she looks up, you're taken aback by her beauty. She’s like something out of a dream, with dark, wavy hair framing her face like an angel caught in the soft morning light.

“Good morning” she responds, her voice smooth and effortless. You catch yourself staring for a moment longer than you should but quickly pull it together, hoping you don’t come off as some kind of creep. It truly is a good morning, you think silently.

With a deep breath, you put on your best smile and ask, “Is this seat taken?”

“No, please, have a seat” she replies, flashing the kind of smile that makes your heart skip a beat. It’s enough to make you feel like you’ve just won the lottery, and you can’t help but return the smile.

“Thanks” you murmur as you sit down in front of her, trying to steady your pulse. It’s been ages since your heart raced like this, and you can’t decide if it’s because you’re getting older or if it’s simply her presence that has you feeling this way. She seems engrossed in her book, and you wonder if it’s too soon to strike up a conversation. But, then again, when will someone like this come around again? You figure there’s no harm in trying.

“What’s the book about?” you ask, glancing at the cover, "The Art of Not Giving a Fck*". She lifts an eyebrow, her lips curving into an amused smile, and you immediately wonder if you’ve asked the wrong question.

She chuckles lightly. “It’s about learning to pick and choose where and how you invest your energy” she explains, her voice warm with just the right amount of wit.

You nod thoughtfully. “That sounds like a really good read.”

“It is,” she agrees, setting the book down with a quiet thud. “Do you enjoy reading?” she asks, taking a slow sip of her tea. Her eyes flicker with genuine curiosity, and it makes you feel like she’s really interested in hearing your answer.

“I do,” you reply, finding your own rhythm. “But lately, it’s been mostly kids’ stories.” You let out a small hum as you think of your daughter’s favorite books.

Her interest piqued, she leans in slightly. “What kind of kids’ stories?”

You chuckle, delighted by her curiosity. “Oh, you know, the classics like Samuel Spoon, Big Blue Hood, and The Thirsty Crow. My daughter won’t go to sleep until I read at least one of them. She’s obsessed.” You say it with a fond smile, but your heart swells a little at the thought of your little one.

She offers a genuine smile while leaning forward, fully focused on the conversation. “How old is she?”

“She’s 5. She’s an angel, but a very energetic one. If you take your eyes off her, she’ll end up everywhere she shouldn’t be” you giggle, replaying moments when Y/D/N would run around. “She loves to draw too” you add, thinking about the time when your daughter brought home a drawing of the two of you from the daycare’s family portrait session. “Don’t get me started on her singing and dancing skills, though. She’s a born performer” you say with a wink, taking a sip of your drink.

Sophia watches you, smiling as you talk about your daughter for what feels like hours. Neither of you notices the cafe getting quieter until suddenly, your alarm goes off, pulling you back to reality. You glance at the time and your eyes widen. “Oh no, I’m so sorry, I must have talked too much.”

She laughs, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “It’s fine, I had fun.”

“I’m Y/N” you say, smiling as you extend your hand, realizing she knows everything about your daughter but not your name.

Sophia shakes your hand with a thoughtful smile. “I’m Sophia. Nice to meet you, Y/N.” You feel a little silly for not introducing yourself sooner.

“Nice to meet you too, Sophia” you say, not trying to be too cheesy, but her name just feels right as it rolls off your tongue. You let out a quiet sigh, realizing this little escape with a stranger is coming to an end. Offering a small smile, you add, “Well, I’ve got to pick up Y/D/N now. Thanks for listening to me talk so much about my daughter, Sophia.”

Sophia looks at you thoughtfully, then grins. “You’re welcome. She sounds like a sweetheart. And since I don’t think it’s fair that I know everything about your daughter and you don’t know anything about me or my dog, can I have your number?” She asks with a playful smile.

You can’t help but smile back, a little amused by her boldness. “Sure” you reply softly, your heart skipping a beat. It really is a good morning.

THE END

[sometimesoliloquy]

You know what, Nick’s “cus you chose him, you chose Luke” is actually giving me a new and even more nuanced view of 5x10 and the whole heartbreaking “she has people that care for her. She doesn’t need me. I’m nothing” speech.

I always assumed that Nick fully expected June to go back to Luke whenever she got free of Gilead. I figured he probably always had this in the back of his mind once June learned Luke was alive, especially as he was trying to get her out at the start of s2, and that it just became even more concrete after he met Luke in 2x09, with Luke telling him he’d never stop loving June, and her reaction when Nick delivers the message.

But what if deep down in the darkest corner of his heart where he keeps safe the impossible dreams he can’t say out loud… what if he had thought there was a chance that just maybe, she wouldn’t (and then what)? What if he confirms June has gotten to Canada and is living with Luke, and with that question finally settled, only then goes and marries Rose, his attempt to somehow (however misguidedly) move on, and let June live the life he thinks she wants.

After all, why would Nick want to defect to Canada only to play awkward 3rd wheel to June and Luke? Living with the indefinite pain of being so close to her and not having her (and not even able to be of use to her as he is—and is constantly striving to be—while in Gilead) while being otherwise completely alone: an alien in a thoroughly unfamiliar place, potentially detained for an indefinite period and likely reviled as a war criminal by many even after he’s pardoned? He wouldn’t want that life, and maybe even more, selflessly, he wouldn’t want to complicate things for June as she tries to “rebuild” a life with Luke and Holly. So he tries to build something of a life for himself in Gilead, to keep surviving and try to make things better (if he can trust Lawrence). But only after he’s confirmed she’s reunited with Luke.

When he meets with June in 5x09, she actually does express her desire for him to defect to Canada (“Why didn’t you say yes to Mark?”) but it’s followed by a direct reminder of the circumstances: “I have Luke”. It’s not really June expressing her desire for Nick (“I only feel that way about you”), to be with Nick. It would be as the third wheel. The side piece. The forever second choice. At least that’s what he believes. And of course it’s all impossibly further complicated at this point by Rose and the coming baby. A fine mess, as June says.

So in 5x10 he says what he now knows (believes) to be true “she doesn’t need me”. But he’s really not giving Tuello the full answer: that he didn’t run away with June earlier, when he had the chance, because he always wanted her to have the choice, because he would never take away the chance for her to make the decision for her life, her future, even if it would mean she didn’t choose him. And in his eyes she’s chosen Luke.

Perhaps he thought he’d made peace with that, but in this new open vulnerability of his (as his carefully crafted Commander facade starts to crumble), seeing her again for the first time since he thought he may have lost her for good (again); for the first time since he admitted to Rose (and maybe to himself) that he can’t let her go, he can’t help letting out this telling glimpse of his inner most desire: “you chose him” (I wish you’d chosen me). “I only feel that way about you” (I still wish you’d choose me, I would drop everything for you.)

It’s not just an impossible pipe dream living rent free in his head anymore, it’s a tangibly spoken (if somewhat coded) wish. And even though he doesn’t trust Tuello, maybe he still has “no you’re not, Commander, not to her” ringing in his ears as he puts it all out there, praying she’ll prove that true.

[sunny44]

Chapter 5 (Love is in Mallorca)

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

Summary: Y/n goes to Mallorca intending to leave her life behind, at least for a while. Then she meets a mysterious guy who makes this trip, to say the least, unforgettable.

Previous chapter

In the days that followed, that feeling of floating between the unknown and the familiar lingered. It was as if, with every conversation, every walk, we were getting closer to a truth he refused to reveal. Mornings were spent exploring hidden corners of the island, and nights, under the stars, were filled with laughter, casual conversations, and, underlying it all, a silence as dense as fog.

I should have been satisfied. Any ordinary person would have enjoyed the experience to the fullest, without questioning, without trying to look beneath the surface. But something in me longed for more. There was something about him that sparked my curiosity—and my heart—in a way no one else ever had.

It was on the third day, after breakfast in the village, that everything began to change.

We were standing at the top of a cliff, watching the waves crash violently against the rocks below. The wind tossed my hair, and the salty sea breeze reached us. He stood beside me, hands in his pockets, his gaze lost on the horizon.

“It’s beautiful here,” I murmured, more to myself than to him.

“It is,” he replied, his voice low, almost distant.

I looked at him, trying to understand what was going through his mind. He always seemed so present, yet so far away.

“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to just disappear for a while?” he asked suddenly, without taking his eyes off the sea.

The question caught me off guard. It wasn’t something I expected to hear, and the vulnerability in his voice made me hesitate before answering.

“Disappear?” I repeated, as if I needed time to process. “You mean… run away?”

He finally turned to me, and there was something in his eyes I had never seen before. A deep sadness, a weariness that seemed to carry the weight of the world.

“Not necessarily run away, but… hide. Find a place where you’re nobody. Where no one expects anything from you, where you can just… be yourself.”

I watched him closely, my heart pounding in my chest. This was the window I had been waiting for, the moment he might, finally, let his guard down.

“I understand,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Sometimes it feels like the whole world is watching you, expecting you to be something you might not even want to be.”

He nodded, his intense gaze never leaving mine.

“Exactly,” he whispered.

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of the waves crashing below. I knew I was on the verge of discovering something important, but at the same time, I feared what it might mean. Then, he took a step closer to me.

“I like who you are,” he said, his voice firm. “You see me in a way few people can. You have no expectations, no desire to fit me into a mold. And that… is something I haven’t had in a long time.”

Words stuck in my throat, because for a moment, I thought he was going to tell me who he really was. But instead, he looked away again, fixing his eyes on the distant horizon.

“I don’t know how this will end,” he continued. “But I’m grateful for every moment we’ve spent together.”

My heart ached at the sincerity of his words. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but in a way, it was what I needed.

“You know you can trust me, right?” I asked softly, trying to get him to open up, even just a little more.

He smiled, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I trust you,” he replied, but there was something in his tone that told me he was still holding back. Something that, for some reason, he couldn’t share.

We stood there, at the edge of the cliff, with the wind tossing our hair back and the constant sound of the sea crashing against the rocks below us. The physical closeness between us seemed to heighten the invisible tension, and I knew that, sooner or later, the bubble we were living in would burst.

I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t know what he was hiding or why he seemed so desperate to keep his identity a secret. But in that moment, I decided it didn’t matter. What mattered was that, no matter what he was hiding, there was a greater truth there: he was struggling with something far deeper than I could understand.

As the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, he turned to me again, his gaze softer than before.

“Want to have dinner?” he asked, as if the previous conversation had never happened.

I smiled, even though inside I was wondering how long he would continue avoiding the truth.

“Yes, I’d love to.”

We made our way down the slope to a small wooden cabin he had mentioned earlier. The smell of fresh food filled the air, and the sound of people laughing and chatting animatedly added life to the atmosphere. He chose a discreet table, away from the main bustle, and we sat across from each other.

This time, though, the silence between us wasn’t heavy. It was more like a temporary truce, an unspoken understanding that, at some point, everything would come to light.

While we waited for our food, he looked at me for a long moment, as if he were trying to memorize every detail of my face.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said finally, breaking the silence.

“Sure.”

“If you knew someone you met was hiding something important but wasn’t ready to tell you, would you push them? Or would you wait until they were ready?”

I swallowed hard, fully understanding what he was asking me.

“I think… I’d wait,” I replied honestly. “Because sometimes, the person needs time. And sometimes, forcing the truth can push them even further away.”

He nodded, as if relieved by my answer.

“That’s good to hear.”

The food arrived, and we began to eat, but the conversation faded into the background. The feeling that we were on the brink of something important, something that could change everything, lingered in the air.

I knew he would tell me, sooner or later. But until then, I would have to be content with the mystery and trust that, when the truth came out, I’d be ready to handle it.

And somehow, I knew that whatever he was hiding would change everything between us.

I just didn’t know if I was ready for it.

Bonus scene!

Cs55private Instagram stories

“Beautiful days with this beautiful lady”

@landonorris maaate, you went to Mallorca for 3 weeks and already found someone to spend your vacation time with?

Wow, I’m impress with your rizz

@Cs55private mate, I think I’m in love with these woman

@landonorris wait, really?

@Cs55private yes man, I’m down bad

Tag list: @lieslostinsilence @iloveallmyboys @r4zberrygirl @hoya122 @sid-is-gr8 @marvel-ous-miss-maisie @barcelonaloverf1life @dark-night-sky-99 @willowsnook @thegirlamongthestars

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[nolita-fairytale]

burn your life down | chef luca x fem!reader | chapter five

summary: you and luca finally talk about what happened the night of the ballet -- and finally have a chance to clear the air.

warnings: fluff, eventual smut, eventual angst not use of y/n, conversations about divorce, slow burn, baby, second person pov, swearing, danish inaccuracies, very little connection to the world of the bear.

word count: 3k

a/n: let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist!

part four | masterlist | part six

You’ve been avoiding his calls all day. 

After Luca bid you goodnight on Thursday, you’d practically sprinted upstairs and into your apartment, slamming the door behind you while wondering what the hell was wrong with you?

You’re too stubborn for your own good, you think to yourself, recalling the moment – the one where you could’ve kissed him but you didn’t – between you and Luca. You stood there, too paralyzed to make a move, yet unable and unwilling to walk away from him. 

Luca had given you space most of yesterday, save for a text later in the evening, but the fact that today is Saturday, the day he almost always comes into the restaurant, is not lost on you. Instead of dealing with it, you’ve been hyper focused all day, choosing to bury your head in work as you run lunch service with Mathilde, more than grateful that business has run at a steady pace today. 

It’s not until you hit a stop, forced to pause after a few hours in between the lunch and dinner rush, reaches a lull. Your brain is suddenly inundated with too many thoughts: was this it? Had you scared him away forever? Did he think you were a total freak considering you’d practically run away from him after he’d said goodnight?

“So are we going to talk about it?” Mathilde presses you, ripping you out of your thoughts with the sound of her voice. You look her way, noticing that her lips pursed in sheer annoyance at your avoidance mechanisms. 

Your face falls, unable to carry this solo for much longer, letting out a sigh of resignation because you know she’s right. 

You can’t run from this – from your feelings, from Luca – forever. 

“Yeah,” you give in. “Yeah, okay.”

“What the hell happened?” Mathilde hisses as she approaches you. “I mean, he’s gorgeous, he’s cultured… he took you out to the ballet, and you like him!”

“I don’t know,” you huff, disappointedly. “I just-, I think I got too caught up in my head. It’s like one minute I was really jazzed at the idea of being on a date, let alone a date with Luca, and the next I’m just… I don’t know… totally psyching myself out and pushing him away.”

“Merde,” she swears in French this time. 

“Fuck,” you sigh, at least releasing a little of the pent up pressure you’ve been holding onto all day. 

“Babe, I know that holding all of this,” she begins, gesturing wildly towards you, “gives you a certain edge in the kitchen… but I can’t imagine it’s good for you.”

You send her another look – one that says ‘fuck off because I know you’re right’ this time. 

“I don’t know what to do, Mathilde,” you confess, your eyes pleading with her for some advice. 

She turns to you, this time with a much more serious expression as she says, “Luca seems like a really great guy. Maybe you should just tell him all of this.” 

You nod slowly as you process. It’s not that you haven’t thought about it – it’s not like it’s a new concept to you – you were married once, after all. But the idea of being vulnerable like that, showing someone new your whole hand feels really scary. You know it’s the thing you need to do; it’s the kindest, most honest option that you have – and you know that Luca deserves just that: kindness, transparency, the truth. 

As you continue to think it over, the only words that come to you are:

“I told him that I wasn’t in love with him anymore – with Joe. When he asked.”

“Luca?”

“Yeah.”

“It wasn’t a lie. Was it?” Mathilde questions you carefully. 

You share your head, growing more and more certain in your answer. 

“No, of course not. It’s not that. My hesitation has never been about Joe. It’s-, it’s about me…” you explain, finding the right words in the moment. “... about my heart.”

Mathilde places a gentle hand on your shoulder as you share a knowing look as she listens.

“What if I do this? I mean, what if I jump… and it’s a horrible mess… and I ruin a good thing with a really great guy because I’m not ready?” you ask, shining a light on your biggest fears. 

She takes a beat, thinking it over, before crossing her arms over her chest, as the two of you stand side by side, leaning up against a stainless steel prep station. 

“Then you do,” she answers, as if it were that simple. “And you figure out the rest. You’re only human after all.” 

You chuckle, playfully rolling your eyes at Mathilde’s not-so-friendly reminder. 

“Here’s an idea,” she starts back up again, catching your attention as you glance sideways to look at her. “What if you jump? And it’s the best thing you’ve ever done? What if it’s worth it?” 

You take a deep breath, letting her words sink in, letting yourself feel the possibility that this could also be the best thing you’ve ever done too. But before you can say anything in response, Jesper comes back into the kitchen, calling for you. 

“Hate to break up the slumber party, ladies, but can I borrow you for a moment, Chef?” he asks, making it clear that he’s talking to you. You and Mathilde exchange glances as Jesper nods through the open kitchen to where Luca waits for you in the dining room. You open your mouth to say something, but instead, you just nod, murmuring a ‘yeah, of course,’ quick to follow Jesper out of the kitchen. 

It’s impeccable timing, really, you think to yourself, that you were just contemplating the possibility that this could be something you could do. 

You could jump, you remind yourself, if you really wanted to. 

“Hi,” you say, barely above a whisper as soon as you see Luca. 

“Hi,” he smiles warmly in return, causing Jesper to look from you to Luca, then back to you again. 

“I’m just gonna-,” he starts, searching for an excuse. 

Only, he doesn’t have one, so Jesper simply excuses himself before disappearing into the kitchen to find a place where he and Mathilde both can pretend to do something when really eavesdropping. 

Jesper’s abrupt and clumsy exit seems some of the palpable tension, earring a laugh from both you and Luca. 

“I thought-,” he begins as you simultaneously say, “I’ve been meaning to call-.”

“Sorry,” he says with an apologetic half smile. 

“No I’m-. You go first,” you encourage, blushing on a little as the two of you clumsily dance around each other. 

Luca takes a breath, reminding himself that it wouldn’t be this weird if there wasn’t something between the two of you – that he hasn’t been imagining this – not even a little bit. 

“I hope that it’s okay. That I’m here,” he finally says, his voice steady and even. 

“I-, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” you ask him, suddenly insecure about the fact that he felt he needed to ask in the first place. 

“I just-, well I thought ehm, maybe you’d need some space. I didn’t want to ehm, you know… show up here if-, even though it’s Saturday because it is your place and I wouldn’t want-,” Luca tries to explain, stopping and starting again and again. 

“Luca, no I-,” you say, before pausing, swearing to yourself under your breath as you mutter. “Shit. Fuck, I-. Goddamn, you really are fucking perfect.”

“What was that?” Luca asks, only catching the swearing part at the beginning and the ‘fucking perfect’ part at the end. 

“Um…” you trail off, looking around you. 

As you catch Jesper and Mathilde ducking behind a shelf out of the corner of your eye, and a few of your waitstaff hurrying to make it look like they’re busy and not listening in, you realize that you and Luca have managed to earn the attention of some very curious onlookers. 

“Do you want to step outside for a moment?” you ask, gesturing towards the front door. 

“Sure,” he nods, letting you lead him to a spot outside.

You make sure that you're both as out of sight as possible, staying far away from the broad windows that line the front of your restaurant. 

“Hi,” you say again on an exhale.

“Hi,” he says back, simply. 

“I’m glad you came. I know I-... I should’ve called, or- or texted you… after Thursday,” you begin, nervously, eager to own up to the very big part you’ve played in the lack of communication.

“Yes. You should’ve,” he repeats, his eyes catching yours as you nod in confirmation. 

It’s good – that he’s not going to let you off the hook – and while you like it, you like that he has boundaries, you’re disappointed in yourself as you say:

“I’m sorry.”

Luca sighs, shaking his head as he immediately counters with:

“No, I’m sorry. I mean, yes, you should’ve called. Or at least texted. But I should’ve been clear in the first place that Thursday…” he trails off, almost as if he’s mustering up the courage to say what he needs to say. 

“... that Thursday was more to me than our regular excursions. That it was a date. To me at least.”

“Luca-.”

“I wish I would’ve told you – made it clear in the first place – so you knew what you were getting into,” Luca finishes, carefully watching for your reaction. There’s something so honest in the way he goes about this conversation, and you sure as hell feel like you could take the proverbial jump right fucking now. 

“I appreciate that. Really, I do…” you start, before trailing off again. “But I-. This isn’t on you, Luca.”

“How do you mean?” he asks you, his expressive brows knitted together, as if you’d just spoken in tongues. 

Here goes nothing, you think to yourself.

“I-. This has been great. I mean… I really like spending time with you,” you start, anxiously, instantly realizing that it sounds like you’re breaking up with him. “Fuck, I-.” 

You let out a frustrated groan as it seems you’re having an impossible time getting out what you need to get out. You take a breath. And a beat, before continuing. 

“And I’ve really liked this… hanging out, getting to know you… borrowing your books. I-, I just… we’ve got such a good thing going and I really don’t want to fuck this up, you know?”

He sighs your name this time, looking down for a moment as you add:

“I’m-, I’m afraid that… I’m going to fuck this up.”

“Yeah. I know,” he answers, heavily. “I-, I am too.”

“And then Thursday night, things were so, so good, and I-, I panicked and I feel terrible because… you don’t deserve that. You don’t.”

Luca takes a beat as he listens. He’s not sure what exactly that means, but he reminds himself to stay on track, stay the course and make sure that he says what he came here to say to you. 

“It’s alright,” he reassures you, softly, taking a step towards you. “I don’t want you to feel like… like you have to feel a certain way just because I-.”

“No, that’s not it! That’s not-, that’s really not the problem,” you interject as you struggle to explain yourself, unsure of where to even begin. You take a step towards him this time too, your voice softening as you continue. “Luca, I don’t feel obligated to feel… any kind of way just because you-.”

“Because I?” he questions you.

The silence his questions leaves goes on a few beats longer than you expected, and you realize that he’s waiting for you to fill in the blank. 

“Well, I don’t know,” you pause, a shocked look on your face as one of you waits for the other.

“You didn’t-, I never let you finish your sentence so,” you ramble aimlessly, immediately bursting out into a fit of laughter as you realize that neither of you are getting anywhere. 

Luca laughs too, joining in on the much needed reprieve. 

The two of you exchange glances, and one more shared laugh, before settling in once again. 

With a crooked smile spread across his lips, Luca can take a hint, realizing that he may need to take the lead on this one.

The way your name sounds on his lips is so heavenly, so divine, so soft that you know you’ve got it bad, as you scramble for a way to tell him everything that you’ve been feeling. 

“May I?” he asks, in reference to taking the lead. 

“Please.”

“I just came here to tell you… I want to tell you…” he corrects himself, taking a step towards you. 

“... that I really like you. I really like spending time with you. I like that you get me out of the kitchen in search of something different. And I think that your mind, even though incredibly neurotic, is absolutely brilliant. And if what you need is for us to be friends right now, I want that. We can… slow all of this down. All you’ve got to do is talk to me.”

It feels like time fucking stops, and the world goes black and white for a moment, then full color all at once as you hear the words coming out of his mouth. Your revelation comes rushing in, clear as day – that this man cares so deeply for you and that maybe, your heart could be safe with him. Unsure of how to deal with the grace and compassion Luca is showing you, you’re only left with one question, as it falls from your lips like a boulder. 

“How?”

“What?”

“How do you always have the right thing to say…” you ask him, your voice caught in your throat as you finish your question.  “... when I only have the wrong things to say?”

Luca opens his mouth to say something you’ll never hear, as you choose to completely throw caution to the wind. 

Perhaps the question was rhetorical anyways. 

You’re not sure what’s coms over you, but instead of words, you only have actions left, and the only thing that will remedy the situation is to do the thing that you’ve been panicking over doing since Luca showed you into the pastry room at AOC. You charge forward, reaching out for him, and he’s right there with you, meeting you halfway as you eagerly press your lips to his. 

You can feel all the blood in your body rush through you as your lips connect. Your heart flutters. Your head spins. It’s the kind of kiss that people write sonnets about – write love songs about. It’s almost three months of simmering tension, finally allowed to reach its boiling point. You pull away, just for a moment, uttering out a breathless:

“Holy shit.”

Luca laughs with a shake of his head as he agrees with a, “Yeah.”

You exchange a look, and a laugh, before kissing him again. 

And this time the kiss is a hello, it’s a new beginning, it’s a ‘thank god I met you.’

This time, Luca pulls away, reluctantly releasing you as he does. 

“It’s not that I don’t like this,” he begins, using all of his restraint to put this on pause. “I really, really do, but… I’m kind of getting mixed signals here.”

“No, no, I know,” you apologize, turning as you hear your name called, swearing under your breath again as soon as you see Mathilde peeking her head out of the front door. 

“Oh… my God! I am so sorry, I’ll just-, except for we need you to-, she calls after you, stumbling over her words as soon as she realizes what’s going on between you and Luca. 

“Nevermind it can wait!” Jesper exclaims, poking his head out of the front door as well, before dragging Mathilde back into the restaurant.

You and Luca exchange another laugh. 

“They’re… something,” you chuckle, with a shake of your head. 

“Good wingmen,” Luca adds, mirroring your previous exchange with his coworker. 

Returning his focus to you, Luca shakes his head incredulously, considering this is not the way he thought this conversation would go. He grins as he takes you in, but knows that this is time limited. He’d noticed the curious staff of your restaurant that he’s come to know and love doing their best to pretend they weren’t listening in on your conversation earlier. They know exactly what’s going on here, so if they felt the need to interrupt, Luca knows that you’re most likely needed back in the kitchen. 

He shifts his weight in between both of his feet, taking a small step back as he states:

“We’re gonna have to talk about this.”

“Yes,” you agree, your declaration certain.

“But right now you have to go,” Luca continues. 

“Right now I have to go,” you echo as confirmation. “Later. I promise. We’ll talk. Tonight?”

“Yeah ehm. Not to be… presumptuous. But my place is closeby. We could… perhaps talk. Tonight. There?” Luca suggests, trying to downplay the fact that it sounds like he’s asking you to come over for a booty call. 

It’s certainly not his intention, considering he’d just offered to slow things down, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. 

“Yeah. I’ll text you,” you agree, suddenly nervous again. “When I’m done here. If you’re still up.”

“It’s a date,” Luca agrees, deciding to move in towards you again.

You nod, taking another step towards him so that you can kiss him again. 

“Oh, and Luca?”

He hums in response, his eyes flickering from yours to your lips because he really can’t wait to kiss you again either. . 

“I should be-. I want to be clear,” you begin, deciding to be brave in this moment. 

He raises an eyebrow. 

“I really like you too,” you say, before standing tall on your tiptoes, and pulling him down to you for, this time, a see-you-later kiss. 

----------------------------

a/n: ummm hi how are we doing is everyone doing ok?!

[fleet-off]

The Magazine Quiz Conundrum (part 4)

The final entry, from a conversation with @lu-sn lu and @supernovasimplicity boots. part 1 | part 2 | part 3

While the compatibility quiz is bullshit, the answer patterns might be pointing at a bigger problem. Macau, being the world’s greatest philanthropist (read: just as nosy as all the Theerapanyakul boys), decides to play quiz arbiter for the next go-around

He quickly regrets this choice

“Right,” Macau says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you like it sweet or spicy?”

“Spicy,” Pete says at once

“He means during sex.”

“Oh.” Pete pauses. “Skip.”

“You can’t skip questions, you’ll invalidate the results,” says Vegas, perhaps a little tetchily

I thought these quizzes were supposed to be bullshit? Pete carefully doesn’t say aloud. “Spicy-sweet?” he tries, cringing preemptively

Macau groans. “That’s not even—fuck it, I’m putting spicy. Moving on—”

“You didn’t let him answer, what if this is what fucking fails us—”

A spirited round of bickering ensues. Pete is forced to surreptitiously sidebar to let Vegas know that if they can’t pick both, Macau didn’t pick wrong

(Vegas, who just stealthily picked sweet: 😐)

“What do you think sweet means?” Pete whisper-hisses

“It’s—” Vegas glances sidelong at his brother, who is busily pretending not to listen at the other end of the counter. “All the things you like after.”

“Isn’t that spicy too?”

“It’s aftercare, aftercare can’t be spicy—”

“That’s like saying the rest of it can’t be sweet—”

“You think it’s fucking sweet when I—”

“I can go,” Macau offers

“No you can’t, we haven’t finished the fucking quiz—”

Pete’s brain finally loses its grip on his exasperated mouth. “Didn’t you say these quizzes were bullshit anyway?!”

“And what the fuck does it say about us if even the bullshit fucking quiz knows we’re not supposed to be together?” Vegas bursts out

The silence that follows is deafening

Macau knows when to make a graceful exit and does so

Pete stares at Vegas, mouth forming shapes that cannot escape his throat as words, for a while

Vegas, who is beginning to feel stupid, sneers. “Well?”

“…You think a bullshit quiz your cousin picked gets any say in this? You think what he sees in you fits me better than what you are?”

Vegas knows full well that Pete’s right. It doesn’t improve his mood any. “We can’t agree on the simplest questions without lying,” he says. “What do you think that means?”

“We didn’t agree on the simplest questions because we were lying. And anyway—” Pete’s ears grow hot. “You like it…sweet…afterwards, too. Right?”

Vegas can’t deny this, not least because Pete saying it does actually work wonders on his mood

“Why’d you say spicy, then,” he says anyway, not unlike a jilted spouse or an especially wet cat

“Because that part’s good too.” Pete releases a long, hard breath—but once he accepts that he must say it, he says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Vegas. All of it is good. Anything you do is good.”

It’s Vegas’s face that pinkens then, at the same time as his stomach lurches. “Not all of it.”

“It’s you. Isn’t that good enough?”

(They’re lucky Macau left the room, or he’d be gagging right about now)

Vegas frowns. “So what, you’ll just…choose whatever I choose, forever? Mold your preferences to mine?”

The way Vegas phrases this, it sounds like that would be a problem for him?

So Pete shuts down his instinctive yes and says, “We’ve molded each other, haven’t we? You own me. I go where you go.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Isn’t it?”

Vegas is his keeper. Vegas is the one who stripped him of his outsides and shaped his insides from their misshapenness. This is what Pete is—what they both are. If it does not fit glossy pages or clean answers…is it so wrong, to let it be?

The quiz sits abandoned on the kitchen counter, asking nobody in particular if they like their men strong or gentle

(They fuck at the counter. It is sweet and spicy and probably savory too, knowing them)

(Afterwards, they learn that magazine paper makes for a terrible come rag)

[mediocrecowboyhat]

A quiet time (Arthur Morgan x male!reader)

Tensions are high between the outlaw and you and you fear that your risky move during that night out ruined your friendship for good. But then Dutch sends him to go rescue Sean and Arthur chooses none other than you to join him.

Maybe that will be your prime opportunity to smooth things out between the two of you.

Part 1

Word count: 4.2k

Tags: period typical homophobia, graphic depictions of violence, alcohol consumption, smoking

It has been a few days since that night where Arthur and you got absolutely hammered and ended up behind bars for causing trouble. You paid the fine for the both of you and were ready to return back to camp with him, but he had acted so...distant.

"Nah, you go ahead. I'll stay here 'n feel sorry for myself.", he had told you right as you were walking towards your horse.

Arthur didn't even meet your gaze once that entire morning and you watched him, with a heavy heart, sit down on the muddy porch. His back was turned to you and his face buried deep in his worn hat. The sight had sent a blade through your chest, but you decided not to speak about it.

His behavior towards you hasn't changed after that, him somehow always managing to avoid you in every possible way. Whenever you sit down at the campfire to listen to Javier's music, Arthur excuses himself shortly afterwards and vanishes inside his tent. Or when you're enjoying a nice cup of coffee by the stew with Abigail, the outlaw makes sure to steer clear from that spot too.

It's frustrating to say the least. Frustrating and painful, considering how close the two of you have always been. When you woke up in that jailcell you had hoped and prayed that Arthur might have forgotten about the awkward events. That the liquor had gotten into his mind and erased the memories of your almost-confession and your eyes locked onto his lips.

The fact that your feelings for him are now stronger than ever after all that, isn't particularly helpful either. Being so close to him in that dark alleyway next to the saloon had done something to you. Now everytime you recall that moment in your head, you feel that same heat coursing through your body and you get the urge to throw yourself into a cold river.

It's early in the day right now and you're sitting at one of the tables, cleaning your Cattleman revolver. That gun was one of the first things you had bought after your first successful robbery. Then after the second, you had used the money to let some engravings be carved into it. It's safe to say, that this is one of your most precious possessions. Mainly for sentimental value than the price.

Suddenly a shadow falls over you and your breath nearly gets caught in your throat at the sight of Arthur. His thumbs are hooked into his leather belt and you slowly put down the gun and cleaning rag as if you're afraid you might scare him away with any sudden movements. This is the first time in what feels like ages that he's looking at you again and you're already starting to sweat under your clothes.

"You busy right now?", Arthur asks, squinting with his eyes from the way the sun is hitting them.

The action makes his nose scrunch up ever so slightly and you could have melted away right then and there. But you pull yourself together, something you have learned to do fast and efficiently infront of the outlaw. The smallest crack in your carefully built facade could cause the wrong emotions to pour out and compromise everything.

Like during that night at Smithfield's. Your mask had been slipping there and now you're paying the price for it.

"No, just cleanin' my guns.", you answer after clearing your throat to make sure that you have full control over your own voice.

"Will ya ride with me?"

The question is a simple one, not holding too much meaning, but for you it's the world. It's as if a great weight is being lifted from your shoulders and you barely stifle a relieved sigh.

"Of course."

Without another word, you holster your revolver and follow him to where your horses are hitched. Arthur doesn't say anything about where you're going or what you will be doing, but you recognize the direction you're riding in. Unease settles in your gut and a shiver runs down your spine.

"So we're headed back to Blackwater?", you ask, trying to hide the anxiety behind your tone.

"Yup. Accordin' to Trelawny, Sean is bein' held there. Javier and Charles have been scoutin' the place."

That's a lot of heavy information at once and you nod to yourself. You didn't know that Trelawny showed up again, it must have happened while you were still riding with Micah, and Sean is still alive. If you know him well, then he's most likely giving those bastards hell right now. Who knows in what state you will be finding him.

"Why bring me? Don't you think it would be better to bring a smaller group?", you ask, curiosity and confusion lacing your voice. "You'd have it easier to go in silently and break him out."

There is a long pause for a while and you fear that Arthur won't answer you at all. You're following right behind him, unable to read his thoughts based on his expression. A small roll of his shoulders under that worn leather jacket of his, is all you get as a reaction.

"Thought it would be smarter to have someone with me on the way there. You know, with all these bounty hunters about 'n all.", he tells you in a matter of fact way.

Disappointment settles inside your chest, but you quickly shake it off. What did you expect? That he confesses his undying love for you and tells you that that's the reason why he wants you with him? Ruined friendship or not, you guys still work well together. Arthur might be perfectly capable handling a group of lawmen or bounty hunters by himself, but it's never wrong to bring some extra security.

The rest of the ride goes by rather quiet, those being the first words you've exchanged in almost a week. It doesn't ease the tension that hangs in the air between the two of you, but you can finally relax a little bit. As much as you'd want to talk about what happened, to maybe smooth things out a bit, you keep your mouth shut.

In the distance, you see smoke and two figures lying on their stomachs at the edge of a cliff. You recognize Boaz and Taima hitched by a couple of trees close by and you dismount your own mare. Giving her a quick pat, you join the two men and get low as well. Arthur lays down right next to you and you feel the heat radiating off of him even without any contact.

Javier hands you his binoculars and you take a closer look at the town infront of you. It's crawling with law, but there is no Sean in sight. After a few more attempts of trying to spot him somewhere on the streets, you pass the binoculars over to Arthur.

"Where's that little Irish bastard?", the outlaw grunts after giving up the search too.

"Trelawny's trynna find that out.", Charles answers in a hushed voice.

"Has anyone been to Blackwater?", you speak up and look over to the two men.

"It's crawlin' with Pinkertons and bounty hunters.", Javier tells you and you nod, not too surprised to hear that.

Only a madman would dare come close to that mess.

"And we got a lot of cash waitin' around there.", Arthur grumbles under his breath, making his frustration very much clear.

"And that is where it will remain, for now.", you mumble, trying not to think of how much you all were forced to leave behind.

It is definitely enough to fill a bank. Charles and Arthur exchange a few more words about Sean possibly serving as bait, considering he hasn't been hanged yet. As much as you dislike that thought, it would make sense. Shuffling can be heard from the side and you momentarily tense up. Though you quickly relax when Trelawny appears from between the bushes.

"Gentlemen.", he greets you in a hushed voice and stays low. Interesting that, even out here, his shoes never seem to get any dirt on them. "Sean is being moved to the Upper Montana and into a federal prison out west."

Dread pools around in your gut and the air becomes thick with grim.

"Damn.", Arthur breathes out while shaking his head. "We can't be rescuin' people from some federal prison. We either rescue him now or cut him loose."

His words hit you like a slap to the face and your head snaps to the side to glare at him. You watch his eyes flicker to the side to throw you a quick glance.

"We ain't cutting anyone loose.", you quietly bark, outraged that he would even suggest something like that.

Arthur meets your gaze for a split second and you see something stir behind his eye. It vanishes before you could decipher it.

"Course not."

"Ike Skelding's boys are moving him to a nearby camp, before handing him to the government.", Trelawny chimes in and you nod.

The window in which you all could get Sean is small, but it's there at least. Skelding's boys are tough and will most definitely put up a fight, but it's nothing you guys can't handle. Arthur comes up with a plan, sending Charles and Javier to the other side of the river while he, you and Trelawny follow the boat.

Next thing you know, you find yourself in your saddle again and you ride along the cliff. You avoid letting your gaze wander over to the boat too much, wanting to look like you were just some guys traveling together. All that ordeal with Micah had left you exhausted and drained, unwilling to join any jobs. Now? Now you feel electrifying energy course through your veins and your fingers itch for action.

Once the boat comes to a halt, you take out your binoculars to get a better look at the scene. Some men step onto land and that is when you see him. Sean is being dragged and pushed forward with his arms tied up behind his back. By the looks of it, they seem to be more than just fed up with whatever antics he has been putting them through. It gets an amused smile from you and you store the binoculars away.

Still keeping a safe distance, the three of you jump off your horses and discuss your next steps. Trelawny would go around and create a distraction, so that Arthur and you can sneak up on the two fellers across the river. Once he gets into position and grabs their attention, the outlaw and you squad down and quietly get on your way. Trelawny is putting on the show of the century, yelling, crying and falling down onto his knees.

You exchange looks with Arthur at that theatrical performance and with your hunting knife firm in your hand, you jump up. Grabbing one of Skelding's men by the collar, you yank him back towards you and stab him in the throat. For a few seconds he's producing nothing but choked back gurgling noises before going entirely limb and you let him fall onto the ground. Some splatters of blood got onto your hands and clothes in the process.

You don't linger around for too long and sneak along the stone wall, coming across more men. Squatting down again, you tiptoe towards them for another silent kill, but one of them happens to turn around. A shout leaves his lips and a storm of bullets rains down on you in the next moment. Before your mind can even process what's going on, your muscles move for you and you take cover behind a large rock.

"Real fine work alarmin' them all!", Arthur yells over all the noise and you take out your revolver.

"Because I so did that on purpose!", you immediately argue through gritted teeth, your voice oozing with sarcasm and irritation.

Knowing him, you won't be able to live that mistake down for the next few weeks. If you're real unlucky then maybe months even. For now you should focus on getting out of here in one piece and you fire some shots. Taking a peak from behind your cover, you spot Charles and Javier on the other side. They're fighting and shooting as well and your eyes land on Charles.

Is that a goddamn machete he's holding? Shaking your head, you force your attention back at the sons of bitches who are currently trying to put a hole through your skull. It feels like forever until the gunfire dies down and you allow yourself to relax a little. Stepping out into the open again, you're being met by Arthur's disapproving glare and you point your finger at him.

"Don't try me, Morgan. I'm not in the mood right now.", you tell him before he can even say a word.

Instead of arguing with you, like you expect him to, he just simply shakes his head and makes his way up the hill. Somehow that makes you feel even worse, but you keep your mouth shut and follow him. Up at the peak, you find more of Skelding's boys and Sean in the middle of the camp, dangling upside down on a rope.

Chaos breaks out again at your appearance and you throw yourself behind a pile of tree trunks. It seems like for each bastard you manage to shoot down, two more of them are coming down from the hill. Arthur is standing a bit further away from you, firing bullet after bullet and not noticing the man attempting to catch him off guard. You aim your gun and pull the trigger, but a hollow click is all you're getting from your cattleman.

With a frustrated huff, you fall into a full blown sprint, hoping and praying that you won't get hit. The man catches you charging at him and braces for the impact. He let's out a breathless and stunned noise when you crash against him, your shoulder ramming right into his stomach and you pin his arms down with your knees. It takes a punch or two to knock him out entirely, your knuckles bloody and bruised and you stand up.

Arthur gives you a grateful look which you answer with only a quick nod. Now is not the time for many words. The four of you make quick work and in a matter of minutes, the camp is completely empty. You walk to where Sean is dangling and cut the rope in one swift motion, letting the Irishman fall down with a pained grunt.

"You know. You looked a lot less ugly from that other angle.", he tells you as you cut open the restraint around his ankles and shake your head.

Arthur is next to you in an instant and extends his hand to Sean to hoist him back onto his feet.

"Ah! Do I get a hug, Arthur? A warm embrace for lost brother now found!", he yells with his arms spread wide open and you step away from the scene to see if there's anything worth taking.

It hasn't even been five minutes and all you can hear is the sound of his voice. Now that he's back again, you won't be able to find a single moment of peace back in camp anymore. Though as much of a pain in the ass he is, you're still glad to have him back and safe. There have been way too many losses lately. Arthur assigns Javier to bring Sean back and you watch the two ride off together with Charles.

"I took all that's good. We can leave too.", you tell the outlaw as you mount your horse and he jumps onto his own saddle as well.

You make haste to leave this area as fast as possible. Considering the mess and noise you've made while rescuing your fellow gang member, there must be law on the way now. Either that or some backup. Whatever it is, you don't want to be there when they find the piles of bodies you've left behind.

"This could have gone a lot quieter.", Arthur speaks up after making sure that you've put a safe distance between you and the massacre.

"What? You're gonna give me more shit now?", you protest and shake your head. "Look, I know I fucked up earlier, but we still managed didn't we?"

"I'm just sayin'-"

"Oh shut up. I don't wanna hear it.", you immediately interrupt him, the words coming out a lot harsher than originally intended.

It's rare that the two of you fight like this. Granted, Arthur tends to give the other members, like Bill for example, a hard time when they mess up, but that has never been the case with you up until now. Usually when you make mistakes during a job, Arthur is more patient and forgiving. You can't explain why he's nagging you so much now all of a sudden.

"That right there could have ended real bad, 'cause of you.", the outlaw continues and you feel his accusatory eyes bore into you.

"But it didn't. We did just fine.", you argue, gritting your teeth.

"You've been slippin' lately. First with Micah in Strawberry, now this."

Mentioning Micah like this feels like a blow to the face and you stare at him, expression filled with betrayal.

"You know damn right that Strawberry was Micah's fault. Not mine.", you snap at him and he meets your gaze with the same energy.

"But I'm the fool who has to clean up after your mess, aren't I? I always am."

Having heard enough of his bullshit, you signal for your horse to speed up and leave him behind. Arthur shouts after you, but you don't stop or turn around to answer. There's nothing to be said anymore, especially not when you're this furious at him. Whatever leaves your mouth now, it would be said in a fit of anger and you don't want to do anything you'd regret later on.

---

Back in camp everyone is in high spirits. Especially Sean who's climbing up a small wooden crate and holding a heartfelt speech with an opened bottle of whisky in one hand. His words come out slurred and he's swaying from side to side to the point where you're genuinely worried he might fall off. Not that it would actually do any damage to him compared to what he's been through back in Blackwater.

You're sitting at one of the tables close to Pearson's food wagon and you catch Arthur entering the camp on the whole other side. After riding off on him like that earlier today, you haven't seen him at all. He raises his head, meeting your gaze for a split second and you quickly look down at your beer. The odd and sudden argument has you feeling still angry, but mostly confused.

Ever since you came back, it hasn't left your mind for a single moment. There is only one explanation for his strange behavior and hostility towards you and it has your throat dry up in an instant. The only thing that could have made him act that way towards you is that one night in Valentine. Images of the two of you standing awfully close pass by your inner eye and you take a generous swig from your drink.

It sours your mood and you decide that it would be better to not linger around the place for too long. Everyone is so happy for Sean to be back again and you don't want to ruin that with your brooding. So you push yourself up from your chair and walk over to where Bill is picking up a rifle. Tonight is his turn to guard the camp and you know he'd rather stay here to celebrate with the rest. Just as he's about to grab the weapon, you place your hand on it.

"I'll take your shift.", you say and he blinks at you in surprise.

"What?", he asks, disbelief lacing his voice.

"Go on and drink, Williamson. I'll be watching the camp."

A wide grin spreads on his face and he pats your back with such brute force that you almost stumble forward.

"Thanks, buddy!"

With that he makes his way to the beer crate, an energetic spring accompanying his steps now. Sighing, you pick up the rifle and let the darkness of the night swallow you whole. All the laughter and the music from the others still fill your ears, even with all the distance you've put between them and you. Your back is leaned against one of the many trees and you fumble with a pack of cigarettes until you manage to fish one out.

Tugging it between your lips, you go to now find a lighter somewhere in the depths of your satchel. Then you hear a match being lit and come face to face with none other than the man you are trying to avoid. The flame illuminates his rough features in such a breathtaking way that you simply can't do anything but watch your anger disappear into thin air. He lights the cigarette for you and you inhale the familiar smoke.

"Thanks.", you mumble with a nod and watch him light one of his own.

"Why'd you switch with Bill?", he asks and you silently thank for all the tree tops blocking out the moonlight.

Otherwise he might have been able to read your thoughts off of your face and you don't want that. You don't want him to know why you couldn't stay and celebrate. Don't want him to know about all those mixed feelings he's invoking in you. So you simply shrug and act casual, not like he can see it in this pitch blackness anyways.

"Didn't feel like drinkin'."

That isn't entirely a lie. You really don't feel like drinking tonight, scared that it might make you bold and reckless again.

"If it's because of what I said...", Arthur starts and you wave it off.

"Don't worry about it. I've already forgotten it all.", you answer, but your voice is too strained to make it sound believable.

Of course it's about the fight earlier and of course it's about him. It always is.

"I'm sorry I gave ya so much shit.", he murmurs and you watch him in the dim glow of the cigarette. "I've been on edge lately after Blackwater and with the Pinkertons on our asses like that."

"I know, Arthur. We all have."

There is a long pause and you almost flinch when you feel his warm, calloused hand on your shoulder. His heat seeps through the fabric of your shirt and into your skin, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He holds out a bottle to you, the cool glass helping you keep a level head when you wrap your fingers around it. You bring it up to your lips and tilt your head back to take a sip.

"Thanks.", you grumble with a content sigh and give it back to him.

The outlaw is about to turn his back to you and walk away, but something inside you makes you reach out and grab his arm. Something dangerous and foolish and you recognize it from another time. It was the same one that had made you come onto him at Smithfield's.

"Listen, Arthur. About what happened in Valentine...", you start, but trail off, unable to figure out how to find the right words.

"You don't have to-"

"I do.", you immediately interrupt him. You've created quite a habit for that, now that you think about it. "What I did and what I said, it ain't- it ain't like that."

Oh, but it is like that. You would have loved to do more, say more. Back when he told you that no one would have him, you'd have liked nothing more than to grab him by his collar and tell him that you'd have him. That you want him. No, need him. Even now it's dancing around on the tip of your tongue, waiting in anticipation to lay out all your feelings.

Arthur stares at you for a long time and it's difficult to place his expression with how dark it is. Though you get the sense that something is stirring behind those blue eyes of his. Unless your mind is playing tricks on you, the outcome of both delusion and wishful thinking, it almost looks like disappointment. Then his gaze flickers down to where you're still keeping a firm grasp on him and you immediately let go.

"I know. You was just bein'..." Arthur grumbles something under his breath as he struggles to find the right word. "Nice."

"Yeah. Exactly."

He nods and tips his hat in your direction before resuming his leave. You watch him in silence, letting the bushes and trees swallow his broad frame.

While taking another drag from your cigarette, you can't help but get the sense that you've made a terrible mistake.

[the-colourful-witch]

Hi, Fleur!

I hope you know that I absolutely love and admire your artwork, they are so creative and love how each and everyone of those characters are different in their own way.

You always make me smile when I see you on my dash, and I'm glad that you share your artistic talent with all of us. I hope you never give up on your art because you are so talented.

I have a few questions (Would it be alright if I send another ask?):

I was wondering if you have any HC's about your favorite HP couple (or any fandom)?

What is your favorite part/scene from the HP series?

If you won the lottery, what would be five things you would buy? No responsible answers, feel free to be silly ;)

I hope you have a good night/morning <3

Hiya! I hope you know how much you saying this means to me. Thank you for your support and love and I hope you'll continue to enjoy seeing my work on your dash :) Ask as much as you like! I don't mind at all :)

Let's start with the first question: I do have a headcannon about Ron and Hermione.. I've always imagined that Hermione would carefully pick out novels she thinks Ron will enjoy and give them to him. And he'll complain publicly about how she's trying to get him to study more and be bookish, but they talk about the books together and Ron will ask for another one because she knows exactly what he likes. He will listen to her drone on and on about what she's currently reading and tease her in between breaths. They have a bookish love language :) I also have a Harry and Ginny headcannon... Harry eventually falls in love with Ginny because she is being herself, being cool, fun, and witty. Harry would get a little insecure because suddenly he's not sure he is worthy of her. Because he didn't have a normal childhood, he worries he might be too serious for her, or that they can't have fun together. That's when Ginny takes him outside to play Quidditch, they play matches and let go of their troubles for a bit. Afterwards, they'll lie in the grass, talking and making jokes and Ginny tells him that she doesn't care that he's famous, because she just scored 99/100 goals on him. Harry kisses her because she is one of the few people that can make him feel like a normal person and his worries ebb away.

I might draw those headcannons one day, I'd love to do more story illustrations :) Second question: favourite part of the HP series (book and/or films)... Hmm, that's a tough one. There are so many to choose from. I think, from the films; there's this scene in 'The Prisoner of Azkaban' on the day they arrive back at Hogwarts. The boys are in the Gryffindor dormitory and they're taking those animal candies. I love that scene so much, because of the fun they're having, the rain pounding on the windows outside, and the fact that they're in their pyjamas. They were probably talking about their summers, exchanging stories. It's so wholesome, I love it! From the books, I absolutely love the scene in 'The Order of the Phoenix' where Fred and George escape Hogwarts on their broomsticks. They give a final 'FUCK YOU' to Umbridge and the chaos that ensues after that is just brilliant. With the swamp and the Niffler and McGonagall instructing Peeves on how to untwist the chandelier. It's brilliant.

I love most scenes with the twins. They're so funny :)

And last, but not least! If I won the lottery, what would I buy...? That's such a fun question. Reasonable answers aside, I would buy a ship. A large, beautiful sailing vessel. I would turn the thing into a sailing art studio and just travel the world and write and illustrate books. And I would paint the outside beautiful colours, I'd have a vegetable garden on the deck and a swinging chair to read books in. It would be a little paradise at sea. I love boats and my dream is to live on one :)

[thetormentita]

the last storm

maybe she is being kept alive for a reason.

Pairing: Argella Durrandon x Orys Baratheon (one-sided)

A/n: mentions of violence and suicide.

Rating: Mature (+16)

She has never felt alone, not truly. Despite the corpses of her dead siblings, in her heart she has never felt alone with the children in Storm’s End. She used to play with them, study the maester’s lessons with them, eat with them. There were Androw and Robert in one hand, whom she loved as much as would have done with her own brothers, and also this Trant Girl, Rowan, who had been a confident to her childish secrets.

Now they are gone.

The soldier next to her doesn’t seem to stop talking, but her thoughts are far from that tent. Rowan had been the first to betray her, that is why her bile boils with the mere thought of that damned red-headed. When she needed them the most, nobody could be found inside the castle, and she still regrets it. Androw and Robert were fighting with her father outside, and she did not notice it until it was too late.

Her mind brings her to reality, and it hurts like the deepest of hells.

“Soon a maester will come to take care of your wounds, my lady.”

She is too tired to lift her gaze from the floor. Her eyes, once bright like a sunny sky, only are able to spot the ground beneath her feet and the heavy boots of the man who had killed her father, the fool of a man. Beneath her trembling hands rests a goblet, half empty, and the cold draining weight of the chains and the cloak stained with Stormlander blood had been replaced by a blanket, worn but warm, draped over her shoulders. She finds herself thirsty, her throat parched beyond reason. He seems to notice with a mere look, because he soon pours wine for her to drink.

She wonders about the reason behind that much interest. Easily he can subdue her, but instead, he chooses oddly gentle gestures. Her suspicion is an ever-present shadow, lingering behind every careful move he makes. He could easily make her a prize for his best soldiers to take, sell her to a pillow house —at least she would meet her sweet Alys again, or even claim her to himself and easily take her to death with his own bare hands , but he does none of these things. Instead, he studies her with a mix of curiosity and something that resembles respect.

Respect.

Does the commander of that bunch of beasts have more brains than the rest of the world?

The thought both unsettles and intrigues her.

With steady but careful hands he leads her to the nearest place to sit down, offering her his arm to lean into when her own knees seem to fall apart and highly disappoint her, making herself be seen more than vulnerable, if it is even possible. As she reluctantly leans on him, she feels the strength beneath his robes, and her fear mixes with confusion.

Once she manages to sit on a wooden trunk, feeling the lock against her naked calf, her eyes subtly go to the entrance of the tent, her mind racing with the possibilities of her future. She would try to escape, but that man would easily hinder any possible attempt.

“Nobody will bother you, there is no need to worry.”

The pain in her chest is replaced by a hole. A hole where hope used to reside, now filled with questions and uncertainty. She wants to ask for her friends, for the only ones that have not sold her to the invaders, to the man by her side who carefully tends to any of her needs while a maester makes his way towards the tent, but what terrifies her is the answer she can get.

A thunderclap echoes in the distance, and the light coming from outside tells her that, if they are lucky, the storm will stay by the Shipbreaker Bay.

How delightful would it be to succumb by a lightning in that precise moment.

“Rest now, gather your strength," his voice tinged with an unexpected softness.

“Commander” she tilts her head to look at him in the eye, for a moment getting lost in the blue of his eyes and the quiet intensity they hold. “If you are to kill me, I beg you to do it quickly.”

[jenanigans1207]

Hi, please accept me being weak and sharing even more of this fic that I'm working on because I'm too impatient to hold onto this until the fic is done.

For context, the whole point of the fic is that Dean gets hit with a curse that forces him to tell the truth if asked a question.

(enjoy the angst of me projecting onto Dean Winchester!)

----

“You don’t get it.” Dean grinds out, all frustration and sharp edges, words cutting his own throat as much as they’re cutting Cas.

“Dean—”

“Ask me.” Dean says, throwing his arms out to the side. “I can’t fucking lie so ask me.”

Cas stares at him for a long moment and it’s not hard for Dean to read the expressions on his face. Up until this point, Cas had been very carefully and delicately choosing his words every time he spoke to Dean, careful to not accidentally phrase something in a way that would come across as a question. He has been diligent in his attempt to respect Dean’s privacy and Dean’s wishes, steadfast in his belief that Dean should not be forced to tell them things, but should only volunteer things willingly. Even though Sam had been practically chomping at the bit to finally get Dean to talk about his feelings.

But Dean was giving Cas permission to ask, to force the curse to bring the words to the surface. This was about as willing as Dean got when it came to feelings and Dean could see the exact moment that Cas accepted the permission he was being granted. 

“Why do you always push me away?” Cas asks after a moment, his voice quiet, like he’s afraid of receiving the answer as much as he’s afraid of what delivering the answer will do to Dean.

But Dean doesn’t need the curse to bring up the answer. At this point, everything is such a fucking disaster that Dean’s willing to answer that honestly all on his own.

“It’s easier.” He says, and he notices the way Cas steels himself for whatever else Dean is about to say, as if he’s prepared for repeated blows to the heart. “If you leave because I push you away— because I’m a short-tempered asshole who crosses the line and says shit he doesn’t mean, I can live with that. Because that— that’s my fault, Cas. And at that point, just add it to the list, you know? Everything is my fault— Sam being back in the life, everything that’s happened to him, everything that’s happened to you, the fucking end of the world was my fault! So yeah, if you leave because I pushed and pushed and pushed until you couldn’t bear it anymore, I’ll just add it to the list of reasons I hate myself and cope with it the same way I cope with all the other reasons— too much alcohol and even more denial.”

Cas’s lips part, clearly surprised by the answer he’s getting. “That’s—”

But Dean isn’t done. “I’ve spent my entire life hating everything about myself, Cas. And yeah, I’m not sure I ever hate myself more than I do when I hurt you that— that is a new low, even for me, but it’s still in the realm of things I understand. But if— Cas, If you—” Dean’s throat is so fucking tight that it hurts and the words almost can’t get out. He clenches his jaw, swallows, and decides to put himself out of his fucking misery. “If I asked you to stay… If I told you how badly I always want you there, how nothing is ever right when you’re gone, how I never want you to leave and you— and you left anyway? If I told you the truth and you still chose to leave despite that? Cas, that would kill me. It really would.” Dean can’t look Cas in the eye now that the words are out in the open. “So instead, I push. If you’re going to leave no matter what, at least I can blame myself for it. It at least makes it a little easier to breathe in those lonely moments. Gives me something to do, too, you know? Instead of missing you every second of the day, I spend at least a few of them kicking my own ass for what I’ve done and continue doing to you.”

There’s a long, tense silence that follows the words and Dean honestly doesn’t know how he expects Cas to react.

“And you—” Cas’s voice is as strained as Dean’s had been and Dean glances up at him briefly, unsurprised to find the pain reflected in his face. It’s not like Dean’s unaccustomed to hurting Cas, he shouldn’t be surprised that even his honesty manages to do it. “You think that I would leave either way? You think that I— I want to go? That I would choose to go even if you didn’t push me away?”

It’s several questions all jumbled together, but it doesn’t really matter because they all have the same answer anyway. “Yes.”

Dean had hurt Cas a lot of times in the past, he knew that. He wouldn’t say he’d come to terms with it, wouldn’t say that each and every time he had said something intentionally harsh, cruel, or uncalled for wasn’t tied for number one on his list of reasons he hated himself more than any other creature on earth. But still, he knew that he had done it and he often replayed it in his head, hurting himself with the memory of hurting Cas. But despite that, nothing prepares him for the way Cas’s face crumples at his answer, for the way he looks more dejected, more hopeless Dean has ever seen him. Suddenly every other time Dean has hurt Cas barely even makes the list of reasons he hates himself because this— this just took every spot in the top one hundred.

Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever get the image of Cas’s broken, faithless expression out of his mind.

Dean almost expects Cas to try and school his expression into something a little more neutral, something to disguise the hurt in his eyes. He usually does, just to spare Dean the pain— or maybe Cas thinks it’s the satisfaction— of knowing that he’d landed another winning blow. But Cas doesn’t do anything to cover up the agony in his expression, doesn’t even attempt to pretend that he’s not breaking to pieces right before Dean’s very eyes.

Dean fucking Winchester, the man cursed to save the world that does not love him and to break the only actually precious thing he’s ever been given.

“Why?” Cas finally chokes out. “Why would you think that?”

Dean answers his question with a question, “Why would you stay?” Cas stares at him with eyes that are impossibly blue and unfathomably sad. For someone who knows only disappointment, Dean’s surprised to find that it hurts so much to find it reflected in Cas’s eyes. “I’m not— I’m not a fucking joy to be around, Cas. I’m not shining sunshine out of my ass, I’m not Mary freaking Poppins. I’m an asshole— clearly— and I… Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking disaster, a basket case. There’s more wrong with me than there is right. Me constantly pushing you away is an example of that!”

“Dean, if you’d let me, I would—”

“Let you?” Dean repeats, somehow incredulous despite the absolute trainwreck of a situation. “Let you? Cas, I may push you away, but I don’t physically shove you out the door. And I’ve never once locked it behind you, never once stopped you from coming back. You get that, right? I may push and push and push but you? Cas you leave.”

Somehow this is getting worse by the second and if Dean weren’t so unbearably miserable, he’d be impressed that he’s managing to fuck everything up further with every word that comes out of his mouth. Looking at Cas now, he’s honestly not sure which one of them hates the situation they’re in more, which one of them feels worse. Cas looks like he’s about to collapse in on himself, like the only thing he’d ever been fighting for just gave up and surrendered the battle. He looked like his entire purpose had just been ripped away from him. 

“I don’t ever want to leave, Dean.” Cas says brokenly. 

“Then why do you?” Dean asks, just as broken, just as quiet, just as desolate. And when Cas doesn’t immediately answer, biting back a reply that he clearly knows, Dean laughs, bitter and humorless. “Right, ‘course. Forgot, I’m the only one who has to be honest, here. Fucking fantastic, Cas, that’s just great.”

Cas takes a tentative step forward. “Dean—”

Dean has always hated how much he loves the way Cas says his name. Cas, a former Angel of the Lord said Dean’s name reverently, like a prayer, like it carried some sort of holy meaning or importance. Cas said his name like it was a blessing to be able to speak it at all, like it was the only name he ever wanted to say again. 

And Dean can’t take that right now, can’t let Cas say his name like that while refusing to meet him in the middle on this. “No, just—” He’s breaking, he’s breaking, he’s been broken for so many goddamn years at this point and yet somehow he’s still breaking. “You— you were supposed to fight, you asshole. You were supposed to come back and see that the door was still open. You were supposed to— to try. And you never did— do. You never do. So I keep pushing and you keep leaving and it’s easier for me to blame myself than it is for me to blame you but god, Cas, it doesn’t matter whose fucking fault it is because it hurts every time you go.”

Dean doesn’t know if angels cry. But if they do, he’s certain that Cas would. If there were only ever one angel in all of history that cried, Dean would know with absolute certainty that it was Cas. And Cas isn’t even an angel anymore, technically. He’s just a stupid human with stupid human emotions and the even stupider human inability to deal with them. But he looks like he might cry, like he might prove to Dean to that all of his celestial holiness was just a rouse and that he’s always been harboring this deep seated sadness underneath. 

“I—” Cas starts to say, but whatever response he had is lost to the sound of Sam opening the door finally.

“Hey,” Sam says hurriedly, and there’s a smear of blood on his cheek. He stumbles into the room, the hand on the doorknob stopping him from toppling over completely. Once he makes it in the room he pauses, seeming to notice the tension that’s suffocating them. His eyebrows rise as he glances between the two of them. “You guys good?”

“No,” Dean answers immediately, the curse beating Cas to the punch. “We’re not.”

That seems to catch Sam off guard and his hand slips off the doorknob as he regards Dean. He probably wants to ask some question that would make Dean rehash this entire thing, probably wants to do something stupid and sentimental like sweep him up into a bear hug and tell Dean that everything will work out. But he seems to sense the severity of the situation, the levity of the expressions on both of their faces. He shuts his cakehole.

“No,” Cas agrees after a moment, and his voice is thick with emotions and whatever words he was forced to swallow back down when Sam barged in. “But we will be. Right, Dean?”

Even the curse doesn’t have an answer to that one, leaving his throat completely dry as he tries to swallow, letting him give whatever kind of response he wants. “Yeah.” He chokes out after a moment, not meeting the gaze of either of them. “We always are.”

[eventinelysplayground]

Shattered

This is my second last fic for my 50 follower event and was requested by the delightful @fang-and-feather whose ask I put up on Tuesday if you want to take a look. This fic was hard to get the idea for but then I ended up getting an element I wanted and built two different ideas around that that weren't working so I dissected them and took parts of both along with the element and here it is. I had a lot of fun with this one, it felt like I could be a bit more daring with it in a way. I also switch pov at the end but it's mostly in Comtes. I hope you enjoy the fic Fang and thanks so much for the congrats and all your support especially when I first started out you have no idea how much it meant to me. An outing, a memory and one bad action tempt Comte. Mentions of alcohol, suspected infidelity, pregnancy and blood, WC approx 1929.

The night was warm with the subtle scent of flowers carried on the wind as the moon danced in and out between the clouds. Comte stood alone on the balcony, a glass in one hand and a half empty bottle of whiskey on the top rail. He had managed to outrun his thoughts since this afternoon but now in the stillness of the night he was at their mercy.

She looked absolutely stunning this afternoon, her smile was so radiant.

Comte took a long sip from his glass then let out a short self deprecating chuckle.

Really, this is unbecoming of me. It was all my own choices, I have no one else to blame. It's for the best anyway I would only have ruined her life.

When he had first started to notice that Mitsuki and Arthur were developing feelings for eachother he said nothing, believing his own feelings for her nothing but a passing desire that would be quickly forgotten. He'd had more than his fair share of romances just like that in even his long lifetime and yet…yet as time continued forward he realized just how wrong he was.

Mitsukis appearance at the mansion had brought a light and joy to their lives. She had touched all their hearts but only Arthur had been able to touch hers. Every time he witnessed them together, their happiness, devotion, love for one another, the warmth he felt to see her so happy warred with an ugly darkness in his heart. The darkness only grew as time went on and Mitsuki got even closer to him.

She certainly did manage to work her way past all my walls without even trying. She's always reached out and tried to see the best in everyone even then….

‘What were you thinking!?’

‘I knew you were a filthy klootzak but this is low even for you.’

‘Didn't think you'd be the type to settle down but I hoped for cara mias sake that I was wrong.’

‘How did you not even make it six months!?’

‘Newt, What the bloody hell are you all going on about!?’

‘You're going to play dumb?’

Theo had moved to grab Arthur by the lapels and Comte had been the one to stop him.

‘Calm down all of you, let's see if Arthur has anything to say at least.’

‘Anything to say to what? I don-’

‘You better think of something better than that after the way cara mias been crying.’

‘Wait, Mitsuki is upset? What happened?’

‘Like you don't know.’

‘Arthur enough games-’

‘I swear Comte I'm not playing any g-’

Arthur's eyes had gone wide with a sudden revelation.

‘Mitsuki!’

Arthur went to run past them up the stairs but Napoleon caught him by the arms.

‘Damn it all, let go Leon! I swear to all of you this isn't what you think. That bird was-’

‘Choose your next words very carefully Arthur.’

Comtes eyes were cold and voice commanding.

‘That bird was someone I had spent a few nights with years ago before Mitsuki ever arrived. She had gone overseas, family issues or something I honestly don't remember but she's been gone for years and just got back and-’

‘And she's been gone long enough she had no idea.’

‘Exactly! I was coming back from my publishers when she just bloody well threw herself into my arms and started kissing me. I mean do you all really not know me better than that? I've answered enough of your questions, I need to see Mitsuki.’

‘Let him go Napoleon but Arthur, you best be telling the truth, for your own sake if not for hers.’

Comte recalled that the whole mansion was tense that night and they all took turns keeping an ear out for any hint of trouble from a respectable distance. After a few hours Leonardo had come down smirking and declaring that ‘any screaming now wouldn't be from anger’. It had only been about eight months prior and the emotions that just the memory of that incident brought forward caused Comte to smash his glass on the top rail littering it with glass.

She's too good and pure for him. Forgiving him after hurting her like that even if it was unintentional, and now be giving him a child after it all.

Comte sighed and looked down at the broken glass.

Well now, that wasn't very mature of me. I should be happy that she forgave him and they're able to continue to be so happy…

Comte lifted the whiskey bottle to his lips, drinking back the last of its contents. He looked up into the night sky smiling as his thoughts returned to the afternoon.

‘Don't you think that this is all a bit much?’

‘Whatever do you mean?'

‘I mean you've bought multiple things from every store we've been in today! I didn't need those new dresses and on top of that you're also spoiling this baby before it even gets here!’

‘Nonsense Cherie, I could never dote on you or the child enough to ever come close to spoiling either of you. You deserve all of it and more.’

‘Really I-'

Suddenly they had both heard soft laughter from nearby. When Comte turned around there was an older woman standing there smiling fondly at them.

‘Just let him do as he pleases dearie, if your husband's anything like mine was nothing you say will deter him.’

‘Oh but he’s-’

‘Listen to her words of wisdom ma Cherie, plus have you ever been able to convince me before?’

‘Well no…’

‘If it makes you feel better dear , think of it as payment for the hard work soon to come.’

‘Who are you bothering now?’

The older woman clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes.

‘I’m not bothering anyone, I was just telling the young dear here to accept as many gifts as her husband desired to provide her and their child with.’

The old gentleman who had approached quickly cast an appraising look over Mitsuki then Comte noticed his lips turning up into a faint yet fond smile.

‘A word of advice son, pace yourself unless you don't mind spending all your wealth spoiling them.’

‘See he agrees with me, you're spoiling them already.’

‘I still say you should let him.’

‘Hahaha of course you would, come my dear leave the young couple to enjoy themselves.’

‘If you insist, oh but wait! Congratulations to you both.’

‘Comte, why didn't you correct them?’

‘Hmmm? Is the thought of being married to me that horrible?’

‘No, of course not! I didn't mean-’

‘Haha it’s alright cherie, honestly they just seemed happy and besides it didn't cause any harm’

‘I suppose not.’

It was nice to dream if only for a brief moment. If I hadn't dismissed my feelings, not been afraid to lose what we did have then maybe…

“Comte?”

The sudden voice startled Comte and he turned towards the door.

“Cherie, what are you doing up so late?”

“Sleeping is becoming incredibly difficult lately and this heat isn't helping. What about you, could you not sleep?”

I wish it were that simple.

“Something like that, come let me take you back inside.”

“No, I'd prefer to stay out here. The breeze is really cool and-”

“Cherie don't-”

“Ouch!”

Comtes warning came too late as Mitsuki placed her hand on top of the shards of broken glass. Blood began to trickle down her palm and fingers momentarily freezing him to the spot.

“I'm so sorry, Comte! I should have been more careful.”

Comte said nothing, his gaze fixed on the trails of blood while the rest of him desperately fought the intense burning in his throat.

“I should go and get-”

“No!”

“Comte?”

Comte closed the small distance between them staring down at Mitsukis bloodied hand for a moment before lifting it upwards.

Maybe it wouldn't have to be a dream.

Comte lifted Mitsukis hand higher to his lips and lapped at her blood before sinking his fangs into her soft flesh. The taste of her blood on his tongue as it passed over it and down his throat was heavenly and sweet. He felt her knees begin to give and wrapped an arm tightly around her waist as he-

“Comte!?”

Comte shook his head slightly as he was pulled back to reality, he held Mitsukis hand dangerously close to his lips. She was looking at him with wide eyes filled with fear and confusion.

I just need another minute... to compose myself.

Comte took his free hand and removed a shared of glass from Mitsukis palm before removing a handkerchief and pressing it into her slightly trembling fingers.

“There doesn't appear to be any more glass in the wound.”

“Thank you for checking.”

Comte could tell Mitsuki was relaxing again and so he released her hand and started walking towards the door.

“Wait here cherie. I'll go and fetch a first aid kit and send Arthur or Sebastian out with it. We wouldn't want you to wander into any of the other residents like that.”

“Alright.”

Comte left the balcony without another word or a backward glance. His throat was burning out of control and his mind was racing.

That was too close, how could I have scared her like that! She looked so frightened and-

“Luv? Oh Comte, sorry old chap I thought I smelled-”

Comte looked down at his hand and noticed he had traces of Mitsukis blood on him.

“She's fine Arthur, just a bad cut. I was actually on my way to get a first aid kit then find you or Sebastian.”

“Where is she?”

“On the balcony.”

Comte watched Arthur head off down the hallway towards the balcony for a moment then continued on to his own room where he locked the door behind him.

Arthur found Mitsuki standing on the balcony cradling her hand, one of Comtes handkerchiefs pressed against it.

“What happened luv?”

“Arthur! I just cut myself on some glass that's all.”

Arthur took in the scene before him and put together with what Mitsuki told him of her and Contes outing and the way he looked it made his eyebrows furrow.

“Are you sure you're alright?”

“Yes, Comte took the shard of glass out and then gave me his handkerchief.”

Arthur let go of a breath he wasn't aware he was holding as he inspected Mitsukis hand. Finding no shards he began to wrap her palm.

“Once the bleeding has mostly stopped I'll clean and wrap it properly for you. It shouldn't take long, now come here.”

Arthur pulled Mitsuki towards him, placing a kiss to the top of her belly before turning her away from him and wrapping his arms tightly around her. They stood there in silence for awhile when Mitsuki suddenly tilted her head upwards.

“Was Comte ok?”

“Why do you ask luv?”

“He seemed….hurt.”

Arthur sighed remembering the fevered look in Comtes eyes and glimpse of his fangs he had caught during their brief exchange.

“It's nothing that won't heal with time.”

“Are you sure?”

Arthur looked down at Mitsuki and saw the concern in her eyes. He wasn't sure at all but he couldn't bear to tell her that so he smiled and kissed the top of her nose.

“The old chap is stronger than he looks so don't worry about him, just focus on this right now.”

Arthur moved his hands to caress over Mitsukis belly and she laughed.

“Alright Arthur, I trust you.”

I really do hope his willpower holds out but regardless… I know we'll both do what we need to do to keep you safe.

[licncourt]

Do you think Louis is "good with emotions"? What I mean is is he consciously aware of how he feels about what's happening around him, does he have a handle on emotions or does he have.. Issues with translating what he's feeling, therefore he is oblivious to his own emotions. Does he fine tune emotions in a conscious funnel that gives the reader an impression that he's quite adept at being a person you can go to with your problems. Does this make sense? I guess what I'm asking is would he be the best friend you can count on to have a deep talk with or is Louis so repressed he needs to write out his thoughts in a journal before he can give advice. Does he give terrible advice. Would he make a good therapist? I think he's a bit too mentally lost himself to be the person to depend on for advice even though compared to Lestat he's more emotionally mature, but (I'm sorry this is so winded) is Louis aware of his emotions enough to make good life choices, and is Louis able to distinguish emotions or does he struggle with them enough to be that person everyone goes to for advice (hypothetically). I hope I'm making sense.. I'm not too keen on the side of fandom that leans on Louis being the "sane" one while Lestat is the "insane" one, but in my short time in this fandom, that's been my experience 🤷🏻‍♀️ Everyone wants to lean on Louis, and they want him to be the family friendly one. It doesn't give room for him to flesh himself out. Why does Lestat get all the fun stuff. Louis started the shenanigans and he is obviously very unhinged. I don't think it's fair is all. But please give me your thoughts on this very long ask.

Oh God that's a hard question, but my answer is no, he isn't really. He's emotional but I wouldn't say he's good with those emotions or those of others (especially not those actually). In general he reminds me of when you meet a guy who sucks but they call themselves an empath.

Even Lestat says in one of the books that Louis is oblivious to the suffering of others in a lot of ways and I think that's true. He sees human misery when it supports his internal beliefs because he's actively looking for it, but he's not in tune with people in general, especially not when other people's feelings contradict his world view (ie owning slaves while acting like he's some kind of hero for the downtrodden because he eats rats).

I think the fact that he feels his own emotions so intensely is part of what makes him so selfish. He's incredibly caught up in what HE'S feeling, so the inner world of someone else is not really being considered, nor would it occur to him to consider it. That happens a lot in IWTV where, at least the way Louis portrays it, the only explanations he can come up with for Lestat's behavior are that he's stupid or he just has a bad personality.

There's always the implication that their relationship was deeper than Louis made it seem, but I also don't think he was interested in exploring Lestat's deeper motives for his behavior. He got his feelings hurt and therefore whatever Lestat had going on was irrelevant to him. There was no effort to understand and empathize when it was hard and he faced resistantance.

At the very least, be seems to be hellbent on strong-arming his own emotions to suit his will. He's very externally adamant about his chosen narrative, but he spends enough time just Having Feelings that at least deep down, he knows for himself what the truth is most of the time when it comes to his inner thoughts unless he's in true denial. He just chooses to be stubborn and force his way through life ignoring those feelings if he thinks they shouldn't be that way.

His thoughtfulness and how carefully he chooses his words does give the impression of some kind of emotional intelligence, but I think a lot of that is artificial, like when he's talking in IWTV about how his objections to killing are about the principle and the aesthetics. There's a lot of convoluted thinking and justifications, but not much consistent or reasonable logic to suggest that he's tapped into something grounded and honest within himself or the world.

Another indicator of whatever emotional imbalance he has is the way he cycles between being so rigidly repressed and then snapping. That's not the hallmark of someone who's processed or is capable of coping with any hard feelings, much like an addict who never gets treatment but manages to white knuckle their way through stretches of time before losing control again.

I suppose he is more emotionally mature than Lestat in his ability to exercise restraint and be calculated (in good and bad ways), but that doesn't always translate to an emotionally intelligent mindset that influences larger choices or patterns. No matter how good he is at it, his semi-frequent, massive lapses in judgement and self control kind of negate how helpful those skills can be.

This comes across in subtler ways too. He was more the family man than Lestat, but rather than responsibly parent Claudia through her adult challenges, he allowed and fostered an emotionally incestuous dynamic that was incredibly toxic for both of them. Other times he played calm and collected in the face of Lestat's outbursts, but he didn't actually work to resolve anything, just to keep the upper hand through his performative apathy. It's all very surface level and hardly ever productive.

The one credit I'll genuinely give to him was his willingness to let Lestat get whatever all that was out of his system in the 90s and 00s. He was very patient and honest about his feelings and finally had enough softness and genuine care for Lestat that he was able to see objectively the pain, confusion, and trauma those behaviors were born from. It's definitely growth on Louis' end compared to IWTV so golf clap for that.

I will say though that I definitely think he's too self-absorbed and judgmental to make a great listener unless he REALLY cares about the person talking to him. If he thinks he could've handled whatever the problem is better, it's going to show it accidentally even if he's being polite. The truth is he would not have handled it better most likely. Differently maybe, but not better. You had a freakout? Well. He simply would have repressed those feelings and then acted like a bitch later over nothing.