#catch me getting teary eyed at church

[simpymf]

𝐈𝐋𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐒 pt. 2/3

⌈ OBEY ME LUCIFER x OC ⌋

(n.) vision, apparition, manifestation; phenomenon, spectacle, sight; (religion) revelation

CONTENT WARNINGS: CORRUPTION KINK · DUBCON · ROLEPLAY · DARK-ish · RELIGIOUS THEMES · CREEPY · CONSENSUAL · PARANORMAL-ish · SEXUAL THEMES · CHURCH

Word count: 2654 words

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Ahahaa... I promised I'd post part 2 today, so here you are. I know we all wanna see more Lucifer <3 I tried my best to keep him as in-character as I could. I will say things get mighty dark, so tread carefully ig.

Have fun with part 2. Cha cha <3

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“What an amusing, little human you are…”

She flinches out of terror, eyes perilously searching for the source of the sinister voice. Sister Destiny gasps unexpectedly when she spots movement in her peripheral vision, the contour of an outrageously tall man catching her attention as he grimly steps through the abyss of darkness to enter the hazy light.

The dull vermilion glow of the various candles wavers around the outline of the stranger’s supernatural body. Defining his sharp, triangular jawline, the crisp rims of his mesmerizingly dark wings, and shimmering off of his curled horns that emerge from the sides of his dark-haired head. Standing before Sister Destiny is a fearsome man possessing four, raven-colored, feathered wings and menacing horns that sprout from his head and curl forward; a prominent, black, diamond mark plastered on the center of his forehead.

Naturally, Sister Destiny stumbles back, putting distance between herself and this unearthly stranger—no—entity. She gulps and instinctively swats her hand down to the rosary beads that hang off her rope belt. The nun stares in horror, hurriedly inspecting this supernatural being only for her gaze to glue itself to the two pairs of wings he owns, watching as they flutter the moment she focuses on them. She’s seen this man before amongst pages out of a traditional exorcists’ book, the illustration of his wicked, four wings—that were previously six—and his elliptical horns glued in her mind as it displayed the image of this entity gruesomely pulling a soul from his victim’s body.

Lucifer was the name written in unmistakably bold letters.

As this realization dawns on Sister Destiny, her hand falters over the rosary beads that tenderly rattle from the subtle movement.

“I’m glad you, at least, recognize who I am,” he speaks up, black-garnet eyes gleaming with a malevolent shine.

“Y-You-… You can’t be…” breathes out the nun who trembles while stepping back.

“Oh, but I am, little lamb,” uttering out the words with a wicked grin, Lucifer starts to tread further out from the shadows, making it apparent that he intends to stalk her down.

Sister Destiny sharply inhales, desperately turning around and hoping to flee from the apse of the cathedral. Her faith in escaping is easily crushed when a painfully strong grip wraps around her bare wrist, restraining her from leaving the apse. The strength in his mere fingers as they curl around her wrist is enough to make Sister Destiny whimper fearfully, her pulse rising.

“I can’t have you leaving just yet. I haven’t even gotten to the part where I devour your soul,” his menacing voice taunts her, a deep chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“M-My soul?”

“Indeed. Your soul,” he answers, eyes darkening upon meeting with her terror-stricken ones. “It’s—by far—one of the purest I’ve ever come across.”

Sister Destiny pathetically tugs at her seized arm, her voice slipping past her lips in a thread of frightened whines and whimpers.

“N-No, please! You can’t-!” Laments the small woman, her auroral eyes glistening with a layer of tears that tease the borders of her eyelids.

Lucifer’s gloved hold on her delicate wrist tightens, pulling her closer to him despite her struggle against him. He stares down at the teary-eyed woman, amused by her pleads and desperate cries of resistance. It’s been ages since he’s found a soul worth tormenting before devouring it, always disappointed by the performances his previous victims exhibited: unintelligible babbling, continuous wet pleadings, repeated ‘Nos’ or ‘Pleases’ that would only aggravate him, and the rare occasions of his victims fainting the second they spotted him—those were rather entertaining.

Still, the current performance he’s been blessed to witness keeps him enthralled; having this fragile, pure, and unintentionally bewitching woman right in his hands enticing him even further. Even so, it’s been awhile since…

“Oh? Why not, little lamb?” he inquires, leaning down to nearly invade her personal space.

Sister Destiny’s breath hitches, not expecting the demon to get so close to her without warning her—regardless, she doubts he would’ve. Her eyelids flutter, glossy, wet lashes batting against her cheeks as she looks up at his intimidating face.

“I-… I’m still a novitiate! I haven’t finished my journey in becoming a-a full-fledged nun! Please, don’t hurt me!” she begs Lucifer, a tear slipping down her porcelain cheek and shining in the dim glow of the surrounding candles.

His grip scarcely loosens.

“A novitiate, you say?” Lucifer’s naturally bitter eyes shine, either from the intrigue or the hazy flames swaying in all the lit candles, it remains unclear. “How stirring,” he teases her, wickedly grinning.

Lucifer takes a deep breath, sighing as if it’s second-nature to him—which it, ironically, is after living in a household full of six troublesome brothers—and fixes his gaze back onto the woman whose cheeks are stained with one or two salty, wet trails. His red, leather gloved hand that does not tightly clasp Sister Destiny’s wrist reaches out to her porcelain face, ignoring the way she flinches upon meeting her supple cheek with his palm. As he caresses her cheek with an uncharacteristic softness, he swipes the broadness of his thumb across her skin, effectively wiping her tears and neglecting the way she gawks up at him with bewilderment.

Such pliant flesh… His previously rounded eyelids lower themselves, drawing a line across his iris.

Sister Destiny stands in front of Lucifer with agape eyes, staring up at him as if he is God Himself in the flesh. However, she finds herself progressively relaxing in his tender hold as peculiar as it may be. She feels him wipe away her tears, stretching her unblemished skin ever so lightly until the leather of his glove withdraws itself from her. Part of her aches for him to keep it there, but the thought quickly vanishes.

“What else do you have to offer, then, little lamb? Something as valuable as that priceless soul of yours.”

“M-Mmh?” Sister Destiny blinks, not expecting him to speak out of the blue.

Lucifer chuckles in an almost bitter tone, “I can’t just let you go without getting something offered in return. If not your soul, then any other valuable of yours can suffice for now,” he suggests, black-garnet eyes reflecting the vermilion hue of the candles around them.

“I-… I don’t have any money, o-or-”

“Your body should meet the requirement.”

She stutters for a moment, cheeks uncontrollably flushing, “Exc-Excuse me?”

Lucifer, unlike the flustered novitiate, solemnly gazes down at her, eyebrows remaining neutral while his grip is firm around her wrist. His appearance alludes sternness, but his mind is clouded with a raging hunger that could rival his second youngest brother’s gluttony. 

Typically a prideful one—as his title suggests—Lucifer could never find himself succumbing to lust, especially for an inferior human as they all were relatively the same—both in habit and in spirit. This certain human, however, is unmistakably different, and he knew it the instant he saw her entering the cathedral. From her virtuous soul that gleams like the brightest and most polished of jewels—which would most certainly catch the eye of his excessively greedy, sixth youngest brother—to her intoxicatingly innocent eyes that practically beg to be tainted with sin, it is clear to Lucifer, Avatar of Pride, that this human isn’t like the other dull ones he’s come across in his devastatingly long life.

His gaze darkens lustfully, fingers that tightly wrap themselves around Sister Destiny’s wrist massaging her exposed skin by firmly pressing into it.

“You’re still a virgin, correct?” the demon inquires.

“W-Wait, you’re going to-”

“Take it, yes,” he interjects, pulling her closer while listening to her yelp in a helpless tone.

Sister Destiny, even if she uses all of the strength she can muster, stands no chance against resisting Lucifer’s firm grasp that tugs her toward him. She yelps, albeit feebly, discovering herself to be pressed stiffly against Lucifer’s chest, eyes batting up at him in brief awe. The petite woman, who stands at a devastatingly short height compared to the demon of pride, feels a warm and strong hand settling on the back of her waist, breath cutting off when his thumb massages a firm circle near the front of her gut.

Wh-What’s he doing? He’s touching me! He-… He shouldn’t be touching me!

Sister Destiny squirms in his hold, tenderly mewling while she presses her liberated palm against his chest, pushing on his ribs that are covered by a layer of black fabric with golden buttons, keeping his waistcoat closed.

“Wait! P-Please, let me go! I can’t do this!” pleads the novitiate, squirming and resisting against the undoubtedly more powerful demon who merely gazes down at her with amusement.

No, no, no, no! I-I’m unmarried! I can’t go through with this! Sister Destiny’s tanzanite eyes begin tearing up once again, the fear of having her purity stripped from her by this foul being mortifying her.

“I’m afraid you only have two options, little lamb. Your body, or your soul,” Lucifer utters precariously, leaning over Sister Destiny with his black-garnet eyes darkening. He stares down at the frightful woman like she’s inferior to him—red, leather gloved hand tense around her quivering wrist. “It’s your choice.”

“But… But I-… I’ve never… ha-had intercourse,” Sister Destiny hesitantly confesses in a tame voice. 

Her cheeks involuntarily turn crimson, heat rushing to her ears covered by the black veil. Never has she declared such words so openly before, and it regards the subject that’s flustered her many times in the past. Oftentimes, Sister Destiny would hear the other novices at the academy speak about their personal experiences with sexual intimacy, brought to bashfulness when asked of her chastity. She always felt a hint of humiliation for not being able to relate to what the other women spoke about, but also wondered if they were truly pursuing a passage that led to becoming a full-fledged nun.

“Oh, he always struggles to fit in, at first, but the orgasm he gives me makes it worth it,” as one of the nuns-in-training said ever so blatantly. The woman was grinning when the other novices hummed or chuckled, hints of sympathy detected in their voices.

“My lover hardly spends time on foreplay. Always insists that he’ll last more than ten minutes, too, but he can hardly make it to five,” another woman groaned, shaking her head in disapproval.

“F-Foreplay?” Destiny spoke out, facial expression altering into one of curiosity.

“Hmmm?” a woman turned her head to Destiny, eyebrows rising and lips slightly parting in realization. “Wait, Calyx, are you a virgin?”

The woman whose hair is a white to blue-gradient color flinched and immediately felt a surge of heat dusting her cheeks—ignorant to the way her ears also flared a bright red hue. Humility stirred within Destiny yet she saves face by gently puckering her lips and wrinkling her eyebrows together.

“M-Maybe I am! Is that… a-an issue?”

The young nuns-in-training simply cackled in entertainment, reveling in the fact one of the youngest women in there was a virgin.

“No, no! It’s not an issue at all! Just that we expected someone as strangely innocent as you to be keeping your fantastical sex life a secret, but I suppose you can’t keep that a secret if you don’t even have one!”

More spurts of laughter broke out. The women eventually returned to their odd conversation concerning their pleasures and sexual habits, leaving Destiny struck with humiliation as she turned away.

“That shouldn’t be too big of a problem,” Lucifer’s voice speaks up, briefly startling the short woman whose eyelids flutter repeatedly.

He watches as Sister Destiny returns to reality and anxiously looks up at him with those compelling, tanzanite eyes. The demon feels as though if he gazes into them long enough, he’ll see all of her memories, expose all of her secrets, read all the thoughts that run rampant in her opulent mind, maybe even witness her fantasies and darkest desires. Merely envisioning what kind of sinful desires that the novitiate is forcing herself to hide further ignites the raging fire within Lucifer’s chest, his heart squeezing tightly and his breath coming in sharply.

I have to taint her. I have to.

Sister Destiny subconsciously mewls at the feeling of Lucifer’s palm gradually sliding down her waist until the side of his pinky brushes over her golden rope belt. She trembles as the weight of his fingers slither over the rope belt, eventually grazing against the knot keeping the accessory in place around her waist. Her eyelids close themselves shut, timidly exhaling through her nose the moment his gloved hand dexterously works the knot to loosen, successful in releasing it and tenderly pulling it away from her waist. Sensing the tightness of her rope belt withdraw from her waist, Sister Destiny opens her eyes again to fix her gaze on Lucifer who holds up the belt, spotting her rosary beads in his clasp.

“How charming,” he mocks with a spiteful chuckle escaping his lips.

As if to display the irony of the sacred object in his hand, Lucifer manipulates the beads with his fingers to easily slide it on his wrist, now wearing it as a bracelet.

Before Sister Destiny can object to his actions, Lucifer drops the belt with a thunk—echoing loudly, no doubt—and seizes her face, fingers sternly pressing into the plushness of her fair-skinned cheeks with his palm settled on the underside of her chin. Her pulse accelerates madly the moment she feels his lips clash with hers, her softness in sync with pride in the flesh. With eyes that remain wide out of the abruptness she’s unable to foresee, Sister Destiny feels enchanted by the compelling sensation of this horned man’s lips against hers, slowly shutting her eyes and unconsciously leaning in.

Lucifer keeps his grasp on Sister Destiny’s face firm and unmoving, appeased by her leaning closer to him. He can sense the hesitation she has in her attempt to kiss him in return, his very own limbs shuddering with a hunger that rages like a destructive fire, burning his skin and igniting the arousal that surges through his toned body.

She feels like a delicate flower against him, her pulse beating quickly—from the rush of excitement for her first kiss, no doubt. Holding such a fragile, angelic, and small human against himself feels both exhilarating and shameful in of itself; His very nature is to be an immoral demon of pride, meant to terrorize humans and angels alike only to mercilessly devour their souls. In spite of this fact, however, Lucifer can’t find it in himself to deny just how deeply infatuated he is by her. 

He originally intended to terrorize the novitiate when he first caught sight of her entering the cathedral, automatically noticing the genuine and unblemished soul she possessed. As he had watched her fulfill her duties, he could never help but focus so attentively on her positively intoxicating body—aching for the moment he’d be able to get his hands on her.

When the distinctly tall demon pulls himself away, Sister Destiny tenderly gasps for air, her porcelain cheeks evidently flushed a hot red pigment. Because of Lucifer’s tight grasp on her cheeks, Sister Destiny is unable to open her jaw all the way, simply left leaning against his broad chest in a state of disorientation. She has never kissed anyone before, and, now, the Avatar of Pride stands before her having stolen it from her only seconds ago. The memory of feeling his slightly rough lips against hers brings out an emotion Sister Destiny is not familiar with, her legs quivering beneath the dress. Her heart rate increases the more she dwells on the kiss.

She can hear Lucifer attempt to stifle his heavy breathing, only coming out as a shudder which grabs her attention.

“I need you to get on your knees, little lamb,” in a naturally intimidating and sincere voice, Lucifer instructs Sister Destiny on her next move.

𝐓𝐨 𝐁𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝… (2/3)

[askmissthunder]

To the gang: What are your favorite Christmas songs?

Miss Thunder: One last question then I have to go to bed super early to catch my flight but, oh my goodness, I have so many favorites! Where to even start?!

Red Rabbit: How about we start with the old carols first then we can pick out the more up-to-date music?

Eli: Sounds good to me! Talon, are you gonna join us or…?

Talon: *Skimming through magazine* Nope. You kids go ahead though. Enjoy your rinky-dink fa-la-la music.

RR: Alrighty then! Penny, you first! What's your favorite old-timey Christmas carol?

E: Wait wait wait! What's the difference between a song and a carol? Aren't they the same thing?

MT : Oh, I can answer this, Eli. A carol is specifically a hymn (a religious song) that sings about Jesus or the Nativity. Very spiritual stuff! 

E: I see! That's to do with the statues of the baby and people in robes I see around town?

MT : Right! As for my favorite carol, I'm gonna have to pick three because I love playing these on my flute, "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen", "Good King Wenceslas" and "Silent Night". Here’s a particularly well done version of "Silent Night" by Julie Andrews.

RR: Oh, good pick with "Silent Night"! That one always puts me in a peaceful mood. Plus, "Good King Wenceslas" makes me think of A Christmas Carol or just 1800s London in general.

MT : It's definitely appropriate for the setting! When it's closer to Christmas Day, I like going to sleep listening to "Silent Night". So cozy…

RR: When I used to be in Choir at church, my favorite carol to sing was "Away in the Manger".

RR:

♪ Away in a manger

No crib for a bed

The little Lord Jesus

Laid down His sweet head ♪

 

RR and MT :

♪ The stars in the sky

Looked down where He lay

The little Lord Jesus

Asleep on the hay ♪

E: Very pretty! 

MT : Thank you! And what's your favorite carol, luv?

E: Uhmm…I don't know the name but the one that goes ♪ Rum pum pum pum ♪!

RR: Ohhh, "The Little Drummer Boy"!

E: Yeah, that one! I don't know about all that god baby stuff but I just like doing the Rum pum pum pum part. It's fun!

MT : You know what? As long as you enjoy the song, that's just as valid a reason as any, Eli.

RR: *Sniff!* That song always gets me teary-eyed, it’s such a a sweet song. Now on to the more modern music! I remember very vividly as a kid, and I still do, loving the Jackson 5's version of "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus".

MT : "I did! I really did see Mommy kissing Santa Claus and I'm gonna tell my Dad"! Hee hee!

RR: God, little Michael's voice is soooo good in that song! That last note?! *gives a chef's kiss* It's so beautiful! 

MT : Agreed! A more recent song I like is "Last Christmas" by Wham!

RR: Hmm…I don't know, it's nice but that song always feel like kind of a downer for me. I mean, he's singing about getting his heart broken at Christmas.

MT : I always saw it as a hopeful song meself because ♪ This year, to save me from tears/I'll give it to someone special ♪

RR: That's true.

E: Heh heh heh…I think I know my favorite Christmas song!

*Eli hops up on the couch and performs an air guitar*

E:

♪ Out of all the reindeers you know you're the mastermind

Run, run Rudolph, Randolph ain't too far behind

Run, run Rudolph, Santa's gotta make it to town

Santa, make him hurry, tell him he can take the freeway down

Run, run Rudolph 'cause I'm reelin' like a merry-go-round! ♪

RR: WOOO! GO ELI!

MT : *Wolf whistle* Bravo, sweetie! That was ace!

E: *Blushes* Heh heh! Thanks! It's the song that get me the most excited when I hear it on the radio at Christmastime! I love it, it doesn't sound like any other Christmas song!

RR: Well, that's Chuck Berry for you!

MT : Well then, if no one has anything else to add…

T : I got something to add.

RR: Wha_You got a song, Talon?

T : I just want to say that even when I was a kid, I always found Christmas music to be incredibly cheesy and annoying, especially when you're forced to hear it at work but…

MT : …But?

T : I do like one song. Well, it doesn't have any words but it does put me in a good mood when I hear it.

RR: *Gasp!* Tell us, tell us!

T : *Sighs*

E: Hey, that's the Charlie Brown music!

MT : That's a fantastic choice, Talon! Well, I think that'll about do it for us this year, folks. so from all of us at Ocean City, and soon to be England, we hope you have a happy and safe holiday! Take care out there and Happy New Year!

[the-fiction-witch]

Dec 21st The Christmas Deal

Media pistol

Character Malcolm

Couple Malcolm X Reader

Rating kinda dark and sad + funny

21st of December 2022

I smiled widely as I worked on the little tree, making sure it looked pretty but also doing my best to make sure the children were happy, Joseph happily helped but adding things to the tree, little Bridget on my hip with a bauble in her hand enjoying its sweet sparkle.

I heard the keys in the door, "Ohh whos that?" I giggled 

"Papa!" Little Bridget giggled 

"Hi daddy" Joseph smiled as the door opened revealing Malcolm who dumped his keys in the pot beside the door and began slipping off his jacket 

"Hello, Malcolm. How was work?"

"Fine" he sighed coming through to the living room and giving josephs hair a tussle "Real son" and gave my cheek a kiss taking Bridget from me to give her a cuddle "Daughter. oh god what has happened to your head?"

"I braided her hair"

"why?"

"She wanted a little rapunzel plait didn't you darling" 

"Yeah!"

"Whatever" he sighed going and opening the window getting himself a cigarette "what are you doing anyway?'

"Putting up the tree."

"Really?"

"Course."

"Aren't you gonna help daddy?" Joseph asked

"No I am not."

"Why not papa?" Bridget whined

"Christmas is an overhyped over glorified cash cow only pushed so hard so companies make money. Linked with a coopted holiday in an attempt at religious reeducation"

"Malcolm" I warned

"No no. Let me do this" he says "Christmas is nothing. It started as a Roman feast to get pissed and cross dress. It didn't catch on too well in Europe given the pagan grasp on the area at the time, celebrating yule once again an excuse to go into the woods burn shit and get drunk, once Christianity came along it wasn't all peace, love and Goodwill no this was back when Christianity had some balls. Slaughtering Catholics and burning witches but given how widespread the various roots of paganism where people refused to part with the pagan parties so in a moment of corrupted genius they combined the birth of Christ with Yule. Knowone has any clue when Jesus was born let alone it having anything to do with a manger, they simply coopted the holiday and made the tradition of burning the biggest tree into lighting the tree with candles and sparkling things, people continued to get drunk as was the holidays main focus, at times drunk mobs would take over streets demanding the best foods and wines for grand stolen feasts. In fact Christmas was so disliked and had such a bad rap for drunken madness it was banned in various American colonies it's only after years of slow introduction all these symbols and festivities seeped into popular culture, but the whole idea from the tree, to lights, to the presents to simply the songs sung its all bullish with a horrible history that's been taken in by greedy stores and religious figures to demand conformity and make money. You imagine the kinda money from donations alone the church makes at Christmas, or how much money just from trees stores make. So excuse me if I want no part in your madness"

Bridget began to cry and Joseph sat on the floor teary eyed

"Malcolm. A word." I snapped putting Bridget down

"Why?" He asked and I didn't even speak I just grabbed his ear and janked him into the kitchen

"What the fuck!"

"What?"

"The fuck was that!"

"You know how I feel about this type of shit."

"Yeah I do. Doesn't mean you have to be a fucking cunt about it"

"What's your problems. I do the same for every holiday you've never had an issue before"

"Because Malcolm Christmas is different"

"Oh what you really doing this?"

"Malcolm. I don't give a shit. I had my happy holidays when I was little and honestly I think your kinda bang on with alot of the corruption of the industry but" I explained "Joseph and Bridget are kids."

"So? Let them learn while there young"

"Malcolm. Please." I told him "I don't ask for much. I accept we don't celebrate the holidays especially religious ones but please let the kids have Christmas. We both know Joseph hasn't had anything close to a normal life and likely never will. Neither will Bridget. But they love it just let them have it Malcolm please"

"..... Fine" he rolled his eyes

"Ummm thank you" I smiled hugging him closely "knowone said our Christmas had to be normal we'll make it special all our own"

"Alright. On one condition."

"What?"

"I get to make you an advent calendar"

".... okay."

"And whatever it says behind each door. You have to do for me."

"Fine"

"Yes!" He smirked "I know exactly what's coming on the twenty fifth!"

"You I assume."

"Yes."

"So we're agreed"

"Agreed"

"Good. Be nice." I remind as we headed back out to deal with the children. 

[byte-the-bullet]

The world outweighs us (6?)

I told him multiple times that it didn’t matter, and it doesn’t. Hearing him try to talk to me about it only annoys me, it makes me feel guilty about not caring-and it makes everything worse that it feels like I’m just being rude for not letting him talk to me about it. He’s looking at me, clinging to me, and I hate that it feels good to have all of his attention. I know what that woman did to me, that outworlder woman that was only caught because of my ‘sacrifice’. The adults praised me for sacrificing my purity and body, even though I had no choice-I was only a little kid. And sometimes I still feel like that, like I’m just a child who needs to be protected, but nowadays I don’t care. Sure I’m a little uncomfortable around women, especially provocative women. But I just don’t care anymore… Besides, Vish is trying to make me feel better-so I’ll let him think he did. “It’s okay, thank you Vish…” He immediately perked up at the sound of my voice. “Why are you thanking me?” His eyes are teary and it hurts me to see it. “Because you made it all okay.” He smiles, and I do too. I bring him into my arms, and he clings even closer to me, then something smudges on my shirt… A pink something… “Vish, what-“ He immediately darts away, he knows he’s in trouble. “Vish!” I corner him in Page’s room, and he shows me-“Look! Paint!” He called. That’s… Huh. Fine, I’ll let him off with a scolding. “Okay, don’t touch things that aren’t yours-and tell Page what you did when she gets home.” He immediately catches my mistake… “Where is she? Where’s Beth? Hayley?” He stares, and I respond-“They’re working.” He is instantly confused, but shrugs and just accepts this as a fact. “Okay, are you going working too?” He instantly says. “No, you say-‘Are you going to work?’.” I corrected him, and he pouts. “Fineee…” He complains, and I reach down to hold him-but my hands connect with his skin around his waist… He instantly squeaked, a cute noise, and his face is all red. “A-Ah! Hey, d-don’t do that-you…” He quiets, and I realize he knows something I don’t. “N-Nevermind, just keep doing it…” He whimpers, and presses against me-I don’t understand what he’s doing, but Vish has his classic guilty look on his face. “Vish, what are you doing?” I say in a half teasing, half scolding tone as I move him to our room.

“I-I’m not doing anything!” He immediately gets defensive, and I sit on the bed. “Calm yourself down, Vish.” I tease him again, and he looks up at me, wide-eyed. “Can I ask you to do something?!” He’s suddenly confident, holding the phone again. “And what’s that?” He shoves the phone in my face, covering his own face. He wants me to..? “Vish, why?” That dirty-minded little idiot, he knows it’s a sin. “Because it’s supposed to feel good!” I sigh at his response, and pull him in, obeying his request and gently holding his hand. Vish wanted me to hold hands with him. “Thank you.” Vish whimpered, his legs are shaking for some strange reason. Sure we’ve cuddled much more than this, but holding hands was strictly forbidden by the church-and in this case, we can finally hold each other close, and leave the door unlocked while we do. No more sneaking into and out of Vish’s room to comfort him during nightmares, nowadays we can just… Exist together. Eventually Vish fell asleep, and I decided to go snooping through the phone-first thing first, text Page like she showed me how to. She caught me in the kitchen this morning and taught me to text her. So I did text her-‘Hey, Vish wanted me to hold hands with him.’ I don’t know why I’m telling her this, but she responded immediately-‘I think he loves you.’ Where did she get that idea?! ‘No. We’re best friends.’ I fire back-‘Kiss him and find out.’ She responded, and I instantly knew she was serious. ‘No way.’ Nope, I know how violating it feels to be randomly kissed, and I’m not about to do that with another man. ‘Pls.’ What does that even mean? I don’t care, I’m not going to accept loving another man..! Wait, NO! ‘Come on, just do it!’ She tried to egg me on, and I immediately looked at Vish. ‘No, and that’s final-it’s a sin to love another man. Not to mention Vish is still pure, I refuse to take that from him.’ I sent that, and she immediately sent me about 20 different weird jumbled mix of letters, all starting in ‘https:’. She then texted-‘Look at all that, it’s okay to be in love with another dude! You’re out of the church!’

No, no, no. ‘Why are you so determined to make me love him?’ I am so confused. ‘Because it’s obvious he loves you.’ He. Does. NOT..! ‘No.’ I then put down the phone, and someone opens the front door-I hear tiny paws run by-and realize that it has to be Beth. That cat hates everyone but Beth. I walk over to greet her-“Hello, Beth. How was your day?” She looks at me, she’s a little bit chubby with a full face, and her brown glasses’s square frames are framing her freckles well. “Good, and you?” Her voice is monotonous, sassy, and her black uniform is ill fitting on her-tight around her chest, much to my discomfort. Her cat then darts up her leg, and she instantly starts speaking in a weird cute-voice. “AWE! Look at you Mr. Stormy~! Aren’t you just the most beautiful little prince!” So, the cat’s name is Mr. Stormy..? “Quite cute, I agree.” She nuzzles into the cat as I speak. “Aweee~ Oh, yes he isss~… My little baby kitty cat is just the most adorable little baby~! Too bad I’ve gotta go back to work after my break…” She sounds like she’s going to cry. I place a paper bag in her open arms, after the cat runs off-“Here. I made these while I made Vish breakfast.” She takes the bag, looking in at the cat-shaped cookies and pastries Page taught me how to make.

“You…” Is she mad..? “THANK YOU!” She basically screamed, her face showing pure bliss and joy, as she immediately hugs me. Again, I very much dislike this, but I don’t think she understands what that means… “Beth…” I sigh, and she released me, then happily darted away. “Wai-“ Before I can say a word, she left. Why..? Whatever. It’s 2 in the afternoon, Vish has only been up since 11, and he’s already asleep again… Ugh, I still need to get him to take a shower. I walked to our bedroom, and to my shock, Vish was looking rather upset while pawing through the phone. “Vish?” I cooed, and he looked at me, blushing wildly as ever and visibly upset. “Sanji…” He whined, his eyes are locked on me. “Vish, it’s shower time.” I try to seem indifferent, today has had enough tears, and that phone is the reason why… “Okay…” God, no, Vish is giving me those sad eyes again-he always does this when he wants something, he knows I can’t say no. “…C-Can you wash me again?” I don’t know what I expected, or why I’m going to say-“Sure, I’ll wash you.” I grab myself some clothes and some for Vish, then take him to the bathroom again. “Can we do a bath this time?” He asked, and I wondered why but said-“Yeah, no problem.” I started running the water, making sure it’s perfect for him-by now I know he hates it when the water is too cold, he used to cling onto anyone nearby for warmth when bathing-and I’d watch from the sidelines. He quickly takes his clothes off, and tugs at mine, I laugh a little bit-I can’t tell why I laughed but I did. I pull my own clothes off, and he immediately goes red in the cheeks…

Is he sick? He’s been doing that a lot… Still, I sit in the bathtub, and he sits on my lap-legs wrapped around my waist despite my minor protest, and my own face heating rapidly. “Just what do you think you’re doing..?” My hands automatic land on his thighs as I ask, and he looks at me. “Today’s been a bit hectic, we’re settling in and you’re a little stressed, right?” He wrapped his left arm under my right arm, then trailed his hand to my hair-his other hand falling on my cheek. “Yeah..?” I responded, obviously confused. “S-So, I just wanted to help you relieve some stress, y-you know?” He leaned closer, and I could sense what was about to happen-yet instead of turning my head away, I asked one last question. “Now, where’d you learn to do this, Vish?”

“T-The internet.”

He murmured, obviously nervous-then placed his lips on mine. It was fast, and once what he did fully registered in me, I didn’t fight it-not one bit. Damnit, Page was right-I love Vish. “Come here…” I say, sure I could wait-sure we’re already close enough together, but here goes nothing. I pull him in, and again press my mouth to his, kissing him-eventually opening his mouth with my tongue, and hearing him sigh once I pull back-only to do the motion again and again. “Sanji…” He called for me, and I paused. Is he okay? Did I hurt him on accident? “…I love you, you know that?” He tilted his head a little bit, and we get back to our little dance. “I love you too-“ Again, I barely pull away to breathe and speak-but then I pause, looking at his confused face. “-Vish. Tell me if you’re uncomfortable, or if you want to stop, okay?” I’m giving him a chance whenever he needs it, the chances I never had to say stop, or no, or to tell anyone I didn’t like it.

“Alright, I will…” He says, a bit confused but understanding. He lies up against me, and kisses my cheek before biting my neck softly. “Vish, just- a little more-“ I like it. I like it a lot. I really like it. And he bit harder, I gasped, and held him against me. I don’t really like how my body is acting, but… Actually, I do like it. And I can’t help it. It’s nice, his skin is so soft, and looking at him like this… I can’t help it-I leaned forward, and his breathing picked up. “S-Sanji… I don’t wanna be pure anymore…” I understand what he means when he says that, but not really how I can do anything-until I felt his free hand travel down to a certain place I’d only ever experienced being touched by someone else in a few times before, and started to position himself over that certain place, before he took a deep breath-and with every bit of nervousness held in; he lowered himself onto me. “What are you doing..?” I didn’t understand, but his expression was one of shock. “Ow…” he pulled away, off of me. I immediately consoled him, holding him gently-“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” The words were of basic respect, and his whimpering made me want to collapse into him and keep him safe forever. “N-No, I’m okay, I just thought it’d be easier to do that…” I still didn’t know what he meant, and he stood up, looking a little bit uncertain, trying to figure himself out-before climbing out of the tub and doing a few things on the phone I hadn’t noticed him put down earlier. “We can try again later…” I say, and he stopped for a few seconds later, then pulled open a few drawers, grabbing a small weird looking packet, before going back to whatever he was doing. The rest of the bath went normally, somehow, and I managed to convince Vish to calm down and let me wash him.

[eventyyr]

at book club we talked about the definition of home, and me being me, I couldn't help but think of bughead. they've both lost their childhood homes and more or less their families, but they have each other. they are each other's home. and that's both sad and extremely beautiful

[1kook]

BORN SINNER III

→ MASTERLIST

summary; Regardless of whether you are a liar or not, that didn’t make it okay for Jungkook to lie to you. warnings; virgin jungkook, timid jungkook, church boy jk, a LOT of religious themes/discussion, catholic guilt, fear of sinning, mentions of masturbation, heavy doubts, a little paranoia/fear of being outcasted, jk has a crush, confessions, making out, boob lover jk has his boobs touched, groping/petting, light praise, very brief/light choking, jk is horny like 75% of the time, positive character development <3 rating; m (18+) wc; 9.5k

banner; as always, by @jamaisjoons​ !! ty ty ty!! <3333

notes; i have to apologize for delaying this update for so long. truth is, it was difficult to write the next part bc i felt like i had trapped myself in pt2-- jk wasn't showing ANY progress & i started to really hate his character. LUCKILY, with the help of my amazing editor n wife @kigurumu​ *audience cheers* i was able to put him back on the right track towards redemption! (& even more painful angst in the future!) sadly, that means that this part doesn't include any explicit smut, you'll see why. still, I'm very proud of how much i was able to build his character in this part and i hope you enjoy it!!! lemme know what u think <3

in the future, i will try my best to make sure the chapters aren’t so spaced out. again, i am so so sorry about taking so long to update this series

He gets your text the following Tuesday morning. 

Now, Jungkook has never been one to be overly invested in his cell phone; he uses it as much as he needs to, just checks his emails, takes some photos, and sends texts when necessary. But you had set up a particularly unique ringtone for yourself the other day, had sweetly asked for his phone as he laid against your chest. His skin had felt warm and the slightest bit sweaty, his body pressed so closely against you that he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began. “Did you have fun?” you asked, fingers combing back his hair. He had hummed, eyes fluttering shut to the faint tapping of your fingers across the keyboard. If he closes his eyes, he can still remember the soft beating of your heart beneath his ear, the leg you had hooked around his waist to pull him closer. The memory makes him shiver. 

It’s a high-pitched bell sound that alerts him of your messages now, completely unlike the classic default tone he had set for everyone else. 

From the other side of his room, Jungkook immediately pauses to look at it, the lit up screen glaring back at him from its idle place on his bedside table. He always leaves it there in the mornings, beside his rosary and the picture of his family, as he gets ready for work. 

He knows exactly who it’s from— after all, that’s what you wanted when you stylized your ringtone —which is why his hand trembles in excitement as he unlocks his phone. 

[❤️]: picnic tomorrow? 🥰

[❤️]: after my last class of course

Jungkook’s first thought is that this was a date, his first one with you since he had met you. His heartbeat hammers at the thought, at the mere suggestion that the two of you would be able to spend more time together this week outside of your usual weekend… acts. Additionally, if you’re asking him on a date, then surely it means you view Jungkook as a potential suitor, just as he does you? Do you want to maybe date Jungkook? Jungkook certainly wants to date you— in fact, if he starts gathering his courage now, he might be able to properly ask you out tomorrow. 

Jungkook’s second thought is of that guilty, gross feeling that’s been gnawing at his insides for three days now, and how it was inevitably going to get worse when he saw you again. 

He had lied to you, Jungkook recalls, sinking down against his mattress, shirt half buttoned, as he stares at the screen. He had lied to your face during a critical moment, had felt that seed of doubt in his chest blossom more than ever. And not only had Jungkook lied to you, but he had lied to you about his feelings toward you. How could he ever hope to hold you close, to date you, when he couldn’t even be honest with you?

The memory of your curious gaze presents itself at the forefront of his mind, the soft sound of your laughter ringing in his ears. 

You had been so sweet to him despite his blunder, had cupped his face and kissed him on the lips when he dropped you off outside your apartment. “Not today,” you crooned, unbuckling yourself as Jungkook’s eyes trailed over your throat— ignoring your cross —and down your chest. “I have schoolwork to catch up on. But soon, okay?” Another sweet peck had left him trailing after your touch, your finger bopping the tip of his nose playfully. “Call me when you get home.”

And because he was so terribly, irrevocably smitten with you, Jungkook had done as you said and called you. He’d called you and then had whimpered against his sheets as you generously talked him through another sinful deed. You had softly sighed his name over the line, told him he was handsome and that you missed him. That you wanted him in your mouth—

And of course, he had felt… something afterwards. 

This is where his dilemma begins: Jungkook had felt something afterwards, and he’s not sure if it had been entirely good or bad. The longer Jungkook stays around you, hangs out with you, does things with you— the more he can feel parts inside of himself change. Because after the phone call, Jungkook had felt two distinct emotions within himself, both of which were up for questioning. 

First, there was that one feeling he was becoming all too familiar with, the crushing guilt that would consume him following any sexual interaction with you or himself for that matter. Why was he like this? Why did he indulge himself in such heinous pleasures when he knew, knew better than anyone, what committing such acts meant for the future of his soul? He was practically dooming himself the way he was now, but Jungkook just didn’t understand— why did something so bad feel so good?

But alongside that gnawing guilt was this tiny, weirdly pleasant satisfaction, a gratification that superseded the relief felt by an orgasm. It was this oddly serene feeling that settled over Jungkook in the moments following a climax, the soft brush of your hands through his hair, the low lilt of your voice. They made him feel like he was floating on the softest of clouds, kissed and pampered by its wispy tendrils. It made something inside of Jungkook feel different, new. Good. 

(In the back of his mind, Jungkook realizes he’s always felt that way. At the height of his pleasure, at the faintest brush of your hands against his. It was a staple of your presence, one that made Jungkook feel like he was walking on air.)

From whatever angle he looked at it, it just didn’t make sense. They were contrasting emotions; while one made him feel godawful, the other one practically made him transcend. The fact they could coincide, exist all at once, had Jungkook’s brain folding in on itself as he tried to figure out why. They kept him up the last few nights, eyes blankly staring up at his ceiling following his evening prayers. Mulling over everything he’s ever learned and been told, always circling it back to your beautiful presence in his life. 

He knows sex in itself is not bad— after all, that was how the beautiful process of life came to be —but years upon years of studying his religion, cultivating his faith, had all led him to the same conclusion: premarital sex was wrong. And for the past few weeks, well. That’s all Jungkook had been doing with you. 

It seems like every time you meet, you’re dead set on pleasuring him, turning Jungkook into a shivering, teary-eyed mess while you grinned from above. That confused him too— as far as Jungkook knew, the whole point of sex was to chase after your own pleasure, something you admittedly did not do. It was always Jungkook’s pleasure, Jungkook’s enjoyment that you wanted, covering him in languid kisses and long caresses until he was inevitably shooting his hot cum all over your lap and into your hands. 

You had told him it was okay, that he should never feel bad for enjoying himself. But, to return back to his original dilemma, he doesn’t quite know if he can trust your word. 

You’re a liar, that much Jungkook can look past his rose-tinted glasses to admit. While you may not have lied to him (or at least, Jungkook wants to believe you haven’t), the fact still stands that you are quite willing to deceive others in order to get what you want. He already knows you aren’t the biggest believer of the Church yourself, that you frequently brush off your religious duties in order to fulfill your own desires— the aforementioned sexual cravings probably the biggest one —so, quite frankly, Jungkook is untrusting of the rest of your practices. Were you lying to him, telling him all was well, just for your own benefit? Just because you wanted to drag him along on your lustful adventures? He wasn’t sure, and as much as he wanted to trust you wouldn’t, there’s a shred of doubt that plagues him. 

But still. 

Regardless of whether you are a liar or not, that didn’t make it okay for Jungkook to lie to you.

He taps his phone against his chin, brain a frenzied mess. 

If Jungkook really wanted to pursue this relationship with you, he needed to be honest with himself and with you. Did it bother him that you were so flippant with the Church, the one he himself feels so devoted to? Yes and no. Jungkook has never been one to impress his beliefs on others, and truthfully, he would not be the slightest bit bothered if you don’t believe in the same things he does. Would there be some awkwardness in your relationship? Certainly, but at least Jungkook would know the real you from the very beginning. 

But to him, posing as an avid follower when you really aren’t rubs part of him the wrong way. He’s slightly put off by that aspect of you, and justifiably felt that anyone would feel such a way if someone were to use something they love as mere leverage for their own personal gain. And to make matters worse, now that he’s been made aware, it weighs down heavily on his conscience. 

Part of Jungkook, as selfish as it may be, wishes you had never revealed your secrets to him. He may have been left in the dark a total fool, but at the very least he would have been a happy fool. Would he still feel guilt about all the sexual deeds he’s partaken in with you? Sure, but at least he would only have himself to blame. The way things are now, he’s unsure who really needs to be condemned. 

Realistically, it is Jungkook’s fault. He knows how you are and even more, he knows you would never proposition him for any such sexual deed if he told you no, if he simply denied you. But he doesn’t tell you no, and that’s the problem: Jungkook really likes you as you are now, questionable behavior be damned. He likes you when you make him cry and when you pinch his cheeks and when you snake your hand down his pants. 

He still thinks you’re amazing, gets this fluttery feeling when you look at him with that sparkling gaze of yours. Your laughter makes him smile, even if you’re not laughing at something he said, because the sound is just so comforting, warm and soothing, makes his entire body relax when you chuckle. You have this gentle touch, these delicate hands that carefully comb his hair back for him in the car sometimes, tracing the side of his face softly. Your smile makes him dizzy, makes him want to cup your face in his hands and kiss you breathless. And, of course, he can’t complain about your… other talents when he’s only been on the beneficial receiving end of said talents. That aforementioned satisfaction, as small as it may be and as difficult as it was to admit to, was something Jungkook has begun to look forward to on the occasions that you meet. 

But his inability to overlook his own beliefs and your confusing nature brings about a great strife within Jungkook. It’s the reason he hesitates outside the church after dropping you off, his car running as he glares at his steering wheel. Everything in him says to go inside and confess to his sins, relieve himself of this overwhelming sense of guilt and shame to the closest person to his Lord. 

But he’s scared. 

Scared that, despite the oath of confidentiality, word will get out. His fellow brothers in faith will hear about what he’s done and call him out for his lecherousness. But even worse, he’s scared of what will happen to you. Would Jungkook’s life be over if he were thrown out of his beloved church? As dramatic as he may be, no. But he recognized that there were different standards to which men were held in this society, that an act of desire by him would not ruin his name the same way it would you. 

And Jungkook didn’t want that. He wanted to keep you safe. Wanted you to be happy and smiling, regardless of how conflicted it made him, because he likes you. He likes you so much, despite the fact he has yet to uncover the true extent of your character. 

But the cloud of mystery is partially what intrigues him, has him pondering over your very existence instead of getting ready for work as he is now. He’s terribly enamored, thinks about you and prays for you every night. So maybe Jungkook is still the fool, because he still daydreams about you when he knows he shouldn’t. 

His phone buzzes in his hand—

[❤️]: i miss you bunny ☹️

—and his decision is made. 

Tuesday passes by in a blur and before he knows it, it’s Wednesday afternoon and you’re texting him the location of one of the parks in the city. You had told him not to worry about the food because you would bring it. Jungkook’s only job was bringing the picnic blanket, a huge checkered thing he had spent all morning rifling through three stores for. He wants to impress you, desperately so, that he’s even wearing a nicer outfit today, darker tones unlike his normal warm palette because he had heard a woman at his job say men look cooler in dark colors. 

Suffice to say, he sticks out like a sore thumb at the park, the stark black of his jeans contrasting with the vibrant green of the neatly cut grass. Jungkook has half the mind to feel self-conscious about it, but then you’re calling his name from a couple meters away and his breath leaves his lungs. 

“Hi,” you greet, the handle of your wicker basket held tightly between two hands; Jungkook rushes to relieve you of the weight. “Did you wait long?” you ask, rewarding his gentlemanly behavior with a chaste kiss against the corner of his mouth that kick-starts his heart back into action and has his face burning up. 

In all honesty, you have never dressed very modestly— not that you had to, nor that there was anything remotely wrong with that. Jungkook has spent many a mass service fighting the urge to glance down the front of your dresses and tops, ignoring the cleavage you liked to show off now and then. But apparently, what Jungkook had seen up until now was your version of dressing modestly. The dress you show up with today, an off day where there are no church ladies to impress and no unspoken dress codes to follow, makes his brain short circuit. The thin, thin, straps that hold it up giving him an all access view to the broad expanse of your shoulders and chest and collarbones and boobs—

“No!” Jungkook rushes to reassure you, fighting down the blush that threatens to travel further down his neck when you carefully straighten out the collar of his shirt for him. “I- I, um, just got here.” 

You beam at the news. “I bought cheesecake,” you tell him, looping your arm through his as you tug him along. “I hope it hasn’t melted yet!”

By the time the two of you settle at a suitable spot near the lake, the cheesecake hasn’t melted. It’s still cold and solid, tastes like heaven on Jungkook’s tongue, and you laugh when his eyes light up. You look gorgeous like this, nestled against the checkered picnic blanket with a glass bottle of sparkling water in your hand, sandals just beside the edge of the blanket. There’s the faint chime of a bicycle bell somewhere to his left and the chatter of birds as they flock over the pond. Wonderful sights that would normally take his breath away and make him marvel at their beauty, but when you smile at him so gingerly like that, all Jungkook can think about is you. 

He watches you slip a strawberry past your lips. “Tell me about yourself,” you hum, seemingly out of the blue, wiping the corner of your mouth with one careful finger. “Other than, like, church stuff,” you tease. 

As you lean forward for another one, Jungkook’s brain stutters for a moment, eyes focused on the curves of your boobs as they naturally follow the movements of your upper body until he’s dizzy. “Huh?” he says, and you snort. “Oh— me, right, yes um—“

“Your favorite color?” you suggest, tugging the skirt of your dress tighter around your legs. It’s not cold, but there’s a slight breeze that keeps rolling over the two of you, pushing your floral scent over Jungkook and fluttering through his hair. “Right now, all I know is that you like cheesecake because you ate three slices at the bazaar the other week,” you chuckle.

It’s such a basic question, the bare minimum of knowing a person. But when you look at Jungkook like that, blinking those long lashes at him, it makes him forget his answer. “Um… Red,” he murmurs, watching you tug off the stem of the strawberry in your hands. “And white.”

You nod, and then you’re stretching a hand outward to offer him the aforementioned strawberry. When he doesn’t open his mouth right away, you silently demonstrate first, until Jungkook is slowly parting his lips and accepting your strawberry. The flavor bursts on his tongue, sweet and sticky, coating the very tips of your fingers when you don’t pull away fast enough. Jungkook averts his gaze when you pop them between your own lips and suck them clean. 

“Red and white,” you repeat, unaware of the lustful images that flicker through Jungkook’s mind, the way his eyes unconsciously drop to the front of your dress, at the crevice between your breasts that he remembers oh so well, the tight suction around his cock as you— “They make pink, which is my favorite color.” He desperately clears his mind of the memories that flash before his eyes. 

It’s a pretty color, fit for a pretty girl. Jungkook keeps the thought to himself as he watches you sift through the contents of your basket. It’s the perfect compliment to give you, he knows it’d make you happy, but his valor disappears when you throw him a soft grin and he’s transported back to a more recent memory, the memory in the car instead. 

A bad influence, he had called you, had watched your eyes well up with an emotion he had never seen on you before. Sadness? Disappointment? Disgust? He wasn’t sure, all Jungkook could really remember was the acidity on your tongue when you had repeated the words back to him, the ghost of your touch when you had abruptly pulled away from him, shut him out. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you so closed off before, not even when he had first met you and you were parading around with that staged shyness. 

And even when Jungkook had corrected himself afterwards (read: lied to you to cover his tracks), the emotion had lingered. Even when you had playfully brushed him off, he had caught your reflection in the window beside you as he drove to your place. The sullen look on your normally happy face, lips down-turned, eyes lowered. A look he had put there. 

And now he’s watching you carefully rip apart bread to throw at the birds with a tender smile. A cloud moves and suddenly the sun is beating down on your little picnic again, casting a beautiful glow across your skin that renders him breathless for the shortest moment, trapped by the sheer beauty you exude. You’re absolutely ethereal, and yet he had questioned you. Your morals, your character, everything. 

“__?” he says before he can stop himself. 

You hum, “yes, bunny?” before pausing your little feeding task to glance back over at him. When you look at Jungkook like this, meet his gaze straight on, he doesn’t see an ounce of ingenuity in your eyes. It might be Jungkook’s lovesick heart speaking, but he can’t imagine you ever lying to him. He looks away first, frowning at the various fruits sprawled between the two of you. 

You care about him, that much Jungkook wants to believe. And his beliefs are confirmed, when your voice drops an octave lower, becomes softer, as you murmur, “is everything alright?” The fruits are carefully set aside, breaking the wall between the two of you until you can shuffle forward, your knees bumping against his. Hands reach for his, thumbs rubbing soothing circles against his skin. 

Before you can repeat your inquiry a second time, Jungkook finds himself asking, “do you like me?” 

Jungkook’s sudden inquiry makes your cheeks heat up just the slightest, your startled inhale barely contained. 

It’s like a scene straight out of a teenage romcom— a confession in a park, your hearts bared for each other. But it’s a little awkward, you have to admit, unintentionally giving Jungkook’s soft hand a nervous squeeze as his question rolls over in your mind. 

Duh, you want to say. But there’s something about the look in Jungkook’s eye— the eyes he very purposefully turns towards your hands, the hair he had let loose today providing him ample protection from your gaze —that has you pausing, carefully considering your next words. 

You had hoped by now that it was obvious, that Jungkook understood how much he meant to you, and didn’t require some dorky confession in the park. Partially because, well. This wasn’t your usual role. Usually, it was the guy confessing to you, raving about all your redeeming qualities in an effort to win you over. But with Jungkook, all you know about relationships is flipped upside down, forcing you to play a position you’ve never played before. 

Jungkook wasn’t like you; he was soft and sentimental, practically wore his heart on his sleeve for the whole world to see. And it was a massive heart, filled with so much love and adoration for the world around him, that you felt bad when he wore such sullen expressions on his face.

Expressions like the one he has now, lips pressed together tightly as he misreads your silence. He has honest eyes, a dark toffee color that sends tingles down your spine when he looks your way. They glimmer with a sort of innocence for the world, a thin sparkle that makes him look like a prince sometimes. He was devastatingly handsome, and now he was upset. “Um— it’s okay,” he stammers, trying to move the conversation along. But his eyes flicker around nervously, anxiously. Like your silence has left a burn mark on him, painful and delicate to the touch. 

His comment isn’t completely unexpected. How very on-brand for big-hearted Jungkook to try to save you from an uncomfortable interaction, even if it was caused by him. “Um…” he murmurs, “it’s okay. If you don’t, uh. Like me?”

It sounds flimsy, even to you. 

“No, no,” you rush to correct, your ability to speak slowly coming back to you only after the fact. “I do,” you admit, nerves on edge at this rather foreign situation. “I… like you a lot, Jungkook.”

You shouldn’t be surprised by his reaction. Jungkook blinks slowly, like his brain is still processing the information, and then, ever so artfully, goes up in metaphorical flames. “O- Oh,” he stutters, reaching a free hand up to press his knuckles against his face. The rosy hue that had first blossomed over his cheeks has now started crawling down his neck now, up his ears. It’s terribly endearing. “I— um. I didn’t know,” Jungkook rambles, and it’s so cute, so sweet, how a simple confession from you renders him this flustered.

His face emanates a warmth tangible even on your own skin, lips cutely quirking to the side as he fights off a bashful smile and the raging blush your words bring about. It certainly is a sight to see. His hair tickles his eyebrow, swept out of its usually neat style, but it makes him look all the more gorgeous. “Cute,” you chuckle, feeling the slightest bit shy at such a warm response from Jungkook. You sit back, giving him the space he needs, and turn your attention up at the big blue sky instead. “Really? I thought it was obvious,” you hum.

Part of you actually feels really awkward; as you said before, everything is so brand new with him.  With Jungkook, he flips everything around for you, makes you actually admit to your emotions as opposed to simply going along with his. It’s a nice change of pace, as difficult as it may be, and the results are rather… cute as well. (He bites down a smile, but the action makes his normally soft cheeks look more pronounced than usual.) 

“Because, I, um. Me too,” he says, voice wavering. He clears his throat and tries to meet your gaze under his fringe, but doesn’t last more than a second before he’s pointedly glancing at the picnic blanket beneath the two of you. “I’m— I like you too,” he admits, ears tinted a bright red. You figured as much but it was always nice to hear, especially from someone like Jungkook. “A lot.”

“Thanks,” you smile, placing a hand on his thigh. 

His lips pull into a shy smile, aimed at your knees because he can never look you in the eye when you shower him in praise and other gooey, mushy feelings. It’s the same in the car or against your front door— he always manages to give your hand a tight squeeze, maybe even a kiss if he’s feeling brave. But the second you try to tell him you’ve had fun or that you’ll miss him, it’s like all his courage fades away, leaving him a blushing, smiley mess.

He was cute like that. Despite being so kind and caring, it was like Jungkook’s entire being stopped functioning when those types of gestures were aimed at him. So you relished those moments, looked forward to them with a fluttery feeling in your heart that couldn’t be tamed. 

Today, he throws you for a loop. Just as that proud, giddy smile appears, cheeks and ears a pretty pink, it fades away. The excitement from your mutual confessions seems to remind Jungkook of something else, something less warm, that has him quietly mumbling, “I’m sorry.” 

It’s confusing, to say the least. Just a moment prior, he had been pursing his lips in a silly attempt to hold back a smile. Now he’s staring at the ground with a rather pensive look, his apology sitting heavy in his throat. “What for?” you tentatively ask after one long beat. It had been so sudden. In your mind, there isn’t a single reason for Jungkook to be apologizing to you, especially so out of the blue. There is, however, an inkling of fear brought upon by what can only be classified as insecurity; you had just confessed your feelings for each other, why was he sorry about that? 

Jungkook exhales, a quiet sound that is nearly lost among the bustling noises of the park. If you hadn’t been sitting so close, maybe you wouldn’t have heard it at all. “I just,” he huffs, pointedly glaring at some random spot of grass beside you. His features look sharper than ever now, jawline defined, brows narrowed together. It’s a rather misplaced realization, but Jungkook looks absolutely gorgeous with distress painting his face. “I was… being selfish before.”

In the few weeks you’ve known him, you’ve come to realize Jungkook was many things. First and foremost, he’s an absolute gentleman. Raised on manners and compassion, looking after others everywhere he went. He was caring and sweet, loved this world and the people in it so much. Soft-spoken but straightforward. He was dreamy, disgustingly so. 

But selfish? It definitely sounds like something Jeon Jungkook is not. 

Before you can interrogate him even further, it seems like Jungkook is dead set on getting through this alone. “I- I’m sorry,” he repeats, eyes downcast. Noticing his wavering confidence, you resign yourself to listening, hand giving him a reassuring squeeze. Finally, after a short moment, Jungkook murmurs, “...in the car.” You tilt your head to the side curiously, waiting for him to go on. “I said, um. Something rude.” 

It takes a moment for the memory to load, and when it finally clicks into place and begins rolling, you find yourself muttering a faint, “ah.” 

If it’s what you think it is, he’s talking about last weekend outside of the church. That terribly awkward encounter that had left a sour taste in your mouth afterwards. A bad influence, you recall him saying, the memory of his voice looped in your mind the entire drive to your place. 

In all honesty, it had stung a little. While you were aware that Jungkook had an ongoing mental battle, you hadn’t realized your role was that big in it. It’s the reason you had sent him home that day, made up a lie about schoolwork just to give him some space. It’s nothing new, everyone’s had someone think badly of them before; gossipy classmates, rivals, maybe even random strangers on the street. But it felt different when it was coming from someone as sweet as Jungkook, so polite and righteous, who wouldn’t even hurt a fly. Like he was stating a fact, not an opinion. 

It was a slip-up on Jungkook’s end, that much you could tell. Because he had been frantic to correct himself afterwards, had looked at you with these fearful eyes, like one wrong move and you’d slip from between his hands. Luckily, you weren’t that sensitive— definitely not as sensitive as him, at least —and such a comment had been practically meaningless moments later. 

Still, in those few moments where it was meaningful (read: the short period it took for Jungkook to get home and call you, the words looping around your brain until the harsh ring of your cell phone finally interrupted), it had left you wondering. Have you been pushing him too far, asking for too much? The way you saw it, you always gave Jungkook room to object to any of your advances. You know he’s trapped in his thoughts more often than not, but you pay attention to him, you really do. You make sure to take his reactions into account, try to offer solutions where possible. But, for the briefest moment, all of those efforts had felt fruitless that day in the car. 

What you say next is not a complete lie; sure, Jungkook’s comment had hurt for a bit, but here he was now apologizing for it. That was a good sign… right? “It’s okay,” you brush off, patting his cheek softly, hoping with every fiber in your being that it really was okay.

Your voice is gentle, soothing his doubts. Just moments prior, Jungkook had felt like he was asking for too much, especially when your feelings toward him were up in the air. But your earnest confession soothed the ache in his heart. It’s all he’s wanted these past few months, to belong in your heart like you do his. 

But the guilt from before, the tumultuous feelings he’s been harboring towards you since the weekend, dampens his excitement. From your confession alone, it doesn’t seem like you questioned Jungkook. You weren’t put off by who he was, what he loved. So why couldn’t Jungkook be like you, think like you?

“I’m still sorry,” he says again, feeling like a broken record when he catches this sympathetic smile on your face. The scraps of eloquence he had gathered while originally apologizing seem to fade away, leave him a stuttering mess when he tries again. “That was— I shouldn’t have said—“

“Hey,” you cut off, placing a hand against his cheek. It stops his fidgeting, forces him to meet your gaze head on. There’s a smile on your face but something inside of Jungkook says it doesn’t feel real. “I like you, Jungkook.” 

And it’s true and genuine, your words so honest it pains him to think he had ever thought otherwise. And you’re still smiling, even after being hit with the implication that Jungkook questioned your character and maybe that’s what hurts the most. That you still try to put on an easygoing expression for him after he’s said something hurtful. It’s the car all over again, that blank look in your eyes when he had spoken carelessly. 

Before he can apologize for the umpteenth time, you’re shaking your head softly, smiling anew. But this time, he can’t tell if it’s real or not. “I brought orange juice,” you say, expertly moving the conversation along. And just as Jungkook has been thinking for weeks now, it’s like you know him so well. You know when things make him anxious or uncomfortable, know just how to help him out. 

There’s a feeling of guilt that blossoms in his chest, but this time it’s different. 

It’s not the usual sticky gross feeling of before, the one that has him staying up at night repenting for all his wrongdoings. It’s a personal kind of guilt that comes along with the frank realization that, while you have been learning and adapting to being around Jungkook, he has not been doing the same for you. 

Though you may be a little playful at times, you don’t tease him for who he is, don’t stomp all over his beliefs as much as he deluded himself into thinking you do. (That whole, faux-believer thing was a different circumstance.) Like with the cross in his house the other day. As much as Jungkook wanted to believe what you had done was evil, he had, quite honestly, enjoyed himself afterwards. There wasn’t that heavy discomfort sitting on his chest anymore, that sense of shame lingering as you’d kissed his body and let him caress yours too, in the safety of your eyes only. It was enjoyable and fun, had felt exhilarating to be so intimate with you. 

And instead of being thankful for your mindful efforts, he had questioned your sincerity. 

The picnic goes by in a flash. Jungkook is sad he can’t enjoy it to the fullest, his brain filled with clamorous thoughts that circled around to torture him every few minutes. Still, the entire date feels like a dream, vibrant and beautiful, leaving him in a daze. He doesn’t want to wake up. 

By the time you suggest wrapping up, the sun is setting over the horizon, the windows and lights of the buildings around you slowly flickering to life like a sea of tiny stars. He feels weak in the knees as he helps you pack everything back in your basket. “All set,” you smile, walking beside him, knuckles brushing against his until you fulfill Jungkook’s wordless wish and slip your hand into his. 

Jungkook agrees, hoping his hand isn’t sweaty and that you mean what you say. “I- I liked the food,” he remembers to mention, the fact that you had so carefully and lovingly prepared all this not entirely lost on him. His compliment, as simple as it may be, has you beaming at him as you exit through the park’s front gates. His car is parked along the street, the sleek vehicle coming into view as you round the street corner, hands still fastened. “Um,” he mumbles, pausing beside it. You turn to face him, eyes clear and content. 

All good things come to an end, he supposes, reluctantly letting go of your hand when you tug. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” you say, stepping up close, chest pressed against his. His breath hitched in his throat, eyes going wide when you nuzzle against his neck. Your hands slip around his waist. They wrap around him perfectly, make Jungkook feel like he was made for you. 

By the time he’s springing into action, jerkily raising his free hand up to your back, you’re stepping away. “Call me when you get home,” you wink, sending shivers down his spine when he remembers what happened the last time you said that. 

But Jungkook doesn’t think he can wait that long. 

You’re slipping further and further away, fingertips just barely brushing against his forearm, when Jungkook jolts into action. “How are you, um—“ he stammers, feels too big for his shoes when you tilt your head curiously. And then, “d- do you need a ride?” he mumbles, cheeks warm. 

It’s a feeble attempt at asking what he really wants. Offering you a ride home, while not a bad idea considering it was late and you had taken the bus here, is nowhere near what Jungkook really wants. What he wants is standing before him, thin spaghetti strap slipping down their shoulder, eyes sensually half-lidded and you know this too— because, again, you know Jungkook so well, know what he wants even if he can’t say it —as you step into his bubble again, peer up at him with your arms held behind your back. 

“A ride home?” you ask, blinking your long lashes in a way that robs him of his breath. And he can see that switch flick on inside of you, watches that pure and innocent gleam in your eyes slowly become replaced with something mischievous. Jungkook nods dumbly. “I’d love that.”

Jungkook blinks. “Great,” he chokes out, neatly dropping the wicker basket in his hands. In a way, it brings him back down to reality, lets him snap away from your hypnotizing gaze as he reaches for the keys in his pocket. “Let me— I just have to— yeah,” he stammers, clicking the button on his car keys one too many times, has it perkily beeping. Your lips press together into an amused smile, the last thing Jungkook sees before ripping himself away from you and yanking the back door open. 

He nearly throws the basket in like a madman, glassware be damned. It’s his last shred of rationality that tells him not to, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge as he steps up to the edge of the sidewalk and carefully places it on the floor behind the passenger’s seat. 

When Jungkook rises back up, there is a hand that brushes against his forearm, a gentle touch that has him throwing a curious glance your way. He’s not expecting to be so entranced by the dreamy look in your eyes, feet glued to the ground as you trail your hand down, catching his wrist between your fingers. You’re standing so close, making Jungkook feel like he’s trapped between you and his own car. His entire body is on edge when you lean in, placing a soft kiss against the very corner of his mouth. It leaves a tingling sensation, and accompanied with the growing warmth beneath his skin, feels like he’s been burned. “I had fun,” you murmur, voice low. It sends a shock of electricity down his spine, a wave of exhilaration that has him fully turning to face you as you eventually step away, that same playful grin on your features again. 

A surge of confidence and greed overcomes him, has him stepping forward into your space despite the nervousness that builds within him. There’s a hint of surprise in your eyes that you quickly mask, placating his bumbling nerves with a delicate hand placed over his heart. He can’t breathe when you lean in, softly humming, “kiss me?” 

Jungkook’s lower lip wobbles. “O- Okay,” he concedes, voice but an airy whisper that is soon swallowed up. You taste like fruit and orange juice, remnants of your picnic clinging to your lips as you slowly consume Jungkook’s entire attention with this soft brush alone. It’s a rather short affair, one that ends all too soon when you pull away with a soft sigh against his lips. 

Your smile is so pretty when you angle it at him, has him taking one jerky step backwards. His back hits the car, feels trapped. But he isn’t scared, doesn’t find himself anxiously awaiting your next move. “Good boy,” you purr, reaching one graceful hand forward, playfully tugging at his tie, wrapping it around your knuckles as you use it as leverage to pull him close again. 

You’re just so pretty, Jungkook has always thought so. From the moment he first met you until now, there is something about you—a glint in your eyes, a quirk to your lips—that has had him under your spell for weeks now. 

Had Jungkook seriously despised you and your ethics, perhaps this feeling would have gone away. But the fact of the matter is that you make Jungkook’s heart hammer dangerously in his chest, a shot of adrenaline through his veins when you look at him with those low-lidded eyes, touch him with those experienced hands. He wants you so bad, even after all he’s learned, all he’s seen. He wants you over him and under him, pressed against him from head to toe. He wants and he wants, and he knows it’s bad to want so much, to be so greedy. But with you around, Jungkook finds himself giving into that greed, clutching at it like a lifeline. “We can, um—,” he stammers, placing one uncertain hand against the top of the door frame beside him. You raise your brows, egging him on yet patiently waiting all at once. 

Your gaze is so strong, and it’s in moments like these that Jungkook feels that feeling crawl up his throat. A serpentine gaze, a sticky sweet tongue. Everything he’s ever known says it’s wrong, but his heart and your confession says otherwise. He looks away, throws a bashful glance at the plush leather seats behind him. “In… inside?”  

And the offer has you positively beaming before him, that same flirtatious shimmer in your irises doubling at the words that roll off his tongue. “Oh my,” you swoon playfully, stepping back to, Jungkook assumes, allow him to get in. 

He plops down, feels like he would break out in a sweat if the evening temperature wasn’t so cool. The car’s interior blends into the shadows, his clothing practically indiscernible against the dark shade of the seats. A stark contrast to the pretty floral dress that suddenly spills itself over his lap when you climb in, the door tugged shut beside the two of you. All is silent, your thighs over his, hands on his shoulders. “Hi, bunny,” you murmur, lips pulled into a smirk, provocative yet playful, like you know something that Jungkook doesn’t. 

Jungkook’s throat feels dry but he still manages to gulp. He’s drowning in your perfume and your body lotion, in the faint smell of the outdoors clinging to your clothes and your hair, the absolutely heavenly scent of just you in your entirety. “Hi,” he whispers back, voice lost beneath the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears. And his quiet greeting is rewarded with two soft hands that crawl up his neck, cupping his face in their palms. 

“You were so sweet today,” you purr, nose nudging against his when you finally lean in, pressing your breasts against Jungkook. A tiny gasp catches in his throat, his hands instinctively going to your waist. “Can I kiss you again?” 

Jungkook has never wanted anything more. “Please,” he exhales, feeling like he’ll explode if you don’t kiss him soon. You take his request in stride, jut your face forward just the slightest bit until your mouth is pressed firmly against his, the movement of your lips a practiced rhythm that he just can’t seem to master. He still tries his best, puckers his lips when he feels it’s right, tilts his head when you urge him with a soft nudge. He tries his best and hopes it’s enough. 

By now, Jungkook has come to understand that there is a pattern to your kisses. You always start off slow and relaxed, mouth languidly moving against his as you lure him across a tightrope of anticipation. They gradually become more intense, pulling out whimpers and sighs from Jungkook that he had never known were possible. It’s a carefully crafted art form, the tongue that slides out from between your pillowy lips, dips into his own mouth with a giggly pant. “Good boy,” you hum in between, hands burying themselves in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Always so good.”

Jungkook shudders when you eventually part, can’t catch his breath fast enough before you’re reaching for the buttons on the front of his shirt, easily undoing the casual tie too. “Relax,” you tell him, bypassing his lips for the warm expanse of skin just below. You kiss over his chin, down his neck, as your hands crawl beneath his shirt and around his naked waist. 

He’s ticklish, and when you brush against his ribs, he unwillingly releases a sharp huff of laughter. It’s followed by a wide-eyed look of embarrassment, cheeks a warm hue when you lean back in surprise at this new bit of information. “I— sorry,” he blurts out, because he doesn’t know proper make-out etiquette, doesn’t know anything really, except what you’ve shown him. 

But the sound makes you snort, looking at him with this gaze that drips with honey. “So cute,” you tell him, placing a chaste kiss against his lips, before disappearing back down to lavish his throat with filthier kisses. And with you laving your tongue across his skin, biting at every inch available, Jungkook is left to fuzzily stare over the crystal clear windshield. He’s struck with the faint realization that if someone were to look hard enough, they would see him through the tinted glass as he fell apart into the hands of a pretty girl. 

The soft smack of your lips against his skin is sensual, makes every hair on his body stand stiff. Your lips trail down the column of his neck, placing a bruising kiss at the juncture where it meets the rest of his body. “Oh,” he sighs, eyelids fluttering when a hand squeezes at his chest, thumb against his nipple. 

Another muffled giggle pressed against the base of his neck, and when Jungkook focuses his eyes again, he catches his own gaze in the rearview mirror. 

The sight of him is… weird to say the least. 

Even in the dark, his lips look thoroughly debauched, puffier and redder than usual, slick with saliva that isn’t entirely his. He doesn’t tell himself to, but his mirrored counterpart peeks his tongue out, runs it along his top lip sinfully. Startled by his own appearance, Jungkook jolts in place, feeling you shift in his lap with a soft little whine. “Bunny,” you frown, and Jungkook watches your side profile in the tiny mirror as you sit back up, press your lips against his ear. “Sit still for me,” you tell him, hand slithering up his chest, around his throat. Over his Adam’s apple, squeezing just the slightest. It’s not tight, but it knocks the air out of his lungs when he sees the action mirrored back at him on the reflective surface. 

That familiar guilt sticks in his throat, evident when your hand slips away and he swallows harshly, the protrusion just beneath his skin bobbing up and down. 

In the back of Jungkook’s mind, he can recall the religious story that surrounded this bodily feature; a sin and the consequence. A garden and a fruit, a beautiful woman by his side. 

Your hand creeps down between your bodies, palming over his quickly fattening cock, and Jungkook swears he sees stars, a strained whimper escaping from his lips that you giggle at. “Oh my,” he huffs, clutching at the skirt of your dress. You nuzzle close again, pressing a tender kiss against the side of his neck. 

Your hands are so soft and sweet, brushing over his cock like you’re simply caressing him out of adoration and not because you want him to cum, staining his seats and your dress. Either way, Jungkook can’t even begin to imagine what you must be thinking; before the date and his confession, he had been afraid that you would discard him. Maybe Jungkook wasn’t what you wanted, maybe he wasn’t what you needed. You were so confident in yourself and your actions, a stark contrast to Jungkook and his constant uncertainty, his fear of doing the wrong thing plaguing him at all hours of the day. 

Even now, with your hands expertly tugging his zipper down, he finds himself going back to that story. That apple in the garden, the consequences it had hailed. Never mind the fact you’re on top of him, claiming to like him, with your hands touching every inch of his skin. He keeps looping back to that Biblical verse instead, thinks about it when your fingers meanly let the elastic band of his briefs snap against his skin. “Ouch,” he flinches, voice a soft whine. He turns too quickly and too suddenly, nose bumping against yours because you’re still so close. 

You smile, puckering your lips for the lightest of kisses. It’s the little things like that that make Jungkook’s entire thought process stall, distantly aware of the fact that it’s, like always, you leading the majority of your encounters once again. Even during your picnic, it had been you who had practically held his hand as you navigated through basic information, asked for his favorite color and his favorite drink. Had it not been for your own proactive tendencies, Jungkook fears he would have never known your favorite color was pink or your favorite day of the week was Thursday. 

It’s a fact that makes him pause, jaw tightening as he once again realizes how little effort he was putting into knowing you. For someone who claimed to like you a lot, he rarely did the work to prove it. Even now, he’s too unsure of who he is and who you are to indulge you properly, instead watching you lead the scene as usual. Before he can stop himself, a sigh is escaping his lips. 

It must convey his emotions perfectly, because it’s enough to make your wandering hands pause by his waist. “Everything okay?” you ask, always knowing what he’s feeling. And it sucks that he couldn’t say the same for himself. 

“N— Yes,” he rushes to say, looking up at you with round eyes, the moonlight painting half of your face a paler color than usual, the other side shrouded in darkness. It makes your eyes look darker, makes Jungkook gulp loudly when you turn those inquisitive eyes on him. 

His answer doesn’t seem to convince you, and it’s with little to no hesitation that you sit back. It puts a distance between the two of you that Jungkook can’t say he’s a fan of. “Jungkook,” you say, voice stern yet warm, one hand reaching up to brush your knuckles against his cheek. “Tell me what’s bothering you?” 

It makes Jungkook nervous. He knows he thinks too much. Part of him fears that oversharing with you will drive you away, put you even farther than you are now. Maybe next time it’ll be a room’s length away, a football field’s length away. And he doesn’t want that; he wants to hold you close, he really does. But there are traditions he carries and beliefs he holds dearly that make it hard for him to do so, as much as it pains him. 

The only reason he knows he’s frowning is because you press your pointer finger against the corner of his mouth. You lean in close, nose bumping against his. It sends your scent billowing over him, makes him dizzy when he becomes aware of the hand he’s got on your bare thigh, the rumpled skirt of your dress pushed away. “Talk to me, bunny,” you murmur. You don’t make a move to kiss him, a fact that Jungkook feels both grateful and disheartened by. “Please?”

And he can’t deny you, not when you ask so nicely. You have this metaphorical grip on Jungkook, a tight hold around his throat that has made him act impulsively these past few weeks, desperate to be with you, to please you. Even now, despite how much he wants to withhold his thoughts, he finds himself quietly admitting them instead. “I want to know you,” he mumbles, unable to meet your eye. You don’t push him to. “I really, um. I like you, __. A lot.” It’s a repetition of his earlier confession. And still, it makes him nervous. A thumb brushes against his cheekbone, encouraging him to meet your solemn gaze even if it means being a blushing mess afterwards. “Before we, uh, do… things.” 

His words may be choppy and incoherent, but you understand him all the same. “You want to go out some more,” you clarify, removing your hand from his cheek. The phantom trail of your fingertips on his skin remains, feels colder when you lean away to allow him some more space. 

Jungkook nods quickly, hoping this rush of adrenaline might help him through this. He bites down on his lower lip, carefully analyzing your expression for any signs of disbelief or disgust. But all he sees is understanding, a cool expression that makes Jungkook’s heart thunder. “I…,” he says, glancing down at where he’s still got his hand on your naked skin. Something inside of him tells him to rub his thumb across it, an action he doesn’t think through until he hears a sharp inhale, watches goosebumps rise over the skin. “I’m sorry,” he rushes out, snatching his hand away before he can do something else of a similar sort. “I- I just—“ said hand now waves around wildly beside him “—I really like you, as a, um— uh. A person. And I—“ and this is where he becomes aware of his unbuttoned shirt and the way you’ve got your pretty pussy pressed against his thigh now “—I, um. I want to know me— I mean, you —better? More? Like—“

His embarrassing babbling is cut off with a gentle kiss to his lips. No tongue, no saliva. Just soft lips against his, a delicate hand against his shoulders. When you pull away, Jungkook unconsciously trails after the touch, eyes half-lidded and in a daze when you place a palm on his chest. “I got it,” you say, lips quirking into a tiny smile. “I want to know more about you too, bunny,” you admit, reaching for the front of his shirt. He watches on with flushed cheeks as you slowly button it up for him, finishing it off with a playful tap against the underside of his chin. 

You glance out of the window thoughtfully. Jungkook is suddenly reminded of how pretty you are, your skin practically glimmering under the pale moonlight. It catches on your necklace, a thin chain with a cross on the end. If he focuses his eyes behind you, his own reflection stares back once more. Jungkook’s entire body threatens to lock up tightly, but a single kiss on the cheek from you interrupts the process. “Do you wanna date?” you ask, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

Jungkook can’t agree fast enough. “I— yes,” he gasps, leaning forward too suddenly. It makes you flinch back in surprise, back pressing up against the driver’s seat behind you in surprise. You wouldn’t have fallen or anything, but Jungkook reacts like it was a serious possibility anyway, grasping at your waist and pulling you snug against him, soft thighs sandwiching his tiny waist. “Oh, God,” he frets, immediately moving to release you. 

But you catch him with two arms thrown around his neck, pulling Jungkook close to you for another kiss. Deeper and… meaningful, your satiny lips carefully slotted against his. While it surprises him at first, Jungkook finds himself melting into it soon enough. This was okay, he tells himself, and for the first time in a few weeks, he finds himself believing it. 

It was just kissing— intimate yet appropriate kissing —between two people who were seeing each other. Him, properly seeing you. His heart threatens to burst out of its cage for a second. It’s the first time since he’s met you that he can fully say he hadn’t felt nervous about his actions, hadn’t felt like he was committing some grave sin for chasing after your touch. It was just a kiss, simple and sweet, making both of you smile bashfully when you eventually pull away. There was no lying and no guilt, no tears and no stress. 

It felt good.

Copyright © 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[josefavomjaaga]

By the end of November, Eugène, finally back in Milan with wife and daughters after the campaign of 1809 and that pesky revolt in the Tyrol, receives a curious letter from his imperial stepfather

November 26, 1809:

My son, I desire, if no major impediment prevents you, that you leave Milan so as to arrive in Paris on the 5th or 6th of December. Come alone with three carriages and four or five persons of your service of honour. Pass through Fontainebleau. This is assuming that major events do not prevent you from leaving.

For comparison: at the end of this post I’ve quoted the letter that Napoleon wrote four years earlier in order to … invite Eugène to his own marriage (»twelve hours at the latest after receiving this letter, you will depart with all speed [...]«). Let’s just say, this is an unusually timid and hesitating tone for Napoleon’s correspondence (it almost sounds as if he has a bad conscience). And because it is, I imagine that on this November day in Milan, not one but two heads are leaning over the paper, looking rather perplexed. Until Auguste claps her hands in excitement.

Auguste: »Oh my God! I think I know what this means!«

Eugène: »You do?«

Auguste: »He’s calling you to Paris in order to make you his heir! His heir to the throne of France!«

Eugène (who has already heard lots of rumours in Vienna, awkwardly): »Err… no, darling. I really don’t think so.«

Auguste: »No? But then surely he will finally make you King of Italy! You have done such great work here and you’ve helped him so much in the last war, he must reward you somehow!«

Eugène (forced smile): »Y-yes. That’s probably it, honey.« (gulps)

***

In the meantime, on the evening of November 30, Palace of the Tuileries, Paris. Dinnertime. Lots of people in fancy clothes standing in a half-circle. Emperor and empress are sitting at a table, occasionally poking at their plates, staring blindly ahead. Silence. A clock ticking in the background.

Napoleon (muttering): »What’s the time?« As nobody answers, a bit louder: »The time!«

Somebody answers, Napoleon stands up, so does Josephine.

Napoleon: »I need to talk to you, madame.«

Emperor and empress disappear through a door into Napoleon’s cabinet. Everybody else heads out of the room, except for Bausset, who is on duty and remains in the anteroom.

More clock ticking. Bausset yawns.

A piercing female scream from behind the closed door. Bausset whirls around. The door opens wide, Napoleon stands on the threshold, white as a sheet and utterly shocked.

Napoleon: »Bausset! You gotta come! The empress! Unwell! Help!«

Bausset and Napoleon hurry back into the room. Josephine lies on the carpet, motionlessly (and very decoratively draped, of course, because Josephine).

Napoleon (close to panic): »I just told her that I was going to divorce her.  And then she kinda … dropped down. To the floor! Unconscious! Why do these things always happen? I had talked to her daughter before, she was supposed to have prepared her! And now she doesn’t move! What do we do now, Bausset?«

Bausset: »How about we take her downstairs to her own rooms, Sire?«

Napoleon: »Good idea! Then her ladies can take care of her. We’ll use the private stairs so nobody sees us. Let’s go. I’ll grab the legs, you take the upper half.«

***

A narrow, poorly lit stairwell. The steps are steep. Napoleon, his arms wrapped around Josephine's knees, impatiently carries his spouse down the stairs. Behind him, Bausset, not exactly slim and rather clumsy, struggles with Josephine's weight and his sword of honour, constantly scraping the wall or catching on the banister. Both men are puffing from exertion and agitation.

A look at Josephine's face. Her eyelids flutter imperceptibly.

Josephine (hissing softly): »Bausset!«

Bausset (stares open-mouthed).

Josephine (whispering): »Don't squeeze me like that!« (»faints« again).

Napoleon: »Are you doing all right back there, Bausset?«

Bausset (startled): »Oh, yes yes. All fine, Sire.«

***

A couple of days later. Young Louis Tascher, a relative of Josephine and aide-de-camp to Eugène, has been sent to the Tuileries from Italy in order to report on the progress made in pacifying the Tyrol. He has himself announced, is called up and steps over the threshold into Napoleon's audience chamber.

Napoleon (enraged): »Aha! Did Eugène send you to spy on me, eh?«

Tascher (flabbergasted): »Actually I was supposed to talk to Your Majesty about that Andreas Hofer guy, Sire ...«

Napoleon (embarrassed): »Oh. Oh, right. Anyway, that's not important now. Have you seen your cousin yet? I mean the Empress.«

Tascher: »N-no, I've only just got out of the carriage, the one still down there in the courtyard ...«

Napoleon: »Then see to it that you visit her at once!«

Tascher, utterly perplexed, is led through the Tuileries to the empress's appartment. The door opens, revealing a dozen richly dressed ladies, Josephine and Hortense among them, all of them sobbing into their handkerchiefs.

Tascher (uneasy): »Hello? Your Majesty? I've come from Milan, from Eug...«

Polyphonic sobbing.

Josephine: »Where is he? Why doesn't he come? Has everyone left me? Oh, I am the most unhappy woman in the world!« (More crying all around.)

***

Meanwhile, Eugene writes to his wife from the hospice on Mont Cenis that they are stuck in absolutely terrible weather. And that Caroline Murat has already crossed the mountain, headed for Paris, a couple of days before him. Not a good sign.

***

Again a little while later, in the Tuileries. Hortense has gathered around her those few members of the family still reasonably in tune with their senses: Tascher and Lavalette.

Hortense: »So, we are agreed. We absolutely must intercept Eugène and groom him before Napoleon gets hold of him and talks my dopey brother into this divorce at a bargain price. We don't know which road he'll take, so we split up. Tascher, you go to the right, Lavalette to the left, and I'll cover the main route via Nemours. Off you go!«

***

Next day, Nemours. Eugène's coach rolls into the courtyard of the local post station, where Hortense's carriage has already pulled up. The Queen of Holland and the Viceroy of Italy both step out of their respective vehicles, admired by some dozen teary-eyed spectators. It's the very first meeting of brother and sister after a separation of almost five years, there's hugs and air kisses all around, cheering and happy sighs by the audience. Then queen and viceroy both board Hortense's coach, and as soon as the door is closed and the carriage moving, they can start their conversation.

Eugène: »So. Is it good or bad?«

Hortense (wailing): »Baaad. It's the worst. It's the divorce.«

Eugène: »O god. - How does Mum take it?«

Hortense (exasperated): »Why, BADLY, of course!« (subtone: You insensitive dimwit of a brother!) »She's crying all the time and she says he can't do that to her and that she has been married in church and that the Pope will never allow it and that he at least must pay her debts and make you king of Italy and that she wants to keep her diamonds and that divorces aren't even allowed in the constitution, she has looked that up herself - and besides, if he gets to divorce our mother, why can't I also divorce Louis, huh?«

Eugène (staring into the off): »Sure, sure ...«

Hortense: »You must tell him, Eugène! You must tell him that he needs to give Mum at least a pension of some millions or she'll always be in debt, which of course she most likely will be anyway but do not tell him that, and he must give her Malmaison and a house in Paris and she also wants to keep her parrots and her dogs and go to Plombières every summer and if he really does this to us then the least thing he can do is to let me get rid of Louis. Do you understand?«

Eugène: »Uh-huh.« (mutters in despair) »How the hell am I going to explain this to my wife?«

___________

That’s the story of how Eugène learned about Napoleon’s decision to divorce Josephine, if you combine the memoirs of Hortense and Bausset and add some details from DuCasse’s publication of Eugène’s letters (and a little malignancy from myself). Unfortunately, it ends here, as there are no outside witnesses for the actual negotiations between the three Beauharnais and Napoleon, so we only have the official story of noble self-denial and generous renunciation. But I would have loved to be a fly on the wall during those discussions.

[hookedonapirate]

Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

Summary: Detective Killian Jones took an indefinite leave of absence from SBPD after his brother was murdered in the Line of Duty. Bitter and broken, he resides in a cabin on the beach when his brother's former partner, David Nolan brings him a case he knows the vengeful detective won’t be able to resist. A case involving Liam's killer.  

Dr. Emma Swan makes all of her decisions like she operates on her patients—with care, competence and compassion. But when her colleague, Graham Humbert, is murdered in cold blood by the man who was freed because of a decision she made as a juror, she starts second-guessing herself. To make matters worse, her squeaky clean reputation is being questioned when she becomes a suspect for Graham’s murder.

There is one detective who believes she’s innocent, and he has a plan to protect Emma and find his brother's killer at the same time. When Killian finds himself caught between his duties to the SBPD and his need for vengeance, matters are only complicated by the feelings he develops for the woman he's supposed to protect.

He's impulsive and hot-tempered, and she's methodical and cool under pressure. Despite their differences, can they work together to bring the murderer to justice, or will the murderer get to them first?

A/N: Many thanks go to @ultraluckycatnd​ for her wonderful beta-ing skills and @onceuponaprincessworld​ as always for her encouragement and letting me bounce ideas off of her.

There was originally supposed to be more to this chapter but it ended up being really long so I split it up into two chapters. Hope you enjoy!

Rated: Explicit due to mature language, character death, violence, murder and smut. The scenes won’t be too graphic, but I’d rather overrate than underrate it.

Catch up: Pro I Ch 1 I Ch 2 I Ch 3 I Ch 4

Also available on: AO3 I FF.N

Chapter 5

Emma surveys the crowded sanctuary, feeling out of the loop and out of place as she is escorted down the aisle by a young usher. It’s been so long since she’s seen family in this capacity, she feels like an outsider. Being distant is her modus operandi. And being a surgeon makes it far too easy for her to use work as an excuse, because then she doesn’t have to socialize or express her feelings or discuss uneasy topics, such as a social life she doesn’t have. Talking about Graham used to be her social lubricant. When she talked about him, it took the focus off her, which she usually prefers, because she hates being in the spotlight; she hates having to talk about herself. While she is always in the literal spotlight of the operating room, she’s able to tune out that fact by focusing on her patients and the procedures. One of the many perks of being a doctor is that her job is to focus on her patients, and she’s good at that. The hospital is her comfort zone because nothing she does there is about her—it’s about her patients; it’s about helping them get better. 

  But that feeling of uneasiness had crept up inside her the instant she had entered the church with her adoptive mother. Ingrid had insisted Emma ride with her to the church since Emma's house was on the way. She was reluctant at first because she knew she wouldn’t be able to escape the reception early this way. Or if she ended up getting called into the hospital, she’d have to ask someone to leave and take her. But she also knew she couldn’t say no because it might hurt her adoptive mother’s feelings. 

  After Ingrid assured Emma she could use her vehicle if she got called in and that she would be able to hitch a ride home from Elsa, Emma couldn’t really think of any other excuses that wouldn’t make her intentions transparent. Besides, riding to the wedding with Ingrid gave them the opportunity to catch up. But it also gave Ingrid the opportunity to ask Emma how she was doing since her colleague had passed. And suddenly, what was once a social lubricant became an encumberment. It made Emma sad and teary-eyed and not want to be around people. Suddenly, talking about herself didn’t seem so bad after all.

  They found Anna in her dressing room, which was pervaded with many laughs, a few tears and a bride who had worked herself into a frenzy of emotions. Nevertheless, Anna and Elsa expressed their deepest condolences for Graham and made a fuss over her and how she is dealing with his death. It’s a painful topic, but knowing the attention aimed at her would be short-lived, given that it's Anna and Kristoff's wedding day, gave Emma a bit of comfort. She'd returned to the sanctuary without Ingrid since her adoptive mother will be the one giving Anna away. After Anna and Elsa’s parents died, Ingrid raised them by herself. The younger sister was only eight at the time and lived under Ingrid’s roof before leaving for college. So Anna saw fit to be given away by the woman who had been more like her mother and father for ten years, rather than her aunt.

  As Emma nears the front row of the sanctuary, her smile falters when her eyes stumble upon him. That damn detective, David Nolan.

  When their eyes connect, she suddenly wants to disappear into a cloud of smoke or run away. 

  What the hell is he doing here? 

  Oh right, he was Elsa's late husband's best friend and work partner. Thankfully, when he interviewed her about Graham’s murder, he had skipped the pleasantries and had plunged right into the questions. He had seemed to be all business, which she appreciated, she really did. In fact, he reminded her of... well, herself. Very polite, but at the same time asking unpleasant questions. He was only trying to do his job, even if that meant making others feel exposed. Like homicide cases, surgeries are sometimes a lengthy, unpleasant process, but they’re an essential part of the job. So she understands David’s persistence and his need to get down to the nitty-gritty. But to make her a suspect for murder is preposterous! No, they had never met before Graham's murder, but David knew her family, and for him to point his finger at her, for him to think she could collaborate with a murderer left an unsavory taste in her mouth. She supposes his job requires him to separate personal feelings from work-related agendas—her job requires the same—but still, what he has on her is flimsy and pretty damn pathetic. 

  Emma drops down in the front pew with a humph. Normally she'd be opposed to sitting in the front, but since Ingrid will be seated next to her after she walks Anna down the aisle, and since Emma's not forced to look at the back of David's head like she would be if she sat in the back, she’s glad to sit in front.

  After Kristoff’s parents are seated on the groom’s side of the sanctuary, Kristoff, the groomsmen and the ushers make their way to the front. Next comes the bridesmaids. Emma looks over to see Elsa, the maid of honor, walking down the aisle in her plum-colored gown, holding a matching bouquet and a big smile, her long, silver-blonde hair French braided in the back. Elsa takes her place next to a bridesmaid as her daughter trails after her, scattering purple rose petals along the bridal path. Emma smiles at Camila, who’s brown curls bounce around her shoulders as she walks. Her miniature ball gown makes her look like a princess as she makes her way toward her mother. When she reaches her, Elsa kisses her daughter’s forehead and prompts her to sit by her Aunt Emma.

  The bridal procession song begins, and everyone stands for the bride’s grand entrance as she’s escorted by Ingrid, who has a proud smile on her face. Anna proceeds down the aisle in an elegant, off the shoulder gown with a wide neckline as she flashes a big grin, showing off her pearly white teeth. She looks every bit the blushing bride. 

  Emma still feels guilty for not attending Elsa’s wedding, even though it was several years ago. Or Liam’s funeral, even though her husband died three years ago. Actually, his death made her feel even more guilty. And she wishes she would’ve known him more, but alas, she had strayed away from family gatherings. She’s a terrible cousin. She’s always had trouble connecting with people, probably because when she was a kid, she never stayed anywhere long enough to connect with anyone. That is until Ingrid adopted her. 

  It took Emma a long time to fully feel accepted by Ingrid—to know she wouldn’t be sent off to another foster home. But Ingrid was a very kind and caring mother to her. Even so, Emma failed to develop the social skills her cousins had, even when they moved in with her and Ingrid three years later. Elsa is a little shier than her sister but still less so than Emma. The sisters had done their best to include her in activities and outings, and even though Emma had a close bond with Ingrid, she always felt like an outsider of the group. And the gap between her and the sisters gradually widened over the years.

  After the conclusion of the ceremony, the front row is dismissed, and as Emma and Ingrid head down the aisle, she sees David once again, those familiar unpleasant feelings returning. Being the polite gentleman he is, David nods courteously at her, but she only scowls in return. 

  “Everything okay, Emma?” Ingrid asks, sensing how tense she is. Probably from the way Emma's jaw twitches as she glares at the detective. 

  Emma nods. “Yeah, I just recognize Mr. Nolan as the detective assigned to the case of Graham's murder. He questioned me and my other colleagues who were at the Rabbit Hole that night.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, he's a good man. He and Liam worked together at the SBPD.”

  “Yeah, that's what I've heard.”

  “Speaking of Liam, I wonder if his brother is here,” Ingrid says, scanning the pews for him.

  Emma averts her eyes from David, trying to rid the negative thoughts of the detective and the case and that creep, Neal Gold. She had thought about calling the police after the phone call Neal made. But she couldn’t get over the fact that David actually thought she, Elsa and Anna’s cousin and a doctor for Christ’s sake, could possibly be capable of murder, even if he didn’t think she had been the one wielding the knife. 

  She knew she should've driven her own car in case she felt the need to escape. Hopefully, David won't stoop so low to question her at her cousin's wedding.

  “Oh, there he is,” Ingrid says, pulling Emma from her thoughts. 

  She looks over to see who Ingrid is waving to. And she guesses the man whose eyes light up as he looks their way and shoots up his hand in the center of the back pew, is him.

  Emma loses a breath as she catches a glimpse of him, then quickly looks ahead and keeps moving. Two words come to mind as she makes her way to Ingrid's car.

  Fucking gorgeous.

  If only she had her phone in her hand when she saw him, because pulling it out of her clutch purse and stopping to point her phone at him would've been too obvious. It would've been just as bad as snapping a photo of him without knowing the flash was on. Like when Elsa had snapped a photo of Liam the night they met. Emma wasn't there, but she's heard the story several times over the years to know she doesn’t want to be caught in that type of situation.

   ~*~

  Killian thought she was lovely when he saw her on the video footage of the interrogation room with its dim, unpleasant lighting, but bloody hell, she's much more gorgeous in person. He had shown up to the ceremony as late as he could possibly get away with and sat in the back to avoid attracting too much attention from the people who knew him—at least until Emma and Ingrid had left and headed for the country club.  

  He could only see the back of her head during the ceremony, but he’d seen enough to know she’s wearing a short, royal blue mermaid style dress that’s sleeveless and shows off her soft curves and bronzed shoulders and arms. Her hair is parted to the left and swept loosely into a swirl bun embellished with a blue flower, and her skin looks tanned, a contrast to the pale, creamy complexion on the video; she must've used a tanning bed or sunbathed on the beach. But he couldn’t get a good enough look to figure out which tanning method she’d used. 

  He'd been jealous of the usher who had the pleasure of escorting her down the aisle—had the pleasure of being so close to her, the young lad could probably smell whatever perfume she was wearing. Then Killian had chastised himself for having those thoughts. Emma's a subject of an investigation, regardless of whether or not he thinks she did anything wrong, and he has to think of her as such. He's not allowed to be jealous of ushers or anyone else who comes in contact with her. He has to admit he was very pleased she didn’t show up to the wedding with a date though.

  When he arrives at the country club, he parks his truck and grabs the gift he got for Anna and Kristoff. He carries it in with him and leaves it on the table draped with white cloth. He signs the guest book and sees Emma Swan and Ingrid Swan's names above his. He hadn't expected Emma to ride with her adoptive mother. At first he worried it would interfere with his plans, but actually, if he plays his cards right, Emma not having a car to escape early in and unexpectedly might be to his advantage. 

  Killian sits with the Nolans, just as he would if he weren't helping David with the case. They don't dare breathe a word about work; they share some laughs and after the bridal party makes their entrance, the tables are dismissed one by one and Killian helps his nephews fill their plates with food from the buffet. He tries not to stare at Emma, but he can't help himself. Every now and then he steals a peek as she sits at a table across the room, conversing with Ingrid and other guests. She’s not facing him, but he has an excellent view of her toned, sexy legs, one crossed over the other. 

  The normal traditions are carried out through the reception—the speeches and toasts, the bride and groom’s first dance as husband and wife and the cake cutting, where Anna and Kristoff smash a piece in each other's face. While Killian chuckles along with the audience, he takes a sip of his water, nonchalantly glancing over at Emma once more. He can’t hear her laughing, but he can see her showing off those pearly white teeth, her cheeks swollen as she watches the scene unfold at the three-tiered cake. 

  After Emma finishes a slice, she grabs her glass of clear liquid and makes her way through the room, chatting with people he doesn't recognize, and that's when he decides to make his move.

  He drains the rest of his water in one gulp before setting down his glass and rising from the empty table. 

  David had brought the boys each a slice of cake to keep them occupied while Killian planned his escape. And it worked like a charm. It didn't take long for Liam's hands to get covered in cake and frosting so Mary Margaret took him and his brother to the ladies' room to clean up. David is now off chatting with Anna, Kristoff and Elsa, keeping them distracted while Killian makes his way across the room. He sticks to the fringes of the crowd on the side opposite of the head table, lest someone from the bridal party wave him over, call out for him or approach him. 

  Killian hears the tail end of a conversation Emma is having with a couple before she backs away from them. He casually darts into her path as she's turning around and they crash into each other, her drink splashing over the front of her dress.

  “Bloody hell, lass, I'm so sorry.” 

  She peers down at herself assessing the damage. When she looks up at him, at first she is stunned, as though he'd literally knocked the wind out of her. He’s pretty certain he has the same awestruck expression on his face because she’s even more beautiful up close. Her emerald green eyes sparkle under dark, elongated lashes that are framed by black eyeliner, and her lips are coated with shiny, rose pink lip gloss. And she smells incredible, like floral, citrus and cinnamon; all of his senses are tingling from her scent. 

  The only difference between their reactions is she recovers quickly and he can’t quite seem to. 

  “You got me all wet,” she mutters, her lovely facial features forming a scowl. 

  Killian flashes his flirtiest grin. “If I had a penny for every time a woman has said that to me…”

  Just when he thought she couldn't glare at him any harder, she does. She glares at him so hard, he thinks she might burn a hole through his head.

  “Here, let me get you another drink,” he says, taking the glass from her hand. When his fingers brush hers, his breath snags in his throat. 

  After recovering from that and the way his heart skips a beat, he raises his hand to signal a waitress who gives Emma a napkin and takes the glass away. 

  “What were you drinking, love?”

  “Ice water, thank God,” she grumbles. “This dress is brand new.”

  As she scrubs at the wet spot on her dress, he can’t help but notice the pale tan lines on her skin in the shape of a bikini top. The kind that ties around the back of the neck. And her tan looks too perfect and even to have been caused by the limited angle of the sun. He had envisioned Emma in only a bikini bottom while laying in a tanning bed, but he has to admit, the tan lines look pretty damn good on her. Now he’s wondering what the rest of her looks like.

  Stop thinking of her like that, you wanker! he chides himself.

  He clears his throat… and his thoughts. “Would you like something else, love?”

  When she looks up again, she's still glaring at him. “No, just water. And I’m not your love.”

  Killian arches a brow. “There's an open bar and a devilishly handsome gentleman offering to buy you a drink and that's what you choose?”

  He's expecting her to laugh or even crack a smile like most women do when he comments on his own looks, but instead, she rolls her eyes. “I'm on call tonight. I don't even have a champagne toast when I'm on call.”

  “A tall glass of water on the rocks it is then.” He'd been drinking water too, but for different reasons. 

  They walk to the bar together and he orders ice water for her and a rum for himself. As the bartender pours their drinks, Killian turns toward Emma, leaning an elbow on the bar counter. “So you're on call? What kind of work do you do?”

  “I'm a doctor,” she answers simply as she crosses her arms and looks away like she's searching for the exit doors.

  “Really? What kind of doctor?”

  She reverts her gaze to his. “Medical.”

  Killian shakes his head and snaps his fingers, disappointment clouding his features. “That's just my rotten luck.”

  She arches a brow. “Oh? And why's that?”

  “Because I'm as healthy as a horse.”

  Killian can actually see the walls erecting around her like a fortress guarding a territory in warfare. He scratches behind his ear, thinking this might be more difficult than he thought. He only met her a couple of minutes ago but he can already tell she's a tough nut to crack. Which is fine. He loves a challenge.

  When the bartender slides their drinks toward him, he grabs both glasses and hands Emma her water. 

  “Thanks.” She takes the proffered drink with a slight smile and he clinks his glass against hers.

  “My pleasure,” he flashes a cheeky grin and imbibes his rum.

  “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” As she brings the glass to her lips to take a sip, she turns and walks away so other guests can get to the bar. 

  He pretends not to recognize a brush-off when he receives one; he tries not to let it sting, but it kind of does. He quickly shakes it off and falls into step beside her. “Do you specialize?”

  She sighs, most likely realizing she won't be able to get rid of him so easily. “I'm a general surgeon.”

  He throws on his most charming smile. “Well, I have to say, I haven’t met a lot of surgeons—like I said, healthy as a horse—but you are the prettiest surgeon I’ve ever seen. In fact, I’m surprised the bride hasn’t kicked you out by now.”

  She looks offended. “Kick me out? For what?”

  “For being prettier than her.”

  Emma’s cheeks turn as red as a tomato. And is that a hint of a smile he can detect? No, it can’t be. “You’re the cockiest, most self-assured man I’ve ever met. And believe me, I’ve met some doozies.” Oh, her smile is authentic all right.

  He shrugs in disagreement. “I prefer dashing rapscallion.” He sticks out his hand. “Killian Jones. I’m the maid of honor’s—”

  “Brother-in-law. I know.” She stares at his extended hand, leaving it hanging in the air, and he doubts she’ll shake it… until she finally does, clasping it firmly. Her skin is cold from the drink she was gripping tightly with both hands, but her skin is soft and he doesn’t want to let her hand go. But she releases his grip after a few seconds, leaving the ghost of her touch on his palm.

  He steps into her space, his eyes scrolling down her body and up again before locking eyes with hers and tilting his head to the side, his voice low and husky as he speaks. “So you know who I am, and here you haven’t even told me your name, love.”

  She scowls. “I told you not to call me that.”

  “My apologies,” he says sincerely. “What should I call you, then?”

  “Emma.” 

  His eyes light up with recognition, even though he already knows who she is. She doesn’t know that though. “Emma Swan?”

  She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “That’s correct. So, you’ve heard of me, too?”

  He nods. “You’re Anna and Elsa’s cousin.”

  She lifts her brows, prompting him to expand.

  “Your name has come up once or twice in conversation.”

  “Really, and what have you heard?”

  “Nothing much, only that we’ve almost met about a handful of times.”

  Emma nods, biting her bottom lip, which he finds extremely adorable. “It’s one of the downfalls of being a surgeon. My profession makes it hard to have a social life.” 

  His eyes light up and a big smile lights up his face, though he doubts not having a social life is something she’s bitter about. There is a reason her cousins have referred to her as distant and aloof more than once. “So you’re saying missing out on the opportunity to meet me is a downfall?”

  She shakes her head. “Actually no, I was just being polite. I’m kind of anti-social. But I’m guessing you already knew that.”

  He nods, trying to hide the disappointment he feels after her blunt admission. “You’re right, I did. You’re quite perceptive,” he remarks before slugging down the last of his rum.

  She shrugs. “I’m a doctor. I have to be able to sense when a patient isn't telling me something I should know before I go cutting them open.” 

  He nods in understanding, and they’re both silent as she looks around the room and slowly nurses her drink. After a moment, her eyes return to his, a solemn expression on her face. 

  “I’m sorry about your brother by the way. I didn’t know him well but I know he was a good man to Elsa.”

  His features cloud with sadness, eyes darkening at the mention of Liam. “Thank you. He was a very good man.”

  Emma suddenly narrows her eyes at him. “Aren’t you a detective like him?”

  Killian nods and scratches behind his ear. “I was, but not anymore.” He hates lying to her, but he has to. At least for now. “After he died, I moved to Port Lavaca and got a job as a dockhand.”

  She lifts a brow, amusement dancing in her eyes. “You went from being a detective to making ten dollars an hour scrubbing fish guts off of boats?”

  "It's twelve dollars an hour, and I do more than clean boats," he corrects defensively. 

  She scoffs. "Oh sorry, I didn't mean to belittle a job a ten-year-old kid could do."

  He frowns. “The pay may not be great but I get to live on the beach and inhale the salty sea air all day. It’s not a bad tradeoff, actually. Besides, if you think about it, cleaning up fish crap is not much different from the crap I cleaned up by working for the SBPD.”

  She shrugs, unconvinced. “If you say so.” She takes another sip from her ice water, staring vacantly across the room as the dance floor fills up.

  “Would you care to dance?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t dance.”

  He nods, accepting another one of her brush-offs as his eyes circle the reception hall in search of his niece. “That’s okay, I’m sure my date will dance with me.”

  When she whirls her head around to look at him and cock a brow, he can’t help but notice how much her face clouds with disappointment. “You came here with a date?”

“Is that so hard to believe, love?” He also doesn’t fail to notice she doesn’t correct her pet name this time.

  “No, I’m sure there’s some poor woman out there either naive or desperate enough to fall for your charm.”

  Killian brings his hand to his chest like he’d just been wounded. “Ouch, that hurts.” He spots his niece dancing with the bride and sets his glass on a vacant table. “I assure you, she is as smart as a whip. In fact, she’s probably smarter than anyone else her age.” He waves at Camila, getting her attention, and she happily rushes to him through the crowd. With a sidelong glance, he witnesses Emma’s eyes following his gaze to see who his date is.

  She laughs upon realizing he was referring to Camila. 

  And it’s the first time he’s heard her laugh. Even though a crowd-pleasing song is pouring from the speakers, Emma’s laugh is music to his ears. 

  “Your niece is your date?”

  “Aye.”

  “Uncle Killy! Auntie Emma!” Camila chants, rushing over to them. 

  He extends his hand to her. “Would you care to dance, little love?”

  She grins and nods, slipping her hand in his. He escorts her to the dancefloor, and she steps on each of his feet and takes her uncle’s offered hands as they move to the music.

  As he dances with Camila, he does his best to avoid glancing over at Emma—he genuinely wants to spend time with his niece—but every now and then, his eyes make their way across the room.

  ~*~

  Emma returns to the bar for a refill and plops down on a stool with a heavy sigh, her feet killing her from wearing these damn high heels. She really wishes she could drink alcohol right now because then she wouldn’t feel so nervous. She orders another water, and the bartender takes away her empty glass, giving her a fresh one. Her stomach is full of butterflies as she nurses her water and gazes over at Killian on the dance floor with Camila. 

  Emma doesn't know much about him, but she has learned a few things. One, his British accent does things to her when he speaks, and two, he’s much more handsome up close. She also knows he’s cocky and kind of obnoxious. Oh, and he’s ridiculously adorable with his five-year-old niece. If this weren’t her cousin's wedding and if she had her own vehicle, she would escape. Because he’s exactly the type of guy she tries to avoid at all costs—good looking and well aware of the effect he has on women. But there's also something very genuine about him. He’s honest and not afraid to say what he thinks. She appreciates that more than she’s afraid to admit.

  After they had bumped into each other, she'd been apprehensive to talk to him because she'd seen him sitting with David and she knew through the grapevine he was a detective like Liam. She was afraid he was going to interrogate her about Graham's murder. But her guard lowered when he told her was no longer working for the SBPD and moved to Port Lavaca after his brother died. She knew he was telling the truth because she'd also heard through the grapevine he moved.

  She sighs and averts her gaze from the dance floor and the ridiculously handsome man to take a sip of her drink. She thinks about throwing caution to the wind, carpe diem as they say, and going over to dance with him. But the thing is, she doesn't know how to dance.

  Before she can ponder the thought any further, she sees out of the corner of her eye a figure claiming the stool next to her. She can feel their stare burning into her skin, and that overwhelming sense of paranoia that’s been eating away at her insides ever since the phone call from Gold takes over and she glances over to see who is sitting next to her. She exhales a deep breath of relief when she recognizes the man she thinks is one of Kristoff’s friends as he looks away from her to order a drink from the bartender.  

  Emma rests her elbows on the counter and buries her face in her hands, berating herself for being so paranoid. She keeps expecting Gold to show up at every turn; she keeps expecting to hear his voice on the other end of the line when she answers the phone, regardless of the number on her caller id, or lack thereof. She’s even afraid of being alone in her own freaking house! 

  She really needs to get a grip and stop letting that creep get to her, but at the same time she has good reason for being scared. In medical school, she had studied enough required psychology to know Gold is the most dangerous kind of criminal. He believes himself invincible and therefore will dare to do anything.

  Emma lifts her head and looks over to catch the man next to her giving her a once over, his lips stretching into a coy grin. “Hi there. You’re Anna's cousin, right?”

  Emma has to refrain from rolling her eyes as she steers her gaze away from him. “That’s right,” she mumbles, running a finger around the rim of her glass.

  “I’m Hans.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him extending his hand to her. She doesn’t move to shake it though.

  “And you are?”

  She turns her head, flashing him a fake smile. “Not interested.”

  He chuckles as the bartender hands him his drink. “That’s an interesting name, Not Interested. You from around here?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Hmmm, okay,” he says as he takes a swig of his drink.

  At least he knows how to take a hint. She sighs in relief and continues sipping her water in silence.

  “Well, Not Interested, I’m from out of town. I’m staying in a hotel room around the corner from here. If you get a little too tipsy from your drink, you’re more than welcome to crash in my room for the night.”

  Emma clenches her jaw and is two seconds away from getting up from her seat and either giving him a piece of her mind or throwing her drink in his face. Just as she shifts to rise from her stool, a hand on her back makes her jump out of her skin and when she spins her head around to see whose hand she has to cut off, she loses her train of thought. And her breath.

  “There you are, darling. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Killian leans in to kiss her cheek, and her breath catches when she feels those warm, luscious lips on her skin. “I should have known you’d be at the bar,” he chuckles playfully and glances at Hans while his thumb is idly stroking her back. “I can’t take her anywhere.” His spicy cologne hits her senses intensely, crippling her from head to toe when he reaches over her, extending his other hand to the stranger. “Killian Jones, Emma’s boyfriend. Nice to meet you.”

Tagging some people who have shown interest so far. If you would like to be tagged or untagged, please let me know.

@itsfabianadocarmo​​ @snowbellewells​​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​​ @nikkiemms​​ @teamhook​​ @xhookswenchx​​ @nikkiemms​​ @xsajx​​ @julesep3026​​ @hookedmom​​ @biefaless​​ @cluttermind​​ @yasbio2015​​ @kmomof4​​ @lfh1226-linda​​ @harshini01 @noensnaringnet​​ @xarandomdreamx @onceuponaprincessworld​​ @annastasiarinaldiva​​ @royalswan​​ @brustudyblog​​ @officerrogers​​ @gingerchangeling​​ @melly326​​ @singersdd @mzbossyboots​​ @unworried-corsair​​ @iamemmaswanjones​​ @authorarsinoe​​ @kingofmyheart14​​ @nightskylover​​ @jamif​​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​​ @iam2307​​​ @winterbaby89​​​ @chinawoodfan​​ @mormonkryptonite @ultraluckycatnd​​ @captainswan-shipper88​​ @killianswanjones @bethdacattfm @andiirivera​​

[winterromanov]

Maybe a childhood friends au? Maybe they grew up together and Bucky saw her as a little sister then they don’t see each other for a while and she comes home from college and is like.... woah. But she’s always had a crush on him??

pairing: bucky x reader

It’s hard to say how long you’ve been in love with James Buchanan Barnes. You want to say forever--you’re a bit prone to the dramatics--and maybe it has been, because you can’t remember a moment where you’ve not been absolutely, totally, completely enamoured by him. He’s smart and funny and attractive, goddammit, and he’d pushed Brock Rumlow over when he’d called you a stupid little girl and danced with you at your moms’ friend’s wedding, spinning you round and round aged nine until you were so dizzy you couldn’t stand.

He’s left you that dizzy ever since. 

But--and there’s always a but--he’s always looked at you with the soft eyes of an older brother, protective and loyal in the same way he is with Becca. He’s only two years older than you but it feels like an eternity. To him, you’re always going to be the little girl thrashing about in the pool with his baby sister every summer vacation. The girl who he ritually scared on Halloween by jumping out from behind the bush in your front yard in increasingly scary masks. And, the summer following his senior year, the girl who stood teary-eyed on his porch as you watched him pack up his dad’s minivan for Stanford.

He’d pressed a kiss on Becca’s forehead she sobbed near uncontrollably, the ache of missing him sharp in her chest even though he’d not even set off for the airport yet. Then he’d turned to you, smiling mischievously in a way that had made many a girl other than you crumble, and lifted your chin with his middle finger.

 “Look after Becs for me, yeah?” Then he’d winked, and you’d used every single inch of will power you had to not break down like Becca. You somehow managed a nod, your own smile tight. “Can always rely on you, (Y/N).”

You’d never wanted to hug him more. To grab his body close, squeeze the life out of it, to beg him not to go. But Bucky Barnes was not yours, never would be, never would look at you in the way you wanted him to.

You watch as his dad’s truck slowly drives away, chugging exhaust fumes, until it’s merely an orange speck heading for the freeway. You watch your whole world disappear from view--and you never told him how aged nine he shook you up like a snowglobe on the burnished wood floor of a church hall, your shoes squeaking and his laugh in your ears and your heart fluttering in your throat.

-

You didn’t know much about love, per say, so you’re uncertain on whether it’s more difficult to move on from somebody who once loved you back or someone who never loved you at all. Either way, it takes a hell of a long time for you to forget Becca Barnes’ older brother, if you ever truly forget him at all. You graduate high school and miraculously get onto the Yale literature program and somehow six years have passed since you last saw him, properly, your adoration for him haunting the back of your mind. You kiss boys and break up with boys but you arrive at Becca’s wedding ceremony without an arm linked to your own, in a pretty dress with no-one to admire it.

Madly, it doesn’t cross your mind that Bucky will be there, even though he’s Becca’s only sibling. Of course he’s going to be there. It’s just--you see him stood at the front of the venue, in a fancy suit and a shorter haircut, six years older and Jesus Christ. He’s not the teasing, handsome boy of eighteen who broke your heart without knowing anymore. He’s a proper grownup.

For half a second, his excited blue eyes meet yours over rows and rows of ribbon-decked chairs. He blinks, mouth slightly open like he’s on the edge of a sentence, and you’re suddenly sixteen again. Your cheeks flush as you quickly find a seat next to somebody you know from school.

Your frantically beating heart let’s you know the pretty fucking obvious. You never truly forgot him, did you?

-

Becca’s wedding is beautiful. She marries a girl she met on her first day of fashion school and they wear gowns they both designed themselves. As you follow the rest of the guests out of the hotel and into the courtyard for pictures, you find yourself becoming swept up in the delirium of the day, throwing rose petals on your sobbing childhood friend as she clutches the hand of the love of her life.

“(Y/N).”

His voice sounds the same--more mature maybe, but mostly the same. When you turn round he’s stood with his hands in the pocket of his grey suit, rose petals caught in his hair. 

(His smile is also identical. You’d be heartbroken, even more so, if that ever changed.)

“Bucky,” you say, smiling, in a frankly shit attempt at being nonchalant. “You look really well.”

He shrugs, before gesturing at you. “And you--Jesus, (Y/N), you grew up.”

“Of course I did! And Becca, too.” The sun sharply comes out from behind the clouds so you shield your eyes, seeing him better. “I always knew her wedding day would be beautiful. You must be so happy and proud of her.”

“I am. Always. In everything she does. But you always knew that.”

He’s right about that. You’d never meet a more supportive brother than Bucky. His mouth opens as he looks at you intensely, on the verge of saying something, before a hand curls round his shoulder asking him to join in with the photographs.

“In a second,” he says, before turning and pointing at you. “You’ll be at the reception, yeah? I’d really like to catch up.”

“As if I’d miss it!” you chirp, and he grins as he’s swallowed by another crowd.

It’s like your heart hurts preemptively. Watching Bucky Barnes whirlwind back into your life for a moment before disappearing again, melting like snow on your winter boots.

-

The Barnes’ a so popular than their reception is understandingly full to the rafters, family and friends and a never-ending list of others besides, meaning every single dinner table is full and James is sat all the way at the front at the top. You talk idly to old school friends about how their lives have gone. An old neighbour with a man-bun writes his number on a napkin and tucks it into the front of your dress, like you’d find that sexy. Champagne is drunk and Becca cries even more and you figure that Bucky has forgotten you again as the evening eclipses into the night. The live band plays beautiful folk covers--Becca and Josie have their first dance to Bon Iver’s Skinny Love, clinging onto each other like the world is ending around them--but you don’t feel like dancing.

The whole day has been perfect. You can’t describe it any other way. But then why do you feel so empty? 

You grab another glass of champagne and weave between half-drunk revellers out onto the veranda, where the air is cooler and the music is muted, blurred. White fairy lights stretch out across the lawn and you see a couple kissing under a marquee. Taking a deep breath, you sit on the steps, the stone cold against the bare skin of your legs.

“Room for an old friend?”

You look up, even though you know who it is. You shuffle along so he can slide in beside you, shivering as the warmth of his thigh presses against yours.

“I meant to grab you sooner, but y’know.” He laughs, looking down at his legs. “Big family, big wedding. Think everybody wanted a piece of me.”

“It’s okay.” You shiver more noticeably, and like a reflex, Bucky has rested his glass on the border and wrapping his suit jacket around your shoulders. You try to profess, insist you’re fine, but he’s having none of it. 

Jesus, if your sixteen year old self could see you now. You pull it tighter round yourself, the material soft, the woody scent of his cologne clinging to the fabric.

“I don’t know how the years passed, (Y/N). I kept meaning to... but suddenly I was graduating, and Becca told me you’d got into Yale--good on you, by the way--and now I’ve got this job in the city, and it just...” He looks at you, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like he’s looking at a little girl anymore. “Happened. And now my baby sister is married. Fucking hell.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Me and Becs used to talk about getting married when we were kids. She always said she wanted to marry Julia Roberts and she’d make their dresses, which come to think of it was probably a sign she wasn’t going to marry a man in the end.”

“Yeah. Certainly sounds like it.” He laughs and fuck, it takes you back, to lying on the grass in the dark and Bucky would point out constellations he’d learnt at school. Just you, and him, because Becca thought space was boring and would rather drink hot chocolate in the house instead. With a grin, he nudges your shoulder with his. “And what about you, huh? Who were you going to marry?”

It’s a good job it’s dark otherwise he’d see how bright your cheeks burned. “Oh. I, uh--I don’t remember. Probably Orlando Bloom. Or something.”

“Orlando Bloom. Right. Good choice.”

His eyes flicker over you again and you fight the urge to meet his gaze, not quite wanting to read it. You allow the quiet to wash over you, tinged by the slow, chilling lull of a Hozier track in the main ballroom.

“I left it too long, didn’t I?” Bucky says, eyes flicking onto the middle distance, “You know...I always wanted to, (Y/N).”

Your brows furrow. “Wanted what?”

“To tell you. Because you’ve always been there, and you didn’t have to be, but you were. When Ma died, you were there. When I left for college, you were there.” He half-smiles, blinking slowly. “I thought I’d tell you then, but Becca was crying and she needed you more than I did.”

“James.” You say his real name softly, your heart about to burst out your rib cage. Because it’s been six years. Six years. You have spent six years desperately trying to get over this boy-who-is-now-a-man and now he’s... It’s on the edge of his tongue, words you’ve always wanted to hear.

Words he’s apparently always wanted to say.

“(Y/N), fuckin’ hell, I’ve been in love with you for so long I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t. And I’m a dumbass for not saying anything sooner, and I want you to know that you don’t owe me anything. I just had to--I felt like if I didn’t tell you now, I’d drag it to the grave with me. Becca’s been moaning at me for almost as long just to...”

You cut off his declarations with your lips, silencing his mouth with a kiss a whole fucking childhood in the making. His hands curl round your face, tugging you closer, fireworks exploding in your gut. You’d probably kiss for a whole lot longer if one of Bucky’s cousins didn’t choose that moment to come out for a cigarette, giving James a whoop and slapping him on the shoulder.

“Okay...” Bucky says, drawing away, “I’m taking that as a sign that my feelings aren’t completely onesided.”

“Dear God, Bucky,” you fight the urge to roll your eyes, “We are both the most oblivious people you could ever meet.”

He kisses you again. And again. And again. Until he stands, running a hand down your arm until it meets your hand.

“It sounds like we both might owe each other a dance.”

-

The dancefloor is mostly empty by the time Bucky drags you there, high on your own heartbeat and the champagne in the stomach. Instead of wrapping his hands round your waist and pulling you close, he winks and grabs your hands, spinning you round and round and round until you’re so dizzy you can barely stand.

Bucky Barnes has been making you dizzy for most of your existence. You don’t see him stopping anytime soon.

send me a request

[abbyilr1967]

Best Day Of Our Lives - Draco x Reader (100 Followers Celebration!)

A/n: Hey everyone, I just wanted to say thank you for 100 followers. I know that’s not that many people, but I only started posting my writing because I like it, I never thought that anyone would like my writing. I hope you continue to like my writing because I have a lot of fun writing it. And I hope that after this quarantine is over that I continue to find time in my day, or night to keep writing. I hope you enjoy some more domestic Draco, and thank you again. If you are new to my work I suggest you check out my other work if you like this - Masterlist

Summary: It’s finally here, the day you And Draco had been planing ever since he proposed nearly a year ago. Today is going to be your day, and you’re going to enjoy it. 

Warnings: None

Word Count: 900

You click your heels together as you wait just outside the church, arm in arm with your Dad as your bridal party begins to walk inside. 

“Are you ready,” your Dad asks, pulling you back to reality.

“Huh, oh as I’ll ever be I guess,” you say sarcastically trying to find the feeling for butterflies in your stomach. You and your dad turn the corner to enter the main hall when you spot Draco standing at the end of the aisle. You can feel your heart start to beat faster as his gaze catches yours. You watch as the corner of his lips pull into the widest smile you’ve ever seen. As you walk down the aisle it feels like your floating, you’d been planning this day for almost a year and you couldn’t believe it was finally here. 

Once you reach the end of the aisle, your dad turns to you and gives you a kiss on the cheek before turning to shake hands with Draco. 

“You take care of her,” your dad says. 

“I will Sir,” Draco replies before letting go of your father’s hand to take yours. He gives you a long look up and down while helping you up the few steps to stand in front of the officiant.

“You look, beautiful love,” he compliments as he places a quick kiss to your cheek. You can feel the blush start to rise in your cheeks. 

“You look very handsome baby,” you compliment back.

As Draco and you stand beside each other while the officiant is talking you can feel him squeeze your hand every once and a while. While you guys were dating, you would find him doing that every time he was excited while holding hands with you. 

You can hear that the officiant is talking, but you aren’t really focused on them. You’re focused on the feeling of Draco beside you, you lean against him, and he leans back. Resting his head against yours. 

“If either of you would like to exchange vows now would be the time to do so,” your officiant says. 

“I’ll go,” says Draco as he pulls out a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket.

 “Y/n, you are the love of my life, and I don’t know how I ever got you to agree to go on a date with me all those years ago,” he and your guests chuckle. 

“I will always remember our fourth date when we were walking back to your flat from dinner, and it started to rain. We were just passing through the park, and I ducked under the nearest pavilion. While you just stayed out there, laughing and dancing. That’s when I knew I wanted to be with you forever.” you can hear his start to get choked up.

“I will love you forever, and probably a little after that too. And I promise to be with you through whatever life has to throw at us,” he says, you can’t help but get a little teary-eyed as you prepare to say your vows. 

“Draco, do you remember the time when I was sick, so sick that you called in to tell your work that you couldn’t come in either?” he nods again. 

“That was the day I knew that we were gonna be together for a while, there was no way I was getting rid of you, and there’s no way you’re getting rid of me,” you chuckle. 

“I love you with all my heart, sometimes so much that it hurts a little, and I promise to keep loving you, no matter what happens,” you finish. 

The officiant takes the rings from the ring bearer and hands them to you and Draco.

“Draco do you take Y/n as your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and health, as long as you both shall live?” 

“I do,” you hear Draco say as he places your ring on your finger

“Y/n, do you take Draco as your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and health, as long as you both shall live?” 

“I do,” you say, as you place Draco’s ring on his finger.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant says. “You may now kiss the bride.” 

Draco brings his hands up to cup your face as he kisses you for the first time as your husband.

~

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please help me in welcoming the newlywed Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy to the dance floor for their first dance as husband and wife,” the DJ asks over the speaker. Everyone claps as you and Draco take the floor. You put your left hand in Draco’s right, your other hand over his shoulder, and his on your waist. You sway back and forth together as the sounds of Harry James’ It’s Been A Long Long Time plays. 

“Was this everything you ever expected?” Draco whispers to you.

“Yes,” you say. “I love you.” 

“I know,” he says. “I know,” he places a loving kiss to your temple. 

As the song comes to an end, and your friends and family begin to join you on the dance floor you look around you. Your heart swells with an overwhelming feeling of joy, being surrounded by all your friends and family on a day like today. You wouldn’t have had it any other way. 

[gascon-en-exil]

Mercilessly Judging the Men of Fòdlan: The Empire

It’s been a long time coming, over eight months in fact, but now that it may be assumed that the last of the DLC has been released and the fandom as a whole has settled comfortably into its various camps I think there’s no better time than now to answer that burning question: how raunchily, outrageously gay can the male cast of Three Houses possibly be? For those unfamiliar with this fun little series of mine, I’ve been applying my extensive knowledge and experience of gay male sex and hookup culture to the men of Fire Emblem, originally as a way of reckoning with the refusal of the games themselves to provide me with any worthwhile self-insert M/M content. I stand by that premise for FE16 - you all know how absolutely nothing appeals to me about m!Byleth or his prospects on that score - but in the years since my first outing of merciless judgment with Awakening that idea has expanded into something broader, an imaginative modern AU of sorts where all these guys are into men (if not always exclusively) and willing to put themselves out there in the lewd and semi-anonymous world of hookup apps in search of their preferred carnal delights.

A note on organization before we begin, as this material is too long to cram into one post. Excluding Byleth (as Avatars and their spawn always are for this project) there are twenty-one playable male characters in Three Houses. This makes for an even threeway division to preserve the eponymous conceit of the game, but not a particularly neat one. Aligned with the Adrestian Empire I therefore have below the male Eagles, Crimson Flower-exclusive Jeritza, former Imperial noble Hanneman, and...Seteth, because he’s the closest thing to a non-self-insert lord figure in Silver Snow and because he had to end up somewhere. As I said, not very neat.

The Kingdom

The Alliance

Hubert

His profile is sparsely filled out and his photo less than promising, but the select few who catch his eye will be treated to a courteous (if mildly acidic) barrage of introductory messages and polite requests to meet over coffee or a light lunch, no dick pics or requests for same in sight. It’s only after the exchange of small talk has passed that someone - could be you, could be him - brings up why he has kink as a listed interest, opening up a Pandora’s box of horrors as he casually shows you some of his photo collections. Asses red from whips and floggers, scrotums stuck through with pins, barbed cock rings, electrified nipple clamps, and ghastly shots of the man himself, his mouth dripping with blood over a fresh bite wound on his teary-eyed partner’s shoulder. He is, he explains, a Dom at heart - and the rougher the better. What he doesn’t explain and likely never will is that all that pain play and torture porn neatly covers for the fact that he’s less endowed and less skilled in that area than he’d be willing to admit, or that he harbors a secret longing to be Dommed himself, probably by someone close to him who has no interest whatsoever. He takes his career very seriously although you’ll never learn exactly what that entails, but you have a sneaking suspicion that whatever it is enables all those coldly violent impulses he displays in the bedroom.

Favorite erotic tea time subjects: CBT, vore, femdom

Favored gift: stiletto heels, for use on his face

Ferdinand

Within a minute of talking to him you know his full name, what prominent public figure(s) he’s related to, and where he plans on going with his life, in an overwhelming display of lack of concern for keeping his private life private that would be worrying if he didn’t pair it with an indefatigable self-confidence. The type of gentleman who expects flowers and opened doors and one person to pay for a whole date and coy blushing about going back to his place for some tea, but what unfolds afterwards may be surprising to anyone who wasn’t picking up on the subtext during the night out: that you’re dealing with a toned and vigorous vers/bottom who longs to lie back and be taken care of but absolutely will never turn down a challenge or request no matter how much it demands of him or how expertly he will be able to rise to the occasion. Long practice and some truly enviable thighs (he’s a noted equestrian, and loves showing off his album of favorite horses) let him milk a cock for hours - nearly as long as the subsequent pillow talk will be. It’s little wonder more than one of his lovers has had the idea to gag him...or to fuck him somewhere outside his bedroom once they go in and find the walls plastered with posters of his favorite pop and stage divas staring at you. Prime trophy husband material, wealthy and well-connected and fetching on anyone’s arm, but there’s no question that he’ll only be truly happy if he’s with someone who can challenge him to step out of his unusually large comfort zone: socially, professionally, or sexually.

Favored erotic tea time subjects: edging, crossdressing, fisting

Favored gift: a horse cock dildo, for his much-lauded huge hole

Linhardt

A master at genuinely negligent ghosting, it’ll take a minor miracle to actually arrange a meeting with this guy. Either he never answers, or he does but only to snap at you because he’s busy and only even logged into the app because his mind wandered for a second. Still, he draws a lot of attention from those into geeky twinks. Is not into foreplay, and can scarcely be bothered to maintain interest long enough to even stay hard unless you get lucky enough to hit on one of his subjects of recent fascination. Never offers to do anything in bed, and will in fact pick up his phone to browse through Wikipedia and Reddit while he’s being penetrated. Calling him out for his appalling lack of manners will get nothing more than a wry snort and a quick summary of whatever’s currently got his attention. Never cums, doesn’t seem to want to cum, and guys creative enough to try to ride him are often disappointed that he’s more likely to grumble that all that bouncing on his pelvis is making it impossible for him to catch a power nap. Just about the only way to fully get him invested is to get really weird - introduce him to some fetish he’s never thought to try. Incest kink, breeding kink, role reversals, elaborate roleplay...the more cerebral the better, because the physical stuff tends to put him off (especially blood play, which is his hard limit). Needless to say most aren’t up to that task, and so he’s nonchalantly left a trail of frustrated and disappointed men in his wake.

Favored erotic tea time subjects: somnophilia, historical roleplay, mpreg

Favored gift: a long-lasting vibrator, so he can stick it in and let it work while he’s otherwise occupied

Caspar

No amount of headless torso pics and carefully scaled dick pics will be enough for his ego, but encountering him in person will reveal that he’s not so much vain or delusional masc4masc as really, really compensating for something. This manifests as a deep-rooted resentment against guys taller than him or, ahem, better-proportioned, but his preference of sexual partners does not reflect his prejudices - which is fortunate for him given his measurements. Loud and energetic in all things, and it shocks no one that he’s a screamer in bed but also can’t last for very long once he really gets going. Lucky for everyone that his refractory period is unusually brief, although that leaves him deflecting odd inquiries into whatever substances he may be on (he’s clean and always has been, hard as that is for anyone to believe). Likes to top for the workout, but he won’t say no to riding a good dick. Has an unexpected sentimental side he’s not very good at expressing except indirectly, in the same way that he’s apparently oblivious to his casual innuendos. It will take someone very patient to put up with him, but the reward is (probably) worth it for the body alone provided he’s got a sufficient outlet for all that energy. Would be perfect for an active poly relationship or long-term FWB situation so no one guy has to manage him alone, but he’d have to be at the center of any such arrangement lest his numerous insecurities rear their heads. Is not into incest kink.

Favored erotic tea time subjects: post-workout sex, multiple orgasms, autofellatio (he wishes)

Favored gift: condoms a size too big for him, because even safe sex should be an opportunity for bragging

Seteth

He doesn’t share nudes, and says upfront that he’ll block anyone who asks or opens conversation with one. Seems to be genuinely interested in friendship over anything else, although he’s not great at small talk in text and would rather chat over snacks on a park bench or at one of the numerous community events he likes to organize. Is a family man through and through: devoted to his loved ones, quiet in his hobbies, and unusually spiritual in an orthodox church-going way. You start to wonder if he’s even into men or if his presence on the apps was just a very strange fluke, but he holds his handshakes just a little too long and progresses quicker to hugs and quietly intimate arm touches. Discussion of his prior love life is strictly off limits, but many months down the road when you finally get invited into his bed it’s clear that he’s no blushing virgin and is adept in the use of fingers, tongue, and cock for fully satisfying his partner. He might even bottom, although he’ll blush about being long out of practice in that area which suggests a wealth of untold stories by itself. He also may be, somehow, the only man in existence who knows what intercrural is and how to do it. Blessed with stamina far beyond what might be suggested by his age (which he only reveals several weeks into your acquaintance, another point of embarrassment for him), your encounters are far more likely to end with a phone call from one of the innumerable people who look up to him and depend upon his reliable if fussy sense of duty than it is from him tiring out. Fond of fishing, and known to take dates out to cast a line and then maybe have some naughty fun afterward. Does not appreciate being called a daddy, but he’s been known to accept big bro as an occasional slip-up.

Favored erotic tea time subjects: discipline, incest kink, scalies

Favored gift: your STI testing history, because he doesn’t mess around with that stuff

Hanneman

A polite if unassuming silver daddy, with no sugar for the obvious escorts but the cushy professional post and generosity to make him appealing to a less openly mercantile sort of young man. His chosen field is not an easy subject for light conversation, but damned if he doesn’t try his best regardless. His favorite tactic might be finding some way of applying his work to something about his date, no matter how tenuous the connection or how unwelcome the observations. Not super fit and doesn’t get out much so as the night is winding down he’s not good for very much other than intermittent blowjobs and even more languid handjobs, although a truly dedicated partner might coax something more out of him with help from a little blue pill or two...and maybe some poppers, because he’s old enough to remember when everyone used those. Despite his reputation for mildly inappropriate perving on guys young enough to be his sons - some of which he acquired in a professional context, with some of his favorite anecdotes of past trysts involving junior lab techs/TAs/secretaries/others among his subordinates - he’s not actually averse to fooling around with men closer to his own age, although he’s more awkward about it since he’s a bit out of his element when he’s no longer the only experienced voice of wisdom in the room. Either way, if there’s one thing he hates it’s sloppiness, whether in one’s personal or professional life. As a result he avoids bars like the plague and has little patience for drunks. Contrary to this fastidiousness however his advances in his career are such that he may one day do something radical and ill-advised in the pursuit of knowledge; one only hopes that the various skeletons hiding in his closet don’t come back to haunt him - with regret or harassment lawsuits or who only knows what else.

Favored erotic tea time subjects: medical kink, teacher/student, cock milking

Favored gift: consent to video encounters, for future reference

Jeritza

The kind of rough trade all your friends warned you about...except he’s not rough trade, not really. Deeply troubled and disarmingly attractive is a deadly combination, and he thrives in a medium where one-word responses and explicit pics are considered perfectly commonplace. Encounters with him are quick and rough and nearly anonymous, always in the dark and with little opportunity to see or interact with him apart from the hands grasping you to him and the admittedly impressive cock jabbing into you from whatever angle he can manage. He’s had the threat of assault charges or worse thrown at him more than once, but it’s never made him any more considerate or careful. To the very rare individual who keeps returning for more the most explanation he’ll ever provide is that he becomes someone else when pursuing sex, someone hard and violent and not at all like the person he insists that he is. This is something he ties into some deep-seated trauma, but there’s something distinctly insincere about the underlying psychology as if it were only an excuse for an abuse fetish run wild. Pretty much all of his tricks ghost him at that point, wanting to get as far as away as possible from a true crime drama just waiting to happen. Curiously enough if he ever does find a long-term partner it won’t be with the expected extreme masochist - expect them only to show up in a police report one day, with extremely gory pictures - but with someone who can match his lustful bloodlust with more of the same and who is totally comfortable throwing around death threats that at some point transform into only moderately disturbing innuendos. 

Favored erotic tea time subjects: masks, blood play, asphyxiation

Favored gift: anything sweet he can lick off your body...because it’s either that or viscera

[invaderdoom78]

Well, does he leave a little note to tell you You are on his mind?

Soon after the apoca-wasn’t Aziaraphale and Crowley had decided that it would be a good idea to move in with each other, eventually settling on the demons flat as nearly every nook and cranny of the bookshop was crammed full of different types of literature; leaving it much too crowded for the serpent's tastes. Thankfully though, they were quickly able to find a balance between Crowley's minimalistic preferences and Ariraphales hoarding of books. It was quite nice as neither of them had to worry about the potential of going years without seeing the other and, even though he didn’t sleep, Aziraphale enjoyed laying in bed next to a sleeping Crowley either reading one of his books or just taking the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts. It got even better once they got into the habit of leaving little notes for the other around both the flat and book shop. It had started out as a way for them to remind the other of something that they needed to do that day but it quickly turned into little love notes, each trying to outdo the other with their declarations of adoration. This is where Crowley's imagination gave him the edge needed to win. Even before moving into the demons flat Aziraphale quite enjoyed taking baths, even more so once he’d been introduced to the concept of bubble baths, but he found that the act was ten times more enjoyable when taking one in the flat as it’s tub was a Jacuzzi tub thus making it much larger and nicer than the clawfoot he had in the bookshop. Lounging in the warm bubbly water Aziraphale was enjoying a glass of wine as he listened to some soft music and jotted down ideas for his newest love note. Unfortunately, he was having a very difficult time doing so and at this point his wine was gone and the water was turning cold so he decided to get out; wrapping a fluffy white towel around his waist, and almost missing what Crowley had done to the mirror. Written in the steam was a multitude of tiny hearts surrounding a much larger one that was not only sprouting a pair of angel wings but also held both of their initials inside of it, causing his own to melt in his chest. 

Send you yellow flowers when the sky is gray?

It was a rather gloomy day in London, a heavy rain thundering against the sides of the building, and Aziraphale had decided to settle in by one of the windows in Crowley's plant room, curled up in his favorite chair, a comfy blanket covering the lower half of his body, and reading from one of his Oscar Wilde first editions. 

“Angle?” Crowley called out from the entrance of the foyer 

“I’m back here, dear” Aziraphale said, not bothering to look up from his book as he turned he the page 

Once they heard the footsteps of their masters approach the plants began to tremble for fear of what would happen if the demon believed they were allowing themselves to be coddled without his permission. Noticing the plants sudden distress, but unaware of what caused it, Aziraphale closed his book and reached up to gently caress the trembling leaves of the poor things in an attempt to comfort them. The moment Crowley stepped into the room Aziraphale could tell that, despite the fact that he still had on his sunglasses, he was eyeing his plants suspiciously daring any of them to fail his expectations for them. 

“Where have you been out in weather like this?” Aziraphale asked, noticing that the demon was hiding something behind his back “what have you got there, dear?” 

Crowley didn’t respond, rocking back on his heels and smiling smugly before pulling out a very elaborate bouquet full of different types of flowers all variations of yellows, whites, and other cheerful colors. 

“They’re beautiful, Crowley” Azriaphale said, taking the bouquet, smiling softly at the flora 

Holding the flowers up to his face, the angle was about to smell them when he noticed a small box hidden nestled between them. Pulling the box out of the flowers Aziaraphale didn’t even have a chance to open it and see what was inside as he’d noticed that Crowley had gotten down to one knee in front of him. 

“Angle” Crowley said removing his glasses “...will you marry me?” 

“Oh, Crowley” Aziraphale said becoming teary eyed “yes!” 

Aziraphale didn’t bother opening the ring box as the moment the word yes left his mouth, he was on the floor with Crowley, allowing the demon to pull him into a tight embrace as he kissed him. When the two finally pulled away Crowley grabbed the ring box and opened it, pulling out the golden ring and slipped it onto his angles finger. Neither of them bothering to get up, preferring to just enjoy the others company, Crowley cradling his angle in his arms as he sat in his lap and Aziraphale soaking in his soon to be husbands love as he snuggled into the demons embrace.

“You know it’s funny, my dear” Azirahale said, holding up his hand so he could examine his new serpentine ring “I was actually planing on proposing to you myself” he resched into his jacket pocket and pulled out a ring box of his own “I even bought a ring” 

“Oh really now” Crowley chuckled, taking the box from his angle, opening it up to examine the angle wing themed ring “I love it”

Slipping the ring onto his own finger Crowley looked back over at Aziraphale and saw that he’d started to laugh, slowley filling his own chest with joy until it spilled out into his own fit of laughter.

Because he'll wear your favorite color Just so he can match your eyes

After barely any consideration the two decided on having their wedding in Tadfield, so it would be easier for Adam and the Them to attend, and went out to hand deliver the invitations to their nine guests, the very first invitation being delivered to Warlock, who was overjoyed about receiving an invitation because it meant spending a few days with nanny and Brother Francis, Adam (and by extension Dog), the Them, Anathema, Newt, Shadwell, and Madam Tracy, much to Newt and Warlocks surprise as they'd been convinced that the two were already married. With the assistance of Madam Tracy, who insisted on helping them set everything up, they were able to make all of the arrangements in no time at all as the older woman was very efficient at cracking the metaphoric whip in her efforts to make sure that everything was perfect and set up the ceremony in a small local church, at Crowleys insistence, as a bit of last fuck you to the archangels, specifically Gabriel, regardless of the fact that he would be unable to keep his feet planted on the ground. When the priest asked if there were any objections, everyone froze, some glancing up nervously while the others scanned the room suspiciously, no one daring to breathe until they were positive nothing was going to happen. For the vows Aziraphales were long, thoughtful, and he was obviously pouring all of his soul into them and while Crowleys were shorter they were just as thoughtful, swearing that he would protect his angle from whatever heaven or hell would dare to throw at them. 

“With the power invested in me, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may kiss the groom” 

Once Aziraphale and Crowley pulled away from their kiss they looked out at their friends and spotted the Archangel Michale standing at the back of the pews clapping along with the others, giving them a small smile that said you idiots finally figured it out before disappearing never to be seen again. Maybe. (Why you ask? Because I think it would be hilarious if during their investigation into Aziraphale they became convinced that the two had already confessed their love for each other a long ass time ago and was absolutely mortified to find out they were still pining.) Glancing at each other Crowley tightened the hold he had on his new husband, both of them waiting for something to happen but, just like with the objections, nothing did. Letting out a sigh of relief the newlyweds walked back down the isles and out of the church; miricaling up two bouquets, one full of white roses, the other full of black. Once they reached the Bentley the flowers were tossed out to the small crowd The Them, minus Pepper but with the addition of Warlock, fighting each other over who would catch Crowleys while Newt was almost hit in the face by Aziraphales before he caught it. Stepping into the passenger side of the Bentley Aziraphale just barely managed to notice the blue tartan socks Crowley was wearing, hidden away under his pant legs. 

“I thought you didn’t like tartan, dear” Aziraphale said, looking down at his husbands feet 

“I don’t” Crowley said, closing the door to the Bently 

“Then why are…” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, angle” Crowley said starting up the car, the smallest of smiles gracing the corners of his mouth 

Well does he take you dancing just to hold you close?

After the ceremony was over everyone migrated to Anathema’s home for the reception since it was a BBQ potluck type deal with only a few things being ordered in, namely the tier cake, and the DJ was a playlist of classical and Queen music Anathema had created on her phone and connected to some bluetooth speakers she'd bought specifically for the reception. To make sure there was enough room Newt, Anathema, and the Them had moved all of the furniture either as close to the walls as they possibly could or just took them out of the room completely so there would be plenty of room for when the angel and demon had their first dance together. It was to Love of my Life and once that was over Aziraphale excitedly suggested that he teach everyone his favorite dance and since it was his wedding they agreed. Standing in the kitchen Crowley watched as his husband taught everyone, minus Shadwell who refused to dance and Anathema as she was currently standing next to him, how to dance the gavotte.

“You should join him” Anathema said taking a drink from her wine glass “it looks like they're having fun” 

“Fun?” Crowley asked, more harshly than he’d intended “what could possibly be fun about a dance that went out of style ages ago” 

“No one’s gonna judge you; not only is it your special day but the only one who’s actually doing a good job is your husband” 

“Eh” Crowley shrugged causing Anathema to roll her eyes

“Come on ya big baby” Anathema said, dragging the demon out into the living room 

Once he saw that Crowley was going to join the dance Aziraphales face lit up even more than it already was and he immediately linked his arm with his husbands pulling him along, instructing him along with everyone else on what to do.

“Thank you for joining, dearest” Aziraphale said quietly, giving the demon a kiss on the cheek once the dance was finished

Dedicate a song with words meant just for you?

After all of the dancing was done it was time for the cake to be cut and food to be had, everyone managed to find some place in the house to sit so they could dig in. The moment he noticed that Crowley and Aziraphale had settled into their seats Warlock dragged Adam along with him as they snuck over to the speakers the two of them very excited to enact their plan. It had started when Adam happened to notice a Velvet Underground CD mixed in with the Queen ones the last time Crowley had given him a ride in the Bentley and when he brought it up to Warlock he remembered that Nanny had often played their songs for him when he was little. This lead them to coming up with a plan to use one of their songs to play a bit of a prank on Crowley and got to work on researching the band until they found the perfect one. Quietly cackling from their semi hidden position Warlock quickly found the song he was looking for as Adam was on the lookout and it wasn’t until the instruments began playing did both boys looked over at Crowley as the demon choked on his wine, doing his best to hide the panic he felt running through him when he heard Pale Blue Eyes playing through the house. He knew he’d never mentioned liking Velvet Underground to Anathema and he was positive Aziraphale hadn’t mentioned it either. Readjusting his sunglasses Crowley leaned back in his seat so he could glance around the room, noting that no one seemed to notice, or really care, that the song that was playing wasn’t a Queen song. So he casually turned towards the speakers and saw Adam and Warlock standing there, Anathemas phone in hand, both boys making sure to keep dead ass eye contact with the demon when he looked over at him.You little brats. Crowley mouthed to his godsons, attempting to suppress his smile as the ex-antichrist smiled at him as he and Warlock strolled back over to their friends; partially hiding amongst them in case the demon decided to come for them. 

“Well, that was a lovely song” Aziraphale said, taking a bite of the cake that sat on his plate

“It was wasn’t it” Crowley said slouching back in his chair, taking a drink from his wine.

Rent a private picnic By the fire's glow

A few years had passed since they had gotten married the angel and demon now found themselves the proud parents of three beautiful children, their oldest, who Crowley had found abandoned when she was very young who also coincidentally had red hair that was a similar color to Crowley's along with one grey and one blue eye, Rose, their toddler Eden, who had longish curly light strawberry blond hair and yellow eyes, and the baby Raphael who had the same loose curls Crowley had when he and Aziraphale had first met but wasn’t quite as long just yet and blue eyes, the two youngest being literal gifts from God herself. It was the angel and demon’s anniversary and they had decided to rent a cottage by the sea for the weekend to celebrate it. Thankfully, Rose was old enough that she could watch over her siblings by herself as their parents had some time to themselves and enjoy the adult activities that one normally participated in on during an anniversary. Because of how cool the nights were the family often found themselves sitting outside to watch the night sky. Just like they were doing this night Aziraphale looking up at the stars, pointing out the different constellations to baby Raphael as he held him in his lap and Crowley got to work starting a small fire to help keep them warm while Rose followed Eden throughout the garden as she chased after fireflies. It wasn’t until the sun was almost gone did both girls come back to the blanket. “Papa. Daddy!” Eden exclaimed, happily running into Crowleys open arms “yook at how many fireflies we caught, show them Rose” Plopping down next to her papa Rose held up the mason jar she and Eden had filled with fireflies so baby Raphael could get a good look at the jar and what was inside it before unscrewing the lid, freeing the insects back into the night sky, one landing on Raffy’s nose before flying off to join the others. Letting out a content sigh Aziraphale leaned into Crowleys side, the demon wrapping his arm around him as Eden moved so that she was sitting on both of their laps, and Rose leaned back against the serpents side, the back of her head resting on his shoulder.

[platonicone]

Love is the ultimate risk

Summary: It is Christmas eve and Hermione and Harry have a heart to heart conversation. They justified their love as friendship, but it never felt enough. Would you risk lifetime of friendship for one chance at love?

The gentle snow floated weightlessly downward from the pure white sky above. Each flake swirled and danced with the icy wind. The street looked like an unfinished painting, covered in white.

It was Christmas Eve and Harry was back at Godric’s Hollow. Unbothered by snow and cold, he stood motionless by his parent’s grave. He recalled all the events from the first time he boarded the Hogwarts Express till his eventual victory. His faces mirror the emotions of the memory that played in his head. He smiled, laughed and cried, all in a matter of a few minutes.

‘It is funny how memories don’t change, but the lens through which we see them changes over time.’ He thought. His many memories of Hermione were one of the sources of joy, however, now those same memories came with some unidentified pain.

He stood there lost in his thoughts, detached from the world around.

Eventually, he noticed that the snow fell all around him, but none on him. He looked up with curiosity and found an umbrella over his head. He turned around and was surprised to see her.

“Hermione, what are you doing here?” Even before she could answer, he asked, “Wait, how long have you been here?”

“Long enough for my hands to go numb in this cold,” she replied jokingly.

“You should have said something when you got here.”

“You looked deep in thought so I didn’t want to bother you,” she said with a smile.

“So, what brings you here?”

“You.” She handed the umbrella to him as she was tired of holding it. “Exactly one year ago we were here, together. I knew I would find you here.”

“You always know where to find me.”

“I wish I didn’t, though,” she said with a sigh.

“Why is that?”

“Because I,” she stopped mid-sentence. “Because…”

“What’s wrong, Hermione?” He asked with concern.

“God, this is so much harder than I visualized in my head,” she said shaking her head.

She took a couple of steps back from Harry. She just stood there with eyes closed, face towards the sky, taking deep breaths. Without the shelter of umbrella, gentle snowflakes rushed to kiss her face. Her bangs from either side of her beanie hat cupped her face perfectly. The snowflakes lodge into the strands of her hair.

“I promised myself that I’ll do it, so here it goes,” she psyched herself. She pulled out a small vial from her pocket and brought it close to her mouth.

“What’s that?” Harry asked.

“Truth potion,” she replied after taking a few drops. “Look, I don’t want anything to change between us – wait, no, I do want things to change between us, that is why I am doing all this. But if you don’t want things to change between us then we will not change anything between us. We will use obliviate to erase this memory. Agreed?”

“Hermione, you are not making any sense,” he projected his confusion.

“Harry, look at this ground. What color is it?”

“White.”

“Actually, the ground is lush green, but because of snow, all we see is white. In time, the snow will melt and reveal what’s truly beneath it. I’ve learned that time is a great teacher. After our victory, with nothing trying to kill me, I had a lot of time on my hand. And once the snow on my heart melted over time, I found you in it.”

“I guess what I am trying to say is that I love you, Harry. I have been in love with you for a very long time.”

“Hermione,” he was stunned to hear her truth potion induced confession.

“It’s okay, Harry. You don’t have to say anything. I know you like Ginny. I didn’t want to say anything because I know that my confession can jeopardize our friendship and make everything awkward. But I promised myself that I will tell you the truth, at least once for the sake of my own sanity. If things didn’t work out, then I will wipe both of our memories. At least, that was my plan.”

“Hermione, why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“Sometimes logical people have the biggest blind spot, and you are my blind spot. How can I tell you something when I did not fully understand how I felt for you? Perhaps I did, but I was too scared to admit it. I justified my love for you as friendship, but it never felt enough. I buried this love under layers of logic and convinced myself that this was a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Because of fear of failure. What if you don’t like me that way? What if it ruins our friendship? What if it ruins my friendship with Ginny? What if I am not good enough?”

“Not good enough? You are THE Hermione Granger: the brightest mind in whole Hogwarts, fiercely loyal, and ridiculously good-looking. Any guy would be lucky to have you, including me.” He confessed.

“What?”

“Hermione, love cannot be easily defined in words or understood by logic. Love is known by its characteristics. Who makes me feel alive just by being in their presence? Who makes me feel that no amount of time is enough with them? Who has seen me at my worst and still stood by me? Who is willing to catch me when I am falling? Who am I willing to trade my happiness for their sorrows? Who am I willing to make any sacrifice necessary for their happiness? Who does my heart beat for?”

“The answer to all these questions is you.” He continued. “To me, my parents are the symbol of true love. I came here to ask for the courage to tell you the truth today. And in case I ran out of courage, I had a little help.” He pulled out a vial similar to Hermione’s.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, getting teary-eyed.

“I never told you this because I did not want to risk our friendship. If you did not have the same feelings for me then I risk losing you from my life. I told my heart that I’d rather have Hermione in my life as a friend than losing her entirely as a lover.” He explained.

“Hermione, I love you more than anyone else in this world.”

She hugged him as if her life depended on it. “I love you too Harry.”

He let go of the umbrella and hugged her tightly. They stood there in an embrace as years of repressed emotions washed over them.

The bells in the nearby church started chiming, drawing their attention.

“Merry Christmas, Harry.”

“Merry Christmas, Hermione.”

[backtothestart02]

The First Day of Forever - 3/? | westallen fanfiction

A/N: Fic 2 written for the match-the-line-to-the-title-of-the-fic post I had going on for a bit. Once again, idk when I’ll update this fic next, but I hope you enjoy it! :D

*Many thanks to @valeriemperez for beta’ing.

...

Synopsis: Post s2 - Barry & Iris's wedding day from start to finish. 

...

Chapter 3 - Kids, We Have to Talk

...

At a quarter past noon, Iris and her girls headed over to the church with their dresses in tow after having their hair made up gloriously by Linda’s cousin, Rebecca. They managed to get there before the guys and quickly made their way to the back room to finish getting ready.

Iris’ stomach grumbled quietly as Caitlin finished buttoning her up. Her gown was a stunning sleeveless, embroidered masterpiece that puffed out at the hips to produce the princess style she was so fond of. She had pearls on her ears and perfectly placed glittering clips in her hair, which was half-up and half rolling over her shoulders.

“You look amazing, Iris,” Felicity said, staring at her in the mirror with her jaw on the floor.

“Thanks, Felicity.” Iris beamed.

“I helped her pick it out,” Linda piped up, coming to stand beside her in a pretty-in-pink number that lay like silk on her slim figure.

“You came with me,” Iris said, amused. “There’s a difference.”

Linda rolled her eyes but let it go.

“You really do look beautiful, babe.” She slightly adjusted the necklace hanging between her collar bones. “Barry’s a lucky guy.”

Iris’ heart fluttered at the mention of her fiancé’s name, but she didn’t ask where he was or if she could talk to him. She’d promised the girls on the way over that she would restrain herself until after the ceremony, and she was going to do her best to keep her word.

“Thanks, Lin,” she said instead, sharing a sweet smile with her best friend.

There was a knock on the door, and Caitlin turned to see who it was. She opened the door just a crack and peeked her head into the opening. An amused Joe West raised his eyebrows, and she flushed, taking a step back and turning to Iris.

“It’s your dad, Iris. Do you want us to go?”

Joe pushed the door in.

“I’d like a moment alone with my daughter, if you ladies don’t mind.”

Iris didn’t say a word, only met her father’s gaze in the mirror and smiled softly. Her eyes glittered and her heart raced. It wasn’t yet time for him to walk her down the aisle, but that time was coming. And besides, the last time she’d seen him they’d been hugging it out over their mutual enthusiasm that she was marrying her best friend, Barry Allen.

“Come on, girls,” Linda said, wrapping her arm around Felicity’s shoulders and nudging Caitlin and Stacy out the door. “We’ll pop back in when they’re done.”

“I appreciate that,” Joe said, smiling serenely, then closing the door behind them as quiet as a whisper when they were gone. When he couldn’t hear their chatting in the hall any longer, he turned back towards his daughter. “They seem like they’re a handful.”

Iris’ smile spread, and she turned to face her father, not bothering to pick up her train at first.

“They’re not.”

Joe smiled and met her across the room, careful not to step on her dress.

“You look beautiful, baby girl.”

“Thanks, Dad,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes no matter how much she told them not to.

“Just like your mother,” he said, making her breath catch in her throat.

“You’re going to make me cry,” her voice broke.

“I’ve been making myself cry all morning already… Just thinking about how beautiful and amazing and exceptional you are, and that… Well, I’m giving you to the only man on this earth that deserves you.”

“Daaad,” she complained, wiping away the tear or two that made its way down her cheeks.

He grabbed a tissue and helped her, assuring not a single bit of her make-up had been smudged.

She turned to look at herself in the mirror for confirmation anyway.

“Well, that’s only because everything is waterproof.” She sniffled.

“I’m not going to make it through that ceremony,” he said honestly, and she turned to face him again, reaching out and wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too, baby girl. My little Iris.”

“I’ll always be your baby girl,” she said pulling back enough to look into his eyes. “No matter what Barry says.”

“Oh, Barry,” he said on a sigh, somehow having gotten even more emotional. “That boy loves you so much, Iris.”

“I know.” She smiled.

“He’s loved you for so long. Since ten or nine, maybe even the day you met.”

She laughed, a giggle flowing off her tongue.

“I think I’ve loved him just as much for just as long. I just needed a little help realizing it.”

“I know,” he said, warmth and love intermingling between them. “Promise you won’t forget to ask him for help.”

“I won’t,” she promised.

“I mean it, Iris. You’re so good at taking care of people, especially Barry, but you tend to not confide your own fears until they’ve been bottled up for so long that…”

“I explode,” she finished. “Yeah, I know.”

“Most of the time, Barry can tell you’re not okay, even if you say you are. But sometimes he needs a little help. Promise me you’ll confide in him, trust him, let him be your rock when your whole world is falling apart. And if that doesn’t work, come find me. I’ll take you out for ice-cream.”

She laughed, wiping away tears again.

“Okay, Dad, I promise.”

She wrapped her arms around him again and stayed in his embrace until enough time had passed that her impatient bridal party was hovering near the door and Joe could practically sense it.

“Come on in, ladies,” he said, and watched as their initial protests turned into them nearly falling over each other to get back in the room.

“We didn’t want to interrupt-”

“If you’re not done-”

“We just wanted to see if-”

“It’s all right, ladies. I was on my way out, anyway.” He glanced back at Iris, and she shrugged.

Maybe they were a little bit of a handful.

…

Barry stepped into the large sanctuary, his eyes widening as he took in the full length of the aisle, and reality finally hit him.

In one hour and 36 minutes, he was going to marry Iris Ann West.

The next time he came out of this hall with her arm wrapped around his, he would be a married man and she would be a married woman. She’d be Mrs. Iris West-Allen.

Every dream he’d had since he was a child included this as the end result.

Never in a million years did he actually think it would happen, though. Even after she had feelings for him, even after she confessed them and went on a date with him and said yes to his proposal and went shopping for wedding venues and cakes and dresses and showing off his grandmother’s engagement ring to everyone they knew, some part of him wondered if it really would happen.

But now, here it was, and here he stood. In another room, the groomsmen were getting ready. Joe had gone to see Iris – which had nearly killed Barry. The priest and photographer and wedding planner were elsewhere as, well.

Slowly, he walked up the aisle until he got to the steps, then climbed those as well. He turned around and looked across the entire room, imagining the countless guests, imagining Iris walking down the aisle with Joe on her arm, imagining Joe giving Iris away to him, as his wife.

He was nearly dizzy at the thought of it.

Did he deserve Iris? No way.

Did she want to be his, anyway? More than anything.

“Yes! Yes! I’ll marry you! Of course! More than anything! More than anything I want to be Mrs. West-Allen. I love you, Barry! I-”

And he’d kissed her and felt her happy tears against his face and slipped the ring on her finger, and everyone had applauded, Joe teary-eyed as well from the corner of the restaurant.

Was it cheesy and cliché and stereotypical to propose in a restaurant? Maybe.

But since the restaurant had just a few years ago been the rooftop of Jitters, he felt it was sentimental, and Iris did too.

The sound of the large, polished wooden door to the sanctuary opening snapped Barry out of the daze of sweet memories he’d fallen into. For half a moment, he was scared to death it was Iris walking in and he’d just missed when all the guests had arrived and had groomsmen and the priest had joined him. But of course, none of that had happened. It was only Joe all by his lonesome, but his smile had a determined edge to it, and a different kind of worry filled Barry’s insides.

“Joe? Is there…something wrong?”

Joe slowed down his stride and relaxed his shoulders as he finished the walk to his soon-to-be son-in-law.

“No, son, nothing’s wrong. It’s just…” Barry’s brows furrowed. “Well, it’s your turn.”

“My turn?” He blanked.              

“Yeah.” He chuckled. “You’re about to become my son-in-law. Did you really think you wouldn’t be getting a talking to before you took my little girl away from me?”

Barry paled. He’d never seen Joe like this.

So…nonchalant over something that sounded deadly serious.

“Joe, I-”

“Relax,” he soothed, rubbing Barry’s shoulder. Then he gestured to the steps just a few inches from their feet. “Have a seat.”

...

*Also posted on AO3 and FFnet.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Things in The Crucible movie I really like

Mary’s cowl

Winona Ryder as Abigail

Mercy being played by the mom from Liv and Maddie

Mercy tries to hit Betty and Abigail skillfully catches her hand mid-swing.

In the scene where Betty exposes Abigail’s ass for trying to make a charm to kill Elizabeth, Abigail shoves Betty onto the bed and yells at her, causing all the other girls to scramble around in a panic, and while they do so, Mary, who is already teary-eyed, cries, “Is she gonna die?!”

Just Karon Greeves’ performance as a whole. I need to make an entire post all about Mary Warren’s character analysis and how she acts in TC, and her actress for the movie will definitely strengthen that. Seriously, Greeves is so good.

The second time Betty tries to jump out the window, her screaming somehow grabs the attention of the people in church, making them all run out to see what the commotion is, and we get a wonderful shot of this whole child halfway out the window with half a dozen pair of hands trying to pull her back in.

Proctor’s pants.

Hale being casted as the gayest looking man possible.

MARTHA AND GILES

Tituba actually gets whipped in the scene where everyone is accusing her and it genuinely made me cringe in pain.

The terror on all of the girl’s faces is great, too. Even Mercy looks horrified. And I love how Mary slowly reached a hand up to cling to her arm.

Also during that scene, Putnam grabs a rope and says, “Let’s hang her!”

The part where all the girls start crying out the names of people they supposedly saw with the devil gave me fucking CHILLS.

Also Mary looks around at everyone before finally joining in on the yelling, which will be another thing I’ll add to the analysis I will do on her.

The way the judges and men are shoved into the smallest house possible to eat is so funny to me.

Mercy poking the ground with some garden tool while staring directly in the direction of the camera from a distance.

A few bullet points regarding the scene where Mary gets in trouble for going to court so here’s one to start us off: Proctor is just....sitting in the dark and Elizabeth is by the staircase like they’re parents ready to bust their daughter for sneaking out to go to a party.

Instead of a whip Proctor grabs...a belt??? What is he, one of the fathers who would threaten to “whoop” their kids with their belt?

The few hurried steps Elizabeth takes forward when Proctor grabs the belt.

Proctor and Mary don’t play ring around the rosary around the table, but Mary does fly out of the house. Like, she fucking BOOKS IT. I don’t think she’s allowed to run away from a beating as a servant, but she does anyway.

Mary’s bonnet falls off and it turns out her hair is in a bun. I thought she actress had short hair, but nope! It’s just tied up. I’m tagging this because I like her having long hair for story ideas.

The second time Proctor tries to whip Mary, she fucking SCREECHES and hightail it again.

When Elizabeth is being arrested, two of her sons come down from upstairs and hug her goodbye and one of them wouldn’t let go.

Also when Elizabeth gets chained in the wagon and Proctor gets riled up because of that, the boys do, too, and start attacking the guards and they’re screaming and crying and it’s honestly so sad.

Right before Proctor starts the monologue that would be at the end of act 2, you can not only hear Mary sobbing in the background, but you can also hear him slapping the whip (errr...belt) in his hands, meaning he’s probably going to beat Mary. I mean, I always expected that’s how he got her to agree to testify against the other girls, since it doesn’t happen onscreen.

How close Ruth and Mercy sit next to each other is really cute to me for some reason.

When the court is called to recess, you can hear someone say, “Thank you, Mary Warren!”

Proctor reaches back and has to urge Mary onwards when they’re switching houses to hear the news about the girl’s lying because she was clearly trying to lag behind.

While Giles is being questioned, Mary is left alone in some empty room, curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth, whispering, “Oh my god” while sobbing. The other girls then slowly enter and stalk towards her and she sprints back to the courthouse.

Proctor tends to and soothes Mary after she stumbles into the courtroom, like drying off her face, which I thought was sweet, but he’s still an abusive asshole.

True to Mary in the script and play, movie Mary spends the entire court scene fucking crying.

Parris grabs Mary by the wrists and yells in her face after she says she can’t pretend to faint.

Mary being unable to speak and explain and getting really choked up to the point where is sounds like she may vomit.

Danforth’s face when this happens.

The way Proctor has to get up and retrieve Mary when she breaks. Also how she hides her head behind him when she’s sitting down again.

Danforth leaning away when Abigail yells at him.

When Abigail starts to shiver and claims there’s a coldness in the air, the other girls kinda look at each other for a moment before joining her.

Abigail falls to her knees at one point and you can see Hale slowly stand up and back away and I thought that was so fucking funny.

Proctor slamming Abigail onto the judge’s table when claiming she’s a whore.

Once the girls start copying her, Mary slowly goes into the fetal position on one of the benches and it’s one of the most heartbreaking things to see.

Also Parris holds her hand for some reason.

[prorevenge]

Have fun explaining the smoking charge to your parents.

There was a fire across the street from a students' apartment building and due to the smoke a number of them were asked to leave by the fire department. As such we had a good number of students staying with us.

Generally I prefer students over adults as A) they're my age and B) for every 1 shitty student I have dozens of shitty older people (prime shitty range is late 40s to early 60s). I usually try to go a little out of my way for students as well, they come in drunk late at night and I'll make them fresh cookies or offer to let them go up onto our roof that overlooks the college campus we're located on, shit I'm technically not allowed to do but I figure especially for students they're paying a hefty price to stay here so the least I can do is try and make it a bit nicer. So it's around midnight and this group of 4 students come in. Two of them are staying with us on their parents' credit card (I only know this because the one kid was lightly making fun of the girl for "having daddy save her" at check-in) and the other 2 are just their friends. We get to chatting and have what to me was a great conversation.

Talk about various things a bit deeper than you normally would with a customer I assume but nothing philosophical. Our plans for the next few years, opinions on cities, how backwoods and reactionary the area I grew up in was (they were also familiar with the area and two of them grew up less than an hour from where I grew up). They joke that they're sad there's no cookies left and I tell them if they give me 15 minutes I can go bake some more. I ask them how many they want and I tell them "honestly you can have as many as you want", and they say one each is fine, but I can tell they want more so I say again "No honestly, you guys can have as many as you want, they're not my cookies and we buy in such bulk they cost like 5-10 cents each". The one guy asks if they could have 15. I tell them that's not a problem at all and go bake them. While they're cooking I say they're free to go up to their room and I can bring them up if they want. They agree to just wait in the lobby so we just continue talking. Again, above average conversation, not getting any weird vibes from them and they all seem super friendly and generally nice. We talk about our parents, the girl whose parents had paid for the room were apparently super strict. They think she's never done drugs, hasn't drank, still goes to church every weekend. She laughs and says how mad they'd be if they knew she was staying at the hotel with a guy(Important). Cookies are done, they head up to their room super thankful and I get that little twinge of happiness from helping to make their night a bit better.

Fast forward about 3 hours. I hear what sounds like tittering whispers and that gasping thing people do when they're crying coming from the basement. I go down the first bend of the stairs (there's a landing halfway down where it turns 180 degrees so you can't see straight down) and two of the girls turn the corner. They look teary eyed, but weirdly are giggling. I assume they got into fights with their boyfriends or something (the group of 4 was 2 guys 2 gals, both dating) and it's none of my business so I just say "sorry I thought I heard something down here, just wanted to check what it was". People seem to cry in open in our hotel a lot and in general crying makes me uncomfortable but especially I don't want to deal with crying at my job. Go back to what I was doing and I have a window open due to the weather so I get a big backdraft that pulls this really strong scent of weed up from the basement. Things all fall together, they were teary eyed from smoking, plus the laughing and their nervousness. Plus there's only a microwave and ice machine in our basement and they weren't using either.

So I go back down to the basement and they elevator door is just closing. I can smell weed prominently once I get to the actual bottom of the stairs. Our elevator is slow as fuck and I figure I can just take the stairs and catch them at their floor. I get there and they must have just beat me because I hear their door close as I reach the landing. Get to their room and I can definitely smell weed. Now I'm an avid smoker. There was a time in my life where I was high nearly 24/7 for the better part of a year. I've since cut back to a few times a week but still smoke heavily. I don't have a problem with weed or even smoking in the hotel as long as people are discreet about it. I have a schpiel that I give guests when I catch them smoking. We're supposed to have no warnings and just charge them a $250 "deep cleaning" fee which is really just shampooing the rugs and washing the curtains but I think that's way too much so despite having caught maybe 30-40 people in the time I've worked here I've only charged one person and that was only after 2 warnings and him being a real asshole every time. Anyways my schpiel generally goes "I'm not implying you were smoking but as a note there is a $250 charge if you are caught smoking inside the hotel. We also reserve the right to remove you from your room, as part of the agreement you signed at check-in. Now I'm sure none of us want that so just if you were smoking please limit doing so to outside the hotel or stuff a towel under the door turn on the bathroom vent and open the windows. At this time I'm not charging you, so with that I hope the matter's taken care of" and 95% of the time they agree and are thankful for getting off so there's no problem. I knock on their door and no answer. They had just gone in the room, I saw the door closing so there's no way they don't hear me. I knock again. I can hear them whispering in their room. It's that pathetic whisper drunk/ high people do that's way too loud to not be heard (even through a door). I'm quoting them but obviously it's not exact, just what I remember.

"Oh my god he followed us into the basement and then followed us back up here. So fucking creepy". I knock again "Guys just act like we're not here and he'll leave" "What's that pussy gonna do" "I dunno I'm just going to bed, don't answer the door" the discussion goes on like this for another few seconds, I knock again and they get less focused on the door and more focused on calling me names it seems. Whatever, sticks and stones. Then one of them calls me a faggot and I figure that's about where I draw the line (I had mentioned being bisexual to them). Leave their door and go back to my computer to charge them. Calm down on the walk back and figure I'll give them one more try. Call their room and get no answer. Call back one more time, and no answer. Put the charge on their dads credit card, it shows as SMOKING PENALTY on the receipt (also hooked up to her dads email address I can tell as it matches the name on the card (firstname_lastname at gmail)). Maybe 5 minutes later I get a call at the front desk. Pick up and it's them. "Hey so like we were sleeping and we think we got a call from but we just missed it and it took us a while to figure out how to call you back". I remind them that I saw them in the basement a few minutes ago. "Oh yeah we went up and fell right asleep". I tell them the reason I was knocking was to tell them we have a charge for smoking in the room- and immediately they go on a diatribe about how there was a fire across from their street and that must have been the smoke I smelled. I tell them I understand that but I also know that weed has a distinctly different smell. She admits to smoking but "it was outside the hotel then we came back". I tell her I've been sitting in our lobby all night and as that's our only door in or out, that's impossible. One of the guys gets the phone, same one who called me a faggot. "Come on dude can't you just like let this slide?". "I'm sorry the charge already has been posted, have a nice night". "Fuck you". Click. Looked up the dads email again in their reservation. Type up some facetious "standard" letter that we send out for smoking penalties so there's no way she can deny it to her parents. Say they had been given multiple warnings, and that the smoke smell had been independently confirmed by two separate workers. Even find a way to naturally worm in there that she was staying with a separate guest (saying it's a guy might make it too obvious I feared). In case he just doesn't notice the penalty charge on the receipt I figure a separate email will ensure he sees it. And I get that little twinge of happiness in seeing shitty things happen to shitty people.

(source) (story by Fawxhox)