#for the first time she could be unrestrained in her creativity

[nightly-valkyrie]

Nobody can convince me that Ariane didn't, at some point, paint the interior walls of the Penrose in massive, stunning murals.

Like she was the highest authority for hundreds of millions of kilometers in any direction, and the thought didn't occur to her even once?

[harryssyndrome]

The Rain Girl | h.s

based on this request! Thx anon for sending your request [mwah mwah!] This is my all time favorite fairytale idea.

Posted on: December 9th, 2024 (IST). by the way I cried sm, can’t believe The Eras Tour is over😭 I need my swifties rn for comfort, fr. Omg I just noticed I’m posting after 13 DAYS, oh my swiftie heart rn. Like, comment and reblog are appreciated! I was so stuck with a long request that I exhausted my creative cells but I’m back now! and will complete all the small requests first 😌 DO NOT STEAL MY WORK, TRANSLATE OR PUBLISH TO ANY OTHER PLATFORM.

Tag-list: @wheredidmyeyesgo @fruity-harry @angeldavis777 @cherryloveshs @harryyloverrr | Tag-list is OPEN || Request are OPEN

word count: 1.9k || Masterlistt☔️

summery: Harry meets a carefree girl in a London rain and then in that moment he knows those romcom feelings.

The rain had always been Harry’s companion, a quiet backdrop to the chaos of his life. He loved the way it muted the world, the way its steady rhythm provided a semblance of order amidst his own disarray. But today, the rain had taken him by surprise. He’d barely managed to duck under the awning of a small bookstore when the sky opened up, releasing a torrent that drenched the cobblestone streets in seconds.

Leaning against the wall, Harry adjusted his jacket, flicking water off the lapels and running a hand through his damp curls. The exhaustion from a long day at the studio weighed heavily on him. His debut album was supposed to be a labor of love, but lately, it felt more like a battle against his own insecurities. Each note, each lyric, each chord had to be perfect, and the pressure to live up to everyone’s expectations was relentless.

He pulled out his phone to check if it had survived the sudden downpour, his mind already on the warm haven of his apartment. He could picture it now—dim lighting, a soft blanket, and the vinyl player spinning one of his favorite records. But then he heard it.

A laugh.

Not just any laugh, but a sound so pure and unrestrained that it sliced through the rain like a melody. It wasn’t the kind of laugh that came from a joke or a conversation. It was a laugh born of joy, spontaneous and infectious.

His head turned toward the sound, his brows furrowing in curiosity. A few steps away, illuminated by the warm glow of a streetlamp, was a girl. No, not just a girl—a force of nature.

She was dancing in the rain.

Her arms were outstretched, her head thrown back as the rain cascaded over her. She spun in circles, her navy-blue skirt flaring around her legs, her white shirt plastered to her skin and revealing the faint outline of a black bra underneath. Long strands of hair clung to her back and face, but she didn’t seem to care. She stomped in puddles with bare feet, her movements wild and uncoordinated, and yet, there was a grace to her, a rhythm that made it impossible to look away.

Harry felt rooted to the spot, his fatigue momentarily forgotten. It wasn’t just her appearance that caught his attention—though she was undoubtedly striking—it was the way she seemed to exist outside of time. In a city that never stopped moving, she had created a world of her own, a pocket of joy amidst the gray monotony.

He leaned against the wall, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he watched her. She was oblivious to him, too consumed by the moment to notice the figure standing in the shadows. For a fleeting second, Harry felt envious. When was the last time he had let go like that? When was the last time he’d allowed himself to simply be?

Then, as if sensing his gaze, she stopped. Her laughter faded, and she turned to look at him. Their eyes met, and Harry felt a strange jolt in his chest.

“Enjoying the show?” she called out, her voice warm and teasing, carrying easily over the sound of the rain.

Harry blinked, caught off guard. He pushed himself off the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets in an attempt to appear nonchalant. “Hard not to,” he replied, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

She tilted her head, studying him. “And why are you just standing there? Afraid of a little rain?”

He chuckled, glancing down at his soaked boots. “Not exactly dressed for it,” he said, motioning to his leather boots and jacket.

“Boots can be replaced. Moments like this?” She spread her arms again, gesturing to the rain-soaked street. “Rare.”

Her words hung in the air, challenging him. Harry hesitated, torn between the logical part of his mind that told him to stay dry and the inexplicable urge to join her. “I’d ruin my boots,” he countered, though his tone lacked conviction.

She laughed again, the sound light and carefree. “Ruin them, then. It’s worth it.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but then an idea struck him. He glanced toward the small café just a few doors down, its warm lights spilling onto the street. Without a word, he darted toward it, ignoring the rain soaking through his jacket as he crossed the short distance.

Inside, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and pastries greeted him. He approached the counter and ordered two takeaway cups of tea, the warmth seeping into his hands as he carried them back outside.

When he returned, she had stopped dancing, standing under the streetlamp with her head tilted back, letting the rain kiss her face. Her eyes flicked toward him as he approached, her curiosity evident.

“Thought you might need this,” he said, holding out one of the cups.

She blinked in surprise, then smiled as she accepted it. “Tea in the rain? How very British of you.”

He shrugged, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Call it a peace offering. Or maybe an excuse to stand here and talk to you.”

She raised an eyebrow, her smile turning mischievous. “You didn’t need to buy me tea for that.”

Harry chuckled, taking a sip of his own tea. “Maybe not, but I thought it might earn me a few points.”

Her laughter returned, softer this time. She wrapped her hands around the cup, letting the steam rise toward her face. “Well, you’re off to a good start,” she admitted.

They stood in silence for a moment, the rain continuing to fall around them. Harry felt an unexpected sense of calm, the kind that had eluded him for weeks. She was magnetic in a way that wasn’t forced or deliberate.

“So,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “Do you always dance in the rain, or was I just lucky enough to catch a rare performance?”

She laughed, glancing down at her feet. “It’s not a regular thing,” she admitted. “But sometimes, you just… feel it, you know? Like the world is giving you permission to forget everything and just exist.”

Harry nodded slowly, her words resonating with him. “I think I needed to see that,” he said, his voice quiet but sincere.

Her expression softened, her gaze lingering on him. “Tough day?”

“Something like that,” he replied. He hesitated, unsure how much to share. “Long hours in the studio. Trying to get everything perfect.”

She tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “You’re a musician?”

He smiled faintly. “Something like that.”

“Well,” she said, her voice thoughtful, “perfection is overrated. Look at me—spinning around like a lunatic, completely soaked, and probably scaring off anyone sane enough to be walking these streets. But I feel perfect right now.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile. “You make a convincing argument.”

Her gaze lingered on him, her eyes warm and inviting. “You should try it,” she said suddenly, setting her tea cup down on the railing of a nearby staircase.

“Try what?”

“Dancing,” she said simply. “You’ve got the boots for it.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh, come on,” she urged, stepping closer. “You’re already wet. What’s the harm?”

Before he could protest, she grabbed his hand, her fingers warm despite the rain. She pulled him into the middle of the street, her laughter spilling over as he stumbled slightly, caught off guard.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, though he couldn’t stop smiling.

“Ridiculous is underrated,” she countered, spinning him in a clumsy circle.

Harry let out a genuine laugh, the sound surprising even himself. He let go of his inhibitions, stomping in puddles and spinning her around as the rain continued to pour. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t thinking about deadlines or expectations. He was just… living.

When they finally stopped, both breathless and soaked to the bone, she looked at him with a grin that was equal parts teasing and genuine. “See? Not so bad, is it?”

He shook his head, his curls plastered to his forehead. “Not bad at all.”

As the rain began to ease, she picked up her tea and took another sip, her eyes flicking toward the horizon. “Well, Harry Styles,” she said, her tone playful, “thanks for the tea and the company. I think you just made my day.”

He blinked, surprised. “You know who I am?”

She smirked, her gaze mischievous. “Who doesn’t?”

As she turned to leave, Harry couldn’t help but call out after her. “Hey! Rain girl!”

She paused mid-step, glancing over her shoulder with an amused smile. “Rain girl?”

He shrugged, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Well, I don’t know your name, and it fits. You did kind of make an impression tonight.”

Her smile widened, and she took a step closer, tilting her head. “Does that mean I’ll have to keep dancing in the rain just so you’ll remember me?”

Harry laughed, shaking his head. “You’ve already made yourself pretty unforgettable,” he said, his voice softer, more sincere. “But… how do I find you again? Do I have to wait for the next downpour and hope you’ll be out here?”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully, her expression teasing. “Well, I do love dancing in the rain. Maybe you’ll just have to keep an eye out.”

Harry groaned dramatically, though his grin never faltered. “That’s a bit risky, don’t you think? What if the rain doesn’t come for weeks?”

She laughed, the sound light and melodic. “Then you’ll learn some patience.”

“Or,” he countered, pulling his phone from his pocket and holding it out to her, “you could just give me your number and save me the suspense.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by his persistence. After a moment, she took the phone from his hand, her fingers brushing against his as she typed. Harry watched her with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation, and when she handed the phone back, he glanced at the screen.

The number was there, but instead of a name, she had saved it under the nickname he’d given her earlier: Rain Girl.

He chuckled, his eyes flicking back to her. “Seriously? No name? Just Rain Girl?”

She shrugged, her smile playful. “I like the nickname. Besides, it’ll make sure you remember me.”

Harry smiled, his heart feeling inexplicably lighter. “I don’t think I could forget you even if I tried,” he admitted, his tone sincere. “And now I know what I’ll be dreaming about tonight.”

Her cheeks turned a faint shade of pink, and she dipped into a playful bow, holding the edges of her skirt like it was a ballroom gown. “In that case, let me properly introduce myself. This Rain Girl’s name is YN.”

Harry’s grin widened as he repeated her name softly, as though testing how it felt on his tongue. “YN.”

She straightened, her smile bright despite the rain-soaked strands of hair clinging to her face. “Now you’ve got a name to go with the number,” she said.

“Perfect,” Harry said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “But I still think Rain Girl suits you better.”

YN laughed, a sound that seemed to linger in the air even as she turned and began walking away. Harry watched her go, a strange warmth settling in his chest.

As the rain tapered off, leaving the streets glistening under the dim streetlights, Harry couldn’t stop smiling. He hadn’t just found shelter from the storm—he’d found something unexpected, something he couldn’t quite put into words yet.

And he knew one thing for sure: the next time it rained, he’d be looking for her.

[xelasrecords]

As Daylight Comes

Han Jumin x MC

Jumin and MC have been married for a while, and their friendship with Jihyun is stronger than ever, so what better way to spend their morning together than to have breakfast with a side of teasing and musing on life?

Challenging myself to write a fluffy domestic scene because I realised I rarely write one. I also wanted to write Jihyun with his good ending personality because I barely see it in fics, so here he is at his healthiest mentally.

Words: 3.8k

Masterlist Read on AO3

The two men's hushed laughter eased her awake, the morning sun a soft gleam behind her closed eyelids. The first voice was clear and deep, one that she heard every day and night spoken like an oath to her soul. The second was gentler, a pleasant lilting voice that she and her husband often heard in their regular calls. She smiled to herself and threw the covers aside; she had already known who she would see before reaching the doorway. They were the sounds that she knew well and loved.

At the dining table, Jumin, her Jumin, was sitting with his back facing her, the sleeves of his navy sweater rolled up. He was leaning forwards, engrossed in telling what she was sure to be a fascinating idea he had recently thought of and possibly should not ever be acted upon. Jihyun was sitting on the other side, his head ducked in an attempt to smother his laughter, mint hair catching the glimmer of sunlight that passed through the floor-length windows as he moved.

Her heart felt whole at the sight of their dearest friend. Finally, they were together. They did not have to painstakingly arrange calls that were always cut too short by their own lives anymore.

She didn't think it was possible for them to be any less content than they were now and almost didn't want to intrude. Jumin's sincere laugh, the unrestrained kind only she could pull out, was floating across their spacious home. But she knew them, and knew that they would rather her join them and make their happiness complete. Time did not wear out their love for her, or her love for them. It strengthened their bond, pulling them in tighter than ever.

She could never grow tired of it. It was a feeling she had become accustomed to, yet still marvelled at the wonder, the near impossibility of it.

She padded across the room, the granite floor cold beneath her feet, and slid her arm around Jumin's shoulders. "Wonderful morning everyone. I wasn't aware we had company." She pressed her lips against his mussed black hair, catching a faint whiff of fresh wild cedar. Jihyun, having seen her approach, visibly brightened and gave her a wide smile, one she graciously returned.

With one hand around her waist, Jumin pulled her onto his lap and kissed her shoulder, sliding up the thin strap of her loose top that had drooped down. "The company had stopped by unannounced."

Jihyun looked sheepish. "I'm sorry we woke you up. I thought we had been quiet enough."

"I'm honestly furious that you didn't wake me up earlier," she said good-naturedly. "Were you just going to leave if I didn't?"

"Jumin told me how you had to stay up all night for work. I didn't want to disturb you."

She waved it away and picked up a turkey sandwich in front of her, eating it with enthusiasm. "Disturb me all you want. I welcome it."

"Are you sure you don't need more rest?" Jumin murmured into her ear, both arms circling her waist. "I could force him to stay until you wake up later. Glue him to the chair with a powerful adhesive or a magic spell. I may not be the pioneer of creativity, but I have brought several creative projects to fruition. I could think of something."

"With determination comes great result?" she suggested.

"Exactly. There is no reason I can't attempt sorcery if nothing else works."

She turned around and winked. "I could help you with the enchantment."

He sighed into the crook of her neck. "This is why I married you, my exceptional wife. You are ever supportive and full of love."

Jihyun smiled despairingly into his slice of sandwich. "Why are you two the way you are?"

She and Jumin shrugged in one coordinated movement.

As she scanned the table for more food, she realised there were a variety of sandwiches and fruits spread across the marble top. Silently, she sent Jihyun her gratitude for bringing an abundance of anything other than pancakes. However much she loved Jumin, she was quite sick of slathering strawberry jam or maple syrup or even more strawberries on the pancakes he made.

The fruit assortment interestingly lacked strawberries too.

"This sandwich is good, Jihyun. Did you make this?" She examined her second helping of a toasted cheese sandwich in her hand. The cheese was still oozing when she bit into it.

He grinned. "Ah, it is?"

She performed a dramatic moan. "Orgasmically so."

She held back her laugh at the mischievous glint in his sea-green eyes. Truthfully, she might have sent a text to Jihyun to save her from a lifetime of pancake breakfast. And he might have responded to her plea with utmost seriousness and come to her rescue the very next day.

It was a possibility that they might have conspired on something that would have mildly offended Jumin, yes.

Some secrets were best kept as secrets.

Jumin, blissfully oblivious, studied her with extreme amusement. "I have to remind you that we skipped our morning sex. If you are heavily aroused, you only need to ask." His voice had dropped low, his breathing fanning her neck. "I will give you everything that you desire. It is what I wish for myself as well."

She leaned against his chest and whispered, "Make it an afternoon quickie. Let's do it later."

"So you're giving me the order to wait." His hands ran up the inside of her bare thighs until they reached the lining of her shorts, his clothed knees nudging her legs open. She suppressed a shiver; familiar as his touch was, a pleasurable rush still spread across her skin whenever he did it. "What do I get in return? A fair bargain has to benefit both parties."

She squirmed against his thighs on purpose, knowing the friction would crack his composure. "You get a lesson in patience," she drawled, voice low and raspy, "and I get to watch you exercise your iron will. I will be satisfied. Didn't you want me to feel good?"

Jumin looked scandalised. "In nowhere would that be constituted as a fair deal, and patience is a virtue I have long been practising. I wish to propose an alternative."

"Shall I take my leave?" Jihyun interrupted. "I don't have to see to know what you two are doing down there."

"Nothing!" Hastily, she put away Jumin's hands and grabbed Jihyun's over the table before he could stand, ignoring Jumin's huffing. "Please stay. We are two very chaste adults."

Jihyun's smile was wry. "That's not what I heard about your sex life."

"You told him?" She whirled on Jumin. "I thought you'd have more respect for my intimate life. This is a breach of my privacy. I'd never got a betrayal of this magnitude, and from my own husband!"

"Interesting," Jumin said. "Would you like to know how he reacted when I recounted our latest session? He was not surprised. Not one bit. In fact, he was too ready to supply a reaction. I have to wonder if he had prepared himself beforehand."

She narrowed her eyes at Jihyun. "You traitor."

"I was just trying to be supportive, but I suppose Jumin has always been too good at reading my intentions." Jihyun shook his head in regret.

"That's right," Jumin said, a smug tone in his voice. He was always proud when he could prove their decades of friendship through their mutual understanding.

With a scoff, she shifted to the chair beside him and scooped a handful of blueberries and an egg sandwich into his plate before doing the same for Jihyun. When she looked down, she saw that Jihyun had filled hers as well. For a while, the dining room was silent as they dug into their meal, save for the cutleries clinking against plates and fabrics rustling when they helped each other with more food and drinks.

She could live like this every day, she thought. It wouldn't be so bad to have Jihyun here more often. Jumin was one of the kindest people she had ever known, but he had edges that remained sharp and could only soften in the presence of his best friend. Jumin with Jihyun was fully at peace, and Jihyun was no different. He spoke his mind without holding back and did not hesitate to share his art with him. Between them was a sense of safety she never found between anyone else.

Anyone else except her own friendship with him.

Jihyun meant just as much to her, and she to him. They would sacrifice their sleep if one was ringing up the other in dire trouble, despite being on opposite sides of the globe. And sometimes Jumin would leave them to talk into the night while he slept, knowing they had things they were more comfortable sharing alone, though he would chide her for the black rings under her eyes in the morning and fuss over her.

Jumin was never jealous. Rather, he was delighted that his wife got along well with his best friend and had no qualms announcing it whenever he could, not caring if anyone thought it strange. To him, the joy of seeing the two people he loved the most being close surpassed other petty emotions. She could read it on his face. It would have broken his heart if they found each other's company distasteful.

She wondered if it was the same for Jumin, if he could see that she cherished Jihyun and had missed him too. She might have entered their lives later, but time did not dictate closeness. If someone were to be taken out of the equation, the other two would be left flailing, stranded with half of their string cut.

She felt the three of them were always better when they existed in the same space.

"Did you know why he came here?" Jumin cut through her thoughts and gestured at Jihyun. "He claimed to have forgotten his camera. Under normal circumstances, I would have accepted it as a reasonable excuse, except he has done this three times."

"You said it like it's a bad thing. Do you not want me to drop by?" Jihyun asked mildly.

Jumin raised his brows. "You're an artist. You could have come up with a more creative excuse."

She straightened up and looked right into Jihyun's lively eyes. They were the eyes that had freed themselves from the sorrow that plagued his younger, more foolish years. "Ignore this cynical guy. He doesn't know that joy is found in little things. I, for one, commend you for your intricate planning. That is some strategising and determination you have shown. Anyone who doesn't appreciate your effort shouldn't be eating your food." She glared at Jumin.

"Thank you for recognising my effort, but that isn't all." Jihyun paused. "I also missed you. I enjoyed my trip, but the places I visited made me yearn to come back because you weren't there. Of course, I speak including you, Jumin."

"I see I have been demoted to an afterthought," remarked Jumin.

"That is what you get for acting all mighty." She rose to fetch a glass of orange juice from across the table. Jumin held back the front of her loose top as she leaned, but Jihyun was faster. He had noticed what she had been eyeing before and placed the glass in front of her. She smiled gratefully at him; she doubted there was anyone more eager to help than Jihyun. It was a quality she and Jumin liked to discuss with admiration among themselves.

Jumin settled back into his seat and picked a grape from a plate. "I don't appreciate the poor translation of my intention."

"At least you know you can rhyme," she said and turned to Jihyun. "You have to know how much he pined for you. He stared out the window like a Victorian lady waiting for her husband to be relieved from his duty. I thought he was one second away from being locked in the attic." She shook her head solemnly. "So close to being driven to madness from yearning."

Jumin let out a flat gasp. "Why, I never."

"Nevertheless," she pounced on, "I am not without conscience and virtue to lock anyone away, especially when that person is someone of my own heart, so I had no choice but to persist. Have some pity on me, I beg you!" She clutched at her chest.

Jihyun burst into laughter, which produced a small smile from Jumin. "All right, I'll admit I missed you," Jumin gave in. "I could use seeing you more often."

A brief look of wonder flashed in Jihyun's eyes, searching Jumin's and was quickly reassured when they recognised the familiar fondness in his unwavering gaze. The steel in Jumin's grey eyes dared Jihyun to refute it, but he wouldn't, not this grown version of him.

Some people struggled with getting used to being loved unabashedly. She recalled when Jihyun was a younger boy and how he would rather stake himself than accept the love he was given, but that was long ago. Time and their persistence in loving him had encouraged him to be brave, and Jihyun himself had learned to allow people to love him. The vulnerability of baring your soul to love someone could be unbearable, but believing you were worthy of love could be just as unthinkable.

She was glad he had Jumin to rely on when they were children, and Jumin had him to be his true self with. What had been a constant, stumbling search for faith in each other had grown into intrinsic trust.

"How long can we do this still?" she wondered aloud. "Sometimes I feel like we haven't changed—we have eaten together like this more times than I could count—but we're not who we were anymore, are we?"

"Four hundred and five times," Jumin stated. "Barring other types of gatherings and casual hang-outs. A lot of things have happened since the first one." He lifted her hand against his lips and kissed the back of it reverently. She remembered the time before they fell for each other and how after they had, their connection had become more intimate than she had thought possible.

"You keep track, I should've guessed." Jihyun's voice held infinite softness. "It was an eternity ago. Goodness, we were such wide-eyed kids then."

"Perhaps the time we have left doesn't matter as much as the time we have shared together—the time we are sharing now," Jumin said. "But sometimes as I'm living in the present, I can already see how we will be entombed in history, though it's a memory that I will look back on fondly."

"Please don't say 'entombed'," she said. "Memories don't die just because they have passed. We keep them alive, just like this. We'll continue to talk about nonsense and eat good food and be there for one another. Otherwise, we wouldn't have anything to hold on to when life gets hard."

"Or maybe we won't do this forever. We can't tell what the future holds," Jihyun mused. "Change is the natural order of the universe, but in this life full of changes, I can always count on you two to be here for me, to make me happy." He smiled at them, the corner of his eyes crinkling. Jumin nodded and she laid her head on his shoulder, sharing his peace.

"I certainly would be appalled if I stayed the same all these years." She shuddered. "I like that we change together, that our new shapes still fit each other somehow. I've grown out of enough friendships to know that this isn't always the case."

"I'm afraid I cannot comment much on friendships." Jumin frowned. "My friendship with Jihyun is the only true one that I have, but it wouldn't be complete if you never came into my life—our lives. I will always be thankful for that. You brought us all closer."

With an arm propped on the table, she watched Jumin's thoughtful expression and eased the crease between his forehead. He had spoken aloud of what she was thinking about earlier, the completeness of the bond between the three of them. It was funny, how sometimes it was as if his mind and hers were intertwined. The time they spent together had left an indisputable mark, seemingly without her notice.

Time was often like that. One day you clambered through life with cuts on your knees and found yourself standing on steadier ground, wiser but irreparably changed in the next. It did not beat on a steady rhythm; it sprinted and languished at the exact moments you wished it not to.

"Everything he said was true," Jihyun reached over the table to squeeze her hand. It was soft in her touch. "You're a blessing on earth. I was right to come here right away."

"Meeting us is always the right decision," said Jumin adamantly.

"Except if he's asking you to translate an ancient necromancy spellbook that's 99% fake, then maybe it isn't a good idea to be here," she added.

Jihyun ignored him and looked at her warily.

"Pardon?" Jumin sounded offended. "Do honour a book that holds mystical wonders unimaginable to mankind as the prized artefact it is."

"He made me light up pungent-smelling candles around the house with him. I still don't want to know what kind of candles they were." She grimaced at the memory. "We had to move out for a few weeks until the smell disappeared."

Jihyun wrinkled his nose at Jumin. "What dead creature were you trying to raise?"

"A mouse that my bodyguard accused Elizabeth the Third has killed. Petty murders are below a lady as dignified as she," he declared with conviction. "I should know."

A look of surprise passed over Jihyun's face. "And you care enough about the mouse to call it back from death?"

"I needed to put it under interrogation to extract the exact cause of its death," Jumin said. "It was imperative that I clear Elizabeth the Third's name."

"Naturally," she cut in cheerfully. "When one dies, one can simply be revived and questioned about one's lethal injury. No worries whatsoever that recalling the event might be traumatic to them."

"Did it, um"—Jihyun struggled to find the right word—"come alive?"

Jumin sighed in defeat. "I would have to try again another time."

"You would not." Her tone was severe. "You will either lose the truth of Elizabeth the Third's innocence or me. Your choice."

Jumin looked tortured, but she did not budge. Jihyun's eyes danced between them with amusement.

Eventually, Jumin splayed his hands out in resignation. "I shall comply with your wishes."

She patted his arm. "It's for the best. You don't want to accidentally exorcise the whole world with your corpse-raising activities. I can only support your hobbies up to a point, love."

At that, Jihyun chortled into his drink and Jumin shot him a betrayed look, though he still offered his handkerchief to him. "Not that I don't believe in you," Jihyun said when he calmed down, "but your experiments tend to be disastrous. Maybe you should consider those around you. We're the ones who have to deal with your mess."

Jumin crossed his arms. "You two have no loyalty towards me, especially you, dear lovely wife." He tilted his head at her. "You're supposed to be the love of my life. My sworn life partner for eternity."

She rolled her eyes. "Please, I did agree to glue Jihyun earlier. Was that not enough?"

"This is about me now?" asked Jihyun.

She produced a coy smile. "You're always in our hearts."

Jumin, seeing the opportunity to shift the blame, quickly said, "That's true."

"You two have sadistic hearts," Jihyun pointed out.

"Don't even try to deny that sadism isn't what you're into," she said and grinned when his cheeks heated up. "I know about your fantasies too."

Unfortunately, Jumin took this moment to inspect the table and made an astute observation, cutting off Jihyun's stammering. "It has occurred to me that we have too many sandwiches and no pancake in sight."

Her and Jihyun's attention snapped on each other, eyes widening in horror.

"Did you know how easy it is to make a strawberry pancake, Jihyun? We could eat it every day," Jumin went on.

"We could, yes," Jihyun said tactfully, "but it doesn't mean we should. Anything too much could make you sick, my friend."

"And I'm full," she chimed in. "Maybe next time?"

"She did eat a lot earlier," Jihyun said.

"Did you?" Jumin stared at her with suspicion.

She leaned back and rubbed her stomach. "A whole lot. If you force me to eat, I'd have no choice but to vomit everything onto your lap. That would disrespect Jihyun's hard work on packing all this food, and I'd be sick and have to eat again—which would be a major annoyance with a burned throat—and you'd have to change into stripeless pants."

Jumin looked puzzled. "But I have other striped pants."

"Not if I used all of them to clean up the vomit."

He sighed but relented. "If you say so."

When Jumin averted his gaze, she breathed out a silent air of relief and felt Jihyun nudging her foot beneath the table, a playful twinkle in his eyes. His lips were pressed into a flat line, fighting the smile threatening to break his sympathetic ruse. She prodded his foot back and gave him a light shrug.

Not long after, Jihyun would have to leave for yet another thing, and she and Jumin would have to count the days until the next time they met. But it was not their concern yet. Right now, the murmurs of their talk and the music of their laughs were enough for her. There was nothing to complain about when they made her happy.

Distance and frequency of meetings did not matter. She could have one minute with them together and still be satisfied, however temporary the satisfaction might be. A mere minute would make her yearn for more until they piled up to make an infinite, but she was not demanding. Whatever little time they could carve out of their routine was enough.

This was good. They were happy and radiant and comfortable that she allowed herself to believe that it could last forever.

And it would. Their love would never wane.

-

Footnotes:

One thing I love about their friendship is how honest they are with their appreciation. They're not ashamed of showing that they care, and their elegant linguistic style (though V's is more casual than Jumin's) makes it easy to write their vulnerable feelings just as they are. They don't toughen up their words or purposely censor them when they get emotional. They're fluent in articulating their feelings, and I think this would be even more natural when they've all been close for a long time.

The domestic scene challenge was made easier since I was vibrating with giddiness to express more love for Jumin and V. I'm the happiest when I write about love and them. Grinning maniacally every time I type their story out.

Before anyone comes at me, I don't think Jumin would be jealous. He could be possessive when he's gripped by his darker thoughts, but in this phase of his life, he's stable. He's secure in his marriage, he has a grounded relationship that's nurtured over the years with MC, and he shares a safe emotional space with V. Everyone is at their best here. The three of them have complete trust and respect for each other.

When I first started writing here, I used to think I have to make the MC's personality neutral enough so that most readers could relate, but now it's free real estate. I do whatever I want.

I was nostalgic about my college days' friendship, hence the more sombre tone in the middle. It feels natural in my friendships to joke around and make sexual quips in one moment and reflect on life in the next. I wanted to recreate that safety and sense of belonging I used to feel.

This was supposed to be finished earlier but I suddenly went through a friendship breakup during the editing stage, so I couldn't find it in me to write about the joys of friendship when I just severed one of mine. She was my close friend for almost a decade. I still think about her from time to time.

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[fear-is-truth]

a/n: i deeply regret having written this (anyway, this is all in good humor. please don’t take anything to heart. i really love your fanfictions--this was just for the sake of the storyline).

ENEMIES TO LOVERS. ── jackie (fear-is-truth) x f!reader

YOU COULDN'T QUITE PINPOINT what compelled you to read her fanfiction. Perhaps it was a sick curiosity to see how dreadful a story could become when one utterly disregarded the basic rules of English grammar. Maybe it stemmed from sheer boredom. Or, more unsettlingly, it might have been a masochistic urge to subject yourself to something so atrocious it made your eyes involuntarily twitch.

But there it was, in all its overwritten, excessively italicized glory: "Business Cards & Bloodstains: How I Fell for Wall Street's Deadliest Yuppie (Pt. 13)."

You despised every word of it. She misinterpreted every bit of his character. Patrick Bateman would never be a fan of New Kids on the Block. And yet, you were her most consistent reader.

"This," you typed furiously in the notes section, "is an abomination to the English language. How does blood 'pour from the heavens like tears of angels corrupted by mortal sin'? What does that even mean?"

The reply came almost instantaneously, as though she had waiting for your comment: "It’s called style, Y/N. Ever heard of it? Not that I’d expect a basic grammar cop to understand."

Your eye twitched. This was not the first time she had publicly called you out in the notes section of her torturous fanfictions. Her username, fear-is-truth, was indelibly burned into your retinas. Jacqueline, dubbed as 'Jackie' for short: nineteen years old (an INTJ, Virgo, and Slytherin?), a law student, a member of numerous fandoms, a bookworm, a cinephile, a cat enthusiast, Kai Anderson's lamb, and very loquacious? She had a cult following of equally misinformed fans, who consumed her absurdities. Damn her. Damn every one of her followers. Damn all of them.

"Style? You mean the literary equivalent of setting a dumpster on fire?" you replied.

The exchange stretched on for weeks and it turned into a full-blown online fued. You dissected her fanfictions. You dismantled every mixed metaphor and stagy monologue. In turn, she said unprintable things. She called you a talentless troll devoid of any creativity. The notes section was a strident and hateful scene. However, somewhere between the criticism and banter, something gradually changed.

One night, as you were composing your latest critique, a private message popped up in your inbox. fear-is-truth: "Hey, I'm bored. How about you call me out on voice chat instead of the comments? Bet you won't."

You stared at the screen. This was something unfamiliar--uncharted territory. It was a poor idea, but your curiosity won out.

The voice on the other end was entirely different from what you had expected.

"I thought you'd sound more like some troll living under a bridge, not . . . whatever this is." she said mockingly. "And I thought you'd sound like an edgy theater kid, which, honestly, you totally do."

She laughed--a genuine, unrestrained laugh that took you by surprise. It was deep, slightly raspy ("raspy" by comparison of consumption of one too many cups of coffee).

"So, Y/N," she said. "What’s your deal? Why you gotta hate on me so much? Not that I don’t enjoy our little back-and-forths, but you’re putting actual effort into this."

You paused. Why had you despised her so much? Or, at least, why had you believed you did? "It’s not hate," you said, albeit reluctantly. "it’s frustration. You’ve got all these . . . ideas, but you bury ‘em under so much flowery nonsense and drama that it’s just painful. You could be good if you actually tried."

Pause. "You think I could actually be good?" (softer now, more vulnerable) "I mean, yeah. If you stopped describing eyes as 'orbs' and comparing feelings to 'shattered starlight on the edge of oblivion.'"

Pause. "You're not as insufferable as I figured you'd be." "Neither are you."

(like for a part two???)

— 💋ྀིྀི

I AM SO PLEASANTLY SHOCKED THAT YOU ACTUALLY WROTE A FANFIC ABOUT ME ?! and the fact that my voice is kinda raspy rn because i caught a small cold convinced me that you live in my walls… ANYWAYS. i love this with my entire heart and soul; enemies to lovers is my favourite trope EVER.

thank you, this is the best gift 🖤

[primelight]

Erdtree forgive me for what I'm about to do (WNM mini fic, that's not the title but sorry not sorry)

SO as some of you may be aware of, I've written...rather far ahead in 'Who Needs Maidens.'

In light of RECENT TRAILER DEVELOPMENTS my creative brain is going rabid, and to temporarily sate it I'm going to post a mini part of one of those thingies here. I might toss it out. It's rough. I might not pull the proverbial trigger, which is why it's going nowhere near AO3. It...kinda works as a standalone fic, though.

WARNING: Dubious consent (not super graphic), WEIRD imagery, Miquella's dilemma about being an ancient eldritch being stuck in, first, a child's body, and then whatever Mohg turned him into. Basically he's a dream-walking adult/demigod/eldrich abomination.

And, uh, spoilers.

Working Title: To Burn Alone, Once Again

Miquella’s body was cursed with delicacy, with beautiful, sterile youth. His life was but a moment, frozen in time. But Miquella’s mind grew old. In his dreams, he was free. His abundance was unrestrained. 

Trina was a useful mask. Beautiful, like him, mysterious and wise. He shrouded himself in mist, and traveled in shadows. He lived through others, gathering memories like flowers, slipping through the shadows of their dreams. 

But sometimes, when power flowed through him, and a dream was so strong that he could touch it, Miquella would cast Trina aside, and dare to reach for the raw blood and emotion burning in the world. He took up the sword with hands as large and dextrous as his father’s. He crossed the rolling hills of Altus in the dreams of soldiers, and waded through the despair of Tarnished Hunters in Limgrave. He donned grand, red-and-black vestments plucked from his half-brother’s mind. He loaded his body down with rusted iron armor, and stuffed linen into his boots to cushion the blisters on his heels. 

He tasted faint, alluring memories of ale and greasy, tavern-fried duck. He caught the scent of blood and shit on the Caelid battlegrounds, but also of hot honey-tea and warm bread. He felt – 

Miquella did not dare draw close enough to truly feel. He risked discovery, reprisal, and then retaliation from forces beyond his control. 

And guilt. To experience the terror and thrill and pain of battle alongside a dreamer was to touch the softest, most vulnerable parts of them. More joyful memories were worse, for Miquella longed to sink deeper.

He told himself that he simply wanted to share such things with the dreamer. But when it grew cold and dark in his cage, and when the days before and after, before and after, before and after the burning of the Erdtree stretched on for too long, Miquella knew the truth. He wanted those precious moments for himself. He wanted everything.

Miquella embodied Abundance, after all. He was meant to sow his seed, to reach out to the very corners of the Lands Between, and to fill the cosmos itself. If not for the curse, his legs would be long, his shoulders would be broad, and he could join his other half in battle.

You will always be my blade, Miquella thought, because he knew that Malenia would not have it otherwise. So I will be your shield. 

Waiting was hard. Miquella soothed himself with his own dreams, his own plans, and watched, unable to do more than suggest, to hint, occasionally prod a sleeping mind in the right direction. He got better at it each time the Erdtree burned. 

He could not truly interfere. Yet he could not turn away from the Volcano Manor, not when he realized what had happened. 

What should not have happened, not with — 

Miquella cursed Mohg with every fiber of his ancient soul.

…and Bernahl dreamed. 

Keira crossed the room once more. He relived the moment when she realized that he was watching every move she made. And then, again, when her laces loosened, and his gaze snared on the dip between her collarbones, and then slid lower as her shaking fingers twisted in her tunic, unknowingly teasing him. And in hindsight…oh, if he’d known, he’d have taken more time to draw the moment out. 

But it continued. A rush of anger, then the crush of his mouth to hers. Blushing, stammering, and then heavy breaths and soft moans.

Their clothing lay in a heap on the rug as he coaxed her with his hands and words. But too quickly, the searing heat of her had him gasping in his sleep.

His dream pulsed and lingered, stretched and indulged. Bernahl’s hands squeezed and soothed in turn. He was still tangled up in her warmth and scent, more than enough to inspire him once again. 

The dream urged him on, demanding that he look closer, squeeze tighter, fuck harder, for it could almost see, and surely then, it would almost feel… 

…Not enough. 

Miquella moved on, and dreamed of another life.

…Malenia’s Cleanrot Knights imprisoned Mohg at the first hint of his betrayal. Only the Haligtree’s treaty with Leyndell spared the Omen demigod. Rumor had it that Morgott the Grace Given had set a quiet, isolated cavern aside for Mohg, and left him to his blood sorcery and cruel prayers.

Instead, Miquella emerged tall and strong from the Haligtree roots, wings trailing behind him like a gossamer veil. Malenia had been waiting for him, wounded and still twisting in Rot, but overflowing with joy. Miquella held her close, excessively careful of his newfound strength. The top of his twin’s head rested just below his chin. They were a matched set, at last.

Together, Malenia and Miquella conquered the Rot, brought it to heel like a rabid dog, and spat in the face of its foul god. The Haligtree remained hollow, as he no longer had need of it, but Elphael grew nonetheless. Albinaurics, Misbegotton, and Tarnished alike flocked to the Haligtree alongside the Grace-blessed humans of the Lands Between. Miquella’s power grew with every life he took under his wing. 

Miquella dreamed that Keira found her way there as well, and offered her help, first to his knights, then to his builders, and finally to the gardens growing from the roots. She kept her sword at hand, but she claimed a greenhouse for herself, and used half-forgotten knowledge to help her fellow travelers. Soon, many of Miquella’s devotees would come to her for instruction, and her scarred hands would fill Elphael with green and gold. 

Perhaps he would hear tales of the strange Tarnished who could make the most stubborn plants grow. Perhaps her teachings would spread to his inner circle, or the fruit of her labors to his table. 

Perhaps he would decide to thank her himself. 

Miquella would come upon her by a carefully arranged accident, his wings hidden under a simple robe, and appearing as simply a very tall, very comely man. He’d find her hard at work in her garden, clad as lightly as decency would allow, spots of earth dusting her face and blackening her hands, her skin gleaming with sweat.

Perhaps he would sit beside her, heedless of his attire, charmed by her passion for her work. Perhaps his heart would ache when he saw how she missed her First Tree, but then nearly burst from his chest when she offered him half of her lunch.

She’d work out who he was, of course, perhaps on their second meeting, if his eyes gleamed too bright, or if she saw his wings. 

Would Keira be frightened? Excited? Mortified? Flattered?

Miquella rather liked the thought of all of them, depending on his mood.

Regardless of her reaction, he would give her some time to think. A day or so later, he would find her again. He would curl over her, cup her face in his hands, and make his intentions clear. 

No-one would dare watch if he lay with her among the lilies. Not that Miquella would care. They could stay there as long as he wanted, wrapped up in his opalescent wings, their bodies lit by the soft glow of unalloyed gold.

A lovely dream. Perhaps he was a romantic at heart.

…

…Or upon establishing his rule, Miquella could simply summon Keira to his chambers. The God of Abundance and Lord of the Haligtree would, naturally, want to personally interview a Tarnished with such an unusual passion for growing things.

His attendants would bathe her in steaming water infused with sacred oil, and cleanse her with soap formed from Trina’s lilies, known for relaxing the mind and softening the skin and hair. Her woes would be smoothed away, fragrant oils massaged into her skin until it glowed with health and softness, and her hair combed until it shone, and left to flow down her back in dark waves. 

Her face needed no paint, no adornment, and after Bernahl Miquella barely had the patience to hide her body in the lightest of moth-silk.

But for the dream, he would, if only to draw it out. 

Keira would be nervous, though she would hide it well, wouldn’t she? Bernahl hadn’t realized that she had never had a man until he’d been knuckle deep inside her. She would likely be considering whether or not to lie about her lack of experience, as only a complete imbecile would mistake his intentions.

Would she lie? Miquella would, of course, take her at her word, for what Tarnished would lie to their god? Then he could allow himself a little bit of greed, could press his suit quickly, roughly…and surely she would open for him so easily that any pain would simply heighten her pleasure. 

And despite her clear anxiety, Bernhal had made her so very wet…

She’ll be wetter for me, Miquella thought, in the garden or in my bed. He groaned at the surge of sense-memory, and curled long, powerful fingers in thick, dark hair. He tugged, and the sharp cry he received in return cut a line of fire down his spine.

Honeyed seduction melted into a frenzied claiming. Silk thread spun and writhed about Miquella’s bed as he pinned Keira beneath him, his smile as beautiful and terrifying as a blade. He smelled blood on her hands, and smoke in her hair. Erdtree smoke, from the dozens of times it had burned, each time bringing him one step closer to freedom — his little champion —

Miquella grasped for the pieces of sensation he’d cobbled together from thousands of dreams. Here, he tasted the power, the strength he craved. Every atom of his divine flesh pulsed with health. His curse was a memory, a vague, unpleasant dream as he cupped Keira’s face in hands that could crush her skull like an egg, and promised to be gentle. 

A lie. This way of love was not soft, and would never be safe. 

Miquella dreamed on, enfolding himself in borrowed sensation. He bid her cling to his shoulders and hips, and as it was his dream, she dug deep, and cried for him.

She wept until her eyes ran red, pleaded until she grew hoarse. She told him that next time would be the very last, that he would be free. He would ascend. She begged him to stay with her, to speak to her, to take her with him, anything – please —

…It was just a dream, so Miquella simply told her yes, and yes again, and took her.

Keira cried out, and he knew from the wet, lewd sound of their bodies that he barely fit inside her. And it would likely be worse — better, he needed more — in reality, considering what Mohg had made of him.

“You’ll forget him,” Miquella whispered.

Keira buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed.

[tomedonaki-hakujou]

thoughts on synthesizer v kafu. copypasted from twitter but also elaborated on a bit more

things are a bit different between the "initial production of cevio kafu" and "current success of cevio kafu"

kaf is older now, and kafu proved to be a popular success with her own voice who can reach further beyond kaf

at the time, a few years ago, wouldn't have been the right timing for a "kaf 1:1 voicebank" i think, especially with kaf being as young as she was.

but kaf, she's older now, her growth partially attributed to kafu's hit popularity and her other works as well

we know kafu can stand on her own as "kafu" and not just relying on "kaf"

and with kaf's new step into adulthood, so the timing is right for a new kind of "kafu"

even in the 4komas, kafu learns who kaf is, wants to sing better, trains harder for her SV

pied has said that, the beauty of the musical isotopes is the preservation of one's voice at a specific moment in time.

kafu cevio captures kaf's teenhood, kafu SV captures kaf's young adulthood

and that sort of fits thematically into kaf's music as well 🤔

kafu SV is absolutely an older kafu. her proportions are taller, "phony" lyrics use "watashi" instead of "atashi"

the fact kafu SV exists at all is proof of growth as in, one could change their mind, one could be open to new "possibility" after she proved herself

after all, kafu's name represents "possibility + mystery." why wouldn't she be full of possibility? kafu SV continues to embody that sentiment, and even further it by being available to new kinds of people. it's not about how she sounds, it's about the mission of the isotopes

kaf/VWP are undeniably intertwined with vocaloid culture and have their roots in it, and work closely with vocaloPs as well. kafu in the first place was always meant to sing with unrestrained possibilities with all her varying demo songs, showing the spirit of vocaloPs

those possibilities are only furthered now with kafu SV, now that kafu cevio has achieved her mission and succeeded in her own right as a unique vocalist, and continues to thrive

for mac/linux users, english/chinese users... and more. unbound expression. singing anything...

one thing kamitsubaki does on quite a wide scale is engage with the vocaloP community heavily, and encourage small creators and even highlight their works with the isotopes. for me, to be able to be a part of that finally with SV is exciting. i've always loved the isotope community

especially because my music influences are more closely aligned to japanese vocaloP, and musical isotope being the current active Big Thing, being able to engage in that community is something special to me and i trust in the new direction that SV kafu implicates by her existence

another thing, is that kaf's vocal ability has improved considerably in the past few years. a cutesy, uniform, artificial AI is suited to the younger kaf. a realistic, expressive AI is suited to the older kaf who has more singing experience, more power, expression, etc

overall i think there's a lot of meaning behind kafu synthV (and by extension (heh) the voicepeak extensions) on what the isotopes are meant to represent and how they're meant to be used. they've always represented unrestrained creativity and a homage/love letter to vocaloid culture as a whole. synthV and voicepeak only furthers those expressions -- talkloid is pretty big in japan too, so voicepeak lets musical isotope expand into that community, while synthV allows musical isotope to sing in new ways and reaching new people

[masterjedilenawrites]

The Batch Family: The Ninth of September

Part of my Bad Batch AU: "The Batch Family" [Collection Masterlist].

Word count: 990 | Batch ages: Multiple

Note: Since 9/9 obviously has to be the Batch boys' birthday, thought I'd take the opportunity to write a little something about it. It's been so long since I've written for this family, I miss them...

The Ninth of September | Celebrating the boys' birthdays through the years...

Their first birthday had been a spectacle. Beth had only had them for a few months at that time. She'd made it through the summer with them, working limited hours at her job in order to figure out a home routine, and thus sacrificing a lot just to ensure her new family got off to a decent start. But though there was still progress to be made for stability by the time September 9th rolled around, all of her family, friends, and apparently whoever else felt like it, still insisted on showing up, using the boys' birthday as a pretense for ogling her anomaly of a family.

Her mom hadn't yet gotten over her disapproval of the situation, pointing out every little mess in her home, and questioning every little decision Beth made for the boys. Her friends stood awkwardly about, treating her like she was a different person, like they'd never met her before and didn't know what to say. Her dad kept trying to slip her some cash, while the one set of grandparents she still had left were less subtle in their efforts to talk about her financial situation. And then there were plenty of faces she didn't recognize that had somehow wandered in, acting as if it was their business to be there, casting judgment and whispering comments under their breaths.

Thus, their second birthday was much more private.

Though the people in Beth's life had quieted down by then, she still chose to ignore any questions about planning a party and allowed herself to enjoy a birthday with her sons in peace. Well, in as much peace as five 2-year-old toddlers could manage. They ended up making a disaster of the kitchen as she tried using their help to make a cake. Flour on noses and batter on the walls, the whole bit. It was the most fun she'd ever had with them, the first time she gave herself permission to stop caring about being perfect. She would remember their unrestrained laughter and squeals of glee for years.

The next several birthdays were similarly private and energetic. She couldn't afford gifts and there never seemed to be enough friends for parties, so she made up for it with creative activities to make the day special. Crafts or games were the go-tos, with an occasional movie as they got older and could sit still longer.

Their ninth birthday was the "golden birthday," when their age matched the date, and that year she did splurge a bit and took them to see a soccer game in one of the bigger cities. That was the moment that started it all, the soccer obsession that would overtake their lives for the next several years. All she had wanted to do was distract them from the revelation they'd had earlier that year, about their birth parents and the fact that Echo's birthday was technically two weeks earlier and she'd pretended otherwise this whole time just to keep them from questioning the past until they were ready to understand it. And as a consequence she'd now have to deal with them being distracted by sports every day for the next decade. Oh well.

It wasn't until the were in the double-digits that she started inviting others again. She'd been back on good terms with her parents for a while but they had moved and visits simply weren't as convenient. But with the boys making more friends as they got older, she very well couldn't be that mom who deprived them of what everyone else had, and everyone else had birthday parties. Sure, the decorations were from the dollar store, and the only food she could offer was cheap pizza and a generic sheet cake from Costco, but young kids didn't care about such things. The fact they could say they had a party, and could be allowed to run around with their friends doing who-knew-what, that was enough.

Eventually, teenage angst got in the way, as it often did, so their fifteenth birthday was another tumultuous one. No one could agree on what do to celebrate. Wrecker and Echo wanted to keep things the same and just invite people over. Tech wanted to have more of an interesting outing, such as going to the newly opened cornfield maze. Hunter seemed embarrassed to want to do anything, and Crosshair was set on being contrary and arguing against any idea that was thrown out.

Beth had tried her hand at making a cake again, as a surprise, but ended up being so exhausted with their quarreling that she went to bed early for the night. The boys discovered the cake in the fridge later and felt awful, but not quite enough to snap out of their brooding, bickering personas just yet. No, those would continue to fester for a while longer.

But the nice, fun birthdays got back on track the following year, giving the Batch house a few more years of shared memories before they grew up too much. Eventually they graduated, started traveling, moving away, turning into adults with ambitions and futures. Birthdays wouldn't look quite the same after that.

All Beth could do was cherish the memories... and enjoy her flowers. She wasn't sure who started the tradition - she suspected Echo - but after the first year they had all been apart for their birthday in their twenties, they each started sending her flowers, every September 9th. Even though she hadn't been the one to give birth to any of them, they still felt she deserved some recognition for all the years she'd tried to give them a special day, even amidst any chaos or financial struggle or social awkwardness.

And toward each other, they'd acknowledge their shared day with nothing more than a simple Happy Birthday text in the group chat... Except Echo, who'd teasingly text back, Guess you guys forgot my birthday again...

~ ~ ~

The Batch Family Tag: @damerondala, @dangerousstrawberrypie, @pandora-the-halfling, @misogirl828, @darkangel4121, @sobstea, @rintheemolion, @dionysuskid21, @jesseeka, @hanbetired, @harleyevanstan, @imabeautifulbutterfly, @sarahtanmarvel, @itsagrimm, @lackofhonor, @error6gendernotfound, @theclonesdeservebetter, @hannahhearttcw, @kaijusplotch, @salaminus, @theroguesully, @reading02, @techie-bear, @not-a-big-slay, @nekotaetae, @the-mom-friend-dot-com, @pickle-rick-y, @flowered-bicycles, @droids-you-are-looking-for, @sleepycreativewriter

(Join my tag list here)

[imperator-titus]

Ghost from the Past [Part 3]

I'm a menace to society

anyway please let me know what you think as I try to decide on some things. I love talking about The Gang and also my tavs <3 (please I'm lonely, I nearly fucking died when I got the notifications for some Ao3 comments I got recently)

please let me know if you'd like to be tagged in updates!

[edit: I fucked up the preposition in the title after 2 parts, I'm an embarrassment]

(Prev)[Part 2] (Next)[Part 4] [Master Post]

[Gif by harmtist] (I hate trying to find relevant gifs but it looks so naked without them lmao)

Eletha was eternally grateful that Bonnet caught up when she did. Of course, she was mainly worried about the poor bear, all alone, and such a scaredy-cat of a brown bear. Then the less-important and self-centered reasons: her tent and bedroll, her journals, and her collection of rare bits and bobs. Among that rare collection was a potion that made her hair grow back faster. After her night as a sentient campfire, there was the unfortunate stage of hair regrowth.

If she was alone, she wouldn’t have bothered with the potion. Eletha was very much comfortable being bald and every stage in between. However, she received a variety of comments about her appearance when everyone started their day. She could handle the ribbing, it was kind of funny, and laughing about it made it less serious.

To her surprise, Eletha was most affected by Astarion’s reaction. He managed to cut off his unrestrained laughter after a split second, the rest muffled by his hand clamped over his mouth. Wyll smiled and told her to ignore him, and Eletha smiled back and reminded him that she was well aware of what a cock Astarion could be. But despite her confidence or their reassurances, she sipped from the potion and wrapped a green scarf around her head. To keep the sun off, obviously, not because she was embarrassed.

Astarion kept trying to make it fall off. Eletha kept catching him. At first she was annoyed, but then it became a game. It felt like old times. Chasing each other through the forest, trying to snatch ribbons off each other’s belts. Sneaking up on one another and trying to steal something from a pocket or pouch.

After a conversation with some of the refugees, Astarion dangled a pendant in front of her face. His eyes sparkled with delight and his lips were pulled into a smug grin as he cooed, “Missing something?”

Eletha didn’t even bother checking the pouch attached to her belt, she’d recognize that pendant anywhere and it was one of a kind. Even with her quick reflexes, he managed to pull it away in time to avoid her snatching grasp. Astarion wagged a finger, tutted, and shook his head, a deadly combination.

Eletha lept at him with her whole body, forcing him to the ground. They fought, thankfully bare-handed, and rolled around in the dirt like two starving dogs fighting over a bone. The pendant flew out of Astarion’s grasp, but Eletha continued her onslaught of creative elvish insults and minor blows.

At one point, much to everyone’s amusement, Eletha was sitting on his chest and pulling on both his ears. He screeched like a cat whose tail was caught in a door as she yelled at him for being a ‘stuck-up brat’ and a ‘light-fingered liar.’ Astarion overcame her weight, flipped them both, and landed on top of her. His hands crushed her wrists down into the dirt above her head while his hips pinned hers and one knee was pressing hard into her inner thigh.

They were both panting, fire in their eyes. Eletha didn’t relent and used all her strength and leverage to break free. Bearing his teeth, Astarion put more weight on her wrists and she had no choice but to wince as they threatened to break. Shocked, he let go.

Everyone around them was pointedly looking away now. The fight had become a little too intimate, but while they were in it, they didn’t notice. All they’d seen was how much they wanted to shove the other’s face into the dirt.

Astarion got up and dusted off his hands sheepishly. His eyes flicked to the audience, checking his surroundings. With a nervous theatrical lilt of laughter, he offered his hand to Eletha. “What fun! Nothing like rolling around in the dirt with your friends to get one’s blood pumping, yes?”

Eletha took his hand and squeezed his hand much harder than necessary. She struggled to get up, even with his help, which started off as just a show and then he had to commit to it. His knee on her thigh had put her whole leg to sleep and couldn’t support her weight.

“I managed to find your necklace, but I’m afraid its-” Gale started, diffusing the tension with his sudden presence. In his outstretched palm was the pendant, but in two pieces. Eletha took it from him delicately and held the piece in its original place. “Perhaps we can find a jeweler in Baldur’s Gate.”

Eletha laughed as she put it back in her pouch and had a gentle smile for him. “It’s very old and just a thing, it’s fine. Thank you for your concern, Gale.”

Karlach fell in step with Astarion as Eletha and Gale walked ahead, talking about something or other. As he was trying to rub the soreness out of his ears, she asked in a hushed voice, “Do you think you two, ya know… went at it when you were younger?”

Astarion scoffed indignantly. “Your friend clearly has a bone to pick with me. What could possibly make you think we’re old lovers?”

“I dunno, that looked a lot like flirting from where I was standin’... The way you were lookin’ at each other, thought we’d hafta pull you apart before we got kicked out for indecent exposure.” Astarion tittered, holding out his fingers so he could check them for chips and dirt. 

“Karlach, darling, I think you’re a little pent-up and in need of glasses,” he told her with a punctuated laugh. Darkly, eyes narrowed, he added, “That was close to bloodshed.” 

“I’ve known plenty of people who have a brawl before a fuck.”

“Ooooh. Do tell me more,” Astarion pleaded coyly, drawing out the words carefully in a seductive beat. Karlach smirked at him and rubbed her chin as she considered.

“Well, I knew this vampire once-” Astarion rolled his eyes.

“Ugh, I thought you were serious.”

----

Sometimes Astarion joined them at the fire, other times he chose to sit in front of his tent and read while drinking wine. Their camaraderie could be a bit… much, but sometimes loneliness gnawed at his heart and he braved their stupid jokes and stories, sipping vinegared wine while they ate food that would turn him inside out. 

When he chose to sit alone, sometimes they’d come up one by one to have a little chat. It was much easier when he only had to keep one person entertained, enthralled by his charm and beauty. Sometimes something personal would come out, like Cazador and the things he had to do to survive as a spawn. Like a coward, he would slink away into his tent or out into the woods so he wouldn’t have to explain it again to the next person or expand on the story. Thankfully, they handed the stories off to each other, sparing him having to revisit the same horrible memory over and over again.

The stories made them treat him a little more softly, made them more protective. They turned Eletha from ice to, well, a person capable of more than two facial expressions. 

That night, he watched them, thoughts roilling in his mind like a building storm. Karlach, annoyingly, was right. In hindsight, he was a hair away from either ripping Eletha’s throat out with his fangs or slipping his tongue down it while crushing their hips together. Their tussle required no active thought, it was pure instinct. An instinct more refined than basic survival, it was practiced, like a dance. They knew each other’s moves, knew exactly how to strike. He knew how to annoy her just enough to come at him with her hands and not a stake. She moved like she knew he meant no harm, hurt him just enough in just the right way to bother but not damage.

But she hadn’t expected him to push past his victory, to dominate her, to hurt her. That had shocked him out of it, the pain in her eyes.

He couldn’t deny it, though. Before that pain, there was something like lust in her eyes. Something pleaded with him, screamed at him, to get closer. He’d smirk as he caught a softer version of that look in her glances.

In his mind, there was no denying it; she wanted him and she was willing to wrestle in the dirt just to touch him.

So when they were all done with their meal and Eletha was getting ready to turn in, he approached her. He’d thrown on another splash of his special perfume, just to make sure no other scents shone through, and made sure his nails were clean and neat. Frankly, she looked like a mess, but that would never stop Astarion. He was surprised to see her hair already mostly back, but sometimes the gods threw you a bone. Not like he ever turned away a potential mark just because they didn’t have hair.

Putting on his softest smile, using his gentlest, most loving tone, Astarion said softly to her, “I thought you could join me for a… hunt.”

Eletha quirked an eyebrow at him. Her stance wasn’t exactly open, but it wasn’t guarded either. She was simply going through her things. “What makes you suggest that?”

He let out a little practiced laugh and bobbed his head in fake thought. “I don't know… old times sake?”

Scoffing lightly, Eletha turned her attention back to her things. “Funny. You used to scare the prey away.”

Astarion clicked his tongue and let out a soft ‘aww.’ “How sweet. Was I soft of heart?”

“No, just a jerk.” she said good-naturedly. It was either the beer in her hand or he was undoing the damage that fight had caused. He laughed.

“Good to know the vampirism didn’t change me too much.” 

“I’m not going to be much help,” she said, indicating her drink.

“That’s fine, just try not to scare the prey away.” It was a weak joke, but she chuckled anyway, albeit into her mug. “Get ready. I’ll wait for you.”

Against her better judgment Eletha got ready and went to meet him. At least one of them was sober, although she considered him just as much a liability. It scared her how easy it was to run back into the arms of familiarity, even if those arms had forgotten her.

She wasn’t exactly surprised to find Astarion shirtless, but it wasn’t unexpected either. The surprise was that it didn’t make her mad. With a lazy smirk, she said in elvish, “What are you doing?”

“I admit, I lied. You were the prey.” Eletha shook her head as she unnotched her bowstring. With false offense, he asked, “What? You don’t like what you see?”

“It’s okay. You clearly didn’t let yourself go when you got to the city, but I liked you when you were a little soft.” She chuckled again before taking a swig of beer from her waterskin.

“What’s so funny?” Astarion was actually a little self-conscious now. No one had really critiqued his appearance before except for ‘you seem a little pale’ and ‘what a strange color your eyes are.’

Clearly amused and lacking any judgment, she asked, “What are you actually trying to do?” 

Playing innocent, he responded, “What do you mean?”

“This might rankle you a bit, but you haven’t changed that much. You’re not actually as charming as you think you are, it just comes back around, like a kitten that’s so ugly it’s cute. Or how you love to get your fingers into things and mess with shit, get into places you shouldn’t be. And you always have some weird plan to get something, and I’d always have to talk you out of it, because it’s usually dangerous or stupid.” She laughed again, mostly to herself. “So what do you want?”

Caught red handed, he stopped pretending to be the romantic lead in a smutty novel and scoffed. “Sex, obviously.”

Eletha clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Nope. Whatdya want from me?”

Exasperated, unable to believe this was how his plan was going, he let out a sharp ‘hah!’ “How is that answer wrong? You can’t know what I want unless I tell you.”

“Because I can tell.”

“Fine. What do I want?” Eletha walked up to him, so close he could smell her malty breath, feel its warmth against his bare chest. Those mismatched eyes, blue and gold, stared into his with a clarity they shouldn’t have right now.

“You want me to love you, so I’ll protect you, because I can’t imagine life without you.”

“You- That’s-” He held up a finger in protest, then sighed as his head sagged to the side in defeat. “How did you figure that out so quick?”

“So how were you thinking this would go?” Eletha asked, ignoring his question and taking another swig instead.

“I thought that, if you knew me before, when I was even younger and undoubtedly more beautiful, that you obviously dreamed of having me. What better way to curry favor than making your dreams come true?” He pitched his voice down to simulate lust. “That little scrap we had… I could tell how much you wanted me. I would have had you crying my name out like a prayer if we were alone.”

“Corellon’s balls, Star.” Astarion’s mouth fell open slightly in shock, surprised that she was immune to his charm. Eletha tilted her head back to offer a silent prayer for strength to the sky. Taking in a deep breath, she faced him again. “Come on, let me have it. What else is in your quiver of tricks?”

“Oh? Just need a bit more enticing? I can do that.” His face changed back to sultry. “You’re my little treat, with her cheeks all flushed. How about I taste… other parts of you?”

“You can do better. Next.” Eletha took a swig of her beer as he chose his next words.

“Every part of your perfect body whispers temptation. It’s as if the Gods made you just to ruin me.”

“I‘ve looked in a mirror lately, the only thing ruined in this situation is me and your bad pick-up lines,” she said, chuckling under her breath. Astarion huffed in frustration, but quickly composed himself. “I’m running out of beer, you get another try.”

“How about if I said these little words… Everyone’s favorite…” His perfect ears could hear her heartbeat speed up and it made it easy to put on a delicate smile. Schooling his tongue, careful not to sound the least bit harsh, he gazed into her eyes and said, “I love you.”

Eletha froze. Almost actually, with how cold her demeanor became. Astarion took a hesitant step back, as if easing away from a dangerous animal. Then the chill in her eyes melted to hurt and she could no longer look at him. She looked… ashamed, as if he’d ridiculed her and she knew every word was true.

Somehow, this had gone very wrong. This little meeting was meant to solidify her as his champion. The group respected her. A seasoned adventurer, she was sharp and had many skills. 

And he continued to throw away any good will he managed to earn. 

“I-I’m sorry, Eletha, I-”

“Lorelai,” she choked out, tears rolling down her cheeks. “When you knew me, my name was Lorelai. You called me Lori. You were the only one I let call me that.”

“I…” Not exactly what Astarion expected to come out of her mouth. He was expecting another tussle. Actually, another fight would have been preferable, even if it finally ended in bloodshed. At least then he could relieve this tension building inside him. 

Thankfully, she didn’t stick around long, saving him from being stuck in this incredibly awkward situation.

“I’m too old for this,” she managed to say, taking a shuddering breath. “I can’t… I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Astarion didn’t really want to make her stay, but he made a show of running after her. Maybe he did want her to stay, just for a bit, just so he could ask her about the Astarion she knew.

Eletha crept into the camp on quiet hunter’s feet, trying not to wake anyone, but she didn’t expect to find Gale sitting by the fire. His face became serious, clearly aware that she was upset. She debated waving him off and going to her tent, to sob into Bonnet’s fur, but something about him drew her to sit beside him at the fire. Her tears glinted in the flickering light until she wiped them away with the back of her hand. Gale offered her his cup of wine and she downed it greedily, despite not appreciating the taste.

“Sorry,” she told him, handing back an empty cup. He picked up the bottle on his other side and refilled it.

“It is just as well. I couldn’t get the cork back in,” he joked lightly before taking a modest sip. “What troubles you?”

“You loved Mystra,” she said, not really a question. Gale hummed. 

“I did. Very much.”

“And one day she was gone.”

“Indeed. Not one of my best days.”

“Did you ever feel like… you were past it?”

“I suppose. But the grief would come back. Perhaps I felt myself free of the pain out of obstinance, defiance. But I have not had as much time as you. Maybe I would be past it by now.” Eletha bowed her head, causing her silent tears to drip from her nose. He offered her a handkerchief and she took it much more politely than the wine.

“I spent decades imagining the moment I saw him again. All the things I would say and do. I’d tell him off, we’d probably scrap about it, then we’d laugh and take up a table in a tavern somewhere so we could swap stories.” She laughed, but it was sad, filled with regret. “Maybe I could have accepted him forgetting me. I haven’t seen him in… 230 years? I was 35 then. I had long hair and two blue eyes, and not nearly so many scars. It’d be easier if he was completely different, but I can still tell it’s him. I wanna break his skull open and hold him so tight he can never leave again.”

“That sounds difficult.” Eletha snorted and Gale blushed. “I apologize. That wasn’t exactly one of my best observations.”

“No, it’s accurate.” He offered her his cup again. She took only a modest sip this time. “I’m a little old to be having my heart broken again by an old sweetheart.”

“Maybe it would be best to talk to him, even if he cannot remember your shared past. It certainly seems to weigh on you.”

“Hmm… every wizard I ever met gave either really great advice, or really bad advice…” She smirked at him. “You seem like you give at least decent advice.”

“I admire your confidence in me. My original idea was that you should give him a good stab and call it even.”

“It might still come to that.” Eletha patted him on the shoulder and, as she got up, planted a kiss on the top of his head. “Get some sleep, Bhin. I didn’t live this long to be taken out by a sleepy wizard.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gale responded dutifully, with a playful smile on his lips and in his eyes.

Against her better judgment, Eletha picked up some more beer and a bottle of wine. Then, she headed into the woods once more, her bow slung over her shoulder.

“You could at least bring them back,” she said after a moment of watching Astarion feed on a stag. He startled, eyes reflecting red light and his fangs extended. Despite losing his claws to the tadpole’s influence, he still held them out, ready to strike. Then he shrank, like a chastened dog. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m not going to get through this sober, and I can’t keep getting drunk.” Eletha found a rock, brushed it off with a rag she always kept in her belt, and sat down. As she took out her pipe, she gestured towards the deer. “Go on, don’t want it going to waste.”

Astarion hesitated. Very few people had seen him feed on anything, and he wasn’t very fond of those people or that experience. But Eletha didn’t seem particularly interested in the activity and devoted her time to lighting her pipe and drinking.

When he was done and approached her, she held out the bottle of wine. “If you’re still thirsty.”

Very slowly, as if it might be snatched away at the last second, he reached out for it. “I don’t know what I said to upset you, but-”

“Just sit and shut up for once,” Eletha cut him off, making room for him on the rock. When he didn’t sit, she smacked it repeatedly until he obeyed. She took a few large gulps of beer and a long pull on her pipe before clearing her throat.

“We grew up in the Dales. I’m a little older than you, but we were always… sort of friends. We were… weird. Not enough that people disliked us, but enough that we didn’t really fit. So we were friends. You would be a jerk and then be sweet. Like you’d tell me my mother cut my hair weird and then go steal a hat to hide it. You’d sneak into people’s caravans and move stuff around, take something insignificant and put it in someone else’s caravan, shit like that. You had the weirdest sense of humor, but I always said off-putting stuff and you’d laugh.”

Eletha paused to take a drink and think. Astarion thought it prudent to shut up for once, as she instructed. He could take her, but a drunk in close range with a knife wasn’t exactly a fight he was eager to start.

“We were each other’s first kiss. And no, it’s not some sappy story where you’ve been my one and only all this time. But it mattered. Not to feed your ego, but… I don’t think I was ever as happy with someone as I was with you.” Astarion smiled brightly, but he turned his head so she couldn’t see. “You always wanted to leave and go to Baldur’s Gate. Moving around the Dales wasn’t good enough for you, you wanted to be a real adventurer. You’d spin exciting stories of what we’d do together. It was always us against some monster or villain.”

It was a little worrying that she felt the need to drink an entire skin of beer before she could continue her story. Her voice became distant, strained, as if she was trying to keep the anger out of it. He could hear how hard her heart beat, how deliberate she breathed.

“The last day I saw you was your 30th birthday. I… I did everything I could think of that would make you smile. A new set of lockpicks. I cleaned every caravan until it looked brand new to afford you a good sword. I made your favorite food, bought your favorite wine… We spent the day at this… pristine lake. I can still smell the flowers blooming in the trees…” Eletha cleared her throat. “In the perfect darkness of a new moon, with just the stars in the sky, we had the best sex of my life. Like… real, passionate, ‘make love’ sex. Maybe it wasn’t that great, being young and all… But I really loved you.”

Astarion didn’t know if he’d ever let someone talk so long uninterrupted. At first he had to fight the urge to start thinking about something else, but as she went on, he got wrapped up in the story. Like a bard’s song, he could feel the impression those memories had on her. He desperately tried to touch the memory in his own mind, as if it might be within his reach now that he knew it was there. 

Eletha sniffled and wiped away her tears on her sleeve.

“The last thing you ever said to me was ‘you’re a fucking menace.’ You’d said ‘I love you, Lori, more than anyone should be allowed to love anything. I wish this moment could last forever.’ And I told you ‘I want to eat you so you’ll always be with me.’” She tried to drink more of her beer, but it was gone. Slowly, Astarion offered her his wine. She took a large swallow and passed it back. “I still can’t believe that’s the last thing I said to you. The next morning you were gone. Mother convinced me to stay, said ‘Honey, if he wanted you, he would’ve taken you with him.’

“I… spent a long time… hating you. For- … For what you did. I hated how much I still loved you. I thought I knew how much something could hurt, and that I could handle it… And then I saw you again. And you didn’t remember me. I can’t deliver my grand monologue on how much damage you left behind. My feelings are… meaningless to you. You were everything to me, you’re… a part of me, forever, and I’m a stranger to you. 

“Then you crush me all over again with ‘I love you.’ … At least I know this time it’s a lie.” She sniffled again. “I wanted so desperately to take out all my pain on you. To have you fall to your knees and beg me to forgive you. But now I can’t even be mad at you. It’s not fair to be mad at you. I can’t accept an apology, because you’re not the person who owes me one. The boy that broke my heart is gone. I’ve spent over two centuries, alone, hating and loving a ghost.”

Astarion opened his mouth, and luckily for him, the first thought in his mind didn’t escape his lips. He chuckled lightly, a twinkling laugh that practically sashayed through the air. “To think, I was the one who got away. If you were a bard, imagine the songs I’d inspire.”

It wasn’t the best response. He probably should have been stabbed. The tadpole in his head started to squirm and tingle, a sign that their little stowaways were trying to connect. It stopped suddenly, just as suddenly as the bouquet of her blood hit his nose. Her hand unclenched to reveal that her nails had dug into her palm, causing it to bleed.

“I think we both have stories that could turn a bard’s ballad sour,” she started hollowly before getting up. She approached the exsanguinated deer and crouched to pick it up. “Maybe I’ll tell you mine someday.”

Astarion understood that there would be no argument. He had a lot to process already.

When they got back to camp, they found Gale fast asleep by the fire in a rather uncomfortable-looking position. Astarion clicked his tongue. “How embarrassing. What do you see in him?”

“Humans are so cute when they’re asleep,” she explained casually, putting down their ‘catch.’ “They’re also very enthusiastic, if a bit… uneducated.”

“I see. He was out bedding goddesses, so he must be good in bed.”

“Oh, so you did get a little smarter,” she teased, smirking. He shot her a glare, which she shrugged off. “Hey it’s been a while. I’m willing to give it another try.”

“How long is a ‘while’, exactly?” he asked curiously. She actually appeared to be thinking about it.

“Hmm… It’s 1492, right? I was… about 220? 50 years sounds about right.” Astarion was horrified, then a little smug, then horrified again. She patted him on the shoulder. “Yeah. You think about that one.”

He watched her carefully rouse the wizard with soft words and soft touches. He was much bigger than her, but she was a little muscular for her size and used to carrying around her kills. Gently, she led him back to his tent and Astarion took this opportunity to slip into his own.

[passingnotions]

Private Exhibition | Luda

smut, 900 words, mutual masturbation, exhibitionist, voyeur, edging, friends with benefits type deal, quickie A/N: Thank you for the request, anon. A few things: first off, Luda and breeding go together, yes (I think by law, at least in my mind). Although I started a draft with this in mind, the writing was very uninspired and not up to my self-imposed standards. I had this idea below, though, for some time. It kinda clicked so here we are. Sorry for the lack of breeding. Second, I normally don't put spoiler-y tags but, considering this is (another) quickie, I want to make sure everyone gets the general idea with the very short buildup. Chalk it up to some lack of confidence with clarity and the lack of external editing.

Few are the times you find yourself absorbed in musings, so concentrated on the task at hand that time flies with ease. These moments are valued; you consider yourself quite the creative, after all. This was not the case with “Drawing 1.”

Calling the course an elective would be a stretch. Every other class at the time was filled so you were left with no choice. There is a beauty to the drawing process and you would never deny that. The problem is that, out of all your creative outlets, this is not one of them. You don’t despise it per se, but being graded on one of your weakest skills is not your preferred choice. It could be considered a fun challenge in any other circumstance too, but academic stress begged to differ and you were left with a sour note at the beginning of the year. Inspiration, though, still found a way. Your interest in the class began when the dainty figure walked in. 

“Alright everyone, this is Luda,” your professor stated. “She’s from the neighboring drama department and will be our figure drawing model during the coming weeks.”

Your inspiration was at its height throughout the course. The perfect model wasn’t unapproachable, anything but—you struck up more than simple conversation when opportunity showed. An intriguing, voyeuristic rapport developed between you as time passed which culminated in tandem with academic endeavors. The model likes to be watched—self-evident, but turns out it’s your gaze she prefers.

You eye Luda, carefully so, and take in the fine details that her graceful frame provides. Routinely propped up in the middle of the classroom, her mien is akin to a doll. Soft, delicate poses are the usual focus. They draw academic attention to the play between light and shadow yet you always focus on the more tangible details of her body.  

Luda is on the center table today, like most other weeks. Unlike other times, though, you join her in a nude display. The mutually-hosted exhibit is for no eyes but your own. Thankfully, semester’s end ensures a (mostly) vacated building and that this performance stays private.

Her pose, often directed and deliberate, is unrestrained and self-serving. Luda lies face up at the edge of the table with the back of her thighs aimed towards the ceiling. Her calves and feet are pointed at you, toes curled due to the pleasure her own hand produces. You sit in front of your subject, like many times before, yet find yourself unable to focus on the intricate details that her body presents on account of your own pleasure experienced. Much like her gentle hand that runs circles around her mouthwatering pussy, your own tenderly caresses your stiff cock. You tease and display for each other during the course of an hour; the common interest in withholding orgasms a tantalizing game.

Luda’s supple flesh offers avenues for your eyes to travel and guide your sight to her most desirable locations. Her legs, nonchalantly folded and dangling at the sensations of pleasure, lead your gaze towards the main performance. Her folds are covered in arousal. Each elegant finger continues to spread the juice around the pulsing clit. Below, her puckered hole, which also throbs at the impending orgasm she pursues to delay. Her navel comes into view next—a canvas you have come to know and prefer over the academic. Above that, her pretty tits. Deliciously taut nipples adorn her flushed chest as it rises and falls with Luda’s heavy, lascivious breathing. Finally, her desirous visage. Her neck cranes, likewise seeking to observe the show that you reciprocate. 

Similar to Luda, your orgasm will arrive sooner rather than later. The near hour-long venture has you both giving in to each exhilarating wave of pleasure as it comes. Your cock throbs bright red, barely able to contain itself within its own skin. With each stroke, you continue to spread the precum that leaks out of your swollen cockhead without end. You use your free hand to fondle your balls; the hypersensitive sensation is heightened by the anticipated finale. At this point, you would take anything to delay the inevitable. You become euphoric at the sight of Luda’s face, however. Her features lewdly contort as her point of no return approaches.

“Luda, I can’t hold it in any longer” you manage to hiss through the barrage of incoming pleasure.

“Mhmmph,” Luda whines. “Let's cum together.”

You stand and tower over the petite woman that lies before you; your stroking becomes unrestricted as you line up with the awaiting canvas below. Not a moment later, Luda erupts into a sublime litany of moans. Her voice shivers as waves of pleasure get sent throughout her lithe physique—this is your queue. Your cock blasts ropes over Luda’s hand. She smears your cum over her ongoing climax as the rest of your seed paints her soft, creamy navel. When it begins to pool around her stomach, Luda gathers even more between her fingers and rubs out the final throbs of her orgasm, mixing your white with her slick. You conclude and squeeze the last drops of cum as your sensitive cock glides around her folds. 

Even post-orgasm, the lustful desire she imbues to explore the inviting inside of her pussy makes you ache with temptation; to one day satisfy your wish and paint her walls is not exactly off the table. This is not the arrangement for today, however, and your classroom venture comes to an exhausting yet satisfying end.

[djmarinizelablog]

La Rosa

Summary: Hange Zoe, an eccentric painter, finally tries nudism in the comforts of her home. Much to her surprise, she catches her neighbor Levi staring at her, also naked.

And doing yoga. On his back porch.

Tags: nudity, nudist lifestyle, nudism, naked yoga, voyeurism, she/her pronouns for Hange, afab Hange

Her painting would eventually be a remnant of summer, especially with the months fading slowly into fall.

Little did things in the winter piqued her interest, anyway. It was getting colder indoors, the autumn chill biting into her bones. Hange shivered when her nipples brushed against the canvas of her latest masterpiece the moment she leaned towards it to get a closer look at the details. Slight flecks of paint clung onto her areolas, much to her dismay. Nevertheless, this was entirely her idea.

Her first time painting naked in the comforts of her tiny home, in her balcony, had been quite a success. The past few weeks were tough; her creativity had dwindled to its lowest, making her unable to produce any new artwork, and Hange could only blame her lack of imagination. It wasn't long before Nanaba, her good friend and fellow artist, had completely suggested to her the art of being naked. Hange thought it was the most absurd advice she had ever heard, but it was a lifestyle that she had been curious about before, after all.

The stool she sat on for five hours straight gave no mercy to her bare bottom. At least her clothes on the floor gave the soles of her foot some reprieve. But her lack of clothing allowed her to move her arms freely with every brushstroke, wild and unrestrained. There was nothing limiting her movements. In fact, she felt as if she had grown wings, blithe and untamed. Aside from the open air, the view from her very own balcony was unrivaled. Nothing could ever come close to the scenery of the hills from afar, the evergreen forests enough to inspire her to work.

After the last petal was finally done, Hange stretched out her arms in utter accomplishment, her fingers stained with bright hues of pink and yellow. All that was left was the title. She still couldn't come up with the best one to frame her painting. She tucked her paintbrush into the bun of her hairdo and smiled at her finished output. Small wisps of her hair the color of the falling leaves fell down her face. Standing up, she leaned on the railings of her balcony and breathed in air signifying summer's end.

How she wished she never looked down, because Hange's eyes widened the moment she opened them again. "Oh!"

Staring back at her was her neighbor. Naked. On his back porch. Hange had forgotten their houses were so close to one another that it was easy to see each other's activities from a certain distance. The young man himself was in a lotus pose, knees crossed in a sitting position, his mouth wide open as his eyes squinted at the October sun. He was every bit of sculpted; his muscles in his legs and forearms rippled in every movement. He had a six-pack for abs, and his torso had the prominent V-shaped line on it.

Dear heavens: he was a god on earth.

Hange could feel the flush in her cheeks. The sensation of the air hitting her thighs was delicious. She quickly whipped her head to look for the closest thing to cover herself: a towel. It barely covered past her knees, and her breasts were ready to slip out, but it was enough.

Unfortunately, her own neighbor had no towel beside him, so his hands ended up as the best form of shield for now.

"Sorry!" Hange shouted to him down below, her sight slightly obscured by the fingers she held to her face. "I didn't know you're a big fan of naked yoga!"

"Fuck, I didn't know you were into nudism either!" His voice was gruff but his tone was somewhat teasing.

She felt ridiculously shouting back, but she had to. "Oh, this is the first time I've tried it!"

By this time, the neighbor had already procured himself a clean white bedsheet that he was drying outside; it was preposterously huge that it dwarfed him by comparison. Hange herself had left the balcony to head downstairs and meet her seemingly embarrassed neighbor who was right outside. Both of them were still clad in their makeshift clothing once they met right by the fence.

Hange couldn't help but guffaw. "Sorry, this is just the weirdest meet up I've ever had. I'm Hange."

Her giggles were enough to make her neighbor smile. "Nice to meet you. My name's Levi. I can see your painting from down here." They both looked up at her finished artwork, the canvas still resting on the easel. "Do you already know what to call your masterpiece?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. I need to get my creative juices flowing a little bit more. Might have to soak in the sun naked a few more times the way you do."

It was Levi's turn to blush. "You'll figure it out. I'm sure you will. Would you like to have some tea with me at my house?"

The last summer breeze was in the air as Hange smiled back at him. "Of course, is it clothing-optional?" She was grinning, her eyes light and happy.

Levi himself didn't really have a comeback to that, so he merely shrugged and told her, "That's for you to decide," before starting to head back to his house.

She turned around to admire her painting once more up on the balcony. Down below in her garden, the roses were now in full bloom, each young petal puckered and delicate, as wild and as carefree as she was. The title for her painting was already at the tip of her tongue.

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

Hear me out -- Beauty and the Beast but it's Beauty and Sinister Strange. She's so sweet and good and full of light, she's just what he needs. And he's probably so damn touch-starved that he'd treat her well. Heck, the veil between universes is probably very thin now.

Hmmmm- honestly, I've been toying with such an idea for a while. Trying to figure out how the two could get to interact. They actually have in a couple of RP threads that I've shared with @doctorstrangeaskblog and @doctorstrangerp.

Plus, I really love my Beauty (just as I do all of my OFCs) and I love writing her, and as my current writer's block doesn't seem to be affecting my RPs, it might be a good way to break free of my creative fog

I've already been playing with a prologue of sorts...

Maybe what happened was inevitable. Maybe from the moment her curiosity--unrestrained due to her kind and optimistic nature--got the better of her and she passed through the opaque glass of the Dark Mirror of Somnambulis that first time, Beauty’s fate had been sealed.

In her defense, the Mirror’s pull was a strong one; strong enough to tempt even the staunchest Master of the Mystic Arts, even the most devout and uncompromising servant of the Light. Stephen had given her permission to enter all but the most dangerous rooms in the Sanctum, having cast warding spells on those he knew might present a threat. But he hadn’t thought to guard the Hall of Mirrors—a massive, cavernous room, which he hadn’t had the opportunity to fully explore yet. It was that same room that Beauty had stumbled upon, drawn inexorably to the black framed mirror that allowed the gazer to explore the Dream Realm.

Beauty had stood before it, a hesitant hand raised to fully remove the covering--an ancient oilcloth that had somehow fallen partially away--unnaturally fascinated by the black surface that reflected nothing, but seemed to swallow whatever light was close by. Later—after the battle which her Stephen had been forced to wage against the sinister version of himself, who had trapped her in the Dream Realm—she would ask him if he thought that the corrupted Strange had somehow dislodged that covering from his side of the mirror, as a trap for anyone who happened to stray too near. He had answered that it was almost certain, fervently vowing to protect her more thoroughly going forward. Trembling with the realization that the Sinister one might someday find another way into this reality and finish what he’d threatened.

To take Stephen’s place and have Beauty—whose light was bright enough to warm the cold man’s inner darkness—for his own. 

[psitrend]

Interview with illustrator Dodolulu

New Post has been published on https://china-underground.com/2019/08/01/interview-with-illustrator-dodolulu/

Interview with illustrator Dodolulu

Dodolulu is an Illustrator based in Hong Kong.

Continuously inspired by the feeling about life. She draws a small moment that touches, happy or sad, to let people whoever felt the same know that they are not alone. She sharing her observations of human nature with a fresh eye and simplicity.

Dodolulu represents the people she draws. They keep her accompanied whenever she thinks about life. They are pride, sophisticated, quirky – and naive. Each of them is unique like she sees herself and the others.

Besides drawing, dodolulu are also on ceramic or fabric dolls. Her motto is “Living a poetic life, finding the planet too beautiful”.

Official site | Facebook | Instagram

China-Underground: Could you tell us a bit about yourself? Who influenced you as a person and as an illustrator?

Dodolulu: I am an illustrator based in Hong Kong. I was born and raised here, a city that is full of people and everybody is rushing around. I walked as fast as the others do. I cannot keep calm until when I am alone. I treasure the silent moment when I am by myself.

I like expressing myself withdrawing. I am very concentrated when I draw. For me, it is a true pleasure when I work on the colors and structures of a drawing. I did not receive formal training in an art school but after graduation, I started to spend my time on what my real passion is for. I love drawing people. I started with life drawing, then oil painting, and right now I am doing illustration as well.

What motivated you to become an illustrator and designer? How did your adventure in the design world begin?

To make the blank paper a pleasure to look at (at least to me : )). For me, drawing is a true adventure. I could never foresee how my work looks like until it is done. This always gives me surprises. I like the way I communicate with my works and this makes me continue.

Back a few years ago, I started to draw and share online. Later, I tried to participate in local weekend markets. People here are more likely to buy a ready-made product, rather than a drawing itself or some printed paper goods. So, I started to apply my drawings on products, making them patterns and all.

What illustration impressed you the most in your childhood? What are your best childhood memories?

I watched cartoons on TV every day when I am home from school. With the way how Asians admire the appearance of the western ladies, the image of girls is always with big eyes, blonde hair, and tall with long legs. Presented this image of beauty in my childhood by these cartoons, I started to re-think what is real beauty. I like drawing normal people, like most of us, and this is the prototype of dodolulu. Best childhood memories are always with my grandpa, especially when he brings me to the park and holds me on a swing.

Do you remember your earliest drawing? What was about?

I vaguely remember how the earliest drawing looked like. My mother told me that I have drawn myself holding hands with my parents when my two-year-younger brother was not even born. This must be the first one.

What do you love most about your work? What is the creative process behind your work?

I like throwing colors on paper, let them flow in their way, and make lines afterward. This is a process from freedom, control to judgment. The unrestrained beginning reminds me of my early childhood, where I can follow my heart to the fullest.

Fantasy and reality. Which one is the main inspiration for your illustration?

Fantasy, I am rather an observer in life. I feel myself observing people from a distance as if I am not part of the crowd. Being unattached with the people, I make my own logic out of what I observed.

What are some of your favorite subjects to draw?

I like drawing hair, hair being prolonged, and connected with others. I make it a symbol of thinking, so when hair is connected, thoughts are connected. Another subject that I like to draw is the dream and ideal. I like representing them with red balloons. A balloon is charming and perfectly shaped when it is fully inflated, but at the same time, it is vulnerable when being pierced.

What emotions do you try to inspire?

Quietness, deep thinking, and a hidden peaceful mind.

How important is the web and social media in promoting your work?

It is a platform where I am directly connected with my audience, a place where I could interact with them. It functions also like a bullet board so I could look back on how I grow throughout the years.

Photo courtesy of Dodolulu

#Illustrator

[elizabeth-mitchells]

three guesses - Alice/Cindy - Fear Street

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Fear Street Trilogy (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Alice/Cindy Berman (Fear Street) Characters: Alice (Fear Street Part 2: 1978), Cindy Berman (Fear Street) Additional Tags: Pre-Canon, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, First Love, First Kiss, Lesbian Cindy Berman (Fear Street), Fluff, it's basically fluff with humor character study foreshadowing and idk they're just cute Words: 1,845

The two of them were only friends and would always be and Alice was perfectly fine with that… sometimes.

or

Alice and Cindy are best friends and have always been. Alice and Cindy are also hopelessly in love with each other, even if they don't know it yet. Then... their first kiss happens.

Alice was used to thinking a lot about Cindy Berman. It started when they were just little kids. Alice had been of the misguided belief that bothering somebody was a reasonable way to show your appreciation for them. So, mesmerized by the quiet brunette that carried herself with more confidence than anyone else in the playground, a young Alice had decided to push Cindy to the ground. She had smiled all the way even after Cindy had jumped back to her feet and tackled her down to the ground too. It had been the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Just a regular friendship. The two of them were only friends and would always be and Alice was perfectly fine with that… sometimes.

The problem was she never stopped thinking too much about Cindy Berman. She thought about those blue eyes that were inevitably expressive and honest despite Cindy’s emotional walls. She thought about Cindy’s temper, the scariest thing in all of Shadyside for Alice, who was used to seeing Cindy as impressively calm and collected until one bad thing set her off beyond repair and it was time to hide. Except, Alice never hid from Cindy. She took Cindy’s anger, and Cindy’s passion, and Cindy’s braveness, and it only made her stronger, something she was thankful for. Not only did she need a considerable amount of strength to endure her own complicated life. But it was something that prepared her for all the things that entailed having Cindy Berman in her life and, worst-case scenario, losing her.

It was a complicated balance, whatever it was that Cindy kept inside her. Alice didn’t exactly understand it. She had never considered herself to be too complicated. She was just lucky enough to be one of the people that didn’t have to put too much effort into understanding themselves. Confident and comfortable in the person she was from a young age, Alice had a lot of free self-discovery time to spare. Time she spent staring at Cindy when she thought the other girl wouldn’t notice. So, she noticed the signs. Slowly but surely Cindy raised the walls she kept around herself. Cindy was used to trying to tame her temper for others’ sake, but she started taming her confidence, and her authenticity. It looked like she was trying to isolate herself from the rest of Shadyside. Alice was left fearing the day some little thing would change Cindy Berman forever. 

Before that could happen, however, they were still just themselves. Alice and her unrestrained laughter, Cindy and her fearless nature. Alice and her curiosity, Cindy and her cleverness. A treacherous combination that was put to good use in Shadyside, where looking for trouble was the easiest thing in the world. There was no need to pretend they were someone else, some well-adjusted children, some picture-perfect girls from a magazine. They were messy, and creative, and inseparable. Alice looked for trouble, Cindy dared her to make it twice as risky. Alice hesitated at the edge of a cliff, Cindy ran up behind her and threw both of them to a lake, limbs tangled and free as they would ever be. Last but not least, Alice was clueless as to how to express her feelings for her best friend, and Cindy instinctively but blindly reciprocated them twice as fiercely.

There was a special summer when the two girls had the most fun they ever had together. Of course, there were gray clouds all around their small bubble of joy. They were in Shadyside, after all. Alice was already hiding scars, and Cindy’s father was already out of the picture. Alice was starting to want more fun than it could be safe to have, just to pretend that the rest of life wasn’t so difficult. Cindy was starting to retreat into her own thoughts, the wheels turning in her mind as she stared at the easier lives that Sunnyvalers had. But things hadn’t gotten out of control yet. Summer felt bright and endless. Cindy cut Alice hair, and Alice nearly burned down the Berman’s kitchen. Always a little chaos, always a lot of fun, always the two of them together. They spent their days together, to make up for the shadows lurking in their respective homes. Very often, Cindy’s younger sister would tag along with them, making Cindy complain about how much Ziggy was trying to be like Alice, even if she secretly thought it was adorable. Life was good.

Life, however, was going to be put upside down for them very soon. Not even in the tragic way they had grown to expect. Not yet.

First, they had to live through the day when they were hanging out at the Berman residence and Alice asked Cindy to do her makeup. More specifically, Alice shoved a black eyeliner in her best friend’s hands and then let herself fall on Cindy’s bed without a second thought.

“Come on. Don’t stop until I look like a stoned panda,” Alice said.

“You’re so stupid,” Cindy sighed. She was using that very particular Cindy Berman tone of voice that Alice could recognize as trying to sound annoyed but secretly enjoying herself.

Alice's thoughts, however, were rudely interrupted by her brain finally catching up with her severe miscalculation. Before she knew what exactly was happening, Cindy was on the bed with her. Cindy was on the bed on top of her. Her admirable best friend was straddling Alice’s waist and wearing a deep frown of concentration as she started to work on Alice’s eyeliner.

“Shut your mouth before a fly gets lost in there,” Cindy teased her friend with a smirk.

Seeing herself caught with her lips parted in surprise, Alice snapped her mouth shut. But she continued to stare up at her best friend’s endearingly focused expression. This position was at once that best and worst feeling Alice could remember experiencing in her young life. Cindy’s eyes were strikingly blue. And no matter how tough Cindy tried to look, there was always that soft smile that appeared on her lips without her realizing it. Their faces were maddeningly close. Alice could feel Cindy breathing, and she could have probably heard Cindy’s heart beating, if her own heartbeat wasn’t already a loud drum in her chest. Before she could worry too much about the idea of Cindy being able to hear her heart beating so loud and wonder the reason behind that, Alice decided to do something about this situation. She had to fight back. 

“You look cute,” Alice blurted out. She felt genuinely surprised by her mind’s ability to continuously come up with the wrong strategy to express or hide her feelings.

“Shut up,” Cindy replied. She scoffed like a true unruly Shadysider. But Cindy still marveled at her friend’s inability to hide that sweet strain in her voice. It didn’t matter if at the end of the day they were all cursed the same. To Alice, Cindy was unlike everyone else in this town.

“What?” Alice laughed, “It’s true!”

Her laughter shook her whole body, and nearly made Cindy lose her balance. But instead of laughing along, the brunette’s frown deepened and she stopped her use of the eyeliner.

“Hey!” Cindy snapped. “I’m as tough as you, you know?” She poked at her friend’s chest with the eyeliner.

“Ouch!” Alice exclaimed, and raised her hands in surrender. “I know, Berman. Trust me, I know.” She took a moment to think about all those times when Cindy Berman and her angelic blue eyes proved to be just as much of a troublemaker as Alice herself. However, then she couldn’t help but break the silence. “You’re still cute though.”

This time Cindy surrendered to her friend’s charm and laughed along with her. “Fuck you,” she said and rolled her eyes affectionately. Then she started working on Alice’s makeup again.

However, that little interruption had brought them closer than before, which started a couple of problems. For Cindy, she realized she was nearly done. She had already applied more eyeliner than necessary. But she was thrown off guard by how much she did not want to move away from her current spot. For Alice, as usual, her problem started with Cindy’s laugh. Because it brought Alice’s attention to Cindy’s mouth, and then there was Cindy’s easy smile firmly in place, and Alice simply couldn’t look away from her best friend’s lips. In the end, it couldn’t have happened more naturally even in their dreams.

The atmosphere around them had irrevocably changed. The energy between their bodies was simply different. Cindy couldn’t have continued with the application of makeup even if she had tried, because her hand was starting to shake. So instead she found balance holding on to Alice’s right shoulder. 

“Done,” Cindy announced quietly, without meeting Alice’s eyes.

“Thanks,” Alice replied, her eyes still lingering on Cindy’s lips.

Then Alice carefully pushed herself up on her elbows. Not much, just enough to hear a very small breathless gasp escape Cindy’s mouth. But neither of them tried to move away from each other.

“Alice.”

“Yeah?”

Only when she heard Cindy call her name did Alice look back into her favorite pair of blue eyes. She was beyond happy to notice those eyes were staring at her mouth. Her heart was beating so loudly in her chest that Alice feared she could get a heart attack. Still, she was smiling when she finally closed the distance between them and kissed Cindy Berman for the first time.

Alice nearly gasped in utter surprise when she felt Cindy immediately reciprocate the kiss. But then Cindy pulled away, enough to spark a sense of panic in the other girl, but not enough for it to last. In fact, it seemed she only moved to sit more comfortably in Alice’s lap.

“What are you doing?” Cindy wondered breathlessly. She shook her head a little, incredulous, not of what just happened, but of how good it felt. She placed a gentle hand on Alice's cheek. She could feel and see the moment Alice smiled playfully at her.

“Three guesses,” Alice replied right before reconnecting their lips in a  much more confident kiss.

Cindy made a small noise of surprise, and then she stifled a giggle against Alice’s lips. They continued to exchange kisses until Alice’s arms got tired. She let herself fall back on the bed, taking Cindy down with her. The movement broke their kiss, and it was a miracle that they didn’t accidentally bite their lips as they fell into bed. But they didn’t mind if it was messy, if it was an imperfect moment. For them, it couldn’t have been better. They laughed wholeheartedly, and then they were back to kissing. Alice wrapped her arms around Cindy’s waist, and Cindy reciprocated by tangling a hand in Alice’s hair. Personal changes and life-changing problems could wait. Shadyside and the entire world would have to wait too. There was a couple of best friends figuring out how perfectly they fit together and how much they had really wanted to kiss each other.

[sleepylixie]

I Hate to Admit

College! AU Bang Chan X fem! reader

Imperium Universe || Jisung || Seungmin || Chan 

2k (I’m so sorry), fluffiest fluff 

Request? Yes! Hope you like this, Anon!! Apologies about getting a wee bit carried away. >.<

Warnings: None!

A/N: I liked writing this, even though it’s waayyyy longer than I expected it to be oops. This is an extension of the same universe as this Jisung fic and this Seungmin fic, but you can definitely read this as a standalone! Do let me know what you think about this fic, I’d love to hear feedback!! ONTO THE FIC :D

Requests are open for SKZ and BTS! || Masterlist

The skate park right outside your campus was always an interesting sight. There were always a lot of people around, enjoying themselves on the gentle slopes and plateaus. You were always mystified by the way the skateboarders could so easily throw themselves into the air, seemingly unafraid of taking a tumble to the concrete floor.

You’d pass by the skate park thrice a week in the early evening, on your way to a part-time shift at Imperium- the closest bar to your university. Your shifts ran late sometimes, bordering on midnight when you’d step out of Imperium’s back door.

More often than not, you’d encounter the same lone figure in the skatepark on your way back- an average-sized, lean figure who had a way with the skateboard that you’d never seen anybody have before. The first time you spotted him, you stopped and watched for a few moments as he made his way up the slopes like it was nothing at all- he was that good.

Skateboarding wasn’t your thing as much as people watching- there were so many interesting people in the world, so many different kinds of personalities that you couldn’t get enough. You would write them into stories of back-alley romance, tales of rippling fantasy and chronicles of traitorous woe,  reveling in the way your worlds and characters built themselves up along the plot.

It became an unconscious habit, seeing the boy(it seemed like a boy, judging from his impeccably built shoulders and a penchant for extremely sleeveless muscle tops.) on your way back from your late bartending shifts.

He was curious, you decided. Who only visited the skate park when it was at it’s emptiest despite being so good? Did he not like attention? Was he shy? You made a mental note to try and talk to him one day- you weren’t hesitant with your curiosities. Someday, when you weren’t bogged down by your already numerous Works in progress and university, you would approach him and find out more about this midnight skateboarder.

But as it turned out, you didn’t have to wait too long.

//

“Y/N! Where were you, it’s almost 1 a.m!” Your sorority sister Chaeyoung sat up on her bed as you walked into your shared room. Her short blonde hair fluttered around her face as she slipped off the bed, bounding towards you. “I had a longer shift than normal, Imperium was weirdly full.” You responded, pulling your bag off your shoulder.

“Alpha Phi Alpha is throwing another rager. Do you want in?”

That’s when you heard it. You’d been so absorbed in the music from your own earphones that you didn’t even noticed the deep bass thumping through the air, the muffled cheers and screams of enjoyment. Of course there was a party going on, it was a Friday night.

Life next to a fraternity house wasn’t the most peaceful, but you didn’t mind it. Your sorority, Delta Kappa, was housed right next to the Alpha Phi Alpha frat house, close enough to share a fenced wall.

The Alpha Phi Alpha fraternity was the most sought after fraternity on campus; acceptance meant instant skyrocketing of social worth. It was all extremely cliché: the best frat on campus, filled with the smartest, most attractive guys, throwing the most memorable parties and yet maintaining their stellar record of being good at pretty much everything.

“Sure, why not? I have some energy to let off.” You smile, throwing open your shared wardrobe. Chae’s eyes shone wickedly, she was sold by the idea of any kind of party. “Are any of the other sisters coming??”

“Jennie, Lia and Yeri already left. I thought I’ll wait around for you.”

“How nice of you, Chae,” You huff out another laugh as you held out an outfit for her to see. “Ooh, I like it. Now hurry up, right?”

“Okay, okay!!”

20 minutes later, you were walking into your next-door frat house with Chae, already warmed by the electric vibe. “Y/N!!! You’re here!!”  There he was-tall, blonde and devastatingly handsome. Also seemingly tipsy, by the looks of it. Hwang Hyunjin was one of your closest friends, but he had a hard time handling his liquor, even though he would stoutly disagree when sober.

“What took you so long?” He slurred slightly, slinging an arm around you and giving you a tight, alcohol-smelling hug. “Unlike some of you, I have a job, Hyunin,” You quipped, returning his embrace and pecking his cheek- your usual greeting.

“Whatever, you’re here now.” He scoffed and ruffled your hair. “ We just made some new additions to the frat, you should come and meet them.”

“Sure, why not?” So Hyunjin took your hand and led you through the throngs of partying people. Soon enough, you stepped onto the roof of the frat house, a fairly clean space for being set up by a troupe of boys. Fairy lights left the people on the terrace bathed in soft yellow lights, a rather aesthetic sight.

There were around a handful of people lounging around on the couches and carpets, but Hyunjin led you to a particular group of people nearest to the railing, laughing and talking in a circle. You knew he had a gang of friends from all over the campus that just seemed to have an inexplicable pull towards each other.

You knew some of them by appearance from other ragers- music major Jisung with the cheeky smile, law student Seungmin with the puppy-eyes and an acidic tongue, Changbin with his almost flawlessly built body (you always paused for a second to admire his physique) and Minho, the guy who for some ominous reason always had bruised knuckles.

“Y/N! Hey!” Jeongin exclaimed, eyes brightening up in an endearing smile. “Hey Innie,” you grinned, happy to see another familiar face in the junior from the same major as you. “Yes yes hello and all that, Innie,” Hyunjin rolled his eyes, ignoring the look of mock offense he got from Jeongin. “I brought Y/N to meet Chan, coz he’s new to the frat, and my favorite sorority girl should be the first to know about the new fish.”

He threw an arm out, pointing to one of the guys leaning against the railing of the terrace, all smiles and black hair. You extended your own smile towards him, already giving him a casual once over- He wasn’t too tall, with impeccably built shoulders in a muscle top….wait. The question was out of your mouth before you could stop it.

“Are you the weirdo that goes skateboarding at midnight?”

A pause rippled across everybody in the circle, the smile on Chan’s face reducing to an incredulous splutter as Jisung choked on a giggle- that did it. All of the guys dissolved into peals of laughter, loud and unrestrained.

“Sorry about that,” You said, letting out an embarrassed sigh as you stepped around the circle to get closer to Chan. “I’ve seen you in the skate park when I’m getting back after work.”

He shrugged, his handsome features still splashed with sheepishness. “It’s fine, it was just a matter of time, I guess.” Over the laughter, you could hear how smooth his voice was, like melting chocolate.

“If it counts for anything, I thought you’re really good at it.” You weren’t the beat around the bush with your words. “You made it look so easy.”

A light blush reddened his ears as he grinned at the compliment. “Thanks.. Y/N, was it?”

You spent the rest of the night with the boys, caught in easy banter- but particularly, you got to know Chan. He had been living off campus until he’d decided to apply for the fraternities on a whim, ending up with an acceptance to Alpha phi Alpha. He was a business major, with a creative minor in music producing- just like Changbin. He was a natural extrovert, effortless with conversation and people skills, a man married to his work-to the point that he regularly lost sleep over it. He was also a bit of a dork, you noticed, with his random bursts of exaggerated hand movements and lame jokes.

The sun was beginning to rise when you decided to get back home. “It was nice getting to know you, Channie,” you grinned, pulling him into an easy hug and pecking his cheek.

“Likewise, Y/N.” He smiled his captivating smile at you, before walking you to the frat house door. “Before I go, what do you say about exchanging numbers?” You asked. He was a good sort, the kind of guy who’d make a really good friend. Why not?

Chan agreed amicably and sent you off with promises to catch up soon, leaving you feeling light and happy.

To your surprise, he ended up dropping by your sorority the very next morning, asking if you were up for waffles at a nearby café. You happened to be awake at the time and decided to tag along with him- even though it was 6 in the morning.

“The guys refuse to wake up early and join me,” he complained, holed up in the café with plates of waffles and orange juice in front of you. “Chan, be honest,” You chuckled. “The only reason we’re awake at ass o’ clock is because both of us can’t sleep to save our lives.” He rolled his eyes in amusement. “Stop wise cracking and get on eating, Y/N.”

That café run cemented your day-old friendship into one of peaceful camaraderie, a safe space for each other within the chaos of your friend circles.

//

Winter melted slowly into spring, bringing tidings of new beginnings, assignment and semester exams and subsequently, end of semester parties. As always, Alpha phi Alpha was throwing a rager of a party that was expected to be the best all semester.  Your entire sorority had received invitations and were all excited to drown out the stress of exams week. You, on the other hand, were also thinking about something else. Someone, rather-Chan.

You and Chan had only grown close over the course of the past months,  gradually bonding over ungodly morning cafe runs, late night texts between breaks and video calls asking for outfit opinions.

You frequented the frat house more often, a fact that Hyunjin rejoiced (and teased you relentlessly) over. Chaeyoung only gazed at you with a suggestive look in her eyes when you slipped into the room at 2 a.m in the morning with one of Chan’s many black hoodies hanging off your shoulders. What, it was winter, it was cold on your way back from Imperium and he offered! Chan, to his credit, seemed to be just as invested in this newly growing friendship as you were. He walked you back from Imperium whenever he was at the skatepark, invited you on his midnight skate runs,  even almost breaking his arm trying to teach you how to balance on his skateboard.

It was an outlet for his energy, he explained one day. Sometimes working on music or going on a run didn’t give him the same sense of calm that skateboarding did. It wasn’t about the attention for him- with Chan, it almost never was. Not surprisingly, you liked that about him.  You liked Chan, for all his insomniac, stress skateboarding, black hoodie hoarding self.

The party was already in full swing when you and Chaeyoung knocked on the main door. One of the frat boys you didn’t know opened the door, smirking at you before yelling over his shoulder. “Yo, Chan, your girl’s here!”

Your eyes widened, exchanging an amused glance with Chae, who was openly laughing at your expression. Chan’s girl? Not that you hated the sound of that.. But you were just a friend- a friend who had a crush on him.. Right??

Chan hurried to the door that very instant, shoo-ing his frat brother off. “Sorry about that,” he murmured , exchanging hugs and cheek kisses with you and Chae. “To the usual spot?” he grinned, comically offering you his arm.

“Of course, my dearest,” you gushed, the two of you bursting into a fit of giggles as you linked your arm with his, allowing Chan to steer you towards the staircase leading up to the terrace. Once on the rooftop, you were met with a familiar sight- 7 boys giggling and talking amongst themselves in a loose circle near the railing. “Chan, don’t hog all of Y/N’s attention, she’s here for the party, you know?” Jisung called out the second he spotted the two of you heading towards them.

Amidst a gale of laughter, Chan frowned indignantly, opening his mouth to give Jisung a tongue lashing before you broke in, a sly smile stamped across your own face. “Who says I’d mind it??”

A chaotic chorus of 7 male voices responding to you had you laughing aloud, scanning Chan’s face for any discomfort. But he only had flaming ears, shifty eyes,  and a shy smile trained on you- a smile that shifted from shy to teasing in split seconds.

“If that’s the case, then I’m stealing Y/N for the night, you guys!” He declared, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the door the two of you had just walked through. “Chan, what are you doing?” You breathed out in amusement, not pulling your hand away. Your heart was beating out of your chest at everything going on, especially with Chan’s warm hand enclosing yours and the way he’d just smiled at you-

“Something I’ve wanted to do for a while now,” Chan’s voice was exactly as you knew it, smooth, warm melted chocolate. “Come with me to the skatepark. Just for a while.” Who were you to say no to that voice?

//

Chaeyoung opened the door to the sorority early next morning, squawking in laughter when she saw who stood in front of her. You in Chan’s hoodie, your hand in his, your lipstick staining the side of Chan’s jaw and the kicker- you hugging Chan, quickly landing a soft kiss on his lips before skipping into the house.

Chaeyoung could only look at the adoring look on Chan’s face as you disappeared into the house and close the door, laughing quietly.  Ah, young love. 

[writer-ish]

hopeful hearts, part two

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x f!MC (Brooke Spiers)

Word Count: 3,750 

Rating: E (NSFW 18+)

Summary:  During the Gala, Ethan and Brooke sneak off for a more private encounter. 

This is a more detailed version of the office scene in Chapter 17, from Ethan’s POV.

PART ONE HERE. 

once again, special thanks to: @openheartthot for providing the script that started this all ♥️

Dr. Ethan Ramsey doesn’t care.

It’s a point of pride for him. He does his job - and he does it damn well - but that chip that most people have, the one that makes them ache and burn and torment themselves over the thoughts and feelings of others—no.

That he does not have.

Which is why he finds himself unable to explain—unable to reconcile with his own perceptions of himself, why the woman beside him in this moment makes him ache and burn and torment himself, day in and day out. Why the only thing he finds himself caring about is her thoughts. Her feelings.

Why the feel of her hand in his, gripping him tightly, the trust that’s imbued in that simple gesture as they walk recklessly through the corridors of the quiet hospital, is enough to knock the breath out of his lungs.

Ethan Ramsey finds himself realizing that, for someone who had never cared, this seems to matter a whole lot.

His heart pounds a steady rhythm as they swiftly and silently approach the doors of his office. He lets them both in and then closes the door resoundly behind him.

“Here we are,” he says, hearing the gruffness in his tone and unable to utter the words any differently. “Alone at last.”

She looks up at him and, once again, breathing seems out of reach. It’s a feeling in his chest—one that he can’t explain away with logic or reason, the two tenets with which he’s structured his life.

“Any idea what we could get up to with such a rare moment of privacy?” She’s disarmingly contradictory—provocative and bashful, sincere and flirtatious. Every contradiction stirs his blood in unprecedented ways. He wants her, needs her—not just now, but always.

“I have a few,” he murmurs in response to her question, stepping forward and linking his fingers with hers, drawing her hands around his torso before leaning forward and touching her lips with his.

The kiss is softer, less performative than the one he’d given her downstairs. This one doesn’t need to prove a point to anyone other than himself. And the point he’s trying to prove is how necessary it is for him to be kissing her at this moment.

Pulling away, he takes in the sight of her. The gleaming auburn curls tumbling over her shoulders, the red dress that seized him by the chest the moment he saw her in it—she incapacitated him with her beauty. 

He’d seen her at six in the morning and eleven at night (oftentimes in the same day). He’d seen her rested and exhausted. With makeup and without. He’d seen her—

He wills away the image that appears in his mind’s eye. The one of her that’s always a little blurred around the edges — as though he’s looking at her through a transparent barrier; since, of course, that’s exactly what he’d had to do. It’s the image of her unwell. Scared. 

His heart thumps painfully as the fear returns again, an old, familiar feeling now, like a cloak that shadows his mind. The moments that he thought were numbered. Panic, the likes of which he’d never before experienced—

No. He won’t think of that now.

He forces his tone to be casual, but the depths of his emotion still seem to break through.

“I looked around and it's definitive. You were the most stunning woman in that room tonight.” The statement pales in comparison to the way he truly feels.

She dimples, pleased by his compliment even as she tries not to show it, and his heart soars.

“Are you trying to flatter me, Dr. Ramsey?” she teases.

All pretence of casualness is gone as he responds, his voice husky and low: “Is it still flattery if it's an understatement?”

Her cheeks redden and suddenly she’s even more of a vision, the rosiness of her face contrasting the colour of her hair and the hue of her dress in the most incredibly charming way.

She reaches up to caress his cheek softly and he feels himself lean slightly into her touch, unable to resist the allure of her body making contact with his.

“I’m glad you did that just now. Kissed me.” He sees her vulnerability and knows that he’s at the root of it—his damned fears and pride and sense of propriety and justice all being part of what almost ruined this for him. For them.

His public declaration - that she was his and, even more importantly, he was hers - was something they’d both needed more than either of them had realized.

“Trust me, Brooke.” He leans forward, whispering the next words. “I’m just getting started.”

Their lips meet and Ethan feels a hunger in his very soul; like he could devour her whole. A frenzied heat runs through him, his entire body thrumming with the anticipation of what’s to come. Now, now, now, are the only words his pounding heart speaks as he guides her to the first available surface: his desk.

Ethan is not a man prone to fantasy.

Even in previous relationships - more like arrangements - he’d always maintained a level-headed foundation to every encounter. The exchanges were simple at their core: the satisfaction of a mutual need. An itch to be scratched. And, once they were over, he barely gave them further consideration.

But Ethan Ramsey would be a stone-cold liar if he’d ever said that he hadn’t had a recurring, relentless daydream - and occasional night dream - of taking Dr. Brooke Spiers on top of this very desk in a multitude of imaginative, creative, and depraved ways.

And now, now at the cusp of this almost two-year fantasy coming to life, it feels as though something inside of him has truly, finally been unleashed.

Keeping his lips crushed to hers, Ethan cups Brooke’s round bottom, squeezing appreciatively before dragging his hands down the sequined fabric of her thighs until he can gain enough purchase to do what he really wants: lifting her effortlessly, he defers all her weight to one arm while using the other sweep every goddamn thing off his usually-meticulous desk. Pens and paper trays clatter to the floor as Ethan lays Brook gently across the desk, with a precise calmness he doesn’t truly feel.

She lets out a disbelieving laugh as she pulls away slightly, hands carding through his hair. “What’s gotten into you tonight?” she breathes against his lips, joy and unrestrained pleasure in her tone.

“Whatever it is,” he replies, pressing his lips to hers briefly before continuing, “I think it’s long overdue.”

“True.” She shimmies her way further up the desk, before reaching for him. “Which is why you shouldn’t keep me waiting.” Grabbing his collar, she drags him on top of her, lips colliding once more in a frenzy of taste and touch. He feels her lithe fingers give his hair a sharp tug and he groans against her mouth.

“Brooke.” He’s panting now, unable to get his heart rate under control. “I need you.” 

Leaning in once more to take her again, he’s surprised when she leans away, pressing a finger to his lips. The expression on her face stops him and he finds himself stumbling back a step as she pushes him gently and climbs off the desk.

She moves a few feet away and looks at him coyly, one eyebrow and the corner of her mouth hitched slightly upwards.

“Brooke…” She’s killing him. Does she know she’s killing him?

Probably.

“Shh…” she admonishes, lightly. “Just watch.”

Slowly she turns and Ethan drinks in every curve - from the dip in her waist to her well-rounded bottom. Reaching up, her slender fingers snag the gold zipper resting at her nape and she slowly tugs it down.

Ethan swears he can hear every excruciating millisecond of that zipper’s descent, even over the thundering pulse in his ears, as he watches it go down… down… exposing the creamy white skin of her perfect back, inch by inch.

It stops just below the small of her back, right above the cleft of her bottom, two familiar dimples taunting him. The opening of her dress has gaped over her shoulders and she looks at him one last time over her shoulder, her smile luminescent, before letting the garment fall to the floor in its entirety. Turning back around, she strikes a coy pose, one hand flipped up and the other on her cocked hip, as if to say “Well?”

He takes in her pink-tipped breasts, the perfect size for the palm of his hand. The indented waist that he can span if he so chooses. The swell of her hips, hugged in black lace. Her shapely legs, long for her height.

And the heels. That she’s still wearing.

He almost swallows his tongue.

Well, indeed.

Ethan reaches her in a single stride and pulls her towards him, cupping the nape of her neck as his lips reach hers with a soft reverence. He can feel the heat of her naked body against his, warm and electric, and he steps back only for a second to tear his own clothes off, barely considering the buttons that will need to be re-buttoned, or the obscenely expensive suit jacket that probably shouldn’t be left in a heap on the floor.

All that matters, all he can consider, is his all-consuming need to feel her body against his, unimpeded by clothing.

He tilts her jaw so that she’s looking up at him. He can’t help but be pleased to see that her breathing is irregular, too, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her nipples poking sharply into his chest. When she’s this close, he can see the flecks of green in her hazel eyes. The light smattering of freckles not entirely hidden behind her concealer.

God, he loves her.

The words come to him, unbidden yet familiar. A truth he has known for much longer than he cares to admit. He hasn’t told her yet, not really. But he hopes he’s shown her in all the ways that he’s let her in - into places no one has ever reached - and in all the ways he’s tried to care for her, to protect her, to nurture her and to guide her. And soon—

Soon, the words will come, as well.

For now, he settles for speaking another truth: “You’re so beautiful, it sometimes takes my breath away.”

It’s how he’s always felt around her; like the air has gotten a little lighter. His lungs a little shallower. He sees her and the visceral response of his body to hers feels like a sucker punch.

Every.

Damn.

Time.

Her eyes spark, a light glistening that foretells the chance of tears. They cause the irises to grow brighter, greener.

“Don’t tell me,” she says finally, swallowing hard. “Show me.”

With pleasure, he thinks, navigating her towards the desk again.

As if reading his mind, she’s already halfway there, boosting herself up and pulling him with her. She scoots back again along the smooth surface and he follows her; a predator, his lovely prey trapped between his arms.

“I mean,” she says blithely, her hair fanning around her like a crimson halo, “you did such a good job cleaning it up.”

He bites back a grin at her teasing tone and dips forward to nip at her throat.

“I was hoping you’d notice,” he murmurs against her skin.

She turns her head, guiding his face to hers, and kisses him fiercely on the lips. He responds in kind, tasting and licking at the sweet fullness of her mouth.

Keeping his lips on hers and one hand braced on the desk, he glides his other hand down her smooth skin until his fingers reach the lace of her panties. Teasingly, he plays with the little bow at the front, running his fingers lower, overtop the lace-covered mound, teasing the dampness he finds below.

She moans against his lips and he brings his hand back up, tucking it under the material, touching her skin, finding the slick heat underneath it all.

Biting back a groan, he dips his middle finger down lower, finding the wet give of her body and bringing some of that essence back to the tiny nub at the top of her entrance. Rubbing in slow, deliberate circles, he pulls back to watch her face.

Her head is thrashing lightly as she moans quietly at his touch.

“Someone’s...eager…” she pants, arching against the shiny, cool mahogany, her nipples peaked and straining towards the sky.

“I’ve been dreaming of this moment for months, Brooke,” he says, unable to resist the allure of those pink nipples, beckoning for his touch. His mouth latches onto one and he runs his tongue around the dusky areola before grazing his teeth over the distended tip. She whimpers and bucks under his hand, growing wetter at each moment that passes.

“The chance to be with you without hiding from anyone,” he continues, moving to the other nipple and giving it the same treatment, his middle finger still working her in an agonizingly slow caress.

“Now that it’s here—” He shifts the finger back down to the entrance of her body, filling her with it, unable to help the groan that escapes him as he feels her clench around him.

“—I can hardly help myself,” he ends in a strangled groan. His desperation reaches a fever pitch. All he wants is for her to feel good, to shatter around him, to be brought to the brink and over the edge because of him—

“Show me what you want.” His voice sounds hoarse, pleading, even to his own ears. “What I can do to make you feel good.”

“How about,” she breathes, a slight sheen over her heated skin, “you use—” She breaks off, blushing slightly, before persevering. “How about you use your mouth instead? I’m enjoying your dexterity but—”

She breaks off with an awkward laugh, eyes going skyward as if she can’t believe her own gall. Her face is almost the same colour as her hair and if he wasn’t so worked up he would laugh, too.

“Say no more.”

He takes his time in kissing his way down her body, marking every pale freckle and scar he finds along the way. He moves over her stomach and she giggles breathlessly at the tickle of his stubble. Further down he goes, before finally he’s kissing her over the lace of her panties, breathing in the familiar scent of the most intimate part of her. Reaching up, he pulls the underwear down and off, sending them flying in the same general direction as his clothes’ heap.

He stares down at her for a beat, pink and red and perfect all over, her pale skin marred in places by the scratch of his beard, the rosy nipples beckoning him still, the neat tuft of dark auburn curls between her legs, her trembling thighs and shaky intakes of breath. Her Titian beauty strikes him once more and it’s all he can do, not to prostrate himself between her gorgeous thighs and worship at the altar of those private curls and glistening petals.

Instead, he approaches her with what he hopes is a shred of dignity, tucking his face between her legs and kissing the part of her that he covets the most. Savouring the intimate and familiar taste of her; the taste of coming home.

He feels her fingers thread through his hair, tugging almost sharply as her hips lift underneath his chin, but he’s too immersed in his task to notice. He runs his tongue over her in a measured rhythm, slipping a hand down once more to join in his ministrations, inserting one finger and then two, as she opens easily for him.

“Ohhh.” Her loud moan from above his head is nearly his undoing and he presses a hand against himself, hard, to stay his own desires for the moment.

“I love tasting you,” he murmurs against her, crooking his fingers slightly as he presses deeper inside her.

“I love the way you do it,” she pants in response. He can feel her unravelling, can feel it in the liquid heat surrounding his hands and mouth, can feel it in the increasingly erratic movement of her body beneath his.

“I want you so badly, Brooke,” he groans and, against the vibrations of his confession, she shatters.

She lets out a shout and he holds her in place as her body trembles, gooseflesh rising under his hands and on his cheek where it rests on her thigh. His own body feels shaky, tremulous, as he waits for her to come down.

“I want you to have me, Ethan,” she says finally, her voice hoarse and low. “Now.”

He almost weeps with relief.

“I was hoping you would say that. I honestly wasn’t sure I could hold off any longer—” His gratitude gets caught in his throat as she tremulously slides off of the desk and looks at him, almost bashfully, but with that familiar coyness that he’s grown to love.

She cups his face in her hands and their eyes meet, her greenish-hazel with his electric blue.  

“Then don't.”

And then she turns and leans forward, forearms on his desk, ass propped up in front of him, those sky-high heels bringing her to the perfect level for—for—

Ethan feels the air depart his lungs in full force, his knees almost giving way underneath him. He looks at her bottom blankly, before searching her face. She’s smiling at him softly, those damn perfect teeth biting that damn bottom lip, a face perfectly designed to be the death of him. She inclines her chin slightly, as if to say: Are we doing this?

It’s all the permission he needs as he takes himself in hand and positions himself at the entrance of her body. Pushing back slightly, she accepts him immediately and easily, her back arching to take him further, deeper, as her palms flatten against the desk.

The moment he’s fully seated within her, she gasps, and that slight intake in breath is enough to almost make him come on the spot. Her gasp settles into a quiet moan as they find an easy rhythm, bodies moving together in perfect synchronicity.

“Ethan,” she says breathlessly, her fingertips pressing into the mahogany. “Harder.”

Thank Christ.

“I don’t know how much longer I can last,” he admits in a strangled tone as he feels the wholehearted pleasure of their union overwhelm him, body and soul. Never before has he felt such a connection beyond the physical. When she grasps him inside her, when he feels the clutch of her body, intimately connected to his, it’s an emotion beyond reasoning.

A hefty admission, for someone who’d structured his whole life around reason and reason alone.

But now, “reasonable” is a far cry from how he feels as he moves his hands over her body, tracing the arch of her spine, the curve of her waist, before settling there, thumbs almost touching across the span of her back as he rocks into her, his pleasure building by the second.

He groans loudly, unable to control himself. “You feel incredible, Brooke.”

She whimpers in response and he quickly checks her face to ensure she’s alright. All he sees is her flushed cheek pressed to the desk, her full lips parted in a soft, perpetual moan, the imprint of her heated palms leaving streaks on the dark, shining wood as she drags her hands to the edge of the desk and holds on tight.

His vision whites out and it’s all the warning he can give her—

“Brooke… I’m—”

“Yes, Ethan—!”

The force building inside of him erupts in a blinding flash of undulating pleasure, skyrocketing through every extremity of his body.

Brooke’s own cries echo through the empty office as he feels her body rhythmically clenching his oversensitized flesh. A wave of exhausted, satiated rapture threatens to overtake him as he braces his hands on the desk, his bare chest meeting her bare back. Once he’s certain his legs can hold him, his arms shift into an embrace, wrapping around her torso and gathering her cooling body against him.

He holds her tightly against him for a beat, before lifting her up effortlessly. Her head lolls against his shoulder as he carries her to the couch in his office. He sits first, shifting her weight in his lap, and then he lays back, bringing her back with him. As she settles herself into his chest, he finds himself kissing her hair over and over again, the feeling of total adoration threatening to spill from his chest.

They stay like that, wrapped around one another, for a moment or two when he hears her mumble something indiscernible against his shoulder. Stroking her hair back from her face, he tilts his chin down to look at her.

“Hmm?” he murmurs, wondering if his own gaze reflects the same heavy-lidded contentment that he sees in her eyes.

“I said, ‘do we have to go back’?” she repeats, her voice still a replete murmur.

He chuckles softly, kissing her head again. Go back. He knows that she’s referring to the Gala, to their friends and colleagues gathered on the first floor of the decorated hospital. But in Ethan’s mind, it’s a more involved and complicated question than that.

No, they’re not going back.

They won’t be going back to the way things were.

To secrecy and shame, to denial and frustration.

They also won’t be going back to the job they knew, in the ways that they’ve known it. Before touching his lips to hers in that public display he’d performed down there, he’d known exactly which direction the Diagnostics Team would be headed in and what that meant for him, for her, and for the nature of her relationship.

It had been a long time since Ethan had felt anything resembling superiority over Brooke and now, they would both truly be at the same level, in every way that mattered.

He smiles softly as he rubs his cheek against the top of her head, listening to her even breaths.

There still isn’t much that Dr Ethan Ramsey cares about.

But there is one thing.

And he wraps his arms around it even tighter.  

[imagine-turtles]

what are leo and donnies favorite parts of christmas with their s/o?? rottmnt plz

Once again I am doing all of them PLUS April because I’M the big boss ‘round here.  >:)

Leonardo loves virtually everything about the holidays, particularly gifts.  He loves to see what other people get him, and he considers it a point of pride to show up everybody else at the function by giving out the most considerate, thoughtful, heartfelt gifts ever.

He also has a gifting system  Tucked away in his room is a storage bin filled with presents that he’s collected throughout the year, at least one for everyone in the family.  This way in case he forgets or procrastinates--or runs into a typical Hamato catastrophe--he’s always got a backup gift on hand.  Also saves his tail on birthdays and anniversaries.

The first Christmas (and consequently every one after) he spends with an S/O, Leonardo will want to do everything with them.  He’ll want movie marathons, kitschy decorating, Christmas shopping, tacky sweaters, and more baked goods than necessary or advisable.  Every time his family starts up a holiday activity, he’s begging them to come over and join in.

Raphael is a sucker for Hallmark Family Moments™ and all the fuzzy feelings that go with them.  His brothers are definitely more excited about decorating and baking than he is, but he loves when his whole family inevitably gets roped into whatever holiday hijinks are going down.

Unlike his brothers, Raphael tends to struggle with gifts on account of overthinking it.  He’ll usually go for useful gifts, unless he’s pointed in a specific direction, and he always checks with everyone else to make sure no one’s getting duplicate gifts.  Luckily, he’s pretty good at riding the line between practical and boring.

If he has an S/O around the holidays, Raphael can get sappy.  Almost unbearably so.  He’ll spring every movie trope in the book, from mistletoe to ice skating, and weather-appropriate winter wear makes it that much easier to live his “Romantic Christmas in New York” dreams topside.

Donatello pretends to forget about Christmas every year, and to the untrained eye, really doesn’t care much about the holiday season one way or another.  Anyone who’s ever spent the holidays with him could easily figure out that this is not the case, and that he typically starts either building or saving money for gifts around September.

Around the time that Michelangelo asks for help with Christmas lights is when the indifferent front drops, if momentarily.  Donatello’s pride won’t allow him to half-ass the display, and he knows the combination of his technical ability with Mikey’s eye for composition always produces spectacular results.

It’s impossible to tell whether it’s the holiday spirit or the cold weather, but Donatello tends to get a bit clingier around this time of year; even in public spaces, where he prefers to keep PDA to a minimum, his S/O finds him initiating contact far more often than usual.

Michelangelo’s a firm believer in the ~spirit of Christmas~ and only Leo rivals his enthusiasm for campy holiday activities.  Come December 1st he’s already making decorations or hunting down new recipes to try with whoever he can cajole into helping him.

His biggest draw is the food.  All Michelangelo’s creative energy goes into holiday dishes this time of year, the kind of overly-complicated Pinterest recipes that look fantastic and have no room for error whatsoever.  But it’s the challenge that makes it fun!

Like Leo, Michelangelo wants his S/O to spend a ton of time with him, but he also tries to be considerate of their own family events and traditions.  As much as he’d love to have his partner over non-stop, he’d hate to put them in a position where they had to choose between him and their family--even if it was unintentional.  One of his favorite hobbies is picking a recipe completely out of both their skill levels and seeing whose creation most closely resembles the pictures... or whoever���s lopsided dish can make Leonardo snort cider out his nose.

Christmas with April is the perfect balance of unrestrained chaos and picture-perfect Norman Rockwell moments, topped off with a healthy dose of inescapable mystic tomfoolery that somehow turns out okay, mostly.  Her parents’ time away from home gives her the freedom to spend most of the holidays with the turtles.  Hence, tomfoolery.

April likes to take her significant other on special dates around the holidays, just the two of them.  She loves the boys, but sometimes she wants their adventures to be theirs, something she doesn’t have to share with anyone else.  Even if it’s just hopping on the purple line and tooling around the city, April sets aside one day each week to spend a solid chunk of quality time with her partner.

(Every year she procrastinates on getting presents, but every year she manages to get it all together in the nick of time.)