#forgotten apple au

[cut-it-out29]

What happened to Nighty's skull? Is he comfortable talking about that? It's ok if not, in that case I'd like to hug him and Dream cuz those beans are like little parts of myself! Here's my oc, use this if you choose to draw the hug >w< (pls use the paws!)

He’s not thrilled to, but he’ll talk about it if you press him on it

He and his closest confidant are the only ones who know what truly happened in full that day, but the whole gang knows the gist of what happened at least…

——————————————————————————

Night only really receives hugs, and even then only usually from those he’s pretty close to. He’d probably be stunned for a moment then peel you off… but doesn’t mean you can’t try and doesn’t mean he doesn’t like it [ \٩(๑`^´๑)۶/ ]

Dream openly gives and receives hugs constantly, he’s cuddly if he even slightly knows you and will absolutely cling to people he cares about [ he’s absolutely the type to hug strangers as a greeting- ]

These are a bit on the faster side for these doodles I’m at a theme park drawing on my phone rn but totally worth it

[karineverse]

Do y'all think I should actually read about canon Dreamtale

[specialshinytrinkets]

[ID: AO3 tag reading "Accidental Baby Cow Acquisition" /endID]

[comatosebunny09]

cotton candy clouds | sylus

summary: you guilt-trip sylus into taking you to the carnival. you get caught up in more than just the festivities, hidden feelings finally coming to light. genres: romance, fluff, minor angst warnings: kissing, unrequited (not really) feelings, tender touches, pet names, incredibly self indulgent, profanity, cheesy af, fuck fate notes: limerence au, but a little less pain. now playing: siren guitar - carlos carty

Well, it seemed like a good idea. 

Until it wasn’t. 

You see, the boardwalk wasn’t too far of a walk from your bungalow. You saw the Ferris Wheel gleaming in the near distance from the passenger window of Sylus’ rental. Caught sight of it on the ride back after spending the morning with him.

The carnival beckoned to you. Taking you was the least Sylus could do after torturing you with restricting dresses and uncomfortable heels all weekend. And he could sweeten the deal by winning you a plushie and stuffing you full of cotton candy. 

Sylus relented with a chuckle, pulling the car into the carport. Good on you for suggesting you travel on foot to the boardwalk after you dropped your bags at the house. He looked like he wanted to contest you, gaze turned skyward like he knew something was amiss. Instead, he shrugged and settled his dark shades onto his face, following your lead. 

The carnival was lively. 

It smelled of funnel cake, smoked turkey legs, and lubed machinery. People milled about, their glee staining the stratosphere. Carnies coerced you into trying for prizes. You had an armful of colorful plushies with a grin to match by mid-afternoon, courtesy of your boss and his impeccable aim. 

If you hadn't known any better, you swore you were on a date. But you knew that could never be, given the state of your relationship and your position in Sylus’ life. 

You were halfway through a candied apple when Mother Nature decided, ah, that’s enough fun. 

The sky, once a bright cyan with a golden sun pinned to its center, gave way to ominous, dark gray clouds. Thunder followed, and eventually, the nimbus clouds opened up to pelt the boardwalk below with its glacial downpour.

You scattered along with the other carnival goers, Sylus in tow, the spoils of your endeavor forgotten. On the race back to the bungalow, he grabbed your hand, and you laughed like two carefree adolescents as he tugged you across the sand to your temporary lodging. 

You were breathless when you reached the porch, shoving into the warm sanctity of the entryway with a “Hurry, hurry!”

It was quiet inside. 

The light pouring in through the sliding doors and windows illuminated the stilled space. Your teeth chattered as Sylus helped divest you of your clothes in the living room. Such a gentleman, his gaze never dipping past your collarbones as he tore his sweater from his shoulders. He left you briefly, taking his warmth with him to light a fire beneath the mantle. 

Clad only in your undergarments, you pawed at him, giggling amid your shivering when he came back to drape you in an oversized throw. 

He led you to the high-pile rug in front of the fire. Sat down cross-legged, drawing you into his lap. He shrouded the pair of you in the throw blanket, his arms encasing your middle, hands smoothing over your arms to ward off the cold.

For a while, you sat like that, watching the fire kindle. Chuckling, panting, and existing in the moment until your shared quivering abated, and only the rhythm of your even breaths, the crackling fire logs, and distant waves crashing against the shore colored the air. 

Even now, you sit like this, still housed in Sylus’ lap and arms, his chin notched in the hollow of your shoulder. He absently rocks your body side to side, his occasional pleased hum vibrating your spine.

You’re no longer a sopping, chattering mess. You’re much warmer than before, Sylus’ proximity causing your cheeks to prickle with heat. You don’t want to disrupt the mood that’s descended onto your shoulders. Ignore the complicated thoughts and feelings that burble to the surface, threatening to bare themselves in the face of your peace. 

He feels too good. Smells even better, the scent of his cologne easing the tension from your shoulders. And a glance at him in your periphery reveals his lashes fluttering, eyes closed in what you assume is contentedness. You study him for a beat or two, ingesting the peachy tone stippling his cheek and the pretty curl of his lips. He looks so boyish and unguarded this way, his hair falling into his face, and you find yourself wanting to see this side of him more often.

“You look like you want to say something,” he teases through a smile, thumb cruising over the skin of your belly.

You shake your head no, eyes wide like you’ve been caught rifling through the cookie jar. 

His hold on you stiffens the slightest. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” He moves to pull away, but you quickly ensnare his wrists with your hands, quietly imploring him to stay. He acquiesces, holding to you a little tighter. Nuzzles a little more affectionately, inhaling deep the warm aroma of your skin.

“What’s on your mind,” he queries on an exhale, tenderness lancing through his question. He almost sounds like he’s afraid to scare you off. Afraid to let you go, swept up in the spell of the moment and the sensation of your body against his.

Your lips pull into a rigid, thoughtful line. Your pulse thrums in your ears, and you rub cautious thumbs over the veins pulsing in Sylus’ hands as you study the geometric patterns of the rug. Sighing, you figure it’s best to broach the subject now rather than let it fester.

“Is this alright?” you timidly ask. Uncharacteristic of you, but in light of everything that’s transpired since he whisked you away on this impromptu vacation, you’ve become even more confused and unsure of yourself.

Sylus shifts, drawing back until you feel his eyes on the side of your face. In the corner of your vision, he cants his head quizzically, lips parting.

“What do you mean?”

The angle is awkward, your neck straining. But you turn as best you can to look at him, and the puzzled pinch of his brows makes your chest tighten. 

“I mean, us being this…close. Is it really okay?” Your question hangs in the air like the pop and fizz of the fire. You watch his Adam’s Apple bob whilst he swallows, and he scrutinizes you, the cogs in his mind slowly turning. 

“Is this a problem? Because if I’m making you uncomfortable, sweetheart—”

“Sylus, that’s…that’s not what I mean.”

He watches your lips tremble. Expression still reads like he has no idea what you’re on about. He strokes up your arm, encouraging you to elaborate. With another weighted sigh pushing through your nostrils, you relent.

“I mean, like…what the hell are we doing here?” Try as you like to mask your frustration, bits and pieces of it leak into your words. You clench your fists in your lap, brows furrowing as your eyes burn and glaze over with the threat of tears. “Why did you bring me here? The last few days have been so… wonderful and confusing, and I—I just wanna know where I stand with you.”

The past weekend with your boss has played out like a dream. 

It began when Sylus snatched you away from the arctic darkness of the N109 Zone in favor of something brighter, more low-key. Wanted you to take a load off after employing you for so long. To show his appreciation for you laying your life on the line for him each day.

He bought you gifts at every turn. Said things that thoroughly derailed your perception of him. Touched you in ways that, although weren’t sexual in nature, lit a fire within you and gave you an inkling of hope. Hope that he cared for you as much as you pined for him despite his history with the Hunter. 

You knew it wasn’t right to covet him like that. But you couldn’t help yourself, and how he’d been behaving since you arrived on the island only worsened matters. He treated you like a lover more than his subordinate, and you needed—no, deserved—an explanation for the sudden shift in tone. 

“I thought it was obvious,” he half-chuckles, shaking his head whilst pinching the bridge of his nose. 

As if you’re the problem here.

You make a sound. Maneuver yourself in his lap to get a better look at him, fixing him with a perturbed look. Explain, demands the quirk of your brows. 

“Well, it’s been brought to my attention that maybe I haven’t been completely clear with my intentions.” 

Sylus shifts you around in his lap until you’re straddling him, your legs framing his hips, wrists instinctively crossing behind his neck. He drapes his arms about your waist, a wide, possessive hand at the small of your back to hold you in place. He peers at you with all the softness of the world, and from your vantage point, you make out the amber flecks nestled between the crimson wash of his irises.

He tilts his head, quietly studying you. Turning over the right words in his mind. “I care about you.” His voice is low and abrasive, but the crackle of it sparks in your chest like steel dragged across a flint stone. 

Your breath hitches, and you watch him with widened eyes and parted lips.

“I care about you. Maybe more than I should. Perhaps more than I deserve to, but I do. And you mean more to me than mere words can illustrate.”

Great. Now you feel absolutely horrible amid the butterflies piling in your stomach. “Sylus—”

He chuckles sardonically, glancing off to the side. “I thought that by bringing you here, I could make it inherently clear how I feel about you. No distractions. No outside forces. Nothing standing between us.”

Unconsciously, you gather his cheeks into your hands. Lure his gaze back to yours, and the look in his eyes makes your stomach somersault. You’ve never seen him so wounded. Like he fears your rejection, yet he’s determined to set the record straight.

Sylus’ voice steeps a few octaves when he closes in, his warm breath fanning over your lashes. You feel dizzy like you would collapse if not for his virile arms keeping you fastened to him. 

“Fate be damned,” he whispers. Molds his hand to the nape of your neck, fingers easing up into the delicate hair that resides there, and you shiver when his gaze slacks to your lips. “You were an oversight—a pleasant oversight. A detour in my plans that I didn’t anticipate. A detour I don’t regret taking.”

His lips graze yours, and you’re panting as pleasant tingles ricochet up your spine.

“You occupy all of my thoughts.” Sigh. “You ruin me,” he husks, sealing your chest to his. “I don’t want anyone else but you. And I know your mind has more than likely convinced you otherwise. But I’m here to say that I truly…” He draws back to kiss the tip of your nose. “Honestly…” Brands the corner of your mouth with the languid drag of his lips. “—pine for no one else. You’re the only person I want in this lifetime.”

“Sylus,” you halfway sob in the slither of space between your mouths, every nerve in your body trained to the feel of him.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

You swallow thickly, your mouth dry, your mind fogging over. “You gonna keep waxing poetic, or are you gonna kiss me?”

He snorts out a laugh at your impatience, cupping your jaw with a tender, sweltering hand. “There is nothing I would like more,” he breathes, luring you closer for a taste of your lips. 

[the-californicationist]

Through a Glass, Darkly

A new priest is assigned to your remote abbey, but when you go to him for confession, you realize you are kneeling before the Devil himself.

Anonymous asked: Hiya Cali, crazy thought but happy october 🎃 brain worm, think about mirror sex with vampire!Price / 141 and the absolute flith that would pour from his mouth as he watches you stretch around seemingly nothing…

———

TW: vampirism, blood play, priest abuse of power, heavy religious imagery, fem!reader, rape/noncon, virginity loss, corruption, mind breaking, historical fantasy au, father/my child/sister religious titles, fully adult characters

You’ve been warned, and I don’t wanna hear it. Your click, your fault.

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. — 1 Corinthians 13:12

—x—x—x—

When Mr. Hawthorne arrived that morning with fresh milk, eggs, and a cart full of potatoes and turnips, you thought you would forget yourself and fling your hands around his fat neck. It had been weeks since supplies had been delivered, and although you lived in what was probably the smallest abbey in the world, you were just thankful that you had not been completely forgotten.

“Oh, thank you, Mister Hawthorne! We are so grateful for your service. The Lord rewards the generous,” you praised him.

The plump man’s face flushed red and he took off his sweaty cap, holding it limply in his hands,

“Tha’s alright, Sister. I had a good yield this season. You send a letter over to us if you need anything more. Hopefully that new priest will be arriving soon. Margie said she spotted him at the inn yesterday afternoon.”

“New priest?” You asked, wholly unaware of your abbey receiving an actual man of the cloth.

“Yes, Sister. He looks a little rugged for a holy man, but she said he was wearin’ the collar, clear as day.”

“Oh,” you mused, unsure of what to say.

“I’ll take my leave of you, Sister. Hope he’s a good one. It’ll be nice to have services back in the old church.”

“Yes, it will. Take care, and safe travels, sir. May God bless your next harvest.”

You watched as his rickety cart, pulled by an equally rotund mule, delivered the farmer away from you and your tiny sanctuary. As soon as he was out of sight, you rushed back through the wooden doors of the abbey to find Sister Ruth and Sister Sarah to tell them of the news.

They were both as shocked as you were. You had all three been convinced that the good Pope had completely forgotten about your little sect, and no letters had come for months. But, a new priest in this parish would bring much needed governance to the provincial people of your small village, and you needed to prepare.

You and your fellow nuns cleaned, cleaned, and cleaned some more. By nightfall, the abbey gleamed anew.

As you were preparing for bed, you heard the whinny of a horse outside of the abbey doors. You looked out into the corridor, and Sister Ruth was peeking out as well. Arming yourselves with long, steel fire pokers, you made your way to the entrance. Ruth nudged you with her elbow, encouraging you to call out. So, you said,

“It is past hours. Please come back tomorrow!”

“I’m Father John Price, and unless I’m mistaken, this is my abbey,” a deep, gravelly voice called out to you, seeming to flow and roll through the door with a convincing ease.

You cracked the wooden portal and looked out.

There, holding onto a frothy, exhausted steed was the most handsome man you’d ever seen. He wore an all-black capello romano on his head, towering above you by at least a full cubit. His face was pale, protected from labors under the sun, but his hands looked like they had certainly known the true meaning of work. His body was well-muscled and immense. Even in the midst of his flowing black robes, you could see the bulging form of his shoulders stretching the fine fabric. Around his thick neck, his white clergy collar sat dutifully under a jutting Adam’s apple and a proud chin, shaven although the rest of his beard was trimmed to full length.

But it was his eyes that unnerved you. For all of his brutish form, the look in his gaze made your blood run cold. There was something hypnotizing about the pale blue irises. It made him seem almost inhuman.

That deep, purring voice returned, and he stepped closer to you, threatening your threshold with white, sharp teeth pulled in a tight smile,

“Aren’t you going to invite me inside?”

“Forgive me, Father. Please, come in. Sister Ruth will take your horse to the stables. Allow me to take your bags and show you to your chamber.”

He followed behind you at a close distance, studying the abbey’s courtyard and walls, judging its worthiness. You were proud of the work you had done to keep it in good working order, but you knew it was in desperate need of repairs.

As you walked, you tried to make small talk to ease the tension,

“I have been in prayer thanking God for your arrival, Father. It has been many years since we have been blessed to house a priest within our abbey walls. Our parishioners will be filled with joy to return to their pews.”

“Mm.” His hum was polite but noncommittal, so you gave up on the niceties.

Finally, you reached his cell, you pried open the door and allowed him to enter before you. He studied the spartan room with the expected amount of enthusiasm, and watched you lay his bag down on the small chair at his desk. You straightened out the Bible that lay on the table, making sure the corner matched up with the edge of the table, placing it just so.

“Will you take supper, Father Price?”

“No, I am not hungry. You will find that I eat very little, in fact,” he said, taking off his cloak and laying it on the freshly-made bed. He hung his hat on its hook and tried to straighten his hair.

“Should I have a mirror brought in for your cell?” You asked, thinking that he may need to look presentable. As a nun, you never used a mirror as a rule, but you were willing to accommodate your new steward as best you could.

“Do you use a mirror, my child?” Price’s voice deepened and smoldered like a bundle of kindling, threatening to burn. He stepped toward you, using his size to impose himself upon you in the small space.

“N-n-no,” you stammered, “Of course not, Father. But I am not in a position to be perceived such as yourself.”

“Recite Proverbs 31:30, my child,” he commanded, stepping closer to you, slowly creeping into your personal space, close enough that you could smell the scent of the sun and the grass on his robes, mixing with the sweat of his skin.

You swallowed, clearing your throat, and obeyed,

“Yes, Father. Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.”

“Good,” Price smiled, using his finger to lift your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, “We must not succumb to vanity, my child. A dutiful disciple is one who serves others, yes?”

“Yes, Father,” you said, stepping backwards, away from his touch, hanging your head in reverence.

“In fact,” he purred, “It is James 1:23 which reminds us that those who look into the glass will be blinded by their own desires, only seeing themselves, incapable of suffering God’s divinity. It is the good works done that are worthy of praise, my child, although…”

He stepped forward again, grabbing your chin in his huge hand roughly, clutching the very bone of your jaw, making you gasp,

“Our Lord has taken special care to display his almighty talent in your face, has he not? Such delicate features. Like an angel.”

His mouth was so close to yours that you could smell the heady scent of iron and musk on his breath. His piercing eyes never left yours, pinning you in place.

Then, he released you, and you left the room without being dismissed, closing the cell door behind you and rushing back to your own cloister. You rushed into your room, locking the door fast, and knelt at your altar to pray for forgiveness.

Except… you were not asking to be forgiven for suggesting vanity to your new priest. No. You were asking to be forgiven for the warm, wet lust that was smearing across the crease of your thighs. Father Price had awakened strong feelings in you not of enlightenment, but of lurid desire, and you begged to be cleansed.

The next morning, Father Price called the abbey together. Yourself, Sister Ruth, and Sister Sarah reported to the small courtyard, along with two young pilgrims who had lived there since the past summer, Timothy and David. You and the nuns had suspected them as runaways, but they pledged themselves to the cloth and took care of the manual labor around the premises since you lacked any monks to speak of. They were well into their young adulthood now, and they would become apprentices to Father Price, if he saw fit.

You tried to put what had transpired between you and the good Father out of your mind, but seeing him in the cold light of day did nothing to quell the sinful desire you felt towards him. The way he had grabbed you…

“Good morrow, everyone. I ask that you will join me in our Biblical studies every morning. I find that the word of God helps me put the rest of my day right. I want to begin at the beginning, yes?”

He looked around at all of your faces, as if anyone would protest against his power, and then he continued,

“What does Genesis 4:7 tell us, Sister Ruth?”

“Speaking to Cain, the Lord said: If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? and if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him.”

“Sin lieth at the door,” Father Price mused, then, as if shaking himself from his thought, he said, “Please continue, Sister.”

“And Cain talked with Abel, his brother: and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel, his brother, and slew him. And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother's keeper?”

“You are,” the priest’s voice rose in his chest, startling Sister Ruth and silencing her words. He began to pace back and forth, slowly stalking through your small ranks, “You are your brother’s keeper. You are more than that. You are keepers of this entire parish, are you not?”

“Yes, Father,” you all said in unison.

“There will be a reckoning in this parish,” Price snarled, “I will not lead a flock of demons disguised as sheep. If any of you hear witness or see evidence of sin, deliver it to me at once. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Father,” you repeated.

“I will now take your confessions. I understand that it has been a number of years since you were cleansed, so be prepared to repent lest you allow the Devil into your soul.”

“Yes, Father.”

The day dragged on through the gray clouds, and Father Price had taken his time with the confessions of the members of your abbey. Sister Sarah had gone into his cell after the boys, and she had emerged with red eyes full of tears. You had comforted her in hushed whispers in the corner of her cloister, asking her what he had done, thinking it was something even more awful that how he had accosted you last night.

“He…” Sarah sobbed, “He made me kneel on sharp stones while I recited my prayers. It hurts so much, Sister.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. Although sharp stones were not a gentle punishment, they were at least devoid of physical contact. He had not taken a hand to her. But, Sister Sarah was young. She had avoided some of the harsher training practices of the more traditional members of the church. You knew that there were a bevvy of punishments that would make kneeling in discomfort feel like a blessing.

Sister Ruth also came out sniffling, reporting that she had fifty lashes across her palms for the sin of plucking figs off of a nearby tree owned by the neighboring farm.

Again, you sighed and thanked God that he had a little mercy within him.

His cell door opened, and Father Price locked eyes with you and demanded,

“Come, my child. It is time for your confession.”

“Yes, Father Price,” you complied, taking your leave of the other nuns and following him into his cell.

Inside of his room, a shaft of sunlight cut across his face, illuminating his eyes and stunning you, keeping you from moving forward.

“Shut the door, my child,” his timbre was ominous, and you tried to hold yourself together.

“So far,” he rose from his seat and walked over to you, “I have cleansed the souls of a nun who is a thief, another who is a sloth, a young man who is a liar, and another who is filled with pride. It seems, Sister, that you have allowed the Devil through the door, indeed.”

“Forgive me, Father. I knew not of their wicked ways, nor have I your wisdom to correct them.” You stared at the stone floor. It was easier than looking at him.

“I do not believe that the wickedness was borne within them,” Father Price mused, tapping his finger on his lips as if deep in thought, “Because I discovered this beneath your mattress, and so I know the evil is inside of you.”

In his hands, Father Price held up a square, familiar, looking glass. You trembled, watching as your own reflection met you back. You could see the fear spread across your face, and you were disgusted by it.

“Tell me, my child. How did you use this mirror?” He asked sweetly, but as he watched you think about how best to answer the question, his voice became hot with fury and he snarled into your ear, “And don’t you dare lie to me. I will know your deceit.”

Your heart was banging in your chest, and so, beyond your better judgment, you told him the truth.

“I used it to… examine myself, Father.”

“Show me,” he commanded.

It was as if his whole cell bent and bowed under the weight of his authority. Your body began to move against your own will, relenting to his instead. Without thinking, you pulled back your habit and let your hair fall down your back. Then, you began to peel away your robes. Underneath, you untied your shift, and you allowed the fabric to pool on the floor at your feet, staring at yourself naked in the glass.

He watched you in silent awe, his pupils darkening, his mouth parted at his full lips, his chest heaving as he watched you make yourself bare before him.

“Go on,” he said, knowing that you were not finished with your demonstration.

You felt yourself obeying him helplessly, and you performed the same inspection that you did in private in front of him.

“I wanted to see how God hath made me, Father. So, I looked.”

“Where did you look, my child?”

“Here,” you raised your hands to squeeze the supple flesh of your breasts, showing him how your nipples were bouncy and puffy until they turned stiff and tight.

“And here,” you allowed your hand to fit itself between your thighs, spreading your labia, covered in dense hair, until your pliant lips revealed a shining, smooth center, wet and ready for pleasure.

“Now that you have examined the Lord’s fine works, what did you do with this knowledge?” Price asked.

“I would touch this part of me, Father, and I would let it bring me to Heaven.”

“I would like to know Heaven, my child. Turn around.”

You tried to stop yourself, but he was using his power to bind you. You were nothing more than a toy, helpless to his every whim. You turned, your back facing him, and he set the mirror on his desk so that you could see yourself within it. Then, he moved in front of you and his body blocked your view, reaching down to grab your chin like he had the first night he arrived, raising your mouth up to his.

You thought he would kiss you. His lips were just within reach, but he commanded you darkly,

“Confess.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” you recited dumbly, “It has been three years since my last confession. In that time, I have…”

His mouth covered yours, kissing you deeply, feeding you his long tongue and eating up your words before you could say them. Then, you felt his hands on your breasts, squeezing them cruelly, pinching your nipples to make them ache and sting. You couldn’t help the lewd sounds that escaped your throat, but he didn’t seem to care to stop you. Finally, he pulled away, and when you looked into his eyes again, the bright blue had been replaced with a Hellish red.

You gasped, and he grabbed you tighter, pulling you towards him by the soft meat of your breasts, making you cry out in agony. That noise seemed to please him because he smiled down at you, and you could see that his teeth had grown into long, wolf-like fangs. He chuckled,

“My pretty little sinner.”

“D-d-demon!” You cried breathlessly, shaking from fear as he held you to his body.

Price bared his fangs at your assessment, hissing from the title,

“Yes, and you have invited me in, so eager to be corrupted.”

Releasing you from his grip, he held you around your waist with one arm, and he used his free hand to dip between your legs, discovering your wetness there and sighing from it.

“Mmm… Let me taste your sweet, little Heaven, Sister.”

He knelt on the floor in front of you and held onto your wide ass cheeks in each hand, forcing your hips to tilt toward his face. You looked down and watched as his impossibly long tongue flicked against your swollen bud. His wide tongue parted your lips to drag wetly between them. You tried to hold back your cries, but you’d never known such pleasure, so you could barely keep it in. You prayed for forgiveness as you came apart against this demon’s mouth, succumbing to his vileness.

Then, you glanced into the mirror, and you noticed that you couldn’t see his head. Only the collar and robes were visible in the glass. All you could see is how your lips were being spread apart, seemingly on their own.

He had no reflection.

“You… you’re…” You couldn’t say the words, but Price knew what you meant to call him.

He looked over his shoulder, using his thumbs to spread your lips wide apart, gazing at them in the glass and smiling even though he didn’t have a reflection to smile at. Then, he looked back up at you, a sick grin spread across his lips,

“Cain, yes. The immortal wanderer, cursed from the earth which hath opened her mouth to receive my brother’s blood. And I have not tasted food, for it becomes ash in my mouth, just like He promised. But, blood… I can taste blood just fine.”

He planted the softest kisses between your shivering thighs, sucking on the thin skin, and then, after slaking his thirst with your sticky center once more, he sank his fangs right in the inside of your thigh, making you howl with pain.

His eyes were locked on yours, watching you writhe in agony, your nerves sensing his venom coursing through you as he sucked the life from your veins. You watched yourself in the mirror, seeing the puncture wounds, watching as blood spilled out across your skin, smearing and being licked away by his greedy tongue. Finally, he released you, and the poison of his mouth took effect. You became deeply fatigued, and you could barely stand on your own. He had to hold you in his arms to keep you in position.

He stood, smiling down at you, his mouth caked with your dark blood, his teeth stained red,

“What a blessing you are, my child. Such perfect innocence tastes so fine, so… pure. I almost hate to sour your ripe little fruit, but that will be sweet in its own way, yes?”

You watched as your demonic priest yanked at his collar, popping it from his neck. Then, he pulled off his robes, tearing away at his layers until he was as bare as you, both of you fully naked and pressed together, joined in a crash of skin and heat, his mouth painting your body with your own blood as he kissed and licked your breasts and belly, teasing you with his tongue as he explored you.

Then, he stepped around to your back, and you caught sight of his heavy cock as it swung between his legs like that of a rutting beast. You tried to fight the black spell you were under, but it was no use. You were trapped in his thrall.

“Watch yourself in the mirror, my child,” Father Price commanded you, grinning as you immediately obeyed, “Come and behold the marvelous works of God.”

You couldn’t turn your eyes away. You were alone in the mirror, and yet, your breasts were being crushed by invisible fists, your nipples tormented between unseen fingers. Then, you felt Price fit his phallus against the entrance of your sex and press it into you, stretching you wide across his prodding cockhead. You saw how your body was being invaded by him, pulling itself apart to allow him inside. The dark hole of your quim opened like a toothless maw, drooling and starving, hungry to take him deep within you, welcoming him up to your womb.

You sobbed at the strain, and then you felt something give way sharply inside you, and he had a much easier time of filling you with his engorged length. As he fucked himself up into you, he was grunting like an animal, praising you in your ear, telling you his own confession,

“Forgive me, my child, for I am sinning. Right now… I am sinning with you, and it is so sweet. God has made you for me. What a gift you are. See?”

He used his hand to swipe at your gaping hole, bringing his hand in front of your face so you could see the bright blood that coated his fingertips,

“You have broken so easily for me. The Lord knew you needed me to come and serve you. He brought me to you, my child. You welcomed me inside, didn’t you? Spread these lips for me, invited me in… Didn’t you? Say it.”

“Y-y-yes, F-father…” You whimpered, tears dripping down your chin and onto your bare chest.

The loud slapping of skin against skin filled the cell, and you watched as your hole spread wider and wider, taking more of him with each punishing thrust.

“Louder, my child,” he hissed in your ear.

“Yes, Father!”

His hand was playing in your slippery folds, massaging your hidden bud and forcing you to clench hard around him from the pleasure. In the glass, you could see your hole trying in vain to twist itself shut, pumping him in a steady beat.

“Didn’t you pray to God for a prick like mine when you touched your filthy quim in your mirror?”

“Yes, Father!”

It was true. You had touched yourself, hoping that you might one day know the pleasure of being taken by a man. You had watched the mating of cattle in the field next to the abbey many a summer past, hanging clothes and sheets on the line, and yet all the while looking into the grassy glade, staring at the bull who would mount his cow and thrust his turgid rod into her to breed her deeply. And she would croon for him, and when he left her, the spent seed would hang in long, thick strings from the head of his phallus, making him wet and ready to sink his sword through its next sheath.

“And the Lord answered your prayers, did he not? Begging him for someone to breed you like this, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, Father!”

Price was the bull, and you would be bred by him, and you would be cast out of God’s mercy forever. Ruined. Steeped in sin and tainted by lust.

“You smell like a ripe plum, my sweet child, and you’re just as soft in my mouth,” Price began to lick your neck from your sloping shoulder all the way to your earlobe, over and over, letting his spit cover your flesh. Then, he sank his fangs into your vein and began to drink from you in long, slurping sucks, swallowing your blood into his throat in audible gulps, moaning with each mouthful of your essence.

The venom of his demonic bite made your head cloudy and your will compliant.

“Touch yourself, my child,” he mumbled, quickly returning to his feast on your flesh.

You had no choice but to obey. You felt him increase his pace, his long cock bottoming out inside of you with each thrust, flinging his weight into you like a hammer. You began touching your breasts, pinching yourself gently as you watched your ruination unfold in the looking glass, helpless to stop it.

Then, you began to touch your rigid nub, taking over for him as he continued to drink from you. You made achingly slow circles around your most sensitive spot, and because you were so wet, you were able to go faster without any discomfort. You made yourself come quickly, jerking your hips against him as he fucked you, listening to him groan from the feeling of your tight hole trying to squeeze the come out of his body.

“Beg me for my seed, Sister. Beg me to spill it in you,” Price murmured, licking your neck in the spot where he had bitten to rub the taste of your blood across his tongue.

“Father, please… Please come in me. Spill in me… oh!”

You felt him jerk inside of you, and then you heard his growling orgasm rip through his body, his cock pulsing wildly, shooting ropes of creamy seed all over your walls, bursting through your tight, virginal core.

“So perfect for me, so perfect…”

Price caught his breath while he was still inside of you, panting and smiling against your neck before he pulled out of you, watching his invisible shaft slip through your cunt in the mirror, the gaping hole slowly shrinking before your eyes. As he retreated, you saw large strings of come drip out of you, white and endless, flowing out of you and onto the floor of the cell.

Father Price dressed himself in front of you, leaving you standing where he had last commanded you to be, admiring your ruined body. Once he clipped his collar back under his shirt and cloak, he stepped in front of you to pinch lightly at the tips of your nipples again, making you whimper like a hungry mutt.

“For all your virtues, Sister, you are prone to sin. An innocent such as yourself must be trained to resist the Devil. Come to my cell for confession every morning and every night. I promise,” he stroked your cheek and then your neck, right where he’d bitten you, “I will put my goodness deep inside of you, my child. Right here.”

His other hand came to touch your bare belly, gently caressing the skin and flesh that protected your womb.

“Yes, Father,” you said, trying to avoid his furious gaze, shaking with pure, gut-wrenching terror, understanding that for you, there was no escape. You were under his vampiric command, and if he wanted you, your body was going to obey. You’d taken the Mark of Cain on your neck, and the only hope for you now was to beg for his mercy.

“Take this mirror with you, my child. I want you to kneel in prayer over it, spread those plump legs wide, and I want you to watch my seed drip out of you. With every drop, you will thank God for me and my prick. When the Lord answers our prayers, it is our duty to be grateful.”

“Yes, Father,” you said, pulling your robes back on and adjusting your habit.

He handed you the mirror, and you took it with a crushing amount of shame, feeling his come still seeping in a steady stream out of your well-used hole.

As you left his cell, he smiled down at you, carefully petting your cheek,

“Don’t worry, my child. Your next confession is in only a few hours. You will feel the warmth of the Lord’s forgiveness again very soon.”

—x—x—x—

Reblogs and comments deeply appreciated!

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[zyafics]

I LOVE YOU SO | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Imagine)

Pairing — Ex!Rafe x Engaged!(F)Reader

Content — ex-lovers au, hurt/no comfort, right person/wrong time

Word Count — 1.6K

lıllılı I Love You So by The Walters

THINKING ABOUT... when Rafe heard about your engagement, he nearly drank himself to death.

THINKING ABOUT... how the invitation sat on the kitchen counter, next to empty bottles of whiskey. He hoped to drown himself in liquor and forget the taste of you—but nothing remedied that pain. His fingers traced over the sharp edge of the card to the calligraphy that spelled your name alongside your soon-to-be-husband's.

THINKING ABOUT... how it should've been him.

THINKING ABOUT... how Sarah found him. It had been days since she heard from her older brother and decided to drop by Tannyhill. When she discovered wasn't a pretty sight. He was still feeding himself on alcohol—and alcohol alone—while staring at the name on the card, gripped in his hand as if it was his own personal damnation. He knew, without a doubt, that the invitation was a common courtesy. Forged out of respect and generational relationships on Kildare. It wasn't a true invite—not to him, at least.

THINKING ABOUT... how Sarah tried to help him clean up. Tried to take the glass from his hand, which he accepted. Tried to pull him up from the couch and push him into the bathroom, which he agreed. Tried to rip the card from his hand—which he refused. She never liked seeing her brother in such despair, and despite knowing the long history you shared with him, she didn't want him to get wasted on the forgotten thought of you.

THINKING ABOUT... when Rafe exited the shower, fresh and clean from the oozing smell of alcohol, Sarah had the card in her hands. She noted that Rafe hadn't checked a box—an ACCEPT or DECLINE. And when she asked him if he was going to attend, he didn't give an answer.

THINKING ABOUT... how you're marrying a man who loved you. He cherished you and saw you as the apple of his eye. It was different from your other relationship. Granted, you only have one before him, but you can tell the difference. It was calm, safe and warm. It didn't shake you to your core, it didn't have you screaming at three am, it didn't have to be hard. It was good. Healthy. It was soon to be yours.

THINKING ABOUT... how this wasn't the dream wedding you wanted since you were a little girl. Sure, it had most of the elements: the ceremony at the church, the gorgeous bouquet in your hands, the perfect ensemble of bridesmaids. But it wasn't exactly how you pictured it. It wasn't within the season you wanted, it wasn't outdoors like you imagined. It didn't have the specific floral arrangement you asked for, and it didn't have the boy you were going to meet at the end of the aisle.

THINKING ABOUT... how it felt all wrong.

THINKING ABOUT... how you couldn't breathe in your room. All the guests had settled in, all of them waiting for the bride to begin her descent. You were pacing around, to the comforting reassurances of your bridesmaids, but to no avail. You needed air. You needed to step out.

THINKING ABOUT... how you saw him when you stepped into the empty courtyard. Everyone had taken their seats, but not Rafe. He was standing outside, holding something you were certain to be a flask. You hadn't expected him to show. You weren't sure if you wanted him to. But when your heels clicked against the cobblestone and alerted Rafe of your presence—he twisted his head and your eyes finally locked.

THINKING ABOUT... how it was a slow and mesmerizing descent. You approached him with caution, as if you were approaching a wild animal and one wrong move could cause him to run. You shared no words, no thoughts, nothing. But the silence was communal and appreciated. When you made it against the barricade, Rafe did nothing but offer you his flask.

THINKING ABOUT... how his hand stretched out, flexing underneath his tailored suit. You stepped up to gingerly accept it—tasting the bitter alcohol slid down your throat and the closest remnant of his lips. You didn't say anything for the next few minutes, not even a paid gratitude, because you didn't know how to. it was Rafe who decided to speak up first.

THINKING ABOUT... how Rafe didn't look at you as he talked. His attention paid to the lot of the church, his words a whisper against the whistling wind. He depicted his own imagination—how he would've done it. How he would've gotten on one knee in that little park the two of you always went together. How it would've been a beach wedding because you always loved the ocean. How he would've gotten a wedding band with sapphires because you adored the color.

THINKING ABOUT... how Rafe rambled about the what ifs until you told him to stop.

THINKING ABOUT... how there was a palpable silence that sat between you as you handed him back his flask. Your head a little light, your heart a little heavy. You should've gone back to the church, to the awaiting audience of your family and friends, but you stood still. You wanted this time, this space, this moment with Rafe because you were certain it was going to be your last.

THINKING ABOUT... how Rafe had enough and stepped forward to cup your face. His cerulean eyes fell to your lips before eyeing every little expression, memorizing every little detail. "It should've been me," he murmured, running his thumb across your bottom lip, collecting the last drop of his whiskey. His jaw ticked as he forced out the next sentence. "Why isn't it me?"

THINKING ABOUT... how you said nothing. You both knew the reasons, but neither of you wanted to accept it. Rafe had prioritized himself over your relationship, again and again, and there was nothing but a hollowness by the end of it. He loved you, you knew that for certain, but it was also not enough.

THINKING ABOUT... how you had to step back. You pushed him away, needing another clarifying breath of air. Rafe didn't move from his spot, simply slipped his thumb into his mouth, tasting the last drop, before you shook your head. "What are you doing here?" You demanded, because despite knowing everything going on inside the church, everyone waiting for you, you still were the same person you were years back—with him.

THINKING ABOUT... how Rafe couldn't answer fully. He didn't know why he was here. He didn't know what compelled him to put himself through the agonizing pain of seeing the love of his life walk down the aisle of her wedding, toward a man that wasn't him. It was sadistic, a need to feel the depth of his mistakes, and perhaps, even a last shot of hope for him to remedy it.

THINKING ABOUT... how he apologized. It had surprised you to hear the words spill from his lips because Rafe had always been stubborn in handing them out. He saw himself above such expressions and held his pride too high. But it was his last shot. And he wanted to make his amends before it was too late.

THINKING ABOUT... how there was a silence when he finished his speech. How he expressed regret for how he treated you, how he made you feel, in how he was as a past partner. You had nothing while you held onto those words because they were something you wished for all your life. But, now it came. A little too much. A little too late.

THINKING ABOUT... how you forgave him. And it wasn't fair. You had always been too kind and understanding. He was the one repenting but you had already given him the forgiveness he hadn't yet sought for. You've been told that you should make him suffer. Beg for it. But you didn't. Because you knew what he had been through. What good does it do to inflict suffering when neither of you enjoys it?

THINKING ABOUT... how Rafe had nothing else to say. Didn't know what to think of. Wait, yes, he did—he had hoped it would be enough. That you would hear his words and be a runaway bride for him. But you didn't. You remained stationed in your spot, your eyes intermittently flickering toward the entrance of the church. It wasn't until one of your bridesmaids came to collect you—warning you it was time, that he realized there was nothing else to do.

THINKING ABOUT... how you hesitantly bid him goodbye. You were going to see him during the reception, but Rafe didn't answer you. When you finally close the distance towards your bridesmaid, you spare one last glance at him—Rafe Cameron, your first love, the person who had half of your heart, the one who didn't do enough—and step back into the church.

THINKING ABOUT... how you didn't see him when you walked down the aisle. Or when you came around to take pictures. Or when the reception was held. You should feel ashamed for seeking out another man when your fiance—now husband—had his hand on your waist, his eyes filled with adornment for you. But you couldn't help yourself.

THINKING ABOUT... how you tried to forget. Tried to enjoy your day, your wedding. As the night came to an end, your husband carried you back to your new home. But what you weren't expecting was a surprise.

THINKING ABOUT... how there's an arrangement of bouquets outside your new home. It was in the exact precise order you wanted for your dream wedding. It was littered all over your front lawn, spilled with rich colors and florals that you gasped at the sight. You didn't know who it was from—neither did your husband. But when you approached the door, there was a note taped to the front.

THINKING ABOUT... how it was from Rafe. An apology and a gift wrapped in one. It didn't say much, but you didn't need it to. You knew his guilt, you knew his regret, but you knew his concession. And this, this was his last offering before he finally let you go.

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[missydior]

milk & honey ౨ৎ

notes: charles leclerc x reader, established relationship, fluff.

a/n: this is my first uploaded piece on my new blog so please interact, would very much be appreciated.

It is a gentle afternoon in the principality of Monaco: the skies a palette of pale lilac against the quilt of grey clouds in gentle rainfall that lingers with a hint of petrichor, a slow and familiar hustle amongst the streets of smooth stone and Belle Époque architecture where a stray cat wanders her path before disappearing once more into the alcoves of an alley.

After a slow dawn of waking amongst a mess of clean, linen sheets, feathered pillows, and tangled limbs where the heavy, velvet curtains danced serenely in some lovers' waltz, hiding the bedroom in some quiet bask, the both of you enjoyed breakfast over almond croissants, blueberries stolen from one another's plates and your usual café au lait – half a sugar, more milk than deemed necessary, just as Charles knows you love it – before you had walked around the neighbourhood by eleven o'clock to at least feel somewhat productive.

Even when the both of you only wanted to lounge endlessly after returning from Montréal the day before.

Despite finishing 4th and not quite following through in his hopes in securing an awarding podium and a taste of sweet champagne, faced with the recent difficulties of upgrades, he had come to accept and delight in his small succession nonetheless with you by his side, forever proud regardless.

Phones on mute, the rest of society blissfully forgotten and only each other to indulge in, it is pure bliss; perfect heaven.

"Hm, you smell nice," By two o'clock – after a light luncheon on the balcony overlooking the beauty of the Côte d'Azur – you are dozing idly about the plush invitation of the sofa, his voice a hushed murmur near the side of your neck where lips ghost over in something close to a kiss when he speaks.

Charles is half-draped over your own figure, though his weight is comfortably balanced by an elbow against a sewn cushion, some kind of Jardin De Fleurs -inspired embroidery made and gifted by your grandmother, with ankles locked about each other and your soft-skinned palm tracing his shoulder through the white linen of his shirt.

For a moment, a quietude settles between you once more and you welcome the entwined curl of his lithe fingers around your own when his hand drifts higher from the inside of your wrist absently like some unspoken 'I love you' before his mouth meets yours.

It is slow and sweet, the kind of kisses you savour in committing to memory each and every time, and he can taste remnants of sweetened milk & honey tea on your breath that is so apparently mundane but equally unique to you alone.

When your head tilts back against the cushions – hair falling about like an angel's halo – and Charles shifts his own body further, closer, above you, his hands come to cradle either side of your lovely face, his thumbs grazing the delicate line of your cheekbones, his nose brushing lightly against the bridge of your own.

He kisses your brow, then the bridge of your nose, the apples of your cheeks, and finally your mouth again, all in that order, before breaking away for air.

"What was that for?" Voice hardly a demure whisper, you gaze at him through the veil of your lashes in some lovesick delight where your mouth threatens to curve against a hushed giggle, your own touch idly feeling along the carved line of his jaw like intricate marble where a dusting of five o'clock shadow lingers from a few days' worth. You secretly adore it, how it feels.

Charles smiles – all beautiful, revealed dimples and a glimmer in his eyes that remind of leaves in late August – and brushes a stray hair behind the shell of your ear. He takes a moment, his gaze lingering about the lines of your visage as if falling in love again, everyday. "For no particular reason, ma chérie, just because I want to."

Then he is leaning down to meet you again just as you welcome the embrace without question, only allowing yourself to melt further into the serenity of some lovesick truth as your arms drape about his shoulders faintly.

"Je pense..." Charles' mouth drifts down from yours slowly in a trail of kisses about your chin in his verbalised albeit quiet musings before lips slant together again and he encourages you to open for him, tasting, feeling, his tongue teasing over yours in a caress, "That I don't need a reason to kiss you."

In some silent, earnest contentment, you agree, because you could never refuse or object to the intimacy of his kisses and touches.

Mouth curving upwards against his, you let your fingertips feel the trimmed, soft hairs at his nape against tousled brunet tresses whilst breathing him in: Ombré Nomade cologne, hints of something akin to cedarwood against raspberry, incense and warm amber, against his natural pheromones. Home.

Feeling the lean muscles against his back through the soft fabric, toying only subtly with the subtle drag of teeth against his plush lower-lip whilst your eyes remain blissfully closed, you meet the faintest resonance of a sound from the back of his throat like a purr when he sucks upon your tongue with the same touch of loving.

"Vous êtes si belle," He sighs the compliments against you in sweet nothings and unabashed confessions, his own touch ghosting over the curves of your waist through the ivory, lace camisole hugging your physique, thumbs fleeting over the jut of your hip-bone before drifting higher once more.

It is when idle strokes are felt over your rib cage that you unconsciously emit a breathless, flushed sound of laughter against him before you can help yourself, instinctively shrinking against the touch whilst earning a look from him as he draws away fractionally with arched brows.

"Ticklish, are we, ma chérie?"

Your mouth parts for a retort or quick dismissal out of bashfulness – even when you know that he already knows too, given the Monégasque has the privilege to know each intimate, secretive and wholehearted truth about you – though the words die on your tongue the moment his fingertips continue their ministrations over your sides.

You cannot stop the serenade of laughter from leaving you, not when you are entirely vulnerable beneath, and a warmth settles in your chest when the corners of his eyes crinkle in a genuine smile as he continues tickling you.

"Arrêt–" A breathless gasp of imploration, palms that reach to try and draw him away with a shove at his chest though your rosé cheeks hurt from the depth of your raw, honest smiles, "Charles." ꒰ stop ꒱

Chuckling lowly, the man offers you the respite of mercy as he comes to a halt and kisses the corner of your mouth intimately, instead allowing his hands to feel the curve of your lower-back and the notches of your vertebrae until eyes meet in the peace of the afternoon, otherwise silent save for the lull of Lana del Rey from the kitchenette radio.

"Je t'aime." ꒰ i love you ꒱

He kisses you again and it is rich in his responding, ardent devotion to you, letting the faint remnants of your lipstick smear his own mouth like the prints you leave on hand-written love letters of cursive Française just for him in your diaries, the cashmere throw forgotten about your feet on the other end of the chaise lounge whilst rain continues.

"Je t'aime aussi, pour toujours." ꒰ i love you too, forever ꒱

[jjungxkook]

blackout (halloween drabble) | jjk

⇥ pairing: roommate!jungkook x reader

⇥ genre: est rel, roommate and college au, fluff, crack, smut

��� rating: 18+

⇥ warnings: really just the tiniest hint of angst, but otherwise just crack and fluff I think, spooky szn, he's the Joker and she's Harley Quinn, lame college party, the gang is there, forest stuff, reader is a bit sad and disappointed in jk but he redeems himself!, kissing, sexy times, unprotected sex, choking, spanking, jerking off, fingering, sex in a janitor's closet haha, ass love, and yeah!!

⇥ wc: 5.4k!

⇥ author’s notes: happy early halloween! I will be busy next week, so I thought I could post this one already. also, since it's been one! damn!! year!!! since I dropped anything at all (sry!!). I promise Encore is on its way, so enjoy this in the meantime. very unedited and I started it just yesterday, so pls no hate haha okay that's it!! love you!!!

⇥ summary: Jungkook and you seek a carefree and calm Halloween this year, until it turns into this… nightmare.

–

Jungkook’s make up is smudged beyond repair… And you strongly guess you aren’t faring any better.

Your costumes are basic to their core. In the past hour alone, you’ve seen half a dozen of you. Jungkook rubs at the eyeshadow above the apple of his cheek, smearing the black some more.

He looks like the Joker at the end of his mental capacity. A worse mess than DC’s character already is. Only, Jungkook is still rocking the look – one damn kink of yours if you had a specific one. It’s the loosened tie… the purple coat–

You feel at home in your own role. Sporting the peroxide blonde hair, tied in two tails, one ending in a faded blue, and the other in a dim pink. You purchased colored hair sprays just for today, but can’t wait to wash the chemicals out of your hair.

Jungkook ruined one of the pigtails approximately an hour ago, and it hasn’t recovered since then, no matter how hard you tried to fix it. In truth, you didn’t mind the tugging at that moment anyway.

How could you? Not with the endorphins pumping through you at lightspeed, enhanced by the darkness around you at that stupid college party.

The student representatives organized this year’s big fete, though they must have forgotten to add the fun factor to it. Because the party was lame: the bar was filled with students from various departments, but most of them remained either sober or wound up broke.

Because the drinks were painfully expensive. The numbers on your bills spooked through your mind when you looked at the price, further frustrated when you realized that they weren’t selling much more than dry, small pizza and flavorless toast.

Once again, for an outrageous price.

Halfway through, the two of you snuck to a bathroom, relying on each other’s company alone. But the toilet cabinets were either taken or unspeakably disgusting – so in the rush, you settled for the pitch dark janitor’s closet instead.

You could barely see his silhouette in there, half sober, but not quite acting like it. Intoxicated by how he suckled on your neck, more a vampire than the Joker. Or by how he probably bruised your thighs, your shorts and tights down to your knees, much like his green pants.

You remember the whispers in the dark. The quiet “Wanna pound you into the mattress” and the “We should really go home.” Accompanied by the way he rubbed his cock against your stomach, body inches from you as his fingers dug into your pussy.

But you wouldn’t make it home yet, because his movements were too rapid to stop. The tears pricking your eyes too prominent. The hand around your neck wouldn’t stop pressing in, and you were firmly fixated on jerking him off to the end.

There was no way you were going to go home yet.

When he kissed you, you could taste both your lipsticks on your tongues. And then, cheek against the wall, ass out as he slammed his thick cock into your tight space, you tasted all the spice and sweetness he could offer.

God, a fucking man starved.

You still feel how his thighs held yours together, and your ass cheeks still burn from the palm and nails scratching, slapping, squeezing the flesh…

You tried your best to fix your make up afterwards, but you looked like modern art in the worst way, eyeliner and mascara dry on your face. The Joker’s cheek scars reach to his ears now. And as you look at him now, you still shiver.

His sweat-soaked mane hasn’t fully dried yet, a bit longer than weeks ago. Gives him that wet-hair look you usually enjoy after his showers. And behind the collar of his dress shirt, you still catch a glimpse of the lipstick print he wanted before you went out.

“Here,” he’d said, pointing to his thick, bare neck, adorned by a vein, “I’ll even open a button of my shirt just for this.”

And you were absolutely ready to mark your territory – it seemed he was just as enthusiastic about it. That is, before you forgot and then rectified your mistake in that bar bathroom. He can flex it now after all…

Anyway. Where were you again?

Right. The purple coat.

There’s something incredibly insane about how he’s draped it over his shoulder, both hands in the pockets of his pants. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, his arms veiny and strong. A full lower lip is light red now; your make out session made the bright red fade.

And the goddamn black around his eyes… he could throw the mildest statement at you, and you’d probably still be intimidated.

Could almost distract you from why you refused to give that neck kiss in the first place. Or why you were veiling your true mood.

“What are we gonna do now?” Jungkook asks, nudging your elbow.

“What do you mean? You’re not tired?”

But you understand the idiocy of your question the moment it tumbles out – you’re asking the wrong man. This guy, you have well noticed, does not sleep until late in the night. And a healthy sleep schedule becomes even more of a foreign concept on holidays.

So you’re not surprised when he blows a raspberry and almost mockingly responds, “It’s not even midnight.”

“That’s late, Jungkook,” you still try.

“Not on Halloween.” Yeah. Just what you thought. “Besides, we need to wait for the witching hour. Wanna see the ghosts come out and whatnot.”

You laugh, the scolding hidden behind the smile. “Kook…”

“We could play Uno again!” He suggests, but you instantly scrunch up your nose. Most of the time, he wins – it’s probably why he enjoys it so much. But his next idea is worse. “Or Until Dawn.”

“No way,” you shoot. “You know what’s gonna happen, right?”

Judging the conniving smirk, more daunting with the eerie make up on, you guess he knows very well. He must remember last Halloween as well as you do.

Back when you let him convince you into watching Silent Hill with him, you were already at the edge, but – the sudden knocks at your door and impatient ringing of your bell didn’t help.

You jumped in place, accidentally kicking his shin and nearly knocking over the popcorn. You shed an immediate tear, convinced your heart was going to give out. Jungkook, between the cries of ache, was chuckling, and soon holding your head to his heart.

The cursing against his chest is cemented in your mind; you remember that he turned the movie off for you and switched to something tamer on Disney+.

“We’re together now, Pumpkin,” he tries to argue. “I’ll kiss your fears away.”

You’ll admit, you like the tone of it. It hasn’t been very long, so any term concerning your togetherness covers your skin in chills. And considering how it’s Halloween, the nickname gains just a bit more warmth, too.

But you stay resolute, dodging his constant nudging as you repeat, “No way!”

Your words stop Jungkook in his tracks. The laugh disappears and even his eyes change. Maybe you came off too strong, because behind the mask of the Joker, he looks insecure and taken aback.

“Are you… Okay?”

“Yeah,” you answer.

You pull down the crop top under your open jacket, clearing your throat when the movement forces his eyes to your chest, right where the shirt stretches over your tits. Folding your arms in front of your torso, you raise your chin in the confidence that’s barely there.

You lie, “Yes. Why?”

“You’re acting like you were before we left. Then you were okay at the party.” He points into a random direction, presumably the one you came from. You don’t know how many turns you took since then, but you’re near the woods now. “Now you’re not anymore again.”

“I’m fine!”

Oops. Too strong again. Maybe the built up frustration and disappointment aren’t gone after all. You thought the evening might change something – apparently not.

Once again, he asks, “Are you sure?”

You stay silent. Look away, haphazardly across the street. The street lamps illuminate the dark path, covered in leaves, surrounded by trees. Has a real Halloween feel to it.

You watch ghosts stroll past you. Some of the students on campus still carry a young, tender spirit, cutting holes in thin blankets to drape them over their bodies. It makes you smile.

But then you look back at Jungkook and immediately wish you had a cloth hiding your true emotions, too. Because when his eyes pierce those dejected holes into your body, you finally cave in.

“You… you know that I was top of my class, right?” You avert your stare, but then decide to focus on his chin instead. “Mr Kim liked my paper so much that he even offered that I join his research? And he’s like, very cherished in the Sociology community?”

Aside from the wind, nature and the world go quiet for a second, just when you do, but then you say, “So it’s a huge opportuni–”

“I know… You told me.”

Oh. So he remembers.

“So I told you,” your voice is quieter now, “and you just… didn’t seem to care? You haven’t spoken about it or asked even once. Not even what the research is on.”

Like a parrot, he repeats, “I know. I… I got busy with my own exams and…”

He stops midway and you wait. Maybe there’s more to come… Or maybe not. He doesn’t budge. You feel your heart drop… You assumed he had forgotten or that you might’ve hallucinated telling him about it. 

But the fact that he remembers, yet doesn’t have it in him to care hurts.

You swallow hard and then sigh, unable to say much more than you already have. He, yet again, purls, “I’m sorry.”

How shitty.

You’ve always helped him with his assignment, each time he needed any aid. He reciprocated it, no doubt, but. Now that you think about it, he distanced himself the moment you got this news and forwarded it to him.

You feel horrible. If you physically could, if you weren’t frozen in place, you’d pour out your heart to him. But all you know is that your mood has dropped to the Earth’s core, your mouth barely open when–

A rough tug pulls you away from Jungkook’s body. You stumble, almost tripping over your own feet, and yelp. There’s no way to still catch your bag mid-air, because whatever culprit snatched it off your shoulder, is already running away.

And into the dense forest. Fuck.

You use all your throat’s might to scream your lungs out, screeching at the perpetrator, “What the fuck!!”

“Hey!” Jungkook yells in kind, following right behind you the moment you start to sprint.

The asphalt is easier to tackle than the forest, though. The ground is soft, still a little damp from the rain of the last days. And the white-black-red Harley Quinn boots with their thick heels do not help.

You chase the figure – he’s tall, a bit too fast for you. Wearing a mask that you’re sure was… green?

You swear and pant when he picks up on pace, and throw more insults into his direction when he takes a sharp, sudden right. Jungkook jogs past you when you look over your shoulder for him, instructing quickly, “I’ll trap him from the left!”

And then, he’s gone. No. What?

“No, I– you can’t leave me alone!” Nothing comes back. Shit, your boyfriend wants you dead. “Fuck.”

With a shake of your head and a deep inhale of a breath, you move. Perhaps you’re too late, because by now, you don’t hear any steps anymore. You don’t know how far behind that thief left you, but as you find yourself lost in the middle of nowhere, you halt.

You can’t see anyone anymore. Not the guy. Not Jungkook.

And it’s so uncannily quiet. Dark. The leaves rustle, but only when the breeze blows through them. You search the spot, but there’s truly nobody and nothing; not even a goddamn squirrel.

You call for Jungkook, but don’t receive an answer back.

Where did he go? Did he catch the jerk? It must’ve been a Shrek mask. Of all fucking things. And why do they always run into a forest anyway?

No matter. At least you’ll be able to describe him to the police.

You suck in a breath, leaning down, hands over your knees. Out of air, you groan as your lungs burn. But then you get up, swallowing and sniffling, scared as you whisper to yourself, “The phone…”

You fish it out of your shorts – Hallelujah to whoever created this costume, because they’re a whole lot better than the pocketless jeans in your closet. If you’d put the device in your bag, you’d be screwed properly.

Activating the flashlight, you turn in a slow circle. In the silence, only broken by grasshoppers and other chirping animals, you hear your heart pounding in your ears. A shaking hand holds your phone as you look around.

And right when you’re already through the 360 turn–

Fingers wrap around the hand clutching the phone, definitely not yours. There’s a call of your name, but you barely take the voice in, flinching and screaming in place. Has your voice ever sounded this high pitched?

Ready to throw your phone at him and roundhouse kick the stranger, you lift a leg, but he immediately grabs your wrist in a familiar gesture. Turns the light to his face, squinting at its intensity, and eventually, you realize that…

“What the fuck are you doing?” You spit.

“I was looking for you!” Jungkook answers, lowering the phone. “I didn’t find him.”

“Yeah, I didn’t either! But fuck, why…” You still can’t breathe properly. A hand moves to your chest. “Why did you scare me so much, I–”

Your limbs are trembling, knees attempting to force you down to the ground. But you hold yourself steady, anger growing bloody red inside you. It bubbles and simmers, and when he doesn’t respond, you almost snarl.

You push at his chest, eyes damp. You want to throw more shit at him, even though he’s not at fault – and once you realize, you calm down just a little. The forest is still around you, and you’re still not out of it by far.

Yet, you feel at ease. Because he’s here. Because he’s standing there, in the middle of the night, at fucking Halloween where you could run into any insane axe murderer.

But when you understand where the comfort is coming from, your heart slows down, still beating in your stomach, but at a more normal pace now.

“Fuck,” you whisper once again, and then stumble forward and into his arms.

He cradles you with the fragility of a glass doll. But the squeezes he provides offer warmth your chilled soul craves on this autumn night. Hushed, you hear him speak, “Baby, I…”

His words drip with hesitation and… guilt even. Wrong timing; you can’t dwell on the uncertainty now. Still sniffling, quivering, you press against his chest again. Softer this time, yet unyielding, you demand, “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I’m sorry. This is my fault.”

“No–”

“Honestly, I should’ve just… Congratulated you.”

Wrong timing indeed. He’s agonizing over something that you aren’t bothered with. Not right now, at least. But you heard it so clearly in the timbre of his voice – that he didn’t mean the jump scare. You let him continue.

“I worked so hard on my stuff, too, and then got jealous. Which is absolutely not a good boyfriend treat to have.”

“Kook–”

There’s turmoil in his words. Ugh, what’s going on?

“I’m genuinely thrilled for you. And I–”

There’s an entire conversation to have, you’re sure. But the timing. The fucking timing!

He wants to unveil more, but then something happens. A flicker in your peripheral vision alerts you of a movement, and when you turn your head, you see the same mysterious figure lurking in the shadows.

God, he’s insane. Your guts twist.

Was he eavesdropping all along, or was he simply hiding, trying to remain invisible, inexplicably unwilling to flee? Why did he not run before? This is odd. So chillingly odd.

Or maybe he was still nearby and trying not to make a sound…

You don’t know. And time is not a luxury you can’t afford for pondering such enigmas right now.

New adrenaline surges through you, different this time. The fear is clear, but the guy seems pathetic to a certain level – and if he’s so keen on roaming around, you’ll make sure he stays right in your proximity.

So you listen to the hammering of your heart, and without a second thought, you dash towards the stranger who appears equally startled and disoriented. You feel like a charging bull, closing the distance at an astonishing pace.

That’s what they probably mean when they speak about mothers being able to lift cars for their kids, because you feel invincible. Your shoes may not be designed for such a pursuit, and you’re certainly not as hardcore as Harley Quinn, but they lose against your determination.

The trees blur around you as you relentlessly chase the intruder, only clearing in your vision when you finally catch up with him. Jungkook might be behind you, but you choose not to look behind you this time.

Instead, you yell a battle cry, growling through your teeth, “Don’t you fucking–”

But that’s all before you tackle him to the ground. You expect a fight, expect his slim limbs to fling around, but he barely moves. He lets you push him onto the fallen leaves, and the only glimpse of any sound by him that you catch is a weird voice crack.

“Fu–” Is all you notice, but you can’t analyze the voice before Jungkook is helping you up again. 

You protest, but still get to your feet, watching Jungkook pull the man up harshly. He says to you, “You caught him.”

“Guess so.”

You take another breath, jaw clenched when you move to the stumbling thief and attempt to take the mask off. Shrek, as you said. You can’t quite say whether that night is terrifying or absurd. Probably both.

But the guy fights your try, suddenly mute again, but not resisting when Jungkook pulls at his arm and starts leading him somewhere. What? 

“Where are you going?” You ask, confusion sitting in the valley between your eyebrows. “Let’s go back and call the police, Jungkook.”

“There’s gotta be an opening. Keep going, I just need light to see his face.”

“I have a phone. Jungkook, sto–”

Seems like a very risky moment to ignore you, but Jungkook moves forward with determination. But it’s strange how he isn’t looking around. Never searching his surroundings, as if he already has a certain target in mind.

Now, you’ll admit that his sense of direction is unerring on any other day, too, but this is…

“I swear, you’re gonna kill us both,” you hiss, reflexively lowering your voice in the darkness. The masked mugger is grunting too much to hear you anyway, but you guess that affects Jungkook’s senses, too.

He just won’t stop. At least, until you reach a tiny clearing.

You don’t know how deep in the forest you are, because you can’t see the moon from here. The stars are the mere source of light here, albeit barely enough to illuminate the other bodies standing on the opposite side of the dimly lit space.

Wait. More people? Here?

What the hell.

Their faces, obscured by shadows, are unmoving. You ready yourself for an apology – maybe you interrupted some weird get-together. A shady ritual executed by some secret college club.

But as you strain to discern their features, a gradual realization dawns upon you. One of them steps forward, his features partially hidden, and one or two other familiar friends from your classes occupy the periphery.

It’s Jin. Also Jimin – a guy you and Jungkook met during one of your study sessions. Taehyung introduced him to your group. And the pursuit takes on an even more bewildering turn when you look at Jungkook and see that he’s no longer clutching the robber.

The man is standing there in silence, massaging the back of his head. Seemingly unperturbed. Perplexed and still out of breath, you utter, “What in the world?”

You shake your head, eyes deeply furrowed. You close the distance between you and the confusing figure, snatch your bag from him and finally shed the mask that conceals his identity.

And then, you see it. The unexpected face behind the bizarre charade.

“Taehyung?” You exclaim.

Jungkook, having caught his breath faster than you, mimics your incredulous tone, “Taehyung, what the hell?”

Oh. So he’s just as confused. The man in question glances over to his friend, his expression one of sheer frustration as he grumbles another very puzzling statement.

“Jeon, I will kill you.”

“Sorry,” Jungkook mutters back.

Or… not? Huh?

You’re speechless. Out of movements and words, you keep your feet planted on your spot, blinking as you wait for someone to explain. But they’re not even looking at you, so you seek clear clarification.

“What’s going on here?” You ask.

Jungkook’s half-smile agitates you more than it should. Why the heck is he smiling?! But you breathe in through the nose, hoping for the forest’s scent to calm your nerves.

“Well,” he admits, “I guess I owe him one. ‘Cuz you were not supposed to tackle him.”

“Right!” Taehyung concurs.

“And you were not supposed to disappear!” Jungkook chimes in, pointing an accusatory finger at his friend. His voice is tinged with reproach. “You…”

“Guys,” you interject. What the fuck.

Jungkook sighs, full attention on you. You try your hardest to not look at the creepy crowd to your left, friends and acquaintances standing there as if they’re about to sacrifice you to a demon.

“He was supposed to lead you here, but somehow we didn’t manage to pull it through,” Jungkook says.

His words leave you pondering. You have not the darndest clue about what’s going on. So you ask, “We?”

“Your…” The assembled group draws near, a few of your friends holding various items. “Your paper.”

Huh…

They’re carrying indiscernible things. And a pie, and…

“Of course I remembered your paper, baby,” Jungkook declares.

Oh, wait. Is that what you think it is? Because if it is, then your instincts were entirely wrong today. Or the entire time since you received the news. Maybe you were just so out of your mind because of the general Halloween atmosphere?

What were you expecting… An axe murderer for real? Dammit…

No. It was much more obvious, yet impossible to figure out. This man. This man!

A wave of relief washes over you as you process his words. You think that now, you even understand what they’re all holding. Or what it’s for…

“So you weren’t…” You start.

You drift off, watching Jungkook shake his head. His response is heartfelt, his love and pride evident. He looks at you with infinite sweetness; but a lot of guilt, too.

“Jealous?” He finishes. “I’d be crazy to be. You’re part of me.”

His blinking is soft and the tongue licking his red lips shiny in the extremely faint starlight. You know he isn’t done yet, so you wait… Focus on the tingle on your skin.

“You are part of me,” he says again, “so I’ll celebrate any achievement of yours like it’s mine. And this was… is a huge fucking thing to happen for you.”

You feel your head tilt and the muscles in your face relax. Your lips move to a smile, parted to give way to the longest sigh known to humankind. But if you indulged in the cheesy interaction now, your friends would remind you of it every game night.

Which is why you get yourself together, postponing the screeching and second tackling to later when you’re alone again. You shake off some of the weakness he causes every day, and give into the urge to nudge teasingly.

“You’re such a jerk for scaring me like that.”

A playful grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, as typical as can be. “I needed to make it Halloween-themed, Pumpkin. I’m sorry, but you know I had to.”

Your initial scolding turns into a loving retort, “I hate you.”

But the banter is short-lived as you lose against the surge of emotions, your hand moving to push him lightly once again before immediately lifting to his collar. You capture it, pulling him close to you until his wide eyes close and your lips collide.

In the background, you hear an instant chorus of “Aww”s, but grunts, too. Among the cooing, you hear a mumbled speech about how you need to get a room, but you only react with a smile against his mouth. You kiss him deeper, tongues gently intermingling.

And just when the hand holding the back of your head slips to your lower back, pressing you into him, the shiver becomes unbearable. Emotions shoot through your body and down between your legs – so you stop.

For a couple seconds longer, you look at whatever you can see from his eyes in the dark, flashing a smile. He rounds his lips and releases air through them, a temptingly silent way to let you know that you affected him.

You ignore it for your mentality’s sake, moving away from him to look at your friends. You cough and gesture to the objects in their hands, asking, “What’s all this about?”

If you could see them, you’d probably see a mischievous twinkle in their eyes. Jin at least sounds like it as he beckons you closer with a nod, ready to reveal whatever they’ve orchestrated for you.

You already expected the answer to your question, but the wrapping confirms your assumption. Gifts. Quite a few of them, bigger and smaller. As you move from one to the other, they announce the objects before you’re able to rip the paper off.

A friend gifts you a Swarovski Crystalline pen for your “Super fancy notes as you do your super fancy research.” Reflects their support for your scholarly pursuits, you guess.

Jimin surprises you with an exclusive album by your favourite group. Then, a little plushie to destress whenever you need, along with a college survival guide and “Sociology for Dummies” – all by Jin. Of course.

And lastly, a Lord of the Rings Lego set that you’ve desired for super long, a group effort. It’s a labor of love, for sure. A collective endeavor by friends who united to make your dreams come true – but honestly, who scared you to death, too.

You don’t know how you make it out of the forest again, still reprimanding Taehyung and Jungkook on your way out. Granted, you did get lost as a group once, and then found your beloved streetlamps again ten minutes later.

The treasures secured in a bag, Jungkook places them on your couch with a long and deep sigh once you arrive home, calming down from today’s hours. The night seemed endless. Wouldn’t finish – and you’re exhausted beyond measure.

But even through your falling eyelids, you manage one more expressive glance, pure disbelief hiding in your gaze as you say, “I absolutely didn’t expect any of this.”

Jungkook is a true mirror to you. Equally worn out, he lets his head fall a little, one hand still in the pocket of his pants. He looks ridiculously attractive, fatigue or not. Curls of his longer hair hang in his eyes as he rubs them, the smile gentle despite the sinister make up.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he says, voice low and quiet. “To be honest, I kinda felt bad halfway through.”

Ah. Explains the guilty eyes and voice. The way he attempted to apologize and grew all shy and quiet before you threw Taehyung to the ground.

“Don’t. The plan almost worked, and my heartbeat is still intact.” You laugh, punching his arm lightly. “But… Don’t do shit like that again next year.”

“I can’t promise it. You know that.”

You roll your eyes, watching him try to walk away – and you might not have held him back and grasped the dress shirt at the elbow if…

Is that the window creaking?

You gasp, still more on the edge than you expected, and throw a peek over your shoulder. You moved a couple weeks ago – there’s no way your place is already making these sounds. Or maybe that’s the reason after all… You should get to renovating.

“Was that you, too?” You ask, leaning into him with a cocked eyebrow.

“It was not. How would I do that?” He promises. His words are accompanied by movements; he’s walking around the living room now, as if he’s looking for something. “I’m not a ghost. Just the Joker.”

“A sly one, though…”

You look to the window again as he crams around in the box under your table, and appropriate to the holiday, you detect a harmless raven, perched on the windowsill. The sight elicits a small chuckle – but you don’t hear a sound from Jungkook.

When you turn back to him, you understand why. He’s distracted, still crouching. Then he gets up with… An object in his hand. No, two. Not any you carried home just now, but much smaller, thinner. Paper?

Idly, he walks back to you, fingers adorned in tattooed letters holding two cards toward you. You look into his eyes, confused and seeking answers silently, but he only holds the objects closer to you, urging you to take them.

“What’s that?” You ask.

“Read, and you’ll know.”

And when you oblige, you understand. Maybe the little celebration on the clearing didn’t quite end there. Because the inscription on the cards reveals that he put more thought into this than you knew.

The tiny party and group effort Lego set weren’t his only tokens of affection. The weekend getaway, resting in your hands and awaiting you next week, must be tonight’s finale. A prelude to the impending wave of tedious work. 

“As an escape. Even for just a moment,” Jungkook explains, reaching forward. His hand settles on your cheek and pulls your face up, meeting your eyes. “Just you and me.”

To bask in serenity and rejuvenation, is that it? Just you and him…

“Really?” You wonder, eyes knitted together, lips pouting. You’re drowning in fondness.

“I wanna give you all the relaxation you need, in any way. Big things ahead after that.”

“I’m… You didn’t ha–”

You only get this far, because his lips steal your breath and halt your speech midway. His hand cradles your face, the other arm slinging around your body. The grip holds you tight against him, the heels of your feet almost lifting off the floor.

The kiss won’t stop. Continues deeper. You’re careful to not crumple and crease the cards he gave you, but still wrap your arms around his neck, pushing harder into him. And the tongue… Fuck, this tongue…

When he moves back reluctantly to catch air, he’s panting; and your breath falls against his cheeks just as hot. Your lips are damp, craving more, and you draw closer, trying to feel all of him. The muscles, the embrace, the growing pleasure behind his pants and…

But he lets go, leaves you standing and dizzy. With a wink, he lightly pinches your cheek, thumb brushing against it and suggests, “I’ll head off to freshen up.”

But. No.

You’re not ready to let the moment slip away, no matter how tired you are. So you pull him back again, a playful twinkle in your eyes as you quietly utter a request.

“Don’t take it off just yet.” You say, seeing the way his eyes light up. He understands right away. “Clean up together?”

He smiles. Waits with his answer, busy gripping your wrist as gently as he can before he locks his fingers with yours. He starts pulling you into the direction of the bathroom at snail's pace, reaching to hold both your hands, walking backwards, and causes one last hour-long shiver for the night.

“I really do love every time we save up on water, you know?”

–

Let me know what you think!! Have a good Halloween, love you all and smooching you!!😘

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

On Crimson Coats

Part Five of this pirate au, there's smut in this one, 18+ MDNI. This applies to ageless and blank blogs.

~4.5k words

His confession is heavy. It makes your throat tighten, your eyes want to well with tears. He can't let you go. He said that, he sounds so convicted and sure of it. But it's almost unbelievable. It had been so simple for him to leave you before.

"I know how difficult it must be to see me now, after everything," Your husband continues, and his gaze softens, a trace of vulnerability seeping through the facade he's trying desperately to maintain. "I may not know the exact thoughts that reside in your mind, treasure, but I can see the shadows that cloud your eyes."

"You know nothing of what I feel or think," You retort, voice strained. You try to pull away, try to create space between you and the man who's been hunting you everyday since you left.

He only holds you steadily, not letting an inch of space grow between you. "I know that a part of you still yearns for me, even after all we've been through. I am still yours, as you are still mine."

You start to protest, lifting your head in defiance. But, Jason sighs out your name, "Darling, you cannot begin to understand how it feels to be so utterly and hopelessly in love with you. Being without you is like ripping apart my own soul. I know you have not forgotten that feeling."

He dips down to kiss the crown of your head, "I will make you happy, treasure. You'll see." Jason then lets go of you and steps back towards your horse.

You stare at him, at a loss for words as he grabs the reins of a large stallion, "Now, come along, my love, the crew is waiting."

"The crew," You echo, almost airily as he leads his horse over to you.

"Aye, love. I've sent them ahead, you'll see them soon," he says, grabbing your waist with both hands and starting to lift you onto his horse.

"Wait," You say quickly, grabbing his arms, "I want to– Can't I ride my own horse?"

His expression visibly tightens at your plea, reluctance flashing in his eyes. But, Jason sets you back down, and bites back his immediate instinct to insist you ride together, "If that is what you prefer."

You swiftly pull away from him and haul yourself up onto your horse, moving before he gets the chance to offer you help.

He hums thoughtfully, and his gaze never leaves you as he mounts his own horse with all the grace befitting a skilled rider.

You gather the reins, and you can't help but laugh softly when you catch his eyes looking between his horse and yours, as if calculating which stead would be faster in a chase.

His focus whips back towards you when you laugh, surprise and weariness crossing his features. Your laugh, though quiet, is a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere that hangs in the air, "Dare I ask what brings you such joy, treasure?"

"It's only that we're doing the same thing," You admit, gently nudging your horse to start walking, "Making plans, considering what the other will do."

He's quick to guide his own horse to match your pace, "So you are planning to leave again."

His questions sobers the laughter in your voice, "I– don't know."

The journey is silent for a long time after that. It makes your skin itch, questions dance at the tip of your tongue. You break when he quietly hands you an apple when your stomach growls, "Back at the tavern, why did you leave me all the coin?"

He nods sagely, like he expected the question, "It was a misguided attempt to sway you into staying. Perhaps I had hoped it would convince you that a life with me still held value, that I could provide for you."

You don't have a way to answer that, your own feelings too tangled and complicated to bring to words. That it was never the money that had value to you.

Your travels are silent again, that is, until Jason asks a question of his own, "Did you keep the ring?"

"I did. I kept the pins too," you say idly, the confession spills out thoughtlessly, but you realize the significance of it when he sucks in a sharp breath.

"The pins," he murmurs, "I remember how the silver glinted in your hair."

The sounds of the horses ring between you for a moment before he speaks again, "Let us rest for the night, love. We can finish our travels to port tomorrow."

"Rest," You question, eyes trailing to the road ahead.

"There's an inn ahead, treasure. I would not make you sleep on the dirt," he drawls, and true to his word, lights of a small town begin to flicker in the distance.

He steers the horses towards the inn, and soon enough, the horses are stabled and Jason's offering you his hand to help you dismount.

You hesitate, but take it. His touch is gentle, but firm as he helps you down, carefully resting a hand on your hip to steady you.

Neither of you move when your feet hit the ground. It's intoxicating to be this close to him again, after hours riding next to him in silence. Your husband still towers over you, is still covered in scars and calluses, yet his touch is still careful when he traces your knuckles with his thumb.

You pull away, and his face shifts with disappointment as he drops your hand. He gestures vaguely towards the entrance, adjusts his hat and telltale coat, "Shall we, love?"

You manage a nod and follow his confident strides into the inn. The warm light of the lanterns spills into the darkness as he opens the door and the chatter of the patrons dies immediately.

Your fearsome husband is a stark contrast to the cozy atmosphere of the inn. You wish you had thrown your hood back on, as guests and staff fix on Jason.

The inn is close enough to the sea that people instinctively know who he is, know what he's capable of, know the title he wears with pride.

His eyes gleam, like he enjoys the way lesser men seem to cower, the way his presence exudes authority. The light catches the sharp angles of his face, the edge of his blade, and tension grows subtly in the air.

Whispers and clanging of mugs pick up as Jason saunters to the innkeeper, you don't miss the way your presence alongside him piques interest.

The innkeeper doesn't say a word, only scurries away, you assume, to grab a key. You linger behind your husband, eyes darting around the room.

He tilts his head at you when you don't stand by his side, and lazily loops at arm around your waist, tugging you against his side. "You're breathtaking in this light, darling," Jason says softly, eyes sharp and watchful.

"Ah, yes, a fact that's made me many a coin," You drawl, settling against his side. It's not that you want to be close to him, really, it's just safer this way. There's too many eyes on you to pull away. You repeat the notion in your mind as he chuckles and your heart skips a beat.

"Aye, I can imagine a beauty such as yours does tend to garner attention and tips," he replies, easy going and relaxed.

The innkeeper returns with a key and places it into Jason's palm. His arm doesn't leave its spot around your waist as he guides you to the stairs.

"There's only one key," You note, somewhat discontented, but not surprised.

"You make it sound as if it's unnatural for married couples to share a room," he says, half-teasing, "there's no need to fret, treasure, this is hardly our first time sharing a bed, is it?"

"I suppose not," You relent, and he smiles at you as you get to your room. Jason unlocks the door, and with a warm hand pressed to the small of your back, sends you into the room first.

It's surprisingly nice, elegant even. As you take in the large bed, the porcelain tub half tucked away behind a partition, and the plush armchairs nestled by a fireplace, you realize how expensive the room must be.

You hesitantly tug off your cloak, caked with mud from the day's ride and drop it to the floor by the door. You kick off your boots, it feels like a crime to bring so much grime and dirt into the fine room.

"You're breathtaking," Jason tells you again, removing his own coat and hat and laying them onto the bed.

You make a face at the dirty leathers on the bed, but don't try to remove them. "You've mentioned," You mumble, "I've only gotten older."

His gaze trails over your figure in admiration, "Age only adds to your elegance and charm, my love, you've always been utterly alluring."

You tut, fighting the heat that threatens to rise to your face, "When did you have time to learn such sweet words?"

Jason's eyebrow raises slightly, mischief gleaming in his eyes, "I must admit I picked up a thing or two in my journeys, but the true source of my speech is you. You, my treasure, inspire poetry."

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest, "Then perhaps you should have been a poet."

He grins, eager over you playing along, "Perhaps I should have been a bard. I could weave sonnets of your beauty and the joy you bring. But alas, I find myself more skilled in wielding a sword than a quill." He steps forward, voice lowering, "Unless, it's to write odes upon your skin with my kisses."

You falter, the words unexpected. It seems as if you can never quite keep up with him.

Your husband's eyes lock with yours, and your breath hitches at the unrestrained desire evident in his gaze as he studies your reaction. His voice drops lower, almost husky as he speaks again, "The novels I would commit to your skin with my touch. It would be a symphony, treasure."

Your gaze drops to the floor, suddenly mourning the loss of your cloak around you, a desire to hide from him, from his devoted tone.

He notices, of course he does, your unspoken desire to shield yourself from his intensity, "Forgive me, my love. I will keep my poems to myself, and my touch shall only be a whisper on your skin."

His fingers graze along the nape of your neck, and you almost jolt. When did he get so close? "Don't," You snap, voice sharpening and defenses raising.

He doesn't react to your sudden anger, only lowers his hand from your skin. His voice drops to a whisper, tone going to something pleading and soothing, "Why not, treasure? What disgusts you so much that you cannot bear my touch? Why do you despise the idea of being my partner so desperately?"

"Because you deserve someone who will fuck you in alleys, Jason!" You half-shout, and wince as hurt and realization flashes in his eyes.

"You have no idea what I want to do to you, with you, for you," he starts, voice low and steady. He pauses and lets out a shaky sigh of your name, "You can't tell me all of this is because of what happened in that alley. Please, I can't bear it."

You can't deny it, it is part of the reason you left. You stumble over your words, trying to find a way to explain your heartaches, how to tell him everything that hurts you without hurting him as well, "I– yes. No. I left because of– I left for a lot of reasons, Jason. But I almost stayed because of you."

You exhale shakily, "You were everything I wanted that day. You were perfect. Everything I dreamt of every moment you were gone."

"Ah," he breathes out, like he suddenly understands, you know he doesn't, "My absence was a weight on your heart. One day couldn't erase all those years of pain, could it?"

You swallow thickly and look away. He says your name, as if begging for your attention, "I wish I could turn back time and be the husband you deserved all those years ago. I would do it, treasure, if I only knew how."

"But you can't, Jason," You mumble, unable to bring yourself to look at him, "You can't change anything."

"I can change this– us, now. Give us a chance, my love. You'll be happy with me, with the crew, on the ship. Everything you could want, I could give you," he pleads.

You wrap your arms around yourself. You were happy for those few weeks on his ship, with his crew, with him. But how long could it really last?

"I just want to get cleaned up. Riding all day was exhausting," You tell him flatly, the fight draining out of you. You feel like you're running away. Maybe you are. Maybe it's all you know how to do anymore.

"Then we can bathe," your husband agrees easily, brushing past you to draw the water in the porcelain tub.

Your gaze snaps to him, but he doesn't look back as he kneels over the golden knobs, testing the temperature of the water. "We," You question, voice half pitching as you step towards the bath.

"We," he echos, "there's nothing to be ashamed of, darling. I've washed your body many times."

You make a noise of protest, "I'm not ashamed."

He shoots you a wiry grin and offers you his hand, "I know, treasure. I would have done something if you were."

It's a habit you didn't realize that was still ingrained in you, when you move to take his hand. He pulls your hand to his lips, and kisses every knuckle. You don't even try to hide the way your gaze rakes over him knelt before you.

He watches you carefully, fingers expertly undoing the laces of your clothes, hands slowly, but devotedly guiding you out of the fabric covering your skin. His eyes scour every inch of you, and you're quick to pull away to step into the tub.

You pretend not to notice the way he exhales softly at the distance between you. You close your eyes and melt into the warm water as he stands, shedding his own clothes. You listen as buckles clank and heavy leathers and metal drop to the floor.

"Love," he breathes out, half asking permission to join you, half giving you time to sort out your thoughts. When you don't acknowledge him, don't tell him to join you or to leave, he tentatively sinks into the water across from you, sending ripples through the tub. He sighs, and you imagine he's just as relieved as you are to soak your sore muscles after a day of riding.

You shift, tucking your knees to your chest. The tub isn't small, but it's hardly designed for two people. His legs brush against yours, even as he tries to keep his distance.

Words unsaid dance behind your lips. Arguments you want to make. Accuse him of only ever taking from you. But you can't find the fire to fight him when his steady presence is actually soothing. His soft breathing fills your ears, and you find yourself opening your eyes to study him.

Jason's already memorizing your features when your gaze settles on him. He's relaxed, leaning against the back of the tub like he doesn't have a single stress in his life.

Maybe he doesn't, not when you're inches away from him and bare. The candlelight and clear water don't do much to hide you from his sight.

You find that incredibly unfair. He should be nervous. He should be as uncertain as you are about all this. But he appears so confident, so in control, you wonder if this was his plan all along.

Your train of thought vanishes when he reaches out to run a line over your shoulder with his fingers. The shape inhale you take has him snapping away immediately.

"I'm sorry, treasure," he murmurs, remorse clear in his tone, "I didn't mean to startle you. I've always found my self-control limited in your presence."

"I suppose that's familiar," You say idly, thoughtlessly rubbing the skin where the feeling of his touch still lingers.

"Aye, I've never been skilled at containing my affection for you," he says, almost regretfully, "Yet it only ever serves to drive you away."

"That's not why–" You start, but your words fail.

His gaze sharpness, and suddenly he feels so big sitting across from you, all encompassing with an aura that demands answers from you.

"Then why," he says your name, and it almost makes you flinch to hear it said so starkly. To hear it instead of one of his many terms of endearments for you, "Why do my actions only ever seem to chase you from me?"

His words seem angry, the tension in his body making him rigid and threatening. But you know your husband well enough to recognize the vulnerability in his eyes, to catch the way his voice breaks and falters.

Longing wells in your throat. You miss him. You miss when your marriage was young and new and you knew he loved you just as much as he knew you loved him. You miss when everything didn't feel so broken.

It's cruel, for both of you, what you do next. But you want so badly to pretend. To act as if nothing has changed. To find security in him. You hope beyond the words you have to express that he understands, that he wants that too.

It's callous, to both of you, when you surge forward to kiss him. Jason reacts like he expected it, it almost makes you angry.

He catches you, greedy and eager and desperate, by the waist. He drags you onto his lap, nipping your bottom lip and kissing you like the entire world depends on it, his entire world depends on it.

Nothing matters past his touch. It's better than all the finest wines, the way his touches distracts you from every thought in your head. It's better than all the coin you could carry, when his hand doesn't hesitate to find your chest.

You press closer to him, straddling his hips as water sloshes against the sides of the tub. Wantwantwant clouds your mind of everything else. You want this. Want him. Want a moment that feels right.

You whine when his lips leave yours, and he trails feverish kisses down your throat and to your collarbone. He nips at your skin, eager to leave evidence of his presence behind.

Jason's calloused fingers twist and pinch at your nipple, and it's sinful that he remembers the exact way your body reacts to him. Neither of you speak, too afraid to break whatever this is becoming.

But when you roll your hips, grind down onto his growing erection with a single-minded purpose, he groans, low and husky and needy. He grinds up into you, a silent plea for more, for you not to stop, for you to never stop.

His fingers leave your chest to trail down your stomach, searching and refamiliarizing himself with the feel of your skin. He sucks at your pulse in the same moment his fingers part you folds, expertly finding your clit to draw steady circles.

Your head falls back as you moan, tangling your fingers into his hair for something to ground yourself to, for something to pull when he starts increasing pressure. He grins as you expose more of your neck and his fingers move faster between your thighs with all the skill and experience he has with knowing your body.

He drinks down every expression you make with a drive to see more, and presses a finger to your entrance slowly, carefully testing your reaction. You yank him back into another bruising kiss in return.

He whines into the kiss, and sinks a finger into your wet, aching cunt. He starts a slow rhythm, and it makes your heart stutter at how gentle he is, how loving.

It's not what you want right now. You don't want soft or nice. You want him to fuck every confusing thought from your head until all that matters is how he full he can stuff you with his cock.

Jason seems more preoccupied on curling his finger against the spot that will make you buck into his hand, on nipping the skin over your pulse. You mewl and grab his wrist, pulling him away from your dripping pussy.

He falters, pulling back to look at you with worry, "Treasure," he starts, and you cut him off with another ravenous kiss. You don't want him to talk, you just want to feel him.

Even if it's wrong, even if it'll only hurt you both when the morning comes, none of that matters when you guide his cock to your waiting cunt. You kiss him harder, swallowing any questions he tries to ask.

His fingers dig into your thighs when you finally sink down onto his stiff cock. It's tricky, to maneuver yourself in the tub, but it's worth all the effort when he lets out a near pathetic whine against your mouth, near shaking in the effort to not jerk up into you.

It's a stretch to take him, more so than you remember, but it's so undeniably good to have him fill you inch by seering inch. He lets out a guttural groan as your walls flutter around him, the sound makes you feel greedy.

You pull back from the kiss to watch his eyes flutter shut, to watch him desperately try to contain himself. "Treasure," he breathes out, voice thick with reverence and desire.

You can't bring yourself to care what he's going to say, not when you're adjusting to the way his dick spreads you wide, not when you're still sinking down into his lap so he can press deeper inside you.

"Taking me so well," he murmurs, "So perfect. Look at you. Never letting you go." He's rambling, praises spilling unchecked from his lips.

You chalk it up to the way you've managed to take him to the base of cock. He ducks his head to shower your neck and shoulders with kisses and bites when you do.

You exhale softly, unmoving as you sit in his lap. Maybe you don't need him to fuck you. Maybe just sitting with him stuffed completely inside you while the water cools against your skin is enough.

That thought is quickly overturned when your husband lifts you by your thighs, and carefully guides you back down in a slow, steady rhythm. It makes your breath hitch and your body sing.

How could you have forgotten how easily he can manhandle you? How could you forget how good it feels when he's seeking your pleasure?

His grip tightens when moans start to fall off your tongue in louder, more desperate cries. His breathing grows ragged as he moves you faster, his hips starting to meet yours in urgent thrusts.

Water splashes out of the tub, but you hardly notice it when Jason babbles into your skin, "Everything, you're everything. Been so lost without you. Feels so good. Need you. Need you so much."

You rock along his length, hands braced against him and hiding your face in the crook of his neck. Even when your body starts to feel like it's floating and your head starts to spin, you find it incredibly unfair he seems so in control of the situation you initiated.

The thought makes you bite down into his throat. Bite down hard.

He jolts and curses, burying himself deep inside you as he cums, unloading his spend into your walls. It makes you gasp, makes you find your own climax and clamp down around him as he repeats your name over and over.

He fucks you through both of your releases, or maybe you're still riding him through it. It's difficult to tell when your vision is obscured by stars and your mouth is open in a soundless cry.

What you do know is that he finished inside you and doesn't seem to have any intention of moving as his hips slow to a languid roll. You wrap your arms around him and try to not shake, head empty and nearly drooling as you rest your head against his shoulder.

Jason presses kiss after kiss to every inch of you he can reach without removing his hands from your skin. It's nice. Really nice. It almost reminds you of your wedding night. You fidget mindlessly with the ends of his hair.

You think you could have stayed like this forever, close to him, wrapped around his half-hard cock. But the moment has to end. You have to end it, lest you lead him on more than you already have, "Waters getting cold," You mumble and slowly pull your boneless body off of him.

He looks reluctant to have you go, and keeps his hands firmly on your hips, "I had hardly noticed, my love. But if you're cold..." He smiles at the squeak you make as he lifts you out of the tub with him.

"Jason," You start when he doesn't set you on your feet right away. He hums in acknowledgment, grabbing a towel for each of you all without ever putting you down.

"Jason," You protest again and he relents, gently putting you down onto the plush carpet by the bed. You don't see the need to cover yourself in the moment, as you dry off your tired body, but the way his gaze devours your movements makes you wonder if you should.

He steps closer to you and you freeze. Suddenly this feels dangerous. Not that you're in danger. But that he's going to say something. Do something. Expect something you don't know how to give.

His fingers brush over your jaw and guide your face up. You meet his eyes with a confidence you don't feel.

He stares at you. You don't know what he's searching for, but you think he finds it when he dips down to kiss you, soft and slow and so sweet it nearly makes your knees buckle.

He walks you backwards till the back of your legs hit the bed frame.

He keeps kissing you as he guides you to lay down in the bed, your body landing on his discarded crimson coat. He kisses his way down your jaw, down your throat, down chest, down your stomach, mapping your skin with his fingers and tongue.

He lifts your legs to rest on his shoulders. His eyes never leave yours as he presses kisses to the inside of your thighs, and works his way to your center.

You realize he's still looking for something, as his gaze stays fixed on yours. You'll forget to ask exactly what when he licks a stripe from your twitching hole to your clit.

Part Six

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type AU.

Soap is the long forgotten god of death.

Ghost is his first follower in a very long time.

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9

————

At first, Soap had been seen as kind and benevolent. The one to end someone’s suffering and help them along to the afterlife. However, as more wars began to break out, his perception changed into that of a bloodthirsty warmonger. The type that you sacrifice the blood of innocents to for luck in your upcoming battles.

Soap had simply ignored the brutish offerings. But then they spread. Like a plague, soon everyone was murdering their chosen victims in his temples in the hopes that it would bring them even more fortune.

Realizing that his presence was just causing more and more to die, he let himself fade away. He was reduced to nothing more than a comforting feeling people felt before they died. Over time, the so-called offerings stopped. Scared of what would happen should he return, he continued to fade.

A god is only as strong as their followers believe them to be. With no followers, no offerings, they are nothing. While mortal weaponry may hurt a god, may even get them to bleed, it cannot kill them. A god can only truly die when they are no longer remembered.

Soap is waiting for the day that he is truly forgotten and can pass on when he gets a feeling. One he has not had in an age. Though his worshippers have abandoned him, his temples and statues remained, though now significantly worse for wear. And someone just provided an offering of a single slice of bread on one of his statues.

A meager offering, sure, but it’s enough to get his attention. He has almost no power nor any energy left, but he sees a soldier sitting next to the statue as he ate his meal.

Meanwhile, Ghost hadn’t the faintest clue what god he just gave an offering to, but he felt a little better afterwards and so just hoped they weren’t evil. He took note of the statue’s appearance and when his troop was encamped near a town, he snuck away to a local library to see if there were any books he could find about it.

He was not apart of the army willingly, but he owed them a life debt and they had decided that it would only be repaid upon his death. Just a glorified prisoner, he was kept at the general’s side as his favorite weapon. Sneaking away was difficult, but definitely doable. The few times he was caught, he made enough of a disturbance that it was easier for everyone involved to let him do his thing.

They did not need to worry about him running away. If he was able, he’d have run the second he was given the chance. However, he was stuck. As long as he owed a debt, he could not leave.

The statue, at the very least, gave him something to do.

He was intrigued. He did not recognize the features at all, and his research confirmed that it was not a well known deity. It takes a long time of asking the right people and finding the right books to uncover the story of the forgotten god.

Having read everything — from loving poems about the being helping sickly children find comfort in their last moments to angry anecdotes about desperate townspeople sacrificing themselves in the hope that the god would show them mercy — he decides to give the god the benefit of the doubt.

He figures the world is shitty enough, why not find some good that had been tucked away? Ghost himself was seen more as a weapon than a person and couldn’t help but sympathize. He was never one for gods or worship, more likely to curse the heavens than ever sacrifice something of his, but he almost felt bad for the being. So, the next day, from one bloodthirsty monster to another, he gives the forgotten god more offerings.

It’s still not much, just an apple and a ring the general wouldn’t notice missing, but he sets them there anyways. He damn near jumps out of his fucking skin when the feeling of an accepted offering floods through him. He stares at what would have originally been the face of the statue, but nothing happens. The trees behind him continue to sing their song in the faint breeze, with the sounds of a lively woods never fading.

There is no outside sound, no out of place movement, no indication that he hadn’t just imagined the feeling. A leaf falling from one of the branches and landing on the pedestal, where the offerings were now gone, snapped him out of his staring contest. He muttered out a gruff thanks and sat down to eat, ignoring the feeling of being watched.

[cut-it-out29]

Curious about Dream’s purple cape in your design! Does it have any interesting origin?

Protecting is just meant for some people

[serafilms]

OH, WE MUST STOP MEETING LIKE THIS

patrick zweig x reader

summary: in which patrick zweig is the bolter (the bolter by taylor swift). wc: 3k

kind of an alternate timeline spinoff of the golden quartet

(rather than an au, it's more like an alternate patrick x reader centric timeline, and an exploration of their dynamic and how it intertwines with the bolter, because i listened to it again after watching challengers, and thought to myself, "wow, this song is so patrick coded.”)

You like Patrick Zweig because he makes you feel like he’s yours.

The sudden hand that claps onto your shoulder almost sends your soul into orbit as you jump in your seat, fork dropping to your tray. It is very soon forgotten.

“Patrick, oh my god!” Your arms are thrown around him, chair pushed to the side, and Patrick stumbles a little on the impact.

When you part, he’s grinning at you and you turn your head back to the table, where Art is munching on an apple with the corners of his mouth twitching up.

“Did you know he was here?” You ask him.

Art gives a shrug as he swallows. “He said he wanted to surprise you.”

You tug at Patrick’s arm to sit as you settle back into your chair.

He gives you an exaggeratedly sloppy kiss on your cheek and you cringe in disgust, butterflies in your stomach all the while. “Had to surprise my favourite girl.”

“Thought Art was your favourite girl,” you quip. The blond kicks your shoe in retaliation.

“You can both be,” Patrick announces as he grabs Art’s apple and takes a bite. “So,” he says through a mouthful, “It’s Friday. What are we doing tonight?”

“Well,” you say, “I have an essay due Sunday, so I’ll be doing that.”

Patrick gives you a look. “Boo, you whore.”

“Alright, pack it up, Regina George.” The words are accompanied by an affectionate roll of your eyes.

“A guy in my calculus class is throwing a party,” Art speaks up. He snatches his apple back out of Patrick’s hands.

You let out a humming noise. “You guys can come hang afterwards. I’ll probably still be awake by then.”

Patrick studies you for a moment, contemplatively, as if you are somehow a factor in making his decision. You wonder if perhaps he wanted you to ask him to stay with you instead. But he turns back to Art and nods his agreement as an easy smirk falls onto his face.

“Sounds like a plan.”

There’s a little more idle chitchat and three-way bickering while Patrick swipes half your meal from under your nose and indulges in it as though he was the one who paid for it. You let him, partially because you’re not hungry anymore and partially because you’re not sure what he’s been eating when he’s on tour, so any nutrients you can get inside his stomach is a win.

Art lists off some of the people going to the party, and you chime in with unsolicited opinions, pieces of gossip, etc., on each of them, until eventually, your tray is empty and it’s time for you to go to class.

“I’ll catch you guys later. Don’t get too shitfaced tonight.” You try to ignore the way Patrick grazes his hand on your hip as you stand.

“No promises,” he snickers. He and Art share a look over the table.

It’s three in the morning when Patrick knocks on your door. He is decidedly shitfaced, but still not as bashed up as you thought he’d be. His hair is only slightly tousled, he doesn’t look like he’s about to fall over, and his clothes don’t even look like they’ve been haphazardly taken off and thrown back on.

Still, you gently tug him inside, hands reaching up to brush down his curls neatly.

“Come here,” you murmur. You don’t question why he came to your room instead of going back to Art’s. Nor do you question why he seems to have gone mute.

You begin helping him take his jacket off, then as he sits on your bed, his shoes. Despite being fully capable of doing so himself, he lets you take care of him. He doesn’t even stop to smirk or make a comment about the compromising position of you kneeling in front of him. Instead, he stares. Or it looks like staring. In Patrick terms, you decide that the more accurate verb is ‘gazes.’

After you’ve forced a glass of water down his throat and put his things in a pile to the side, Patrick has half tucked himself under your covers and is gazing at you – expectant, pensive.

The bed dips as you lay beside him, turning onto your side to face him. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

Patrick’s hand darts out to cup your face. His eyes are half lidded, looking straight into yours. It’s a serious expression, one you so rarely see on his features. He almost looks like a different person.

His fingertips brush the side of your neck making their way down to your shoulder, your bicep then your ribcage, right near the curve of your waist. You hear his breathing deepen as your own does the same.

“I really like you, you know.”

Your breath hitches. You feel as though your lungs, heart and diaphragm have all be frozen in time.

The words shouldn’t warrant such a reaction. They shouldn’t have such a palpable effect on you, but they do. You know Patrick likes you a lot. It’s a given with the way he acts around you, seeks you out and calls you so frequently. But it’s precisely because you know that and because you know him, that you know what he really means in this moment.

Your voice comes out in a hoarse kind of whisper. “I really like you too.”

A hint of his usual smirk crosses his face, and then the next thing you know, you’re thrown in a void, and the only things you’re aware of are the warmth of his hand on your side and the press of his lips on your own.

You love Patrick Zweig because he will always come back to you.

“Hey.” There’s a smirk on Patrick’s face as you step out of the bathroom. His eyes dart up and down your figure, from the shirt you clearly stole out of his bag while he was training with Art and Tashi to the exposed skin of your legs.

“Hey,” you reply, smiling as you move to situate yourself between his legs. His arms wrap around you as you settle into him. Chest to chest, heart to heart. You can feel the steady thump in his chest through your shirt. You take the time to drink in the sight of him. Every visit feels shorter than the last, and you sometimes worry his face will fade from your memory like a thawing lake in spring. “How was practice?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Tashi keeps riding my ass about my focus during matches.”

“Come on, she just wants to help you.”

Patrick’s eyebrows raise as he gives you a squeeze. “I didn’t come visit so I could be coached.”

You smile at that. “Oh yeah? What’d you come back for then?”

A grin stretches over his face as he flips you both over, and you squeak a little on impact. “Why don’t I show you?”

Warmth blossoms in your chest as he starts kissing up your neck. “We watch your matches sometimes, you know. When I miss you. Art always sighs when you do your weird little serve. Tashi commentates most of it, though.”

You feel the stretch of his lips as he smiles slightly into your collarbone.

“She has some good points,” you say, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he bites down on your skin. “Maybe you should listen to her.”

He sighs, mumbling, “I don’t want to talk about tennis right now.”

“I know. I’m just saying – raw talent won’t always be enough.”

“I’ll deal with that when I start actually losing,” he replies in between kisses. He’s at your jaw now, lips still pressed to your skin with every word.

You hum at the vibrations on your skin, but a frown pulls at your lips. You aren’t Tashi or Art. It isn’t like you care all that much about tennis anymore, but the fact that Patrick seems to care even less worries you. His future is hanging by a thread, and it worries you most of all because you’re not even really sure if you fit in his future. You’re not sure if you’ll be there to sew it back up or standing in the distance watching it fray.

��You always do that,” you blurt.

He pulls away, looking at your eyes with a brow furrowed. “Do what?”

“Run away from your problems.”

“I don’t run away from my problems,” he says, pulling back slightly. You both know he’s lying.

“I’m sorry, I’m just worried.” You bite your lip. “You haven’t had a decent conversation with your parents in two years, and I feel like you’re not thinking about your future.”

Patrick shifts away from you, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you instead. His jaw has set as he looks at you. There’s a cold expression on his face and you want nothing more than to rewind the last 30 seconds and go back to how it was before. You gnaw at the inside of your cheek nervously.

“I don’t need you to worry about my future,” he says, voice low and steady.

Your own voice has a subtle shake in it, one that’s filled with regret. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Patrick looks at you for a moment longer, then swings his feet off the bed and heads straight for his things.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving,” he says quietly. He shoves his hoodie into the bag and zips it up.

Your heart clenches. “Wait, Patrick, please. I don’t want us to leave it like this.”

“I have to go. I’ll miss the last bus if I don’t.”

“You can catch it tomorrow! Your competition isn’t for another two days!” The desperation in your voice is audible. “Please. Please don’t leave.”

Patrick’s figure is still, like a photograph frozen in time. His bag rests on his shoulder. He’s two steps away from the door.

“Please stay.”

When he turns and looks at you, you can see the way his expression crumbles.

“Okay,” he mumbles.

You manage a few steps towards him, slow and hesitant. The bag slides off of his shoulder and he engulfs you into his arms. There’s a kiss pressed to your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper into him.

His hair brushes against your cheek as he shakes his head. “No. No, I’m sorry.”

He holds you tight in his arms as you fall asleep. The next morning, you awake to an empty bed, and a sticky note on your desk that you won’t notice for another few days.

I’m sorry.

You don’t like Patrick Zweig because he makes you cave every time.

A year fresh out of college, and your career as a journalist is flourishing. Your boss flounces up to you at your desk.

“You used to play a bit of tennis, right?”

You blink. “Uh, yeah.” You were ranked, like, 7th in the world for junior tennis before your injury, but sure, that about sums it up too.

“I need you to write a piece on the competition happening soon. It won’t be too spotlighted, since we’re not really known for our sports new, but you’ll have full control over it, since you’re the only one who knows anything about tennis.”

“Okay, no problem.”

“Great! Here’s a list of the players.”

Your eyes skim over the list half-heartedly. There were occasionally names you recognised, including – ah, there was Art. You flipped through until the end, and your gaze locked in on the last name on the page. Your heart crept into your throat.

Patrick Zweig.

“Did you know he was here too?” You struggle your way up your stairs to the apartment, grocery bags in each hand and your phone balanced between your ear and shoulder.

Art’s voice sounds muffled from the other line, probably because your ear is more on the screen than the speaker, but even so, the awkward lilt in his voice is clear as day. “Yeah, uh, he texted me.”

You sigh. “You don’t have to pretend like you’re not still friends with him for my sake.”

He’s quiet for a moment. "I know. I just didn’t know how you’d feel about him being back in town."

“That’s what Tashi said too.”

“So how are you feeling about it?”

"Well," you huff as you reach near top of the stairs, "it’s not like I didn’t know he’d be at the tournament." Your eyes close for a moment, and the image of his name in font size 11 Arial appears in your mind’s eye. "I just didn’t want to think about it. I mean, it’s been ages since I’ve even spoken to him. It’s—"

"Complicated," Art finishes for you.

"Yeah." You fumble for your keys in your pocket, trying to manoeuvre the bags without dropping anything. "I’ll be fine, though. "

Art hums. You get the sense he’s thinking about something. Finally, he says, "For what it’s worth, he never wanted to hurt you, you know.”

You manage a small smile, even though he can’t see it. "I know. I’ll call you later, okay? I gotta put these groceries away."

"Sure. Take care, alright?"

"Yeah, you too." It’s a big struggle trying to get the keys out of your pocket. You barely manage to grab your phone in your other hand.

"Need some help with those?"

The sound of Patrick’s voice startles you, and you nearly drop the bags. He’s leaning against the wall next to your door with a smirk playing on his lips. Your first instinct is to hug him, then something switches and you want to punch him. With the bags in your hands, you can do neither, so you opt for staring at him as though you’ve just seen a ghost.

He still looks the same as you last saw him (not that you think about him often enough to picture that image, of course), except with an extra hint of adult despair. But still, the curls are the same, he’s still wearing shorts, he’s still clean-shaven, and his smirk is still stupid as ever. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was a figure of your imagination.

You gape at him for a moment before finding your voice. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

He straightens up, taking a few steps toward you. "Thought I’d surprise you."

"Well, mission accomplished," you mutter, pushing your key in the door and twisting it. Patrick follows you in, reaching to grasp at the bags in your hands. You don’t say anything as he carries them over to your counter, his eyes darting around to take in the sight of your apartment.

“Nice place. I like what you’ve done with the bookshelf,” he muses as he lifts the groceries onto the tabletop, then leans against it.

The way he moves is so familiar that it sends a jolt of déjà-vu through your stomach. A battle rages on in your mind as you struggle to figure out how to feel. On paper, you’re not necessarily on bad terms. It isn’t like you could say you had a bad breakup, since you aren’t even really sure you were dating in the first place, so you never really had any nights of crying over him, eating ice cream, and asking your friends to stop you from texting him. The two of you just stopped talking.

“Patrick. Why are you here?” Your voice cuts like a knife through the air. This is starting to feel like some sick joke from the universe. You wonder if Art knew Patrick was going to ambush you. Maybe he gave him your address.

He looks at you, his easy smile dropping for a moment. “I wanted to see you.”

You stay quiet. His expression is uncomfortably serious, and you can see him waiting for a response. But the truth is you don’t know what to say. You opt instead for moving towards the groceries beside him and putting them away. Patrick just watches you.

"So," he says, breaking the silence, "how’ve you been?"

"Busy," you reply, picking up a carton of milk to put in the refrigerator. "Work’s been hectic."

You see him nod from the corner of your eye. "I’ve heard. Your articles are really good."

You glance at him, surprised. "You read them?"

"Of course." His expression softens. "I always keep up with what you’re doing."

A lump forms in your throat, and you focus on moving around the jars in your fridge door aimlessly to avoid looking at him. "Thanks."

It’s silent once more as you finish putting everything away, though you can feel Patrick’s eyes in the back of your head the whole time.

His eyes meet yours when you finally turn back to face him, and for a moment, he looks vulnerable. He steps closer, reaching out to take your hand. "I missed you."

Your heart clenches. It becomes easier to decide then. You don’t like Patrick Zweig. Can’t stand him, really. You hate him. You hate that just his hand in yours and three little words can make your resolve crumble like a statue smashed to rubble.

Against the better judgement of every cell in your brain, you say, “I missed you too.”

It’s nothing to do with you. You know that. As he kisses you, as he slips his hands under your shirt, as he lies in bed with you, traces patterns on your skin and clings to you like a lifeline, you know. Patrick is yours, and you are his. But he’s always making promises he can’t keep, starting things he cannot finish, running away from everything to no end.

Perhaps one day, things will be different. But for now, you stare at the empty space in your bed, the only trace of his presence being the lingering scent of his cologne. You sigh, draw open the curtains and allow the morning sun to seep into your room.

You hate Patrick Zweig because he will never stay.

[padfootagain]

Love in verses (XXVI)

Chapter 26: ‘Well, how else are you to live except by denial’

Hi! Here is a new chapter! This is one of my favourites, just… some adorable stuff!

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 4227

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Earl

In Sitka, because they are fond of them, People have named the seals. Every seal is named Earl because they are killed one after another by the orca, the killer whale; seal bodies tossed left and right into the air. “At least he didn’t get Earl,” someone says. And sure enough, after a time, that same friendly, bewhiskered face bobs to the surface. It’s Earl again. Well, how else are you to live except by denial, by some palatable fiction, some little song to sing while the inevitable, the black and white blindsiding fact, comes hurtling toward you out of the deep?

Louis Jenkins

The pain in your abdomen was a sensation you were used to, sadly. You recognized the pattern in the intensity, you knew it perfectly after years of suffering once a month. This month seemed to be particularly nasty though, and there was little doubt on to why. Your stress was so high these days, between your new job, your research, your career, and Frank’s bloody wedding… You were drowning, to be fair. Drowning in an ocean of emotions. You bent in front of your sink, waiting for the wave of pain to fade again, closing tightly your eyes, while the microwave beeped with the heating pad now reaching a burning temperature. You placed it on your stomach, not caring about your skin, only about the pain under it.

Damn… that was a bad month…

You stood straighter again, letting out a long and careful exhale, relaxing once more. Your head was spinning a little, but you didn’t dare to eat too much for now, your nausea was too bad and you didn’t want to end up throwing up. You settled for a bit of rice and an apple for lunch.

You were supposed to see Andrew this afternoon, but there was no way you could plan on fucking up Frank’s appointment at the tailor when it was hard to stand… At least, it was the weekend, you didn’t have to deal with work, and could spend your day being a burrito on your couch while watching TV and eating junk food.

You were supposed to shop for groceries in the morning, but you didn’t have the strength for that either, so you decided that you would get some food delivered for the rest of the weekend and would tackle the issue of not dying of starvation on Monday.

You sat down on your couch, at long last, heaving a sigh of relief. You held the heating pad against your stomach, covered yourself with a blanket and grabbed your phone while you turned on the TV.

You pressed on Andrew’s name on whatsapp while the tu-dum noise of Netflix echoed in your living room.

You heaved a sigh…

… you had forgotten tea… never mind, you were too much in pain and too tired to be bothered making some tea now that you were seated.

Back to your phone, you typed your message quickly.

Hi Andy! Sorry, but I’m not feeling well today, gonna have to cancel for this afternoon. We’ll talk about our plans next week. Hope you have a nice weekend, see you on Monday! Xx

You pressed ‘send’ and started browsing in the list of movies available on your TV screen.

Your phone lit up with Andrew’s name.

Sorry to hear that! Are you alright? Do you want me to drop you something?

You were too tired not to acknowledge the warmth that spread in your chest as you read his text.

Nothing to worry about, don’t worry.

His answer was quick to arrive.

Are you sure? You want me to drive you to a doctor or something?

You chuckled at his obvious worry. He really was too sweet…

No, I’m okay. Period being bitches, that’s all. I can handle it.

He answered with a thumbs up right under your text, right when you found Pride and Prejudice was on Netflix…

Well, it looked like your afternoon was all set.

You cursed under your breath. You didn’t have any snacks. Not even chocolate… and your kitchen was so fucking far… a whole ten steps away…

Damn you and your stupid brain.

You were surprised when you received another text from Andy.

So, what’s planned for today? Did you get your groceries this morning?

You snorted at the mere thought.

Nah. Too much in pain. Too tired to go to the kitchen and make myself tea, so imagine going outside with people?! No, thanks.

I’m gonna spend my afternoon with Mr. Darcy instead.

You waited for his answer, ignoring your TV now.

The Keira Kinghtley movie?

You sent him a thumbs up.

Will you hate me if I admit that I’ve never watched that film?

You almost dropped your phone.

YOU’VE NEVER SEEN PRIDE AND PREJUDICE?!

OH THAT’S IT! DISHONOUR! DISHONOUR ON YOUR WHOLE FAMILY!

He sent a laughing emoji.

You’ve forgotten the dishonour on me and my cow too…

You couldn’t refrain a laugh, even though it hurt your stomach.

You don’t have a cow. But I’ll take it out on Elwood.

You could picture the grin on his face at the joke.

HOW DARE YOU! HE’S SUCH A GOOD BOY!

Elwood, my son, don’t listen to the nasty lady…

You laughed again, but quickly stopped this time, the pain getting too strong.

You didn’t think as you wrote your next text.

You could drop by and watch it with me.

You reread the text and realised your mistake; your eyes grew round. You were in your old pyjamas, you hadn’t showered and had no intention to do so, your hair was a mess, you hadn’t washed your dishes…

You wanted to delete the text, but the blue symbols under it let you know that he had already read it.

Damn it!

I mean… I’m in pain, grumpy and look like trash…

So… maybe not the most pleasant way to spend your afternoon.

Feel free to refuse.

You waited for his answer, watched the dancing dots, until a text was received.

I’d love to, actually.

Besides, I am not five, I know about menstrual cycles, thank you very much…

You bit on your lips as you hesitated.

You’ve never seen me like that.

 A pause. You guessed that he had rephrased his text several times.

Would that make you feel uncomfortable?

You thought about it for a second. Frank didn’t really pay attention to that part of you. It was cliché, but you knew he was making a conscious effort to acknowledge your period and how much of a burden they were to you. You saw it as him making an effort at the time. Now, you were worried Andrew would be the same, with typical disappointing male behaviour…

And yet, you didn’t care. You couldn’t find a way to care. You couldn’t imagine Andrew, out of all people, disappointing you on that. Perhaps it was naïve, you weren’t sure. Your answer was earnest anyway.

No

His answer came in a matter of seconds.

Give me forty minutes to come over then.

You smiled.

An hour then.

You laughed again at his answer.

Gobshite…

You didn’t select the movie for now and merely watched some crappy TV instead, with whatever was on.

You tried not to pay too much thought on how excited you were at the idea of Andy coming soon…

Andrew ended up ringing at your door an hour and fifteen minutes later, proving you right about his time blindness, and the thought made you smile. You had washed your dishes waiting for him, using a fifteen-minutes break from the pain to stretch your legs and attempt to look like a human being. The pain was soon back with full strength though, and you gave up on the idea to change into a proper outfit. You remained in your comfortable pyjamas, tied your hair up to hide the mess it was, and went back to suffering on the couch, the heating pad growing colder and less effective, but you were too tired to get up again.

You groaned as Andrew rang at your door, forcing yourself to stand. You couldn’t hold yourself completely straight, not with the pain in your stomach being now combined with a sharp stinging sensation in your lower back. You opened the door still, and welcomed Andrew with a genuine smile.

He was wearing his hair in a bun today, his glasses perched on his nose, and a warm smile on his lips as his gaze rested upon you. He looked gorgeous in a simple brown jacket, dark jeans and a black turtleneck. You couldn’t refrain the way your heart fluttered at the sight, nor the butterflies that were added to your painful stomach.

“Hey! God, you do look like shite,” he exclaimed, but there was worry in his frown despite the obvious teasing in his voice.

“Thanks for the compliment,” you stuck your tongue out, and he couldn’t refrain a chuckle.

He walked inside, took off his shoes and jacket, and it’s only when he set the bags on the floor to do so that you noticed them.

“What’s that?” you asked.

“Groceries.”

You looked up at him with a puzzled look.

“Jeez… if you were busy this afternoon, you should have declined!”

He laughed, and you were more puzzled than ever.

“These are for you,” he clarified, picking up the bags again.

You blinked up at him.

“For… me?”

“Yeah… you said you didn’t get any groceries this morning. Can’t let you starve! Come on, get a move on, these need to go in the fridge.”

You let him pass, followed him in your kitchen. He started to empty the two paper bags on your kitchen counter.

“I didn’t get you much, just enough to last for a couple of days. Pass the weekend. Nothing that needs fancy cooking either, don’t worry. Mostly pasta, rice, and a few vegetables and fruits. I also got some take out for tonight, so you don’t have to bother with cooking today. Chinese, hope you’re in the mood for that. And then, the obvious ice cream, crisps and chocolate combo. Oh, and I bought you this tea! My mom recommended it once for menstrual cramps to one of my cousins, and it’s apparently pretty nice, so… thought you could use that too.”

He looked up at you then, after his little babbling. He frowned at your expression though, and you noticed the shift in his demeanour: the way he shrank, bending over himself instead of standing straight, with his full height. Trying to look smaller than he was, to occupy as little space as possible. He rubbed nervously at his collarbone.

“I… I thought it would make things easier for you. I… I’m sorry if I’m overstepping… if you… sorry. Sorry…”

But he was interrupted by your arms around him; you almost tackled him with the strength, and you heard the loud huff he let out at the impact. It took him a couple of seconds to close his arms around you too, but then it felt like he was unwilling to ever let go.

“Thank you so much,” you mumbled into his chest. “That’s… so fucking sweet, Andy.”

“That’s nothing,” he tried to brush your thankfulness away, but you could hear in his voice that he was smiling again, feel that his body was relaxing once more. “I didn’t mean to overstep… I just… I just thought it would make it easier for you.”

You spotted your favourite chocolate on the table, along with some ice-cream.

“These are my favourite,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to do that…”

“It’s nothing.”

You didn’t say it. You didn’t say that Frank had never done that for you. And Andrew did? When he wasn’t your boyfriend? When he didn’t even have feelings for you?

“Do you need anything else?” he asked, rubbing your back, and the caress was so soothing you were ready to cry. “Painkillers or something? I can go to the pharmacy…”

“I’ve got that covered, don’t worry. Thank you.”

“Right…”

Another cramp came breaking your embrace, you let out a groan as you held your painful stomach. You tried not to think of how your heart stumbled and missed a few beats when Andrew brushed a messy strand of your hair behind your ear.

“You really don’t look well. You should sit down.”

“I need to reheat my heating pad…”

“I’ll do it. I’ll do that, love. Sit down, okay?”

‘Love’… he had called you ‘love’… You wanted to cry…

Why were you so affected by it? It was Andy. It was Andy, not Frank, and you wanted Frank, you wanted Frank, you wanted…

He walked into the living room about 10 minutes later, carrying your heating pad under his arm, ice cream and some chocolate. He had to go back to the kitchen to fetch your two cups of tea.

“Alright… need anything else?”

You shook your head, and he settled on the sofa next to you. Readjusted the blanket so it would cover your feet. You didn’t recognise the flavour of the tea, you reckoned he had made a cup of the one his mother had recommended.

You refused to name the feeling that was spreading across your entire body, the unbearable fondness aimed at Andrew that came with it.

I want Frank, I want Frank, I want Frank…

“Alright, let’s watch Mr. Darcy getting rejected…” he grinned at you, as if he was at his happiest, as if he couldn’t have thought of a better way to spend his afternoon than to watch Pride and Prejudice with you while nursing you back to health because you were on your period…

You scoffed, trying to hide the tears in your eyes by looking for the movie on Netflix again.

“He doesn’t just get rejected. They do get together at the end, you know?”

“Thanks for spoiling it all to me…”

“Wait… you told me you read the book…”

He laughed.

“I did! I was joking, like… It was a joke. I did read it. I simply haven’t watched any adaptation.”

“Wow… Oh… so you haven’t seen the one with Colin Firth either?! The BBC series?”

“Nope…” he answered, popping the ‘p’ before taking a sip of his tea.

Two teabags. As always. The detail made you smile.

“Okay, that is going to be our next activity together.”

He laughed, but didn’t contradict you, on the contrary.

“Well, I guess my next Sunday is all booked…”

“Indeed, it is!” you grinned, but your tone was too soft not to show how emotional the thought of spending another afternoon like this with Andrew made you feel.

He didn’t comment on that, though, and you were grateful for it.

He reached for your coffee table, where he had put the two sets of ice-cream and spoons, and handed you one.

Your heating pad was back on your stomach, warm and effectively soothing your cramps. You seized the opportunity to eat a large spoonful of chocolate ice cream.

You moaned at the taste.

“Andy… this is perfect, I hope you’re aware of how amazing you are.”

He chuckled, but there was something a little sad in his eyes when he looked down at his food, a tinge of melancholy. You didn’t know why.

“Bribing you with chocolate is the way to your heart, then,” he joked, clearly stirring the conversation away from himself, while pushing his glasses higher on his nose.

“Of course,” you rolled your eyes, starting the film.

You exchanged another smile, while the movie started. You didn’t realise your own movements as you scooted closer to him on the couch, and neither did he notice how he leaned towards you, until your arms were softly touching.

“You have bewitched me, body and soul. And I love… I love… I love you…”

You heaved a sigh after whispering the words in sync with Mr. Darcy, clutching at your heart, burying your face further in Andrew’s shoulder.

You weren’t sure when you had ended up in Andrew’s arms, but you were now. He had wrapped an arm around your shoulders at one point, noticing how livid you had become because of the pain, how you had tried to withhold your wince but failed. And it was meant as a temporary anchor, a soothing gesture that should have lasted just a few minutes, until the pain subsided again. But when you relaxed once more, he didn’t pull away, and instead of freeing yourself from his hold, you leaned closer, sank deeper into his embrace. And now, he was resting his long fingers on your waist, while you leaned into his chest.

Which was… better not think about boundaries and friendship and professional behaviour and all those limits you were breaking.

Meanwhile, Andrew was brushing a tear away, but you spotted it before he could pretend it hadn’t happened.

“I know… I know…” you patted his chest, trying not to notice that you were touching his chest. “I cry every time too.”

“For proof,” he chuckled, brushing your tear away with his thumb, making your heart stutter and expand to the point that you wondered how it hadn’t broken any of your ribs yet.

“It’s Jane Austen’s superpower, Andy… we can do nothing against it,” you concluded before nuzzling into his chest again.

“I’ll have to agree,” he nodded.

You noticed how his breathing was a little irregular for a moment, when you shifted to be a little more comfortable in his arms, but he didn’t push you away, didn’t move at all, in fact. Instead, he waited for you to settle again, readjusted the blanket on both of you, and stared at the end of the movie. His cheeks were turning a bright shade of red. You hated the thought that crossed your mind…

There were but a couple of minutes left, it was the end: Mr. Darcy had walked across the moor already, he had declared his love and Elizabeth had accepted his hand in marriage. They were waiting for Elizabeth’s father. You were staring at Andrew, the feeling of your gaze on him made him look down as well, catching your eyes with his. His hazel eyes, they looked so green now, in the rather bright light of the late afternoon, and the tears he had dried just before had enhanced that colour too. Green… like leaves bathed in sunlight during the summer… you loved that shade…

You didn’t even notice when the screen went dark, when the credits started rolling. You were thinking of Andrew, of how sweet he had been all afternoon, of how handsome he looked now, how much turtlenecks suited him, how cute he looked with his glasses…

He blinked a couple of times, as if he were coming back from a reverie, and looked at the TV again. You looked at his profile, found yourself longing to run your fingers through his short beard, noticed the red tainting the brown of his hair.

“Well, that was an amazing film,” he easily admitted, bringing you back to earth.

And indeed, the story was over. Mr. Bennett had accepted their union. Elizabeth would marry Mr. Darcy. All ended well. Black screen and a list of names, printed in white pixels…

You pushed yourself out of Andrew’s arms.

Back to reality now… and in the real world, you wanted Frank. You wanted Frank. You wanted Frank…

You looked away in a hurry, and trembled at the loss of contact, when Andrew finally moved his hand away from your waist.

You kept on talking about the film for a while, but eventually, Andrew checked the time.

“I should get going, let you get something to eat. And I mean… something proper. Not snacks,” he teased, standing up and taking the remnants of your various snacks with him to the kitchen.

And you had to tell yourself that mantra again. Because your heart was aching at the thought of Andrew leaving. Which was ridiculous because you would see him in two days. Which was ridiculous because he was only a friend. A colleague, even. And it was ridiculous because you didn’t want him, you wanted Frank. You loved Frank. You wanted the life you had with him back. You… you wanted Frank. You wanted Frank… You… You wanted…

“Andy?”

He reappeared, coming from the kitchen, and tilted his head a little as a silent invitation for you to speak again.

“Do… do you want to stay for dinner?”

He stared at you for a few seconds, long enough for you to start spiralling and babbling…

“Unless you need to take care of Elwood…”

“No, my parents took him to the seaside today, they’re keeping him for the night. He’s living his best life, trust me. I bet my dad is giving him all the treats he wants.”

“Or like… I mean… you’ve already spent your afternoon with me, even if I’m sick and not the best company today, and… yeah, I totally get it if you don’t want to stay, like… that’s…”

“Y/N.”

“Hmmm?”

“I’d love to stay.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Because I’m too much to take care of…

You merely shrugged in response, making him chuckle, clearly unaware of your thoughts.

“Well, if you’re not bored of me yet, I’d love to stay for dinner.”

You grinned.

“Grand…” you nodded, and Andrew disappeared in the kitchen again to prepare dinner.

Still, you noticed how he was smiling when he turned around, how he was blushing, too…

You ended up watching tv again after dinner. The pain wasn’t as vivid as it had been during the rest of the day, and so you were more comfortable during that part of the evening. So much so that you started dozing off, as you were watching for the nth time how Luke and Han were trying to save Leia.

You had stumbled upon a rerun of the old Star Wars movies, and settled on the nostalgic feeling of these stories to end the day. Andrew was supposed to go home after the end of the movie, once the Death Star was gone and Leia was placing medals on the heroes’ chest.

Andrew had made you laugh with his best impression of Chewbacca, and you had made him choke on his glass of water with one of your jokes and snarky remarks. It was lovely, but you were so tired you neared exhaustion by now. So, it was quite logical that you started dozing off after a while, losing tracks of the story when Han and Luke were dressed as stormtroopers.

You hadn’t noticed that your head had fallen on Andrew’s shoulder as you were falling asleep. You didn’t notice how he stopped paying attention to the movie when you did. How his heart started pounding at how adorable you looked like this. He waited for a few minutes, to see if you would stir and wake up again, but you didn’t. He stared at you for a moment longer, but you weren’t aware of it. You weren’t aware either of the longing in his gaze, of the smile on his lips as he watched how peaceful you looked in your sleep.

You blinked your eyes open again only when you felt something slipping under your knees and behind your back, felt the warmth upon which your head rested move.

“Andy?” you called in your drowsy state, still unable to understand what was happening, where you were…

“I’m here, love.”

That pet name again… were you dreaming it?

You reached up, held onto a soft fabric, and somehow, despite the fact that you had closed your eyes once more, you knew it was Andrew’s turtleneck.

“You’re falling asleep, you need to go to bed,” he said softly, his voice unbearably low and deep, it made your heart skip a few beats and warmth spread across your entire frame.

And it sounded so reassuring… so safe… He was so reassuring…

You nuzzled into his shoulder, breathing in his scent. His cologne, his softener, him…

“Can I help you reach your bed? Can I do that? Is that okay?” he asked in the same caring voice, and you nodded. But then again, you would have accepted anything, for as long as you could remain in his warmth, as long as his voice came back…

You realised then that he was slipping his arms under you, it took a moment longer for your brain to register he meant to carry you.

“I can walk,” you whispered, opening your eyes again and forcing yourself to look at him.

You were too stunned when he bent down to kiss your hair to argue when he told you there was no need, that he got you, that you could close your eyes again. You obeyed, having no strength left to argue, and you wrapped your arms around his neck when he stood up and lifted you off the couch.

He readjusted your position, and then you were vaguely aware of moving, while he walked through your apartment. You nuzzled closer, your forehead brushing his jaw and your entire body trembled as you felt his beard against your skin.

Too soon, he was gently putting you down on your comfortable mattress, tucking you in, under your warm blanket.

You blinked your eyes open before he could leave, found his hazel eyes looking down at you. He seemed so tall like this, standing above your bed.

“Thank you, Andy. For everything.”

He smiled, gesture gentle and full of fondness.

“Sleep well, Y/N. Goodnight.”

He tucked a strand of your hair away from your face, and the brush of his fingers across your cheek made you close your eyes for good.

Your last thoughts were of him, while you heard him move away from the bed, recognized the creaking of the tiles by the door of your bedroom.

God, you wanted him so much…

[i2ycat]

— the ‘us’ theory

pairing sunoo x fem!reader synopsis after years of no contact, a sudden rekindling in your relationship with sunoo makes sparks soar higher than they’ve ever gone. it’s hard not to see just how much you missed being around your old best friend again genre slight angst, fluff, childhood best friends to lovers, college au word count 4.3k (was only supposed to be arnd 600, idk what happened LOL) warnings wrote this on 1% brain cells so please excuse if it seems like the plot is underdeveloped and pacing is weird, i know nothing ab mortal kombat, semi-proofread main masterlist

reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

You’ve known Sunoo since forever. From the moment you took your first baby step to the moment you got absolutely hammered by another girl in your grade, Sunoo had been right by your side, from kindergarten all the way to primary school.

It was weird not to see your brooding self beside the beaming boy, seeing as you guys never separated from each other for even a second. It made your parents think the both of you had separation anxiety, always throwing tantrums whenever the other wasn’t around.

But that was only until primary school.

By the time secondary school rolled around, you naturally started to drift apart. Being in the year above him, he stuck to his own group of friends, while you had yours. You had easily accepted the course that your relationship with Sunoo was headed off to, wanting to fit in with the rest of your ‘ew juniors’-minded clique so badly, because who hung out with juniors anyways?

It didn’t help that, not soon after, your father was stationed to a different department of the company on the other side of the world. You felt sad leaving everything you knew behind, all the familiar places, but you were also 13 and ready to be anywhere but the place you had been confined to. It felt exhilarating to finally leave everything behind — not that you had much to begin with. It’s always been just your mother, your father, and you.

Sunoo was out of the conversation by the time you turned 16. He became just someone you’d remember in passing; your parents bringing him up every now and then, but you never dwelled on the thought of him for too long.

By the time you were 19, you could barely remember what he even looked like, given that you'd only seen up until his pre-puberty phase: toothy grins, chubby cheeks, and all.

So imagine your shock when a taller, more mature shell of a man presents himself in front of you, claiming to be the Kim Sunoo you’ve already forgotten all about.

“Don’t you remember me? I’m Kim Sunoo!”

You met him by complete chance.

The last time you heard of Sunoo was when your mom broke the news on a random Sunday night that the Kim family would be permanently moving to Japan, and that was three years ago.

“Cmon, I’ve known you for, like, 13 years.” He clicks his tongue.

“Yeah, I guessed. I’m just shocked to see you here.”

“What? Is seeing a young man shopping for groceries so hard to believe?” He jokes, taking a pack of ramen noodles from the shelf and placing it carefully into his cart.

“It’s not that.” You chuckle. “I thought you moved to Japan?”

“Well, I can’t really be leeching off my parents forever.”

He’s got more wit to him than you remember.

“Right,” You quickly reply, unconsciously walking the rest of the noodles and pasta aisle at the same pace that he is.

“Wow, even after all these years, you’re still the same old Y/n I used to know.” He smiles at you, the apples of his cheeks tinting a light pink under the blindingly white LED lights overhead. It suddenly brought you back to times of playing together in the playground after school, the summer rays rendering the both of you sweaty messes while your mothers talked about adult gossip somewhere in the distance. The simpler times, when fitting into social circles barely even mattered yet.

“Am I supposed to be offended?” As you arrive closer to the snack aisle, you start to grab at items not scribbled on your sad excuse of a grocery list. You should really stop doing that; you mentally chide yourself.

“Maybe. Depends on how you take it.” He shrugs. “Doritos?” You shake your head.

Silence starts to permeate the air between the both of you, save for some random Nirvana tune playing faintly in the background. It wasn’t awkward per se, but it wasn’t entirely comfortable either; rather, it sat right in the middle.

You’ve known Sunoo for 13 whole years of your younger adolescent days, but right now, it feels like you’ve just met him for the first time. Technically you are, after a few years that is, but maybe it was just you and your ineptitude for social interactions. Chae was right, you really should socialize with people more.

A beat or two passes by, “Are you free tomorrow by any chance?” Sunoo turns to you, bright eyes boring into yours.

“Why?”

“I just moved here like a week ago, and I have absolutely no friends.” He pouts, “Mind giving an old friend company on his own birthday?”

“It’s your birthday?” You stop in your tracks.

“Tomorrow, yeah.”

“Okay. Just send me the address.” You take out your phone to hand him, “You’re not just about to lure and kill me right?”

“Now why would I do that?” He lifts his eyebrows at you as he keys in his phone number, naming himself ‘no.1 childhood best friend’ in the process.

“You can never be too sure nowadays.”

“Yeah, as if I would kill my only friend in this entire city.” He retorts, fingers brushing yours ever-so-slightly as he hands you back your phone.

—

Seeing the bare-bones state that Sunoo’s box apartment was in made you feel for him. You’d already spent your early teens adjusting to the chaos that New York was, and you’ve acclimated to it by now, with the help of your parents, of course, but Sunoo, on the other hand? He came completely alone, with a singular suitcase in tow. It ignited a sense of protectiveness towards him. The same way it was when you were younger.

Sunoo was always one of the more smaller and younger children in the kindergarten, but that only made him more loved by the teachers and other caretakers. Memories resurfaced of how everyone would coo whenever Sunoo showed his signature smile, silently wishing they had a kid as endearing as Sunoo. They’d bring extra just for him, and Sunoo, being the sweet kid he was, basked in all of it blissfully.

The rest of the older kids didn’t like how Sunoo hogged all the adult’s attention, so they would constantly pick at him during play time, behind the knowledge of the teachers. Since you were a year older and much taller than Sunoo then, you always felt the instinctive need to step in and protect him from all of it, even getting sucker punched in the face for him one time. You chuckle at the distinct memory of Sunoo crying in the sidelines whilst you laid on the mat, a comically large bandage plastered on your cheek.

“What’s so funny?” Sunoo sticks his head out from the cupboard, eyeing your figure on the couch.

“I’m laughing at the fact that you at least have a couch.” You pat the space next to you.

“Hey, you can’t judge. I just moved here, and I don’t know where anything is anymore.” He says this as he pours room-temperature orange juice into plastic cups. “Happy birthday to me.” He sighs, handing you one.

“This is actually really sad.” You take a single sip out of the clear cup before setting it down on the arm of Sunoo’s sofa that was more like a loveseat if anything. “And I’m not just talking about the orange juice.”

“At least I’m not alone!”

“Why’d you move here anyway? I’m sure there’s better places than big ole overpriced New York.” You bring up a leg to get comfortable, and Sunoo does the same, his knee lightly grazing yours in the process.

“You wouldn’t wanna hear it.” He sighs.

“No, tell me!”

“It’s stupid.”

“I won’t judge. Pinky promise.” You bring your pinky rings towards his, locking them.

“I actually moved here for you.” He says it so softly that you thought you had misheard.

“Sorry, I think I misheard.”

“Nah, I think you heard correctly.” He bends down to grab a forkful of noodles, the one he bought yesterday, and moans gleefully at the bundles of flavour exploding in his mouth, “Woah. I think this might be my new favourite ramen.”

“Wait, you’re not being serious, are you?” Sunoo shakes his head at you, his cheeks blowing up as noodles enter his mouth, strand by strand. “Are you stupid?” You completely drop the smile you had been sporting just a minute ago, beyond baffled by Sunoo’s lack of critical thinking.

“Gosh, Sunoo! What would you have done if I hadn’t run into you last night? What if I already moved to a different state? A different country even?!”

“My mom is still in contact with yours, so I’m pretty sure I would’ve ended up at your front door anyway." He nonchalantly answers, shrugging his shoulders the way he always does.

You’ve completely forgotten how Sunoo was always the free spirit in your dynamic, doing anything and everything he wanted without ever thinking about the after. He always downplayed the severity of the consequences, only thinking about the moment and living in it blissfully.

Just a few days prior to your drift apart, Sunoo had dragged you out of your 6th grade classroom just before recess ended and towards the outdoor basketball court. A little mat had been planted on the grass, with what you could recognise as Sunoo’s lunch box set neatly on top.

He had asked you to skip class with him, a kind of celebration on the last day of school. Thanks to him, you were absolutely horrified to come home that day, while him, on the other hand, was not the slightest bit concerned.

“Why? Just why? We haven’t talked for, what, 6 years? And suddenly you move 13 hours away from home to be in the same city that I am?” You were fuming, and for a reason you weren’t too sure about yourself.

Maybe it was the knowledge that he had been thinking about you even after your drift apart, while you were not. Maybe it was the guilt of being the one to instigate the drift in the first place, but he still made his way towards you.

“I’m not too sure either.” He places the chopsticks on the makeshift coffee table. “But at least you’re here, and I’m not alone on my birthday.” He offers you a cheeky grin, one that reaches his eyes, and it almost instantly gives you whiplash.

“You’re driving me crazy here, Sunoo.”

“You said you wouldn’t judge and… it’s still my birthday, ya’know.” He pouts, cocking his head to the side in an attempt to soothe your bubbling anger with his biggest weapon — his face. “Can you stop being your practical self for just a second?” His tone was light, and his eyes were pleading.

He probably still remembered your weakness for pretty faces, and was taking advantage of that at the most convenient of times.

Damn Sunoo and damn pretty privilege.

—

After Sunoo’s semi-successful birthday party—his words, not yours—he’s been sticking to you like glue. He practically lives in your apartment with how much time he spends there. Even when you’re out for classes or errands, he'll take it upon himself to make himself feel at home. You practically spent every second of every day with him, just like it used to be when you were younger.

Your mother was overly ecstatic to find out that you had rekindled your friendship with Sunoo — almost so ecstatic in fact that it alarmed you just a tad bit, scared that she might try to set you up with her best friend’s only son.

She had even suggested that the both of you live together to save costs, she says. You weren’t entirely sold on that fact, seeing as you still wanted your semblance of privacy and freedom in your own home, but with the rising rent prices these days, it wasn’t really a choice now, was it?

“My mother says we should move in together.” You say this over a plate of scrambled eggs, one that Sunoo had so graciously offered to cook.

“I’m sorry?” Sunoo chokes on his cup of black tea.

“I mean, our dynamic is pretty good. You finish things that I don’t. I say it’s a pretty good match.”

Over the course of the last few months that you’ve been on-off living with Sunoo, you learned that he has a habit of picking up things that you’ve left aside to be forgotten. One instance of this was when you found your incomplete knitting project in Sunoo’s more nimble hands, working away while on his spot on your couch.

He explained that seeing things unfinished was a big pet peeve of his, and it usually works in your favour anyway.

“Yeah, but what about my apartment?”

“You say that as if you don’t basically already live here.” You pick up a piece of egg with your fork to bring it to your mouth.

“I guess, yeah, but..." His words trail off. “Never mind.”

“But what, Sun?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, taking a big gulp of his tea before setting the cup back down onto your wooden table, the one Sunoo had picked alongside some other furniture pieces that now scattered your flat.

“You better give up that act now because you know how stubborn I can get.” You peg the fork at him in a faux effort to assert intimidation. Not that you could be any more intimidating with your furrowed eyebrows and grim expression.

“It’s just...”

“Just?”

Sunoo ultimately sighs, picking up his plate to bring to the sink and turning his back towards you. “I would love to live together, really." He starts off. “But what if you bring other guys over? I don’t think I could handle that.”

“That’s it? You’re flattering me by even thinking I can pull guys.” You laugh as you make your way towards Sunoo with an empty plate in your hands. “Sun, there’s nothing to worry about, but I’ll make sure to let you know beforehand if I ever do.”

“That’s not what I was implying.” Sunoo keeps his voice low and whisper-like, almost like he doesn’t want you to hear, but you do anyway.

“Okay, then what do you mean?”

“I’m saying that I think I like you.” He takes a deep breath, finding it hard to formulate words from his thoughts. “I... I just... When we were 13, when we started drifting apart, I felt so lost and confused. I didn’t want to be like those movie cliches, losing my best friend because of high school or whatever.” He doesn’t look up from the dishes in front of him; instead, he focuses on mindlessly scrubbing the mug.

“I followed you here because, even after six long years, you were still my number one. I missed your presence. I always wondered when you would contact me again, but that never happened. I guess I was also too scared to talk to you first, so that’s that.” He continues. “I don’t want to burden you with my feelings any more than they already are, and if we officially, actually lived together, I don’t think my heart could handle all that.”

To say you were speechless was an understatement. You stared at him long enough to see dots, and yet you couldn’t think of anything to say.

Sunoo liked you. The little boy from kindergarten that you promised to protect liked you. Your best friend up until you were 13 liked you?

“Sun...” You start off but can never seem to find a proper end to your sentence.

“You don’t have to answer me right now. Or, as a matter of fact, you don’t even have to accept it. I just thought you should know since you proposed we live together.” He washes the foam away, setting the clean dishes on the drying rack. “I’ll take my leave now.” He smiles at you, and by the time the door closes behind him, you’re still standing frozen.

You don’t know what to do with this information. Yeah, Sunoo was cute, and you had a soft spot for him, but that doesn’t mean you like him. He grew up well, but that doesn’t mean you no longer saw him as the boy you needed to protect from the world. It was all a clash of thoughts, really.

—

A week had gone by since you texted Sunoo back, saying that you needed space to think. But you weren’t really using the time to think at all; you were actually doing quite well at doing the exact opposite.

“Chae, come on! That’s cheating!” You yell, aggressively pressing away at the console for your Omni-Man to dodge Kung Lao’s wrath.

“No, you just suck.” Chae sticks her tongue out at you. And after a few moments of tense silence, “Aaaand, K.O!” She cheers in your face while you pan at the bold K.O. letterings on the screen in admission of defeat.

“I’ll beat you next time.”

“Oh baby, there won’t be a next time until you sort out whatever it is you’re worrying about first.” She takes the console from your hands and sets it back in its original place under the divider of her TV set. “Now, talk to me.” She says this as she takes a seat beside you.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Yeah, sure, as if you're coming here at 1 a.m. on a Wednesday night, even when you have classes tomorrow, is because of nothing.”

“I just couldn’t sleep. That’s all.”

“I’m going to go bald from all the stress you’re giving me.” She tugs harshly at her shoulder-length hair. “See this?!”

Your laugh echoes in Chaewon’s humble apartment, which overlooks the entirety of New York with the perfect view — one that her life as a social media influencer is able to afford. At times like these, you felt like you were her sugar baby, leeching off her big-time success like the broke college student you are.

“You’re being overly dramatic.”

"Yeah, and sometimes I wish you were more like me. Give me the damn drama!” She drapes herself all over you, head resting on your bare legs.

“Okay, fine!”

“Good.” She finally grins, taking a bag of popcorn from the table and tossing it into her mouth one by one, occasionally offering one to you.

“You remember Sunoo?”

“The one you cried about when you first met me?”

“I wasn’t crying!”

“Yeah, sure you weren’t.” She grimaces at you.

“Okay, but that was when I was 14, so it doesn’t count.”

“Whatever, whatever. Just continue!” Chaewon switches her position to comfortably sit face-to-face with you, her eyes wide and full of anticipation.

“A few months ago, I met him at the supermarket, the one you tell me to never go to.”

“What?! And you’re only telling me this now?!” Her voice was piercing, and it made your ears almost bleed onto her velvet-carpeted floor. Judging from her reaction, she was probably more concerned about the fact that you went to the only supermarket in the city she told you not to ever step foot into, rather than not having told her about your meeting with Sunoo there.

“Just let me finish, yeah?” Chaewon quips out a small apology before you continue, “And after that, we started hanging out here and there, ya'know, the whole old childhood friends shebang. It was great, honestly. He’s great company, and as you said, I was socialising with other people!”

“But?”

“How’d you know there’s a ‘but’?”

“There is always a ‘but’, my dear Y/n.”

You clear your throat. “He confessed to me just a week ago, after I had proposed to live together, ya'know, to save on costs.”

“You, what now?”

“Not everyone is as rich as you are, Chae; we grass-rooted people need to save money somehow.”

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“Ugh, it’s stupid, I know! But my mother suggested it, and I was like, ‘Oh, that’s a good idea!’” At this point, the bag of popcorn lays haphazardly on the floor, forgotten as you contemplate all your decisions with Chaewon clinging onto your side, koala style.

“Do you like him back?”

“I haven’t really thought about it before then.” You honestly say, “He has always just been ‘the younger boy who needs protecting’ to me.”

“He’s his own grown person now, Y/n.” She reminds you.

“I know. I just think he’s cute, is all.”

“How about this? You give him a chance to try and swoon you over; if it doesn’t work out, then you guys can pretend as if nothing ever happened!” She claps her hands together, as if she had just won a Nobel Prize for solving global warming. “You’re killing two birds with one stone!”

“I don’t think that’s how the saying is supposed to work.”

"Oh, who gives a fuck? YOLO.”

—

Chaewon’s advice to just yolo the fuck out of everything sticks to you more than you’d like to admit. It echoes in your mind when you’re taking the subway all the way to Sunoo’s apartment, echoes even louder as you stand in front of his door, and echoes almost deafeningly as you knock twice on it.

In about half a heartbeat, Sunoo opens his door with an urgency you could barely register in your haze of emotions. You felt bad after having practically ghosted him for a week straight after his confession, and even worse now that you could tell he was losing sleep over it. His hair was tousled into a mess that made it seem as if he had just gotten out of bed, even if it was already 3 p.m.

“Hey.” You greet, your lips pursed into a tight smile.

“Hey.” He greets her back.

“Can I come in? Or, is it a bad time? I’m not really too sure why I came in the first place.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come in.” He steps aside to make space for you to enter his home.

The last time you’ve been here was the night after you first met him — the day of his birthday. It’s less barren than you remembered, with pops of colour in random corners that somehow represented his sporadic personality perfectly.

“I see you finally did some decorating.”

“I mean, it’s already been more than a few months since I’ve moved here; it’d be weird if I didn’t.” His voice is groggy and still laced with sleep, but you don’t comment on it, instead sucking in a deep breath.

“I wanted to, um, get back to you.” You play with your fingers, picking at the skin. “And, uh, give you an answer. Well, it’s not really an answer, but you get what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

The both of you still stood just beyond his doorway; the faint playing of the TV in the background didn’t help to ease your racing heart. In your two years of being a young adult, you hadn’t found the opportunity to really sit down and find love, given that school had always been your top priority. So when you find yourself in such situations—not that you ever do—you're rendered a blubbering mess.

You’ve practiced this many times before with Chaewon, but it feels even more nerve-wracking now that the man in all his drowsy glory is standing right in front of you.

“We can try.” You start off. “I mean it as in, you can try courting me or whatever, and if it doesn’t work out, we can pretend as if nothing ever happened.” His lack of reply gives you time to really take a good look at Sunoo, now that the weight has been lifted off your shoulders. You’ve said what you wanted to say.

At an arm's-length distance, Sunoo is the textbook definition of attractive. He’s a head taller than you, has broad shoulders, and has a pretty face. His lips were full, his nose was tall, and his eyes were a golden brown colour. What was not to like about him? You just had to accept that he was no longer the Kim Sunoo from kindergarten. He was no longer the same young Sunoo who constantly needed your help.

“Really? You’d let me court you?” His face is bright with hope, and you nod to it wordlessly. “As in, you’d let me take you out on dates and stuff?”

You can’t help the chuckle that lets out, especially endeared by his enthusiasm. “Yes, Sun.”

—

BONUS!

It has been exactly a year since Sunoo had courted and officially asked you out. It wasn’t hard to fall for him because you already had an inkling that you had unresolved feelings for him anyway. The moving in part went as smoothly as it could, save for the slight mishap with Sunoo’s landlord, but with the help of your mother, everything was resolved soon after.

Sunoo lays peacefully on the sofa, soaking in the sunshine that filters through the blinds. He was practically in heaven right now.

“Kim Sunoo!” Your voice reverberates throughout the entirety of your shared apartment.

“Uh-oh, not the government name.” Sunoo looks up from his phone to see you standing in the hallway, hand tucked under your arms, with an expression that reminded him slightly of the French bulldog he’d seen on his morning walk. “Yes, baby?”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me! You let Luna sleep on the bed after she had her walk?!”

“Oh.”

“Oh!” You mimic him.

“I’m sorry, baby. She looked so sad sleeping on the floor by herself, so I just invited her to the bed.”

“Yeah, now her paw prints are all over the white sheets! Couldn’t you have at least cleaned her before you decided to do that?” As if Luna had heard her parents arguing from inside the room, she waddles out, footsteps padding down on the wooden floor, making it her mission to soothe her parents with just her existence alone.

Luna barks, grabbing both of your attention. You immediately lean down to pick Luna up, cooing at her before glaring at Sunoo, “You better wash the sheets.”

Sunoo stares at the both of you, dumbfounded. He thought he saw Luna smirking at him, so he blinked once and then twice, only for you and your baby to disappear as you walked towards the bathroom, your voice echoing as you continued to baby-talk to Luna.

Even with your overbearing practicality and new spoiled baby to take care of, he’d never regret asking his mom about you that one fateful night.

© i2ycat 2024 idk why the first half got me thinking i was gonna write a murder mystery fic HELPP. i swear it’s just romance 😞 also this is straight dogwater, i’m so sorry idk what i was writing…

[twilightzoneletters]

The Lone Gunman

Pairing: bounty hunter! reader X outlaw! yunho

Genre: cowboy au, bounty hunter au, outlaw au, kinda enemies to lovers if you squint a little, reader is named y/n Marsten, Sunset Outlaws! ateez

Warnings: fem! reader, future angst, cursing, pet names, little lady, miss, darlin, mister, sir, alcohol, violence, blood, just some good ol' country talkin'

Description: You're the most sought after bounty hunter in the West. Every Sheriff in every town, big or small, want to hire you. You're the best in your profession and have a particular distaste for them damned McConnell boys. Most outlaws try to stay clear out of your path and stay off your radar, but what happens when one brave outlaw takes a particular liking to you?

Word Count: 0.5k (for now?)

"Is that your horse? She's a beaut."

You had just made your way out of the saloon, the music and laughter were muffled as you began to untie your horse, Treasure. You look over to the source of the voice, it's a young man leaning against the post on the front porch, arms crossed as he watches you. You can hardly see his face because his hat casts shadows over it, and only his back is illuminated by the warm light filtering from the windows and doorway of the saloon behind him.

You nod towards him, "Thanks," finally getting her untied you give Treasure a pat, taking an apple out of your satchel and offering it to her.

"You know," the mans voice reminded you of whiskey, deep and intoxicating, "It's not safe for a little lady like yourself to be riding around in the dead of night."

You can't help but to scoff at his words, "I think I'll manage Mister," you say, holstering your bag onto Treasure's saddle, you turn to face him and your eyes widen in shock, he's right in front of you. Glaring up at him, you finally get a good look at his face, though his face is clean shaven, he still looks rough, a few scars littering his face, probably due to long since forgotten toss ups and fights. His messy hair, a golden brown color, peeks out from under his hat as he looks down at you. He sure is handsome alright, but the uninvited close proximity is starting to piss you off, and if you weren't wearing a mask you would definitely spit in his face.

You reach up to push him back but before you can, his calloused hands grasp your own hands in them. Something bubbles up inside of you as he does not break eye-contact. Your face is illuminated by the moonlight, and your eyebrows are furrowed in annoyance when he finally speaks up, voice unwavering, "Little lady," he certainly takes notice of the way that your hands ball into fists at his word, and you hate that his breath smells like expensive whiskey, "You hide behind a mask and run these lands in the night, but I know who you are, Miss Marsten."

Your heart picks up in pace at those words, rage replacing your annoyance, you break your hands free from his, "really now?" you turn back to Treasure, grabbing the reigns as you climb onto her, she stamps her foot and lets out a huff, you look down at the man now, "Well, that only makes one of us then," loathe now evident in your voice, "I haven't a clue who you are Mister."

He doesn't move or seem to react to your words at all, and it irritates you. He just smiles, "Name's Yunho darlin'. Yunho Jeong."

You tip your hat to him, "It was nice meeting you, partner," you manage to say. Then you turn away and head off, leaving him standing there, Treasure kicking up dust behind the both of you. He smirks and pulls up his own mask, yeah, he was definitely curious about you. As you trot further into the night, thoughts of him and his words linger.

[heechwe]

chai tea latte | 𝐞𝐬

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ fic for @kvanity-main's "fall for you" event! ୨୧ pairing: eric sohn x fem!reader ୨୧ word count: 1.2k ୨୧ genre: fluff ୨୧ tags: established relationship au ୨୧ synopsis: You haven't been with Eric long, but you do know that doing any menial task together, including baking an apple pie from scratch, will be memorable. ➸ Title inspired by the song by Angel Taylor! Prompt for the fic is: "'It's a brand new romantic relationship and you're baking together for the first time."

“That definitely does not go into the filling.” Eric presses his head into your neck as he looks over your shoulder. The recipe for apple pie Sangyeon supplied you with is pretty easy, although your baking partner is making it difficult to follow the directions to the letter. A dozen or so ingredients litter the kitchen counter, alongside the baking instruments needed to make the dessert.

“Yes it does! It says so right there,” you point to the fourth step, proving your point. Your boyfriend snatches the paper with a free hand to stuff into his jean pocket, a smirk stretching across his face. “Hey, give that back!”

“Maybe the best plan is to not have one, don’t you think?” His eyes sparkle with their typical mischievous nature in the afternoon sun. His ability to act care-free is what you love about him, even if you haven’t said those words out loud yet. It was only two months of dating, and diving in deep so soon felt more terrifying than anything else.

Well, besides the thought of messing up one of Eric’s mother’s favorite baked goods for the Thanksgiving party.

“Seeing as baking is even more precise than cooking, I’m gonna say no,” you respond in jest, poking your tongue out following the last word.

Eric takes your cheeks into his hands, lightly squishing them with his fingertips until you laugh. “Maybe,” he says, “you should trust me.”

You roll your eyes, followed by a huff of exasperated air leaving your lips. “I do trust you, I just don’t want to screw this up.”

Your words hold more weight as they leave your lips. The double-meaning is evident in the way your brows knit together and your lips downturn into a frown.

Eric catches it, and presses a quick smothering of kisses to your lips and cheeks, another giggle emitting from your lips. “You can’t, I promise.” His words and actions assuage the fears that begin to bubble up.

Your anxiety is slowly forgotten as you and Eric continue with the baking process. He takes his time cutting up the apples as you begin making the crust, opening the bag of flour for the process of rolling out the necessary dry ingredients. 

His humor was the biggest thing that attracted you to him initially, but his instinctual way of helping others before himself that slowly revealed itself the longer you were together made you fall harder than you imagined you could.

“What’s the point of adding lemon to pie filling?” He thinks out loud, reading Sangyeon’s instructions again with a skeptical tone that has you grinning to yourself.

Still, the fact remains that Eric can’t help but turn the humor a dial or two up when you least expect it, in both the best and worst times.

Like now, when he takes a handful of flour from the bag next to you and wipes his hand across your face. “Eric!”

Before he can laugh at your shocked expression, you take your own pile to throw. His face and hair become coated in the substance, most of it sticking to his nose.

“Okay, now it’s war.”

The next second, it looks like a bomb of white smoke exploded in your tiny kitchen. The two of you as well as the counters and cabinets are caked in baking flour, your skin and clothes a few shades lighter than they should be.

With anyone else, you would either be a bumbling mess or throwing a fit about the state of events. But, with Eric, it’s so easy to get lost in the ridiculousness of the situation.

“I think I won,” he says in triumph.

You scoff and press your back to the counter, crossing your arms. “I’d say it was a tie.”

Eric raises one eyebrow as a smirk grows on his lips. He places one hand on the bag of sugar, fingers dancing across the opening. “Is that a challenge?”

You shake your head instantly, giggling. “No, God, no. That’s how we get ants.”

He doesn’t move his position, still testing your resolve. “Then I guess you’ll just have to admit defeat. Or it’s goodbye, pest-free apartment.”

“Okay, fine, you win!”

Eric is suddenly pressing his chest to yours, the mood transforming due to the lack of space between your bodies. You can’t see his hands as they’re pressed into the countertop on either side of you, caging you in. His lips are dangerously close to yours, his minty breath hitting your face. If you have to guess, he’s decided to tease you in a far more torturous way.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the  index finger of his hand writing something in the flour on the counter, the white powder in contrast with the black linoleum.

I LOVE YOU.

It’s safe to say the silent, written confession leaves you speechless. The man of many words has you covered, though.

“I know it’s soon, but I’ve never felt this way before about anyone. And you know by now I can’t keep anything in.” He laughs, but all that floods in his eyes is uncertainty, the fear of your impending and potentially negative response pervading his body. “If you don’t feel the same yet, I completely-“

You close the distance between the two of you in the next second, hoping your responding kiss is charged with the power to quiet the nerves he has. How he doesn’t think you feel the same is ludicrous, and you wonder now why you hadn’t told him before he had the chance to beat you to the punch.

His tongue presses your lips open to enter your mouth, and you can’t fight the moan that leaves your throat when he wraps his arms around your body to squeeze your ass. How did the day start with such a simple task of baking and end up here, the two of you ready to pounce on each other?

Eric grows impatient, suddenly lifting you up to wrap your legs around his waist. He takes his lips from yours, his lips puffy and eyes love-swept. “I’m gonna guess from that reaction that you feel the same, right?”

You nod. “I love you, Eric Sohn.”

His resounding grin is electric, his expression akin to one of a child receiving their favorite candy. You resume kissing, but Eric takes advantage of your position of being carried to take you away from the kitchen.

“Baby, the pie!” You reach your arms out in the direction of the ingredients, laughing, but he just trails his lips to your neck and keeps his arms tightly wrapped around your thighs.

He chuckles on your way to the bedroom. “I’ll buy one from the store later. Lemme just take care of the girl I love first.”

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