#full height shutter

[shuttermanuk]

Here at ShutterMan, we are a shutter company offering shutter products such as fitted interior window shutters, plantation shutters, white shutters, shutter installation, solid panel shutters, shutters for patio doors, home security shutters, wooden shutters, PVC waterproof shutters, and made to measure wooden shutters to clients throughout Uckfield and the surrounding areas of East Sussex.

Please call us today if you require additional information about our shutter products. We're always on hand to take your call, answer any questions and deal with any enquiries you may have.

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[woodcraftshutters]

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[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

suguru wakes up, with a jolt, to the sound of a thud and a meek little yelp.

his eyes blink open, like the shutter of an old camera, raven lashes fluttering along — met only with the dim darkness of your bedroom. not quite pitch black, the light of something soon to resemble dawn bleeding in through the closed blinds, a blue kind of hue that doesn’t do much for him. everything is still dark.

but he can make out shapes, see the ceiling above him, and when he turns his head to the right he can see the contours of shoko’s face; fast asleep, snores building up in her throat and spilling from her lips.

(ridiculously cute.)

sadly, suguru doesn’t have time to savour the sight. because it takes him no less than a moment to notice that his other sleepy baby isn’t there at all — he barely even has to look, just feeling the mattress below him, knowing something is missing. he can’t feel at ease unless you’re weighing it down.

”baby…?” he rasps, deep and groggy, body moving on its own. elbows digging into the mattress, lifting himself up — a tug of alarm stirring his heartstrings.

the thud, your absence, the unmistakable yelp.

his muddled mind puts three and three together — and he sluggishly, steadily pulls himself up, almost desperate to locate you, but careful not to wake shoko. he moves elegantly, like a panther, slipping out of bed, bare feet meeting the cold floorboards as he stands up to his full height. hair a mess, a raven’s nest, sweatpants close to slipping off one side of his hips. absently wiping at his bleary eyes.

as soon as he regains his vision, stands up straight — he sees you. lying on the floor, like an abandoned plushie, while the adorable culprit is sprawled out peacefully on the mattress above you. you’re trying to get up, all disoriented and sleepy, and suguru thinks his heart might just melt down to the marrow.

this is exactly why he makes sure to sleep on the edge of the bed, most nights. exactly to prevent this — prevent his lovers from rolling over, tumbling right off. he doesn’t mind sleeping in the middle on days you want one arm each to latch onto, of course not; nothing warms his heart more than having both his babies on either side of him. but it feels good, to be the shield between you and the hardwood floor — making sure neither of you could ever fall off. it feels good, to watch you both nuzzle together like a pair of sleepy kittens. left side, middle, he’s fine with either.

just as long as he can prevent this. having to watch your small, sleepy form paw at the floorboards in search of stability. it breaks his heart in two.

”oh, baby,” he croons, deep and dripping with honey, crouching down beside you. effortless, as he scoops you up into his arms, one of his palms curling around your back — running down your spine.

and your eyes flutter open. hazy eyes, blinking at him, gaze almost absent, like you’re not quite sure what you’re looking at; but you’re already leaning into his touch, muscles softening, as if your very essence knows you’re safe. in his arms, in his lap.

it makes him want to cry.

(it makes him want to give you everything.)

he wastes no time in securing you, arms under your legs and behind your back as he stands up again. cradling you close, letting out a quiet coo, as if shushing a disgruntled child. the fall must have woken you up, poor thing. he wishes he could be angry with shoko, but she looks too sweet when she’s so deeply asleep; drooling a little, groaning out something that sounds like a name. he only shakes his head, still rubbing gentle circles into your back.

”what a little bully, huh…?” 

no response. you’re already starting to nod off, again, and so he gets back into bed — guiding you to rest against the wall, safe and secure, where no sleepy girlfriends can get to you. tucking you in under his chin, making sure you’re comfortable against him.

(your shield, always. that’s all he wants to be.)

easily, his lips find their way onto your forehead, pressing a gentle kiss between your brows. soft and chaste, holding you snugly, so eager to dote on you. his heart is still bleeding with tenderness, he can’t keep it in, it’s leaking all over the mattress and urging him to hold you tighter against his ribs. he thinks of how confused you must have been, waking up on the floor, wonders if you hurt your head on the way down — pressing another kiss there, for good measure. 

sweetly, sleepily, your lips curl up into a smile. 

a yawn slips past your lips, as you nuzzle into him, cheek all squished against his cushiony chest. looking so pleased that he almost wonders if this was your plan all along, a way to get all his attention.

suddenly, a weight drapes itself against his spine.

while he’s busy coaxing you back to sleep, he feels it; a sleepy murmur, muffled right against his bare skin, as a pair of lanky arms wrap around his waist. her voice is so raspy he just barely picks up on it, but his ears are attuned to every sound she makes.

shoko stirs behind him, fingers digging into his hips.

”… give ’em back…”

his brows furrow.

”thief,” she yawns, again, all groggy and gruff. so, so silly. ”give them back… you’re so greedy…”

a raise of his brow, as he breathes out a scoff. ”you kicked them off the bed, you know…”

shoko only breathes out another groggy grumble, in response; her lanky arms tugging at his shoulders, using them as leverage to drag herself over his body and closest to the wall. he only lets out an amused huff, letting her manhandle him a bit — letting her snuggle up to you, warming your back. suguru feels himself smiling. watching you squirm, when her short, auburn strands tickle your sensitive collarbone, when she sighs into your neck. right in the middle of the two, right where you should be.

right where you belong.

he leans forward, brushes the curtain of your bangs away from your face, plants his lips against your forehead; smears a kiss against shoko’s cheek. he can’t help himself but to fall into you, breathe in the scent of your moisturizer, fading citrus drops and coconut oil. can’t help himself but to love you.

(his angels, he thinks, the word stuck on his tongue. his reason to be.)

suguru hugs you both close, now separating you fully from the edge of the bed, the chilly mahogany floor just waiting for impact. like the steady wall he always yearns to be, your ever-eager guard dog, even in your sleep. he’d like to jump into your dreams, make sure they treat you kindly — but he can’t. 

so this will have to do.

with a sigh, his lashes flutter shut. eyes drooping, every muscle in his body beginning to relax, sink into the mattress below. you’re safe, and shoko’s safe. that’s enough to put his heart deliriously at ease.

with the dark blue shade of the almost-morning sky bleeding in through the window’s glass, the city fast asleep beyond it — suguru closes his eyes. he whispers, breathes a silent prayer into the top of your head. he hopes you can still hear it, that it can bring you both solace, that his wish will come true.

”sweet dreams, my angels.”

(that’s all he could ask for.)

[thecameronchronicles]

A Cup Of Sugar

TW: age-gap (reader's over 18.), dirty talk, sex without condom, manipulative behavior.

SUMMARY: Your next door neighbor and crush asks for a favor and leaves with something else...

A Cup of Sugar

The blue house with the white shutters has always been a staple to your cul-de-sac community since you could remember. Block parties pulled everyone together through fake smiles to save face for those who would more than likely be thrilled to not have to speak ever again. But in the politics of jealous wives and HOAs came one glimmer of peace in your existence.

The man in the blue house and white shutters.

Rafe Cameron.

He stood classified to his thoughts, his eyes always dancing over some shaven blades of grass paid to appear so perfect. He offered the waves to those to his caliber and always left you with a kind smile before slipping back inside. And this is how it had been for two decades. Since you were the little girl with pigtails who walked over with your parents to welcome him and his wife to the neighborhood before you could even look him in the eyes. And now, you dreamed of those eyes looking down on you for an entirely different reason.

You were always on the cusp of being noticed, putting increases effort when it was least expected. Even going out to check the mail you made yourself flawless in what you could, only ever getting the politeness from him.

At least until your eighteenth birthday. You caught his gazes lingering, your heart picking up speed, and his words a bit more adult than normal.

-------

A knock pulls you from the mundane afternoon where even the recent slew of TikTok trends over your FYP page do little to pass the time. Once opening the door, you silently curse not giving yourself a once-over in your camera before pulling it open.

"Mister Cameron. My dad isn't here..." The corner of his lips pull upwards.

"I know. I'm sorry to bother you, uh...do you have any sugar?" You stare, helplessly lured and anchored into the beckoning of him. Having always been attracted to the forbidden man across the street of blue eyes full of intimidation and cautious hands silently strong, you find it difficult to keep from showing it.

"Sugar? Um...let me check..." You move inside and hear him follow in uncertain steps before the door finally closes.

Once you come to the cabinet full of baking ingredients seldom used, already aware if you have any sugar it is probably more in brick form than edible, you play the time anyway to keep him in your company.

"Is Madison making something for Cheer or-"

"Let me help..." He stands behind you, shadowing you enough to nearly swallow you in his height alone, as he reaches over the cabinet.

"This cabinet?" You nod, facing him. His smirk remains on you as he makes no effort to actually seek out the sugar and simply holds his hand beside you as if to block you in.

"Mister Cameron..."

"Did you know that when your window is open at night that I can hear you in my backyard?" You blush, trying to imagine if there was anything embarrassing you had done. Played music too loud? Argued with your (now ex) boyfriend and it keeping him awake? Talked to yourself? Only God, it wasn't about him was it?

"Did I? I'm sorry. If I was too loud-"

"I can hear everything from the concerts you put on...to that which you do after you think everyone has gone to sleep..." He leans against you, his cologne dizzying you.

"I..." There is no mystery to his thinly veiled innuendo.

"You heard..." You can't say the words aloud, never having the chance as nobody else has ever been so brazen.

"Everything, Y/N. Or at least enough to know exactly what it is you need..." You blink in disbelief as all words thicken on your tongue, refusing to formulate.

"I-"

"You don't have to deny it. I know exactly what you need....Let me give it to you?" You swallow hard, trying to understand how this is happening. Manifestation truly works if your silent prayers had gone unanswered.

"I don't know-"

You are lifted onto the counter and he stands between your parted legs. It is a quick moment that feels as if it is in slow motion to the feeling of his hands on you.

"You want to know what else I know?" You swallow and nod, curiosity succeeding over logic.

"You can only come with my name on your tongue..." He kisses you with intent. Not to be gentle or loving but to claim. He doesn't wait for you to find breath or even steady against him as he uses the grip on your hips to pull you to him. You hold at his shirt for stability and it only makes him growl as your nails find him instead.

"You need what only I can give you, isn't that right, sweetheart?" You nod, too intoxicated by his touch to want to tempt fate to sober.

"I know nobody will be home for at least a few hours. You know how I know? Because I made sure of it. Now open those thighs for me-" You open and he scoffs, rubbing his jaw as he sees you not only eager but ready as you've completely soaked through your panties.

"I've had to listen for months while you got yourself off thinking nobody could hear you. But I did. And I wondered if you were doing it just to fuck with me or if you were really REALLY that desperate to come...next time, you say my name I'm taking it as a call and I'll make you come. Bet this sexy fucking ass on that." He grips the part of your ass exposed to him before he leans forward.

"Because I've had to hear you and now, you're gonna show me..." He pulls your panties to the side and rubs his cock up and down those lips.

"God, you're so fucking wet, it's almost pathetic." He moans before pushing the bulbous head of his dick closer to your entrance.

"Yesssss." He hisses as you gasp. He's wide, thick, and hot in every sense of the word. The coarse hair usually hidden to the naked eye is now stroking against you as he pulls back far enough to see the slickness you left behind on him.

"That's it....coat my fucking cock." He groans as he continues to thrust brutally and withdraw in almost torturous strides as you are breathless and wordlessly in awe. It is erotic, and almost painful, before he huffs.

"You sound so much better stuffed with me than whatever you were doing. What was it? Hmmm? Your fingers?" You nod, embarrassment rising up your body.

"And it was only me you thought of, yeah? None of those useless boys who can only dream of filling you like I can, right?" When you don't answer, he grips the back of your neck. "RIGHT?!"

You nod as he hoists your flat feet up to the counter so you're completely wide to him. His speed is no longer traceable as he's just pounding into you. Hand stabilizing himself in the cabinet above you, he rams into you with the force awakening something bold within you. You claw at his back and through his hair before kissing him again, instigating it all as he reciprocates with heady excess.

"Trying to get me to notice you in those bikinis and shorts like I could ever ignore you? Fuck, Y/N you're so wet for me aren't you? Gonna come hard? Maybe I should make you wait like you made me." He patronizes behind a humored growl. His head comes back, throwing it in pleasure as his face comforts, mouth wide and almost in disbelief as he grips the flesh of your hips with a punishable clutch.

"You need to come, you come to me. For me."

"Mister Cameron-"

"You call me Rafe when I'm this deep inside of you. Understand?"

"Yes R-Rafe."

"Good. Now scream it while I make you come and then I fill you up." The kitchen shudders around you as he thrusts and retracts, in and out, hard and deep. You were already sore but now you feel expanded and exhausted as he grips the back of your neck and pushes his mouth against yours. Not to kiss, to inform, and maybe even earn through a clenched repetition of "mine".

"Say it!" He calls out as you nod, agreeing in desperation as he showcases his approval on the final snaps of his hips before you feel him flood your womb in all that you were responsible for.

"Ahh fuck, yes I needed that..." He sighs as you keep your eyes on him as he pulls out of you. Without a care to clean up anything more than the space between you, he conceals himself back within his pants and shakes his head.

"So fucking sweet." He walks to the door and you're suddenly left half naked and empty.

"Wh-what about the sugar you needed?" You question, hoping it'll make him stay. With his brilliant smile and tempting lips purposed to a smirk, he grins.

"I got what I came for,. sweetheart." You sit in awe, realizing he took more than he left, including the fact you hadn't come. It was a play for power you gave him willingly and as much as you wanted to be the one in control, you knew you'd falter against him. Having a taste of him, you were eager for the next. Suddenly addicted to the man across the street you've loved and lusted for in equal measure since you could remember...

MASTERLIST

[hachiane]

ranking the LADS boys on who takes the best Instagram photos for you

a/n — just my headcanons!! may be OOC, majorly she/her reader pronouns

count : 950 words

#1 Rafayel Qi

— takes one look at your inspo photos and scoffs, “puh-leaase, i can do better than that.”. under his calm exterior, his painter's eye is roaring to life, the gears in his brain immediately turning when your phone is passed into his hands.

Rafayel matches your freak instantly and pretends he is like every photograph boyfriend every it-girl online seems to have; he's guiding you to pose, where to place your hands, tilt your face so he captures all your best angles, even the ones you didn't think you had. your personal hypeman as he snaps away, "yesss, cutie! you look so good!' "kill me with those sexy eyes of yours!" "makeup on point! show off your pretty lashes!"

it doesn't end there. Rafayel is also looking over your shoulder helping you choose the best shots, giving his small comments and suggestions as you edit them in your phone, things like "up the contrast, the shadows are dark in this one" or "why are you cropping like that? this makes you look taller".

after your impromptu photoshoot, he sings praises about you being the most beautiful muse, the cutest bodyguard. and of course, you have to take some couple selfies with him too as reward for his hard work.

Rafayel is your first like, first comment when you post, bombarding your notifications with comments. “that’s my bodyguard right there 😍” “you’re sooooooo hot 🔥🔥” “slay queen 💅🏼✨”

he'll do everything again, no doubt about it.

#2 Xavier Shen

— when you asked him the first time, he was hesitant. he says he read a book about it but never put it to practice, warning you that you might be disappointed. you shove your phone into his hands and that you're fine with whatever he gets in the end. (unintentionally that awakens his inner prince, determined to ensure his princess look her best in every frame)

the entire time, Xavier says nothing. you hear him snap away and hum to himself, but he's not saying anything to you; doesn't tell you how to pose, where to place your hands or if you should be looking at him. so most of the time, you’re by yourself testing out the poses you saw online and placing your blind, full-hearted trust that he gets the picture you imagined. 

the thing is, while poses look good on you, Xavier behind the camera much prefers your candid moments, because these says much more about you than poses other people have thought of. you in your natural state is the most beautiful to him, and he says so, “i only take pictures of pretty things and you like this is the most pretty to me”.

later, being the old soul he is, he purchases a polaroid printer to get physical copies of your photos and stashes them away in a journal or box, for these memories of you deserve to last lifetimes.

#3 Sylus Qin

— his pictures of you are decent enough. when you asked him the first time, he says he’ll get you a personal photographer if you so desire good photos, but your cutesy pleading and debating your point about the sentimental value of photos taken by him makes him give in. he follows your inspo photos to the T, but because of his height, you notice the angles are slightly higher than what they should be. like Xavier, he doesn't tell you how to pose; he just taps away on the shutter button as he moves around you here and there, occasionally hunching down for a low angle shot, with his other hand in his pocket, nonchalant as Sylus usually is.

accidentally left the live photo feature on for most of your photos, and while perturbed at first, those become his favourites; he gets to see a glimpse of your genuine smile at his ministrations before your expressions snap into a smouldering, radiant look that he would fall to his knees for time and time again. he sends the photos to himself afterwards without asking, shrugging when you question him about it when he was being so indifferent at first, “sentimental value, kitten”.

#4 Zayne Li

— unfortunately, Zayne takes photos like an aged father with two daughters; straight on, no angles, no direction, not much effort given the first few times. but after seeing your slightly disappointed look as you review the photos, even when you reassure him you're okay with them, he knows he’d done you wrong.

the next day, Zayne promptly asks his female colleagues and acquaintances with a photography hobby at the hospital for some tips and crash courses. of course they oblige him (because who could say no to the Dr Zayne when he asks for a favour?) with simple go-tos and the tricks. and Zayne being Zayne, he notes them all down in his personal notebook, studies it in his downtime, brings it home to read and practice on some "subjects" lying around the house: your collectible figures, the fresh bouquet for the living room, and so forth.

the next time the opportunity comes up, he breaks it to you he's been studying for this exact moment and asks if you would give him another attempt. although the photos end up not what you expected when he said he's been "learning", it's miles better than the first few times. Zayne would look at you expectantly for your reaction, and he heaves a sigh of assured relief when you compliment his improvement. when you post the recent photo he took of you, he cracks the widest smile he's had all week, liking and saving the photo to make it his phone background (though you've probably already sent it to him).

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Renault Estafette Concept, 2024. Renault is on a mission to make vans less boring and more useful. The Estafette is  unusually tall at nearly 2.6 metres (102 inches) allowing drivers to walk upright from the cab to the back of the cargo bay. The rear shutter door rolls away to open the up the full height of the van, whilst unloading can be done through the front offside sliding door. There are exterior LED screens everywhere flashing messages to passers by and to the driver whilst inside there's a 7-inch digital gauge cluster and a separate 12-inch touchscreen in the centre of the dash able to run apps that various tradespeople would need.

[w1w2]

Messy

Part 1 | Next part

Rosé x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 7k

Rosé - Messy

"Baby, I'm obsessed with you and there's no replica Maybe if it's messy, if it's messy, if it's messy Then you know it's really love.."

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The Parisian winter had a way of sneaking into your bones, not with brute cold, but with elegance. It whispered through the streets like cigarette smoke, curling around ankles, slipping into the spaces between silk and skin. Outside the Bourse de Commerce, where YSL’s latest collection was set to unveil, the air shimmered with anticipation. Flashbulbs popped in manic rhythm, drivers idled at the curb in sleek black cars, and just beyond the velvet rope, fashion’s elite were already assembling like constellations waiting to align.

The door of a matte black car eased open and Y/N stepped out. One heel touching the wet pavement like a punctuation mark. The moment she rose to full height, the cameras found her. 

All of them.

A wall of sound, shutters, murmurs, her name called in accents that turned her initials into something foreign and reverent.

She wore a tailored black tuxedo with a satin collar, sharp enough to cut through glass. Underneath, no blouse. Just skin, a deep V, and a sliver of gold, a minimalist chain peeking from beneath the lapel. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, soft tendrils framing her face in deliberate chaos. The kind of effort that whispered “I don’t need to try.”

No logos, no team patches, no lanyard with access codes. 

Just YSL and her.

She paused on the carpet, letting them have their shot, her expression unreadable, somewhere between "I know exactly what I’m doing" and "I dare you to ask me why I’m here." Her fingers curled lightly around the small black clutch in her hand. It wasn’t her helmet, but it still felt like armor.

Truthfully, she felt off balance. This wasn’t her track, it wasn’t a grid or a starting line, there was no roar of engines, no headsets crackling in her ear. The adrenaline was different here, more glitter than gasoline.

But it buzzed under her skin just the same.

She inhaled slowly. The air smelled like cold stone, champagne, and something floral, probably whatever the latest YSL fragrance was, misted into the air like a spell.

This world wasn’t unfamiliar, not completely. She’d done press, she’d sat front row at team sponsor events, smiled through awkward interviews in languages she barely understood. But this was the first time she was the guest, no one behind her telling her what to say, no teammate by her side.

And from the looks of it, they were all watching her like she’d already said everything.

Eyes forward, shoulders down. “Don't shrink,” she told herself, repeating the mental drill she'd used since karting days. Confidence wasn't just posture, it was performance.

She stepped off the carpet, into the lobby of the venue, where the lighting dimmed to a moody gold and voices dropped into low murmurs. Stylists, models, celebrities, all dressed like a dream, mingled in loose clusters, too polished to look excited, but not indifferent enough to hide the glances they threw her way.

She didn’t return them, didn’t need to.

Rosé was already there.

Front row, in a strapless white dress with soft ruffled detailing that caught the light when she moved, which wasn’t often. Her heels crossed at the ankle, just visible beneath the hem. A single bold gold bangle wrapped around her wrist, gleaming against her skin. Her posture was relaxed, regal in its simplicity, and her hair, loosely styled, framed her face in soft waves that softened the edges of her presence without diminishing its impact.

Rosé sat with the kind of composure that came not from performance, but from habit. A stillness learned over years of stages, cameras, curated rooms. She didn’t shift, didn’t fidget. Her attention wandered only slightly, glancing across the crowd with the faint smile of someone who had already seen this all before.

Around her, the space murmured with pre-show anticipation. Conversations were soft but pointed, the kind that floated above designer perfumes and the subtle clink of fine glassware. Editors chatted, photographers checked lenses, stylists whispered critiques they’d deny giving later. Rosé had made the rounds already, brief embraces, air kisses, the sort of interactions that skimmed the surface but never dipped deep enough to touch anything real. It was the performance before the performance, and she knew it by heart.

She was smiling politely at someone across the aisle when something shifted, not in the show, which hadn’t yet begun, but in the atmosphere.

A ripple in the room’s composure.

The change came in sound first, the cadence of camera shutters outside the entrance, once scattered and rhythmic, suddenly converged into a staccato burst. Sharper, urgent, like something, or someone, had stepped into the spotlight and turned it all up a notch. Rosé tilted her head toward the source without any real urgency. She’d seen it all before, actors arriving fashionably late, influencers hoping for relevance in someone else’s seat.

But then she saw her.

The entrance was framed by gold doors, and in the center of them stood a woman whose silhouette disrupted the room’s polished sameness with disarming ease. She was tall, dressed in an impeccably cut black suit that defied the standard of overaccessorized drama. There were no obvious designer markers, no sparkle, no embellishment, just clean lines and a presence that didn’t require permission.

Her steps were confident but unhurried, heels tapping against the marble floor in a rhythm that sounded like certainty. She wasn’t looking for cameras or company, she wasn’t smiling to please anyone. She was just moving through the space like she belonged to no one and somehow, that made her belong everywhere.

Rosé’s gaze narrowed slightly, sharpened by something she didn’t yet name. As the woman turned to follow the usher toward her seat, her face caught the light, and in that instant, recognition locked in.

Y/N.

The name came to her before she could stop it. Not because someone said it, but because she’d seen it enough times to memorize the angles. Press coverage, editorial shoots, a campaign with TAG Heuer, and of course, on the track.

On podiums, in motion.

Y/N, the first female driver on the grid. McLaren’s wildcard, a media sensation, a name that had leapt off the sports pages and landed firmly in global culture. Rosé had scrolled past her photos more times than she could admit. But standing here, in person? Y/N was something else entirely, not just beautiful, but arresting, unfiltered and present in a way most people weren’t, especially in rooms like this one.

“She’s the one they’ve been courting,” came a voice behind her, her manager, leaning in with a half smile. “YSL’s trying to lock her down as their next face. Big fanbase, she’s the real deal.”

Rosé didn’t answer right away. Her eyes never left Y/N, who was now settling into her seat with an ease that made her presence feel inevitable. She wasn’t pulling out a phone or adjusting her outfit for attention, she simply crossed one leg over the other, rested her arm along the back of the chair beside her, and took in the space like she was studying it, not trying to impress it.

“I’ve seen her,” Rosé finally murmured, and her voice was quieter than she expected. The syllables felt more like a thought escaping than something she meant to say aloud.

And it was true, she had watched the races, not all of them, but enough to remember Y/N’s name, her driving style, the intensity behind every overtake. There was something cinematic about the way she moved even on a track. Precision layered over instinct, a mind that could calculate risk in real time without flinching.

That same energy lived in her now, only redirected, distilled into stillness instead of speed.

Rosé felt something shift in her chest, subtle but unmistakable. She couldn’t tell if it was admiration or intrigue, maybe both. There was a control in Y/N’s demeanor that Rosé found rare in this world, not the kind that begged for attention, but the kind that drew it naturally. The kind of magnetism that didn’t ask to be noticed but made you look twice anyway.

“She doesn’t look like anyone else in this room,” Rosé said softly.

And that was the truth of it.

Everyone else here had been styled to fit the narrative. Y/N had simply walked in and rewritten it. Rosé adjusted slightly in her seat, her spine straightening just a bit as she studied the other woman from her vantage point. She wasn’t in the habit of pursuing people at events like this, too much effort, too little reward. 

But tonight? Something about Y/N tugged at her attention like a thread waiting to be pulled. She didn’t know yet if it was curiosity, attraction, or something more complicated, but she knew that she wasn’t going to let the night end without at least hearing Y/N speak.

After all, she already knew how the collection would look, Y/N was the only piece in the room she hadn’t seen before.

The afterparty lived in warm shadows and carefully designed indulgence, tucked inside a private venue that didn't need a name. There was no signage outside, no line, no chaos, just a black door on a narrow street near the Seine and a man in a sharply tailored suit who opened it without asking your name if he already knew it.

Inside, the world shifted.

It was like stepping into a secret. The ceilings were low and intimate, designed not to contain but to pull people closer, velvet drapes in deep charcoal lined the walls, muting the outside world entirely. The air carried the scent of something expensive and hard to name, leather, spice, a twist of citrus, mingling with warm skin, champagne, and the ghost of too many designer perfumes.

The lighting was deliberate, as if someone had spent hours perfecting the exact wattage of golden glow, chandelier crystals caught and scattered the light like glass raindrops, casting soft reflections on silk dresses and polished shoes. Pockets of brightness illuminated cheekbones and sequins, but always left enough in shadow to keep a sense of mystery. No one was fully visible, no one wanted to be.

The music pulsed low and slow, the kind of beat designed to settle into your bones without interrupting conversation. It was modern but smooth, vocals buried beneath rhythm, all suggestion and breath. Bass threaded through the floorboards and up your spine, syncing with the tempo of moving bodies and half-formed thoughts.

It was the kind of place where the walls never echoed, where laughter was rich and subdued, and where every movement seemed slightly slowed, like the party was underwater, or maybe underwater in silk. Time didn’t stop here, but it definitely forgot to hurry.

People stood in curated circles, glasses of something amber or clear in hand, sleeves pushed up, collars artfully undone, smiles carefully lazy. Editors with pinched expressions leaned in toward designers with cigarette thin wrists, models draped themselves over the arms of velvet chairs like silk scarves left in passing. You couldn’t always tell who was famous, which was the point.

It smelled like wealth, but not new wealth, old money worn casually, tucked inside vintage leather clutches. The kind of money that didn’t try too hard, the kind that had nothing to prove.

And above it all, a current of performance that no one admitted to. The slow turning of heads when the door opened, the split second judgment behind every glance, the soft war between being seen and seeming untouched by it.

It was beautiful, pretentious and addictive.

And for now? It was Y/N’s stage, whether she wanted it or not.

She stood near the bar, the stem of a glass resting lightly between her fingers, its condensation dripping in slow trails across her knuckles. The chilled glass left a delicate print against the warmth of her skin, something solid to focus on while the noise of the room floated around her like background static.

Someone beside her, tall, wearing something sheer and architectural, was halfway through a story about Milan. A show that ran an hour late, a designer’s tantrum, something about feathers being flown in from Morocco. Y/N nodded along, polite, engaged in the way people are when they’re listening but not really registering. She couldn’t even remember if she’d been introduced to them. Probably a stylist, or maybe a creative director, or just someone with good bone structure and the kind of confidence that didn’t ask questions.

She wasn’t trying to be rude, she was just distracted.

This world, this dim, gilded cocoon of whispered names and calculated nonchalance, wasn’t foreign to her, but it still felt like stepping sideways into someone else’s life. She’d done galas, brand dinners, even one or two campaign shoots where she’d had to learn how to pose without looking like she was trying to win something. But this? The post-show scene, full of microhierarchies and coded glances? Was a different arena altogether.

Still, she could play the part.

Her black shirt was unbuttoned just enough to feel easy, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm like she’d done it without a mirror. The collar sat open, relaxed. The leather jacket was draped over one shoulder, not worn, because wearing it would have made it look like she was trying. It wasn’t about warmth anyway, it was armor, a finishing piece. Her dark slacks were pressed and precise, and her sunglasses still rested on the bridge of her nose, low enough to make eye contact optional. A statement, not a shield. Though, maybe both.

She looked the part, more than that, she looked good. She could feel it in the way people glanced at her over their glasses and in the way conversations paused when she passed. But beneath the polish, her pulse stayed steady, unimpressed. Detached in that quiet, centered way she’d learned on racetracks.

What they didn’t know was that she was trained for this kind of pressure, the unsaid kind. The kind that watched and waited for cracks, this wasn’t a circuit, but the tension wasn’t all that different.

There were no screaming fans tonight, no autograph lines or chants of her name. This attention was quieter, sharper, it came in glances that lingered half a second too long, in whispered questions disguised as compliments.

“Is that her?” “She’s even better looking in person.” “I didn’t know she cleaned up like this.”

She felt it. 

The weight of observation, but it didn’t rattle her. Not exactly, it just kept her alert, the way an engine did when it purred beneath her, waiting to launch.

She brought her drink to her lips again, letting the edge of the glass touch her bottom lip before she took a slow sip. The corners of her mouth curled slightly, not into a smile, exactly. Just the hint of one, a flicker of amusement at nothing in particular, or maybe at herself for pretending she didn’t find this all strangely entertaining.

And then something shifted.

Not loud, not visible to anyone else, probably. But to her? Unmistakable.

The music didn’t change, but it felt like the air thinned, like the molecules around her had suddenly been rearranged. Her body responded before her brain caught up, a straightening of the spine, a pause mid-sip, a subtle stillness settling over her limbs.

The room hadn’t changed.

But someone had just walked into it.

Y/N’s attention tilted before she even knew why, a flicker in her periphery, a ripple that moved from one side of the room to the other, like champagne just beginning to fizz.

She turned her head, just slightly, just enough.

And there she was.

Rosé stepped into the room as if she’d always been part of it, not interrupting, not performing, simply becoming the moment without asking for permission. She wasn’t announced, and yet the room realigned around her, people parting like silk drawn through fingers as she moved with quiet command.

She had changed, of course she had.

The soft white of the runway dress was gone, replaced by something sharper, a black off the shoulder dress that clung to her like a second thought sculpted in fabric. It ended mid thigh, leaving just enough to the imagination and nothing to chance. Simple, but deliberate. It didn’t sparkle, it didn’t shout, it whispered luxury, confidence, and precision, the kind of dress that made statements without ever raising its voice.

Her skin glowed under the low light, a soft sheen tracing her collarbones, her shoulders bare and luminous. A single gold bracelet wrapped around her wrist like a signature, her heels made no sound, but the room seemed to know they were there, tracking her movement even if eyes pretended not to.

Her hair fell in gentle waves around her face, a few strands brushing her cheek with every step. She looked like she’d stepped out of a film, not one from this decade, something older, something timeless.

And Y/N watched her without meaning to.

Not staring, just taking her in. Carefully, quietly, like watching a storm roll in from the edge of a calm sea, knowing it wouldn’t touch her yet, but feeling the electricity all the same.

Rosé’s eyes scanned the room, but not with idle interest. She wasn’t grazing, she was searching with intention. She moved past conversations and bodies angled toward her in thinly veiled hope. Past designers in sharp lapels, models laughing too loudly, men and women with eyes too quick to catch.

She didn’t stop for any of them.

And when her gaze finally landed, it did so without hesitation.

On her.

On Y/N.

For the briefest moment, the room disappeared, the crowd, the music, the weight of attention that had been draped across Y/N’s shoulders all night.

It all fell away.

Rosé’s expression didn’t shift, no smile yet, no raised brow, just recognition, like this was exactly where she meant to arrive. Like this was the reason she’d come at all.

And across the space, Y/N’s fingers loosened slightly on the stem of her glass.

Rosé didn’t hesitate.

There was no flicker of doubt in her steps, no glance downward to adjust a hem, no pause for effect. She didn’t reach for her phone, didn’t smooth her hair, she didn’t need to. She crossed the room with the kind of ease that wasn’t learned, it was owned. Like the music had changed tempo just for her, like the floor moved slightly out of respect.

She didn’t walk like someone chasing attention, she walked like someone used to getting it.

Y/N felt her presence before she saw her approach, not because the room noticed, but because the air around her shifted. Subtle, inevitable, like gravity leaning.

She didn’t turn her head right away, she kept her eyes on her glass, fingers tightening just slightly around the cool stem. Not nerves, no, just instinct. The kind that makes your body prepare for something important before your mind admits it.

And then, she looked up.

Rosé was already there, standing beside her at the bar, framed by gold light and shadow. Close, but not crowding. Present and quiet, for a moment.

She didn’t open with the usual. No “Hi, I’m Rosé,” or “Nice to meet you.” No fake surprise at finding her here. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, eyes skimming from Y/N’s rolled sleeves to the leather jacket on her shoulder, to the sunglasses still resting just low enough to half conceal her gaze.

She smiled, slow and deliberate.

“You look better than half the models tonight,” she said, her voice like velvet wrapped around something sharper. “Or me. But I’ll forgive you.”

Y/N blinked once, then let out a short, genuine laugh, one of those caught off guard sounds that slipped through before she could catch it. Not because the line was clever, but because the delivery was effortless. No chase, no try.

She turned toward her fully then, reaching up to slide the sunglasses off her face, slow and natural, not to perform, not to show her eyes, but because she suddenly wanted to see Rosé clearly.

Now that she was here, up close, she looked impossible.

Y/N’s gaze swept from the off the shoulder line of Rosé’s dress to the bare shimmer of her collarbone, to the single gold bangle on her wrist, like everything she wore was chosen with no intention of impressing anyone but herself.

“I don’t know,” Y/N said, her voice low, her eyes steady as she gave her a once over without apology. “That dress is dangerous.”

Rosé smiled at that, not the faint, curated kind worn for photographers or social niceties. This one reached her eyes, it came with a slight tilt of her shoulders, like the compliment settled somewhere warmer than expected.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

The music buzzed faintly in the background, steady and slow, and the crowd moved around them like a soft blur, but here, in this small radius of eye contact and shared quiet, the world narrowed.

Rosé leaned in just slightly, not enough to close the space, just enough to let her presence speak louder.

“I was hoping to find you,” she said.

And Y/N, feeling something strange and sharp pulse beneath her ribs, met her gaze with a calm smile of her own.

“Looks like you did.”

The afterparty had thinned without ever truly ending, like a song fading out instead of stopping. The volume dipped, the crowd softened.

Some guests had vanished quietly, slipping into chauffeured cars, their laughter echoing in hallways before the doors even closed behind them. Others were making vague promises about one last drink somewhere deeper in the city, places with red lights and no menus, places they probably wouldn’t remember in the morning.

What remained in the room was a curated kind of residue, the ones too wired to sleep but too content to leave. The air was warm with perfume and fatigue, the music now more ambient than beat, a slow pulse of synth and bass barely rising above the whisper of conversation. Ice had melted in glasses, lipstick faded on rims, chairs had been pulled closer together, shoes long since abandoned.

Y/N and Rosé hadn’t moved.

They were still tucked into their corner, perched on a velvet bench half hidden behind a screen of palm fronds and flickering candlelight. Someone had lit votives on the windowsill behind them, and their glow danced across Rosé’s collarbone, catching in the loose strands of her hair and gilding her edges like a Renaissance painting, her heels sat abandoned beneath the bench, one strap trailing like a ribbon.

Y/N had one arm slung along the back of the cushion, her other hand loosely curled around her glass, idly watching the amber liquid shift as she turned it. She wasn’t drinking anymore, just moving, swirling, letting the rhythm of the moment guide her while her eyes drifted back to Rosé.

There was no urgency in the way they spoke now, no need to fill the silence, no fear of it either. Their conversation had slowed into something softer, the kind that didn’t follow a script, the kind that wandered, that paused in places most people would rush through.

They talked about strange things, beautiful things, the moment after a song is finished and before the audience claps. The loneliness of hotel rooms that cost too much, what it means to be watched and still feel unseen. Names came up, old friends, old fears, people they used to be, and people they were still pretending not to outgrow.

They didn’t look at their phones once.

Y/N had learned that Rosé didn’t like long silences in a crowd, said they made her skin crawl but craved them in private. That she felt safest when there was no pressure to perform, no expectation to respond. 

Rosé had learned something too. That Y/N sometimes felt more herself in a helmet at 300 km/h than in a room full of applause, that praise made her feel like a statue, admired, unmoving, held in place.

They’d laughed at that, quietly. Not out of irony, but recognition.

Now, they weren’t really talking anymore, not in full sentences, just letting thoughts drift and land where they wanted to. The party around them existed only in the periphery, the faint hum of a world that felt farther away with every passing minute.

Rosé glanced toward the window, her features bathed in gold and shadow. “It’s almost two,” she said, not moving.

Y/N let her head rest back against the bench, tilting toward her. “Feels earlier.”

Rosé didn’t answer, she just smiled, soft and tired, the kind of smile that came when the walls finally fell. A beat passed, and then she said, “I should probably head up.”

Y/N nodded. 

“Yeah,” she said, though her voice made it clear she didn’t mean it.

Neither of them moved.

Rosé’s gaze flicked toward the ornate clock on the far wall, then back to Y/N. “You heading straight back?”

“Eventually.” Y/N let the word hang. “Didn’t peg you for a party until dawn type.”

“I’m not.” A subtle smirk. “But I was curious.”

Y/N looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly in amusement. “About what?”

Rosé didn’t hesitate.

“How long I could talk to you before it felt like too much.”

Y/N smiled, slow, wide, and real. A smile with weight behind it. “Still not there.”

Something softened behind Rosé’s eyes, she exhaled, not a sigh, more like the release of something she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Then, without a word, she leaned forward and rose to her feet. Not abruptly, not as a goodbye. Just movement, elegant, deliberate, and unhurried. The hem of her dress swayed around her thighs as she turned back to Y/N. The light caught the edge of her gold bangle as she brushed her hair from her face, now looser than before, undone by the hour, or the conversation, or both.

She didn’t say anything else, she just looked at her.

And Y/N stood too.

No signal, no invitation, no plan.

Just instinct.

The lobby was warm in the way expensive places always were, not just in temperature, but in tone. Soft gold lighting spilled across marble floors, painting everything in a kind of hush. The air smelled faintly of polished wood, citrus oil, and something subtle and floral, like wealth worn quietly.

Sound didn’t echo here, it was absorbed, contained, made gentle.

Behind the sleek marble desk, the concierge was murmuring into a discreet headset in French, his voice low, practiced, perfectly disinterested. A single bellman stood off to the side, arms behind his back, eyes unfocused, the kind of presence that disappeared unless summoned. Even the music, barely audible from the hidden speakers, was designed to be forgotten as soon as it passed through you.

Y/N stepped in from the cold, the glass doors closing quietly behind her with a sigh. She paused just inside, letting the sudden stillness settle around her. It felt like stepping into the end of something, the kind of silence that only exists after a night has burned itself out.

Her jacket was slung over one shoulder, her shirt creased now at the elbows and collar, her hair had fallen from wherever she’d tucked it earlier, soft waves brushing her jaw, a little messier, a little freer, her boots didn’t make much sound on the polished floor, but they still echoed faintly in the corners of the space.

The quiet felt good, earned, but not quite complete.

She was halfway across the lobby, headed toward the elevators, when she heard it, soft, almost cautious.

“Y/N?”

She turned, instantly, like her name had reached her on a different frequency.

Rosé was standing near the elevators, half-shadowed by one of the massive black columns that framed the hallway. Her heels dangled from her right hand, the delicate straps looped loosely around her fingers. On her feet were oversized hotel slippers, the kind too large for her but somehow still graceful, absurdly charming in contrast to the black dress still hugging her frame.

There was something disarmingly human about her now. Her posture had softened, one shoulder dipped slightly as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, and the sharp elegance she’d carried earlier had given way to something quieter. Her makeup had faded at the corners, mascara just smudged enough to make her eyes look sleepier, her hair had come undone in places, a few strands falling forward, catching the light as she brushed them back with the hand not holding her shoes.

She smiled, hesitant but warm, like she wasn’t sure if this was too much or too perfectly timed.

“Same hotel?” Y/N asked, voice low, eyes flicking once from Rosé’s face to her feet, then back.

“Looks like it,” Rosé said, shifting her shoes to her left hand so she could tuck her hair back again, slower this time. Her fingers lingered just a second too long at her temple, a nervous habit, maybe, or a moment of indecision.

Y/N stood still, watching her.

The elevator behind Rosé chimed, a soft, elegant sound, and the doors slid open with a quiet hush.

Neither of them moved.

Rosé glanced over her shoulder at the open elevator, then back at Y/N. She didn’t speak, she didn’t need to.

Y/N crossed the final few steps, her boots whispering across the marble. She reached out to catch the door just as it began to close, holding it with one hand, the other resting lightly on the frame.

She looked back at Rosé, chin tilted slightly, her voice soft but certain.

“Well?” she asked. “You coming?”

Rosé’s smile deepened, and without saying a word, she stepped forward, past the column, past the echo of hesitation, and into the elevator.

The doors slid shut behind them with a soft hiss, and for a moment, everything stilled.

Inside, the light was diffused and warm, the kind that softened edges and made time feel slower. The mirrored walls reflected them in gentle fragments, Y/N’s jacket draped over her shoulder, Rosé’s bare arms crossed loosely at her waist, both of them standing just far enough apart to feel the space between them.

Neither spoke, not because there was nothing to say, but because the quiet suddenly felt too deliberate to break.

Y/N stood near the buttons, her reflection catching her from three different angles, chin slightly tilted, mouth neutral, but the faintest flicker of a smirk touching her features, her fingers hovered near the control panel, but she hadn’t pressed anything yet.

Rosé leaned back against the railing on the opposite side, one foot tucked behind the other, the straps of her heels still looped through her fingers, the soles of her slippers were silent against the brushed steel floor. She glanced toward Y/N, not directly, just enough.

“You don’t seem like someone who enjoys small talk,” she said softly, her voice quieter in the enclosed space, made silkier by the stillness around them.

Y/N looked over, one brow arching just slightly, the smirk turned audible.

“Not unless I’m trying to avoid the truth.”

Rosé smiled, the quiet kind that didn’t reach her lips all at once. She didn’t answer right away.

The elevator hummed as it climbed, floor numbers blinking slowly into place.

One. Two. Three.

“I was going to order something,” Rosé said then, glancing sideways, her voice softer now. “Room service, something bad for me, and I still have too many questions I didn’t get to ask you.”

A pause, not long, just long enough for both of them to feel it, that slight checking in, a mutual, silent scan “Is this okay?”

Y/N didn’t hesitate, her hand dropped from the button panel, she turned toward her fully, that smirk still in place, softened now into something more sincere.

“Yeah,” she said. Just that, simple and certain. “Okay.”

The suite was quiet in the way only expensive rooms are, not empty, not hollow, just composed. Like the silence had been designed, not left behind.

It was minimalist, but warm. Deep oak along the built-ins, matte black metal detailing the corners of the room like eyeliner. The floor was covered in a thick, dark rug that muffled even bare feet, floor to ceiling windows framed Paris in sleep, the Seine a slow ribbon of silver, rooftops stacked like memories beneath a misted sky.

Rosé entered first, her steps nearly soundless as she padded across the rug, slipping out of her hotel slippers and placing her heels neatly beside the bed. She didn’t reach for the lights, didn’t turn on music or offer drinks, she simply walked into the space like she knew it didn’t need anything more.

Y/N lingered near the door for a beat, eyes scanning, not because she was uncomfortable, but because she didn’t want to look directly at Rosé too soon. The bed was large, too neatly made, the desk was clean, save for a folded paper bag and a small stack of lyric notebooks. A pair of rings sat on the nightstand, beside a nearly empty glass of water.

Rosé turned toward her then, not from the center of the room, but from beside the bed. Her expression was calm, not inviting, exactly, just open.

“You can sit here,” she said, and the words were softer than they had been in the elevator. “If you want.”

Then, after a small pause “And, please call me Rosie.”

That made something shift.

Y/N let out the faintest breath, one she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and slipped her jacket from her shoulders. She draped it carefully over the armchair near the wall, then walked to the bed and sat, cross legged, near the foot of it. Not far, but not presumptuous.

Rosie climbed up beside her, settling near the center of the mattress, legs tucked up, back resting lightly against the headboard. They weren’t touching, but they were close enough to feel the quiet humming between them.

The suite was still, undisturbed. No food trays, no clutter, just the clean surfaces of a room. The minibar was closed, a single linen napkin sat folded on the desk beside a room service menu, untouched. Everything else was still, like the space had been waiting for them to fill it.

Rosie hadn’t ordered yet, she hadn’t decided whether she was hungry, or just not ready for the night to end. Maybe both.

Y/N didn’t ask.

They just sat, the city glowing outside and the silence between them thickening, not with discomfort, but with possibility.

Y/N leaned back slightly, letting her hands rest on the mattress behind her. Rosie shifted too, drawing one knee up toward her chest. Eventually, without really meaning to, they mirrored each other. Legs bent, bodies angled inward, spines curved like they were leaning toward gravity without falling into it.

And then the words started to come, slowly, at first.

Rosie talked about touring, not the shows, but the days between them. The cities she forgot the names of, the way hotel rooms blurred, how sometimes she didn’t know what time zone her heart was in. She didn’t say it dramatically, just fact, honest.

Y/N nodded, understanding more than she expected to.

Then Y/N talked about race days, about the hours leading up to them, the way the world turned silent just before the engine screamed. How the helmet felt like both armor and silence, how it gave her something no one else could, space and privacy. Even while the whole world watched.

They talked about the pressure of being first at something, what it meant to break through doors you didn’t ask to walk through, how the applause always came with weight, and how no one clapped for you when you needed it most, at 3 am, after the cameras stopped flashing, after the high wore off.

Rosie told her she sometimes wished she could disappear, just for a while. Long enough to hear her own voice again, without thousands of others echoing it back to her.

Y/N looked at her for a long time before replying “I already know how to disappear,” she said. “The helmet helps.”

They sat in silence after that, but it didn’t stretch. It held.

There was no pretense now, no performative comfort. Just two women, stripped of stage and spotlight, sharing the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t show up on skin, only in the way your shoulders eventually drop when someone finally listens.

Outside the window, the city breathed beneath a blanket of fog and silver.

Inside, two people who’d only just met sat like they hadn’t needed words to understand each other at all.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt the need to be anywhere else.

Time didn’t pass the way it usually did in Rosé’s room, it softened, slowed. Lost the need to be measured.

The conversation had thinned into something quieter, something that didn’t need structure or rhythm anymore. Their words were still there, but they blurred a little at the edges, not slurred, not tired, just hushed, as if the room itself was asking them to speak more gently now.

Rosé had shifted a few inches higher on the bed, her knees drawn up close to her chest, her back resting against the headboard. Y/N stayed cross legged, her weight shifted slightly onto one arm, fingers tangled in the folds of the blanket. The space between them had closed without either of them noticing. Not by design, not by decision. Just slowly, like gravity had pulled them inward until their arms brushed.

Y/N’s voice, once teasing, edged with wit and charm, was quieter now. Less clever, more honest. She wasn’t trying to impress anymore, she was just there.

Rosé tilted her head, resting her cheek on the top of her knees, her eyes half lidded but awake. She listened, not with nods or polite sounds, but with the stillness of someone who genuinely wanted to know, she didn’t interrupt, she didn’t steer the conversation. She just let it breathe.

And when Y/N’s voice eventually faded into silence, Rosé didn’t fill it. She didn’t shift away, instead, she moved just slightly, a soft, instinctive adjustment, and leaned to the side. Not much, just enough that her shoulder touched Y/N’s.

Y/N stilled, but she didn’t tense, her body recognized the gesture before her mind did. It didn’t feel invasive, it didn’t feel sudden, it felt like trust.

Rosé let her head rest there, gently, the weight of it light but real, her hair brushing against Y/N’s collarbone, a single strand clinging to the edge of her open shirt.

Neither of them said anything, they didn’t have to.

Outside, the city hummed in sleep. Inside, the room held its breath. Rosé exhaled softly then, a breath she’d been holding without knowing, like her body had been waiting for permission to finally rest, and as she did, she let herself sink closer, her arm moving in a slow, uncertain arc until it came to rest across Y/N’s stomach.

Light, hesitant, then still.

Her cheek slid down just a little, until it found the steady rise and fall of Y/N’s chest, and stayed there. Y/N blinked once, staring at the ceiling, her eyes adjusting to the dark between the faint halo of the city lights outside. Her body didn’t move, her fingers didn’t twitch.

She wasn’t frozen, she wasn’t shocked, she just breathed. Shallow, careful breaths, not out of fear, but preservation, as if this moment might dissolve if she broke it with too much movement.

Because it had been a long time since something felt this gentle.

There had been touches, sure, there had been noise and tension and want. But this? This was different, this was stillness. The kind that made your bones go quiet, the kind that didn’t want anything from you.

And even though she barely knew her, really, by most standards, barely knew her at all, it didn’t feel like too much, it didn’t feel rushed.

It felt right.

Like their edges recognized each other.

So Y/N let her hand stay where it was, just beside Rosé’s forearm, close enough to touch. But she didn’t move it, not yet. She just closed her eyes, the rhythm of Rosé’s breathing syncing slowly with hers, and let the silence cradle them both.

There was no plan, no promise, just two women, who had nothing left to perform, choosing not to be alone tonight.

And that was enough.

Paris woke first.

Not with color, but with light, the kind that didn’t announce itself, but crept in through glass and space and stillness. A faint silver pressed into the corners of Rosé’s hotel suite, brushing against the walls, making shapes out of shadows. The sky beyond the window was pale and soft, somewhere between grey and blue, the kind of color that only exists when the world is just beginning to exhale.

Inside the room, it was quiet, no city sounds yet. Just the soft, steady hum of distant movement far below, blurred into white noise by double-paned glass.

Y/N opened her eyes slowly, and for a moment, she didn’t remember falling asleep. She just knew she was warm, grounded. Her body hadn’t moved much during the night, one arm curled at her side, the other stretched across the bed in a loose arc. There was weight there now. A head, an arm.

Breath.

She turned slightly, not sharply, not enough to wake the other girl, just enough to see her.

Rosé.

Still asleep, her lashes resting soft against her cheek, her body tucked in close, half-curled into Y/N like they’d done this before, like this was normal. Her dress had slipped up slightly in the night, one bare shoulder catching the soft glow of morning, her arm draped across Y/N’s waist, relaxed and weightless. Her hair was a mess, flattened on one side, tumbling over the other, one strand stuck gently to her cheek.

And still, somehow, she looked completely at peace.

Y/N’s chest tightened at the sight, not in panic, not in fear, no. Just recognition.

She didn’t move, didn’t clear her throat, didn’t try to extract herself from the tangle of limbs. Her hand was resting near the small of Rosé’s back, fingers splayed against the fabric of her dress. She could feel the slow rise and fall of her breathing, soft, rhythmic, real.

For a long time, she just stayed like that.

Listening and feeling.

Trying to hold onto the strange, quiet truth that had settled over them like fog. That this, whatever it was, felt safe. Too safe, maybe, for two people who barely knew each other’s middle names. It should have felt like borrowed time, like something fragile and temporary.

But it didn’t, it felt steady, it felt known.

Rosé shifted in her sleep, a small, unconscious movement. Her hand moved slightly, curling just a little against Y/N’s side, and her head pressed closer, a slow nuzzle, not quite intentional, but familiar in a way that made Y/N’s breath catch.

A soft sound escaped her lips, not words, just a sigh from somewhere deep in her chest. She adjusted again, only barely, and settled once more.

Her face was inches away now, if Y/N looked down, she could see every detail. The curve of her nose, the soft indentation of her bottom lip, the way her brow stayed relaxed, unbothered by whatever world she was dreaming in.

Y/N didn’t know what this was supposed to mean, she only knew that it meant something.

And that for once, in a career full of calculated risks and controlled outcomes, she had absolutely no desire to figure it out, not yet.

She blinked up at the ceiling, then let her head fall gently back onto the pillow, letting the soft, rhythmic weight of Rosé against her chest pull her back toward stillness.

Outside the window, the world began again.

Inside, neither of them had to.

Not yet.

[gingermintpepper]

“Pallas Athena,” he greets softly. There is no affection in his voice, barely any intonation save for stiff, long-practiced neutrality. He continues wringing the water from his hair like she’s not intruding upon the sanctity of his purification ritual, “Have you already had your fill of victory?” 

His calmness is… off-putting. Unnatural. Like the stillness of the sky before a horrible storm. She’s grown accustomed to his icy silences, the dark looks thrown when their father isn’t watching, the barely restrained disgust when he’s forced to hear her speak of her tactics and methods for obtaining unquestioned victory. She knows Apollo isn’t weak-stomached - of all their kin, he is perhaps the most practiced in death - but he is not a warrior. He finds no glory in death-bringing, no meaning in the intricacy of war-work. For him, it is a job, a task that must be completed for the continued equilibrium of the mortal world. It means he can still be hurt by war’s savagery. And he had been hurt. Repeatedly. She had personally seen to it. No matter how good he was at his work, Phoebus Apollo was still an emotional creature. Not weak-stomached perhaps, but still soft. Tender. 

“I’ve something important to discuss.” 

He’s languid when he unpins the remaining length of his hair. It falls in heavy, swirling waves, rich gold which threatens to drag upon the ground if he hadn’t deftly grabbed the ends and tied them round his thigh. “I know you have little concept of ceremony but this is a bit ridiculous don’t you think?”

His dark hand reaches for one of the vases of oil stacked neatly on a little jut of rock that acts as a ledge. Athena intercepts him, standing a little taller to convey her graveness. “It’s very important. I only need a moment of your time.” 

She expects him to sigh, to cross his arms petulantly over his thin chest and complain that the war is over and so is her access to him every hour of every day. She expects to have to remind him that the battle isn’t finished ‘til the Acheans have vacated Trojan soil, to coax him from the little solitary cave of mourning he’s obviously built himself so he can see his job to its total completion. 

Instead, she gets another look. Calm. Dark. Horrible.

Apollo does not sigh, but it is a very near thing. “A moment and nothing more.” 

“The Acheans will begin their preparations to return soon,” she takes hold of the vase and carefully passes it to him. It smells saccharine, like rosewater or something similar. Like perfume to hide the stench of death. “I need your word that you will not hinder them on their journeys.” 

Their fingers brush as Apollo accepts her offering. It’s always odd the way his warmth radiates past all logical barriers. Athena can feel the chill of the water alongside the heat of his fingertips. Somehow, it is the cold that lingers despite all his warmth. “I do not make impossible promises, Athena. I want Neoptolemus,” he says. She stops as though struck. “The rest will have my blessing if they but ask.” 

“Phoebus— “

His eyes are like congealed blood when he looks at her, dark and tar-like upon an altar’s surface. “I want Neoptolemus. And I will have him.” 

How similar his tone has become to Father’s in these long years acting as his mouthpiece! Though his words are soft, the finality in his voice brooks no argument. How easy it is for her heart to soar at the prospect of a fight. Her warrior’s mien shutters all her feelings away like she’d never taken her helmet off. Her clawed finger pokes harshly into his chest, he’s marble hard under her touch. “You already had Achilles. You’ve no right to his son.” 

She regrets the words the moment they leave her lips. A stupid mistake; a feint when she should have dodged altogether. 

Apollo’s face goes slack and still. Serene, one would say, if they were a fool who had never before seen the shape of his wrath. He stands to his full height, broad shouldered, the flickering ends of his hair the only signifier of his displeasure, “Who said a thing about Achilles?” She huffs but does not answer, unsure of where his anger lies if not at the foot of Pelides. “Polites. Eurypylus. Priam. Helenus’ jailor. Andromache’s conqueror. If it weren’t Odysseus’ lot, Neoptolemus would have thrown Scamandrius from the tops of the balcony himself. What other reasons do I need?”

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the treacherous tyrant

the wistful wyvern, chapter three

a/n: I'm just gonna take this moment as an excuse to say that if you haven't yet checked out the info or maps about this world i've created, then i highly recommend you do, it'll make it much more fun, for example when we hop around from place to place in this one? you can spot on the map where we are.

summary: halting a moment, he turned to tug your horse’s reins out of your grasp and let her stand on her own, “look, just follow my lead,” before he turned with the expectancy of you shadowing him, “I have a plan.” 

warnings: knight!bucky barnes x knight!reader, fantasy AU (monsters, but not much magic), original fantasy world, ex-friends to lovers, coworkers to lovers, former fuckboy!bucky, tattooed!bucky, slow burn, one-sided pinning, forced proximity

word count: 1374

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

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“What is it?” you asked when Bucky suddenly leapt off his horse and kneeled down to investigate a spot on the dusty path that split the treacherous terrain. 

“…boot marks…” he mumbled, “fairly recent too…” 

It had been a week or so that you’d been stuck trying to navigate through the jagged landscape of The Asadånie Mountains. From climbing rocky hillsides to the crumbly trail you now followed, it had been hard to know if you were making any headway at all or simply walking in circles. 

Straightening back up to his full height, you slid off your horse as well just as a low rustling noise, from further up where the path curved, found both your alert ears. 

Swiftly, you rushed in behind the tall shrubs that grounded the thin pine trees that shot up towards the blue skies above the mountains. 

The bigger of the peaks before you appeared to open up into a dark cave. In the mouth of it, posted just outside, stood three figures that sent a chill down your spine. 

Silently nudging the knight hiding beside you, his eyes too grew wide with recognition of the uniforms they wore. 

“What are Oblén soldiers doing up here in the mountains?” he whispered, sharing a glance with you before you turned your gaze back to the guards. 

A fourth figure then appeared, marching out of the cavern and prompting the other warriors to go rigid at his presence. 

“Commander Abbot,” one of the soldiers addressed the man clad in gilded armour, “did it go as planned?”

“Well, I still have my head, you idiot,” he rolled his eyes, “so yes, it went as well as it could.” 

“So, The Treacherous Tyrant is agreeable to the king’s orders, then?” one of the others asked as their commander began to walk away from the grotto, the guard’s feet slightly shuffling to keep up, “will he strike again before next full moon?” 

“As long as we keep his dearest safe, then he will continue to do as the king commands.” 

You both stood frozen, hidden behind the flora as the soldiers from the southern kingdom passed, scarlessly even breathing at all before they were long gone. 

“The dragon’s in cahoots with them?” you uttered as you guided your horse back up onto the narrow path, “how is that even possible?”

With his gaze low to the ground, Bucky then mumbled, “The Treacherous Tyrant… I’ve heard that before… what was it…” he shut his eyes a moment, “Farrowghol,” his vision blinked open once more as he remembered, “Farrowghol, The Treacherous Tyrant.”

“Holy fuck…” you shuttered, unable to stop the terror that began to rain down upon you as you stared over at Bucky and saw the wheels in his brain still turning. 

“They mentioned something about keeping something dear to him safe?” his features crinkled up in thought before unfurling with clarity, “oh, what if–…” and before he could finish his own sentence, share his brilliant idea with you, his feet began to move. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I have a feeling,” he began to walk towards the cave entrance, “something’s off.”

“You have a feeling? You’re gonna go get flambeed based on a fucking feeling?”

Halting a moment, he turned to tug your horse’s reins out of your grasp and let her stand on her own, “look, just follow my lead,” before he turned with the expectancy of you shadowing him, “I have a plan.” 

“Fuck your plan!” you screeched, standing your ground, “I’m not going in there!”

But as you watched him get swallowed by the darkness of the cave, only a few seconds passed by before a sharp curse burst out of you and you reluctantly followed him inside. 

Catching up to him, the dark tunnel soon unfolded into a vast and echoing grotto. Stalagmites burst up from the rocky floor and surrounded various mountainous boulders that might have crashed from parts of the caved-in ceiling where light now streamed in through the cracks and lit up the dim interior. 

For a moment, you thought perhaps the beast had flown away right before you’d entered the cavern.

But that moment didn’t get to linger for long as one of the enormous silhouettes you’d assumed was just another boulder began to move. 

The deep growl that then rumbled throughout the lair caused the small rubble on the ground to vibrate around your boots. 

Its scales were such a murky brown that it nearly looked pitch black, and as it reflected in the rays of light gushing in from above, an opalescent sheen glistened on its hide at its movements as its head unfurled, towering above you and eclipsing the low light before its wide jaw unhinged and a smouldering glow began to appear in the back of its throat. 

Throwing an arm around your waist, Bucky yanked you with him as he ducked behind a nearby boulder just before the monster began to spew fire at you. 

As flames licked up the sides of the rock, the view of them cresting over the top caused you to curl further into Bucky’s side. 

But when the dragon paused a moment, reeling before another go, the man beside you unexpectedly yelled, “we’re here to help!”

Shooting a glare up at him, “what the fuck, man?” you cursed in a hushed tone, “what are you doing? Shaking its hand and offering it a fucking pint?”

The leviathan’s booming rumble then invaded the entire cavern, “Farrowghol doesn’t need the help of wheezily little insects,” his heavy stride shook the space as he circled you like a large cat ready to pounce on their prey. 

“King Ivan has something you love,” Bucky bellowed, “we can get it back for you!” 

Farrowghol then suddenly halted, the entire cavern growing dead quiet. 

“That’s why you’re doing their bidding, correct?” Bucky went on, “they took something from you?” he then shifted, slowly sliding his crossbow off his back, “you can trust us. See?” he tossed the weapon off to the side for the beast to spot, “you and I, we share the same enemy.”  

Squeezing your eyes tightly shut, you thought for sure the dragon would let you feel his wrath once more, but instead, his deep roar resounded once more. 

“Not something,” he corrected, “someone.”

“A person?” Bucky carefully stepped out, leaving your hidden frame still in his eye line as he faced the beast with his palms raised up high. 

“My kin,” the dragon bellowed, “that’s who he has imprisoned. Ready to crush each and every one of them if I don’t obey. They’re hidden deep within his walls, in a chamber made entirely of hellstone,” he spoke of the rare material, which was the only thing known to be able to withstand the obliterating breath of a dragon, “I could never reach them, even if I tried, and I have.” 

“We can get them back!” Bucky promised, “set you free from the king’s control!” 

You couldn’t help but tremble as the beast's words shook the lair once more, “I lost my mate aeons ago… Those eggs are all I have left,” he shared hesitantly, “if something happens to them,” he warned with a crackle that raised the temperature a significant amount, “I will burn down everything you hold sacred.” 

“Sounds fair enough,” your fellow warden nodded tensely, “and if we do this, you’ll hold out on their commands of attack?”

“You have one lunar cycle,” he slowly settled, “if my kin have not returned to my cave within that time, I will not hesitate to strike.”

When you finally exited the cave and the bright sunlight once more licked at your skin, Bucky’s tense shoulders dropped back down with a long exhale, whereas yours, on the other hand, did not. 

“Alright,” he muttered, passing you as he briskly walked up to where your horses were still waiting, “so we just break into the palace in Ingorn. The chamber, it’s probably like a vault or something? That can’t be too hard, right?” 

Trailing behind him, you breathed, “no, it is…” before halting your step completely as you sighed, “fuck…” staring daggers down at the ground as you then uttered, “I have to go speak to my father.”

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[heian-era-housewife]

Not in a Thousand Years

Synopsis | Ryomen Sukuna, King of Curses, thought he had seen and heard it all...until now.

Content | Fluff, brief Sukuna tears

Word Count | 657

While no day on earth with Ryomen Sukuna could ever truly be considered "normal", this one was, you thought to yourself quietly, as normal as they ever may come. And while you reveled in awe at the unique and utterly unparalleled situation from which your relationship with the King of Curses was blossoming, this simple moment, free of transcendental fanfare, was easily the best you could remember.

Ryomen Sukuna, creature of the night, God of the Heian Era, looked out of place -- anachronystic -- sitting beside you on a park bench, four crimson eyes squinting against the warm afternoon sunlight. Your feet swung slightly as you traced the veins in his chiseled hand, humming softly into the rugged arm on which you were leaning.

All day long a seed of affection had been growing within you, and as you sat there drinking him in, feeling his warmth, both of you here in this deliciously ordinary moment, you found yourself smiling up to meet his gaze, words spilling beyond your lips before you could fully comprehend their weight.

"Ryomen...I love you."

=CRACK=

In an instant the glowing sunlight was sucked away, replaced with darkness that threatened to swallow your soul. Dumped harshly from the park bench, you landed on hands and knees, bloodying them from the intensity of the impact. Your brain reeling from the sudden change, you barely registered that you were kneeling in water that reflected the skulls and bones strewn about the darkened chamber. 

Fear shot through you in panicked waves. Not from your gruesome surroundings, but from the sudden realization you were no longer beside Sukuna.

Wide-eyed and half-crazed you strained your eyes against the darkness. Had he been attacked?

"RYOMEN?!" You cried.

Getting up from the sodden ground, you spotted his shadowed form against the chamber's scarlett glow. Footsteps echoing as you splashed your way toward him, you watched as the King of Curses, knelt on all fours as if wretching onto the ground, lifted a powerful hand and struck himself brutally across the face.

"RYO!!!" You shrieked, closing the gap with inhuman speed and reaching out to take his face in your trembling hands. As you cupped his graven cheeks, something warm and wet met your palms. You tilted his face toward you to find four delicate streams of salty tears glazing his stricken face.

"Ryo... I-"

Closing his eyes against the shame of being seen in such a pitiful state, he lifted a single imposing hand to halt your faltering words.

Eyes still closed, he spoke to you in a low and gravelled voice.

"Forgive me." A phrase the King of Curses seldom dared to utter. 

"Ryo where are-"

"I've brought you to my domain." He answered before you could finish the question.

Swallowing hard and drawing a shuttering breath, he drew himself to one knee, water rippling around his robes, as he took one of your small, worried hands into two of his.

"I have been alive for over a thousand years." He continued. "Housed in vessels across the eras. At times, sealed away biding my time with nothing more than my own thoughts. I've seen war and famine. Peace and prosperity. Ruled a nation. Basked in the awe of worshipful subjects...I thought I had seen and experienced all that was and ever will be."

He drew another breath as he lifted his face to meet your mournful gaze.

"But never once, across a hundred lifetimes, has anyone spoken those words to me."

Your expression grew quizzitive as you fought to keep up with what he was saying. Seeing the question in your eyes he drew himself to full height, wrapping his arms around you, engulfing you fully in his towering embrace. 

The darkness melted away as he released his domain. Sunlight shone beyond your closed eyelids. Warmth rejuvenated your trembling body.

Placing a tender kiss upon the very top of your head, Sukuna answered, "I love you too."

[woodcraftshutters]

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[calamiitywrites]

— qimir x reader

trigger warning: graphic scenes and descriptions of violence, blood and death. please proceed with caution.

request via ask: "I actually would like to request a one shot or maybe even a story where the reader ( or an oc doesn't matter ) is hunting Jedi for her own reasons and is on her way to becoming a sith, but she's terrified of her force because it's not only powerful, but full of rage so needless to say it stems from the dark side. I don't want her to replace Osha or Mae, in fact I want them included in the story. however, I do want Qimir to end up teaching this character. Add some seduction of course, some mystery and I want it from the character's pov. I know this idea is all over the place and I'm not giving you much to work with but I would definitely like to see him interact with this character who could learn a lot from him but has the potential to be a stand alone character herself."

note from author: I think I understand the gist of what you're requesting so I will definitely interpret it in my own way. Please let me know if this is what you had in mind :) also, sorry it's so long, I had to introduce the character first haha!- calamiity

There's a distant hum that tickles at her brainstem and finds itself traveling down to the pit of her stomach. she should be weary of this sensation because it was nothing more than the force riddling through her body. decorating her veins in a fire that could coat the 7 levels of hell in different degrees of flame. What kind of beast had she become to worship a power that made her feel this way? The moonlight, a silvered blade slicing through the night did nothing to hide her or shield the outside world from seeing what she truly was, a beast in human form. it whispered to the stars about her, but the sky was her only companion. Without judgement, It listened to her battle cries and the pleas of the Jedi that she cut down mercilessly. Crimson clung to her robes and dripped slowly down the exposed pieces of her face outlined by the fabric that covered her nose and lips. the deep red of it was in complete contrast to the darkness reflected in her irises. She had allowed the force to nearly consume her from the inside out and the eerie abundance of obsidian that nearly took over her entire vision told her that she had gone too far tonight. Her power — a forbidden curse with a seductive allure. The force must be exercised and properly managed, but the emotions beneath the surface of her consciousness were far too powerful for tradition. Wrath, Loss, Pain and Vengeance. They all danced the danse macabre within her soul, drenching it in affliction. there was no turning back now. Her veins were like molten lava, but they were chilled by the sound of the whimpering jedi that lay at her feet. Before she could stop herself, her eyes wandered to the delicate skin under his chin and she could feel the power of the force expand and contract around his throat. It took half of a second for her to realize that he was choking. a gentle tilt of her head was the only give away to her true curiosity. could she really end his life this way? how long would it take? A thread, a piercing silver stream of light slid through the forefront of her mind and she followed it. It broke off to her left and her eyes caught movement behind the shop window that sat uncloaked. It occurred to her that the 4 jedi she had murdered in front of the shop window was witnessed by someone. rather or not she was wearing a mask didn't matter, the idea of being seen in her most volatile state nearly made her shutter. however, there was no turning back now. With the distraction of the hidden bystander, the once choking jedi had gotten up and began sneaking away. She couldn't let that happen. Refocusing, she retrieved his lightsaber and ignited it with deliberate slowness. Aligning her gaze with his position, she extended her left arm to match his height, letting the dark blue blade hover above her other hand. Once she was certain of her aim, she harnessed the Force and propelled his saber like an arrow. It flew straight and true, embedding itself in the center of his back and causing him to collapse lifelessly where he stood. She turned back to the glass in search of the movement that she had seen before, but there was nothing. although she was sure that the person was still there, there was no reason to pursue them. instead, she flexed her force once more to create a smoke screen and vanish into the night where she had come. The night’s embrace was both her refuge and her torment, and as the echoes of her power faded into the void, she was left with the haunting realization that the greatest battle she would ever face was not against her foes, but against the seduction of her own darkness.

Her ragged gasps were the only thing that filled her ears as she removed the bloodstained robes that clung to her skin. A bath would do her some good, but it wasn’t until she was completely bare that she noticed the weight missing from her belt—the sai dagger made from cortosis was gone. Panic surged through her as she realized she must have dropped it during the chaos. however, she couldn't go back to that shop now. the bystander from before had already seen her cloaked figure, if she chanced it now then he would most likely get a glimpse of her. her best bet would be to return in the morning disguised as a merchant.

At first light she followed through with her plan to return to the shop where she had committed the atrocities from the night prior. it was strange to see that the fallen jedi had been removed, the ground cleaned and the sound of murmuring voices questioning if the chaos they heard about last night was even real. "I heard it was a rumor." said one store vendor. "No way, there have been many Jedi killings over the past few days. You heard about that cloaked figure that went after Indara a few nights back?" another spoke.

She paused for a brief moment at the name, she had never killed a jedi named Indara....perhaps there was another seeking out revenge? either way, it made her job easier. one less monkey for the zoo.

"I heard it was a drunk bar fight that went wrong and that they turned on each other." she chimed in. if everyone was going to put out some gossip, she might as well add her tidbit to throw them off a bit.

"There have been a lot of them spotted at the pub lately." the older woman agreed.

She hid the half hearted smile that graced her lips when she turned away from them, but her heart sank as she locked eyes with her missing dagger prominently displayed, as if it were for sale, in the window of the shop from last night. The idea of it being displayed as a trinket for someone to snag it nearly made her mouth run dry. She knew she had to retrieve it before the blade—or its significance—fell into the wrong hands. but how?

[sleepyrainart]

Bath time Interruption.

Description: You're just lazing in a bath with a mug of wine. Before Akamaru interrupts you and then Kiba, at least he has food. A cute domestic fluff to start the new year.

No mention of reader's gender. Though you kinda have to have a love for baths, wine, and dogs. Liking Kiba is also a plus.

Pairing: Kiba Inuzuka x Reader.

Rating: General.

Warnings: None.

The shimmering purple orb bubbles and fizzes in the water. Lavender steam curling up from the bath. Lilac water parting as you step in. Hot water lapping up the porcelain sides as you settle. Your back resting against the warm tub. Closing your eyes to enjoy the relaxing scent of lavender and sweet vanilla. The stresses of the day just melting away. Lazy eyes opening just enough to pluck up your mug. The fruity wine with a tart apple finishing delicately on your taste buds.

Time flows like a shiftless stream, slow and merry. Before hearing the door opening and closing. Claws clacking on the wooden floor. Slippered feet shuffling. The sound of the curtains being drawn, one by one. The clicking claws closer now. Before, Akamaru's big head is pushing the door open with a surprising amount of gentleness. Slinking in as he sits on the shower mat. Looking at you with wet, glimmering eyes. Big fluffy tail thumping against the mat. Pleading for pats and treats. And how can you deny him?

“Aw, baby, I don't have any treats.” His wagging tail slows. Though, he's still looking at you expectantly. Paws tip tapping as he begs. A little whimpering plea. Your heart shuttering into a million pieces. Almost brought to tears by the pitiful sound.

“Uh uh uh, you heard her bud, no treats. You're on a diet anyway.” Akamaru barks at the bad word. Making you laugh. While Kiba sneezes. His sense of smell overdramatic as ever. Sensitive to any perfume.

“Are you okay?” You ask as he looks like he's about to sneeze again. His warm brown eyes watering slightly as he suppresses it. He nods his head, looking better.

“Yep, and I brought food.” He closes the door carelessly with his foot. Holding two cartons up in front of his happy face. Akamaru dancing around his feet. “Not for you, buddy.” He sighs, lifting the cartons higher as the white cloud rises. Engulfing Kiba's form entirely once he's at full height. Your boyfriend was probably using his foot to keep the pup at bay.

Only taking pity on him when he's backing into the door. “Puppy, come here, baby.” Akamaru abandons his pursuit for food, dancing over. Tail wagging, paws trotting as he brushes up against the tub. Dark eyes looking at you expectantly. Tail thwacking the bath. Your eyes shift to Kiba who's busy brushing himself off with his free hand. “Is lavender okay for dogs?”

“Hm, I'm sure it'll be fine. Bath bombs usually only have a small amount of essential oils. Plus, it's diluted by the water. And he doesn't seem to be acting strange.” You nod, reaching outside the tub to grab the small hand towel you had there. Drying your hand. While Akamaru sniffs at your arm. You pat at his giant head, soft as a cloud.

His big head pushing against your palm for more affection. Happy little whines as you scratch his floppy ear. So adorable. “Okay, okay, enough greasing.” Kiba said plopping himself down. Back resting against the wall. Handing you the towel. You abandoned Akamaru to wipe your hands. Tummy growling for food. Scaring the floof away, a few steps.

Before he comes right back as Kiba opens your carton and hands it to you. Handing you chopsticks only when you have a sturdy grip on the carton. Resting it on the edge of the bath. Eagerly slurping up the fried noodles, sweet and savoury, chewy under your teeth. You happily stab a piece of meat, tender protein battered and fried. Coated in a sticky sauce, sweet and tangy. Looking up to see Kiba looking at you, goofy smile on his face, prominent canines on display.

“What?” You ask after swallowing your mouthful.

“Oh, nothing.” He says, going back to his food. You shake your head. Before taking a sip from your mug. His hand reaching out expectantly after you take a swig. Placing the mug in his awaiting hand. He takes a small sip, nose crinkling. He wasn't a fan of the bubbles. But he took a few more small sips. Letting the bubbles pop to savour the flavour. Sweet and tart, a perfect balance. “It’s nice,” he compliments. Before returning the mug to the bath's edge.

“Oh, I'm glad you like it.” You say, stabbing a piece of meat to offer him. He clasps it delicately between his teeth. Sliding it off your chopsticks. His tongue flicking at the drop of sauce that had landed on the corner of his lip. You take a sip from your mug. Choosing to drink from where his lips had been. An indirect kiss that has you blushing.

He offers you a piece of meat from his chopsticks. Licking at the spicy sauce before biting into the chewy meat. Ginger, warm and mellow. Garlic, sweet and tangy. While the chilli was just pleasantly spicy. A delightful departure from your meal.

Akamaru looking between you two. Before, harrumphing when he was ignored. Whining as neither of you pay attention to him. He's so offended. Stomping his little paws as he whines louder. Which finally gets your attention. As soon as your eyes lock on the puppy, Kiba speaks, “no.”

“But…” you start to argue.

“No, he's on a diet.” He interrupts. Your shoulders dropping as you look at the heart broken Akamaru.

“Are you sure?” You pout. Puppy dog eyes turning to him. He's unimpressed by both of you. His expression says it all, mouth pushed to one side and eyes slightly narrowed. “So mean.” You whine. But finish your meal nonetheless. Just avoiding looking in the area which Akamaru mopes. Loudly whimpering, pathetic noises that break your heart. You're sure his big eyes are watery with tears. But you don't have the heart to check.

Finishing the last dregs of your wine. Before pulling the plug. Akamaru flees as the water gargles down the drain. Sounding akin to a monster growling rather than water going down a pipe. Kiba hands you a towel, big and fluffy. Swallowing most of your form in fleece. “Wanna watch a movie?” You ask before a yawn erupts from you.

Kiba shrugs, “sounds like your going to be snoring before the title.” He says before handing you your toothbrush. Toothpaste already spread on, bristles wet. You brush your teeth side by side. Going through your bedtime routines.

Entering your bedroom. Akamaru sprawling out. Fluffy tummy in the air. Tongue lolling from his mouth, drooling and snoring. You settle on your side and Kiba on his. Akamaru wedged between you, warmth radiating from his big fluffy body. Kiba turns on the TV, finding a movie to watch. While you get comfy, snuggling against the fluffy canine. Head on Kiba's shoulder. He was right, you didn't make it past the title.

Thanks for reading.😊

[mymegrokosmos]

"You good?"

Your head whipped around at the voice, the laughter warm in every word. He was smiling when you craned your head from where you knelt, struggling with the zipper on your backpack, to look at him. Of course he was. Jeong Yunho, class clown and unofficial prince of your whole cohort.

You snorted, rolling your eyes at the pretty man fiddling with the strap of his bag. "I'm fine. You can check off your quota of helping out damsels in distress for the day and find someone else to fulfill that requirement."

His expression shuttered at your harsh tone. The deadpan way you parroted the words like you were reading them off a script while your fingers worked furiously in an attempt to charm the zip unstuck. It was silent for a minute and you almost thought he'd left, only you hadn't heard any footsteps.

He was still there when you glanced up again, chewing on the end of one of the strings hanging perfectly from the talisman of truth hanging off the shoulder strap of the beat up messenger bag he wore slung over one broad shoulder.

"Are you always this mean?"

You shrugged.

"I'd say I understand why you have no friends, only that isn't true. You always have those two wolves hanging all over you. Your pack maybe? That would explain why they put up with you."

You sighed.  "Do you always speak every thought you have out loud? It's rather annoying. I'm trying to focus."

Instead of leaving like you hoped, because why on earth would you ever be so lucky, he knelt beside you instead. Talisman forgotten completely as he ducked his head to get a better look at what you were doing. He nudged your hands aside and with a few deft movements of his own he had your stubborn zipper sliding back into place in no time.

"You didn't have to make that look so easy."

He wiggled long fingers in a way that sparked something familiar in your brain. You knew those gestures. Or, you should know them, anyway. You recognized a sigil of smoothing and a charm of repair. You sighed. Why did he have to be good at all the subjects you shared?

"Thanks."

You didn't spare the man another glance as you stood, swinging your newly functional again bag over one shoulder. He sprang back up to his full height with a grace you usually only saw in shifters and you remembered he was also an athlete. Of course there wasn't anything the golden boy of year 9 couldn't do.

You suppressed another roll of your eyes, just barely, and glanced over at your desk to make sure you'd gotten everything. It wouldn't do to leave any of your things behind, not here. It would be easy for any of your classmates to read too many secrets into any notes or objects they found lingering around. You couldn't have that.

You turned to leave, narrowly avoiding bumping right into Yunho's sweater clad chest. You put a hand out to stop yourself colliding with him, hand landing right on the soft cheery yellow fabric, and quickly pulled away at the little electric zap that followed. He frowned at you. You didn't stop to explain, just pushing past and angling your hip so no more of your body brushed against his as you hurried out of the room.

"I'm Yunho by the way. If you even care to know."

You threw the steely haired man a look that you hoped conveyed your disdain. Something you weren't entirely sure you were feeling but he didn't have to know that. The faux flame lighting crackling overhead along the lecture hall ceiling gave the silver of his hair a blue tone you found oddly appealing. You blinked those thoughts away and shook your head to clear it.

"I know who you are Jeong."

"Good, then can I call you by your first name next time we meet like this?"

"There won't be a next time."

You'd have to make sure of it. You couldn't afford friends. None besides the two you couldn't shake anyway. You really couldn't afford any distractions. Yunho was a very very big distraction in the making. You didn't give him time to get any more words in. This was the first, and last, conversation with Jeong Yunho you'd ever have.

Or so you told yourself.

[multiwreckedmess]

Kinktober Day 9

Prompt: Stuck in Wall Pairing: CampusCrush!Wooyoung x fem!reader WC: 1.8k Summary: Instructions unclear, stuck in the new IKEA Bestå. This is a work of fiction, it does not represent Wooyoung or any Ateez member. On top of this it is an 18+ work. For my comfort and boundaries please if you are under age do not interact with this. TW/CW Under the Cut!

TW/CW: just so fucking stupid. little bit of ass fixation, slight dry humping, protected sex, really fucking stupid

 “I cannot believe I’m stuck in some cheesy porn script. Oh this sucks. Oh my god this sucks,” you yell.  The assembly instructions for your new television console clearly stated that it was a two person job and yet, you were stubborn and went ahead. Now, almost two hours later, you’ve somehow pretzel’d your way through one of the cubbies with no way out.  “Wooyoung help! Can you hear me, you moron, help! You’re going to go deaf if you keep listening to music that loud you little-SHIT,” a sharp slap to your ass interrupts your tirade. “WOOYOUNG!”  His witch cackle gives him away. Presumably somewhere behind you, your leg kicks blindly back.  “I dropped the screwdriver and now- it’s too heavy I’ll get squished if I knock it over,” you gesture at your predicament.  He cackles again. The cold snap of a camera shutter echoing in your mind.  “Did you just take a picture of my ass?” You practically scream. “Help me or the second I get out of this thing I’m going to end your entire short twink-y life you GREMLIN.”  Sighing, Wooyoung places his phone on the kitchen counter. Appraising what exactly had you helpless in front of him. “You can just go back the way you came?”  “No moron. If it was that easy I would've done it. Now can you please PLEASE pull me?”

 One hand bracing the frame of the console, the other holding your waist Wooyoung pulls. You don’t budge an inch. He huffs, blowing a tendril of hair up and away from his face. You bounce on your tippy toes with frustration, the fat of your ass jiggling alluringly. You don’t even know you’re doing it as he’s chubbing up inside of his sweats.  “Help me out on this would yah?” Wooyoung asks as he readjusts his arm placement. “I”m holding the shelf just focus on pulling back with me, three, two, one, GO!” Both of you tug down, your ass grinding into him, adjusting the height as you push back harder and harder. Still you stay trapped between plywood boards and what’s worse is you can feel him slowly hardening in his loungewear and you don’t hate it.

 You’d had a soft spot for Wooyoung, how could anyone not. Handsome with the right amount of self awareness and unique strange charm. In part you wanted to surprise him with the fully built furniture as a way of impressing him, showing him how sufficient you were, as if singlehandedly setting up the entire apartment would win his heart. Dumb, but crushes make you do dumb things.  “At least your ass looks great like this,” Wooyoung laughs, taking a handful of flesh in his grasp. “God, I never understood how people could be into those cheesy porn plots but… damn. Really is all out there, vulnerable and whatever.”  You stamp your feet, “Wooyoung it isn’t funny.” It wasn’t how you wanted to catch his attention but if it was working who were you to stop it. “What am I gonna do?”  Having had a fondle with one hand his other joins, grabbing the opposite cheek, massaging in large slow circles. “Maybe if you relax a bit,” he trails off. “Take advantage of the situation, meditate…or something.” As if hypnotized by his own languid touches, his hips drift forward to meet your butt. He rests there just leaning into you as blood rushes from his brain to his dick.

 You aren’t doing much better, practically melting in your pants from even this slightest of touches. It was ill advised to move in with him, but you thought that living together would kill the small flame you’d been carrying. Instead the spark had become a full kitchen fire and now it was spreading to the living room. Your head swimming with his suggestion to “take advantage” of your current predicament. “I’m not very good at meditating, could you help me relax?”  “You know, it’s really convenient that I’m home right now. Right when you’re building this. If I’d gone out you’d really be out of luck.” Wooyoung’s teeth catch his lower lip, fighting back a moan as you adjust yourself, ass rubbing against him in the process. “Here’s the problem. I also need help with something,” he pauses, leaning forward and pressing his bulge into you harder. “I think you know what with.”  “Mhm,” you nearly whine, lips pressed together hard, making a thin line across your strained face.  “It’s sort of your fault, if you think about it. So you should be the one to help me. Take responsibility and all.” He fully settles his clothed bulge between your cheeks, dragging them along his length.  “Yes, really, god yes.  It’s totally my fault,” you capitulate easily, voice tightening as need sinks heavily into your core. “However you want me to take it, I will. Responsibility I mean. Take responsibility. I can take it in whatever way.”

 Wooyoung is ready, just waiting for your word before he drops his waistband to his thighs, a small damp spot already formed in his underwear. Running the length of his shaft along the smooth spandex of your tights gives him goosebumps, a tremor of elation passing through his spine. Tentatively he presses the head into the stretched fabric, watching it dimple and pucker under his microthrusts.  “You can take it however I want you to?” His cheshire smile spread wide across his face, tinting his tone. “Even if it’s just this?”  “Mhm,” you desperately want more than just this. Fingers gripping the slats of wood as he jostles you. A short sad wheeze escapes through your nostrils. Despite your best efforts to tamp down your desire your body betrays you.  Wooyoung laughs again, a short outburst, hand coming down hard on your ass before wrapping you in a hug, as best he can. “You sound so distressed! How will you relax if this is all I give you?” Hand snaking south he presses on your mound, the wet squelch of soaked underwear against his fingers sends another shiver down his spine. “You really want me, don’t you?”  “Fuck Woo, yeah I do.”

 The response of your pussy to the telltale crinkle of foil is almost pavlovian, walls fluttering in anticipation of fullness. Feeling the warmth of Wooyoung’s palm on your lower back you can picture the packet between his lips, tearing it open with one hand, not wanting to be too far from you.  The console rocks as he roughly pulls your leggings just under your ass, just enough to give him access to what matters. Strings of your wetness cling and shine as his fingers slide along your slit.  “I was going to prep you but-” he wiggles two fingers in, your walls sucking him deeper. It’s enough to interrupt his train of thought, his persistent teasing. All he can think about is the comfort of your sex. How inviting it is, how ready you are, how much you must want it. “-fuck that’s hot.”  “Please Woo, please, hurry.” You beg. You don’t need to as he quickly replaces his fingers with his cock. Grabbing the frame of the furniture he pulls you back onto him in one smooth thrust. The fullness twists in your gut, knocking the breath from your lungs. “OH! Shit, you feel-why are you so big?” You sound almost offended as you moan, adjusting to the pressure.  “You don’t know that,” he kneads your lower back, rocking closer. “God I wish I could grab your tits. They’ve always looked so fucking delicious. Just sitting there, taunting me.”  “Grab them later fuck me now.” You groan, swirling your hips on him. The wood of the console keeps you from doing much more than rocking and twerking on him.  “Show me how much you want it.” He demands. “I know you can do it. You set all this up. Show me how much you need me to fuck you.”  Whining you arch your back, wiggling your hips side to side. It barely shifts him within you. He still doesn’t move to fuck you. Bouncing on the balls of your feet, you try humping back on him as best you can. Jaw slackening a dry hiccuped sob escapes you. “I’m stuck, you have to. You have to!”

 With a smirk he grabs your waist, tugging back on you to hold you in place. Leaning back and away he rolls his hips, the ridges of your walls dragging along his length. Driven by crazed lust, it isn’t enough to feel how you grip him, he needs to see it. Wooyoung holds the hem of his shirt between his teeth, watching how his abs flex as his bodyline rolls again, your lips tugging with the slow thrust of his cock.  “Woo,” you moan as he slowly fucks you. It’s nice to moan his name aloud for once instead of just in your head. “God damn it Woo. Ssooo good.”  “Hmph,” his response is muted by the cotton shirt. Speeding up little by little.  Your eyes glaze over, mind hazy. Getting fucked by your crush in the living room you shared. Nothing matters except for the insistent drag of his cock against your walls. His hips feel like magic, melting your tension with each stroke. Your leg shakes as your orgasm builds, the entire structure swaying.  Wooyoung’s hands migrate from you to the wood, gripping it and using it as leverage to pound into you harder than before. The ripple of your ass with each percussive slap of his hips has him hypnotized. Lost to the friction of your walls, he thrusts deliriously with abandon, uncaring of the precious nature of the situation. Chasing the delight of your punched out moans and groans.  Core contracting, air is forced from your lungs. The wave of pleasure crashes over you, every muscle bracing as it hits hard. At the same time the console creaks, your top half jolting free. A choked yelp escapes you, unable to warn Wooyoung. The structure crashes forward, fear clamping your walls tightly down on him.  “Shit!” He yelps, eyes wide he spills into the condom unceremoniously. “Fuck!” He continues a steady stream of swear words as he pulls from you, stumbling backwards as you crumple to your knees, panting.  “Can’t believe that worked-”  “I came,” Wooyoung sounds dejected, red and panting. “FUCK! I came so quick.”  Your eyes dart under the sofa, a glimmer of the a loose screw hiding underneath. Looking from Wooyoung to the screw you scoot and reach your arm towards the glimmer, instead grabbing the crossbar of the couch. “Uh…I hate to say it Woo but-”  His eyes twinkle, “you’re stuck? What a dummy, getting stuck twice. I’m going to start thinking you’re doing this on purpose.”

I just love giving Wooyoung the most ridiculous of prompts. He’s fun to write for me.