#god i love the pool scene

[mathispunk]

accidental matchmaking

unblurred version to feed my people

[necrosummer]

im actually losing my mind over sweet pool and how youji is simply the best representation for being the sacrificial lamb, the martyr, the victim of a madonna-whore complex, a vulgarised allegory when loss of innocence keeps hunting him ??? where was the rotten part ?? inside him ??? could he be saved ??? no

[partiallypearl]

Cloud 9 directed by Paul Hoen

[cassmouse]

Ironically listening to this I swear. Iconically terrible soundtrack which I laughed at many many times during the film and now I actually have to listen to it outside the context of the film

[bericas]

scott appreciation week (day 1) → you're an omega

scott in s2 + soap by penelope scott

[abyssalpriest]

Damnit lev lmfao. I was thinking about Shiva wearing corpse ash being resonant for other reasons, something about his relationship with the Bright Skinned Ones and death and whatever. No, no. More fucking importantly: Oh I wonder why Shiva is known for. you know. wearing bodies. his appearance is a mass of bodies joined together. yeah

[yourfourthparent]

I GOT TO THE FUCKING SCENE. WITH DAVID. I'M RUINED.

[beautifulwillfulldead]

[ID: Fanart of A Song of Ice and Fire. Jeyne Poole is wearing a white wedding dress, with a pink Bolton cloak over her shoulders and a white veil over her hair, underneath a flower crown of blue and white flowers. She also has little blue hair loopies at her temples and pink earrings shaped like a flower, as well as a gold bracelet on her wrist with a round blue stone in the center. Jeyne has a facial tattoo that is a line that runs from the center of her bottom lip to her chin. She is holding a flaming candle in her left hand, with her right hand outstretched to a weeping weirwood tree, and looks very sad and tired.

The tree's red leaves form a large canopy that stretches across the entire top of the drawing. To Jeyne's right stands Ramsay Snow, holding a flaming candle in his left hand, which has a gold ring on the pointer finger. He is wearing a red cloak with pink fringes atop a red robe. He is looking off to the side at Jeyne, and is wearing a silver chain in his hair with red teardrops on it, and a red teardrop earring in his left ear. He is smirking. Behind Jeyne stands Theon Greyjoy, who is looking directly at the viewer with a solemn expression. His hair is white, and he has little scars all over his face, including two little healed holes above and below his eyebrow for a piercing. He is wearing a blue cloak.

Next to Theon is Barney Dustin, with only half her face visible. She is facing to the side, with her eyes looking at the viewer. She has the same facial tattoo as Jeyne. Stretching across the entire foreground of the drawing is a large pile of blue winter roses. End ID]

the unequal marriage (after pukirev)

[joycrispy]

I wanna talk about The Angel Who Would Be Crowley.

Because I had a certain set of expectations, which got thoroughly trashed in the first five minutes of S2, and my genuine response is, "Oh, fuck, yup. You're right. That's WAY better."

Looking around at GO fandom, I'm not alone in this. So let's talk about it.

Basically, a lot of people (myself included) believed that he was a high-ranking angel, and therefore as chilly and remote as every other powerful angel we'd seen at that point. We pictured Crowley-To-Be as long-haired, regal and imposing --and the fanart at the time reflected this. I'd link some if Tumblr didn't hate links.

Something like this:

We were collectively drawing on a few things --mostly, Crawly's appearance and general bearing in the Biblical scenes of S1--

--But also scattered hints of his importance, backed up by conspicuous absences in Heaven and a few profound displays of power. That's all better covered elsewhere, so I won't reiterate the arguments here. All I'm saying is: I think our headcanons were justified.

But it turns out he was this:

!!!

With his curly little--!!

And his neat white--!!

IT TURNS OUT, he was an angel who squeaked and squealed when he was happy; who flailed his arms around and made explosion noises with his mouth to explain nebulas; who preened when told his stars were pretty. Furfur, who knew him before the Fall, says:

"You used to jump on me back, little monkey in a waistcoat..."

(The use of a diminutive there, 'little'...oh, that fascinates me.)

In a pretty huge subversion of expectations, we're given these glimpses of an angel who was sweet, and joyful, and heart-meltingly silly.

In sum...an innocent.

(Perhaps innocent to a troubling degree.

We see how he troubles Aziraphale, during their first conversation. He starts looking around and behind them, checking to make sure that no one can HEAR the blithe and reckless things coming out of this angel's mouth. This angel who talks like he's never been reprimanded in his life; like it's never occurred to him that anyone would want to hurt him.

Before the Beginning, Aziraphale understood Heaven better than he did. The danger is plainly occurring to Aziraphale.)

So now, we the viewers are in on a cruel joke that Aziraphale has known all along, which is that this --THIS-- is the angel who--

*checks notes*

--did a million lightyear freestyle dive into a boiling pool of sulphur. For asking questions.

...Imagine you are Aziraphale, and everything inside you wants to believe Heaven are the Good Guys, and God is Good and Everything She does is capital-R Right...and now try to reconcile that. Keep trying. I don't think he ever totally managed it in 6000 years.

All this gets further complicated when we learn that, despite all of the above, we were still right. That sweet excitable babby up there?

He WAS a powerful and high-ranking angel.

That much is explicitly confirmed, with significant evidence that he could have been among the mightiest of archangels...

...Who apparently accosted his fellow angels for piggyback rides. And was remembered millennia later by those (now fallen) angels as something 'little.'

What does that tell us about who he was? Is?

Hell, Aziraphale has known to be wary of the archangels (and the judgements of Heaven in general) since before the Fall even happened. He chooses to believe they are Good; he can't fool himself into thinking they are Safe.

Yet he's absolutely certain that Crowley won't hurt Job's children. Enough to stand in a burning building and say to them, "I can't save you, but don't be afraid. I won't need to."

And what reason does he give?

("I know you."

"You do not know me."

"I know the angel you were.")

What does that tell us about who he was? Is?

("The angel you knew is not me."

But how is Aziraphale supposed to believe that, when he can see him all the time?)

tl;dr --yes, this is better. I love the tragedy of it.

'Innocence died screaming' and all that.

[laracrofted]

let me drown

you meet qimir for a morning swim (qimir x fem!reader)... because i couldn't be normal about that scene.

warnings: 18+, minors and ageless blogs dni, an ode to manny jacinto's collarbones and also his shoulders and arms, slightly painful sex (but like... in a hot and consensual way), possessiveness, pwp basically (wc: 800+)

Droplets of water pool in the hollow of his collarbone, running down his broad shoulders in rivulets, shimmering in the morning sun like jewels, as Qimir cuts through the water. His muscled arms effortlessly slice into the still surface, sending ripples in every direction.

He looks ethereal, swimming in the cerulean pool. A long forgotten sea god, waiting to hook you by the ankle and drag you below the surface, drown you and breathe new life into you at the bottom of the sea.

It's beautiful and frightening in equal measures.

You wait on the shore, seawater lapping at your ankles and bare feet, arms around your knees, ignoring the puddling water that's soaking through your bottoms.

You wait for him to notice you there.

He doesn't keep you waiting – or maybe, Qimir sensed your presence from the moment you'd stepped onto the shore, from the moment your eyes had opened in the cave and looked for him, finding him gone.

A suspicion that's confirmed when Qimir lifts his gaze, unsurprised, sweeping escaping strands of damp hair from his face, and calls out softly, "Aren't you going to join me?"

His voice. You love his voice, as smooth as the surface of the water lapping at his strong shoulders, as the salt-licked rocks on the shore and the cliffs, as the weather-beaten pebbles that dig into your soles as you stand.

You undo the robe in a smooth motion and let it fall from your shoulders, baring yourself to him in the morning light, and Qimir doesn't look away.

He catches his lip between his teeth, dragging his gaze down your naked form, drinking you in with a kind of possessiveness that feels heretical; coveting you without so much as laying a finger on you, owning you with his dark eyes.

You wade in, and Qimir drifts toward you, moving silently and swiftly, predator-like.

An uneven rock catches on your foot under the surface, sending you forward. You tumble into him with a soft curse, and Qimir catches your arms with wet hands, steadying you, guiding your hands to his shoulders.

Flexing your fingers is almost an instinct, searching for a hold, like scaling a cliff, digging in to the muscles, and Qimir shudders, long lashes brushes against his cheeks, inclining his head to meet your gaze.

"Careful," Qimir cautions, soft and honeyed, a kind of music, and you don't know if Qimir means to be careful with the rocks or with your wandering hands.

You gamble on the former and let them wander further, moving over him, mapping him like an uncharted planet. One of your arms slips around his neck, giving him your weight, and Qimir's hand slips under your knee to catch you.

His hand is rough, guiding your leg around his hip, finding a balance.

He is pressed up against you now, cock hardening against your stomach. An involuntary gasp escapes from your mouth, and Qimir nips at the sound, sucking at your lip, beads of seawater dripping from his mouth into yours.

"Careful," Qimir repeats, only this time, it sounds like a question.

Should I be careful? Do you want me to be?

You shake your head slowly, a fine mist of salt water blowing in from the sea, coating your lashes, and Qimir's lips part in a half smile, pleased.

He's not careful. Careful is gentle caresses and the press of his mouth between your legs, warming you from the inside out, drinking from you like a nectar.

This isn't careful.

He doesn't get you ready, doesn't warm your cunt with his fingers, doesn't press you open in increments. He invites your legs around his hips, grasping at your ass with one hand for leverage, and pushes into you in one long and interrupted stroke that knocks the breath from your lungs, knocks your bones from your body.

You press your face into his shoulder, biting down with a whimper, probably leaving marks. That's okay. He likes marks, likes the feeling of your nails dragged down his back.

You're at war with yourself, split in the same way that Qimir is splitting you in half with his cock; a need to squirm away from the overpowering sensation; a need to invite him deeper, harder, faster.

He makes a soothing– borderline mocking – sound against your cheek and strokes your hair back from your wet cheeks; and holds you there, pinned open for him, fluttering and adjusting to the size of his cock.

"Oh? How does it feel?" Qimir asks, still stroking your cheeks.

"Good."

He smiles and lifts your chin with his knuckles and drinks a salt water kiss from your lips. "Good. You're ready for more."

It's not a question.

Seawater runs down your stinging cheeks, sensitive from the stubble on his carved jawline, mixing with the moisture that streams from the corners of your eyes as Qimir finally moves inside of you, dragging his cock out and pushing back in with a sweet and lethal slowness that borders on painful, so controlled; reaching inside and unraveling you from a place so deep that no one else could ever hope to uncover it; no one but him.

He likes it that way. Just him.

[dontmixpaintinyourcoffee]

Alright I have a bunch of contenders here but I'm going to narrow it wayyy way down to the one that I think hooked me into the books in the first place.

Happens right at Book 1, when Visser 3 eats Elfangor. Someone else has already explained the horrific details of the relationship between Esplin and Elfangor and Alloran and all that, and they worded it excellently, so I'd like to bring up a different aspect. Not only was it grotesque and gruesome and detailed, it was an immense shock to my little 9 year old system. I was a big reader as a kid, and all of my nerd kid instincts were telling me that, somehow, Elfangor was going to survive and become the mentor for the kids. The Gandalf, the Obi-Wan, the loving parent character who you go home to at the end of the adventure. A moral compass and protector, because there's no way these kids are going to be left to their own devices, right? That just doesn't happen in stories, that doesn't make sense. And then he didn't. He didn't just not survive, he was obliterated. He was chewed up and swallowed and the kids recount the deafening silence that fell when his screams stopped echoing in their minds. It wasn't just the horror of what was happening in canon, there was almost a meta level to it for me. It's when I felt myself go into free fall with the characters because the story walked right up to me and said "this will not be what you think it will be. " I always felt very strongly with book characters, reading was a major emotional outlet for me, but this was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I wasn't protected by the frame of the narrative anymore. All the rules that I'd built up in my head from tons and tons of kids adventure books meant NOTHING here. There is an adult who is kind, who is a soothing presence, who seems to have the best interests of everyone at heart, and he is immediately bitten apart and swallowed before he could do anything about it. I honestly think that's the thing that made me so invested, it was a book that didn't want to protect you, it didn't want to shelter you, it wanted to challenge you. I wasn't aware of it at the time of course, but that was something that totally changed the way I engaged with media and storytelling, and I love it for that.

in your opinion, what was the most messed up moment in animorphs? either most shocking, weird, gross, horrific....however you want to answer

The scene I've always found most viscerally disturbing is Ax and Marco on the Normandy beach on D-Day (MM3). It's the soldiers rushing the beach in waves, "Like cattle going down the chute to the slaughtering floor. But, of course, cattle don't know what's corning. Humans do... And they still came." It's the way Marco sees every murdered soldier "Like Jake. Cassie and I had sworn to protect him. But there'd never even been a chance." It's Ax being awed by the simple act of the medic being killed "while trying to save a man he must have known was doomed."

The two coldest and most aloof Animorphs are reduced to "crying, sobbing" and "digging in the sand" at their inability to make sense of the battle. It's Ax desperately wanting this to be Visser Four's fault, because surely this can't be the way history is supposed to happen. By the time Rachel is dropping grenades, we understand her sheer desperation to make it stop, regardless of the cost.

That said, maybe I find that one so impactful because it's a real event. My grandfather fought in that war, my distant cousins died in that war. I don't have the same visceral fear of turning into a spider that I get from "Bullets entered organs by neat, round holes and came out in a shredded mess... One second they were scared and brave and alive. The next second they were dead."

Anyway, everyone's mileage may vary, and if someone else has a different contender then toss it out there.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Omg!! Think you can do the opposite version of the hickey ask? Where the guys notice a hickey and get all jealous n’ pissy🤩 i love it & your writing🥰

Ha! Anon, you have me giggling and kicking my feet. The hickey ask anon is talking about can be found HERE, but I absolutely love the idea of doing the opposite. Instead of a hickey on one of the guys, it's on reader. hehe. (oh god I need to go touch grass or maybe use my teeth to the mow the lawn right now because I am salivating).

Presented in four double drabbles.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, possessive behavior, rough kissing, secret relationships, suggestive themes, jealousy

Word Count: 800

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

John’s grip on your upper arm is a vice.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he says, voice low.

“Let go, John,” you snap. “You’re going to cause a scene.”

“Am I?” he counters. “Everyone’s already been talking. You’re showing that thing off on your neck like you’re proud of it.”

“Maybe I am,” you reply. “Why do you care?”

With a quick tug, John plasters you against him. His body is all heat and muscle. Everything in you ramps up, becomes wanton. It remembers him.

“Who the fuck touched what’s mine?” he asks in a hoarse whisper.

You swallow. Shake your head. “I’m not yours, John. You always push me away.”

John’s lips come dangerously close to yours. “Tell me who touched you.”

“You did. Don’t you remember?”

You feel him freeze, as if his mind and body are frozen as he tries to recall what happened. The two of you had been drinking when you slid into his lap.

John closes the distance, stealing a kiss that is more possession than anything else. The sensation goes straight down to your toes, and pools between your thighs.

“Come back to my office.”

“John—”

“I want to recreate last night.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“No. No. Don’t walk away from me.”

Kyle’s hand grips your wrist. He tugs, pulling you back in his direction. Kyle is right there, standing so close, head bent forward with intimacy that sinks down into your soul and shatters everything you are.

You cannot resist this man. Never.

“I don’t understand why you’re acting this way, Kyle.”

Kyle grasps the side of your face, his thumb pressing down on your bottom lip. “Because someone marked you. I want to know who it is.”

Does he not know? Does Kyle not remember?

Kyle licks his lips and you follow the movement, remembering how he tasted last night.

“Tell me who it is. I just want to talk to them. Set them straight.”

You laugh and Kyle frowns.

“You’ll be talking to yourself,” you reply.

His mouth opens. Closes. Kyle’s hand drops away from your face to settle on your shoulder, fingers delicately tracing the mark on your neck.

“I did this?” he asks, almost absently.

“You did,” you affirm, heat rising to your cheeks. “Last night.”

Kyle smirks. His gaze roams upward, meeting your own. “Want me to give you a few more? Doesn’t have to be on your neck.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Oh, love. What’s this?”

You lean away but Johnny is quick. He corners you, pressing you into the wall. He’s smiling, but you can see the underlying irritation. His gaze roams all over your body.

“Need something?” you bite, knowing that if the two of you linger here too long, someone will come looking or accidently happen upon you.

It’s not like Johnny is being discreet. He has one knee between your legs, and a hand on your hip. It’s a possessively intimate embrace, and it reminds you of all the things the two of you did last night.

“Aye. I do actually.” Johnny lightly pinches the mark on your neck and you flinch.

“What the fuck?”

“Who gave you that?”

You blink. “What?”

“The fucking hickey. Tell me so I can beat their fucking face bloody.”

You roll your eyes and Johnny pinches you again.

“Stop that.”

“Tell me.”

“You’ll be fighting yourself, Johnny.”

Johnny’s demeanor completely changes, becoming a sultry thing that swirls pleasure deep in your belly. This time he doesn’t pinch. He leans in, running his tongue along the mark. When he pulls back, he grasps you tight, pressing his lips to yours, stealing all breath.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“You’re mine,” growls Simon as he picks you up and sets you on top of your desk.

You have no space to argue. Simon is already kissing you. Nipping your lips. Drawing forth a bit of blood to suck into his mouth.

“I know,” you whimper as his hand squeezes your thigh, dragging you to the edge of the desk. His hardness grinds against you, and you moan.

“If you know, then tell me why someone else has marked what’s fucking mine.” Simon grasps the back of your neck, drawing you back, and holding firm. Your fingers claw at the front of his shirt.

“What are you talking about?”

Simon growls. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

You blink. Completely confused. “You gave this to me.”

Simon says nothing. He just stares. “Last night.” You shrug. “I mean we drank a lot but fuck. Thought you’d remember that.”

Simon gently eases his hand from your neck. “I don’t. But you know what that means, love?”

You suck on your bottom lip, tasting a bit of blood that Simon coaxed to the surface. “What?”

“Just means I need to give you a few more. As reminders. For you. And others.”

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@enarien @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

@ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat @ninman82

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@haven-1307 @voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @spicyspicyliving @keiva1000

@littlemisscriesherselftosleep @greeniegreengreen @umno-yeah @blackhawkfanatic @talooolaaloolla

@sadlonelybagel @kadeeesworld @iloveslasher @sammysinger04 @dakotakazansky

@suhmie @jaggersinclair @jackrabbitem @lxblm @beebeechaos

@no-oneelsebutnsu @kidd3ath @certainlygay @thewulf @lovely-ateez

@whisperwispxx @gingergirl06 @eternallyvenus @smileykiddie08 @arrozyfrijoles23

[felixsbakingbud]

This is the second piece of media I’ve consumed centered around orange peeling as a love language and I. Am. BROKEN???? I absolutely LOVE love that’s as gentle as this, quiet and caring. I’ll never get over how you write Hyunjin. It’s so intricate how you write him, like I love how he always notices the small details that no one else does. You truly understand your soulmate and it shows my fave Hyunjin writer 🫶🥹 also the added touch from both fics with how they’re willing to tell each other anything and follow each other anywhere? I just thought it was so so cute how deep their relationship is even before they confessed.

"Thank you for pretending you don't know how to." This absolutely emotionally destroyed me as the last line I fully wasn’t expecting something to be so beautifully written. This is true love, love in its most purest form. I never expected to find it in something as simple as oranges but now I see it I just never wanna let go of this trope.

Orange

hyunjin x reader. childhood friends to lovers. implied soulmates. hyune's pov.

this is the prequel & sequel to you're in the wind, i'm in the water. you need to read the prev fic first to understand how hyunjin and mc confessed to one another!!

this is very self indulgent but it's also my bd gift so i get a pass hehe also a tribute to one of my fav love languages which is peeling an orange for someone :')

based on Chemtrails Over the Country Club by Lana Del Rey,, so highly recommend listening to it while reading :)) feedback is appreciated as always <333

i'm on the run with you my sweet love

The beige sand warms the soles of your feet as you and Hyunjin run along the shore. His parents sit by a towel, watching you with idle curiosity as you’re propelled forth by the brisk winds; and a sense of feedom only found in the tender hearts of children.

Hyunjin doesn’t know where you’re taking him. He didn’t question you when you entwined your fingers with his before running away, your footprints etched upon the sandy canvas. His sole attention was on your clammy hand, tightly clasping his.

Hyunjin didn’t yet understand what it meant to crave the hand of someone in yours, for it to feel natural for fingers to hold one another. He was only seven. What does one really know at this age?

But he knew that he was drawn to grand things. The beauty of fireworks as they unfold in the sky, dazzling colors rivaling the hues of sunsets. To the towering sunflowers his mother takes him to see, so tall their petals almost seem to be reaching for the sun’s embrace. To the full moon and the way it hangs close to earth, as if yearning to enter our horizon, to sink into the soil and rest.

But in that moment, as he watched your gleeful smile, the blush tinting your cheeks as you tugged him along, a different amazement grew within his soul. It was quiet, it was soft, it didn't overwhelm his seven-years-old heart. It was enough.

You finally stop by a rock, settling in the sand with your hair fanning around you like a halo. Hyunjin hovers over you, his tentative gaze tracing your features, trying to pinpoint what had made that peculiar feeling pour over his body, like candle wax finally meeting its destined mold.

He doesn't find an answer, only your kind smile as you tap the place near you. You were giddy, as if you had run far when his parents remained mere meters away.

Hyunjin had noticed this urge in you to flee, to wander, always. He didn't know what it means. He thought that perhaps you didn't know either. He wondered if you'd ever run away from him. The question burned the tip of his tongue.

"Will we always run together?" Hyunjin suddenly asks, kneeling to meet your eyes.

"If you want to," you shrug. "Will you run away with me when we're older?"

"Where to?" he asks, a note of apprehension coloring his tone.

"I don't know. We'll know later."

"Okay."

"You pinky promise?"

"I do," Hyunjin entwines his pinky with yours, before leaning down to press a chaste kiss on your thumb pad. He avoids your eyes as a dusty blush cascades on his cheeks, akin to the fading pink of a sunken sunset. You giggle, reciprocating the kiss before pressing your thumbs together.

"Sealed forever," you grin, eyes disappearing into moon crescents. Your contagious happiness mirrors instantly on Hyunjin's face, his nose scrunching up in delight.

He wants to keep this smile on your face, he thinks, this intricate joy that dawns upon your features, brightening up your face, making your pinky in his feel lighter, warmer.

So, he takes out an orange from his pocket.

"Where did you get this?" you chuckle, eyes widening in delight as if presented with the world's most treasured jewel.

"A vendor gave it to me," he shrugs, handing it to you.

Your thumb punctures the tangerine's thick skin, making the fruit’s juice drip down your hands. You attempt to peel it but the skin breaks instantly, falling into the sand.

"Here, let me," Hyunjin offers, taking the orange from your hands, peeling it for you.

A strange warmth slowly spreads through his being, akin to tree roots anchoring onto the soil, to the unfurling of petals on the first day of spring. It feels good, for some reason, to do this mundane task for you.

This newfound feeling only solidifies when you smile brightly at him, breaking the fruit into two halves and handing one part to Hyunjin.

You no longer look like you want to run. You look content here, simply sharing an orange with him.

Hyunjin suddenly wants to buy you a whole crate of tangerines. Maybe even a farm of it- just trees upon trees that he can plant for you. He chases the thought away, he's only seven, he doesn't have money, where would he even store the oranges?

Hyunjin didn't have the answer to this question, nor the million ones swirling in his mind. But he knew your smile, the kindness in your eyes, the lingering scent of oranges on his fingers, even after washing his hands. And the word that sat heavy on his soul, from that night forth.

Hyunjin knew he loved you when he was seven years old.

there is nothing wrong contemplating God; under the chemtrails over the country club

"Found you," Hyunjin whispers, reclining on the rooftop near you.

"Wasn't hiding from you," you respond just as softly, your gaze fixed on the turquoise sky overhead. Your words cause Hyunjin's heart to swell within his chest, growing, expanding, pushing against his ribs, yearning to escape and splatter at your feet.

His emotions were always so grand- his happiness consuming his entire being, the sadness, the loneliness rattling his bones with an invincible cold. Then the love for you, not in dependence, the way the planets orbit around the sun. But with choice, because he wants to, craves being near.

"What are you doing?" he asks after a while, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Watching the chemtrails," you point out a tiny plane leaving a white trail in the sky.

"It looks so far away," he whispers in wonder, and you hum with a melancholic expression. Hyunjin curls his hand into a fist, resisting the urge to smooth the delicate frown etched on your brows.

"Didn't you like your birthday celebration?" he finally asks. He knows the answer before you quietly say, 'yes.' You were never one for the chic attire, the fine china and polished silverware reflecting the guests fake smiles. You only ever came to the country club for Hyunjin.

"I just... these people are here for me, supposedly. And yet, I feel so invisible downstairs. I bet no one even noticed my absence."

"I did," he replies instantly, contradicting you vehemently, wanting to dispel the shadows that cloud your mind. "And... I brought you an orange," he adds, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It grows when you beam at him, the chemtrails momentarily forgotten.

"Did you?"

"Mm, here," he swiftly peels the fruit for you, instinctively breaking it into two halves.

"I'm sixteen and I don't know how to peel a tangerine because of you," you giggle, biting into one part eagerly. Water dribbles down the side of your mouth, and Hyunjin delicately wipes it away, his hand cradling your jaw gently.

His heart beats wildly, drowning out the country club's orchestra. He's never been this close to you, noses nearly bumping into one another.

"Don't learn how to," he whispers, licking his lips nervously. He hopes you can't feel the tremor in his hand as it slides down your cheek.

"Why?"

"Then you won't need me anymore," he says honestly, and your eyes widen at his words. Say it, his heart pleads, I can't contain this love anymore. Hyunjin shakes his head, silencing his own thoughts. He'll make room for it; his heart will expand, even if it means bursting at the seams. He can't face your rejection.

"Can I ask you something?" you say after a while, still as close to him.

"Anything."

"Do you ever feel like you don't belong anywhere? You have friends and family, but you feel like..."

"Nobody's son?" he suggests.

"Yeah, nobody's daughter."

"Maybe we're not meant to belong to anyone else but ourselves."

"Isn't that sad?" you ask, bringing an orange wedge to Hyunjin's mouth. "What if I don't always have myself?"

"Well, you'll always have me."

"Do you promise me?" you ask eagerly, eyes wide, tone almost desperate.

"I promise." The fog dissipates, light spilling over your face once again.

"Even though you're so sought after?" you giggle.

"I'm not!"

"You are! Everybody wanted to talk to you downstairs. You're always the man of the hour," you wink, lying down on the floor once again.

"Really? I didn't notice," he says, settling next to you.

"Mm, you never notice anything," you sigh, resting your cheek atop his shoulder.

It's quiet again, save for the tranquil sound of your breaths. Your eyes are trained on the sky, following the path of each plane.

"They look really tiny."

"Maybe we're the small ones," you muse.

Hyunjin doesn't agree. Not when his love for you feels almost ancient, drawn from the depths of the very first fountain of love. It has stayed with him for nine years, intermingled with the very molecules of his being. You can't be small when what he feels for you is grander than the world.

"Maybe we are," he says as he slides an arm underneath your back, pulling you closer to his chest.

"Hyune," you call out softly.

"Mm?" he hums in reply.

"What do you think you're made for?"

I'm here to love you, he wants to say, achingly, fully, on your grand days and your small ones. To fall apart at the altar of your soul and to rise anew, by you, for you. To be yours.

"I'm here to peel you oranges." He whispers instead, his confession, for now.

"And I'm here to eat them, then."

we laugh about nothing as the summer gets cool; it's beautiful how this deep normality settles down over me

"Did you know you have a straight trail of moles on your back?" Hyunjin whispers, his cool breath akin to a gentle zephyr.

"It starts here," he bestows a tender kiss beneath your shoulder blade, as if marking the start of a constellation. "Then you have another one here," his lips brush against your skin, coaxing forth delicate goosebumps, like ripples on a moonlit pond. "And here," he trails down your spine, his mouth weaving a trail only he can see. "And a final one here," he lingers longer near the last mole, lips meeting your lower back delicately, akin to the tender graze of a feather.

If you had told Hyunjin that he would freely kiss your moles, hands trailing down your skin scented with chlorine and vanilla, he would have thought you were insane. But now he has you, because you want him too, against all odds. Hyunjin wasn't alone in his love; every emotion in your soul mirrored his own. Two sides of the same coin. Two halves of the same tangerine.

"And then... it wraps around your stomach," he flips you around until you face him, giddy giggles escaping your lips. "You see it? It goes right here, another straight line," he whispers in wonder, tracing over the moles on your skin as if in worship. There is so much he longs to articulate, words yearning to spill from his mouth. He realizes he can say them now, drape them over your body like a blanket knitted with love.

"Someone plucked stars and arranged them on your skin. You're a galaxy on your own, you know that right? So beautiful," he whispers, eyes wide in adulation, raking over each feature of yours, so much they're seared behind his eyelids. The only sight he sees when he goes to sleep.

"So are you," you smile, hands gently cradling his cheeks. Hands that held him at age seven, then eight, ten, thirteen, and twenty. Hands that dried his tears, patted his back, and played with his hair. Hands that are much more sacred than his own.

"No, you don't understand," he hovers over you, gently smoothing down your hair. "You're so beautiful, so much it dizzies me, consumes me. You consume me, entirely, and I-" He sucks in a deep breath as you smile lovingly, reassuringly.

"I know," you say. "I feel it too."

"I can't believe this is real," he shakes his head, thumb tracing your lower lip gently. "I didn't even plan on confessing when i brought you to this pool. And yet... it feels natural for us to be this way."

You nod, grinning. "Like we belong to one another."

"I told you I'd stay," his eyes soften, capturing you with the same tenderness as always, savoring every part of you.

"You always keep your promises," you smile, hand sliding down the nape of his neck, smoothing a stubborn tuft of hair.

Normal, that's the elusive term he was looking for. It is normal for him to hold you, to kiss you, to look into your eyes and find love swimming in your irises. It is the way it's supposed to be between you. He couldn't ever think of another outcome.

His eyes trail down to your arm, where two moles match perfectly with his, down to the placement, the space separating them both.

"Is this where we kissed each other the most in our past lives?" he trails off, knuckles brushing against your arm gently. You mirror his touch.

"So you believe we're soulmates?"

"Mm, I've always known."

"And why didn't you tell me?" you grin, tilting your head to the side.

"I peeled you tangerines."

His words seem to ignite something within you, memories of each time he peeled you oranges flooding back. Every birthday, each time you were sad, every time the fruit was near.

You stand up, straddling Hyunjin's lap, and then you kiss his eye mole, then the one on his cheek, trailing down his jaw mole, his neck, his arms.

"What are you doing?" he giggles, warm hands on your lower back.

"Making sure those moles show up in our next life too."

And at your words, Hyunjin swore that the citrusy scent of tangerines suddenly wafted in the air.

washing my hair, doing the laundry, late night TV i want you only

Your legs are comfortably propped on top of Hyunjin's, matching pairs of beige pajamas seamlessly merging into one another. The sweet scent of shampoo lingers in the air—a fragrance Hyunjin carefully massaged into your hair twenty minutes ago, his fingers still as gentle as they grazed your scalp, now at the age of twenty-six.

Nearly two decades later, Hyunjin still knows that he loves you. It is a different one from the love he felt at seven—a metamorphosis akin to the moon's phases, from crescent to full, distinct yet continuous. It clung to his being, melted into the very essence of his soul.

"Just how many white shirts do you own?" you giggle, folding another pair of Hyunjin's clothing, the melody of your laughter still rattling the insides of his heart. He smiles sheepishly, planting a tender kiss on your forehead before responding, "You wear half of them with me."

"Your clothes are mine. You agreed on this when you proposed to me," you state matter-of-factly.

"And what else did I agree on?" he smiles, placing two pairs of matching socks in the basket—yours and his.

"That you'd kiss me instead of doing the laundry," you say mischievously, and he chuckles, tilting his head back. The clothes are momentarily forgotten as he lowers your body onto the couch, one hand cradling your head.

"You know I can't say no to you," he smiles, left dimple appearing as it always does when you're near.

"I know," you grin, pulling him down by the hem of his pajamas, your lips meeting his.

Hyunjin still kisses you with the same quiet passion, slowly, as if rediscovering you all over again. His hand cradles your jaw, thumb caressing your cheek gently, as his lips find yours again and again—rosy, plump, seeking solace in your familiar warmth.

He's always been drawn to mysteries, grand things, and overwhelming emotions that defy comprehension. Things he'd never fully know, things he'd never be bored of. Yet, with you, it's different; he knows you, he's learned you, and he loves you more every day—purposefully, by choice, because he can't fathom a reality where he doesn't.

His lips press upon yours one last time before he pulls you onto his lap, burying his head in the crook of your neck. "You smell nice," he whispers.

"I smell like you."

"I know," he smiles, a gentle breeze escaping his lips and caressing your skin.

He closes his eyes, savoring the quietness, the domesticity of the scene—the folded laundry on the table, the background hum of the TV, the meal you'll cook later, waltzing under the fridge's light. You, the one love of his life—the small love and the grand one, the first love and the last one. The embodiment of it all.

Your arms drape around his shoulders as you relax in his hold, your breaths syncing into a tranquil rhythm. He's built himself a home in the ridges of your collarbones, a place for him to rest in the crook of your shoulder blade. Both of you are okay, both of you are safe.

"Do you remember when we were seven? We traveled together for the first time," you speak after a while, a weighty emotion enveloping your voice.

"I do."

"You promised me we'd run away when we grow older."

"I did."

"I don't want to run anymore. I'm content with you, right here," you whisper, and the words feel like sunflowers blooming in Hyunjin's chest. "I was so scared of growing up, of never feeling like I belong. To myself, to anyone. But I do, with you."

"Always," he pulls away, bringing your hand to his mouth, leaving sweet kisses on your ring finger.

"Thank you, my Hyune," you say, tears gathering in your eyes like morning dewdrops on leaves. "Thank you for peeling my oranges."

Your nose brushes against his, his thumb drawing circles on your palm.

"Thank you for pretending you don't know how to."

[iannmin]

HEAD OVER HEELS | p.sh 박성화

pairings + warnings: heels!obssessed!hwa x fem!reader, creampie, breeding kink (literally breeding everywhere >_<), just pure smut so mdni! 18+, unprotected sex, exhibitionism (?)

synopsis: “get hot on ya heels”

a/n: just got some inspiration looking at some of the reblogs from my previous works on hwa and one of them said that hwa may have a kink of loving to their s/o in heels, so credits to whoever who said that i love you

you owned a lot of heels, but “a lot” would definitely be an understatement. the heels came in tens, even dozens - from the classic YSL’s to the fancy Dolce & Gabbana’s, but regardless the type, it all boiled down to a single reason: park seonghwa.

hwa would always buy you heels everytime he goes out for shopping with his bandmates. his poor and innocent friends thought that it was “nothing more than an act of love” but oh,, you knew for sure that it wasn’t. it was simple, really, he loved how you looked in them when you two were having a lil baby making session <3. so when he hastily kicked off his shoes and fumbled his way over to the bedroom at one in the morning where you were just about to tuck yourself to bed,, you weren’t surprise at all.

“jagiya, look hehe” he shook the huge shopping bag, smug look smeared all over his face. “let’s do it now” don’t get mistaken,, hwa had his priorities set straight so he didn’t care one bit when he carelessly tore the luxurious Louis Vuitton wrapping in half like a spoilt child. you barely uttered a reply but he was already holding both of your ankles, slipping on the wine red heels on your feet. it took a few moments for hwa to soak in the sight - you in his plain white tee with your lace panties coupled with the pair of high heels….god,, and when it finally came to him, hwa could only mumble “f-fuck…s’pretty….gonna ruin you princess” before instantly reaching for the buckles on his belt.

jeans and belt pooling around his knees with his veiny cock slapping against his abdomen, he set you up in a mating press, hooking both of your legs over his shoulder. gently kissing each side of your ankles, he aligned his girthy tip against your hole.

“hah…fuck…wanna breed you so bad…you’ll be such a pretty mommy f’me” *schlop!* in an instant, his hips slammed tightly against yours and his girthy base came into contact with your folds. that’s it. seven-inch all in at once. this was the feeling you’d never seemed to get used to no matter how many times the both of you did it, so it got you instantly gripping on hwa’s shoulder blades. “nnnggh….hwa…feels s’full…s’good...” tears were threatening to spill from your eyes, so he reached in for a sloppy kiss, a string of saliva connecting from both of your coated lips.

but,, of course you were wrong to think that it was the end because hwa was pussy-drunk. extremely drunk with the thought of you. all he desired was to pound that tight pussy loose and watch it seep with his cum. so he did exactly that. with sweaty bangs sticking to his forehead, he buried his head into your neck, deep groans casting vibrations against your skin. with every hard thrust, your nails dug deeper into his shoulders, whimpers turning a pitch higher. "h-hwa...gonna cum..."

"hold on for me princess, i wanna try something.." hwa instantly flipped you on your stomach - ass up, face down in a doggy-style position, and when he entered your sensitive hole again to continue his pounding ordeal, you swear you felt his cock reach in about an inch deeper. oh boy,, you were going to lose your mind very soon.

it took the both of you no more than half a minute to reach your highs and when it did, it felt straight out of a porn scene. with hwa's groans turned into nothing but an endless chant of curses and high-pitched whimpers, and your moans turned into broken sobs, he pressed his hip as deep as it could have gone against yours, releasing loads and loads of hot white cum, filling you up full. and when hwa finally pulled out, his cum was everywhere - seeping out of your hole, dripping down your thighs and heels, coating your wine-red heels in a layer of translucent fluid. he hate to admit it but the sight of you nearly got him hard again.

"fuck...princess, i love you so much, could do this everyday"

[thesongoficeandfir3]

The coronation

Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!Wife!reader

AU where the blacks won

Warnings: none, just Jace and his wife reader being cute before his coronation

You make your way down the long corridor of the Red Keep’s ancient castle halls, your steps echoes loudly off the stone walls and floor. You soon approach heavy oak door where two knights stand and upon seeing you they immediately pull the large doors open. When you walk in you are met with a scene that takes your breath away. There in the center of the room your husband Jacaerys stands, dressed in a long, heavy, and expensive red and black regalia, fit for a king.

When you entered the room you were met with the back of him standing still. He was surrounded by several maidservants who are busy adjusting and fastening every piece of his attire, ensuring they fit perfectly for this very crucial day. There are large glass windows in the room and the bright morning light cast a glow on Jacaerys who stands in the center as if the gods themselves are casting their blessings on him for this important day.

His red and black robes are a vision of opulence and power. The material is thick and heavy, a velvety red silk that drapes him gracefully. Sewn into the sleeves, are subtle but intricate designs of sea horses and dragons, to represent both of his houses, each carefully crafted out of shimmering black thread. The back of the robe is longer than the front, pooling on the ground behind him in a dramatic train.

Your own gown had matched Jace’s, something Jace was very insistent on when it came to the designs of them. You are not sure when it started, but sometime during the first year of your marriage you found a lot of your and Jace’s outfits subtly match whether it was a big occasion or not. Your gown though less elaborate than your husband's, it still a vision of beauty fitted perfectly for a queen.

As you silently stand behind him, he meets your eyes in the reflection of the mirror he’s standing in front. A small smile dances across his lips and his dark eyes glitter with affection. It's the same look he gives you every morning when he kisses you awake.

Jacaerys holds up a hand, the gesture causing the maidservants to stop their movements in an instant. "That's enough," he says, his deep voice firm and commanding. "You may leave us."

They curtsey quickly and walk away, shutting the door behind them. Once they are gone, keeping your back straight as much as you could and your head bowing low you curtsey.

“My king.” you say with a teasing grin.

“Stop that.” he playfully rolls his eyes walking over to you. He places a hand on your chin with a tender touch, lifting your head and gesturing for you to stand.

“You look ethereal.” you whisper out, looking into his dark brown eyes with nothing but love and admiration.

“As do you my issa prūmia.” he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Are you nervous?” you ask.

He moves his hands down from your face to holding your hands squeezing them slightly.

“Just a little.” he answers, his shoulder dropping not realizing he was tense the entire time.

You notice this and move one of your hands to caress his cheek to help calm him.

“You should not be, your grandsire and mother were wonderful rulers and they passed everything they know on to you, so I have no doubt you will be just as good.”

He nods leaning into your touch, the warmth of your words and touch calming him a little, but still a small part of him is nervous.

“So does this mean from now on I have to bow when I enter every room you are in.” you tease hoping to lighten the mood.

“Hmm,” he pauses for a moment pretending to think. He then leans in slightly. “Yes, I think you will have to bow before me….Every…..Single……..Time. He says each word deliberately slow meeting your teasing banter

“Oh?“ you quirk and eyebrow feigning surprise. “Does that mean I must always call you my king as well?” you lean in closer causing your lips to be mere inches apart.

“Of course my darling,” he says reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear being very careful not to mess with the elaborate hair do, his fingers then trail along your jawline “I am your king, after all.” He smirks down at you.

“And I am your queen” your eyes had yet to leave his during your entire conversation.

“And a beautiful queen you are.” he presses his lips to yours lingering for a few moments before pulling away.

“And your child and rightful heir.“ you take his hand pressing it to your growing pregnant belly.

Jaceaeyrs feels a rush of emotion at the feeling of your belly under his palm, his eyes drifting down to where your hands meet before looking back up at you, His expression softens further. “Our child” he corrects a protective hand still resting on your stomach.

Your heart swells, though such a small gesture you can’t help but feel emotional that he said ‘our’ instead of his.

He suddenly kneels before you his fingers splaying on the swell of your stomach gently kissing it before resting his forehead on it.

“Our future king or queen.” He whispers out.

Your breath hitches at his unexpected action.

“J-Jace,” you stutter out. “This is unbecoming you are to be king” you say feeling extremely flustered.

He chuckles the sound deep and rich.

“Out there I am, but in here with you I am just a man who loves his wife and unborn child dearly” he plants one more kiss on your bump before standing. He places his hands on your hips bringing you close once more.

You reach out and grab the livery collar, each piece being one of the kingdom’s house sigil. You carefully place it over his shoulder before fastening the last button of the robe and smoothing a hand over his chest.

“Now then, let us get you to your coronation.” You smile

“As you command my queen.”

[eightstarr]

at the count of three — ellie williams.

summary: how do you tell your best friend you’re in love with them? ellie has an answer! just be cool and wait for the right moment— and the next. and maybe another one, just to be sure. if you get impatient, you can always take a deep breath and count to three! (years, that is)

warnings: slow burn (childhood friends to lovers <3), little bit suggestive but no smut!

notes: born from a piece of dialogue i wrote like, a year ago and completely forgot about but somehow a week later it's 4k words? idk you're welcome or i'm sorry!!! also yes they do spend almost every scene sitting together on a couch but that's what lesbianism is all about...

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・。.・゜✧・. ────

ONE!

A movie plays on the TV, a slightly tarnished DVD of an 80’s action flick starring some oily guy and the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen— Ellie doesn't remember much other than an obnoxiously epic soundtrack and lingering shots that made the plot twist too obvious about 20 minutes in. 

She's freshly eighteen; you’re ahead only by a couple months. It's a warm Friday night, Joel and your dad in the kitchen putting scraps together for a mildly healthy dinner, Ellie sitting on the very opposite side of the couch from where you are. It’s hot, she'd said, looking away from your comically insulted face that grew with every scooch she made from your side, a lame excuse to save her from the newly found (and fucking torturous) fluttering that sparks in her stomach whenever she sits too close to you.

From the kitchen comes the sound of a can hitting the floor, followed by Joel’s 'shit!' and then quickly, 'sorry, girls'. You chuckle, turning to Ellie and catching her staring at you. A wrinkle forms between your eyebrows at the same time a pink warmth floods her cheeks. “Dude, you’re not even paying attention.”

“I am,” a scoff, her eyes now strictly committed to the screen. “The noise distracted me,” she adds, knowing it didn't even make her flinch from the careful study of your side profile.

“Scaredy cat— ow!” a pillow crashes against your cheek, sudden enough to shock you, too soft to do any real damage. “What the fuck?”

Ellie raises her eyebrows and looks at you from the corner of her eyes, a smirk half hidden by her hand. “Don’t be rude, you're missing the best scene.”

You throw the pillow back and scoff when she catches it, your lips slightly pursed, the signature sign to tell you’re annoyed. It's almost identical to the replica of that gesture that sits at the end of her last journal entry, an overly dedicated sketch born from a wandering thought. She could make it more accurate, she thinks now, soften the line of your jaw, take the scar on your cheek a little more to the left.

The sound of water splashing from the TV catches her attention and Ellie snaps her head forward (lest she get caught staring again), just as the blonde haired love interest is walking out of a fancy looking swimming pool.

“She’s hot,” you say, fingers pulling absentmindedly at loose threads on the rip of your jeans. When Ellie doesn't say anything, you turn to look at her, “You don't think so?”

Her voice comes out a higher pitch than she’d like. “What—” she clears her throat before continuing to mumble, “I don't know, I guess.”

You laugh. “You guess?” 

“Yeah, I— I don't know, dude, I wasn't thinking about that.”

You watch the nervousness on her face, the gulp that passes her throat, the red under her freckles. Fondness tugs at your chest and your voice softens just slightly, a smile playing on your lips. “Oh my God. Ellie, it’s okay,” green eyes find your face and she sees you hesitate for a second before you shrug. “Who cares? It's just me.”

You make it sound easy. It's the most distinct thing Ellie remembers about this moment, how suddenly safety felt like the most obvious thing. TV light on your face, your arm over the back of the couch, the same eyes she's been looking at since she was fourteen. Of course it's okay. Everything else with you is easy, why wouldn't this be the same?

Ellie shifts on the couch, the distance between you turning quickly ridiculous— offensive, even. She’s embarrassed to have let her flusteredness get in the way, but the urge to be closer doesn't feel right either. Everything she does feels like too much, everything she says too intense. “How long have you known?” she asks.

You tilt your head, less of a question and more of a guidance, “Known that you…”

Ellie parts her lips, unsure of whether or not she’s gonna say it or how, trying to will the words to come out. And they do, she remembers it well, because it was the first and maybe the only time she was this direct about it. “That I like girls.”

The smile on your face is teeth-rotting sweet, but she only gets to bask in it for a second before you widen your eyes and lower your voice to a scandalized whisper. “You what?”

Ellie rolls her eyes, cheeks burning, “Oh, fuck you.”

Your laugh fills up the room and the fluttering in her stomach feels absurd at this point, like she would actually be able to feel those annoying little butterflies flying around if she were to press her hand against her abdomen. “Sorry, sorry,” you say, and for a terrifying second Ellie thinks maybe they're loud too, and you’re able to hear them. But then she looks at you and forgets about it, easy easy easy. “It’s really okay. You know that, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. For once, there's not a glimpse of doubt about it to be found.

You watch another ten minutes of the movie in silence before your dad's head peeks out from the kitchen to call you both to the table for dinner.

Ellie has a habit of eating like it's her last day on earth. When you were both new residents of Jackson, hungry and scared and not at all used to the idea of a full plate of food twice a day, she couldn't help it. And you were the same, hence why your dad thought it would be good for you and Ellie to spend time together, which quickly turned to being around each other basically every minute of every day. But as the weeks passed, you seemed to be learning to adapt faster. A younger Ellie found this frustrating— especially after that time Joel complimented your table manners.

You’re just… nicer, she remembers saying, a stressed frown on her still childlike face, fiddling with a box of marbles she’d found under her new bed. She remembers how you pulled one out, your fingers brushing against her own for the first time ever, and held the clear crystal with green stripes next to her eyes, a satisfied smile at a practically perfect match. You’re nice too, Els, you’d said, shrugging your shoulders, the marble shoved inside your pocket, I think I just lie better.

Until that moment, Ellie had never thought about it that way; the fact that you could be pretending to feel more confident and comfortable than you really are to make yourself safer, to get people to like you. But when she asked, you swore you had never lied to Ellie. She used to drive herself mad thinking about that, a strange, confusing worry gnawing at her chest— she likes that you don't feel the need to lie, but what does it say about how you see her? Is it that you don't care if she likes you? Or worse, is it that you know that she already does?

You sit in front of her today at the same dinner table, four years later, and watch her practically inhale her bowl of pasta like no time has passed at all. You let out a snort and Ellie wonders if you can see it even now, if her constant thoughts of you are obvious even when she looks this busy.

"What?" she asks, an immediate frown on her face, though she's done you the honor of swallowing her mouthful before speaking.

"You're so gross," you say, chin resting on your palm, tilting your head like you're looking at some thought provoking art piece. Ellie thinks you'll leave it at that, but then you reach over and swipe your thumb over the red spot of sauce next to the corner of her lips, so soft she barely feels it. You watch her frown soften for a second before it becomes even deeper.

Ellie feels like her whole body is exploding with warmth, too hot under the hoodie she's wearing, too pink across her face. It's so obvious, she thinks, it's so— fuck, pull it together. Her gaze follows your finger as you bring it to your lips and lick off the sauce. “You’re disgusting,” she retorts lamely, her hand rough when she brushes it over her mouth, lest you notice another stain and she has to watch you do that again.

You are familiarly not deterred by her meanness. Or her attempt at it. "And you eat like a five year old,” you shrug. “I guess we both have our issues."

Ellie catches herself staring at your hands for the rest of the meal, certain that she's never noticed them in the same way before. How much time has she been wasting? You both have your issues, you'd said, but Ellie thinks she has you beat. Yours can't possibly be anywhere near this dangerous.

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

TWO!

Someone's knocking on her door. Ellie sniffles and lets out a groan as she gets up from the couch, sore throat, her limbs heavy and tired. She knows it's you because it's always the same three knocks; the first two firm and loud, a pause, and then one tiny one that sounds almost like 'sorry'. You’re impatient but still painfully afraid to be rude— if she loved you a little less, Ellie thinks she would make fun of it a lot more. But alas, she's cursed to smile at it every time.

She opens the door and the breeze that slips in makes her fall immediately into an embarrassing coughing fit. “It’s fine,” she mutters, at the same time you’re saying jesus christ, Ellie. “Shit. I’m okay,” she clears her throat and finally gets a moment to look at you, all pretty and put together in your best shirt and a freshly showered scent, the sun setting behind you like a perfect frame. Ellie prays her lungs don't betray her again and tries to make the brush of her hand over her messy hair look casual instead of desperate.

“Well, I was gonna ask if you wanted to come to the party with me for just a few minutes, but… I’m not sure you should be out of bed,” your worried frown is pretty, too. What a cruel fate. “Is Joel home? I can stay—”

“No, no, you’re good,” Ellie shakes her head, arms crossed over her chest like maybe it’ll cover up enough and you won't notice she was wearing the same long sleeve the last time you saw her. “He’ll be here in like, five minutes. I’ll be fine, ’m not a baby.”

You’re both nineteen by this time, Ellie remembers because you wore the same pretty blue shirt that you're wearing now for her birthday, and it was the day she realized her crush was no longer deniable. It's easier to act like nothing’s happening when she feels like she's alone in it, like there's no universe where you could love her like she loves you so she might as well let the fantasy die— but then you put on your shirt that's reserved for special occasions just to come over and bring her the cupcake you made, and suddenly Ellie can picture herself with her hands on each side of your waist, pulling you close, saying thank you with her lips brushing against yours before she kisses you. She can see it so clearly that it startles her, changes everything. Her birthday comes with a punch to the gut and a hunger she wants to tell you and only you about.

“You’re not gonna be bored? I really don't mind staying until he gets home.”

Ellie thinks (dramatically, extremely nineteen—) that if she lets you take care of her, she might actually die. It felt like she almost did last time you visited, your face serious with concentration as you pressed the back of your hand against her forehead. ‘You're warm’, you said, ‘do you feel sweaty?’ Ellie stared up at you, eyes glossy and heavy from sleep. ‘Not really’, her fingers sneaked out from under the blanket to wrap themselves around your forearm, a moment of bravery or delusion, ‘your hand feels nice’. You chuckled, ‘okay, keep it’.

She’s less feverish today, but not yet recovered from the greedy voice in her head that begs her to keep you close. If you don't go to the party now, she thinks (knows) that she’ll let herself casually talk you into staying the rest of the night. “Nah, don't miss your party,” she says. “I’ll be okay, Joel’s gonna teach me how to play that old card game.”

You raise your eyebrows. “So you're gonna argue all night.”

“No— what?” Ellie scoffs. “It’ll be good, I learn fast.”

“Yeah, because you make up your own rules.”

“I have questions about the rules, that's not the same thing.”

“It is if you cheat—”

“I’m not a cheater!”

You hum, a curious tilt of your head, and Ellie rolls her eyes before the words are even out of your mouth. “No, I guess you’d have to have a girlfriend for that.”

You watch her run her tongue over her teeth, her shoulder against the door frame. “You know I could say the same to you, right?”

“Too bad I said it first,” you shrug, pretty smile stretching your lips. “I guess I'll go, then. I’ll come over when it's done so you don't miss me too much.”

Ellie tries to maintain her composure. You know, she thinks, do you know? You must know. You can't know— “Right. Also so you can steal my food and crash in my bed, I’m guessing.”

“When you’re all vulnerable and weak? What do you think of me, Ellie?” you frown sadly, a hand over your heart.

“I think I know you,” she says, the corner of her lips lifting just a little, inescapably.

You walk to the gate and turn around as you close the lock, your hands on either side of your mouth as if she’s miles and miles away. “I’ll take the couch!”

“Yeah, sure!” Ellie yells back, her voice pretty even when it's hoarse, knowing she’ll hold on for just about ten minutes before she insists you take the bed instead.

Joel stays awake with her until around 10pm, when his yawns become too many to hide and he’s already let Ellie win three games, his smile genuine and wide while she chuckles and pretends she doesn’t notice. He leaves her with a tupperware of soup for tomorrow’s lunch and a deck of cards. To teach your friends or— I don't know, keep on the coffee table, he’d said, make you look cool. Ellie’s not sure you would find a box of cards ‘cool’, but she’s not above trying.

Ever since she moved out to the garage, she’s discovered a new type of stress at the notion of having you over. At Joel’s house, all she ever did to prepare for guests was pick up the dirty clothes from her bedroom floor and put her books in a (wobbly) single pile. Now things are different. The garage is small, but it's all hers— her floor, her living room, her kitchen. She can't have you thinking that she can't take care of things on her own.

She spends the next hour moving things around until finally, two loud knocks. A second passes; Ellie looks at the cards and considers shoving them inside one of the drawers on her desk. By the time the one quiet knock comes, she shrugs and decides to leave them on the coffee table, lest Joel was right and she misses a chance to have you start thinking she's cool and mysterious. “It's open,” she says from the couch, tiredness soon catching up with her after all that time rearranging things.

The door opens and you come in, quickly closing it behind you, a relieved sigh at the loss of that crisp, cold breeze outside. “Did Joel forget those?” you ask, bent at the waist as you take your shoes off, your chin pointing at the deck, the only thing on the coffee table. Maybe she should've been more subtle with it.

“Uh, no,” Ellie scratches the back of her neck, her legs stretched across the couch. “They’re a gift.”

She's not sure you hear her over the groan you make as you stretch your arms above your head, her legs moved to the side automatically to make space for you to sit. You fall down with a sigh and both forget about the cards— you, distracted by the warm tingly feeling of a couple drinks, and Ellie by the new jacket you’re wearing.

She lets a million different scenarios spin around her head for a couple seconds before she blurts out the question. “Whose is that?”

“What?” you turn your head away from the movie playing on the TV.

“The jacket.”

“Oh,” you look down at yourself as if you’ve just remembered it’s there. “Maya was leaving too, so she walked here with me. It’s hers.”

Ellie hums, her back sliding a little further down the couch, legs spread. “Stinks like it’s hers.”

You chuckle before you can help it, her animosity ridiculous and charming— Ellie’s better with actions than she is with words. “I don't even know what you're talking about,” you shake your head, not quite slurring, but not too far from it either. "She smells like strawberries."

Fuck Maya and her strawberry shampoo. Ellie could get some if she wanted to, maybe if she traded— what the fuck is she thinking about? She rolls her shoulders back and pushes the thoughts away, gluing her eyes to the screen. “Sure,” she says, less because she agrees and more because she doesn't wanna hear what else you like about Maya. “You had fun, then?”

“It was alright. You didn't miss out on too much,” the end of your sentence stretched out by a yawn, you cover your mouth lazily and rest back fully against the couch. “Jesse was drunk. They had to stop him from getting up on a table.”

Ellie chuckles. “I don't know, maybe he had something to say. I think I would’ve let him.”

“That's what I said,” you smile and let your head fall to the side, your cheek against the cushion. She feels you staring, enables it for a while by acting oblivious, falsely over-invested in some movie she can't remember the title of. She hears you move closer before she feels it— the shuffle of your clothes, the stupid jacket rubbing against her couch, so easily forgettable by the time your temple falls on her shoulder.

Ellie's about to fall asleep when she hears the little noise you make, something like a sniffle. For a worrying second she thinks she might’ve given you her cold, but then she feels the tip of your nose brush against her shoulder and she realizes you’re trying to breathe her in. 

“You always smell nice,” you whisper, half asleep.

Ellie swallows and prays to keep her body completely still, scared she’ll make the wrong move and have you pull away, scared you’ll lean closer and be able to hear the fast beating on her chest. She sounds breathy, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Like fresh rain.”

Slow like the roll of credits playing on the TV, Ellie feels how every muscle in her body settles down, relaxed, content— fucking cocky. She wraps her arm around your shoulders and hopes the scent will rub off on the jacket and remind Maya of a cloudy autumn night, rain over her garden.

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

THREE!

"Do you think we would've liked each other?" you ask, your legs resting on her lap while she fidgets mindlessly with the ruffled cuff of your socks. Every patrol lately ends the exact same way, a quiet walk home and a joint on Ellie’s couch. "Back when the world was normal?”

Ellie turns to look at you, blinking lazily, a reddish hue over her green. You’re not sure if she's more tired or high, but either way you're not doing much better— everything you’ve said during the past hour is the kind of thought you have when you're alone at night and your brain wanders, moments away from falling asleep. It's a meaningless question, but Ellie lets out a soft hum and thinks about it like it's worth considering. You're not sure if anyone you’ve met in your whole twenty years of life is as willing to indulge you as she is.

"Yeah," she says decidedly, in the same tone with which one would say duh. "We—" a yawn cuts her off, slender hand rubbing one of her eyes. "We would be friends, like, in college."

"I wouldn't be in college.”

Ellie frowns, takes one last inhale and discards the joint to the ashtray on her coffee table. "Why not?"

"'Cause I'm not smart like you," you shrug.

The fold between her eyebrows deepens. "You're smart," she argues, with enough conviction that you almost believe her, insisting, "You are."

"In other ways, sure—” Ellie opens her mouth to interrupt but you get ahead of her, “I’m not trying to talk badly about myself, I just don't think college would be for me.”

You’ve never been the most disciplined. It’s hard to imagine yourself staying up late to study, taking diligent notes in class. It feels ridiculous.

“I’d be working somewhere, I think. Making coffee for people or something.”

Ellie pauses before she nods, adjusting her daydream to what you’re saying, strangely committed. "Then we would meet there,” she makes it sound like the easiest thing in the world, a natural equation. “I'd go get coffee from you."

You chuckle. "You don't even like coffee that much."

Ellie shrugs, soft pink lips curved in a smirk that tells you she's sleepy and serves to warn you of the horror that's about to come out of her mouth.

You groan. “Don't—”

"Maybe I like the pretty girl that's making it."

“Awful,” you push her shoulder away, barely any force behind it, her giggles swimming comfortably around your head. “Never speak again.”

"Not my best work?" she asks, her fingers wrapping lazily around your shin. Too much, her brain warns, but then she remembers the pad of your finger over the back of her hand last night, the cursive lines with no purpose other than to be touching her— and it feels right, or like it's not enough. Too much soon turns to coward.

"Possibly your worst.”

She might be going crazy, but lately Ellie feels like you’re looking at her differently. In your eyes there's something gentle, awaiting, a tracing of your eyes over her face that says please. She chews on her lip, her eagerness painful. “We would like each other,” she doesn't think there's a world where you wouldn't, and if there was… "I'd make you like me."

You raise your eyebrows, teasing, "Oh, so like now?"

Her lips part with genuine surprise, more amused than offended. “...I made you, huh?” 

You regret the joke as soon as it comes out of your mouth, immediately brought back to your fourteen year old self, lonely and admittedly captivated by the auburn haired girl from next door. Flashes of you rushing to catch up with her, untied laces on your too tight sneakers, Ellie, do you wanna be friends? The sound of pages shuffling and her voice reading in whispers in the dead of night because you asked, can you talk to me until I fall asleep? Infatuated from the beginning, obsessed. Even now, on her couch, after spending a whole day together— do you like me? Would you like me, always?

A pillow crashes against the side of her face, her laugh almost louder than the embarrassed pounding of your heart. You pull your legs from her lap and lie back, fold your arms over your face. “You're so annoying.”

A lie so obvious it makes Ellie smile. She shifts to crawl closer, one knee on either side of you. “C’mon, I was joking,” she leans forward and you feel her knuckles tap your arm like she’s knocking on a door. The power to make you shy is still foreign to her, makes her feel drunk, thrilled. She doesn't remember having it before, but of course it was there. In little ways, in daily, simple things. Your eyes always looking for her first in any room, lighting up even after an especially bad pun, tracing her arms when the day becomes too hot to keep her jacket on. You like her, of course. How much time has she been wasting? The breath she lets out feels like it's been waiting to be let go, years spent stuck in her lungs. Ellie wraps her fingers around one of your wrists, her voice sweet, achingly soft. “Want me to tell you why I know I’d like you?”

You lower your arms just slightly, eyes peering up at her.

“Yeah?” she tilts her head.

You nod, arms coming down, unusually quiet.

Ellie grins, victorious. “Okay, but fair warning— it's worse than the coffee thing.”

You chuckle. “Is it?”

“Very.”

“Hm,” you hum, pretending to think about it, distracted by the vision of her practically sitting on top of you. Freckled face framed by the hair that's escaped her usual bun, softly lit by the warmth of the lamp on her desk. “Alright,” you say finally.

It takes Ellie a second to respond, momentarily dazed by the thought of being pretty enough for you to ogle like this. She clears her throat. “You ready?”

You tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and away from her eyes. “Sure.”

Ellie waits for the nerves to come, but even as she parts her lips to speak, they never do. What a kind fate. “I know I’d like you because nothing’s ever made more sense to me— I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. I like you enough for a million lifetimes.”

You look at each other, bask in a moment of understanding. Your eyes on her lips, a hand on her waist that pulls her closer. “That was worse,” you agree.

Ellie moves to rest on her forearms, cages you in, her nose brushing against yours. “I told you.”

She waits, feels herself count once again, a final time, one, two—

A hand against the back of her neck brings her in and the quiet noise of her surprise vibrates against your lips, makes her smile into the kiss for just a second before the hunger takes over. Her hips readjusting over yours, knees pressing against your sides, Ellie kisses like it's a need rather than a whim. She takes and takes and swallows every sigh you make like it's a gift, four, five, six seconds of a messy trail of kisses down your neck to say thank you before she resurfaces again.

“Love you,” she breathes out, because suddenly all that talk about ‘like’ feels stupid— immature, incomparable to what she actually feels for you. “Need you.”

You moan against her lips and it's her favorite sound in the whole world, immediately, as quick as realizing she would fall in love with you the day she met you. “Love you, Ellie.”

A kiss to your clavicle, your hands pulling at her shirt and her thigh between yours. She makes you say it three more times.