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[lovebugism]

Virgin!Eddie thoughts?

THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT | quid pro quo

summary: eddie muson is a virgin and doesn't want anyone to know (because being an adult who's never fucked anyone is a total reputation ruiner). but you, his favorite customer, are more than willing to change that. pairing: eddie munson / f!reader word count: 6.5k (holy shit this was supposed to be a blurb) warnings: talks of virginity and masturbation, the word "tit" too many times, a handjob (sorta?) 18+ mdni a/n: you asked for thoughts but i had way too many of them for a single post so i might turn this into a whole virgin!eddie series that will only see the light of day if you guys are into this so... no pressure <3

( MASTERLIST ) | ( NEXT )

You were Eddie’s favorite customer, though that went without saying. It was something both of you were more than aware of. Albeit it, it was a little strange, since he — the supplier of your weed — was essentially paying for your high. He doesn’t mind it, though. He never did. You made it up for him in other ways; and, no, it’s not as perverted as it sounds.

It’s actually much, much weirder.

It was your fourth time meeting with him but your first time without any money to give him in exchange. You’re all pink and fidgeting and feeling like a total loser as you shift on the hard wooden bench across from him.

Your gaze is tilted away from his and down at your hands where you twist the rings on your fingers — “I was supposed to get paid last Friday, but my boss is paying me weekly now instead of every two weeks, so he completely changed my payday on me, and he swears he told me about it, but he totally didn’t— anyway, that’s beside the point. I don’t have any money to give you, or like, at all. Genuinely. I’m gonna be lucky if I get to eat anything other than top ramen for the next few days.”

“Damn,” he laughs, not in amusement at your situation but rather pitying you for it. “That sucks—”

“That sounds like I’m guilt-tripping you, doesn’t it?” you keep rambling. “I’m really not. I’m just trying to be honest. I’m not, like, trying to do you over or anything. I swear. You probably don’t even care. You’re my drug dealer, not my friend, I wouldn't blame you if you didn't— I’m making a total fool out of myself, aren’t I?”

“No, not at all,” Eddie assures sincerely, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his lips. That’s all he can muster. He feels like the fool right about now because your words sting a little harder than intended. 

He always considered you a friend. Or, at least, a whole lot more than just a client. You’re the only customer he has fun with, who he can laugh with, who doesn’t just hang around long enough for him to hand you your drugs like everyone else does, who actually cares enough to make conversation with him.  

Maybe that’s why he chose to give it to you for free that day. 

Because he’s started to grow fond of you (and because he genuinely believes that you’re in a bad way and that money’s a little too tight for you right now. He knows all too well what that’s like.) 

But he asks you for a favor in return when you take the plastic baggie from him. It has him blushing with embarrassment like you’d been just minutes before. He can’t meet your gaze as he says the words, but he can feel the incredulous beam of it piercing holes into him.

“You, Eddie Munson, are willing to give me weed, for free, as long as I… help you pass your next English exam?”

You weren’t repeating it to mock him or to make him feel bad for being a third-year senior. You’re just actually shocked because you know a thing or two about the Munson’s. You know that his Uncle is working two jobs, and his nephew has resorted to drug dealing to compensate for their being strapped for cash. You also know that suppliers giving out anything for free is bad for business, so it’s essentially unheard of. 

And aside from all that, Eddie wanting to study — to want to try to be good at something rather than just winging it and hoping for the best — was almost as surprising as him wanting you to be the one to help him. You literally have Gareth, his best friend, in your English class, and he’s way better at it than you are.

You try to find what makes you somehow special but come up short.

“Is that, like, really weird?” he wonders meekly, scrunching his nose and peering at you through his lashes. His eyes are the color of chocolate syrup, you notice then. Like, exactly. And they have a sort of sheen to them beneath the sun, like he's trapped a star inside of them.

“Yes,” you answer with a laugh that's as light as air. “Considering you could’ve offered literally anything else. Like, I don’t know— groping my tits or something.”

It’s what you were half-expecting. Not because you thought Eddie was that kind of guy, but because that’s how it often went down, at least in porn. A busty (broke) blonde orders a pizza, a man with an enormous dick delivers it… It’s a tale as old as time, really.

Your words make him tense for the second time in five minutes. 

He almost wants to be offended that you’d think of him that way, but his yearning far overpowers his wounded ego.

He’s got a soft heart. That offer never would’ve crossed his mind, and even if it did, he’d never be stupid enough to say it out loud. But he didn’t realize how much he liked you until right then. It wasn’t just a friend caring for another friend, but a boy with a crush on a girl eons out of his league (with boobs he would happily touch if she’d let him).

He clears his throat and irrationally prays that you aren’t a mind reader.

“I’m down if you are,” he answers with a playful lilt to his voice that makes you giggle again. He’s happy to hear it. Your laugh is like being basked in sunshine. He wants to keep it in his pocket when he gets lost in the shade. 

That’s the moment that started it all — the strange friendship that formed out of practically nothing. Who knew what being poor, free weed, an historically low GPA, and a missed opportunity for tit-groping could do to two people?

From then on, all your weed was free. As long as you broke down all the themes in Of Mice and Men for him, of course. And then, when he ultimately aced that paper, he wanted to run his D&D campaign by you — “So, you know, it isn’t totally lame when I show it to the rest of Hellfire.”

“Of course, it’s gonna be lame,” you deadpan from across the rotting bench. “It’s Dungeons and Dragons.”

He goes red at that, a flash of pink blotched around his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He glows cherry with embarrassment and smiles faintly as he looks down at his hand, fidgeting with his silver skull ring. It’s cute. Too cute. The kind of cute that makes you grin to yourself without even thinking about it.

“I’m kidding, Eds—”

Eds. That was new, the boy remarks to himself. Not the nickname itself, perhaps, but the fact that you were the one calling him by it. You’re getting more comfortable with him. He likes that. It gives him a false hope; that one day he’ll be a friend to you and not just your dealer.

“—It sounds really fun actually,” you assure him with nod and a twinkling gaze that proves you sincere. “As long as you’ll smoke with me during.”

“I don’t really like to use my own product…” That was a lie. Mostly. He didn’t like to smoke his own stuff because that burned a hole into his profits. But that didn’t mean he didn’t do it. It was far too tempting to have a tin full of so much weed never more than just a few inches away.

Now he’s got a pretty girl in front of him, wanting to smoke with him, wanting to spend time with him. Hell’s freezing over as they speak and that certainly calls for a celebratory smoke session.

A smirk pulls at his pink lips and he tilts his head, bringing his ear to his shoulder, as he looks at you with a glimmering umber gaze.

“But I’m willing to make an exception. Just for you.”

Eddie swears you blush at that, but he catches only the shortest glimpse of your crimson cheeks before you duck your gaze to the table. The beam on your face is only half-washed away, however, when you turn up to look at him again. You look shy, almost, as you peer at him through your lashes.

“You’ll basically have to start from scratch too, you know that, right? I don’t know anything about that shit.”

“Well, I’m glad I can be your first,” he quips.

You laugh again. It’s like the pinky-orange of a sunset. He could paint it if he had the right supplies. And a set of hands that were good for things other than rolling die and playing guitar.

It was his first time, really. In every aspect of the phrase.

It was the first time a girl’s ever offered to hang out with him and not the other way around. The first time a customer’s ever offered to share their weed with him. The first time someone’s ever wanted him to explain his favorite hobby and not care that he’s been rambling for the better part of an hour. 

He doesn’t even notice that he hasn’t shut up since he started talking, mostly because you aren’t giving him that look of annoyance people usually have when he hasn’t gotten the hint. Most couldn’t care less about goblins and villains and battles and knights and princesses — princess knights.

It’s more interesting than you ever hoped a board game could be, but less so as enchanting as the glow Eddie’s got about him as he rambles on and on about something that makes him so happy.

He’s beaming and he doesn’t even realize it. He has no idea he could light up an entire solar system with the smile on his face. You’d tell him if it didn’t feel totally inappropriate.

It takes two weeks to perfect the campaign, which isn’t at all long if you compare it to the year it took him to build it from scratch. When the Cult of Vecna (you pat yourself on the back for coming up with the name) is polished and Hellfire worthy, Eddie starts giving you weed... just because.

There’s nothing left for him to offer in exchange. And he isn’t going to turn his favorite customer down for anything.

“What? No tutoring? No D&D campaign?” you wonder with furrowed brows and a face contorted in confusion.

Eddie shrugs and swings the baggie full of greenery back and forth with the tip of his pointed finger. “Nope. I’m passing English and the campaign’s all finished — the guys love it, by the way. Thanks to you. You’ve helped me out with enough shit, so… just take it.”

“Well, now I just feel bad,” you reject with a scrunched nose, displeased at the idea of taking something and not doing anything for it in return. He can hardly afford it to begin with, much less without anything in exchange. “You're basically paying for my weed already. I can’t just take it.”

“You could,” the boy lilts with a sardonic nod. “My hand's getting a little tired here, sweetheart.”

You huff and reach across the bench for the plastic baggie. Your face is still twisted with an absentminded annoyance and your gaze still uncertain. “You sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah. Cross my heart.”

“Fine.”

“Unless groping your tits is still on the table, of course,” he squints playfully over at you and then smiles softly at the recollection of the conversation from many moons ago.

It was supposed to be a joke. But you’re not laughing.

And when you nod at him, he isn’t either.

It’s got him nearly choking on air and sputtering for a response. “No, I was— I was just— It was a joke. I was just kidding.”

“I know. But, I don’t know, I’m down if you are,” you shrug. “That’s what you said before, right?”

And Eddie has no idea what to say to that. Of course, he wants to. There are a billion things he wants to do. He wants to graduate, he wants to play a show at the Madison Square Garden with Corroded Coffin, he wants to bend you over this table and fuck you silly.

He could do all those things if he were a different person, but he wasn’t. He’s just some guy who can’t pass an English class he's already taken three times, with a mediocre band that plays in front of about five drunks (if they’re lucky), who has a crush on a girl who’s offering to let him feel her up for a short-lived high. 

He repeats that last part to himself in his head a couple times. It sounds like a dream he had once. He pinches the skin of his wrist, just to make sure, and winces when it starts to hurt.

It’s real, you’re real, and that’s the scariest part. 

Because he’s never actually seen boobs that weren’t projected from a television screen through the grainy film of a VHS tape, or pictured in a crinkled magazine he stole from a gas station — let alone touched one. And the second he puts his hands on you, and you feel him shaking like a leaf and totally unsure of what to do, you’ll know that. 

That is, if he doesn’t come in his pants first.

He’s terrified that when you do realize that he’s a complete and utter, absolute and proper virgin, you’ll think he’s significantly less cool. And he can’t have that.

It’s bad for clientele. They’ll stop seeing him as the mysterious metalhead from the wrong side of the tracks but rather as some teddy bear who’s never actually been inside a woman.

He could probably handle the potential drop in income and the talks around school. Hell, he could even handle all the shit Jason Carver would spew at him if he knew. But the idea that you’ll stop wanting to hang out with him — he isn’t sure if he could take that.

He doesn’t notice that he hasn’t said a word until you’re speaking again. And even then, it’s all muffled like he’s underwater. 

“I can come over tonight, if you want.”

No, he thinks to himself. That’s far too early. I have to lose my virginity and learn everything there is to possibly know about sex first.

“I... I can’t. Hellfire,” he answers, almost slurring, still caught in a stupor.

“Tomorrow, then,” you challenge at his rejection. You cross your arms and lean over the table as you squint at him. The wind rustling through the trees carries the warmth of your floral-vanilla scent over to him, like a lullaby, or a magic spell.

As though he needed something else to make him all stupid.

Suddenly you're ten feet tall. Eddie feels like an ant. You could crush him if you wanted. You have all the power and the look you give him tells him that you know that. He fidgets on the hard wooden seat but can’t seem to break your stare. His voice is tight and a few octaves higher as he answers — “Yeah. Tomorrow sounds good. Great, even.”

“Cool,” you’re suddenly beaming. You stand from the bench and saunter off, tossing a look and a wave over your shoulder as you shout, “See you tomorrow, Eds!”

He has to jerk off after that one. He counts himself lucky that he made it to his van before he exploded completely.

Eddie has to become a sex god in twenty-four hours and he doesn’t know where to start. 

So, like any master procrastinator, he doesn’t. He just worries about it all night and the following day. He turns himself into a big ball of anxiety (if you touched him, he'd probably shock you) and it’s left him in the sort of worry that doesn’t let him sit still for too long.

Wayne’s sitting in his recliner, trying to eat his late lunch before he heads off to work the graveyard shift. It’s hard to enjoy his sandwich or the latest episode of Miami Vice playing on the television ahead of him when his nephew keeps bouncing in and out of the room. Making brief conversation, rearranging the knickknacks on the coffee table, coming in just to stand in place for a few minutes before leaving again to rustle in other parts of the small trailer. 

At one point, he comes in with the fucking vacuum and nudges at the man’s work boots until he kicks his feet up. Wayne’s never seen him do a chore in his life.

“What the hell has gotten into you today, boy?” the man complains through turkey, cheese, and bread.

“Nothing. What are you talking about? I’m perfectly normal.”

He’s never been normal a day in his life either.

Eddie disappears out of the room a second later with the whirring of the vacuum in tow. Wayne shakes his head to himself. “Boy’s gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles and takes another too large bite.

It’s unlike Eddie not to tell his uncle things, especially things weighing so heavy on his chest that they're starting to feel like pure steel. But his uncle doesn’t ask any questions, and Eddie’s grateful.

How the hell is he supposed to tell Wayne that a cute girl is coming over and that he’s jacked off three times at the thought of her?

Once in his bed, the first thing he did that day when he woke up from a dream about you that felt a little too real; the second in the shower when the cold water wouldn’t kill the boner he’d gotten; and the third in his bedroom, in the shirt he’d peeled off hardly ten minutes beforehand when he got into a bath. It made him feel dirty again though his skin was perfectly clean.

Wayne would think he was joking. At least with the “cute girl” part. He’d probably pat him on the back for the second one — “oh, to be young again,” he'd mumble to himself while simultaneously deciding to leave well enough alone.

Eddie’s so nervous he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

You’ve got him practicing what to do in the mirror, trying to plan the conversation, ironing out the wrinkles of what might happen. “Hi—” he starts but then shakes his head and clears his throat. His voice is deeper as he continues, “Hey, how are you doing? Oh, that’s cool, I’m good too— shit, this is so fucking lame.”

He wonders how you’ll go about it. If you’ll offer first, or if he needs to ask. If you’ll make small talk or if you’ll just straight up take off your shirt. He’d take either, honestly.

He jerks off one more time, just for good measure, after Wayne’s left for work. He’s already tired and his dick is practically raw with how much it’s been tugged at, but he hopes it’ll stop him from getting hard the second you walk through the door. And he figures with the amount he’s come that day, he’s a whole less likely to do it in his pants when he touches you.

You knock on the door at 7 o’clock sharp, like you planned it down to the minute.

He straightens out his leather jacket when he stands abruptly from the couch. He rushes to the door and then hesitates with his hand on the rusted brass handle — because he doesn’t want to seem too eager, right? 

He leans to the side to look in the dirty glass mirror hanging by the coat rack, brushing through his curly locks in attempts to tame them. Then he shakes his head so they’re wild again.

He finds you standing on his porch in a tight-black sweater that dips down at your chest; the pendant of your necklace sparkles under the yellow nightlight perched on the outside wall. It’s paired with a white nylon skirt that stops at your thigh.

He’s only seen girls on TV in the suede boots you’re wearing — the kind that’s tight up to your ankle with a short and chunky heel. They match the color of your skirt. He wonders if they were expensive and how much you’ve worn them; they look brand new, like you’ve brought them down from the top of your closet just for him.

You’ve got a stack of thick tapes in one hand and a brown paper bag of snacks in the other.

“What… What’s all this?” he wonders, not displeased at your effort but shocked by it nonetheless.

“Thought we could have a movie night,” you shrug then slide by him and into the trailer. He shuts the door behind you and watches from afar as you set the sack down. It’s not quite flat on the bottom so it topples over and spills some of its content onto the coffee table — red hot chips and sour gummy worms.

“You mentioned that you’d never seen Fast Times a couple weeks ago, so I decided to go rent a copy at Family Video, right? And then I started talking to Robin and she started showing me all the new movies that just came in, so I got a little carried away—”

You're rambling, he notices, almost like you’re nervous.

It makes him feel slightly better, knowing this obviously wasn’t your first time hanging out with a guy (or being touched by one, if he ever got to that part), but that you were nervous nonetheless. Like you wanted this — whatever this was — to go well just as much as he did.

Eddie puts the tape into the VHS player when you’re headed back from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand. You sit it on the table before plopping yourself in the middle of the couch — the boy across the living room has no idea you spent the two-and-a-half minutes it took to cook the snack debating on where to sit.

You feared sitting too far on one side might spook him from sitting next to you, that he’d think you didn’t want to sit next to him. So you place yourself snuggly in the middle of the decade-old sofa and hope you don’t seem too eager.

Your heart sinks to your ass when Eddie sits so far on the edge he’s practically sitting on the arm of it.

You muster a smile and try to make a joke of it. “I don’t have cooties or anything, Eds.”

“Promise?” he lilts. The way his voice shakes is purely for comedic effect. Obviously.

“Cross my heart.”

He hopes that by playing it off, you won’t notice how anxious he is about sitting next to you. But when he plants himself beside you, just close enough so that the rough fabric of his jeans scratches your knee every time he fidgets, it’s a little like sitting next to a rock. You spend the first half of the movie wondering if he’s nervous too or if he really just didn’t want to sit this close to you.

The film keeps playing and he keeps snacking — eating chips and Oreos and popcorn in a rotation before combining all three and marveling at the taste; “You’ve got to try this!” he exclaims to you with raised brows and wide eyes. He eventually forgets to be nervous.

That is, until Fast Times hits 53 minutes and 5 seconds.

The smooth bass of Moving in Stereo plays lowly in the background as Phoebe Cates rises from the pool water, clad in a small red bikini. The chlorine-laced drops of water glisten off of her tanned skin. “Hi, Brad. You know how cute I always thought you were,” you quote quietly along with her.

Your eyes are as glued to the television as Eddie’s when she starts to unlatch her top, like it’s the first time you’re seeing it too. You joked to Robin once that you couldn't wait until they made this movie in 3D.

Eddie gets hard as a rock, then. In every sense of the phrase.

“She’s hot, right?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” he answers. He clears his throat when the word comes out too tight. “Totally.”

“That’s how I knew Robin was gay, you know? We watched this when I slept over at her house one time and I woke up in the middle of the night and found her playing this scene over and over again,” you confess with a laugh and hope your best friend won’t be too angry you told him this. “She was sitting, like, two inches away from the screen.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. And when we made out afterward, that really sealed the deal—”

“Holy shit—” he sputters before he can stop it. “—Are you joking?”

Please, say yes before I come in my jeans, he thinks to himself.

“Why?” you challenge, shooting him an arched brow over your shoulder. “Does that change anything?”

“What? No! Of— Of course not!” It just makes you, like, ten times fucking hotter, that’s all.

“Good,” you nod and then turn back to the television. You move on quickly, and Eddie’s grateful. You keep telling the story like it’s one you tell all your friends.

“I asked her why she was watching it without me, and she said she got bored, but I already knew why she was watching it, you know? I guess I just wanted to hear her say it. So I just came out with it — ‘If you want to look at a pair of tits, I’m literally right here.’”

Eddie’s so entranced by your words it’s like you're telling him a bedtime story. He’s looking at you so intently, his gaze locked to your profile like he’s trying to commit it to memory. And when you finally turn to look at him again, he can’t seem to turn away, to even pretend like he wasn’t just hopelessly staring at you.

“So, then it became this whole thing, right? Like, I’ll show mine if you show yours. And then she got all awkward and nervous and lost in her head, kinda like you right now, and then I leaned in…” you trail off quietly, doing it in time as the words leave your mouth. So teasingly and breathtakingly slow. Eddie finds himself drifting closer to you, too, like a bayman to a siren’s call. “Just like this… And then I—”

You don’t have a chance to finish your sentence.

Eddie’s already kissing you before he realizes what he’s doing. Your noses knock together, the tip of his crushed against the side of yours. The sweet flavor of your strawberry chapstick evades his mouth when your lips press together.

He’s as shocked as you are.

He’s wanted to kiss many pretty girls in his life, but this was the first time he's actually ever done it.

You feel his face burn red against you when he realizes what he’s just done. He tries to pull away from you, but you keep him there with a hand on the back of his head; deepening the kiss and telling him that you want this — that you’ve always wanted this — without actually saying the words.

Refusing to separate from him, you maneuver yourself to face him more as press yourself against his side and tuck your knees beneath you. You caress the rough pad of his tongue with yours all the while, one hand balled in the shoulder of his t-shirt and the other anchoring itself to his curls.

You wait patiently for him to take action. To grip your waist. To lay you back on the couch. To climb over you and take what’s his.

He never does.

He hardly even touches you. He’s got one palm on your hip, but it’s so featherlight that it’s barely even there. His other hand is clutching the pillow on his lap with a white-knuckled grip, like he’s fighting to contain himself in some way. But you want him to let go. To lose himself with you.

The cushion had been there for most of the movie, something to keep in his absentminded hold and get crumbs all over. You wonder, now, if it’s a shield for something else.

Your lips click wetly when you part from him. A small smile forms on your mouth when you notice a string of spit threatening to connect the both of you. It breaks apart, landing cold below your mouth, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand.

“Are you hard?”’ you wonder through bated breaths, coming right and just saying it.

Eddie’s eyes go somehow wider and his mouth falls agape. “Uh… No?”

Giggling, you ask, “Is that a question?”

“Maybe.”

“So what’s the answer?” you pry.

“Honestly?” he starts with a heavy breath and heavier eyes, still trying to joke. “Whatever makes me sound super cool and mysterious and sexy.”

“I’ve always thought you were all those things,” you confess with a soft laugh, twisting a strand of his hair with the tip of your finger.

“…Really?” he can’t help but wonder. Those words are about the most shocking thing that’s happened so far this evening.

“Yeah,” you nod, then tease: “Because you've never lied to me.”

So tell me the truth, he can hear the words jumbling around in your head. So does. He swallows thickly and then admits, voice cracking halfway through his confession, “I’m so hard that it fucking hurts, sweetheart.”

You’re smiling like the Chesire Cat at that, big and sly and mischievous. You have all the power and you know it.

“Can I make you feel better?” you whisper to him, lilting like you're taunting him. You mean it, though, and he knows that because you’re already tugging at the pillow in his lap. You don’t fight to snatch it away completely. You leave just enough room to allow him to say no. But his grip on the thing relaxes and allows you to slide the cushion slowly from his crotch.

He can’t say the words because his tongue is suddenly heavy in his mouth and his throat is closing on him. So he just nods, peering at you with eyes hooded with ecstasy.

You go back to kissing him, then, unhurriedly this time. You allow yourself to feel all of him, to hold his face in your hands and explore all the bits of him you never got the chance to before now. You do it more so in an effort to get him to relax, to forget to be nervous, but it only half-works.

He gets more comfortable with himself with time. The hand on your waist finds a more confident purchase there and the other climbs up to your face, cradling your jaw while his ringed fingers get lost in the strands of your hair. Then he starts to kiss you back harder, more earnestly than before, like he’s trying to prove something. Trying to tell you everything like this than with words he can’t seem to say out loud.

He forgets to be nervous again when your lips fit together like pieces of a puzzle — the kind with the funky edges, the kind you know goes together because there’s only two in the whole bunch like it. He stops worrying if he’s doing it right.

His breath is warm and heavy as it fans against your cupid’s bow. He’d rather take in small pieces of oxygen like this than stop kissing you now. You feel the same way as you straddle his thigh, careful not to move with too much haste that it knocks your lips apart.

Eddie’s legs part for you on instinct. When you settle more comfortably against him, he can feel the warmth radiating between your thighs through the thick fabric of his jeans. He wishes he was naked right now, more so that you were, so he can feel all of you, bare against his skin.

But he takes what he can get for now. And tries not to burst completely at the thought that the only thing separating you from him was the thin layer of your cotton underwear.

It’s hard not to think about your own pleasure like this. You could so easily move your hips against his thigh, let the rugged fabric of his jeans and your panties do all the work against your clit and bring you to a swift release. You want to. You’re sure Eddie would want you to if you asked him. But it strangely seems less important now.

Because you know you’re minutes away from making Eddie come so hard his legs shake. And you always wanted to know what he looked like when he came.

Your hand worms out of his hair and down his neck. Your fingernails trail lightly over his skin, leaving visible chill bumps in their wake. Your palm falls down his chest and stomach, smooth like drops of summer rain. The print of his Def Leppard tee is rough and cracked with age. You wonder how long he’s had it, how often he’s worn it, as your hand settles again. This time on his belt.

For a split second, he’s anxious about you seeing his dick. What if you think it’s too small? He thinks to himself. What if you think it’s too ugly? But then he realizes you’re not even trying to take off his jeans. You just rest your palm over the rough material of the denim and grip him through it.

A groan crawls up his throat and out of his mouth. His head falls backward and lands against the back of the couch.

He’s bigger than you thought, and warm against the tender skin of your hand, even through his boxers and his pants. It’d be ever warmer if you were feeling the real thing, you discern, but you figure you’ll save that for another time. Because even though it’s not the real thing and there are so many layers separating your fingers from his cock, Eddie’s letting out small and breathy moans that tell you that you’re touching him just right. The more you squeeze, the louder he gets.

“Is this okay?” you whisper to him.

“Are you kidding?” he retorts with a breathless laugh. “I feel like I’m in heaven right now.”

“Just wait until you come,” you giggle. It makes him moan again. His eyes fall shut because he knows he’s moments away from feeling what it’s like — not to come, obviously, but for it to be from your hand and not his. 

You massage him through his jeans, feeling him grow somehow harder with each caress of your fingers. Peering down at him, you can see his jaw clenching, the way it moves his temples, and the muscles in his neck straining as he climbs the peak of pleasure.

“If you think this feels good now, just wait until you're inside me,” you purr to him.

“Oh, fuck,” he drawls shakily at your words. He doesn’t know if you’re being serious or not. He wants so much to believe that it’s a promise, though. The idea that he could unbuckle his belt right now, free his cock from its restraints and slip your panties to the side and take you, just like this, with you on top of him and riding him for all he’s worth, that nearly does him in.

But he’s fighting to keep it at bay. To let this moment last as long as he can. Because it’s entirely likely that he’ll come and you’ll never want to do this again. It’s even more likely that he’ll wake up from this way too vivid fantasy he’s concocted in his brain. How good can dreams get until they’re nightmares again?

The hand on your hip darts to wrap around your wrist.

“What’s wrong?” you ask him, gaze sober and sincere.

Eddie breathes out a tremble sigh of relief when you slow your motions against him. “I just…” he breathes heavily. And swallows. “I really don’t want to come in my jeans.”

You’re smiling again at that, pleased at how good you're making him feel. Like the pleasure is foreign to him. He can feel your grin as you lean down to kiss him. It’s a chaste peck, like you're just sprinkling yourself there so it can linger the rest of the night. 

Your kiss is far more fervent against his neck, wetter and more passionate. His skin has a faint taste of salt, like he’d been sweating. And he was, for the entire day that he anticipated your arrival, though there was never an ounce of him expecting this. You bite at the strained tendon and marvel as he shudders beneath you.

“It’s okay,” you leave your promise against his skin. “I’ll wash them for you after. Like a good little housewife—”

It was a joke and he knows it because you’re laughing at the absurdity of your words, at the reality of them. You’re probably the only person in the world giving your drug dealer a handjob for free weed and then offering to wash his damp bottoms when he comes in them — calling yourself his fucking housewife. But, for a reason he can’t explain, that’s what gets him.

Not marrying you, perhaps, but the idea that he could have this feeling forever. That you could bring him to complete and utter, blinding bliss and then take care of him while he comes back to earth. 

You give him an especially tough squeeze that sends a moan spilling roughly from his throat. His hips jerk up to their own according, his thigh jamming into your clothed pussy — he swears he hears you moan — and his toes curl in his boots.

He doesn’t let go of your hand as he comes. He grasps your wrist and presses you further against him. His grip is almost too tight but you don’t mind it, not when you can feel the denim growing damp with the evidence of his orgasm.

Eddie doesn’t feel anything for a while after that. It’s just pure pleasure for several long moments. The fuzziness of his climax, your hand pressed against him, your warmth still pressed against his thigh.

But then the high fades away like a rolling summer cloud and he starts to feel the wet patch forming in his clothes. The fabric of his thin boxer starts to stick to him and he almost feels gross, like he’s a teenager again who can’t so much as look at a woman with needing to come.

But then he sees the way you look at him, grinning like a cat who got the cream — because, in some ways, you are. You look like you're proud of him. Like you’re secretly wondering how many times you can do that before it’s too much. He wants to find out too.

You plant another kiss to his lips. Just because you can.

“Take your pants off, Munson,” you mumble against his mouth, kissing him one more time for good measure before pulling away again.

“Oh— shit— wait, really?” he sputters. “I thought you were joking about— about me being… I— I don’t know if I have any condoms.”

He totally does, in an unopened box under his bed, collecting dust. 

You don’t need to know that, though.

“I meant for washing them so you can change,” you laugh at his embarrassment. The sound somehow makes him feel better even though you’re slightly making fun of him. You shrug and arch a brow at him, lilting, “But… I’m down if you are.”

have any more virgin!eddie thoughts? or just thoughts about my writing/requests in general? leave them here if you want! ꒰◍ᐡᐤᐡ◍꒱

[zipper-ghost]

Based on a fic I'm working on where Kim and Harry have to go undercover at a gay club

Read the fic on ao3

(lines in bold are Harry’s skills talking. I haven't specified but you can guess)

A chill wind whips their faces as they step onto the precinct roof. They huddle together, facing each other, Harry’s broad body blocking the wind which would snuff out the lighter flame. Kim lit his cigarette and then lit Harry’s. Harry recently switched from Menthols to Kim’s brand of chestnut-flavored cigarettes. Kim hasn’t asked about it even though he noticed.

As the smoke fills his lungs Kim’s whole body visibly relaxes. A softness falls across his expression, his gaze grows distant. You don’t know if it’s the ritual of smoking at the end of the day or the nicotine. The smoldering end of the cigarette is reflected in Kim’s glasses, as are you. They lean against the railing and watch the sunset over the horizon in silence. Harry waits for Kim to start. 

The jingling of Kim unzipping his jacket makes Harry stand a bit straighter and bite the filter for his cigarette. 

“Shall we start?” Kim says taking out his notebook and flipping it open. 

You nod, trying not to linger on Kim’s now exposed collarbone. 

“How do you think the investigation is going?”

“Bad.”

“Kmn, we seem to have hit a dead end. Even though we’ve made contact with the suspect the name he has been using in the club scene seems to be an alias. And his tattoo doesn’t seem to be related to any known gang or criminal organization. We are still waiting for the lab to get back to us about the particular strain of hallucinogen that was in the victim’s system.” 

“It’s worrying…”

“What is?”

“Well, the drug the victim overdosed on- it’s not something we’ve come across before. There is a chance that there will be more overdoses like this.”

“We can look into who the suspect’s supplier might be.”

“He might not have a supplier here.”

Kim glances at Harry. “Why do you say that?”

“The suspect is Seraise. They said he was bragging about being an aerostatic pilot on leave. Maybe he brought the drugs from the Safre empire, would that be possible to find out?”

“I can look into it.” 

For a moment it is silent except for the sound of Kim’s pen on paper. A motor carriage speeds across the street below. Sodium street lights are switched on as the sky grows darker and stars begin to appear one by one. 

“How long do you think we have until he returns to Safre?”

Kim taps the page with the back of his pen. “It’s hard to tell. He has been here awhile, might be any day now.” 

“He probably won’t come to that club anymore,” Harry adds.

Kim’s eyes crinkle. He is smiling though only you would notice. 

“No,” Kim says, “not after you scared him off.”

“I didn’t scare- I am perfectly capable of flirting.”

“Sure, you are,” Kim replies around his cigarette, his flat words dripping with sarcasm. 

“I am! I was just not his type is all. He must be into twinkles-”

“Twinks,” Kim corrects. “Like our victim.”

“Hm.” Harry exhales a plume of white smoke that dissolves into the night. 

“So Kim, what’s your type? Twinks, bears, otters, cubs, tigers, rabbits?”

Kim’s face remains unreadable but his shoulders tense, the pages of his notebook crinkle under his grip. 

He answers after a brief but notable pause. “I don’t have a type. And you made up the last few at the end.”

“Everyone has a type! Are you saying you have no preferences when it comes to who you find attractive?”

“I’m more interested in personalities.”

“You’re such a fucking liar. Come on Kim.”

“Enough detective. We are still in the middle of our briefing and this is irrelevant to-”

“This is relevant to the case,” Harry insists. 

“Fine,” Kim says begrudgingly. “If I had to describe it, it’s say my taste in men is … questionable.”

“Questionable? What does that mean?”

“It means I’m attracted to men who are bad for me or impossibly out of reach. Now if you are satisfied can we get back to the case?”

Harry smiles. If you are smart about it, you could get more information from Kim. “Well your answer was kind of a cop-out but I’ll let it go for now.”

Kim furrows his brow at Harry, a look that says ‘Don’t you dare.’

You feel your knees buckle under the force of Kim’s glare. You grab the railing with one hand. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me about my type?”

“I don’t have to. I already know.”

“What? How do you already know?”

Kim turns back to his notebook and pretends to read. “Because it is obvious. You like them young, waifish, and pretty. Someone mysterious and fragile, someone who you can save.”

Someone to be your redemption. 

“That- that's not true- not everyone that-” Harry stutters. Kim’s blatant description of Dora throws you off kilter. Talking about her is taboo. Even though Kim knows about her and what she did to you he had never brought it up. He knows you still have nightmares of her. 

“Well, just in Martinaise there was Klaasje, Lilienne, the smoker on the balcony, and-”

“Wait- the smoker on the balcony?”

Kim raises an eyebrow. “You were smitten. You went on and on about him, ‘he is such a good listener, I felt heard when I talked to him. He smelled so good, how can someone smell so good?” Kim covers his mouth to hide his condescending grin. 

A formless darkness claws inside you. It feels terrible to be judged, to be teased, but you can’t quite put into words what you are feeling, or why

“You sound jealous,” Harry snaps back. 

Kim sighs. “I’m not jealous. I’m a detective and I notice patterns of behaviour.”

“Well you're plain wrong in this case. You’re not like that-”

“I’m not like what?” 

“Like…” Harry’s breath stutters in his chest. Kim isn’t like Dora or Klaasje or Lilienne or the smoker on the balcony. He isn’t like them and still…

You look at Kim’s cigarette and feel a pang of jealousy. You wish to be that cigarette cradled between his lips. You want to burn into ash, you want to be the bitterness on Kim’s tongue. You want to be the smoke filling his lungs, the nicotine flooding his bloodstream. You want to be Kim’s addiction, you want to be part of him, deep and inextricable. 

“I…” A tidal wave of desire crashes through you but you can’t say the words.

Kim snaps his notebook close. “I guess we’ve reached the end of the briefing. Our conversation is no longer productive.” He tosses his half-smoked cigarette to the ground and crushes the lit ember beneath the heel of his boot. 

His face is unreadable as usual but Kim is upset. 

Damn it. You’ve fucked up Harry. 

Harry follows Kim down the stairs from the roof. 

“I’m sorry Kim, I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

“I’m not angry Officer. It’s late and we won’t any more progress today, you should go home early.”

He is lying, if he isn’t mad he wouldn’t call you ‘officer’

[makeitmingi]

When Flowers Bloom In The Dark [Chapter 2]

Genre: Romance, Mafia!AU, Violence, Angst, Slow burn

Pairing: Hongjoong x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Florist!Reader, Mafioso!Hongjoong, Mafioso!Seonghwa, Mafioso!Yunho, Mafioso!Yeosang, Mafioso!San, Mafioso!Mingi, Mafioso!Wooyoung, Mafioso!Jongho

Summary: When you appeared and wept at his mother's funeral, Hongjoong found himself wanting to find out more about you. A regular girl, who owns a flower shop in his territory and has a relationship with the mother that he hasn't spoken to in years, why hasn't he ever noticed you before?

[Warning(s): 18+ for violence, use of weapons, smoking, alcohol consumption, slight gore, gang affiliation, tattoos and character deaths. Minors DNI. This is a work of fiction and does not represent the Ateez members in real life.]

Word count: 3.2K

With an iced tea in hand, you unlocked the glass doors of your shop and entered. You turned on the lights, placing your tea on the counter and your bag in your locker. Since you were the only worker here, there was no one else to use the lockers but you.

"Roses, tulips, carnations..." You grabbed your notepad to check the incoming deliveries today. The first thing you did was check on your plants and water them.

"You're growing well." You smiled softly, seeing the plant that you sprout, moving the pot away from the direct sunlight.

"(y/n)?" You heard the familiar voice of your supplier at the back door and went over.

"Good morning, Mr Lee. Do you have any surprises for me?" You giggled. You had a good relationship with all your suppliers, they always helped you bring in quality products.

"Well, besides your usual orders, I have some hydrangeas if you would like." He climbed into his truck.

"Here." He pushed the bucket to show you.

"Oh, they're absolutely beautiful. I'll take them." You smiled. He nodded and helped you bring everything in, he usually knew where everything went.

"Sunflowers aren't selling too well." You shook your head in disappointment, seeing your sunflowers there.

"Sunflowers aren't trendy anymore. Have you seen what's on the internet? My daughter told me that girls are content with just bouquets of baby's breaths now. How times have truly changed, right?" He chuckled with a click of his tongue. You nodded and moved the roses into the refrigerated area.

"It's a minimalist thing, no? Bigger isn't better anymore. No one comes in for traditional bouquets anymore." You sighed, going to the cash register to get the money.

"Tell me about it... And this should be everything." Mr Lee said, glancing over the flowers that he brought in.

"Thank you, this is the payment." You handed the money to him. He nodded and placed it in his pouch.

"Also, Mr Lee. I remember you mentioning that Mrs Lee keep getting her hands burnt when she's working at her restaurant. I made her an aloe balm. This should help soothe the burns." You held the tin out.

"Oh, you're too kind, (y/n). Thank you so much for making this." He patted your shoulder.

"Have a nice day. See you next week." You walked him out.

"See you." The both of you bowed to each other and he jumped into his van before driving off. You returned to your counter and began your work for the day.

"Let's see..." You checked the online orders that you had and printed it out for reference.

Moving to your work bench, you began to prepare the flower preparations for each other. You trimmed the stems, removed the excess leaves and cut thorns away before wrapping them up with either cellophane or tissue paper.

"Hello? Are you open?" The bell above the door jingled. A girl walked into store, carrying a pot with her. You cleaned your hands and walked out to the front.

"Yes, we're open. How can I help you?" You smiled.

"My fern seems to be wilting and I can't seem to revive it. Can you help?" She asked.

"Let's see what's the issue." You escorted in. She placed the pot on your work table and you inspected it. The girl patiently waited, watching you as you checked it.

"From what I see, the soil isn't draining water properly. It's retaining too much water and suffocating the roots of the plant." You said.

"What? Can that happen?" She blinked.

"Yes, so that suffocation prevents the roots from absorbing the vitamins and minerals. You should mix a well drainage soil of this ratio and move your fern in." You wrote the ingredients down.

"And I can find this at the plant store?" She asked, reading through what you wrote down.

"You should be able to find the components. But if you don't mind waiting, I can mix some for you to take home." You offered. Hearing that, she let out a sigh of relief and nodded her head excitedly. You went to your storage area to grab the different soil components that you need.

"Peat moss, sand and potting soil." You mixed the components into a bag, adding some fertiliser as well since the fern currently lacked essential nutrients.

"For two weeks, put two drops of this plant reviver into the soil even if you are not watering it." You handed her a small vial.

"Thank you. Actually, do you mind repotting it into the new soil for me? I'll pay you." She requested.

"Alright." You took the fern out and got rid of the old soil. You poured the new soil in, creating a well to put the fern in. After that, you loosely covered the roots with the soil.

"Done." You smiled, removing your gloves.

"Thank you. This is actually my mum's plant and I'm helping her take care of it. I know nothing about plants." She said in embarrassment.

"No worries, the plant should be fine from here. If there are anymore issues, you can come back." You chuckled and rang up her bill. She nodded and paid.

"Thanks again." She bowed and walked out of the shop. After that, you went back to preparing your orders. There were some pick ups today so you wanted to make sure that everything was in order for a smoother pick up.

"Hi, I'm here for a pick up?" A guy walked into the store.

"Sure, can I see your order number?" You asked. He showed you the confirmation email and went to retrieve his order. It was a flower box instead of a bouquet.

"Just make sure everything is okay for you before paying." You said, rounding the counter to the cashier.

"Do you mind changing the ribbons to pink too? She really likes pink." He requested.

"Of course." You grabbed the ribbon. With pink flowers, you wanted to add contrast with a different coloured bow but since he wants it to be pink, there was no issue with changing it.

"That's better. Thanks." He handed you his card.

"I wrote the congratulatory message as you stated in request email but if you'd like to write your own message. This is a spare card, on the house." You handed him the blank card.

"Thank you, I don't know what else to write but if I come up with something I'll add it." He rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. You hummed and rang up his bill, writing the invoice and handing him a copy, along with his credit card. With a grateful bow of his head, he left the shop.

Before you knew it, the clock hit 1pm, with customers coming in to buy, place advance orders or collect orders they've placed.

'Closed for lunch.'

You sat behind the counter with a tired sigh, taking out your lunch box. Your meals usually consisted of sandwiches or leftovers from dinner the night before.

Which was why Mrs Kim would usually come with food for you, always disapproving of how your eating habits.

RING!

"Sorry, we're closed at the moment." You said from behind the counter, not looking at the door. But you didn't hear the second ring of the door opening again so you stood up.

"Oh!" Your eyes widened in surprised as Hongjoong stood there, looking around the shop.

"Hongjoong sshi..." You blinked, maybe you were dreaming. Maybe your guilt was too much that the male was appearing in your dreams.

"Good afternoon, (y/n) sshi. Is this a bad time? Should I come back at another time?" He asked with a slight tilt of his head, fingers resting on the buttons of his blazer. You shook your head, reaching to get a tissue to wipe your mouth.

"It's fine. What can I help you with?" You came out from behind the counter to properly greet him. He patiently waited as you pulled a chair for him to sit.

"Please, would you like something to drink?" You offered.

"No, I'm fine. Actually, (y/n) sshi, I came to apologise for my reaction during my mother's funeral." He stood back up.

"What? There's nothing for you to apologise for, Hongjoong sshi. I should be the one apologising, I overstepped and said too much. It wasn't appropriate of me." You bowed deeply.

"You didn't overstep at all. Your intentions were good, I reacted poorly." He bowed back.

"No, you're grieving, it's normal." You smiled softly.

"Thank you for understanding." Hongjoong held his hand out but remembered that it was bandaged and cursed under his breath, hiding it and putting his other hand out for you to shake. If you were phased by his injury, you didn't show it. You smiled and slipped your hand into his to shake.

"I should go and let you carry on with your meal." He said once you both let go.

"No, it's fine. You can stay if you'd like." You smiled softly. He let out a small hum and continued to look around your shop, observing all the plants around.

"So, this is where my mother hung out?" He asked, picking up a stalk of rose from your work bench and twirling it.

"Sometimes... She would come for lunch or tea. We would just chat over food." You replied awkwardly.

How much were you supposed to say about Mrs Kim to her own son? You didn't want to sound like you were boasting about your time with her either, that wouldn't do any good.

"I see." He said, placing the flower back down.

"Hongjoong sshi..." You rubbed your arm, unsure of how to continue this conversation.

"Sorry for making you uncomfortable. Just... The truth is, you know a lot about my mother that I don't. You've spent time with her while I didn't so I can't help but feel curious. My relationship with her wasn't as good as she made it out of be." He informed.

"Oh. Hongjoong sshi, it's not my place to judge you or your relationship with Mrs Kim. Whatever relationship I had with her is vastly different from your own." You said.

"You're very kind, (y/n) sshi." He complimented. Your cheeks heated up in embarrassment.

"I should go." He stood up.

"Wait before you go. Your bandage, do you want me to help you replace it?" You pointed. Hongjoong looked down and saw the blood beginning to seep through.

"It's fine, I shouldn't take up more of your time." He shook his head.

"Not at all. I can help if you'd like." You offered. With a soft sigh, Hongjoong sat back down.

"I'll go get my medical kit. Be right back." You told him and went to the back room to get what you needed. You also took a salve that you usually used for wound care.

"I'm not a doctor but I am first aid certified and I study medical plants in botany so you don't have to worry." You smiled and took a pair of cutters to cut away the bandages that Yeosang had wrapped around Hongjoong's hand. Hongjoong quietly observed you, not saying anything else while you focussed.

"I made this salve for wounds. It should help with soothing the wounds and healing." You explained, cleaning the blood.

"Do you always make your own medicine?" He asked.

"No, I just make simple stuff. I'm still learning." You giggled, tucking your hair behind your ear before applying a thin layer of the salve over the cuts and wounds.

"Does it hurt?" You looked up at him. He shook his head and you sighed in relief.

"You can bring that home with you to apply when you change bandages. I have some more." You explained.

"You do a better job than my brother." Hongjoong said after observing how you properly wrapped a new bandage around his hand and secured it in place.

"You should remove the bandage after 3 days to let the wounds breathe and dry." You said.

The entire time, you never once asked Hongjoong about how he got injured or acted differently. You treated it like any other scrapped knee and healed him. Usually, people would be scared or ask him how he got injured like that.

"Thanks." He looked at his newly bandaged hand.

"You're very welcome. If you see signs of infection or get a fever, go to a doctor." You advised. He nodded and took the small pot of salve, putting it into his pocket.

Will he use it? Probably not. But he saw how dedicated you were and for some reason, didn't want to disappoint you by not taking it.

"Bye, Hongjoong sshi. I'll see you around?" You blinked at your own words, uncertainty in your voice.

"Have a nice day, (y/n) sshi." He didn't address it, merely bowing his head and leaving your shop. You let out a long exhale, feeling like you've been holding your breath the entire time.

"Ah!" You suddenly remembered the silk handkerchief that you had washed and in your bag.

"Too distracted." You scratched your head and went to the counter to eat a few more bites of your lunch before you had to reopen.

You were not too bothered that you hadn't returned the handkerchief to Hongjoong. Even if you did feel guilty, you had an inkling that you would be seeing Hongjoong again soon. What ate at you more was how foreign Hongjoong spoke about his mother, like she was a stranger that he didn't know.

"Hongjoong, where are you?"

"I went out to run an errand, Seonghwa. Don't worry, I didn't drive. I got the driver." Hongjoong sighed, sinking into the backseat of the Rolls Royce he was in.

"I'm not worried about that. I just wanted to make sure you didn't do something dumb like blow up a building."

"Geez that happened ONCE, let it go... And I'm going to work, I have to go to my club." Hongjoong said, looking at his bandaged hand.

"You don't have to go back to work right away, Hongjoong. The boys and I can take over while you take a few days. You've needed to take a break for a while."

"I'm the leader of Ateez, Seonghwa. I don't need all of you to take over my work." Hongjoong replied.

"But..."

"Yes, my mother died. But sitting around isn't going to bring her back to life. I still have roles to fulfill, I'm not going to let anyone strike us just because I'm down. There are people counting on us, relying on us." He continued.

"Alright. Stay safe then, Hongjoong. I'll see you at the docks meeting at 5pm?"

"Yeah, thanks Seonghwa. I'll see you later." Hongjoong hummed and hung up. The car stopped before Hongjoong's club and the manager came out, opening the door for him.

"Good afternoon, Mr Kim." The manager bowed. The club wasn't open yet so Hongjoong could get some administrative work done.

"Get me a drink and come up to the office." Hongjoong said, walking into the club.

"Yes, sir." He bowed. Upon his entrance, all the workers stopped and bowed down to greet their boss This was the main club Hongjoong worked out of so they were used to seeing him around.

"Give me 10 minutes. No one is to enter." Hongjoong told the guard who stood by his office door.

"Yes, sir." The guard bowed.

Hongjoong entered his office and sat down in his chair. There were some things he needed to do and catch up on privately, without any interruptions. As the leader of Ateez, he had to keep track of the other Ateez members and their work, on top of his own. But the boys always did their work so it wasn't hard on him.

*KNOCK KNOCK*

"S-Sir?" Hongjoong heard the timid voice of the club manager outside his door, making him look up from his phone where he was sending messages to Yunho.

"Has it been 10 minutes?" Hongjoong asked back, tucking his phone into his blazer pocket.

"Yes, sir." The male on the other side replied.

"Come in." Hongjoong said. The door opened and the male came in with his iPad and Hongjoong's whiskey in hand. Hongjoong nodded over to the chair and the manager bowed, taking a seat opposite him.

"Update me." Hongjoong took a sip of his drink. The manager began to update Hongjoong on the business.

"We have been thinking of letting our bartending apprentice go. He had been drinking on the job and getting drunk." He informed.

"Who?" Hongjoong leaned forward.

"This is his profile. The next page has some employee complaints and customer complaints that were logged." The manager informed, pulling up the ex employee's profile and handing it over to Hongjoong to look it over.

"I won't read this, let him go. I won't let anyone be caught lacking in my business. One complaint is as good as ten. Make him compensate for what alcohol he took." Hongjoong instructed.

"Of course, sir." The manager nodded, taking back the iPad and going through the other updates.

"Continue to manage necessary manpower and suppliers to the club. Revenue is still good." Hongjoong told him.

"I will. Thank you for giving me this responsibility, sir." The manager bowed from his seat.

"This is the list of VIPs coming. As usual, make sure they are well taken care of." Hongjoong slid over the list of VIP names and the dates that they would be coming.

"Of course." The manager folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

"You can go." With that, Hongjoong waved him off and he left. Hongjoong may seem cold and merciless but he treats his employees right, at least those that do their job well. He is a perfectionist and always wants the best, there shouldn't be anything that's lacking when it came to his business.

"Send Wooyoung and San for that private poker game. That's wheret they'll meet our informant." Hongjoong said to those that were in the group call.

"Oooh, I can get a new suit done." Wooyoung's focus and excitement was obviously on other things.

"What about the governor meeting that's coming up, hyung? Are you going with Seonghwa hyung?" Jongho asked.

"Seonghwa should go with Yunho. They know how to work the charm. Plus the governor's wife seems to favour Yunho." Hongjoong thought out loud, making the other laugh.

"No one can resist that face." Seonghwa chuckled.

"Yunho's ears just turned bright red." Yeosang informed and the others could hear Yunho's yell of protest in the background.

"Wait, what time is Seonghwa hyung and Hongjoong hyung settling the issue at the docks? I want to tag along, I could use some action. It'll be fun." Mingi asked.

"Oh! Me too! If Mingi's going, I want to go!" San agreed. Hongjoong could hear Seonghwa wanting to interject but it was ignored. Hongjoong and Seonghwa could never fight the younger ones, they were simply outnumbered.

"You guys always make a mess when you get involved... This time, call your own clean up crew." Seonghwa hissed.

"You gave in way too easily, Seonghwa ah." Hongjoong laughed and leaned back into his seat.

"I already have enough to think about. I have to pick my battles. Plus, if they can handle it for us, I won't risk getting blood on my new coat." Seonghwa said.

~

Series masterlist

[misc-obeyme]

prompt: RAD

a/n: It has come to my attention that the advent calendar prompts can be done in any order. So I thought it'd be fun to let a random wheel choose the prompt of the day! Sorry, Levi, I'll get to you later, I promise. Today the wheel gave me RAD, so I decided to do a little holiday inspired scene that takes place in RAD. But of course I wrote about Barbatos because I couldn't help myself. I love him, okay? Also I know I'm a day behind, I'll double up one of these days lol. @om-adventcalendar

Barbatos x GN!MC

Warnings: I mean only that it's almost embarrassingly fluff.

You walked into the great hall of RAD and paused to take in the scene. Clusters of poinsettias were placed evenly around the wall of the room, thick red and green ribbon with gold trim draped between them. On a ladder, Barbatos was securing the final bouquet. You saw sprigs of evergreen nestled among the red flowers, along with some tiny white Devildom flowers you didn't know the name of.

Barbatos's uniform jacket and gloves were draped across a nearby chair. You moved to the base of the ladder, looking up at his lean but strong figure. His nimble fingers wrapped the ribbon easily and you saw a little glimmer of magic, likely to hold everything in place.

Although the decorations made the whole place brighter and more festive, you were captivated by the butler himself. The way he gracefully descended the ladder, lithe as a cat, only to stand beside you with a slight smile. He was unsurprised to see you there.

"Where did you get poinsettias like that?" you asked. "Are they real?"

"They are real," he said, eyes sparkling in amusement.

"Do you have a supplier in the human world or something?" you asked.

Barbatos shook his head. "While I certainly could have obtained them that way, I wanted to try my hand at growing them myself. Poinsettias would not normally survive in the darkness of the Devildom, however with the help of a certain sorcerer, I was able to use part of the castle's greenhouse to create an artificial environment for them to grow."

"Why would you go through all that trouble when you could just buy some?" you asked.

Barbatos glanced up at the flowers. "I was able to grow regular specimens, but I wished to grow a Devildom variant as well."

Your eyes widened. "A Devildom variant? Is that what these are?"

"Indeed," Barbatos said.

You squinted at the bunch nearest you. "They don't look any different to me," you said.

Barbatos walked across the room, as if he was going to leave. You followed him in curiosity. He stopped before exiting and turned off the lights.

The room was plunged into darkness, but it lasted for only a moment as your eyes adjusted. You quickly realized that the poinsettias were glowing, a magical red and green light.

"I do believe lights are also a common festive decoration in the human world," Barbatos said.

You turned to him and the way the colors danced in his eyes felt hypnotic. "It's beautiful," you said. "As usual, you've really outdone yourself."

Barbatos took your hand. He still wasn't wearing his gloves and you couldn't deny the tingle in your fingers as your skin met his. He bent over your hand, looking up at you for a moment. "Your opinion is the one I cherish most. I thought of you every time I tended to these plants. I must say it was well worth the effort."

You could feel yourself blushing, but you somehow managed to retain your composure. Until Barbatos pressed his lips to the back of your hand. Then you couldn't help but laugh softly.

"Come on, stop it," you said.

When Barbatos straightened, his smile was mischievous and he pulled you toward him, letting go of your hand to wrap his arms around you instead. "Whatever do you mean, MC?"

You didn't even bother to answer the question, but it didn't matter because of course he already knew the answer. Instead, you kissed him there in the soft green and red lights.

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[olivethewriter]

Love is a drug

hey y'all this is my first one shot, and I am kind nervous, but I just watched euphoria and thought this would be a good fic idea y/n goes to fez's house and gets drugged by mouse instead of rue leading to a steamy confession

You knock on your best friend Fezco's door. "Fez, open up! It's pouring out here!"

The door cracks open a moment later. "Y/N, you really shouldn't be here."

"Too bad, I'm starving," you reply,making a beeline for the kitchen. You grab your favorite chipst.

"Nah, Y/N, I'm serious. You gotta get the fuck up out my house," Fez insists.

"Man stop stressin," you reply, plopping down on his couch and flipping through the TV channels.

"My supplier's bout to swing by, and I don't want you here when he does," Fez explains, growing more tense.

"I'm hungry," you repeat, munching on another chip.

"Then take the fucking chips with you," he grumbles.

"You're being hella rude today, but—" Before you can finish, Fez's phone rings, breaking the tense silence.

After a long pause, Fezco shakes his head. "I could fucking kill you right now."

Fez heads to the door as you turn off the TV. A tall, tattooed guy, way taller and bulkier than you expected, steps in behind Fez. 

"Well, shit, I didn't know your bitch would be here," he says, eyeing you.

"Nah, man, she's just a friend," Fez replies, taking a seat across from you.

"Well, hello there," the guy kneels in front of you, extending his hand. "I'm Mouse. Pleasure to meet you."

"Um, hi," you mutter, cautiously shaking his hand. His intense gaze makes you uneasy, like you want to crawl out of your skin.

he says, he stands up and unpacks his bag and starts describing its contents.

"Sure you don't want any fentanyl?" 

“Nah man im cool too many ODs” fez says 

“How bout you little lady want any fent?”Mouse asks, looking at you.

"No," you reply firmly.

"Nah, man, she's cool," Fez interjects. You've never used drugs before (besides vaping once), and you certainly don't want to start with something as dangerous as fentanyl.

"You gonna let him speak for you?”you look to fez for help “look at me when i talk to you." Mouse demands. He grabs your chin, playing with your hair.

"Have you ever tried it?" he whispers into your ear. You shake your head, speechless.

"No, for real, bro, I don't want her messing with that shit," Fez asserts, his voice steady but tense.

"Don't look at him. Look at me," Mouse insists, grabbing your chin and staring into your eyes. "Ever tried anything?"

You remain silent, unsure how to respond.

"No, seriously, man, she's good," Fez tries to defuse the tension, but Mouse isn't done.

"You know that feeling when you come so hard you can't hear or feel shit?" Mouse whispers, leaning in close. You freeze, feeling the point of his knife against your glossed lips.

You pray silently. You can't believe you're about to die. But you glance at Fez and open your mouth.

The drug hits you fast. In less than a minute, you're numb, barely able to sense anything. You lie down on the couch, eyes barely open.

"You like that?" Mouse asks, placing your legs on his lap.

"Uh-huh," you mumble.

"Wanna try more?" Mouse offers, leaving light touches on your thighs.

"No, man, she doesn't want any more," Fez says, struggling to keep his voice calm, hiding his growing anger.

"I-I want more," you slur, wanting to feel like this forever. Mouse places patches in your shorts' waistband, his hands lingering on your hips.

"That'll cost you three hundred," Mouse says.

"I'm broke," you manage to say.

"That's too bad. Guess you'll have to find another way to pay," Mouse says, his hand creeping toward your hips.

"Man, don't make her do that. I'll pay for her," Fez interjects.

"Nah, thought you were too good for fent," Mouse retorts. Fez grabs the gun, but ultimately decides against using it. That's the last thing you remember before drifting off.

When you wake up, Mouse is long gone, and Fez is nowhere to be found. You're in Fez's room, wearing one of his sweaters. You get out of bed and head to the kitchen, where Fez is eating cereal.

"I'm sorry," you say, barely holding back tears. Fez turns around.

"No, no, don't apologize. It's my fault. I should've had you wait in another room or just fucking shot him," he says, seeing your quivering lips. He pulls you into a hug.

"That was so scary," you admit, barely keeping it together.

"I know, ma," Fez consoles you.

"I thought I was going to die," you confess.

"It's okay. You're here now, and you're safe," Fez assures you, pulling away to look into your eyes.

"I won't let him hurt you again," Fez vows.

"I know," you whisper.

When you thought you were going to die, there wasn't much you regret. You love your family. You're on good terms with almost everyone. But you had never been in love before. You always thought you and Fez would end up together, and it was only a matter of time. But life isn't guaranteed. Tomorrow might not happen. And the next time you almost die, you don't want it to be without kissing Fezco O'Neil.

You look into Fezco's blue eyes. Without thinking, you ask, "Will you kiss me?"

Fez's blue eyes widen, but he doesn't hesitate. His lips touch yours, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. You look up at him, then at his lips.

"Do it again," you demand.

This time, Fez doesn't wait for you to finish your sentence. He kisses you fiercely. The kiss, sweet and hesitant before, is now intense and passionate. Teeth clash, and tongues wrestle as you try to get as close as possible. His strong hands wrap around your waist, and your arms tighten around his neck. You step closer, until every inch of your body presses against his. He lifts you up, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He moves one of your hands from your waist to your neck, pressing a little harder. You let out a small gasp, pulling his face back into yours and kissing him harder. Your hands meet behind his neck, and unexpectedly, he bites your lip and looks into your eyes. You let out a whimper, but your phone dings.

"I need to get that. It's probably my mom," you sigh, disappointed that the moment is over.

"Yeah, of course," Fez says, setting you back on the ground. You look at the message from your mom, telling you to let her know if you're going to stay overnight at Maddie's house and come home.

"I'm so sorry. I have to go," you apologize.

"Okay, let me walk you out."

When you two reach the door, Fez speaks up. "Listen, I really like you. I want this to happen again. Can we do this again but not just like hooking up and shit? I want it all."

"Are you asking me to be your girlfriend, Fezco?" you ask, smiling.

"I mean, I guess, if you want to be," Fezco says, looking down and fiddling with his hands.

"Of course," you say, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him.

"See you tomorrow."

"Bye, Y/N," he says, watching you walk away, the ghost of your kiss lingering on his lips.

[gingiesworld]

Family is Forever

Epilogue

Wanda Maximoff x GN! Reader

Warnings: Smut. Fluff. Happy ending!!!!

Taglist: @fxckmiup @ginnsbaker @gb12d @angrywhisperslove @louxbloom @casquinhaa @natashamaximoff-69 @wizardofstories @canvascoloredin @wandanats-goodgirl @forthelesbians @the-ox-fan20 @marvelogic

18+ MINORS DNI

As Y/N's recovery had been and gone, they had already helped Wanda with everything in regards to the deeds to the store, suppliers, licenses and taxes. Y/N had also taught Wanda a lot of what they know as they helped her decorate the shop. A pastel green and cream, a colour that Y/N had picked out which brought out the colour of Wanda's emerald irises.

They had also treated her to spontaneous dates, whether it would be going to her favourite restaurant or even cooking for them as the twins would be at Pietro's. They had been learning how to cook with the help of Iryna.

But it would be their 15th wedding anniversary and Y/N had wanted to do something special for Wanda. Dressing up in a suit as they went to pick her up from the shop. Arriving just in time for her to close and turn to see them holding a bouquet of flowers.

"I don't think I will ever get used to you surprising me." Wanda whispered as Y/N held the flowers out for her to take.

"I am making up for lost time." Y/N told her as they held out their arm for her to take. "Let me walk you home." Wanda smiled giddily as she walked beside her one under the moon light. The feelings of love and adoration growing within her for the one she calls hers.

"Where are the boys?" She questioned as they turned on to their road.

"Pietro has took them." They told her softly as they helped her up the porch steps. Wanda watched as they opened the door and allowed her in first. Wanda saw a glimpse of the couple they used to be before the twins were born. Her eyes took in the room as Y/N took off her coat. "Have a seat." They spoke tenderly as they pulled out a chair for her.

"Thank you." Wanda smiled as she watched them pour out her favourite wine.

"You deserve to have many more nights like this Wanda and I will make sure you do." Y/N told her before they disappeared into the kitchen to get the dinner.

The two conversed about how their days went, especially since Y/N has also started up their own accounting business. It only caters to small businesses like the bookstore, Harkness Cafè and other small establishments in the village.

Once the two had finished their meals, Wanda smiled at Y/N, watching as they got up and headed to the kitchen to clean up. Soon following them as she saw their jacket hung up on the upper cabinet door. Admiring them as they stood with their shirt sleeves rolled up as they washed up.

"You know, it's been a very long time since we have been somewhat adventurous." Wanda spoke up, causing them to turn to her, catching her with her lip between her teeth.

"And what would somewhat adventurous entail?" They questioned with a raised brow as they dried their hands.

"Well." Wanda placed her glass down before she started to unbutton her shirt. "Fuck me. Right here in this kitchen."

Y/N stepped closer to her and kissed her fiercely, gripping her hips as she wrapped her arms around their shoulders. Moaning once Y/N had pushed her back against the counter, earning a moan from Wanda in response. Allowing them to force their tongue in her mouth as their hands wandered up her body. Their hands finding home on her breasts as they squeezed them roughly as they kissed down her neck. Soon ripping the blouse from her, leaving her in just a bra.

"You are beautiful." Y/N spoke softly as they gazed in her eyes. Wanda's heart leaped at the affirmation before the fire returned to her eyes.

"Fuck me hard." She told them as she reached for their belt, unbuckling it before Y/N removed her bra. The clothes soon strewn across the floor as Wanda was bent over the counter, holding on to the edge as Y/N pounded into her. Hard and fast as she wanted.

Moaning as they pulled her by the hair, her back flush against their front as they continued their movements. Wrapping their arm around her chest as they squeezed her breast harshly, pinching her nipple causing her to let out a lewd moan as she came crashing down, moaning their name as Y/N came shortly after.

Once Y/N had pulled out, Wanda looked at them with a fuzzy smile on her face once she turned in their arms. Caressing their face as they pecked her head.

"Take me to bed." She requested as Y/N replied with a tender kiss before picking her up. Ready to spend the night worshipping her body. Enjoying the sound of her moans and sighs as she came again and again before she collapsed on their chest. Y/N held her close as she closed her eyes, taking in the moment.

Somewhere along the way, they found themselves again. Who they were before life became hectic with raising a family and building a home. Getting ready to embrace whatever challenges life may throw their way. All they know is that now they will go through all of the ups and the downs together.

[definitelynotafurinasimp]

Hey there! Could I please request Furina, Clorinde, and Navia with an S/O who fancies themselves as something of a vigilante (secretly or not is up to you, I have no particular preference) and generally likes to play pretty fast and loose with the laws? Thanks, hope you have a great day!

Them with a vigilante reader

characters: Furina / Clorinde / Navia x gn!reader (separate)

warnings: slight(?) angst in Clorinde’s part, light spoilers for the 2nd Arc of the Archon quest in Navia’s part

a/n: I have no idea if you wanted this to be angsty or fluffy, since the reader turning out to be a vigilante has more than enough potential for soul crushing angst, especially in the Nation of Justice, so I played it safe and go with the fluffier option whenever possible, that being said the Clorinde one is a bit more angsty, I think. 

Also, I'm still trying to get a feel for the characters, so if I got some of their character traits wrong, then I'm really sorry

So I hope this matches what you envisioned, if not, tell me and I’ll try to write it again.

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Navia

While the main producer of Sinthe had been convicted and she finally got rid of her father’s undeserved epithet, Spina di Rosula’s work was not yet done. The biggest supplier may have been dealt with, but as long as there were still people making Mora from selling that substance, neither you nor Navia would rest, not after witnessing what it did to people’s lives.

Navia and you making for good partners shouldn’t have come as a big surprise for anyone. Both of you held an enmity for anyone related to the Sinthe-trade, neither of you held an unwavering trust towards the justice system and the both of you had known each other since long before she took up her fathers mantle. And while your operation wasn’t technically legal, considering how the Hydro Archons last encounters with Navia went, the state decided to turn a blind eye for as long as Spina di Rosula didn’t betray its new found reputation.

You couldn’t remember when the last time was that just the two of you got to eat together like this. For weeks your nights were short and full of investigating, and even when you got to close your eyes, your dreams were filled with the case. But now that most of the Sinthe dealers were locked up behind bars, Navia felt it was only right for the two of you to take some time off.

“Where are Silver and Melus?”, you couldn’t help but ask when you didn’t spot the two men. They were always by her side, no matter when and where she set off, something even more impressive considering Melus’ age.

“I sent them to take some time off, they deserved it. Well, that and I wanted to have some alone time with you”, she explained with a smile, grabbing the plate with her baking and handing it to you, causing you to grab a macron or two before returning the smile, your heavy eyes feeling just a little bit lighter.

“You seem tired, didn’t you say you’d try to fall asleep earlier?”, Navia noted upon seeing the circles under your eyes, causing you to wave it off.

“I did, but then I thought of something and before I knew it I was looking into something”, you tried to play it off, only for the Boss to frown.

“The biggest threat is dealt with, give it a break and get some good night sleep. Not sleeping much isn’t good for your health.”

“Okay mom”, you sarcastically responded, a playful smile growing on your lips. One Navia quickly matched.

“If you don’t stop playing with the reports so late at night, I’ll have to confiscate your toys”, she responded in kind, causing both of you to let out a few snickers before turning your attention to the food.

“Can you pass me the black tee?”, you eventually asked before pointing at the kettle, only for Navia to stop in the middle of her bite and glare at you.

“No. I wasn’t joking, you’re going to sleep early tonight. Even if I have to force you.”

Furina

You were nothing more than a proactive private Investigator. A proactive private Investigator that followed the law, obviously. Vigilantes were criminals, criminals with good intentions, but criminals nonetheless and for the God of Justice’s closest companion, being a criminal was obviously out of the question. Because she would never protect and keep a criminal by her side. That would be ridiculous.

That was the deal, and what Furina made sure you'd remember.

Had this sort of secret been kept by anybody else, Furina might have considered it a twist worth listening to. It would have made for a trial she wouldn’t have been able to wait to attend. But why did it have to be you? Had the Archon found out about your secret earlier, you would be sitting behind bars since a long time ago. Nobody but the state, nobody but her, was allowed to determine whether someone was a criminal or not. 

But by the time you eventually confessed it to her, it was too late. Were it her feelings that made her choose to keep shut or the knowledge that having news that the all knowing God of Justice didn’t notice her closest companion’s secret identity would deliver a considerable hit in her both trustworthiness and popularity as an Archon was irrelevant. The only thing counting being that you remembered those three important rules.

“Hand them over to the Gardes at the earliest possible opportunity, deliver evidence that there’s a crime that justifies me arresting them without the legal clearance to do so and don’t be seen.” While it would have been a lie to say that your lackluster recitation didn’t annoy Furina in the slightest, the fact that you remembered them word-by-word was reassurance enough that you would do your best to follow them.

For anyone unfamiliar with the person behind their god’s confident facade, it would have been a surprise to see their Archon nervously pacing around the room, but for you it was hardly a rare occurrence. Whenever you gathered enough information about a suspect to be certain they were a serious criminal and the only step left was to make them face justice, she’d sit you down in her room before hammering those rules into your brain..

“Exactly, and you better remember each and every one of those. I may have kept our- your secret so far, but don’t even think for a second I’ll hesitate to throw you into the dungeons myself if I hear you as much as consider breaking one of them”, she tried her hardest to keep her composure, and although the thought of making a small jest crossed your mind, doubting the validity of her threat, it wouldn’t surprise you if anything but a 100% serious answer would be enough to make her pass out, and so you cleverly decided to shut up and nod.

“Good, I could see from the moment I first laid eyes on you that you weren’t a criminal, so rise and do what you have to do”, she continued to cling to the image of the well spoken, righteous Archon her citizens surely knew her as before just as quickly collapsing onto the same chair the moment the door closed behind you.

“Why do I keep doing this to myself???”

Clorinde

While your family wasn’t wealthy enough to pay for you to get any kind of training, you were always a fascinated with sword fighting, so much so that the moment you finally saved enough to buy a good sword you asked Clorinde to teach you how to properly use it, something she saw no reason to refuse.

You had gotten a lot better since the first time the two of you trained, not nearly good enough to best her, but more than certainly enough to hold your ground against most enemies and threats in the wild. A part of her wanted to feel proud about her accomplishments as a teacher, but she couldn’t, not when she knew what you were using those acquired skills for.

Clorinde wasn’t blind. She knew something was going on the moment you started returning home in bruises and wounds from your “late-night walks”. At first she assumed some petty criminals must have started extorting you, but when you didn’t seem to be missing anything and she heard about a mysterious person apprehending criminals, it didn’t take her long to realize just what you were doing.

“What do you think of that ‘vigilante’ everyone is talking about?”, you asked while trying your best to block whatever attack she threw at you, your eyes landing on her for just a split second before fixating on her blade again. 

Well, you couldn’t be more direct. 

“I’m not sure. I know desiring justice is a noble trait, but if it’s justice they’re after, why not report the cases to the Gardes?”, she responded calmly, trying her best to keep her suspicions as hidden as possible.

“Maybe they don’t trust Fontaine’s law enforcement to do their job?”, you countered just as calmly, not averting your eyes from her weapon for even a split second.

“And what’s your opinion on the way the court does its sentencing? Just between the two of us”, her gaze left her own blade long ago, slowly but surely making their way down towards you.

“It’s certainly an entertaining spectacle”, you explained, only for her blade to suddenly change course and hit you in the chest. The only thing stopping it from sinking into you being the fact that it was a dull training sword. Before you knew it, Clorinde was silently staring you down, staring straight into your eyes and sending a shiver down your spine. Before finally speaking up once again.

“Then I hope they don’t get caught. The last thing I want to do is have to fight them in a real duel.”

If it took her, a duelist, nothing but a closer look to figure your secret out, it wouldn’t take a prosecutor long either. For your sake-, both of your sakes however, she hoped you’d manage to keep any suspicion away from you… at least long enough until she didn’t have to worry about you losing against her fellow champions. 

[readychilledwine]

Blooms and Blossoms

Summary - The building was perfect, bones ready for a new owner and beginning. Now Elain just had to convince Rhysand to let her have it.

Warnings - None, unless you want to count female independency

A/N - Happy @elainarcheronweek day 6! I think Elain is all of us flower girls who secretly wish we could be running a floral shop *dreamy sigh*. I just know her shop would be gorgeous.

🌸Elain Week Masterlist🌸Master Masterlist🌸

Velaris was never a sleepy town. Elain had realized that very quickly into her newest adventure as she had begun to call being made fae. The streets were always full of light and life. Footsteps and music following every twist and turn on the streets.

She noticed flowers everywhere. Every shop window, planters paid for by Feyre and Rhysand, large gardens, but there were no floral shops. No places for males and females to treat themselves to the beauty only petals could bring. She had been hunting for days to change that, and as she dragged a very confused Rhysand with her, she had a solution.

Elain stopped in front of an empty shop. No sign to detail what had once been, dust gathering on the windows, “Here.” The shop was located in the Rainbow. Near Feyre, yet far enough away the sisters would not be close enough to annoy each other.

“Here what?”

She rolled her eyes at her brother in law before dragging him inside the building. “Look at how perfect the bones of this place are.” Walls that needed fresh paint, floors in need of a good clean and stain. Counters he'd want to replace as soon as he saw her vision. “I want the till here,” she motioned to the empty counter space where she envisioned something ornate and gold to hold coins. “Coolings here?”

Rhysand was slowly catching on, a soft smile playing on his lips. “More windows,” he turned her to the main wall facing the street, for your floral displays and season decor. You will be required to change it for Starfall and Solstice.”

Elain nodded excitedly, “Maybe a new door? With a bell? You know that is one of my favorite sounds.”

“I'm picturing light blush walls,” he began. “To bring out the color in the petals. Neutral countertops, perhaps a white marble?” He began to walk around the large building. “Darker Stained floors.”

“Darker. Definitely a deep rich color,” she agreed before moving with him. It was working. Her goal was slowly coming into fruition. “Blooms and Blossoms,” she said the cheesy name, biting her inner lip and waiting for him to reject it.

Rhysand only glanced back at her, “Very catchy. Nothing around here or in the shopping quarters has a similar name, My dear.” He watched her lip trembled, watching as the happiest of tears began to pool. “An interesting fact. Feyre and I own this building. The former owner could not find a buyer before her marriage to a Day Court noble came. Feyre bought it from her out of kindness.” He motioned for her to follow, knowing she probably had not seen the back.

Her hand found his as they walked through the dark, trusting her brother to get her to whatever he was showing her safely. He opened the door to the back of the shop.

A greenhouse. The shop already had a beautiful greenhouse, archway massive and ready in place. “The artist who owned this building specialized in making paints and art supplies from flowers, berries, and foliage. She grew it all to capitalize on profit.”

Elain walked around the huge greenhouse, now bare bones, but ready and aching to grow life again. “Rhys, please.”

He nodded before motioning for her to come back to him. “It is yours. Work will begin tomorrow.”

Board by board, day in and day out, Elain watched as her dreams were built. Seeds and bulbs planted, suppliers contacted. Each moment was reality growing near. Dusty aged wood was made new again, a deep mahogany stain freshly laid with a satin finish. Walls primed and changed to a soft blush pink. The old worn countertops were removed and replaced with a white and gray marble. A gold register with flowers and fauna carved into it is placed. Every change had Elain in Rhysand's office, the most alive he had ever seen her.

She was electric like this. Her joy became contagious as the Inner Circle learned of her shop, and as opening day approached rumors were spreading through Velaris.

Elain had started spending more and more time at the shop, preparing bouquets of roses, wild flowers mixes, daisies, whatever she could in pretty glass and clay vases. She hummed to herself as she worked on her current project, 24 long stem red roses mixed with fresh baby's breath and soft feather-like foliage. She had not noticed Rhysand enter from the back shop door. She had not noticed his smile as he watched her. She only noticed when he came to the register, placing gold in the till before kissing her cheek.

“I'd like that one,” he hugged her. “It exactly what I was wanting.”

“Take your money back, you aren’t-”

He shook his head, picking a clear glass vase with an iridescent glazing, “I am your first customer, little sister.”

Those words made her heart ache, from joy, from gratitude, from the love pouring from her very chest. “Rhysand-”

“I am so proud of you,” he stopped her sentence, knowing she was going to argue. “So very proud. You've come to life, Elain.” He pulled her to him, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “Have you gotten to see the sign we had done?”

She shook her head, letting him pull her to the beautiful new stained glass door and wall of curtained off windows before pulling her outside.

“Blooms and Blossoms” was painted in a soft scroll on the largest window. It would be surrounded by her hanging pots and the flowers she had potted that could withstand the brightness of the window. Feyre had planned and centered it perfectly. Each season, it would shine, obvious to all who passed that this was the floral shop she hoped people would come to be regulars at.

“I saw all the beautiful exotics and staple plants you enchanted and are growing,” Rhysand wrapped an arm around Elain's shoulder. “Your suppliers are also doing wonderfully so far. The trade it's created has helped with a few other niche things we have here.” Rhysand's voice was soft as the two of them stared at the shop window.

“Thank you,” she finally gave him her gratitude after moments of just taking this in. “For funding this, for believing in me and my dreams.”

“That's what Velaris is for,” he whispered into her hair, “Dreamers.”

The next day was loud. It was crazy. Elain had not sat since the opening day party began. She had been blind to Rhysand and Feyre's influence before, but the fae of Velaris rushed to the shop she owned, purchasing single stems, mixed bundles, and house plants. Her smile stayed wide and ready all day, constantly holding in tears of joy as she did.

She was a business owner.

Her passion now a livelihood.

Cassian locked the door as the shopping day came to a close, and the last customer left. Elain slowly closed the curtains as her sisters and the Inner Circle stood in the flower shop. “That was insane,” Mor huffed as she fell to one of the client chairs Elain would use for custom orders. “How much did she make, Rhysie?”

The High Lord was deep into counting for Elain, shaking his head with a smirk, “More than enough to buy us all a round or two at Rita's.”

Elain squealed before bouncing slightly, “I have money to pay?!”

Everyone stared towards her before Feyre spoke, “You won't be paying, but yes?”

Elain screamed with joy, the fulfillment of having her own income almost too much for her. “I have my own money!”

They all glanced at each other as the middle sister began to skip and clean, singing softly to herself about being independent and having money.

“It seems this was about more than flowers,” Azriel muttered to Nesta.

The eldest sister just smiled at him, “It was about passion,” she said slowly. “And about gaining independence through doing something by her own choice.”

Azriel hummed, “Then it would seem she should be allowed to make whatever choices make her happy if this is the result.”

Nesta nodded in agreement as Elain skipped to Lucien, showing him the till, “It would seem she should.”

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[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐨𝐮

Parings → Vampire! Tom Holland x Reader

Warnings → blood drinking

Summary → Tom drinking from Y/n for the first time.

You’re sitting on the couch, flipping through a book, when Tom walks into the room. The moment he steps in, you can tell something’s off. His face is paler than usual, his movements slower, and there’s a tightness around his eyes that you haven’t seen in a while.

“Tom?” You ask, setting the book aside and sitting up straight. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, collapsing onto the couch next to you with a heavy sigh. “I’m… I’m fine. Just hungry.”

“Hungry?” You echo, already knowing what he means.

He nods, running a hand through his hair, frustration evident on his face. “I’m out of blood bags. My supplier can’t get me more until tomorrow.”

You watch him carefully. Tom’s usually good about keeping a steady supply of blood bags so he doesn’t have to drink from you or anyone else. But it’s clear tonight, he’s dangerously close to his limit. You can see it in the way his eyes are darker, the veins beneath his skin more pronounced.

“I can help,” you say softly, reaching out to place a hand on his arm.

Tom stiffens immediately, shaking his head. “No. I won’t drink from you.”

“Why not?” You ask, your voice gentle but firm. “You need it, Tom. I can’t just sit here and watch you suffer.”

He looks at you, his gaze filled with both hunger and hesitation. “I’ve never drunk from you before. It’s different when it’s fresh blood. It’s… more intense.”

“I trust you,” you say, leaning closer. “And you need it. I’m not going to let you starve when I can help.”

Tom closes his eyes, groaning quietly as he fights his instincts. “Y/n, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you assure him, your voice steady. “I want to do this for you.”

He stays silent for a long moment, his internal struggle clear on his face. But the hunger is getting to him, and he knows it. Finally, with a shaky breath, he opens his eyes and nods. “Okay. But the second it becomes too much, you tell me to stop.”

“I will,” you promise.

Tom moves closer, gently cupping your face with his hands. His eyes are filled with worry and need, a dangerous mix that sends a shiver down your spine. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” you whisper, tilting your head slightly to give him better access to your neck.

He stares at the exposed skin, his fangs descending as his eyes darken further. “This is going to hurt a little.”

“I can handle it,” you reply, your heart racing in anticipation.

Tom leans in, his lips brushing against your neck, and you can feel the tension radiating off him. He hesitates for just a second before sinking his fangs into your skin.

The sharp sting makes you gasp, but the pain is quickly replaced by something else. A warmth spreads through you, tinged with a strange sense of euphoria. You can feel Tom drinking, his lips pressed firmly against your neck, and the sensation is overwhelming. It's intimate in a way you hadn’t expected.

Tom’s hands grip your shoulders as he drinks, his body pressed close to yours. You can hear the soft, guttural sounds he makes, like this is the best thing he’s ever tasted. It’s as if every drop of your blood is lighting him up, filling him with life again.

He drinks deeply, and you feel his hunger growing as he takes more. His grip tightens slightly, and you can tell he’s losing control, the primal part of him taking over. It’s like he can’t get enough of you, like he’s starved for you.

“Tom,” you whisper, your voice shaky but not from fear.

He pulls back abruptly, his eyes wide, breathing heavily as blood drips from his lips. “Are you okay?” He asks, his voice hoarse, still on edge from the hunger.

“I’m fine,” you assure him, though your heart is racing.

Tom stares at you for a moment, his gaze flickering to your neck where the bite marks still linger. “I couldn’t stop,” he admits quietly, his voice thick with guilt. “You taste… incredible.”

Your cheeks flush at his words, and you reach up to touch your neck, feeling the slight sting of the bite. “I could tell.”

Tom lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair, still trying to calm himself down. “I’ve never tasted anything like that,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I didn’t think I could get addicted to someone’s blood.”

You laugh softly, though your pulse quickens at his words. “Addicted?”

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes locking onto yours. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back to blood bags after this. You’re… dangerous for me.”

“Dangerous?” You raise an eyebrow. “You’re the one with fangs, Tom.”

He smirks, finally relaxing a little as the hunger begins to fade. “True, but you… you’re a temptation I wasn’t prepared for.”

You shake your head, smiling at him. “Well, if you need me again, you know where to find me.”

Tom leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, his hands cupping your face gently. “Don’t tempt me,” he whispers, his voice low and teasing. “I might take you up on that offer sooner than you think.”

You can’t help but laugh, feeling the tension melt away as Tom pulls you into his arms. “Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” he replies, his lips brushing against your forehead.

“Don’t drain me dry.”

Tom chuckles, his breath warm against your skin. “I think I can manage that.”

And as you curl up in his embrace, your heart still pounding from the intensity of it all, you realize that this—being with him, even in the most dangerous of ways—is exactly where you’re meant to be.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ° .•

[fazalkhan2914]

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[em-prentiss]

no proof, not much (but you saw enough)

----

The SUV hums beneath the hands of someone new. These ones are softer, more at ease, more than often one casual hand on the wheel rather than two. It’s a blissful break from the perpetual ten and two, and as the Unit Chief grows increasingly drowsy in the passenger seat, the SUV carries them further into the sunset.

Or, how Aaron and Emily fall, through the perspective of multiple settings: the jet, his office, the SUV.

Word count: 3.5k

----

It happens slowly.

Harsh exteriors are worn down, distrust morphs into mutual respect. Slowly, yes, excruciatingly so, but it happens. Sir’s and Agent’s lose their pointed edges, mellowing on lips that start out reluctant, end up blazing with warmth.

The office is the first one to note it. It’s a cold place, despite the minimal personal touches littering the Unit Chief’s desk. There are scarcely happy memories here, between the lifeless beige walls and the polished oak carrying pounds upon pounds of bloody files, their contents heavier than the sheets of paper they’re printed on. There is no room for light, though the sun streams through the windows in gossamer curtains—the Unit Chief knows this, he knows it well.

And yet a ray of light walks hesitantly in and hands him a peace offering, though peace has for a while been settled in a still sheet above their heads. She’s no longer new to the disjointed family they call a team, but where she’s starting to loosen with the others, she’s still stiff with him. Even the office knows it, from its omniscient view over the bullpen. Her voice mingles with the others’ in a laugh, the pale shape of her hand curls around the media liaison’s shoulder in a lighthearted squeeze.

Both the office and its occupier are well aware that this is something new. They’re good friends; it sees him more than his family does. He keeps it company on dark nights, the lamp at his elbow the only source of warm light across the whole floor, burning steady amber. The office knows the man at the desk more than the agent tentatively crossing it, and yet they both catch the way his brows tick up in surprise when he spots the sweet treat in her hand.

His mouth curls around her name. The tail end of it sounds like a question; she greets it with a bashful smile the office guesses doesn’t often cross her features.

Emily reaches the edge of his desk, says so and so about a sale at the bakery—and quickly clarifies that she bought for the rest of their coworkers too, don’t worry. She thrusts out her hand, he takes the chocolate croissant, murmurs a quiet but genuine thank you. 

Nodding, she takes her leave, chewing on the corner of her lip as she slips past the open door. Her retreating form is traced by his eyes, curious, lingering, before they drop to the pastry held in his hand. The office watches as he picks it apart, takes a bite—two, three—even though it’s a well known fact (to the office, anyway) that the team leader has no stomach for a sweet tooth.

Still, he eats the croissant. Lets crumbs tumble messily on top of his desk, sweeps them away neatly with a tissue. His eyes travel to the window; both he and the office watch as the rest of his team tear into their own pastries. The generous supplier perches on her desk, satisfaction in her eyes and a small smile on her lips. She looks up, as if sensing his gaze, and he flicks his eyes back to the file in front of him.

That is the tentative start.

From there it’s a smooth, sloping hill—impossible to determine when trust had deepened to a professional relationship between coworkers, when that had formed into camaraderie. When butterflies began to flap their wings and flutter, when eyes started to linger and touches ached to do the same.

___

The jet rarely flows with heat. Its frequent occupants know that, and more than often they’re well prepared with blankets and warm beverages, no matter the weather outside.

For the most part, the newest addition to the team also knows this. She’s bundled in professional blazers and soft cardigans most of the time, but the Florida heat doesn’t allow for anything heavier than the barest of tank tops. Her skin is faintly glistening when she plops into one of the lone chairs, shoulders stiff as she holds herself away from the leather of the seat.

The Unit Chief sits with her, evidence of the sticky heat shown in his loosened tie. Their eyes meet and they share a look, unanimously miserable but unwilling to voice it.

It’s something new, these shared looks between them. The jet notes them with interest, tries to pinpoint when exactly they’d started. The farthest it gets is Milwaukee. 

But looks are all they share. No words are exchanged, no pleasantries swapped as she digs out a book and he opens up a file, his pen in his hand even before they’re in the sky. The jet hums around them, providing white noise that makes some of the team curl up and sleep as it takes them home. It rises above the clouds, stabilizes at over a thousand feet, absorbs the subzero temperature outside and allows it to leak through the walls. 

The woman shuffles back comfortably against the seat, cooled enough to let it touch her bare skin. But it doesn’t take long before she’s shifting again, leaning away, tucking her arms into her body. Covering her elbows with her palms, surreptitiously kneading her skin with her thumbs. She does all this quietly, but being the boss means being ever aware.

Without fuss, the Unit Chief gets up. He walks over to the table next to the couch, pops it open and reaches into the hidden cavity there. Everyone eventually learns about it; it’s stocked with soft, downy blankets that are mostly unused because everyone has learned to carry their own.

Still, every once in a while, the compartment is cracked open. 

Hotch picks up a blanket and carries it back to the shivering agent. She looks up, glances at it, then at him, and immediately refuses, so fast it must be reflex. The jet ponders this, as does the Unit Chief, his brows pinched in a gentler version of his usual frown.

Emily, he says softly, the rumble of his voice running parallel to the hum of the jet. Of all things, it’s what makes her pause.

The sound of her given name seems to take her by surprise, even more so than the offered blanket. Eyes rounded, brows momentarily raised, as if caught off guard. She quickly composes herself, smooths out the surprise in her features as she shakes her head, refusing again. 

One too many take it’s and I’m good, thank you’s later, the blanket is resignedly wrapped around her shoulders. But she stops shivering, her muscles finally easing back into the seat. Her head is turned decidedly away, facing the window, but when her eyes flit to him they catch his gaze.

One more exchanged look, a hidden smile in his eyes that doesn’t show on his lips. She looks away.

___

The SUV doesn’t see much, compared to the other places they’ve been. Its mission is always brief, and yet it’s well acquainted with the man at the wheel. Seldom does someone else steer it, so long as he’s there.

This time is no different.

It’s not that the woman doesn’t try—she does, valiantly, to push him to the passenger seat—but the fact that she’s here is already too much. The SUV knows this from the way the man grips the wheel. He’s never gentle with it, always firm, always alert. Ever aware of the lives in his hands, be it in the face of a Glock or under the wheels of a Suburban. 

But a plate of brownies is placed carefully on the console between them and his grip loosens. She offers him one, around a chocolatey mouthful, and the way the corner of his mouth tilts upward is seen only in the side view mirror, a secret tucked between him and the road.

He declines, she grumbles, and then a warm hand is taken entirely off the wheel. The SUV doesn’t lament the loss. Hotch’s careful eyes no longer pierce the windshield with a heat more acute than the sun overhead; he turns, eyes falling to her, and the SUV finds itself without attention.

This is a first. But the open road ahead of them is forgiving, and so the SUV is, too. It watches, listens above the crunch of gravel, as he protests—it’s all sugar, won’t do any good—and she wraps a tissue around a brownie and places it in his hand.

You haven’t eaten anything all day, she refutes stubbornly, though she’s already won. When she brings up the medication Hotch bites the brownie between his teeth without further complaint. It’s the reason they’re driving past the airstrip and toward the long road, after all.

Slowly, Emily forces another brownie into him. And then his medication. And, when the sun dips lower down the sky, she’s somehow able to kick him out of the driver’s seat altogether.

The SUV hums beneath the hands of someone new. These ones are softer, more at ease, more than often one casual hand on the wheel rather than two. It’s a blissful break from the perpetual ten and two, and as the Unit Chief grows increasingly drowsy in the passenger seat, the SUV carries them further into the sunset.

___

The bullpen witnesses his first laugh—at least, the first one she’s pulled from him. The coffee machine separating them, the handles of their mugs almost touching as they wait for the coffee to brew, she makes an offhand comment about diesel fuel, the government praying for their demise, and a Nespresso machine. Her tone is bone dry, a halfhearted grumble that’s more for her than for him. It’s not even meant to be a joke, but the sleep deprivation is getting to them. 

Hotch laughs, stoicism cracking under the soft curve of his lips, and Emily stares. The bullpen—the kitchenette, rather—watches a light dusting of pink spread across her ivory cheeks. It witnesses her wide eyes in return, before lightly dissolving into the same laughter.

These precious sounds are contained within the kitchenette’s walls. Nobody hears them, save for the two living souls pouring their coffee and the lifeless entity surrounding them. Lifeless, yet still swelling with the same surprise that etches across the woman’s features, long after they’ve both dissolved into silence and her face is downturned to the bitter depths of her coffee.

It’s so very interesting, the brightness in the Unit Chief’s eyes as he similarly looks down at his own coffee, lips thinned back to their original shape. So very interesting how the brown of his irises warms, suffused with light even though he’s yet to take a sip of his coffee.

So very interesting how he lingers after he’s done—because he does nothing to prepare his coffee but pour it, and she dumps boatloads of sugars and creamers until the swirl of her coffee lightens to the color of his eyes—and observes her for a fleeting second.

His mouth parts, then softly joins again, bottom lip slotting against top. Picking up his mug, he turns away and out of the kitchenette, shoulders slackening beneath his jacket. He goes, and her eyes follow.

___

The room is not fully dark. The thin curtains let in street lights; they stream in and carve long golden rectangles on the threadbare rug, illuminate hastily packed bags and files stacked neatly atop a desk.

Rooms like this often get visitors like this—fleeting, temporary. The man and the woman have been here for two days, but they only occupy the room to sleep. It knows they won’t be here for long, though it ponders their business. They carry badges and firearms, heave around files and gory pictures. At night, the two hardly speak to each other, except for unnecessary pleasantries—would you like the bathroom first? No, thank you, you go ahead—that speak to their upbringing.

The inky dark of midnight wraps around the gaps between the street lights. The motel room sits, quiet, observing the two sleeping figures bundled in separate beds, until one starts to thrash. The other one stirs, groggy, while the other still fights demons. 

A ragged cry shatters the silence. Even coated with layers of sleep and terror, the room can tell it’s the woman. Her companion blinks sleep from his eyes and tosses the thin comforter from his body, slipping from his bed and to the edge of hers with surprising speed.

Eyes impossibly alert, brows slipping into concern, he stands some distance away and calls out her name.

Emily. 

It’s a hoarse whisper, then urgent. She still thrashes, so he places a hand on her shoulder and shakes, fingers gripped into the flesh of her shoulder. Louder this time, more insistent, desperation curling around the letters of her name.

She wakes up. Opens her eyes with a gasp, the damp patches on her pillow explained by the tears pooling under her lashes. 

The man lets out a similar sound, only lower. You’re okay, he whispers gently, his hand still on her shoulder. You were dreaming.

They’re typical comforts in a situation like this.

What’s not typical is the way she launches into his arms instead of away. A pained sound tumbles from her lips; she curls into him, folding over herself, and the arm he wraps around her back keeps her secured to his chest.

A whimper of his name, a breath of hers. Whispered shhh’s that the room suspects he’s had plenty of practice at. His hands rove over her back, fingers smoothing the sweaty fabric of her shirt. She clings to him so tightly he has no choice but to perch on the edge of the bed, half holding her, half slipping out.

It’s hard to tell whether she’s crying or breathing. The man encourages her to breathe anyway, the low timbre of his voice carrying a bit of firmness that she bends beneath. Minutes stack up on the other side of midnight, a new day starting as the woman’s chest begins to slow beneath the man’s—Hotch’s—instruction.

His lips nudge against her forehead. It’s not yet a kiss, but the gesture is loving, and well practiced. Soon after it’s his hand on the nape of her neck, his fingers threading through the tangled mess of hair he finds there.

The woman doesn’t relax for a while. Not until he situates her back against the pillow, her arms still clutched around him. Neither of them say anything further; it seems an unspoken deal that he’ll lay back with her, run his palm between her shoulder blades until her breath evens out.

Eventually, it happens. The man’s eyes blink through the semi-dark as the woman sleeps on, still wound around him. He waits—and the room does, too—until a half-circle is traced by the clock’s arm, before carefully untangling their limbs.

He’d been sleeping on the opposite side before he woke. His back to her bed, almost hiding. But now he slides again beneath the sheets and turns to face her, the target of his eyesight clear to the room, even half shrouded in darkness.

___

In the office it starts, and in the office it comes full circle.

Only his shoulders are stiff with tension. The office guesses that it has something to do with the lumpy gauze under her sleeve, the butterfly bandages along her left cheekbone. She’s not as upset as he is, and not for the same reason. Lips pursed, brows furrowed, she still tries to fight back even though she’s in the wrong.

“You would’ve taken ages to come, Anna didn’t have that much—”

“The unsub was armed—”

“And I was, too—”

“That’s not protocol!” He shouts. 

Emily sucks in a breath, the office takes a pause. Not because of his raised voice, no. It happens—rarely, but it happens. What doesn’t happen is his voice cracking, breaking in half. Fading into silence.

The air thickens. Hotch swallows, the solid lines of his body turning to liquid. “Jesus, Emily, you know better.” His voice is weary, wilting. 

She’s silent. Stricken, lips parted, eyes searching. Emily has intelligent eyes, the office thinks. They see practically everything, absorbing the world with a desperate hunger drawn in the circular outline of her pupils. So it makes sense that when the office glimpses a shine in its Unit Chief’s eyes, she does too.

“Why…why are you…?” She steps closer to him, boldly swipes under his eye with her thumb. He jerks away, a shuddered breath heaving his lungs when her finger comes away wet. 

Her mouth still hasn’t snapped shut yet. Emily takes another step, understanding dawning on her features. 

About time. 

“Hotch—”

“I can’t,” he breathes, shaking his head. 

“Can’t what?” She murmurs. There’s hardly distance between them; her hand molds around his cheek, hesitant. The lines of her shoulders are stiff, as if she’s waiting for him to pull away. 

The office knows he won’t. He’ll say he will, but as long as she’s giving in first, he’ll have no choice but to follow.

Fingers twitching at his side, he blows out an exhale. 

“I can’t.” His hand finds her waist; the office swells with satisfaction. She bends into the touch, her grip tightening on his cheek. “We can’t, Emily. It’s not…”

But he’s bowing into her. Their heads almost touch, his bending down, hers looking up. The glossy darkness of their hair glints almost identically beneath the lights, raven on raven.

“Do you want to?”

The office holds its breath. Its owner is good at denying himself of what he wants.

Thick, suffocating silence. A string pulling taut. And then another shake of a weary head. “We can’t.” He repeats; a broken record, a mantra.

Pale fingers curl around his ear. A thumb with bitten nails swipes under his eye, smears the wetness on his skin until it dries. “That’s not a no,” she says quietly. “I’m waiting for a no, Hotch.”

He doesn’t give one.

Silence rings. For a beat, two, three. Then she’s tilting his head further down, rising on her tiptoes even though she’s in boots, and pressing their lips together. His silhouette shakes, shoulders trembling. Three sticky heartbeats later and he skates tentative hands up her sides, squeezing and shakily exhaling into her mouth. She’s slow with him, patient, and when they’ve broken free they haven’t broken free at all, because his forehead is on hers, an inch between their noses.

“You can’t do that again.” He rasps. 

Emily hums, lips turning up. She tilts her head, catches his mouth again with unusual slowness. “We’ll talk about it later, boss.”

When they leave the office, there’s hardly space between their bodies.

___

The park is one of many in DC. It’s not anything special—yes, there’s benches and tall trees and a gravel pathway, but nothing that could tempt a restless pair of lovers. Today it’s doubly cold, a frigid crunch to the grass that scares away everyone but the two figures strolling around under the watery sun.

There’s soft murmurs between them, passed occasionally like the steaming paper cup they share. The woman holds it for longer, sometimes to drink, sometimes to squeeze around in her bare, pale hands. The man notices, and brings them to a stop, quietly chiding as he covers both her hands with his. He doesn’t wear any gloves but she sighs, shifting to hide her hands entirely beneath his own. The corners of her mouth tip up, as does her head, her eyes searching for her companion’s.

They meet and the park almost blazes with heat. Her smile, somehow both sly and bashful, curls around an excuse, her shoulders shrugging helplessly. 

The man shakes his head. It seems a practiced move, exasperated and fond. His thumbs are restless on the back of her hands, kneading fervent circles into her skin.

She tolerates it for a minute before dragging her hands from his grip to get him walking again, passing him the cup and instead hooking her free arm through his. They stay for longer than the weather allows, some identical tension melting from their shoulders, a heavy weight in their eyes fading as pink bites their cheeks. Talk isn’t frequent, but touches are—his lips to the top of her head, her fingers sinking into his coat, her chest against his arm.

When the cup is drained—he lets her have the last sip—the woman tosses it and curls her fingers into her palm, the pad of her thumb skimming under her nails as if it’s habit. She nudges him off the path, onto the grass. Their shadows follow: long, starkly black companions that trail after them, turning a party of two into four.

They lean into each other. Hard lines fade, blur. Two silhouettes become one, joint from shoulders to feet. 

A right hand reaches for a left; fingers interlock, forming a weave of soft skin and calluses. The shadow of them is cool above the grass, and when he gently cradles her cheek in his free hand, tilting her face upward until their lips join in a kiss, the silhouette warps. It merges into a single, fluid shape, formless and inelegant. 

Even when they break apart, they’re still joined.

[qibsichan]

Culture of the Destroyed ⛓️‍💥✨

~.*COME TO OUR LAND, OUR LAND OF LOVE*.~

So you’ve been accepted into the Cult of the Destroyed! But what is there to expect once inside?

Origin

Our beloved cult was founded in 1991 by the beautiful, holy and sacred Moon Queen. She breathed her dreamsmoke upon our oppressors and rive them to madness - while granting us the sweetest visions of our lost past. Legends say that the Queen was once a prisoner to the execution grounds… until her illustrious influence inspired a coup in her followers.

Though it began shakily, held on the backs of terrified refugees and convicts, each toy banded together in the name of once-cursed innovation to seek methods of survival. Just when all seemed lost, the Moon Queen discovered something. Seeds. And once food and water were secure, the Cult of the Destroyed began to flourish.

Layout

The Cult resides within Playtime Co.’s recycling plant, colloquially named “Destroy-A-Toy” by humans and toys alike. The warehouse is enormous and stocked with machinery, sorted goods, disposable garbage (ripe for the picking!) and many, many execution methods. Be it crushing from the plant’s crown conveyor belt, incineration from the heat pits, dismemberment from the dangerously whirring fan blades or - God forbid - digestion from the monstrous carnivore who resides inside, the cultists of Destroy-A-Toy have near-infinite ways to deal with intruders and traitors alike.

The plant’s centre is an enormous rectangular prism with an extremely high vaulted roof. In its centre sits the main conveyor belt, which leads to the crushing block. This is a gathering space and where the executions take place. The conveyor is only ever activated when the cult is legitimately in danger; therefore, the space is used for socialising, entertainment and general silly shenanigans.

To the left are the living quarters:

Rooms, tents, blocks etc.

Food court and banquet hall

The medical tent

The nursery

Most ritual activities

And to the right are the more industrial aspects of the facility:

Recycling chute

Incineration, dismemberment and digestion wings

Cell block (repurposed to hold humans)

Water purification systems

Catwalks to the cavern

The cavern leads to an enormous lake of water found under the plant. Destroy-A-Toy is powered electrically so it’s uncertain why such a large body of water exists, but what the cultists DO know is that it contains an underwater tunnel network that could potentially lead outside the toy factory if any were brave enough to dive. This lake is is filled with fish carefully managed by the Queen’s people.

The importance of the lake:

Provides drinking water once purified

Provides cleaning water

Allows crops to grow with the assistance of floodlights

Both recreational and educational fishing

The lake has been decorated with bioluminescence, fairy lights and cave paintings and is a beautiful sight to behold.

Food

Light, water and seeds are required for the cult’s agriculture. They take great delight in their cooking and host weekly banquets to celebrate their achievements. Toys were often starved as convicts and are therefore thoroughly fed under the Moon Queen’s care. Over time and through the assistance of a mysterious supplier, the Destroyed have learned to cook potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, peas, cabbage, spinach and corn. The incineration plants are used to cook, boil, steam and fry food. Most is served with fresh fish from the lake. Delicious!

This is California. The fish are ABUNDANT. And her beloved majesty is a cat, after all. If only she could grab some chicken… sigh.

Style/Aesthetic

Destroy-A-Toy represents freedom. Therefore, it adores:

Bright, pretty colours

Regal and imposing architecture mixed with cutesy little inhabitants

VEGETATION. These guys LOOOOVE their plants. Vines, trellises, leaves - since they’ve never been outside, they’re cherishing what they have. The living quarters particularly are filled with green space.

Gentle, coloured lights and bioluminescence

Celestial bric-a-brac - sun, moon, stars

Bead curtains outside the tents

Jewels/jewellery. Very celestial and goddess-y

Stuffing, coloured clothes patches etc. to fit the “toy” heritage

🌿🌺✨💎👼🌙🍇🪻

Rituals

Many of its rituals are hidden from outsiders… but you’re in the cult now, so you deserve to know!

The most important ones you must know are the Executions, the Campfire and the Cuddle Puddle.

Executions take place when traitors, prisoners or abusers are officially condemned. These are bloodthirsty public ceremonies that are NOT for the faint of heart. Just a casual reminder to never piss Catnap off.

The Campfire is the cult’s local worship ritual. The cult will gather around the conveyor belt, where a ring of fire is constructed. The Queen is seated in the centre. Music is performed and a dance celebration occurs - and, at the song’s climax, Catnap will release her smoke, iniviating worship.

The Cuddle Puddle is everyone’s favourite. According to the Moon Queen, “One cannot be happy when affected by the bad vibes! So we mush squiiiiiiish the bad vibes out! Very cuddly.”

Are you staying? ✨

We hope to see you participating in the Campfire soon… 🐦‍🔥

Oh! And here’s our playlist! For the vibes :)

[popatochisssp]

I would like more details on ocean boys plz. More Descendtale for us?

Descendtale

A human falls to the Underground.

They’re merciful…mostly.

But maybe not merciful enough.

They make friends with many monsters on their way through the Underground.

They kill some others.

Nobody important, none of the real friends they’d made along the way—just a handful of annoying ones who kept getting in their way, surprising them with Encounters when they were busy on their very important quest to escape the Underground and go back home.

When they leave, they put their fun fantasy adventure behind them, eager to get back to their real life.

They never come back.

The monster ‘friends’ they left behind do their best to move on.

Asgore is gone, and so are the six human souls they’d collected, so close to finally being free.

Toriel has returned, which is something, a comfort of familiarity at least to have a ruler who knows what she’s doing when hope is falling and…other things are starting to go wrong.

The Royal Guard has been disbanded, what with the queen’s mandate that humans falling down should be welcomed as friends. Which is fine, most of them all knew the most recent human as a friend, but…it does leave quite a few dogs and a fish and a few other animals out of a job and consequently, out of a driving purpose in their lives.

A handful of monsters have also gone missing. Not Fallen Down, or moved away, just…gone, without a word or a call or a note. No one really knows what happened, though there’s theories, nobody seems to know anything for sure and the unsubstantiated rumors, ranging from wild to tame, are a little bit scary.

And…the Underground’s resources are dwindling. They have been for a long time, but some of those monsters that disappeared—farmers, couriers, suppliers—their absence has unbalanced the food supply chain just a little more, and what they do have is taking longer to get to the populated areas, costing more, creating uncertainty.

In essence, monsters are getting nervous and losing hope.

Many of these problems have no clear solution, but Toriel tasks the Royal Scientist to one it might be possible for her to solve: the food issue.

After all, it may only be a mild concern now, but with the human souls gone, with how long it took to gather so many to begin with, how unlikely it is for more humans to fall down anytime soon—and to be treated as guests, even if they do fall…

It’s going to be quite some time before monsterkind has any real chance to be free.

They need to survive.

They need to be able to weather the long winter that’s to come, to remain strong and keep from falling to despair.

Certainty that they won’t starve to death in subterranean ignominy is a solid step towards that.

Alphys, happy to have been kept on after her last boss…uh. Well, she throws herself into the assignment, feeling that this is her chance to really do something great, worthy of her title.

The way she sees it, they need some kind of a staple crop, something they can produce in excess without exhausting their resources in the process.

She sets her eyes on the echo flower.

Echo flowers are hardy plants and grow well in any dark environment, in all but the driest of soils, already proliferating wildly in the Underground without any influence and thriving for a long, long, long time. Their petals have been known to make a soothing tea, but the root of the plant—a thick black rhizome—is edible, too.

It hasn’t been actually eaten very much, historically, being that the taste is…not great, a little sour and a lot bitter, no matter how you prepare it.

But it is edible, full of nutrients and ambient magic to keep a monster fed and healthy so long as you don’t mind the taste.

And…can they really afford to mind the taste, at this stage?

Toriel agrees with Alphys’ assessment. The artificial light cycles that simulate day and night are ceased and echo flowers are planted anywhere and everywhere they’ll take, roots harvested and incorporated into monsters’ diets. At first, the farming is only to supplement the scarcity of other foods, but as time goes by and most of those all but disappear, the root eventually begins replacing them almost entirely.

It takes awhile for anyone to notice the changes.

Before necessity, no monster ate or even used enough echo flower root to realize that it had preservative properties.

When monsters begin to notice they’re not aging nearly as fast as they should be, a whole host of other side-effects have started to make themselves known, all dutifully assessed and catalogued by Alphys.

Monsters who consume the echo flower root consistently, at volume, can expect to see many of the following changes in their bodies:

Light sensitivity

Darkening of the extremities

Extended periods of low activity (similar to hibernation)

Lack of appetite

Bioluminescence

Reduced metabolism

Sharpening of preexisting teeth, or growth of new ones

Heightened senses (predominantly hearing sight, and smell)

Decreased sensitivity to touch

Increased physical durability

Thorn-like growths or protrusions

Mental changes and personality drift

In addition to these is something monsters colloquially start to refer to as The Withering, when bodies begin to look thin, gnarled and frail but with no attached physical ailments.

The monsters so afflicted by their new condition…

Accept it.

There’s little else they can do, as reliant on their new food source as they are by this point, and quite frankly, none of the changes seem all that bad.

They have food, they have each other, and most importantly, they have time.

It’s all a little different, of course, but monsters are nothing if not adaptable, every bit the survivors the Queen knew they could be.

The worst thing to come out of it all is that brightness of Hotland and New Home poses a bit of discomfort to most of those who’d settled there, but Toriel oversees a mass migration back to Home and renovation of the Ruins there to make them a far more pleasant place to live.

And naturally, along the way are Waterfall, blissfully dark, and Snowdin, delightfully cold—both equally appealing neighborhoods to move into, with monsters’ new taste for such things.

Life goes on for monsterkind, still trapped in their deep cavern but now…kind of thriving in it.

The next human to fall will be faced with a very different sort of Underground than the one the last human left, darker and colder to be sure, filled with monsters who want to be their friend but are maybe…a little rusty at it.

But there should be plenty of time for them to get used to it.

Kohl (Descendtale Sans)

Not so friendly with regards to humans, these days. He knows for a fact what that last one did to a handful of innocent monsters, and has a pretty strong hunch that they could’ve undone it, or at least come back to free their so-called ‘friends’ after the dust settled…but they didn’t. Despite everything, they were no better than any other human who touched the lives of monsters, and he’s all out of belief and hope and second chances for any of their ilk

Something of a new lease on life, or at least a stubborn determination to live, in spite of monsters’ most likely fate after their abandonment—the influence of the echo flower root has made a lot of his favorite creature-comfort-type experiences (eating, sleeping, savoring warmth) more difficult to enjoy, but he refuses to let that stop him

A slight mean-streak, fond of creeping up on people, unnerving them, enjoying a bit of schadenfreude now and then… but at the same time very defensive of anyone he considers part of his in-group (monsters only for now)

Mostly drifts around his usual haunts, Grillby’s, his place, his sentry station—even though the Guard isn’t a thing and he’s not technically a sentry anymore. He still likes to keep an eye-socket out, and if a human manages to slip out of the Ruins without being caught, or if they come in the back way, he’d really like to be there to give them a good scare, and remind them that he’s watching

A little chilly, a bit avoidant, and with a tendency to push peoples’ buttons to see what they do (…well, he’s always done that one), he’s not the easiest person to get along with but… Well, there is no ‘but,’ that’s the end of the sentence.

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus)

Very, very, very eager to make new friends—yes, even human ones! He befriended the last one, but…maybe he didn’t do it right, because…they left…and never came back…and if his brother is to be believed, they may have also murdered a few monsters before that… That’s probably not his fault. But he can do better! He can be a great friend! The best friend, he just needs another chance!

In the process of reinventing himself, just a bit. With the Royal Guard disbanded, that dream is dead, but the Great Papyrus doesn’t need a dream to be great! He’s working on himself right now, trying new hobbies, exploring new styles, reaching out…reaching out a lot, it’s…it’s very hard to get a call back these days, with everything going on…

Some difficulty with emotional regulation, he can go from feeling not much of anything at all, to feeling one emotion very strongly, which can lead to embarrassing outbursts from time to time. He's managing it, or trying to!

Still patrols around Snowdin regularly, even though he’s not a sentry anymore. He likes to see everyone—all the new and old faces—and it wouldn’t do to leave all his traps and puzzles to fall into disrepair, not when he has so many ideas for how to make them more difficult, challenging enough that even the craftiest human might really need to think on

A little bit scattered, a pinch forgetful, and somewhat prone to saying vaguely unsettling things without realizing they are unsettling (…well, he’s always done that one), but mostly he’s harmless! Just seeking a bit of earnest connection and people to have in his life that won’t leave

[homiesondaweb]

I WROTE SOME HOBIE BACKSTORY FLUFF

Been writing too much angst lately🥲

anyway this is based of my previous head cannon on Hobie's siblings. Quick recap (might make a OC post about em) Hudson and Hendricks(yea name change) are the eldest twins about 12 years older than Hobie and are 21. Henry is in the middle he is 9 years older than Hobie, he is 18. Harley is only 5 years older and she is 14 going on 15 (she helps run the community garden). Hobie is 9!

I am Black but also an American from the midwest. So if I fuck up some of the UK vernacular or whatnot y'all can correct me in the replies or reblogs. If you see this fic floating on AO3 that is also me!

______________________

1966 Chevy C10 aka the ugliest truck known to fucking man aka Harley bedroom away from home. Given to her by her old dirt and hay supplier before he moved to Wales, the dark green vehicle that lives parked in their ground floor garage was her escape from a house full of her lanky and, damn-right charlie brothers. She has the bed of the truck softened with a scrap fabric mattress and tens of thrifted comforters and pillows. Her portable record player crones with a Betty Davis record riding the groove with a whining guitar. Harley uses a chunk of mirror propped against her stage trunk to watch herself as she sections her hair into lazy cornrows for the night.

The sky slowly crumbles into a sunset, unfurling into a cool moon, shifting the world to a soft grayscale and sepia. Streetlights outside the garage flicker on and the human officers switch their patrol lights to a slow strobing blue and yellow. Harley gives a big yawn that pops her jaw and hums along to the guitar's riffs. The sound rests really low in her throat, it nearly drowns out the sound of steel door creaking and small steps that padding in. The 14 year old pauses her humming and stretches over to see the interruption of her night routine.

It's shaped lika palm tree, outlined in muted pink with their bare feet slapping around on the cement. Sleepy gray eyes met hers before they lighten to hazel for a moment, then back to sleep gray.

"Comin' ta bed?" Hobie whispers, voice all low and raspy. Harley helps the wire of a little boy clamor over the raised gate, he settles his head on her shoulder after. She chuckles and smears some leftover mango butter on his nose before her hands are back in her head.

"Inna bit. Thought I might sleep down 'ere though. Let my Baney Bart lil brother have the whole bed. You've got ta start wearin' yer socks to bed, ice foot." Harley teases and Hobie whines, then snuggles against her side. 

Harley thought that now with Henry moving in with Rembrandt to the Canal flats would have given her the incentive to claim his room for her own and finally stop sharing both room and mattress with her baby brother. It wasn't easy though, ever since she came on the scene when the twins 7 and Henry was 5 the Brown siblings instinctively cuddled. Like cubs or kittens of some kind. 

Hudson and Hendricks would sleep on their stomach, shoulders piled on top of each other or an arm around the other's back. Henry uses somebody's calf as a pillow and his foot always ends up in Hudson's face. Harley found her spot cuddled over Henry's stomach and when baby Hobie joined the mix she always woke to her shoulder being smothered in his drool and soft snores. They were like cats in that way, if one sibling saw the other napping, they were gonna share that sleep.

It has peter off some, Henry started sleeping over in the art alley with his mandem. Hendricks working overnight security with Pa. Hudson staying with Imani more days out the week(they all wait for the couple to announce the true reason why she was getting rounder). Harley sleeps in the truck when her band mates  sneaks over after the city curfew because their fam is off it or someone is sick with radio or the flu.

But even with growing apart. A cuddle wassa cuddle and baby Hobie was gonna get his full of them. Of course Harley was still gonna share a bed with her little Barty when requested. Hobie starts to fade down to their true colors as sleep wraps him up, 

"Oi! No sleep yet lil boy. Gotta put the 'fro up." She whispers tugging at the puff on the top of his head. Hobie grumbles, going cut yellow with crankiness. Harley counters it with a pink kiss to the top of his head and lets the stocking-band out that release his coils. Hobie blinks blearly in his slumped sit as Harley sloppily parts then flat twists them down into four rows. He gives a little sigh at the cool feeling of mango butter to his scalp but grumbles when she ties a scarf over them. Harley chuckles as she releases his ears from under it and scoots the front back. 

They both know that damn scarf will be half way across the room and on the floor with her bonnet by morning. He cuddles into the front of her, stuck lika kola instead of a boy, smushing his face to her shoulder. Harley rubs his back and hums out the Buddy Miles intro that is stuck in her head as she feels around for her phone. Hobie blinks again as he watches her raise the antenna on top of it then pop in the code for someone. It rings loudly and they both wince before she lowers the volume and tilts the antenna to the right. 

"Headin' ova?" She asks and a voice hums a soft no. Hobie sighs, that was Donovan.

"Dottie and Kirt's gots lead or radio. Feelin' weak me-self, keepa eye on ya water, yeah? Think OsCo is doin' flushes again." He warns softly.

Harley tenses at that. She sits back some and uses her free hand to inspect Hobie's face. She blinks hard and they both revert to true colors. All warm brown skin, black hair and steely eyes. She gives a sigh of relief at seeing that the whites of his eyes as fine, not any spots of yellow. No dryness to his pallor, just sleepy.

"Where you in the fountains today?" She asks and Hobie shakes his head.

"Wit Pa tuday." He mumbles to her, she lets him relax back and resumes petting his back.

"Thanks for the heads up Vonnie. I'll come by wit some bone soup and a filter from Hud in the mornin'. 

"You're a dove Harles. Oíche mhaith a chroí." 

Hobie gives a fakes gag as Harley blares pink then clovers sketches, Gaelic love poems and the expert of Romeo and Juliet having it off etch over her skin in cursive for a moment before she simmers back to sepia.

"Bon lannwit, Mon kè." She says back and hangs up. Harley stashes her phone back under the mattress before turning off her record player. With a practiced ease she carefully slides Betty Davis back into the paper sleeve, then lays the mirror chunk down on a quilt.

"Ann kouche, pinèz." Harley yawns and clamors out the truck bed with Hobie still clinging to her. They make their way up to the flat and to their room. Hobie is nothing but soft breath so it startles Harley when he speaks.

"You gonna live wit Donovan one day? Like Henry and Huddie?" Hobie asks. Harley kisses his cheek and lays them down in bed. She lights a lavender incense cone, then pops it in the holder.

"Maybe one day."

"Gonna marry 'em?"

"Can't get married. He's too Irish. Laws will bang us."

"You don't care." Hobie giggles and Harley smiles real big at that.

"Who said me and Van ain't gonna bang the laws back bruv? Don't worry bout it Barty Bug." She tells him when she lays down fully and loops an arm around his shoulders, Hobie puts his head over her heart.

"You gonna runaway? You two go off?"

Harley hums.

"Where imma go, bug?" 

"... Cuba or Panama, like uncle."

"Too much sun for Donovan. He'd cook."

"Uhm… Canada. Like Erika's family?"

"Too cold. I'd freeze to death."

Hobie pouts at this point, turning into her elbow so he doesn't have to see the sleeply mirth in his older sister's eyes. Her black nails gently grasps his jaw and turns his face back to her. The both flare into blue and black ink and mapwork.

"What's with the questions. You think imma leave, love?"

Hobie nods in embarrassment but softens as Harley kisses his forehead.

"Not without you buggy. Same things goes for Hudson, Hendricks, and Henry. Same thing for Ma and Pa. No way I'm leavin' you even if the Queen, her corgis and the PM demanded it. Even if Von proposed right here. Which is stupid I'm 14, he's 15 and we've had lead poisoning on and off since we was little. So don't worry about Cuba or Canada, hell even Wales. I'm your big sister, we are Browns and some right punks. Labels are nothing but when you put in the care and obligations that comes with the title. Well, you're pretty fulfilled by em. And that means we stick together always. And care for each other always. So don't you worry your head about my crush. Don't worry about seeing my back out the door." 

Hobie just snuggles her closer at that. Harley chuckles and cuddles back. 

If there's one thing Hobie believes in, without a question,  it is his sister.

-----

Oíche mhaith a chroí = Irish Gaelic - Goodnight, my dear

Bon lannwit, Mon kè = Haitian Creole - Goodnight, my heart

Ann kouche, pinèz = Haitian Creole - Let's go lie down, Bug.

[th-ramblr]

@iron-hearts-ablaze

These truly were becoming strange times indeed. Not because of getting yanked up into an alien spacecraft, or finding a nasty little brain-worm behind his eye that let him telepathically connect with other infected hosts, or having some weird man talking in his head that visited his dreams, or dealing with a crazy cult let by an immortal war-General. He'd gotten used to all these things by now and taken them as par for the course, just another knot in a long string of shitty luck throughout life that naturally had to fall on him.

No, the strangest thing in all of this was the company he kept finding himself in. However terribly mundane of a thing it was, for him, he'd never really found what he would call 'good company' until all this, and he still hesitated to think of it as such, even when he'd found people singing his praises or speaking up to vouch for him that he was 'one of the good ones', whatever that meant in all this mess.

Off and on, he'd crossed the paths of others similarly bound for a cure to these stupid tadpoles. Each time, he'd been determined to go his own way regardless of insistence that he team up, but the roads left to walk were narrowing and converging on one major point ; Moonrise.

And while this little tavern in a bubble wasn't Moonrise, it was close enough that he didn't have much room to complain about paths crossing once again. Even less so with the shadow-curse hungrily waiting just outside, choking the road against anyone who didn't possess a moonlantern from moving forward.

Right now, that consisted of only him and the stupid spider, which made him a much more popular topic than he wanted to be right now, but it couldn't be helped.

At the very least, this little den of Harpers and refugees had one positive thing to offer him -- a weapons' supplier and that Tiefling blacksmith who could set him up with some rather potent explosives to deal with the more dangerous threats and thicker crowds of enemies.

That that flaming Tiefling woman also had an interest in the services of the blacksmith was of little concern to him. Or at least it should have been, but out of all the oddities, that one was the highest.

It had been no planning of his, that he just happened to be there when the news was broken to her. That her flames would be better under control... but that her engine, her 'heart', was still doomed to fail her at any given moment. A matter of when, not if.

Normally, he wouldn't care. The plights of others had never been any concern of his, just as no one else cared for his troubles, or at best, all they felt was distant pity.

This, though...

For once, this was a unique kind of suffering he could relate to, more than he was strictly comfortable with, but the situation was what it was. Most of his childhood, he'd heard and been told how his weak heart would sputter out and fail him, that he'd die a young and premature death and there was nothing to be done to change it. It was a miracle he'd made it this far in life, as he'd often been told he likely wouldn't even survive to adulthood, but each day he survived, that threat of it being his last day loomed ever larger in his mind, its shadow growing longer, knowing that his time was rapidly counting down.

It was... a lonely feeling, always having that knowledge in the back of his mind, and knowing that no one else around him could understand it even if he tried to speak of it. Even his dream visitor, much as Kytes had come to confide in him, couldn't really understand it.

Maybe that's what brought him drifting closer after she broke away from the rest to be alone, despite that he'd normally never entertain even the thought of her company, his steps phantom-light as he habitually approached from an angle of least visibility and came to stop in her blind spots.

For a few beats, he was silent, his face giving a small twitch, his fingers loosely fidgeting with uncertainty. He debated stepping away to disappear again before she could become aware of him, the thought of interaction still one that intimidated him, but his voice ultimately won out before he could make up his mind on leaving, spoken soft and tentative.

"Are you alrigh'?"