#i like to imagine hes acutely aware of what exactly his stand is doing. imagine being able to not just KNOW how a system works but FEEL it

[tsunodaradio]

wonderstruck ⛐ 𝐂𝐋𝟏𝟔

THIS IS: FORMULA ONE, A MILESTONE EVENT 📀 somehow, you think you like him better this way. the man beneath the legend, fraying at the edges.

♫ starring: charles leclerc x singer!reader. ♫ word count: 4.1k. ♫ includes: romance. mentions of food, alcohol. set in monaco, reader is a singer, love at first sight adjacent. anon requested enchanted by taylor swift. ♫ commentary box: a little something to mark ferrari’s maiden 2025 podium! my first fic for charles <𝟑 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You don’t belong here. 

The thought occurs to you as the lighting crew adjusts the warm tones above the stage, casting a golden glow over the ballroom. You shift the strap of your guitar case higher on your shoulder and survey the space. Glass walls looking out over the Monaco coastline, floral arrangements as tall as you, a sea of designer suits and sequined gowns. 

It’s the most glamorous room you’ve ever set up in, and you’re acutely aware of how you feel. A fish out of water. 

You’re early. Purposefully. The organizers told you there’d be time to soundcheck before the guests arrived, but clearly that estimate was generous. 

The party’s already in full swing. champagne flutes tilted back, laughter echoing against marble. You set your things down near the stage, doing your best not to look like you’re cataloging the famous faces. But you are.

Artists, influencers, models. Anybody who’s anybody is in attendance. 

There’s a brief flash of someone you recognize—tall, dark suit, that unmistakable posture—and when you follow the shape of him, your gaze lands on Charles Leclerc.

Monaco’s golden boy. Ferrari’s prodigy. 

He stands near the back of the room, not exactly hiding, but clearly not performing either. There’s a small circle around him, people speaking with animated hands, bright eyes, but Charles isn’t quite matching their energy. He smiles, he nods, but something in his stance is removed. A little distant.

You watch, because what else is there to do? Charles mere existence seems to be enough for the doting crowds of socialites, most of whom don’t care enough to bother on his thousand-yard stare. He’s there, with them, but not there in any way that matters. 

And then—he looks up.

Your eyes meet.

It’s only a second. Maybe two. 

But in that breath of time, you watch it happen. The slight drop of his shoulders, the ease that slips into his expression like he’s let go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

You don’t know him. You’ve never met. And maybe that’s what has him uncoiling, what has him unraveling just a teensy bit. He knows, too, that you don’t belong here. For once, it’s a good thing. 

You offer a polite, practiced smile. Charles blinks, like he wasn’t expecting it. Then—surprisingly—he smiles back. Not the public one you’ve seen on press tours or post-race interviews. This one’s smaller. 

Softer. 

Real.

It catches you off guard.

You look away first, heart ticking faster than it should. You crouch by your case, pulling out cables and tuning pedals, pretending your hands aren’t a little shakier than they were a minute ago.

From the corner of your eye, you catch the moment he starts walking toward the stage.

“Didn’t expect to see guitars at a Monaco gala,” he says, stopping a polite distance away. His voice is warm, laced with curiosity. Thick with the Monégasque dialect you were growing accustomed to. “Are you the entertainment?” 

You glance up, a hint of a smirk tugging at your lips. “Unless you’re planning on surprising everyone with a cover set, yeah. That’d be me.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he says with a laugh. A beat. And then: “I’ve never seen you around before.”

In any other setting, it might be the sign of someone coming on to you. A bad opening line at a bar. But this is a charity gala, and this is Charles Leclerc. To imagine him flirting with you is wishful thinking to the extreme. 

“First gig in Monaco,” you chirp as you straighten up, fingers still curled around a tuning peg. “Trying to leave a good impression.”

“You already have,” he replies, almost too easily. Then his brows lift like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

You raise an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “So I’ve impressed the local celebrity,” you shoot back. “That’s one goal ticked off.”

His grin turns sheepish, but there’s still a spark in his eyes. “We’re not all that hard to impress, you know,” he says. 

“I’ll take my chances.”

There’s a pause—not awkward, but charged. Something unsaid hangs between you, passing in the silence like a note folded and slipped under a desk.

Charles gestures to the guitar resting against the amp. “Well… bonne chance,” he says with the civility expected of somebody nicknamed Il Predestinato. “I’m looking forward to hearing you play.”

“Thanks,” you say, voice softer now. “And thanks for coming over. That’s… not nothing.”

He gives a small nod, like he understands exactly what you mean. Then, with a half-step backward, he inclines his head toward the stage. “I’ll get out of your way.”

As he turns to leave, you catch the way his eyes linger just a second too long, like he’s storing this moment away for later.

And maybe you are, too.

The acoustics of your set were meant to fill the gaps between forks clinking against porcelain and wine being poured into tall-stemmed glasses. A live Spotify playlist with better hair.

You perform, pointedly trying not to pay Charles any more heed than you already have. You’re just supposed to be background music, anyway. Still, you can feel Charles’ gaze burning on you most of the time.

Every now and then, you glance across the room, only to find him already looking your way. Not ogling. Not even smiling. Just... watching. 

Like he was listening with his entire being. Like he could hear something no one else could.

So you sing. Not for him, but not not for him either. You let your voice glide over syllables like silk, linger in the soft edges of each line, pour your nerves into something that sounds like poise.

The final note hangs in the air, tender and reverent. A smattering of polite applause ripples across the room, as expected. You bow your head with practiced grace, turning away from the mic—

And sure enough: He’s looking at you.

Charles doesn’t avert his gaze. Not when your eyes catch his, not even when the waiters begin to clear plates and other guests shift in their seats. He tilts his head slightly, as if he’s still trying to place something. (Or maybe he just doesn’t want to forget what you look like at this moment.)

You step off the stage and begin coiling cables, forcing yourself to focus. One of the event coordinators murmurs something about a job well done. You thank them, nod, smile, but it’s all muscle memory.

When you glance back up, Charles is gone.

But then, a voice beside you: “You’re either very good at pretending you didn't notice me staring, or you're very good at ignoring it.”

You startle slightly, turning to find him there. He’s both fresh-faced and sharp in a way that shouldn’t be legal. His tie is loosened now, the top button of his shirt undone. He looks less like a Ferrari driver and more like a man trying not to look like one.

“You were staring?” you ask with faux surprise. “Couldn’t tell. I was busy carrying the entire emotional arc of the evening.”

That gets a genuine bark of laughter out of him, prompting you to grant him a shred of honesty. 

“I did notice,” you add, gentler this time. “Hard not to.”

Charles presses a hand to his chest like he's been caught. “Guilty. But in my defense, you make it very difficult to look anywhere else.”

“Is that your way of saying you liked my performance?”

“Immensely.” He pauses, then offers his hand. “Charles.”

You take it. “I know.”

He laughs again. “Right. Should've guessed. And you are...?”

You tell him your name; it sounds different in the space between you. Less like a formality and more like a secret. He repeats it softly, almost as if your name is a lyric in itself.

“Well, it’s a pleasure.” He steps back, but not before one last glance, a fleeting upturn of his lips. Like he knows something’s beginning but isn’t quite ready to name it.

You know how this will look. Charles Leclerc, the golden boy of Monaco, leaning in, chatting you up with that movie-star smile. To the public, it’ll be a sweet gesture. A headline, even. 

F1 driver shows support for local musicians. Appreciates the arts. A gentleman to all, even the nobodies.

Still, the way Charles watched you while you sang lingers at the back of your mind. 

Your dinner is a lukewarm plate of something unidentifiable and beige, already waiting for you in the back when you get off-stage. The real meal had been plated for the guests. Your portion was what the staff scraped together, half out of obligation, half out of pity. 

You sneak past the busy corridors, slip into the fire exit—a quiet staircase behind an emergency door—and settle two steps up, digging into your sad little dinner.

You barely get two bites in when the door bursts open again.

Charles practically stumbles inside, one hand running through his hair, jacket slightly askew like he’s been dodging cameras. You blink, a forkful of food halfway to your mouth.

He startles when he sees you. “You again?”

You chew, then swallow. “I could say the same.”

He exhales a breath, somewhere between amused and embarrassed, and glances at your plate. His smile falters.

“Is that what they gave you?”

“Well, I don’t think they expected Michelin-star demands from the entertainment.”

Charles frowns, a flush of indignation rising to his cheeks. It strikes you, then, how young he looks. No—how human he looks, when he hasn’t got any indents of a helmet mark pressed into his face.

“That’s ridiculous,” he says, voice rising an impassioned octave. “They should’ve served you properly. You performed beautifully.”

You let out a soft laugh, nudging your plate with the back of your hand. “Don’t go starting a crusade on my behalf, Leclerc.”

He hesitates, as if he’s still contemplating it. The mental image amuses you. Charles, knocking down the door of the ballroom and demanding you get some of the hors d’oeuvres.

When his shoulders slump, you figure he’s let the idea go. He leans on the door of the fire exit, wringing his hands behind his back like he’s some antsy highschooler instead of an indomitable racecar driver. 

“I wasn’t expecting to find anyone here,” he confesses. “I needed a breather.”

“I’m not going to give. Find your own lonely stairwell, man.” 

He smiles at your joke. Again, that genuine grin. The one no one else seems to have pulled out from him tonight. He gestures to the step beside you. “May I?”

You scoot over and pat the stair. “Knock yourself out, Monaco.”

Charles sits, his shoulder brushing yours for a second longer than necessary. And for the first time that evening, you allow yourself to feel it—not the performance, not the politics, but the person beside you. Just someone escaping the noise.

Someone just like you, if that was even possible. 

You take a moment to take him in.

Charles looks like he was carved out of a dream. The kind you don’t wake up from easily. 

Even in the harsh fluorescent wash of the fire exit, he looks maddeningly perfect—hair still in place, suit cut so sharply it could wound. There's a slight flush to his cheeks, the kind that comes from not enough champagne or too many polite smiles. Maybe both.

He sits beside you like he doesn’t quite know how to be still. Not fidgeting, but not fully relaxed either. The silence stretches, filled with the scraping of your fork against disposable plates.

Out there, he’s a public figure. In here, he feels like he could be anybody.

“So,” Charles says eventually, voice pitched low as if he doesn't want to shatter whatever strange, soft thing has bloomed between you, “why Monaco?”

You shrug. “Music brought me here. Or the hope of it, anyway,” you muse. “There's a rhythm to this city that's hard to explain. Fast cars, soft oceans. It feels like something could happen here.”

He hums, considering. “That sounds like something a poet would say.”

“I’m not a great one,” you admit. “But I try.”

“You sing like one,” he says, so simply that it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

You blink, unsure how to respond to that. So you counter, because it’s safer, because you know Charles is on the other end of the coin. You’re a newcomer, but he’s as Monaco as Monaco comes.

“And what about you?” you prod. “You grew up here, right?” 

Charles leans back against the stair railing. The gleam in his eyes shifts, something a little more wistful emerging from beneath the surface. 

“Yeah. Monaco is… complicated,” he says. “It’s beautiful, sure. But it’s also like living in a fishbowl. Everyone sees you, but no one really sees you.”

You nod, not quite understanding—but sympathizing enough. The glitz and the glamor, all contained in less than four kilometers of coastline. “And yet you’re here, still living in the bowl,” you point out. 

“It’s home,” Charles says. “You learn to breathe underwater.”

The conversation feels easy. No expectations. No ulterior motives. Two people sitting on cold stairs, trying to find common ground between champagne towers and lukewarm catering.

He asks you about where you came from. You quiz him on where he plans to go. When you tell him you’re jealous of all his traveling, he admits to envying your roots. 

“You always like crashing fire exits?” you ask lightly when there’s a lull in the conversation.

Charles chuckles, head tipping back. “Only when there’s good company.”

The words draw a laugh out of you. For a moment, you both just sit there—the racing star and a singer with nothing to offer but her voice, sharing a moment on borrowed time.

Charles leans back against the stair railing. He glances toward the fire exit door as though trying to will it to stay shut. Eventually, he sighs.

“I should probably head back,’ he says, though it sounds more like someone with a death wish than a confident declaration.

You nod, wiping your fingers on a napkin. “Right. The people need their prince.”

He smiles; his grin, crooked and a little tired. “Something like that,” he sighs. 

That’s what gets you. The first sign of his facade rebuilding, the hint of melancholy bleeding back into his posture. In the few weeks since you’ve made your move, you’ve come to understand just how damn sad the French can make themselves look without meaning to. 

Charles Leclerc has the kicked puppy look down to the T. 

The words leave your mouth before you can think twice. ‘Give me a tour before you vanish again.”

He pauses. “A tour?”

You blink at him, then square your shoulders. Might as well go all in. “Of Monaco,” you say breezily, as if you’re asking just anybody off the street. “You’re from here. You must know the real bits of it.”

There’s a beat. Then he huffs a laugh, amused and maybe a little impressed. “When were you thinking?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“What about now?”

Charles balks. Pauses. Stares at you for a heartbeat too long.

And then he’s grinning, the flush rising higher on his cheeks. He must see it—the resoluteness of your expression, the hope sparking like flint in your gaze. “You’re serious,” he says. 

You gesture at your sorry excuse of dinner, half-eaten in your lap. “My fancy night is clearly over. Might as well make it memorable.”

It takes Charles less than a minute to push off the railing and proclaim, “Alright, let’s go.” 

He claims that he doesn’t have to make any goodbyes. Hell, he doesn’t even slip back in to grab any of his things; he pats the pocket of his trousers and assures you he’s got everything he needs. 

Trying to slip out of the venue undetected takes herculean effort. It feels a bit like a spy movie, and you find yourself giggling at the absurdity of it all. Charles catches on, chuckling quietly to himself. 

You’re halfway to the parking lot when he murmurs, “Only problem is—I can’t drive my own car. I step near the Ferrari and someone’s posting about it before I even touch the door.”

“You have a driver?”

“Yes, but then it’s a whole thing.”

“I have a rental.”

Charles slows his pace. “A rental.”

“A very busted, very discreet rental.”

He stops walking and laughs—really laughs, the sound echoing in the room, free and open. It’s a good sound, you think to yourself, as you fish for your keys in your backpack. “This is either a very bad idea or a very good one,” he hums. 

You toss him your keys. “You tell me.”

He catches them, still chuckling. “Let’s see if your noble steed can handle the streets of Monte Carlo.”

When you both reach the parking lot, Charles only laughs a little more at what he finds. It’s a Fiat 500 that’s definitely seen better days, and by the look on Charles’ face—he would still probably get a kick out of it, brand new or not. 

He opens the passenger door for you with all the flair of someone who’s used to sportscars and red carpets. “Mademoiselle.”

You eye him. “You’re not going to mock my car the whole ride, are you?”

“Only a little,” he promises, slipping into the driver’s seat. “But I’ll do it with charm.” 

You climb in beside him, watching as he adjusts the seat with practiced ease. It’s surreal. The Formula 1 golden boy in your little rental, driving you into the Monaco night like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Except Charles doesn’t quite know how to drive your rental.

“This clutch hates me,” he mutters, trying to ease it into second gear as the engine grumbles in protest.

You're laughing, both hands over your mouth, helpless with it. “You’re a Formula One driver!”

“Exactly,” he says dryly. “Not a magician.”

The car bucks slightly before finally giving in, lurching into a smoother rhythm. Charles shoots you a triumphant look that’s entirely too proud for the accomplishment.

“You drive a Ferrari for a living,” you tease.

“Yes,” he agrees, deadpan. “This is not that.”

You laugh again, and he grins this time, more boyish than anything else. Free. The way he handles the car is still far more competent than most, even with the gear grumbling now and then. As you cruise through Monaco, the streets thinner now in the dead of night, he starts pointing things out.

“That bakery—” He nods toward a squat building nestled between boutiques, “best pain au chocolat in the city. My mum used to get them for us on school days.”

You glance, smile, but your gaze keeps drifting back to him. The way the moonlight brushes his profile, how his hand rests casually on the stick shift, how the collar of his suit jacket sits just slightly askew now, his hair no longer perfect. 

Somehow, you think you like him better this way. The man beneath the legend, fraying at the edges. 

He catches you looking. Of course he does.

“You’re missing the sights,” he chides. 

You blink, caught. “Sorry. I—was listening.”

“Were you?” he asks, eyes flicking to you before returning to the road. But he's smiling. It's small, amused, and just a little soft. Fond, even, but you can’t imagine why Charles Leclerc would feel any such way towards you. 

You stare determinedly out the window. “I’m listening now.”

He hums playfully but doesn't press further. Instead, he keeps driving, keeps pointing. Tiny bookstores, late-night food stands, the route he used to walk home from school.

And you watch. The city, yes. But mostly him.

It’s not a particularly long drive, not even with the interruptions of the car stalling and stammering. There’s only so much of Monaco that can be navigated. By the time Charles is driving you two back to the event venue, only about an hour has passed. 

An hour. Four times the amount of minutes it takes to drive across Monaco from one end to the other. 

The guests will probably think Charles just slipped out for a quick rendezvous. No one has to know he spent the past hour cussing out the inventors of Fiat and tucking you into his version of Monaco. The sparkling nostalgia of it all. 

He pulls into the parking space you’d vacated. The car whines in protest when he does; he winces, you stifle a giggle. 

“That was informative,” you tell him as you unbuckle your seatbelt, readying to take his place behind the wheel. “I can’t wait to have the city’s best pain au chocolat.” 

“I would stake my seat on it,” Charles says, slipping out of the car the same time as you. 

You’ve never been so grateful to have chosen a spot that’s further from the entrance. Charles is still on edge, eyes darting around to see if there’s a rogue paparazzi within the vicinity. 

“You’ll be fine,” you reassure him, “if you slip in right now, that is.” 

He rolls his shoulders. “Right.” 

“What are you going to tell them?” 

“That the line in the bathroom was so long. So incredibly long.” 

A laugh escapes you. “An hour-long wait?” 

“Must’ve been something in the bouillabaisse,” he says as he fights back a grin. 

You tilt your head up at Charles. The car’s headlights shine on, streaking through the yawning space between the two of you. Gone is the composed man from earlier that night. Instead, you find yourself face to face with just another bright-eyed Monégasque. 

“This was nice,” you say, once the quiet bears down as something neither of you can no longer ignore. 

“It was,” he says. His gaze flicks over your face, and while he’s still got that faint smile on his face, he also looks like… like he’s cataloguing your features. 

He clears his throat. “I’ll let you go,” he says, aiming for levity. “Wouldn’t want your beau to wonder why you’re out so late.” 

Something in your chest stammers. “My beau,” you repeat, the words feeling almost silly on your tongue. 

“Your beau,” he echoes. Doubling down. Your boyfriend. 

You hear it then. The unspoken beneath the carefully chosen. The words held back as you leave too soon. 

Please don't have somebody waiting on you, he’s saying, and it’s written all over his face. 

“My beau,” you start, slow and measured in a way that’s almost torturous, “is non-existent.” 

You had thought, briefly, that Charles was probably under the impression he was mysterious and unreadable. It’s clearer, now, when his face lights up for a fraction of a second. When he tries to reel the expression in instantly, only to still have the corners of his lips twitching; he has tongue the inside of his cheek to keep himself from seemingly breaking out into a proper smile. 

“A shame,” he says, sounding not at all apologetic. 

“It really is,” you sigh, but you don’t sound particularly disappointed, either. 

A beat. This is the part where he should ask for your number, where he should make the move and express some interest. Say something about wanting to know you better, showing you more of Monaco, being entranced the moment you started singing. 

Instead, Charles says, “Do you remember what I said earlier—about Monaco being like a fishbowl?” 

“Breathing underwater,” you muse. “I recall.” 

He nods, pleased. And then: “Sometimes, I forget how to breathe.”

You blink. The words land soft and strange, like they’ve drifted through layers of meaning before reaching you. He isn’t looking at you when he says it. His fingers curl loosely around his cufflinks, gaze trained on the venue in the distance.

You study Charles. The line of his jaw. The press of his lips, held like a secret. His words—a confession in its own right—entrusted to you, a virtual stranger.

“And tonight?” you ask gently.

He looks at you. Really looks at you.

“Tonight,” he says, “I think I got to breathe just fine.” 

You smile up at him. Charles gives in and smiles right back. Around the two of you, Monaco gleams like a snow globe tipped on its side.

You don’t belong here. Not yet. 

But it feels like you could. 

It feels like you’re about to. ⛐

[soangelbaby]

i’ve been summoned too & i still haven’t stopped thinking about perv clark bc that tree of a man probably can’t even look you in the eyes without creaming his pants even after watching you through your window all night 🙂‍↔️😵‍💫

— @preyingfaes / @fae-of-prey

ugh riightt he can’t even look at you the same without thinking what else he can do, what else he can get away with, how far he can go before he gets caught, before you start catching on, but he’ll try to play it cool, subtly dropping hints about thing he should never know, like “you wear that perfume alot huh?” or if he’s overheard your conversations, “hanging out with your friends tonight?” he’d know exactly where you’re going, who you’re with like nmmm

can you imagine how he feels, just standing there, watching you through the window? the way he can see every little detail of you—every move, every breath you take, and all he wants to do is reach out and touch.

but he can’t. not yet. the thought of being so close to you, hearing you breathe, watching your body move—he can barely breathe himself.

and when he finally does get close, you won’t even have to speak. he’ll already know. because he’s been watching—and he’s been getting off on it. every little thing you do, every second you’re unaware, it makes him crazy. you’re the only thing he can think about now.

AND his heightened senses make him acutely aware of your smallest movements, and it drives him crazy that he can’t just have you in the way his mind wants. every time you laugh, breathe, move in a way that intrigues him, it makes the hunger worse. he might even find himself pacing late at night, unable to shake the overwhelming desire to be close to you, but also terrified of what would happen if he crossed that line.

clark would also occasionally feel the weight of guilt, especially if you get a little too close or his control slips. maybe he’ll sense that you’re starting to notice him more, and a pang of remorse will hit him. but then, it’s quickly overshadowed by the rush of satisfaction. he may feel guilty for a fleeting moment, but the rush of knowing that he has complete access to you soon overrides those feelings.

i just love this so so hot i could go ALL DAYYY

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

le dragon rouge: rosquez [e]

“Grandmother,” Valentino drawls out. Marc’s fangs gleam, wicked—he can’t stop staring. They’re smaller than he had imagined. Sharper, very white. “What big teeth you have got.”

Marc lets out a snort. Doesn’t smile and doesn’t blink either. “All the better to eat you with.”

It’s—disquieting. It is also disquieting when he does it in press conferences, or when he’s listening hard to whatever bullshit Valentino is saying, but nothing softens the blow here. Marc’s attention falls over him intensely, scrapes along his nerves.

Hungry—which happens to be the crux of their current issue.

Valentino is thinking about it—Little Red Riding Hood. Being eaten. Same difference. Marc’s mouth is close, is the thing, and bitten pink. Almost pretty enough to distract him from what it hides, how his voice comes out lisped through his teeth.

It sounds a bit goofy, except everything Valentino can see is how ashen his face looks, the marble motionless of his posture.

He’s acutely, unfortunately aware of his heartbeat on his jugular, also.

Valentino is not surprised by anything that has happened thus far. It was right there on his files— MÁRQUEZ, Marc: vampire, 21 years old . So no, not surprised.

And he caught Marc feeding, once. On a fucking club bathroom, a girl in a mini green dress pressed between him and the grimy wall. She was screaming, but no, not that away. Less like she had teeth on her throat draining her dry, more like she had a couple of fingers in her cunt.

So sue him, he is a little curious.

“Valentino,” Marc says, doing a terrible job of trying to look steady with his huge, liquid eyes and the pinched tight press of his lips, like he’s salivating and wants to hide it. “Are you—ok?”

“Yep,” he pops the p obnoxiously. Makes himself grin. “Come on, food is getting cold.”

“Hmm—okay.”

It doesn’t sound very certain. Valentino is pretty sure he should be offended.

Marc bends down to hover over him anyway, pressing Valentino against the bed, chest on chest, worse than chains. His thighs had been cold, braced around his hips, but he’s fucking freezing —like metal left out in the winter. He can feel the hair on his standing on end. His little flinch, trapped under him.

It’s June in Spain, he shouldn’t burn like ice. It makes no sense.

The cold is better than looking at Marc, though. Easier. Kid’s—whatever, a predator species, something bad and wicked, but he doesn’t usually look like that. Doesn’t usually look like much of anything unless he’s up on a bike and taking them all for idiots.

And he’s terribly sweet for Valentino too.

He isn’t sweet in this bed. Eyes too dark, with an inorganic, lifeless glint to them. Body too still, never fidgeting, every move deliberate, seamless.

Valentino had read about it once—uncanny valley. That there had to be a reason for humans to be afraid of things that look like them but aren’t them.

Marc’s nose brushes against the hollow of his throat. Valentino swallows around nothing—mouth dry and sour. His pulse spikes. He wonders how much of that the vampire nuzzling him can feel, smooths out a scoff before it bursts out of chest.

“It’s alright,” Marc aims for soothing and misses it by a mile. He’s panting, and each word sounds like it was pried laboriously from his mouth. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Valentino laughs. Can’t help it, or how gravelly it sounds. “I thought that was the point.”

Marc huffs. The chill of his face pressed on the side of his neck is like a naked blade. 

“No, it isn’t.”

There’s this something tugging under his skin. Not fear—well, not only fear, Valentino has an alright sense of preservation for a moto rider, and he isn’t exactly thrilled by pain—but still there. Prodding like thorns.

Annoyance, except he doesn’t know why, doesn’t know anything other than the fact it makes him itchy, restless. He’s a pinned butterfly, the sheets creaking under him.

Marc’s lips skim over his carotid, icy, a little cruel—which is new. Horrible. And horrible in the way it makes his stomach clench. Valentino sucks in a rattling breath. His tongue might as well be glued to the roof of his mouth.

“I can find someone else.” Marc inches away from him, tries to get up.

Valentino clamps his hand on the back of Marc’s neck, watches him jolt like a live wire. “You don’t want to,” he says, thrumming, runrunrun instinct screaming at him—he sounds catlike still. A little steelier than he’d planned to. “I think you want to eat me real bad.”

Marc makes a noise—helpless, half-choked, amused. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well. It’s polite to ask.”

“Please, please,” he mutters, a laugh threaded into it. Because of course Marc wouldn’t be ashamed of begging—Valentino chews on the inside of his cheek until it aches, something white-hot pulsing through him. “May I bite you?”

May I . Proper little boy, isn’t he?

Valentino lolls his neck to the side. “Be my guest.”

He sounds very magnanimous. It’s almost a joke, another one, and Marc—

Marc grabs his chin. Bears down on his shoulder to keep him in place. Valentino thought—he thought he’d hesitate a lot more. He doesn’t know why he did.

Then there are teeth.

It hurts. It really fucking hurts. Valentino makes a noise, strangled, like he’s sawed off a chunk of his tongue. Cold sweeps over him—worse than an ice bath after Sepang, the shock making his body seize and spasm.

Marc might as well be raking teeth over his raw nerve endings. Injecting him with poison.

Too much to feel, and barely anything he can untangle. Barely anything he wants to untangle. Valentino’s head goes taffy thick, fuzzy around the edges. His vision blurs, breaking in blocks of color and little else.

He would flinch if he could. Maybe. Or maybe not. As that haze rises, Valentino relaxes muscle by muscle, and he might as well go down a drain, bones liquid, that jolt of nauseous fear bled out of him along his consciousness. Ha .

Marc moans, a quiet, wrecked little noise, halfway to a sob, like he does when Valentino is mean to him, pushing in his spit-slick cock after quali and pressing his face against a wall to keep him quiet.

Everything about him is still cold , glacial, except his frantic tongue on his neck. That feels scorching, and Christ, Valentino isn’t sure about pain anymore. It’s a blurry, feverish thing crawling under his skin. Too much. Too big. Valentino isn’t sure about pleasure either.

There’s only Marc, and that wet sucking sound right against his ear. He laps Valentino up, hungry and fucking shameless about it.

He feels his heart pumping, feels his blood moving the wrong way inside his veins—into Marc. It’s the most in-his-body Valentino has ever been.

A high, keening groan echoes between them, through the pounding in Valentino’s head. It has to be coming from him. He can’t stop it, or close his mouth, or think about moving. Valentino sinks— ah , ah , ah , dizzy when he tries to figure out he’s hurting, or not hurting, or feeling good.

He’s shaking. Like that one time when he brushed against a live wire by accident and couldn’t unclench his hand, stood there jolting until Stefania pushed him.

It sizzles inside—that feeling he can’t name, like an orgasm that just won’t quit until Valentino can’t decide if it’s great or worse than a knife between his ribs.

Valentino drifts on nothing. Time drips around him, and his blood drips into Marc. Marc who’s starving, who doesn’t ever care about stopping. Valentino is getting wrangled like his Honda on the corners, bent to his will. He laughs about it. Tries to.

Marc would eat him whole. He would.

And it isn’t great , but Valentino lets himself be taken over, fights to keep his eyes open—so he can look at the ceiling. At the tanned sliver of skin on Marc’s nape.

Everything spins. Loses meaning.

It all comes crashing down when Marc lets go of him. Valentino blinks, his eyes gritty—shudders, too. Entire chunks of his body are unresponsive, numb.

Marc presses his face against his chest, stays there. He’s panting, shoulders heaving with it, fever-hot to the touch and thrumming with wild energy. Can’t seem to stop fidgeting above Valentino, his fingers restless on the bones of his collar, back and forth and back and forth, right where it pushes against his skin.

Slowly, with Marc keeping him pinned to the bed, Valentino realizes his vision has focused again.

His senses come back to him one by one—the cool, smooth sheets under him, the rancid yellow lamplight, Marc’s strong things braced around him, the staleness in his mouth, the metallic smell thick and soupy in the air.

Marc leans back. Still fucking disquieting—except not quite. His cheeks are flushed pink. There’s red all over his lips, all over his chin, messy like when Valentino hooks his fingers into the babyfat of his cheeks and makes him show the come on his tongue, tells him to not swallow. He isn’t stone, or cold metal, or motionless.

And his eyes. They’ve gone from unnatural to searing, dark as pitch.

Alive. Hard to miss it when he was so other before.

It’s pretty. Reminds Valentino of that one time he saw an eagle pluck a kitten from the side of the road in Tavullia, the glossy blackness of its feathers.

Marc shifts again on his lap. It hits him like being highsided into the asphalt. Valentino scrambles for air, his cock oversensitive in the cooling stickiness inside his underwear. He had—

“Uh.”

“I’m sorry,” Marc snorts, not sounding sorry at all. He’s rubbing himself against his thigh, Valentino realizes. Looking fucking obscene about it, his budge fat and heavy, straining against his shorts. “It happens sometimes.”

“Alright,” he says eloquently, in an ugly jumble of syllables. Lets his eyes linger. “Aren’t you going to do anything about it.”

It isn’t a question.

So Marc immediately shimmies out of his clothes—awkward, overeager—and wraps a hand around the big cock he doesn’t fucking use for anything because he acts like he’s going to die without Valentino inside him.

He’s flushed dark, wet . Valentino isn’t sure he wants it—but he’s thinking about it anyway, Marc’s thick dick in his ass and Marc’s teeth on his throat, all at once. Being eaten. Consumed. All of it. If he could, he’d scorch that thought to ash, and his tacky underwear too.

His next breath comes out funny, a little choked. Marc, uncaring godling that he is, throws his head back, opens his mouth to moan.

He works his hand like he’s on time attack, no finesse—ruts against it, in this ugly, brash desperation that Valentino can’t help but stare at. It’s too soon, and he might not have enough blood for an erection, but his own cock twitches anyway. The pain of it is like being pricked with a needle.

Marc didn’t want to stop—he knows that. Would’ve loved to drink him dry, keep him for himself, hishishis in the gore in his stomach. It makes Valentino clammy, jittery. It also makes Valentino think about cutting him open, burrowing in.

All the way up to his elbow. Or mouth first—have them match.

“You needed it,” Valentino hisses. It’s easier to say than you could’ve killed me .

“I did—fuck, you’re so—l don’t how you let—”

Valentino doesn’t like what Marc is about to say. He hooks his fingers inside his gore-splattered mouth, right over his retracting fangs. They’re shaking, chilly, an uncoordinated weight. Marc clearly doesn’t care—garbles out this reedy noise, eyelashes fluttering low over his cheeks, and tries to sink his teeth in.

“Don’t,” Valentino hisses.

Marc goes wide-eyed, nods. He’s sweet like this, almost.

“Can I—,” he asks frantically, in a slur of words, leaking all over his hand.

Valentino toys with saying no , just to see if he’d cry, or get angry, or ignore him and keep going. Lets it shine through in his face. Marc whines, his dangerous mouth wobbling pitifully. That smooths the unkindness unfurling in his chest like an overgrown rose bush, all thorns.

“Of course,” Valentino croons, remarkably gentle, in rehearsed showmanship.

Gentleness comes easy with Marc’s leash in his hand. Easier at his harsh, stuttered, “ Valentino ,” when he sweeps a calloused thumb over the head of his cock.

Marc topples forward, curled above him, the blood on his chin drying brown and stark against his skin, the pale scar running there. The blood on Valentino’s throat is fresh, though, still dripping sluggishly on the sheets. His head is light, untethered, running in manic racehorse circles around Christ, Christ, Christ .

Each time he blinks, his eyes feel sandy, and his skin is clammy, underwear scraping along his dick, but he’s wired wrong under Marc’s second-hand heat—hungry too. Reckless with it.

“You’d take anything I gave you, no?” He hums genially, the words cracking like a whip between them, Marc scrambling to nod. “Whore.”

It drips honeyed from his lips— puttana .

When Marc comes, he does it with a small, wounded noise, jaw twitching. But Valentino told him no, so he doesn’t bite. Just shakes, pants open-mouthed and wanting, with his come trickling over Valentino’s chest. His eyes plead, and he clings to that, to the uncomplicated cruelty that this opens up.

Tomorrow, Valentino will get rid of everything—the bloody sheets, his clothes, the ache in his veins at Marc’s wicked, white fangs and the fat weight of his soft, come-tacky cock.

Tomorrow, for sure.

[breadbrioche]

kiss of life

so mun x reader

➳summary: you almost let your impulsive thoughts get to you while mun is asleep

➳warnings: really vague descriptions of a fight, sort of suggestive at the end but not really

➳word count: 1.5k

➳a/n: watch kim sejeong’s top or cliff music video here! My next work will be released when her music video reaches 1 million views

You can’t believe that this happened.

This seriously had to be on the top of the list of your major fuck ups because this really shouldn’t have happened. You cringe every time you think about it because you’re a counter! They were people who are supposed to protect others, and not get protected. But that’s exactly what happened.

It was a routine procedure; the evil spirit Hana sensed was fairly low leveled so only you and Mun were dispatched to deal with it. And it was going well but that was until another, stronger spirit appeared. You not considering that possibility was ultimately your downfall as you were completely focused on getting rid of the first one, not realising the other was approaching you from behind - and with a weapon.

The next moments were a jumble but you can recall Mun pushing you away, taking the blow himself. As he fell, the two evil spirits took the opportunity to run, leaving you with your teammate who was totally knocked out. Luckily, once you were back home, Ms Chu assured that there were no fatal injuries but you were still left with two evil spirits on the run and an unconscious Mun.

Watching him lay motionless in his bed, he almost looks like a sleeping princess rather than being the hero who just saved your life, as ironic as it is. He definitely looked the part too; even when he’s asleep So Mun is perfect. Especially with his silky hair, skin that all but glows when light shines on it and perfectly kissable lips.

You pause for a second. No way; there’s absolutely no way. You couldn’t kiss Mun, that would be insane! You shake your head vigorously, trying to get rid of such delusional thoughts. You couldn’t, you shouldn’t… but-

Betraying all your previous thoughts, you lean close to his face, hovering just inches away. So close that you could count every individual eyelash if you wanted to. Your eyes naturally wander to his mouth and observe how, with how lips are slightly parted, it looks as if he’s ready to receive a kiss. Only if you moved just a bit further, you would be able to-

Inhaling sharply, you clamp a hand over your mouth. You aren’t going to actually do it, reminding yourself. You’re just looking at him (and ignoring how you could’ve done that at a further, non-intimate distance). Panicking slightly, your eyes flicker back to Mun’s eyes to see if he’d caught you but to your relief, they were still closed.

Hearing your own frenzied heartbeat, you become acutely aware of your situation. Screw the incident from earlier, this was definitely the top spot on your list of major fuck ups. Even for you, this was a new all time low.

But before you could even think of what to do next, to your horror, Mun’s eyes flutter open and now you are literally face to face with the consequences of your actions. Fuck.

Mun called out your name confused, voice still rough after just waking up, which effectively snaps you out of your stupor as it causes you to fling yourself away from him instantly. A bit too fast as you lose your balance and tumble to the ground, landing on the hardwood floor with a thump.

In an instant, Mun leaps out of his bed and kneels down to assess you for injuries. He places a hand on your shoulder but you immediately push him away with a yelp - you couldn’t stand the thought of him touching you right now (if he did, your dumb brain would be too weak not stop yourself from imagining stupid delusions and you really can’t have that)

“Ah- uh- fuck, I’m sorry” you stumble, not really knowing what to say. “Just forget what you saw! I wasn’t actually gonna do anything, I promise!”

Mun’s eyebrows knit together while he pieces together what happened before he gasped, eyes almost bulging out of their sockets.

“Hold on, were you going to kiss me?!” he yells before you hastily covered his mouth, cringing at the volume. What if someone else heard? That would be double the embarrassment and this is already too much.

“Don’t be so loud!” You hiss. “And no, I was only looking!”

He manages to wrestle your hands off his face, staring at you with a look you didn’t want to comprehend

“But it looked like you were though!” He insists, but you grimace and shake your head violently.

“What, are you some kind of princess who needs a kiss of life to wake you up?”

Mun chuckles at your response and leans closer slightly. His gaze is inquisitive, like his eyes are scouring you for clues to your upcoming answers for his questions. Mun is smart, the son of detectives after all, so you’re deathly afraid of the fact that he’ll see how you’re swallowing nervously, avoiding his gaze and just so obviously flustered and make a correct observation.

“Would you ever do it? Kiss me, that is.” Mun asks, sounding casual like this was a normal conversation topic. You narrow your eyes at him - just what sort of game is he playing at? If he’s trying to make you jump to conclusions, it sure is working for him.

“…what are you trying to say?”

Sensing your hesitance, Mun clasps your hands firmly. They squeeze yours firmly; you didn’t want to assume but, it almost felt like he was reassuring you.

“Do you like me? Because I like you and I wouldn’t have minded if you had kissed me earlier.”

You freeze. No way; there’s absolutely no way. You’re done, it’s over. There was no way this could be real. You blink hard, half expecting yourself to be hallucinating this whole situation - maybe you were the one knocked out and this was a dream. But when you open your eyes and Mun is still there with his dorky grin and all, you almost gasp.

“This is real, right? Is the guy I’ve been crushing on for ages actually confessing to me?” You murmur your thoughts dumbly. Mun laughs, nodding his head.

“So does that mean we’re dating then? I- I mean I’d love to date you but- I know that sometimes when twopeopleinagroupstartdatingthatcancausegroupdynamicsto-“

You’re so caught up with the explosion of thoughts suddenly coming at you that you hardly notice Mun leaning even closer to you and closing the space between your faces until he physically shuts you up, lips firmly on yours. But before you could even reciprocate, he’s moving away and licking his lips.

“Sorry,” Mun half apologises with a cheeky grin. “You looked cute, I couldn’t help it!”

At this point, you’re sure your brain is fried. You purse your lips together to try and formulate a response but nothing comes to you. If one simple peck had you this speechless, So Mun was going to be the death of you.

Without thinking you reach for the collar of his shirt and tug, closing the distance between you and replacing your lips on his. If Mun is going to be your cause of death, you’ll die on your own terms.

It’s initially awkward, Mun mimicking you earlier by being stunned still, but eventually you feel him relax into the kiss and even urges you to deepen it by gently pressing a hand to the back of your neck. There’s a sense of urgency to it, the both of you desperate to show your repressed feelings.

When you pull apart, you feel breathless as the adrenaline courses through your body. Shivers down your spine as you feel Mun’s strong gaze; it’s not overpowering but it’s confident - he knows what he wants (he wants you). Mun inches closer to kiss you again but before he could, your hand on his chest keeps him from moving.

“W-wait,” you huff between breaths. “Are you feeling okay? You were knocked out for a while.”

He rolls his eyes playfully with a huff; only you would stop an intimate moment just to ask about his well being.

“I’m awake now, aren’t I? I’m totally fine.” He assures you. “But there is one thing that still hurts a bit…”

Your eyes widen with concern, flickering over Mun’s body to find any hidden injuries. However, your concern is wasted when he just points at his lips which are curled into a sly smirk.

“Can you kiss it better?”

Letting out a disgusted scoff, you try to swat his face away from you but he catches your hands and makes you look at him. Mun silently pleads to you, putting on his best puppy dog eyes at you. You sigh, not having much of a choice right now.

“You’re so cheesy, you know that right?” You say before your lips meet Mun’s once again, starting like you never stopped in the first place.

[moonspirit]

Cadet!Aruani having a little dance on top of the walls at night, just being silly little lovers in a world of utter misery.

Ohhhhhh anon, this is so cute T____T!!!!

I really like the idea of the walls at night being their little meeting place. After all, they're wide enough for a small corner to be invisible to anyone looking. There's a patch of ground where the two like to sit, sometimes lay, sometimes with a bite to eat or sometimes with nothing at all except for the eagerness to linger in the warmth of the other.

Armin... he looks forward to these nights. There's something about being next to Annie and noticing all the tender pockets she holds. After a grueling day of combat training, his hands are calloused and beaten, but hers are still soft. He wonders how that is, how she can turn people inside out on the fields and yet fill him with awe at how the torchlights illuminate the angles of her face so gently.

He's never told her, but he thinks she touches him like someone does a feather falling through the sky.

And it's fall. There's a harvest festival here in Trost and all the streets have been filled with the sound of music and laughter for days now. Dusk is the time the people put on their best clothes and dancing shoes and turn to a tune in the town square. He hasn't been. Eren was moody and Mikasa lonely and he had to help with the amends.

Now he steals a glance at Annie sitting close by, her cool blue eyes so dark under the moonless night, and wonders if she likes to dance.

"Um," He begins softly, tentatively. "I was wondering if--if you'd like to--"

"Dance?" She finishes, catching him off-guard. Her face turns wry upon seeing the surprise on his face. "You've been tapping your fingers and toes for the past one hour. I noticed."

Armin laughs, half embarrassed, a blush heating up his cheeks. "Oh--is that so, I uh--I didn't think--"

"It wasn't exactly subtle," Annie says, leaning back on her palms to study him. It's what she does, he's used to it now. Anyone else would call it the look of a dangerous, soulless creature but he can't quite think of it like that anymore. The fear he felt before he knew her name and the sound of her voice is long gone - now he has only shivers.

The good kind.

"What?" He chuckles shyly, leaning back to mirror her. "Do I have something on my face?"

She doesn't say anything at first, only stares. Quietly, gently, carefully. Like she's looking at stained glass or something delicate, and unfortunately that's what he is - delicate.

But when her eyes are on him this way, he doesn't hate it.

What does she see? He wonders. Because she's silhouetted against the light, wisps of her hair going against the light breeze, and all he can think of is how she's so... otherworldly. Like she comes from somewhere beyond his reach and somewhere beyond his dreams, a place he cannot... hope to touch or see.

She's beautiful in this firelight.

Does she... see the same in me?

She gets up rather abruptly then and he blinks in surprise. "So," Annie holds out a hand. "We should dance."

Armin squawks. Oh he's good at asking questions but not at following through in action. Shit. He should've known better than to poke at something that required physical skill; something she had in abundance and he had none of.

"Oh, it was--just a question--I uh--I'm not any good at it, I don't think--" He splutters, suddenly wishing he was anywhere else so he wouldn't be making an inevitable fool of himself.

Annie shrugs, taking his hand and hauling him up to his feet. "I can't imagine it's that different from fighting," With another shrug, she adds, "A lot of footwork."

He doesn't protest as much as he should, knowing he's going to disappoint her. Standing before her now, he sees the top of her head, the colour of silver grass, and becomes acutely aware of the fact that he's grown taller... a bit.

O-Oh.

So now if he were to kiss her again--if she'd let him--then he'd have to... or-or she'd have to-

"You look like you're about to have a stroke," Annie points out dryly and he snaps out of his daze. Right. Kiss later, now he has to make sure he doesn't trip and kill them both in a 60 metre fall.

"S-sorry," He mumbles, blushing. "Uh--shall I... uh- my hand around your...your waist--that is..."

Perhaps he's mistaken though. Annie's cool facade rarely ever disappeared but sometimes, just sometimes, like now on the wall under such dark, silent nights, she'd bite her lip and blush.

He thinks he's very lucky to see it, when it happens.

Just like right now. Her cheeks are pink and she won't look him much in the eye.

"Annie?" He whispers.

She just nods.

He's touched her before, but not like this. At most her cheek or her neck or her wrist. Her waist is an expanse more intimate and more sensitive, if the sigh escaping her lips is anything to go by, but Armin finds he'd rather touch her here from now on. She's so stiff and slight in his hold that even when his fingers press between the spaces of hers, she's still not looking up.

"Ann-"

Then she touches him. Just a hand on his shoulder, but it sends sparks firing beneath his skin. She's touched him before, exactly like this, but maybe it's the view of her crown, maybe it's the space of only a few breaths between their heads, for some reason or all of them, his heart speeds up until he thinks he might just combust.

"Let's start." She says.

They dance. It's not like any of the dances in the town square, this is clumsy and graceful and shy and soft. Annie dances and Armin follows, a little this way and a little that way. They can hardly hear any music so high up, but he's got a tune stuck in his ear and hums.

He trips plenty but she holds him firm. It's a dangerous place for a dance, one wrong move and their gear wouldn't be enough. He feels sorry every time her grip tightens but there's no anger in her eyes. Only a determined set of her brows to keep him safe.

"Armin, I swear to god-"

"Sorry, sorry!"

At some point he goes out of tune and then she laughs; Annie laughs. He teases her then and she gets progressively annoyed until she steps on him quite hard and he surrenders.

There is a thought in his head when she looks into his eyes, easy and relaxed, the hint of a smile playing on her lips as they turn slowly.

It's not a thought he has often.

It's usually the opposite.

But with Annie...

Someday, he thinks, looking at her, I hope you'll catch me if I fall.

[feralbutfluffy]

57: Aziraphale

Chapter 57 of Too Wise to Woo Peaceably

*****

Crowley and Aziraphale had spent what might have been minutes or months curled into each other on the sofa before Crowley yawned, stretched theatrically, and said, “I think we should get some rest. What d’you say? Care to help this invalid to bed?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips in a show of disapproval, knowing ‘rest’ was the last thing on Crowley’s mind. 

The disapproval was entirely hollow.

His heart slammed against his ribs at the idea of lying with Crowley. They had managed to make the sofa feel sinful enough that a bed seemed like a dangerous proposition.

“...And the leopard shall lie down with the kid…”

Aziraphale wondered if one of them was the leopard. He wondered if one of them was the kid goat. He wondered which was which. 

He imagined Crowley’s teeth on his neck and felt a heavy, syrupy warmth settle deep in his bones. He thought he might be happy to be the kid. 

Crowley had always liked kids.

He stood up and absent-mindedly tugged at the seam of his trousers, then bent to put an arm around Crowley, who had slid over to the edge of the seat cushion. He threw his arm around Aziraphale’s neck, curling his fingers around the inside of his waistcoat; apparently, the fabric of his shirt wasn’t sufficient to guard against the burning awareness of their presence, because Aziraphale felt them acutely. He must have shivered in fact, because Crowley let out a soft huff of laughter.

“So sensitive, angel…” he teased, and there was nothing unkind in it.

Aziraphale helped him up to standing, and together they slowly made their way into the hall. He reluctantly acquiesced when Crowley asked to look around the flat. The floor around the plants was still strewn with shard-studded dirt, and Crowley’s face went curiously blank as he looked at it. A sharp tug on Aziraphale’s waistcoat betrayed the fact that his hand had clenched reflexively at the sight.

“What did they not destroy?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Very little, I’m afraid. Anything from here to your bedroom was fairly demolished.”

“Oh.” A thoughtful silence. “What about the rest of it?”

“The rest of it?”

Crowley pulled on his sleeve. “Let’s go the other way.”

“I thought we were going to bed?” Aziraphale frowned, frustration nipping at the base of his spine.

Crowley had the nerve to laugh, then ducked his head and kissed the highest part of Aziraphale’s cheek, where he strongly suspected a blush had turned his skin bright pink.

“We’ve already waited thousands of years, angel. What’s your rush?”

Aziraphale could hardly get the words out. “Exactly! That- That is my rush!”

Crowley smiled at him as if his frustration was delightful, and not something that might drive him to madness.

“Right. Yes, but first- ” he pulled at Aziraphale, who reluctantly obeyed, turning away from the bedroom, “... let me have a look, I just want to check on a few things.”

“Such as?” asked Aziraphale, thinking Crowley’s scant decor didn’t leave much to be checked.

“Well, the lectern and such.”

“That ghastly eagle lectern? That survived." Aziraphale raised his eyes to the ceiling. "... Although I would argue that whether or not that can be considered a good thing is debateable.”

Crowley’s lips quirked. “You think it’s ghastly?”

“Perhaps ‘ghastly’ is unkind, but you must agree it is a bit… much .”

Crowley cast him a sidelong glance. “Belonged to your side, so that makes sense I suppose.”

“How do you mean?”

There was a brief pause.

“Picked it up from a church.” He said it casually, clearly expecting a reaction.

“A chur- Crowley! You stole a lectern from a church?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Well I seriously doubt they were giving them away!”

“You don’t recognise it?”

Aziraphale blinked at Crowley, wrong-footed. “Should I?”

They had made their way over as they talked and now stood in front of it. Crowley leaned heavily against Aziraphale, draped across his shoulders, his weight comforting and warm. His eyes roamed over the lectern, looking for damage.

Aziraphale’s eyes, on the other hand, roamed over Crowley’s face. Eventually, satisfied it had survived the raid unscathed, Crowley looked down at him, and when he did the sheepish expression on his face was so captivating and unfamiliar that it made Aziraphale want to kiss him.

And then, unable to think of a single reason not to that he hadn’t already ignored, he took hold of the back of Crowley's head and pulled him down for a hungry kiss.

Might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb… 

When he pulled away, Crowley swayed against him looking intoxicated. “What was that for?” he mumbled.

It was a heady feeling, Aziraphale thought, to have such a visible effect on his oldest friend.

His-

The thought snagged in his mind and whited out into an incredulous blank. He turned back to the lectern.

“Should I recognise this?” He asked again, reaching out to touch the eagle’s wing. 

Crowley’s head tipped sideways, coming to rest against Aziraphale’s, a heavy point of pressure that made his mouth go dry.

“Well, you’ve definitely seen it before,” he said cryptically, and Aziraphale felt Crowley nudge his forehead into his temple. He swallowed hard. He was certainly new - very new - to this world of physical affection, but he was almost positive that whatever Crowley was doing could only be described as nuzzling.

Crowley’s soft breaths grazed his ear on each exhale, and a shudder wracked through Aziraphale’s body, his knees almost buckling.

Oh.

Considering Crowley was leaning on him for support, that wouldn’t do. 

Aziraphale twisted his head away, breaking contact and giving Crowley a reproachful look. The former demon raised his eyebrow in silent question, trying and failing to hide a grin. He lifted his left hand and slowly, slowly, excruciatingly slowly traced the side of Aziraphale’s face with the back of his index finger.

Aziraphale felt heat, a wave of liquid fire that crashed over him and ran through his entire body with uncontrolled intensity, his skin tingling with sparks in the aftermath. His lips parted and he tried to breathe, but only managed needy, frustrated panting.

How demeaning.

Crowley’s expression changed. He dropped his hand, and Aziraphale considered it an act of mercy; he couldn't have endured much more.

He turned away and tapped the eagle’s head. “You’ve seen this before,” he repeated.

“Oh,” The angel struggled to drag his focus back to the large piece of stone statuary.

“Do you remember the church where you attempted to double-cross a bunch of nazis-”

Aziraphale frowned.

“... And you were - very unwisely - armed with nothing more than some dusty old books, your usual unsuspecting nature, and a substantial amount of rather wildly misplaced trust?”

His eyes narrowed, but Crowley continued undeterred.

“And I - dashingly, if I do say so myself - managed to arrive just in time to save you?”

“And my books,” added Aziraphale without thinking. 

Crowley nodded. “And your books.”

There was silence then. Aziraphale looked from Crowley to the lectern and back again.

“But…” He felt his heart flip itself inside out, “... But everything was obliterated by the bomb. There was just… rubble… ”

“Mmn, yeah. Well, rubble and this thing,” Crowley nodded at the lectern. “Went back for it later, after…” he trailed off, a complicated expression flashing across his face. He cleared his throat. “Well. After.”

Aziraphale’s gaze drifted back to the lectern and he stared, unseeing, at the stone form.

“Oh.”

Oh.

His mind pulled up the memory entirely unbidden; a completely dishevelled Crowley backing up against the bookshelves, face stricken, eyes wide with panic. Crowley almost stumbling out the door in his haste to leave. 

The thought that, after everything, he had returned to the church and dragged the lectern home as a souvenir made Aziraphale’s heart ache, and the knowledge that he had kept it in his apartment as one of the few impractical items in his flat… Well it made him want to pour that aching heart into a puddle at Crowley’s feet.

His throat tightened with emotion.

"I'm very sorry about that night, Crowley," he said in a quiet voice. "I didn't- I couldn't- It was too much-"

He looked up at Crowley to find his face drawn, his gaze fixed on the wall somewhere beyond Aziraphale's right shoulder.

"Not you, you were... " he trailed off lamely, trying to explain something he wasn't sure he fully understood. "... I felt too much. It felt good, and I was so afraid it might be wrong, you see. I'm sorry I blamed you. It was easier to blame you than to admit I might have done a bad thing, or- or- or been a bad angel."

Crowley's expression softened, "I know."

Aziraphale looked back at the lectern. "You really went back to that church for this?"

"Felt like I needed to find something intact in the ruins of it all," Crowley said. "Thought it might help me remember the good parts of the night, the parts before... well, before it all went to Hell in a handbasket."

Aziraphale stared openly at him.

“Anyway,” Crowley ducked his head, embarrassed, and tried to steer him away from what he had previously considered an incongruous and unnecessarily large piece of home decor.

Now he saw it as a monument to a night neither of them could forget.

“You know, Crowley,” he said, allowing the former demon to dictate the pace as they headed back up the hallway, “I think you might be what humans call ‘a romantic ’.”

“Yes, alright. Rub it in why don’t you,” he grumbled.

Their heavy footsteps echoed around them.

A thought occurred to Aziraphale that turned him slightly pink. “You’ll no doubt be glad to know that your blasphemous statue is - unfortunately - also still with us,”

“My blasphemous statue?” Crowley’s brow furrowed. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

“Oh! You know ,” said Aziraphale.

“Not at all! Describe it, go on. Maybe it will come to me.”

Aziraphale glared at Crowley, who looked back with an infuriating expression of pure innocence.

“The statue of the two angels,” he muttered.

“I have a statue of two angels?”

“Well, an angel and a demon."

"Really?" He dragged the word out far longer than necessary. "I don't recall. What are they doing?"

They’re… fighting.” He felt the heat in his cheeks. He slid a furtive glance at Crowley, who was watching him speak, half-lidded eyes fixed on his lips.

“... Oh is that what they’re doing?” Crowley murmured into his ear with a smile.

He was enjoying himself immensely, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but give him a small answering smile of his own.

They had finally reached the bedroom, and they stepped inside.

Their smiles immediately dropped into matching expressions of bewilderment.

“Muriel,” Aziraphale said, by way of explanation.

He reached up and squeezed Crowley’s hand apologetically.

“Ah yes,” said Crowley faintly. “Finishing touches.”

[obetrolncocktails]

Ignition | Danny Wagner X f!Reader X Jake Kiszka | Part 4

Warnings: ANGST, Danny fluff, JAKE TEARS.

Word Count: 3,284

Summary: With things moving forward with Danny, it feels like you can finally let go of the sadness tied to Jake. Danny intrigues you: he's sweet, thoughtful, funny as hell, and so, so sexy. He's effortless, and he has no clue.

“So?” Sam asked after launching his pool stick into the cue ball on the billiards table, breaking up the rack of other balls. Danny and Sam had nothing better to do than to go to one of their favorite bars and play another game of pool, just like they had done since moving to Nashville. 

“So…” Danny echoed, stepping around Sam to take the next shot, sinking a solid ball into one of the pockets. 

“Oh come on,” Sam urged his best friend. “You’re gonna pretend that the grin that’s been plastered to your face this entire time is for no good reason?” Danny relaxed his expression, becoming acutely aware of his own smile. No matter how hard he tried, his thoughts inevitably wandered back to you. “It’s Y/n, isn’t it?” Sam asked while Danny prepared his next shot. Another ball in a pocket. He hit another in his next turn and watched it bounce back without sinking, and he stepped away from the table. Danny shot Sam a look, the corners of his lips turning upward guiltily.. “I knew it!” Sam said with excitement. “Finally.”

“Shh,” Danny scolded him. 

“Daniel, it’s not like you haven't been in love with that girl for-fucking ever. It’s about time you got it in,” Sam took his shot, sinking a ball into the pocket, before accidentally landing the cue ball into the pocket as well. “Damn it,” He cursed under his breath. 

“I didn’t ‘get it in,’” Danny rolled his eyes. We did go on a date on Tuesday, though,” Danny explained, his lips curling upward again, his cheeks flushing softly. 

“How’d it go?” Sam asked, stopping for a moment to take a long swig of his beer. 

“So good,” Danny admitted, turning and leaning against the billiard table. “She’s great,” he said, turning to his brother. “Like, there’s just something about her that has always stumped me in the past. She’s always been guarded, but now she’s opening up to me,” he explained. “And honestly, I can’t get enough of her.”

“Have you talked to Jake about it?” Sam asked, raising his brows over the rim of his cup as he took another swallow. 

“Do I need to?” Danny asked, avoiding eye contact for a moment, knowing the answer. 

“Uh… Duh, man. Y/n and Jake are best friends. I think that would be kind of shitty if you didn’t have a conversation with him. He’s pretty much your brother.”

“I just don’t know where they stand with each other right now, you know? Did you see what happened at rehearsal?” Danny asked. 

“I couldn’t hear, but it didn’t look like it went over exactly well,” Sam admitted, sighing deeply. “And Jake didn’t leave rehearsal very happy, either.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Danny agreed. “I just don’t want things to be weird after.” 

“I think it would be weirder if you didn’t speak to him first. At least you could walk away knowing that you were honest.” 

Danny nodded, turning to line up his next shot, placing the cue ball in the position of his choice. “I’m sure he’ll understand, and maybe her spending time with me will cool down things between them, you know?” 

“Maybe. You just gotta do the talking,” Sam insisted. 

***

“So I wanted to talk to you about something,” Danny began, coming to sit beside Jake as he scrolled through his phone. Jake looked up over his sunglasses. 

“Sure,” he answered, crossing one leg over the other. Danny wasn’t sure if he was imagining awkward tension in the room or if it was just his nervousness speaking. “I’m guessing it’s about Y/n?” Jake asked, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. 

Danny nodded, squeezing the drumsticks in his hand for comfort. “Yes,” he answered, reaching up to knit his fingers through his hair. 

“Mm,” he nodded. “And what about her?” He asked, his composure concerningly nonchalant. 

“Well, we’ve decided to date,” Danny continued, the words coming out more awkwardly than they should have. “We realized that we had mutual feelings for each other, so…” The room was silent for a long moment, Jake nodding slowly, his eyes cast down to the floor.  “Is that a problem? You don’t have feelings for her, right?” Danny asked. “From brother to brother, it’s cool?” 

“It’s fine,” Jake answered with a shrug, reaching for his guitar to idly whisper his fingers over the frets, pretending again like he was practicing. He knew that there was something going on between you and Danny already. 

“Are you sure?” Danny asked again, sitting back in his seat, crossing his arms across his chest. 

“Just like you said, Daniel. It’s ‘cool,’ okay? I don’t really care what you do with her.” Danny didn’t like the way Jake spoke to him, but he wasn’t prepared to address it directly. I don’t care what you do with her. The words spun uncomfortably in his mind. He let silence linger for an awkward moment before continuing.

“Y/n really misses you, you know,” Danny explained, moving in another direction. “I think you should reach out to her– maybe go grab a coffee or something. She could use her best friend.”

Jake pulled his sunglasses up to rest on the top of his head, sighing deeply as he gazed at Danny. He nodded slowly, biting his bottom lip out of nervousness. 

“Eh, she probably hates me anyway,” he shrugged, putting his guitar pick in between his teeth, hiking the guitar on his knee. He didn’t seem bothered, but Danny knew him well enough to know that wasn’t the case. 

“She doesn’t hate you,” Danny shook his head. “But she is very angry at you.”

“For not liking her back?” He asked, cocking an eyebrow, his expression laced with annoyance. 

“For being a fucking asshole, man,” Danny countered, his tone steeped with annoyance. Danny wouldn’t have usually spoken to Jake in this way, but if it had to do with you, it felt personal to him. Jake scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“You ghosted her completely,” Danny added, raising his eyebrows in question. “You completely abandoned her.”

“She could have reached out when she was ready. I told her I cared about her and to take care of herself. I don’t know how I was responsible for all of this.” Jake argued defensively. 

“Well you don’t seem to give much of a fuck by the looks of it,” Danny said, half-scoffing as he addressed his brother. “While you’ve been gone, I’ve been the one she’s been crying to. So trust me, I know.”

“I do care,” Jake said, sighing deeply. “I just don’t know what to say,” he continued, scratching his chin. 

“Well, maybe instead of saying nothing at all, Well you could start by pulling your head out of your ass and going to apologize,” Danny said, his tone coming out with a sharp edge. “You owe it to her.” Jake was silent for another moment before nodding. 

“You’re right, you’re right,” he agreed. “I’ll talk to her,” He continued. 

“She misses you,” Danny repeated. “Like, a lot, Man.” 

“I know she does,” Jake replied with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry.”

The rest of the rehearsal went by with relative ease, and Jake packed up quickly, heading out of the space without much of a goodbye. 

***

You raced around the house as you heard your phone ringing, dodging furniture and tight corners to grab it in time. As Danny’s contact flashed across the screen, your face lit up instantly. 

“Hi,” You answered, smiling brightly through the phone. 

“Hey there, pretty girl,” he greeted you softly. “I was thinking about you. How’re things going today?” 

You leaned against the kitchen counter. “Good,” you told him with a gentle sigh. “I got off work a little while ago. I’m about to make some dinner and get settled down for the night, I think.” 

“Well, could you use a little company? I just got out of rehearsal, and I’m in town. If not, it’s alright of course,” he chuckled nervously. His tone was hopeful, and it made your heart leap knowing that he wanted to spend time with you, even if there was no organized plan. 

“Always if it’s you,” you assured him. “Come over! Have you eaten?” you bit your lip as you waited for his response, twirling idly back and forth like a little girl. “Maybe we can have dinner and watch a movie?”

“That sounds great, I’m starving. I’ll be over in an hour,” he said. “Don’t run away in the meantime.” 

“I wouldn’t dare,” you told him with a smile, hanging up the phone. 

Excitement rocketed the time forward as you busied yourself by tidying the kitchen and living room, brushing your hair and touching up your makeup to look good for him. However, in the last moment as you looked at yourself in the mirror, you decided you’d wanted to be one hundred percent genuine with him, feeling the urge to wash it all off. Something about Danny felt like a fresh start, and one where you wouldn’t have to work so hard to dress yourself up in the beginning, only to eventually learn how to shed away the layers of protection you’d cocooned yourself beneath. You removed all of the makeup, cleansing your face and gathered your hair into a loose ponytail, satisfied with feeling clean and ready to wind down. 

Danny showed up slightly early, ringing the doorbell with a bright, cheerful smile. “Hi,” he said, bending to kiss you softly. You lifted your hands to rest on his chest as you urged him to kiss you longer than he’d originally intended. “You look beautiful,” he murmured, still half-pressed to your lips. 

“I’m not wearing any makeup,” you chuckled once, half-surprised at his comment. 

“And you look beautiful,” He repeated, caressing your cheek with the pad of his thumb. He spent a long moment observing your features. You felt radiant beneath his touch, watching his eyes wander over your face. After another moment, he snapped out of it and broke the silence, clearing his throat. 

***

Jake had been very particular with the way that he dressed, changing clothes after rehearsal into an outfit that made him feel confident and pulled together. He had debated for a while whether to get you flowers in his attempt to apologize, and though he wrestled back and forth (knowing you loved receiving flowers), he bought them anyway, even if the occasion wasn’t exactly one of happiness. Nervousness coursed through his body as he prepared something to say to you, trying his best to manifest somewhat of a script. Every time he did, he’d mince his words or trip over them. Eventually, he decided he’d swallow his pride and do the right thing. He’d go to your house and apologize in person without the protection of a rehearsed response. 

He knew the drive by heart, but it felt incredibly strange now that he was enroute to your place. He’d isolated himself from you for almost a month now, and he knew that words would do little to adequately excuse his behavior. It didn’t mean, however, that he wouldn’t try. 

Despite his nervousness, he did know what he wanted to say. He’d wanted to say these words for the longest time, but he’d buried the terrifying truth so deep that once the vulnerable feelings had been uncovered, he’d panicked and broken your heart in the process. Stopping at a local grocery store, he picked out the nicest bouquet of flowers that he could find. Once he purchased them, he drove directly to your house. 

Getting out of his car, he reached for the bouquet and turned to walk up your stairs, silently going over what he was going to say to you. He froze in his tracks when he heard Danny’s voice coming from inside of your house. Through the open glass storm door, Jake could see you and Danny standing in the living room, hooked within a loving embrace.

“Hm?” You asked, looking up at Danny, unaware of Jake’s presence. 

“Come here,” He repeated with a smirk. 

“What?” You asked flirtatiously, reaching out your hands to take his as he pulled you closer.

“I just wanted to touch you. I don’t know,” he shrugged. He swayed with you in the silence. 

“It’s okay,” You smiled, squeezing his hands. “I love the way you look at me.” You bit your lip as you studied his gaze.

“You do?” He asked, looking down at you, his thick, dark lashes casting his gaze with such sexy innocence.

“Mmhmm,” you admitted with a pleasant smile.  

“I really like you, Y/n,” he admitted. “I have for a really long time.” 

“You do?” You asked. “I mean you have? For how long?” A wave of surprise rolled through your body, summoning a layer of goosebumps over your arms and legs. 

“Probably since the first days when Jake and I would go to the record store— when we moved here.” He seemed nervous, but empowered at the same time. “I thought Jake had feelings for you. I really did,” he chuckled nervously, reaching to pull at the curls at the back of his neck. “He’d always make these extra trips to see you, and he wouldn’t tell me,” He continued with a shrug. You broke eye contact with him for a moment as he reminded you of the pain you’d thought you’d gotten over. You silently pushed it back down. “So I took a step back,” he explained. “I let him be that person for you.”

“Why?” You asked him, squeezing his hands. “Why didn’t you try? We could— Maybe we could have been–” Danny shook his head. 

“It wasn’t the right time then. I don’t know exactly how or why this happened–why we happened like this,” he explained. “But I know that it feels right. You are worth waiting for.”

His words set your skin ablaze, like after a hot summer day well-spent lounging by the pool. You practically glowed with excitement. “Maybe Jake isn’t my person,” you admitted quietly with a shrug, surprisingly feeling a moment of relief. You watched as Danny gazed at you intently. “Maybe it’s you, Danny. And I know that it’s super early to say that, and we’ve just gone on our first date, and it’s crazy to say– but–” he cut you off, freeing his hands from you in order to lift your head gently as he caressed the contour of your jaw. 

“And what if you’re right?” He asked you, his amber irises moving from left to right as he gazed into your eyes. “Does that scare you?” He continued. 

“Not at all,” you answered almost instantaneously. It was the truth. He didn’t scare you. He filled you with promise.

Your words, however, sliced through Jake like an irreparable slash through the sail of a ship doomed to sink. ‘What if Jake isn’t my person?’ He repeated incessantly in his mind. His brows furrowed with emotion; a mixture of heartbreak and fury crackled through his mind, body and soul, betraying his confidence with a thin, angry line of hot tears. Silently, and without a word, he crouched down, laying the flowers delicately on one of the final steps to your front door, taking one painful last look at you kissing Danny before wiping away his tears, retreating to his car and speeding away. 

His knuckles had become bloodlessly-white from how hard he gripped the steering wheel, the tears blurring his vision as he drove. He swiped at them, embarrassed. He shut off the radio, leaving the cabin of the car painfully silent except for the quiet whir of the outside wind whipping against the car as he drove home. He had made the worst mistake, and now he was paying for it double, losing his best friend, and the possibility of more without a chance for redemption. Why did he have to turn you away in your most vulnerable moments when he most definitely felt the same way about you? Why, when he could have been honest with you and could have tried for more, he threw it all away like a coward, refusing to even tell you the maddening truth: that he was painfully in love with you, and it scared the shit out of him. He’d vowed to never tell you, because, like his past relationships, most of them had ended painfully. As close as you both were, he chose to lie and protect the longevity of your friendship, destroying the chance for love in the process if it meant he could selfishly have you forever. He didn’t expect, however, for it to tear him apart in the end. 

Watching you kiss the wrong lips filled him with a darkness that burned away the final vestiges of the sweet, charismatic disposition he’d led with for so long. It would take time, but he’d pull you back in again, and once he had you, he wouldn’t let go—even if the means in doing so weren’t exactly the most respectful to Danny.  

***

“Did you drop these?” You asked Danny, seeing the forgotten bouquet of flowers on your doorstep. They were cold from being left outside for a while, but they seemed like they had been deliberately placed there. 

Danny inspected them briefly. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Wasn’t me this time,” he admitted, his gaze rising to look around at the road in front of them, his eyes scanning in each direction. 

“They’re beautiful,” you remarked, caressing the soft petals of the flowers with the tips of your fingers. “Free flowers!” you said with an enthused grin. 

“Sounds like you have a secret admirer,” Danny added, pulling you into his side, wrapping his arm securely around you as he stepped toward his car, kissing you goodbye before being on his way. “Good luck, because you’re all mine,” he said, kissing the tip of your nose before lowering himself into his vehicle. 

“Drive safe,” you told him with a smile, leaning through his open window. 

“Like my life depends on it,” he said, pursing his lips once more, tilting his head upward to meet your lips. 

“Hey,” you said after a moment, a thought dancing on your tongue. “What are you up to tomorrow night?” You asked him.

“Not a thing.” 

“How would you feel about spending the night?” You asked him, raising your eyebrows. 

He looked up at you with a surprised, but understatedly excited expression. “Spending the night…like?” He asked, his tone finishing the sentence for him. 

“I’m putting no pressure on anything,” you said gently, moving to discuss the idea of sex. “I say we take it naturally. If it happens, it happens. If not, I’m cool with that, too. I just want to hang out with you,” you shrugged. “And it’s my favorite when I don’t feel pressured to go out and plan for an adventure. Don’t get me wrong, they can be fun, but I really love snuggling in bed, watching TV, and just—“ you paused, searching for the right word. 

“Coexisting?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Exactly,” you said, breathing deeply. He just understood. 

Danny echoed your expression.  “I’m definitely interested,” he said with a soft chuckle. “And I’m excited,” he continued. 

“Regardless of if anything happens,” he blushed, “I’d love to stay with you,” he finished. 

“You’ll just have to bare witness to my hair routine,” he grinned widely. “These curls don’t happen overnight.” You watched as he purposefully shook his head, his curls bouncing around his face.

“I’m pretty sure you’ll sacrifice pretty curls for something a bit more…” you paused, finding the right word. “Sexy.” 

“I think you make the perfect point,” he agreed.

--

End of part 4.

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[cynic-spirit]

The unwanted woman

The opulent ballroom of Wayne Manor was bustling with Gotham’s elite, but Bruce Wayne found little joy in the gathering. Parties like these were always more bearable with Yn by his side, her presence providing a sense of warmth and grounding amidst the superficial chatter. But tonight, Yn was attending to other matters, leaving Bruce to navigate the evening alone.

As Bruce stood near the bar, sipping a glass of whiskey, he became acutely aware of a woman approaching him with a determined look in her eye. She was striking, dressed in a figure-hugging gown that left little to the imagination, her confidence palpable as she sidled up to him.

“Bruce Wayne,” she purred, her voice dripping with familiarity as she leaned in close, her hand lightly grazing his arm. “The infamous Gotham playboy, all alone at a party? I never thought I’d see the day.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly. He recognized the type—someone who saw him as a trophy to be won, another notch on the belt. In his younger days, he might have played along, but those days were long gone, especially with Yn in his life now.

“I’m not the man I used to be,” Bruce replied coolly, taking a step back to put some distance between them. His tone was polite, but there was an unmistakable edge to it.

The woman, undeterred, gave him a coy smile. “Oh, come on, Bruce. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft. Everyone knows you’re still Gotham’s most eligible bachelor.” She leaned in even closer, her fingers now trailing up his chest. “Why don’t we sneak away and have some fun, just like old times?”

Bruce’s expression hardened, and he gently but firmly grasped her wrist, removing her hand from his chest. “I think you’re confusing me with someone who’s interested,” he said, his voice dropping to a cold, dismissive tone. “Let me make this clear: whatever you’re offering, I’m not buying.”

The woman’s smile faltered, her eyes widening slightly in surprise at the brusque rejection. She had clearly expected him to be more receptive, to play along with her flirtations, but Bruce was having none of it.

“Maybe you should spend your evening somewhere else,” Bruce added, his gaze icy as he looked down at her. “Preferably far away from me.”

Stunned, the woman quickly withdrew, her face flushing with embarrassment and anger as she muttered something under her breath and stalked off into the crowd. Bruce watched her go, his jaw tight with irritation. The interaction left a sour taste in his mouth, only reinforcing his distaste for these gatherings.

As he turned back toward the bar, he found Alfred standing nearby, having witnessed the exchange from a respectful distance. The older man approached, his expression a mixture of approval and amusement.

“Well handled, Master Wayne,” Alfred said, his voice carrying a hint of pride. “It seems your days of entertaining such advances are well and truly behind you.”

Bruce allowed himself a small, wry smile. “I’m not that person anymore, Alfred,” he replied, his tone softer now. “Yn has my heart. I’m just not tempted by these social butterflies anymore. She’s brought something into my life I didn’t realize I was missing—a sense of family and home.”

Alfred’s eyes twinkled with understanding and admiration. “Quite right, sir. It’s clear that Miss Yn has had a profound impact on you. She’s helped you find a sense of contentment and belonging that was elusive before.”

Bruce nodded, his expression reflecting the depth of his feelings. “Exactly. I don’t need the distractions or the games anymore. What I have with Yn is real, and it’s more fulfilling than any of these superficial interactions.”

Alfred smiled warmly, his respect for Bruce evident. “Gotham’s playboy has matured into a man of substance. I dare say Miss Yn would be proud of the man you’ve become.”

Bruce chuckled softly. “I hope so, Alfred. I truly do.”

[satans-codpiece]

Okay so I proved myself wrong, about me saying I'm dropping everything I'm doing to read your stuff. I found out about Eleven Years Chpt. 5 in the morning and had to go to work RIP. Needless to say I was very distracted and as soon as I got home I got ON IT-

Bit of a shame for my wireplay obsessed ass you didn't go a bit harder on that but GOd it was still hell of a ride. Reader getting handsy after the fucking and Ram not handling it well™ was.... oooooof. I'm so normal-

I guess since I got on the EY hype train, mind if I just, go nuts a little more??? I could be biased here cuz Ramram, but HOW did you actually, genuinely make me feel sad for the captor in a Stockholm syndrome scenario????? HELLO???? What wizardry did you pull to do that??????? Like yeah Ram kidnapped reader and is lowkey torturing them without fully realizing it, but he's so awfully genuine with everything else????????????

And just. Okay slightly late to the party but in chpt. 4, the conversation about Ram being afraid of touch both to not accidentally harm reader AND the reputation of his model is just....... When I read that, my reaction could only be described as going absolutely fucking feral. Bro do not EVER worry about characterization again because jeSUS CHRIST-

I actually ended up showing that set of paragraphs to a friend that isn't in this fandom much (likes a different hero a whole lot and is loosely aware of everyone else, kind of like me actually lol) aaaaand their reaction was pretty much the same as mine-

And to not ignore what you replied with my last anon ask bc lordy I'd feel bad: ... I mean.... if you wanna build up to a big piv scene.... *glosses over your WIP list* I can see Hanakaki going there pretty easily, without all the painful emotional mindfuckery that comes with kidnapping...

LMAO I feel like Blizz employees (the creative art-related team, to be more accurate) are not really allowed to interact with fandom so their ideas don't get influenced by fanon and therefore the company does not get accused of stealing ideas or whatever. BUT, here's a funny idea... since these people write fanfiction that is actually canon... Can you imagine someone writing out their dirtiest fantasies and said writing having to be actually archived at Blizz because intellectual property LOOOOOL-

soBBING THAN K YOU this was such a delight to open my inbox to!!!

hehehe for what it's worth, if I do end up writing the prequel there will be a bigger focus on wireplay (given that it's before he's made any modifications to himself) :3c

but ah I'm so glad you sympathized with Ramattra because that's exactly what I wanted!! He's done something awful- is doing something awful- but he's doing it because he loves you so much. Everything he's done, he's done because he's had a hard life and you were one of so few good things he's had. I really wanted the reader (ie the real people not the stand in character) to have... complicated feelings about this version of Ramattra.

and ;_; thank you... being OOC is truly just my nightmare of writing, I need my blorbos to be perfectly canon-aligned (or explicitly AU'd) or I'll die.

but in particular fjdshg yes! When Ramattra was actually striving for peace, he had to work against such heavy biases against him simply because of his model (both the vendor in Nepal and Nameless make comments on him being an r-7000 as soon as he meets them), so he must be acutely aware that he is treated differently than other omnics.

HAHAHA it's SO funny of all my WIPs you mention hanahaki... because 1) Hanahaki is actually like 4 paragraphs from being done and 2) there isn't a shred of nsfw in it! I wrote it just to write some angsty pre-relationship stuff, but ultimately just is emotional porn, nothing physical.

Ah that's probably to some degree true! I'd love to see someone working w Blizz just. sit on all their nsfw fics and works until they quit and be like. 'haha yeah i JUST made all these. definitely not under contract w Blizz dont worry about it :>' [piles of concept Ramattra porn fall out of their jacket]

[claytoad]

josuke should've been a mechanic

[dontfeeltoohot]

flowers

Here is...whatever chaos this is. Have some 18+ snzkink!Steve and allergic!Eddie. Pure fluff. Eddie wants to indulge Steve, and well. Steve combusts.

+ + +

The man is acutely aware that people are staring as he looks at the different flowers arranged nicely at the floral area in the local supermarket. Eddie 'the freak' Munson trying to decide what color flowers to buy...what has the world come to. You'd think it was worse than Hawkins literally splitting into four pieces. Pointedly ignoring the gazes, the guitarist continues to brush his fingers against the different plants before he finally picks out a simple bouquet of roses, thinking they're probably the most romantic anyway.

Even holding them for less than seconds, Eddie can smell the floral aroma wafting from them. For a split second, he debates on putting them back, maybe this isn't a good idea. But then he imagines Steve's face and he walks up to the cashier, smiling warmly and pulling his wallet out. For $12.48, he better get some mind blowing sex from this. That, or at least a deep red blush on his boyfriend's cheeks. Either will be good enough.

The drive to Steve's house consists of Eddie trying to decide how exactly he wants to execute his 'Make Steve cream his pants' operation. They've never really done much in the way of Steve's...thing. They'd both acknowledged it, but that's about as far as it's gone as of yet. As he goes through scenarios in his head, the long haired man rubs his nose lazily, the pollen from the roses already starting to affect him.

Knocking on Steve's door with the roses in hand, Eddie thinks maybe he should have cleaned up a bit more. Though it's a random Tuesday afternoon, he feels like wearing the same black jeans and an old tee is starting to get predictable, and Eddie Munson is anything but predictable. When he knocks again, rings hitting the solid wood door, he hears Steve's voice carrying from inside the house.

"Yeah yeah, I'm coming!"

Smiling at the huffiness in the others tone, Eddie subtly tries to make his hair a little more bouncy, then brushes any tiny whisps away from his face. He holds the roses close and rubs his nose again, blinking when he feels his eyes start to water. The door opens and Steve freezes, eyes zeroing in on the flowers.

Eddie raises an eyebrow when Steve doesn't do anything, still looking at them like they might actually be a bomb.

"Harrington, you gonna leave me standing out here like an idiot? If you don't like the flowers that's fine, but can I at least come inside, it's freezing," Eddie keeps the dramatic, theatrical tone in his voice like he always does, hoping it'll cover the nervousness and slight hurt at the fact Steve really does seem to not want the roses.

"Y-Yeah, sorry, sorry," Steve lets him in, shutting and locking the door behind him.

This is the first time he's felt somewhat awkward around his boyfriend since...well, since before they became boyfriends. Walking in, Eddie rubs his nose with the back of his wrist, trying to make the itch dissipate while he figures out what the hell is going on with the other man. Steve finally reaches out and takes the flowers from him, looking at them with a sudden, dopey smile.

"Okay, what the hell is going on Harrington, are you okay? Should I chuck them in the trash?" He rubs his nose again, scrubbing it with his knuckles and then scrunching it up. An audible wet sniffle rings out and Steve looks up.

"No, no. Don't, I like them. I just...have never had anyone give me flowers," a deep blush appears on Steve's face and Eddie grins so widely it hurts. That's the blush he's been hoping to see.

"Well, this should have been happening more often then, and I'll see to it that it does," he presses a big, sloppy kiss to Steve's cheek, the moment feeling like it needs some lightening. Standing close, the guitarist sighs and nuzzles Steve's shoulder before taking the flowers back, ignoring the confused look from the other man.

"We gotta put them in a vase or glass, or they're going to die. You're helpless Stevie," Eddie smirks playfully, then starts to head to the Harrington's kitchen, where he's sure he'll find a plethora of vases that Steve's mother has collected from worthy suitors sending her flowers over the years, begging her to break up with Steve's father. He freezes halfway towards the kitchen, thin nostrils twitching, flaring into circles. He rubs the heel of his hand up against his nose this time, the itch all encompassing in his head and nose.

"Eddie, why'd you st-"

"h'GKkt! ih'DKtt'uh! hn'GKtt'uhew!"

The itch doesn't go away, doesn't even begin to. He's not been around flowers like this in a long time, and god, maybe he's gotten worse because he can't remember feeling this...itchy.

"ih'GKt'uhhh! h'gkst! eh'GXTt'uhew!"

His hair tumbles in front of his face and the flowers almost get dropped. When he's able to form a semi-coherent thought after the intense itch backs down, he turns to Steve, smirking in a way he knows makes him look kind of like a predator to his prey. Steve's standing there looking like he might actually explode. His cheeks are once again bright red, but his eyes are wide with lust, and his hands are shaking.

"Something interesting to you Harrington?"

His voice is thick with congestion, and his eyes are itchy, but he just blinks back the feeling. Keeping his voice playful, he grins and moves to find a vase, trying to be extra teasing with him tonight. He wants him to unravel. Eddie bends down and finally finds a glass vase in one of the low cabinets. As expected, there seem to be at least six other ones. After putting water in it, Eddie breaks the stems a little to make them shorter, then starts arranging them. He knows Steve is as aware as he is how much pollen he's kicking up from messing with them, he can practically see it floating around.

"ihGTSCHH! hih'ktSCH! ih'gkt'uhew!"

"Uhh..."

"You okay Killer?" Eddie pats at Steve's cheek as he smirks, but then his nose twitches two or three times, and he rubs his nose roughly.

"I uh...shouldn't I be asking you that?" Steve's are are so big, and he's watching Eddie with the most intense look he's ever seen from the guy.

"Me? I'm fihhne, juhh-HH! Just a tickle....allehhhgies..." He gives the soupiest sniffle after, one that's productive enough it causes another round of sneezes to start, and this time, Eddie presses his face into Steve's shoulder.

"eh'Gkstch! hih'Kgtch'uh! ihh'gktsch'uhEW!"

The last sneeze catches them both off guard, the way it's so loud and desperate, the higher pitched ending making Steve wrap an arm around Eddie's middle. Eddie snuffles against Steve's shoulder, then looks up. They both can see the small damp spots his nostrils have left, and he feels his boyfriend squirm. Oh yeah, they're gonna have great sex tonight.

"Jesus Christ," Steve mumbles out, breathing heavier.

"Actually, my names Eddie, but I get that a lot," Eddie leans in as close as he can without their noses touching. Then, knowing Steve likes his flare for the dramatics, the guitarist brushes their noses together, sniffling.

"Stevie...h-hhave a tickle...right here," and he bumps the tips of their noses together. His eyebrows draw up, his eyes flutter, then he smiles when he hears a guttural noise emit itself from his boyfriend. He's dimly aware of being led to the couch, but the itch isn't letting up and the idea of focusing on anything else isn't possible. He gets pulled down on top of Steve and instantly presses his nose to his neck.

"ih'GKtch'uhew! F-Fuhhck Steve..." Eddie whimpers as Steve rubs up against him, their jeans getting in the way. "h'ngKTSCH! ihKSTCH'uhew!"

A breathy 'oh my god' stumbles out of Steve's mouth and both of them rush to take their pants off, Steve all but ripping his shirt away as Eddie tries and fails to get his own off, the material rubbing against his nose, setting him off into another fit.

"ihktsch! hh'gnxtch! ihtschuhew!"

They're softer but itchier. Steve helps with the shirt, then kisses him hard, hands roaming everywhere on his porcelain skin. Though his hands have scars, most of the rest of Eddie's body is unmarred, all creamy pale skin and freckles on his back. Steve's got enough moles on his back, littered everywhere, that Eddie wants to connect them all into some new constellation.

"God you're so fucking hot," Steve mumbles, kissing down his boyfriends jaw and to his neck.

"Yeah well, one of us has to be, but it's not me. You should see your ass," he smirks playfully, and yet another blush arises. Score three for the Munsonater. Steve sucks on his neck and the noise Eddie makes is embarrassing. Just as he's about to move back to kiss his lips more, Eddie's nose twitches.

"ihgKKkst! hih'TDchh'uh! ihNKTt! Oh god..." the curly haired man can feel the mess that's now half against his nose and half against Steve's jaw. He's about to apologize and pray for something to swallow him whole, but instead he's getting his jaw pressed into, and then Steve's kissing him again, and Eddie moans.

"And they call me a freak," he snorts, and Steve pauses, looking at him with playfully narrowed eyes, no heat behind them at all.

"Come on Steve, I'm an allergic mess and you're getting off," the man grins, kissing Steve again.

"You're so hot, all desperate. Can't sneeze fast enough, your cute nose.." Steve is rambling, rubbing their erections together. Eddie lets out a noise that Steve isn't sure is human, it sounds more like a whimper that Dart had made all those years ago.

"Yeah, well, m'gonna cum soon if you don't keep kissing me..."

"Okay, jesus, someone's impatient."

"I have been sneezing for the past half hour Steven, please..."

Eddie isn't one to beg, so Steve grins and starts kissing him again.

God he loves Steve and sex. In that order.

[starlessea]

Eye For Detail (Daryl Dixon/Reader)​

Sequel to Sketchbook Confessions

Summary: You try to sketch Daryl in return. Except, you draw his smile a little crooked, and the eyes are wonky... And Daryl completely loves it.

Words: 2490

Warnings: Language.

The courtyard was still and quiet, free from the dinner-time rowdiness going on behind prison walls. Well, it was almost quiet; Daryl's scribbling over paper sounded out faintly beside you, as you watched him work. At first, he'd been opposed to the idea of company, but after a while it has become almost like a weekly tradition - in which you'd both bask in the comfortable silence together. You'd even started to bring your own notepad, in your attempts to learn how to sketch from the man.

At first, your drawings were anything but good. Sometimes, even you couldn't tell whether you'd drawn a landscape or a strange, abstract fruit bowl. Yet, Daryl was a good teacher. Where he lacked patience normally, it seemed like he had ample to spare with you. He'd shown you how to use the different charcoals, and had even come back with more art supplies after his latest run.

It was coming up to dusk, and the sky was a brilliant mix of blue and grey hues. There were clouds gathering overhead, too, and you wondered whether there was a storm brewing behind them. Your notepad remained closed over your lap, since you still hadn't gathered the confidence to open it yet. Daryl hadn't noticed, however - too absorbed in his own work to pick up on the way you tentatively thumbed over the spine of your book.

"I tried to draw a person the other day," you finally admitted, "I don't know how you do it."

Daryl stopped what he was doing, rubbing circular motions over the paper to try and blend out his charcoal lines. He looked over at you, and you laughed gently at the black fingerprints littering his cheeks.

"Who was it?" he mumbled, eyeing you as you gathered your sleeve over your hand.

You shuffled over to the man slightly, and used the material to wipe away the charcoal stains over his skin, feeling him squirm slightly beneath your touch as you did so.

"It was you," you told him, and finally he kept still.

His stare bore into you, and suddenly it felt as though you'd been set on fire. You regretted the words as they came out of your mouth, and edged away from Daryl as soon as you'd finished cleaning him up.

You cleared your throat, trying to think of an excuse you knew he wouldn't believe. You sighed, knowing it was no use.

"Well, it was a poor attempt at Daryl," you confessed, glancing down at your sketchbook sheepishly. "Maybe a Darren at best."

You'd expected him to laugh at your joke, but he didn't. Instead, he seemed intrigued. He closed his own notepad, and you worried about whether the charcoal would smudge.

"Show me." Daryl said softly, his eyes flickering over to your lap.

You bit your lip, wiping off the cover of your sketchbook before opening it.

"Don't laugh," you warned him, shaking your head slightly.

You didn't think that he would, but you suddenly felt self-conscious. You'd drawn the portrait in your cell a few nights ago when you couldn't sleep - with the page illuminated by soft lamp-light. You remembered the feeling of the linen sheets beneath you as you sprawled out over your mattress, trying your best to shade the stubborn parts. You had tried - really you had. Except, you'd discovered that art came more naturally to some than others.

"Your eyes are crooked, and I drew your nose too big." you grimaced, settling your gaze over the portrait as you inspected its faults. "I'm sorry."

In natural lighting, it looked a lot worse than you had remembered. You tried to snap the book closed, but Daryl's palm prevented you from doing so. He was silent, and you watched his eyes slowly trail over the paper, taking in all of the details.

"Fine, you can laugh," you exclaimed, overwhelmed by his lack of response. "Okay, just say something-"

"Can I keep this?" Daryl interrupted, glancing up to meet your eyes.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. It took a few seconds to comprehend his words, before you finally shook your head a little too quickly.

"No!" you cried, trying to snatch the book from his grasp. "I can draw you a better one."

Daryl didn't give up his grip, and only shook his head back at you in return.

"Nah, I wan' this one."

Any argument you had bubbling up was quickly quelled when you caught sight of his expression. He seemed deadly serious, and you felt your own fingers loosen over the sketchpad as a result. The man slipped it away from you, and brought the book onto his own lap, continuing to look over it.

"But it's bad," you retorted, weakly.

You knew you had lost at this point. You had learned your stubbornness from Daryl himself, after all. The man never was one to know when to back down.

The courtyard seemed a lot darker than it had only a few minutes ago. The clouds had gathered to be more dense and thick, and blocked out the remaining light left over from the setting sun. It would be hard to keep drawing like this, you thought - yet, Daryl seemed more preoccupied now.

"E'eryone gotta start somewhere" he told you, "an' I don' want ya to throw it out."

You watched as he trailed his charcoal-stained, calloused fingers along the page - careful not to leave any marks over the pristine, white paper. Even your sketchbooks looked worlds apart from one another. Yours was neat, each drawing labelled, and your lines clean; Daryl's was a collection of blackened fingerprints alongside scrawled handwriting, and the occasional crumpled page.

"Shoulda seen my first drawings," Daryl went on, looking out towards the field, and at the forest behind it. "Merle found one when I was a kid an' told me it was a shit donkey."

You cocked your head to the side, listening to him.

"Was meant to be superman," he explained, with an expression far too serious for his words.

You snorted, and the man whipped his head over to scowl at you.

"I'm sorry-" you choked out, not missing the way his lips quivered as they fought back a smile of his own. "I must have swallowed a bug."

Not long after that, the feeling in your gut turned out to be right. The storm clouds had finished gathering, and soon the first droplet of rain landed over your paper - smudging the line you'd just drawn. You glanced over at Daryl, but before he'd even had time to reply, the downpour started. It went from a single raindrop to a raging storm in a matter of seconds, leaving you both scrambling to collect the strewn sheets of paper and charcoal pieces trembling over the ground. With your supplies bundled up in your arms, the two of you ran towards the cellblock - yelling through the sounds of the rain along the way.

Once you had reached Daryl's cell, you were soaked through. The man had dragged you there since it was closer, but it hardly made a difference. Your shirt was stuck to your skin, and you were left clutching soggy handfuls of paper - bleeding ink over Daryl's stone floor. He helped you set down the supplies onto his desk, gathering up whatever was salvageable, and throwing the rest away. Luckily, most of the pastels and charcoals had been kept safe, but a lot of loose sheets had been sacrificed to the greater good in the process.

You laughed, taking in the sight of the man. His hair stuck damply to his forehead, and you watched as stray droplets ran over his cheeks. He quickly glanced around the room and retrieved one of his shirts, before offering it to you. You took it from him and smiled, waiting for Daryl to turn his back on you before starting to change.

"Looks like the weather had other plans," you noted, pulling the dry shirt over your head. "At least it washed away that god awful drawing I did of you."

You untucked your hair from the collar, and smoothed out the material over your body. Behind you, you heard the sound of a zip, and peered over your shoulder to see Daryl taking off his own leather jacket. As he did so, you noticed that he'd been concealing something beneath it, and squinted to try and make out what it was.

"Looks jus' fine to me," the man mumbled, holding up the dry piece of paper for you to see.

You scoffed; he'd stuffed your drawing there to keep it safe. You couldn't prevent the smile spreading over your face as you looked at him in disbelief. He gave you a teasing smirk back, before setting the picture carefully onto his desk with the others.

"Y'know," Daryl said quietly, "s'a lot easier to draw from real life."

You glanced over at your drawing, knowing what he was getting at. You were acutely aware of its flaws, but you just didn't have the experience to know how to fix them yet.

"I know what you look like," you quipped back.

It was the truth. Perhaps you even knew a little too well.

"Mhm," he hummed back, before walking over to where you were standing.

You could tell from the tone of his voice that he didn't entirely believe you. One of the first things he'd taught you was that there could never truly be a good enough replacement for the real thing. Though, you had to disagree. You felt like you knew exactly how Daryl Dixon looked - you just couldn't translate it to paper.

The man stopped directly in front of you, so close that you could see his chest rising and falling. He lifted one hand slowly, tentatively even, so that you didn't get scared by his actions. Then, he hovered his palm gently over your eyelids, flicking them shut so that your world went dark.

"What colour are m'eyes?" he asked.

His hand was cold over your face, from where the rain had soaked his skin. You knew that he was trying to teach you a lesson, but you thought that perhaps you'd use the opportunity to teach him one back.

"Blue," you answered, without hesitation.

You desperately wanted to see the man's expression, but all you could do was imagine it.

"An' what-" Daryl continued, but you cut him off.

"A greyish blue," you went on, not entirely satisfied with your answer. "Like the colour of the sky before a storm."

Daryl removed his hand from over your eyes, but you kept them shut. Your fingertips brushed over the hem of his shirt that you were wearing, and you felt like you could picture the way it looked in your mind just from the texture of the material.

"Your hair is brown. The same shade as that desk near your bed," you told him, pointing in the direction you remembered it to be. "And it falls just above your neck, and is slightly curly at the ends." You laughed, considering your next words. "Especially just after you wash it."

Daryl remained silent, and you tried to picture the type of look he had in his eyes. You thought that perhaps you should stop, that you'd made your point clear - but you were in too deep to turn back now.

"And you have two moles," you said quietly - and wondered whether he had heard your voice tremble, too.

You reached out your hand slowly, trying to find the other man. Your palm made contact with his chest, and you let your fingertips trail up until you reached his neck, and then his face.

"One by your nose," you told him, resting your palm over his cheek, "and the other near your lip."

You tried to find it, but your thumb accidentally brushed over his lip, instead. Your heart jumped in your chest, and your eyes flickered open unintentionally.

"I'm sorry-" you blurted out, but the words tapered off as you noticed Daryl's stare.

The man stood perfectly still in front of you, letting your hand rest over his cold, damp skin. You quickly pulled away, glancing off to the side nervously. Though, the both of you knew that you'd gone too far to make any poor excuses now. You'd passed a boundary, but you couldn't say that you wanted to take a step back, either.

"Tha's one eye for detail ya got," Daryl said, after a few seconds had gone by.

You shook your head. "Only when it comes to you," you admitted.

Daryl looked off to the side, and then back, but you continued before he had the chance to interrupt.

"I know I'm not the best artist, but I wanted to show you how you look through my eyes, too."

Daryl raised his hand again, but this time it wasn't to block out your sight. Instead, he just rested his palm softly over your cheek - and despite how cold it was, you leant into his touch.

"Ya jus' did," he said, and gave you a small smile.

You could still hear the storm outside, as the occasional breeze whistled its way past the cracks of the cell block, or made the tree branches batter up against the windows. Sometimes, the draft even made those loose sheets flutter over the desk, in a kind of muffled, paper applause.

"Maybe I should just swap out pencils for words," you told the man. "They seem to do the job better."

He nodded in agreement, letting his hand drop back down to his side.

"Hey, Daryl?" you asked, but you already had his full attention.

"Mhm."

You decided to put your words into practice straight away, so that you wouldn't forget exactly how you felt in this moment.

"You mean a lot to me," you admitted, "in a way I don't think I'd ever be able to describe."

Daryl's eyes widened slightly, and you wished to have the talent to capture that expression with pencil and charcoal one day.

"But I still wanted to try," you finished, and waited for his response.

Except, Daryl wasn't a man of words - and he reminded you of that as he reached for his sketchbook. His fingers were still damp, and you watched as they left watery prints over the pages as he flicked through them. He finally stopped once he reached the last one, showing you his latest sketch.

It was stained with raindrops that hadn't dried yet, from where the storm had first broken out and Daryl hadn't reacted quick enough. Yet, even though it was a little smudged and wrinkled, you could still make out that it was you - from where you had been sitting right next to him in that courtyard.

The man set the book down so that the page remained open on his desk, and picked up the other loose-sheet drawing that you'd done of him - and placed them together.

"Me too," Daryl said.

And that was all you needed to hear.

Feedback is always welcomed; I love hearing what you all think - so feel free to comment, send in an ask, or just message me if you want to chat!

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A/N AHH. I just loved this 2 part story.

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[imaginesupply]

Spencer Reid Imagine: Just peachy

Spencer Reid Imagine: Just Peachy

Summary : Reader (female pronouns, no Y/N, third person) is hosting dinner night at her apartment for the time. Spencer volunteers to help with the preparations. Derek is a good friend.

Warnings: Smut (handjob – male receiving, cum in pants), sub!Spencer, the Lord’s name in vain (only once), one mild curse word. (Because some of this shows Spencer’s thoughts, I had to refrain from using slang words for bodily parts and bodily fluids sometimes. Please don’t judge me.)

Word count: About 1.5k

Note: I wrote this really quickly when I was taking a break from working on my thesis (how Spencer went through the PhD pain thrice willingly, I will never understand) and my brain was fried. Consequently, this is the fic equivalent of the snack you make at 3am when you’re tipsy.

"Remember what we discussed?" Derek asked an exasperated Spencer for umpteenth time as he pulled over in front of their new co-worker's apartment building.

"Yes," Spencer groaned softly, adjusting his hair. "I have an eidetic memory, you know."

Next to him, Derek chuckled. "I know. No need to be so defensive," he teased, "just be yourself and there's no way she won't fall for you."

"Actually, it's not that -"

Derek cut him off before he could say anything more. "Bullshit. It really is that easy, pretty boy and" - he leaned over, grabbing Spencer's satchel from the backseat - "while everyone is due to arrive at seven, I can divert the rest of team if you just send me a text."

Spencer frowned, staring at his friend like he had grown two heads. "Why would I want you to stall -" He stopped in the middle of the sentence, his eyebrows rising high up his forehead and his cheeks turning pink when he finally realized. "Yeah, no, yes" - Spencer shook his head clearing his now corrupted mind - "what I mean to say is that I would definitely text you but - nevermind. Bye." Then he escaped from the car as if it were on fire, almost tripping on the laces of his converse.

Not even thirty minutes had gone by and Spencer already knew he was in trouble.

They walked through the farmers' market, Spencer carrying the fast filling linen bag. She guided him through the crowd, making them stop at the stalls that held anything of interest and buying various ingredients for dinner: vegetarian gratin and peach pie.

Eventually, they stopped at the fruit stand where she approached and asked the vendor if they could taste the peaches. Though they were out of season, they were looking quite ripe. The old man handed her a peach with a smile. "There you go."

She thanked the man and pulled back the sleeve of her lightweight jacket before taking a bite. That was the exact moment Spencer realised this had been a terrible idea. He should never have listened to Derek. He should not have offered to come earlier and help make dinner.

She took in the scent and hummed against the fruit, softly so, that only he would hear and erotically enough that he had to swallow down the saliva gathering in his mouth, his Adam's apple bobbing. She bit down on the fruit, the tips of her lips curling up and then licked off a thin trail of juice along the inside of her wrist and forearm, eyes closed. Then, as if nothing, she turned to the old man. "They're delicious!"

She turned back to Spencer and he noticed she was sporting her usual slightly bemused grin. "Have a taste, darling." She turned the pale fruit in her hand and offered it to him, an expectant look in her eyes. And there, in the middle of the busy farmers’ market, Spencer felt like a teenager whose girlfriend had just slipped her hand down his pants for the first time. Which, of course, he had never experienced so he didn't actually know what that would feel like.

Knowing better than to disobey her, Spencer leaned forward into her hand and took a bite of the remaining fruit, leaving behind only the endocarp, while adjusting his satchel to hide the prominent bulge in his crotch. It was the way she looked and the way she looked at him, the way she made him feel like-

“Are you alright?” She asked.

Spencer swallowed the fruit, his throat tight. “Just peachy.”

If he thought that was torture, nothing had prepared him for the actually cooking part. The space between the cabinets and the kitchen isle was narrow, which meant their bodies always brushed whenever she passed behind him, and he was already a sweaty, blushing mess.

Just be yourself, he reminded himself of what Derek had told him. "Hey, umm," Spencer stammered, drawling off, "did you know that until refrigerators were invented in 1834, salt was widely used to preserve meat."

He heard her soft laugh behind him, immediately turning around at the sound before realising she was bent over the counter, trying to reach something on the highest shelf and he had just inadvertently placed himself right behind her backside.

For some reason he couldn't even begin to explain, his first instinct had been to touch. Luckily, though, he had managed to stop his hands mid air before he could effectively ruin everything, but now all he could see was the black fabric of her pants stretching over the roundness of her hips and the warm pressure against him and-

"Spencer!"

He started, finally looking away. "What?"

She chuckled again. "As much as I appreciate your ability to be a walking encyclopaedia, I'd really enjoy it if you could put your height to good use and pass me the pie dish."

"Of course." Spencer shook his head, clearing his mind. "Yeah, I can do that."

She stepped aside, allowing him to grab the item from the cabinet. "Thank you, darling," she said, grinning.

"No problem," Spencer quipped, wiping his clammy hands on his leg pants as he subtly made sure his predicament wasn't too noticeable.

"Great! You can go ahead and knead the dough before stretching it over the dish."

"Yes, ma'am." His brown eyes went wide when he realised that he'd just said it out loud. It wasn’t even his fault. There was just that natural authority about her that made him very compliant.

She laughed once more, softly, looking up at him almost endearingly. "You can call any m word you like, darling."

His start stopped in his chest. Was she flirting with him? He had noticed her body language did not indicate repulsion and she did touch him more than was strictly necessary, but he didn't think she'd actually flirt with him. Spencer considered that he might really have to send Derek the text, but he tried not to get his hopes up too much. He was already nervous enough as it was.

She came up behind him, taking a look at the dough he had absentmindedly tortured and shook her head in amusement. "No, darling, not like that," she cooed gently, coming up closer until her body was pressed up against his. Spencer gulped nervously, acutely aware of the way her breasts were being squashed against his side.

Then her hand wrapped around his over the dough. "You do it like this, Spencer," she whispered. Her fingers lodged themselves between his, applying light pressure, making them bend to her will. "You need to feel it. Are you feeling it?"

Spencer was certainly feeling it, but not in his hand. He would almost be amazed at how a simple touch on his hand could make him radiate warmth and make all the blood in his brain rush to his dick, if he weren’t becoming so lightheaded.

She kissed his arm over the fabric of his shirt. "Here, let me show you." He felt her free hand slide across his stomach and down to his belt. His body jerked at the touch.

"What are you doing?" He asked, his voice raspy and sounding like a whimper.

Her hand stilled over the now undone buckle. "You want me to stop?"

"No!"

It came out embarrassingly loud and he might have felt ashamed for it, hadn't she managed to remove his belt and open his pants in record time. She pressed her palm to the front of his boxers, cupping his bulge. The fabric was thin and damp, doing little to numb the sensation of her touch. Spencer knew there was already a stain from the pre-ejaculatory fluid he was leaking, but he couldn't get himself to look down. Two senses at once would be too overwhelming and he was already trembling.

At first, she just ran her the tip of her finger up and down his length, making sure to trace the small slit where the wet fabric clung to the damp head. He shivered against her and let out the cutest, most delicious whimper she had ever heard.

"Do you like how it feels?"

"Yes." He choked out the word. His eyes were shut tight, focusing on the sensation but then she surprised him, sliding her hand inside his boxers. And, oh God! Spencer panicked, if her hand alone already felt this good, how could he possibly survive being inside her - "Stop," he moaned urgently, his hand frantically rising to grab hold of hers but it was too late - it was too good.

"Oh, my darling boy," she sighed gently, pressing another kiss to arm as his dick pulsed in her fingers, making a mess of her hand and his boxers.

"I am so -" He didn't know what exactly he was apologising for and he didn't have the time to find out. The bell rang while he was still enjoying the aftermath of his first non-solo orgasm.

Panic set in. He had never gotten around to text Derek.

"Don't worry, darling," she said reassuringly before sliding her hand out of his boxers and bringing it to her mouth to lick it clean. "I'll go get the door and you go clean yourself. Don't want everyone to know how naughty you really are, do you darling?"

[lin-nin]

Tribulation & Tenderness - Chapter 13

Ship: Main Technoblade x Reader, some Dream x Reader Plot: You're a princess in a Kingdom suffering a years long famine. In a     desperate attempt to help your people, you accept one simple offer: Marriage to the crown prince of a neighboring kingdom. Anything to help your people survive. Surely it can't be too bad, can it? Chapter List: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 Disclaimer:   Cross-posted on Wattpad (discontinued) and Ao3. This is based off of everyone's CHARACTERS. I do not write fanfic based off the actual people.

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Chapter 13: Until My Heart Stops Beating

< | Previous Chapter

The rest of the day prior to your wedding was spent in partial tension. You never found out what the favor Techno had called for was exactly, but you didn’t mind. Truthfully, you were increasingly more focused on your wedding. It was exciting and nerve-wracking at the same time, and you practically had to force yourself to sleep that night. You awoke far earlier than normal because of it, moving around your room anxiously.

You eventually lowered yourself into your bath, taking care to make sure you were clean. You let the steam from the water curl around you, sighing and trying your best to relax. Thinking about today caused your stomach to erupt in butterflies and a smile to spread across your face. You truly hoped today went well. Eventually you stood up, stepping out of the tub and sliding into a shift.

There was a soft knock on your door after a few moments of you just sitting, and you called whoever it was in. Eret slid into the room, offering you a smile. A bundle of white fabric sat in his arms, and a few servants followed behind him with various things. “Good morning to our bride,” He practically cooed, motioning towards a servant to the table between chairs. She followed, setting down a tray where he pointed. She hurriedly bowed, leaving the room soon after. You watched Eret settle the fabric onto your bed, the remaining servants following in setting down boxes of other stuff. He sent them off, before turning to you.

“Morning Eret,” You murmured, returning his earlier smile. He seemed content, motioning towards the tray of food.

“Go ahead and eat, we’ll start with your hair. Are you nervous?” You reached for the cup of tea, bringing it to your lips and adjusting yourself so Eret had access to your hair.

“Very. Also excited, but I imagine it’s to be expected,” You managed to explain, letting Eret run a brush through your hair. You took your time with the food, enjoying the way Eret tended to your appearance. You didn’t normally allow yourself to get pampered like this, so you wouldn’t mind doing it this once. 

“I imagine so. It’ll all go fine, though. It’ll probably go by better than you expect.” He made sure your hair was laying perfectly, humming under his breath as he did.

“Hopefully it goes smoothly, I do have some concerns though,” You sighed out the words, thinking about Dream. You hoped he would behave, truly. You would be extremely upset if he didn’t.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Eret reassured. You watched him move towards the fabric on the bed, peering at the lace he picked up. The veil. Your stomach erupted into nervous butterflies at the sight of it, examining delicate lace as he brought it over. The edges were thorned vines, leaves of white lace lying beneath light blue ribbon roses. You marveled it as he brought it close, unable to help your smile.

“You really outdid yourself,” You couldn’t stop the praise from leaving your mouth, reaching out to run your fingers along it.

“Just wait until you see the full dress. Turn your head.” You did as he instructed, turning away from him so he could start setting the pins of the veil into your hair. The lace tickled your shoulders, but you did your best to keep still. He softly grasped your shoulders once he was finished, giving them a squeeze. You turned to look at him, and he smiled at you. He disappeared to the bed once more, rustling through the boxes and bringing one over. You peered into it curiously, eyeing the roses inside. They were fresh, white ones from the garden. You laughed softly, turning to face him so he could situate them in your hair.

Eret lined them up along the edge of your veil, making sure they sat perfectly in your hair. The pins would be a pain to take out later tonight, but you didn’t entirely mind it right now. “Are you finished eating?” He questioned once he finished, moving to grab another box before you replied. You nodded when he returned, watching him pull out kohl from the box.

You instinctively closed your eyes, letting him line them with the makeup without question. He softly murmured when you were good to open them. He took his time applying a stain to your cheeks and lips, stepping back to examine his work. He sighed softly, smiling at you. “You’re going to be a vision,” He murmured, making your cheeks flush.

“You think so?” You questioned, acutely aware of the fluttering of your stomach.

“I know so. Come on, let’s get you in your dress.” He motioned you to stand up, and you did so on shaking legs. The anxiety regarding your marriage was starting to leak through now, and you couldn’t hide it. Eret offered you a reassuring look, sorting through the bundles of fabric settled on your bed. He grabbed one of sections of fabric, holding it out to you. You examined it, easily identifying the petticoat and slipping it on over your shift.

Next he moved towards you, holding out another section of fabric. The actual dress. The sleeves were made of tulle, a light blue in color, flaring out away from ribbon roses at the elbows made to match the ones on your veil. The base of the dress was simple. White, with a deep scooping neckline. He helped guide it over your head, situating it around your shift. You couldn’t help but watch as he adjusted the tulle on the skirt. Ribbon Roses decorated the scalloped edges of the tulle, exposing the white skirt beneath. 

The stay was next, matching the dress with the white fabric embroidered delicately with blue roses. Eret’s brows were furrowed as he meticulously tightened the ribbons on it, making sure it sat perfectly. Once he had, he stepped back to examine you with a soft sigh. You flushed a little beneath the appraising gaze. He moved around again, grabbing a simple pair of shoes and stooping to slide them onto your feet. Moving in the dress almost felt weird, despite it not being too different in make than your most formal dresses. Perhaps it felt heavy with the meaning.

“One last touch,” Eret said, moving towards the final box on the bed. You had given him the earrings Techno gave you, as well as the necklace from Dream, for him to keep a hold of until today. You knew that was what sat within the box, watching him gingerly pick up the necklace to drape it around your neck. He tilted your head, sliding in the earrings and stepping back to give you a full look over.

“Oh, you’re gonna be the envy of so many,” He praised, and you shifted almost self consciously. The fact that you were wearing this dress caused you to fidget nervously.

“It doesn’t feel real,” You murmured, shifting around to search out the mirror you had. The rustling of your skirts felt loud in your ears, eyes roving over your appearance. It felt like something from a book, something so etherally unreal. 

“It is, I promise. I’ll go get your brother,” He whispered, stepping towards the door. You watched him, before turning your eyes back to your reflection. What would today hold for you? The ceremony was straight forward, but the celebration itself felt so unsure. Anything could happen.

A soft knock resounded at your door, causing you to turn once more. George pushed open the door, carefully shutting it behind him. He stared at you for several long moments, seeming at a loss for words. It was probably weird, seeing you about to be married.

“It’s so hard to believe you’re my baby sister,” He practically echoed your thoughts, walking towards you. You laughed softly, nodding along.

“I guess I’m really not a baby anymore, am I?” You questioned, watching as he placed his hands on your shoulders. You leaned ever so slightly into the touch, a smile tugging your lips.

“No. Are you sure you still want this?” He watched you closely, looking for any change in your expression.

“Of course. Techno is kind, and his family is enjoyable. I have easily found friends here, and I know I can just as easily make a happy life. I will always miss you and Dream, but we’ll all move on.” You gently grabbed one of his hands, squeezing it tightly. George smiled, seeming almost sad.

“The castle won’t ever be the same. You’ve grown up so much.” He returned the squeeze, and you could only nod. You did yearn for the ease you felt of your teenage years in the castle. The lack of responsibilities you had felt, being able to run around and goof off with Dream. However you felt more freedom now than you had there. It was a new feeling, but a welcome one.

“I’ll miss some parts of it, but I’m excited for my future here. Everyone is so kind,” You constantly reassured him, letting him move you away from the mirror.

“Eret said he was going to check on Technoblade, but he’d tell us when everything was ready. Are you ready for this?” He settled into one of the chairs, pulling you into the one beside him.

“As ready as I can be. I’m nervous. There’s a lot happening today,” You folded your hands in your lap, legs bouncing.

“I can imagine. You put a lot of work into planning this, didn’t you?” You sat up straight, having problems trying to relax. The nerves were unbearable.

“Sort of, I just had input. Eret handled a lot of the main plans. Him, Wilbur, and Nihachu deserve more credit than I do.” You could hardly take any of the responsibility. You didn’t put in much actual work, just feedback. 

“Still, it’s not everyday you get married. Everything will go fine,” George reassured, giving you a smile. Truly, you didn’t know what you would do without him. Probably fall apart, you imagined. The two of you chattered softly as you waited, George attempting to keep your nerves soothed. It wasn’t too long before there was a knock at the door, Eret popping his head in.

“Everything’s ready now. Are you ready?” His voice was gentle, and you offered a soft smile. 

“As ready as I can be,” You sighed, standing up. George followed, lingering right beside you.

“You know where to go, right? I’ll go ahead and wait there, give the two of you a few more moments,” Eret spoke softly, as if anything louder would break the calmness. You appreciated it, whispering your thanks as he left. George turned to you, taking your hands in his.

“The wedding will go wonderfully, I know it. Mom and Dad send their best wishes. It’s hard to believe my baby sister is all grown up and getting married now.” The way he spoke and squeezed your hands had tears springing to your eyes. They threatened to spill as he pulled you in for a hug, kissing your forehead. You carefully laid your head against his shoulder, clinging to him.

“I’m really going to miss our garden walks,” you whispered, and he nodded.

“I will too. Don’t keep them waiting, though. I don’t want your husband to come looking for you.” George finally pulled away from you, leading you towards the door to your room. You followed, taking a deep breath. Silence lapsed between the pair of you as you wandered down the hallway and stairs. You were led through the courtyard, towards the garden. Nerves pooled in your stomach, and you hoped it didn’t show.

George gripped your hand in reassurance, walking with you down the path. Eyes were on you, and you were very aware of it. Among those eyes, though, were Techno’s. At the other end of the aisle. Hands folded in front of him, a pale cape fastened around his shoulders. A blue sash was tied around his waist, similar in color to the blue accents on your dress. The emerald rose brooch sat against the stark white of his shirt, clearly visible from the other end. The black prongs of his crown stood tall, a heavy contrast to the pink locks fanned around it. His braid was ornamented with gold chains, jewels interspersed within the chains.

In short, he was definitely a regal sight standing there. You were reluctant to let go of George’s hand in exchange for Techno’s, yet did all the same. You briefly watched your brother move away, taking a spot beside Dream. You watched your friend for a few moments, shifting beneath his gaze. His gaze was dark, and he offered you a smile. You supposed it was meant to be encouraging, but it never quite reached his eyes. You didn’t care to think too much on it, attention focusing back in on Techno.

He was staring down at you, a soft look in his brown eyes. That helped quell the nerves in your chest, and you offered him a smile as soft as the look he gave you. A moment of peace, almost to yourselves, as the Officiant was droning on beside the two of you.

“...to unite two separate souls into that of one. This braid of ribbon will signify their unity and bind them together, from now until eternity.” The man lifted a thick braid of ribbon, made of three colors: red, white, and black. Small vines of flowers were interwoven with it, and it was certainly pretty. Techno kept one hand with yours, the other taking one end of the ribbon braid from the wrinkled hand holding it out to him.

“Do you swear, on all that you hold dear, that you will protect this woman with your entire being? That you will give her everything you have, in wealth and love?” He rattled as Techno began gingerly weaving the braid around your joined hands. It caused butterflies to stir in your stomach, just watching it. His eyebrows were even knitted together in concentration, the very tip of his tongue peaking out of his mouth. 

“I swear on it all, that I will care for her until I draw my last breath.” There was a warmth to his voice that had your cheeks flushing, a smile tugging the corners of your lips up further. You carefully took the braid from him when prompted, weaving it around your hands as well.

“Do you swear, to all you hold close, that you will support this man with your entirety? That through everything, injury and health, sickness and wealth, you will stay by his side?” You finished weaving the braid as he spoke, the two ends hanging loose beneath your hands.

“I swear it. I’ll be by his side until my heart stops beating.” Your voice rang clear, and the officiant seemed content with it.

“Then I will tie the loose ends of this braid. This represents the joining of your two wayward souls joining together to be one. In the presence of the sky and the earth, the trials of water and fire, you will forever be one. Even beyond mortality, you will always be with one another, through this life and the next.” As he spoke, he very carefully grasped the ends of the braid. They were tied together, locking their hands in a grasp. You couldn’t help the grin that split your face at that, turning to look up at Techno.

He offered you a soft smile, taking a step closer to you and carefully gripping your chin with his thumb and forefinger. Your stomach practically exploded into nervous butterflies. The kiss. You had forgotten the kiss. He leaned down, lips pressing to yours firmly. It was just a kiss of obligation, a part of the ceremony, but it had heat crawling over your cheeks and down your neck. He lingered, fingers gently squeezing yours. You couldn’t help but respond to the squeeze, stepping a little closer to him.

He was pulling back after a few heartbeats, smiling at you once more and turning towards the people. You couldn’t help the squeak that escaped you as he held up your bound hands, causing a few of them to cheer. Part of you wanted to hide, but you simply stuck as close to Techno’s side as you could.

“Let’s party!!” Tommy’s voice rang out from the crowd. He was clearly exhausted with all the ceremonial things, though you weren’t entirely sure you blamed him. Weddings weren’t too exciting, though your nerves would beg to differ. You felt like a frazzled mess on the inside, and you still had an entire day to go.

You and Techno stood back, watching the crowd filter towards the ball room. You glanced to the ribbon binding your hands, acutely aware of the feeling of Techno's fingers slotted between yours. You supposed that you were giving the boys time to set up for the first dance. You just accepted the silence, practically leaning against your husband.

"After the dance we'll be able to take the ribbon off. You won’t be tied to me all day." Amusement laced his voice, and you couldn’t help but laugh a little.

"It's not all bad. A little inconvenient, but all in all it's fine." You looked up to him with a smile, which he returned. Your free hand moved, toying with the ends of the ribbon. The pair of you only stood there for a little longer before you heard Tommy shouting for the pair of you to hurry up. You couldn’t help but laugh. Did he ever stop having energy? You followed Techno along the path winding through the garden, the soft chatter from the ballroom floating over the veranda.

"You did it, Big Man! You're a married man!" Tommy cheered when the pair of you walked in, slinging an arm around both of your shoulders. "Now that this is my sister-in-law," the way he said it, reeling you close to him with a shit eating grin told you this was going to be entertaining, "I can fight her now, right?"

A loud laugh bubbled past your lips at the antics, watching Techno huff and swat at his brother with his free hand. "We'll see." This seemed to be enough to placate Tommy for the time being, sending him scurrying off towards where Tubbo and Wilbur were messing with the instruments in the corner. You watched the blond pester his brother and best friend, a fond smile on your face. He was quite excitable about this all, but it's not like the pair of you had been complete strangers over the past few weeks.

Besides your common training with Techno, you would often spend time sneaking about the castle with Tommy and Tubbo, quietly helping them with all sorts of trouble that they got into. Not to mention the time you spent in the libraries by yourself, or the gardens with Eret. While in the library there were times Wilbur or Philza would visit you. You never minded it, though. Their silent companionship was warm and comfortable. Yet Techno always seemed to hesitate when it came to letting you train with his family. Surely they couldn’t be worse than him- or better, you supposed.

“Spare a coin for your thoughts?” Techno pulled you from your musings of his family, your gaze moving to him instead. You only spared a glance to the others before fully focusing on Techno.

“Just thinking about your family. How you’ve never let me really train with them. Only letting them watch. Is there a certain reason?” Your voice was soft, not willing anyone to hear your words. He paused any movement, seeming to clearly think over the answer. Or perhaps how to best frame it. You weren’t sure why he was thinking so hard, but you could practically see the wheels turning as he did.

“Tommy is reckless. Tubbo is… alright with fighting, a bit clumsy but enthusiastic. Philza is a much higher combat level than I would want you to fight just yet. As for Wilbur…” He trailed off, practically staring off behind your head. You turned, following his gaze to his older brother. The brown-haired prince was toying with the instrument, muttering to Tubbo before looking at Techno with a grin. He gave a thumbs up, and you could see Techno incline his head in a subtle nod before turning to you. “Well, Wilbur is encouraging us to dance.”

If you squinted, you swore you could see the faintest trace of pink on Techno’s cheeks. However you didn’t care to squint too hard, simply positioning the pair of you to dance. He squeezed your still joined hands, other hand hovering momentarily over the middle of your back before settling. Almost as if he had been unsure of the action. Once the two of you had settled comfortably into the position, the soft strings of Wilbur’s instrument filled the room, paired with the gentle notes from Tubbo at the piano. You were half focused on the music, partially focused on your husband. He pulled you along the floor effortlessly, spinning you with a practiced elegance you should have been expecting.

“Why not Wilbur?” You prodded again, only when you had fallen in line with the music as well as Techno. A soft sigh passed his lips as he gazed at you, eyes darting around to the people who were watching you.

“It’s complicated. Best we don’t go into it now.” His tone left no room for argument, a voice he rarely used with you- only when the pair of you trained. You responded with your own sigh, a little disappointed. You supposed you understood, but that didn’t make you any less curious. What was it that made Techno not want you to train with Wilbur?

“Later, then.” You were a little reluctant to agree. You trusted him to tell you whatever it was later. You would be rather upset if he didn’t. The two of you lapsed into silence as you danced. You were so acutely aware of many things. The gazes on you. The pressure of the ribbon braid on your hand. The feel of Techno’s hand on your back. The way you caught Dream’s dark gaze whenever he was in your line of sight. It was a lot, and truly you weren’t sure what to make out of it all.

It felt almost as soon as the dance and music had started, it was ending. Applause poured around you and you fidgeted. You were used to attention, but the attention you were receiving at your wedding was not something you could have ever prepared yourself for. Techno pulled away from you some, almost awkwardly, before reaching for the ribbon. “Why don’t we get this off and you can go dance with your brother. He looks restless.” You turned to look at George, who did in fact appear to be restless. He was shifting, eyes on the pair of you. You offered up a smile, holding up a finger to tell him you would be a moment.

The ribbon peeled from your hands after a few moments. Techno gingerly folded it, tucking it into his pocket. You smiled at him as well, rubbing your hand from where the ribbon had pressed into it. “Go, I’ll play a song. Since I’m required to.” He didn’t necessarily sound happy and you could only laugh.

“Alright. I’ll see you when I get a break. I know everyone is going to want to dance.” You slipped away from Techno to instead make way to George, grinning at him.

“Don’t look so nervous,” You teased, nudging him. He gave a shaking laugh.

“I can’t help it. There’s something almost tense about this whole thing. It feels so formal.” You understood what he meant. You knew marriages in Kinoko were different to this. They were more casual, even for royal families.

“It is strange. Almost overwhelming, isn’t it?” George had nodded in response. “Well then, Crown Prince Nofton,” you began to tease, a lopsided grin on your face. A reminder that you still were, in a way, his little sister he grew up with. “Are you going to keep me waiting?” You held out a hand, arching an eyebrow at him.

“My apologies, Crown Princess Minraelas. Would you honor me, your dearest brother, with a dance on your wedding day?” He bowed dramatically, grin matching your own. His tone was lofty, poking subtle fun at the way the courts of larger countries held themselves. You simply giggled as he took your hand, gently holding it and your shoulder with his other. “It even seems your husband will be playing a song for us.” He was struggling to contain his laughter, and you were barely managing.

The low sound of a violin drifted into the room, causing your head to turn to look at Techno. His eyes were closed as he ran the bow along the strings of the instrument, fingers moving against frets with clear familiarity. For all the resistance he had put up to playing the song, he seemed at peace with it now. You smiled, attention turning back to your brother as he pulled you into the throng of dancing people. "So it would seem," you concluded, letting the pair of you spin gently together as violin notes filled the air.

"You'll still write, won't you?" George had asked again, and you simply laughed softly.

"Always. I promise I'll tell you if I'm ever put into danger." You offered him a reassuring smile and he simply nodded. He seemed content enough, and you knew he had to be. He really was watching you grow up, wasn't he?

"If you don't write, I'm sending our entire army to rescue you." His lips quirked, a breathless laugh escaping him. You couldn't help but laugh as well.

"What makes you think I couldn't hold my own? I'm learning to fight now!" You declared, puffing your chest out just slightly. This elicited another laugh from your brother.

"No offense, but Technoblade handed you your ass. I think you might need the help of an army." You pouted at this, nose wrinkling just a little.

"Well, I doubt it'll ever come to the point of me having to truly fight."  You waved it off, shooting him a smile. “I’m well taken care of here. They like me.” You twisted, looking over to where Tubbo was speaking to Tommy. The brunet caught your gaze, brightening and offering you a cheerful wave. You lifted your hand briefly from George’s, returning the wave. Your attention returned to your brother, who simply smiled gently.

“I can tell. I just worry about you being where I can’t see you.” His voice was gentle, hand once more grasping your own. Your gaze softened slightly, head shaking just a little.

“I’m not a little girl anymore, Gogy. I swear to you, I’ll be fine. Happy. Free.” The childhood nickname had rolled off of your tongue with familiarity. A sign of how genuine you were. No formalities. Just two siblings.

He had sighed in response, hugging you tight for a moment. “I know. It’s hard to not see you as one.” You could reluctantly accept that, returning the hug. “I suppose I can’t keep your company for myself. Go, dance with Dream. He probably wants to.”

The words brought your attention to the blond, catching his eye and smiling a little. His gaze seemed conflicted- caught somewhere between soft and affectionate, and hard and frustrated. You tried your best to ignore it, waving him over slightly. He seemed to hesitate, before running his hands down the front of the green tunic he wore and heading your way. 

“Princess,” he greeted gently once he was close. Your eyes shone with light-hearted fondness, taking his proffered hand. He tugged you closer to him, one hand curled with yours while the fingers of the other dug slightly into your waist. You shrugged the grip off a little, free hand settling onto his shoulder, fingers fingers brushing the white fur of the cape that sat there. 

“For now,” You teased, beaming up at him. Mischief was clear in your grin, letting him whisk you away along the dance floor. His eye flickered with something- too quick for you to notice. Then it was looking over your head, seemingly focusing on someone else. You almost turned to look, but he was soon focused on you. He moved way too fast for you to keep up. It was exhausting, yet you weren't sure you wanted to bother with it right now. Not today.

His fingers grasped your waist tighter. "You're really set on this, aren't you? Are you even sure you truly want to become queen to him? To this nation?" Disgust and irritation laced his words. Hell, he even sounded accusatory. You frowned up at him, squaring your shoulders.

"I've told you this before. I'm going through with this. I'm fine. You and George worry too much. Praelicentiam has treated me well," you reassured. Your fingers smoothed the fur of his cloak, praying it was enough.

He still looked disgruntled, lips tugging into a small scowl. "You know if things go wrong-" he started, but you shook his head to cut him off.

"I can return to Kinoko. I know. You and George have told me this more times than I can count."  Your eyes fluttered shut in an attempt to calm yourself. His grip relaxed in the process, tugging you even closer.

"I just worry for you here. You've heard the rumors. I feel like you'd be safer in Kinoko." Where he could watch you. It was left unsaid, but definitely implied. He leaned down, pressing a feather light and affectionate kiss to your forehead. Heat rushed to your cheeks as you made to move away, saved by the clearing of a throat.

"Surely you wouldn't mind if I stole our bride for a dance?" A firm hand sat on your arm, drawing your attention to the blond man who had interrupted. Philza stood there, a kind yet unnerving smile directed to your childhood friend. 

Dream narrowed his eye for a moment before he relented, handing you over to the man. "Of course not. I'll talk to you later, princess." The distaste in his voice was palpable, but you were able to ignore it.

"You were starting to look like a deer caught in the middle of a path," Philza pulled your attention to him as he moved with you to the music. You couldn’t help but laugh nervously. 

"Dream can be a lot sometimes." Philza had simply inclined his head in acknowledgement as you spoke. Dream always had a way to be intense, and you never deciphered if it was good. It had been that way for the past year. You were hardly given time to dwell on your best friend, though. Instead you were being handed over to Tommy, who seemed far from thrilled. Just behind him you could see Wilbur, throwing him a very pointed look.

He didn't seem to linger with his dance, grumbling the whole time about how he hated these formal events. Much like the child he was. You would only laugh, knocking his ankles with your feet.

Then you were off to Tubbo, who's eyes were just as bright as his grin. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were enjoying my wedding more than I am." It was a lighthearted tease but he couldn't help but sheepishly laugh.

"For now I am, yeah," he acknowledged. You followed his gaze over your shoulder, where Schlatt stood holding a cup of wine. You supposed he wasn't looking forward to dealing with his father. You didn't blame him. Beside Schlatt stood Dream, his eye focused solely on you. The pair seemed quiet, thankfully. The idea of Schlatt talking too much with Dream made your stomach churn. You didn't doubt that Schlatt would be able to make Dream do something stupid- the older man was no doubt irritating.

The music faded to a new song, joined with a new dance partner. Your feet were aching, begging for a chance to sit down. Yet you supposed it was obligatory to dance with people. At least your new family seemed to believe so. Which is why Wilbur was now gliding you across the dance floor. He held himself with a poise very akin to Techno’s, a practiced poise and grace to his movements.

As if the way he held himself as he danced wasn't reminder enough, he couldn't help but joke, "If things had gone differently perhaps I would have been the one to promise you my last breath." He laughed, shooting you an amused smile. You echoed his laugh, briefly pondering how different Praelicentiam may have been.

"We'll never know, shall we? I think I prefer you my brother, anyways." He nodded in agreement, one hand softly patting your hair. It was exhausting, being on your feet this long. You needed to eat.

Eret seemed to realize this as they stepped up to you, holding a hand out. "One dance with me and I'll get you back to Technoblade. You've been dancing awhile." You let your shoulders sag a little.

"Just one dance, then. I'm exhausted." A whine edged into your voice. They laughed and nodded, seeming satisfied once you placed a hand into their's. Their movements were a comfort, in a way. You felt endlessly comfortable with them.

"Do you miss Kinoko?" They questioned after a few moments, making your steps stutter. It wasn't a question you expected from them.

You regained yourself, offering a soft smile. "Of course. It's my home, there's people I love there. It'll always be my home and I'll always yearn for it. The path laid ahead of me led me here, though. This is my home just as much." You loved Kinoko endlessly. Yet you were growing to love Praelicentiam. This was going to be your kingdom one day. You needed to learn to love it and it's people.

Eret seemed to think on your answer, sighing softly. "So long as you find happiness."

"I'll be happy here," you were quick to defend, offering a smile. They relented, and pulled back as the song came to an end.

"Fine, fine. Let's get you off of your feet." You were more than happy to follow Eret as they led you through the mix of people. As if it was even hard to spot Techno, where he stood talking quietly to a short man. You barely got a look at him before you were noticed. The man looked at you from behind glasses before smiling, seeming to disappear into the crowd before you got close. You frowned, lifting an eyebrow at Techno.

"Finally had enough socialization?" His voice called to you once within range. Eret squeezed your shoulder, muttering about how they needed to attend to other matters and disappearing.

"More than enough. Who was that?" You tried to locate the man in the crowd, but he was nowhere you could see. Weird.

“Someone running a favor for me.” It was a bland answer but you supposed there wasn’t much to expect. You simply relaxed into his hand as it settled between your shoulder blades, steering you towards seating. It took everything in your power to not sink into the chair as it was pulled out for you. You had a feeling that now that you were seated, you’d be there for a long while. 

Techno settled into the seat beside you, his eyes raking over everyone else. Watching as if he expected something. You followed the gaze, trying to view things as he did. Yet you couldn’t. All you saw was people partying, enjoying their time there. Eret was conversing with George, your older brother struggling to stifle laughter. Wilbur was talking to Nihachu and two people you couldn’t recognize. One was a woman, tall with a mop of curls like you had never seen. The way her fingers curled with Nihachu’s gave you enough clue on who she was. The other was a man, currently laughing over something you wished you could hear. He seemed to be laughing hard, struggling to keep ginger and white locks of hair out of his face. 

You sought out the younger two, knowing they would be joined at the hip. It wasn’t too hard. They stood with another- a boy? He looked young in the face, from what you could see given the slightly anxious expression he wore. Light patches of skin quite a few shades lighter littered him, dual colored eyes focusing on Tommy. His hair was like an extreme version of the man who was with Wilbur- yet instead of ginger there was black. As well as several patches of white as opposed to a single tuft. He was certainly a sight to behold and you swore you had never seen him before. You would have remembered him.

You pushed it aside, for now. You sought out the few other people you knew still. Dream was in a corner, arms crossed over his chest as he talked to a guard. You could tell it was a Kinoko guard, but couldn’t tell who. You tried to look harder to figure it out- you grew up with much of the guard- but it was pointless. His back was to you. It would be more worth it to continue your conversation with Technoblade. “You seem to have a lot of people doing favors for you.”

He huffed in laughter beside you, turning his attention from the people. Instead he watched you, amusement bright in brown eyes.”I’m the crown prince. Of course I have a lot of favors being done.”

“What type of favors?” You questioned, kicking your feet just slightly. You wanted to know. As much time as you spent training with Techno, you didn’t know what he did beyond that. He was still as much of a mystery to you as when he walked into Kinoko.

He shook his head, eyes flicking towards the people again. “Things I would prefer you to stay out of unless necessary. Instead of thinking about that, think about food.” You opened your mouth to complain but he was already waving a servant over, mentioning food to them. The boy nodded, turning to go fetch the food.

You let yourself focus on the food. You’d already tried pushing Techno on one subject today and had to leave it alone, you weren’t going to try a second one. It’s not that you weren’t hungry, either. Everything that had happened today had made you hungry. At least the food was good. You were still having to adjust to the amount of food too. Kinoko hadn’t been able to eat like this in quite some time. You wondered if George and Dream felt similarly to the food- though you were sure that Praelicentiam had since begun to send food over.

It was only when you had finished you truly began to wind down. So did much of the celebration. People left the room with stomachs full of wine and good food. You’d have to thank Nihachu for it. In the morning, though. She had already left with her girlfriend. You were eager to join the crowds of people leaving. You were ready to go to sleep. 

Which was a problem.

You had been taught for so much of your life what was expected of you on your wedding night. Your mom had made sure of that, unwilling to see her daughter get hurt in ignorance. Yet, it still had a weight settling in your stomach. A rock lodged in your throat. Why was it now that you felt the fear Dream was so insistent you felt? Was it because you didn’t know what to expect from Techno?

You couldn’t help but glance at him, fingers toying with your dress. You honestly hoped it was nothing like training. It made you wince, which pulled his attention to you instead. “Are you tired?” His voice was low. You hesitated, glancing towards the few people who still lingered. George and Dream had both left, as well as Tommy, Tubbo, and their tall friend. So few people were here now. You gave in and nodded. There was no point in sticking around. Techno stood up then, holding a hand out for you to take.

It was natural for you to let him lead you through the castle, despite you already knowing it pretty well. He seemed to want to make sure you got wherever you were going safely. The silence was crushing and tense. You almost felt like you were drowning in it. Could he hear the way your heart thrummed against your rib cage, or how your blood was roaring in your ears.

Yet he passed his chambers entirely, heading towards yours instead. It threw you off. Weren’t you supposed to consummate the marriage? Your confusion must have been evident, because he spoke softly, “You seem exhausted. Get some sleep.” A hand settled on your shoulder, squeezing softly. Then he leaned around you to open the door, leaving you to your thoughts and wondering why he had taken you to your room instead of his.

[babysealfan]

22 😚

Thank you 4 the prompt xoxo (and thank u everyone else who sent one I promise I am going to write them all ~eventually~ but I spent the majority of my day playing sims so .........)

PS the premise of this blurb is the idea that Fez takes Lexi on strolls through the neighborhood because of this textpost that I think about all the time because like. I’m convinced that they DO go on walks together because that’s just who they are (also I want everyone to picture Lexi and Fez taking a nice, romantic stroll around HIS neighborhood because.....LOL????)

another PS I wanted to include him giving her his jacket but I literally CANNOT picture this man wearing a jacket?? have we seen him wear a jacket before? someone tell me. the other thing I wanted to include was them running inside from the rain but again? imagine that man running?? especially with the way he wears his pants???? downright goofy I’m sorry this prompt was so difficult

22. Caught in a Storm

Lexi loved going for walks. She loved the peace and quiet, and the fresh air, and the mundane yet meaningful conversations you only seem to have while taking a walk with someone.

The first time Fezco asked her if she wanted to go for a walk, her heart had nearly jumped out of her chest.

Fezco didn’t exactly live in the best neighborhood, though Lexi was acutely aware that, as a drug dealer, Fezco was likely the most dangerous person who lived in that neighborhood. Still, their walks seem to be constricted to solely daylight hours, meaning that as the sun started to set, that was their cue to head back to his house (and, unfortunately for Lexi, his cue to take her home).

On this particular day, Lexi had been a bit more restless than usual. Cassie had been, well, Cassie, which only served to stress Lexi out to no end. She had spent the entirety of her time at Fezco’s house perched on the edge of his couch, her leg bouncing nonstop.

“You good?” Fezco asked halfway through their movie.

“Do you think we could go for a walk?” Lexi asked in response.

Fezco glanced out his window. “Looks like it’s gon’ rain,” he said.

“Just a quick walk,” Lexi semi-pleaded. “It’s been, like, such a day.”

“Yeah, Lex, ‘course,” Fezco said, standing up.

Lexi smiled warmly as she stood up and followed him out of the house.

They were about three feet from his front door when he linked their hands together—a usual occurrence for their walks (and the most intimate they had ever been, much to Lexi’s chagrin), but it still sent a tingle up Lexi’s spine every time he reached for her. And she still had to hide her blush, too.

“So, what’s goin’ on?” Fezco asked as they rounded the corner by his house. They had a normal route, at this point, but sometimes they amended it, depending on the circumstances. Usually, if they wanted a shorter walk, they would cross the street to start, but Fezco still turned right as if it were one of their normal walks. Lexi didn’t know if it was just out of habit, or if he knew she needed the extra time to quiet her nerves. She wanted to believe the latter.

“It’s just Cassie,” Lexi said, rolling her eyes for effect.

“You wanna talk about it?” Fezco asked, gently rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. She squeezed his hand in response, liking the way his grin got just the slightest bit wider in response.

“She just, like, thinks she knows my life better than I do,” Lexi said, looking down. “She thinks she knows what I want because it’s what she wants.”

One of the things Lexi liked best about Fezco was that he was such a wonderful listener. He didn’t just listen to what she said, he understood it. And he made sure she knew that he understood. As Lexi continued to vent about Cassie, Fezco quietly nodded his head, speaking up at the important moments to let Lexi know that her feelings mattered.

And then Lexi felt a raindrop. Then another. Then another.

And then many, many more.

Lexi didn’t know if she had ever seen it start raining that quickly. Her and Fezco both seemed to have the same, startled reaction, because the only thing either one of them could think to do when it started pouring was stare at each other, jaws dropped.

“Shit,” Fezco said before he started laughing.

Lexi couldn’t help but laugh, either. “We’re soaked!” she shouted.

And there, caught up in the ridiculousness of being caught in a downpour, as they both stood laughing instead of doing anything to get out of the rain, Lexi decided she didn’t want to go a day in her life without hearing his genuine, boisterous laugh.

She didn’t know how it happened, or who reached for the other first, but suddenly they were kissing, and Lexi decided she didn’t want to go a day without this, either. She had dreamed about what her first kiss with Fezco would be like, had dreamed about plenty beyond that, too. But nothing in her imagination could compare to how it felt to finally kiss Fezco, to be making out with him in the rain like they were in some old romance movie.

When the rain stopped—somewhere between 30 seconds and five hours later, Lexi couldn’t be sure—they broke apart, once more falling over in laughter.

“C’mon, shorty,” Fezco said, throwing his arm around her to pull her close to him. “Let’s go dry off.”

[septembersghost]

How did it feel for Jimmy when he messed with Chuck's documents to help Kim and she was mad at him for it?

her anger at jimmy for that in nailed is quite momentary imo - she smacks him in the car (which she should!), but she is also instantly on his side ("all he ever wanted was your love and support, but all you've ever done is judge him. you never believed in him. you never wanted him to succeed. and you know what? i feel sorry for him. and I feel sorry for you.") (chuck's "you have ruined this fine young woman" is also SO gross and condescending that there's little comparison between her simmering outrage at that and her passing anger at jimmy).

it's multilayered because she's more frustrated with jimmy following the incident with the commercial earlier in S2, and that's where i'd imagine he's far more anxious about her state of mind and what it might mean for them ("we're not done now?"). she's VERY unfairly penalized for that incident and still lies for his benefit. she's angrier when she's in doc review than she is following him switching mesa verde's numbers, because the latter was for her benefit and she's acutely aware of that, and her resentment is ultimately harbored towards howard for punishing and patronizing her, and chuck for his undermining and mistreatment of jimmy (and his superciliousness towards her and everyone). plus, in both incidents, jimmy knows he screwed up and apologizes to her for it, but with the numbers, there's not that lapse of a few days where she has to shut him out for a bit like there was earlier. they're in it together as soon as she stands up for him.

he switches the numbers because she worked so hard to even land mesa verde and deserved recognition of that, and to keep the account. she may be mad at him for the underhanded move, but she's also moved by how far he'd go for her, and she returns it in kind by defending him and helping in chicanery. in hindsight, the numbers incident is what led us to exactly where we are - it cemented that ride-or-die, i'll-do-anything-i-can-do-for-you bond that they have. that scene at the end of sabrosito, when they confidently stride out of the courthouse together, kim's ponytail swinging back and forth. she's on his side. bingo.