#it's really smooth and hardly bitter at all

[totally-not-deacon]

oh shit i forgot i bought some fancy(ish) beer. perfect!

[mochiwrites]

couldn’t help writing a lil thing from @plumadot’s arts (linked here and here!)🥺👉👈 third life scarian possessed me so hard I broke out of my burn out for this reblogs would be really cool and awesome okaythankyou

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“And how are preparations for Doom Day going, my good sir?” Scar’s voice is a light sound behind him, tone cheerful and inquisitive all at once.

Grian turns around from where he’s knee deep in sand, a small hole dug out in front of him. Scar comes to stand beside him, red eyes staring down at him. His gaze is soft, far too soft for a man who’s meant to be anything but.

With a soft noise, Grian pushes himself up to stand while dusting off his hands. He leaves his shovel in the ground by the hole. His wings flutter.

He hums, surveying the area. He gazes at the holes of sand, where the tnt will be set down, at the place where a bunker will be built. “Not bad, I’d say. I think this place’ll be ready by tomorrow or some time ‘round then.”

Scar whistles, moving to casually wrap an arm around the green life’s shoulders. “Amayzin’!” His lips lift in a smile. “Man, those Dogwarts guys won’t know what hit ‘em!”

“That’s if this trap even works, Scar,” Grian mutters, unable to hold back the bitterness in his voice. His traps have hardly worked all game, and he’d be lying if he said he isn’t worried about this one failing too. “It has to,” he says, brows knitting together, “there’s too much riding on this one.”

His eyes trail over to Scar, who doesn’t seem to share his worries.

“Aw, c’mon G,” Scar starts as he pulls the other toward him. He tugs so that Grian’s facing him, their faces a few inches apart. Grian can feel how warm Scar is this close, can see the way his chest rises and falls. “I have total trust in you and your trapping skills. So relax a little, yeah?”

Grian frowns at him in turn. Speculation and trust aren’t good enough when up against his fail rate. He needs one hundred percent certainty. But he can’t just test this one. It’s a one time pull. “Scar—”

Careful fingers grab his chin, rough and calloused from the harsh conditions of the desert but still far too careful. Red names aren’t supposed to be careful or gentle, and yet here Scar is.

“I trust you,” Scar says again, and Grian doesn’t think this is how things are supposed to go. It’s not the first time he’s had this thought, and he’s sure it won’t be the last (provided they both survive this, that is). “You really do worry too much.”

“One of us has to while you’re off gallivanting around without a shirt on,” Grian grumbles while reaching for the edge of Scar’s cloak. He holds onto it, fingers digging into the fabric.

Scar lifts a playful brow at Grian’s comment, “Does that mean I look good while valligaggling?”

Grian snorts, the action laced with too much affection. “That’s not even a word, Scar,” he replies with a little laugh, one that makes Scar’s grin widen.

“It’s close enough,” the man hums in answer, their faces moving closer. His hand drops to Grian’s elbow, the other drawing him in closer by the waist. Red eyes flutter shut as his breath ghosts over Grian’s lips. “And it made you laugh.”

“Your priorities are seriously mixed up,” Grian’s voice is hardly above a whisper as watches as Scar draws in closer.

Their lips meet seconds later, chapped and warm. Grian stares at Scar’s face, the way the creases in his forehead smooth over and relax. He looks so content, a funny feeling to express when the powder keg is seconds from exploding.

It hardly takes any time at all for Scar to deepen the kiss, raising his hand from Grian’s elbow to hold the edge of his jaw. His thumb settles too close to Grian’s throat, yet not an ounce of fear runs through him. His eyes shut as he presses his lips back against Scar’s, a bit more pressure than the other applies. He catches Scar’s wrist in his hand, and his grip is a little tight at first (too tight for a green name). He has to remind himself to loosen his hand, but Scar never gives a reaction.

He simply angles Grian’s chin up slightly, hand shifting to cup his cheek. His fingers tangle in his hair, brushing against his ear.

It’s kind of a shame they’re blowing up the desert. He wouldn’t mind sharing more kisses with Scar out in the open chilly air like this.

Scar kisses him like he’s something fragile, something precious. He kisses him like he’s afraid of breaking him, and really it’s laughable how gentle he is with Grian. His eyes say he shouldn’t be.

(Ironic then, that Grian is wearing more red than him.)

It’s with a soft sigh that Scar pulls back, setting their foreheads against one another. So easily, so fluidly, he holds Grian’s face in both of his hands, one of his thumbs brushing along his cheek. There’s a fond smile on his face, and Grian feels a little dazed by the sight.

“Gri,” Scar says quietly, a moment shared for only the two of them, “I need you to know, I—”

Some kind of alarm rings in Grian’s head, and he knows he cannot let Scar finish that sentence. Panic runs down his spine like electricity, zapping him. He sets his hands on Scar’s front, gently pushing back as he turns his head away.

“H-Haha, we’ve wasted enough time, haven’t we?” he questions, some kind of desperate attempt to change the conversation. “We have a war to prepare for, remember?”

He doesn’t watch Scar’s face as he turns away, unable to face it. He turns his back to Scar, wings twitching behind him. Grian purposefully looks down at the sand before him, reminding himself of what he’s meant to be doing. “We, uh, have much to do still,” he says, trying to focus on anything but Scar. “I mean, unless you want me to lose my first life!”

Grian goes to say more, but two hands land on his shoulders, stopping him. He jumps just slightly, startled. Yet it doesn’t last long as he feels Scar’s warmth against his back. “…Scar,” he mumbles.

Arms wrap around him proper, holding him close. He feels Scar bury his face in his hair as the smell of lilacs and poppies flood his senses. “Just a little longer, okay?” the red name murmurs so softly.

Let me hold you for a little longer.

Stay with me for a little longer.

Pretend this’ll last for a little longer.

How selfish, Scar is. Grian looks down at the sand below, its mocking grains. He grabs hold of Scar, keeping him right where he is. “…I’m not going to die, Scar.”

“Promise me.” Scar’s arms tighten around him, giving away how much he needs Grian to stay alive. How much he treasures Grian, both his partnership and company.

Grian squeezes him. He supposes he’s a little selfish as well. “…I promise.”

Scar lets out a shaky breath, burying his face further into Grian’s hair.

They don’t move for a little while. A gentle red name and a green name clothed in far too much crimson. Together they stand, selfishly.

[hunnysahara]

˖⁺‧₊˚❀𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓪❀˚₊‧⁺˖

Hamzah x fem reader

Thought I'd be cool in California, I'd make you proud. To think I almost had it going but I let you down.

After a disastrous move to Los Angeles, you’re sent packing back home to Toronto trying to beat the gnawing feeling of loneliness.

WC: 4.4k

CW: cannabis usage / angst if you squint

No one really understood why you had to leave and you weren't willing to admit you would've rotted beneath the scalding Los Angeles sun if you didn't go back home. You didn't have the stomach to tell your parents they were right when they told you it wouldn't work out, that it wasn't something you could handle. 

Now you stare at the half-empty suitcase sprawled open on the floor, clothes spilling out in a heap like a discarded life. This is what it's come to- moving back into a cramped, outdated flat in Toronto with a roommate who spoke to you solely through dirty glares, a far cry from the polished, sun-soaked world of Los Angeles you thought you would never leave. The room is small, with barely enough space for you to walk around, let alone recreate any sense of the luxury you had grown used to. The walls are bare, a sterile white that mocks the vibrant, carefully curated lifestyle you had paraded on social media.

This must've been the fear that crept into your head during late nights coming to fruition. You had moved in a week ago and couldn't bring yourself to unpack, hardly leaving bed. You were living off the packs of ramen you bought from the gas station on the way from the airport.

You hadn't been happy in California, but being back home made you think that you wouldn't be happy anywhere. Everything there was too expensive, and everyone was coked out of their minds, and you had crawled out of there by the skin of your teeth like you had been dragged through hell. Your rise and fall have been documented in real-time for all of your followers to see even if you tried to play it cool, there were always internet sleuths who would speculate.

Still- you try to compose yourself the same way you would a song or a speech, what little savings you had wouldn't last forever. 

You start pulling clothes from the suitcase, one by one, the sharp scent of Los Angeles still clinging to the fabric. It's bitter, almost like a cruel joke- a reminder of everything you've lost. It's all here: the designer jackets, the sheer tops perfect for rooftop parties you won't be attending anymore. You didn't even like the clothes, you just liked the idea that someone would pay for you to wear one of their designs. 

What you hadn't accounted for when you made the split-second decision to move was just how cold Canada was in October. All you had to keep you warm were a handful of sweatshirts from high school and leggings you were gifted in a PR package months prior. 

Once you have forcefully shoved your clothes into your dresser and pushed every box to one side of the room, it looks almost intact from a certain point of view. You set up the tripod and camera with mechanical precision, your movements slow and deliberate as you adjust the angles, making sure the tiny frame of your new apartment looks somewhat presentable.

It's not much, and you know no amount of clever angles or editing will make this place look like your old life in Los Angeles, but you're determined to try. It's been too long since your last post your followers must be wondering where you've been, and why you've gone silent. If you don't get something out soon, they might stop caring altogether and with your digital footprint, you're sure you've closed out all other career options.

With a deep breath, you sit down in front of the camera, smoothing your hair and glancing at your reflection in the monitor. Your stomach twists as you catch sight of yourself—your eyes look hollow, your skin dull in the unfortunate lighting. 

"Hey, guys!" you begin, your voice sounding brittle and raspy. "I know it's been a while, and I just... wanted to give you all an update." You trail off, feeling the words crumble on your tongue. In the monitor, your smile falters, and you cringe, reaching forward to hit the stop button.

"Ugh," you groan. That was terrible. You sound fake like the voice actors in ads on Spotify. A voice like plastic, made to sell. You delete the footage and start again, clearing your throat, and shaking out your shoulders.

"Hey! So if you couldn't tell I have moved," You clench your teeth into a smile, awkwardly shifting to show the new space just slightly. "And I am in Canada once again," Around the end, your voice falls too soft, too unsure of your own words.

"Hi, everyone. It's been a crazy few weeks, and I know I owe you an explanation," you say, forcing the words out this time, willing them to sound genuine. "So, I'm back in Toronto, and I—" You stop, cringing as you watch your own awkwardness play out on the monitor. God, why do you look so stiff? You sound like you're reading from a script. Your eyes drop to the ground in frustration, biting the inside of your cheek to stop your off-putting words from mounting into a scream. 

In the two months you spent trying to pick yourself back up, it was like you forgot how to do your job entirely and simultaneously forgetting yourself. You weren't sure how you acted or how you were supposed to. The line between you and the caricature you played on camera was bleeding into itself.

Each attempt leaves you feeling more deflated, and more disgusted with yourself. The room starts to feel smaller, the walls inching closer with every failed take. You slam your finger onto the stop button one last time and bury your face in your hands, the frustration boiling over into hot, bitter tears.

"Whatever," you mutter to yourself, sniffling and wiping away whatever tears want to spill.

You grab your phone, hoping for a distraction, for anything to pull you out of this spiral of self-loathing. But as you scroll through your feed, that tightening in your stomach returns.

Your best friend from LA who had conveniently become busy the second things started folding in on you, was at a club with her new boyfriend who of course had a movie star smile and a head of thick curls. Another friend happily promotes her brand deal. You weren't even sure you were friends with them anymore, they didn't seem to take your absence to heart while theirs was so prominent to you that it felt like a presence.

Everyone you were friends with from high school was sharing their experiences with college, exams, dorms, and everything you traded for fifteen minutes of fame. Another friend in some exotic location, cocktail in hand. They're all doing something, achieving something. They're moving forward while you tripped and fell backwards.

You stare at the phone for what feels like an eternity, fingers hovering over your parents' contact. It's been months since you last spoke to them—their voices were tight with disappointment, the kind that sticks with you like peanut butter to the roof of your mouth. 

A lump forms in your throat as you scroll past their names again, hesitation gnawing at you. You know they're furious, and rightfully so. 

With a deep breath, you press "Call" before you can change your mind, holding the phone to your ear. It rings, once, twice, three times, the silence on the other end growing louder with every second. You glance out the window of your tiny apartment, the Toronto skyline nothing like the sunlit sprawl of LA. When the ringing stops, you almost wish they'd picked up, just to have the comfort of a familiar voice, even if it's charged with anger and disappointment.

Then the voicemail beeps.

"I'm back in Toronto, as you probably guessed," you say, voice cracking slightly. "The house... it's fine. It's not LA, but it's fine." You let out a shaky laugh that sounds hollow even to you. "Um, I know you're really mad at me but I would love to see you guys for lunch or maybe watch a movie or something like we used to."

You take a shaky breath, glancing at the phone like it might somehow give you the courage to continue. "I just wanted to hear your voices, I guess. I wanted to say I'm sorry. You were right and I wish that I listened to you. I just—" You stop yourself before the words start spilling out too fast, too frantic.

"LA was just a little too overwhelming for me, I missed Canada," you continue even if it isn't the full truth, your voice softer now. "You can yell at me all you want, I just want to see you guys." You huff a laugh to hide the urge to cry "Things are still going good, I'm glad I'm back. I don't think it'll be too different, maybe just a bit quieter."

There's a long pause, the silence of the room pressing in on you. You close your eyes, feeling the sting of tears threatening to spill over. "I love you both," you say, voice barely above a whisper. "So if you want to, call me back and we can set up dinner or something. I'll... I'll talk to you later, bye."

Outside, it gently begins to rain. You don't need to press your ear to the glass to hear it, each splatter is like a whisper and you're so attentive since it's the only thing that's spoken to you in weeks.

You drag yourself off the bed, eyes burning from the unshed tears you've been holding back. Sitting around won't fix anything, and won't magically make your problems disappear. You need to do something. Anything to get out of your own head, to stop that endless cycle of self-loathing. With a resigned sigh, you turn back to the mess of the apartment, clothes strewn across the floor, boxes stacked in corners, wrappers and empty water bottles piling up on the coffee table.

"Alright," you mutter to yourself, wiping the last of the tears from your cheeks. "Just... clean up. Start somewhere."

You grab a trash bag and move to the kitchen, shoving empty takeout containers and crumpled napkins into it, the stale smell lingering in the air. With each item that leaves your hands, you feel a tiny bit lighter. Cleaning, at least, gives you some semblance of control. You can't fix everything, but you can make this place feel a little less like a prison.

When the bag is full, you tie it up with more force than necessary, the plastic crinkling angrily under your fingers. You glance around the room, feeling a twinge of satisfaction at the cleaner surfaces, the space looking a little more livable. It's not much, but it's something.

You grab the trash bag and head to the front door, holding it awkwardly under one arm as you fumble to turn the knob. The rain is light enough that it leaves you just sprinkled as you awkwardly rush to the garbage can.

It's only when you turn to look back at your door that you remember it locks upon closing. Your breath catches in your throat as you frantically pat down your pockets, then scan the floor, hoping to see them lying somewhere nearby. "No, no, no, no," you mutter under your breath, the panic rising as you realize they're not on you. You can picture them clearly, sitting smugly on the kitchen counter, just out of reach.

Conveniently, this was when your roommate had picked up a late shift, leaving you locked out of the flat. 

You try the knob just in case, rattling it as if it might magically give way. It doesn't. A strangled sound escapes your throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Fuck!" You shout, pulling on the handle like that would do anything. 

"Are you kidding me?" you seethe, pulling away from the door and kicking it. Hard. The impact sends a jolt of pain up your foot, but you don't care. You kick it again, harder this time, the door thudding in response, refusing to budge.

As childish as you felt kicking the door, it's the final thing to tip you over and you can no longer hold back the tears that were waiting to fall. They're hot and stinging, blurring your vision as you slam your hands against the door again and again. The pain in your knuckles feels good in a way, like a release. You curse under your breath, the words tumbling out, raw and vicious. "Damn it!"

Your strength drains quickly, each hit becoming weaker until you're just slapping the door with the flat of your palms, gasping for breath, the anger dissolving into a wave of grief and exhaustion. You slump against the door, sliding down until you're sitting on the cold, hard floor, your shoulders heaving with sobs.

You pull your knees to your chest, burying your face in your arms. The street is quiet, the only sound of your broken cries echoing softly around you. It's like every emotion you've been bottling up since you got back is pouring out now, in the cold air and oncoming rain, in front of this unyielding door. You cry for the life you lost, for the mistakes you made, for the uncertain, terrifying future that stretches ahead of you.

This can't be the rest of your life, right?

Then you sense it—a presence, a pair of eyes on you. You glance up, wiping your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, and spot him: your neighbour. He's leaning against his brick doorway just a few feet away, a joint lazily balanced between his fingers, looking at you with an awkward mixture of concern and confusion from beneath the awning. 

You hadn't noticed him or the smell of pot which must've been subdued by the rain. You vaguely recognize him. Hamzah, you think his name is. Never had you known he was your neighbour but you were sure you had seen him on your feed a couple of years ago. Now, though, he's standing there, his eyes locked onto you like he's stumbled upon something he wasn't meant to see.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. He takes a drag, the tip of the joint glowing faintly in the dim hallway. You can see the smoke curl around him as he exhales, the smell reaching you a moment later. You swallow hard, feeling a fresh wave of embarrassment wash over you. Great. Not only are you locked out, but now you've got an audience to witness your breakdown.

"You, uh... you good?" he asks finally, his voice rough from the smoke. It's an awkward, tentative question as if he's not quite sure what else to say in this scenario. 

"Um," You straighten your posture, coughing to clear the bubble in your throat from sobbing "Yup."

He shifts uncomfortably, scratching at the back of his neck. "Do you... need help or something? Like... with the door?" he offers, taking another drag.

"I just locked myself out, had a bad day," You say, trying to slip in an explanation for your little show "Uh, my roommate can let me in when she gets home." 

He exhales a cloud of smoke, nodding slowly. "Yeah. I can see that." Another pause, then he adds, "You want me to call someone? Like a locksmith or something? Is there something I can do?"

You glance up at Hamzah, eyes still red from crying, and see him taking another drag. The silence between you feels heavy and awkward. Impulsively, you blurt out, "Can I have a hit of that?" You're not sure why you ask—maybe you just need something to take the edge off, something to dull the sting of reality.

Hamzah hesitates, looking you over like he's trying to gauge how serious you are. Then, with a small shrug, he steps closer and extends the joint. "Sure," he says, holding it out and gesturing for you to come closer. 

Sheepishly, you move from your spot on the stoop and scamper over to his patio. You take it from his fingers, feeling the warmth of where his hand was. It's not like you've never done this before, but it feels strange now, in this setting, stuck under an awning with a virtual stranger. You bring the joint to your lips, inhaling deeply. The smoke burns your lungs for a moment, and you cough, fighting the urge to wince as you hand it back to him.

"Thanks," you croak, blinking to clear your watery eyes. The two of you sit in silence for a beat, and you sense him watching you again, more curious now than awkward.

"So," he starts, breaking the silence. "Why are you locked out? What happened?"

"Oh, it's one of those automatic locks but it's actually not since the keypad is busted," Even as you string the words together they don't make sense to you but Hamzah slowly nods.

"Okay," His eyes are half-lidded and another silence stretches between you until he fills it "So you just moved in?" He asks to which you nod "From where?"

"California."

"Why'd you leave?"

"Coke." You answer a bit too fast "Everyone is coked up all the time and it's just kinda miserable no matter where you go." 

"Yeah that checks out," He takes a drag before offering you another hit. Hamzah's eyebrows draw in as he studies the curves of your face and the bridge of your nose, finally, he says "Sorry, you just look really familiar."

"Yeah, you do too," You feel the smoke fill your lungs, the sensation feels as rough as sandpaper.

"Yeah," he reiterates, drawing the word out, eyes still on you. "No, I do know you," Hamzah announces like he's cracked a riddle "I used to watch your videos."

"Used to," You repeat, sucking a sharp breath through your teeth "Youch."

His eyes widen slightly "No, no, not like that, I'm just busy now, like I don't have time to-

You cut him off with a laugh "I don't care, I'm just being a dick."

"Oh," He takes a breath out and his lips slowly curl into a small smile "Cool." 

Silence hangs between the two of you like two birds on a wire as you pass the joint back and forth. The eeriness is filled by the patter of rain, harsher now and splashing against the concrete, so loud it sounds like pebbles being tossed onto sheets of glass.

"Are you like- okay?" He glances at you, coughing into his fight for a moment. 

You knew the marijuana had hit you when everything felt like it was moving in frames and suddenly your body didn't feel so heavy "I dunno," You answer truthfully, tongue loosened by the pot in your system "I just don't know what to do."

"How old are you?" He asks abruptly.

"Twenty-one." When the words leave your mouth he laughs "What?"

"What do you mean you don't know what to do? Watch a movie, eat some cereal, you've got time."

You look ahead of you at the street, water dribbling it's way into drains. Oddly, it felt like exactly what you needed to hear, that jigsaw falling into place. The joint is almost finished now, just a few more puffs left. You take a slow drag, savouring the earthy, slightly sweet taste before exhaling a thin stream of smoke that mingles with the cool night air. "It doesn't feel like it." 

"Nah," He waves it off "You've got time and- " Hamzah fishes another joint out of his hoodie pocket, holding it up with a grin. "Since you're already having the worst day ever," he says, "Might as well make it a little more interesting." 

You stare at him for a moment, the remains of your previous frustration tugging at the edges of your mind. But then you shrug. What do you really have to lose at this point? A small, wry smile creeps onto your face. "Sweet."

-

Hamzah's living room is messy in a comfortable way, with gaming consoles scattered around the TV and piles of clothes thrown across the couch. "Make yourself at home," he says with a grin, already rummaging through a pile on the floor to pull out a small tripod and camera.

You collapse onto the couch, feeling the familiar thrill of preparing to film, even if this time it's more chaotic and impulsive. Hamzah sets up the tripod, the lens trained on the two of you. He fumbles for a second, trying to find the record button.

"Okay, okay," he mutters to himself, squinting at the camera. "Ready?"

You nod, suppressing a giggle as he finally gets it going. He plops down beside you, and you both stare at the red light blinking at the top of the camera.

"Hey, what's up, YouTube!" Hamzah begins, his voice loud and overly enthusiastic, making you burst into laughter. He shoots you a mock-serious glance, pointing at you. "So, this is my neighbour... my locked-out, kind of sad neighbour. We just had a major debrief."

"Major," You nod in confirmation.

Hamzah grins, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. "Right, right. She is in a bit of what I call a slump that we are getting her out of. So, what brings you to the fine streets of Toronto?"

You launch into an exaggerated tale of your move back, embellishing details to make it sound even more ridiculous. He plays along, interjecting with snarky commentary, and soon the two of you are riffing off each other like a well-rehearsed duo.

For a moment, you forget about the locked door, the mess of your life outside this room. You're just... here, laughing with this random stranger, acting like a complete goof in front of a camera.

"And that's how we ended up here," Hamzah finishes, throwing his hands up dramatically. "Two neighbours, locked out, stoned out of their minds, trying to salvage what little dignity they have left."

"I think your dignity is fine, actually," You correct him.

"Mmm, I dunno about that," he shakes his head "My digital footprint is insane."

"How insane?"

Hamzah holds a finger out before reaching into his pocket and taps around, holding his phone out to show you the screen. You watch as several clips play one after another, him saying incredulous things, taking shrooms at Comic-Con, slipping in a hot tub, and eating a comically large hotdog. 

"Ah, I see," You nod slowly.

"Can you believe I did all of that sober?"

"No, actually, maybe, I don’t know you that well."

"Well," He gestures to his phone "That's basically all you need to know."

"Really?"

"Nah," he shakes his head "What am I saying?"

The glint of a green light catches your eye and you're reminded that this entire conversation is being filmed. You nudge Hamzah's bicep, pointing at the camera "Dude, we have a video to make."

"Wait," he puts his hand out, "I think I just discovered the solution for world peace."

"Do tell." Nothing makes sense, you’re just putting together the first words that come to mind like a game of scrabble.

"Everyone gets high at the same time and then we can all resolve our issues." In the moment, it seemed genius, like there were no issues to it. In your state, your face splits into a smile and you give Hamzah a high five.

"But seriously, we gotta film because I'm going to be very irrelevant very soon."

"Right, right. We will-" his head swerves, looking around for something to hold interest, then, he goes back to his phone, opening up Garage Band "Make a song."

"What?" You furrow your eyebrows.

"Nah, just trust me, we will freestyle, it'll be good."

You blink "I can't sing."

Hamzah shrugs, tapping a button that creates a drum loop. "Who cares? It doesn't have to be good. In fact, the worse it is, the funnier it'll be. People love random off-putting stuff that doesn't make sense."

You lean forward, hands on your knees as you try to think of some lyrics. "Okay, okay," you say, catching your breath. "How about... 'I got locked out of my house, life's a mess, lost my success'?"

Hamzah snorts, nodding eagerly. "Perfect. And then, something like, 'My neighbour showed up with a joint, now we're high, nothing's going as planned...'"

You both burst out laughing at how terrible it is, but that only makes it more fun. As the best of a song comes to fruition, you start shouting out lyrics in a half-singing, half-yelling voice, each line worse than the last.

"Can't pay my rent, don't have a cent!" you cry, dramatically throwing your head back.

"Got kicked out of school, and now I'm feeling uncool!" Hamzah chimes in, wailing.

It's chaotic, utterly ridiculous, and so far from anything either of you would ever consider sharing online, but the sheer absurdity of it leaves you both gasping for breath between fits of laughter. You catch glimpses of each other between the laughter, and you realize how freeing it feels to just be silly, to do something that has absolutely no pressure to be perfect or polished. In truth, it wasn't that funny but under the influence, breathing was funny.

As the last of the laughter dies down, you hear the faint rumble of a car engine pulling up outside. You freeze, holding your breath, listening as a car door slams shut and footsteps approach. It takes you a second to register what's happening, and then your eyes widen in realization.

"Oh my god," you mutter, scrambling to your feet. You rush to Hamzah's window, peering outside. There, standing by the curb with a purse in hand, is your roommate. Relief washes over you so suddenly it nearly knocks you over.

"Is that...?" Hamzah asks, glancing out the window beside you.

"Yep," you reply, feeling a mixture of giddiness and embarrassment flood your chest. "That's Margot. I can finally get back inside!" You turn back to him, grinning ear to ear. "I should probably go but uh- thanks for the weed," you say, heading toward the door. Hamzah just nods, a lopsided smile on his face as he follows you to the doorway.

"Oh- yeah," he says, opening the door for you. 

You give him a quick wave, then jog down across the yard to catch your roommate before she heads inside. By the time you reach her, she's already at the door, fumbling with her keys.

"Hey! Thank god you're back!" you blurt out, slightly out of breath. "I locked myself out."

She gives you a skeptical look, seeing your red, glassy eyes but nods, unlocking the door. You slip inside with a sigh of relief, feeling a little steadier, a little less lost than you had a few hours ago. Before she can ask more questions, you glance back toward Hamzah's house, catching sight of him leaning casually in his doorway, waving goodbye with a lazy, knowing grin.

You wave back, shaking your head slightly. What a weird, unexpected day it's been. And yet, somehow, you don't feel quite as alone anymore. It's a weird serenity that washed over you. Toronto didn't seem as hopeless as it did initially.

A/N: Anyways, if you’ve read this far, feel free to send a request. I didn’t really know where I was going with this, just wanted to write something Hamzah.

[irisposts]

words of treasons

summary | aemond needs your opinion on a matter.

paring: aemond x servant!reader

warning: kissing, aemond being forceful and an asshole who doesn’t know what he wants, spoilers for s1e10

note: this is part of a series i’ll be making and aemond is just really angsty in this okay. you’ve been warned 🗿

Aemond’s chambers are cold at night, the faint breeze slipping in through the open window, bites at your skin. You pull your sleeves down over your wrists and return your hand through Aemond’s silver hair, smoothing it at the nape of his neck. He lies curled in your lap, his head resting heavily on your thigh, tugging idly at the loose string on your trousers. You've been sitting like this for over an hour now, though sometimes it stretches longer—depending on how deep into his thoughts the prince wishes to go.

“What do you think of me?” Aemond’s voice finally cuts through the silence, low and measured.

You keep combing your fingers through his hair. “I beg your pardon, my prince?”

Aemond doesn’t repeat himself. Instead, he continues fiddling with the string, his fingers pausing momentarily. “I asked what you think of me,” he says, voice taut. "Be honest with your prince."

Your hand falters for a moment, stilling. Aemond slowly sits up, disentangling himself from your lap. He turns to face you as he rises to his feet, his single eye fixed on yours, expectant, searching. The loss of his warmth leaves a coldness in the space between you.

You stand as well, instinctively following him, your eyes locked on his as your mind races to gather your thoughts. There’s a part of you that admires him—the strength of his will, the relentless determination—but you can’t deny the truth: he can be temperamental, quick to anger, and consumed by bitterness. Time and again, you’ve been commanded to forsake your duties to brush his hair, to listen as he broods about the Iron Throne, his family, his frustrations with the realm. You find it tiresome at times. Perhaps even... dull.

“I think you are strong-willed, my prince,” you say carefully, standing a few paces from him. “And a great asset to the king’s army.” A weak smile follows your words, but the lie is thin.

Aemond’s gaze sharpens, his good eye narrowing. "You lie."

In an instant, his hand snaps up, grabbing your chin with a force that sends a jolt through you. He pulls your face close to his, his grip unrelenting. “Aōt váedros, ñuha dāria,” he growls.

Your heart pounds in your chest, fear prickling at the corners of your eyes. When he finally releases you, it’s with a slight shove. You stagger back, gasping for air, your hands trembling as they settle at your sides.

But then something hardens inside you, and your eyes narrow in defiance. “If you truly want to know what I think, then fine. I think you are clever—far cleverer than your brother, Aegon—but still, you lack decency. You are quick to cruelty, indifferent to those you deem beneath you." You take a step forward, regaining your composure. "You take a dragon that belonged to a grieving mother, claiming it as your own."

“The dragon was riderless,” Aemond snaps, his eye flashing. “They mocked me, all of them. They—”

“You killed your own nephew!” you spit, your voice rising. "You started this war—this bloodshed. You dragged the realm into chaos for your own vengeance."

"It was an accident!" he shouts, his face contorting with anger.

“He was a child,” you hiss, leaning toward him. “A boy. And yet you let your family steal the crown from its rightful heir, just so your feeble brother could sit on a throne he doesn’t even want—when he can hardly rule himself, let alone a kingdom!”

Before you can react, Aemond’s hand is at your throat, squeezing hard enough to cut off your next breath. His lips curl into a sneer as he leans in close, his eye burning with fury. “Your words are treason,” he whispers.

You smile through the pressure constricting your windpipe, defiant even as the edges of your vision blur. "Then kill me," you rasp, your voice barely a whisper. "Go on, my prince. Do it."

For a long moment, he simply stares at you, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his eye blazing with fury. Then, just as suddenly as his anger flares, something else flashes across his face—something deeper, more primal.

Before you can process what’s happening, his lips crash against yours—fierce, desperate, and hungry. The kiss is all-consuming, his hands tangling in your hair as he presses you closer, as if he can’t bear the thought of you slipping away from him. His kiss is filled with fire, a passion that leaves you breathless and gasping for air.

Your hands find his shoulders, fingers digging into the leather of his tunic as you kiss him back with equal fervor. The taste of him, the heat of his body against yours—it’s overwhelming, maddening.

He pulls back for just a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he breathes heavily. His eye, wild and intense, bores into you as if searching for something, some confirmation that you feel this too—that you are his.

“I don’t need your lies,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice ragged. “But I will have your loyalty... and your truth.”

Before you can respond, his lips capture yours again, this time slower but no less passionate, his need for you undeniable. There’s a possessiveness in the way he holds you, as if he’s afraid you might vanish the moment he lets go. 

You pull away, lowering your gaze. “I spoke out of turn, my prince,” you say quietly, trying to maintain composure. “It was anger that drove my words. I rejoiced in your brother’s coronation.”

Aemond chuckles, the sound low and cold. “Rejoiced? Did you?” His eye narrows, and his lips curl into something resembling a smile, though it holds no warmth. “You’re a servant. You do as you’re told, bend to whoever holds the crown. It’s survival. I don’t begrudge you for that.”

The air between thickens. “I-.”

You feel the shift—the walls returning, the mask slipping back over his face. Aemond Targaryen, the prince who carries his bitterness like armor, would not easily reveal himself again.

“You serve the crown that sits on my brother’s head because you have no choice. You are bound to him by duty, by fear.” His voice is sharp, though quieter now, as if he’s speaking to himself more than to you. “But do not think for a moment that I am fooled by your compliance.”

He stops, standing before you, his eye locking with yours—cold and intense, filled with something unreadable. “Understand this,” he says softly, but his voice carries the weight of a threat. “I will not forget what you’ve said tonight. Nor will I forgive it easily.”

Your chest tightens as you try to swallow the fear rising within you. There’s no point in denying the truth now, no point in backtracking. You have seen too much, said too much. The defiance still simmers within you, though you try to suppress it.

“I know, my prince.” Your words are soft.

Aemond’s eye narrows as if catching the trace of defiance still in your voice. His hand reaches out, cold fingers brushing against your cheek, the touch light but possessive. The look in his eye shifts into something deeper, more dangerous. He is not simply angered by your words. There is something about you, something in the way you’ve challenged him, that he cannot shake.

“You may play this game for your king,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting over your skin as he leans in closer. “But in the end, you belong to me.”

His fingers trail down your jawline before he pulls back, his gaze lingering on your face as if trying to read the thoughts swirling in your mind. His control, as ironclad as it is wavers just for a moment, but he swiftly pulls it back himself.

You swallow hard, your throat tight, unsure if it’s fear or something else entirely that knots in your stomach. For all your anger, for all the bitterness his words stirred within you, there is no denying the power he holds over you—both as a prince and something more.

And then, his voice lowers to a whisper, his lips barely brushing your own. “Ñuha gevie,” he says, his tone possessive, the Valyrian rolling off his tongue like silk. “Nyke jāhor iā ūndegon.” (My beauty, I own you now.)

The words send a shiver down your spine and you realize you’ve made a grave mistake.

[zoropookie]

I want that make out scene, Zoropookie. This is a threat.

YOU OWE US FOR MAKING US SUFFER FOR 32 CHAPTERS IN A ROW GIVE US THE SCENE

You shouldn't be taking advantage of this.

You were quick to give into that certain temptation. Wasn't typical by any means for you to be initiating things like this, but your body wasn't really listening to reason right now. Nor prowess apparently.

The moon was low in the sky, casting a glow through the window now. The dim lights didn't give the both of you any reason to turn on a light, or the patience with anything except yourselves. Your heart beat was rapid against your muscles, each pulse echoing in your throat.

Your fingers brushed along his skin, a sensation you never thought you'd chase as your lips locked. You marveled fully in his warmth and smoothness with each touch. The world was narrowed to you at all points, a point of contact where you didn't think anything mattered anymore.

In that kiss, you deepened it. Your breath was mingling with his, it was a dance of a different intimacy that felt oddly familiar but so not at the same time. Thrillingly new, at that. His taste on your tongue was sickly intoxicating, you started spiraling. A blend of his newfound sweetness that you thought was bitter the entire time filled you with desire.

He felt the same—you could sense it when his hands slightly tremble putting them on your waist. He had you against the sofa like you were planning to run away, wrists tightened against you almost in a plea not to. Tracing patterns on some of the open skin, sending an intense shiver down your spine that put more adrenaline in you.

Touches spoke to you, tentative, urgent of him. A mirror of the same emotions that roiled in your stomach. He became more aggressive once accustomed, movements more confident when he gripped at the open skin and pulled you closer to him.

Your bodies were pressed together in a tangle, inviting yourself to practically throw yourself at his lips. The kisses were aggressive, heated and passionate. It was like a dance that hardly had any rhythm anymore after ten minutes of doing it. Was it kissing or fighting at this point?

It genuinely felt like you both hated each other still, with how both of you clawed against the other.

The urgency quickened with both of you, the world tilting as you tumbled to the floor with Kuni. But with that, the two of you were too enamored with each other to acknowledge losing your balance. The impact was soft thanks to the carpet, but you two never left your heated embrace.

Even with the frequent calls and texts vibrating your phone on the table, all you could bring yourself to think about was hashing out your years of frustration into this.

[bigtreefest]

Hello, sweet Essie!! So we’ve met bartender!Curtis 🫠

Any thoughts (or thots) on bartender!Ari meeting a gal that’s interested in more than just his fruity drinks or getting in his pants? 😏

Hehehe, hello! Bartender!Curtis was a secret sweetie, just like his best friend.

Why, of course we can hear about Bartender!Ari!! I think he has really seen it all, so something super out of the ordinary would catch his eye. Someone who isn’t interested in him. At least not on the surface.

Here’s what I’m thinking. This…got away from me🫣 so it continues under the cut:

It’s a Thursday night, so the bar is buzzing a little, but not so much that it’s impossible to find a seat. As Ari’s topping off a beer, he sees you walk in, but when you make eye contact with him, there’s no smile, no nervous, bashful giggle. You don’t light up like most do when they see the Adonis. Instead, you just continue to drag your feet to a bar stool in between two regulars. Both hardly spare you a glance and Ari bars Curtis from walking over since you’re technically in Curtis’s section.

He makes his way over, setting a glass in front of you.

“On the house. You look like you need it”

But the thing is, you’re in no mood to accept his handout. Your voice is sharp when it comes back at him.

“What’s up with men and them thinking they know better than me!?”

You can see the shock on his face as he’s taken aback. His eyes widen, showing just how blue and surprisingly soft they are. There’s no hint of cockiness in them, at least not anymore. And that’s when you realize that you just snapped and feel terrible about it. The two big men on either side of you were startled, too.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I really appreciate this, I’ll pay to make up for that. It’s just…*sigh* never mind. I’m not gonna burden you with that”

Ari’s brow furrows. You’re a little dressed up, maybe for a casual date, but your face doesn’t show the excitement he knows Curtis had for his last one.

He gives you a tight-lipped smile as he spots someone else come up to the bar out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey, no worries. But you should know it’s literally in my job description to listen if you need it. I’ll let you have a second and then I’ll come back, okay?”

You just nodded, looking down into the double shot of whiskey over the rocks he had given you. You weren’t normally one for hard liquor straight, but after tonight, you might need something to match the bitter taste in your mouth, and you applauded the bartender for recognizing it.

You skeptically took a sip out of the glass, expecting it to burn, but it was surprisingly smooth and pleasant. The corner of your lip upturned at his gesture and you looked up to see his longer hair swaying with the breeze as he walked back over to you.

He gave a tentative smile, seeing you had calmed some and you returned it. He reached out his hand over the table.

“I’m Ari, this is my place. Well, mine and my buddy’s at least.”

You shook his large hand and introduced yourself, mind stuck on the feeling of his warm, callused palms. His firm, strong, yet gentle hold.

He leaned over his elbows on the counter.

“So penny for your thoughts?”

You scoffed as your finger danced over the rim of your glass.

“I’m not sure if you want them. They’re mostly about my disdain for men. Are they all so terrible?”

He blew out a breath and pushed back off the counter.

“Well, in what sense? Because as I guy, I want to say no, but as a guy who considers himself pretty reasonable, the answer is probably yes.”

You shrugged and shook your head. “Bad date.”

You talk with Ari about it the rest of the night until he walks you to your car. But the thing is, you keep coming back. Bad date, after bad date, and he’s always there to make you feel better.

Ari is doing everything to make the time to talk to you. He’s making Curtis save your seat, he’s hasty with everyone else who comes up to him. As much as he hates seeing you torn up over guys, he’s desperate for your visits. He tries to deny it, but Curtis isn’t blind. So he finally convinces Ari to ask you out. And oh man does Ari get an earful of “see? Not so easy when you’re on this side of it, buddy.”

Ari builds up his courage, and another Thursday night rolls around, and you’re nowhere to be seen. And then another one, and another one. Before he knows it, it’s been a month. Ari thinks he lost his chance. He’s devastated. He doesn’t want to bounce back with another girl he knows he could easily get. He just wants you.

On a Sunday afternoon, he’s doing inventory in the bar while they’re closed. He hears a knock on the front door and just thinks Curtis locked himself up on the roof again, so he had to climb down the ladder and come in the front. When it swings open, though, there’s no broad guy with a beanie on. It’s you.

EEK!! Do I need to make this into an actual fic? A clueless pining Ari?🫣

Taglist: @hawkeyes-queen @ronearoundblindly @mercurial-chuckles

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Man of Faith" - Nikolai Lantsov x Reader

SUMMARY: With the Sun Summoner on board, Stumhond's attention seems to be captivated by the living Saint. While you know how important she is to him in terms of politics, you can't help but start to feel jealous. Nikolai, however, stays true to his only faith.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.4k

>>Grishaverse-inspired playlist<<

The night breeze feels cold when it brushes against your cheeks. Although you feel an uncomfortable shiver run down your spine, the chilly air is refreshing, revitalizing. Salty ocean water sprays your skin as the ship lazily cuts through the endless waters. Swooshing of the heavy waves hitting the vessel and the drawn-out creaking of boards interrupt the otherwise silent hours. The black, starry sky is reflecting in the equally black waters, making it hard to say where lies the horizon - firmament glistens both above your head and beneath your feet.

Leaning against the railing, you allow yourself a sigh of defeat. You shake your head at the bitter, lead-like weight in your abdomen. This phantom has refused to let you go ever since the Sun Summoner boarded the ship but it’s hardly her fault. Truly, it’s not His fault either, even if he’s part of your problem, following her around and eagerly asking every question that came to his mind. It’s like you’re not here at all, you think to yourself but quickly discard this awful idea with a shake of your head.

No matter how much you refuse to admit it, you’re jealous. In your mind, it’s very logical and rational to get neurotic - he’s an heir to the throne, she’s the Sun Summoner and you… are a pirate. Although your lovesick heart is defending Nikolai with all its might, your sensibility is feeding you a plethora of horrible scenarios that, to some degree, you’re aware are not very probable. Still, they’re not impossible.

You rub your face in a vain attempt to calm yourself down and gain control over your emotions. This is stupid. He’s just interested in an interesting person, nothing beyond that. All of the flustering, and frankly embarrassing, confessions of love he’s given you, can’t just be undone in two days… can they?

The sound of slow footsteps distracts you from your spiralling thoughts. You turn around only to see the man you’ve been agonizing over as though one of the Saints had heard you and, out of annoyance rather than goodwill, sent him your way to clear this perplexing misunderstanding. His blond locks float on the gusts of cold breeze. There’s an undeniable softness to his expression, even if his eyebrows raise slightly in worry. Despite the overwhelming darkness of the night on the open ocean, he looks nothing short of breathtaking. 

And you, through unimaginable luck, are the only thing that steals his breath.

"I was looking for you,” he says in a gentle voice. Jealousy mixes with guilt and shame inside you - Nikolai probably thinks something serious happened but no, it’s you getting into your own head.

"Something's the matter?" you deflect his inquiry. 

"Actually, I wanted to ask you that.” Nikolai leans on his elbow on the railing, his torso turned towards you. He’s standing close enough for his frock coat to brush against you - it’s smooth and velvety, as though water could be sawn into a garment. “You seemed upset earlier."

"Oh, it's nothing, really.” You dismiss him with a vague wave of your hand. “Don't worry."

Nikolai lets out a short sigh. He takes off his coat and puts it around your shoulders. "I always worry about you,” he says as he’s casually fixing the jacket to cover most of your body.

The familiar scent fills your nostrils immediately. Perhaps it’s the additional layer of clothing or his hand resting on your lower back that’s making you warm up significantly. In any event, his overwhelming presence, engulfing you in an embrace of comfort and security, momentarily shakes you sober from your grim thoughts. Like having a bucket of cold water thrown at your head, you’re wondering how you could ever question his devotion.

“A treasure?” Nikolai repeats after the old whaler. The stench of booze is surrounding the retired, one-eyed sailor like a hallucinogenic aura. “I’ve already found her, thank you.”

Doubt, however, is a relentless beast. Maybe you’ve been the recipient of his affection simply by a chance of convenience? You’ve always been there, waiting for Nikolai to pay you attention. But then you inhale again, the scent of resin and seaweed filling your nostrils, and the doubt vanishes once more as the fog does in the early morning hours.

"This is going to sound really stupid and selfish,” you confess.

"I want to hear it anyway."

Nikolai’s hand reaches for yours, fingers intertwining without either of you thinking about it. His thumb is gently rubbing circles into your skin. Some reflexes are scratched into bones, escaping human willingness. 

“It’s just…” You cut yourself off before you can finish. Embarrassed at what you’re about to tell him, you look away, admiring the faraway stars reflecting off the black water. In an unconscious motion, Nikolai cranes his neck to try and see more of your face. “Ever since Alina boarded the ship, you’ve been quite preoccupied with her and I… I think I’ve grown used to having your undivided attention. For the most part, at least. And that made me wonder whether I’m underwhelming compared to the Sun Summoner herself.”

Finally, you dare look back towards him. As you could have expected, he looks just as lovestruck as he usually does - not a wrinkle suggests that he’s angry with you for making a show of your jealousy or doubting his devotion. In fact, that upturned corner of his mouth makes him look genuinely amused with this course of events. Somewhere during your circular way of expressing envy, he only heard you admit how much you yearn for his attention.

"You thought I'm more interested in Alina Starkov than you?" he asks, laughter hiding inside his voice. "Hey, look at me.” Nikolai lifts his hand to your cheek, first brushing his finger against your skin before his whole palm cups your face. "I would have to lose my damn mind and even then I'd fall in love with you again if you just glanced in my direction."

“I know how important she is to you, Коля," you whisper, nervous that someone might pick up on the secret only you've been privy to so far. It nearly escapes your attention that his smile grows a little hearing you say his name. “It’s not your fault I’m being a little selfish. I just need to get a grip. You really shouldn’t worry.”

Nikolai’s hand drops from your face to hold your hand again. He brings your fingers to his lips, placing a soft kiss on them. It’s tender, like everything else he does towards you. Sometimes you wonder whether this gentleness is a conscious choice or if he’s physically incapable of directing any harshness at you.

"I could have an army of Sun Summoners and you’d still be the only Saint I’m praying to day and night.”

You scoff at his cheesy poetics. Laughing to yourself, you shake your head at him. "Oh, please, there is nothing holy about me."

With the hand he’s been resting on your lower back Nikolai pulls you even closer to him. He lets go of your fingers, placing his free hand on the side of your head, forcing you to look at him - not that you have anything against doing so.

"I beg to differ,” he begins in a low, surprisingly serious voice. “Ever since I saw you for the first time, I can't think about anything else. I don't want to. When you’re not with me I can’t focus until I find you and when I do, I feel like nothing can stand in my way. I could lose everything but if you’re by my side, I know I’m saved.” Nikolai rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. “You're the closest thing to godhood I've ever seen."

You inhale sharply suddenly feeling his warm lips against yours. His hands are pulling you closer to him, deepening the kiss. It’s both loving and desperate as though he’s expecting you to vanish into thin air at any moment; like he can’t quite believe he has the rest of his life to adore you.

To your disappointment, Nikolai pulls away from you after a long while but keeps a rather impressive lack of distance as your noses brush against each other. In a breathy voice, he whispers:

"You're the only prayer I need to make me feel blessed."

“Just kiss me again, милый мой.”

A quiet chuckle leaves his lips. “As you wish.”

Without wasting time, he’s kissing you again - hungrily, feverishly, reluctantly pulling away every now and then to catch his breath, only to resume this consuming pastime with insatiable desire.

_____

Коля [ko-lya] - short for Nikolai

Милый мой [me-lee moy] - my darling (masculine)

[tiramisuucakeee]

1. STORMY NIGHT

( sea salt, yang jungwon )

in the heart of the shimmering coral city of aqualis, where the sea sings with ancient magic and the ocean’s rhythm is the pulse of life, the kingdom’s peaceful existence is on the verge of change.

the waters, always whispering secrets, have carried truths far beyond the reach of even the crown. secrets that threaten to shatter the peaceful facade of the royal family.

days after your birthday, you were set to marry. and the thought of that made you seasick, not in a good way.

you. marry. seahorse. how absurd. a cruel joke on the royal treatment of your hand. a kingdom's tradition, your duty, and yet it feels more like a punishment than a celebration.

“i shall not do this,” you muttered to yourself, the words firm and resolute as you studied your reflection in the pearly hand mirror. the soft glow of the ocean filtered through your window, casting faint light on your face, but it hardly mattered - the decision had been made.

your room was in disarray, much like the storm inside you. the chaos felt fitting, though. how could you not feel like this, after overhearing your father, so thrilled over his seashell, gushing about how ecstatic he was that you'd finally take on your royal duty? you could practically still hear him now, his voice full of pride as he spoke of your impending marriage to the princess of the nearby seahorse kingdom.

who was visiting tonight.

luckily for you and your ring finger, you were set off to leave tonight. a spontaneous decision you thought about a few seconds ago. you wouldn’t be caged into a life you didn’t want - not tonight. not ever. your fingers itched to grasp the smooth edges of the mirror, but you set it down, your gaze shifting around the room.

it was a reflection of your life, in more ways than one. decorated with human artifacts you'd collected from the ocean floor, each piece a symbol of the world above. a giant shell in the corner, your favorite reading nook. and how could you forget the starfish, always there, scattered like gems across your room.

starfish is a girl’s best friend. that’s what the merfolk say.

you swam over to your friends, seeing them jump around in glee, much happier than you could be at the moment. “my sincerest apologies, everyone,” you spoke softly, feeling a pang in your heart as you hovered in front of them. “i only have room for two,” you picked the starfish you used as a kid, the most trustworthy.

there is a single more thing you need to do before departing. that is, leaving your whole self behind.

you know not of how humans would react to a mermaid, much less a mermaid princess. so you would have to renounce your title. not just that.

and now, as your hands reached for the crown, you felt the weight of it pressing down on your soul.

“mom, i cannot do something like this…” you whispered, your voice barely audible as the dread settled in your chest like a stone. the words tasted bitter in your mouth, the confession that you couldn’t live the life she’d wanted for you. the life you'd been born into but never chose.

she always had this dream. a beautiful dream where you would become queen after your parents gave up their throne. and in this exact second, you feel as if you’re betraying her.

she was the dearest person you’ve ever met. who was finished by the worst of all destinies possible. now the only place where you could see her was in your sleep.

“i hope you really forgot about me, now that you’re in the afterlife, mother, i cannot bare the idea of you being disappointed at my actions,” you let out a choked sob, and tore the crown off, quickly throwing it on your bed.

the ocean around you felt colder now, the walls of your room suddenly suffocating.

without a second thought, you swam to the open window, the cool rush of water filling your senses as you pushed through, leaving the room and the memories behind. You had to leave. you couldn’t stay, not in this place, not in this life that was no longer yours. the crown, the legacy, your mother’s dreams, they were all behind you now.

as you glided through the currents, your heart pounded in your chest - each stroke of your tail carrying you farther from the life you’d known.

you didn’t look back.

the palace gleamed in the distance, its spires like the sharp edges of a dream that had grown too heavy to hold. below it, the mermaid village - your village - sat nestled in the coral reefs, the vibrant colors of the homes and the swarms of merfolk playing and chatting in the shallows, making your chest ache.

you had spent so many days there, lost in the carefree joy of it all - swimming through the kelp forests, chasing the shimmering fish, laughing with your friends. now, it felt like a distant memory.

suddenly, a crack of thunder echoed through the water, so loud it shook the ocean floor. you froze, the sound sending ripples through your body. your heart skipped, a familiar dread filling the pit of your stomach. you turned slowly, your eyes scanning the surface.

and then you heard it—a voice, desperate and raw, carried by the wind and the water.

“come back!”

your father. the king.

his voice, though muffled by the distance and the waves, was unmistakable. but it was more than just his voice - it was the power behind it, the deep, booming command that shook the very sea around you.

you watched in horror as the water above you began to churn. a storm was forming, fierce and wild, the clouds darkening and swirling, casting shadows over the kingdom. the ocean’s surface cracked with lightning, and the waves rose high, most likely about to destroy beaches. it was like a tempest had come to life, born from his fury.

your heart raced as the storm raged on. the ocean was no longer a friend - it was a battlefield, and your father was waging war to bring you home.

as hard as you could, you tried to escape quicker, getting closer to the surface of the ocean, your stomach turning with emotion.

you just had to make it, if you didn’t, you would be a criminal in your own scales.

and then just as you were about to reach for the clouds and the sky, everything went dark. the familiar shimmer of the sea vanished, replaced by an overwhelming blackness, like the ocean itself had swallowed you whole.

!

“no, no, no, no, hold that!” an old man screamed to the teenager, who rushed to get the rope of the boat before it could escape into the depths of the sea.

jungwon held the rope tightly, running it around a hook on the deck, his grandfather doing the same.

it was really weird, in the middle of summer, a sudden storm.

the sky had gone from a clear, radiant blue to a deep, foreboding gray in just a matter of minutes. the waves were churning, their once peaceful motion now erratic and furious, slamming against the shore like they were angry. jungwon could feel the wind biting at his skin, whipping his hair into his face as he secured the last of the ropes around the boat. his grandfather, an old but weathered man, barked instructions at him, his voice strained against the roar of the approaching storm.

"get the tarp over the pool!" his grandfather shouted over the howl of the wind. "we need to cover the yard too, if it floods, it will tear everything apart!"

jungwon nodded, his heart racing. he knew the place like the back of his hand - this beach house had been in the family for generations, a sanctuary where summers stretched out forever, a retreat from everything else. but this year was different.

"grandpa, the house!" jungwon shouted, looking toward the house. it was built up on the nearby coast, in between sand and the rest of the town.

"check the windows! seal the doors! we need to prepare for a possible flood!" his grandfather yelled back as he worked to secure the last of the ropes. "get the boards from the shed!"

jungwon dashed to the shed, feeling the heavy drops of rain in his face, and pulled out the wooden planks. the sound of the wind was deafening now, rattling the metal frames of the windows. he worked quickly, securing the boards across the house’s lower windows, making sure nothing would let in the rising water.

"this summer, i thought i was just gonna relax here before college," jungwon muttered under his breath, grunting as he tightened the last screw on a window board.

he could hear his grandfather's deep chuckle. "you thought wrong, boy. this summer’s a reminder, never underestimate the ocean, dunno what we did to anger the gods but this is one hell of a storm."

jungwon looked back out toward the sea, where the waves were getting more violent by the second. he could feel the pull of it, he'd spent most of his life here, learning the rhythms of the water, the patterns of the tides, the way the air felt just before a storm. but this storm was different. it was powerful, angry.

what if there were gods of the ocean like his grandfather said. he came back with stories as a kid, after hanging out with sailors too much, and passed them down to jungwon’s father, who told them to him.

but surely there can’t be such being powerful enough to control the ocean.

"everything’s secure?" his grandfather called him out of the daydream, standing by the front door, looking out at the roiling surf.

"yeah, i think so," jungwon replied, breathless. "but we better stay inside soon. the water’s gonna rise fast."

the wind howled, rattling the doors and windows as the storm hit full force. they'd done all they could, but now it was a waiting game. jungwon stood at the edge of the porch, watching the ocean, feeling the storm inside his bones, wondering if the beach house would survive. this summer, before heading off to college, he had come here for one last stretch of peace, one last break from the world. but it seemed the world had other plans.

jungwon soon stepped inside, the wind slamming the door shut behind him. the house groaned under the pressure of the storm, the wooden beams creaking. his grandfather was already heading toward the kitchen, where the light flickered once and then went out, plunging them into darkness.

"power’s gone," his grandfather muttered, feeling around for a flashlight. "we'll have to ride this out."

jungwon nodded, though the sense of urgency in the air made his heart beat faster. he could hear the storm raging outside.

"you should try to get some rest," his grandfather said, pointing toward the staircase. "you've been running around all day with that friend of yours. no sense in staying up."

jungwon didn’t argue. he knew the old man was right. he had been all day at the beach with jay, failing miserably the lifeguard physical test. he was exhausted, his limbs heavy. but his mind was still buzzing, he nodded, tiredly making his way upstairs.

his room was tucked at the back of the house, overlooking the beach. it was a place that always felt like home, more than the one back in the city - coastal, light colors, and a view of the endless ocean that stretched out beyond the porch. the walls were painted in shades of soft sand and pale blue, the bed framed with white curtains that swayed slightly even when there was no breeze.

tonight, the room felt different. the cold from the storm seeped through the walls, and as he pulled the covers up, he shivered. the sea had always brought a sense of calm before, but now, it felt ominous. he could hear the wind howling outside, rattling the windows. even though the room was warm enough, the cold seemed to be deep inside him, gnawing at his bones.

jungwon pulled the blanket tighter, trying to block out the sound of the storm. he closed his eyes, but the ocean’s constant roar in the distance seemed louder than ever, mixing with the sharp gusts of wind that whistled through the cracks in the house. he felt a deep unease settling in his stomach, something more than just fear of the storm. something he couldn't quite place.

the darkness felt colder than it ever had before. he turned over and glanced out the window, watching the turbulent waves crash against the shore, the water swallowing the beach. it was wild.

but all he could think about was, the disaster that he would have to clean up tomorrow.

EXTRA:

masterlist.

next chapter.

all chapters.

[livinamity]

Honeydukes and Sweets

Summary: Competition is a double-edged sword — it can carry you to great heights, but also result in a fiery fall. Like the wings of Icarus, Draco Malfoy fell, but not in the way he expected. Words: 4.4k Pairing: Draco x Non-Slytherin!Reader A/N: this was meant to go on for much longer, but i might put my other ideas into a separate fic. will proofread tomorrow (maybe) thanks for reading!

The philosopher Aristotle wrote about the importance of art and beauty in human life. He said that beauty has the power to change human behaviour — that it isn’t just something to be admired, but by surrounding ourselves with beautiful things, we can become better people.

Draco Malfoy never thought much about beauty. It was not a concept that concerned him. He had his gold and jewels, the power and the prestige, and the attention and validation that came with them. Beauty in even the smallest things like the sun setting over the horizon never faltered his idea of it being nothing more than just a mirage.

It was merely a fleeting moment of pleasure that faded as quick as it came. He’d never been moved by beauty in the same way that others were. The things he had were valued above all else, and his desire to place value on the things he possessed overshadowed the importance of all things else.

His arrogance rose tension like thorns between the pair of you. You were merely a half-blood to him—a filthy one at that, and one with barely any wealth—and he convinced himself that his thoughts would never sway. Never mind the beauty you held that enthralled people to your feet, he would never bow even if you asked politely; you were beneath him.

"You're nothing special, really. In fact, I fail to see why anyone would give you a second thought." He told you.

You liked to think it was only a way to conceal his insecurities, so you never put too much thought into it. Draco was hardly special under the roof of the castle even with his status. He barely had anyone, but he never really valued the beauty in friendship regardless, and still, his lack of companionship only fuelled his frustration. How could a half-blood be more liked than him?

Then, he saw you had surpassed his grade in potions, and your battle of ego and wits grew into an academic rivalry. The two of you were like magnets pulled together by an invisible force, both drawn to the challenge of besting each other.

“An ‘E’?” Draco yelled, his voice a discordant tune. His fingers gripped tightly around his parchment paper, knuckles red with anger.

The paper within your grasp was as smooth as a silk chiton. The bold and elegant "O" adorned on its front, like a crown to your victory, brought a smirk to your lips. You had him beat and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Upset, Malfoy?” You disputed, a note in your voice like a lyre. Your smile remained soft and yet, he thought of cursing you with his bitter tongue.

“Upset?” His mouth formed a thin, cruel line. "Hardly." he scoffed. His tone dripped with derision. To be beaten by a witch, raised as a Muggle was unfathomable, and his ego was wounded by a cut that ran deeper than the River Styx.

“A slip of paper does not define my intelligence, or my abilities as a wizard. I am above something as trivial as a ‘paper’.” His words sought to mask his envy, but his jealousy was palpable as it hung in the air like a noxious cloud.

“Sure, Malfoy.”

After that, Draco dreaded the moment you would mention this defeat again, but you never did—seeing him seethe in his seat was enough and that infuriated him. He had always been better than you academically, but this time he fell short, and he concluded your silence was to ridicule him.

He sought you out one day, finding you before you made a turn to the library. With his lips raised in their familiar scowl, he approached you with long strides. “Think you’re better than me, eh?” Draco tucked his hands into the pockets of his robe, his gaze grey and uninviting.

A look of confusion drew onto your face. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You know what I’m talking about.” He huffed. He pulled his hands from his pockets. “You get an ‘outstanding’ and you don’t taunt me about it like I do you.”

Your brows weaved together like a basket of wool on a spindle. “I suppose you wouldn’t want me to...?” He took a second too long to reply. “Did you want me to?”

The question hung in the air like a golden apple poised to be picked and he turned to the wall beside you, as if he expected to find his answer there. “Of course not, that’s ridiculous.” He scoffed, his words sharp like the blades of a scythe.

“You think everything is ridiculous.” You retorted. “Besides, I don’t understand. You’re confronting me because I’m not mocking you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he looked away again, his mind knotty with labyrinthine thoughts. His mouth moved to speak but your words slipped before his could. “I have to get to the library.”

Behind him, more students began to file into the room, their steps light but hurried like the gentle whisper of the wind. You clasped your books tighter to your chest. “Would you like to join?”

He heard you shift your feet and thought you were reconsidering your question when he turned to you again. You still held that gentle glow in your eyes and he hated that he nearly lost himself in them—an absurd moment of weakness. You thought you saw a warmth in his own, like a hint of willingness, or maybe a spark of wonder, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

“No.” He rounded you, his lips raised in disgust.

Studying with a half-blood would be a mind-numbing exercise, like another torturous case like the Cruciatus Curse. He hated that you had even considered it. He would never waste his time with someone below him, even the thought sparked an uncomfortable shiver down his spine. Your sick proposal jabbed into his brain whenever he saw you, and he thought that was bad enough, until you joined a Quidditch team.

There’s never been a more pathetic sight than when you walked on the field, your gaze to the cloudless sky. He wanted to laugh—you, playing Quidditch? You were clumsy enough on the ground.

He dropped his feet to the ground, his broom still between his legs. “Joining the team, eh?” His lips raised into his characteristic sneer. “I don’t see how you could possibly beat me.”

You turned your head with his words, your eyebrows raised in merriment. “I don’t need to beat you; this is just for fun.” You can’t recall a time when Draco didn’t want to challenge you.

His mouth curled into an entertained frown. “Is that a Nimbus 2000?” He gestured to the broomstick in your hand.

“It is.” You twirled it. “Pretty, isn’t it? I might consider painting it as well. Maybe a green?” You smiled with a joking sweetness. “For when Slytherin loses, don’t want to hurt their ego too much, do we?”

He was a little taken aback by your remark, but he couldn’t deny that he found your challenge humorous. “Slytherin, losing?” He laughed with a tilt of his head.

“How about a race then? You and I, for the Golden Snitch.” His grey eyes were firm, and his lips upturned into a daring smirk. “The one who catches it first wins. What do you say?”

“What’s in it for me?”

His eyes sparkled with mischief. “We’ll see if you win.”

“And what about for you, what would you want?”

“For you to admit that I’m superior.”

Students gathered to the field, all adorn in their respective uniform and magical badges on their hearts. Draco’s name sparkled more often on their chests than yours, and he smirked with a haughty tilt of his chin. He was confident it would prick your nerves, so the Slytherin flew over, his hair flowing with the wind like the silver feathers of a Pegasus.

“See, I am superior to you.” He sniggered.

Your head shook. “I doubt it, they don’t know what I’m capable of just yet.” Your tone dripped sweetly with poison, like the honeyed words of the serpent Python. No one hated you; they were just a little less expectant of your skills in Quidditch, you were sure of it.

Draco pulled his lips together in an amused frown. “Right, let’s see what you’ve got.”

The Snitch was raised by Marcus Flint, the golden sphere in his fingers like a prize for superiority. The wings unravelled from their place to flail in the air, and it shone intimidatingly between yourself and your rival.

Marcus, on the edge of his broom, flashed his vile teeth. “Close your eyes,” he commanded. The both of you did, letting the Golden Snitch tour its way around the huge field. “Now, open! Start!” He flew away from the scene just as you and Draco opened your eyes.

Your heads twisted and turned in search for the golden bug, eyes narrowed between the crowd, below your feet, and above your heads. Until there it was, flying freely near the Gryffindors. You sped first, your head tilted to fight the air resistance. Draco was on your tail a second after, his hands tight around his broom as he fought to speed passed you.

“Don’t think you have the upper hand.” He laughed, his voice loud against the strong wind. He flew by quickly, his platinum hair flowing freely behind him.

The two of you raced, neck and neck, towards the Snitch. Draco kept his lips between his teeth as he glided, his broom making sharp turns and sudden spirals towards the bug, as it flew erratically like a crazed Phoenix.

The competition was intense, the rush from the chase filling your lungs with an excitement that gave a natural high. The crowd cheered as you dashed through the air, surprised at your pace against an experienced seeker. They jumped and joyously screamed as the two of you flew to the golden ball.

The Snitch seemed to flicker in the sun, tempting you and Draco to close the gap and claim the win. The platinum blond was focused, his gaze narrowed like lasers and movements precise as he grew closer.

You neared each other, arms out and the tension high. The crowd held their collective breath, waiting to catch the win. With every turn and twist of your broom, Draco matched your speed. Despite his closing pale body, your determined eyes remained on the ball.

With a burst of speed, you brushed against him and shoved his body aside. You soared through the air, fingers out to the ball. Only a little closer…

Your fingers barely grazed it, until finally, you clenched it in your grasp. You held the Snitch and its golden glow shimmered in the sun. The entire crowd erupted in a chorus of cheers as they threw their Draco badges to the floor. You had won.

A sigh of disbelief left your throat as you turned to your opponent. Draco had no words to express his lost, nor could he find his speech when you playful winked at him. His cheeks flushed with a faint pink.

He felt silly blushing at something he’d already seen. You’d winked at him before, but this time, it made him feel vulnerable. And as you turned to the crowd, your eyes gentle and smile wide, the feeling began to consume him. It was almost compelling, the sight of you proud without any irritation on your features. He wanted to hate it— ‘that’s a bloody half-blood you’re looking at’ he wanted to say.

But the wind ruffled your hair, the warm sun kissed against your skin, and you had won. He was meant scoff and roll his eyes, but instead, he felt a strange sort of admiration.

And now, as he watched the light dance in your eyes, he felt a stirring in his chest that he couldn’t explain. He wanted to look away—to find a reason to, but he couldn’t. There was something addictive with the way your hair billowed in the wind, and he was sure that even if he was to swim in the banks of the river Lethe, your smile wouldn’t erase from his memory.

Then, following that—and he wished he never would have to admit—he began to notice things that he hadn’t before. He memorised the way your lips would part, and you would facepalm whenever you’d say the wrong answer in class. He noticed how you would fiddle with your fingers—though he wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or just a bored habit.

He admired your different hairstyles from a distance. You’d change it every day, but he found it the prettiest whenever you would braid it. He loved the way the strands would interweave like wool on a spindle, and the way it would reflect the light whenever the sun grazed you.

His words began to trip at the sight of you. So even when you had surpassed his grade in Charms, he kept his lips sealed. It was embarrassing enough to admit to himself that he found you somewhat pretty and it would be even more so if he was to stutter in your face. So slowly, his banter towards you died.

“Malfoy?”

You approached him one day, on a weekend when everyone would be heading off to Hogsmeade. He was sitting on a bench by the fountain outside, his legs relaxed and eyes focused on nothing in particular.

“You coming to Hogsmeade as well?” Your voice was gentle as ever, although it was never really harsh even when you threw playful insults at him.

He raised his gaze. There was something unfamiliar with the way he looked at you now, but you supposed it was the way the sun hit his grey irises.

“Yes.” It’s all he says, like the time you had asked if he wanted to join you in the library.

“I heard Blaise is there already, why aren’t you with him now?”

He blinked. He wanted to hate the way your voice played gracefully like a lyre. “He’s with a girl.”

His responses were short—something you wished you could understand. Nothing was the same after the race, and you weren’t sure it was because you had won.

“Are you alright? Did I do something wrong?”

There it was again, that gentleness in your voice that would make him weak in the knees these days. He was grateful he was sitting then because otherwise his legs would buckle beneath him.

“No.”

You looked aside briefly, trying to find the words that might comfort him. There were butterflies where you gazed, and they fluttered their wings around gracefully like a dance against the wind. You remembered when Professor Lupin had said they were a symbol of new beginnings, and that memory brought an idea to your mind.

“I’m asking you to join me to Hogsmeade.” You told him. “Please come with me.” You wanted it to sound like a kind command, to which he had no choice but to accept.

He raised a brow at your proposal, hesitant. “Draco?”

You’d never said his name so gently before. It was always filled with a hint of tease, or a slight annoyance, but as you stood in front of him in the daring sun, your voice played like a plead.

He considered it. The two of you had never exchanged a proper conversation before; maybe you would embarrass yourself and his weird feelings would wash away. You were pretty, that’s all, and maybe after this, he would think otherwise. His dumb feelings would disappear and everything would be back to normal.

The corners of his mouth raised slightly. “Okay.”

The two of you walked together, soundlessly awkward smiles on your lips and minds whirled with sweet joy. You both tried to hide your enjoyments, looking away from each other as you made your way into The Three Broomsticks.

“Is it good?” You sat across from him, at a wooden booth inside of the store.

His forehead creased with slight disappointment as he licked foam from his lips. “I should’ve asked for less cider.” He tightened his fingers around his Butterbeer.

“Try mine, I asked for less sugar.” You pushed your drink forwards, offering a gentle smile.

He had never shared a food or drink with anyone—it wasn’t something he was accustomed to. His mother had always told him the proper etiquette to decline, but as you offered him your drink, he couldn’t deny.

He brought the cup to his lips and took a small sip. It was better than his, less sweet like he prefers most things. He gave a nod.

“This one’s better. Mine tastes like Honeydukes melted as one and put into a cup.” He pulled his lips up into his familiar scowl, but there was a playful charm in it now.

You grabbed his cup and pushed yours closer to him. “Take mine, I’ll drink yours.” He didn’t reply to your offering before you pulled his cup to your lips.

He chuckled lightly when you pulled it away and a white foam formed around your mouth like a moustache. “You remind me of that Muggle.” He said, his teeth peering from behind his lips.

 Your eyebrows knitted together. “What?”

“That Muggle. The one with the white moustache and beard?”

“There are a lot of those — are you referring to Santa Claus?” There’s a chuckle of disbelief that followed your words. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know his name?”

He parted his lips about to defend himself, when a figure crossed behind you, and a scowl fell onto Draco’s features. His grey eyes rose and fell with disdain.

“Potter.” He spat with a roll of his eyes. “Let’s get out of here.” He stood from the wooden seat, his eyes still following Harry behind you with irritation.

You wiped your lips with the back of your sleeve. “But we haven’t finished our Butterbeer.”

Draco gripped your arm as he slipped by you, pulling you with him as he exited the bar. You followed him with hurried steps as you tried to match his longer strides.

“You know, it’s not every day that I can have a butterbeer, Malfoy. I had to save those galleons to earn such a prize.” You spoke.

He continued to walk until he could barely see The Three Broomsticks behind him. “I’ll buy you a Butterbeer next time. I’ll even buy you two if it means I never have to see Potter again.” He released his grip from your arm.

“What do hate about him so much?”

“He’s irritating.”

You decided not to argue with him. “Fair.”

Not long after, the pair of you set foot into Honeydukes, the coolness of the air brushing against your cheeks as you entered. It smelt of vanilla and chocolate with a hint of baking pastries.

Draco followed closely behind as you ventured the store, his eyes scanning the shelves along with you. He didn’t enjoy sweets as much, but he couldn’t deny that he found your company nice. So, he only watched as you admired the colours and wacky flavours displayed.

He picked up a string of liquorice. “You enjoy this stuff?” He asked with a slight distaste in his tone.  “This is all just sugar.”

He dropped the lolly as you shrugged. “I haven’t tried any of these. Well, besides that disgusting liquorice that Blaise offered me.” Your fingers curled around the pentagonal box of a Chocolate Frog packet.

“Blaise talks to you?”

You turned your head slightly with a furrow of your eyebrows. “Of course Blaise talks to me. Why shouldn’t he?”

His grey eyes sank into yours. “It’s not like we’re rivals.” You continued, dropping the packet back onto the shelf as you turned your body towards him.

“I’m not implying that you and I are,” you added for clarification. “I’m just asking, is it that difficult to understand that I can be friends with your friends as well?”

Draco’s lips raised with a slight amusement. “Your choice of words insinuates that we’re rivals.” He plays with the end of his sleeve. “Besides, Blaise never talked about you, so I assumed you two never got along. Don’t get offended when I barely offered a reply.”

Your mouth dropped a little with embarrassment. “I’m not offended.” Your toned raised. “I’m just clarifying, that’s all.”

“Then don’t.”

You pursed your lips. “Okay then.”

He looked down at you with a glint in his eyes, a dumbfounded expression plastered on his face. Your hair fell against your cheeks when you lowered your gaze, and his lips curled upwards slightly. For a moment, you wondered if he was going to speak, but he only looked away with a faint blush.

You turned away as well, finding your focus on the colours of the sweets again. He watched from a distance, trying to keep his gaze calculated so he didn’t look at you for too long. But whenever you lingered over a treat for a beat too long, he found it impossible not to catch a glimpse of you. His lips would always tug into a small smile, almost as if you were a secret between the two of you.

His grey eyes caught you again when you spoke. “They have lollipops?” You scooped into the colourful mix of lollies. “I haven’t had a lollipop in years!”

Draco considered a thought. “Do you want one?” He moved closer and grazed his fingers against the glass bowl of sweets.

“Yes I’d love one, but maybe next time.” You smiled at him, your eyes shining delicately below the lanterns of the store. “I spent too much already on that Butterbeer—that I didn’t get to finish by the way.” Your smile widened with your words, a joking tone playing on your tongue.

Draco bit his lip to stop a grin, but there was an obvious rise in his cheeks. He doesn't understand how he brought himself to be so rude to you, you were so endearing. You moved around him to reach a case of chocolates, when he picked the glass bowl of lollipops from its stand.

“Draco, what are you doing?” He ignored you as he pulled the crystal casing closer to his chest, a sense of determination on his face.

He dropped the bowl onto the front counter. “These.” The cashier looked at him with a face of distress before she began to count the lollipops.

“You’re going to eat all of that?” You asked once you stood beside him. You were in disbelief as he continued to snatch chocolates and other sweets from below the counter and the shelves behind him.

“No, you will.” He said nonchalantly. He picked a chocolate from another shelf. “Did you want these as well?” He barely let you reply before he stacked the packets and dropped it onto the counter.

Your mouth parted. “You’re absurd, put it back. I can’t eat all of that.” You reached over, in an attempt to move the lollies away, when he stopped you.

His fingers wrapped around your forearm. “You can. It’s my treat for the butterbeer you didn’t finish.”

“This is worth way more than just a Butterbeer, Draco.”

A smile slipped onto his cheeks when you said his name. “It’s my treat then.” He pulled his hand away. “For being such an ass to you.”

You dragged your lip beneath your teeth to contain a grin as Draco scanned the woman behind the counter. “My father will pay for this, I’m sure you know who that is.” She nodded in return, pushing the lollies into a bag before handing it to him.

Draco grabbed the plastic and turned to the door with a smirk. He looked at you from his side. “Let’s try the lollipops you wanted so bad.” He took a few steps in front as you stalled.

“I didn’t want them ‘so bad’!”

“Yeah, whatever.” You laughed as you ran towards him, mouth wide with joy, and eyes shaped like crescent moons.

“You still owe me something for winning the race, though. This doesn’t count!”

“Yeah, alright.” He turned to you with a soft gaze, his face adorned by a delicate smile. You couldn’t recall a time when he'd smiled so gently.

“Want to race to the castle?” You asked, pulling your lip beneath your teeth. The sight made his heart stutter, and the playful tone of your voice made him weaker still. He nodded, and without warning, you took off—your hair flowing freely behind you.

He followed right after, the bag still in his hands as he approached from behind. The sun cast a soft, golden glow around you like an eclipse, highlighting your form in a warm, comforting light. The sun setting over the horizon was breathtaking, but your silhouette in front of it made it all the more captivating, and Draco knew then that beauty was much more than just his jewels.

He had always thought of beauty in abstract terms. It was something for the muggles to fawn over, not something that a pure-blood like him needed to concern himself with. He was accustomed to things being a certain way, and he knew it was foolish, to suddenly find the appeal in something so absurd; to fall for someone who was deemed lower than him. But he couldn’t help it, he was drawn to you, like a moth to a flame.

"Beauty is symmetry," Aristotle had said.  But for Draco, beauty was more. It was a feeling, a sensation that he couldn't quite explain. It was the way the sun caught your hair at just the right angle, the way you laughed.

Suddenly, beauty was the sound of parchment, the smell of butterbeer and Honeydukes, and the scene of the sun setting over the horizon. You were like a breath of fresh air, like the sunlight after a storm. Suddenly, he understood why everyone fell to your feet.

For the first time in his life, Draco realised that beauty wasn't only a fleeting moment of time, nor was it something that could be defined, it was something that existed beyond words. It was a feeling, a sensation, that he couldn't really understand. But he knew it when he saw it, when he felt it.

And he knew that he was falling in love with you.

[peaceoutofthepieces]

5 and jerejean for the kiss thing? 🥺🥺🥺

you chose a different kind of violence and i respect it (thank you thank you thank you)

5. Romantic (Tender) Kiss

Jean Moreau was not soft, but Jeremy had not expected him to be. Of all the rumours he'd heard, he'd always thought this one most likely to be true. You could not play a sport like exy, with a team like the Ravens, under the lead of someone like Riko Moriyama, and remain soft.

It was hardly surprising. Jeremy was often assumed to be soft, because it was something kindness was often mistaken for, but even for him it was not entirely true. There were parts of him that were hardened into a protective shell, and parts of him that were splintered and rough, same as anyone else. But he could not deny his softness in the sense of being gentle, because even at his worst he would try to be that—especially for someone like Jean.

Jean was not gentle, either. He did not try for softness in any sense. His insides were brittle and bitter; his outside was scarred and tough; his manner was sharp and blunt. Jeremy was in parts soft, and in hopes gentle, but Jean had been scourged of such customs.

What remained, though, was tenderness.

Jeremy had been surprised the first time Jean kissed him, for how tender it was. He'd been waiting for the aggression Jean often showed on the court, or for the violence that tended to drip from his tongue when he spoke, but the way Jean had cradled Jeremy's face and pressed them together could not be described as anything other than tender.

Now, Jeremy understood how to return it when Jean needed it.

Catching when Jean needed it was upsettingly easy. The storm cloud that had accompanied him all day, for instance, was one way of knowing.

It made it easy to follow Jean to his room—their room, really, now, considering the two narrow beds they'd crammed in and how much more frequently Jeremy stayed here, rather than his parents' house, because he could, because he was allowed, because Jean wanted him there and that made it more of a home than anywhere Jeremy had ever lived before—and pull him in.

Jean came without resistance. His towering frame tucked itself in to reach more of Jeremy's touch as Jeremy slid a hand over the back of his neck. Jean's hands, large and calloused, fit themselves around the dips of Jeremy's waist, smooth and easy in contrast to the stuttery breath that fell out of him. Not a careful touch, but a caring one, not light or gentle but tender, always tender.

Jeremy drew him down, slid his other hand over Jean's cheek, and stretched until they were pressed together. Even toe-to-toe, chest-to-chest, Jean pushed closer. He rested his forehead against Jeremy's and shuddered, his eyes drifting shut.

"Alright, Jean?" Jeremy asked, the French vowels falling from his tongue with more ease after months of practice.

Jean's lips quirked. "Alright, Jeremy."

Jean's accent curled around Jeremy's name, and Jeremy's chest tightened predictably. He stroked his thumb over Jean's cheekbone, pressed it to the stark black outline of a flower petal, and drew him into a kiss.

Jeremy corrected himself; Jean's lips may have been the one part of him that was soft. And though he was tough, he was malleable, molding to the shaping of Jeremy's hands with little pressure. Jeremy kept his touch firm, still, because Jean liked to feel it, but tender, always tender.

Jean nudged his nose against Jeremy's, the quirk of his lips curling almost into a smile, and Jeremy ached. Because this, whatever they had and whatever they were, might have been soft, but if it was not, it was only so they would feel it all the better.

send me a number + ship

[gunnrblze]

Soft dom Elias, anyone?

1250k words, NSFW, light dom/sub stuff, gn reader

The man is a natural leader, perfect for his job. And for another sort of job.

He’s normally rather laidback. Calm, cool, and collected. So when he meets you, the personification of a wildfire, he’s both amused and obsessed. Thinks you’re everything and then some.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves your intensity, your passion. However, you do need to be reigned in sometimes. And he loves the task all the same. He’s used to people squaking at him so he understands if you need a bit of a firm hand, he really doesn’t mind, sweetheart.

You hardly notice it at first, how he slowly and smoothly directs your attention when you crack an attitude with him.

“Yeah? Tell me about it, sweetie” he lets you rant at him, standing in front of you with his thick arms crossed over his chest. Head cocked as he looks at you, a hand coming up to nonchalantly smooth over your hair, nodding as you yap at him.

He cares to hear what you have to say, truly. But he also knows you probably haven’t eaten in a few hours, and that you’ve been annoyed with work lately. So his hand drops to your shoulder, smoothing a rough thumb over your collarbone. He watches your eyes flash with some kind of thought as he simply indulges your bitter passionate rant.

You still, raising an eyebrow, and he smiles softly.

“Gettin on your nerves, am I?” His words are honeyed and smooth, and he doesn’t miss the way your face drops as you struggle to understand his reaction. It only makes him smirk a bit more.

“Yeah, smartass, you are! I just said-“ you’ll try to regain your energy, but you’re stopped with the timber of his voice.

“I heard ya, honey” he reassures, hand coming down to your hip, wrapping an arm around your waist. He pulls you closer to him, nodding. “Real bothered with me, aren’t you?” The silkiness of his voice penetrates that simmering annoyance lighting your nerves.

He sits down in a nearby chair, pulling you down into his lap. You grumble and roll your eyes but the hand on your lower back, ushering you down with him, is solid. A weight that guides you without hesitation or question. It wasn’t forceful, but it wasn’t a negotiation.

You’re a little confused, and he knows it, watching your mouth open again to ask what the hell he’s doing. But there’s a hand on your upper thigh now, and a muscular arm wrapped unyieldingly around your waist, anchoring you down on his widespread thighs.

“Think you’re a bit worked up, is that it?” He asks, his voice lacking the condescension that would usually lace a question like that. His hand rubs over your thigh, gliding up and down as he watches you roll those pretty eyes again, huffing at him.

He feels your body relax more into his frame, but you’re still a bit rigid, pent up. He was understanding of your feelings, keeping you in place as you attempted to continue your silly ranting. But your voice had pitched down, tone melting a bit. Even more sarcasm lacing your words.

A kiss is pressed to your temple as you speak, and another to your cheek. You can smell the musk of his body, mixing with the scent of aftershave. It floods your senses a bit, slowing your words once more as you ramble about something he wasn’t even sure you could discern the cause of anymore.

The arm around your waist squeezes your side gently, and that hand on your thigh rubs a bit too close to your crotch, body unable to not react. Leaning into him a bit more, sensations fluttering pleasantly through your lower half.

“Mm, it’s alright, hon…you were saying?” He prompts you to keep mouthing off to him, smooth voice laced with a challenge he knew you wouldn’t take.

You sigh, those eyes rolling back another time before the flat of his palm runs down your inner thigh, thumb brushing against your groin. Your lower back arches on instinct, hips canting up against the touch as you bite the inside of your lip, cheeks heating up a little at the look on his face.

Neutral. So neutral, yet resolute as he swiftly challenges that haughty little attitude. His governing demeanor smoking out the flame that had lit you up.

He watches any remaining words die on your lips though as his hand parts your thighs slightly, fingers running over your sensitive area making you tingle even more than you already had been. You’re fixed into his lap, held in place steadily as he watches you stifle a little noise.

You forgot what you’d originally been up in arms over, frissons of heat running through you at his increasingly firm touch. You almost wanted to start up again, let him know that you know exactly what he’s doing now…

And boy if he didn’t practically see the thought cross your mind, fingers pressing right up against where you needed them most, starting to rub a quiet whimper out of you.

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” It wasn’t mocking, but knowing. He’d lulled you into docility without you even realizing, without him having to think twice.

Natural, you tried to think through the throbbing feeling his fingers were causing. You knew his methods of getting soldiers back in line was much more gruff and blistering than how he was treating you, and the thought of the Captain putting you in your place made your body react even more.

“That’s it, muchhh better” he’d practically coo at you as he touched you, arm not surrendering its firm hold around your waist.

You bit your lip as your attitude fully extinguished itself, cheeks heating up even more as you tried not to squirm atop his large thighs. He grunted lowly as you did so anyways, your rear rubbing right against his crotch.

“Just needed some attention, hm? Talk to me” he’d probe as your body got lost in the feeling, moaning softly as you tried not to grind against his hand.

You simply nodded, breathing having gotten heavier as his touch did, your ass pressed flush to the growing bulge in his pants.

“Use your words, darling, or I’m sure we can find another use for this pretty mouth, don’t you think?” he’d murmur into your ear, the hand on your side coming up to brush his fingers over your lips, gently parting them.

You let his finger slip into your mouth, earning a groan from the man as you nodded, cheeks burning as he coaxed you into surrender even more, turning you into a pliable, moaning little thing in his lap.

“Yes sir” you answered around the thickness of his fingertip without even thinking, lips wrapping around it as he continued his touch. And oh, if that response didn’t earn you a deep groan from the man’s throat. He swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing as he gently eased his finger into your mouth.

You sucked on his finger easily, moaning around the intrusion as your hand came up to steady yourself on his forearm. You couldn’t stop yourself from grinding against his hand between your thighs, feeling his bulge harden even more under the swell of your ass.

“There you go, sweetie. You’re so good for me, aren’t you?” His voice was deeper, growing hungrier as he slipped another finger into your mouth, letting you suckle the both of them. You nodded, eyes fluttering as your lower half throbbed.

“Why don’t we give you something else to put in this bratty mouth, hm?”

[draculasfavoritewife]

I'd Give Up My Spot In Heaven (For A Moment In Hell With You)

Summary: Being the Devil's partner is more difficult some nights than others, and no one makes it harder on the both of you than Lucifer himself.

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x fem!Reader

Warnings: Brief depictions of smoking and alcohol use, themes of depression and self-hatred, guilt; discussions of death (but a good ending, never fear). And of course implied smut because this beautiful man has me constantly thinking some very unholy things.

If I had to choose one single TV show that changed my life and has so powerfully influenced my recent adulthood, it would definitely be the Lucifer Netflix series. I could write semesters' worth of essays on just how beautifully crafted the character is and what a stunning actor Tom Ellis is. Someday I really need to write more fic for him because truly, in my opinion Lucifer is one of THE Characters of All Time and I'm so utterly in love with him it makes me look stupid.

*I wrote this with the thought that it takes place sometime during the events of Season 2, definitely before the return of his wings

The flutter of uncharacteristically cold silk sheets brushing across your flesh wakes you with a silent gasp. Frowning, you grope blindly in the darkness, reaching out in vain for your usual heat source but grasping only more folds of empty, luxurious fabric.

You’re alone.

And the bed feels suddenly far too vast and lonesome for one body to occupy. 

After a few heartbeats of mildly distressed thrashing about, you finally open your eyes and sit up, pulling the unmoored sheets up around your bare chest and searching for him in the dark. The penthouse is quiet, full of shadows draping languorously across the furniture and expensive art, hiding the familiar contours of his elegant bedroom from view. 

He’s not there. 

He’s left you alone in his bed, something he really only does when his mind is torturing him too much, so he resorts back to his oldest tried-and-true method of dealing with pain — avoidance. 

Which means he’s in pain out there somewhere. Your beloved fallen angel is afflicted with some hurt that strikes too deep for him to rest tonight.

And you don’t want him to remain like that until morning. 

With a sigh, you rise from the empty bed and shrug into the button-up shirt he tossed onto the night table only several hours before. Though he often offers the whites to you, you always prefer the black ones instead, these garments that seductively wrap your form like soft night shadows, the scent of his cologne heavily amplified without a light to distract your other senses. Your bare feet make hardly any sound on the cool floor as you stumble your way into the main living area, eyes slowly adjusting to the dim. 

There he is. 

He hasn’t gone far, sitting slouched forward at the piano, a nearly empty whiskey tumbler within easy reach and soft smoke curling upward from the lit cigarette held between his long fingers. By the array of still-glowing stumps littering the nearby ashtray, it’s not his first one of the night, either. He only chain-smokes when he’s really worked up, so you approach him cautiously, halting a couple of feet from his left side.

His endless dark eyes are focused impossibly far away, haunted and cold, and they don’t so much as even flicker in your direction as you hover there, uncertain of how to catch his attention. 

“Go back to bed, Darling. I’ll be along eventually.” 

His voice is as smooth and lovely as ever, but the detached undertone running like bitter poison beneath sends a tiny shiver up the back of your neck. 

“What’s wrong, Love?” 

He doesn’t reply, and you would almost wonder if he didn’t hear you at all, save for the agitated clenching and unclenching of his chiseled jaw. Restless fingers tap a dusting of ash from the end of the cigarette, shoving it back between full lips for another irritated drag of smoke into his immortal lungs. 

He did hear.

So you choose to wait, settling on the end of the piano bench beside him, though not quite close enough to touch. 

Smoke jets from his nostrils, its acrid scent burning the back of your throat. 

“Nothing’s wrong. Just up for an impromptu nightcap, Sweetheart.” He immediately contradicts his casual claim by abruptly tossing back the rest of his whiskey and rising for a refill. You watch his silhouette as he looms over his private bar to replenish his drink.

Even when all of the details are hidden, he’s still utterly captivating, the sleek planes of his toned body sharply outlined by the faint light bleeding from the windows. 

“You don’t drink like that for a nightcap.” You absently brush your fingertips across a simple chord on the piano keys. “You can talk to me, about whatever’s on your mind. You know that.” 

“Did I ASK you to play the part of my therapist?” his dark shape snarls, another billow of nicotine smoke accentuating his sudden anger. 

You turn so you’re facing him, though you still can’t make out his face.

He feels safer that way, hidden in the dark. 

The Devil may be an excellent actor, but those damned beautiful eyes have always given him away to you, and he has the nasty suspicion they’re a bit too glossy at the moment for his comfort. 

You sigh softly. “Don’t think of it that way, then. I’m not here to analyze and dissect you. But you haven’t been sleeping well lately.” You hold up your hands to stall the protest you know is coming. “And I know you probably don’t need it the same way I do. But you hold everything in, and you bury it so deep, Lucifer. There will only ever be more and more piling on top if you don’t let it out sometime.” 

He huffs, a harsh burst of scornful laughter. Drawing closer again, he towers over you, tall and forbidding, eyes briefly flashing crimson through the shadows cast across his face.

“And just how do you suggest I go about that, hmm? I don’t exactly have my trust in others positively reinforced that often.” 

You’re very well aware of his profound trust issues, but that one hurts. “That's not fair, Lucifer. When have I ever given you reason to doubt me? When have I ever done anything except stand by you?” 

“You haven’t! But that’s the lovely part about you humans, isn’t it? I can watch and listen and taste and think I’ve figured out exactly how you work, and then every single time, something extraordinary happens and I realize I’ve predicted wrong again! There’s no rhyme or reason to you!” He tears away from you, pacing and agitated. “And bloody Hell, I’m TIRED of finally letting down my walls for you people only to be trampled upon again and again.” 

No knife blade could cut quite so deep and sharp, and for a moment, you’re left completely speechless at the implication that you would ever betray him. But you heard the way his voice broke at the peak of his rant, the shuddering sound of his ragged breaths, so for the moment you swallow your own hurt and focus on his.

He needs you right now, whether he recognizes it or not. 

“Okay. You're right. We have been — we still are — so very unfair to you, Love. I know that. I’m sorry you’re still seen as the villain; I’m so sorry for all of it. And I know your own family only continues to betray your trust as well. I am —” you clear your throat, your own voice wavering slightly now. “— I am sorry you never had anyone truly on your side, Lucifer. I can’t imagine what that’s like.” 

His frenzied pacing stops; he approaches you again, footsteps suddenly tentative. “Why do they all do it?”

You’re not sure you’ve ever heard his voice so soft, so uncertain.

“Why, after all of the chances I give them, does everyone still think it’s such a grand time to undermine and manipulate me whenever they get the chance?” 

You stand, and ever so slowly bring your hands up to cradle his handsome, angular face. “They all have their own reasons, my Darling. Please….” 

You’re not quite sure what you’re pleading him for, but the utter despair overflowing from those fathomless eyes twists your heart even harder than his outburst from before. 

“It isn’t you,” you whisper fiercely, recognizing the all-too-familiar desolation of his intense self-hatred surfacing. “Luce, Angel, it’s never been you. I promise.” 

“Why can’t I make anyone happy?” he asks in a broken whisper. He’s letting you closer; you can feel his smoky breath ruffling your sleep-tossed hair, and the heat rising from his bare torso in front of you.

Your hands hesitantly drift from his face, caressing the smooth expanse of his chest before trailing around to his back. He flinches, a minuscule twitch as your fingertips gently find their way to catch in the wide, roughened furrows there — the enormous crescent scars that are all that remain of his beautiful wings. 

You order your thoughts, taking a breath to let your own inner tumult dissipate, and inhale the scent of him, that blend of too-expensive cologne edged with just enough of the whiskey and smoke to be enthralling and not overpowering. It reminds you once more, in this moment, of just how deeply you love this tortured angel, your King without a crown, and how you chose to do so even knowing there would be nights like this, times when he tried to push you away. 

He deserves to have someone on his side no matter what, even when he’s difficult. 

“You make me happy.” 

His mouth opens, no doubt to argue that, but you press on before he can speak. “Do you remember the night you finally took the chance and showed me your devil face?” 

He nods, reluctant and suspicious. 

“Do you remember what I did?” 

His eyes narrow and he tilts his head to one side, thinking. “I remember…what you didn’t do. You didn’t scream. Or try to run away, or just sit there staring at me like you were going to explode. You were…startled, of course, but you…accepted it?” 

“I did. I do. Do you know why?” 

He shakes his head mutely, those eyes wide and glimmering with interest now as he stares back into yours, searching for the answer. 

“Because it’s you. Devil, angel, man, monster, whatever you want to call yourself — none of that matters to me, because all of it is just names, decorations over the Lucifer I fell in love with. And that…being…cares — so deeply — about people, even though he claims he doesn’t. He sacrifices so much for others, even as he calls himself selfish. And —” you gently shush him so you can finish before he tries to deflect, “— the way others treat him does hurt him, though he puts up a good act. I know that’s why he tries to push away the people who love him. I understand.” 

A barely perceptible shudder runs through his skin, and he looks away from you for a moment. He’s still not always used to anyone but Dr. Martin being able to read him that well, but he’s relieved that you can. Anyone else in this close of a relationship with him would have probably thrown in the towel long before now. 

After a moment, powerful arms pull you in tight to his body, solidly encircling your form. His breathing slows; the comforting sensation of his agile hands stroking your back brings a smile to your lips. 

“Now, what else is wrong?” you whisper. 

A long sigh rocks you against his chest. “I saw their faces in my dreams again. Relived their pain…. I’m left wondering again if there wasn’t anything I could have done to — well. I suppose I’m saying I still feel responsible.” 

You let your eyes flutter shut against him, soothingly massaging his scars and feeling the tense muscles in his back let go one by one.

“Who, Luce?” 

He swallows hard above your head, allowing himself a moment to compose his voice before speaking their names aloud. “Delilah. Jana. Father Frank.” 

People who once meant something to him, people who died violent deaths that he wishes he could have protected somehow.

Or had maybe never met in the first place.

His fingertips dig into your skin through his shirt, and you know exactly where his tormented mind is going, the fear that everyone he cares about will end up hurt or dead eventually. 

He can’t have that happen to you. 

“They all made their own choices, Love. Delilah and Jana were attached to their lifestyles and knew it might catch up with them or go wrong someday. Father Frank loved so fiercely he would have chosen the same fate for himself a hundred times over. I know it’s…difficult, for you — for any of your family — to comprehend, but we 'insignificant humans' do have things in this life we are willing to take risks for. Even die for.” You huff a quiet laugh, burying yourself even further in the warmth of his skin. 

“What would you die for?” 

The honest, blunt question takes you by surprise. There’s none of his usual banter or teasing preceding it. When you pull back to meet his eyes, you see the look of earnest interest on his face, his dark brows drawn together with the force of his desire to understand. 

It’s not a difficult answer. 

“You, Lucifer. What we have. That’s what I would die for.” 

His gaze feels like it’s piercing all the way into the most vulnerable parts of your soul, searching for any sign of why you would do so. 

Then his focus suddenly flits away again; for a heartbeat, pain settles into the lines of his face before it clears as quickly as it appeared. 

“I was thinking about Uriel, too.” 

It feels like there’s suddenly no air in your lungs. He hasn’t really brought up what happened with his younger brother to you except in passing. You know how much that whole situation wrecked him, but though you ached to let him know he could talk to you about it, you also knew it hurt far too much, so you merely supported him silently through his despair-fueled run of alcohol, drugs, and raging parties, hoping that one day he would realize he could trust you with the full weight of it. 

Perhaps he finally has. 

“I was thinking about him, and how I — I killed my brother, Darling. I took the Blade of Azrael and plunged it right into him without a second thought. What kind of —” he takes a choppy breath, swallows again; when he continues, his voice is barely more than a whisper.

“What kind of monster does that make me, Love?” 

You ponder your reply as your fingers travel up to his face once more, feeling the well-loved scratch of his perpetually perfect five-o-clock shadow as you caress his jaw.

He leans ever so slightly into your touch as he waits for your next words, somewhat reassured by the intimate contact that they won’t be damning. 

“Uriel would have killed the detective. And he would have killed your mother.” Your own voice is firm, certain in your assessment. “You looked out for your own. You gave him so many chances to back off, and he didn’t. In a way, even Uriel made his own choice in the end.” You gaze back up into his eyes, noting how vulnerable he looks here in this moment through the shining veil of tears that even now refuse to fall.

“Don’t blame yourself for your brother’s death anymore, Lucifer.” 

“But I’d never taken a life before.” His lips press together into a hard line, their sweeping curves disappearing momentarily into grief. “And to have my first be him?” 

“I know.” You push yourself into him again, trailing soft kisses across his collarbone. “And I’ll never know what you’re going through. But I’m here. I’m always here. And we can talk all about it whenever you need. I’m not going anywhere. I love you.” 

You can’t quite tell if he’s crying or not as he fiercely folds you into his grasp, as close as the two of you can possibly hold each other. But you stay like that for a very long time, swaying gently back and forth, no sound audible save for the breaths and beating hearts of the Devil and his human lover. 

Eventually, he is the one to pull away, retreating back to the bar and picking up his drink from where he set it down before. His cigarette has long since gone out, but he makes no move to light another. You can tell by the loose set of his shoulders that his self-inflicted torture is easing for now, and as it passes, your own body wearily reminds you of how late — or early? — it is, and that it would much rather be in bed. 

“Go back to bed, Darling.” There’s real warmth in Lucifer’s voice now as he repeats his words from before.

“I’ll be along eventually.” 

So you do, still wearing his shirt, and drift in and out of lonely dreams until the mattress finally dips beside you, heralding his along-waited arrival. 

“Still awake?” He clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. “My scintillating company has ruined you for ever sleeping alone again, hasn’t it?” 

“Maybe.” You roll onto your back to smile up into his face. “The bed’s so cold without you.” 

He smirks, runs a teasing finger down from your lips right up to where you left the top couple buttons of the shirt strategically undone. “Well. I was a bit of an ass to you earlier, Love, and I do want to make it up to you. So.” He leans in close, that familiar look of utterly seductive, wicked mischief crossing his face.

“Tell me, what is it you want from me right now? What is that sinful, naughty little desire of yours that’s just waiting so patiently on the tip of your tongue? Go on, Sweetheart, don’t be shy.” 

“Lucifer!” You glare up into his expectant, dancing eyes as you struggle to resist his persuasion. “I’m not going to say it out loud.” 

“Oh, so it’s REALLY awful then!” He sounds shamelessly delighted as he traps you in place so you can’t possibly elude the inevitable revelation of what’s on your mind. “And how should I punish my favorite little sinner, for thinking such deliciously dirty things?” 

Unable to hold on to your resolve any longer, you pull him down over you so that you can feverishly unload your demented fantasies into his waiting ear. 

“Well, well, well.” A low chuckle vibrates deep in his chest as he kisses you, scorchingly slow. “How DO you manage to go about your day-to-day life as a seemingly normal human when your innermost thoughts are so sordid, Darling? Tell me, is it terribly difficult keeping your wicked side under wraps during daylight hours?” 

You sigh in pleasure as his mouth moves to your throat and his talented fingers start to smoothly undo the buttons of the shirt. “Only when you’re around.” 

“Is that so?” He rests his forehead against yours, a hand sweeping under the curve of your back and lifting your body up to meet his. “They do call me the tempter, I suppose. Ah, Darling, you can bet I’m going to do my very damndest to break that flawless self-restraint of yours in public one of these days. Whatever do you think people would say if that were to happen?” 

“Just shut up and punish me already,” you murmur, shivering as your skin is exposed to the chill air once more. “You’ve tortured me for long enough.” 

“Really.” He grins devilishly, sharp eyes glowing like hot embers in the dim.

“I do believe I haven’t even started.” 

[kinghe]

Mariner's Rinds 3.6k words | Wriothesley/Neuvillette tags: sexual content, dubious consent, dom/sub undertones

Happy birthday to my dearest @denimecho, my sweet cheese. My good time boy. This is fic based on his beautiful Wriollette artwork.

.

The Fortress of Meriopode: the imposing stronghold in abyssal drink, a long-standing and lone custodian. The principle of such a being meant protection for those of the outside world or a cautionary tale. Thus, the wonders of the institution were unknown to the general public and untouched by the hand of the judicial court. Insofar as it involved the affairs of the underground, it was Wriothesley’s domain. Except the Iudex stood at the threshold of his office, looking as discrepant in all his glory as he always did.

“Well,” Wriothesley said with raised brow, “this is a surprise.”

"Hello," Neuvillette stepped forward like a haze, slow and uninterrupted. 

“Hello?" Wriothesley smiled, clearly pleased, "make no mistake, I welcome you with open arms, I just can't help but notice there was no prior notice of your arrival.” He set his teacup down, “aren’t you usually very proper with such things?”

He slots his fingers in the space between Neuvillette’s neck and jaw, cold like ice, smooth like leather, and watches the way his head tilts back against Wriothesley’s shoulder in consequence. Silence. It makes the roaring in his ears sound like discomforted static and his own breathing, laboured, rolls out in sharp intervals. 

He feels Neuvillette’s heartbeat, slow, stilted, irregular, through the membrane of his own.  

“I apologise. My arrival was sudden, even to me." Neuvillette said, his voice at once cutting and balming, “I do recognise the disruption my presence here may entail. My stay won't be long.” Not a single hair out of place. Noble, and immaculate.

“Nonsense. My doors are always open to you. As a matter of fact, I feel as though I’m always asking you to stay, only to meet with your insistent departures. Please,” he gestured to the seat by his desk. “Really though, this is quite peculiar. Have you come to chide me?”

“I cannot imagine what for.”

The quiet stretched and Wriothesley replied with a mildly amused, “neither can I.”

"...In truth, my duties required me nearby, though matters were resolved quite… efficiently, to say the least. I daresay my presence was not needed.”

“Ah, the reconstitution meetings, is it?  You had to oversee that?”

Neuvillette nodded. 

“The council is ruthless.” Wriothesley chuckled despite himself. By natural inclination, Neuvillette remained the highest authority of Fontaine but the nobility would always be the first to bow to it and simultaneously undermine it.

“If I had known the gravity of their cases, I would have scheduled our times accordingly. I’m not suggesting their concerns should be disregarded, however I believe Imena to be capable on her lonesome for the time being.” He paused, as though reliving the brunt of insipid chatter, but whatever bitterness Wriothesley was searching for showed no trace. “Nevertheless, I had a great deal of time on my hands, and since my visit to Qiaoying Village, I confess I’ve made a habit of, as one would say, ‘loitering.’ As of late.”

“Oh?”

So the observer has abdicated.

“Before I knew it,” Neuvillette added, “I found myself here.”

Neuvillette’s eyes are hidden behind grey tresses but Wriothesley imagines the slits dilating, darkening. Then he imagines hardly anything. The column of Neuvillette’s neck is submerged by a faint red, giving the appearance of having drunk too much liquor. It's a hard catch in the dark yet drastic on Neuvillette's flesh; he finds it brings him down to physicality, and further into Wriothesley's handling.

He grabs Neuvillette’s wrists, holds them up and the colour travels to his ears. Wriothesley traces it with fervour. 

“Aha, how quaint. I imagine it is nothing short of a spectacle for the folk to see you out and about.”

Neuvillette looked hesitant, but Wriothesley was patient. “Regardless, I wished to ask: does your invitation for tea have an expiration date?”

“Course not, Monsieur Neuvillette.” The smile on Wriothesley’s face was unreserved, stretching easy on his face. “Way ahead of you.”

The room is warm, warm - his steel ice office has never been so humid. Neuvillette’s skin is jumping under his touch, pulling him in: teasing him out.

The tea he poured was a hearty homage to Neuvillette’s new ventures. Liyue’s specialty was herbal and demure, best suited for night, just as one was on his last ream of paperwork. Wriothesley watched with no obstacle as the mug pressed red into Neuvillette’s white palms. 

“I am not disrupting your duties, am I?”

“No no, you came at the perfect time. ” Wriothesley waved, “what is this I’m hearing about loitering?”

“Well, it is still quite rare that I do. My duties occupy me for the majority of the day, and I have a sense that my workload will double in the near future. However,” Neuvillette said, a semblance of a frown twisting the corner of his lips, “it has come to my attention that it may prove worthwhile.”

“And what are your findings?”

“That remains to be seen, I’m afraid.” The corners of his eyes and lips rounded, becoming softer, more malleable. Those features were best blessed under the night sky, and Wriothesley’s office was kept dim for a reason.

He is clinically, accurately precise when he wants to be, but finds that its never what he wants, with Neuvillette. He can’t help but shove him into book cases, bend him over desks, pin him against limestone. Now, to the thrum of frenzy, his palm splayed on the small of Neuvillette’s back forces an arch too bowed to be painless.

For a brief moment, the intensity of his own stare was not known to him and when he came to, he almost startled. He considered winding up the gramophone but stopped himself; Neuvillette at his most serene was in the quiet. 

“It’s a good look on you.” He said, voice ahead of mind.

“Do you think so?”

Wriothesley cast his eyes away and to the far corner of his office, on a cabinet closest to the doors. It was crowned by a legal codex. He jerked his thumb in the direction of it.

“How else would this trophy of mine get to me?”

Neuvillette took a long sip of his tea, staring at the structure with bemusement. “Is it wise to have it on display like this?”

“Absolutely,” Wriothesley said, “not.” He flashed the Iudex a smile. “Its home is in the storage room, as promised. I just like taking it out sometimes.”

“That is peculiar. For what reason?”

“Of course, it reminds me…

His hunger feels like it will never be quelled. It’s been there since his creation, merely dormant. Suppressed. Deactivated. A sigh escapes Neuvillette, quiet and like a song, and Wriothesley reconsiders.

“…of my appreciation of you. Our connection if you will,”

Some part of him knows his touch is audacious, that he's treating Neuvillette too lightly, as if he were an object. As if he were a thing Wriothesley owns. But his hands are made to be on Neuvillette’s body, and he grips his shoulder, his hip, and Neuvillette stills under it. Neuvillette stays where Wriothesley puts him.

“-and the code that I must dutifully live by.”

Wriothesley clenches his jaw, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as he reminds himself: be gentle, be gentle. He shapes his consciousness back into its automated material and concentrates, until he doesn’t, and then he does what he likes. He grips Neuvillette’s hardened thigh, the tips of his fingers tracing the thin skin of the inside.

Neuvillette stared.

“And, of course, I had to have Clorinde bear witness to my earnings.”

Neuvillette gave a slow nod. “I hope it satisfied her expectations.” 

“Oh, she was very impressed by the craftsmanship.” Wriothesley rose from his seat, and moved towards the slab of stone. He picked it up with tenderness, stroked a thumb over the engraving with a fond eye. “In fact, I, myself, have started to segue into a great fondness for the arts. Finally, a fitting citizen of this country, no?”

“I highly doubt it deserves this calibre of praise." Neuvillette disagreed. "Please remember, it was conceived merely in jest.”

“Even your jokes are pristine, then.”

“I do not know what to say to that.”

Wriothesley chuckled. 

Once more, he reassessed the situation; Neuvillette, Chief Justice of Fontaine, sitting in his office, finally having some tea. He would appreciate the absurdity of it all if the man himself weren’t such a distracting contrast amongst his belongings. Timeless and stoic, unbound by teacups and velvet settees.

“Now, Monsieur Neuvillette,” Wriothesley crossed his arms, lax against his chair. “I must say, I do not hate engaging in pleasantries with you. However, it also stands that I have not yet known you to involve yourself and it makes me uneasy on how to proceed.”

“I... apologise. You are right; I was, and am, unfamiliar to the need. This a first attempt of sorts.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of those recently. Oh, let me refill that. ‘Scuse me.” 

Neuvillette reached out for the pot but Wriothesley, steeled by reflex, grabbed his wrist before he could intervene. Not unkindly. A beat, and Neuvillette’s arm went lax in Wriothesley's hold, and he grabbed the pot himself. The kettle on his worktable was the only household appliance in his office, filling the office with a muted hum.

Neuvillette is sturdy, solid and damp, and letting out a breath as a strong grip claws the meat of his breast. The curve of Neuvillette’s neck lies bare as his hair slips before his shoulders, and his steady exhales become the symphony of the evening.

Neuvillette holds himself up where Wriothesley places him, always. Idle where Wriothesley mouths at the mound of his neck and shoulder, going easily when shoved. Wriothesley pushes in and there’s a solid thump of a fist, green veins protruding from Neuvillette's pale forearms. 

He pulls him closer, pushes him back. He guides the ancient entity forward so his forearms presses into book spines as Wriothesley violates him again and again.

Wriothesley places a grip on the back of Neuvillette’s neck, perhaps to tame if he thrashes, but he is still, so still. A monument that stands solid through the passage of time, purely and painfully ornamental.

Neuvillette eventually said, “it seems to have become a curiosity of mine.”

“Very well, then.” Wriothesley smiled and switched the kettle on, “take the reins.”

Neuvillette’s lips worked around words that were silent, and then stopped moving altogether.

The articulation of those lips had been embedded in Wriothesley’s wiring the moment they delivered his verdict. When he spoke, motion was minimum, the cadence of his voice a soft imprint against ego: at once, nullifying and devastating. But if Neuvillette was careless, then call Wriothesley naive. The entity’s biggest crimes were his scarcity and fortitude.

“The process of reconstruction has posed significant challenges.” Neuvillette said after pause. The same low timbre from twenty years ago. “As you know, the termination of the Oratrice means the ease of this transition is my priority. I would like to know where you stand in all of this.”

Wriothesley laughed, “Ah, it has become work-related again. But that’s okay. I won’t be surprised when the shock dissipates and we find ourselves swamped down here too. People have already started to notice the state we’re in. You’ve read my reports, haven’t you? We are at the cusp of an interim.”

“I indeed have. It provided great clarification.”

Neuvillette's warmth all around him, a suffocation and a vice that promises to sever but Wriothesley yanks the tail of his coat out of the way and kicks his legs apart. And then takes him again. Raises him higher, higher, until Neuvillette is searching for better purchase. A grunt leaves his throat, thrust out with how hard Wriothesley’s muscles flex and then strain, and further ripples through his skin.

“And I’ve read your proposal. I stand by it.”

“I am grateful to hear that,” Neuvillette said, though the corner of his lips creased. “Fontaine has never been without an Archon. It seems I’ve misunderstood the effects of such a phenomenon.”

“This is not really a commonplace thing, though...”

“That much is irrefutable. As it stands, I have been faced with a series of novelties I may not be equipped to deal with.”

“You’re worried?”

“I would only like to enact what is best for Fontaine,” Neuvillette explained, and Wriothesley was once again reminded of a sorrowful form of a man barred of its features, staring down at him from a high throne. “It is not my capability per se, but my status that may destabilise the prospect of moderation. I am not asking for reassurance, rather, it is in that line of thinking that calls for perspectives outside of my own.”

Wriothesley hummed, pouring the tea with mechanical tenderness. “So that’s what this is about. You’ve seen the movement, haven’t you?” I thought I took care of that.

“It would be arrogant to assume there would not be any to resent my state of being.”

“Sure,” Wriothesley said, “If you ask me, it’ll be some time before it becomes an issue. Any semblance of visibility or violence right now is scoured by the loss of Focalors, and those who carry these sentiments lack the manpower and the influence. Trust me on this.”

Neuvillette spent a long time digging into his irises. Then he placed his tea back on the table. “I see now that it was reckless of me to have left.”

“You, reckless? Why, that’s not in your dictionary,” Wriothesley’s grim smile was concealed by his teacup, but Neuvillette caught onto details far faster than formalities anyway. “I actually think it best to lay low just as you are. Have a full-blown holiday, even. No one is better suited for this than you.”

His other hand plants over Neuvillette’s stomach as he forces the man back against him, the muscles tensing hard under his palm, and a shaky inhale wanes as soon as it starts. Neuvillette’s hands find Wriothesley’s wrists; all else is insufficient in holding him up. Neuvillette is — cold and tight and addictive. 

He peels back layer by layer, smoothing hands over skin, until he finds him raw and pink and ripened.

“Why do you say that?”

“The people here have grown accustomed to its idols. They are used to performance and machinations. I’m assuming you don’t intend to pick up where Miss Furina left off?”

Neuvillette blinked. “Of course not.”

“I hope I'm not overstepping my bounds with this, however you, as a public figure, are not defined by archaic concepts such as ‘justice,’” Wriothesley jerked his chin, “but duty. In you, people see the vision already, and they will see that things will not be returning to the status quo. In fact, your transparency is what the nation needs right now, so give them that as you are.” He paused, and shrugged, “or don’t. They’ve already had their sweethearts.”

“I see your point, Your Grace.” Neuvillette murmured, chin in hand. “I… will not pretend to comprehend the dynamics of human relations. Despite my efforts to understand, each time I feel I’ve gained insight, a new facet eludes me." He looked troubled. "I’d initially hoped to salvage this with contributions. Gifts. Though it appears that those around me have emphasized the significance of my departure, instead. Needless to say, your advice has been highly valuable."

His palms drag heavy over Neuvillette’s hips to the back of a firm, thick thigh. He can feel Neuvillette brace himself when he forces his leg up in a firm hold, and the closeness presses him deeper inside. He’s a machine running on the fumes of Neuvillette’s wreckage. He’s a nexus of unstable energy contained by the wet clasp of Neuvillette, who remains untainted by mortal devices. 

The thick expanse of a shoulder so regal, so close to him, and Wriothesley sinks his teeth into it as his vision spots. 

“You do better than you think.” Wriothesley said with a small smirk, “and you’ll have to tell me more about Liyue some time.”

“Very well.” Neuvillette said. “I’ll have a detailed review for you at a later date. Perhaps I’ll squeeze in another visit before we next meet.”

"You do that." Wriothesley hummed, scratching the side of his head, “still, though. To think a day would come where the overworld and the underworld would find a middle ground.” 

The tendency to believe punishment started in Meriopode will never stop being a point of focus for him. It was as deeply amusing as Neuvillette's antics. There was a short pause where Neuvillette studied his face.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Wriothesley smiled. He grabbed Neuvillette’s cup, refilling it. “Up there resembles down here with each passing day, is all I’m saying.”

The wrinkles that appeared when Neuvillette furrowed his brow were also decorative, an adaptation of warm blood. His scrutiny never failed to thrill Wriothesley because it reduced the entity into somewhat of a reflection, laying the groundwork to be scrutinised in the same manner. Here, it wouldn’t surprise him had Neuvillette taken his leave, appeased with their exchange. Instead, Neuvillette followed him. 

“No more performances, I believe, is what you mean?”

“Everything is a performance,” Wriothesley said, offering Neuvillette’s teacup when the man leaned in close. He let the cold air stagnate around him, hindered only by Neuvillette’s breath. Except you. He let go of the cup. Neuvillette lingered, fingers secured around it. 

He watched Neuvillette indulge himself in another sip, exhaling, and the sound sliced the silence into thick slivers. It encased the room like fog, like condensation, and Wriothesley’s palms tingled and his throat went dry.

Wriothesley forces parts of himself deep inside him. They shudder in unison, Wriothesley gasping, chasing for breath. He folds Neuvillette over, draping over him like second skin with his forehead pressed against the damp back of a strong, noble shoulder.

“It’s good,” Neuvillette murmured, and the world started spinning again.

It rushes into a geyser of a memory; nails against skin, the pulse of his throat, the feeling like hurtling liberation and abandonment, before Neuvillette can button himself back up and wash it away. A phantom of the fragment of solidity Wriothesley can mould him into, when he was under his hands.

“Now that is a compliment indeed, coming from you.”

“Please. Your discernment in matters of tea far surpasses mine. When you brew it…” Neuvillette trailed off, perhaps scanning Wriothesley in his entirety. It was always a breathless thing to have the Iudex’s full attention. “When you are the one brewing it, I have complete confidence in its quality.”

“Is that a fact?” Wriothesley said, pleased as day.

"Do you know me as one to lie?”

“Point taken. Have you lied once in the past millennium?”

“I must have, statistically, but put on the spot like that, it is a challenge to recall.”

“Doesn’t count." He pointed out, "omission doesn’t count, either. Oh, and that was a rhetorical question, by the way.”

“I… see. In that case,” Neuvillette cast him an unreadable look, “the amount of lies you’ve told is sufficient for both our lifetimes.”

"Why, Iudex Neuvillette!" Wriothesley grasped his own chest. “You’re really getting the hang of things, aren’t you?”

The gentle clink of fine china, the notes of Neuvillette’s quiet tones, the submergence of a glass bottle under the sea. The tea was starting to grow cold. The better part of an hour he had kept the Chief Justice locked in his hollow underwater. A free spirit made tangible, like picking up water with the sole equipment of one’s hands. The sentiment settled into his palms and fingers like a desperate ache.

“This was pleasant, Duke Wriothesley. You have my thanks in accommodating me tonight.” Neuvillette folded his hands atop his knee. “As a token of my appreciation, please allow for our next meeting to be in my office. Though I do not hold a candle to your tea-making, it would be my honour to prepare the refreshments."

“Well, if you insist! Perhaps I shall.”

He waits for Neuvillette to say something. Anything.

The doors were too loud when they screeched open. Wriothesley had half a mind to fix that later. “Our next tea party aside, might one hope for your presence more often down here, considering the circumstances?”

Neuvillette fixed his eyes on him. “That may be a likelier thing. Nevertheless, this was an unusual deviation that I do not foresee becoming a regular occurrence. My responsibilities remain unchanged.”

“Unchanged,” Wriothesley echoed, pausing. “That’s an interesting word to use in this climate of events. To think you may inspire unrest among the people here; would you not consider my own appearances to yield the same result? This place is my foundation, but this does not mean anything to new faces.”

He said quietly, "Wriothesley."

And there were a lot of new faces, though the number was not privy to Neuvillette. Wriothesley’s eyes were intent, and he took care not to slip a bit of himself outside, “it is the next chapter, dear Iudex. I am but an authority, just like you.”

Neuvillette’s face remained unchanged, though a long sigh escaped silently through the nose. His fingers twitched, imperceptible if Wriothesley was not so attuned to his movements. “Yes, I… you are not wrong. I will take it into consideration." And then short and swift, "I bid you goodnight.”

Nothing. Everything.

The door swung closed with an echo that resonated deep within his chambers. Wriothesley settled back in his seat, his fingers coiling together as he rested his chin.

Neuvillette leaves in silence, his pristine coat flowing behind him.

[messysketchyobeyme]

From Past to Present

Satan/Gender-Neutral Reader

Summary: 

Being sent to the past was a harrowing journey. Although you were now back in the present, the trauma alone should have been enough to turn someone into a sobbing mess.

Funnily enough, that 'someone' wasn't you.

Word Count: 1181

---

You laid down in your bed–your actual bed, not the stiff, desolate one in Coytus Hall–and tried to drift off into a much-needed sleep. Just as your daydreams were starting to blur into actual dreams, something jolted you awake. You blinked groggily and patted the figure lying on top of you.

"Satan," you whispered in the dark, "you're trembling again." 

You had assumed that you were speaking to deaf ears until Satan spoke in a quiet mumble, "I can't help it." He steadied himself, but his hands were still a little shaky. He gripped the bedsheet, almost clawing through it. "I just keep thinking about…"

You held him close to your chest.

"...about how you disappeared," he finished. "You were just gone." He turned his head so you couldn't see his face anymore. 

"I'm sorry," you whispered and ran your fingers through his hair. "But I'm here now, and I'm safe. You don't have to worry anymore."

He made a sound that sounded vaguely like a scoff and a bitter laugh. It made your chest ache in a truly vile way. "Worry," he repeated. You had to strain to hear his voice among the quiet ticking of the clock on the far side of the wall. "Don't you know that I'm always worried about you?"

"You don't need to be. I'm more than capable of handling these types of things."

"I know that, but I can't help it." After a long, silent pause, he said, "You went to the past, right?" Satan closed his eyes and only now leaned into your touch. He was still as tense as he was before. You smoothed out the crinkle in his eyebrows with your thumb. Satan didn't budge.

You nodded before realizing he wasn't looking at you. "Yeah," you said, "Didn't Solomon tell you this?" 

Satan opened his eyes in a flutter. You tried not to get distracted by how pretty his eyelashes were. "He did, but I just can't wrap my head around it. I mean, I can't believe you met us when we were–" He swallowed thickly. "When I was–" Satan made another indescribable noise before whispering, "You must have been terrified." 

"I really wasn't, Satan. I was fine."

"No, you weren't," he said with such authority that you instantly quieted down, "I know what I was like back then. I don't even want to think about all the awful things I must have said and done to you."

You sat up, forcing Satan to get off of you. He sat in front of you, the blanket hanging loosely from his shoulders. Any sudden movement, and it would have slid off him and onto the dusty floor. Huh. You hadn’t realized how bad things had gotten since you left. 

You were still staring at the floor. "You didn't do anything." 

"Yes, I did." His voice cracked. "I know I did."

You sighed. "Come on…" Satan grabbed your hands. The movement was so sudden that you jumped. He froze, wide-eyed, before retracting his hands and coiling in on himself. "No, no, don't be like that." You reached out toward him, but Satan wrapped the blanket tighter around himself.

"Look, everything happened so long ago for me that I can hardly remember." Now his voice was shaking, too. "I know that Lord Diavolo had appointed someone to look after us when we were first acclimating ourselves with the Devildom and that something happened to them, but I can't recall their name, their voice, their appearance…" He trailed off to spare a quick glance in your direction. "But I can recall how much I acted like a monster. How violent I was. How disgusting, and–and unstable, and–"

"And scared," you offered, "You were just a scared demon who was born only a year ago out of the hate and misery of a world you barely even knew." You didn't dare to touch him, not yet at least, but you rubbed your fingers against the hem of the blanket closest to his knee. "You fought so hard to carve an identity for yourself that you constantly alienated yourself from your loved ones."

Satan sat hunched over. He was heaving, but his line of sight remained glued to your face. He was giving you a strange look. You couldn't tell whether it was an expression of pain, fear, or something else entirely.

You continued, "You weren't a monster, Satan. Far from it. You just wanted to be loved." 

Before the idea of reacting could cross your mind, Satan dove straight into your arms. Desperation overtook him as his hands climbed up your back before settling underneath your shoulder blades. He buried his face in your chest and squeezed you so hard, so longingly that you let out a sharp gasp. The blanket fell onto the floor, dragging your breath along with it.

After a second of your arms hanging awkwardly in the air, the gears nestled deep within your brain finally began to churn. You hugged him back. He had curled up into a ball at this point, so it was more like you were scooping him up. You nuzzled his hair and inadvertently breathed in the scent of his shampoo. Coconut. That wasn't what you were expecting. 

Satan's chest jerkily rose up and down. He clung onto your shirt as though he was afraid you were going to disappear. Though, considering what had been happening these past few weeks, you supposed that he truly was afraid you'd be sent to the past all over again. The wet spot on your shirt clung to your skin, sending an awful wave of heaviness over you.

"I don't–I didn't–" he hiccuped, "I didn't want you to see me like that."

As tenderly as you could, you kissed his forehead. It made Satan stop shuddering if only for a moment. "I'm really glad I got to see that side of you," you admitted, taking the time to brush the stray wisps of his hair away from his face, which was still buried into your shirt, "because I want to see all parts of you, even the ones that are less than perfect. I love you, Satan, and nothing you can do–past, present, or future–will make me stop." 

Slowly, his quiet sobs ebbed away. You rubbed circles into Satan's back, silently noting how he hummed in what you hoped was contentment. He still clung to your frame, making no effort to move. His muscles relaxed into you as he sighed. 

"Isn't it pathetic?" he muttered, "You were the one actually dealing with me in the past, yet here I am, crying at the mere thought."

"It's not pathetic," you said. 

Satan didn't immediately respond. After a long moment or two, he choked out your name. It was quiet but strained like he was trying to speak underwater in small gasps. You squeezed his shoulder, silently telling him to take his time. 

"Is it okay if we stay like this? Just for a little longer?"

You tightened your grip around him. "Of course, Satan. Of course." 

[4joonkookie]

Neighbors

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Words: 3K (A solid 50/50 of build-up vs. smut) Summary: You make a move on your noisy neighbor, but things really get going when there's a blackout. Notes: Chapter 9 of THIS. Catch yourself up or don't and just enjoy the smut.

Tags: see story for tags, SMUT, noisy neighbors, boy-next-door, college flashback, roommates, getting eaten RIGHT for the first time, JK's voice is so pretty, canon-ish JK behavior, beefy JK, oral sex, riding, protected sex, blackout, fire escape.

ღღღ

You study peacefully when the voices start. The neighbors are having company over, amplifying their existing nuisance.

It starts with the dull hum of laughing, trash-talking, and playing video games. Soon, the dull hum will become a vibrating roar through the walls.

Ugh. I just want to study, you think, rolling your eyes. 

It's the umpteenth time since they’ve moved in. The building is full of students and parties can be found on any floor at any time, but don't students also study? 

You approach the wall and pound your fist on it in frustration. They repeat your rhythm on the other side like it’s a game, cackling through the cheap drywall. 

Assholes.

You grab your laptop and head to the library, resisting the urge to go over and curse them out.

Your roommate peeks her head out of her bedroom as you open the front door.

“Where are you going?” She asks. 

“The library,” you say. 

“I'm coming with you,” she says, grabbing her things. “They’re so fucking loud.”

ღღღ

The worst part is, that’s just the living room. Today, the noise lingers through the walls of the shower.

As you rinse off, a singing voice carries through. You roll your eyes, trying to tune it out. Only… the more you listen to it, the nicer it is. You find yourself forgiving his contribution to the noise in the living room.

The voice moves to the bedroom, so you do, too. Music starts playing on the other side of the wall and the voice continues singing along. An encore.

 Then, the voice is gone, and it's just music. 

It’s fine until you sit down to study and the song never settles. It keeps changing ten seconds into every song. 

Who does this? Just pick a song and stick with it. 

The shuffle of songs and the lack of vocal trance are a distraction. Once again, you admit defeat and head to the library.

ღღღ

Another Saturday night, another party. 

When the next doorbell rings with visitors, you climb out to the fire escape to sit on the steps and study. It’s too late to go to the library and you just want to be settled in for the night. 

You huff out, annoyed, but find that it’s nice. It’s not stuffy or cramped like the library. There’s fresh air and ambient noise. The hum of bros is faint enough through the adjoining window of that apartment to be less disturbing. 

You work for a few hours when the fire alarm goes off in the next apartment.

The window opens and smoke billows out along with the bitter smell of burning food. You get a whiff in your lungs and cough, standing from where you sat on the ladder steps. A man hangs outside, waving the smoke out. 

“Is there a fire?” You ask.

“No, sorry,” he says. You can hardly see him through the cloud of smoke. “Someone in here doesn't know how to use a damn microwave.

You back away and roll your eyes, cursing the inability to get a moment's peace. The smoke clears, and he steps outside. 

“What are you doing out here?”

You recognize his voice right away. That voice. It’s smooth and mellow and light and bright all at once. 

“It’s the only quiet place to study,” you snark. “You guys are so loud.”

“It’s Saturday,” he defends. 

“It’s not just today, it’s nearly every day since you guys moved in,” you say, hating the twinge of whine in your voice.  

“Why haven't you said anything?”

“Does the banging on the wall not count?”

He chuckles in realization and it’s infuriating. And really cute. “That's you,” he realizes out loud. 

He’s gorgeous. Muscular, with a few tats hiding beneath his t-shirt sleeve, making it that much harder to be annoyed with him.

“Yeah,” you say, embarrassed. “That’s me.”

He takes a step closer. “Are you also the one that turns on the blender at 6 am every day?”

You blush. “That's also me,” you say. “Noisy breakfast smoothie. You didn't say anything either,” you antagonize.

“It's an old building. The walls are paper thin. You have to live, right?” He softens. “Besides, I don’t mind. I’ve usually snoozed my alarm 4 or 5 times by then and it's the final push I need to get up.”

You laugh, feeling your guard fall. “You have a nice voice,” you say, looking down at your feet. “I hear you in the shower sometimes.”

He gets shy, looking down. “I didn't know you could hear that.”

“It’s pretty,” you say, feeling the hearts form in your eyes now that there’s a face attached to this voice. “But when you listen to music, what’s with the constant shuffle? I mean, do you ever listen to a song, start to finish?”

He laughs, getting embarrassed again. “I don't know. It's like I start listening and I like it and I feel the vibe and let it flow through me. Once I get a feel for it, I’m ready for the next one.”

You exchange names and you’re confident enough to stand, showing off the ratty t-shirt and fabric shorts that leave your ass cheeks peeking out from underneath. 

His eyes drift down, sensing your exposed skin in the air. It gives you a boost of confidence as your eyes take each other in. 

Can’t believe you’re out here with this stranger, drawn completely in. He takes a pen from behind your ear and gets a gentle grasp on your forearm, turning it slightly. He writes a phone number on your arm. 

“You can always text me if it’s too loud. You shouldn’t have to hide out on the fire escape just to study.” His doe eyes open wide beneath his lashes. “I’ll tell them to try to keep it down. But it’s Saturday, so no promises.” 

There’s no chance of getting any studying done, maybe ever again knowing that the likes of him are on the other side of that wall. You think of anything to keep him outside before he steps into his window.

“Hey.”

He turns back to look at you. 

“Want to keep me company? You look out at the city landscape and twinkling lights. "It’s nice out."

He thinks for a moment. Then he looks down, and the air gets awkward. “You know, I should really get inside,” he says. 

And your face burns with embarrassment and confusion. 

“See you later,” you say. You watch him re-enter his window and hope you never see him again.

ღღღ

You spend more time over the next few weeks studying on the fire escape just because.

Occasionally, you catch JK coming and going for a long run. He doesn’t see you from the ground as you’re many flights up. 

Despite not wanting to see him again and the shame and embarrassment of misreading the whole interaction, it's just a matter of time before you hear him again. Singing in the shower, playing his music. Even when he’s loud with the others, you’re only able to tune into that voice.

Luckily, the window next door hasn’t opened again. 

You’re studying and the sun has long set when suddenly, it all goes dark, inside and out. It’s pitch black and you turn on your phone flashlight. 

“Shit,” you mutter to yourself, wondering how long the power will be out. 

It’s then when the window opens and JK’s head peeks out, candle in hand. A layer of transparent colored wax sits at the top. It’s been burning for a while now. The lavender and vanilla scents waft into your nostrils. 

“Hey,” he says, stretching his neck to see if the entrance to your bedroom is pitch black, too. 

“It’s out for blocks,” you say, and your stomach tightens, feeling uneasy with him around.

He climbs out and approaches, standing next to you and looking out over the balcony. Goosebumps rise on your skin.

“Here again, huh? I told you to text me,” he says, appearing way more confident than the shy guy from your last encounter. 

“There wasn’t any noise, it's just kind of nice out here. And less crowded than the library. And I can wear my pajamas,” you add.

He lifts your textbook, holding the candle up and scouring the title. 

“Well, it makes sense why I’ve never seen you at school. We’re on the opposite ends of campus.”

He speaks like he wants you to ask more questions, eyes glued to you like a second opportunity. He’s so close and seems glad he stumbled upon you again. 

“Sometimes I'm out here and I see you go for a run and you don’t come back for hours.”

“I run to the gym, work out, and run back.”

“When do you find time to study?”

“I don’t. But, for what I want to do, being healthy will help.”

He looks at you, scanning your face in the candlelight.

It’s obvious now. Nothing to be questioned, but you still remember the heat of the embarrassment when he chose to go inside that last time. 

He takes a step closer, leaning in.

“Are you… ok in the dark?” he asks. 

“Yeah, I'm okay,” you say, knowing you’re only ok as long as your half-dead phone battery holds out. No emergency candles or supplies to mention. 

He’s close enough to smell again and your heart pounds against your chest. It’s dark. A little dangerous. 

“Do you mind some company?” He asks, eyes drifting down to your mouth. 

“I don’t mind,” you whisper. He leans in close and you speak before your lips meet. “Why didn’t you stay the first time?” you ask, unable to help yourself. 

He takes a deep breath, clearing his throat. “Because I found a beautiful woman in a vulnerable spot. Private. Studying. In her pajamas. I just didn’t want to be weird.” He takes a step closer. “And you make me kind of nervous, so I'm glad I have another chance.”

You laugh, feeling your heart pound, secretly grateful he feels this way too. “Why do I make you nervous?” You whisper. 

“Because for the past few weeks, all I can think about is my neighbor. And she’s been my neighbor for months, but I didn’t know she looked like this. And that she can hear me doing everything.” His voice is soft, forbidding, wrapping you up. “And I'm caught halfway between picking up and moving just for peace of mind and just,"  his voice drifts off and he twirls a strand of your hair around his finger. "Wishing the wall wasn’t there.”

You take a deep breath, feeling yourself fall deep. “The wall isn’t here now,” you say, closing the space between your lips. 

His hands immediately make their way to cup your ass, running up your waist and through your hair, hands exploring every inch of you he can’t see. 

You do the same, gliding your hands up his shirt and feeling the ridges of the stomach, drawing him closer. The stairs press against your back and you wince while loving the feeling of him between your legs. 

Reach your hand down to where the fabric of his shorts is tented, getting a grip on his hard length and letting it rub between your thighs. He gasps and presses his cock to you.

You lace a hand with him and guide him as you both climb into your bedroom window. He sets the candle down and gets both hands on you. 

He groans when he slips his hands beneath the waistband of your shorts and feels no underwear. He gets his hands under your ass cheeks, groping and feeling his fingers slip. He rubs at your slicked opening and presses against it. Your eyes roll back as you push your hips to him. 

“Fuck, how long have you been this wet?” He says, his warm breath hitting your face. His voice is deeper now, darker. 

“Before you stepped outside,” you say. “When I was just wishing you'd show up.” 

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and pulls them down to your ankles. He whispers. “Get on the bed.” You hear him wrestle with his own shirt in the dark. 

You walk backward until the mattress touches behind your knees and lay back. He crawls above you, kissing over your breasts and expertly slipping two fingers inside your pussy, causing you to gasp. 

He drags them out and moves wetness over your clit. You see stars at his rough rhythm. 

“Slower,” you guide, touching his wrist. And he does, slowing his fingers, but not letting up any pressure. 

“Like this?” He says you nod, forgetting he can’t see you. He takes the signal from your moans and circles his fingers, occasionally slipping them inside. The lewd squelching is somehow more emphatic in the dark. 

“Can I taste you?” He asks, through a panting breath. 

“Pleeease,” you moan, blissed out already. Can’t believe how eager you are. You can’t really come from being eaten out, but when he brings it up, you know it’s all you want. 

His warm breath hovers over your pussy and he goes right to the source, lapping at your opening and swiping his fingers to feed himself. 

It’s titillating to be actually eaten, hearing his delighted noises. Strange almost, especially in the dark. You stop thinking about it when he latches his mouth around your clit. 

It’s nothing like you’ve ever experienced. Usually, it’s a tongue flapping randomly and wildly over you with little effect. Like they're just guessing. 

There is no guessing here. He’s swallowing, taking the whole of your flesh in his mouth and sucking. Your thighs shake uncontrollably. Another first. 

He hooks an arm around your thigh and then his tongue starts, never letting off his suction, still sucking and releasing while never moving his lips away, gently running his tongue over the sensitive bud. 

You squirm and moan, uncaring and unaware of the sounds you’re making. He finally lets off. 

“Stay still for me?” And you freeze, willing to do anything to get his mouth on you like that again.

You anticipate his lips again but feel fingers plunge deep inside instead. He keeps them buried down to the webbing of his fingers, pulsing and pressing to the deepest part of you. 

Then, his mouth, bringing that precious suction that makes your muscle quiver. Even the vibrator doesn’t get this reaction. 

Everything burns at your core as you teeter on the edge. Gripping at the sheets, you bear down against him. He moans and the vibrations send you over the edge. 

He never stops his pace, staying with your body as you come. 

Coming down, you feel the mattress bowing as he grinds into the mattress, giving himself an enticing friction and feeling good for himself.

He rises up to your face, placing his skilled tongue right in your mouth. “Mph. I need to fuck you,” he groans. “Do you have?_”

“Yeah,” you say, before he can finish the sentence. You lean up and fumble in the darkness to pull a condom from the nightstand. 

“Lay back,” you whisper with a hand on his chest, the darkness giving you a certain confidence. You climb on top of him, nerves still shaky.

He reaches for the wrapper in your hand, but you pull it away. You drag your fingertips over his shaft and stroke over him a few times, cupping his balls, feeling his breath hitch and feeling even more sensation in the darkness. 

You open the wrapper and place the rubber on his tip, rolling it down with your hands until it's covered. 

He groans, pulling you down to kiss and prodding his tongue inside. You spread your thighs over his lap and he grips hard as you slide down onto him, digging nails into the flesh of your ass. He’s happy to be inside you twice, bucking his hips up.

You let him stretch inside you, starting a rhythm and rolling your hips. It feels incredible. Sensations moving from your swollen pussy and out to your fingertips. He runs his hands up your chest, feeling the weight of your tits in his hands. 

It's then when the lights come on, bright and harsh. You look up, blinded and distracted. Embarrassed. 

He takes your chin in his hand and forces your eyes on him. “Don’t stop fucking me,” he says, pulling your hips over his, getting you moving again, reminding you of what you need. “Please, don’t stop fucking me,” he whines.

You nod and grind on him, feeling him press against your walls. The sound is lewd and wet as you circle your hips, barely rising on his shaft. He watches you, eyes surveying your body as you move with his hands on your hips. Finally taking you in. 

He's so hot. Dark, sweaty hair sticks to his face. The faint light in the room allows his tattoos to be exposed. The sweat beads and pools between his chest and abs, tapering down to his little waist where your bodies are hot and connected. There’s simply too much for your eyes to take in. 

“God, you're gorgeous,” he says. 

“That's just what I was thinking,” you say, running your hands over his tight abs in response. 

He put the pads of his fingers on your clit and you gasp, still sensitive from your orgasm. He barely moves them, just presses them against your clit as you grind and move and bounce.

He takes a deep breath, trying to hold back his own orgasm. 

The pressure is too good, combined with the feeling of him pressed inside you to the deepest point. You can’t recognize the sounds coming from your mouth or explain the way your hips buck and grind above him.

“Oh my god,” he whines, and it's so hot. He loses himself as you cream and tighten around him, riding out another intense orgasm.

“Don't stop,” he moans. “Don't stop, ple_”

And you must muster everything to keep your body moving and grinding.

His jaw goes slack, head thrown back. You drag nails over his chest, acknowledging the goosebumps rising on his skin as he throbs inside. 

He releases the grip on your hips and you collapse on top of him. Panting and catching your breath, he leans up, carefully tying off the condom. 

You look at each other and laugh through your breath. He kisses you, running his hand through your hair. Drunk on each other. 

There's laughter and commotion on the other side of the wall, and he appears surprised. 

“Is this what it sounds like?" He asks, banging on the wall to his roommates on the other side. 

Coming Up... Taehyung ;)

[prk-gunwook]

Your Boys Planet writing is so good! <3 How about another fluffy one? Maybe their reaction to reader doing something cute/romantic for them like buying them a gift without an occasion or baking them cookies or something? Boys of your choice but I'd love if you include Jongwoo & Keita :)

BOYS PLANET — reactions to a gift

INCLUDES || sung hanbin | zhang hao | terazono keita | yoon jongwoo

GENRE || tooth-rotting fluff

WORD COUNT || 2.2k

NOTES || tysm for the kind words !! ofc i will include my fav boys keita and jong woo <3 lmk if you’d like a part two with the other boys— i got a bit carried away writing this, so it ended up way longer than i anticipated !!

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, SUNG HANBIN 𖥻 ❛ a new shirt ❜

SUNG HANBIN thinks you are his better half; the blood of his past mistakes spills from his lips and his mind and yet you are always there, ready to wipe away the dribbling crimson from his features with a soft hand and an even softer smile. Oftentimes he feels like a schoolboy with a crush, like he should pull at your hair for attention or kick you from beneath his desk.

Really, what did he do to earn someone so caring, someone so effortlessly generous? You joke you used up all your luck in getting to be with someone like him, but then what has he given for you? His hourglass of luck has been flipped upside down and inside out just to get a glimpse at you.

It shouldn’t be a surprise you gift him something when he hasn’t even asked for it— when he has mentioned needing it briefly in passing once or twice, hardly on his mind for longer than a second, but you picked up on it.

“Do you like it?” You ask nervously, wringing your hands as Hanbin stares at his reflection in the mirror. You’d brought home a new shirt for him— one that was expensive, of quality you’d never spend on yourself, but that you’d bought because it was for him.

Hanbin rolls the sleeves up, his forearms on display as he examines his reflection.

“I’d love anything from you,” He says, as if it were a simple fact. To him, it was. Your eyebrows furrow inward slightly, a sign of displeasure, and he turns to face you. “What?”

“I don’t want you to like it because it’s from me. I want you to like it because you… well, because you like it,” You say, lamely gesturing at the ground as if it would prove your point.

Hanbin merely smiles at you, reaching up a hand to affectionately ruffle your hair.

“You know me better than anyone. Of course I love it, idiot,” He tells you, his voice cased in a teasing lilt. You bite back a satisfied smile, opting instead to huff as you fix the collar for him (Hanbin had a bad habit of flipping the collar portion of shirts upwards, which bothered you to no end).

You feel the press of a soft kiss to your forehead as your hands move down to smooth out the fabric. “I love you,” He murmurs into your hair.

He needn’t say it; Sung Hanbin loves you so much it emanates off him in waves. He loves you like you are a child of the cosmos, like you are the ruler of his own personal world and life. And you love him just the same.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, ZHANG HAO 𖥻 ❛ hair clips ❜

ZHANG HAO, contrary to what you may think, loves fiercely, like a flame burning bright for only you. His words are liquid amber dripping down your ears, his kisses like a lighter setting your personal wax candle aflame. Zhang Hao is all of wintry branches and warm breezes, sticky-sweet toffee and bitter coffee.

He’s undeniable in his fiery spirit and gripping eyes, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. He shows his love in affirmative words and soft touches— and you reciprocate. Neither of you gift the other things very often, and that’s never been a problem. It’s just not your style.

However, you couldn’t pass by a pack of emoji hair clips Hao didn’t yet own and not get them for him. That would be blasphemy.

You simply drop the pack of emoji clips on his bedside table, not bothering to leave a note or any indication it was you. Your Hao was smart, he’d know.

Likewise, he never gave any indication he ever received them, or that the clips hadn’t been a part of his collection to begin with. But you noticed, of course, that the next day his mess of dark hair was adorned with a new moon emoji clip.

He didn’t say thank you— well, not with words.

Hao looks at you like he’s hallucinating a halo atop your head, like he sees two wings sprouting behind your back and unfolding like a crisp book. And maybe he does; in his world, the sun revolves and spins around you. He is just one of many admirers, because he thinks you must have several hundred with how wonderful you are.

You don’t need to tell him you bought those clips with him in mind. No words are exchanged, but a million are said; “I thought of you and your stupid hair clips”, “These are from me”, “I love you enough to think of you all the time”.

A few weeks later (during which he has not worn a single hair clip not from the packet you bought him), a small box appears on your nightstand. When you open it, a collection of bright and colorful stickers fall out onto your lap. You know, instantly, these are from Hao (who constantly complains about the sheer amount of stickers decorating every piece of furniture the two of you own).

You sort through them, a smile breaking out when you land on the final sticker, not in a pack like the rest. This one was clearly cut out from another, placed deliberately among the others.

“I love you,” in bright, bold letters, with a combination of emojis surrounding it.

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, TERAZONO KEITA 𖥻 ❛ blankets ❜

KEITA sometimes wonders if you are a dog. He read somewhere that dogs like to be underneath things or between their owner’s legs because it makes them feel safe; currently, you’re bundled beneath about seven blankets of varying colors and textures, head just barely poking out to be seen.

He thinks he’s never seen anything cuter.

Keita isn’t used to being loved as strongly as you love him— you love him as if something may take him away at every waking moment, as if he will slip between your fingers, as if you are the luckiest person on earth to be able to spend a single second in his presence.

That doesn’t make any sense in his mind. But perhaps it’s like butterflies (he needs to stop comparing you to animals, he thinks to himself), and how they’re unable to see just how beautiful their wings are because they’re always behind them.

“Keita!” Comes your voice, muffled beneath the several layers of fluff. “Open up my backpack, the biggest pocket!”

He gives you an unimpressed look, his thoughts clearly communicated through only his gaze; you seriously can’t do it yourself?

“Just do it!” You huff, trying to move underneath the crushing weight of ten thousand blankets. You remind him briefly of when cats step on sticky notes and start flailing around (yet another animal comparison, he scolds himself), although he follows your orders and treads toward your bag obediently. Perhaps he’s the dog, after all, with how he follows you loyally.

It wouldn’t be the worst thing to be, he muses. Keita would follow you to the ends of the Earth if the situation arose, and he would do so without hesitation.

His fingers move deftly to unzip the bag, a mass of fluffy white greeting him. His first thought is, My god, did I manifest her getting a dog?, followed by, My god, it’s another blanket!

“You can’t be serious,” He says, pulling the blanket out from the bag. He feels a bit like a magician pulling a scarf out of a jacket pocket for a second, with how the blanket seems to just keep coming. You nod eagerly, wiggling around like a caterpillar in a cocoon (seriously, what is wrong with him? That’s the fourth one in five minutes) in an attempt to free one of your arms. You give up after a few seconds of struggling, instead opting to nudge your head in his direction.

“It’s for you!” You exclaim, as if you’ve just gifted him the greatest prize on earth. He can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes him as he examines the blanket. It’s similar to one you own, he realizes, your favorite blanket that he tends to steal when he gets cold. “Come on, join me in the blanket pile!”

“You are so dumb,” He comments, even as his smile grows ever bigger, eyes transforming into crescent moons. The gift is so innocuous— so entirely you— that he can’t help but treasure it.

When he turns to you, there’s a split second you can sense you’ve made a mistake. In the next second, he’s on top of you.

You can barely feel his body through the separation of all your blankets, but his weight crashes onto you violently and you fall off the couch, wriggling your cocooned-body around in an attempt to shake him off.

“Heathen!” You scream, turning around and around like some kind of spinning top. Keita just laughs, clinging onto you like a koala (that’s the fifth one, he counts in his head), as he spreads the blanket over both of your bodies.

Several hours later, you’re both still on the ground (but now you’re laying fully on top of Keita in an act of belated revenge, both of you snoozing peacefully in an outrageously large pile of blankets).

ꉂ — 𖥦 ♡ ,, YOON JONGWOO 𖥻 ❛ cookies ❜

YOON JONGWOO is pretty sure he’s a guardian angel fallen from heaven and you’re the human he was sworn to protect. Not only because he loves you so strongly it has to have some kind of explanation behind it, but because you’re dumb as a brick and surely would have died by now if he wasn’t always there to set things right.

Yes, Jongwoo loves you so strongly he’s sure if his admiration for you was a physical object it could stop bullet trains and shatter diamonds. He is eternally, devastatingly in love with you.

And as he watches smoke rise from your oven and you frantically wave a towel at it like it’ll do anything, he thanks whatever being let him fall down to earth to protect you. Because lord, how have you survived this long?

A tray of something (he thinks they’re supposed to be cookies, from the bag of chocolate chips on the counter and vaguely circular shape they take on) sits on the counter, burnt to charcoal and permeating the air with the smell of burnt sugar.

“You’re so goddamn stupid,” Jongwoo deadpans. You scream a little, whipping around to face him with an expression of both mortification and excitement (an interesting mix that he somehow finds endearing. Curse you and your stupidly attractive face). “Open the windows before the fire alarm goes off.”

“I’m sorry!” You squeak out, hurrying to follow his directions. He notices now that flour dusts your cheeks and nose, the apron hanging virtually useless on you. In fact, you seem to have gotten ingredients everywhere on you but the apron. It’s almost impressive. “I was trying to make cookies for you, but I took a nap halfway through and slept through the timer and—,”

Jongwoo interrupts you with a laugh, throaty and genuine, as he takes in the scene.

The kitchen; an absolute mess, a plethora of ingredients he doesn’t even think belong in cookies decorating the counter and floor. The oven, a steady stream of smoke still emanating from it, and the tray full of lumps of charcoal. And then you, hair a mess— is that an entire chunk of brown sugar in it?—, eyes wide, clothes stained and breathing heavy as you run around trying to open every available window. And, somehow, you’re still the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen and ever will see. He wonders for a moment if you’re the real angel between the two of you.

“It’s fine,” He says, stopping your long tirade of frazzled excuses and explanations. “I appreciate it, really. But…”

He grabs a ‘cookie’ using a paper towel, banging it against the counter and hearing a loud ‘thunk’ greet him in return.

“I don’t think we should eat these.”

You seem on the verge of tears, lip quivering and breathing shaky, so Jongwoo crosses the bit of space between you and wraps his arms around you.

“I really did try my best,” You say, worried that he was upset with you—or worse, thinks you incapable of basic motions. You’re usually a decent cook, you swear!

“I know,” He says, trying to discreetly pick the chunk of sugar from your hair since he’s pretty sure you haven’t noticed it yet. “And I love the thought.”

“If you really loved me you’d eat them,” You argue. He can tell you aren’t serious, but even the thought makes his nose scrunch up— he’s pretty sure he saw marmite out on the counter.

Jongwoo instead picks a cherry from the basket left untouched (probably the only thing in the kitchen left unscathed from your endeavor), and eats it.

“Does that satisfy you?” He asks, giving you a sweet kiss before you have the chance to answer. You can taste the cherry juice on his lips, and you’re sure he can taste the chocolate on yours, considering how many extra chocolate chips you ate.

“Take out for dinner?” You suggest against his lips. He nods, smiling into the kiss.