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s-awturn · 3 months ago

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Jealousy, jealousy || F1 Dilfs

cw: jealousy, slightly possessive behavior, suggestion of obscenity, teasing, bratty behavior, public display of affection, and blah blah blah

a/n: This has been running through my mind for a few days now, thinking about these men vibrating with jealousy, I couldn't let it go. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

starring: Toto Wolff, Sebastian Vettel, Fernando Alonso, Jenson Button, Mark Webber, Kimi Raikkonen.

soundtrack: baby i'm jealous — bebe rexha ft. doja cat

Baby, I'm jealous, ooh

And I know that it ain't right

But I'm jealous, jealous (haha)

TOTO WOLFF:

Who could blame him? You were beautiful, intelligent and charismatic, even if you were a little shy, Toto understood why people orbited around you. But damn, that didn't stop Toto from being jealous of you, how could someone as smart as you not see that the McLaren kid was flirting with you?

It was clear how interested Lando was in you, very interested in fact. And that made jealousy bubble dangerously inside him and Toto didn't like that, he was confident, he knew you were in love with him, but fuck it, he couldn't help it.

It was time for him to make it clear who you were with.

He rolled up his sleeves to his elbow and walked over to where you were talking to Norris, who was too distracted to notice Wolff's approach.

Lando took a step back when he finally noticed Toto, the older man wrapped his arm around your waist and kissed his temple, keeping his dark eyes on Lando, making his message very clear.

"Norris" he said, making you even more attached to him. "Schatzi, shall we go? The car is waiting for us."

Lando swallowed, Toto's gaze was a subtle threat and he wasn't about to provoke one of the fiercest crew chiefs on the grid. You were forbidden ground. The British pilot said a quick goodbye to you and left.

“I know what you did, Toto” you hummed, feeling him kiss your neck, oblivious to who might be watching.

“That’s great, I hope everyone knows and stops flirting with you,” he said, making you turn to him. “I don’t want any boy who’s barely out of diapers trying to win over my girl.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled.

“You look cute when you’re jealous, honey.”

“Just for you, schatzi”

SEBASTIAN VETTEL:

He was watching the news when he was attacked by a five-year-old girl with two missing teeth. “I got you, monster!”

He pretended to be in pain as he writhed on the couch, making the little girl laugh. “Oh no, she managed to hit me!”

Sebastian pulled the girl onto his lap, tickling her belly, Eva laughed loudly trying to dodge the tickles until she was surprised by kisses.

“How was school today, princess? Did you learn a lot today?”

You watched the scene leaning against the door, Eva and Sebastian spent hours there playing after school, the girl told you everything, from when they had finished and reached the letter F in the alphabet until the time who arrived home.

“Make her wash her hands, Seb, I’ll go to the kitchen to see if lunch is ready.

“You can leave it to me, Süße, This little pig is going to wash her hands very well” and with that, he threw the girl over his shoulder and took her to the bathroom.

Eva and Sebastian were extremely close, Eva was the apple of her father's eye and Sebastian was Eva's master idol, she adored her father more than anything.

“Daddy? Can I tell you something?” Eva asked softly.

“Sure love, whatever you want.” He poured some soap on her little hands. “What’s wrong?”

“One of the teachers at school seems to like Mommy.”

Sebastian didn't stop rubbing Eva's hands, but the crease between his blond eyebrows made it clear that he had listened and didn't like what he heard.

“Is that so, dear?” He asked

“I think so, Daddy. He always gives her a rose, but Mommy throws it away.”

Maybe it was time for Sebastian to start picking up Eva from school.

“Don’t worry honey, I’ll talk to him and he’ll stop giving Mommy flowers.”

“It’s okay, Daddy,” Eva said, swinging her little feet as Sebastian washed his hands.

And the next day he was there, he respected the teachers a lot, but he needed to put that little teacher in his place. Sebastian smiled politely, asking Eva to stay in the car, playing with the Rubik's cube after the girl pointed out who the inconvenient teacher was.

“Mr Vettel, it’s a pleasure to see you in our school” The professor greeted him and Sebastian gave a tight smile, before standing two steps away from the professor.

“I’ll be brief, my daughter is in the car and my wife is waiting for us at home, so stop giving my wife flowers, or you’ll get flowers too” Sebastian’s smile widened “on All Souls' Day,” he added, giving the teacher a friendly pat on the shoulder. “I hope I was clear.”

“Like water,” he replied stammeringly.

“Great, you're a smart guy, so I won't have to report you for harassment, I'm glad we understood each other." He said and left, whistling as he walked to his car. Eva didn't even take her eyes off the cube, obsessed with the toy ever since Kimi gave it to her.

“Will he stop falling in love with Mommy, Daddy?”

“Yes, baby, let’s go home?”

FERNANDO ALONSO:

Fernando was the most expressive person you knew, he couldn't keep his emotions hidden, everyone could tell when he was angry, happy or frustrated. This was sometimes a blessing, sometimes a curse.

And at that moment, anger and frustration were very present on the Spaniard's face. It was your first time in the paddock since you started dating, you never had so much time to travel with him and follow the races, so everything was new to you. He was happy to have taken you and couldn't deny that he hoped you would stay close to him, knowing everything. He didn't think another pilot would take his attention.

But apparently, Jenson Button and Michael Schumacher had your full attention, you were so excited to get their autographs, you were smiling so excitedly that you could barely sit still. Fernando didn't want to be rude, didn't want to ruin his first experience on that side of the racetrack, but damn, he was jealous.

He didn't remember seeing you act so excitedly towards him like that. Still biting the cap of a pen, Fernando returned to the Renault pit, he knew that Michael or Jenson could accompany you if you wanted to return to the garage. Fernando wouldn't let his jealousy make your visit to the paddock a bad thing, he might be jealous but he still wanted you happy.

In the garage, he engaged in conversation with his mechanics and engineers, preparing for the free practice session that would take place in a few hours. But his mind was still focused on you, happily bouncing around your “favorite pilots,” he mentally sneered, his mouth twisting in spite.

“Do you understand?” one of the engineers asked and Fernando nodded stiffly.

“Of course I understand, I’m not an idiot,” he replied, putting his hands in the pockets of his overalls before being hugged by you.

“I looked for you like crazy, why didn’t you tell me you were coming back to the garage?” You kissed his shoulder, leaving a light pink lipstick mark on the flame retardant.

“I didn't want to interrupt your very interesting conversation with Button and Schumacher” he couldn't help the bitterness in his voice, making you frown in confusion.

“Whoa, why are you like that, baby?”

“Mhmm? You’re imagining things, corazón” Fernando said, avoiding your eyes, so he didn't see your mischievous smile. He often forgot that you knew him better than anyone else.

“Am I really? Then why did you leave me alone with Michael and Jenson?” You questioned, circling him until you were facing him, watching the pilot look away as he ruffled his unruly hair. “Oh, you’re jealous.”

“Me? Jealous of Jenson and Michael? You’re going crazy, honey.” He laughed mockingly.

You weren't affected by his sarcasm, you just hugged him again and pressed your lips to his chin, listening to his breathing hitch. Fernando finally released the tension that held his shoulders and hugged you tightly, drawing a smug smile from you.

"I see right through you, Nando, and I can tell when my man is jealous, don't try to fool me," you said sincerely. "I really like Jenson and Michael, but it's you I love, now go out there and kick all their asses.”

Fernando smiled and kissed you warmly. “If I bring you the trophy, will you give me a son?” he asked as he walked away from you.

“Maybe, who knows?” you smiled mischievously and walked away, going to his team to watch the training, giving the pilot a little peck while stealing his cap.

JENSON BUTTON:

Jenson was not a jealous man, he loved to show you off, to let everyone know that you, a beautiful girl a few years younger than him, had chosen him. He tried not to be arrogant, but he loved you being the center of attention, and the fact that you always wanted to go unnoticed made everything better.

“I'm going to get myself some coconut water, do you want it?” you asked, lifting the brim of Jenson's cap to get his attention. “Jen, are you listening to me?”

“I'm always listening to you, peach” He said, crossing his fingers over his abdomen as he looked at you, smiling cheekily. “I’d love to, if you could bring it...” he said pulling out his wallet and taking out the card for you.

“Nah, don’t even think about it Button! I can afford a coconut water for me and my boyfriend!” you said and marched to the kiosk by the beach. Jenson pulled down the brim of his cap, watching you walk away.

Jenson watched as a few men looked at you as you walked by, admiring your curves. Some even tried to get your attention, but Jenson saw you ignore them all, going to get your coconut water.

It's not like any of those idiots could have you.

He lifted his cap, keeping his eyes on you, ready to avoid any bad situation you might face. But you walked back to where he was, holding two green coconuts, you were blushing and had a cute pout on your lips.

“What’s wrong, peach?” he asked, pulling you to sit on his thighs, he kept his hand on your hip, playing with the bikini string that escaped your jean shorts. “Did some idiot say something stupid to you?”

“Nothing much, don’t worry,” you said before he kissed you so hard that it made you blush. “Jen! We’re in public!”

“I couldn't help it, peach, your mouth was calling me for a kiss, I couldn't be rude”

You slapped him on the chest, making him laugh. Jenson noticed that no one else was looking in your direction. Just because he wasn't jealous didn't mean he wouldn't make it clear that you already had someone.

He.

MARK WEBBER:

It was supposed to be just a family dinner, his family already knew Mark, they were used to him being present at family events and it was always a surprise when he didn't show up.

It was supposed to be just dinner, but what would family gatherings be without a little drama? The entire table was engaged in a conversation about Formula One's return after the summer holidays and you were laughing at the silly argument between your father and Mark, your father was a big supporter of Lando Norris and Mark made no secret of his preference for Oscar Piastri when the door opened, revealing his older brother and best friend, Ben.

Well, it had been your ex-boyfriend in high school and you had a bad breakup and he hadn't gotten over it, even after years.

“Wow Y/N, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you” he said after greeting everyone, he came to you with a nostalgic smile that didn’t affect you. “You look beautiful”

You gave a polite nod, even though you had gotten over it, continuing to keep in touch with Ben was never an option for you.

“It's kind of you, Ben... This is my husband, Mark” you introduced them, seeing Ben give a dry greeting, Mark responded in the same way and continued talking to his father as if no one had interrupted. You hid your smile behind your wine glass, Mark acted exactly as you expected.

The conversation continued and you ignored Ben's indiscreet glances at you, it wasn't like Mark wasn't there for Ben to try to gain his attention so blatantly. Everything got worse with his comments, sometimes flirting with you, sometimes trying to get a reaction out of Mark.

Those attempts were turning dinner, which was supposed to be light and fun, into a cold war zone. You were tense and Mark noticed this, placing his thick hand on your thigh, gently caressing your skin to calm you down; a sign that he would take control of the situation and put his ex-boyfriend in his place.

You smiled, grateful and proud that Mark was your husband.

“Out of respect for my in-laws, Benjamin, I ask that you stop trying to flirt with my wife, or I will knock your teeth out.” Mark spoke calmly before swallowing his shot of whiskey, you heard your brothers cough nervously and your cousins giggle.

You knew Ben would give a bad answer, he was a provocative jerk and would try to push Mark over the edge. Not that it was the wisest move, not when on the other side of the fight was a former Formula One driver who was driving a car weighing over a ton at three hundred kilometers per hour.

“Maybe I’m trying to make her see that she made some bad choices, but everything can be fixed if she wants it to be.”

Mark laughed.

“Breaking up with you wasn’t a mistake, Benjamin, it was a deliverance,” Mark retorted and your eyes widened. “Don’t think for a moment that you have any chance with my wife, I can't speak for Y/N, but I guarantee she doesn't miss you at all.”

Benjamin stammered like an idiot until he managed to form a sentence.

“You don’t know that”

Mark laughed more and shook the glass, playing with the ice “of course I do, I work hard to make sure there’s only room for me in her heart… so don’t be stupid and stop embarrassing yourself in front of everyone”

Mark's hand squeezed your thigh and you smiled, resting yours on top of his.

KIMI RAIKKONEN:

He hated parties, crowds, loud noise, people smelling of alcohol and cigarettes, urgh, he hated. But Kimi's karma was to be in love with a girl in her early twenties, enjoying the last moments of her college life before her obligations of adult life become part of your daily life. So there he was, leaning against a wall in a nightclub, looking away from the dancing crowd, his rigid posture and disinterested expression keeping the curious away.

He shook the glass, making the ice cubes collide with each other as he watched his girlfriend dance happily on the dance floor, surrounded by a few friends.The Finn's icy eyes roamed over her body relentlessly, appreciating how happy she seemed to be as she moved to the pop music, that made it worth going to that hellish nightclub, he would do whatever he could to ensure your happiness, even being there, outside of his natural habitat.

The ice surrounding Kimi cracked a little when he saw you smile at him, your bright eyes and happy aura made that torment worth it. You walked towards the ex-pilot and wrapped your arms around his waist.

“Honey, come dance with me,” you invited, pouting slightly to help convince him. “Just one song.”

“You know I'm terrible at this, lumihiutale, I'd rather watch you” he said and nibbled on your lip, making you whimper.

“You’re a bad guy, Kimi.”

He gave a smile, very rare for other people, but routine for you.

“I suspect you like it, princess.”

“You’ll never hear that from me.” You closed your mouth with an imaginary zipper and joined your friends. Kimi left the glass on the table and looked around, seeing a strange man staring at you. The Finn knew then that his evening, so pleasant, would encounter an irritating obstacle.

You were completely distracted by your friends, dancing and singing happily, you looked beautiful under the neon lights of the club, fucking beautiful.

He trusted that you would be okay for a few moments while he went to the bar to get you some water; when he came back, he found a boy surrounding you, trying to ask you to dance, even if you denied it and raised your hand, showing the promise ring. Not that this had dampened the boy's spirits. Kimi felt a strange spark ignite inside him, that boy — who didn't even have a beard — seemed to be close to his age and wasn't as ugly. What if you preferred someone your own age? Someone who would go to clubs and parties with you without complaining? Someone who would dance with you?

He growled lowly and walked over to where you and the boy were, and was present, seeing the boy's eyes widen, recognizing him.

“Get lost, kid,” he said simply, putting his arm around your shoulders, making you press your back against his chest. “She doesn’t need a brat like you.”

The boy stuttered and stumbled away, making you laugh.

You turned to Kimi, your cheeks were flushed and you were smiling.

“You being jealous is a new scenario for me, I think I like it” she stood on her tiptoes, sealing a quick kiss on his lips, Kimi slid her hands down to your hips, bringing the two of you closer together.

“Jealousy? I have no idea what that is, sweetie...” he said. “Shall we go home? I need to prove to you that you really don’t need inexperienced boys.”

His eyes lit up with mischief and expectation. “Not that any other guy besides you interests me, but I accept your proposal.”

In the end, his questions were ignored, you were Kimi Raikkonen's girl and no stupid boy was going to change that.

#Spotify #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 headers #sawturn #toto wolff x reader #sebastian vettel x reader #fernando alonso x reader #jenson button x reader #mark webber x reader #kimi raikonnen x reader

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fluffypotatey · 4 months ago

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things i noted on my 2nd watch of Twisters (2024)

where each song from the soundtrack plays (idk how many times i listened to it but y’all there was hell or high water playing at the diner when Javi was talking to Riggs and i felt like my third eye opened lmaooooo)

Dexter nerding out over everything (noticed this before but like 🥰🤧 this old man has my heart y’all 🥺 do you see how excited he gets mapping out the terrain and remembering which tornado effect is which???? yeah sure he probably never went to university or finished high school but you can see his love for learning and education and i bet he read every book in every library he visits)

white shirt OT3 o7 (Kate begins the white shirt effect and then it switches to Tyler and switches back to Kate then switches to Javi which switches to Tyler at the end. now, you could argue that Javi begins the white shirt effect bc Storm Par includes white shirts in their uniforms but NO! because they’re polos AND Javi wears the blue and black uniform. so truly the real argument would be Scott wore it but he’s separate from the OT3 and is meant to draw Javi away unlike Kate and Tyler and in this essay—)

Boone not answering Tyler calls (like, last time i did see when Tyler was asking Boone for forgiveness when he chased a tornado with Kate instead of Boone but the fact that Tyler only called Lily because Boone wasn’t answering just adds to that lmao)

Tyler being all shy and sweet with Kate (yeah i saw it before last time but like 🥺 he’s such a sweetie with his little crush and little smile and trying to act all cool asking for her opinion about where the twister is like 🤧🤧 adorable)

Lily teasing and being a great wingman (calling out his red face and handing Kate the food. and ok, yeah, sure, it’s a lot more likely that she didn’t see Kate and Tyler have a mini argument where Kate assumes the worst of them, but i like to think she saw how it ended and decided to clear the air her own way)

Benjamin Shopshire III (100% laughed when i read that name, i’m so sorry Ben lmao)

Mrs Carter’s narrative similarities to Aunt Meg (bbq & steak and eggs; team loving protag’s relative; not taking protag’s bs)

dead bf’s name is Jeb not Jeff (pretty sure that’s short for something but i have never heard of a Jeb before)

Tyler complimenting Javi’s radar (solely for OT3 purposes)

“Storm Par” & “Owens” (very much the when a name begins toned derogatory but ends the story affectionate)

they never specify which branch of the military Javi’s from (…….it’s free real estate)

Never Left Me plays when Javi and Kate are driving into Oklahoma (very much seals the “there was a time i’d do anything for you” quote)

but yeah there’s some. imma be letting it all soak in my brain while i rot ✌️

#twisters #twisters 2024 #kate carter #tyler owens #twisters javi #tornado wranglers #tyler owens x kate carter #tyler x kate #kate x javi #tyler x javi #tyler x kate x javi #KaTyVi #edit: OH ALSO THE F5 ON THE CHART IN NEW YORK IS DATED 2014 WHICH MEANS IF HER FRIENDS DIED IN 2014 THEN THIS WOULD #TAKE PLACE IN 2019 THE SAME YEAR AS TOP GUN WAS SUPPOSED TO TAKE PLACE #YALL I CAN STILL WIN THIS

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zepskies · 10 days ago

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The Honorable Choice - Part 3

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: The last chapter! Hold on, it's about to get bumpy...

Disclaimer: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

**Pronunciation guide at the end!

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: @jacklesversebingo Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 5.7K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Protective Dean, survival situations, smut (mutual masturbation, fingering, and more), angst, and fluff.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!

Part 3: Worthy

They travel together for two more days. Dean isn’t really a talkative man, but inevitably, he finds himself speaking to fill the comfortable stretches of quiet plodding across the grasslands.

He tells her about growing up on his family’s farm, where his father was firm but fair, and a larger-than-life presence when Sam and Dean were kids. His mother though, she was the only one who could ever go toe to toe with John Winchester and win.

“She tamed him,” Mila remarks with a smile. Dean’s lips quirk in response.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he chuckles, “but he knew he couldn’t pull a whole lot of shit with Mom. She’s a real pistol when she’s gotta be.”

Talking about them makes his heart heavy and sobers his mood, so he deflects with other stories, other chapters of his life.

He talks about going through basic training alongside Benny Lafitte. As privates, Dean pranked his friend by filling his lumpy old pillow with raw eggs and chicken feathers. In retaliation, Benny swapped Dean’s morning coffee with actual dirt and hot water. Their boyish games escalated until they were nearly kicked out of the military.

Dean managed to smooth things over though. He’s always had a way of charming people, even the gruff Sergeant Major, Bobby Singer.

Mila admits that she and her cousin Šóta used to sneak out of the village when they were younger. He taught her how to climb trees, how to fight and protect herself, and how to ride a horse astride, like a man. He was the only one who ever encouraged her to have the “free mind” her mother dreamed about.

The more she confides in him, her eyes sparking with life and her hands gesticulating along with her words, the more Dean listens.

On the third day, it’s nearing mid-afternoon when Dean slows Baby to a stop. After miles and miles of forest and grassland covered, they’ve finally approached a large, wide river. Mila stops beside him.

“My tribe lives beyond the river,” she says, “but the current is strong now.”

Dean looks over at her. A question he hasn’t wanted to ask crops back up. He feels that now is the time to voice it.

“Yeah, about that…I’m thinking your tribe doesn’t take very well to outsiders,” he says. “White men in particular.”

Mila presses her lips together. He can tell she’s been thinking the same thing, but she turns to him with a determined set to her features.

“I will protect you,” she says.

Dean frowns. He doesn’t like the sound of that. On one hand, it warms him that she seems to really mean it. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to know what it’ll take for her to protect him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

She turns her face away and doesn’t seem to want to answer at first.

“Mila…”

“The Chief is my uncle,” she says at last. “He will listen to me.”

Dean blinks. Well, that changes things…maybe.

He’s still not convinced, but at this point, he really doesn’t have many options. It’s either take his chances with her tribe, or become a vagabond. He’s not sure how long he could survive in wilds of the West alone, especially while trying to dodge military patrols.

In the past three days, it’s taken Dean all that time to come to terms with a simple fact. He’ll likely never see his brother again, or his mother. It’s a pain that cuts into him deeply, down to his bones. It stings behind his eyes.

But if he only has two choices, then he at least wants to make sure Mila gets home safely…even if that means he won’t be.

He’s come this far. If his career is worth the price of what he feels is right, then his life is worth it too.

With that decision made, Dean expels a long, somewhat faltering breath. He locks away the rest of his uncertainty, his apprehension, and even his grief. He hides deep inside, where she won’t see it.

“All right, the current doesn’t look too bad over here,” he says, pointing to farther north along the river. “The horses can make it.”

Mila nods in agreement. She still looks uneasy, though she tries to hide it too. She ventures ahead into the river. Dean follows close behind.

The water is shallow at first, but it all too quickly gets deeper. The horses plod over the river stones and vegetation under the surface, and the humans are led deeper, until they’re submerged into the water up to their waists.

It’s good that Mila rides that giant mustang; if she were on a mare, like Dean, she’d already be sunk up to her shoulders. Baby’s a big girl, to be sure, but Mila is nearly a foot shorter than him, with a smaller frame. He watches her carefully as she makes her way ahead of him.

That’s why he’s able to act fast when Mato slips, dunking Mila under the water. She gasps and tries to cling onto him, but the current is fierce. It pushes Mato down the river no matter how much he scrambles and kicks at the water, braying wildly in distress.

Shit! Dean tugs sharply at Baby’s reigns and strives to catch up to them. He grabs Mato’s reigns and pulls and pulls, until he and Baby are able to drag him to the other side of the river where he can get a foothold with his hooves.

Mila is starting to fall off his back. She struggles to cling on while the river pushes at her, with her wet hair falling in her eyes. Dean leans back as far as he can to try and pull her up.

“It’s okay, I’ve gotcha,” he calls out, even though his heart hammers with alarm.

She reaches out for his hand in turn. Just as his fingers begin to close over hers, a wave from the current crashes into her. A short scream tears from her throat after she loses her grip on Mato’s neck. Without her weight, he’s able to pull himself back up onto the bank along with Baby.

Damn it! Gut-wrenching alarm spears Dean into action. He leaps down from Baby and removes his gloves, his hat, and his uniform jacket, so he can dive into the water. Thank God he’s a strong swimmer.

Mila seems to be too. She carves through the water against the current the best she can and tries to keep her head above the waves, but Dean can see it’s a losing battle. He manages to grab hold of her arm, and then wraps an arm around her waist to keep her close. Both of them work together to try and cling to any passing rock or low-hanging vine as the current sweeps them out toward an ultimate end.

A waterfall.

Of course. Goddamn it. Dean doesn’t know how steep it is on the other side, and he doesn’t want to know. All he’s trying to do is keep himself and Mila above the water.

She hooks her hand around a sharp rock. It bites into her hand, making her cry out, but she clings to it for all she’s worth. She holds onto Dean just as tightly, even though the current wants to take him. She tries to pull him closer, close enough for him to get a hold on the rock as well.

This time, it’s Dean who loses his footing. The rocks slip beneath the soles of his feet when he attempts to gain some leverage.

A shout of surprise escapes from him when he fails, and it gets swallowed up by water rushing down his throat.

“Dean!” Mila yells, for the first time using his name. The last thing he registers is the fear in her eyes—afraid for him.

The river takes him over the edge of the abyss, and he falls.

He never expected that he would get to open his eyes again, let alone to the sight that greets him. Mila’s familiar face, framed by the dark, drying waves of her hair, is bright with firelight. It dances in orange-gold across her features. Her eyes are warm like rich molasses when she looks down and finds him awake.

She smiles in relief.

He realizes that he’s lying on soft grass with his head pillowed in her lap. She’s taken off his boots and half of his white undershirt; she tore one of his sleeves to wrap around a mercifully shallow gash in his shoulder.

The horses are drinking from the river nearby, with a pile of apples split between them. There’s a fish roasted over the fire, but all Dean cares about is the way her fingers are running through his hair. She sings a soft song under her breath while she passes her other hand over his injured arm without touching it.

He doesn’t understand the words, but he thinks she might be trying to heal him. He’s heard plenty of stories about the Sioux people, most he’s taken with a grain of salt. He does remember Cas saying that their healers are different from doctors.

Dean’s never given their hoodoo much thought, but right about now, he hopes it works.

“Mornin’,” he croaks.

Mila’s relieved face becomes touched with amusement.

“It’s night,” she says. “You slept for a long time.”

Dean wants to sit up and take an inventory of his injuries, but he can’t make his body move just yet. He’s too tired and bruised. He also likes being in her arms. He likes her fingers in his hair, now moving to his cheek. He sighs through his nose in contentment as her thumb drifts over his overgrown stubble.

“Thank you,” she says. Emotion is thick in her voice.

Dean meets her eyes again, and he smiles. He raises the back of his hand to touch her smooth cheek, gently. He lets his fingers glide across her tan skin, down the column of her neck. Her breath hitches.

She takes his calloused hand in her slender one. Her long hair falls like a curtain over her shoulder, almost like it’s shielding them from whatever is left to come for them beyond the forest. Dean wraps an ebony strand around his finger, just to feel it fall loosely again.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he says.

Mila graces him with another smile from her lips. He wants to know what they taste like.

“I guess you are pretty, for a White Man,” she says teasingly.

Her fingers trace his brow, his jawline, even the tip of his chin. She seems to be avoiding his plush mouth, even though her gaze keeps dropping there. Dean pretends to frown.

“Sweetheart, that’s not the way you talk about a man,” he says.

Her brows raise. “No?”

“Handsome. Strong. Toothsome, if you will,” he says, enjoying the way she begins to blush. “That’s what you wanna call a man.”

“Toothsome. I don’t know this word,” she admits. “Am I supposed to eat you?”

Dean resists the urge to say the first incorrigible thing that pops into his head. Instead, his body shakes with laughter.

It’s difficult at first, all his muscles pulling at him in protest, but he raises himself into a sitting position. He cups Mila’s cheek, dragging his thumb across her lower lip. Her lashes are dark and long. They move when she looks up at him. He knows the look in her eyes, wanting, desiring, but also unsure of what she should allow him.

Dean leans in slowly, giving her time to decide.

She tilts her face up to his. He noses at her cheek, his eyes falling closed along with hers.

He finds her lips with his own on instinct and feeling alone. Soft and tender movements, testing, asking.

She answers him. Her fingers tangle in the front of his tattered shirt as her lips begin to move against his. Dean wraps an arm around her waist and gathers her against his chest. His other hand glides down her arm, down her side and along every soft curve. Her clothes are still damp, and so are his.

“It’ll be faster to dry our clothes if we’re not wearing ‘em,” Dean rumbles. His voice is deep with desire. He presses kisses along the side of her jaw, behind her ear, down her neck and shoulder. He earns her pleased hum, her heavier breaths, and her fingers once again in his hair.

“I can’t,” she gasps. She says something in her native tongue, too fast for Dean to even register. He slows down so he can meet her eyes.

“What was that?” he asks. Her face falls, and she starts to trip over her words.

“I am not…how you say, married. I have to be…”

Dean smiles ruefully, sliding a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Chaste?” he offers. She nods, her brows furrowed. Her grip on his shirt tightens.

“Yes,” she says. “In the eyes of my people, it is…”

“I get it,” Dean says. When she still seems conflicted, he presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Really, I understand,” he says.

His problem is that he stares into her eyes too long, and at her kiss-swollen lips. He dives back in for another taste.

This time, he’s a little less gentlemanly than he promised. His tongue sweeps along her lower lip, begging entrance. She makes a sound of surprise, but she opens up to him. Her gentle hands slide up his chest to hold his face, and her thumbs stroke his cheeks. He holds one of her wrists to keep her there as his tongue dances with hers. She tastes like the river, and like salty tears.

Had she cried for him? How long did she sit with his body, waiting to see if he would wake up?

Despite those worrying thoughts, Dean knows this feels right. More right than he’s ever felt.

It’s harder than he might’ve imagined, but he still pulls away, before he won’t be able to stop himself. Mila pants for breath. She seems to feel she should let him go, but also doesn’t show any sign of wanting to. Smiling, Dean caresses her cheek one more time before he turns to the fish she roasted.

“This looks good,” he says, clearing his throat. “What kinda fish is this?”

With a sigh, she attempts to steady herself and moves to join him by the fire.

That night, Mila dreams.

She dreams of wings, white and beautiful. She hears the cry of an eagle before she sees his great wingspan take off in flight. He soon finds his mate, and they dance together in the sky.

When she wakes, the fire has gone out and it’s still dark in the night. It takes her a moment to realize that she’s safe. Finally safe.

And she’s lying securely in Dean’s arms.

She’s no longer conflicted when she stares up at his face.

She will bring him home to her tribe, and she will explain. If they still don’t welcome him, then she prays for the strength to keep to her honor. Because now, she begins to realize…

Her heart has already chosen.

“Kimmímila, what have you done?” her uncle asks in the language of their people.

He is Tahatan, Chief of their tribe.

Mila’s father, Chatan, and her cousin Šóta have tied Dean Winchester to a post in the center of the Chief’s large tipi. Dean kneels with his head bowed in respect, even though he keeps sneaking looks at Mila to try and gauge what’s happening. He doesn’t understand a word of any of it.

“You’ve brought this outsider into our village, this White Man!” Tahatan shouts, his voice deep and resounding.

Mila steps forward, despite her mother’s embarrassment and her father trying to grab her shoulder. For the second time in her life, she defies her father for what she believes is right. The first was to rescue a member of their tribe—because even a horse’s spirit should not be broken by greed.

“Uncle, I’ve told you the story, though you don’t want to believe it,” she says. “Dean Winchester saved me when he could have killed me, or worse. He defied his own people. He is dead to his own people, for me, and because of me. You may think they lack all honor, but this man is different.”

She looks over at Dean, and he meets her gaze. He wears an anxious frown as he looks between her and the chief, but she has a feeling that his fear is for her, not for himself.

She kneels beside him, then looks up at her uncle with all the stubbornness she’s ever possessed in her life. She feels it’s led her to exactly this moment.

“And we are one,” she says. Nerves trill up her spine as she says it. She predicts the way shock falls over the room. The way her father curses out loud, angry. The way her mother covers her mouth in dismay. The way the Chief takes a step back, tilting his head at his niece.

“You would take it that far?” he asks.

Her face doesn’t change. “It’s already done.”

Tahatan is beside himself, both angry and perplexed. He goes back to his chair of wicker and wood that lies centered in the room. He drops heavily into it. After a long while, in which he thinks in silence…he releases a heavy sigh. He gestures for his brother and his son to untie Dean. The men do so, but they don’t let him go free. They force him to stand and bring him forward to kneel again before the Chief.

“Dean Winchester,” Tahatan says.

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies.

“You prove yourself to be a man with honor,” he says in English. “Kimmímila has chosen you. She claims you have chosen her in return. Do you deny this?”

Dean glances over at her. She bites the inside of her lip, a bit worried about how he’ll react. She’s not sure he completely understands what Tahatan is telling him, but he nods, regardless.

“No, sir. I don’t deny it,” Dean says.

“Then, you will be allowed to stay, and live among us,” Tahatan declares. "We will see for ourselves what you are. We will see if you are worthy."

Dean gives a nod, crossed with a bow of some kind. He obviously isn’t sure of what he’s supposed to do, but he does say thank you. Mila wraps her hands around his uninjured arm and helps him to his feet. She smiles at him to let him know that the worst is over. He blows out a breath in relief.

“Is that it?” he whispers. He expected more of a thrashing, if he’s honest.

“Almost,” she replies. The two of them stop short before her father, Chatan.

Dean straightens up and holds out his hand. “Sir.”

Chatan glances down at the white hand extended toward him. His gaze raises back up to Dean.

He grunts in acknowledgement, but he turns on his heels and storms out of the tipi. Her mother comes forward next. She examines Dean from all angles. She takes his face in her hand, somewhat squishing his cheeks, so she can look deeply into his startled eyes.

She seems satisfied by what she finds, and she lets him go. Afterward, she takes Mila’s hand and heaves a deep sigh.

She kisses her daughter’s hand and says nothing else, leaving them to find her husband and calm him down.

Dean turns to Mila with a look that says, please tell me that’s it.

She smiles more genuinely.

“Come,” she says.

She leads him by the hand out of the Chief’s tipi and through the village. Dean takes in the rows of other tall, cone-like structures covered in buffalo skin, as well as all the faces that turn to stare at him in a mix of curiosity, wariness, and even fear. Some of them whisper to each other, taking their children by the hand and keeping them close.

Dean’s still on guard himself, even when Mila takes him to a smaller tipi. It’s been closed up for a while now, by the look of it. Weeds have grown right outside the entrance.

“This one’s yours?” Dean asks.

She pauses, giving him another small smile. “Ours.”

Dean raises a brow. Ours. Really?

She opens the flap in the front and beckons him inside. There’s still enough daylight to shine through the outer lining. Inside, his gaze flits over the old pile of stones in the center for heating, clothes folded in the corner, some cooking pots and utensils, paintings on wood and clay, and a couple of beaded decorations. Buffalo skin bedding is laid out on the other side with a couple of soft looking furs.

Son of a gun. Dean doesn’t even blink as he processes it all. He’s in a damn tipi. This is really about to become his life.

Shaking his head a little, he forces himself to focus on Mila. She’s his anchor, and she seems to sense that he’s reeling. She guides him to sit beside her on the bedding, holding his hands in hers. After a moment, he reaches up to tuck a curling strand of hair behind her ear.

“You didn’t get in too much trouble because of me, did you?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “No. My father and uncle are very similar. Strong to anger, but it is quick to run out. At least with me.”

Dean thinks he understands. Short fuse, quick fizzle.

“There is just…one thing,” Mila says. Her eyes fall away from his, like she’s embarrassed. He squeezes her hands.

“What?” he asks, his brows furrowing. It gets her to look at him again, but she seems worried to tell him.

“To convince my uncle to let you stay, I told them that we…” she trails, trying to find the right words in English. “That we are married.”

Dean’s brows raise high. His heart trips up faster. Okay, “ours” makes a lot more sense now.

“I am sorry,” she says quietly. “I didn’t want you hurt—”

“Sweetheart,” Dean says, cupping her cheek. Even with the hammering of his heart, he grins. “I’m pretty sure that’s where this was going anyway.”

In fact, this is a best-case scenario, as far as he’s concerned. He leans in to kiss her, and it doesn’t take long at all for her to sigh in relief, melting against him.

“We’re married, huh?” he asks. “No ceremony? No white dress?”

“We are bonded,” she replies, nodding as she meets every one of his kisses. “Or, we will be.”

She tugs him closer and revels in the feeling of his hands beginning to roam her body, sliding down her waist, her hips and thighs.

“Guess that means we have to seal the deal,” he grins. His lips drift away from hers to burn a familiar path across her cheek. He takes to nibbling her ear, making her flinch and laugh as it tickles.

“Seal-the-deal. What does that mean?” she asks.

Dean chuckles lowly in her ear. “Oh, I think you know.”

He guides her onto her back, over the comfortable mess of furs. He wants to take his time exploring every inch of soft, tan skin, but he first sweeps her hair away from her eyes, the back of his hand brushing against her cheek. She smiles up at him softly.

“Do you regret?” she whispers, reaching up to touch his chin with two slender fingers. “Do you regret helping me?”

Dean considers her question. He knows he’ll carry his family in his heart until the day he dies. His brother, his mother, the memory of his father. Benny and Cas, even Jack, and so many others.

It’s already a heavy burden, but he had always been prepared to lose his life on the battlefield, in service of his country. At least this way, he gains a new life.

“No. Never did,” Dean replies. “Not even once.”

He bows his head toward hers, and he proves it to her. His lips capture hers, fueled by passion and wanting. Mila’s hands slide over his shoulders and down his back. Maybe without her realizing it, she implores him to let go of the weight heaped on his shoulders.

When he begins to bunch up the hem of her dress, she sits up to help guide his hands. Her quickening breaths mesh with his as the first layer of clothing drops beside the bedding. His tattered shirt joins her dress, along with pants and shoes and boots, until all that’s left is skin against warm, bare skin. He lays on his side right beside her and explores wherever she lets him begin.

“Beautiful,” Dean murmurs, as his lips follow the column of her neck, down between her breasts. Her breaths rise to meet him, especially when he begins to toy with a dark, pebbled nipple. Her fingers slip through his hair, and his name falls from her lips. He palms one breast while kissing and gently teasing the other, exploring sensitive flesh and grazing her sensitive fleshwith his teeth.

“No man’s ever touched you?” he asks, despite knowing the answer.

She shakes her head, her fingers gripping his hair tighter as his lips and tongue move against her skin.

“No,” Mila gasps a reply. Her hand slides down the back of his neck, and the more he teases her, her nails soon create faint red lines down his back, her thighs squeezing together. She feels a throbbing ache at the very center of her. Despite her inexperience with men, she knows what it means, and she knows what she wants.

Dean’s mouth drags away from her breast. He pulls back so he can meet her eyes. A smile curves his lips, and he takes one of her hands from his shoulders.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” he asks. He guides her hand down her body, brushing over a wet, sensitive nipple, down her stomach, and between her legs. This time, Mila nods in answer. She stares up at Dean with eyes like molten honey. He leans in to kiss her neck.

“Show me,” he says.

She shudders at the depths in his voice. It increases the flood of wetness she already feels, even before she slips two fingers between the folds of her sex. She gathers some of that slick and circles it over the source of her pleasure, the small nub above her entrance.

Dean takes his hardened length in his hand. While she writhes by her own hand, he drinks her in with his eyes. A soft groan falls from his lips as he pumps himself a few times, sliding a thumb across the weeping head of his cock.

He can’t be a spectator for long though. He nips tantalizingly at her neck, creating a zing of added sensation across her skin. She whimpers, though she tries to stifle it, her knee bending further.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Dean says. “Let me hear you.”

He releases himself and replaces her hand with his own. He slips two long fingers inside her drenched entrance, earning a gasping moan from her. She latches onto his shoulders and buries her face into his neck. She whispers fervent things he doesn’t understand, but it only spurs him on.

His thumb circles insistently over her clit as his fingers pulse inside her. Her hips buck a needy rhythm against his hand, until her thighs begin to shake, and her inner walls squeeze even tighter around his fingers.

“Shit, that’s it, baby,” he pants gruffly against her cheek. “Let go for me.”

Warmth snaps and floods from her throbbing core, and she cries out near his ear, her nails biting into his skin. Her release coats his fingers.

Mila drops her head back against the furs underneath her. Her chest rises and falls quickly while she tries to catch her breath, her eyes tightly shut. Dean surprises her with a soft kiss.

“Mila,” he prods. He wants to see her eyes again, so pretty and wanton when she comes. He veers away from her lips to kiss her cheek, and then the other side of her neck. “Let me see you, sweetheart.”

She huffs a small laugh. Opening her eyes, she gestures to her bare body. “This is not enough?”

Dean’s lips tug at a smile. He shakes his head. “As a matter of fact, no.”

He shifts over her, finding his place between the cradle of her thighs. His elbows come to rest on either side of her head. She feels trapped by his body, even as she welcomes his weight and the feeling of his arousal, long and heavy and hard, trapped between their bodies. This man fills every corner of her world in this moment.

“If I’m your husband now, that means I get all of you,” he says with a grin. She gazes up at him, both in blushing amusement and affection.

“All of me,” Mila repeats. She takes his face in her hands and brings him closer, until her lips are a whisper from his. “Then I want all of you.”

Dean chuckles. “You sure about that?”

She smiles in satisfaction, and her lips claim him this time. One kiss turns into many, each one mounting in passion and desire. Dean groans into her when she begins to touch him. Her hands are soft, but direct in their seeking; they caress his shoulders, run down his chest and stomach, and then, more tentatively explore the now painfully hard length of him pressing against her.

He makes a grateful sound of pleasure when her hand wraps around his cock, squeezing gently. His fingers bury themselves in her hair.

“I want all of you,” she says, this time a plea and a demand all at once as she strokes him.

Dean nods in agreement. He’s come this far. He can do that for her too.

He spreads her thighs a bit wider and encourages her to adjust the angle of her hips for him. His hand glides down her plush thigh and gets a healthy grip. Then he slides his hand under hers and guides his cock through her folds, first just holding himself at her warm, wet entrance.

He manages to wait for a second, in order to meet her gaze. She’s already holding onto his arms tightly, like he’s become her anchor. Her thighs wrap around his hips and beckon him closer.

Slowly, he pushes inside. He takes care in how he works her open. She winces at the sting of his girth stretching her, but his fingers once again massage her clit, stroking her arousal back into a keening flame. He swallows her gasps and moans as he bottoms out inside her, fully sheathed. Tears prick at her eyes, but not from pain.

Mila’s dream flashes like a waking vision behind her eyes. Wings take flight, along with the gleam of a golden beak and a sharp eye.

She blinks, and the image disappears. She’s left with the man who has become hers, making love to her with every stroke of him deep inside her. She presses grateful kisses across his neck and shoulder, wherever she can reach while she clings to his strong arms.

The thick head of him brushes a sensitive place over and over, one that tightens the coil in her lower belly and makes her core tremble again with warmth, until her body convulses against him, pulsing in pleasure, gripping him tight from the inside. Mila’s fingers clench in his hair just as tightly as her release hits her in a powerful wave; even her voice becomes lost to it.

Gritting his teeth, Dean grips the soft flesh of her hip and chases his own end. The way her inner walls choke his cock, he has no choice but to come hot inside her, his spend mixing with her own release. A strangled shout tears from his throat.

He has to brace himself before he crushes her. With his forearms resting on either side of her head, he lowers his forehead against hers. Her legs slip from where they’ve been tightly molded to his hips, her feet meeting the floor. Eventually he slips out of her. He watches his seed drip out and create a mess on the dark furs. The sight of it satisfies something primal deep inside him.

Later he’ll ask her about washing up (and about supper), but for now, he just turns onto his back beside her. She inches toward him, and he raises an arm so she can splay out against his side. They both lay there for a moment in the quiet, just catching their breath together. It marks the end of a long journey, and yet, the start of one too.

Mila turns to raise onto her elbow. She reaches over to wipe the sweat from his brow in a tender touch. Dean smiles up at her. He takes her hand and presses a kiss into her palm.

“I could get used to this,” he says.

Her eyes widen in surprise, but then she laughs softly. “Yes.”

Her hand moves down to his chest, over his heart. She sobers as she considers her people, and how much trust has yet to be bridged—not only her own father and uncle, but the entire tribe. When she led him through the village, they called him wašíču.

Fat-taker. Greedy White. Not one of us.

“It will be hard for you here,” Mila says. She worries it will be too hard for Dean.

He just squeezes her hand, earning her attention through tumultuous thoughts.

“I’m not afraid of a little hard work,” Dean replies. His usual confident charm is infused in his smile, but she has a feeling he’s just trying to reassure her.

Sensing she’s not convinced, Dean reaches up to hold her cheek, guiding her to look at him and not the floor.

“Listen. I made my choice, and I’m sticking it out, come hell or high water,” he says.

Mila’s brows knit together. “Hell-or-high… What does that mean?”

Dean sits up on his elbow along with her. He takes her chin between his fingers and meets her gaze.

“It means if you want me, you’ve got me. The rest, we’ll figure out as we go along,” he says.

A smile slowly lightens Mila’s face. She tilts her chin up to meet him with a kiss.

“I will be with you,” she says. It’s a promise.

Dean smiles back.

“Good,” he says. “Because that’s just about all I need.”

AN: There we have it, friends. 💜 I really, truly hope you enjoyed this mini series! To be honest, I have more ideas for this little world (like how Dean might try to assimilate into this culture), but I'll leave it to you guys to let me know if that's something you'd be interested in reading.

Until then, I would love to know what you thought of this chapter!

Pronunciation Guide:

Šóta ("sho-tah") Chatan ("chat-tan") Tahatan ("ta-hat-tann") Wašíču ("wash-ee-jew")

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strawberrystepmom · 9 months ago

Text

Fukuzawa x F!Reader. CW: implied age gap (reader is in her late 20's and he is his canonical age), alcohol mention and consumption, takes place from his bedside while he's ill during the Cannibal arc. weird situationship vibes, switches between past and present tense.

WC: 2.9k | divider by cafekitsune

“What are you doing here?”

Yukichi’s voice is little more than a whisper when he speaks, the dryness of his throat marking his usual baritone with a rasp that causes you to arch a brow.

“Visiting, standing vigil, whatever makes it seem more heroic.” Making a show of licking the tip of your finger and using it to flip to the next page of the book sitting in your lap, you glance up from the page and tilt your head to the side.“Why are you so surprised to see me?”

“You shouldn’t be here. I’ll have Ranpo escort you out.”

The continued dry rasp of his voice makes you spring into action, snapping the book in your lap closed and reaching for the small carafe of water by his bedside. Pouring a glass, you slide it in his direction and look away when he moves to pick it up. The suggestion that Ranpo be the one to escort you out makes you chuckle to yourself considering he is the one who let you in to begin with, holding out his hand for the promised sweets your sister mailed from overseas. Sweeter and stickier than anything he can find here, probably melting in the palm of his hand.

Finally, you sigh and lean back in the chair as much as the cramped object will allow.

“If you want me to leave, you can just say so. I can show myself out. No escort necessary.”

You want to hear him deny you in his own words for once, anticipating the rejection that has yet to come, a breath caught in your throat. Instead you listen to the gulp of room temperature water travel down his throat, eyes fixed to the closed cover of the book in your lap.

It has been more than six months since your employment with the Armed Detective Agency ended and you’ve managed to wheedle your way into two personal visits with its President in that time. Two times you attempted, yet again, to show him you are invested in him as Yukichi Fukuzawa, the man and not merely as a former boss.

----------------------

The first was over dinner; a simple message sent with intention.

You: I made too much and always forget about my leftovers. Have you eaten yet?

What is he if not an old moth to a hopeful little flame?

Logic warned him to decline but his just shaky enough to be from low blood sugar mid-evening hands betrayed his judgment. What could it hurt to humor you a little bit? He has never been outright oblivious to your feelings although will always believe them to be misguided.

YF: You are too generous with your time and groceries. I can be there in twenty minutes.

You showed him your humble abode for the first time and fed him bites from your plate insisting you were almost too full to move. Your cat climbed into his lap and he dared to daydream for a breath it were the needy creature’s owner instead, steel blue eyes tracing your every move while nimble fingers stroked between the cats’ ears. The soft melody of your record collection set the soundtrack and you swayed gently, nursing a glass of wine between two of your fingers.

“Thank you for coming tonight.”

Whatever trance the gentle purr of your cat had him in severed the moment he heard your voice. He watched your form gently sway to the music, soft and melodic from the decade before he was even born making it far older than you.

“Can’t let good food go to waste.”

Glancing over your shoulder, you smiled at him with narrowed eyes. He has imagined you performing this exact motion often, every day even, looking over your shoulder while swaying gently to your favorite music. If he weren’t so concerned about appropriateness, he’d rise to his feet and join you, wrap his arm around your waist and sway with his chin on your shoulder.

“You think I’m a good cook?”

From your couch, he glanced over his shoulder at you and sighed softly. If he were to speak the words he wants to say, they’d almost certainly tip this over the edge he has spent so much time desperately trying to avoid, so he picks the easiest ones available:

“Yeah, you are.”

The way you smiled at him weighed on his mind for the rest of his fitful night, that grin lighting up nightmares and daydreams alike.

----------------------

“Why are you here?”

Fukuzawa rarely makes a second request for an answer, even from you, and the breath caught in your throat becomes a sharp exhale the moment he speaks. He glances in your direction and sees the anxious twitch in your fingers, how you desperately wish to fiddle with your appearance or jewelry to seem undisturbed and confident. Fukuzawa is an intelligent man by nature and he carefully watches to expose all of a person’s subtleties, even yours. So much of your behavior is a veneer to make yourself appear non threatening.

Truth be told, he’s astounded it works as well as it does although even the greatest minds have fallen prey to beautiful women with sharp wit and pretty smiles. Not that you are a predator to him in the slightest.

“Because I care about you,” you start, snapping your mouth shut to avoid saying more. Instead of fiddling with your clothing or earrings, you jiggle your foot and the book in your lap bounces with each movement. You are too vulnerable for your own good, tender hearted to the core. “I wanted to see how you’re doing for myself instead of getting the sanitized version of the story from Kunikida and the dishonest one from Dazai.”

Fukuzawa attempts to push his glass back onto the table and you reach to pluck it from his hands, fingers touching while you do. It reminds him of the second occasion he enjoyed your company before tonight, skin buzzing with the ghost of your touch instead of the dull throbbing pain of his illness. A soft gasp escapes him and he settles back against the pillow under his head, silver hair sweeping his shoulders.

“That’s fair,” he admits, fiddling with the blanket that is loosely wrapped over his body.

You giggle despite feeling entirely out of your element, insecure and young despite your nearly three decades, dabbling in adoration for a man you have no business being interested in to begin with.

“If you’d like to be alone, I can leave.”

He makes you feel as though you’re nude in front of him while he’s fully clothed, baring every crease and dimple of yourself, supine and ripe for his consumption. It’s what you want, after all. A single glance that leaves you stripped to the bones.

It’s why you cannot leave him alone.

----------------------

The second time you were fortunate enough to be graced with Fukuzawa’s presence as a friend was a tad less honest on your end.

“Hello?”

Fukuzawa knew who was on the other end before he even picked his phone up to answer the incoming call, a stirring feeling in his gut he should have perhaps taken as a warning letting him know what was coming next.

“What are you doing tonight?”

He exhaled loudly through his nose in response to your question, the closest you have ever come to drawing a real laugh from the man. He has always played off his enjoyment with tight smiles and acknowledging nods, hiding his upturned lips behind the ceramic of a choko.

“I’ll take it that means you’re free?”

The sound of a pen being tossed down onto the desk below it clanged through the speaker of your phone. You sighed the sound away, listening for further stirring on the other end. Seconds passing have conditioned you to expect a rejection when it comes to him, a gentle let down the way only he has managed to seem less like a “no thank you” and more of a “you’re so kind to ask” in the effusively polite way he has perfected.

“Tell me what I’m going to be getting myself into before I answer, please.”

You were not being asked to explain yourself, you were being told to do so. A small smile danced across your lips while smearing on berry colored lipstick in your bathroom mirror, your phone pressed against your blush dusted cheek.

“So there is this sake tasting…” A sigh from Fukuzawa interrupted your words and you sighed back, pouting at your reflection in the mirror. “Can you at least let me finish?”

He cleared his throat, leaving you to picture him sitting in his office at the Agency with a bemused smirk on his face. You’ve never seen him smile but your mind is quick to expel the effort it takes to pretend that you have. Does he have dimples? Lines that mirror those beneath his eyes that carve valleys around his mouth? You’ve always hoped you’d find out.

“Thank you.”

He hummed a response to your polite words, shifting in his own seat.

“I booked it expecting a friend would join me but something has come up and they can’t. I could go alone but I also just so happen to know a man who is very fond of sake and knows more about it than I do who would be the perfect company.”

Another hum was all he graced you with. You wrinkled your nose at your reflection and mouthed a swear word, certain your flimsy story was about to be dead on arrival. It wasn’t your best story and you knew going into this it was risky to lie to begin with but what else could you say?

“Oh Fukuzawa, I’ve been dying to drink alongside you in hopes it loosens your tongue enough to reveal your deep mutual love for me.”

No. You would have rather died than admit these words aloud where he could hear them. He has always had access to far too much of you and has granted you far too little to him.

“And this friend? Who are they?”

A giggle bubbled out of you while you closed your lipstick tube, tossing it on the counter in front of you haphazardly. Should you choose your words carefully to prolong the mystery of this friend, the same one you claim you’re drinking with when you’re really drinking alone and calling your former boss and current flame?

“They’re nobody important,” you settled on. He knew immediately you were lying, your true good hearted nature giving you away yet again. You’d never call your friends unimportant, no matter how frustrated you may have been over being stood up which seems to happen with this mysterious friend often.

“Hm. Interesting.”

You knew you’d been caught. The tone of his voice was more of a guilty verdict than any you could find in a courtroom. The warmth rushing to the front of your face, something you’d almost consider shameful if you had any shame left, convinced you to suspend any further untruths and you instead opted to rush into the next part of your offer full speed ahead.

“It starts at eight. If you aren’t busy, that is. Just say so if you are, I’m a big girl who can handle rejection.”

Yukichi smiled from his office. It dimmed as quickly as it spread across his face, drawn to life by the assertion you can handle rejection. Only someone who has ever been rejected can handle rejection. You are rarely denied what you want. Is he really going to be another hashmark keeping track of how many you’ve won over?

“Are you going to keep me out all night?”

This won him a laugh from you, a sound that warmed his bones and made his mind race at the same time.

“Depends, do you wanna be out all night? This is just a tasting but I have a bottle and you know where I live…”

Singing the last word of your sentence, you devolved into a fit of giggles over your own sillness and if he wasn’t actively debating on how appropriate his association with you is, he probably would have laughed along.

“No. That’s not necessary, I’m sure the tasting will give me all the excitement I can handle.”

The tasting only made him yearn for you more strongly, fingers brushed against one another while passing ceramic cups to lips. Discussions of clean flavor, light and neat, bright and warm, lent to the warm landscape spent at the side of a woman he cannot seem to shake no matter what happens to him.

----------------------

“I don’t want you to leave.”

The breath caught in your throat leaves you as a sharp exhale, finally.

The truth always finds its way to light, the lamp on the bedside table casting a glow over the side of Yukichi’s face. He’s more frail than you have ever dreamed of seeing him, complexion nearly translucent in its currently pale hue. Your thumb twitches, itching to rub the skin around his eyes that is etched with fine lines, to reassure him you will not be leaving his side until you’re certain he’s alright. Instead, you tuck it inside your fist to keep the urge to yourself.

“Good because I honestly don’t want to.”

You fiddle with your bag that is draped over the back of the chair, reaching for the newspaper you swiped off of the desk of the Agency after making your deal with Ranpo earlier in the day. You’d show up after everyone else went home or was otherwise occupied and he’d let you in to avoid the gawking that would come with everyone knowing that you are visiting for pleasure and not for business.

“I brought the paper if you want me to read it to you,” you offer and Fukuzawa hums, the faintest sight of a smile on his lips. The corners twitch so minutely you believe you imagined the movement but look down all the same, warm faced, grateful that your mind was correct in assessing him. Dimples and little lines are visible on each of the corners of his mouth.

“Anything interesting happening?”

Flipping the pages open, your eyes widen and you search for something interesting, muttering to yourself. Traffic conditions, weather, reports of minor crime throughout Yokohama. None of these things will improve his condition or keep him from worrying so you flip the page again, shaking your head when the stories come up empty for one you’d like to read.

“Don’t they put the horoscopes in the paper anymore?”

He chuckles and you can tell it hurts him, his chest heaving from the effort. The paper is quickly discarded, fluttering to the floor beside your chair. You lean forward and place your elbows on the side of his bed, daring to get close enough you can look over him from inches instead of feet.

“Are you okay?”

Fukuzawa stiffens and you have to further fight the urge to dote on him. Your fingers itch push his moonlight colored waves off of his face and your palm practically throbs, wishing to be pressed to his likely clammy skin. It’s in your nature to cluck at the things you care about like a worried hen.

“I have to believe that I will be.”

Nodding your agreement and punctuating it with another sigh, you lean forward and rest your chin on his bedside. The intrusion surprises him but it isn’t completely unwelcome, those eyes you love to feel upon you glancing downward and focusing on the tip of your nose, gradually climbing upward until your gazes meet.

“I’ll believe double, just for good measure.” Smiling, you press your cheek to the scratchy fabric of the blanket wrapped around his legs and half of his torso. “I’ll bring you a nicer blanket tomorrow.”

Raising a brow, he keeps his gaze fixed on you.

“Tomorrow?”

Scoffing, you nod. The question isn’t a jab although it may feel like one and you have to reason with yourself that he is merely giving you a hard time.

“Tomorrow, if you’ll have me.”

Shaking his head, he idly reaches in your direction and brushes his thumb over your cheek before placing his hand back at his side. Again, a movement so quick and discreet you believe it imaginary, yet the sensation burns across your skin. Fighting the urge to bury your face into the bed like a schoolgirl with a crush, you choose instead to face him head on and let your gaze soften.

“Next time just ask me if you can come, no need to get Ranpo involved.” You shrug and laugh. “Was it that obvious?”

Yukichi nods and permits his eyes to drift from you to the door. It was obvious from the moment he realized you were in the room who graciously allowed for you to be there, the man on the other side of the door loudly munching whatever you bribed him with.

“You aren’t as great of a liar as you think you are.”

Laughing, you shrug.

"Caught me. At least I'm a good cook and decent company instead."

Fighting the urge to reach out and touch you again, he keeps his hands at his sides and ponders the correct way to respond. His time on earth could be fleeting from this moment forward, his minutes numbered by a threat his entire team is working to figure out. He could leave his cards on the table. Tell you he feels the same and he hasn't had this much fun since he was a far younger man getting into far more trouble.

Instead, he settles back into the pillow beneath him and shifts his face to look at you. He'll save these matters of the heart until after there is no more looming danger.

"Thank you for coming."

You sit up and away from the bed, leaning back into the chair you're sitting on. He doesn't want to discuss feelings or the two of you any further and you respect that, dropping your arm over the side of the chair and fish for the newspaper you brought with you, plucking it by one of the folds and pulling it into your lap.

"Now where were we? Oh yeah, horoscopes."

Whatever you're saying fades into background noise while he shuts his eyes tightly. He has to make it through this, you're waiting for him on the other end of it.

#fukuzawa x reader #fukuzawa yukichi x reader #bsd x reader #kendall writes #fukuken

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piracytheorist · 3 months ago

Text

Twilight Eyes Project: "Prepare for the Interview"

Previous episodes analyses

The anime takes this chance to start the episode with the introductory pages of the manga. As the narrator talks about how people hide their true selves behind smiles and bravado, we get treated to Loid eyes and a smile that is shown as fabricated in a painfully obvious way.

Another way for the narrative to take the audience along with the lies. We're into everything, and the symbolism is laid thick. Right of the bat we're told "Hi, this guy is a liar, enjoy :D"

In an anime-original scene, we see Loid walk to the entrance to welcome Yor to their apartment. The balance is still feeble, but it was Yor who proposed they get married, so he can relax his Loid eyes a bit.

Not yet real, let's not hope too high. But he doesn't need to look overwhelmingly polite now, since Yor is already in on the plan.

It's back to neutral when they discuss their sleeping arrangements,

and straight to Twilight eyes when he talks to himself about why he had to backdate their marriage by a year.

They stay on as he helps Yor with her stuff, and looks over his shoulder at Yor and Anya having their first interactions.

In another anime-original scene where Yor is settling in, Loid eyes make for a totally welcome, very diligent family man façade.

Back to Twilight eyes when it's time for the mock interview.

And on as he loses heart, and decides to get all of them acquainted with each other in an effort to make for a more passable family.

Loid eyes as he shares his plans for their outing.

This next moment I find interesting, because he seems to have Twilight eyes... and a small smile. They're in the opera, the lights are low in the audience, and most people's attention is on the stage. He has no reason to fake a smile, yet there it is as he watches.

Until he realizes Anya and Yor don't look like the ideal opera audience.

"Twilight eyes" still on, along with another small smile, during their museum visit.

More Loid eyes in the last anime-original scenes of the episode. Unlike the opera and the museum, here they are in a kids' art room, the boutique, and out on the street. Much more possible for someone to notice him, so he puts in a little more effort to look like the happy family man who is definitely very satisfied with how things are and would never work for a foreign government, never!

Twilight eyes as he listens to the politician's speech, though with a small frown this time. Definitely not something he could possibly enjoy doing, much rather expose a little girl to.

Welcome to my blog. I project on fictional characters here.

Anya and Yor have been failing all his efforts to instill some elite-ness into them, and we get closed "Twilight" eyes then investigative eyes as he practically fumbles for a new plan.

Yor used "caring for others". It's super effective!

As the wind blows his hair back, he rests on the rail and just gives himself a moment to look at the view, without having to investigate. His quiet reaction, the blush on his face, and the lack of internal monologue point out how his eyes (and brows) have lost the tightness from before. Real eyes.

Until he spots the children playing, seemingly without a care in the world. The very thing he's fighting for. Cue sad eyes.

Kinda find it interesting that the soundtrack piece that plays in this moment is called "try again". He was too tired and disheartened to be able to work with a clear head, until Yor suggested a very simple thing, for him to take a moment off to clear his mind.

Duty calls, as a man robs an old woman and Yor's spring to action influences Twilight to act too. Thus, Twilight eyes as he searches for the pickpocket.

Pickpocket spotted! And Twilight takes it all too seriously now, evidenced by the almost vengeful investigative eyes. I like how the anime took their chance to animate his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Yor appears just in time, and he leaves Anya with her as he goes to jump the criminal. And thus, "Twilight eyes" stay on, with a tiny bit of the elusive nightmare eyes.

A sense of Loid eyes as he puts himself back together, realizing he went too far.

Whoops. Let's just pretend everything is absolutely in order!

Sometimes winging it just works because what kind of secret life would one have if they just walked off like that?

A case of narrowed eyes (in the manga) that don't look like "Twilight eyes", to me at least. The old lady thanks Yor for her help, and Yor passes the credit to Loid, who looks slightly embarrassed by the attention.

In a manner, he knows he wasn't the one to first spring into action, and wouldn't have done anything on his own, but also this kind of attention is unusual to a spy, so it causes him to avert his eyes.

Then the old lady thanks him in specific, and his real eyes betray his surprise.

Hey, I've written an entire meta about this specific reaction of his here.

A little more serious as he regains his composure. He was prepared to reject the credit for helping, but in a show of humility he takes the thanks silently and doesn't comment further.

Then, soft, relaxed, real eyes with a smile that reaches them as he thanks Yor for inspiring him.

(just the manga panel cause I feel the anime fumbled this one adsfdsgghfgd)

Wide, but still relaxed eyes as he smiles at Yor, right before Anya points out what it looks like they're doing.

An unbecoming expression of surprise at the old lady saying they look like a lovely family. His plan is actually going smoothly, but he can't let anyone know there is a plan in the first place. Surely there could be other ways to react, so to not betray himself like that?

This seems to be the first time he's handling a mission of such a nature; he hasn't been a part of a family as an adult, so he doesn't know exactly how to act to make the Forgers look like a normal one. As a result, he's surprised that although his efforts to make an elite-passing family failed, a random citizen who spent a few minutes with them was already convinced they've known each other for longer than a week.

In a few words, this is an expression of "wait, we actually look convincing?"

Down the line he'll get to realize that a normal family is one that can stumble and look "weird" from time to time, and also wonder how it would feel like if he really had a family of his own. He's not there yet.

Back home, he switches to subtle Twilight eyes as he suggests a second go at a mock interview.

But as Anya gives a very satisfactory answer, he allows himself a moment of relief, and we get Loid eyes.

Anya immediately flops the next question, and even makes him feel self-conscious with her adoration of how he took the pickpocket down. However, as Yor and Anya sit side by side on the couch looking adorable like a normal family, Twilight remembers the old lady's words. We close with tired Twilight eyes as he reluctantly admits there was some progress done.

(no manga spoilers please)

#Spy x Family #Loid Forger #sxf meta #sxf tep #these actually take longer than I expected lol

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stayconnecteed · 4 months ago

Note

hi bby <3 i just saw your post and im here to request something 👉👈

i wondering if you could work something with jisung and love at first sight? idk i've been watching too many romcoms lately. it's totally okay if you don't want to write it though, love you <33

🪐˓⠀˚⠀summertime longing⠀@⠀han jisung.

bridgerton au , jisung is head over heels for you ㅤ—⠀⠀at first sight. mention of little wounds ( scratches, really ) & soonie is a paid actor hehe 🫶🏼 this is not a part of my dear gentleman oneshots & it's not proofread. i hate to write on my phone but i don't have my laptop. hope you like it, mana 🤍

SEE MORE.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀2.4k words. ⠀⠀general mlist.⠀⠀join taglist.

The carriage stopped, and Jisung didn't wait for the door to open before jumping out. He was late, and although it wasn't unusual, his old friend Minho would kill him if he didn't show up on time. He didn't bother to look at his pocket watch as he walked the cobblestone path of the Lee manor's entrance, flashing an apologetic smile at the housekeeper who had watched him grow up as she opened the door for him before his fingers caressed the metal knocker. The hall was empty, the only source of noise the bustle coming from the kitchen, and Jisung knew that the guests had already been moved to the garden. Minho was going to notice his absence. Shit.

He hurried through the hallways, the rustle of the fabric of his pants ringing in his ears with each step as the only soundtrack to his march, until he reached the large glass windows of the blue room. He stood in the doorway, taking a deep breath to calm the erratic beating of his heart, flattening the lapels of his suit jacket against his chest. He wanted to think that the shaking in his hands was a creation of his creative mind, but in reality it was just a side effect of his lack of social skills. Jisung closed his eyes. He didn't know why he kept arriving late to places when it made him so uncomfortable to have to enter a room full of people totally alone.

Then he realised that on that occasion the people were in the garden, and he was the one who remained in the room, and he chuckled, shaking his head. What an idiot. He would be fine. Plus, he knew the Lees — it wasn't going to be that bad.

The first to see him as soon as he stepped out onto the terrace was Lady Lee, the Earl of Gimpo, and she quickly gestured for him to come towards her, ignoring the panicked face of the man who should have announced him when he arrived. He did not have to force the smile that curved his lips in reflection of the one that the woman in front of him had, and he responded to her effusive greeting and affectionate comments with easy laughter and lots of promises of meetings with his own mother as soon as possible.

Minho and his family had been travelling all spring, and now that the first rays of sun heralded summer in its most comforting form, they had finally returned, to enjoy the few months of heat before the new season began. And Jisung couldn't wait to hug his best friend again, even if it meant putting up with all the jokes about the experience he had gained in Europe and how little he had been missed. It was part of who Minho was, all the teasing and the sharp smirks, and the least he could do was get to his welcome back event on time, which… Well, he hadn't been able to do it.

Lady Lee's attention slid from her son's friend to the man she had been chatting with before, and Jisung offered a respectful bow, trying to finally find Minho in the crowd. Until he found his broad shoulders moving in silent laughter at his companion's words. And he saw you, the companion, giggling too, covering your mouth with an expert twist of your fan, your cheeks flushed, in front of Minho. Then you looked at him, and for a minute he forgot everything about how to breathe.

Because looking into your eyes was like listening to a melody. He could hear the quartet that Minho's mother had chosen for the event playing from the little wooden platform by the lake, but it was a completely different tune than that. Your gaze, cheerful and serene, sang of mischievous breezes swaying the treetops at will, of dances without music barefoot on the grass and of the warm rays of the sun kissing your skin. You brought the summer with you, that summer that filled him with life and hope, and as he lost himself in your bright pupils, standing among the crowd, he wondered how his heart had been able to beat until that moment when it didn't had you to beat for.

“Hey, Ji!” Minho called his name, approaching him in a couple of steps, and wrapped his arms around him in a hug. Minho was dry in words, but his actions showed clearly enough how he truly felt about his friends.

Jisung's body reacted with the force of habit, letting himself be embraced and tightening his grip on Minho, as if he was afraid that he would get back on that ship with the desire to travel the world. He couldn't allow it, at least for a long time. Or unless they went together. And after one last squeeze he let him step away, Jisung's hand firm on Minho's back, as the Lees' only son turned to you.

“This is Lord Han, as I told you,” he explained, and you bowed before him, lowering your head with a lingering smile curving your lips. Jisung wanted to kiss that smile into his mouth, but he cleared his throat instead, trying to fill his mind with other — more appropriate — thoughts.

“Milady here wanted to visit our city,” he continued, offering his hand to you, waiting for you to rest it over his, and squeeze it with a familiarity that made Jisung’s heart sting, “so I proposed to her to travel back with us and stay for a while. She was the girl I told you about in my last letter.”

The last letter that had arrived that morning, and that he hadn't read because he was arriving late.

“Then you were absolutely right, my brother,” Jisung uttered, his words withering in his tongue as he linked the word ‘propose’ between you and Minho, “you were going to try to find beautiful views out there in the world. You truly discovered the most breathtaking one.”

Minho gave Jisung a playful punch on the shoulder, his chest filling with pride, ready to affirm any compliment his friend could mutter about you, but he stopped when he saw you addressing Jisung, your voice soft and honeyed, still hidden behind your fan.

“My lord really praised your composer skills during our trip here,” you whispered, averting your magnetic gaze from his as if you were having trouble bearing the knowledge that Jisung was observing you, completely stunned, but also desperate to have a conversation with you. “He forgot to add how much of a gentleman you were.”

Jisung accepted your words with a light blush covering his cheeks, and he raised his hand almost instantly, narrowing his eyes and waiting, until you released your hold on Minho's hand and let yours rest on Jisung's. His breath got caught in his throat as he felt the soft fabric of your gloves on his fingers, and he wanted to imagine that the way you held your own breath was also due to the touch his lips left on the back of your hand — the greeting of any gentleman.

And just before either of you could say a single word, you heard Lady Lee scream by the terrace, absolutely stressed, and a spark of orange fur running across the grass like a shooting star in the darkest night. Minho gasped, and Jisung knew. His cats.

You were the one who took the initiative, smashing your fan into Minho's chest and grabbing the hem of your dress in one swift move, following the mischievous creature at a fast pace, ignoring the calls of the rest of the men at the event. Jisung stared at you, starstruck, before running after you. It wasn't the first time he had dealt with Minho's cats, they knew him, for them you were a stranger. It would be his fault if the animal started to get stressed and ended up hurting you.

The hurried race took him to the forest adjacent to the Lee property, and by the time Jisung spotted you among the foliage, he froze. Your bun had come loose, your hair loose falling over your back, and you had your dress pulled too far up your thighs, fully prepared to climb the tree where Soonie was waiting, curious about what you were doing.

Jisung couldn't think. He didn't know if you had heard him arrive, but he didn't care. He could only focus on the smooth skin he was witnessing — more than he had ever seen in his life — contrasting with the colour of your dress. You didn’t seem uncomfortable being barefoot, your low heels abandoned among the thick roots of the weeping willow, one foot resting on a gap between the folds of the robust trunk and your hands holding tightly to the lowest branches.

It would be difficult to reach Soonie, because its branch, although low, was too thin for a human, even dangerous with the way it was located above the lake. Jisung could understand why the cat had chosen that tree. He also liked the way its leaves swayed in the wind, and it really did look like a giant feline toy, but they already had scratching toys and little houses in the manor, all handmade by Minho. The adventure had to end before something went wrong.

But before he could warn you of his presence, a leaf creaked under his boots, alerting you, scaring you, and making you lose focus on your tightrope walk along the branch below Soonie's. You lost your balance completely, and Jisung saw your hands trying to grab onto something, anything, before falling into a loud splash on the edge of the lake. Jisung would have laughed if his heart hadn't jumped in his chest, if you had been someone else, if he wasn't so deeply scared that you were seriously wounded.

He rushed over to where you were, mumbling a string of “I'm sorry’s” as you emerged from the water, taking a breath of oxygen, holding onto the hand Jisung was offering you. Your hair formed spirals in the water, floating around you, just like your dress. Jisung felt so overstimulated that he wasn't able to process how he had just gotten his pants wet, the level of the water reaching over his waist. All he could think about was that your gloves had torn, and that he was touching your skin, the soft but bloody skin of your outstretched hands, and that you were so close that he could feel your rapid breathing on his arm.

He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the thoughts that were popping into his head, and pulled you lightly so you could stand up. Only instead of getting angry with him, blaming him for spying on you, your lips curved into a smile, and you let out a crystalline laugh, closing your eyes and relaxing your shoulders before him. You were the picture of happiness, cheeks still rosy and your chest rising and falling against the corset at full speed. Even he felt on edge, with adrenaline bubbling everywhere.

“There’s no need to be sorry, lord Han” you whispered under your breath, your eyes falling over him, Soonie purring above your heads. “It was a funny accident. I shouldn't have tried to climb so high.”

You weren't apologizing for running away but for not thinking about the density of the branch, Jisung noticed, and he couldn't help but widen his smile at it. He was getting lost in your gaze again, too captured by you, and everything was going too fast. He didn't know if it was good or bad, but he didn't want it to stop. Until he realised that you were getting goosebumps, and the first shiver ran through you. He cursed himself for not having acted sooner, and helped you out of the lake with difficulty, the ground on the shore completely muddy. You were cold.

Jisung avoided looking at you as he turned slightly to take off his expensive suit jacket, ready to give it to you, but when he turned to offer it, he saw that you were removing your dress. He was quick to put his jacket on you before you could continue, shame creeping up his neck and leaving a trail of blush in its wake, and you flashed a mischievous smile, fully aware.

“I’m not going to end up naked, lord Han” you assured him, grabbing the thick fabric of your dress and leaving it on the grass, the figure of your body crafted by the thin white nightgown you wore underneath, before snuggling into Jisung's warm black blazer, “you should court me first.”

Your words snapped Jisung out of the haze he was in, suppressing the urge he had to run his hands along your arms to help you warm up, and he picked up your dress and shoes from the floor, keeping his hands well occupied. He was a gentleman, he shouldn't… He had to involve you both in situations appropriate for a young lady like you. Not in an improvised swim, where you were going to end up so... God, so delicate and delicious, looking at him that way.

He couldn’t. Not when everyone knew where you were, when Soonie was judging you two among the roots of the trees, approaching Jisung with the confidence of having found a familiar human. Before he could get any closer, you crouched down, holding out your fingers so he could smell them. It took a suspicious look and realising that Minho's cologne was still soaked in you to accept being held in your arms, sticking to your body to provide you with more warmth.

Jisung had to remember to buy Soonie more treats the next time he visited Minho.

“Are you coming?” you asked, oblivious to the way the vision you were was killing Jisung inside, you in his clothes, with that cheeky smile, your hair a wet mess but still looking so beautiful.

Still, he nodded, treasuring every second in his memory. One look, and you had cast a spell on him. He would follow you wherever you asked as long as you were the one to guide him. He knew he was in love, because you held his heart in your hand as easily as you had taken Minho's cat, and if you broke it it would hurt more than a bad cut with a rusty knife. He had fallen catastrophically, and was now at your total mercy. The worst part, however, was that he didn't care at all.

#﹙ ★ ﹚ mars — writes.#﹙ ★ ﹚ mars — inbox.#一 🤍 . mana #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #han jisung #han jisung x reader #han jisung fluff #bridgerton au

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love-byers · 4 months ago

Text

for 2 years i've been wondering what the connection is between the byler scene and the max scene. like they didn't seem similar at all, but after reading this i realized something.

earlier today i was thinking about the track "Letter to Willy" and wondering why it sounded so familiar. after some listening im 100% sure it's because "Letter to Willy" is a version of "Eulogy", a song from the s2 soundtrack. I'm 100,000% sure and i painstakingly edited this to make it clear to anyone listening

"Eulogy" plays whenever the scene is related to death, more specifically a character who has died. hence the name. a eulogy is a speech written to honor someone who recently died, often times read at their funeral. which is interesting, because the first time we hear "Eulogy", it's not an actual eulogy. so clearly this has a deeper meaning.

here's are all the times the track has played, as far as i'm aware

season 2

2×01 nancy cries about barb in the bathroom

2×01 mike puts his toys in the donation box and remembers el, who is believed to be dead

2×03 hopper shows el the cabin for the first time

2×08 hopper sits with joyce after bobs death

2×08 mike tells the group about how bob founded the av club

season 3

3×01 joyce has a flashback of bob

season 4

4×03 mike and el fight

clearly there is a pattern here. (and for the hopper and el one, if you watch the scene there are multiple references to dead characters. hopper mentions his grandpa, and hides a box of sara's things right before the song plays. this could also be representative of the death of el's old life.)

"This is your new home."

"Home."

so if "Letter to Willy" is 100% directly connected to "Eulogy", what does that mean?

(i'm not sure if "Letter to Willy" plays in more than those 2 scenes, but i'm pretty sure it's just the two so i'll proceed on that)

so we can assume the two scenes are related to someone or something that has died. obviously, max is reading her letter to billy at his gravestone. unknown hero agent man is dead and there is shared imagery of gravestones, but mike and will aren't talking about that when the song plays. they're talking about mikes fight with el, again.

mike and el's fight. the scene that "Eulogy", aka the theme for DEATH, plays in.

mike and el's relationship died during that fight. even mike knows it, he keeps trying to say it in different ways. "A fight you can't come back from." go back and watch the scene, and look at el's face when mike says "you're being ridiculous" she is so so done with him. mike is right, this is a fight they can't come back from.

i also think "Letter to Willy" could be implying that the truth of the situation is being hidden. max later admits that vecna was right, she wanted billy to die and that is a source of her guilt. in the letter she implied she had just frozen and wishes she had done something, but that wasn't the whole truth. it was partly on purpose because billy made her life a living hell.

and with byler...i mean do i even need to say it? mike isn't not telling the truth, but he's not saying the whole truth either. he dances around the reason he didn't say what eleven wanted him to say, he won't even say what that thing is. and if you ask me, a byler truther, this is also indicative of mike and will not outright saying their feelings for each other because they're both closeted.

"Eulogy" plays when mike and el's relationship dies.

"Letter to Willy" plays when mike and will are talking about the death of the relationship.

#stranger things #byler #will byers #mike wheeler #byler endgame #byler analysis #mike wheeler i know what you are #stranger things 4 #milkvan is bones #stranger things music #stranger things music coding #byler music coding

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forlorn-crows · 10 months ago

Text

And You Know That It Takes Two

Rating: E for Explicit

Relationship(s): Copia/Dewdrop

Tags: transitional period between era iv and era v, banter, slice of life, first time, first kiss, handjobs. beta'd AND correctly translated italian!

Words: 3731

Summary: “Well, I do. Of course I do,” he assures the ghoul. “Quite fond of you all, actually. It was, admittedly, a little rocky when we first met. But.” There’s that heh Dew was expecting just moments before. “Here we are, no?”

When Copia starts rubbing his thumb up and down the inside of his knee, Dew’s brain stops working. His gaze zeros in to the fingers splayed across the side of his thigh, so foreign, so bare, so pink against the black of his casual uniform pants. His mind is full of static and all he can hear is his own blood pumping through his head. But there’s a weird something tugging in his ribcage; something new yet old, unnamed but familiar.

special thanks to @miasmaghoul for beta'ing and @foxybouquet for the italian translations ♡

EDIT: now with ART from the fabulous @noahl-art. merci beaucoup, nono!! find his full artwork here

Read on AO3 or under the cut:

Caro: dear

Stai bene?: (Are) you okay?

Ti piace?: Do you like this?/Does this feel good?

Merdaccia infernale: (roughly) infernal fucking shit. Closest to "unholy shit".

Proprio così: That’s it.

“D’you think Lucifer would want us to have black mass every Saturday?” Dew pokes the wooden arm of Copia’s chair with the toe of his boot. “Shouldn’t we be exercising our sinful wiles instead of listening to you drone on about the Dark One?”

Copia tugs on a scrap of paper trapped beneath the ghoul’s thigh. “You do plenty of that on your off time, my ghoul,” he teases. He looks over his reading glasses, offering a smirk. Dew can hear the unspoken eh? at the end of his sentence, so much so he can’t help rolling his eyes and smirking back.

“How would you know, old man?” Dew fires back, flicking the hem of Copia’s trousers with his tail. He leans in closer. Elbows resting on his slightly spread knees until his face is level with the anti-pope’s. “Listening in on your free time?” The fire ghoul smiles wickedly, giving him an obvious once over. He cocks his head and bites his tongue between his teeth, waiting for an answer.

Copia’s face rosies a bit, but he returns to his chicken scratch. He jots down a few words before he mutters: “I am sure you do not fantasize your Papa spying on you, caro.”

“Maybe I don’t.” A lie. “Anyway, I think Rain’s loud enough to hear across the fuckin’ abbey. Probably have a soundtrack of water ghoul moans to lull you to sleep every other night,” Dew snickers.

Copia just shakes his head with an amused sigh and continues taking notes. Little chunks of writing in the margins of photocopies of Latin texts, scrawling in both Italian and English in a little notebook off to the side. Dew’s struck with just how patient this man is, endlessly so. He can get crabby on tour, just like any of them, restless and tired, but he really is kind to him and his pack.

The fire ghoul hums thoughtfully and returns to his upright position. Leaning back into the circles of bare desk he cleared earlier for his hands. “Do you get tired of putting up with us, Papa?” he asks casually.

“Dewdrop,” Copia says with a measured tone. He puts his pen down, and his glasses too, looking up at his lead guitarist and steepling his fingers. They’re devoid of gloves, Dew notices in passing, his nails neatly trimmed and his skin smooth and humanly wrinkly. “We have been working together for how many years now?”

Dew shrugs. “A few.”

“Si, quite a few, hm?” Copia agrees. He swivels his chair so his body faces Dew more directly and places a gentle hand on his knee. “Why then, my ghoul, would you think I am ‘putting up with you,’ as you put it?”

“Don’t tell me you actually like us,” Dew says sarcastically. But Copia’s hand is warm on his knee, and he’s trying not to focus too much on how he’s looking at him right now, all soft eyes and a worried crease in his brow.

“Well, I do. Of course I do,” he assures the ghoul. “Quite fond of you all, actually. It was, admittedly, a little rocky when we first met. But.” There’s that heh Dew was expecting just moments before. “Here we are, no?”

He’s quiet for so long that Copia clears his throat and gives his knee a polite pat before taking his hand away. He makes to go back to his notes, but Dew mourns the loss of his hand immediately. His pen barely touches the pages before the fire ghoul sobers up and inhales sharply.

“Uh,” he blurts out stupidly, shaking his head and squinting his eyes at Copia. Unsure what to say but determined to say something. “You mean that?” Immediately he wants to crawl back into himself—back into the Pit, even—for sounding so small. Vulnerable.

“Yes, I do,” Copia says quietly, genuinely. He taps his pen against the paper, little dots of black littering the line beneath his skip this? note. Instead of resuming his annotations, he sets the pen down once more, looking up at the ghoul perched atop his desk. His white eye is suddenly piercing in the lamplight, and he’s looking at him like he can see more than just the ghoul sitting in front of him.

“Well, I guess we’re . . . fond of you too, or whatever you wanna call it,” he mocks, aiming for levity. Dew’s tail flicks, ruffling the hem of Copia’s pants again.

Copia chuckles. “Well, that is good then,” he smiles.

Dew hums. Offers a one-sided smile in return. Easy. He could leave it at that; resume the relaxed banter about sermons and his new duties as Papa while Copia gets increasingly tired and/or annoyed and shoos him away with a chocolate truffle in hand (the ones he keeps stashed in his desk drawer for evenings like this).

He could. But in the same moment, he decides he’s tired of tip-toeing around the idea of what this man is to him. He wades out into the waters, throwing a line.

“Is that . . . the only thing you feel for us?” he says at length, quieter. He scoots his thigh closer to the anti-pope’s hand. Encouraging him to touch again, if he wants. The sudden heat in his belly hoping he does. He wades a little deeper. “For me?”

Now it’s Copia’s turn to falter, fingers twitching at the fabric of Dew’s trousers. He looks down at Dew’s thigh, then back up to his face. Searching his copper eyes for something, anything, his thoughts as loud as if Dew were a quintessence ghoul.

“I . . .” he trails off, a failed start. He clears his throat. “I am, as they say, only human. So there are, perhaps, other . . . things. Si.”

Dew grabs his hand gently, placing it just above where it was moments ago, confidence building. “Fantasies, maybe?”

“Dewdrop—”

“For how bold you are on stage, you sure are fuckin’ shy in private, Papa.”

Copia huffs a laugh, moving his hand tentatively along Dew’s thigh. “Eh . . . reserved, maybe. But I don’t know about shy, my ghoul.” He shuffles his chair so he’s situated back between the fire ghoul’s dangling legs.

Dew smirks. “See? Can call me motherfucker in front of thousands of screaming girls, but it’s my ghoul in here.”

“Ah, but that is the difference. They do not get the privilege of seeing you offstage.” A beat. “Though, I imagine they would do a lot of things for that privilege,” he mutters.

Dew bites his tongue in asserting that he is, in fact, a motherfucker offstage too. Instead, he tilts his head so his ashy hair cascades over his shoulder and spreads his legs further, hooking a foot in the arm of Copia’s chair and tugging it closer. He’s baring all of himself now, literally and figuratively. Potentially risking his position, too, if this goes south.

But by the look on the anti-pope’s face, they’re both too deep to swim back now.

“And what’re you gonna do with that privilege, Papa?”

“You’re asking?” he deflects, putting the other hand on the opposite thigh.

“If you don’t touch me in the next five seconds, old man, I swear to Satan—”

“Like this?” Copia smooths his hand up the inside of Dew’s thigh, running along the seam of his pants until he reaches where the ghoul’s started to chub up. His breath hitches, head tilting back.

“Yeah,” he breathes. He looks back down at his hand, tucking chin to chest as he watches those fingers press just so, right where the tip of his dick sits already sticky in his boxers. He bites his lip with a stifled noise.

“Long time we’ve danced around each other, I think,” Copia says. Dew just nods, flexing his hips into his fingers to get more friction. Copia presses more firmly, taking the hint. Drawing a firm line down the ridge of his clothed shaft.

“Humans and ghouls, well . . .” he trails off, looking up at Dew.

“You’ve thought about it,” he replies simply.

“Of course. Of course I have, caro. I–” he laughs, shakes his head in disbelief. “I mean, look at you.” He stops himself, color rising to his cheeks. He drops his gaze, focusing back on the hand on Dew’s fly.

The fire ghoul watches him trace a finger around the button before reaching down himself, popping it open. “What about me?” he asks softly, inviting. Shifting his hips again to encourage him to continue.

“Not just fishing for compliments, I hope,” Copia teases lightly, a little bit of that stage persona shining through as he drags the zipper down.

“That’s not what—hh-oh.” He cuts himself off with a stuttered breath of a moan, Copia’s hand having reached past his fly and into his pants to pet at the dot of wetness sticking his boxers to his tip. The look of pure curiosity—wonder, really—on the man’s face as he feels him up has his stomach flipping. “Fuck, keep doing that.”

“You tell me what you like, my ghoul, and I will do it,” he whispers.

Dew groans as another bead of precum blurts out into his boxers, wet at just his words. “Keep teasing it,” he breathes. “Shit, see how wet you can get it.” He twitches under Copia’s fingers as he wraps his hand around his clothed cock, thumb swiping back and forth over the head. Firm, but just light enough that it makes Dew keen for more.

Copia continues the little motions, over and over until Dew’s underwear clings to him, saturated with pre. The friction of it and the intensity of Copia’s gaze on him has him dizzy, wanting. The man’s thumb presses over his slit, and he can’t help his eyes rolling back, thighs twitching towards each other.

“F-fuck,” he stutters.

Copia rubs his other hand over Dew’s thigh, soothing. “Stai bene? Good?”

The fire ghoul nods, hair falling off his shoulders to frame his face. “More than,” he groans. He bites his lip, bucking into Copia’s hand. “Again—do it agai—yes, Satanas, yes.”

The anti-pope presses into his slit again, this time dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridge with even pressure. Humming as he works it back and forth. It’s so sensitive, so instantly overwhelming that Dew has to consciously restrain himself from gouging his claws into the wood. He lets his head drop back, facing the ceiling and biting his lip to stave off the rush of arousal that threatens to make him spill in his pants.

Below him, Copia sighs. “Beautiful, caro,” he comments.

Dew half-snorts, half-groans, bringing his chin back down to his chest. “You flatter me,” he says with an eye roll.

“They say it gets one everywhere, no?”

“If by ‘everywhere’ you mean ‘in my pants’.”

“If that is where you want me.”

Dew sucks his teeth, scoffs a little in disbelief. Eyebrows twitching upwards when Copia fingers the elastic of his boxers, blunt nails scratching at the peach fuzz on his stomach. He can’t get a grasp on the anti-pope’s tone, switching so fast between charming and soft it makes his head spin. He’s seen both moods separately, of course, fired back his own quips with a silver tongue or begrudgingly accepted praise and a head pat for a productive rehearsal. But having a cocktail of both leaves him with mental whiplash.

The hand making his dick wet probably isn’t helping in that department.

So he nods instead, helping the man shimmy down the waistband of his boxers to snuggle it under his balls, freeing his aching length. Dew hisses at the cool air of the room breezing over the slick-coated head—though, it’s replaced with a puff of hot air when Copia breathes:

“May I?”

Dew nods again, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows as a silent duh. Copia chuckles at that, scooting a little closer. He smooths his other hand up the fire ghoul’s thigh, up, up, up until he stops at his hip and rests his palm there, forearm dropping to sit on top of his leg. Dew’s stuck watching its ascent and misses the moment the anti-pope reaches for him, wrapping his fingers gently around the base of his cock and stroking upwards.

“Lucifer,” he chokes out. He snaps his gaze to where their skin meets and watches his dick kick hard in Copia’s fist, more precum welling up in the slit.

“Ti piace?” Copia continues to stroke slowly, not immediately translating as earlier. His accent curls around Dew’s eardrums, the Italian twisting with foreignness and short-circuiting his language synapses. He shakes his head, begging the small box of Italian in his brain labeled ‘Papa’s Nonsense Words’ to make sense of the phrase.

He blinks at Copia’s expectant gaze. “Huh?” he asks eloquently, forcing the word through an embarrassing moan.

“Does this feel good?” he supplies, nodding toward his hand.

The fire ghoul stares at the man’s hand, now wet with his own slick as it glides up and down. When his brain finally catches up to him, he barks a bewildered laugh. “I’m gonna have to learn more fuckin’ Italian for this,” he mumbles.

“Oh.” Copia laughs too, realizing his little slip-up. Dew’s shoulders shake with his own renewed laughter. Giggles passing between the two as if they were twelve-year-olds who just pulled off a prank on their teacher, not a fifty-something leader of a Satanic church jerking off a near immortal hellbeast turned quasi-human.

But the shared laughter is familiar. Comforting, in a way. Something to dissolve that final layer of caution that sat like oil on water between them.

“You are an endless delight, my ghoul,” Copia sighs, huffing out a last chuckle.

“I’ll give you an endless—uuh-nholy ff–fuck.” Copia runs his thumb over the slit of Dew’s cock, and his sentence is reduced to an eye-rolling moan. He grabs hold of the anti-pope’s forearm that rests on his leg, fingers digging into the muscle as he drools out a fat roll of precum.

Copia hums and smears it around the head, pulling down the foreskin to rub at the sensitive underside. It’s all the courtesy he’s granted before the man goes back to stroking him in earnest, skirting over the head with each downward pass and tightening around the base when he pulls up.

Dew grips his forearm tighter, thighs jumping with each tease of his frenulum. “Faster,” he begs. “And tighter. Fuck, feels s’ good.”

“Merdaccia infernale, are you always so . . .” Copia shakes his head, letting the room fill with the lewd, creamy sounds of Dew’s slick-soaked cock.

“Wet?” Dew supplies as a choked-off noise. “Not al–hah–always. Not since—” his eyes roll back again, too caught in pleasure to be completely coherent. “The–shit–the—” Dew flails his hand in some nonsensical gesture.

“Si, si.” The man understands without further elaboration that he means his elemental transition. That, despite the effective evaporation of his water, the born-again fire ghoul still carries traits from his original alignment—including dribbling pre like a leaky tap.

But Copia knows, doesn’t need him to explain or elaborate. Just tightens his grip and speeds his hand, looking up at Dew with a gaze that cuts him right down to the core. Intense, yet soft and admiring. Desire flickering just behind that.

“Shit,” Dew hisses, letting his eyes close fully. Sinking into it. His hips are moving of their own accord now, little twitches that meet each downstroke, just barely fucking into Copia’s fist. It’s so much better than it has right to be, but Dew doesn’t care. All he cares about is the way Copia’s hand feels on his dick, the way his other hand grips his hip, the way his breathing grows heavier and tickles the fine hairs at the base of his dick, how it chills the wetness at the tip only to be warmed by his fingers within the same second.

“Oh, oh, ohhhh fuck, Papa, fuck.” His pleasure heightens suddenly, the backs of his thighs going pleasantly tingly and his toes curling in his boots. He can feel it starting to build, balls drawing closer to his body with every stroke.

“Close?” Copia whispers, gripping Dew’s hip tighter and shifting in his chair. He grunts a little, no doubt filled out in his slacks too. Dew can’t confirm from this angle, especially not with the way his vision blurs, doubles even. But he has to be, if his wavering voice is anything to go by.

Dew throbs at just the idea of his cock straining against his zipper, balls heavy and squished between his thighs as he watches the fire ghoul come apart. Neglecting it as he showers Dew with undivided attention. He’s assaulted with the mental image of Copia in those tight, white pants from his Cardinal days, absolutely everything on display, and he groans.

He’s shaking now, stomach jumping as his breath starts to quicken. He’s sure his eyes are wild as he looks at the man below him, whining through his teeth as his hand moves faster, faster. Dew watches Copia bite his lip and look down at the movements of his hand, and the sudden fantasy image of that mouth kissing the tip of his cock makes him grip the anti-pope’s forearm until it threatens to bruise, nearly doubling over with the swell of impending orgasm.

Dew needs him. He needs him so badly.

“Gonna cum—fuck, please,” he moans, breath quickening to shortened gasps. “Kiss me—please, m’ gonna—Papa—” Dew grasps at the man’s shirt collar, pulling at it to get him to stand. Dragging him in by the shoulders and kissing him fiercely, whining when Copia groans into his mouth and pumps him even faster. The scent on him is instantly intoxicating; notes of neroli and patchouli, dull wax from the black patches of makeup, the barest hint of incense smoke underneath. All pressed directly into his nostrils where Dew’s nose smushes against his.

“Proprio così,” Copia mumbles, encouraging. His other arm loops around to cradle him between the shoulder blades, hand threading through his hair to grasp and hold as he kisses him deeply. That little bit of tension on Dew’s scalp sends a zing of heat right to his dick, and he’s moaning like a whore as he scrabbles at Copia’s shirt, ready to fall over the edge.

“Fucking. Fu–uhh, uh, uhh—” Dew loses all sense of words as he clings to him, mouth dropping open and tongue drooling over Copia’s lips. He cums hard, spilling over his hand with a shuddering groan, bucking into that wet fist until he’s risking sliding off the edge of the desk. He doesn’t, of course, braced and embraced by Copia’s body as he is.

Dew’s head drops to his shoulder as he rides out the seemingly endless spasms. Far too many for a handy, if he’s being honest. But the anti-pope works him over until he’s milked dry, whispering more words into his hair that he doesn’t understand and rubbing a soothing hand over his back.

“Shit,” he rasps. After a few more moments he peeks down at his lap—lucid enough now to mind his horns—where his black pants are now streaked with white, Copia’s hand resting on his fly also coated in the stuff. He shakes his head softly and laughs.

“Got me good, old man.”

“Dewdrop . . .” His tone is pleading, breathless. Dew lifts his head and the hand on his back migrates to the side of his face, caressing softly. He leans into it as he looks at Copia, his face flushed and a look of pure want and adoration in his eyes. “Please, caro.”

He doesn’t need to ask what he needs, eyes flicking down to the tent in his pants and back up again. Dew nods. Moves the hands around Copia’s neck to the back of his head, pulling him in.

It’s less feverish this time. Softer and slower, but far from chaste. Idly he wonders if any of the others have had him like this: privately in his office, a mere exchange of something fleeting, or hot and heavy in a storage closet after a show, frantic and adrenaline-fueled.

If any of them have, they’ve never told. He’ll go back to the ghoul wing smelling of him, unless he runs straight to the shower. Douse himself in scalding hot water until he can barely smell himself.

But he won’t.

Dew slides into the space in front of Copia, ignoring the mess on his dick as he presses close to the man. Licking into his mouth and sliding their tongues together as Copia’s hands start to roam. The fire ghoul slots a thigh between his legs as his palms reach his waist, pressing against his crotch.

Copia whines in his throat, twisting his fingers into the fabric of Dew’s shirt. He’s hard as steel against his leg, throbbing when Dew presses harder and tugging at him like he could still get closer than he already is.

“Sit down,” Dew rumbles. He breaks the kiss and holds his gaze as he presses on his shoulders, easing him back into the desk chair. Down, down, down until Dew looms over him. He smirks slightly, confidence and ease returning to him as their positions switch. Running his thumb along the painted upper lip then dragging down to the bare one.

Wordlessly, the fire ghoul sinks to his knees. Scoots Copia to the edge of his chair so he can spread his legs. He smooths his palms up his thighs, his infernal heat seeping through the trousers. He watches Copia’s face as he pets at him, cupping and rubbing at his cock through the layers of fabric. The man’s chest heaves. Hands gripping the wooden arms of his chair. Exhaling shakily as Dew traces a claw around the button on his fly.

“Allow me,” Dew purrs.

#the band ghost #fanfic #crow writes #the band ghost fanfic #dewdrop ghoul #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #copia x dewdrop #dewdrop x copia #papa x dewdrop #dewdrop x papa #copia/dewdrop #dewdrop/copia #papa/dewdrop #dewdrop/papa #CORRECTLY translated italian #dews gonna go back to the dorms and theyre gonna smell copia on him and then EVERYONES gonna want him

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