#no touching just looking at eyes lips nose mouth cheeks hair eyelashes eyebrows wrinkles grey hairs zits & all

[bitterlyromantic]

okay okay. whenever macden sleeps next together they always face each other & stare.

[dionnaea]

If I Could Love You | Zeke x Reader

pairing: zeke yeager x reader

warnings: reader is magath’s daughter, smoking, angst

wc: 1.7k

a/n: kinda want to write a prequel to this? like the start of zeke and the reader’s relationship. any interest in that? also, thanks for reading!

attack on titan masterlist | general masterlist

“Welcome back, monkey man.”

The sound of your voice tumbled into Zeke’s ears, a jumble of longing, elation, and teasing all mixed into your tone. You had been waiting for him, he knew. He knew before he even stepped out onto the balcony that you were standing there, and he knew that he shouldn’t have let himself step out in the first place. Choosing the safest option on this dangerous encounter, he ignored you. But when you said his name, his head immediately turned so that his eyes could meet yours. 

He was met with a cloud of smoke, and when it cleared, your grin stared back at him, cigarette hanging from your fingers. He left his face blank, seemingly unamused by your tricks, and turned back around, taking a few steps forward until he could lean on the railing. 

You were quick, though, and twisted your body in one fluid motion so that your back was pressing against the metal railing and your feet were crossed as you placed most of your weight on one leg. Zeke was used to this by now, and didn’t spare you a glance as he himself hunched over to rest against his forearms. 

The night sky in front of him was dark, only a few stars untouched by the light pollution of the city. In the distance, he could see the beginning of the sea, a black abyss promising the unknown. He could feel your eyes on him, hear the sounds of you sucking tobacco into your lungs and blowing it back out. The heat that waved off of your body was smothering, and Zeke didn’t know if the air was getting caught in his chest because of that or the smoke. 

“Those things will kill you,” he stated. 

“Sure,” you shrugged. “But won’t just about everything?” You took another puff, lightly pushing the exhaled smoke towards Zeke. He brought his hand up and swiped it away. Annoyance played on his features, but you knew that you weren’t really bothering him. “What’s up with you?”

Your gaze was studious, and Zeke knew you were trying to gain any hint of insight from his subtle reactions. He remained stoic, repressing the downturn his lips so desperately wanted to perform. He was well aware that you’d catch him if he even attempted to lie so instead he remained silent, letting you dissect him all you wanted but knowing you would find nothing. 

“Zeke,” you sighed and for some reason it was more exasperated than disappointed. You lifted your free hand up, brushing it side to side. “I get it. You’ve been at war. You’ve seen things. You’re sad or angry or whatever the hell you are. So what? I don’t care. Stop acting like a baby and talk to me.” 

Your words, your tone, was harsh, but coming from you, Zeke knew it was gentle. He knew you meant it all in the best way possible, knew you just longed for his attention, knew all you wanted was to be with him, and that killed him. That knowledge killed him in the most delicious way. Your existence was sugar laced with poison, and still, Zeke kept consuming you like it was the last meal he’d ever eat.

Which quite possibly, it was. 

“Don’t you know how to leave a man alone?” He was fighting a smile, you could tell. 

“Absolutely not,” you replied, shifting your position so that you leaned on only one arm and your whole body faced him. His mouth had formed a small grin, but he still wasn’t looking at you, choosing the darkness rather than the light right beside him. “Zeke. Look at me?” 

There was an unspoken ‘please’ on the end of your sentence, a light desperation dancing across your tongue. He was hopeless, absolutely hopeless, Zeke lamented as he turned only his head to finally meet your stare. Your eyes were pools of liquid, a shine on them as if you were fighting off tears. But no, Zeke realized, it was the moonlight dancing off of your irises, creating shadows of your eyelashes that rested along your cheeks. 

You breathed a sigh of relief and offered the cigarette to the man, dangling it between your dainty fingers so lightly that Zeke was scared it would fall. He closed the distance between the two of you, pulling the drug into his lungs until he could breathe no more before tilting away and blowing the smoke behind him. The wind picked up in that moment, aiding the smoke’s departure but cursing Zeke as your sweet scent wafted into his nose. It filled up his head, dizzying him until he was able to breath fresh air again. 

He dared to look back down at you, and for the first time in months, truly took you in. You were wearing pajamas, the strap of your camisole loose as it rested on the curve of your shoulder. There was lace on the front, enticing his eyes to glance where they shouldn’t. Your shorts were a bit too short, and your legs looked a bit too soft. As his eyes grazed back up your figure, he was met with a soft upturn of your lips, pink and plush and begging for his own.

It was obvious, you made it obvious, that you wanted him in whichever way he would give himself to you. It had always been like this, you opening yourself up fully and gladly taking whatever pieces of himself that Zeke would give you. You had roped him into a game through sweet smiles and subtle glances, and it seemed every time he felt like he understood the rules, you changed them. You were not something to be understood, you were something to be chased, to be longed for, to be loved, and Zeke cursed himself for not being able to do all three. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” you started, dropping the cigarette and pointing at it with your bare toes. Zeke obliged your silent request, stomping it out with his boot before kicking it in between the wooden slats. “You’re thinking that you shouldn’t, that it isn’t right or that it isn’t worth it.” You bit your lip, eyebrows furrowing, and Zeke couldn’t help but like the way little wrinkles appeared along your forehead. “But I’m telling you now that it is, okay? Just… just trust me for once.” 

That was the problem, Zeke thought, he always trusted you. He put too much faith in your reassurances and let himself fall too deeply into your fantasies. Thinking about it, Zeke realized that you were exactly like the sea: something he would inevitably drown in in search for answers and a warm embrace. You were a known unknown entity, and that scared Zeke more than he could express in words. 

Remaining silent, Zeke lifted his hand, and you froze in anticipation of what he would do. Gently, he brushed his calloused fingers against your upper arm, lightly pushing your camisole strap back up so that it rested properly against your collarbone. Your body involuntarily shivered, and chillbumps dusted across your skin. You waited with held breath, his fingers resting against the curve of your neck. After a moment of reverie, Zeke brought himself back to reality and pulled away. To your surprise, he shrugged off his jacket, casting it over your shoulders and waiting until you had thread your arms through the much too long sleeves before saying anything. 

“The armband doesn’t suit you.” His words were firm, almost angry. 

The weight of the band burned into your being, but you kept your eyes locked with his. “It doesn’t suit you either.” Zeke was well aware that you were dead serious, an anomaly in your family when it came to compassion. “Is this…” You already knew the answer, you had asked a million times. “Is this about my father?” 

Zeke sighed, running a tense hand through his hair and turning away once more, resting back onto the railing. He didn’t know why you asked when you already knew the answer, but he supposed that a small part of you kept the hope that someday something would change. It wouldn’t. 

“Why?” Your volume rose. “Why? It doesn’t have to be! Why do you let it!” It wasn’t even a question at that point. It was just a statement, an indisputable fact that Zeke’s future was decided by everyone but himself. 

“Zeke.” 

He gave a noncommittal hum in response. 

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” 

He could hear the anger in your voice, the frustration, but he also heard something else. Sadness? Loneliness? 

He wasn’t given a chance to respond before you were speaking again. “I know you’re leaving. You’re going to Paradis, and you’re going to fight back against Marley, and then you’re going to die. Maybe not even in that order.” You took a deep breath in and reached out, placing a soft hand on the side of Zeke’s face and turning it until his grey eyes were forced to look into yours. He automatically leaned into your touch. “So tell me this: With how much you’ve given up in your life, why are you still choosing to give up me?” 

There was pain dancing across your face, and suddenly Zeke didn’t think those forehead wrinkles were as cute. He had underestimated you as he always did, and was once again stuck in your crosshairs, having to make the decision of trying to run or giving himself up completely. His entire being begged him to do the latter. 

Because for Zeke, you meant more than every war combined. You meant more than most everything. But you didn’t mean more than his conviction, and he was a very stubborn man. So when you asked him to stay, even offered to come with him, he had to refuse. 

That night, Zeke realized something. Until that moment when your heart shattered and your face hardened over, you had always been known. You had never changed the rules, only adapted them so that you could be with him for just a little bit longer. All you had wanted was to love him. 

And the one time you had asked him to love you back, he had said no. 

[maybankiara]

HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW? (for @ptersparkers writing challenge)

pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

summary: Rafe falls for you at the beach. He’s nothing like they say he is, and he just so happens to turn a new leaf with you.

word count: 2k

additional: this is pure fluff with soft!rafe. doesn’t entirely ignore the addiction and other issues, but doesn’t exactly address them, either.

masterlist | tag list

written for an anon

Rafe Cameron walks up to you at the beach, on a sunny day, with hair styled with a little too much gel, a pair of sunglasses on top of it, a curious smile on his lips, and a reputation that precedes him.

  He greets you with a simple ‘hello,’ and your mind gives you a brief summary of all the things you know about him.

  Being two years older than you, he was at your high school for half of your time there. Most of your friends drooled over his fancy car, polo shirts that screamed American money, and how his tongue was allegedly made of silk. He’s renowned for being a notorious party boy, a massive flirt, and someone who hasn’t faced any legal charges yet because of who his daddy is.

  Personally, you’ve never had any particular opinions on him, but considering he’s now standing mere three feet from you and waiting for a response, the situation is calling for it.

  You decide to smile. ‘Hi.’

  ‘I’m sorry if this seems a little weird,’ he admits, ‘but I saw you from where I was standing with my friends and I had to come say hi.’

  This makes you chuckle, because his cheeks and his nose turn red, and he stumbles over his words. It’s nothing like the suave Rafe Cameron you’ve heard so much about.

  ‘Well, that’s certainly a way to get a girl’s attention.’ You give him a warm smile and extend your hand, which he takes. ‘Y/N.’

  ‘You have a really pretty name, Y/N.’ He repeats your name once more, as if testing the way it rolls in his mouth. ‘I’m Rafe.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m guessing my reputation precedes me.’

  ‘You’d guess correctly.’

  Rafe makes a grimace and sighs, shaking his head slightly. ‘And here I was thinking I’d make a great first impression.’

  You laugh because there's something so easy and unexpectedly relaxing about the boy in front of you. With his hands in his pockets, a crooked smile to his lips and a sheer layer of redness covering his face, he is nothing like you’d expect.

  So you shrug, leaning against the wooden fence with you arms crossed on your chest. ‘It’s not a bad first impression. I don’t really care about what I’ve heard.’

  An eyebrow shoots up. ‘You don’t?’

  ‘I’m not naive enough to think everything people say is the truth. I like seeing things for myself and then judging them.’

  ‘That’s a smart way to do things.’ He sounds impressed enough to bring an even bigger smile out of you.

  The conversation continues, somehow turning from small talk and introductions into a discussion about the importance of other people's opinions on one's own. It’s a pleasant surprise when you find Rafe as engaged as yourself, with a little wrinkle between his brows whenever he takes a pause to think, or the same crooked but curious grin when you tell him something he finds interesting.

  ‘Don’t your friends miss you?’ you ask, nudging your head in the direction of the two boys he pointed at earlier.

  Rafe glances over, before turning back to you. ‘Is that your way of telling me to leave?’

  ‘Kind of,’ you admit with an apologetic smile. ‘It’s getting late and I only planned on coming here for a few minutes, not almost an hour.’

  ‘Has it been that long already?’

  ‘You know how it goes, time flies when you're having fun.’

  He nods.

  You don’t know if he’s aware of how the opposite of subtle he is, but you’re as far from oblivious as he is from unnoticeable. His eyes glaze over you more than once, with the same curiosity that is in his smile when you speak. It’s a look you’ve seen on many boys’ faces. A mixture of attraction and interest, with a little bit of wonder and perplexity. is she worth my time? the look is asking. is she someone i am interested in?

  If this were all, you wouldn’t have looked at him twice, let alone held a conversation this long. The difference between the look you’re so familiar with and the one on Rafe’s face is that as the conversation goes on, whenever the corner of his mouth quips, the look becomes a little less wonder and a little more certainty.

  It’s this particular thing that lands him a ten-digit number in his contacts, and a promise of a continuation of the conversation. He walks with you until the end of the beach, which is where you leave for the town and he goes back to his friends. He leaves as he came – hands in the pockets of his shorts and a face with a red tinge to it. There is nothing smooth or Casanova-like to him, and it is that very fact that makes you realise that finally, after four years of hearing about him, you finally have an opinion on Rafe Cameron.

  And it is this: nothing you’ve ever heard about him is true.

  ★

The relationship between Rafe and you develops at a steady rate. True to his word, he calls you less than twenty-four hours after your conversation, and it’s one of the very few times you’re glad someone calls instead of texts. He has a nice, soothing voice, and he doesn’t drag out the conversation. It’s more of a confirmation that the promise he gave you was not empty.

  He asks you out after a few days of scarce conversation. He isn’t much of a texter, you notice, and he tells you it’s because conversations over message cannot even compare to those held in real life. You are almost certain that if you the two of you were closer, he’d call.

  It’s not a date. The two of you talk about everything, realising you’ve got some mutual friends. Just like the first time, talking to him is effortless. It makes your brain unwind in a was that is comfortable and soothing – you assume this has something to do with the softness in his eyes when he looks at you.

  Despite your expectations, the curious twitch in his smile doesn’t go away, weeks into hanging out. He’s lived a life different than yours and sometimes, it feels like he’s hearing of struggles of the middle of the chain for the first time. You’re not poor like the people from the Cut, but you’re not Figure Eight–rich, either.

  With time, Rafe starts walking closer, looking at you with the same gaze full of admiration, taking the eyelashes off your face instead of telling you it’s there. It’s the simplest touches, never crossing the line of just friends, even if threading on it.

  When he tries taking you to an expensive restaurant, you stay the night at his place and order takeout instead. His hair stops being gelled around you and you stop putting a lot of effort in the way you look when you come over. Hanging out turns into hanging out, as if there’s something more to it.

  Rafe kisses you on a Tuesday night. You’ve been waiting three months for this, ever since you caught his eye at the beach that sunny day. He’s gentle and reserved, giving you nothing more than a chaste peck.

  It progresses from there. One month down the line, you’re official, and nobody is surprised – even the people you’ve heard talk about him before as if he weren’t the one to be tied down. With you, he has been nothing but gentle and patient, taking things at whatever pace both of you felt comfortable with.

  There are times when you wonder what people think of you, all the same ones who had so many opinions about him that were little other than lies. Of course, you’re not a fool – you know there had to be some truth in them, too. You see it for yourself when Rafe shakes his head at parties to Topper and Kelce and you see them doing lines in the kitchen ten minutes later.

  Whatever Rafe was like before you met him, it doesn’t matter. In the time you’ve been with him, Rafe has started to feel more comfortable on a wider scale. His shoulders tense less when he's around his father, he is kinder to his sister, he doesn’t support his friends doing things that could bring harm to them or to others.

  It doesn’t matter what people say. You know your truth.

  ★

Rafe Cameron likes the beach, even when it’s autumn. He likes to wear tight turtleneck sweaters, usually in dark earth colours, and he likes to wear black skinny jeans, surprisingly. He likes the grey weather, when it’s cloudy and a little chilly, and the breeze pushes away the dry heat of the sun. He likes being cosy, playing rock songs and playing cards.

  This is the opinion you have on Rafe five months into knowing him. You look at the boy in front of you, shuffling playing cards while lying on his side, propped up on his elbow – you can’t picture this being the same person you spent so long only hearing about.

  He catches you looking and darts a card at you. ‘You better be thinking about how you’re going to treat me once I’ve won.’

  ‘It’s not fair,' you say. ‘You’ve been playing the game for far longer than I have.’

  ‘That’s life. It isn’t fair.’

  Rafe smiles and deals the cards. It’s yet another round you lose in a row, but it’s not just because of the lack of experience.

  He takes the cards and puts them away, lowering the volume on the speaker. ‘What’s bothering you?’

  You sit on the blanket with your legs crossed and his fingers playing with the bottom hem of your jeans. It’s cosy, with wind whistling as the background to the song currently playing.

 ‘It’s not bothering me,’ you say, ‘but I guess I’m wondering how someone like Rafe Cameron, the Casanova and Charlie Sheen of Outer Banks becomes the boy who wears turtleneck sweaters and skinny jeans.’

  Rafe laughs with ease evident on his face. He tugs on your jeans playfully, grinning wide. ‘Is that what you’re thinking about right now?’

  ‘You asked.’

  He turns on his back and props himself on his elbows, switching his gaze between the moving sea and you, sitting next to him, close enough to feel the heat of his body.

  One of his hands goes back to your ankle. He traces the skin underneath the jean fabric with his thumb, while his eyes give you the same glint they’ve had in them since the moment you met.

  ‘I thought you didn’t care what others thought of me.’

  ‘I still don’t, but it’s not something that’s easy to forget,’ you confess.

  Rafe gives you one of the modest smiles, shy and tentative. It wrinkles the skin around his eyes and gives him the slightest dimple and lines around his jaw, but it’s all so soft you barely notice.

  It’s the smile you feel like belongs to you only. You wouldn’t be surprised if it did.

  ‘That day at the beach,’ he begins. ‘I saw you standing there, and something in me said that I needed to talk to you.’

  You laugh, because you think he’s joking, but his smile remains earnest and he waits until you stop. The hand that was on his ankle moves to your wrist, his touch just as gentle and soft.

  ‘Please don’t say it was love at first sight,’ you say, because you haven’t even said the words to one another.

  Rafe shakes his head. ‘It wasn’t like that. It was just...’ He scratches the bridge of his nose, sighing lightly. ‘You know when you get that feeling in your chest like everything is possible?’

  You nod.

  ‘It was that.’

  ‘Rafe Cameron, you’re a hopeless romantic,’ you tell him. There’s a smile on your face, and you think about how he hasn’t actually answered your question, but you let him place a kiss on your lips nonetheless.

  He rests his forehead against yours. His fingers are right below your ear now, soft and gentle, like always. His breath is hot against your lips, and you think maybe that saying those three words isn’t going to happen far from this moment.

  He kisses you again, just like that first time, only now you feel him smile into it.

  ‘Not hopeless.’

  ★

tagging. @jjtheangel @teenwaywardasgardian @thelocalpogue @jjmaybanky @sacredto @chasefreakinstokes @drewstarkey @thatsme-johnbookerroutledge @margaritatimebaybee @outrbank @yourlocalauthor @justawilddreamerchild @snkkat @mynamewontwork13 @sunwardsss @storiesbymads @koufaxx @drewstarkeyobx @ilovejjmaybank @jjmaybanksbaby @mahleeyuh @starkeymarkey @nicolewithasoul @kiarawilliams127 @butgilinsky

[my-oh-my]

silver bullets and red roses: chapter four

hi! here's chapter four and all my love <3

Warnings: PTSD, weaponry, death, murder, dirty straight white men again, framed suicide

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Alex finally returns home and Rose has been bit by the love bug

previous chapter

masterlist

Night fell hastily upon Cherrywood Lane, the Sun eager to hide whilst the moon watched over the neighbours who began to settle down for the night, tucking their children and then themselves into bed. It was the stars that shone the most that night in June, sparkling and dancing along with each other in celebration and love.

After docking Pegasus, the men marched onto a train bound to Surrey, apart from Alex. Joseph insisted on driving him home with himself and Rose, who also encouraged the exhausted, downcast young man. The drive home was silent, Alex being asleep – his head rested on his shoulder as he breathed steady breaths, at peace. Rose caught a glance of him in the back from the passenger seat and grinned at the sight. It was not until they had made the turn into Cherrywood Lane that Rose had noticed from the corner of her eye Alex had awaken – his eyes blinking rapidly trying to remember what had happened, where he was.

The slow squeak of the breaks indicated that they were indeed home, much to Alex’s astonishment. Rose opened her door, stepping delicately onto the paved foot path before walking over to Alex’s side – who had now shakily got out of the car.

When Rose had returned home, the most daunting thing for her was if she was ever going to be the same again. She wondered if stepping through the doors of home would be the same as coming home after a day at the library or maybe a stay at a friend’s house, or if it would be like walking into a strangers home – of someone she had known lifetimes ago.

“Are you ok?” Rose asked quietly to Alex, looking at him through her long eyelashes. He had dried off now, hair no longer a wet mess of curls, his skin no longer soaked with water, but rather just stained with oil. The stitch was still apparent on his cheekbone, along with the cut – it would be for a few days.

“’m not really sure how to answer that question” he replied, expressionless, staring at his home, where his parents were. “You don’t need to, all you need to do is walk through that door” she encouraged, pointing her pointer finger towards his front door. “Why is this so difficult?” he questioned himself, eyebrows furrowing but his eyes never leaving the white door with the numbers ’34’ plated in gold, nailed to the centre. “Because its what you’ve wanted for so long, and now you have it – it doesn’t feel real” Rose studied his face, noticing all his freckles and slight wrinkles by his eyes. “But it is. Your home is here, your family is too.” she continued, Alex’s gaze averting to her eyes, to gain sense of what she is saying. “All you have to do is walk through that bloody door” she smiled softly, Alex taking a deep breath before turning towards his home and walking up to the door.

Rose laced her fingers together in front of her, watching as he brought the back of his hand up to the door, his knuckles tapping it. Knock, knock, kn-. The third knock was cut off by the door opening abruptly. Alex’s fist was still in the air as it opened, his mother staring at him from the other side of that bloody door. She brought her hands up to her mouth in shock as Alex brought his hand down – unsure of how to comfort his mother who was now crying. Before he could do anything else, Mrs Harrington had wrapped him in a tight hug, not fussed about getting her good dressing gown ruined by the grime on his uniform. “My boy! My boy is home!” she shouted, Alex now hugging her back with just as much strength. Rose watched on with a smile as Mr Harrington came into view, Mrs Harrington standing back as he hugged Alex too – hitting him on the back a few times.

Rose glanced over at the hugging family once more before making her way into her own home, heels clicking on the pavement. “Rose! Rose my dear!” Rose stopped in her tracks looking over at the house next door. Mrs Harrington was running over to her, the slippers on her feet almost falling off on the pavement before engulfing Rose in a kind, grateful hug to which Rose returned almost immediately. “Thank you. Thank you for bringing my boy back. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She spoke into Rose’s ear, her tears dampening Rose’s blouse, “Don’t thank me, Mrs Harrington, thank Alex for surviving” Rose replied, pulling away from the hug with a sympathetic smile. Mrs Harrington placed a hand on Rose’s cheek, smiling greatly, before running back over to her house and engulfing Alex in another hug.

Rose looked on once more, watching as Alex looked up at her whilst still hugging his hysterical mother. She watched as he smiled at her – a real smile. It complimented his face beautifully, dimples pointing into both cheeks and wrinkles gathering slightly by his eyes. Rose smiled back before turning back gracefully to her home, walking up the porch and opening her door, to her home. “Oh Rose, oh dear, I thank the Lord you’re home in one piece, my goodness” It was now Rose’s turn to be suffocated with her mother’s love, Rose wrapping her mum in a tight hug as she smelled the scent of her perfume – home.

Doreen Edwards was the perfect woman. She was independent, yes, but she was also the ideal 1940s housewife. She cooked, she cleaned, she looked after the children, but she was also one of the only female doctors in World War I. There were no two doubts about her, before you could even think of a question she answered it, she had wits – wits which Rose had adopted from her genes. Joseph often said that they had the “same brain, just in different bodies”, the two being so alike.

“Goodness, you’re freezing” Doreen said worriedly, breaking out of the hug and rubbing Rose’s clothed arms to warm her up, “Do you want a cup of tea to warm you up?” Doreen asked, rushing over to the kitchen, placing the kettle under the tap and letting water fill it up. “I’m fine as I am Mum, I’m just going to have a shower and head to sleep.” Rose politely called out, slipping her shoes off her aching feet at the entrance. She walked over to her father, who was sitting at his armchair, drinking a bourbon to wind down after the day’s events. Rose delicately placed a kiss on his cheek – cautious as to whether or not he had recovered from the trauma the day had brought up. “Goodnight Dad” she whispered, pulling away from the arm chair, “Goodnight my girl” he farewelled with a small forced grin, which Rose returned.

She then made her way to the kitchen, where her mother was making herself a cup of tea. “Goodnight Mum” she said, placing a kiss on her cheek as well as Doreen stirred her tea. “Goodnight Rose,” she replied, turning around to face her daughter, “call out to me if you need me, ok?” Doreen grabbed onto Rose’s hand comfortingly, wanting to know that she was here for her and that she knew how today may have affected her psyche. Rose smiled softly and nodded, placing another delicate kiss on her mother’s cheek out of gratitude.

It had almost felt heavenly to have a shower after a long day. Rose was certain that there was nothing better than rinsing out the smell of oil, grime, saltwater and the touch of a man down off and replacing it with the smell of rose and lavender soap which made her skin soft to the touch.

The day’s events she wished to forget seemed to leave with the dirty water and down the drain, though she knew she would be tossing and turning all night in her bed about them.

Though the ones she wished to keep in her mind did so, much like the fragrance of her soap. She replayed the way that Alex’s face had looked in the sun on the lower deck as he stood up for her, how soft his skin felt against her own as she touched his cheek, how peaceful he seemed in his sleep and his heart-warming smile he had given her only moments ago. She wished to remember Alex, though it seemed foolish. She had spent years living next to him, rarely acknowledging his existence, she didn’t understand why she felt this way. She shook her head, turning off the water.

Rose sat in front of her vanity, brushing her clean and dry hair as she looked in the mirror – the way that her hair had looked as she brushed it. It had certainly grown over the past few months, the shiny luscious blonde strands just reaching past her rounded breasts which were covered by her long, pink silk nightgown. Her eyes flickered from her hair to her face. Her pale, clear skin adorned a light blush over her cheeks, she had strong brown eyebrows, an upturned nose and full lips. She knew that she conformed to the ideal woman, so many men had told her, so many women told them how jealous they were of her. But to her beauty wasn’t was what mattered, it was what was hidden within the outer – the soul, the heart and the mind. That didn’t change the views of the rest of the world, beauty becoming her greatest weapon.

Rose strutted slowly, her dress swaying with each step against her legs. She made her way into a large enclosed tent which had been set up as a makeshift office for the commander, Arnold Schober. She knew that he was a key player in the battle of Dunkirk, but not the most important – which was a crucial detail for what she needed to do. He would have the information, yes, but it would not be detrimental for the Nazis if he was gone, she thought to herself, fixing her hair to make her seem more enticing.

“Hallo?” she called out innocently, “Kommandant? (Commander?)” she questioned, walking into the room which was thick with the scent of cigars – the scent choking her nostrils slightly. “Was ist es (What is it?)” Rose stood in front of his desk – her hands intertwined her back – pushing her breasts out slightly. He sat writing on a piece of paper, scribbles which Rose could not read from upside down. She stared at the back of his bald and greying head and sighed slightly.

The commander looked up – opening his eyes a little wider before straightening himself up before clearing his throat slightly. “Was kann ich für dich tun, junge Dame? (What can I do for you, young lady?)” He asked, a slight smirk toying grossly at his lips. Rose began to walk slowly – approaching his desk. “Ich habe einen schrecklichen Tag (I am having a dreadful day)” she spoke – putting a pout on her lips. She placed her hands on his desk – making sure he could see her cleavage to entice him further. “Mein Mann schrieb in einem Brief, dass er mich nicht mehr liebte (my husband wrote in a letter that he does not love me anymore)” she sighed, her fingers running along a groove in the wood.

“Wie konnte ein Mann dich nicht lieben? (How could a man not love you?)” The commander choked out – his fat cheeks turning slightly red. Rose looked up at him with a grin, before walking around his desk slowly and sitting on his side. “Findest du mich schön, Commander? (Do you think I’m beautiful, Commander?)” she asked to which he nodded his head greatly, “Ja, eine der schönsten jungen Frauen, die ich je gesehen habe (Yes, one of the most beautiful young women I have ever seen)” He spoke quickly – desperation in his voice as he leaned back in his chair, placing a dirty hand on Rose’s thigh.

“Kannst du mir zeigen, wie schön ich bin? (Can you show me how beautiful I am?)” Rose whispered innocently, drawing her white dress up her legs slightly. The Commander looked on in lust, his eyes never straying from the tempting skin.

Rose felt her heart thud in her heart, knowing what was going to happen next. She continued to bring up her dress, smiling flirtatiously at the man. He began to trace his finger up her thigh, “ich kann dir zeigen (I can show you)” He agreed, sitting further in his chair. Just as he was about to reach her garter, Rose pulled her revolver out of her garter from the other thigh hastily. He sat back into his chair in shock.

Before Rose could give any second thought, before she could give any mercy, before the Nazis would come in from the alerts given to them by the Commander’s mouth – she loaded the gun and pulled the trigger into the side of the fat German man’s head. The bang from the gun rung in her ears for a while – it was much louder than the gunshots just outside the tent.

Blood began to pour out of the man’s head, dripping onto the grassy floor – his forehead now on the desk. Rose breathed quickly, placing the gun into the man’s limp hand and placing that too on the desk. She had been armed with the pistols which the Nazis had used to cover her tracks as a Brit. Her heart began to speed up – adrenaline coursing through her veins as she gathered all the notes which had been scattered along his desk. She manages to grab an armful of pieces of paper, maps and photographs which she tucked into the secret pocket she had fashioned in the back of her apron.

Rose glanced at the dead Nazi once more, not feeling an ounce of regret – which made her hate herself. She quickly rushed out of the tent – cautiously looking around before running. The S.O.E had told her of a safe house only a kilometre away from the Nazi trenches – where she could sit in fear – feeling anything but safe until they could get her on a boat and send her back to home. Home she thought, her feet still moving quickly against the ground, Oh how I want to be home.

She placed her brush on her vanity surface before standing up, walking over to her window. She shut her casement window, the long white curtains halting their flow with the breeze. Rose looked over at the window opposite her, noticing that a figure was standing behind their own window. Rose tilted her head so she could see clearly through a pane in the window, she needed only to see the eyes dazzle in the moonlight to know that it was Alex.

Alex quickly averted his gaze, noticing that she had caught him looking at her. Rose looked back at him with a small smile perched upon her lips as he glanced back up at her. Alex smiled along with her, as they stared at each other for a moment or two. He had cleaned himself up, his skin completely clean of oil and dirt, his hair once again a beautiful wet mess. My oh my, I don’t think I have ever seen such a handsome man, Rose thought to herself – making herself blush at the thought. “Goodnight Alex” Rose mouthed through the window, smiling a little wider. “Goodnight Rose” he had mouthed back, making Rose’s blush deepen into a darker pink as she stared at his smile. She forced herself to close her curtains, not taking her gaze off him until they were completely shut.

Rose’s smile became a much larger toothy one as she turned around to face her bed, Please Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream of Alex.

[futurewriter2000]

You’re a Mean One - pt. 8

XX

Sirius knew you were mad at him. He knew you were furious but he was not intending to make the same mistake twice.

He came to the armchair you sat on, squated down and put his chin on the armrest. Looking up with his pure grey eyes, he batted his eyelashes a few times and pouted. “You still mad at me?”

“I don’t know. Are you still a jackass?” you said turning a page in your book and raising an eyebrow.

“I asked you first.” he smiled, putting both hands on the chair now.

You looked at him from the corners of your eyes and put the book away. “I won’t date you.”

“I don’t intend to date you either.”

“Than what do you intend to do?”

“I intend to not make you mad at me.” he now stood up and sat on the table in front of you. He locked his hands together, leaned on his knees and kept looking at you. “I’m sorry.” he said sincerely. “I’m sorry you and Abernathy broke up. I know how upsetting that was to you and how hurt you were after and if I had anything to do with it, if that fight had anything to do with it, I am-” he stopped at the touch of your hand.

You smiled softly, tore apart his locked hands and took one into yours. “You don’t have to appologise, Sirius.” you looked up at him, taking a heavy breath in. “I was upset and I took it out on you. I am not mad.” you simpered and he let out a soft chuckle.

“Yes you are. You have a tell.”

“I do not have a tell, Sirius.” you smiled but he shook his head, pressing his thumb on your forehead.

“Right here. When you lie you draw your eyebrows together and this space right here wrinkles a bit. “ he drawed his thumb from your forehead down the bridge of your nose and to your lips. His hand went to your cheek and he leaned in slowly.

When his lips were almost on yours, you smiled. “I thought you don’t intend to date me.”

He smiled, looking up from your lips to your eyes. “I lied.”

But as he leaned in, you smiled and moved away. He kept looking at you in surprise but you only grabbed your book and left, leaving him behind. “I still don’t want to date you, Sirius Black.” you smiled and he let out a chuckle.

“You will.”

---

But you didn’t. Mostly because you had other problems to deal with than dating someone who is always distracting you from your goals. But that distraction just kept coming and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it when it was with you.

Sirius didn’t make a move on you since then and you liked it that way. You loved being just friends with him because it wasn’t complicated. It wasn’t distracting you as much as before, when he kept pressuring you into being with him and you knew you couldn’t.

So, now you were watching him cook because night cravings with him were always created into your favorite memories. He was behind the pan, throwing another pancake on the plate and when you tried to reach for it, he slapped your hand away. You slapped his back and he slapped yours back again. You wanted to do it once again but he caught you to it and grabbed your hand, looking at you and glaring. “Stop.”

“You’re the one who slapped my hand first.” you defended.

“Your hand is the one that touched my food.”

“Your food?!” you exclaimed, opening your mouth to gasp.

“Yeah. You thought I was doing all of this for you?” he grinned and continued to make his last pancake.

“Having hope that you might have a heart isn’t a sin.” you leaned back on the counter and raised your eyebrow.

“Eating my food is one of the deadliest sins.” he wiggled his eyebrows and started to eat his pancakes.

“You’re right about that. I wouldn’t trust your cooking and if it was the last meal I’d eat.” you walked past him and to the fridge, opening it and sticking your head in it.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a smart lad. Figure it out.” you reached for the strawberries in the back with one hand and the greek yoghurt with the other.

As he saw you pick the food you were about to eat, he dropped his pancakes and pulled out a plate for you as well. “You know I was joking?” he said as he continued to put pancakes on supposedly your plate. “Of course, I made it for you-”

“I know but I’d rather eat this.” you pulled out a knife and started cutting the hair of the berries.

“You’d rather eat fruit than delicious pancakes?”

“I’d rather eat vitamins and protein before bed than carbs.” you lifted a corner of your eyebrow, cut the final hair of the berries and started cutting them on quarters. “I always used to buy strawberries and greek yoghurt because I was so tired of the cheap bread and salami my dad always bought.” you finished cutting, throwing the pieces into a small bowl, and walking to the draw with cutlery. “He never bought healthy food. Or any food after my mom left.” you grabbed a spoon and shut the drawer, making your way to a chair. “He said he didn’t have any money for it but he just bought what he wanted to eat, not what I or my siblings wanted to eat.” you opened the yoghurt and took a bit of it just for the taste. “We were mostly hungry than full.” you licked the spoon and looked up at him, who was now just watching you...sadly.  “But I got used to it. We each had seperate food. Mom mostly bought me since I’m still a scholar and have no money what-so-ever.” you stopped, shrugging and starting to eat yoghurt with your strawberries.

Sirius was confused. “Your dad didn’t take care of you?”

You smiled and looked up at him. “I know it’s odd for you to hear it but I’m used to it. My dad isn’t like the others, you know? He loves to drink, spend money in the cafe’s, smoke,... and where I come from that’s pretty much normal but here it’s like all these rich wizards with parent’s who spoil them to control them or not so rich kids whose parents are the kindest and most supportive.”

He was now sitting down in front of you, thinking.

You saw that he was somewhat uncomfortable , so as usual, you made a joke. “Stop thinking and give me one of those pancakes.” you reached for it and then pushed him a little but he didn’t budge.  

He looked up and narrowed his eyes at you. He wanted to say it. He wanted to ask you. He wanted everything to come on plain sight but he saw your eyes and they were pleading him to not drill into it. To stop thinking or feel sorry for you because that was what you hated the most. So he delayed the thoughts and the quiestions for another, better time and smiled. “Oh, so now you want the pancakes?” he teased, reaching for the plate in your hands but you only moved it behind you. He kept reaching for it, coming closer and closer to you until he was less than an inch away. “You know you would always have pancakes if you only went on a date with me.” he wiggled his eyebrows and kept looking at your lips as you did with his.

“I know.” you breathed out as it was getting heated. You put the plate back down and turned your head away. “But like I said. I don’t want to date you, Sirius Black.”

“And like I said.” he smiled mischiviously. “You will.”

[bubmyg]

spring break

pairing: jeongguk x reader

genre/warnings: (light) enemies to lovers, college!au, fluff, more sparing illusions to smut, jeongguk and oc are bad at articulating feelings

word count: 1,465

a/n: an extra piece to “not a date” which linked on my masterlist!! this takes place roughly three weeks after the events in “not a date”; “not a date” doesn’t have to be read to understand this but like it helps

“Are you back yet?”

You glanced at your still packed suitcase that you hadn’t touched for two days. “Yeah, flew back in Friday night.”

Jeongguk was silent aside from a puff of air, a tiny grunt emitting along with the rustling of something hard and plastic. “Awesome—” He grunted and after another prolonged moment, “—did you start the assignment for class yet?”

You glanced at your laptop that you hadn’t touched aside from plugging it into it’s charger. “No, but I assume you have it done, so…”

“Didn’t even bring my laptop home with me for break,” Another labored huff, “...okay I did but. No. I haven’t started.”

You wrinkled your nose and plucked at a stray thread on your sock, legs curled underneath you as you rocked forward spine straight, backward shoulders hunched. “That’s unlike you, Jeon.”

“Come over and we can work on it together.”

The blotched colors of the poster pasted on your door melded together, your vision trailing off with the coherent thoughts left in your conscious. You spluttered and the broken pieces of the puzzle came back together to make a clear image in front of you, adding a heat to your cheeks as an unattached extension of the picture.

“Want me to bring food?”

“Actually, I’ll, uh…” More rustling and Jeongguk mumbled, “I-I’ll cook something. If you want. We can order something else later, if it takes us forever and we’re hungry.”

“You cook?”

“Uh. Kind of…”

You paused in the time it took you to cross your room to flick the charger from the back of your laptop.

“Be there in ten.”

You tripped over his suitcase in the entryway.

“Shit, sorry about that—” There were scrambling footsteps across the hardwood and a hand was on your forearm, the latter adjusting the suitcase until it was out of the walkway. “—forgot to move it earlier—”

“Did you just get back?”

Jeongguk stared at you with a hand on your wrist and you noticed the wave to his black hair before the embarrassed flush that had crawled onto the apples of his cheeks. “Yes,” He let go of you, straightening to shove deft fingers through the long fringe dangling into his eyelashes, “Like...an hour ago?”

The waistband of grey sweatpants slithered into view from underneath a baggy white long sleeve, the elastic rolled once on lean hip bones, drawstring loosely tied and poking out from his naval. Your tongue dried in your cheek and you commented instead, “Your hair…”

“I’d let you lecture me on needing a haircut—” Jeongguk let the dark waves escape through the spaces in his fingers, bouncing over the crinkles that formed on the corners of his eyes, “—but I’m like ten seconds away from burning your ramen.”

You trailed him through the hallway, past the jar of bright green pens and another duffle bag with similar airport tags on it as the luggage in the doorway. You eyed the pattern of cartoon bumble bees on his socks in favor of the flex between his shoulder blades when two hands threaded into his scalp this time.

“You don’t need a haircut,” You decided finally, pausing in the threshold. Jeongguk pressed his waist to the edge of the counter, leaning over the boiling pot with a spoon in hand and an awaiting arch of his eyebrow. “It...it looks good. You look good.”

He switched the stove top off, transferring the pot to a quilted holder ready in wait on the countertop. A halfhearted dust of his hands off in his thighs and he was in front of you, the arch of his eyebrows transferred to the slant of his lips, tiniest sliver of teeth showing. He leaned into you, hands caging you on either side until the small of your back rounded into the lipped edge of the countertop.

“Compliments coming early tonight, huh?”

Pursed lips ducked for you but you paused their advances with the middle link of your index finger, pressing it hard against Jeongguk’s mouth. “Making ramen isn’t cooking,” You told him, calmly albeit to the rush of blood roaring in your ears.

“By definition, yes, actually, it is,” He muffled against your finger.

“Fine. Move, and let me try some—”

“Tell me my hair looks good again and I’ll consider it.”

He sat with his head on your thighs, one of your hands toying with silky strands while the latter propped your notebook up to eye level. His notebook was curled between his thumbs, flimsy with the way he kept waving it, words blurred with the movement. He hadn’t studied anything on the page said since detailing the contours of adorable concentration etched on your face, fluctuating between words on a page that meant nothing to him to the poke of a tongue from the corner of a mouth that caused him grief and frustration and everything in between.

Or something.

Your actions were mundane, feathering at the ends of his hair, rolling the waves between your fingertips before brushing a searching hand back into his scalp for more. Jeongguk was silent aside from a few hums when the blunt edge of your fingernails entered the equation, drawing out a few more of the noises by rooting in place to brush back and forth a bit more.

You didn’t hear Jeongguk’s first call of your name, feel the shift of his mattress when he tossed his notebook aside and rolled onto his stomach, hear the soft hey out of heart shaped lips, feel the thread of his arms around your waist and the rut of his chin into your tummy. It took one hand dragging across your hip, through the apex of your elbow and into the curl of your palm to take your notebook, discarding it into a pile of two with his own as he returned to hugging your waist.

“Hey,” Jeongguk tried again, chin rebounding off your belly button.

Your hand was still in his hair and when you tried to jerk it away, he shook his chin so your careful work was tousled, pieces fluffing and sticking out in the center of his forehead. A gradual smile worked its way to your lips as you leaned back on your elbow, tucking the hair out of doe eyes with the tender curl of your tiniest digit.

“Hey.”

You followed the path of your hand, “Hey, what?”

“I missed you.”

Your stature tensed in his hold and he sated you by ducking to kiss your stomach over your shirt. The flash of his gentle smile coming back to you stumbled your unsure inquiry in your throat, “Y-you did?”

Jeongguk laughed and you felt it in the tips of your curled toes. “A lot,” His hands left your back to press into the wrinkles of his duvet, straightening until he was hovering over you with a thigh pressed between your legs, “I always miss you.”

“Can’t say the same.” The flash of your eyes to the cocky grin that slanted his lips betrayed you and an involuntary gasp squeaked emitted when he pressed his mouth to the corner of your jaw.

He pecked your cheek, sweet eyes daunting, “Yeah? Not even a little bit?”

“Why would I miss my insufferable study enemy on spring break?”

There was a comical urgency to Jeongguk’s next round of rhetorical ramblings even if, somewhere, he was wholeheartedly searching for an answer to an unspoken question left dangling over the grease stains of a heart shaped pizza, “How much ramen do I have to make you until I’m upgraded from stu-nemy to study buddy?”

“Jeon—”

“Or what about all that cheesy bread I’ve bought you? Surely that deserves at least frenemy...”

“Guk—”

“My dick doesn't think of you as an enemy anymore. Neither do I but—”

“Oh my god, Jeongguk.”

You cupped his face in your hands, pressing your thumbs into his cheekbones to angle his gaze to you. His throat jumped when he swallowed and his bottom lip gave a miniscule wobble. Threads of soft black obscured dilated chocolate.

“I missed you, too,” You assured him, promised him, “I was kidding. You aren’t just my lame study buddy.”

Jeongguk dove for what he missed most, the sweet seam between your lips that tasted of stale cherry chapstick and emitted the softest little noises when he flexed his thigh and adjusted his grip on your hips, the warmth of your skin under his touch that puddled further with each proceeding movement. He was trying to excavate the meaning behind your words even if the context told him all that he needed to make a sizable inference, searching for the blatant answer in your lips seared to his, hands clinging to his shoulders, waist writhing underneath him.

You, you, you. He missed you the most.

[jafndaegur]

Fragile Duetto

@juminweek2019 ​Day Two: Touch and Caged

a/n: I have no idea what the hecky-heck this is. I just really like Professor!Jumin.

In front of his door, MC remembered where once she would count through all of the worse scenario instances in her head, of all possible ways to greet him. Hi Dr. Han I just— H-h-hey Professor Han did you know— Jumin Han, I am— Dr. Jumin Han—

Jumin Han...I’m in love with you.

Countless days she wandered to the professor’s building, searching for him during his office hours. She’d never entered his room, never dreamed of it. Instead MC settled for sitting at the front during lectures, listening intently and fondly as he listed through different plots and rules of the business world. She absorbed every and all information that he provided as best as she could. On bad days, when she could tell he was distressed, she’d buy him a hot tea and leave it on his desk in the lecture hall. When he had his good days, which were more often than his worse, she’d smile and greet him—wave and ask about his day. Because that was what she wanted from him. To smile, and say hello, and ask about her. But she never asked for anything in return. Her heart would flutter with content when he would nod his head and give a brief response. Sometimes when he responded with an anecdote about his cat Elizabeth the Third and a faint grin, she knew she beamed far brighter than a student just being polite should be.

But in class, everyone tried to wriggle themselves into the heart of the ever cold-stared Dr. Han. And MC didn’t want him to think that was what she wanted. She wanted him. Not his favor. 

She wanted to know him. Not as a professor.

As her senior year drew to a close, she found however, that no longer taking his class led to most sessions in person with him to be scarce. But the one or two times a week when she could see him, she found their encounters different. The corners of his lips quirked a bit, his eyes seemed to brighten, and his posture almost relaxed. When he called out to her, it was no longer “Ms. MC” it had become just “MC”. A stuttering hope filled her chest, one that she tried not to nurture.

So when her best friend invited her out a party, MC told herself why not. “You only live once,” her friend had added. “You don’t want to waste it on a professor, right?” Afterall she’d be graduating from university, and would move on. She needed to move on from what her parents liked to call a ridiculous and immature crush. Maybe they were right. Going to a party, meeting new people who were eligible and her age would most definitely be far more appropriate.

The party had been great at first. Load music roaring in her ears. Guys and girls, girls and girls, guys and guys, all dancing together in one giant hodge-podge of sweaty jive. Flashing colorful lights and cold drinks that left burning trails down her throat, MC had tried to ignore the voice of reason that sounded a lot like the disdained voice of a certain professor. So when a man took her hand and pulled her into the club’s rhythm, she did not refuse him. Crashing noise, crashing bodies, it was a wave that pulled her into the flow of the chaotic world around her. Because the one time she pulled herself away from the thoughts of Jumin Han, it was as if everything around her collapsed. 

The man led her away from the crowd and whispered harsh, lewd nothings into her ear. She didn’t like it; but she never said no. She gave him a faint and shy nod, a half-hearted muttered yes. When he pushed her up against the wall and asked her what she wanted, MC could only think about large, blanched and bony hands—storm grey eyes and dark knitted brows, a fine thin mouth, and soft strands of feathered raven hair. 

And the man that caged her between his body and the wall was not what she wanted.

So she pressed her hands against his chest and shoved him away, she left and went home without her best friend too. Without her permission, her body trembled. Without her say-so, her eyes wept hot and salty tears.  

So this was how MC found herself, first thing in the morning, in front of Jumin Han’s office door. How many times had she done this so meaninglessly, pacing back and forth but never entering? Now, of all times she decided to approach the open doorway. His deep tenor lilted from the doorway and she paused, he was talking to someone. She hadn’t noticed anyone in there before hand but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe he was on the phone.

Flashes of a stranger’s shoulders and the press of some other man’s chest flooded her mind, and MC pressed a hand to her mouth to suppress a sob. What the hell am I doing? All of this needs to stop. She clenched her free hand into a fist and turned sharply on her toes. Her eyesight blurred and the breath in her chest heaved. She needed to leave right this minute. 

“MC.”

The call of her name had been so calm, so sure.

MC turned her head just slightly to see Jumin Han standing in the doorway with his brows raised slightly. His expression went from questioning to concerned in an instant and she wondered if it was her probably distressed look of her expression or the rivulets of tears that by now had spilled over her eyelids. Whatever it was, her professor did not hesitate to reach out his hand. He said no words.

Only looked from his hand to her’s, curling his fingers gently.

In the back of her head, she could hear that little chirp of reason telling her to just walk away.

But her body worked against her, and her grasp found his. It was warm, and the slight callous of his hands rubbed gently over her skin as he lightly tugged her into his office. He closed the door behind them, before turning back to her. His arms crossed over his chest and he gave her a thorough look-over.

Her shoulders shook and she found she cried harder.

“What happened, MC?”

Her hand did a poor job of blocking her mouth, of muffling her words. Broken and weak sobs slipped past her lips as she told him everything. Her crush on him since freshman year. Wanting to see him smile. The party from last night. Begging that he rescue from the stupid situation she put herself in.

“I’m so ridiculous,” she cried, scrubbing furiously at her eyes when she realized that she should honestly be slinking away. “I never meant to bother you with any of this, to tell you any of this. I just always thought that—”

In her mind she never got past confessing to him; she always expected a word of distaste from him or an angry quirk of his eyebrows. Instead, when she finally braved looking up at him, she found his grey gaze widened and his mouth slightly parted. A faint hue of color spread along the curve of his cheekbones and if she didn’t know any better, MC would have said he was blushing.

Even when her voice tried to stick to the walls of her throat, she still managed to choke out a “...Dr. Han?”

He stared a bit longer at her before slowly raking his hand through his hair with a dazed look. “Pardon, me MC. I just...never expected you to enjoy my company in return.”

She laughed, the first time in the last twenty-four hours, before realizing he was serious. Despite their puffy and tender state, her eyes rounded in incredulity and she twisted her hands in one another. Surely she’d misunderstood him. “I’m sorry what?”

His eyelashes fluttered for a moment, and he gave her a narrowed glance. “May I do something?”

“What will you do?” She murmured back, her fingers tightening in her fists. This was a dream. This was a crazy and insane dream, and if she woke up she would sob for days.

“You’ll have to find out.” He smiled.

Jumin Han smiled. At her. It was a shy thing, radiant and nervous, and yet there was a conviction in his glance that prompted her to take a step closer to him. God was she desperate? Surely she wasn’t this desperate for him—

“Please,” MC heard herself saying. “Surprise me then.”

Jumin inclined his head with an amused smirk, before reaching out and gathering her into his arms. MC gasped out, goosebumps trailing her skin as his hands skimmed up and down her spine before their touch held firm at the base of her head and the small of her back. His nose nuzzled into the crown of her head, and beneath her cheek she felt his chest rise and fall with a sigh. Her hands found his sides, and her fingers clenched and wrinkled his vest. Warm. He was so warm. Her breathing began to match his and MC found herself burying her face into his chest.

“Is this better?” he whispered, voice low and gentle. “Than last night.”

“Way better,” her voice trembled. 

The hand on her back rubbed soothing circles, fingertips tenderly pressing into her skin.

She held him tighter. “I’m dreaming.”

“If we are both sharing this vision,” he chuckled. “Ms. MC I would not like to be disturbed from such a dream.”

She giggled and refused to look up at him. If she did, then surely this moment would end. “I graduate in two more months.”

“Then I will wait.” His chin pressed onto the top of her head. “Afterall, you put yourself through the trouble of waiting for this whole time.”

She flushed furiously and finally stared up at him, ready to protest. But Jumin’s finger hooked lightly under her chin, and he rested his forehead on hers. Shy and hesitant, her fingers found his free hand, and she laced her hold into his. They stayed there, pressed in a fragile and fluttering embrace. MC smiled and tilted her head back, nose gently brushing against his. Jumin laughed softly, and moved his hand to cup her cheek. They did not move closer, just stayed, pleased in tranquil warmth. 

Unlike the sharp crudeness of last night, it was a slow and sweet dance that they swayed to in tandem.

[velmalav]

drunk off you {roger taylor}

warnings: mentions of blood, swearing.

synopsis: roger is absolutely whipped for reader. 

word count: 1.5k+

***

  Roger couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. You, the woman kneeling in the dirt wearing your overalls and bandanna in your hair. You, the woman singing along to the music you’d so kindly asked for him to fetch for you before you started your work. You, the woman he’d had to beg so many times to go out with him before you’d even glance his way. You, the woman whose touch he melted into every chance he got. You, the woman he could never quite get enough of.  

 “You should take a picture, it lasts longer,” you quipped as you pulled a particularly stubborn weed out of the ground. Roger had always told you to wear gloves when you gardened, but you were stubborn. You only ever told yourself what to do, and it drove him absolutely mad. Your effect on him, the ability to put up with the shit you constantly threw his way, was indescribable.

 You noticed it in the small things he did. Like your first date, when he showed up with a bouquet of peonies – slightly wilted, and you’d mentioned that to him on the ride over to the restaurant. His face had bloomed a harsh red at your words, but you simply smiled and said you loved them anyway.

 Or your second date, when he’d invited you over to his flat for the first time, adamant on cooking for you. He’d told you to leave your heels by the door, so naturally, you made sure to clank around in them all night. That was the first time he’d realized just how hard-headed you were, but truly didn’t mind. He’d sat you down at his dining table, and the first thing you noticed was the bouquet of lively, fresh peonies leaning in a vase in the center. You’d rolled your eyes at the blinding smirk on his face as he sat adjacent from you. He knew your heart from the beginning.

 “I’ve got plenty of those, love, don’t you worry,” Roger replied, not missing a beat as he leaned forward in his chair, cigarette falling from his lips. You stuck your tongue out at him just in time to catch his subtle wink, making you roll your eyes once more. You had to admit, he’d captured your heart just as much.

 You leaned down to yank at another weed, but as soon as you lifted up, it sliced across your palm like your skin was butter. You cursed rather loudly, already gaining the attention of Roger. “Love, do you mind fetching me a towel?” you asked, eyebrows furrowing as you inspected the deep cut. You began to see red ooze out and shut your eyes to avoid seeing it.

 Roger was by your side in an instant, towel in hand. You were now sat cross legged, staring up at the sky trying not to look at your hand. He never let his gaze fall from you as he gingerly lifted your hand. It wasn’t until you winced that he realized just how bad the cut was. “Bloody hell, Y/N!” he cried, moving quickly to tightly wrap your hand in the clean dish towel. “You know—“

 “This is why you should wear gloves,” you mimicked his accent as you spoke, tongue poking out as you rolled your eyes. Roger raised his eyebrows at you, as if saying, ‘You wanna keep going or should I let you bleed out?’ Patting his cheek with your uninjured hand, you answered his unspoken question. “You’d never.”

 “Oh, love,” he sighed, shaking his head. He attempted to inspect your cut again, but winced as more blood threatened to spill from the towel. “What if you need stitches?”

 “From weeding? I bloody hope not,” you whined back. “Let’s just gauze it and see if the bleeding stops. Last thing I need is an unnecessary trip to hospital.”

 “S’not unnecessary if it helps,” Roger muttered to mostly himself as he coasted an arm around your waist to pull you up. You smiled gratefully at him, cocking an eyebrow. You both exchanged a familiar look, and Roger’s face dropped. “Not today, my love, please? My arms are tired.”

 “But I’m hurt, Rog,” you stated, putting on your best sad face. When that didn’t make him budge, you winced again, cradling your hand. Roger knew you were faking, but lifted you anyway, whisking you back into the home you shared. You swung your legs around like a schoolgirl, and your head plopped on Roger’s shoulder.

 Minutes later, Roger found himself deep in concentration as he swabbed at your injury. Thankfully, it had stopped bleeding, and would only need a few layers of gauze to keep it sterile. The only thing worrying Roger was the thought of you going right back out into the yard, which you so often did against his wishes. “Looks like you may just be crippled for the next few days, Y/N,” he said, eyeing you to gauge your reaction.

 “Doubt it’s that bad,” you argued, still refusing to look at your hand. You loathed blood, the sight of it made you feel faint. It reminded you too much of the times when Roger would get himself into stupid fights. Most of them stemmed from men trying to have their way with you when he was up at the bar getting drinks, but some were driven by empty bickering that made him feel as if he had to defend his masculinity. Each time afterwards, when the injuries were notably bad, you were the one that held the damp napkins up to his cheek. You were the one that always took care of him, no matter what. Sometimes you wondered if Roger got into those fights so he’d have an excuse for you to have your hands on him.

 “Well, my expertise says—“

 “Hold on, now. Your expertise?” you said at his cocky expression. “Just ‘cause you have a biology degree—“

 “Doesn’t mean you know everything,” Roger finished for you, batting his eyelashes like you always do. “You’re just so predictable, love. I had to.”

 “Mmm,” you gave him your brattiest look. “Too bad I’ve got loads more to do outside. My deteriorating health will just have to wait.” You were now the one trying to gauge his reaction. In the back of your mind, you absolutely knew he didn’t want you back out there, which is the same reason you said it.

 Roger ripped a long piece of gauze from the dispenser, shaking his head. “In my professional opinion, I think you should consider staying inside.”

 His words were chosen carefully. Roger knew better than to flat out tell you that you weren’t returning to your garden, otherwise he’d definitely have to take you to the hospital. There were so many instances that he could place you purposely running into chaos purely because he’d told you not to, and so many where he’d held his tongue and saved himself from another heart attack.

 “Should I now?” you asked and cocked your head to the side. Roger was so focused on wrapping your hand perfectly that he didn’t hear you, but you didn’t mind. You loved watching him like that. Eyebrows knitted together, lips parted just a bit. You couldn’t help yourself when you leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth. His eyes snapped to you, glasses starting to slide down his nose from the sweat that’d been building up in the scorching summer heat. “You’re so hot when you’re focused,” you admitted.

 Roger smirked before going back to the task at hand. “Tell me something I don’t know, sweetheart.”

 “I love you,” you tried, eyes boring into his, despite the fact that he was no longer looking at you.

 “Knew that,” he cockily replied.

 “I guess that’s everything then,” you joked, resting your palm against your cheek. Roger finished up your hand, and once he was done, turned it over to admire his work. He nodded to himself, almost to say, ‘It’ll heal up nicely,’ and then held it in his own. His thumb pressed on your palm, causing you to flinch. “Not feel-proof, sadly,” you whispered.

 “Sorry, love,” Roger said sweetly. You leaned forward again and attached your lips to his. He smiled into you, fingers tapping up your jaw to cup it. You could feel the calloused pads of his thumb flicker against your skin. Roger deepened the kiss as you gripped the wrist that was cupping your face, signaling just how much you wanted his touch. Typically, it wasn’t you who was longing for kisses like these – or any touch at all, it was Roger. He gets drunk on just having you near, let alone making out with you.

 So when you were the one that broke the kiss, he whined obnoxiously, reaching across the table to grab at any part of you he could. “Come over here, Rog,” you breathed. And within seconds, he was up against you, both hands capturing your cheeks, lips grinding against yours. He couldn’t get enough. The feel of your grey hair beneath his fingers, wrinkled skin that had managed to still feel so incredibly soft.

 You’d think after thirty-five years of marriage, Roger would have adapted to the way you made him feel, but he never did, and you thanked your lucky stars for just that.  

***

masterlist

[thebarsondaily]

Winter Wonderland

for @motherbearof03

Title: Winter Wonderland Author: cool-veggiesword Rating: K+ Summary: Liv makes a stop at Rafa’s apartment for Christmas Eve and things resurface. Set somewhere in the latest season if Christmas had happened before Liv met Sheila. A/N: Hi, it’s me again! Merry Christmas to you and your family! I couldn’t figure out how to incorporate mom talks with the rest of your requests and I’m super new at writing Barson, so I’m so sorry if this isn’t really what you were expecting (or is terrible)! But I still hope you like it. (P.S. Please excuse the random Christmas penguin ^^;;;)

He looks almost cute, a small floppy strand of hair astray on his forehead, and she almost wants to brush it aside, see where her treacherous fingers lead her. He’s wearing the blue checkered shirt again, something that would look especially heinous on someone else but looks especially wonderful on him. His suspenders are positively snappable, his shirt endearingly wrinkled at the cuffs rolled up around his elbows, and a sliver of his collarbone and chest peeks out from his form-fitting button-down, a tantalizing stretch of skin she has to drag her eyes away from.  So she reaches out for the doorframe, keeps her hands busy holding it when the door widens and she can see more of his confused, wary face, a growing spark of recognition and an almost unnoticeable hint of affection in his eyes.

“Hey.”

“…Hi?”

He doesn’t ask her to come in, just stands aside so her coat brushes against his chest, her fingers narrowly brushing his hip as she strides past, one of their routine in chaos. They turn to look at one another, a small split-second glance igniting into a fire.

“What is it, Liv?”

“Well, I was wondering what you were doing since it’s Christmas Eve…but I should have known you’d be working.”

He gives her a long look, somewhere between annoyed and contemplative; he’s always had the most expressive of eyes, and the most tender of voices when he wants.

The files in his hand do everything to make him look very much at home and very much himself. And inside, she places how much his apartment suits him: like his office, towering ornate dark bookshelves against beige walls, brown leather and ivory-coloured couches, hardwood floors, just a hint of grey and white marble in the countertops, a contradictory intense but business-like atmosphere. He doesn’t have much in the way of decoration, everything functional and stately, no fruit baskets on the kitchen counter but essentials in the corners, one or two political magazines neatly stacked - she doesn’t know if he cooks really. Liv imagines the few small statuettes must have been from his mother, a large cross, a Christmas penguin, some other unrecognizable things that she refrains from commenting about that look far too gaudy even for him. Who would have thought. And like mother like son.

The pad itself would have looked almost haughty and ostentatious for anyone else but Rafael; the man could have worn a clown suit and made it look dapper and she wouldn’t have batted an eyelash. An image of shark-patterned socks and dazzling pink stripes makes her hold back a smirk. Today marks the first time she’s been in his apartment, the first time she might really know him.

The bay window leading to a deck catches her attention briefly, and she wonders if on rainy days he sits in that chair and just looks out, listens to the pitter-patter on the glass, wonders what his profile would look like in the dark of night and the reflection of the moon hitting only one side of his face and the other side cast in shadows. For someone who manages to be so threatening in the courtroom, his other side is enthralling, like the outward puff of his cheek as he smiles, smirks, in innocent pretension, or sarcastically, or gently, just for her.

“Well you know, crime doesn’t stop, even if that’s what the road signs want.”

He’s sunk down into the single armchair next to the window while she’s been ogling, stretching his legs out onto a small coffee table in front of him, but she grabs the files she can reach out of his hands and tosses them onto an opposite couch, much to his slightly appalled look. There goes not ruffling his feathers even more than she already did on the regular.

“Come on, Rafa. I came here to spend time with my best friend, not watch him work.”

“What about Noah?”

“I’m having Lucy watch him for a couple hours but since it’s Christmas Eve, I shouldn’t be gone for too long.” She looks at him apologetically.

“Why don’t you bring him with you next time?”

Once she would have thought her friend was hard to decipher, and that it would be contradictory for him to care so much. Once she would have thought it too forward for even him to ask to meet her son. But these days there is buzzing again in her head, and she’s not sure what this feeling is when his first instinct is to ask about the boy, sunlight of her life, but even more so when he, famous for his brash, unforgiving, sardonic way of looking at the world, would suggest spending time with a child so honestly, so casually, maybe only for her. But then again, Noah had that effect on people.

The thought crosses her mind that maybe he would make a good father but she pushes it away, not wanting to dredge up the memory of someone who could have been Noah’s father, someone who was, the knowledge she has in confidence of Rafael’s own situation.

This unspoken yet certain confidence builds the trust between them, but she remembers when it was torn. To be heartbroken is to love. To hurt is to have been loved.

She looks down at her hands to avoid his searching gaze.

“Well, thank you for saying that.”

“You don’t have to stand on ceremony with me, you know?”

“Sorry. Long day.”

He pauses for a moment and she can sense him debating this with himself whether to pursue or to fold; he’s the one who is always by her side, asking her if she’s okay, but disguising everything of his own under a veil of sarcasm and complaints and retorts when she reaches out to him.

“One or two shots?”

She ponders if he can see her face light up in amusement as he stands up to pour them some scotch, thinks perhaps this ease and banter could - no, should - become a regular thing.

—————————————–

He can’t remember when he gave Liv his address but all that seems moot now, when she’s sitting in his living room on the same ivory-coloured couch as him, their knees brushing (bless Mami for not relenting until he got it), shoulders bumping and fingers constantly brushing like newlyweds. Rafael watches the way her lips move as she animatedly recounts her latest Noah story, the way strands of her hair flutter softly against her cheeks, the curl of her fingers around a glass. He believes she’s not too obtuse to see it too, that unspoken trust and friendship there but something more over the surface, and under the surface.

She has that smile again, where she’s looking down, one side of her mouth upturned more than the other. He talks about his Christmas day tradition with his mother, feels the affection coming in waves from her. Of the two - actually infinite - types of smiles she has he can’t decide which he loves the most.

“Come on Rafa, some part of you must love some part of Christmas.”

I love how much you love it.

Then a silence he wants to fill, inexplicably.

“…My mother always makes me cakes…even when things got tough. This year she just wants to stuff me into a Santa hat though.”

Ah, there’s the other smile, the comforting, sympathetic one where she stares directly at him this time, her face crinkling with emotion despite his throwaway statement to break the tension. What he wouldn’t give to see it every day.

The touch of her hand on his knee sends a jolt through his chest, the sparkle in her eyes more warm than he expects. He wonders if he’ll ever stop watching that smile and seeking that connection, across the courtroom, in the meeting room when they work out a plan for a case, thinks that he’ll never even want to stop looking for it.

Her next words do break the tension successfully, soft and warm and…teasing.

“You know…a Santa hat would look good on you.”

He raises an eyebrow, doesn’t hesitate to jump to his feet; she’s reaching for her bag and taking out something.

“No.”

He’s halfway through opening a door when he feels her nose collide with his back, feels laughter bubbling out from her chest, forearms stretching over his back, palms messing up his hair when a Santa hat falls to the floor beside them. She tries to catch her balance, hands pushing against his shoulders, then gripping them. There’s that jolt again in his chest again, a tingling sensation creeping along his skin under his clothes where she touches him, her soft breath ghosting against his ears, making him shiver with the urge to touch her too.

“Really? You’re following me in here?”

He wonders fleetingly what she can read from his face, surprised to bemused to resigned when she follows him into his bedroom, and he’s suddenly self-conscious of the order of his book collection on the shelf, the not-very-modest size of the wardrobe storing his suits; there’s a suit for tomorrow hung up on its handles, and he’s suddenly wondering whether it would catch her eye, like his yachting outfit did.

But it must have been a flashback of that last time when she felt unwelcome in his office; this time she’s somewhere new, infringing on his space, and letting her hands drop. They’ve become closer than she’d ever imagined they’d become but at the back of his mind he knows something is lingering in the space between them. But they both feel broken, tired sometimes, couldn’t do this without each other. They are justice and compassion, pragmatism and idealism, can’t help but balance and influence one another.

“Talk to me, Liv.”

So he makes the leap this time, makes the connection this time.

“Rafa…I should have told you. And I know you were only trying to do your job and protect me. But will you trust me from now on, really trust me?”

Her voice becomes a whisper, almost fearful, hesitant to ask.

She sits on his bed, opening up at the sign of him relaxing, the vulnerable look in his eyes returning, like he sits on her desk but more intimate, - he pushes away - dangerous. He plops down next to her, in her corner, as always.

“I do trust you. And I trust your instincts, even though I don’t know if they’ll be right in the end.”

Hindsight is twenty-twenty after all.

“But at least now I know we won’t be done talking for eighty-five more years.”

There’s a quiver at his side when she’s grinning against his shoulder, flipping hair behind her head beautifully, and he’s at once amazed at his ability to make her laugh, and disbelieving at his audacity to bring both of those things up.

You’re my best friend. And maybe more?

“Right then, more scotch?”

He leaves behind the vow that he’ll come back to be by her side, the dent at the edge of the bed next to her where they reaffirmed their hopes.

———————————

“Liv? Hey, Liv…”

She’s curled up like a cat on top of his blankets, an inch of skin peeking out from under her blouse, her hands clutching the covers to her chest, relaxed, content, peaceful even, broken away from the stresses of both her past and present lives.

Rafael sighs gently, can’t keep the tenderness out of his voice.

“That heart of yours will get you into trouble some day.”

Not that his hadn’t already. Tonight, a kiss on the forehead is the only present he dares give her. Tonight, he wants to be her rook, punching through the darkness and bringing her the light.

“Goodnight, Liv.”

He contemplates taking the couch in the living room but dares to test the trust that is everything to them, that something floating above and under the surface, so he settles on curling around her on the bed, barely touching, and tries to be what they could be, what he hopes she’ll let him be.

————————————————

She wakes up to a note (“Don’t worry; I called Lucy. And I’m sorry too.”) on the nightstand, the lightest of touches on her back, the scent of him reaching her nose from behind.

…sorry that Lucy’ll have to watch Noah on Christmas, sorry that I didn’t understand back then…

To kiss him good morning would be the only present she dares give him, so she turns around and just does, traces her fingers down from the latch on his suspenders, wonders how he slept in them like that, wonders what the two of them could be to one another. Rafael - Rafa - stirs in her arms and she draws her fingers up to his face, meeting her eyes with his sleepy ones.

That buzzing feeling in her mind solidifies into something more familiar.

Definitely more.

Christmas would be indeed be enchanting this year.