#poetic pastel press

[hismourningflower]

「 50 ways to say goodbye | kiss (don't tell!) event 」 lyney & thoma x gn!reader | fluff, established relationships | event entry. ↳ hey @meidnightrain lovey !! i'm your secret admirer this year !! i originally planned to do way more characters but i'm limiting myself to two per post so i don't get overwhelmed. you're an absolute pleasure to know and i hope 2024 treats you so well !!

the jade's guidelines | genshin masterlist | kiss (don't tell!) masterlist

LYNEY never likes to say goodbye. it's his least favourite time of his day, whether it be the morning when he presses a chaste kiss to your sleepy face before he leaves for his day of work; magician or fatuus, or whether it be the evening when you promised to help your friend clean up work at the palais mermonia, ushering you out of the door to a location you know will be burying you in the smell of musty paperwork and potential papercuts that linger on your skin.

whatever his day entails he wishes that it would include you by his side permanently. it continues this way routinely, lithe fingers knit together with yours in a reluctance to ever let you go - unashamedly, it was a habit he wouldn't even swallow down in front of his siblings. lynette and freminet can only sigh after all, who would want to part their brother from his key to happiness?

he likes his habits, his routines; the one in particular he'll never get rid of is those beautiful rainbow roses he can conjure up before your very own eyes, amazed and dazzling as they drink in the pastel colours of every flower he holds before you in his gloved hands. in return, you'd taken to dry pressing every single faithful flower in an act of love. the day that lyney had found out, he'd pressed a kiss to your cheek and emphasised that you could use all the dried petals on your wedding day.

his siblings have to take a moment to cringe at their brother’s antics but they know fully well they’ll never be able to pry him from you. he gets too anxious without you at his side, even if he knows exactly where you are, he can’t shake off that mild separation anxiety that stems from his past, from his job that he holds as a secret like a guillotine over his head.

he hates goodbyes but no matter what, your cheerful smile when he appears within your line of sight again reminds him exactly why he keeps pushing through his day so that he can return you and the home you provide for him - the thing he’s always wanted in his life.

THOMA is a busy man! you knew that when you'd fell head over heels for the tall ginger male, his arms full of heavy wooden boxes as he moved something for the young master of the kamisato clan. he was a diligent worker and never failed to smile whenever the opportunity arose - what wasn't there to fall in love with? but as a minorly recognised workaholic, thoma is rarely able spend a day without uttering goodbye to you.

but before he leaves out the front door, his steps gentle and his hands never slamming it shut behind him, he makes food. whether he's cooked up breakfast to leave on your nightstand for when you finally wake up completely or he wrapped up leftovers from his own lunch - he'd never admit it but he always makes too much of his lunch specifically for you. of course, you'd never admit to him either about how a smile etches onto your face when you spot the food he leaves for you, even as you scold him for the actions you know he'll never stop.

next to the steaming plate of food, there'll always be a slightly crumpled piece of paper, his familiar scrawl scattered on the lines in the forms of i love yous, instructions for keeping warm and another recipe he'd had tucked up his sleeve. for the well-known fixer of inazuma and the housekeeper of the kamisato estate, he's oddly poetic with his words, with every word written with the utmost of love.

no matter how much you scold him lightly, pressing light kisses to his calloused skin, he'll never change his ways. in between all the rushing around and working off his feet, you're the calm in a storm for thoma. he comes home knowing that he has your warmth curled up on a cough in front of a fireplace, a crocheted blanket draped over your legs as you wait for him. there's dinner boiling in the kitchen, the scents of mixed spices and numerous other ingredients making the house smell more homely than usual.

goodbyes are difficult and lingering but he knows that at the end of the day, he gets to wrap his arms around you once more and finally relax.

⊹˚₊‧───────────────‧₊˚⊹

© thexianzhoujade 2024. | do not re-upload, copy, translate, etc. my works on any form of media.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday

HI I'M EXCITED TODAY.

Okay. So. THANK YOU T @jeeyuns for the tag <3 Here is my first ever snippet from my upcoming Maddie and Eddie get stuck in an elevator before the Madney wedding fic, Why Not Take All of Me?

---

“You look good in that color,” Buck says, ill-advisedly, after a few beers, when everyone is ordering dessert. 

Eddie is in a soft, lavender button-up, not a color Buck thinks he’s ever seen him wear before. It could almost be blue in the wrong lighting, but not quite. If Buck was the kind of guy to wax poetic about the beautiful people he is absolutely not supposed to harbor secret love for, he might say that the color makes Eddie look like the point where the sea touches the sky in the horizon, glowing and pastel and warm enough to melt into. But, Buck totally isn’t that kind of guy. 

Eddie, beer glass pressed to his lips, jolts a little, startled by the compliment. His eyes widen and he looks down at his shirt. The material looks so soft. Buck just kind of wants to run his hands over it. Appropriately. For sure. 

“Uh, thanks,” he says, after swallowing the beer in his mouth. “It’s new.”

“I like it,” Buck says again, because apparently his inhibitions are fried.

Eddie smiles a little crooked. “Well, you’re looking alright yourself, there, Maid of Honor.”

Buck chuckles. Over his shirt, he has been adorned - thank you, Albert - in a bright pink Maid of Honor sash. Like it’s a twenty-something’s bachelorette party. But Maddie seemed to think it was hilarious so he hasn’t taken it off. 

“Hey, I know pink is my color,” Buck winks.

---

No pressure tagging @pantsaretherealheroes @aroeddiediaz @fionaswhvre @jamespearce9-1-1 @theotherbuckley

[lord-aldhelm]

WIP Wednesday

Another week, another tag game! Please share your last sentence; or, if you don’t have one, share a plot bunny or idea! (OR sketch for your artwork!)

No one tagged me this time! I am taking the lead lol!

This is from my S2 Aldflaed fic (still not titled yet lol), which is turning out to be a prequel for Springtime it seems:

It was very early dawn when the Devonshire fyrd returned to their camp. The sun had not yet risen, but the sky had turned a lighter shade of blue, and the horizon to the east glowed with a pale golden light.  The noise of the approaching men and horses in the distance startled Aethelflaed into wakefulness. The first thing she saw upon awakening was Aldhelm’s stoic face only a few inches from her own. He had apparently fallen asleep while guarding her sometime in the night. His bright green eyes met her icy blue ones for a brief moment before she was fully awake and aware of her surroundings. She tensed; she could feel the weight of his hand on her upper arm as he held her in place while she slept. She moved to back away but her movement was blocked by the log that was pressed against her back. She felt trapped, and started to reflexively panic when Aldhelm spoke.

And for the WIP for artworks; here are the rough sketches for the TLK fanarts I am currently working on:

Aldhelm will be in pastels, Constanine and Skade in colored pencils. I am also working on a cat drawing in pastels, and a cicada painting in acrylics, but didn't want to post these here.

No Pressure Tags:

@daethelflaed @gemini-mama @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @thenameswinter99 @whitedarkmoonflower

@poetic-fiasco @itbmojojoejo @garunsdottir @timetravelingpenguin1066 @thelettersfromnoone

@arcielee @st-eve-barnes @foxyanon @alexagirlie @holy3cake

[pitchdarkhook]

mun questions!!

9. when you look at a new blog, what is it that makes you press the follow button? is it the muse, the aesthetics, the writing–?

10. what genre do you most enjoy, whether in roleplay, or fiction as a whole? (fantasy, period, superhero, etc.)

munday. | accepting.

When you look at a new blog, what is it that makes you press the follow button? is it the muse, the aesthetics, the writing–?

Writing is the most important to me. If I'm following you, it means I really like your style of writing and the way you portray your characters. I have only one braincell and if I cannot understand your writing then I won't follow. My bar is pretty low on this and I understand to some degree of poetic references and prose? But if I read a paragraph and it's full of words that are like pulled out from a thesaurus or something. Less is sometimes more. If I don't understand what you're putting out, I don't really think I can write with you.

Also, like... aesthetics. And I think we all already know this. If I can't see shit, I'm not interacting. It's simple as that. Especially with colours. Like please.... please for the love of all things good and holy and asscheeks, look at ur colour contrasts. Pastel on pastel? what the fuck. Bright on bright?? what the fuck. please, i didn't get on this site to lose my eyeballs.........

what genre do you most enjoy, whether in roleplay, or fiction as a whole? (fantasy, period, superhero, etc.)

Answering with a different genre because I like doing these >:) I love writing fantasy. Whether its dark, gothic or something like magic realism? I love them all. Magic realism is fun though, because real world + other elements coming into play proves for a lot of creativity. And I love that!

[johanna-tagada]

Meeting October 17th - November 8th 2020 Solo exhibition at Pon Ding in Taipei, Taiwan. Click here for more info & here for further images. Selected publications and pieces by Poetic Pastel Press available on the occasion. For all inquiries in relation to artworks please contact Pon Ding.

[poeticpastelpress]

[lvdbbooks]

2019年8月1日

【新入荷・新本】

Journal du Thé - Contemporary Tea Culture Chapter 2, Poetic Pastel Press, 2019

Colour. 112 pages. English texts. Advertising free. Format 21 x 28 cm. FSC certified paper. Soft cover / Glue biding. Printed in Germany, Spring 2019.

価格：3,456円（税込み）

/

アーティストのジョアンナ・タガダとグラフィックデザイナーのティルマン・S・ウェンデルシュタインが共同で出版、「現代の茶文化」を探求する雑誌『Journal du Thé（ジャーナル・デュ ・テ）』第2号。塩川いづみやSHOKKIら日本のアーティストも多数掲載されています。

「わたしたちにとって、お茶とは、人びとの連帯や団欒を象徴するものです（For us, tea is a symbol of togetherness.）」

/

Journal du Thé (JdT) invites the reader to explore contemporary tea culture. Created and edited by Johanna Tagada and Tilmann S. Wendelstein in 2018, Journal du Théwonders what is it that makes tea into this force which lets us slow down and grants serene moments to our lives. It is said, that what makes a teapot a teapot is the empty space inside. Likewise this publication sets out to explore space – in this case the space surrounding a cup of tea. With a curious and playful eye, Journal du Théinvestigates the palette of cultures and feelings contained within tea practices and their power to overcome borders. For us, tea is a symbol of togetherness.

Water and the quality of transparency are recurring themes in this new chapter.

Chapter 2 features Takashi Homma, Yuy Tezuka, Tezuka Architects, Godai Sahara, Ichikawa San, My Cup of Tea London, SHOKKI, a Vietnamese tea house in rural France, Jochen Hotz, an essay on water and Japanese tea gardens, Leaves & Flowers, Mimi Jung, organic tea plantations of Ukiha, Nieves, Johanna Tagada, a diary of tea in Honk Kong, Momoko Mizutani, a conversation between Cécile Daladier and Nicolas Soulier, Seoyoon Kim, a special piece on botanical composition, Audrey Fondecave, an intimate journal of tea in Morocco, Olivia Fiddes, a manga, Kadish Morris, an essay on a feminist arts journal, tea and sound, David Edren, Jatinder Singh Durhailay and Simon Gooch.

With contributions by Takeshi Hayatsu, Tamsin Clark, Jatinder Singh Durhailay, Izumi Shiokawa, Yashima Ide, Henriette Noermark , Cécile Daladier, Nicolas Soulier, Sarah Gissinger, Eléonore Grignon, Yukari Tanihara, Akihiro Kumagaya, Tilmann S. Wendelstein and Johanna Tagada.

Designed by Studio 75W and published by Poetic Pastel Press.

https://www.journalduthe.net/

[fairlyabookie]

Song in Moonlight (Chapter 4)

Synopsis: A haunting voice fills the air with sultry lyrics, a playful piano accompanying the act. Beautiful and flawless can describe the act, yet this isn't enough, thought the singer, as all eyes train on him and his beautiful self.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Part 4

“Did you hear? The Queen of Singing is taking a break!” 

“A break? That’s quite uncharacteristic coming from Vil Schonheit himself! He must be working on something big! A grand performance, perhaps!” 

“Enough with that! He has been singing for years! Maybe this is a call for his retirement.” 

“Vil Scheonheit retiring, out of people!” 

Rumors and whispers bubble from their lips, speculations of the star’s wellbeing the gossip of the town. Wild exaggerations in the form of a lover’s scandal or a mistress’ betrayal came forth, replacing the mundane truth with flavorful mistruths. Such people don’t understand the truth, no less understand that their speculations are nothing else but fodders for their conversations. 

Upon the solace of his home, Vil Schoenheit lounges in the comfort of his sunroom, drafts upon drafts of songs littered on a coffee table by his right, a cup of warm chamomile steaming by his left. His violet eyes scan a sun kissed floral garden, with blooms forming a palette of pastels and bright hues. 

“Vil, your lunch.”  

A low voice rumbles from the mansion, a diligent Gilbert with a tray of freshly cooked lunch and more warm tea. 

“Thank you, Gilbert.” 

The singer bids as the butler fills a teacup to the brim and places a platter of greens and berries, slices of tofu and soybeans thinly coated with honey. 

“For dinner, you’ll be having soybean milk with a serving of hearty mushroom and kale bolognese.” 

“I see. I’ll be expecting a guest today. Please ensure their arrival and have them come to my room.” 

“Duly noted, Vil.” 

“Thank you, Gilbert.” 

The singer, left to his thoughts once more, retreats to the sea of drafts by his side. Poetic lyrics fill the pages, unfinished thoughts, sentiments Vil had yet conveyed. He spared one glance to the lyrics, but nothing came to mind. How can I make a good song now that I’m on break..? 

Anxieties plagued his mind, each worry worse than the next. I can’t do it, I can’t do it! My songs are not good enough. It must be perfect! The urge to pick up the quill and rewrite on every single draft was poignant - Vil could easily fabricate whispers of love, sorrowful operas of heartbreak, and even rhymes of yearning, but now, he was simply staring at nonsense, his quill dripping ink on paper. He urged himself to think of anything, but nothing came out - only the anxiety of not reaching his listeners’ expectations. 

“You need a break, Vil.” 

[Reader]’s advice echoes in the depths of his mind, reverberating and clear as the tolling of a bell. The singer grumbles, partaking a sip of tea to ease his troubled mind. A break is all I need. Another voice comes forth from the chaos, the calm in the midst of a storm. 

A break is all I need. 

He mumbles to himself, quelling the roaring demons of anxiety with deep breaths. The songs can wait later - a mind cleanse and some meditation would do the trick. No, I must write. 

There it was again, the voice of a workaholic and the perfectionist striving to appeal to everyone. A heavy weight pressed onto the singer’s chest, a poison blossoming at his bosom. He can’t work like this, a clamor of voices overpowering each other.    

“Vil, a guest by the name of [Reader] is here.” 

A couple raps on the door, followed by Gilbert’s baritone voice. Vil glimpses two silhouettes from the corner of his eye before partaking a sip of tea. 

“Thank you, Gilbert. Please let them in here and serve them lunch. They must be starving.” 

“Of course, Vil.” 

The butler leaves, leaving [Reader] with Vil. 

“Vil, you look terrible.” 

[Reader] murmurs, concern etching their features. The singer suppressed every urge to frown - of course, he looked terrible. He had spent just a day racking his head for new lyrics and melodies, but nothing was not working. A headache blooms between his eyes, hours and hours of thinking pounding against his skull. 

“You need not tell me, [Reader]. Please be seated. I invited you here with the intention of discussing my aesthetics when I emerge from my hiatus.” 

A quick glimpse to the scattered papers by the table was enough for [Reader]. They swallow a pang of nervousness before speaking. 

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself..” 

“What of it, [Reader]? Is it wrong to prepare ahead of time?” 

[Reader]’s demeanor faltered, but only for a while. 

“Should you be resting than working on your projects?” 

Vil clicks his tongue, thoroughly annoyed. 

“Resting? Resting? I don’t think that’s an option, [Reader],” 

Another headache blooms between his eyes, more surging thoughts plaguing his mind. But [Reader] stood their ground with a firm tone. 

“Vil, we’ve been working together since you hired me months ago, but I know how much work you’ve invested in your songs.. I…” 

Someone has to tell him directly how hard he has been working, how he sorely needs a break from working tirelessly in the industry. It’s clear that he is burnt out. 

“Before I became your makeup artist, I was your admirer, someone who enjoyed your performances, from the way you captivated the audience with your voice and fashion, to the emotional lyrics you’ve written so skillfully. I don’t know if you’ve received genuine compliments on your work, but I do enjoy your work, Vil. But..” 

[Reader] glimpses over at Vil for any change of demeanor. Violet eyes lock on in a watchful gaze. They shyly drop their gaze, staring at the mess of papers by the coffee table. 

“A break is a break. Please give yourself, your mind, and your body a break. I’m sure a proper rest would do wonders to your creativity.” 

I’m going to get fired, am I? [Reader] had crossed the line way too many times, a bad habit when they’ve worked closely with previous employees before. [Reader] spared one more glance at the singer before letting their gaze drop to the papers. Yet, he doesn’t notice, his eyes fixated on the landscape before him. 

“I’ve been wanting to take a break..” 

He starts, allowing a sigh from his lips. 

“I keep on telling myself, ‘a break wouldn’t hurt, right?’ Yet, there is a voice that keeps telling me to keep working, to produce more songs.. ‘It’s not perfect enough,’ The voice says as I try to work on these songs. ‘More songs, more perfection. More performances, more perfection.’” 

Silence reigned as Vil attempts to recover bits of his demeanor, blinking away what appeared to be tears tinging the corners of his eyes. 

“I take a drive around, only to notice how much time I’ve wasted taking that break, and go back to work. Enjoying breaks is what I want to do, even if it means that I’m not being productive.” 

“Does this mean that you’re struggling to catch a break?” 

Vil nods. 

“How about we go out for a drive right now?” 

[Reader] suggests, letting a small smile betray their kindness. Perhaps, a start and some assurance is what Vil needed in the first place. 

Previous Part | Next Part

[n0wornever]

First Touch - Luke Patterson x Reader

Luke x reader - it’s the scene where Julie talks to Luke before the Orpheum show but instead it’s the reader planning to tell Luke how she feels before he “passes over”

(gif is not mine)

She knew she’d regret the decision as soon as she made it. 

But as she paced back in forth in my room, hands tingling, she knew that there was no way that I could see his face again that night. After Luke had lied to her face for weeks about their fate, Julie was the one who had to come into her room last night and tell her exactly what would happen. The words clung onto her chest, making it hard to breathe as they nibbled at the surface. What really hurt was the fact that the boys didn't have the guts to tell her themselves.

“So you’re telling me that they have to leave no matter what?” 

Julie nodded, placing her hand on the girl’s thigh. She could feel that there were tears already brimming in her eyes, but when she looked over to Julie’s glossy reflection, she completely lost control. 

“Why didn’t they tell me? Why did you all keep this a secret?” 

She could feel her voice raise in intensity as her mouth spat the question, causing Julie’s shoulders to tense. She grabbed her hand, squeezing it gently to soothe the aggression she just caused. This was not her fault Y/N, remember that. Julie’s shoulders fell back down as she began to to speak again.

“Luke told them not to. He said you’d be better off finding out later,” Julie’s thumb rubbed against the skin by my knee, a calming technique she’d picked up from our mother. “But I couldn’t hold it in anymore, you deserve to know.” 

I pointed her face to the ceiling, hoping that the ceiling fan above me could do its best to dry the tears flattened against the surface of my face. I had always thought that Luke had cared about me, maybe not to the level that I cared about him, but enough to be let in on his disappearing act. Luke had no reason to hide this from her. 

“Why would he want to keep this from me?” she finally asked, wiping a fresh tear from my face. “Wouldn’t he want me to say goodbye?”

Julie sighed, rocking their hands back and forth. Y/N had always told her that her silence was wide enough to draw fear from even the strongest person. It swelled with intention, and hesitation. The girl cleared her throat before repeating the question. Julie chewed on her bottom lip before finally speaking up.

“It’s complicated Y/N, you should ask him yourself.” 

Of course she’d encourage healthy conversation. She groaned as she fell onto her back on the bed below her. Julie followed suit, nestling her head in the crook of her sister’s neck, snuggling to her side. 

Now it was the night of The Orpheum show and she still hadn’t tried to find Luke throughout the week. In fact, she instead avoided rehearsals all together. Every afternoon Julie would knock on the door and ask her the same question. 

“Are you doing it today?” 

She’d shake my head, pushing my glasses back onto the bridge of her nose with a sigh. Julie would lean in the doorway with wide eyes, but Y/N would just shake my head before returning back to her notebook. As the door closed, she’d finally let herself breath evenly again.

She was writing to him. 

Two people can play this avoidance game, so she decided that she was going to stoop as low as he did and avoid confronting him in person. Instead, she hatched a plan to leave him a note in the pocket of his flannel before he left for him to read wherever he was. There was so much that she had to say, she just wanted to make sure she got it right. More importantly, she wanted to wait until the last moment so that he had to sit with it.

Yes. It was harsh, but as she sat there with boiling tears streaming down her cheeks she couldn’t just sulk with the feeling any longer. She had been the vulnerable one this whole time. Never pushing him when it came to talking about his parents, but opening up to him about her mother. Not forcing him to give her hints about new music, but brushing away his constant need to climb into her room weekly to peek into her lyric notebook. 

She understood why his walls were up, and he understood that he did the stupid things he did because he cared about her. But this, this was the last straw. She could not simply let him walk away from her forever without letting him know that his actions caused her pain. 

The idea of explaining the connection of what she felt when she was with him seemed exhaustive. It was months and months of moments that had spiraled out of my control until I had fallen completely into him. So I decided to start from the beginning, but to keep it short. The letter began with the moment that I had stumbled on Julie talking to herself in the garage. 

Her pen hovered over her own name at the bottom of the page for a moment. She moved the utensil up to the top of the the scribbled handwriting with clear purpose. She began to scratch out the first line of text but paused again as the ink hit the paper. Dropping the grey tube onto the surface below, she brought her hand up to the top of the crease and tore out the page. She folded into a perfect square before taking a deep breath. 

As the pressed the seam one last time, she heard her father call her down the stairs for dinner. She leaned back to lift the pillow up off of the top of her bed, placing the piece of paper on the pastel yellow sheets below before setting the it back down. She sighed once more before lifting herself off the best and making her way to the door. 

As soon as the girl turned the corner, Luke poofed into the room. He looked around for any sign of her, but the girl was nowhere to be found. Giving up, he fell onto her bed, bouncing everything in around in his vicinity. The pillow below his head was obviously one that Y/N used regularly, his head falling closer to the surface of the mattress than he’d like. 

Lifting his head off of the feathered material, moving to a seated position. He leaned backward, grabbing the square with both hands and raising it up. His eyes fell from the mint cover to a small square back on the bed. Luke threw the pillow to the left, hands reaching for his new object of interest. He looked to the left and right before unraveling the note. 

His eyes soared across each line with ease. The skin on his bottom lip tearing away from his mouth as he dug into it. His gaze lingered on a particular word at the end. 

Loving.

His first thought was to lash out at Julie for betraying their promise, but it was shortly replaced by his need to get to Y/N. His fingers gripped the paper tightly at his chest as he took a deep breath. As he sat still, he began to hear footsteps in the distance. Jumping in place, Luke frantically worked to get the paper folded back down to its original square shape. He replaced the pillow and then rose to a standing position. With a snap of his fingers, Luke was out of the room without a word. 

Julie spun into the room, humming to herself as she walked toward the bed. Scrunching her brow in confusion, she leaned her head out the door.  

“Where did you say your glasses went?” She yelled loudly down to her sister.

“They should be on my bed!” Y/N yelled back in annoyance.

Julie rolled her eyes as she turned onto her heels and re-entered the room. She couldn’t see the clear frames anywhere on the soft comforter. As she inched closer, she began to lift things out of the way to make her search easier. As she lifted the pillow on the righthand side, a small piece of paper flew at her chest. Dropping the soft rectangle onto the bed, she leaned down to the floor to pick it up.

She unfolded it slowly and carefully. As it unraveled, she began to read the words on the page. Her eyes fell left to right hastily as she got increasingly angry. She locked her jaw as her gaze fell onto the line that said ‘you are a coward, Lucas Patterson.’ She had to admit, her sister had a talent for writing something brash and harsh in the most poetic way imaginable. 

“Hey did you find,” Julie’s hands collapsed around the paper at the sound of the voice. “What are you doing.” 

Turning to face her awaiting punishment, she saw that her sister’s face was already redder than the fireplace in their living room. Her hands were balled at her hips as she began to march toward the younger girl loudly. Julie arm swung around her back to hold the paper out of reach as her sister entered her personal bubble.

“I asked you to find my glasses, not to snoop through my things.”

Julie straightened her torso, raising an eyebrow as she looked at the older girl with shaking shoulders. She knew her sister could knock her flat out in a minute, but she had to speak her mind before it was trampled to the ground. 

“And I asked you to talk to Luke in person,” She brought the paper back out to her chest. “This, this is cowardly Y/N.” 

Her sister was visible vibrating with anger at this point. Y/N let out an anguished grunt, squeezing her fingers against her palm. But within a second, Julie heard the sound of crying come from the other side of the room. She rushed over to her sister’s side, catching her falling shoulders in her arms. She walked the girl over to the bed, sitting next to her on the edge. 

Julie rubbed her hand against Y/N’s knee, soothing her with light singing as she settled her tears. Finally raising her eyes back up to meet Julie’s, Y/N chewed helplessly at her bottom lip. 

“This whole time Jules, this whole time I’ve waited for him to be honest and truthful with me.” She sighed as a hand grazed against her raw cheek. “And he couldn’t even do it to say goodbye. I don’t even know what the point there is in talking to him. I know I’ll never get the truth.”

Julie stayed silent for a moment, listening to her sister’s sharp breaths. Her hand tapped against her skin a few times to gain her attention. Y/N’s bloodshot eyes met hers again.

“I know. I know that it’s been difficult,” Julie said looking right into her eyes. “Luke isn’t an easy person to talk to. But I cannot stand here and let you wallow forever without the possibility of speaking your mind. I know how heavily that weighs on you. Sure, you cannot control what he says, but I feel like you DESERVE to speak your mind to his face and breath easier at night.”

Y/N nodded, but she didn’t speak. What could she possibly say at this point. She knew Julie was right, but her anxiety weighed her body down like a cinderblock sat straight on her chest. The racing thoughts were cut off by her father yelling for Julie from the first floor. 

“It’s not too late for you to come to the show tonight,” Julie reminded her. 

“Maybe,” Y/N replied softly, keeping her eyes toward the window.

She heard the boxspring creak as Julie got up from the bed, and the door swing shut as she walked out of the room before she looked to her right. She couldn’t cry again. There’d been too many tears that night already. Instead, she rolled onto her bed, staring at the ceiling with the note to her chest. 

****

She woke up in a cold sweat. Leaning over to her left she saw that the clock said 8:30 p.m. She was too late. She couldn’t put the note in his pocket before he left, and she couldn’t say the words to his face either. 

He was gone. 

Y/N sighed to herself as she got up out of bed and leaned forward to turn on the lamp. Looking out the window, she stared at the garage with wide eyes. If she couldn’t say goodbye to him in person, she’d at least say it out loud, hoping, praying that maybe he’d hear it out there somewhere. 

She threw on her jean jacket before walking toward the door. Closing it behind her carefully, she raced down the stairs and out the back door. The sound of crickets and nearby sprinklers were the only noise to fill the air as she walked the short distance to the practice space.

As she entered the dingy, dark space she flipped on the lightswitch. As the soft yellow hue filled the room, she brought her hand out to her back pocket. Bringing the now deformed note into her hands, she quickly untangled it. She cleared her throat before beginning to speak. The shake in her throat note waiting long to appear.

“Luke,

The moment I met you, I thought that I’d absolutely hate you. My sister made me sit on the couch as called all three of you to appear. I remember meeting those bright green eyes and knowing exactly what they were capable of. But as the smile grew across your face, I knew I was a wasn’t a match for them.

You could have made it easy for me. Left it as a simply, fleeting crush entirely based on looks. However, you had to go and make me feel your presence. After the performance, Julie expected you all to disappear out of sight for me, but after the last note fell from my sister’s lips....you stayed.

I knew at that moment that we’d have a problem. You had the ability to be there at a moment’s notice. You, being as inquisitive as always, found your way up to my room every night. You, lacking the ability to be subtle, would spend that time drilling me with questions. You forced me to know you.

You were no longer a figment of my sister’s grief, you were a permanent structure in mine.

I didn’t ask you to listen to the lyrics I’d written the last time I had to say goodbye. I didn’t ask you to run to my side before my tears had dried over some stupid test or audition. You brought yourself there every single time.

I cannot believe that you would leave without telling me. I cannot believe that you’d choose to never see me again instead. You’re a coward, Lucas Patterson. A spineless coward.

I’ll never forgive you for making me feel. I’ll never forgive you for making me dream again. I’ll never forgive you for ripping that all away from me at a moment’s notice.

But I’ll never regret loving you.

- Y/N”

The sound of her name on her own tongue felt almost as painful as the knot lodged in her throat to hold back her tears. She refolded the paper, eyes staying forward, set on the darkness that surrounded her. She waited another moment before turning around. 

Her walk back to the house was cut short by a hoarse voice exposing itself to the light.

“Y/N?”

She stopped cold in her tracks, turning around on her tiptoes. There he stood in front of her, swollen and pale as ever. Her anger turned right to worry as she took several steps toward him with wide eyes. She leaned her head to the side, shaking it back and forth.

“What- how are you,” She scrunched her nose in confusion. “How are you here?”

“The Orpheum,” He began, already losing the race with his breath. “Wasn’t our unfinished business. So we came here to wait it out until sunrise. We didn’t want to worry Julie.” 

“Should I even be surprised that you’re side-stepping yet another conversation?” 

Luke bit down on his bottom lip, arm reaching out to touch her for a moment before his brain reminded him that he couldn’t reach her even if he wanted to. She took a step back, crossing her arms at her chest.

“The nerve you have, Luke Patterson,” She rolled her eyes at him. “To not even have the guts to properly say goodbye to Julie. She’s the one who brought back your love for music. She’s the one who put herself on the line for you with out dad, our friends and everyone else. And you repay her by LYING TO HER? I’m not even upset about what you did to me anymore.”

“Y/N,” His voice strained, his eyes boring into her. “I never meant to hurt anyone.”

“Well you did.” 

Luke ran his hands through his hair, sighing. As his head rose back up, he held his stomach in his hand as he made his way toward her. 

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I’ve never had anyone who’s put me first. I’ve always forced their in front of my own,” He started, a small smile on my face. “What was I supposed to do with a stubbornly perfect girl who forced me to give in?” 

Y/N held her gaze to the sky, tightening her hands around herself. His eyes stayed on her as he took a few small steps forward, standing right in front of her. 

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you that I was leaving,” His words bringing her watering eyes back to his face. “I just knew I couldn’t take staring at that exact look in your eyes.” 

He shook his head at her, tears streaming from his face now. “I love you, so much, Y/N. I never want you to hurt because of me. I was selfish and cruel, and I’m so sorry that I didn’t even think of the consequences. Again. I’m an idiot and I’m selfish but I am, so in love with you and I can’t think straight.”

Y/N’s lips parted as she gasped at those last words. Y/N fell back a bit in shock, tripping over her own feet. Luke rushed toward her, arms wrapping around her waist before she could hit the ground. Silence filled her air as she tried to understand what was happening.

Her brought her back up to a standing position, bringing one hand up to her face. His fingers grazed harshly against her cheek as he pulled her into him. He heard her open her mouth to speak, but crashed his lips against hers before she could get a word out. 

The room filled with color as their lips moved together harmoniously. Y/N was the first to pull back first, eyes falling around his features for a moment before her hand reached out to touch his face.

“I feel stronger,” Luke said in a gruff voice. 

“What just happened?” Y/N asked just above a whisper. 

Luke tightened his grip around her hips, pulling her closer to him. He shook his head rapidly before letting out a giggle. 

“I don’t know, but I just want to do that again.

His lips fell onto hers at once, Y/N melting into his touch instantly. They moved in sync for a moment before pulling away. Luke leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. 

Y/N heard grumbling coming from the corner of the room. Turning to her left, she saw Alex and Reggie stumbling toward them. Alex held a pinched expression as he leaned against the piano.

“We don’t have to make out with her too, do we?” 

Y/N leaned against Luke’s chest in a fit of laughter, feeling him join her as his chin rested on her head. 

.

.

.

Tag list: @xplrreylo @lovesanimals , @anythingandeverythingfandom , @crybabyddl  @themaddies-obx , @lukeys-giggle , @bumbleberry-pie @kiss-themoongoodbye  @marinettepotterandplagg , @lolychu , @bathtimejish , @dasexydevitt13 @musicconversedance​ , @txrii  @bestdressedandstressed @daisiesforlacey  @epikskool​  @bookfrog247​ @carleywhittaker​ @princessvader15​ @charliesmountains​ @spooky-season-bitch​  @kcd15​  @meangirlsx​ @itz-jas​ @parkeret​ @writerinlearning​ @calamitykaty​ @whatever-happens-imma-stand-tall​ @teenwaywardasgardian​ @dream-a-little-bigger-x​ @tenaciousperfectionunknown​ @thesweetestsinner​  @kinda-really-lost​

[artist-degas]

Winding River, Edgar Degas, 1890, Minneapolis Institute of Art: Prints and Drawings

S-shaped path in an abstracted landscape; greens; pinks in foreground, LLQ; rust-oranges in spots scattered throughout; pinkish-orange sky Winding River is simultaneously a landscape and an abstraction. Colorful and poetic, it recalls Impressionism but was certainly not painted directly from nature. Rather, Edgar Degas relied on imagination and perhaps also memory, loosely basing this monotype on a Japanese color print made in 1856 by Utagawa Hiroshige, whose work Degas collected. As with many of the nearly fifty landscape monotypes he produced from 1890 onward, Degas began this work by painting in dilute oils on a smooth copper plate, then used a printing press to transfer the image to paper. Continuing to experiment, he turned to drawing and augmented the picture with pastel crayon. Size: 11 5/8 x 15 9/16 in. (29.5 x 39.5 cm) (sheet) 12 1/2 x 16 1/4 in. (31.7 x 41.3 cm) (mount) 21 1/4 x 25 1/8 x 1 7/8 in. (53.98 x 63.82 x 4.76 cm) (outer frame) Medium: Oil monotype and pastel on heavy paper; laid down on paper-wrapped millboard

https://collections.artsmia.org/art/107049/

[myriad-ofmuses]

@thetraumazone

Continued from X

Absently rubbing her fingers through Smudge’s inky fur, the little artist was hardly aware that she spoken her musing out loud, at least until her companion had brought attention to it, bringing an embarrassed flush of pastel rainbow to her cheekbones.

With a sheepish giggle, she watched him stretch out in the grass, taking a moment to gently lift her ferret familiar from his perch on her shoulder, before she let herself flop back beside him, wincing when her healing bruises voiced their complaints from her abrupt movement, Smudge wriggling free to crawl back up onto her shoulder.

She was careful not to jostle him again as she shifted closer to the other, until her head came to rest in a press against his chest, getting comfortable in her cuddle, the constant snowflake of her eyelight shifting green in contentment.

It had taken her some time to get used to being so physically close to him, but when he’d ashamedly admitted how much another’s touch eased the perpetual pain he was forced to endure due to his severely mutated gene, she had gradually become acclimated to casual cuddles and hand-holding when they spent time together, and once she was past the initial awkwardness, it had come to feel as natural as her routine as an out-code.

Or.. maybe as natural as the friendship that had blossomed between them.

She closed her eyes, resuming the idle petting along Smudge’s head as he curled himself around her neck like a protective scarf, listening to the rustle of wind through the surrounding sea of emerald, idly wondering where the inhabitants of this peaceful verse had gone.

When she eventually graduated to field work like her mentor.. that responsibility would fall to her to investigate, a concept that both scared, and excited her all at once.

Not yet though.. she still had a long way to go.. as the occasional sting of discomfort was only too happy to remind her.

“mm.. don’t be silly valentine. when have i ever been shy about giving compliments?”

She smiled a little, though when she opened her eyes, the warmth didn’t quite reach them, burying a bit more into his shirt, while balling up more in the grass.

“don’t mind me.. just feeling a little pensive tonight. i’ll try to keep my thoughts.. as thoughts. poetic or not, eheh..”

[kozutenshi]

Sugawara cleared his throat as he sat in front of you. The library was peacefully quiet except for the occasional footsteps and the sound of the keys of the keyboard being pressed. Taking his notes out, he greeted a soft "good morning" to you as he smiled.

You smiled at him back and returned his greeting before focusing down on your own notes. At least, trying to.

His eyes scanned through his notes, if possible, all too graceful. The highlighted words caught your eyes, all uniform in a pastel green. His notes were organized, at least from what you see.

The best thing is, you need them.

"Your notes are pretty." He looked up to find you staring at his notes curiously, before handing one of his notebooks to you. "Don't kid me, y/n. You need notes on English, don't you?" You only chuckled at his implication, not even trying to deny it. "Thank you Koushi! I'll return it later?"

Your chuckle rang through his mind, a fond look making its way to his face before smiling brightly. "No problem n/n."

MANANG BIDAY

— An Ilocano folk song written around the Spanish Period passed down orally through the different ages.

— The song is about a courtship tradition called harana, serenade in English. The courting man can go alone or with company to support him. He will have to not only court the partner they want but also the whole family.

— The song is sung by the man who is courting their beloved, telling the lady named Biday to look out from her window. The lady responds back, and the song is somewhat lika poetic, musical conversation.

— Though harana isn't popular nowadays, Manang Biday is still sung and learned by students along with other folk songs.

NOTE: Song featured is when you're ready by shawn mendes!

"This is rather awkward."

Sugawara had his arms wrapped around you as his teammates gawked or stared blankly, dumbfounded at the sight of you. Though it may look like an innocent hug, it was surprising. Not only that, but, the fact that Sugawara had recovered over his daze faster than them, showing you off to them as his girlfriend.

Even your face warmed up as he met your eyes and felt his fingers intertwine with yours. Hinata jumped happily, Tsukishima wincing at the ray of sunshine's gesture.

Too bright for him.

Asahi and Daichi congratulated the two of you with soft smiles as Nishinoya dragged your boyfriend towards Tanaka and Hinata's direction.

"How did it happen, Y/N-senpai?" Yachi curiously asked you, a slight blush on her cheeks. Recalling what had happened, it made you chuckle in both happiness and embarrassment.

Their footsteps were muffled by the grass as he finds himself in your front yard with his juniors. Shifting nervously he hummed to calm his nerves. "Alright. Let's do it."

"Maybe I had too many drinks, but that's just what i needed."

With Tsukishima on the guitar and Yamaguchi on the beats, Sugawara felt like all of their secret practices paid off as they played their instruments wonderfully.

Open the damned window, he thought as he sang.

"Don't know why i tried, cause aint nobody like you. Familiar disappointment every single time I do."

The song came to you muffled by your closed window, the chill seeping through the cracks slightly.

"Baby tell me when you're ready, I'm waiting."

You opened your window hurriedly as he smiled up at you, happy that you finally opened your window. Your family gathered in the living room as they hurriedly and giddily witnessed the man serenade you, his sweet smile enchanting them easily.

Whirling towards you, your friends who were over for a study session dragged you downstairs as they cheered at you, telling you to "go for it" and "approach him!" as they reacted to every slight movement as "cute!" or even, "ah, young love."

The man only smiled bigger as he sees you at the front door standing. The chill was starting to seep through your clothes but you didn't care. Your focus was only towards the man with his lovely voice, as if coaxing you to look at him with the lines on his mouth beautifully falling. His eyes never left yours, making your face warm up with the attention he's giving.

The evening complimented him, the soft lights making his gray hair shine metallically. His eyes looked even softer, even warmer. They reminded you of the warm summer's morning rays, something out of place but perfectly needed against the chill of the night. Everything about him made you swoon.

He looked perfect.

"And if I have to, I'll wait forever."

He started walking towards your direction, only to stop singing as he introduced himself to your family. This made them excited, all too happy even, as they encouraged him to finish the song.

"Yeah you know that we fit together," he sang as he took your hand. "I know your heart like the back of my hand."

Solely singing to you now, the acoustics accompanied the wispiness of his voice, creating an enchanting vibe. The man only squeezed your hand before kissing its knuckles as he finished the song.

"Even ten years from now, if you haven't found somebody I promise i'll be around. Tell me when you're ready, I'm waiting, I'm waiting."

He said his goodbyes as you tried to take in what he had done. A serenade in front of your family, not just small flirtations and random visits. Your mind was racing, trying to think of something to explain it, but the only thing on your mind was one valid reason:

He was serious.

"Chase him!" Your family insisted as they pushed you towards their retreating figures.

Sugawara only smiled at his juniors who looked at him curiously questions in their eyes.

"Why did you do it?" "Why didn't you wait for their answer?" "Don't you think it would be better if we stayed?" Their eyes seemed to say this questions, but the only thing he gave them is a 'thank you'. The juniors didn't question their senior, opting to find their way to their own houses as they bid their goodbyes at the fork on the road.

"Koushi!" Your voice made his eyes widen, the duo that was with him stopping at a good distance to watch the scene. You caught sight of his gray turned silver hair under the streetlight, the coldness of the wind making you regret not bringing a jacket in a hurry. You slowed down as you got closer to him before wordlessly pecking his cheek. Blush dusted his face, visible even in the dark. "Y/n-" you cut him off through leaning on his shoulder sheepishly, embarrassment flooding your senses.

Admitting feelings never really got easy.

"I like you too." Sugawara relaxed as he hears your words, releasing a breath of relief. "I like you too, Koushi," you repeated. Your heartbeat pounded fast as he puts a hand on your shoulder, detaching you from him. You were confused, before he pressed a kiss on your forehead, taking you in his arms properly.

Warmth flooded your veins, and you were right; he felt like a home in a summer morning. Comforting and cozy. His heart likewise was loud as you listened to its beats.

"Then, we kind of just.. got together." Yachi's eyes, along with Noya, Hinata and Tanaka, sparkled in happiness. The two of you had told the same story, only in both your perspectives, but hearing the roar of the boys made you laugh as Sugawara sheepishly smiled at you.

Yachi strayed back to her duties as a club manager as you found yourself sitting with Sugawara on the floor. The two of you watched Tanaka approach Kiyoko saying, "If I serenade you, will you marry me?" which Kiyoko gave a firm no to. Sharing laughter, you leaned on Sugawara as he presses a small kiss on your temple, before helping Daichi put the team in order.

TRAVELLERS: @akasuns @doodleniella @kenmaki @lyzzklm @mfcassandra @oikaw-ugh @seijohlogy @thesecondapplepienation

[goodomensblog]

Parched

This one is for lovely Emily! ( @sunshineandchemistry )

Happy Birthday you beautiful effervescent pineapple! I hope you are having the BEST birthday aaaand I hope that a little bit of ineffable husbands kissing will make it all the better.

Parched

Seventeen days, twenty hours and eleven minutes after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, an angel and demon, following a luxurious dinner at Le Gavroche, stroll along a crowded London promenade, their hands intertwined. 

For Crowley, strolling with the sunset sky bleeding pastel and their interlocked hands swinging between them, it is impossible to conceal the bounce in his step - nor does he try. And it is only his dark glasses, perched diligently on the bridge of his nose, that stand between his pleasure-creased gaze and outright discovery.

As they arrive back at Crowley’s apartment, the demon holds open the door. Once inside, Crowley shrugs out of his jacket and then helps Aziraphale with his coat. As the angel settles, Crowley procures a bottle of wine, and it really is shaping up to be an excellent evening when -

“Crowley, my dear. You never told me you had a collection of poetry!”

Crowley’s arm snaps back, and he forcefully wrenches the cork free of the bottle. It bounces across his immaculate kitchen.

Aziraphale is kneeling in front of the exposed stash of poetry, and with his hands braced on his knees and his lips pursed in interest, he appears positively delighted by the discovery.

Crowley, is decidedly less so.

Because Crowley, owner of said poetry, failed to properly conceal the cache of contraband verses within their designated cupboard prior to Aziraphale’s arrival;  and so, at the sight of Aziraphale kneeling in front of his very best kept secret, Crowley pours himself a brimming glass of wine.

It’s not that he’s ashamed of the poetry collection. They are quality works. He is of course, a demon of impeccable taste. 

But he does have a certain image to maintain. 

Sure, he’s not technically speaking, working for Hell these days. But he is a demon, and they generally don’t go around waxing poetic. 

And they especially do not collect The Art of Pining: 101 Love Poems by Pablo Neruda. 

Taking a deep swig of wine, Crowley props his hip against the counter and slouches into a rather elaborate shrug. 

“They’re, er, not mine.”

Aziraphale pauses in brushing his fingers over aged spines. Arching a brow, the angel conveys, without using a single word, that he believes Crowley to be rather full of shit.

“I mean,” Crowley starts, stammering, “I uh, stole them?”

“From whom?”

“I - er, a sweet old lady. Was a dastardly business, angel.”

“Honestly, dear.”

“Fine. I didn’t steal them. But I didn’t go out collecting them either! They were gifts angel. You of all people should know it’s rude to refuse a gift.”

Crowley is prepared to go on - about how he had sent the thank you notes weeks later than was polite - but Aziraphale is no longer listening. He’s already turned back to the shelf and is, once more, running reverent fingers over knobbly spines. Plucking one from the shelf, he flips through the pages. It’s a Shakespeare.

Swallowing the rest of his wine, Crowley miracles the glass full and stalks around to the bookshelf.

The collection is comprised largely of gifts. They had been sent in thanks for the sizable donations made in support of the various poets. Despite its reputation, Crowley had always thought poetry, at heart, to be an incredibly demonic endeavor. Yeah, sure, it’s beautiful, but there’s no rule that says demonic traits can’t be beautiful. And besides, some poetry is so beautiful, the writing and reading of it has been known to stir up all kinds of impulses. Not all of them good. Just ask Byron. 

Crowley decides that he is going to tell Aziraphale exactly this, when the unimaginable happens. 

The angel is pulling an aged collection of T.S. Elliot’s poetry from the shelf, when a single leaf of paper slips from the pages, flips once, and flutters down, onto his lap.

The tea-yellow page is vaguely familiar, and taking a fortifying sip of wine, Crowley bends, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

As Aziraphale’s curious fingers unfold the page, the memory of precisely what the page is strikes Crowley with all the force of a freight train fueled by Hellfire.

A half empty bottle of wine lingers, forgotten on his desk. Wrinkled papers crowd the surface, and ink spots sprinkle polished wood. Amidst it all, Crowley sits, hair mussed and tongue pressing between his lips as he glares down at ink smeared words. It is 1863 and the last time he’d seen Aziraphale, it had been at St. James’ Park. They’d argued. Thunder clouds had gathered on the horizon and it smelled of rain, but even so, the sun had played about Aziraphale’s hair, catching the blue in his eyes - and so Crowley scribbles on the page, because if Shakespeare and Dickinson and Byron could do it, surely he can; because he feels too bloody much and it hurts because Aziraphale is gone and not talking to him, and Crowley loves, he loves-

Crowley glimpses smeared ink, and knows with a sudden, intense clarity, exactly the manner of writing the angel will discover on that page.

Red wine pours, like a waterfall, from the glass dangling loose in Crowley’s grasp.

Yelping, Aziraphale scrambles back, barely avoiding the splatter of red.

Glancing incredulously between Crowley and the pooling wine, Aziraphale purses his lips, and with a curt gesture, miracles the spreading puddle back into the bottle.

“Really, Crowley. Sober up a bit, darling. You’re making a mess.”

“M’not drunk.”

For the second time that evening, Aziraphale treats him to the look.

“Really, I was just, uh,” Crowley sets the empty glass aside and folds his arms, attempting to look as though he’s not seconds away from discorporating from sheer mortification. “What’ve you got there? Can I have it?”

Aziraphale looks from the innocuously folded page to Crowley, and then back to the page. Curiosity is settling into the angel’s bright blue gaze, and Crowley's stomach turns over.

“...what is it?”

“Nothing. Just old stuff. Trash, basically. Might as well get rid of it,” Crowley says, and presses thumb and middle finger together to banish the humiliating creation for good.

Aziraphale is faster.

With a single blink, Aziraphale and the paper wink out of existence. They reappear on the other side of the room. Aziraphale is seated in Crowley’s overlarge desk chair and the paper is open on the desk. With a snap, the angel’s reading glasses materialize on his face, and when he glances down, his eyes go wide and bright.

“I had no idea you wrote, Crowley!”

Crowley is across the room before Aziraphale can so much as take a second glance at the page. He slaps a hand over the paper. 

As if drawn by the movement, Aziraphale’s eyes flick down, and they are automatically tracing the first line -

“Aziraphale, stop!”

It comes out choked, and there is no concealing the raw edge of panic in his tone.

Aziraphale jerks back, retracting his hand as if burned. 

Snatching up the page, Crowley clutches it, pressing it to his chest. And the room sinks into a heavy, uncomfortable silence.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says at last, gently breaking the quiet. 

Crowley can feel the angel studying him, taking in his tense shoulders, pale countenance, and white-knuckled hands clutching at the paper.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, guilt heavy in his voice, “I didn’t mean - oh, I shouldn’t have. It’s yours. And it’s clearly private. I hardly saw anything, I promise. And I won’t attempt to read any further.”

And then Aziraphale is rising from the chair, circling the desk. Crowley blinks and careful hands are brushing up his arms. Relaxing at the touch is as simple as breathing; dipping his head, Crowley leans into it.

The apocalypse has come and gone. They survived it. And then survived the wrath of both Heaven and Hell which came immediately after. And now, against all odds - in a twist of fate Crowley hadn’t dared to dream of, he and Aziraphale have a life together. A life where touches like this are allowed. 

And with Aziraphale there, knuckles gently tracing the backs of Crowley’s hands as whispered apologies and assurances blend together into a single soothing murmur, Crowley comes to the abrupt and startling realization that he is acting like a twat.

“Forgive me,” Aziraphale says, soft fingers brushing over Crowley’s clenched hands.

Crowley’s fists unclench, and Aziraphale’s fingers immediately tangle with his own.

“Nothing to forgive, angel,” Crowley replies, running fumbling thumbs over the backs of Aziraphale’s hands.

And he is being foolish, because this is Aziraphale. They shared bodies for someone’s sake. After all that, sharing a bit of poetry should be a simple thing.

“It’s, ah, it’s okay,” Crowley finally manages. “Just - let me read it to you, yeah? A bit easier for me that way.”

Aziraphale pulls back, his concerned gaze tracing Crowley’s expression. 

“Really, you don’t have to do anything you don’t-”

“I want to,” Crowley interrupts. Against his chest, the paper feels warm - and he has to glance to check he hasn’t accidentally set it ablaze. “Just...take a seat?”

Aziraphale does. Folding his hands in his lap, he perches in Crowley’s high-backed chair.

Swallowing once, Crowley glances over the paper. How many times has he imagined reading this very page to Aziraphale? Of course, in his fantasies, they both wore gilded doublets and elegant ruffs - and Crowley often pictured himself delivering the poetry in a verdant, flowering garden, with Aziraphale listening, enraptured, from a moonlit balcony above.

But this works too.

Rubbing his uncomfortably moist palms on his pants, Crowley grimaces, glancing up.

“Dear, if this is too stressful-”

“It’s fine, just - the poem - it’s, um, about you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and leans back, cheeks pink.

Smoothing the abused paper, Crowley takes a fortifying look at Aziraphale, and begins.

“I dreamt, once,” he starts, and hesitates, shifting his weight between his feet. He can feel his heartbeat - which, physiologically speaking, he doesn’t strictly need - a staccato rhythm against his ribs.

A glance up -

Aziraphale waits, hands folded in his lap. His lips curve in a gentle, patient smile.

It’s just a poem, Crowley reasons. And besides, with Aziraphale right here, looking at him - smiling - it is ridiculous to be afraid.

Clearing his throat, he begins again.

-

“I dreamt, once

I was earth - summer dry,

Parched

And you, my heart,

An afternoon storm.”

-

Golden eyes flick up. A nervous tongue brushes dry lips.

-

“Lush drops,

Cut summer soft air

Striking earth

As I shed dust and drank in

Your every inch.

-

And if you were the gale,

I was the grass

Shivering

As I waited

Wanting.”

-

Crowley can feel Azirphale’s gaze, a prickling pressure, but he won’t look up from the page. If he stops, he fears he may not have enough courage to again start.

-

“And you, darling,

Rent the very air

Electric 

Engulfing earth, 

Me,

Everything

Everything.

-

Alone,

I woke

In a bed too large

With thunder groaning

And rain 

Pattering on the window 

Soft as you.”

-

He finishes, his voice little more than a croak.

Aziraphale rises from the chair.

Lowering the poem, Crowley presses his lips together, and nods once, looking at the floor. “It wasn’t much, I know. Not really much of a poet-”

Aziraphale interrupts him with a kiss.

“Hush,” Aziraphale says, kissing the frown from his lips. “It was lovely. You are lovely, my dear.”

Laid bare before the angel, Crowley feels reduced to his origins - a scattered constellation of fractured, burning lights. And yet, here, in Aziraphale’s warm, gentle arms, he is pulled together; made whole. 

When Aziraphale’s hands rise to cup Crowley’s face, the poem slips through his fingers. As they kiss, Crowley shifts a hand to Aziraphale’s back; and when he carefully presses Aziraphale against the desk, he makes sure his hand is between the hard edge and Aziraphale’s back.

Crowley kisses the corner of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, and then a slow, lingering path down the angel’s neck.

“You do remember that we confessed to, ah, a rather mutual love in the days following the whole Tadfield business. You really needn’t be embarrassed by - ah, um, a bit of poetry, dear.”

Bending, Crowley presses his face into the curve between Aziraphale’s shoulder and neck and admits, “...wrote it after that day in St. James’ Park. You know, the fight. Hadn’t seen you in quite a while and I,” he heaves a breath, “really missed you.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says, voice soft as a caress. And then fingers are stroking up Crowley’s neck, brushing soothing trails through his hair. “You weren’t the only one who spent a good few decades pining away.”

Sighing against Aziraphale’s skin, Crowley parts his lips and presses a delicate kiss against the freckles nestled in curve of his neck. “Worked out in the end, at least.”

“I daresay it did. And I learned you are quite the poet.”

Crowley presses a hand up over Aziraphale’s mouth. “Shh..”

Aziraphale chuckles and brushes feather-soft kisses against his fingers. “As I said before, dear - it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Retracing his way back up Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley mutters, “I’m a demon. Demons don’t wax poetic.”

“Oh they most certainly do. Have you ever listened to yourself speak?”

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs, kissing a path from Aziraphale’s jaw to his softly parted lips.

“Just, ah -”

Crowley hesitates, fingers stroking over Aziraphale’s waist.

“I’d like to hear it. Again,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley’s eyes flick up.

“Your poem.”

As Aziraphale reaches for the dropped page, Crowley grasps his hand. Massaging circles into his angel’s palm, Crowley brushes his lips over Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“I dreamt, once, I was earth. Parched...”

- - - - - - - - -

I am NOT a poet and probably severely overextended my writing abilities attempting to create the poem for this. I sincerely hope it is not embarrassingly bad, and if it is - maybe all of the kissing made up for it? :D

[midnight-writ3r]

Bad for you pt.3

Mark Lee x Genderneutral reader

Inspired by: Idk I have intense straight feelings for Mark Lee ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Summary: Just when you think Mark has left your life for good, he appears at your window, with a black rose in hand and a startling request on his tongue.

Genre: Fluff, mystery, strangers to lovers

A/N: He is back!! The bad boy from the window is back! And he is ready to sweep you off your feet! (I´m sorry, this is really all over the place and I have no idea where I´m going with it, but I just really wanted this piece of self-indulgence…)

<– Previous part

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

A couple of days, filled with University, your job at a close-by diner and Donghyuck´s whining in your ear, pass by. There is never a sound from Mark, so you guess that Donghyuck´s worries had been ill-founded in the end. After all, it seems like you´re not going to be seeing the handsome boy again, any time soon. Belatedly you realize, you don´t even have his number, so even if you wanted to, there would have been no way for you to contact him.

Good for Donghyuck. Your best friend had been worried sick, repeating his little lecture from that day over and over again, until he deemed you might have understood. It´s not your fault, really. You had always been drawn to the mysterious – the dangerous. Mark was the embodiment of that and, beyond the surface, maybe even more.

Well, you would never find out now, since your chance has passed you by. After another tiring morning, filled with lectures, you unlock your apartment door, to stumble inside. A yawn breaks through your lips and you decide that a nap before work might be a wise idea. Shouldn´t have stayed up reading that shitty romance novel all night. And it didn´t even have a good final. What a waste of time.

Discarding your bag at the door, you shrug off your jacket and change into sweats and a shirt. In the middle of rubbing your eye and heading for the call of your bed, you suddenly pick up a soft sound. A knock, you realize. But not on your door, no, rather your window.

With wide, slightly terrified eyes, you turn to look at your large window. Who you find there takes your breath for a short moment. Mark is peaking through the glass, clad in a black hoodie and a dumb smirk on his lips. Slowly, you feel your features shift into a disbelieving expression, whether at his audacity, or the sheer possibility of him being back, you don´t know. Either way, you hurry towards the window and open it up. Before you can utter a word, there is a rose in your face. Not a regular one: a black one.

“Is this your way of telling me you´re back from the dead?” You point at the rose, “Black for death and mourning?”

Pursing his lips, Mark gives the flower a glance, as if really seeing it for the first time, “Well, black roses also stand for the beginning of new things, so…” there is a tug at his lips, “I was hoping you could give me a chance for beginning new things…?”

You´re only able to keep up your dead-pan expression for a few heartbeats, before snorting and stepping aside, “Get inside here. If you can´t use the entrance door, like a regular person, at least don´t stand around in the rain.”

Eager like a child, Mark climbs inside next to you. Only when he brushes past you, close enough for you to smell traces of smoke and the cologne he used, do you see the slight teint on his face. It´s shaped like a flower, quite similar to the one in your hand, but it doesn´t quite harbour the same beauty. You reach out on instinct, really not thinking about it, and he flinches softly, when your fingers make contact with the bruise on his cheekbone.

“What happened to you?” You mutter, unsure of whether you really want to hear the answer.

He shakes his head, slightly dripping, black hair waving with the movement, “It´s nothing. Got into a fight.”

You try a gentle smile, but it must look wobbly at best, “Seems like you´re making quite the habit out of that.”

“Seems like it”, His hand is warm and rough against yours, as he pulls it away form his face, “Don´t worry okay? The thing… everything´s settled. I´m okay now.”

You don´t even know why you cared in the first place. Mark and you aren´t connected by anything more than a night of desires and bodily closure. Hell, you don´t even know his surname! Or his favourite band, his hobbies, what he does with his life, any of the things you would usually care about. All you have to think of, when he comes to your mind in the evenings, is that cocky little smile and the big eyes that seem to clash with everything else. Innocence. Donghyuck would call it crush culture.

But that´s stupid, so you ignore it.

“Take those drenched shoes off, I´m not gonna wash up your mess.” You chide, as you walk towards the bathroom. There should still be a tube of healing cream somewhere within your cabinets, so you shuffle through all the contents, while you listen to Mark stumble around and take off his boots. You frown. You could have sworn there was a tube right here somewhere.

“Whatcha looking for?” You jolt softly, when hot breath hits your ear. Mark´s frame is pressed tight against your back, personal space not a necessity anymore. Well, of course, why would personal space be a worry to him, when you have literally seen each other naked? Shaking your head, you finally make out the little thing you had been looking for an turn around to push at his chest. He watches you curiously, as you set him down on the closed toilet-seat and unscrew the healing cream. 

“I don´t know if it helps.” You explain, spreading the white cream over his bruise, “Hell, if these things have an expiration date, that´s probably crossed already.”

His gaze turns soft and there is a smile tugging on his lips, “Thank you, Y/N.”

“Don´t thank me.” You huff, “Thank whatever angel is watching over you, that you didn´t end up in a hospital. Why do you go around beating up people anyways?”

Clearing his throat, Mark averts his eyes down to his fingers in his lap, “There was a disagreement. They didn´t want to, uh… They didn´t want to keep with the deal we made.”

“Must have been an important one, if you thought it was worth risking your health.” You know there is a line that shouldn´t be crossed, somewhere around this conversation. But it´s blurry and Mark isn´t giving you any signals to stop asking. All there is, is the mystery he decides to paint around himself and, while it´s enticing, you also find it worrying.

“It was. But I don´t expect you to understand my rationale.” Sniffing, he gets to his feet. There is a different expression on his face now; something achingly close to exhaution, “Thanks for patching me up with your Stone Age cream.”

You can´t help but laugh at that and as he chimes in, you don´t have the heart to be stern with him anymore. Like a puppy, he follows you back into the living room, where you direct towards the kitchen. After asking Mark, if he prefers coffee or tea, you make two cups of hot cocoa for both of you. It´s strange, to see him shuffle at the kitchen counter, looking around with wide eyes and looking so out of place in his all-black attire. You love to decorate your apartment in soft, slightly pastel colours and there is a lot of light, streaming in through the large windows. In the midst of it all, Mark sticks out like a sore thumb.

Just like he does with the rest of your normal life.

When both of you hold a steaming cup in your hands and the silence has gone on for too long, you finally push yourself to ask the question that has been sitting on your mind: “Mark? Why are you really here?”

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“That ‘beginning new things’ shit was very cute and poetic, but I don´t buy it.” You explain, setting the cup down, “I thought we were just a hook-up. You were dead silent for days and that after disappearing in a really strange way and now… now you´re here, climbing in through my window with your face beaten up.”

Taking a tiny sip of his drink, Mark shrugs, “So?”

“I just wanna know your intentions. So I can brace myself.” Admitting that, seems to surprise you almost as much as him.

“I don´t understand”, You think he does, with the slight hurt that plays behind the stoic mask he is trying to keep in place, “Brace yourself? What for. What do you expect me to do?”

Taking a deep breath, you say: “Donghyuck told me a couple of things.” Immediately, annoyance takes over Mark´s features and you watch his fingers tighten around his cup, “It was all vague as hell, but he´s my best friend, so I listen to him. I´m not someone to judge based on the words of others…” You sigh, try not to stumble over your words and end up saying something you don´t want to say, “I think you´re really cute. I just… don´t wanna get tangled in trouble.”

That leaves the other boy stunned for a long while. You understand of course, that was quite a bomb to drop on him. But, you hadn´t lied. Taking precautions now, is just something you need to do, to avoid getting hurt later. You know yourself, know that Mark is just the kind you´d fall for, if you got invested. But you also know that the kind you fall for isn´t always reliable.

When he runs a hand through his hair, muscles flexing under his shirt, you try to ignore the strange jump of your heart, “I guess you have every right to be…” He hesitates, “…wary.” You smile shyly, staring down at your cup, “I´m gonna be honest with you, I need to lay low somewhere for a while.”

Your eyes zoom up, to gape at him, “Lay low? What the heck did you get yourself into?”

“It´s really not as bad as it sounds. It happened before, I just need to get away from my apartment for a while.” He sighs, rubbing his eyes with his palms.

You can´t help, but scoff. Is this guy serious? “And you come here for that?”

“Yes”, If you didn´t know better, you´d think he is just as frustrated with himself as you are, when he shoves himself away from the counter and stomps towards your window. You watch him pace back and forth for a minute, before the short-lived anger leaves his tense shoulders again. Suddenly, he looks smaller, a little frail almost, “I didn´t know where else to go.”

That makes you think for a brief second. If you allow yourself to look past the barricade of prejudice Donghyuck´s words had drawn in your mind, you find something you didn´t expect; A boy. A lonely boy. Who has no people he can trust, except this one stranger he had helped out at a club. You sigh, thinking back to the sensation of comfort he had given you that night. The reason you had allowed yourself to get drawn into his orbit and tug him into a kiss. The reason you had thought it to be okay to pull him into your apartment and spend the night together. Never once, had it occured to you that maybe, you had been able to give him the same sensation back.

“So what, you thought you could just show up here and stay a few days?” You tease him, no real bite to your voice. He still looks unsure, so all you get is a meek shrug. You snort, not believing yourself, when you say: “Well, congratulations, it worked. But you pay for groceries, I´m not your mom.”

“A-Are you serious?” You have to hold back a laugh at the look he gives you.

“Deadly.” You round the kitchen counter and pinch his chin. He scrunches his nose up in a cute fashion, “But you´re taking the couch.”

For the first time, there is a small grin tugging on his lips and you roll your eyes, when his hands settle around your waist, “You don´t think you could use the company?”

“You are literally impossible.” He makes a startled noise, when you press you palm flat into his face and push him away. It makes you laugh, the way he can look so silly, while still giving off a sort of dangerous aura. Yeah, so maybe it makes him a tiny bit irresistible, you don´t have to let him know. With a new-found ease in your steps, you collect your cup again and fall onto your couch, “You still haven´t told me what was important enough to throw hands.”

He shuffles a little, until he sits down on the floor. His legs crossed and elbows propped on his knees, Mark throws a contemplative look out of the window, “There are just some things that are bigger than me, you know?”

“Bigger?”

“More relevant.” Mark says this with so much certainty, you feel your heart sore for a moment. In your opinion, nothing should be more important to Mark than himself, but at the same time you think you understand the sentiment. “You know, the sort of things that you´d be nothing without. In the grand scheme of things, you might rather not live at all, than live without them.”

The serious nature of the conversation takes you so aback, you have nothing left, but to stare at the boy in front of you for a moment. He doesn´t look back at you, seems hesitant. Probably, because he isn´t sure if he has said too much. You could imagine him feeling the need to walk on eggshells around you, now that you allowed him to stay. A fleeting generosity that not even you, yourself had expected.

However, there is also a part in you that wants to make clear to him that he has nothing to fear. A part that wants to tell him that he can trust you.

“I know what you mean.” You mutter, “Comes with caring a lot, I guess.”

At that, Mark finally looks back at you and you´re almost certain you have said the right, “Do you have things like that?”

You hum, staring through the steam of your cup, “I guess my family. My parents can be a pain in the neck, but at the end of the day, they have given me everything I needed to be who I am today. Living without them… I´m not sure I could imagine that.” A small grin tugs at your lips, “And admittedly, also Donghyuck. The boy is a whole thunderstorm, but he held me when I cried, carried me when I was black-out drunk and celebrated all of my success. He´s like a brother to me. I think, if things came down to it, I´d give him everything.”

Mark looks at you, as you speak, his eyes gentle. There is a smile on his lips, too, as if he enjoys hearing you talk about the people who mean so much to you. As if he is happy, you have those people. A small lump builds in your throat and you ignore the urge to wrap your arms around him. It would be nice to have him close enough, to have his scent around you again. You remember a certain sweetness, beyond his cologne. Especially when you had woken up the morning after, with his bare body pressed against yours.

The memory fills your cheeks with warmth, so you distract yourself by asking: “What are your special things?”

For a moment, it almost looks like he hadn´t heard you, because he just stares at you for a long stretch of silence. He is contemplating, you realize. Contemplating, how much he can tell you.

“Do you want me to show you?”

Your eyebrows lift, “Uh… okay?”

“Go get your jacket”, he prompts, pushing to his feet. A little dazed, you comply, not entirely sure how you have gotten yourself into this current situation. However, when you watch him head for the window, clad in his leather jacket once again, you snap out of it.

“Can we at least use the door this time?”

-*- FIN -*-

[abbacchiosbelt]

Unwrap Me, Baby | Joseph x F!Reader

my very first commission - thank you so much, @spaceispeachy! ♥

18+ under the cut!

You’re rather used to having an audience by now when you’re standing in front of the floor-length mirror to get dressed every morning – the eyes that watch you are always hungry, lips pursing up in a pout when you remark ‘Not right now, Jojo.’ Joseph, for all the time you’ve been a couple, is an unstoppable flirt and an insatiable lover. You didn’t mind, not really, but he was prone to overdoing things and ending up late for work, leaving you a disheveled mess and himself wearing a wrinkly suit for the third time this week.

Today your audience is no different as you carefully slip into the clothes you’ve curated for one of your favorite hobbies. Both you and Joseph had the day off, and the pleasant weather was perfect for a day out in your newest outfit. Joseph had taken a liking to your hobby – though he was more interested in the way the delicate fabric fit over your body. He watched patiently from behind you as you adjusted your new lilac dress, complete with an intricate pastel pattern and a set of soft bows.

“You know,” Joseph starts, bed creaking as he gets up. He comes to stand behind you, placing his large hands on your small shoulders. “You kind of look like a present when you wear this stuff.”

“A present?” You quirk one eyebrow up and dip out from under his grip to retrieve the matching pair of lavender socks for the outfit. Joseph pouts at the lack of contact but eyes you carefully when you slide the socks on, delicate pattern matching perfectly with your dress. Joseph has a wicked grin on his face that you know all too well when you glance up at him.

“Jojo, we’re not doing what you think we’re doing.”

Joseph huffs and flops back down onto the bed, sighing dramatically.

“But I didn’t even get to say what I was thinking, baby.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you, reaching forward to trail his fingers down your bare arm. “I wanna unwrap my present.”

The touch of his calloused fingertips always sends your skin aflame – Joseph had a way of gently unraveling you by touching you just the right way, caressing and kissing until you were breathlessly begging for more. That was for later, though, so Joseph is left to pout once more as you slide out from his touch and go to your closet to pick out a pair of matching shoes.

Joseph’s bottom lip is adorably stuck-out and you can’t help but to kiss him when you’re back by the bed, carding a hand through his messy brown hair. He sighs into your touch, closing his eyes and pursing his lips out like he wants another kiss. You giggle and reward him with a chaste peck, pulling away before he can wrap his strong arms around you.

“You’re a tease, baby.” He says, looking more like a sad puppy than an adult man.

“Don’t pout too much, Jojo. Perhaps you’ll get a chance later, hm?” His eyes light up at your words and the sad act is tossed out the window, traded in for Joseph’s enthusiastic touch encircling your waist and picking you up to spin you around.

“Put me down,” you say between giggles, Joseph’s chest rumbling against you from his own laughter. He finally relents and gingerly places you down, infectious smile still plastered across his face. You shake your head at him, but the smile curling at your lips is a giveaway that you truly do love your boyfriend’s goofy side.

-

It only takes 15 more minutes to drag Joseph out of the house, dressed up in casual slacks and a shirt that’s similar in color to your outfit. It’s tight across his broad chest – and Joseph takes advantage of it, flexing and grinning every time he catches your eyes on him.

Despite the constant flirting – though being so desired wasn’t really an issue – the outing proves as much-needed relaxation for both you and Joseph. The sun shining through the trees of the local park lets the two of you enjoy an outdoor lunch, followed by some window shopping that has Joseph decorating your future home out loud.

It’s that conversation which ends up with your lips locked in a heated kiss with Joseph’s, hidden away in a shadowy alley.

“W-when we buy our house,” Joseph pants between kisses, lips pink and shiny. “I’ll fuck you in every room, baby.”

“Yes,” you moan in reply, too dazed to properly tease him back. A familiar hardness is pressing into your thigh where Joseph has you hiked up around his waist, the heat radiating through your thin stockings. “Jojo—”

“Let’s go home first,” he mumbles, eyes trailing hungrily over the exposed skin of your chest while he places you back down. He grabs one of your hands to start tugging you in the right direction. “Can’t let anyone else see you like this.”

-

The walk home is punctuated with heated kisses and filthy words hissed into your ear, Joseph pushing you back against a wall every so often to squeeze at your body through your outfit. Joseph doesn’t care who might see the two of you – the only thing he can think about is your body pressed against his, your nails scraping down his back and your voice calling out for him again and again.

When you finally get back to your apartment, keys fumbling in your hands as you unlock the door, Joseph picks you up and carries you to the kitchen table before laying you down. It’s not the first time the two of you have fucked here – but the way Joseph’s green eyes are looking at you like he’s about to devour his favorite meal has the heat in your stomach rising.

“You look so good like this, baby. So pretty.” Joseph trails an appreciative hand across your chest, squeezing your breasts over the frilly material. “But—”

He takes off your shoes before he finishes his thought, slipping them off your feet and setting them aside before he runs his hands up your thighs, fingertips trailing along the hem of your knee-high socks.

“As nice as this is, I don’t care about the wrapping.” Joseph rucks up the skirt of your dress and a gasp falls from your mouth at the feel of air on your now exposed thighs. His eyes trail to your lace panties, the side of his lip quirking up — it was one of his favorite pairs. “I just want the present inside!”

“Ah, Jojo, l-let me take this off, at least.” You stammer, coming back to your senses. As much as your mind was telling you to just let go, the logical part of your brain was yelling at you to take your expensive dress of. Joseph trails a finger up the wet fabric of your panties in response, eliciting a quiet moan from your lips.

“It’ll be fun though. You look sweet, but you’ll look even sweeter with my cock inside you.” Joseph is shameless as always, grinning at you while he continues rubbing his fingers up your clothed center already slick with want. Joseph’s fingers are enough to quiet any worry you had about ruining your clothes – so you push into his touch and call out his name in a plea for more.

“That’s my girl,” Joseph says, throwing you a sultry wink. He steps back to tug his own pants and shirt off – and in true Joseph form, your boyfriend is bare beneath his pants, hard cock flush against his abdomen. Joseph was always a jaw-dropping sight, no matter how many times you’d been held under his tanned and muscled form. His shoulders and cheeks were beginning to dot with freckles from the sun, and Joseph looked more radiant than ever.

It wasn’t the time to wax poetic about how beautiful your boyfriend was, though, so you reach your arms out to drag him closer and wrap your legs around his firm waist.

“I’ve waited all day for this,” Joseph slides your panties to the side and rubs his cock against you, reaching a hand down to coat his cock with your juices. One of his hands reaches up to thread his fingers through yours – always a romantic, your Joseph – before he pushes the head of his cock in and groans. You bite your lip and will yourself to adjust to his size, the ache quickly giving away to a pleasant stretch. Joseph squeezes your hand as he pushes himself in, murmuring about how tight you are until he’s fully sheathed.

“Fuck, baby, you always feel so good.” Joseph’s words make you tighten around him and he lets out a grunt. His free hand travels up to the expanse of your chest and he plays with the crisscross pattern at the neckline, seemingly thinking about something.

He loosens his hand from yours and uses both to gently adjust the straps until he has the front of your dress pulled down, lacy bra now exposed. He licks his lips before he pushes it up and exposes your breasts to the cool air.

“You look perfect, y’know? I was right about this being a present,” Joseph says, finally rolling his hips and giving you the blissful friction you’d been left wanting for. His hands grope and squeeze your breasts while his thumbs work your nipples until they’re pert, eyes gazing in lust at your exposed body.

He’s pumping into you at a leisurely pace unlike him, his thick cock filling you up and brushing against you in all the right places that have you pushing your hips up to meet his thrusts, begging for him to go at a faster pace.

“Jojo, more—” you whine. His eyes finally stop roaming around your body to meet your eyes – and that familiar twinkle of mischief is there on Joseph’s flushed face.

“You just look so innocent wrapped in all these bows and lace,” Joseph says, leaning down to whisper into your ear. “But I know you’re a dirty girl.”

You let out a choked moan when Joseph punctuates his last word with a deep thrust, pulling back almost all the way out before thrusting back in and starting up a pace that strokes the arousal that’s been building in your body.

Joseph recognizes the way your legs are trembling around his waist and he grins, trailing a hand teasingly across your chest and over the bunched up fabric of your skirt before he dips his hand under your panties and starts to rub your clit, hissing when you clench around him in response.

“Y-you like that, baby? You want to come around my cock?” Joseph always starts babbling when he’s close, so you nod in response and tighten your grip on his shoulders, focusing on how good it feels to have him pumping in and out of you with his finger working your sensitive nub.

Only a few strokes later and you’re gone, mouthing hanging open and moans falling out while you tighten around Joseph’s cock, your orgasm coursing through your whole body in a pleasant wave. The neighbors can probably hear you with how loud you’re groaning and whining Joseph’s name, but you just don’t care—

Joseph is pushing into you deeper and thrusting more erratically until he cries out your name his hips stutter once, twice, until he’s buried deep within you and pumping thick ropes of cum inside of you. He’s panting out your name over and over like he always does when he cums, one hand threading through your fingers again and holding it tight until his cock stops twitching inside of you.

He hums in pleasure and pulls out, messily trailing along your clothing, before he flops on the table next to you with a lazy grin on his face.

“I love you so much,” he says, leaning over to kiss your cheek. He pulls you onto his sweaty chest and kisses your head. “Let’s do that more often.”

“I love you too, but Jojo,” you sigh, playfully batting at his chest. “You made a mess of this! You know how much this stuff cost.”

“I’ll buy you all the outfits you could ever want, as long as we do this again.”

[johanna-tagada]

A short film by Yoshihiro Kamemura on the Journal du Thé events in Kyoto, Japan. For three days in September 2019 JdT opened a one-time tea salon in an old house in Kyoto with different tea ceremonies and workshops each day. With special thanks to all who have partaken and supported this initiative.