#she looks a lil different every time i draw her lol but she has one of my fave faces of all of my ocs | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

drapopia · 3 years ago

Text

Golden Wind Skincare/Makeup Headcanons

Authors note: This took me so long, sorry I haven't posted lately :') I'm graduating soon so I have been horrendously busy haha! hope ya'll enjoy these little bits of info I believe to be true lol

Bruno's Team

Bruno

Likes to take care of his skin, tends to use minimal products, but nice ones nonetheless

Tends to have drier skin than most, so he makes sure to use a moisturizer that doesn’t make his skin feel tacky or sticky. No fragrance for him!

When others on the team are feeling low, he will offer to let them use some of his masks he gets in those monthly subscription boxes. Fugo will deny that the team saw him reclining on Bruno’s bed with a bubbly mask on.

His usual makeup routine is minimal, he prefers a skin tint and a mascara, a light pit of powder where he tends to get shinier at the end of the day. Sometimes he wears lip oil and a bit of bronzer.

Knows how to do extravagant makeup, tends not to do it because of mafia customs.

Firm believer that gender doesn’t define if you wear makeup or not

Abbacchio

Keeps up with his routine as best he can, forgets occasionally.

Acne prone when he was younger, he does have some scarring on his cheeks from when he was younger. He does spot treatment religiously to avoid it now that he’s older.

While he isn’t insecure of his skin, he does like to wear heavy foundation because he likes the look. Didn’t wear much makeup while on the force, wasn’t taken all well by his cop buddies.

Now that he’s with the gang, he opts for a heavier makeup routine, Sephora knows him all too well. They don’t understand how they lose product every time he comes in, but can never catch him stealing. (Moody Blues is a sneaky lil guy)

Experiments often when he’s alone with different eye looks, tends to keep his purple and black lipstick.

Giorno

While he knows some stuff about skincare and makeup, he wasn’t exposed to it much in his life. His stepfather looked down on it, and his mother wasn’t an encouraging role model.

He washes his face and moisturizes it with whatever Bruno tells him to, he has some acne on his cheeks but he tends to forget about it. He picks and gets scolded by Fugo.

He doesn’t wear all that much makeup, he likes lipgloss because it’s shiny.

Narancia

This little devil.

Has stolen Bruno’s lipstick and put it on and never gave it back. He refuses to give it back, even though he doesn’t wear it. He puts it on before he gets in the shower and flaunts in the mirror, immediately washes it off.

He does minimal skincare, but will join Trish on skincare nights and enjoy the little face masks she puts on him.

Has eaten cucumbers off his eyes and spit them out immediately after because face mask got on them

Likes the appeal of mascara, he’s frightened he will get an eye infection though.

Fugo

One of the only boys to keep up with their skincare, he has a more oilier skin type and is hyper aware of it. He has acne, and stresses about it often.

He likes wearing blush, and enjoys eyeliner. Loves graphic eyeliner, but is scared to try it lest it look unappealing

Abbacchio taught him how to do his eyebrows and maintain them so they look good, he prides himself on his tidy lil brows.

Made sure Trish got her blush on the mission

Mista

This man washes with a bar of soap and that is it. He will occasionally do face masks with Narancia and Trish, but that is the extent of his skincare lol.

Wears lip gloss and appreciates makeup!

There’s not much to say, he’s not that interested in that stuff as much as he is in fashion.

La Squadra

Risotto

Someone moisturize this mans face, I BEG YOU

Neglects his skincare routine often, he opts for cheaper stuff that he can afford. If he really needs something, he’ll use Metallica and shoplift it.

Loves a good sharp eyeliner, and wears it pretty much everyday.

His older cousin showed him the Rocky Horror Picture Show when he was a wee babe, and he particularly loves Columbia’s eye look, but is hesitant to try it.

Draws on his brows, tweezes them as well.

Prosciutto

Fancy little guy, loves fancy stuff!

He likes fragrance even though it screws his skin up, and will do it until the day he dies.

He enjoys the opportunity to recline every night or so and relax with a bottle of limoncello and do a mask. He isn’t exactly religious about his routine, but he tries to keep up with it.

Wears a light bit of bronzer and a shimmer on his inner corner since he read about it in a magazine when he was younger.

He also tweezes his brows and keeps them thin.

Pesci

Doesn’t have much of a skincare routine, likes face masks though! One of his fondest memories is when he first joined La Squadra and did face masks with Melone in their basement. He was frightened of the atmosphere down there, but very intrigued!

Keeps his eyebrows thicker but still likes to keep them tidy.

Wears a minimal amount of blush, a green satin lipstick, and a lil bit of mascara! He is very proud that he can apply lipstick so well, he rarely, if ever, makes a mistake.

Gets those dollar sheet masks from corner stores

Melone

This man reeks of fragrance, he does not care one bit about how it dries out his already crusty skin (said lovingly)

If he extends an invitation to do skincare, he trusts you. He has initiated almost every new member of La Squadra by asking them to sit down, put on a mask, and chat.

This is also how he gathers information for work, but also camaraderie.

Loves extravagant makeup, but doesn’t have many opportunities.

Can pull off graphic eyeliner, tends to go for sharper and brighter colors. Loves a bright blush and an iridescent highlighter on the tip of his nose.

Unlike Pesci, cannot put on lipstick to save his life.

Formaggio

Does not do skincare, washes his face with a bar of soap and somehow has the clearest skin in the group. He sleeps with a dirty pillowcase and has the face of a baby. HOW

Has put on makeup before, liked the look and didn’t appreciate how heavy it felt on his face.

He made Illuso put fake eyelashes on him and he felt like he ascended.

He has an eyelash curler he uses on his lashes sometimes, just for himself though (and the ladies-)

Illuso

You cannot tell me this man doesn’t have an absolute arsenal of products in his cabinets.

Has definitely made fun of the others for having such a scattered routine.

Isn’t the biggest fan of makeup actually, he does it to pamper himself.

Enjoys a more natural look over a glamorous one, he likes shimmers and golds, dark purples and iridescent colors catch his eye more than matte, cool toned ones.

Is a sucker for red lipstick.

Ghiaccio

Has a routine, is just very negligent of it. He forgets it exists until he gets a pimple, and then goes into overdrive, He gets very annoyed by blemishes, and has scars where he was younger and picked at them.

Has freckles, so he likes to accentuate them with makeup. He loves the way they make his hair look, if that makes any sense!

Wears mascara and a bb cream and that’s really it. Sometimes he’ll spice it up with a light blue or purple shimmer on his lids but that’s really about it.

Very strange additional idea, I think he finds acne attractive.

Sorbet and Gelato

They both keep to their routines as best they can, though Sorbet is more diligent with it. Gelato is just kinda reminded by Sorbet of it and he’s like “Oh! Yeah! Thanks babe”

They do face masks, listen to Judas Priest, and sit on their lil loveseat and give cheek kisses

Gelato wears lip balm and that is it. Sorbet wears eyeliner religiously and has perfected his base routine to a religious experience. He feels naked without either of the two.

Gelato makes Sorbet do his makeup when they’re especially bored. He loves the look, don’t get me wrong. He just doesn’t have the patience or steady hands.

Bonus !!!!

Cioccolata and Secco

Cioccolata does his normal makeup routine as seen in the show almost every day. He goes to sleep with it on and wakes up and applies more. The cycle repeats.

Secco washes his face and that is it. He washes with bar soap and he has rosy cheeks like a baby.

Cioccolata wears graphic eyeliner on occasion and enjoys it. He also does trad goth looks when he has the time! He gets the appeal.

Secco will make him do his lipstick so they can match sometimes. They can’t see it under Oasis, but it makes them feel closer nonetheless.

Before Passione, Cioccolata stuck to a bb cream and mascara, just to look ‘normal’,

128 notes · View notes

makeste · 4 years ago

Text

BnHA Chapter 302: As the Todoroki Turns

Previously on BnHA:

Today on BnHA: We have a very fun chapter in which (1) Shouto grows up lonely on account of his parents being worried that his siblings will literally try to kill him, (2) Natsu and Fuyu grow up neglected on account of not being special and/or self-destructive enough to attract attention, (3) we get to revisit all of that exciting spousal abuse from chapter 39, and (4) Touya burns to death right on cue, pretty much exactly like we expected it to happen. Thankfully since this is a shounen manga, Horikoshi finds some hope in all this misery as the Todoroki family rallies together, with Shouto getting his long-overdue credit for being a perfect sweet angel who put up with all of this shit for sixteen years and somehow came out of it strong and kind and empathetic and determined. Anyway, so that flashback was a barrel of laughs. But now that it’s over, we can put all of that angst behind us, and move on to... well I guess, probably, more angst. Look, we’re short on variety at the moment. Bear with it.

ouch. we knew this was coming, but still

A+ parenting move there. “ho boy, our eldest just tried to murder our youngest, now what? hmm how about we isolate our youngest from all human contact”

though in their defense, we probably shouldn’t have expected this rabidly strength-obsessed fire man and his wife who was groomed since childhood to obey her family’s whims to have any idea of how to raise stable, well-adjusted offspring

SERIOUSLY YOU GUYS

this is a perfect example of Enji’s tragically self-revolving viewpoint right here. just because being a hero is your entire world doesn’t mean you can just excuse yourself from anything outside of that and act like it’s out of your control. “alas, all I care about is hero stuff and my son can’t be a hero, we are doomed to inhabit two different worlds” no you jackass, it’s called having more than one hobby?? figuring out how to spend some time with your son that doesn’t involve training?? the same exact thing you were telling him to do last week, while ignoring that you’ve never done that yourself in your life??

that said, yet again we have that complexity though because it’s obvious that Enji at least on some level is aware of his own flaws, even though he seems unwilling or unable to confront them. honestly, from what we’ve seen so far, Enji’s obsession with surpassing All Might might be more accurately called an addiction. he literally can’t let go of it even though he’s fully aware of how it’s slowly destroying his life. and so in the same way that a lifelong smoker or alcoholic might tell their child to stay away from cigarettes and booze, Enji tells Touya not to follow down the same path as him, even though he himself doesn’t know how to leave that path. so yes, it’s hypocritical as fuck, but there’s also an element of helplessness there as well because Enji literally doesn’t know how not to be like this

though all the same he sure could stand to put in more than just a token effort. but it is what it is, and we already know how much he’ll come to regret it

and meanwhile Baby Shouto has frozen his sleep bubble with his quirk lmao. so I guess his quirk did come in early. that’s a recipe for chaos right there

once again Shouto is ruining every single dramatic panel in this flashback

this was so dark and intense... and then I spotted the lil bubs in the corner. Horikoshi please control yourself

“some hero you are, running away” and then all of a sudden, “FIVE YEARS LATER” lol what. OKAY THEN

(ETA: love the confirmation that eight-year-old Natsu comes from the Iida school of puberty and is basically a fully grown man, and meanwhile Touya comes from the hobbit school of puberty and has been perpetually eight for the past five years.)

“HEY BIG BRO WANNA COME RECREATE AN ICONIC FLASHBACK SCENE WITH US. WE’VE GOT THE SOCCER BALL RIGHT HERE, BUT HURRY UP OR WE’LL BE TOO LATE FOR SHOUTO TO WALK ON BY AND STOP TO LOOK”

lol and that’s literally the next three panels. but Horikoshi did add this extra bit after Endeavor starts to drag Shouto away

seriously Enji what the hell did you expect was going to happen here. “Touya went nuts and tried to kill his little brother out of jealousy, so let’s make it clearer than ever that Shouto is the important child and all the other children are just rejects. this will definitely not make the problem 100x worse, and will surely lead to Touya giving up and living a happy life, having been emotionally abandoned by the person he admired more than anyone.” good for you pal you figured it all out. no need for that plan b, “we all just go to therapy”

anyway so he’s telling Shouto he can’t play because he needs more endurance training. and meanwhile Touya’s patented Todoroki Drama Genes are going through puberty as well

definitely the face of a happy, emotionally stable child who’s not still plotting to murder his younger brother in his sleep

“WELL ACTUALLY MAKESTE” lol I stand corrected??

apparently during the five year interim Touya actually stopped blaming Shouto and realized Enji was the one at fault. good for him! a bit inconsistent, given what we know happens later, but I assume we’ll get to that in good time

anyway. “yeah man I agree that dad sucks, but it’s the middle of the night and I’m only eight and you’ve been monologuing for the past two hours bro”

LMAO

the manga is making my jokes for me, only better. fine then

looks like someone’s still miffed about that disagreement he had with his baby sister back when she was like four

“Fuyu doesn’t get properly riled up like I want her to so ranting to her is annoying.” okay but having been in Fuyu’s shoes, it really is just a different way of coping, and I can guarantee she’s not as fine with the whole situation as Touya might think. but making your peace with something is often a decision that’s made for emotional self-preservation reasons. and I sure as hell don’t fault her for trying to shut out a situation that she had no control over, and trying to make the best of it, and scrape together as normal a childhood as she could manage

and now in Touya’s defense as well, that is of course easier said than done, and I’m sure if there was a “push this button and instantly get over all of the trauma in your life” switch readily available for Touya then he would have pushed it too. unfortunately it’s not always that simple

so now Rei is pleading with Touya not to go train up on his little emo hill again, but it doesn’t seem like much has changed since he was eight

I don’t think he gives two figs about being a hero; he just wants his father to look at him again with pride. fucking hell, stop doing this to me you damn Todorokis

guh, they keep telling him the same thing over and over again

even if we hadn’t already known he was gonna go melt his jawbone off soon, I wouldn’t have expected a line like that to go over well

yep. fuck

that Todoroki puberty angst, though. nothing else quite like it

“you have a part in this too, Mom” ooooooh man

okay but look, he’s not entirely wrong. like, I’m not saying any of this is Rei’s fault at all! she’s in an impossible situation where she’s afraid to stand up to Enji (who by this point has shown that he’s willing to physically attack her if things get too heated, which is terrifying), and doesn’t really have anywhere to turn for support. her parents aren’t helping much if at all, and Japan in general is just a terrible country to be in when you’re in a domestic abuse situation. everyone’s expected to put on a brave face and deal with their problems all on their own in private. Rei is basically completely isolated at this point, and she doesn’t know what else to do, and so she’s just trying to keep the situation as stable as possible for the kids

but on the other hand, “for the kids” is also where that argument starts to break down a bit, because at this point Shouto is also being physically abused by his father, and the other kids are continuing to be neglected (emotionally if not physically), as they have been for years. so the situation really isn’t stable at all for them. and as a kid, what you end up learning in that type of situation is that you can’t rely on either parent. not the abusive one, certainly, but also not the other one who can’t protect you from any of it. even if they love you and they’re trying, they’re just as helpless as you. Rei is struggling to deal with all of this with one hand tied behind her back, and I get it, and I’m not blaming her at all. but all the same, particularly given that she’s (understandably) putting almost all her focus on Shouto, the end result is that the other kids have basically been left to fend for themselves

so yeah! a shitty situation all around. and one of those cases where it’s not really anyone’s fault (aside from Enji’s), but I can understand the resentment Touya is feeling all the same. and I’m so glad Horikoshi is acknowledging this, because it’s something I probably would have been too uncomfortable to bring up otherwise. as it is it’s still an incredibly heavy subject, and one that I probably have too many personal feelings about

anyway, so once again the whole “we’ll try talking to him and then just shrug our shoulders when it doesn’t work” parenting strategy doesn’t really pan out for the Todoroki fam

sob this boy is Anakin Skywalkering before our very eyes. all that’s missing is AFO to come and start whispering in his ear. any minute now...

“anyway so then he got taller and his fire changed from red to blue”

guess we’re getting pretty close then huh. this is the part of the flashback that I really don’t want to see, but also unfortunately the part that I’m most curious about :/

oh for fuck’s --

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN IGNORING HIM FOR FIVE YEARS DIDN’T ACTUALLY DO ANYTHING TO SOLVE THE PROBLEM” sob. back to the drawing board I guess

I thought he got taller, why is he still only like a third of Enji’s height here

oh fuck me these are armor-piercing feels. this is the heavy artillery right here

ENJI I’M BEGGING YOU PLEASE STOP AND THINK FOR ONE MOMENT IN YOUR LIFE BEFORE DOING SOMETHING YOU’LL REGRET FOR THE REST OF ALL TIME. your child just told you that he still thinks beating All Might is the only thing you care about, and that he believes his existence is a mistake unless he finds some way of doing that for you. please stop for a moment to contemplate that and choose your next words with care and grace and oh who the hell am I kidding

-- OR WE COULD JUST BLAME REI

go on and blame everyone but yourself then!! that’s a great solution!! jesus christ man I know this is Endeavor at his literal worst but still this is fucking hard to watch

POOR BABY SHOUTO IS YELLING AT HIS DAD NOT TO HIT HIS MOMMY THIS LITTLE BRAVE BOY NEEDS SO MANY HUGS OH MY GOD

AND MEANWHILE THE OTHERS ARE HUDDLED IN THE NEXT ROOM TRYING NOT TO CRY AH FUCK

(ETA: Fuyu covering Natsu’s ears cuts RIGHT TO THE CORE OF ME. Horikoshi if you’re really not gonna get these kids some therapy then at least consider giving your readers some. what is this.)

you know it’s bad when you’re starting to think the part where the kid burns to death might actually be a less traumatic thing to cut to right now

holy shit, actual Rei thoughts

“I was the one who ultimately made that choice” well there we go, wonder if that’ll put that whole argument to bed at last. I doubt it, but you never know. actually who am I kidding it’s not gonna settle jack shit lol

oh thank god, they decided it was getting too intense and cut away back to the present to narrate this next (final?) part

get ready to cue up that Alicia Keys. THIS BOY IS ON FIREEEEEEE

yeah I think that’s one thing we can mostly all agree on. neither of them had any clue what the fuck they were doing pretty much at any point. though I will say that the hypocrisy of him being all “WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP HIM” followed by him IMMEDIATELY DOING THE EXACT SAME THING is a bit rich

(ETA: and he still has this problem, doesn’t he? he froze up when Ending snatched Natsuo, and again when Dabi was attacking Shouto. he’s so afraid of doing the wrong thing that he ends up not doing anything, which of course is exactly what led to Touya’s death. damn Enji I guess you’ve still got some additional character development to unlock.)

and of course neither of them could possibly have known how badly it was going to turn out. like, the consequences here were WAY disproportionate even for the shittiest of parenting. no one expects “I didn’t know how to talk to my son” to snowball into “my son burned to death and then somehow came back as a villain and murdered thirty people”

ohhhhhhhh fuck me

LITERALLY INCINERATED THE ENTIRE HILLSIDE. fuck. and I am so not ready for the scene of Enji finding the remains of his jawbone afterwards. at least we were spared anything super-graphic (for now at least)

I feel like the timeline here is off, btw?? wasn’t Touya’s death supposed to happen after Rei got hospitalized? this might be the first actual retcon of the entire flashback. although I think it makes more sense this way tbh

I do appreciate that ten years later Enji is finally reflecting on the fact that if he’d just given up his stupid obsession he could have stopped his family from crumbling apart. that probably sounds sarcastic as fuck, but it’s not. there are countless jerks out there who would have still managed to find a way to blame literally everyone and everything under the sun except for themselves. at least he finally figured out how to take responsibility, even if it came too late to stop his son from dying and being radicalized into a villain terrorist organization

and speaking of, it seems to me we’re missing a third and final part to this little tale of woe, and one which only Touya himself will be able to shed any light on. so we’ll see how that goes

oh man seeing the other kids blaming themselves even though none of it was their fault hits hard af. Rei wasn’t kidding when she said they’d been bearing that burden of guilt far longer than Enji

SHOUTO I SWEAR TO GOD IF THE NEXT PANEL IS YOU APOLOGIZING FOR BEING BORN, I WILL... WELL I’LL BE VERY SAD, I GUESS. SO DON’T DO IT

oh good he’s just being quiet. good. it absolutely is not your fault lil bean. it’s not theirs either, but feeling guilty about things that aren’t your fault is a time-honored shounen tradition

goddammit I braced myself for the angsty Shouto panel a page too early. gotta do it all over again now lol. okay here goes

;_;

well well well would you look at that

imagine that. talking things out with your child before they make a rash decision. looks like the Todorokis’ parenting skills are finally leveling up

OH MY GOD

holy shit. this is the most quintessential moment of father/son Todoroki bonding in the entire series. for me it even tops the “nice scar” scene lol. Enji sobbing at the fact that he still has a chance to set things right. and Shouto offering his hand in what is actually the most mature and selfless gesture I’ve ever seen, and being all “we’ll stop him together” to his dad who he hates, but also doesn’t really entirely hate anymore. and all of that is incredibly moving... BUT ALSO HE STILL REFUSES TO MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH HIM AND HE WOULD LIKE HIM TO STOP BEING SO FUCKING DRAMATIC ALREADY IF YOU DON’T MIND. “WHEN YOU’RE DONE CRYING...” fkjldsk

OH MY FUCKING LORD

(ETA: wouldn’t be a Todoroki drama fest if there wasn’t somebody listening in on the whole thing in secret just around the corner lmao.)

“you think we should have waited somewhere else?” “yeah, probably.” “are you feeling a lot of secondhand embarrassment too?” “god, you have no idea.” STFU HAWKS IT’S NOT EMBARASSING TO BE MOVED TO TEARS BY YOUR FAMILY ALL COMING TOGETHER IN YOUR DARKEST HOUR TO GIVE YOU HOPE THAT YOU PROBABLY DON’T DESERVE BUT ARE NONETHELESS INDESCRIBABLY GRATEFUL FOR

and anyway you chose these guys as your found family, bucko. too late to back out now. next time go get yourself adopted by the Iidas then

AND MEANWHILE NO WORD ON THE WHOLE “HOW DID A THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD SURVIVE A FIRE THAT COVERED HIS BODY WITH HORRIFIC SCARS AND MELTED HIS JAW OFF, AND HOW DID HE SOMEHOW THEN MANAGE TO GO INTO HIDING FOR TEN WHOLE YEARS, AND WHAT HAPPENED IN THAT INTERIM TO CHANGE HIS GOAL FROM ‘SURPASS ALL MIGHT TO IMPRESS MY DAD’ TO ‘KILL ALL HEROES TO MAKE MY DAD SUFFER’.” as if we don’t know the answer to that. but still, would it kill Horikoshi to just confirm AFO’s involvement in all of this already. at this point it’s basically just a formality

so here’s hoping next week we’ll either get that, or more Hawks action, or (DARE I EVEN SUGGEST, I’M AFRAID TO JINX IT) finally cut back to Bakugou and Deku and All Might omg. either way I’m hyped

#bnha 302 #todoroki touya #dabi #todoroki enji #endeavor #todoroki rei #todoroki shouto #todoroki natsuo #todoroki fuyumi #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #makeste reads bnha #my sincerest apologies for this absurdly long recap which is barely funny at all!#THERE WAS VERY LITTLE HUMOROUS CONTENT IN THIS CHAPTER #congratulations horikoshi you win this round

470 notes · View notes

dizzydancingdreamer · 4 years ago

Text

The Rewards of Getting Shot | Bucky Barnes

Hey lovelies back at it with the Dinner at DIzzy's content. I would call it a drabble but I would be lying lmao. It is, however, the first smut of the event and that feels special lol. I'm a tad iffy about this one-- usually the smut I write breaches 8k words and I am so not used to condensing it so it's an experience for us all lol. Please do enjoy loves!

Appetizers (Tags): Fluff / Smut (a lil' angst at beginning but soft!angst)

Entres (Pairing): Bucky Barnes x F!Reader (third person)

Sides (Prompts): 23: “I have to protect the one thing that I can’t live without. That’s you.”

Notes: Takes place after Bucky gets injured protecting reader, requested by @hellotvshowtrash (god I hope you like this because the sheer amount of times I giggled like a little girl while writing this needs to be worth something)

THIS IS AN 18+ ONLY FIC!!!

Word Count: 3k (what is actually wrong with you Dizzy these are supposed to be drabbles)

Dinner at Dizzy’s Master List

“Buck—” She whimpers, her fingers brushing around the angry red gash on his chest, hand shaking. “What were you thinking?”

Bucky’s skin is hot to the touch, more furnace than man, chest slightly damp from the serum working his body in overdrive. A few tears slip down her cheeks, cold in comparison to the man below her. It’s her fault that he’s injured. He jumped in front of a bullet for her. If she had just been paying attention then it would have never happened. Of course she hadn’t been paying attention. She had heard a scream and turned away for one second— just one— and the next thing she knew there was a bang and—

“I had to do it, doll.” His voice is tired, his blue eyes a little duller than normal, but beyond that there are no noticeable differences— he still stares up at her with that half grin, half worried pout that he always does.

His hands flex on her hips, pulling her body further up his own until her thighs are pushing around his hips, knees sinking further into the mattress. She plants her hands on his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin, afraid that if she lets go then he might disappear. Who’s to say this isn’t all a dream— that he isn’t still laying on the street with a bullet lodged in his chest?

She shakes her head, dropping her eyes back to the healing wound. “You’re hurt— because of me.”

His fingers tense. She can feel his jaw slouching, leaning down and scratching her cheek with his stubble, no doubt trying to find her eyes again. Any other day she would give in, wanting to stare into his eyes just as much as he does. But today isn’t any other day. Today is today and she can’t look at him— not without feeling the guilt crash over her. When did she become so irresponsible?

“I’m fine, doll.” His lips press against her temple and she flinches like she was the one hit with the bullet and not him.

She swallows thickly, curling her hands into balls but leaving them on his shoulders. He smells like the hospital still— like alcohol swabs and the burnt metal tinge that seems to always accompany sterile buildings— and she can barely find the lingering traces of his pine tree musk. Her chest jolts, the sob getting caught in her throat, more tears racing down her face. They don’t phase her at this point— she’s more water than woman right now. The flame and the sea— right now she feels too destructive. Like he’s going to flicker out and that it’ll really be all her fault.

Her throat is raw when she finally answers him, her voice too dense. “You could have been killed.”

His hand— his flesh one— leaves her hip, curling gently around her chin. He doesn’t push her face up yet— he’s still giving her the option to look at him on her own— but she knows it won’t last long. Soon he’ll break and she’ll be forced to meet his stare. She’s never dreaded looking at Bucky so much.

“But you would have been. You hear me? You would have died. The chances—”

“Bucky—” she tries to protest but his hand only tightens.

“The chances—” he continues anyway, not giving her room to talk over him— her time’s running out— “were more in my favor than yours. That’s all there is to it, doll.”

She can feel the final barriers of his patience waning, his grip starting to push on her jaw as his voice takes on a grittier tone. It’s not anger. She’s heard him angry and this is nothing close. This is desperate. This is worse. She can feel him breaking and she can’t take it— can’t take the feeling of him tugging her even closer.

She can’t take it so she breaks first.

“I was careless and you got hurt. That’s all there is to it.” She mutters, her gaze snapping to meet the hard crystal eyes of the man she loves.

Bucky shakes his head, his brown hair falling slightly in front of his concerned eyes. She doesn’t move to fix it like she normally would. Something about touching his face right now feels wrong— feels blasphemous. She’s not allowed to touch him; she hurt him. Her eyebrows crease, lips pressing together. Just looking at him hurts. Probably nowhere near as bad as his skin feels as it fuses back together.

His other hand moves from her hip, the now warmed up metal curling behind her ear. She watches as he swallows, his adam's apple bobbing jaggedly. His stomach is pressed against hers now, his heat burning holes through her thin t-shirt. She can feel every inhale he takes— she can feel how his breaths become closer together.

“No baby—” he pulls her face closer to his and it is only then— when her shoulders bump into his— that she realizes she’s sobbing— “no you were looking out for your teammates. You always look out for us. For me. It was a split second decision and I would do it again.”

Now that the dam has broken she can’t stop the flood, ripping her hands from his shoulders and squeezing her palms against her eyes. Her hands don’t stop the tears— that was never her intention. It’s more so she won’t have to look at his eyes as they begin to glass over. Bucky doesn’t cry often but when he does it always hits her square in the chest. Kind of like how the bullet—

“Why? Why did you do it?” She chokes out as his hands slip around her wrists, thumbs rubbing over her pulse points, drawing her hands away so gently that another round of sobs threatens to unleash.

He’s always so damn gentle with her.

“Baby come here.” The soldier murmurs, voice hoarse, leaning down to press his forehead against hers. “Please. C’mere, doll. It’s okay— It’s all okay.”

He guides her hands to his face until her palms rub over his stubble, locking his fingers with hers and squeezing. His lips find her cheek, skimming over the salty tracks left from her tears, finding her ear and pressing a kiss to her temple. She breathes in and, through the alcohol, can finally make out the notes of earthy musk. It makes her shudder and he presses his lips against her harder.

“I did it because I had to.” He whispers against her skin, words hot and slow. “The other option was watching my girl get shot—” she flinches again and he kneads her hands— “I have to protect the one thing that I can’t live without. That’s you.”

It shouldn’t hurt to hear that. It shouldn’t hurt to hear that he loves her more than anything else— especially because she feels the same way. It shouldn’t but it does. It rips through her ears, slicing down her throat, stabbing at her gut, before finally settling between her thighs— this stinging, aching emptiness. She sniffles, finally curling her fingers around his jaw without his help, scratching through the hair on his jaw. It zaps electricity through her fingers— air into her lungs.

“Buck—” she can’t finish her thought— both because it was never really there to begin with and because his lips crash onto hers, swallowing her words faster than they can come.

He kisses her hard— hungrily— his hands reclaiming their place on her hips as his tongue pushes against the seam of her lips. He still tastes like himself— like plum cobbler and diet coke— and she opens her mouth to him instantly, desperate for more. The first brush of his tongue against hers sends a wave of shocks rushing down her spine, pooling in her core. She doesn’t realize how exposed she is until his hips are pushing up, nothing but his sweatpants and her boy-shorts separating them.

He squeezes, thumbs brushing under her shirt and rubbing hard circles against her hip bones. The contrast— flesh versus metal— is enough to have her head falling back, thighs caging him tighter between her. It takes no time for his mouth to fall to her throat, sucking her skin into his mouth and biting down. It stings in a new way— the bruise like payback. Sweet, sweet payback. The first moan slips past her lips and he groans against her skin in return.

Bucky grinds up against her, using his hands to keep her hips smothered against his, rocking ever so slightly to brush his hardness against her. His movements are jagged, no doubt skewed from his injury, but nonetheless they send little bolts of pleasure zapping down her legs. When he does it again— this time a little harder— she arches her stomach against his, toes curling around thin air the same way her core clenches around the emptiness. Her fingers fly to his hair, threading through the damp strands and tugging a little harder than she intends to.

When he hisses some of her common sense comes back to her— not enough to get her to stop rocking against him— to stop chasing those tiny sparks of everything— but enough to make her ease up a touch.

“Bucky you’re—” he pushes her against his length with more force and she loses herself to the moan that tears through her lungs, the friction like magic— “Buck you’re hurt we can’t.”

“I don’t care, doll.” He mumbles, trailing open mouthed kisses down her neck, yanking the collar of her shirt to the side to latch his lips onto her throat. “Need you now— right now.”

She wants to argue further— he’s already hurt, whether or not because of her, and she doesn’t want to make it worse. They’re on the tip of her tongue; all the words she should say. You need rest. The doctor said to take it easy. Bullet wounds and sex usually don’t go together. She goes to open her mouth— to at least try— but when her lips part all that comes out is a string of nothingness, a metal digit sliding her panties to the side and plunging inside her before she can even try. When she peeks down at him, pulling her neck from its position on her shoulder, she meets his glinting blue eyes. The cheeky bastard.

She clenches around him right away, the slight thrum of the current in his fingers enough to have her moaning his name. It’s all the encouragement he needs to add another. She’s sure that if he were to keep his fingers there long enough the vibrations would be enough to have her climaxing around them. Of course that’s not his style— not right now at least. She can feel the tension in his movements as he twists the digits inside her, curling them as his thumb presses against her clit. He rubs it in a steady— if not semi-sloppy circle. She doesn’t care— the pressure and vibrations in combination with the rhythm of his fingers pumping in and out of her has her seeing stars.

He leans down, nose brushing along her cheek, voice soft and needy. “C’mon baby, I can feel you already— I know you wanna’ let go. Are you gonna’ let go for me?”

His voice is too soft— still much too slow— and it makes her feel like she’s floating, the pressure in the pit of her stomach. That might just be his fingers though, now kneading that spot inside her that has her pulling on his hair again, this time to keep her from falling off his lap as she bucks her hips against his fingers. She’s so close she can taste it— the metal inside her now sharp against her tongue. It’s intoxicating— it’s harsh— and it hits her like a truck how badly she doesn’t want to come around anything but his cock.

“More, Bucky— I want more. Now. Please, baby, now.” She whines, desperate to hang on despite the sweet torture she’s facing at the literal hands of the man she loves.

That’s all it takes for him to hook his arm around her hips, pulling his fingers from her core and holding her above him as he frees his length with his other hand. She drops her hands to his shoulders, the pressure of her pending orgasm beginning to wane until his skin— bare and hot and hard— brushes against hers and she’s gasping for air— for more. She can hear him chuckle through his own, needy huffs, repeating the motion against her throbbing clit. She can taste the metal again— that’s how addicted she is to this man. All it takes is a few measly touches and she’s putty in his hands. So much so that she almost reaches between them and lines him up for them.

“Bucky please— please, please, please— I need you. I need—”

It happens so quickly— her eyelids flashing with white, tongue flooding with the taste of plum cobbler, diet coke, and her body spasming with the orgasm that is no longer just waning as he enters her with one acute thrust of his hips. He doesn’t give her a moment to adjust— she doesn't need one, core clenching around him as he pulls out of her and repeats the jarring motion— and it’s all she can do to dig her fingers into his skin and cling to him for dear life.

“Fuck baby—” he purrs, chest rumbling against hers as he uses his arm to continue rolling her hips through the unrelenting pleasure crashing over her— “you’re perfect— so damn perfect.” His head falls on her shoulder, lips brushing over her bruised skin feverishly. “Think you can do that again for me?”

His words spur something in her— a new, hotter fire than the one circulating through her veins. A need. Despite the way her thighs feel like literal jelly, just barely holding her on top of him she’s suddenly determined to give him whatever he asks. Before she can process her own actions she’s pressing on his chest, carefully avoiding the now almost healed wound, until his back is flat against the pillows, his eyes more black than blue and wider than she’s ever seen them.

“Doll—” She rolls her hips, hissing at the feeling of her still sensitive clit pressing into the hard plains of his abdomen, and his words die into a throaty moan that she swears she can feel in her own chest.

“Let me do it.” Her voice is breathy, the air in her lungs almost entirely gone, but the sight of the man— her man— under her makes her wonder if she ever needed air to begin with.

Surely he’s more than enough for her.

She does it again, rising off of him slightly before sinking back around him, gaze glued to his half-lidded eyes. His mouth is open but no real words come out only curses that, upon leaving his lips, turn into something so much more sinfully incoherent. They’re gasoline to the fire— fuel to the bucking of her hips. When her clit brushes him again it feels less like a shock to her system and more like everything she’s ever wanted coming to fruition.

That familiar pressure begins building again— faster and much too quickly for the slow pace she had been trying to set— and she can feel him start to buck up against her. His impatience is like a drug, one that warps her already hazy mind and urges her to roll her hips quicker, grinding down on him harder. His arm is still hooked around her back, something she only remembers when he tightens, holding her against his chest as he drives up into her, cock brushing the same spot his fingers had.

“Bucky—” she sighs, starting to fumble, losing herself in the weightless feeling creeping over her limbs— “I need— need— fuck!”

She can’t put it into words— she can’t think of a way to tell him that she feels like she’s going to float away— but he understands anyway. He always understands her. In a split second her back is being pushed into the soft mattress, her head pressed into the pillow that is now soaked in his earthy musk. He does it so fluidly that he never disconnects from her, his drilling pace never slowing. His arm lands next to her head and she wraps her hand around his bicep, nails digging into his skin and drawing one more of those gasoline-meet-fire moans.

“C’mon doll—” Bucky’s hand slips between their tangled bodies, vibranium tracing down her stomach before sliding over her aching sex, pressing down harshly. “Gonna’ gimme’ one more, yeah? Gonna’ cum for me again?”

She can’t speak at all this time, only loosely nod and gasp as the pleasure rakes across her limbs. Her eyes flutter shut, unable to do anything more than squeeze her thighs around him, mouth open and mewling as his strokes get slopier, bringing him closer to his own edge right alongside her. The circling of his finger— the thrumming of the metal coming alive— and the messy jutting of his hips is enough to have her falling in seconds, bones nothing but water, limp and liquid as she folds under him. Her second orgasm, unlike her first, is cool. She doesn’t taste metal, she tastes earth and pine trees and life.

Her eyelids feel heavy— deliciously so— but still she peels them open against her orgasm to watch Bucky’s last jagged thrusts and the way he stills, hands and stomach and face clenching as he finds his own release inside her. For a moment he hovers over her, lost in what she can only assume is the same, cloudlike feeling that’s clinging to her, before collapsing on top of her, head pressing into her sweaty chest. His hands find their way under her body, palms slipping up her spine until his fingers curl around her shoulder blades, hugging her to him as his lips press against her skin. She giggles— higher than ever on dopamine and him— fingers brushing through his hair, pulling the damp strands from his forehead like she had wanted to before.

He was right— all is okay.

That’s how they stay for a while, wrapped in each other and easing off the post climax rush until Bucky’s low words breach the silent, foggy bubble.

“Maybe—” he pants, finger skimming the column of her neck— “maybe I should get shot more often. You know, if that’s the— the reward.”

“Don’t you dare.”

#Bucky Barnes #Bucky smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky imagine #bucky fic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fic #mcu #mcu fic #marvel cinematic universe #Dinner at Dizzy's

81 notes · View notes

wexhappyxfew · 3 years ago

Text

—— 1 year anniversary to Landslide [BOB FIC]

Wow! 1 year! I can’t even believe that just last year, I was sat in a lake house, in the late hours of the night, trying to figure out what idea was going to be my next for another Band of Brothers story! I remember the moment and where I had been sitting when the idea hit and looking back, I’m so glad it hit when it did. Landslide is far from that little idea I got in that lake house, but has continually developed, grown and changed in ways I look back and can’t even begin to think about how it even happened!

Natia Filipska has been a character that I will cherish close to my heart. Of course, I adore my other OCs and will always love them, but Natia holds an even more special place there in my heart because of the challenge in writing she has offered me. She gives me a challenge everyday - whether it’s having to rewrite a scene 5 times because “it’s just not her” or completely starting over a chapter because knowing Natia, she’d have a better way to get out of this situation.

I’ve also made one of my absolute favorite ships, coined “Fliptoye” by a few readers (you know who you are hehe) and it has grown to truly be a favorite of mine for so many reasons. There was no “love at first sight” or really anything like that. Just two human beings realizing they genuinely care for each other and enduring both the struggles and hardships that come along with realizing in war, you care for something that war can also touch. That for one of the first times it is not longer just about you or the buddy next to you. Natia Filipska and Joe Toye have been a joy to write!

And of course there was the month of disliking Richard Winters, the iconic nickname of “Mapkeeper” for Lewis Nixon, the Roman History nerd jokes that have now developed with Ronald Speirs, the slow start of some sort of friendship because of cracking a joke about Nix with Harry Welsh, and the comfort of a friend from Carwood Lipton.

Even Joe Liebgott and Natia Filipska have swiftly become a favorite duo and I can completely agree. Getting to see where they started and where they are now — from seeing their differences and arguments and heavy weighted disagreements to know finding ways to comfort each other even in the midst of war and making sure the other is okay and even eating. They’ve definitely been one of my favorite duos to go through that sort of character arc together.

AND OF COURSE, we can not forget one of the most important driving forces in the fic, Death, himself (alongside the sarcastic bits of War haha), most importantly the personification of Death. What draws me to a character like him, is more than anything the fact words can not be communicated between Natia and Death yet they hold such a strong willed connection, that you almost don’t need to worry about words. Each layer that builds with their connection, leads for an even darker end and makes Death even more fascinating in the end.

You can’t forget a guy like Agent Mortem! Without him Natia and Agent “Fidel” wouldn’t be here right? Right? Right….? Well…..anyway…..even with who he is and his partially uncovered past, Agent Mortem remains a heavy asset to Landslide as the leading cause for WHY Natia could possibly even be the way she is and to provide backstory on a multitude of other things, and for reason for Natia to have her redemption. There’s so much unexplored. And I’m so ready to talk about it! :D

Landslide has challenged me in ways I can’t even begin to describe both mentally and emotionally with my writing. I’ve had to rewrite, rework, edit over and over just to get it right but at the end of the day, it is always worth it. In some ways I don’t even know what else to say, and almost think the story can speak for itself! It is made for you to interpret it they way you wish to interpret it, there’s no right way to see who Natia is or what Landslide is about — whether for you it be about family, friendship, love in war, darkness and overcoming that, the struggles of mental health, finding your own inner peace or independence….whatever it may be, I hope it has possibly even helped you somehow in anyway :) Even with the MAJOR HECKING ANGST (LMAO💀) or the extremely sad parts (that honestly are probably just super sad to me LOL), it still is a fic full of lessons and stories equally about someone like Natia!

I can’t WAIT for whatever else this story has to bring to the table! With still a bit of writing for the future to go, it makes me so incredibly hopeful for an end in sight on both Landslide and Natia’s character and peace for all those lost throughout the story <3

Thank you to EVERY single person who took a chance with Landslide and took a read, if you were from Day One, saw it while scrolling through Wattpad or AO3 or Tumblr, or even saw the Spoon meme! I appreciate each and every single one of you! Whether you voted, commented or left a kudo, or just even took a read! I appreciate you SO MUCH! I can’t even begin to describe the joy this story has brought me and the challenges as a writer it has provided. I’m hopeful for the rest of this fic and hopefully for one or two more to come!

Special shout-out to @vintagelavenderskies for being by my side with this project since like DAY ONE?!?! EVEN BEFORE DAY ONE?!? I don’t even know but just genuinely for so long, how could I not tag you! You always are just so excited to hype me up as well as Natia (the lil bean) and give me support and comfort for whatever I was doing (especially that support, there was some rough moments throughout the year and the fic lol!) I just can’t thank you enough for your friendship and joy you’ve brought to me! <3 Thank you my friend, so so much, for everything! :D

I’ll also shoutout a few more lovely people who have just been…..absolutely wonderful in providing both support, or insight, wonderful commentary or just sweet messages throughout writing this! @tvserie-s-world (thank you for all the moodboards!!)@wecomrades @stressedinadress (credit do you my friend for og fliptoye name!!) @pxpeyewynn @whoahersheybars @kryzes @holdingforgeneralhugs @martinsrestingbitchface @whovian45810 @geniedocroe @thoughpoppiesblow @how-are-those-nuts-sarge @alienoresimagines @alejodi0nysus @brichard-bwinters and just genuinely anyone else who even sent me a small ask or message, I appreciate it so much and your support or love or help in anything Landslide-related, helped me more than anything! <3

THANK YOU! TO ALL OF YOU! I don’t know what else to say except thank you. Thank you for letting me bring who Natia was, alive through this fic as well as her spirit and compassion of ending the war. Along with her friendships of Easy Company and hardships of both her past and mental health. It’s been an honor and privilege — here’s to many more! ✨

Happy reading! <3

tags: (because you’ve all been there for support and I simply adore you all <3) @sunnyshifty @alienoresimagines @vintagelavenderskies @julianneday1701 @huenoclue @liebegott @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant @sunflowerchuck @tvserie-s-world @wecomrades @thoughpoppiesblow @pxpeyewynn @rogue-sunday @stressedinadress @jalapeno-peaches-andhersheybars @lovingunderratedcharacters @legally-devorak @sgtxliptons86 @alejodi0nysus @mrsalwayswrite @heffrcns @curraheewestandalone @supervalcsi @xthefourthx @whoahersheybars @kryzes @papersergeant-pencilsoldier @whovian45810 @how-are-those-nuts-sarge @geniedocroe @holdingforgeneralhugs @martinsrestingbitchface @pipster4107 @mads-weasley

-> Feel free if you wish, to drop a favorite part that you really enjoyed from Landslide so far, a favorite memory or moment, happy or sad, a possible favorite quote or friendship if you wish too! If you feel even more inclined, questions are open as well! I have work all day but will be home to answer ;) THANK YOU ALL <3333 (mine has GOT to be the whole lone wolf thing lol!)

37 notes · View notes

ttttaehyungie · 4 years ago

Text

secret santa | kth x reader

secret santa | kim taehyung x reader

genre | bff2l, fluff

summary | What you thought was an ingenious plan to figure out the perfect gift for your secret santee turns out to take a whole bunch of wrong turns, but with the best outcomes.

rating | NC-17

word count | 6.2k words

warnings | some profanities (it’s like... once LOL), mentioned breakups, it’s Christmas in the context of a pandemic

a/n | Merry Christmas everybuddy 🎄✨ here is a lighthearted (or at least it was until i hit the 6am point of the night while writing slkdjflkjd) lil christmas gift to everyone, but mostly to myself LOL bcos I’m finally posting a fic about the one who owns my heart in its entirety 😌

Christmas without you would just not be Christmas at all

Bright mistletoes up above us, it’s just you and me

-- V, Snow Flower

“C’mon, ____,” Taehyung whines. He plops down on the couch next to you and puts his big, round eyes to good use, giving you the puppy dog eyes treatment.

Well too bad for Taehyung, having known him for the last decade has granted you immunity against his pouty antics. There’s a couple of things that Taehyung employs in a bid to get what he wants. First, he’ll whine. Next, he’ll attempt to reason it out with you… or as much as he can convincingly reason with the pout still laced thick in his tone. If that fails, he’ll try bargaining. And finally, if none of the aforementioned has managed to sway you, he’ll just pout in silence.

“That’s the thing about Secret Santas, Tae, they’re supposed to be, y’know, secret.”

“Well, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me who your santee is!” he exclaims, throwing his hands in the air.

There it is. Stage two.

You ignore him and return to scrolling through Amazon in what you hope is a nonchalant manner.

“What if I guess who it is?” he tries.

When you don’t reply, he continues, “Is it Hoseok?” He runs a hand through his golden locks in thought. “No, buying for Yoongi is easy because all he ever wants is practical things like planners. You wouldn’t need help with that. Hm… Is it Seokjin?”

He rambles on about different kitchenware that could make a good present for Jin, a ramble that would have been really helpful if only Jin were actually your secret santee.

Taehyung gasps and falls silent, shocking you into finally looking up from your phone. His already round eyes are even rounder, wide as they are in shock. A hand hovers over his mouth as he goes still.

Then, as suddenly as he had gasped, he relaxes into a laugh.

“For a moment, I thought your secret santee was me,” he says, chuckling. A jolt runs through you, and your breath hitches in a way that you pray is unnoticeable. “But you’re too shitty a liar to do that.”

“Hey!” You jab his side playfully and he yelps. “What do you mean? I’m a great liar.”

“That’s a blatant and unconvincing lie right there.”

You fold your arms and turn away.

“I know you’re not actually mad, ____,” comes his sing-song voice, crossing his arms behind his head and reclining into the couch.

Letting out another huff, you turn further away. So when he grabs your hands and pulls you to face him, it startles you a little.

His eyes search yours, and you can’t help yourself from stumbling into their depths. The seriousness in his gaze holds yours intently.

But just as you think he’s about to apologize, his eyes melt into little crescent moons as he grins. “So. Who’s your secret santee?”

His cry comes out muffled under the cushion you hit him with.

An exasperated groan leaves you the moment you close the front door. Tipping your head back to rest against the solid wood, you shut your eyes. You hear footsteps pad closer.

“I take it your plan didn’t succeed?” Irene says, leaning against the wall as she takes in your defeated stance.

“Nope,” you say, picking yourself back up and hanging up your scarf and coat. Your roommate’s still in the same fuzzy pyjamas she was in when you’d left for Tae’s earlier in the day, and honestly, she’s got the right idea. You’re ready to get back into jammies too.

A Lifetime movie plays in the background, and you’d be willing to bet your life’s savings -- not that there’s much when you’re but a struggling student -- that she’s got a mug of hot chocolate to accompany her.

“Another Christmas movie?” you scoff in mock disgust. “How are you not sick of them yet?”

“What else are we supposed to do during a quarantined Christmas?”

“Don’t kid yourself. You’d be doing this even without the quarantine.”

“Hey. If you detest it so much, I heard that Taehyung’s place has many vacant rooms right now.”

You roll your eyes. She got that information from you. Both his roommates were gone from the apartment for the time being, one went back home for the holidays and another had chosen to attend the entire semester from home since everything was online anyway, leaving Taehyung with the luxury of the entire apartment to himself.

Meanwhile, Irene was making full use of the ongoing situation to evade going back home for the holidays. Too much family drama to allow her to binge-watch her holiday flicks in peace, she’d said.

And you? It’s kinda awful, but you’ve chosen to remain in your apartment just slightly off-campus so that you could get a head start on your research for your thesis, the campus library’s offerings much more vast than the local neighborhood library of your small town hometown.

Upon hearing this, Taehyung had offered to stay to keep you company over the holidays. “We’ve spent every Christmas together ever since we were kids, Christmas would just feel too weird without you,” he’d said. “And then we can join the gang’s Zoom Christmas celebration together too! I heard that’s what Namjoon and Jin will be doing since they’re both in the city over Christmas.”

How you’d managed to keep yourself from melting into a puddle of goo at his casual selflessness was a real feat. Taehyung had always been close to his family, and often missed them intensely while you guys were miles apart from home each college semester. So for him to give up a trip back home so you could still have a piece of home with you over Christmas was not a small sacrifice.

“Hellooo?” Irene waves a hand in your face. You jump, jolted out of your thoughts. “Are you actually daydreaming about it? Ooh, staying over at your crush’s place with no one else around… saucy things could happen, ____.”

Although that wasn’t what you were thinking about, you still feel the heat rise to your cheeks at being caught daydreaming about Taehyung. Instead, you give a feeble excuse to get Irene off your back, “I’m just thinking about secret santa gifts again. Ugh, why’d I have to draw him of all people?!”

“Are you sure you aren’t overthinking this because of your feelings? How difficult is it to think of a gift for a guy you’ve been friends with since you were kids? What about his interests?”

“That’s real tough. His hobbies are so whimsical and oftentimes just impulsive. Remember the phase with the film camera? And then the short-lived violin phase? And the piano phase? The only outcome of that phase is him playing the Chopstick Waltz every single time we pass by a piano.”

“Well, what about something that’s been a constant in his life then through all the phases?”

You purse your lips in thought, weighing the thought. It’s not a bad suggestion, but what has been a constant for him all this time?

Coming up with naught, you sigh and turn to head to your room. “I’ll think about it while I get changed back into my jammies.”

When you described Taehyung’s ideas and interests as being whimsical and oftentimes impulsive, this is exactly what you meant.

“Tae, I don’t think it’s gonna fit. Why’d you get such a big one?”

“You just have to believe, ____. We just need faith, trust, and- well actually, maybe just faith and a really good, hard thrust.”

“I feel like there’s so many that’s what she said jokes to be made here.”

“Wasting your energy on that line of thinking is the reason why we haven’t gotten this christmas tree through the door yet.”

With one more solid push, the widest part of the tree finally makes it through the narrow doorway of Taehyung’s apartment, and the two of you go stumbling forward with the extra momentum.

“We did it!” he exclaims, wrapping you up in a hug. “You believed!”

Internally cursing yourself for the way your heart has the audacity to stutter at his touch. The hug is nothing- the warmth that seeps from his body to yours is familiar because hugs are nothing special in your friendship. Even in your grade school memories, Taehyung had always been a tactile person, giving out hugs generously and demanding them in return by simply throwing himself at people to be received in an embrace, coerced or not. As you and your peers grew older, Taehyung became more aware and withheld himself from his sudden hug attacks, especially towards the other girls. But not you. He felt no need to skirt around things with you, and you found a quiet hum of satisfaction in knowing that Taehyung could be his tactile self with you. Hugs were just an expression of your friendship. Nothing more.

That is, until you wanted them to be more.

You shake the thought away. You’ve dealt with this successfully for more than a year now and you can continue on.

Taehyung loosens his hold but keeps his arms around you, leaning back to look at you. The soft puffs in his cheeks and the light creases around his eyes as they bunch up in happiness are just some of the little things you adore about him. The contentment practically radiates off of him. It’s just like him to get this excited over a christmas tree.

“Shall we get to setting it up?” you ask and he nods, releasing you completely then to get to work.

After the two of you find the perfect spot, situating the tree in the corner of the living room by the windows and in reach of a power socket, you grab the bag of decorations.

The oddly small and light bag of decorations.

“Tae?” you ask, pulling out the single box of baubles. “Is this all you got?”

Grinning sheepishly, he nods. “I didn’t have much left for decorations after I chose the tree.”

“Why’d you choose such a big tree then?”

“What’s the point of getting a tiny tree? It’s only nice and festive if it’s large!” he exclaims.

“Well, what’s the point of getting a big tree that will be bare except for six baubles, Tae?!”

“I was thinking we could improvise the decorations.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Improvise?”

“Yeah, like- wait,” he says, running to his bedroom. His voice floats over from the narrow corridor, “just hang on!”

After a little rustling and rummaging, Taehyung emerges with two shoeboxes and a few scarves thrown over his shoulders. Grabbing one of the shoeboxes from him, you open it to reveal a bunch of keychains. Souvenirs from his friends’ travels and some of his own too. In there, you recognize an eiffel tower keychain you gifted him after your family’s holiday to France.

“Here, look!” He grabs a few and begins hanging them on the tree. “Decorations!”

You laugh. It’s a classic Taehyung move, and honestly it doesn’t look half bad. Picking a few keychains of your own from the box, you join him in placing them around the tree.

“What are you going to do about the tree topper?” you ask.

He smirks. “I’ve already got that all figured out.” Unboxing the second shoebox to reveal his collection of polaroid photos, he rifles around till he finds the photo he wants. Brandishing the polaroid of Yeontan, he grins. “Both an angel and a star. Perfect.”

You can't argue with that logic, and you say as much before vacating the step stool so he can clip the polaroid to the top of the tree with a wooden peg. Eyeing the pile of scarves on the couch, you ask, “What about the scarves?”

“Scarves? You mean ribbons?” he says, and begins draping them across the tree. You giggle and reach for one. The soft material is plush, caressing your skin as you run your fingers over the material. It's much nicer than the other scarves, you notice, and way too nice to be stuck on a christmas tree.

“Hey,” you say, “isn’t this cashmere? Are you sure you want such a nice sweater on your tree?”

Taehyung shrugs. “It was a gift from my ex. It’s not like I’m going to wear it anymore.”

His ex. The words hit you like a punch to your gut.

Taehyung's ex, Samantha, was a pleasant person to be around, easygoing and bubbly with a sunny personality that matched him well. At least, from what you could tell based off the first two months of their relationship that you got to witness firsthand. You're not quite sure who exactly initiated the distance -- whether it was from your own courtesy that you gave them space, or whether Samantha had, directly or indirectly, requested for it -- the memories were all too foggy by now.

What you do remember is that one moment they were happy together, and the next they were broken up, the relationship lasting just a little over six months. Taehyung never spoke much about it and when you did probe, he would brush it off with scant excuses that they just figured they weren't compatible after all.

That had been some time in the spring. Briefly, you wonder how many wears the scarf had gotten, and how much sentimental value it held. The quality of the material hinted towards a relationship that had been going strong.

Yet, you muse over it as you drape the luxurious material over the prickly christmas tree, Taehyung brushed it off with such brashness that spoke otherwise.

“Hey,” Taehyung breaks the silence that has fallen between you, clearing his throat in a self-conscious manner as if he’s feeling guilty over the awkward turn that the conversation had taken. You look at him, half-hidden behind the tree pines, his eyes pensive. Maybe he’ll finally open up about the relationship -- it’s been eight months after all. But then he flashes his usual elfin grin. “Any luck with your secret santee gift yet?”

You groan, partly because no, you’re still clueless and stuck on what to get him, and partly because he’s once again evaded the topic of his ex.

The incessant buzzing of your phone gets ignored, vibrating almost violently in its spot on the tinyass coffee table next to your feet which you’ve kicked up ever so demurely. The consecutive, rapid-fire notifications can only be from an overly enthusiastic Taehyung.

Irene nudges foot with her own socked one. “Aren’t you gonna check your phone? I can pause the movie if you want.”

“Nah, I’ve watched Home Alone enough times to not care about missing anything. And it’s probably just Tae being all excited about secret santa gift suggestions.”

“Ooh, how’s that going? Finally got him to spill what he might want?”

An exasperated sigh escapes you. “No, he’s sending me individualized suggestions for everyone that are so well thought out and personalized that I can’t get them for anyone else.”

Grabbing your still-buzzing phone, you flick through your texts. Just as you’d predicted, Tae’s sent you a bunch of Christmas socks he found on Amazon that he thinks would make a good addition to Jin’s collection of festive socks, a set of really nice paints that would pair well with Yoongi’s newfound interest in painting, and an anthology of time-travel short stories that he thinks would fascinate Namjoon.

“Hm, d’you think he’s called your bluff? Intentionally sending you suggestions that wouldn’t be helpful?”

You shake your head, frowning. “Tae’s not like that. Honestly, it was just a bad move on my part, hoping that he would give some generic gift suggestion that would let slip what he really wants. Tae is too thoughtful to get people generic gifts. He puts his heart and soul into the presents he buys for others.”

Reaching over, Irene pinches your cheek lightly as she coos at you, “Awww, you’re so in love with him. I can feel the cavities forming.”

“Pretty sure those are from the hot chocolate with extra marshmallows you love so much,” you say, tipping your chin in a gesture to the mug in her hands.

Irene sticks her tongue out and takes an extra large sip in typical defiance.

As much as you mock Irene for her love for Lifetime holiday movies and hot chocolate, you do have to admit that there’s a certain appeal to it. Curled up on the lumpy couch in Taehyung’s apartment, cupping the hot beverage in your hands, even the uneven lumpiness of the cheap piece of furniture begins to feel comfortable.

The entire room is dark, save for the glow of the television. Taehyung has always insisted that this is the best way to watch movies. Maybe it’s a good thing your makeshift decorations on the christmas tree -- still standing proudly in the corner of the room -- didn’t include christmas lights after all.

Outside, the snowfall has gotten pretty intense, the temperature dipping significantly compared to the previous few days. It is well and truly winter, the cold showing no mercy to anyone who wasn’t prepared for it. You’re thankful to be inside and with a nice hot drink.

But as the film runs on, you get so engrossed in the plot that you don’t even realize you’ve finished your drink till you drain the last of it. Oh.

Looking over at Taehyung, you could always request for more and you know he’d be more than happy to make you another cup. But the movie is at its climax and the way his eyes are glued to the screen, his mouth slightly agape with how invested he is in the film, you can’t bring yourself to interrupt him now. So you try to ignore the way the cold begins nipping at your fingertips.

Soon enough though, the once warm mug that was a pleasant source of heat became stiff cold ceramic between your equally stiff fingers. Scrunching your toes, you wish you’d thought to bring an extra pair of socks over, especially when you think about the pair of socks you’d stuffed into your boots, soggy and cold with melted ice. A shiver runs through you at the thought.

“Are you cold?” Taehyung asks, and you jump. You didn’t realize he’d noticed.

“Yeah, a little.”

He pouts. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? C’mere,” he says, and lifts the edge of his blanket, revealing his plaid pants and sweatshirt combination.

Crawling in quickly, you tell yourself that you’re only complying because you know he’ll put up a fight if you don’t, and you don’t want the cold air getting into the cocoon of warmth he’s created with his blanket. Not because you’re excited to snuggle up with Tae. Definitely not. But now that you’re here, you may as well make the most of it, you figure.

Taehyung yelps as you press your icy toes to his warm thigh. Your arms wind their way around him, desperately seeking out the warmth of his body heat. Nuzzling lightly into the crook of his neck, you sigh, finally getting some relief from the cold.

The tiniest of groans escapes him. Then, a tight gasp. Stiffening, you peer up at Taehyung carefully.

He’s turned to look at you too, his attention that was once rapt by the movie now focused directly on you with equal intensity. Nervous energy accumulates within you and your heart rate skyrockets, now keenly aware of every hard plane of his body against yours. The logical part of you regrets the way you launched yourself at him and gave no regards for personal space. But you’re only dimly aware of that. The part of you that just wants Taehyung, the part that you’ve kept under lock and key, now fights against the restraints you’ve tied yourself into, unravelling you. You gnaw at your lip unsurely, and you watch as Taehyung’s gaze drops to your lips, heavy-lidded as they linger there, then darting back up to meet yours head-on.

The hand that he has on your hip grips you a little tighter, and you clutch the front of his sweatshirt in response. Your heart is pounding now, and the headiness of it all makes you feel swirly. Is he leaning clo-

Slam!

Both of you jump. The noise from the film startles you both, and you accidentally head butt Taehyung’s chin in the midst of it. He yelps in pain.

“I’m so sorry!” You frantically rub the spot to soothe it. “Are you ok?”

He laughs it off in his usual carefree manner. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“You sure? It doesn’t hurt?”

“It’ll be fine in a bit,” he says, pulling you into his chest, his warmth emanating from his chest to your back in a comforting manner. “Let’s continue watching the movie.”

With his arms wound around you, you wonder if he can feel the way your heartbeat continues to beat erratically. If he does, he says nothing about it. And underneath you, you can feel clearly how his heartbeat matches yours in its stuttering pace. But you say nothing about it. Not for the duration of the movie, not when it ends, not when you stand to leave, and not when he wishes you goodnight at the door.

The next day, you wake up with thoughts of yesterday sending your mind into a spiralling whirlpool. You decide it’s time to make an emergency call.

Also, it’s five days to Christmas and you still haven’t thought of a suitable gift for Taehyung.

“Hello?” comes a chirpy voice over the line.

“Jiminie!”

“____! What’s up?”

“Listen, I need your help. It’s about the secret santa thing.”

“What about it?”

“I need a suggestion for a gift for your best friend.”

Jimin chuckles. “Isn’t he also your best friend?”

“Well, yes, but…”

You take him through your original plan to covertly ask Taehyung what he would like by asking what would make a good gift, and how it got completely derailed, to which Jimin just laughed. And then your discussion with Irene on finding something that has been a constant in his life. Since you’re on the phone with Jimin, you take the chance to rant about your annoyance with yourself at not foreseeing Taehyung’s thoughtfulness and the personalized gift suggestions that he’s been giving you.

“____,” Jimin interrupts you mid-rant. “The answer is right in front of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe your plan didn’t really fail. If Tae is suggesting personalized gifts, then…” he trails off meaningfully.

You gasp. “Oh. You’re absolutely right, Jimin, you genius!”

“This was your own plan, ____.” He chuckles. “Now as for what has been constant in his life… Do you really not realize?”

Oh.

“Jimin, you’re a genius, y’know that?”

“So I’ve been telling everyone.”

“Ok, I gotta go now,” you say, excitement zipping through you as your mind fills abuzz with different ideas now that Jimin has set you on the path.

“Seeya on the 25th, you dork.”

“See you!”

Belatedly, you realize you missed out on telling Jimin about what had happened the day prior. But you shrug it off, figuring that you could tell him about it another time.

---

But as it turns out, you don’t. The hectic rush of preparations for Christmas keep you and your friends so busy, you’re thankful everyone’s blocked out Christmas night for each other or you’d just miss each other completely otherwise.

Days on from the eventful movie night you had with Taehyung, the distance has already caused the memories of the night to go slightly fuzzy. You wonder if it had really even happened, or if you were just overthinking everything as per usual.

And since Taehyung never brought it up, your friendship carrying on in the easy status quo, it was simple enough to chalk it up to your own imagination.

The rush towards Christmas keeps itself up even till Christmas day itself. You’re huffing a little as you squeeze yourself and your grocery bags through the doorway of Taehyung’s apartment. The lopsided feeling of your beanie sitting askew on your head is just one part of your disheveled state right now.

“Tae!” You set the bags down and replace the spare key in its hiding place. “I’m here!”

He comes bursting out of his room and running over to help you with the bags. “Is it time to bake?” His tone is bright and shimmering with anticipation. Baking Christmas cookies with each other’s families was a tradition the two of you grew up with, and a tradition you both intended to keep even while away from your hometown.

Pulling the cookie cutters out of the bag, you wave them with a grin. “Shall we? We still have to prepare dinner after this and make sure we log onto Zoom on time too.”

The afternoon is filled with a flurry of flour and butter and sugar, cookie cutters and oven mitts, and a whole lot of messy icing. You pipe out a beautiful blue and white star, if you do say so yourself, taking pride in the baking skills you’ve honed over the past twenty years. Meanwhile, Taehyung scribbles Yeontan on a star-shaped cookie of his own. He adds this to his collection of alien cookies and rabbits on the moon.

When you’re both done decorating and the icing is left to set, you get to work on dinner. It’s a simple affair, just some mashed potatoes that you set Taehyung to work on, some lightly roasted veggies, and a rotisserie chicken from the supermarket in place of the usual Christmas turkey your families would normally have.

Grabbing plates to serve up your dinner, you can hear the chorus of hellos from the living room as Taehyung sets up his laptop to join the Zoom call. It fills you with a warmth you didn’t know you were missing, the cacophony of noise from your friends still as familiar as it always is even though it’s filtered through the speakers on the laptop. If anything, it may even be more chaotic than ever, with everyone speaking over each other, the social cues becoming even harder to read over the virtual platform.

When you finally enter the room with your two plates, the noise only gets louder, everyone shouting to greet you. You say a quick hi and slip back into the kitchen to get the tray of cookies to show off to the rest over the webcam.

You take your place next to Taehyung, seating yourself next to him in a similar cross-legged position, your knees knocking together as you both squeeze to get into frame together. Memories of the movie night come back to you, but Taehyung seems unfazed. Feigning calmness, you try to focus on the ongoing exchange instead.

The conversation drives itself, years of friendship and months spent apart from each other fuelling the chatter. With small talk on how Christmas day was for everyone, quick catch-ups on how everyone’s doing, inside jokes and references to shared experiences of the past, the atmosphere feels just like that one year you all went on a camping trip together and sat around the bonfire on the final night, swapping stories and jokes in a breezy fashion.

Just as the conversation slips into an easy placidity, Hoseok suggests you all move on to the secret santa bit of the night.

That’s when you gasp. Amidst the manic pace of the day and its activities, you’d forgotten to retrieve your present from where you’d stowed it in your apartment. In the same way that you treated Taehyung’s apartment like your own, so was your apartment to him. Taehyung could walk into your apartment any moment, whether you were present or not, and you needed to find a good secret place for your present. Stashing your prepared present in an unused cupboard in the kitchen, you remember commending yourself for having found such a great hiding spot. Turns out, it was so excellently hidden that even you had forgotten about it till this very moment.

But your internal struggle and the guilt that plagued you went unbeknownst to the rest, each taking turns to open their presents. A whole range of reactions and sound effects went on, Hoseok thanking Taehyung for his gifted sunglasses with such sincerity that transcended the boundaries of the webcam and screen. Yoongi had bought Jin a new fishing reel, and the boys were in the midst of discussing their next fishing trip.

But it was Namjoon’s reaction and the chaos that ensued that truly had you relaxing a little from your anxious-frustrated-guilty state.

“Snacks? And wet wipes?” Namjoon’s expression is incredulous as he pulls the items out of the brown paper bag. “Who’s giving me all these freebies?!”

“FREEBIES?!” Next to Namjoon, Jin smacks the table, causing him to jump. “I’ll have you know that those snacks were selected after careful observation, and I even went so far as to scout out for the specific brand you like and some even required shipping from elsewhere because the grocery stores near us didn’t stock it, and I got you wet wipes because you’re always spilling things, or maybe you could use them after you’re done snacking while on the go, but you still have the AUDACITY to call it FREEBIES?!”

At the sight of Jin gone red in the face, the snickers that the rest of you had been holding in came bursting out.

“Ok, I think we’re the last two to open our gifts,” Taehyung says, reading the room and moving on quickly before Jin could get even more agitated. “____, this is yours from your secret santa.”

Ripping open the wrapping paper swiftly, you find a brown leather-bound journal with your initials embossed on them in gold.

“Oh! This is beautiful,” you gush. “And since we’re the last two, this must be from Jimin!”

Even through the screen, the sight of your friend’s smile, eyes all scrunched up with the sincerity of it, has your heart swelling.

“And that means… that I’m your secret santee!” Taehyung gasps. “No way. And this whole time I was calling you a bad liar.”

He rambles on, explaining to the rest about your sly method of attempting to discreetly ask him what he might like for Christmas. The whole time, you’re chewing on your lip, trying to find the right moment to interject and explain what’s happened.

“Ok! So,” Taehyung finally pauses, looking at you expectantly, “I’m ready for my present!” His hands are cupped and ready to receive the present… that will not make it to him tonight.

You place your hands in his, lowering them gently and taking in his obvious confusion. “I’m so sorry, Tae, I left your present back at home. I promise I’ll bring it over tomorrow! Or you can come over after this to grab it if you want.”

“Oh,” he says, puppy dog pout hitting you full-force with guilt. “But I still want a gift now, so…”

Grasping your hands that are still in his, he tugs you forward into his chest, and plants a soft kiss on your lips.

Silence. Both from your brain, and from everyone around.

It lasts for two seconds -- your group of friends has never found it easy to shut up after all -- and then it’s an eruption, pulling you back to the reality that the two of you are not alone.

You can hear Jungkook screaming, “GROSS!” and Namjoon yelling in confusion. But Jimin’s tinkling laughter, filled with unmistakable joy, cuts through the noise along with a raspily muttered, “It’s about fucking time.” from Yoongi.

In the background, you hear Jungkook asking, “Waaaait, so does this mean that Seokjin has to give Namjoon a kiss now too?” and Jin’s immediate, “NO!”

The noise jump starts your brain back into motion. You attempt to pull away from Taehyung, highly aware that your friends are subject to witnessing all of this, but he tugs you back, anchoring you to him with an arm wrapped firmly around your waist. The laughter from the laptop speakers turns into cries of outrage and then an abrupt return to silence with a click, and you realize that Taehyung must have closed his laptop, ending the Zoom call.

Looping your arms around Taehyung’s shoulders, you begin to respond to his kiss, eyelids fluttering closed. It’s new, it’s electrifying. But it’s also like something deep inside has finally clicked, like you’ve finally arrived. You’re home.

“Did you know?” you ask. “About me having feelings for you?”

“Yeah,” Taehyung admits. Heat rises to your cheeks at that, and you hide your face in his chest. Now that you don’t have to be seated on the floor to be in frame for the Zoom call, the two of you opted to move to the lumpy but still much more comfortable couch.

The gentle strokes of his hand in your hair is familiar and comforting, reminding you of the infinite patience he’s always shown to you. It’s a reminder that this is Taehyung. The boy you grew up with through thick and thin. Your best friend. And that gives you the boldness to continue despite your embarrassment.

“How? And when?”

“Honestly,” he trails off slightly, in thought, “I think it was Samantha who made me realize it.”

A pang of jealousy hits you. But you’re immediately wondering if it’s even warranted, now that you guys are… Well, what exactly are you? You make a mental note to clarify that.

“She was jealous, y’know,” he continues. “Didn’t want to say it at first, and tried to put up with it because she understood that our friendship is not something she could just expect me to give up.

“But it got to a point where things just couldn’t go on any longer. What she initially saw as discomfort that she would learn to overcome with time, soon became an awareness that the two of us were crossing the line of just friends, even if we hadn’t realized it at the time.”

Taehyung sighs, causing you to look at him. He smiles down at you, and skims your cheek with his thumb affectionately. “Maybe it’s because you’ve been here by my side all my life, that it was such a gradual thing and neither of us really realized it.”

“Yeah,” you mumble. “It was only after you began dating her that I realized how not okay with that I was. I thought it was just me being the possessive best friend trying to get used to having to share you. But then I realized I didn’t just want my best friend back. I wanted what she had.”

Swallowing hard, you remember the bitterness of the jealousy you felt back then, and that still recurs from time to time.

“What about you then? How did you come to recognize your feelings?” you ask.

“Samantha made me face up to them.” There’s a faraway look in his eyes. “One day she laid it all out, about us being more than just friends. And when I denied it, she asked me, would I choose you over her if I were forced into making that decision. The answer very nearly rolled straight off my tongue. And that was when I knew.”

“Is that why you broke up?” you ask. Taehyung nods. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, you silly girl.” He boops you on the nose. “I’m just thankful that Samantha was as understanding as she was about it. I think that’s why it took me a long time to get over it -- knowing that I’d hurt someone as wonderful as she is with my own blind ignorance.”

“And you too,” he says, leaning down to lay a soft peck on your lips. “I hated knowing that I’d hurt you because of my lack of awareness of my own feelings. That’s why I had to take my time this time around, to make sure that I know for sure.”

“Do you know for sure now?”

“Yes,” he says, holding your gaze with seriousness that has you swimming in its depths. “I’m yours now. Purely and fully.”

When you returned to your apartment the next morning, Irene was waiting to grill you on your whereabouts. It didn’t escape her notice that you hadn’t come back to the apartment the previous night, and she joked about how the vacant rooms in Taehyung’s apartment probably didn’t matter because you could always spend the night sharing his bed anyway.

And when you, blushing madly but holding your own nonetheless, informed her that she was right, well, you should have anticipated her squeals of excitement. “Tell me everything!” she had demanded.

You also should have anticipated the endless teasing that she would put the two of you through, especially in the Christmas season. After a trip out to the stores, finally taking a break from her Lifetime holiday movies marathon, she’d returned with copious amounts of mistletoe to hang all around the apartment, insisting the two of you make up for lost time.

But what Irene doesn’t need to know is just how much the two of you agree with her. Stealing a tiny sprig of mistletoe from around the house -- there’s so much that she wouldn’t even notice anyway -- you pack it into one of the clear baubles you’d bought for Taehyung’s Christmas present, nestling it into the box alongside the other clear baubles that were customized with pictures of the two of you.

#ficswithluv #bangtanhq #btswriterscollective #bangtanarmynet #btswritingcafe #bangtanfairygarden #btsbookclub #btswritersguild #taehyung x reader #taehyung fic #taehyung oneshot #bts x reader #bts fic #bts oneshot

170 notes · View notes

jostepherjoestar · 4 years ago

Note

I remember someone suggesting about the La Squadra child being Abbacchio or Mista’s nephew/niece and I was wondering if it’s ok to ask how would (I’m gonna go with Abbacchio) react to that?. Maybe before joining the kid was just a above average intelligent child but was still normal and now Abbacchio is confused as to why their stoic, cold and with a group of assassins.

La Squadra Kid backstory and relation to Abbacchio + general HC’s

Thank you so much for asking this, I’ve been meaning to summarise their backstory and how they ended up with La Squadra! This will be kind of emotional since it’s bit tragic imo. There’s also going to be some HC’s about our little bud so you can all get a feel at how I see them 😊

Long post!

CW: heavier subjects such as trauma, not fun situations for a kid to be in and usual gang related violence, mentions of abortion and mental illness

General HC’s

I’ve always imagined them to be around 7 to 8 years old, but unfortunately due to all that’s happened, their mind has been forced to mature a lot faster. Of course they should have never had to go through that but life isn’t that simple, especially for them.

Their name is Pomo, like an apple or a pommel :) thought it was a fitting and cute name! I’ll still refer to them as La Squadra Kid in titles but opt for Pomo while writing.

Pomo is not that tall for their age, just cute lil bean with puffy cheeks! I’ve decided to keep Pomo’s pronouns neutral, it just seemed to click more.

As far as their personality goes it’s been fun discovering them through your asks! Pomo is a quiet and stoic kid, they don’t smile that often but that doesn’t mean they’re not enjoying themselves.

They love drawing things as a way to express their feelings or the things they like. It’s a lot easier than verbally communicating for them. They’ll say what they need with the least amount of words necessary.

They’ve developed a weird sense of humour, very dry I’d say lol, also thinks it’s funny to scare Ghiaccio, who they know secretly likes them.

Pomo is quite independent and goes out by themselves, their stand is very powerful and kinda scary, even to their colleagues so they can handle any trouble coming their way. Pomo is slowly learning that they don’t need to do everything alone (i.e. asking for company after nightmares)

Though going out alone can result in people turning Pomo away in shops, that’s why Melone is their choice to bring along so it’s not weird a kid is just out alone spending money.

They’re also very glad to do tasks or things the others ask of them, they crave harmony and peace at home so Pomo will try to help achieve that in any way possible (unfortunately this is a result of trauma).

Pomo really likes La Squadra and sees them as their family now, knowing what member is better at offering different types of things and who to turn to for specific needs.

Their stand’s is named My Way (マイウェイ) after the Frank Sinatra song. It fits quite nicely imo, a force to be reckoned with doing it on their own terms.

And lastly, they do not like hugs or being touched that much. They’ll allow hand holding but only if they’re in a good mood, quick head pats are also ok. It really is touch and go with them, Pomo will let you know when they don’t like something.

Backstory and relation to Abbacchio

The world moved in a blur, the two lines on every single pregnancy test strewn out before her like nails getting hammered into her coffin. Suffocating while it was lowered into the ground, scratching and screaming for air, nails bloodied and raw as the reality set in that she was unmistakably pregnant. The panic followed, clenching her chest like a vice, threatening to shatter her heart and lungs in the process, gasping for air and wishing any other truth than this one. Abbacchio’s older sister wept for days, dark circles alternating with red swollen puffiness as the life she’d just started on her own already began to crumble.

The father of her child taking his exit as soon as she confessed her situation, knowing before she’d even tell him that he’d swiftly let her suffer in the mess. The thought of looking a doctor in the eyes, the cruel conversations she would have to endure before they’d let her suffer in uncertainty of the fate of her unborn child, making her choose to just endure it instead. Not that the choice would offer a softer outcome, it was her burden to bare, she thought. Whatever horrible things she’s done to receive such heartless judgement never occurred to her. The only thing the young woman was convinced of, is that she whole heartedly deserved it.

Her younger brother, growing up to be an impressionable adolescent, unsure how to care for his beloved sibling. His eyes always so full of innocent wonderment at his older sister, wanting to become as brave and independent as her. Living alone, working strenuous hours as if only this would make him worthy of the meagre salary of a rookie police officer. Slowly but surely he saw the woman he so admired creep away as her belly grew larger each month. Coming by often to check up on her wellbeing after school, spending nights or even weeks so he’d be by her side. All the while finishing up in high school. As his sister’s expression grew darker, the smiles fading and her laughter but a distant memory Leone Abbacchio could do nothing but stand by and let her lean on him.

The meagre support their parents could offer did little too ease her mind, the reality of becoming a mother and having nothing but emptiness to offer her child digging her ever deeper into the darkness that consumed her. She sobbed the day her child was born, little Pomo’s big eyes asking her if she was even worthy to hold the small babe. Every look at the child reminding her she had already failed, not even able to comfort their cries before feedings. Incapable of shushing them and finding the strength to coo at those tiny hands that ached to play and accept the warm touch of a caregiver. The young mother did what she needed, feeding the child and changing diapers. The depth of her troubles never easing as she had to go back to work, two different jobs needed to support herself and Pomo.

Abbacchio offered what he could, often babysitting and spending weekends at his sister’s cramped apartment. A child taking care of an even smaller one. The hope he held that his sister would regain her previous lust for life faltered. It only seemed to worsen as Pomo grew. The child never overtly fussed or cried, sleeping soundly and cooing gently whenever hungry. Those big eyes always seeming to bore straight through whoever leaned over the basinet to admire them. The child’s mother wished for it all to end, every night she’d pray to any god who would hear her desperate calls. But as she did only further hurting herself, her pleading like whips claiming penitence on her heavy shoulders.

She begged her younger brother to go out and make his dreams come true. “Never let your resolve falter Leone. Ever.” The voice that brought him courage, the broken woman’s words reminding him of the image he so admired once. But in pursuing his career as an officer it would mean less and less time to care for his dwindling sister and her child.

The night she told him the sisters of their local convent would relieve her of her child, the young officer held his sister for hours. The tears they cried filling an endless well of sorrow. It hadn’t brought the relief she thought she would feel, not a feather lighter as her child would be in more capable hands. Caregivers who weren’t afraid to look the toddler in the eyes as they searched your very soul for meaning. At merely four years old dear Pomo lay gently asleep in a different cot, in a stony building smelling of earth, heated by creaky copper pipes while sisters prayed in unison with beaded necklaces intertwining their palms. Praying for deliverance.

Abbacchio came by whenever he could, becoming more and more weary of his actions and the people he swore to protect as his career started to lack the fervour it had when he started out. Seeing Pomo grow into a silent and demure child, laconically learning to read and write, quietly pleading the sisters not to let their touch on their skin linger. Every stroke burning with an unknown memory that someone once held them, just once and decided to never do it again. Their very skin warding off any unwanted contact without even knowing why. A locked memory with a firm grasp on their being.

“Never let your resolve falter, Pomo. Ever.” The last words spoken to the small child before leaving. The lonely child left in the suffocating confines of the convent. Their uncle wouldn’t return for a long time, days spent hoping to see a sliver of his stark hair and bright eyes that had seemed to dull over time. But the child would never forget those words. Not even as the head sister punished them for not answering when spoken to, not when she would order them to remain on the prayer bench for hours as punishment, knees aching to settle as they were forced to remain. Their eyes boring through the other sisters as they came and joined them at their usual hours of worship.

Restraining the stand they were born with from acting out, self control being trained as they kept going, determined to let their uncle’s last words not be wasted on them. In the free time Pomo was allowed, they’d test out whatever the ghostly figure could, standing taller than them with thick black fog-like tentacles resting behind their back. Whatever those touched seemed to shrivel up like roses in wintertime. Pomo was intelligent, interested in more subjects than just his schooling that only seemed to bore them. The ease of the material offering no challenge as they completed tests with full marks, only making the head sister grow suspicious of them and unleashing more punishment.

Men in extravagant suits would visit the convent every so often, hushed whispers as they walked by the child who’d stoically stare as they passed. They’d always ignore them, scared of the glare and aura the child had started emitting. Many of the sisters had rejected the offer to tutor them when the previous one excused herself, feeling too uneasy by Pomo’s being. It didn’t hurt them, they just kept on doing what the sisters asked of them. Stay tidy, study and don’t get in their way. They had accepted their silence and aversion to touch, growing scared to try anything after the entire courtyard greenery was found shrivelled and dead mid spring. Every freshly planted flower grey and sad, the grass as crunchy as if it had just been burned to ashes. Pomo was sat comfortably on the stone bench that was placed there to admire the garden’s beauty. It wasn’t that they wanted it to happen. Someone just came too close and made them panic, not that it was clear to the sister that accidentally grabbed their shoulders while moving past them, the child remained calm, instead letting their stand take care of the burning sensation that crept over their body.

It was one of those days where a well dressed man would come by and whisper secretively with the sisters as they strode towards a private room and remained there until it was time to leave in an equal hurry. But this time a relaxed gentleman stepped out of the room with a large huff, stretching his neck and groaning loudly as he did. The taps of his heeled shiny shoes echoed through the stony arches of the hallway that led to the courtyard where Pomo had been toying a blade of grass between their fingers. Intensely staring at the green colour that stained his pads while their stand loomed over them freely. As the steps drew nearer, the child paid them no mind, instead grabbing a new blade and continuing the process all over. Soft padded steps made their way over casually until a large shadow covered Pomo. Hands rested in his pocked while his arms pushed back the sides of the loose suit jacket. The cigarette dangling from his lips bobbing after he took another intoxicating drag, puffing out the air harshly while peering at the kid.

“And who might you two be?” The man sunk down to a crouch, inspecting a small daisy that stuck out between the sea of green blades. “Pomo.” The child stopped rolling the tuft of grass as they processed his words. Two. Never had they met another who could see the figure that was their only friend. Unsure if the man posed a threat, he exuded a certain cocky confidence they weren’t sure they liked. “Nice to meet you Pomo. That other one looks a bit scary, don’t you think? But then again, you must be too. D’you mind showing me what they can do?” Offering a gentle chuckle as he gently pried, curious to see what this lonesome child could do, never having witnessed someone so young possessing a stand. It sure peaked the man’s interest as he twirled the daisy between his digits.

The amount of precision they possessed shocked him as the daisy was shot with a quick tap of a foggy black tentacle. It crumbled under his pads as he pressed it, letting it fall back onto the earth. Impressed by the ability and thoroughly interested in what it could do for him, the man proceeded. “Have you even killed someone with that?” There was no need to beat around the bush, that much was obvious when the child never seemed to have moved from their position, merely staring at the ground before them. A slow methodical dark tendril crept towards the man, stopping an inch before his polished shoe. Pomo turned their gaze upwards now, offering a look so unreadably neutral it made the man’s heart beat faster in fear, his many years in Passione not having prepared him to face another that lacked fear as much as the child in front of him. “Do you like it here, Pomo?”

A proposal started taking form in the man’s head, one he’d have to discus with his boss before acting on it. “No.” Clear as a bell their voice made a sinister hope grow, a hope that it would only take as little as just asking them to join up with Passione to get his desired answer. As an Advisor he’d have little hurdles in his way before bringing up the idea to his boss, being one of the only few allowed to even directly communicate with the mysterious man. “You seem fearless, to an unsettling degree, kid. If I asked you to kill a guy, would you?” Somehow the direct communication had been the most pleasant conversation Pomo has had in a few years, be it of a morally ambiguous subject, but refreshing to have another respect their space and not be afraid to ask what they desired of them.

“Are they bad?” The amount of troubling honesty behind the child’s harsh gaze making the man believe he’d met his fate, it had been like Pomo was asking if he deserved to live another moment, their stand still remaining at the tip of his shoe. “Not in their own opinion.” Clearing his throat to regain any sort of confidence, the kid’s eyes skipping through the pages of his soul, weighing his sins and good deeds. In reality they were doing no such thing, only weighing their options, grown tired of the convent and its inhabitants, aching to find any sort of family or support without even knowing it. “Ok.” As they gave their answer they chose to retract their stand, ending the conversation without another word. The Advisor’s sigh of relief deeper than any he had before, glad to be able to continue living.

The Boss was feeling generous, letting his Advisor know that placing the child amongst the men of La Squadra Esecuzioni could serve them well, perhaps make them regain any semblance of respect in the organisation. Opting out of putting their deadly stand in his personal Unità Speciale, fearing the effects of Cioccolata or Secco would build a threat larger than himself. Pomo agreed immediately, knowing it would be best to leave the sisters behind to pray for the child’s deliverance. Making their own money, be it a scanty salary, living with a group of other misfits and taking care of jobs here and there did not sound like the worst future for them. The sisters, terrified at the transfer, having no clue what the mafia would even want with the child, did not let the only person on the outside that cared for them know about the move. Too afraid of the consequences.

But after joining with Bucciarati, Abbacchio held great shame, afraid to face his sister’s child with those eyes that understood too much at such a young age. Fearing any visit would involve them with the tricky business he got entangled in, the little one becoming a distant and painful memory. If only he knew.

Further events take place after part 5 where everyone survives and La Squadra works under Don Giovanna. At Risotto’s request Pomo was left out of the fights regarding Trish and the Bucci gang.

While out with Melone to buy some more markers, Abbacchio felt like he’d seen a ghost. The familiar figure of his sister’s child standing next to a Passione assassin Bruno had fought not that long ago while he excitedly pointed out stuffed animals through the toyshop’s window. “Pomo?” Abbacchio had crept closer, carefully assessing if it were smart to approach. Melone had turned before Pomo could, eyeing the familiar gangster before him. “What do you need with Pomo?” Melone’s features hardened into a scowl while searching for their hand. All Pomo could do was stare up at their uncle they hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

“What’s going on, is everything alright Pomo?” That deep voice reminding them of when he last visited, the voice that told them to never let their resolve falter, ever. “First of all, answer my question. What do you want with them?” Melone stepped forward, never one to initiate conflicts but needing an explanation as to why Leone Abbacchio knew their teammate that had explicitly never been in contact with his side of Passione. “That’s my sister’s kid. Step down you idiot. I’m not here to start shit. Now answer me; what are they doing with you?” Abbacchio growled back at the lithe man, searching Pomo’s eyes for an answer. “Pomo is part of our team. Been so for almost a year now.” He calmed down as he remembered all the fond memories they’d made together, even after the horrible fights with the other gangster’s team.

The amount of shock and confusion Abbacchio felt was immeasurable. After many “what”’s and “how”’s Melone calmly explained that Pomo had quite the powerful stand and still wanted to be part of their squad. “We ask every once in a while if they still want this. Never said no so far.” Melone practically beamed, the other man still trying to process the explanation. Pomo quickly understood their uncle’s position as well, clearly another member of Passione as they connected the dots. That small kid has never hurt anyone -that he knew of- and now they’re an assassin already in possession of a stand? What the actual fuck. His knees began to feel weak, looking for support as he slid down the toyshop’s windowsill. “I’m sorry.” Hands scrambling at his scalp while he stared at the ground, despair filling every inch of his being. Another person he cared about thrown into the complicated landscape of Passione.

The little one reached out their hand at the man that had meant so much to them, one of the only ones to ever offer the child any semblance of a connection. Until Pomo met their new family. A soft pat on the uncle’s platinum strands, grazing the man’s overworked hands. Melone felt his intrusion, staring off into the crowd as he kept some distance, sure to be within ample reach; should anything happen.

Abbacchio had grown so much, learned that his life was worth living. Following his sisters’s advice to strengthen his resolve and to never let it falter like he did before joining Passione. But this one memory, this one being of the past had made its way back. The child he so lovingly took care of and the pain he felt to have left them behind crashing through him as he sat there. Remembering his capo’s words, his kindness and that look of care and understanding making him reach up to the little hand. Memories of them fussing over touches reminding him a hug wasn’t possible. As his eyes met Pomo’s, the ones that always understood the ones they looked in but never let you know what was being kept behind their own. “I’m sorry for leaving you.” He uttered, the small hand getting enveloped in his bigger ones, begging them for forgiveness. “I’ve missed you.” the child spoke, their expression ever unchanging as Abbacchio felt tears flood his eyes and spill onto his cheeks. The purple haired man that had been following along from a distance couldn’t help but blink away his feelings, pitying the small one.

“Never let your resolve falter.” Pomo repeated. The words they’d clung to, any semblance of purpose all pinned on the only advice they’ve ever received. “Ever.” Abbacchio replied, squeezing the small hand between his before wiping away the tears, his actions were forgiven but not forgotten. “Are you ready, kid?” Melone stepped back into reach, offering a hand to the man he’d called an enemy not too long ago, helping him up. A quick nod from the child, a sliver of relief finally being felt, their uncle was still safe and alive. “You know where to find us. Don’t hesitate to come.” Waving goodbye as they entered the store, Melone offering as much assurance he could muster for his now-colleague. But mostly in awe of the child’s strength, they really were something else, huh.

#cozy ask #worked quite hard on this one #really like the result too #jjba x reader #la squadra x reader #abbacchio x reader #melone x reader #jjba fic #jjba x y/n #jojo's bizarre adventure #jjba imagines #leone abbachio x reader #pomo

110 notes · View notes

petewentzisblack1312 · 3 years ago

Note

okay so since you know more than sarah could u give more info?? because i love learning about pete and his blackness as its literally never talked about ANYWHERE else. like thank god for tumblr tbh. sarah is genuinely the only reason ive ever known anything about him in that way but its always been limited so thats why i sent her the ask. i didnt even know ur blog. sorry for sending to her instead of you!!!

oh its fine!! im pretty new on the scene technically. while sarah and i were in the fob fandom at the same time in 2015 ish, i actually left tumblr completely and recently came back!! but anyway, lets talk about petes melanin (my beloved <3)

theres a pretty pervasive narrative, not just around pete but around any black and especially biracial celebrities that theyre ashamed of their blackness or arent "really" black. theres like. a looooooooooong conversation to be had within the black community about this, but to tldr it, the assumption is if you dont look black, you arent black, which for a lot of reasons isnt exactly the case. with him in particular theres a lot of stuff that contributes to this.

most people do not associate the alternative scene and emo especially with black people, so its easy to overlook a lot if someone isnt SUPER obviously black. pete has other ethnic features, like his nose, and is recognizable visually as black except for his skin color. except thats because hes been artificially lightened in photoshoots due to editing and (ALLEGEDLY AND POSSIBLY) lighter foundations. further, he relaxed his hair, which takes away another ethnic feature of his.

there is another aspect to this, which is that black people tan, noticeably and by several shades. you will not notice it if youre like seeing them continuously throughout the year, but as someone who lives in the caribbean and has spent some time in the states, the difference is stark enough to be noticeable. a lightskinned black person may look MUCH paler in the winter compared to in the summer.

in addition, the wealthier you are, the less time you tend to spend in the sun, so ive noticed that black celebrities tend to get lighter as they gain notoriety just because they have like more resources. the reason people from the caribbean tend to become lighter when we go to the states isnt because of less sun, during the summer thats not at all the case, its because the US is more developed so you dont HAVE to spend as much time in the sun.

besides that, hes like genuinely very loud and proud about being black, but all of those attempts are met with backlash. there was the reaction to his natural hair, the reaction to him with cornrows, and the reaction to his very emotional rant about the murder of george floyd. it happens in fobs music too!! ioh for example draws a lot of influence from choral and hymnal arrangements and soul music, not to mention jay-z and babyface working on the album itself, which led to them being labelled sell outs. they also just generally work with rappers more, with lil wayne on tiffany blews and big sean on srar, both of which also led to them being called sell outs. ab/ap as an album draws influence from rap/trap and mixtape culture in the way it was written (thats why its got so many samples), and subsequently got remixed. remember what happened next? mania draws a lot of influence from calypso and dancehall music and features burna boy singing in yoruba patois. that one led to the featured artist getting harassed en masse and multiple (worse) edits of the song without him on it. i dont like it here 💞.

that last point brings me to the fact that while pete definitely loves hardcore and metal, he also has always loved reggae and dancehall. hes half jamaican, spent time in jamaica as a child and listened to his grandparents records, which were. well. reggae and calypso and a little dancehall. if anyone ASKS him about it, hell talk about it willingly and candidly, theres an entire interview from during the hiatus (which i can no longer find rip) where hes asked about and talks about going natural and spending time in jamaica and listening to reggae, which heavily influenced black cards. he visited jamaica during the hiatus! although its unclear if he visited family since literally every news outlet that mentioned it was like "oh tropical getaway <3" unaware that thats where his folks are from

also heres that interview snippet sarah mentioned! i have the full page, its about the early days which is funny bc its just before futct.

theres also some poetry on sarahs blog that she found years ago thats VERY black. i dont like making it easy to find for nonblack people simply because the first time it was unearthed mostly white people were talking about it and the meaning of it went way over everyone elses head so i try to make sure that if people start talking about it they know going in that its about being black and biracial specifically and so that black fans dont feel the way i did when it first surfaced lol

all of this emphatically points to pete genuinely loving his blackness and not trying to hide it and it being something that majorly shaped his life, but genuinely being unable to talk about it bc of public perception.

sorry for talking your ear off!! if you have any specific qs i almost certainly have answers!!

#dils declares #i just kept going.#i just KEPT. GOING.

33 notes · View notes

pomegranates-and-blood · 4 years ago

Text

νοσταλγία (Chapter 7)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 3.0k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Ik I’ve been uploading a lot of chapters out of schedule, I’m sorry. The Saturday’s ones are never gonna falter, but I wanna upload a lil bit more and a lil bit more often. And on every two weeks on tuesdays I’ll keep uploading spinoffs, but I might upload an extra chapter during the no-spinoff week if the story is going too slow lol.

Anyways, idk if anyone reads these lol, but I’m gonna ask anyways that you please let me know what you think, and hope you enjoy this chapter/story. Thank you!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927

King Ivar talks in his sleep, who would have thought? His voice rouses you from a restless sleep, thinking for a moment he calls for you but it’s just rumbles as he tosses and turns. You sigh in the darkness, and suddenly it feels like the shadows are heavier than before, more suffocating, more…more real.

You don’t know where you are walking to, but you don’t stop until your bare feet touch the wet and cold sand.

With your knees pressed to your chest you keep your eyes on the waves breaking near the coast, closing your eyes and imagining the lull of the ocean is the same as the one you heard from the temple in Eleusis.

But the sand is rougher under your bare feet, the waves louder and more enraged, the wind is more biting and less forgiving. And you are alone, alone and defeated on a foreign land of cold and death.

So you open your eyes, because this isn’t home, and reach with cold fingers for the gifted knife you kept in your person despite the knowledge if anyone here wanted you dead you would be so.

Keeping your gaze on the horizon, you take a hold of the wind-swept tresses of your hair and cut a lock at the end of it. A mark of mourning and a mark for all the deaths you are responsible for.

Holding on tightly to the strands of grief, you extend a hand, a farewell to the Greeks that are not to return, an offering to this land that has brought you nothing but sorrow and heartache.

When you open your hand, the hair flows in the cold winds away from you, and you allow yourself a small prayer in Greek to Macaria to bless their sacrifice, to Thanatos for safe passage, to Persephone for warmth, to Hades for mercy.

And, in a selfish moment, you pray to every God in the Underworld not to summon you home just yet. For if the Fates allow it so, you will see to it yourself that the blood spilled is paid forth.

Because if the King’s word is to be trusted, sooner or later you will walk out of his land a free woman. You will return to Greece, even if you have to wade through blood to do so.

You close your eyes, and the faint smell of snowdrops fills your nose, reminding you of spring and loneliness, of teardrops and homesickness.

A part of you tries to follow the tug on your heart and listen to what the Gods try to tell you, but you’re left cold and alone when you try reaching for the Pantheon you’ve come to know your whole life.

The sound of gravel ruffling behind you startles you, and you turn around with a gasp and a strong grip on the knife Ivar gifted you, ready to at least leave whoever is coming to hurt you with a scar to remember you by.

But it is Ivar who approaches you, strong arms dragging him forward as he moves over the cold sand. His eyes stay on yours as he moves, reminding you for a moment of a serpent approaching its cornered prey.

Still, even if your mind refuses to accept it, your heart lurches in relief, and you loosen the tension in your body. Still you remain quiet as he finds a place sitting at your side, moving his legs with ease to stretch them in front of him.

You lower your gaze to your hands, and only then notice the wrong hold of the knife made you injure yourself. The faint streaks of blood in your pointer finger and near your thumb bring to the front of your mind the sting that comes with the wound you opened by holding the hiltless knife the wrong way.

After a moment of consideration, you bring your hand to your mouth and lick off the blood, letting the knife fall on your lap.

Stealing a quick side glance to the Viking has you finding his eyes on you with a strange sense of intensity in his gaze, a quiet sort of…something. You shrug it off, and stay quiet, but his irritated question is quick to break the silence.

“I woke up and you weren’t there.”

You’re startled and annoyed at the entitled tone of his voice, but you still shrug.

“I am a free woman, am I not?”

“So you were trying to escape?”

“You would stop me.” You reply without hesitation.

“And yet you still don’t fear me.”

“If you wanted to kill me you would have already, if you wanted to use me as leverage for court games you will need time to do so,” You swallow the shame, the dread, and continue as your eyes look blindly ahead, “And…and if you wanted to take me, you could have avoided all this and just asked.”

Silence stretches between you, and in a moment of weakness you turn your gaze to find his clear eyes already set upon you, seeking and demanding as they always have been.

“You wanted me.”

The tone of surprise, the slightly parted lips that draw your gaze down to his mouth, the way his eyes search your face; it all makes your foolish heart see him in a new light for a fleeting moment, in the light of the man you met in that moldy cabin that was never yours to begin with.

But you remind yourself of what brought you here, of what he truly saw when he looked at you: a foreign witch to conquer.

So, you remind him that the woman he met, the woman that lingered for moments too long on the lure of his eyes, on the curve of his smile, on his expressive gestures; the woman that thought foolishly she could be anything other than the name and titles bestowed upon her; the woman that started to trust him; that woman was gone the moment he put chains on you.

“I wanted the man I met in Aneridge, I have no idea who you are.”

And with just a few words, any trace of softness, any trace of vulnerability, any trace of that strange boyish glances he used to throw your way when you were just a Priestess and he was just a Viking, are gone.

King Ivar curls his nose in anger, lifting his head a bit as he warns you,

“I’m growing tired of your games, Priestess.”

“Kill me, then.” You bite out, even as your voice wobbles. Because you have heard the stories, you have heard the tendrils of voices not quite human reaching your ears. You know he is as cruel and as dangerous as the whispers say, you know he carries the favor of the Dread Lord, you know he was born to be ruthless, to die and return, to suffer and conquer.

But there’s a part of you that wants to test him, dare him.

Use your strength against me, hurt me, kill me. Make me know what I am to feel for you, make me disgusted, make me fearful. I’m tired of hope.

But Ivar just smiles, a cold and angry smile but a smile nonetheless, and turns his eyes head, choosing silence to reign between you until the sun comes up over those distant waves.

____

You approach the city encased in tall walls, and though awe at its size and life pulls at your heart, you cannot help but feel you are walking blindly into a cage.

There’s so many pale and distrusting eyes set on you, gazes persisting on the things that make you different to them: your dress, your hair, your face, your skin.

And you’re not stupid enough to ignore that even in the way you are brought to port you are separated from the other prisoners, from the Christians the Varangian has brought from across this sea. You sail in the same boat as their King, there’s a distance between you and the rest of the men and women in the ship, you are washed and unbound.

You stay silent, and watch raptly as the King moves away from you as the boat docks, discarding the crutch so he can lift himself up to the pier, and standing up again with help of the crutch and a nearby barrel. He lifts his gaze and immediately finds your own, and a cruel smile starts to spread over his face as he stretches a hand in a mocking gesture to help you up.

“Priestess.”

You take your eyes off his instead, and look down at your dress as you grab your skirts and lift them so you can safely move towards the pier. Standing at the King’s side -because you know he would not hesitate to call you to order, to demand your presence where he deems it so, to tug on the invisible chains around your wrists- you take a moment to look over the lively pier, filled of families reuniting, stands of fishermen selling their captures, slaves carrying baskets of goods around, lives blossoming past the winter that seems to pierce the air of this place.

“So this is to be my new prison?” You ask instead of voicing any other thought, a little delighted in the way you put the King on edge.

He doesn’t hesitate in reaching down and grabbing onto your arm, lifting your wrist between the two of you, his blue eyes challenge yours.

“You’re not a prisoner,” He repeats the lie, and although the mark of your struggle against the chains once set upon you is still there, he seems to want you to believe you are free. “You are my guest, Priestess.”

“Guest.” You repeat, and his eyes narrow, his nose furrows. It is too easy to draw out his rage, to get to see ragged edges and bled truths. And you will always prefer rage, prefer anger and chaos, over the mocking cruelty that’s the mask of the King of Kattegat.

He starts walking and the people move as to open a path for him, and considering your only option is to be left alone surrounded by these intimidating and foreign people, you bite your tongue and follow.

“You should be grateful, Priestess, your life could be so much worse, were you at anyone else’s mercy.”

“I know this is a mercy even if you have none,” You acknowledge, and the King stops walking, looking at you over his shoulder as you calmly walk to his side. You meet his eyes, and clarify, “I will still not thank you.”

He grunts as he turns back around, a movement of his head as he arranges his legs to move with the help of his crutch, and even if his back is to you, you still know he is gritting his teeth, the anger written in the lines of his back, in the huffs of air that leave his lips.

“I know, you still choose to hate me.”

“Ivar,” You call out with more softness than you intended to. After the King hesitates for a moment, enough for you to know he is listening, you reach his side again and in a voice that is almost a whisper you offer, “I will never look upon you with anything other than hate, as long as you are the one with all the power and I’m relegated to following your commands.”

____

You are given time as the King addresses his people to clean yourself up and dress up in some fresh clothing. The dresses that are offered to you, the hair ornaments, the earrings and the bracelets, they all scream of foreignness, of being away from home; so you choose to keep your old and stained red dress.

You are brought to the loud and vibrant main hall at the King’s request, and it is with a gesture he orders you to take a seat on one of the tables by his side, though he remains on his throne. You eye the people around you, laughing, drinking, dancing; the world around you moving on and on as if yours hasn’t flipped upside down.

And the stupid, childish, reckless part of you that has made you commit so many mistakes along the way; that part of you wants to refuse him, wants to stand your ground and deny him of any power over you.

But the ambient presses down on you, like the air when you reach a mountaintop, and the people are too loud and too foreign, and the only thing you’re familiar with in this cold and strange place is the eyes that burn like Greek Fire of the King.

So you take your seat at his side.

The way his cruel smile widens, regarding you like a dog that performed a good trick makes your blood boil. Your hands curling into fists and your lips pursing without your intent only seem to entertain him further, which makes the silent interaction a vicious circle you cannot seem to break out of.

“Good girl.” He mocks, because of course he does, because you are an open book and he is a cruel and insufferable man. But you refuse -and so does your self-preservation- to run your mouth, and instead play a game, like you were taught to.

“There’s a first time for everything.” You answer around a smile that the King starts to return, but a voice from somewhere further back in the hall brings your conversation to a close.

“The witch seems fiery. I wonder if she is that hard to tame.”

You were meant to hear those words and the laughs that follow, you were meant to feel the threat, the humiliation. You know this, but even knowing it cannot keep the crawl of your skin, the shame clogging your throat.

The Christians called you a Heathen. These Vikings call you a Witch. There may be a difference, but you cannot see it. Both will try to beat you or rape you into submission, both will see foreign as inferior.

Although you may not see the man that said those words, it seems that that King Ivar does. The cold eyes of someone that has killed for less and would again set on the warrior behind you, and even if curiosity begs for you to turn around and see their expression, you hold your place.

A mumble of apology reaches your ears, but it is not meant for you, so you say nothing. The King shows a quick and purposely false smile before raising his voice,

“Leave us.”

A multitude of questions arise, but again a glare from the volatile King silences any real questioning, and the room feels so much larger and cavernous once the men have left.

Ivar turns to you, studying you.

“So, Priestess.”

The tales your father used to gift you with of unarmed prisoners being thrown into a coliseum against lions and wolves and all kinds of predators are brought forth to your mind as you stand alone in that empty and cold hall.

“So, Viking.” You quip back, crossing your arms to hide the nervous tremble of your hands.

He studies you for a moment, finally asking, “What will you use your freedom for?”

“For the gift to choose, without fear you selling or giving me away like a barn animal.” You reply dryly.

“I can still do that.” He is quick to say, dangling threats over your head like it truly entertains him.

“Not without breaking your promise.” You say, not aware of how much relief his word gives you until this moment.

The King narrows his eyes, annoyance clear in his pale gaze, and stands up from his throne.

You hold your ground as he approaches you, but he instead chooses to sit in one of the chairs in the now empty table. Ivar motions with a bloodied hand for you to take a seat as well, the movement a flourish in mock recognition of your noble birth.

You sit, albeit stiffly. Drinking what you assume to be mead from a goblet, the Viking King regards you sideways.

“And what are these choices you will make, now free?”

You answer with the first thought that comes to mind, realizing too late you give away a little of yourself in the process.

“Find out what the Christians have done with Attica’s ashes.”

“Your kingdom?”

“My kingdom.” You sentence, and even after over a year of denying the people that traveled with you the right to call you Anassa, you realize now that you have been, albeit crownless, acting like it for so long.

After a few moments the Viking narrows his eyes, “You will not return there anytime soon.”

If it’s a taunt, if it’s a threat, you can only hear the stubborn possessiveness of a child refusing to let go of a new toy.

“But I will return.” You promise.

“How are you so sure?”

Looking to the hall around you, you ask, “You returned here, didn’t you?”

You could swear the King looks intrigued, impressed even, for a moment before he dismisses you with a gesture of his hand. He believes you, though, of this you are certain.

But he says nothing else, shrugging his shoulders and drinking deeply before engaging in discussion with one of the men at his other side.

You keep your eyes on the King, and although for a moment you are distracted from the braces around his legs, and the way they do not seem to work normally, when your eyes continue a path upwards and reach his shoulders and arms, you realize he does not need his legs to fight like the men that decimated Stithulf’s army.

You continue your path to his face, and study the braids that trail through the top of his head to the back of it, the proud edge of his nose, the shape of his lips, for a moment tainted with mead his tongue licks away.

The sound of tables and chairs being dragged brings your attention away from your…ogling. You lift your gaze to see two men in the middle of the hall shake off their upper armor and in the midst of laughs and cheers from the others, struggle and wrestle for victory in the middle of the hall.

It seems you are no longer the novelty in the room, and you allow yourself to relax in your seat for a moment.

_____

Hi, hope you enjoyed! I use flowers and animals a lot to point towards the Gods, either Norse or Greek, so: snowdrops are, according to where I searched, symbols of Freyja, created from her tears when she was first brought to Asgad from Vanaheim, and in her homesickness when the tears fell to the earth the flowers bloomed as snowdrops.

Also friendly reminder this Tuesday I’m uploading Ivar’s PoV of the Prologue! I would love for you to read it and tell me what you think. If you want to be added to the taglist, of course please let me know.

Thank you, hope to hear from you, and hopefully I’ll see you Tuesday! :)

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar x reader #vikings imagine #vikings #νοσταλγία masterlist

137 notes · View notes