#then they will grow curious of the rest of my page and get hit with maithall propaganda...

[maithall]

wake up, look for more maithall content (there is none). decide to take it upon yourself to make it yourself

blank ver under cut:

[nachrosas]

FIRST PAGE | s.reid x reader

summary: in wich you and spencer start the first page of a new chapter in your relationship together. pairing: spencer reid x reader content warnings: none, just pure fluff! word count: 772 a/n: i use twenty thousand leagues under the sea because it's one of my favorites (this and alice's adventures in wonderland), but you guys can imagine your favorites in the place of this one! hope you guys like it and feedback is always appreciated! also, my inbox is always open to chat (i love to talk and meet new people)! till the next one!

The soft sound of turning book pages filled the room, mingling with the discreet ticking of the wall clock. You were sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, with a cup of tea forgotten on the coffee table. The soft light from the lamp cast a warm glow in the room, creating a cozy refuge from the cold that hit the window.

The door opens slowly, and you notice when Spencer enters the apartment, a little hesitantly. His coat is marked by small snowflakes, and his hair is a little messy, as if he had run all the way here. But what catches your eye is the book he carries against his chest, as if it were something precious.

“Spencer?” you ask in a low, curious voice.

He pauses for a moment, straightening his hair, before coming closer. His gaze is soft, but there's also a layer of nervousness. It's the kind of look Spencer gets when his words mean more than he can immediately express.

“I… I brought something for you.” he holds out the book carefully. It's old, with a worn leather cover that has seen better days, but you still find it beautiful. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, is the classic you loved most in this world, and one of the first you mentioned when you talked about literature.

You pick up the book with care and surprise. The details of the volume show that it was chosen with care, not in a hurry.

“Where did you find this?” you ask, looking at him with a smile that mixes curiosity and affection.

Spencer swallows dryly, the corner of his mouth curving into a shy smile. “I… looked for weeks. I thought you deserved more than just any edition.”

As he opens the book, something falls gently into his lap: a makeshift, handmade bookmark. It's delicate, with a folded piece of yellowed paper and a carefully written phrase. Perhaps a quote he chose just for you.

“I wanted the first page of something important to me to be with you.”

His voice cuts through the silence, low but firm. When you look up, Spencer is standing in front of you, his eyes fixed on the bookmark, as if he's afraid of what might come next.

“Maybe…” he continues, his voice softer. “Maybe we can start a story together?”

The silence that follows is charged with meaning, as the bookmark rests between the pages, an invitation as symbolic as it is real.

You held the book between your hands, your fingers carefully tracing the aged cover, as if absorbing every detail of the gesture. Spencer's presence at your side was a silent constant, but you could feel his nervousness hanging in the air. When you looked up, you met his attentive gaze, brown and deep, as if he was trying to decipher your reaction.

The makeshift bookmark rested between the open pages, with its delicate little drawings and hand-picked words. Something so simple, but loaded with meaning. A beginning.

“Spencer.” you called softly, the smile growing on your lips. “I think it would be an incredible story.”

His shoulders relaxed almost instantly, and the small sigh that escaped his lips was one of pure relief. Spencer smiled in that shy way that only he knew how to do, a smile that always seemed a little uncertain, but full of tenderness. He opened his mouth to say something, perhaps to fill the space with some nervous rambling, but you interrupted him, laying a hand on his.

“I want to. I want to write this story with you.”

Those words seemed to echo between you, subtle but strong enough to imprint themselves on the moment. Spencer nodded, his eyes shining with that intensity he had when something touched him deeply. It was as if, for him, those empty pages symbolizing the future were already full of promise.

You closed the book gently, leaving the bookmark visible between the pages, as a reminder of where it all began. The tip of the paper protruded outwards, simple and unassuming, but representing so much more: a new chapter, not just in a book, but in your lives.

Spencer looked at the marker and then at you, an excited gleam in his eye. “Then let's get started,” he murmured, his voice low but loaded with meaning.

Outside, the world continued at its fast pace — the snowflakes hitting the windows, the rustle of leaves on the trees — but there, in the shared silence, there were just the two of you. That old book, the makeshift marker, and the promise of a story to be written together.

[mitamicah]

Gig repport: Restaurant Backas, Vantaa July 3 2024

Here follows my experiences with Käärijä (and HUGO) at Restaurant Backas, Vantaa on July 3 2024.

It was also the day of the (main part of) kääryle summer camp organized by @bisonaari - thank you so much for a great event <33

Given I couldn’t sleep and lived only 10 minutes on foot from the venue I went there early to hang out with the queue. The queueing was very laid back – gave me the biggest Joker Out in Malmö vibes (big compliment btw since that is my favourite Joker Out gig I’ve been to so far). @j-restlessgeek joined the queue at 9 and @jaarijani at 12; the three of us then headed to the Käärijä mural to meet up with the rest of the summer camp, take group pictures and go to the local library for a “picnic” (it was raining). The picnic was peak coziness with trying out snacks from everybody’s homecountries, writing in each other’s fanzines/books/clothes. It was amazing meeting old friends (like @carpblu and @formulalakana – the Berlin trio back together <3) and great folks I have not been able to meet irl yet like @tuherrus and @icbimakb.  

My low number in the queue gave me my first real barricade spot at a käärijä concert, although I felt a bit bad at times running away from the spot to talk with other fans and to chat with Häärijä, Tiia and Jesse asking them to write on my shirt (wore a big white tee asking people to write stupid stuff on it). The first thing I noticed when meeting häärijä was him having the @kaarijazineofficial in his hand, so I blurted out: “OMG YOU HAVE THE ZINE!!! I DREW YOU!” which earned me a smile from the boy.

Me and Häärijä:

After two hours of bonding the first of two artists went on stage; HUGO and his band. I didn’t know his music but I vibed.

Inbetween HUGO’s set and Käärijä we were given chips by the security (which I’ve never experienced before at a concert) and we were sharing snacks we’d been allowed inside even with the ‘no food’ rule set by the venue.

Jesse arrived and did his little show taping down the setlist, and Skull managed to glance Paidaton Riehuja on the set. Then we saw Mikke and his gf/wife and child arrive where I turned into the annoying fan looking at Mikke and then pointing at a sticker for him to come and get it.  At the end he shook his head, light heartedly called me crazy and grabbed the sticker.

In my opinion this set turned into the best Käärijä one I’ve witnessed yet: he played all the big hits (Huhhahhei, Rouska, Viulunkeili, Välikoulema, Kot Kot, Cha Cha Cha) but also some deeper cuts (Paidaton Riehuja, Klo 23) and doing it all being the biggest sunshine and yapping very humbly about his experiences growing up in Vantaa among other things thanking a PE teacher from 6th grade for believing in him and also later jokingly saying a nearby seagull flying close to the stage was lucky to get a free concert. Jere even shouted me out twice first noticing my Danish flag and that my hair was cut like “his old hair”, and the second time calling me “Denmark Guy” when pointing out my Bulbasaur cap. The second time I didn’t know what to even say so I started “Are You”ing him, which he responded to (!!!) before seemingly starting daydreaming for a second before asking the crowd who’d go to Ruisrock (subtle).

After the show I stayed around determined to get the setlist using my somewhat-tall privilege to get it. Me and Cass fanboyed over seeing a truck with the licence plate ‘TRAFFIC’ on it at the bottom of the page (this together with Häärijä writing ‘Häärijä Hojan Hoost’ on my shirt made us very sus). While walking around giving my last stickers away I met with my fellow dane @solsortemor that gave me a lovely custom bracelet and showed me the video she’d taken of one of the banters I’d gotten with Käärijä. She’d later drive me back to the Airbnb so I could get her the bracelet I’d made for her. Being curious however I went back to Backas afterwards to see if the crowd in front of the gate was still there (they weren’t so I figured neither was Jere). Then I took advantage of Alepa being open 24/7 (I already miss this!) and bought myself some breakfast till the next day before going home and being too hyped to sleep for hours.

Trinkets from the show v

Official tour shirt, Book with messages from @smimon @tuherrus @j-restlessgeek @follivora @wednesdayday @king-krisu and @bisonaari

Quebec mascot magnet, Canada postcard, KSC bracelet and bracelet clip from @bisonaari

Two stickers from @smimon

Cornpea John sticker from @omppupiiras

Personalized Häärijä bracelet + Morgan bracelet from @carpblu

Ihan Sama, Bojan Titanic and Paidaton Riehuja bracelet from @formulalakana

Honorary Pöyhönen and spiked bracelet from @j-restlessgeek

Green Lantern Guy bracelet from @solsortemor

KSC bracelet from @teal-skull

Strength tarot card from @tuherrus

Cat drawing w. message from @katinkulta

Pokemon card I'd found on the road (as you do)

Tequila bracelet (forgotten from whom)

The setlist (!!!)

Traffik bracelet, Kris and Eevee stickers from @jaarijani

Wisconsin postcard from @clovermoonspell

[strangersatellites]

maple syrup, coffee, pancakes for four

a cute little steddie dads ditty based on this tweet

Steve chuckles under his breath and flips the page. 

He’s got his back against the headboard in the low lamp light. It’s late and he’s reading some goofy romance novel that Max left for him last time she was over. Something about people on vacation. He doesn’t really know or care but it’s kept his mind occupied long enough.

Eddie’s sat at the other end of the bed, taking breaks from lightly strumming his guitar to jot down melodies or lyrics or whatever it is he writes in that notebook of his that he carries everywhere.

When Steve tries to start the next page the words stop being about the shitty hotel the characters are at and they start being measurements, instructions. 

He slams the book closed in his lap and tugs off his glasses, gets Eddie’s attention and meets his eyes, curious.

“Do you think we should’ve gotten chocolate chip instead?”

Eddie rolls his eyes with a smile and sits his guitar beside him. Huffs a laugh under his breath as he crawls up to wrap both long arms around Steve’s waist.

“Well,” he drags it out, dramatic as always, “Since both of the girls said they liked blueberry better, I’m putting my money on blueberry being the better option.”

Steve’s weighing the options in his head, nodding because he knows Eddie’s right.

“I know, Robbie flips out every time we have regular pancakes but,” he huffs, runs a hand through his hair, “It's pancake day. It has to be perfect. Do we even have syrup?”

Eddie pulls his head back from where he’d rested his chin on Steve’s shoulder, his eyes now less amused and more confused.

“Okay, I thought we were stressing because it’s her first sleepover, what in the world is pancake day?”

Now Steve’s the one who looks confused, down-right offended.

“Uh, hello? Didn’t you have pancakes on Saturday morning after every sleepover growing up?”

Eddie wrinkles his eyebrows up. “No? Uncle Wayne woke us up and took us to the diner.”

And, well. Steve can forgive that. 

“Oh. That sounds pretty fun actually.”

Eddie snorts. 

“Yeah it was. It was probably just an excuse for him to go see his lady friend but I wasn’t gonna turn it down.”

Steve laughs and smiles at the thought of a grumpy Wayne trying to hit on the waitress and a child version of Eddie flicking eggs across the table.

“I wish I could’ve seen that.” He drops a kiss to Eddie’s temple before he continues. “When I was a kid, my mom always made a big pancake breakfast with syrup and whipped cream and sprinkles and it was the best part of the sleepover. I’ve always wanted to do that for Robbie.”

Eddie’s smile is soft and he’s tangling their fingers together over his lap. 

“Aaaaaand now that she’s old enough it has to be perfect. That right?”

Steve nods, lets out the breath he was holding in, lets some of the tension seep right out of his own skin and lets Eddie carry it for a while.

Eddie shifts and tugs Steve so that his head is tucked just near where his guitar pick sits in the hollow of his throat.

“Well, lucky for you, when I took the girls to Rob’s room for bed earlier, when I kissed her good night she told me this was the best day ever.” He tightens his arms around Steve and he can hear the smile in his voice. “I think you could feed them cereal and they’d think it was Christmas morning.”

Steve can’t help the smile on his face at the happiness that his daughter brings him. At the idea that letting her friend spend the night is the best day she’s had in the six years of her little life. Thinks that it might be top five days in his own thirty-two.

He snuggles down further into Eddie’s arms and laughs when the man huffs and reaches to turn off the light.

He kisses his chest and closes his eyes.

“Good night, Eds.”

“Good night, baby.”

He falls asleep to the sound of Eddie’s breathing and the hushed giggles down the hall, more excited than he’s maybe ever been.

Eddie’s set an early alarm to go check for syrup.

[thanatoast250]

Every piece of Bloomacncheez has slowly disappeared off the internet. YouTube, Wikia, etc. They’re entitled to their privacy but I’m just curious if they’re okay. Did they finish college? Did they reach their dreams of working in animation? Things I think about some time.

Hey there, Anon

Bloo's DeviantArt is still up along with her Tumblr pages (main and art here) and Twitter, but if she has started using social media again, it isn't under her BMNC moniker.

Her main YouTube page has been down for quite a long time due to some old Copyright issues. This was way back in the old day when Viacom and Universal were hellbent on striking anything and everything that had semblance of their properties, and her page got hit with a bunch of issues from her old parodies. She and I tried to fix it a long time ago but once College time got around, we were both just so busy that we didn't end up getting around to it.

Her Wikia page was deleted because I didn't feel comfortable with how it had been used in the past. When I found out that it existed, I was super excited because it was something I could have worked on and just been a nice thing for her. But I also found out that people were using it to allegedly stalk her; since Wikia/Fandom pages can be edited by anyone, there were anonymous users using it to talk about how she disappeared and how they "found her" and were "watching from the shadows". It was super creepy and I started to clean it up, making the whole wiki nice and pretty and cleaning out as much as I could that would lead people to trying to stalk her or The Classy Peanuts. I became the Content Administrator, so I had full rule over what would and would not be posted, and I made several pages about her, her parodies, characters, and the many people that were either working on or going to work on the stuff (including one for myself that I was going to finish up last).

But the longer I worked on it the more I felt like something was off, and considering Wikia/Fandom doesn't like it when Wikias/Fandom pages are made about IRL people, I reached out and asked a moderator/developer about whether the work I was doing was safe or not, since I didn't want to put either her or any of the other Classy Peanuts (or really anyone) in danger of stalkers and the like. He told me that if that Wikia/Fandom were made today, it would likely be shut down for precisely the reasons/concerns that I had, even though Bloo didn't ever post anything about her IRL life outside of her birthday (I knew about a little bit more about her life, but I never shared any of it, obviously) and there wasn't going to be anything about her or the Peanuts' IRL lives on there. So that being said, I figured that the safest course of action would be to delete the Wikia/Fandom. I have all of the pages downloaded/archived on my computers in the chance that I ever get back in contact with Bloo or one of the Peanuts reaches out to me and says it's okay, but as it stands, the Fandom is down and will not be returning for their safety and respect. So I personally apologize for that.

However, I was informed that I could probably make a page for her on Wikitubia (I think that's what it was called?) because her page has over 10k subscribers, which is the minimum requirement for having a page. I was told that Fandom has more moderation that would help with keeping people from stalking her or posting irrelevant or personal information. It's currently in my ever-growing list of projects, but it'll be up eventually. Probably.

As for the rest of your questions, I can't say. The last time I talked with Bloo was when she was still in college, but she was trying very hard to stay focused and buckle down for everything. There were parts of our interactions and conversations that gave me concerns for her. She was under a lot of stress, and her taking a break from Tumblr (and online in general) was a good thing for her. She was in her final year of college the last time I spoke to her, so I imagine that she did graduate. A lot of her courses and focuses were in Illustration, and she was phenomenal at it, so I like to think that she ended up working what she wanted to. She's a strong person, so I like to believe that she overcame the stresses she was under and did achieve her dreams. At the end of the day, though, I can't give you any direct confirmations though; the last time we talked was back in 2015 or 2016, and her email closed due to inactivity a couple years ago.

The only other people that I can think of that would be able to help you or anyone else more than that are the other Classy Peanuts who knew her IRL because they lived near her and hung out all the time. But the last time I talked to one of the Peanuts they just told me, quote, "if we don't share details about our lives with the public/internet, it means we don't want anyone knowing". Granted, I wasn't exactly level-headed when I asked about it; the last couple conversations I had with Bloo had me concerned for her safety and health, so I was kind of a wreck and very pushy with this person. It's definitely a conversation I could have handled better, though I suppose there's not much I can do about it now.

I think about BMNC a lot, too. I think about all conversations we had, all the times before then where we helped each other get through hardship, all the silly back-and-forths in the early hours on weekdays despite us having classes in the morning, all those fun times. They're good memories and help me keep going when I'm feeling crummy. I still send her Happy Birthday messages on her DA and Tumblr in the off chance she sees them.

I'm sorry I can't be of more help, though. I wish I had more answers for you and all of the people that come to me about it. I don't mind answering questions, I just feel bad that I can't give good and satisfying answers to them.

[ilovethecolorblue]

“Welcome To The Digital Circus”wh au

Reminder this is based off my initial theory’s for the show and this is still some what a concept so their might be some plot holes and such. Either way I made this aU just for fun. 🥲

(This au is based off my theory's for the new animated series the amazing digital circus I made this 4 -2 days the show premiered)

The au would be based off 

All the characters we see in the show got sucked into this digital world.So technically they would all be humans before they turned into any kind of puppet.

They all are somewhat self aware that they're stuck in a digital world. They all tried to escape after arrival but each of them slowly gave up and accepted the fact that they're stuck in this weird wacky world where the host wally darling is always up to playing quiet dangerous games. They often pass the time with each other or wondering about in this digital world. 

Wally darling seems nice and innocent on the outside but he is the fully self aware one he knows everything. Wally likes to mess around with y/n and the rest of the cast by playing these deadly games with the neighbors the majority of the time they get hurt but they seem to never die by the end of it.He also likes to mess with them by snapping his fingers together they ended up in some sort other realm in the digital curious sometimes he accidentally snaps them to a different wh au completely which they may meet different au characters on the way. Sometimes wally appears to have weird swirls floating around him sometimes even eyes but only seems to happen when he zones out.

Don't ask him too many questions....

one day y/n found this odd website... It was full of puzzles and some codes which most of them were pretty normal and easy till they found a secret page that needed a special code.y/n would eventually crack the code and hit enter.......

after that y/n would wake up in this bright colorful world they would sit up confused as they do so they rub their head but something was off ....they would look at their hand and realize they've been turned into a puppet! And that they're in this odd outfit.

During y/n's journey throughout this world they would anxiously try and figure away out which has led through all kinds of interactions and adventures.

Throughout the story y/n would meet the cast of characters. Some of them are really kind while others can frankly be grumpy.

Y/n would express how they want to leave and how they don't want to stay and some of the puppets don't understand what they're trying to say.Some of them have been stuck in this digital world for too long to even remember who they were in the real world and for those who did remember they would take y/n aside and try telling them that there isn't a way out but y/n doesn't listen they.want.to.get.out

So against the puppets advice they go off searching alone. Along the way they met Wally Darling which didn't go quite well and they were sent back immediately to the others. 

Some time passes and y/n's anxiousness only grows more as they slowly begin to forget their name.

They once again talk to the puppets about leaving this place and wanting to get out.

Against the puppets bitter judgement they agree to go on this quest of finding a way out. They agreed mainly for the adventure but some of them still have hope about getting out.

During the rest of this story we will follow y/n along with the cast of them trying to find a way out along the way they will have some bumps in the road such as new rooms and wally himself trying to sabotage them.

[stupidiry]

Watercolour (Part One)

(A short drabble for my babies aka Kawi and Pisaeng)

He was eleven when it started; those alienated feelings, the otherness, the void but it was now long gone. He has learned to control them. It was only thing to do because he knew he was not like the others. It's been hard but not insufferable.

However, on the first day of his university, he only wanted to get along with everyone but the otherness- that feeling will just not leave him alone.

“They are what I pretend to be.” he mumbled, quoting his favorite book.

“What?” He heard someone from behind ask. Pisaeng turned around, flustered that he was talking aloud, even more so because someone heard him.

“Uh- nothing.” he replied, his ears going a little red.

“I'm Nott, by the way.” the boy said, waving his hand.

Pisaeng smiled, finally a friend.

“I'm Pisaeng,” he replied.

“So we have a homo in our class.” Nott said, quite nonchalantly, leaving Pisaeng speechless.

“how did you...thats not...I’m not-” He proceeds only to find a lump growing in his chest, making him unable to speak.

Nott looks at him, eyes big behind the round glasses he's wearing. He gives him a look that Pisaeng couldn't comprehend.

“What? Look over there,” He points towards the door, “They are definitely homos.”

Pisaeng looks at the door. There are two boys standing there, one has got pink streaks on his head, the other one, however, is looking down. By his demeanor, Pisaeng could guess that he was nervous. The taller guy, one with pink streaks, puts a hand on the shorter one’s shoulder and mutters something while giving him a pat on the shoulder and going away. The shorter one remains on the door, hands clutching tightly at the straps of his tote bag, before he turns around.

Its almost as if a switch turns on for Pisaeng, as if his weird feelings are taking a direction but he has no say in it neither can he control it. He keeps staring and staring as the guy makes his way to the back of the class, hiding himself from the spotlight but no matter which dark corner he chooses, his light was strikingly at contrast, making him the most visible in Pisaeng’s brown eyes.

*Three years later*

“He's such a heartthrob. I can't believe he's still single.” Kawi says, looking at Pisaeng from afar while resting his elbow on the table with face on his palm.

Eyes away from his book, Max gives him a knowing stare which clearly indicates how done he is.

“If you were interested in boys, you should've just said so.”

“Huh! I'm not!” Kawi says, weighing his words from before and how easily they could be misunderstood, “I was just saying that because Pear is in love with him and he won't fucking make a move. If he doesn't want her, he should just move aside.”

Max smirks, moving his finger to turn to the next page.

“He's being my competition for no reason.” Kawi mumbles, taking a bite from his food.

“Is he though?” Max replies, finally putting his book down.

Kawi gulps down the food before replying, “why else would he always lead Pear on?”

The other shrugs, “Maybe it's Pear making a move on him.”

“Impossible.” Kawi defends, feeling the urge to win this argument, “she’s not the one to hit on others and…and if she was- if she really was, why would anyone reject her? Why would he keep rejecting her? it doesn’t make sense. She’s everyone’s dream.”

Max raises a brow.

“Well not you but you know what I mean.”

He laughs, stroking his pink hair out of his face. “If it’s really what you say, then Pisaeng has no reason to reject Pearmai -except maybe for the fact that he likes someone else?”

“Someone else?” Kawi jolts up, “Who’s that idiot?”

Max shrugs, taking a bite of his well-ignored food. “You seem curious.”

“Of course I am,” Kawi replies, “I want them to be together so he can stop being my competition and I can finally hit on Pear.”

“BodKawi?” They hear a voice. A male voice. The voice. Kawi already has a look of disgust (or was it anger?) on his face.

Pisaeng’s face is radiant as ever. His voice, now gotten rid of the insecurity and void, is more appealing.

“The coach wants to introduce to new members to the basketball club. Are you interested?” He asks, with a glint of hope.

“No.” Kawi replies, with a straight face.

Kawi might be an idiot, Max thought, but he was not.

“How many names have you gotten yet?” Max asked, looking at the way Pisaeng’s eyes were drawn to Kawi. It’s almost as if there was something in them, something that he couldn’t comprehend. He wasn’t sure if Pisaeng himself knew what it was.

“Oh. Not much. I’ve only started collecting now.”

“And Kawi was the first person you came to?” He asks, watching the way Pisaeng fumbles with the pen he’s holding.

Pisaeng almost looks shocked by the question. He looks at Max for a good few seconds before drifting his gaze to Kawi (who’s mindlessly zoning out) and finally looks down at the ground mumbling, “I’m sorry to disturb you two.”

Kawi’s aimless focus is back at his words but he doesn’t say anything.

“Apology accepted. You can go now. Kawi doesn’t like playing basketball. He’s not really an athletic person.”

Pisaeng nods, lips tied.

Almost deviously, Max hands out his plate to Kawi, “I’m full. Would you like to eat some?”

And that drives Pisaeng to go away. Max eyes him the whole time and sees how he angrily waddles out to the other end of the cafeteria where his friends are. He also notices how Pisaeng practically tosses the pen and the clipboard to the table. There’s some conversation going on but it’s out of reach.

“Well. That’s news.” He says, smirking.

“What news?” Kawi asks, now finishing off Max’s food.

“Oh nothing,” Max continues smirking, “Just global warming,”

[thewitchoftheweed]

Hello! I hope your week is being kind to you. Mine is gonna be a oven for the rest of it. Here are two pages of sketches of Red Star AU I hope you'd like:

Explanation for each sketches, sorry if they're too pale.

Left:

I had to do a LOT or erasing and redraws to get the angle of the face and smile and perspective right on this scene of Hamal threatening Leshy, curse my ambitious ass. Sorry if it doesn't hit hard enough.

Height comparison between Leshy and the cult's cats! I put Bush Boy between 192 to 189 cm, and Kiki is a 165 cm. Also have a naked Kiki in midst of a Lust Rite, and a human version of her! Also Leshy's face when he still has his eyes before Narinder gets chained and imprisoned.

Attempt of doing a Coltober! I did the "Bones Are Needed" for your Hamal, see them inspecting a broken one, and if you're curious about the Lamb below eating hearts that is my own Lamb OC named Tally. If you're curious about this unhinged fellow you can ask me about it. I wouldn't mind.

Now for the right page:

This is the human version of them first meeting each other, and the silk robe bar scene. I hope it feels accurate to your description of Kiki's face, it was really detailed which I like and appreciate but also OH BOY THE RESEARCH

Human Leshy! I made his face small but thin, with a pointy chin and nose, with mismatched eye arrangments, see his eyebrow on his right being in the middle of his right eyes and the left one is on the top of his two left eyes. Thick branches grow on the side of his heads, which are broken off and never grew back right after Narinder. I gave him a spiky bushy mullet like these

gonna give him an "annoying chaotic prat" look. Also have him freshly wounded from Narinder, both normal and human version of him. His crown is trying to heal him there.

I'll give you the rest of the pieces in the next ask.

More doodles!!! Sorry it's taken me a second to respond to this/your other asks. I've been super busy at work, so I haven't been on social media much here lately.

I love your depiction of Kiki! She's so fluffy and sweet looking. You always have such great takes on little scenes, like the Lamb threatening Leshy or Kiki talking to him about her robes.

The human forms are cute too- I can absolutely see Leshy having hair like that!

Thanks again for always sharing your doodles. As always they're all wonderful!

[angel-lopes2000]

How to help a delicate butterfly.

------------- Synopsis --------------

Brick had been awake to a traumatized Carrie, claiming to God for thinking she sinned for having a period, now Brick need to care of her and help her to understand things and heal herself from previous events. It's a soft and tender short story about Carrie White and Brick Campbell.

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

It was an autumm dawn. Brick was sleeping peacefuly, laying in side of his loved one and dreaming about his tender childhood memories, be playing with the boys from his old neighborhood, be smearing from cake batter while his older sisters used to watch ''I Dream of Jeannie''. However, sobs and cries could be heard even during sleep. When he get up, he found a kneeling Carrie, claiming God for forgiveness.

"Carrie. Carrie, my baby.'' He touched the hand on her head, who open the eyes and jumped in scary, for noticing she was out from bed.

''Why were you crying?'' He asked.

''I was feeling a lot of pain. After returned to bleed, I dreamed God was punishing me through the pain, and I was claiming for mercy even by impure thoughts.'' His expression changed for melancholic after empathizing for his girlfriend' pain.

''My love, this just cramps.'' He grinned, passing comfort to the girl.

''Cramps? What is it?'' She asked, not understanding anything.

''Come here. Let me to bring you to kitchen cause' I'll tell you.'' Carefully, Brick carries the girl in his arms like a baby. And walking on kitchen's way, he sat her to rest on chair while boiled a water to make a relaxing tea.

''So, which's a cramp, Bricky?'' She asked, still curious.

''Oh yeah, I've forgot!'' He answered in giggles. ''Well, honey, this kind of thing is nothing as menstruation' consequence. Sure, it's painful but the good is this temporary and only happens few days for each month.''

''Oh, I understand. So this mean isn't God punishing me for it?''

''Of course no. What would God punish you for something that is commom to all woman?'' He picked some kettle and pulled the tea on Carrie's cup, putting more chocolate cookies on plate.

''It's because Mama told me that God punished Eve for being weak and then, he got a Crow named Sin and then a Curse of Blood and that intercourse was the first sin.''

He moved the head in negative, outraged about his passed mother-in-law's biggest ignorance. ''So, two options: Or she really didn't know the Bible or had I read wrong in my whole life. Because which I read and learned is God punished both Adam and Eve for disobeying Him to eat the Forbidden Fruit. And Genesis book never mentioned Crow, Curse of Blood and neither Intercourse being the first sin.'' Brick picked some Bible that showed all pages since the Creation to God's Punishment after Forbidden Fruit.

Carrie read all the pages and notice about how wrong she had been taught about all religious concepts in her whole life. She got angry and disappointed.

"Calm down, love. I know how frustrating it can be, but I'm here to help you everything. And if you need me to read the Bible and teach you which is right, I can do with all pleasure.'' He hugged her while stroke her hair. Carrie thanked but apologized for anger. Everything she had learning for years was a lie.

"To think that I've lost all my growing because the darned religion.'' She hit the hand on table.

''I can understand and I'm so sorry, baby. But look, we're together, living into a new house and new life - everything you lost, you can take it back. Remember, nothing's late.'' He grinned, trying to cheer her.

''Yeah, you right! I can play outside, watching cartoons and wear any cutie clothes or even meet new people and have more friends." Now, she looked like an excited child.

''This right, baby! And here at home, you can be sure that you'll only have a lot of little kisses and many hugs.'' Carrie kissed his lips and thanked him with a tighty hug on her old best friend.

''Thank you so much, my Bricky!''

"No problem, princess! Now let's have some tea while it's still warm.'' She agreed and drinked the camomile tea. Eating the chocolate cookies. Brick learned by his sisters that chocolate and camomile were perfect for helping during the period. Carrie shared some cookies to Brick and the boy accepted.

Later, Brick left all things on sink and carried his girlfriend to living room. Sitting on couch and watching some cartoons as ''Scooby-Doo'', ''Pink Panther'' and ''Tom & Jerry'', Brick brought her a warm compress and put down her belly. After it, the boy sat on couch and the girl laid on his arms, falling asleep into a tight embrace.

-------------- The End --------------

[linkman447]

Jaune: granny you said you’d make them pay not castrate them

Salem: I am making them pay jaune

Jaune: I was thinking like lien not you know “good bye lady parts”

Salem: young man those two (points to yang and ruby) are arcs now and what do we do when you mess with an arc

Jaune: impregnated their females

Salem smacks her forehead: darn it I knew I was looking at the wrong passage

She takes her arc law book and sees 2 pages stuck together

Salem: damn jelly doughnuts so good yet so messy… ah her yep grudges against arcs shall be dealt with by impregnation of the whole female line of the family’s

Raven: fuck

Summer: does this include vernal as well

Raven: shut up sum

Summer: what I’m just curious I mean he’s fuck our daughters and now us

Raven: I’m not doing that

Suddenly both are hit with magic

Salem: horny beam ( leans towards jaune) and that how I got my first grandchild your ancestors, my first male heir well he was a Dense one and Much like you and the rest head

Pyrrha: hello again

Salem: who just couldn’t get him to notice I intervened

Raven: arc boy

Jaune: yes ….😳😳😳😳

Two milfy women naked as the day they were born

Jaune: fuck

They all get teleported to a bedroom

Salem: ah such a happy ending

Ruby/Yang: really our moms get the fucking of a life time and we get diddly

Salem: oh no I cursed them too. They can’t leave their new children more than 30 square yards away from them or bad things will happen

Ruby: like what

Salem: they’ll be sent to jaune and start this whole thing all over again

Yang: what about when the kids grow up

Salem: oh once the kid is like 16 it no longer is effective

Ruby: do I count

Salem: ruby don’t you remember we celebrated your birthday 3 days ago

Ruby: oh ya still getting used to being 16

the three mom arcs

Jaune arc " guys meet my moms,"

Rwbynpr see three women

eight foot tall blue eyed woman in pink bikini as she just got off a photoshot " bikini model Amala arc"

Girl in business suit blue blue eyes rabbit ears and four foot tall " Amilia arc head of arc insurance

Last woman who is in military dress uniform of a general blonde hair one blue eye missing right, right face burnt " general Amy arc of vale army

Yang "... This explains the eight kids."

Amy " no tge three of us were cheated on and pumped and dumped by the same person Theodore of shade academy we ened. Up finding out and head to move ib to support our kids

Amala " jaune one day git sick of our fighting and bitching and locked us in the sane room

Amillia arc " and we fpuggt but it turned to fucking nasty and we have vern a happy trouple ever sense.

Yang "... My birth mom abandoned me so i feel you vb

Others in shock

The three arc moms " NOW WE JUDGE YOU"

They circle pyrrha and go " our grand son jaune's son by way of our daughter asking him to fuck a baby into her wife adrian , had a horrible reaction to pumpkin petes so as you are on everbox we do not approve of you nikos"

Everyone processing this.

The mothers go to ren and nora. To judge them

[popculturegenealogy]

Tamberlane and the thorny issue of adoption in roots work

Clearly, there are different types of roots, beyond what the teacher in these panels from Tamberlane is telling her. This is NOT what you tell someone about their roots. Teacher, you are doing this all wrong!

Reprinted from my Genealogy in Popular Culture WordPress blog. Originally published on March 8, 2021.

One of my favorite ongoing webcomics, Tamberlane, hits you right in the face with an issue which often faces genealogists: adoption. Tamberlane, the story's protagonist is told by her teacher, Ms. Callie. that they will be learning about "their roots." [1] This worries her, as she first thinks that it means she literally has roots growing out of her, and later when she learns that roots make you for "who you are." She is concerned because she's from the far-off place known as "Abroad" but her friends comfort her, reminding her that her roots are in Treehollow with the rest of them because she lives there. Cur later challenges Ms. Callie, asking about students who don't know their roots and starts making a scene. Later, the teacher is flustered and doesn't know how to answer questions about "Abroad," with Jentzen kicked out of the classroom as a result, just because he asked a question! This becomes a plot point later in the series, as Cur blames Tamberlane for Jentzen getting fired, even though it isn't Tamberlane's fault, leading Piper to get in a fight with Cur. [2] As it turns out, not even Tamberlane's guardian, Belfry, can adequately explain "Abroad" to her. [3]

Ms. Callie was wrong about roots. As Becks Kobel, a death positive genealogist [4] wrote in October 2017, "we are placed within families, whether biologically or through adoption, that have a long history with all sorts of experiences." Roots are not only based in your blood, but are wider ranging than that, including your chosen family, those you surround yourselves with, and your circumstances. They can be your roots. There are even some Italian surnames, like Esposito, which were given to children in Italy who were given up by their parents or were adopted! At the same time, a surname may be assumed because of an "unofficial adoption, taking on a stepfather’s surname and so on" as was the case with one of my ancestors, Robert B. Mills II (originally Robert Barnabas Packard). Some genealogists even warn about not being "lured into sympathy research via an adoption story" while others note that DNA tests can be helpful for those with ancestors who were adopted or those looking for their birth parents. Sure, you could say that the "standard" family tree wasn't made for adoption, but that doesn't mean it is invalid, as adoptees can be heirs to estate from time to time. Some stick with the so-called standard tree, as "Geni cannot record adoptions" but that doesn't mean that records of it doesn't exist. [5] Russian genealogist Vera Miller talked about this:

Many adoptees become curious about their birth families and hopeful their questions about their separations from their families will be answered. The challenges of some adoptees from the Russian-speaking world is facing that their Russian language skills disappeared or were never developed. Thanks to the Internet, these adoptees can find their families with just as much success as adoptees from the English-speaking world.

That brings me back to Tamberlane. She was, at the beginning of the comic, found in the woods by the citizens of Treehollow and while she isn't always good with communicating verbally, she knows a bit of pidgin Trissol (Silver Sage Sign Language). She calls herself "Tamberlane" when meeting Belfry for the first time in Chapter 1, with Belfry wondering where her parents are, and who left her there. As such, the other stuff I said about adoption isn't applicable here, although it is still worth noting. Hopefully, in the future, this is explored more in the webcomic.

© 2021-2023 Burkely Hermann. All rights reserved.

Notes

[1] Caytlin Vilbrandt, Tamberlane, Chapter 4, Pages 181-190, Issue 15 on WEBTOON, Jan. 2, 2020.

[2] Caytlin Vilbrandt, Tamberlane, Chapter 4, Pages 191-199, Issue 16 on WEBTOON, Jan. 2, 2020.

[3] Caytlin Vilbrandt, Tamberlane, Chapter 4, Page 207, Issue 22 on WEBTOON, Feb. 10, 2020; Caytlin Vilbrandt, Tamberlane, Chapter 4, Page 208, Issue 23 on WEBTOON, Feb. 19, 2020

[4] She left Twitter some time ago and now occasionally posts on Instagram. So, she is still active (perhaps more on Facebook), but not in the way she used to be on social media. And that's ok.

[5] In a related note, a Puerto Rican genealogist Teresa Vega, argued that with "Ancestry doing away with <8 cM DNA matches," it would negatively impact Black and indigenous descendants, saying they should "seriously consider that they are preventing family reunification not only due to slavery, but also due to adoption, genocide, famine, etc."

[nemirutami]

hi i was curious what fic you were refering to in your minato/akechi art :>??

It's a fic i've been writing on and off for a year now but i havent posted it anywhere yet haha.... unless?

In summary: It's about Akechi finding new work at a company called R.E.I (reliable, experienced, innovative) where Minato is the CEO (and widower) with a child Akechi comes to know as Rei (yep Minato named the company after his daughter). The fic focuses on all 3 influencing each other and helping each other cope/grow from their traumas but is also my biggest excuse to write cute scenes where Akechi gets to have an adopted daughter and be the dad he never got to be (he's terrible at it). If you're wondering "why would Minato hire Akechi" then don't worry. He has a very good reason. Minato hired Akechi because Akechi gave him shitty customer service and Minato took one look at him and said "I can adjust his attitude." now Akechi works for Minato bc he's an idiot. Most the fic is also me writing them comedically stupid and sad and very stupid. Oh, and I guess they kiss maybe. But really it's about broken people building a family w/o knowing. I made the fic as a joke and that's why it can't be named anything other than "Is it wrong to hit on my boss?" I've made a ton of art for it (some which I guess i've already posted alluding to the fic). I did make a cover sketch for it tho! There's a bunch of foreshadowing in the items on display (but it's too sketchy to make out I'm sure).

The 100k part of this fic is already up on patreon but I'm writing/editing the other 100K. So like, uh... 200+ pages of text and 29 chapters so far. In theory, the fic is already finished/has an ending, but I just need to fill in the gaps and tie plot points together.

If you're interested, I'll add the prelude/first chapter below the cut lmfao. It pretty much sets up the premise as tightly as possible in under 2K words. It has not been edited at all so take this abhorrently constructed first draft with no shame. You can judge my noodle words all you want but remember if you say a mean thing I will die.

Title: Is it wrong to hit on my boss?

Pair: Minake

Ch 1: That's not how this was supposed to go.

10 AM on the dot, to no one's surprise, he was flawlessly punctual as usual. Today was too important for missteps, and Akechi had carefully calculated each and every word he was going to use to land this job opportunity with one of Japan's biggest corporations in web development and online advertisement. Having worked at a low paying job for the most part (one with a boss that relentlessly attacked him and tried to convince him that he would amount to nothing, no less) didn’t prepare him for the call he received from R.E.I's founder about a new job opportunity. 

Cocky with confidence, he quit his job before the interview. 

After all, if this founder somehow went out of his way to request him, he must have done so with good reason.

With his hair tied back neatly into a ponytail and his shirt tucked beneath a more-than-a-little expensive looking business suit, he walked into the lobby, checked in, and got told to take the elevator up to the 3rd floor. He cocked his head curiously at the attendant before turning his gaze towards the elevator. Next to the elevator was a fire extinguisher for emergencies, and a metal plate outlining over 100 floors for the building. Naturally, there had to be some mistake. Floor 1 was considered the lobby, floor 2 was a storage for supplies and spare parts, and floor 3 was where their call center started. Their web developers were a fair bit higher up in the company, which made his directions only more confusing. What was a web developer supposed to do at a call center? While the thought of not having to fake a smile over the phone was comforting, the very image of having to do customer support 7 hours a day for the rest of his life put the fear of God in him.

"Pardon my rudeness, but there m-" Must be some mistake. The old lady at the counter was one step ahead of him and delivered her message with a sharp tone that left Akechi speechless.

"The founder's office is on the third floor," she interrupted her sentence with a huff, "-treat yourself to the coffee upstairs, you're gonna need it." and punctuated it with a dismissive wave of her hand. If more people hadn't entered the building and tried to take care of their own business, Akechi would have asked her to elaborate. But since he now for sure knew he was going to meet the founder, he decided not to make a scene.

"I… see. Thank you for the offer, but I must decline. I'm sure everything will go smoothly." But if they put him in a call center to provide customer support around the clock he was prepared to personally wire that black coffee maker into a homemade bomb and take down the whole building with him. While that thought crossed his mind, he smiled politely at the woman and took the elevator ride up.

Never in his life had he been so confused by a layout. He was aware of the building's size, but this was beyond ridiculous. The hallways almost looked like a maze, with paintings scribbled from wall to wall. Upon closer inspection, they looked like kids drawings. Either this was part of some PR stunt, or the founder was really into bright neon colors. If Akechi didn't hear the man on the other line himself and came here looking for a job, he'd expect to find a kindergarten at the other side of the many doors down the hall. His confidence was dwindling more and more with each step.

Once he reached the door he assumed would take him into the workplace where the founder was seated, he grasped at the handle only to find it locked. He blinked, and twisted the doorknob again, hoping it would open the door. When it didn't, he pulled a little harder until he heard a click from the other side, and noticed that the plate beneath the handle had the word "push" written in caps. Without thinking, he put far too much swing into his movement, and ended up smacking the poor sap on the other side that kindly unlocked the door for him, and the man's coffee poured right onto his suit and onto the floor in a loud mess.

"Ah, sorry!" He would have stayed and apologized properly if he wasn't at risk of running late. "If you give me a minute, I'll be right back and help you clean up!" and he was gone. He could have stayed and helped but chose to prioritize the meeting. In the end, that guy was out one cup of coffee and still had a stable income, whereas missing out on this interview might cost Akechi not only his career, but his livelihood. If this went south, he could wind up homeless. Unless he begged for his old job back.

No, the chill of winter would be less humiliating than going back on his hands and knees to the boss that not only demeaned him, but continuously plagiarized his work for his own benefit.

"Hewoo," In the midst of his early mid-twenties crisis, a soft voice spoke to him, but the only people he spotted were already head-deep in work. Another faint cry, this one, a bit more shy.

"Heo…" he turned his head down, and spotted a tiny girl hiding beneath a desk with her fist against her lips and her knees up to her chest. She looked about four years old, short curly hair with a clip-on to keep her bangs out of her eyes. Really, if she hadn't called out to him, he never would have spotted her in those shadows. He stared at her stupidly before turning his head up and asking if anyone brought their daughter to work. The girl shushed him, and got his attention once again.

"M, hidin…" 

"Ah," It was too early for a break, but he supposed someone might have taken some time off to call a responsible adult to come pick up their child from work. Still, he couldn't help but smile and crouch next to her, putting one finger over his lips with a whisper. "It's ok, I won't tell anyone." The little girl smiled so wide she was practically squinting. 

"Who r u…" He cocked his head slightly. Did she know most of the people on this floor? She spoke as if she knew he was a stranger. He shrugged it off. That can't be right. Must have been childish curiosity. 

"I'm Akechi Goro, and you?"

"Ake...ak...e...Aket…" She struggled and fumbled over her words, before she furrowed her brows with confidence and looked upset she couldn't yet pronounce his name.

"Gowo." He couldn't hold back a smile, and the little girl, now forgetting she's supposed to be hiding, shouts at him.

"Don't laff! That's mean!"

"Sorry!" His words said sorry, but his smile told her differently. At least, until his phone began beeping. It was now exactly 10 am.

"Sh-!" Too much in a hurry, he rushed to stand up quickly, and banged the back of his head against the table. He fell to his knees again, pushed down by the tabletop, and grabbed the back of his neck. The little girl, to no fault of her own, laughed at him without a shred of sympathy. Before he could get up on his feet, an arm patted him on the back.

"Hey, you ok?" He couldn't tell with his eyes closed, but the little girl mimicked the man's movements and reached her tiny hand out to pat Akechi's knee as if to comfort him. Before he could respond, he heard the man say "There you are!" followed by a tiny high pitched scream that honest to God was only giving Akechi a headache.

Still better than his old job, despite the abuse and trauma he's had to endure thus far.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the man that he accidentally slammed into squishing the little girl's cheeks, possibly as punishment.

"What did I tell you? You can't win."

"Mmmrmmmrrrr"

"Do you give up?" The child stubbornly stared him in the eye and only repeated her mumbling louder. The man sighed, but with the hint of a smile.

"Alright, go hide again." The joy in that little girl's eyes could part the skies on a cloudy day. She beamed and quickly ran off to hide elsewhere while the man covered his eyes and began counting. As soon as she was gone and he no longer heard the tip tap of feet, he got up and extended his hand towards Akechi.

"You look lost. Do you need any help?" This was humiliating. A kid laughing at him, he could handle, but a future coworker extending him his aid this early in their partnership was shameful. Especially since this was the same guy he left high and dry just moments ago.

"No, no, I'll be alr-" His voice was now much less sympathetic.

"Just take my hand." So much for debate. He didn't appreciate how everyone in this company cut him off mid-sentence, but took the other man's hand to get back up on his feet. As soon as he did, he got looked over rather thoroughly, a little too intensely to his liking.

"Doesn't look like you're bleeding, but if you're feeling dizzy, there's a nurse just two doors down to the left. She can examine you in case you've suffered any severe damage." His concern was flattering but unnecessary and sadly a waste of time.

"Haha, no worries. Actually... I need to get to the founder's office. Do you know where that is?" 

"Yes, but I wouldn't worry about t- Rei, don't climb the bookshelf! Junpei, will you-" 

"Aye, aye, boss! Come here you trouble bunny! How about you hop hop into bed and take a long looong nap? Man, uncle Junpei could use one too. I'll show you how it's done, like a pro!"

"Iori, sleep on the job and you're fired."

"Come on Philei, your dad is scary when he's talking to people that are not you!"

So much happened in the span of just a couple of seconds.

"...Rei?" He felt his blood run cold. "Her name is… Rei?" The man, somewhat confused that he was still standing there with a dumb look on his face, spoke as if this was basic knowledge Akechi should have known before stepping into the building.

"Of course, that's my daughter," he holds out his hand again, this time, expecting Akechi to shake it. "-and I'm the founder, Minato Arisato. And you are?"

Absolutely screwed.

[writer-akihiko]

TW First year students x fem! MC who's secretly a demon princess, who will they react to her powers when they found her in her demon form?

First Years + DemonPrincess!MC

I had fun with this prompt in general, and I hope I made some fun scenarios that you like!

Warnings: Bullying from other students and hurtful words, Epel is censored because Vil doesn't allow it

Sebek Zigvolt

He forgot to give you back your notebook from class, so he had to go in the evening

If Sebek remembered correctly, in his 'I'm A Good Boyfriend' notebook, you said you usually rested in the evening

"YN, I'm here to deliver your notebook!-"

"Go away Sebek!"

He was appalled. You've never scolded him in such a way before!

He quickly fished out his notebook, and he flipped to a page where Lilia had lectured him on what to do when you were feeling down

"Here it is…" He muttered

He barged in your door, breaking down the rickety door, "YN! I am here to comfort you!"

"S-Sebek?!"

He almost dropped the notebook. He was surprised at you appearance, as he saw horns on your head, as well as tattoos on your skin that he's never seen before

"YN… You're…"

You sighed. "Yes Sebek, I'm a dem-"

"You're a Fae! Like me!"

Before he got too excited, you settled him down and explained your appearance

He felt ashamed of himself for his initial behaviour when you explained that you were a princess. He doesn't really mind that you're a demon, in fact, he understands you more as people of his world usually misunderstands Fae-kind

In general, he's quite amazed anytime you demonstrate your powers

He lowkey wants to see you and Waka-sama have a showdown with magic, but his heart knows it'd hurt to see you in danger

Ace Trappola

He got held back by Professor Crewel due to some argument he got in with Grim

He asked around if anyone else saw you, but much to his shock, he found you surrounded by some other students. Again

He wanted to pummel their faces in, but now looking at you, you seemed calm…

In the blink of an eye, a net of dark magic appeared underneath the students, trapping them at their ankles

Ace had his mouth open as horns and wings similar to the colour of your hair started growing from you. What freaked him out more was that the wings weren't made of feathers… They looked ripped apart and made of the same magic he couldn't identify

"A-Ace!"

Upon seeing your boyfriend, you flung the students away into the Garden with your magic. Someone would find them later…

"U-Um… This…" You got embarrassed, feeling shy in your demon form

"THAT WAS SO COOL!"

Ace then pestered you to tell him where you learnt such magic, although he might've accidentally grabbed your horns the wrong way

He listened carefully, since it caused you such discomfort when he touched your horns

He didn't think you'd be a princess…

"Wait… Does this mean you have a demon father?"

You nodded your head. "But my brother's the Demon King at the moment… Why?"

"I need to mentally prepare myself if your demon family want to kill me since I want to propose to you after graduation…"

Deuce Spade

You and Deuce were nervous, since it was a magical mana exam. It would dictate certain classes you'd be able to take next semester…

You were the last to go, and your boyfriend cheerfully waved at you as he gave a thumbs up. He must've passed the test…

You had to remind yourself to control your mana, otherwise you'd have some explaining to do

As you let the teacher examine you, you couldn't help but notice that there was some kind of barrier around the orb you were practicing with

As you removed the barrier, you realised that it was a trap by the teacher!...

You couldn't help but pour your normal amount of magic into the orb, which, put on a show around the students as they marvelled at the dark magic

"Well," Principal Crowley announced, after you were done with your examination. "You'd best be coming with me."

After a long talk with Crowley, you were surprised that Deuce and Grim were at the door, eavesdropping at your conversation

"I overheard… I was worried about you…" He admitted

Deuce however, was quite curious about your appearance, so after his and your dinner, you allowed him to see you shift into your demon form

He did ask if it hurt, to which you shook your head

He admired your wings and your bigger, claw-like hands as you felt heat in your cheeks by the way he was intensely staring at you

"Y-You're adorable…"

Even though you towered Deuce's height in your demon form, it didn't stop him from giving you your usual goodnight kiss on the forehead

Jack Howl

He always wanted to show off his skills to you, so he invited you to a practice match against the Diasomnia dorm

He was against the first years of the dorm, so you silently cheered for Jack

As you were continuously impressed by Jack's speed, you couldn't help but notice a strand of magic tagged on him…

Your magical vision traced it to one of the students on the opposite team, who was passively reciting a spell to jinx Jack's next move

There was only the seniors… So it should be fine to stop that student this once…

You were too slow, as the spell had already whizzed through the field. You could still stop it from hitting Jack!...

You felt everyone's gaze on you as you interrupted the spell. Knowing that your appearance had changed, you shied away

Some students ran away, but Jack didn't. He picked you up, horns, feathers and demonic body parts, all of it and embraced you

"Hey! Stop looking at my girlfriend like she's a monster!" He growled

The seniors quickly punished the student causing tricks on the field, but some were still weary of you

Jack put you down, kissing your forehead. "Thank you precious for saving me there."

Eventually, you had to explain to the teachers what you were

Some dorm leaders grew afraid of you, but Jack didn't care. You were still his precious girlfriend

So what if you both were seen as monsters? He thought. The big bad wolf and the terrifying demon princess could live in peace and quiet, in their own space in the forest…

Jack thinks the whole thing is cool, but he is a little jealous that your magical abilities are so much better than his. You tell him he makes up for it in his physical strength

Epel Felmier

You and Epel were taking a stroll, on the way to the field for the MagiShift club

You promised to cheer him on, and you decided it would be a cheeky way to take some photos with your Ghost Camera

You comfortably sat next to Jack as you got ready to take some photos

Unfortunately, you weren't sure of the exact details, but a student decided it was a perfect opportunity to set off a prank near you and Jack

You weren't exactly in control of your own powers, so the impact caused you to scream and lose control of your appearance

The other students screamed in turned, seeing a 'monster' transform in front of them

Epel saw the prank beforehand, but he couldn't run fast enough to get to you

He couldn't think straight, he just had to make sure you were alright. So when he overheard the students yelling at you, he threatened them

Everyone was freaking out at your changing body, since your skin had different markings, almost like carvings etched into it and a pool of dark magic flooded below you

"I-I'm sorry I-" You tried to apologise, but others constantly berated you

"She's a freak! Someone seal her away!"

Epel couldn't stop himself from whacking the student who said that on the head

The other seniors managed to calm the students down, sending them away

You briefly explained everything to Epel, repeating your apologies to him

"Don't aplogise YN. Those idiots don't understand."

Epel, in all honesty, didn't care if you were a demon princess or a human or a fairy

Whoever got in the way of your relationship on the other hand, he'd pick a fight with them even though you were the one who could easily clean the fight up

"Hey YN, don't listen to em. They don't know how cool you are. As long as I'm the one you love, I'm okay with anything."

[certifiedskywalker]

How to Make Small Talk in Five Simple Steps - Bucky Barnes

When people meet, they often use small talk as a means to negotiate and define the start of a new relationship. When you and Bucky meet, you both struggle to find the right words.

WARNING: talk of therapy, references to trauma and anxiety, and mild cursing

I. Show genuine interest.

“You’re new.”

“Excuse me?”

You shifted in your seat and eyed the man sitting across from you in the waiting room. His piercing cerulean eyes were squinted in your direction, right where he aimed his question. Despite the puppy-like confusion apparent in the way his head was cocked to the side, there was an edge to the mystery man. Perhaps it came from his clothes.

The jacket he wore was pitch black, a leather-like material that squeaked against the back of his chair when he moved. It looked brand new. Not to mention the matching gloves. His hands, joined together and resting on his abdomen, were covered in thick, dark fabric. There was not an inch of skin exposed, save for his face.

Though judging by the permanent scowl etched on his lips as he stared at you in wait for your reply, perhaps the man’s harsh edge ran deeper.

“The waiting room never has had more than like four people in it at a time,” you explained. “Until this week, until you, I waited by myself. So, you’re new.”

“Great powers of observation,” he quipped, though his tone lacked any lightness typical of teasing.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his gloved hands against the tops of his thighs. He looked towards the twin pair of doors that fed into Dr. Raynor’s and Dr. Briam’s respective offices. You smiled to yourself at the sight: a big man, an otherwise scary man was nervous for therapy. You could sympathize as, not too long ago, you had been in his place.

“Was it an intervention? A work note? An epiphany?”

At your questions, the man fixed his gaze on you again. “What?”

“What brought you to the services of Raynor and Briam?”

“Do you always ask this many questions?” While his voice was without a cutting coldness, his question wounded you. You overstepped your bounds. Time to wage a retreat.

“Sorry,” you murmured as you curled up and in your seat.

You looked away from the man in the hopes of distracting yourself from the searing shame. Quickly, your attention found the colorful pile of untouched magazines set out on a nearby side table. Despite your apology, you could still feel the sharpness of his eyes on you.

When you grew back the nerve and snuck a glance back at him, the man’s gaze was still fixed on you. Alarms rang in your ears as you turned to face him from across the waiting room once more. For a long moment, you just gawked at each other, waited for the other to speak.

Finally, the tension broke and, simultaneously, you both said, “sorry.”

A breathy laugh slipped past your lips, tilted and light. “Talking isn’t one of my strong suits.”

“Not mine either, not anymore,” the man sighed. However faint, there were slight, upward pullings at the corners of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close. Close enough that you felt a hopeful realization bloom in your chest. How handsome he would look with a real smile.

You met his eyes and asked, “can...can we just start over?”

“Yeah, yeah we can.”

“Great,” you reached out your right hand towards him, across the vastness of the waiting room like an olive branch. “I’m Y/N.”

He glanced from your hand to your eyes and back again before he hesitantly extended his left. The tips of your fingers brushed and you saw the man’s body tense. After a moment passed, he joined your hands. His grip was strong and tight and, despite the glove, cold.

“Hi, Y/N.” Against your will, a fuller smile played on your lips, satisfied by how smooth your name sounded in his mouth. “I’m Bucky.”

II. Ask open-ended questions.

“How would you describe yourself?”

“What?”

“How would you describe yourself?” You echoed, a little louder than the first time.

“What do you mean?”

With a groan, you stood from your seat and strode over to where Bucky sat across from you. You settled in the seat beside him and held the magazine you were reading out to him. Empathetically, you pointed at the first question of the lifestyle quiz you found. Bucky squinted at the small typography and scoffed.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s a quiz in a magazine,” you pointed out, “it’s not supposed to make sense.”

“But am I a ‘curious cat stalking along a window sill’ or a ‘peaceful breeze blowing through a seashell windchime’? What...what does that even mean?” Bucky glanced from the page to you with furrowed brows.

“Which one speaks to you?”

“I don’t know. Is there a dejected crocodile or something?”

You laughed at his question, at the imagery of a saddened gator, and fought to catch your breath. When you finally were able to fill your lungs and meet Bucky’s gaze, you saw that he was serious. His blue eyes were fixed on you with a stillness that startled you. Curiosity struck you, just as it did the first day you saw him.

“A crocodile? Why a crocodile?” Your eyes flicked over Bucky’s face, trying to read his reaction to your query. He met your gaze before he pulled back and sighed.

“I saw some in Africa when I...I lived there. They seemed hostile.”

“You’re hostile?” You raised a brow at him as you asked. You made a mental note to ask him about his stint in Africa later.

Bucky met your eyes and replied, “when provoked. When I don’t have a choice.”

“Well that’s not dark or ominous,” you jeered. When he didn’t make a quip back at you, you pressed your lips into a thin line. “You’re here for anger issues then?”

A heavy sigh rolled through Bucky’s chest. He looked away, up towards the windows of the waiting room that were put far too high along the grey wall, too high to reach. Then, all at once, he was far away, lost in thoughts and feelings you were not privy to, despite longing to be. There was something about Bucky that was still a mystery to you and carried the same spark of newness that endeared you to him.

“There were times where I lost control,” he admitted as he looked back at you. “I’m trying to make amends.”

“Sounds like it was an intervention that brought you here.” You silently hoped that your teasing would lessen the sudden tension that grew between you.

“It wasn’t an intervention,” he replied, his eyes drifting back up towards the window.

You frowned at his distant expression. It hit you, in that moment, that Bucky was still a stranger. His truth, his truths, were still hidden to you. You wanted to ask him so many questions but you knew better than to venture too far. The first exchange you had with Bucky taught you that.

So, instead, you turned in the chair beside him and held out the magazine so you both could read through the next few quiz questions. You had to start somewhere.

“I’m putting you down as a ‘curious cat’,” you said, “you seem like a cat guy. Aloof.”

Following your statement, a hum of amusement reached your ears. You glanced at Bucky and saw that the softest of smiles rested on his lips. Pleased with yourself, you looked back to the magazine and read off the next question.

“Alright so, ‘Reach back to your inner-child and ask yourself: what do you want to be when you grow up’, Bucky?”

“Is ‘just okay’ an option? Or ‘happy’?”

III. Never get too personal.

“You’re late.”

“I had an errand,” Bucky replied as he fell into the seat beside you. His seat.

“An errand? What are you, fifty?”

“I wish.”

“What? You want to be older?” You eyed Bucky warily.

“Youn-” he met your gaze and saw the confusion in your face. “Nevermind.”

“You’re a strange one, Bucky...Bucky...what’s your last name?”

“Nunya,” he replied, without missing a beat; but you knew this joke. You raised a brow at him and released a long, unamused sigh through your nose.

“Nunya business?”

“Damn right.”

There was a bitter, closed-lip smile on Bucky’s face as he spoke. Despite the expression, his eyes did not linger long on you. At the angle you sat at, you thought you saw his slightly upturned mouth fall, too easily, into a frown. You assumed that it was because you ruined his extremely outdated joke.

Gently, you bumped your shoulder against his. “We gotta get you new material.”

“Or what? People will think I’m fifty?”

He met your gaze with a bored look on his face. In spite of your best efforts to reply with a quick, witty retort, you found yourself immersed in Bucky’s presence. His cerulean eyes never left yours and you felt your resolve begin to melt. Your eyes flicked across his face, to his scruff-covered jaw and soft pink lips. It took all of your strength to meet Bucky’s eyes again and form a somewhat full sentence.

“Not looking as good as you do.”

You meant to fire it back, make it sting despite your words being more of a compliment than an insult. But the words were soft, a murmur that contained too much of your heart, and betrayed your true thoughts. You felt that truth and quickly averted your gaze to the too-high windows. Bucky let out a pleased huff.

“Careful. That almost sounded like flattery, Y/N...Y/N...what’s your last name?”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, yeah, I get it. None of my business.”

A strained silence fell over the two of you. The dulled ticking of the waiting room clock soaked in the empty space that your voices once filled. Part of you feared that Bucky could hear the pounding of your heart. You were all too aware of the steady, thundering thumping in your chest.

In an attempt to muffle or overshadow the wild beating of your heart, you asked, “have you been given therapy homework yet?”

“Sort of,” Bucky replied, “kind of. It’s more self-assigned.”

“You’re an overachiever, then, huh?”

Your teasing, the distance your humor put you at, restored a level of comfort. In it, you felt confident enough to meet Bucky’s eyes. As you turned, your gaze trailed up his chest, skimmed along the cozy-looking material of his grey shirt. A striking glimpse of metal caught your attention, but Bucky’s voice coaxed your eyes to his.

“I wouldn’t call myself that,” he sighed, and he raised his hands. “I’m pretty average.”

“I doubt that,” you scoffed as you shook your head.

“Really?”

You turned your head to meet Bucky’s eyes and, again, you felt the thumping in your chest hasten. “Really.”

“Bold of you to assume. You don’t even know my last name.”

“Yet,” you pressed, “you’ll spill it to me one of these days. You may look good, but you also look like you need the therapy. We’ll be seeing each other often.”

A stunted laugh slipped out of Bucky’s mouth. He rarely laughed. If you could get half a smile out of him you were pleased. So, when a chuckle did slip, you savored the sound.

You let yourself watch him, how his head tilted back slightly when he looked up to the windows of the waiting room. It was then you saw the glint of a metal chain around his neck. You traced the shining material with your gaze until you saw the two dog tags that rested against his chest. The lapel of his jacket nearly obscured them, but you managed to read one in full.

James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Sargent. Camp Lehigh. DOB: 1917.

Based on the year, the date of birth, it had to be a relative, a grandfather, or an uncle, with the same name. As well as the same nickname? However strange it was, you knew Bucky’s last name: Barnes. Yet, you would wait for him to tell you himself. He would, one day.

IV. Practice active listening.

He was quiet, more so than usual.

When you walked into the waiting room, Bucky was already there, sat in his seat. When you greeted him, he didn’t respond. He only nodded and leaned heavily against the back of his chair. It didn’t take long for you to note the dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes and the more prominent lines of his face. The evidence of his lack of sleep was clear.

“You alright?”

“No.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what Raynor is for. But I’m here if you change your mind,” and, added as an afterthought, “if you need me.”

Bucky didn’t say a word. His gaze remained fixed on the wall ahead, the black greyness that stood like stone across from you. Worry struck your chest with a sudden ache. It didn’t help that his silence stung. All-day you looked forward to seeing Bucky, but he was so far away.

Even when you looked at him, Bucky seemed small. Almost as if he were sat a few seats down rather than in the one right beside yours. You raked your eyes over his form, desperate for any sign that he was present, in the moment with you. As you drank him in, Bucky remained unmoved and as out of reach as the waiting room windows.

Aside from the exhaustion clear on his face, he held himself as he normally did. There was a slight slouch in his shoulders, that would disappear when he stood, and his arms rested against the supports the chair provided. Your eyes graced over his chest. Beneath his standard dark jacket, he wore a charcoal grey shirt and, if you looked long enough, you thought you saw his dog tags sticking out against the fabric. He kept them hidden, except for the last time you saw him.

Aside from his tired appearance, Bucky looked the same. Had it been just a rough night? Or did something happen? Outside of the waiting room, you knew little to nothing about Bucky. You considered Googling him, just to see what would pop up. Maybe he had an Instagram or a Facebook you could stalk; though the thought of seeing him with his arm slung over some old lover made your stomach churn. It was better to keep the Internet’s knowledge about Bucky Barnes a secret despite how desperately you wanted to know more.

The temptation to ask him, prod him to get some sort of answer, or answers, was strong. To combat it, you picked up a copy of Sports Illustrated. Not your first choice, but you needed to ease the itch of curiosity. Plus, the post-Blip world was a wild one, even for professional sports teams.

Feigning interest in the politics of football proved more difficult than you first imagined. Like the rest of the world, the realm of sports was floundering with its struggle to manage newly returned players and the teams they scraped together during their five-year absence. You began to wonder which half Bucky found himself with. Had he disappeared or had he remained? You still were unsure as to which was better.

It was part of why you used the therapy services Dr. Briam provided. Was that why Bucky met with Dr. Raynor? Just as your mind started to wander through every possibility, your quiet companion shifted in his seat. You looked over to him only to find his eyes were fixed on you.

“Nightmares,” he murmured. Your brows furrowed and you felt a frown form on your lips.

“Do you want to talk about them?”

Bucky hesitated and you saw the glimmer of a maybe in his eyes before he replied with another curt, “no.”

“Okay. I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, Bucky’s eyes flicked down to the carpeted floor below his booted feet. You looked at the same spot but saw nothing. Slowly, you returned your gaze to Bucky, studied how his left arm rested near your right one. He was closer now, and you wanted to keep him that way.

Carefully, almost as if you were reaching out to a wounded animal, you extended your right hand. Your fingertips brushed against his left forearm and Bucky flinched. At his movement, you paused, looked to his face for permission. His eyes were stilled fixed on the floor and you could almost hear him slipping so far away again, crashing into the untamable waves his nightmares left in their wake.

To anchor him, you grabbed his hand. You didn’t squeeze, fearing it would be too much. You simply held his left hand in your right and silently marveled at how cool it felt beneath the material of his glove. A moment passed and Bucky didn’t react. You took a deep breath and resigned yourself back to the uninteresting issue of Sports Illustrated in your free hand.

A minute of silent reading went by when you felt his grip tighten around your hand. You didn’t dare to say a word. You only listened to the shuddering relief of his next breath.

V. Put your phone away.

“What was that?”

“My phone.”

“Really? I thought it was a lightbulb,” you rolled your eyes. “I’m aware it’s a phone.”

“How could I forget your great powers of observation.” Playing into your mild offense, Bucky feigned a frightfully embarrassed slap to his forehead.

“Funny,” you grumbled, “but it looked like you had a shit ton of missed calls.”

“Were you spying on me?”

You raised your hands in defense. “You pulled the phone out and the appallingly long list of uncleared notifications disgusted me.”

“I can’t figure out how to clear them.”

“You just swipe and then there’s a little ‘Clear’ button you press.” Bucky frowned and reached back into his jacket pocket. He pulled out his phone and held it out to you. Dumbfounded by this action, you glanced up from the dark screen and back to Bucky’s eyes. He gestured to the device and nodded.

“Can you show me?”

“Uh, I, yeah. Yeah, I can. Can you um-”

“Oh,” Bucky pulled his phone back to him and typed in the passcode to unlock it. When he handed it back to you, you were met with a horribly unorganized home screen and a messaging app icon with over a hundred missed texts. You glanced up from the phone and to Bucky, ready to teasingly chastise him for the state of his device.

But, when you moved to look him in the eyes, you nearly knocked your head against his. He was leaning over, close to your shoulder, prepared to study your message-clearing technique. Though, when your eyes fell to him, his attention was refocused on you. In that instant, a rush of warmth overwhelmed your senses.

He was so close you could smell the leather of his jacket and whatever generic brand soap he used in the shower. You could also feel his breath dance along the skin of your face and neck. It stirred goosebumps to life and sent a shiver down your spine. In an effort to suppress the tremble that threatened to overtake you, you turned your eyes back to his phone.

“So, all you need to do is drag down the top screen and,” you quickly walked him through the steps of clearing his message notifications. A lot were from someone named Sam, who asked how Bucky was, where he was, and if he was attending a memorial service or not. Before you saw too much, you handed Bucky his phone back.

“That’s it?” He mirrored your movements and old messages began to disappear off his screen.

“Yup,” you breathed, “just like that.”

“Alright, but then how do I add a new contact?”

“You really don’t know how to do that? How old are you?” You held out your hand and he wordlessly placed his phone back in your grasp. “You just click on ‘Contacts’ and hit ‘Add New Contact’ and put in their information.”

“You should put yours in.”

Another rush of heat washed over and through you as you looked up at Bucky. There was a startling seriousness in his face, lessened only by the hints of a smile on his lips. Your mouth opened but no words came out. At least, not at first.

“What?”

“Your number, you should give me your number. If you want.”

“Y-Yeah.” In a numbed, almost mechanical manner, you entered your contact information before you handed back his phone. “There I am.”

“There you are,” Bucky echoed softly. He barely met your eyes but he didn’t seem unnerved, at least not as shaken as you felt. He was perfectly and horribly unfazed by the implications of his words. Or maybe you were reading into it. So much of Bucky was still a mystery to you. He still hadn’t told you his last name!

But you knew of his nightmares. You didn’t know the names of the ghosts that haunted him, but you knew they existed and that they scared him. It didn’t scare you. You had your own skeletons, and you held in your heart some strange longing to know his.

As if hoping to sneak a glance at them, you gazed up at Bucky. His eyes found yours in an instant and you wondered if he was ready and willing to talk to you about his nightmares. Or maybe he was finally going to tell you his last name. Or just tell you something about him.

Just as his pink lips parted, the door to Dr. Raynor’s office opened with a click. The small, otherwise unnoticed sound, snapped the tension that budded between you and Bucky.

In turn, you and Bucky, looked over to find Dr. Raynor. She poked her head out from behind the door, just as she had many times before. Her dark-framed glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose as she eyed Bucky, sending him a silent, eerie greeting. She looked as frightening and hawk-like as ever.

“Ready for you,” she deadpanned.

Bucky nodded and stood from his chair. You watched him walk over towards Dr. Raynor’s door. It nearly broke your heart when he didn’t look back at you, though you weren’t quite sure why.

VI. Longing.

You wiped at your eyes as you strode out of Dr. Briam’s office. Knowing full well that Bucky wasn’t in the waiting room, as his sessions with Dr. Raynor started earlier than yours with Briam, you charged towards the door. The next two clients that sat in the plush chairs eyed you and the tears streaming down your cheeks as you passed by.

You were long past caring about what anyone else thought. Hell, you barely noticed their thrown gazes as you pushed open the door to the office building and stomped out into the daylight. Once you were stood on the top stair, you took a deep breath. You felt your lung swell and, as you held in the air for a few more seconds, you imagined your every anxiety being pushed out with your long exhale.

Dr. Briam’s technique helped as you felt your shoulders sink with a sudden, but not total, loss of tension. Tears still slipped down your cheeks as you made your way down the stairs. You wiped at them as you started your journey home. Home, yes, there you could curl up and disappear for a few hours. That was what you needed.

Everything and everyone else was too much. Well, nearly everyone else.

Still walking at a fast pace, you barely noticed the blur of dark clothes that stepped towards you. That was until you felt someone grab your upper arm. You nearly shrieked and prepared to make a scene when you looked up. A pair of cerulean blue eyes found your gaze and almost instantly eased your panic.

“Bucky! You scared the shit out of me!”

He let go of your arm and raised his hands. “Sorry.”

“Why are you lingering?” You asked, fixing your slightly disheveled clothes. Relatively satisfied with your handiwork, you focused back on Bucky. His eyes had never left your figure. “Bucky?”

“I...you seemed quiet today and I didn’t ask about it. So, I just wanted to make sure that you were alright but,” he reached out a brushed a tear from your cheek, “you’re not.”

“Is anyone really ever alright?” You forced a smile to your lips, an expression that Bucky mirrored sympathetically before he frowned. “I’m fine. You can go, you’re probably busy.”

You thought bitterly of the mystery person, Sam.

“At least let me walk you home.”

“Well, aren’t you the gentleman,” you joked, silently hoping that it would deter him. Yet, Bucky lingered and looked at you as seriously as ever. “Okay.”

Quickly, Bucky fell into step at your side as you maneuvered through writhing throngs of people on their way to and from. Every so often, your hand knocked against his gloved one and made your insides twist. The twisting turned to aching on the occasions where Bucky held your elbow and guided you around a particularly messy bunch of commuters.

“You walked this way for each session?”

“Each session,” you replied, looking up at Bucky. “Why?”

“Jus’ seems really busy.”

“It’s not always this bad. Plus, there’s a nice little park down over, oh! Right here.”

You stopped and gestured to a small fountain surrounded by benches. Manicured green knolls of grass and scattered, flowering trees surrounded the little park, which was empty compared to the streets. You glanced at Bucky and nudged his shoulder with yours.

“Sit with me?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded and he let you guide him over to one of the benches. With a huff, you sat down and he followed suit. The wooden planks of the bench creaked under his added weight and, as if ushered by the sound, Bucky leaned closer to you.

You watched him as he took in your new surroundings. It looked as if he were surveying the area for any threats that could be hiding in the shadows. Perhaps that was why Bucky was such an enrapturing mystery to you: he always looked ready for a fight. Like his dejected crocodile, he was just waiting to be provoked. You were ready to do just that after weeks of tiptoeing around him.

“You never told me,” you said softly. Your voice coaxed Bucky’s eyes to yours.

“Told you what?”

“Why you came to Dr. Raynor.”

Bucky frowned and after a long pause he sighed. “A court order.”

“A court order? That’s…impressive? I don’t know the context, so, I can’t, and won’t, judge.”

Bucky let out a breathy, almost nervous-sounding chuckle as his gaze fell to the pavement. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. I think if you did, you would judge.”

You furrowed your brows and waited for Bucky to look back at you. When he did, you felt your breath catch. In the sunlight, his eyes seemed brighter. Though, the heaviness of his knitted brow stole away their shine. He really believed you would judge him, after everything?

“Try me.”

“Y/N-”

“I want to know.” Bucky frowned but you pressed on. “I want to know you, Bucky.”

“Are you sure?”

“You’re kidding, right? You’re...interesting. Equally annoying and mysterious. It helps that you’re,” you sighed, “you’re good-looking too.”

A smile, the biggest you had ever seen Bucky put spread along his lips. His gaze fell to the sidewalk bashfully before he met your eyes once more. You thought back to the day you met and found yourself breaking out into a grin. He did look handsome when he really smiled.

“I’m nothing compared to you,” Bucky replied. “Talkin’ about both good-looking and annoying.”

“Then you know I won’t stop pestering you until you start to share,” you shifted towards him. “I want to know who you are, Bucky.”

His eyes flickered down from yours to your lips and back again. “What if I don’t really know myself?”

“Then start with what you do know.” You held out both of your hands towards him. Bucky glanced down at your open palms. When he met your gaze you saw a glint of fear that quickly melted into, what you could only describe as, relief.

Wordlessly, Bucky lifted his hands and began to peel off his gloves. First was his right. The sight of fingers made you strangely giddy. You had never seen the skin of his hands before. Then, he moved to his left and, finger by finger, he pulled the glove off. Sleek, shining, and metal, Bucky’s left hand was exposed.

You inhaled sharply at the sight but did not flinch away. Instead, you met Bucky’s eyes again and nodded. Carefully, he grabbed both of your hands in his. The contrast of his warm flesh and the cool, steel-like material sent a shock down your spine. You studied your joined hands before you looked back up at Bucky. A trembling breath rattled in his chest.

“I am James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes. I’m from Brooklyn and I used to be the Winter Soldier.”

[littlepadika]

Calling Home (1) | Frankie Morales x Reader

Summary: You are a receptionist at the VA. Frankie Morales keeps calling. Yearning ensues...

Rating: M -> E in later chapters

Warnings: fem!reader, age gap (legal), praise kink, voice kink, discussion of addiction/PTSD/trauma, no use of y/n, no beta reader, reader is bad at Spanish, Frankie has a sexy voice 😩

Masterlist here

AN: My first fic. Pedro writers have inspired me to finally start writing again 🥺. Concept inspired by the movie RED. I hope you like it ❤️Set after triple frontier.

Chapter One

~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time he called was an ordinary Thursday.

“Veterans Affairs, how can I help you?”

You had been working at the VA office for about two weeks. Fresh out of college you felt lucky to have a job in the first place. You went to school to be a writer but your big idea for 'The Next Great American Novel' had yet to present itself. At least here you had access to the most inspiring stories and interesting people. Men and women who had seen more and done more than you probably would in your entire life. You loved talking to clients on the phone. It was weird but something about only being able to hear people’s voices excited you. You would sometimes write little stories in your head about the people you'd talk to, filling in the details that were unknown.

Your desk accessories reflected your love of books and writing. You had your growing collection of books sitting on your desk sandwiched between baby pink bookends. Next to them was a matching desk organizer filled with your favorite sparkly pens and sticky notes. You had decorated the plain cubicle walls with posters of quotes from your favorite books. You also brought your favorite candle from home. Even though you couldn’t light it you still liked to lift it to your nose once and a while and smell it between chapters. When you weren’t on the phone or scanning documents you would read. You finished To Kill A Mockingbird in your first week on the job and were now halfway through Murder on the Orient Express.

You were starting a new chapter when Frankie Morales called the first time.

You picked up the phone on the second ring already mustering your chipper 'customer service' voice. “Veterans affairs.” You stated your name. “How may I help you?”

“H-Hi. My name is Frankie- uh-Francisco Morales." A deep voice answered you. "I’m calling because I have gotten my benefits check yet. It’s been a month. I was hoping you could tell me if it got sent?”

“Okay Mr. Morales." You flipped on the computer. "Let me check. Can you spell your last name for me?”

“M-o-r-a-l-e-s”

“Okay... let's see.” You clicked on his account. You were momentarily distracted by his picture likely taken when he graduated basic if you had to guess based off the uniform. He looked sweet. Sharp nose and strong jaw balanced by kind eyes and a shy smile. You could imagine how age would continue to soften his expression making him even more handsome. The image was a strange juxtaposition to the voice you were hearing on the phone which was much deeper and rougher. His profile said he was special forces. A pilot. The rest of the information was blacked out. Something you were used to seeing on many people's accounts but even his years of service were redacted. He must have been involved in some dangerous stuff, you thought to yourself. The dates that were not redacted were mostly in Latin America. You clicked over to processing requests. “Looks like the check got sent one week ago.” You informed him.

"I'll look again but I haven't seen anything-" It sounded like he was apologizing when clearly it was not his fault.

"No no. It's probably a mistake on our end." You interrupted. With how shitty and outdated the payroll interface was you wouldn't be surprised if there was a mix up. "I’ll go ahead and let payroll know to send another."

"Great. Thanks." He replied sounding relieved. The roughness in his voice gave way to a smooth baritone.

“No problem. I'm sorry for any inconvenience it may have caused. We'll get it sent right away." You hoped he was not relying on this benefit check for anything important. While you could promise you'd fix the problem, the administration was notoriously slow. When he didn't respond you asked, "Is there anything else I can help you with today, Mr. Morales?”

“Uh-no" The roughness back in place. "Thank you." He paused before adding your name onto his thank you which made you smile. People usually never remembered your name.

“Alright. Have a nice day and thank you for your service.” You chirped before hanging up. The smile he put on your face lingered for a few minutes as you returned to your book.

The next time he called was exactly twelve days later.

“Veterans affairs” you answered, your routine greeting cut short as your eyes were still on your book.

“Hi- I’m calling because uh I still haven’t gotten my benefits check. This is Frankie Morales.”

“Oh Mr. Morales.” You recognized his voice even before he even said his name. You quickly shut your book, pushing your hair out of your face. Had you been thinking about him? No! Okay maybe you stared at his picture for a few minutes longer after he hung up. Yes, it was probably very unprofessional but you couldn't fight the curiosity. You were trying to rationalize the contrasting sharpness and softness of his features with his voice. How it all worked together. How one person's voice could change textures and colors so easily. You wondered what kind of things this man might have seen on the job. Most of the veterans you would help day to day did not have so many redacted missions and deployments. You were in the middle of Narcos season one so you immediately thought of drugs or something equally dangerous. After much pondering, you had come to the conclusion that Frankie Morales was both insanely attractive and insanely courageous. “Still no check, huh?”

“Nope.” He sighed the sound making the phone's shitty speaker crackle as you held it to your ear.

“Let me just check that it was approved...“ you found his profile again and scrolled to the status page. “Hmm... it says it was sent out last Friday after we spoke. That’s so weird...”

“Yeah. Really weird.” He echoed your frustration on the other end.

Typical payroll, you thought to yourself as you rolled your eyes. “I'll get another one sent to you right away. I'll see to it myself.” You tucked the phone under your chin and typed out a short email to Mary in payroll letting her know you'd be stopping by her office to explain the situation. You realized he hadn't hung up yet.

“Sorry for the back and forth.” You said, trying to fill the silence.

“It’s not your fault." The earlier irritation gone. "You’ve been really helpful.” His voice sounded warm and reassuring. Less gruff than it was last you spoke. Instead it was that rich baritone that you caught of glimpse of last time.

You feel your face warm at his compliment. It was this annoying reflex you had. Praise always made you blush no matter what context but it was worse when it came from a (you assume) gorgeous stranger.

“And just to verify that your address is correct- you’re on Maple Lane in Miami, Florida?”

“That’s right.” He confirmed.

“Okay. Sent!” You clicked send on the email, which caused the window to close and reveal Frankie’s profile page again. “I was curious-" You spoke before you really made the decision to speak. You didn’t want to overstep but once again your curiosity got the better of you. Honestly, you were just searching for a way to keep him on the phone. The day had been so boring.

“Your profile says you were stationed in Costa Rica.”

“For a bit.” He replied after a moment. He didn’t sound too defensive but there was definitely some tightness in his answer that made you feel bad for asking. Like you were scratching a wound.

“Did you like it? The country I mean.”

“Are you planning a trip?” He sounds a little amused.

“Yeah- well- kind of. It's more a trip in my head right now. I’d like to go there one day. It looks so beautiful.” You sighed closing your eyes trying to imagine the heat on your skin.

“It is." He agrees. "Really humid though.”

“Mm that sounds nice.” You would kill for some warm weather after such a long winter in DC.

“It was too muggy for me at times." He grumbled. "If you do go, stick to the costal areas where it’s more breezy or else you’ll just be sweating the whole time.”

“I don’t mind a little sweat” you shrugged, still thinking of the awful east coast winter you were currently suffering through. The sexual connotation of what you said hit you hard as soon as you heard the statement in its entirety. You felt your face flush again, though the man on the other end would never know.

“I’m learning Spanish!" You announced loudly trying to move the conversation past your awkwardness.

“Wow. Muy impressivo.”

“Si” you replied but after a moment you admit “I don’t really know what you said.”

Frankie laughed loudly on the other end and you couldn’t help but join in, drawing dirty looks from the elderly lady, Donna, working in the cubicle across from you. You ducked your head behind a stack of papers to avoid her glare.

“Fake it till you make it.” He chuckled.

“Maybe you should help me out.” You took on an indigent but still playful tone. “You sound better than duolingo” Your smile widened when he laughed again. His laugh was what you hoped it would be, by all your assumptions from his picture. It was an unencumbered, unburdened, rich sound with only a hit of roughness from the air behind it.

“Tell me you’re not using that dumb app to learn.” he scoffed, saying your name in an almost scolding tone.

“I’m got my thirty day streak today.” You boasted.

“You’ll be a total tourist if you go by duolingo.”

“But the owl is so cute every time I get something right!” You argued your voice taking on a more childish cadence.

“That’s how they trap you, silly girl.” He teased right back. Usually such a condescending nickname would piss you off but something about the affection behind him using it made you feel very differently. You felt warm like you were proud to be silly as long as it made him laugh.

“Then you saved me just in time, Mr. Morales.” You bit your lip. His scoffing and laughter died down on the other end.

“Frankie” He corrects you.

“Frankie…” You repeated it, smiling at how well the nick name suited the voice over the phone. Honest, sincere, and not pretentious at all. Way better than the pompous guys you know with equally stuffy names like “Edward” and “Christopher.”

“So what do you want to know?” Frankie interrupted your thoughts. “Dime”

You started asking him questions in Spanish to the best of your ability. Granted they weren't particularly probing questions. What is your name? What is your favorite color? What is your favorite animal? What's your favorite book? I am reading Gone Girl. He answered them all with patience and amusement, occasionally interrupting you to correct your pronunciation or explain what a word meant. Every time you’d repeat the word back correctly he would say something like “good” or “there you go” or “you got it”. You hated to admit that his kind words and his praise was doing something to you. You didn't even realize you were clenching your legs together unconsciously, almost in anticipation of his next correction or next answer. His low voice so sweet and encouraging against your ear, more tangible when he was speaking Spanish. You just wanted to hear more of it. Would it be this sweet in other situations? Would it get huskier or rougher? If you closed your eyes it was like he was sitting right next to you. It would be all too easy to slip into that daydream and escape the dull office.

Suddenly out of the corner of your drooping eyes you saw a flashing red light on the phone console meaning another caller was waiting.

“Shoot- i’m sorry, Frankie- I have to take this call.” You shot forward in your chair, legs uncrossing.

“Of-Of course. I should let you get back to work.” He sounded a little sad or so you hoped. You felt bad for interrupting him after you both were having so much fun. You wanted to say he could wait on hold but he killed that idea when he said, "I have work too. Technically I'm five minutes past my lunch break."

Your pout turned to a smile. He was spending his precious lunch break with you? Get a grip! you snapped at yourself.

“You’re welcome to call again if you want.” You threw out the offer in a small voice, scared you would be rejected. You peered over the cubicle wall to see if you were still being glared at. Thankfully Donna was away from her desk. Probably out for a smoke. “It’s really boring here and usually no one calls.”

“Maybe I will.” He replied and you could hear the smile behind those words. You felt your heart clench weirdly in your chest like it didn't know how to process the sudden spike in emotions.

“Bye, Frankie.” You beamed.

“Bye”

This time the smile on your face lasted for hours. Frankie’s laugh echoed around in your head, taunting you, sending your mind to the gutter. His voice went from grit to molasses on a dime. You wanted to be the one to bring out those sounds. You wanted to hear his voice bend and stretch and strain as you fucked him. What the hell is wrong with me? you screamed internally. You had never been so depraved and with a stranger no less! You clearly needed to get laid fast because this much yearning would not end well.

Frankie got the second VA check a few days later and this time he didn’t even feel bad about ripping it in half. He was already reaching for the phone to call you.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Tags: Message to be added 💕 no minors please!

[yeojaa]

( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud.  Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or:  Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing.  tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.  slice of life fluff, light smut.  explicit (but only at the end). 

tags / warnings.  mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc.  7.6k.

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​, @papillonsgf​, and @yeoldontknow​​ 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note.  i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this.  it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless.  as always, feedback means a lot! 

You and forethought aren’t close friends.  You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree.  You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is.  Careful consideration?  Thoughtful patience?  None of that exists for you.  At least, not when you really, really want something. 

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.  

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this.  Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid.  By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.  

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment.  Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to.  When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed.  (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right? 

“Everyone’s fully booked.”  The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial.  (You don’t blame her.)  By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal.  You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue.  “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice?  Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable.  Well-known.  Considered one of the best in the city.  Surely their apprentice would be fine.  Just less seasoned, not as experienced. 

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter.  “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall.  “Last room on the left.  His name’s Jungkook.  His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.”  It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves.  Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told. 

“Jungkook?”  There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight.  (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.)  It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else. 

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting:  one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits.  Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine.  A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall;  one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it.  There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath.  All in all, very homey.  Reminiscent of your own apartment.) 

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space.  “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples. 

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for.  Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.  

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe.  It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin.  “Are you okay?”  He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way.  Good for him, but worse for you. 

He’s so cute.  Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.”  You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete.  “Um— I was told you might have some time?  For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering?  You’re never shy.  Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess.  People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!”  Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder.  He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway.  “Yeah, I’ve got time.  Come in.”  Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek;  the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip;  each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks.  “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no.  You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook?  He was that.  In spades. 

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”  He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table.  It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display.  “I’ve got a pretty big selection.” 

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him.  This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation. 

“So—”  He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen.  You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt.  It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion;  it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles.  He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling.  The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity.  “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.”  It really is.  You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink.  “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question.  Of course it did.  It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally.  “Like crazy, but it was worth it.  This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—”  He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.  

“A piece of cake?”  You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you.  (It doesn’t.  You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap.  “Do any of these interest you?”  He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash.  There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf).  They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.”  It catches your eye more than the others have.  Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines.  A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do.  “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.”  He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled;  you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion.  A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen.  “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy.  Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no.  You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.  

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though.  You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it.  You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life.  There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,”  you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.  

“Do you have your ID?”  You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form.  “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come. 

Alone, the nerves set in.  You’re actually doing this.  Getting a tattoo.  Putting something permanent on your body.  It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap.  Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come.  (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.) 

(But had you really made up your mind?  Was this going to be it?  It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise.  It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!”  Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope.  You eye it curiously.  “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”  

He’s really thought of everything.  Or the shop has.  Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?”  It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand.  (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.) 

You hadn’t thought about that.  You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away.  “My arm?”

“Upper?  Forearm?”  There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative.  He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you. 

“Tricep area, I think?  Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.”  Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same.  “I’m kidding.  That was cheesy.  But I’m sure it’ll look fine.  We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?” 

“That sounds good.”  A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement. 

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake:  wearing a turtleneck.  “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like.  Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon?  Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)? 

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule.  Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside.  Whatever you’d prefer.” 

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill.  You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.  

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way?  He was probably desensitized.)  

“It’s fine.”  You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly.  Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though.  Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater.  It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath.  Two. 

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him.  “All right.  Let’s do this.” 

“So, which arm?”  He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.  

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello. 

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers.  You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.”  It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror.  “It’s so pretty.” 

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face.  “Thanks.”  He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful.  “What do you think?”

“This is it.  Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool.  As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee. 

“All right.  We’ll shave you down and get started.  You like the colours, right?”  Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart.  It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes.  (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.)  He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him.  “Hop on up.  Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace.  It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.  

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?”  You’d misheard that, right? 

“Your skin.  You’re sparkling.”  He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.  

“Oh.”  Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly.  “It’s my soap.” 

“Sparkle soap?”  Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure.  He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before.  (Which, fair.) 

“It’s this specialty holiday soap.  It has pigment in it.” 

“That’s cool.”  He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm.  “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree.  It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does.  Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot.  “Thanks.” 

“Was that weird?  I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.” 

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.  

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle.  “Ready?” 

Honestly, you’re not sure.  Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog.  Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue.  “I think so.” 

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee. 

“All right—”“  The incessant buzzing stops.  Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel.  “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you.  Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.) 

“Can I see?”  You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face. 

“Yeah, go ahead.  Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right.  You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet.  It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you. 

“Careful!”  It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.  

“Sorry, sorry.”  You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede.  Everything straightens out quickly enough.  “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?”  He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall.  “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art.  “I’m fine.”  That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.”  The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open.  Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words,  “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention.  It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours.  It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.  

“You like?”  

“I love.”  You’d stare at it for hours, if you could.  Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie.  “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head.  Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose.  Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into.  “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one.  It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink.  (You half expect him not to answer;  you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.) 

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.  

“So, what’re you thinking?”  

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking.  Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history.  You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece.  “A sleeve?”

That surprises him.  His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously.  “Like, a full sleeve?”  It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable.  “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high.  “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,”  he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea.  “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.”  He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up.  For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing.  (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.)  “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan.  It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there.  He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.  

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”  

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions.  It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin.  A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep.  Another takes up the entirety of your forearm.  There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi.  It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.  

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch.  You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.”  Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap.  “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers.  Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat.  He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up.  Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.  

“You mean we did it,”  you return, giddy like a child.  

“Ah, right.”  The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled.  “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey!  Screw you!”  You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.  

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more.  It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head.  Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow.  You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm.  That in itself had hurt like a biiitch;  you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?”  He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to.  It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.  

“Yes, you are.”  You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares.  This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together.  (Not that you’d complain.  You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful.  “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration.  “You wouldn’t dare.”  You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.  

“Wouldn’t I?  I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?”  

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed?  You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation.  Had he mentioned it previously?  Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain?  No, you would’ve remembered that.  You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.”  How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea.  You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway.  Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago.  (God, your memory is good.  If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.)  “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.  

“Gonna miss me?”  

Would it be inappropriate to say yes?  Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question.  You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).  

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own.  “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,”  he answers, offering honesty to your reticence.  “You can still send me funny photos though.”  

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile.  “I guess you’re right.  Will you still be tattooing?”  It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know.  You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.”  Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin.  “Actually, where I got most of mine done.”  You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith.  He’s finally come full circle.  You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.  

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to.  It wouldn’t feel right otherwise.  “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,”  he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair.  It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn.  “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,”  you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder.  You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go.  It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk.  “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”  

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you.  It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available.  (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.)  “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black.  You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.  

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?”  He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to.  (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?)  “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended.  “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”  

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you.  “Hey, I don’t judge.  You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there.  Used your own impulsive history against you.  “I would never.”  

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what?  Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.  “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him.  “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth.  There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up.  You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”  

“Really?”  You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face.  “Then why don’t you have one?”  He has a million others as it is:  a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs.  (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)  

“And hide all this?”  One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home.  “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual.  “But I’m cuter.  It’d be a shame if it were me.  You…”  The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean.  (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.)  “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”  

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him. 

“I’m kidding.”  You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries.  A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke.  “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them?  Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was.  Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met.  It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?”  The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.  

Were you?  You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really?  You can’t?”  You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it.  But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously.  It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears.  “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”  

Had he?  Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall.  Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of;  accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff).  Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought.  You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,”  you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.  

“I think you’re cute,”  he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff.  The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week.  The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb.  (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer.  “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.”  Where the confidence comes from, who knows.  You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering.  It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits. 

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go. 

Then he does the last thing you expect:  shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.  

(His lips are so soft.  A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate.  Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him.  French fries and beer and his Chapstick.) 

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.) 

“You just kissed me.”  It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.  

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.”  Speaking the words into existence feels bad;  you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.  

“I am.”  At least he’s realistic.  It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay. 

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose. 

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.  

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next.  (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass.  Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers.  An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,”  the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials.  You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation. 

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof.  The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin.  You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous.  It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left. 

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed.  He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders.  You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,”  he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity.  It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,”  you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped.  You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was.  As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though.  You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow.  He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?”  You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder.  Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again.  (You’re proud of that.  It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”  

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine.  You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness.  Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad.  Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around.  It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper.  He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror.  “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals.  Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care.  Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre.  You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life.  It means so much - like progressing to the next level.  

Which, you suppose it is.  This is a fresh start for you.  A new beginning in a new city.  

“Proud of you,”  he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips.  He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.  

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago.  A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,”  you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.  

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual.  “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that.  You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome.  From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.  

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this:  a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had;  to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.  

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that.  Made it worth it in ways you had never considered.  Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?”  He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself.  It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.  

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.”  The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?”  You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets.  It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that.  He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.  

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised.  “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?”  Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job? 

(It truthfully could be.  You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.”  All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine.  “You don’t like when I admire my own work?”  Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit.  The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need.  (Because you really do need it.  You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.)  It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once. 

“Kook,”  you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.”  He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin.  They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas.  A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care.  Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits.  When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”  

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt.  “I’ve missed this,”  he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.  

“Missed you too,”  you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.  

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

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