#there’s just something about it man it sounds like droplets of liquid gold

[szethsmom]

God, I forgot how much piccolo trumpets fill me with lust

[cockslutpadalecki]

Demonology And Heartache

Summary: Y/N never should've gone to the bar alone.

Characters: Demon!Dean x Reader.

Words: 1429.

Warnings: dub-con (if you squint), female masturbation, p in v.

A/N: Inspired by this post and my tags which @waywardbaby and I then discussed in a lot of detail and thus this was born. This is for you, Zee. Beta: @deanwanddamons​ but all the general bullshit is entirely mine. While likes are gold, feedback is golden. Masterlists can be found in my pinned post. Subscribe to Patreon and get access to fics, just like this one, two weeks before Tumblr for as little as $3.

Neon lights shine down on you, illuminating the parking lot as you stroll up to the entrance, hesitating before choosing the right moment to head inside. The intel was concrete, air tight. Sam promised you this was the place. The bar he frequented more than you surmised he did motel rooms with the cheap women who filled them.

You know something is off the moment you enter. If the lack of music doesn’t unsettle you immediately, then the absence of anyone other than you inside should’ve. The stench of cigarette smoke lingers thickly in the air, and through the low-lying cloud of stale nicotine you can detect the hint of sweetness from spilt alcohol.

Slowly you edge further into the belly of the building, eyes darting quickly from left to right, mentally preparing yourself for someone— something— to jump out at you.

Nothing hides in the darkness. The blanket of ebony surrounding the main room is empty, and as you step over the threshold into the light, your eyes are drawn to the solitary figure drinking alone at the bar.

Dean’s leaning on the wood with his elbow, corners of his lips pulled into a smirk as he spots you lurking in the shadows. It’s almost as if he’s been waiting for you, expecting you.

“What took you so long?” he confirms, voice thick and rough like gravel. He lifts the glass in his right hand to his lips, taking a large sip of the honey-coloured liquid swirling around in the tumbler.

“You’re a hard man to find.”

“Lying never suited you sweetheart,” he chuckles dryly, “and besides, I’m not really a man anymore, am I?”

As if to prove his point, Dean’s eyes flash obsidian before returning to their normal shade of green. You stand transfixed, watching him place the tumbler onto the bar as he helps himself to the half empty bottle standing next to it, pouring out a full measure before adding a little extra.

Picking it back up, he brings it to his lips and swallows a mouthful. A stray droplet remains on his pink, plump lips as he removes the glass. It takes every ounce of resolve in you not to walk over and lick it off. The man— demon, in front of you may wear the face of your lover, but it doesn’t stop the fear of how easily he could snap your neck from bubbling hot in your veins.

“So, tell me somethin’ princess,” he says, “is Sammy really so afraid of me that he would send my little lamb to get slaughtered instead?”

You stiffen at his words. “I came alone. Sam has nothing to do with this.”

“That so? You snuck into the lion’s den without backup, baby?” Dean clicks his tongue. “That’s reckless, even for you.”

“Didn’t think I’d need it,” you shrug, trying to remain aloof in the hopes Dean won’t be able to sense your rapidly rising unease, but given your knowledge of demons, you know that’s a lie. Even you can notice the tiny quiver in your voice every time you open your mouth, so Dean is bound to have too.

“And why’s that sweetheart?”

“Because we’re gonna walk outta here amicably.”

“Will we?” he teases, almost laughing at the absurdity of your statement. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because you don’t wanna hurt me, Dean.”

“You sound awful certain for someone who’s terrified they might have underestimated me.”

“I’m not terrified,” you reply defiantly.

He smirks. “Guess I must’a mistaken your arousal for fear then.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“C’mon baby, you can’t bullshit me.” He inhales deeply, eyes fluttering closed momentarily, but when they flicker back open, you’re confronted with his onyx stare. “I could smell you half a mile down the road. That sweet, tight little pussy that was always so deliciously wet for me. That still is.”

Dean slowly slinks forward, fingers tapping lightly against the wood, the sound vibrating through you like it’s set to a hundred decibels. The thump, thump, thump of his fingertips settles deep in your core, your mind wishing they were dancing inside you instead.

“Wonder how Sammy would react if I sent you back pumped full of my cum,” he muses, the brazenness of his statement making your skin prickle with heat. “Because right now, I’m doing all I can not to come over there and rip your clothes off,” he threatens, “with my teeth.”

As his voice cuts through the final word. You watch his tongue poke through the aforementioned teeth upon the “th” sound, remembering how they used to feel on your skin. The way he’d nip and suck on your flesh, leaving you marred and bruised like you were his own personal canvas, your skin a perfect backdrop for his intimate artistry.

If you needed any cue to flee, this had to be it. Naively, you had fooled yourself into thinking the man standing before you wouldn’t bat an eyelid at your presence, but clearly you were wrong. Dean said it himself; you’re like a lamb to the slaughter.

As he slinks to the end of the bar, you muster up enough courage to reach into the back pocket of your jeans and pull free a set of handcuffs, a delicate devil’s trap etched into the ironwork.

He scoffs at the sight of them dangling from your fingers. “You really think those are gonna work?”

“Well, there’s only way to find out.”

You don’t know what you were expecting. Did you really think he would just relinquish himself to you and go quietly? You had heard the stories from Sam— how lethal and merciless Dean had become in this stripped back state. How the demon birthed inside of your lover fed on the darkness and most depraved parts of him, burrowing deep and taking root in those virulent cracks, and allowing the monster Alastair had forged in hell to roam free.

He’s too fast for you, your reflexes lagging as Dean catches your wrist within his hand before wrenching it behind your back. You wince at the sharp pain pulsing in your shoulder, letting your breath hiss out through gritted teeth as he forces you against the worn mahogany of the bar.

“Drop ‘em,” he commands into your ear, the baritone of his voice pin balling straight to your cunt.

You struggle briefly, but the cut of Dean’s grip around your wrist tightens and you let go, the restraints clattering to the floor loudly.

“Good girl,” he praises against your hair, and you can’t help the whimper that escapes from your trembling lips. A faint chuckle resonates from deep inside Dean’s throat as his hold on you loosens to spin you on the spot. With his left arm behind your back, his free hand edges its way down your stomach until it reaches the waistband of your jeans, his eyes piercing as he waits for you to surrender.

You suck in a tight breath as he manipulates his way between your legs, his calloused fingertips walking across your skin as light as a feather.

His fingers finally meet the soft patch of hair at the apex of your thighs, smoothing across it until you feel his touch against your folds, gliding through your heat like it’s spun silk.

“Oh baby, you can’t tell me you don’t want this,” he snickers, the tips of his digits easing inside you with very little effort, making your cheeks sting with shame. “See, always such a willing little slut when I’ve got my fingers deep in this cunt, aren’t you?”

You hate that your body reacts to him without your mind’s consent, unable to resist the way he can make you succumb to your limits without a moment to question it.

Withdrawing his fingers, Dean paws your jeans open, deftly popping the button before pulling down your zipper. You’re completely powerless— pinned between him and the bar behind you as he turns you once more, finally freeing your arm from his grip.

He tugs your jeans and panties down your legs roughly, and while you try to fight him to keep your clothes on, you lose spectacularly. Your once prideful strength is feeble compared to Dean’s. He was always stronger than you, but with the addition of the demon bettering those previously admired traits, you don’t stand a chance as he pushes your head onto the wood in front of you, forcing your bare backside into the air. And there’s certainly no way out when he fills you in one violent and punishing thrust.

***

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[hrina]

In The Ring, Pt. I - Jab

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 4k REQUESTED: not exactly lol

hey everyone! this is PART 1 of the boxer!harry AU i’ve been working on. i was so inspired by this concept that i wrote it all in one day lol. if u enjoy reading it, reblogs and feedback are very much appreciated! it really helps in terms of motivation and just knowing how my readers feel about this story in general. so yeah, that would really make my month!

warning: parts of this fic will contain mentions of blood, violence, mild stalking, and sexual content. if any of that makes you uncomfortable, please take care of yourself and keep scrolling <3

okay, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, go stupid go dumb! my masterlist and my inbox are both linked in my bio, for anyone who would like to check out my other fics or who feels like chatting. can’t wait to hear your thoughts 💘💘💘

~*~

    January 7, 2021

All of Harry’s teeth are still intact.

For now, at least.

He knows that mouthguards exist—there’s one tucked between his lips every single time he enters the ring. But even then…sometimes punches go awry. Sometimes your opponent dodges at the last second. Sometimes people end up with a mouthful of leather and a few loose incisors. He always keeps one fist near his chin, shielding the lower half of his face from any blows that come his way.

Speaking of blows coming his way…

He ducks away from the straight jab that the man throws—The Wall, they call him. Harry had rolled his eyes when the nickname boomed across the room, soon lost in the roar of the crowd.

He’s never been one for flashy introductions. He prefers to let his technique speak for itself. His brand is his name. Harry Styles. Simple, concise, and so utterly deceiving. He loves watching the smile melt from his opponent’s face, basks in the moment when they realise that he’s tougher than his name suggests.

The Wall jabs again, and Harry successfully dodges the punch. He doesn’t register the other fist hooking around, however, until the blunt front of the man’s glove makes contact with the side of his head. Usually, a blow like that wouldn’t even faze him. But the sheer force behind the hit knocks him off-balance, stumbling to the side as he loses his footing and inhaling sharply when his shoulder collides with the ground.

The yells from the crowd are deafening. Harry coughs, trying to guide air back into his lungs. When he blinks, black spots dance across his vision. Subconsciously, his eyes trace a path upward, past the floor, past his opponent’s feet, past the ropes encompassing the ring. Higher and higher, still, past jeering faces and sloshing beer bottles and grungy eye makeup. All the way to the top of the bleachers, to the exit—to you.

That’s been your unofficial spot for the past two years. Once you turned twenty, your father finally gave in, allowing you to attend Harry’s matches in exchange for the cessation of your endless badgering. You always stand near the door, observing the commotion with thoughtful eyes and puckered lips. Despite himself, Harry has started to think of you as his lucky charm. It’s dangerous—he always swore that he wouldn’t be one of those overly-superstitious athletes—but he can’t help it. He just seems to perform better when you’re around.

Through the rocky field of his vision, he can see just how wide your eyes have grown. There’s an unmistakable look of concern on your face as you watch the fight unfold. Your hand finds its way to the base of your throat, playing nervously with the rose-gold pendant resting there. You crane your neck to get a better view of the ring, your pupils flitting back and forth between Harry and the frighteningly large man looming over him.

A warm rush of adrenaline floods Harry’s veins. The saliva that has gathered in his mouth tastes stale on his tongue. He spits it out as he staggers to his feet. The crowd grows louder, somehow.

The Wall’s smile shrinks as Harry assumes his previous position; his hands orient themselves in front of his face. His opponent gnashes his teeth, seemingly annoyed with the fact that the match has not ended. Harry shakes off the dizziness clouding his brain, and then he’s lunging forward with a newfound sense of determination. He throws punch after punch, sidestepping The Wall’s returning attempts. All he can think about is the fact that you’re up there, watching, waiting, worrying. He never wants to see you like that again.

You’re his goddamn lucky charm.

His victory comes in the form of an uppercut followed immediately by a nasty right hook. The Wall—this big, towering man with bulging biceps and rippling pectorals—crumples to the ground. Harry waits, his chest heaving with exertion as the countdown begins. He’s prepared to watch his opponent rise again, to shift back into a fighting stance and start over. But as the seconds trickle by and The Wall remains motionless on the ground, he soon finds the tension in his body seeping out into the hot, sticky air.

His shoulders sag in relief as a single promising word echoes through the grimy arena.

“Knockout!”

~*~

The crowd thins out considerably in the ten minutes following the termination of the match. Harry stumbles out of the ring, sliding through the ropes and pulling his mouthguard from between his lips. Your father is waiting for him with a smile on his face, holding out an arm and helping him jump down from the raised platform.

“Well done, H,” he says, patting his back proudly.

Harry pants and nods. Your father holds out a reusable water bottle for him to take—he accepts it graciously and gulps down the cold liquid with fat, greedy slurps. Once he pulls the nozzle away from his mouth, he runs the back of his hand over his face to catch any stray droplets that have collected on his chin.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“You took a pretty hard fall, there,” your father says, guiding him to sit down on a bench propped up against the wall. “Medic’s in the back. He’s checking out Aaron right now, but you’re next.” He taps his index finger against Harry’s temple. “We’ve got to make sure everything’s alright up there.”

Harry sucks in a deep breath, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Who the fuck is Aaron?”

“Oh.” Your father laughs. “Aaron. The Wall. Whatever you want to call him.”

Harry frowns. “Don’t like that. Makes him sound like a dick.”

A new voice enters the conversation.

“That’s because he is.”

Harry’s head snaps to the side, and there you are.

You look nice, as usual. There’s something about you that he can never seem to properly describe. You always look so…clean. If he tried to vocalize his thoughts, he’s sure that you would look at him like he was crazy.

But in his head, it makes sense. You take care of yourself. Your nails are spotless, your hair smells good, and he knows that you must dab spritzes of perfume onto your pulse points before you leave the house, because a fresh scent follows you wherever you go. Even now, as you stand a few feet away with your hands on your hips, he catches it on a deep inhale. Not flowery, not fruity, just…clean. Refreshing. Light. Breezy.

Your father snaps him out of his reverie, and he realises that he should probably stop listing every word in the thesaurus.

“How do you know?” Your father’s inquiry is curious. He shoots you a puzzled look, his mouth curling down into a soft scowl.

You roll your eyes. “Called me ‘sweet thing’ before the match started and asked me if I was the prize,” you say, sticking your tongue out in disdain. “I told him to go fuck himself.”

Harry’s lips twitch.

Your father chuckles. “That’s my girl.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “What time are we leaving?” you ask. The question is directed at your father, who is fiddling with the drawstrings hanging from his sweater. “I was hoping to study a bit more before bed.”

“Soon, gioia,” your father says. “As soon as Harry gets checked out, we’ll be on our way.”

You nod, and—for what feels like the first time since you cut into the interaction—you glance down at Harry. “Hi,” you say softly, shooting him a small, friendly smile.

He meets your gaze for only a moment. Everything about you is so gentle. Your irises are like melted pots of honey, regarding him with such warmth he feels like he’ll never be cold again. “Hi.”

“Congratulations on your win,” you murmur. Harry wants to bottle your voice and save it as a keepsake. “You made a great comeback.”

Because of you, he wants to say, but he bites his tongue. “Thank you,” he offers up instead, the words scraping against the roof of his mouth and tumbling unceremoniously into the air between you.

A moment of silence ensues as you wait for him to say something—anything—else. But he’s done. You nod once before turning back to your father, who is tweaking the settings of the watch wrapped around his wrist.

“Do you know where the washrooms are?” you ask. You toy absentmindedly with the necklace hanging from your throat. “I need to pee.”

“You can use the one in the women’s locker room,” your father tells you, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “Around the corner, first door on the left.”

“Thanks,” you say, slipping by and pressing a quick peck to his cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

He just nods in agreement, still too preoccupied with his watch.

Harry, on the other hand, can’t keep his eyes off of you as you walk away. He takes note of the way that you tuck your hair behind your ear, how you shoulder the strap of your purse to keep it from slipping down your arm, how you walk with a purpose despite being so moderate and kind. His gaze falls momentarily to the sway of your hips, the enticing nature of your waist. He stares for a long moment before tearing away, clearing his throat and blinking a few times in quick succession.

“Proud of you, H,” your father pipes up, tapping the face of his watch twice before dropping his arm with a sigh. “You did well out there.”

“Thanks,” Harry mutters. A spark of guilt flares up in his chest when he realises that he had been blatantly ogling you with your father standing only a few feet off to the side. He silently berates himself, shaking his head free of any alluring thoughts.

Your father’s phone chirps with the arrival of a new notification. He fishes the device out of his pocket and glances down at the screen.

“Let’s go,” he tells Harry, jerking his head to the right. “Medic’s ready for you, now.”

    January 13, 2021

“C’mon, H, be smart with it! Watch how he angles himself!”

And Harry’s trying, really, but Arthur—or Artie, as your father likes to call him—is a hunkering titan of a man. He used to be your father’s star athlete before retiring, and now…now he’s working in finance, or something akin to that. Harry isn’t one hundred percent sure; he usually zones out when people begin to discuss the stock market.

Artie throws a right hook, but Harry sees it coming and blocks it with ease. They move in a circle, focussed only on each other while other individuals outside of the ring totter around.

Harry prefers to train on weekdays during the afternoon, because that’s when the gym isn’t as packed. Right now, only a handful of other people are working out, lifting weights or doing cardio exercises. Harry and Artie are here so often that nobody even blinks an eye anymore. And your father…well, he runs the place. Of course he would be here.

The sparring continues. When Harry refuses to make the first move, Artie sticks one glove out, beckoning him forward. “Come here, pretty boy.”

“Don’t make me pull your hair,” Harry grits, because Artie’s ponytail is swinging temptingly from beneath his headgear.

The other man laughs good-naturedly before lunging. Harry blocks his uppercut and delivers a strong, pointed jab right to the middle of his chest. Artie stumbles backward, inhaling sharply as the breath is knocked from his lungs. Harry bites back a smile.

“Nice, H!” your father calls.

“Thanks, Coach,” he mutters.

The front door of the gym opens, accompanied by the soft tinkling of a bell to announce the new arrival. Harry’s attention is reflexively drawn toward the direction of the sound, and his heartbeat stutters beneath his ribs.

You’re there, with your hair tied back in a low bun and silver hoops hanging from your ears. You’re holding a tray of coffee in your left hand, and there’s a warm smile on your face. You wave excitedly as you greet Portia, the middle-aged woman sitting behind the front desk. The two of you chat as you shrug off your jacket and tug the sleeves of your sweater over your hands.

Your mouth moves languidly. Though Harry is too far to hear your voice, he has a pretty good idea of what you’re saying. Your eyes widen and you shiver dramatically, shaking your head.

It’s cold!

A heavy fist makes contact with the side of his jaw, and he falls to the ground.

Your father’s loud exclamation pulls your attention away from Portia and toward the ring on the opposite end of the room. Harry groans lowly as he pushes himself to his knees, tilting his head from side to side and cracking his neck. When he turns to face your father, he finds him frowning through the gaps between the ropes.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, shooting Harry a disappointed look.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, climbing to his feet with a grunt. “Got distracted.”

He chances a glance back at you, and his shoulders grow tense when he realises that you’re making your way over to the ring, the tray of coffee held between your hands like a peace offering.

“Hello, boys,” you singsong. “I brought drinks.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” your father says as you hand him his designated cup. He leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to your hair. You hum happily in response.

“Jason!” you call out as Artie approaches the side of the ring. “I got your lemonade.”

“Thanks, little girl,” Artie hums, accepting his drink graciously and taking a long sip from the straw. “And for the hundredth time, stop calling me ‘Jason’.”

“Stop calling me ‘little girl’,” you shoot back, laughing deviously. “I can’t help it if you look like him, okay? You’re even the same age, too.” You cock one eyebrow. “Should I start calling you ‘Aquaman’ instead?”

“God, no.” Artie shakes his head vehemently. “Let’s stick to Jason. ’Least that’s a real name.”

You giggle as he ambles away. Your eyes shift over to Harry—who has kept silent the entire time—and your lips curl up into a kind smile. “Hi, Harry.”

“Hi.” His voice is guttural.

“Last, but not least,” you murmur, plucking his drink from the tray and holding it up for him to take. “One black coffee, right?”

“Right,” he confirms with a curt nod. He tugs his bulky gloves off, dropping them to the floor and reaching out to accept the cup. A strong spark pricks at his hand when his fingers brush against yours. Your responding gasp is soft, barely-noticeable—if he weren’t so painfully aware of everything you do, he would have missed it completely.

“Thank you,” he says, guiding the coffee to his mouth and taking a small sip.

“No problem.” You smile up at him again, and God, that fucking smile. He wants it tattooed onto the backs of his eyelids. A wave of heat blooms in his chest and creeps up his neck, but thankfully, the pink flush blends in with his sweat-slicked, already-rosy skin.

“How was class, sweetheart?” your father asks, tilting his head to the side.

“It was good.” You shrug, tossing a thumb over your shoulder. “I’m going to head home now, though—I have a proposal due in a few days and I really need to get started.”

“Go, go,” your father concedes. You bid him goodbye before standing on your tiptoes and craning your neck to catch sight of Artie, who is quite evidently enjoying his lemonade.

“Bye, Jason!”

“Bye, little girl!”

You laugh. Your gaze lands on Harry again, eyes sparkling and features resolutely tender. “Bye, Harry.”

He swallows down the hard lump in his throat. “Bye.”

    January 16, 2021

Harry’s workout playlist features a lot of Ariana Grande.

He just thinks that she’s good, okay?

But he knows that Artie and your father would never let him hear the end of it, so he keeps that information private. During practice, he’ll endure whatever shitty tunes Artie picks from his own library, and he won’t say a word. He’s not in the ring to dance, anyway. He’s there to make money—albeit illegally—because quite frankly, he hasn’t discovered an aptitude for anything else.

It’s late—the gym is technically closed. But the great thing about having the owner for a coach is the fact that Harry was given another key to add to his collection. Your father doesn’t care, as long as he locks up after he’s done. Harry has spent more time here than at his own home, he imagines. It’s nice when it’s quiet—it gives him plenty of time to think.

The back of his t-shirt is soaked through with sweat. He’s gazing at the ceiling as he lifts the heavy weights up and down over his torso. A bubbly song is playing on his phone, keeping his energy high.

So what if he listens to Ariana Grande? She makes great music.

The distinctive sound of footsteps reaches his ears. He pauses, setting the weightlifting bar back onto its rack and sitting up quickly. The noise is coming from the stairs that lead down to the swimming pool in the basement. Harry stands, and though his muscles are already screaming from previous exertion, he readies himself for the worst.

You appear at the top of the flight, your slippers smacking against each step loudly. You’re ruffling a towel against your wet hair, your head angled to the side as you squeeze out any excess water. Upon catching sight of Harry, you freeze in your tracks.

“Oh. Harry. Hi.”

“Hi,” he says slowly. “I…didn’t know you were here.”

“I didn’t know you were here,” you reply wryly, a small smirk making its way onto your lips.

Harry scratches sheepishly at the back of his neck. “Yeah. Er…I was just working out.”

You nod, your expression coy. “I can see that.”

An awkward silence hangs in the air. Harry clears his throat, rubbing his jaw with his fingers because what else is he supposed to do? “Were you—did you go for a swim?”

“Yeah,” you say. Your shoulders deflate, like you’re almost grateful that he’s contributed more to the conversation. “Spent half the time doing laps, and the other half on my phone.” Your lips quirk up with the feeble joke.

Harry chuckles weakly. “That’s just how it is, sometimes.”

Your eyes flutter shut for only a moment. “Yeah.”

More silence. Harry chews nervously on his bottom lip. Why the fuck can’t he speak?

The song playing from his phone changes. Your eyes narrow ever-so-slightly when a few upbeat notes trickle into the air, followed immediately by the smooth crooning of a woman’s voice. “Is this…,” you hesitate, and he can see how you’re fighting a smile, “…Carly Rae Jepsen?”

“Uh,” he says dumbly, uncertain of how to proceed. Sure enough, I Really Like You by Carly Rae Jepsen is filtering through the taut atmosphere, painfully loud now that the two of you are truly paying attention to it.

A high-pitched laugh falls from your mouth, and your shoulders shake with the force of your amusement. Harry, unable to help himself, begins to chuckle along with you. Heat blooms across his cheeks, but he’s not as embarrassed as he thought he’d be. Your giggles aren’t derisive, he realises.

He’s nearly overcome with the urge to take you in his arms, then, but he resists.

“Late night, watching the television…,” you sing quietly, and then you’re dissolving into merriment all over again.

Once your joint laughter subsides, you shoot him a bright grin. Harry tries his best to return it, though he doesn’t think that he mirrors your smile to its full extent. You sigh in delight, shouldering the strap of your bag and tossing your towel over your forearm.

“That honestly made my night,” you tell him, utterly sincere.

His heart somersaults in his chest. “’M glad.”

“Well,” you say, shrugging gently, “I should probably go.”

“Yeah.” His response is hollow. He lifts his hand in a half-hearted wave. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

He lies back down with a grunt as you make your way toward the exit. His fingers wrap around the weightlifting bar, about to pull it off of its resting place, when your voice suddenly rings out again.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?” He sits up too quickly, nearly catching his forehead against the metal of the bar. When he turns around to face you, he finds you doubling back, approaching him and nibbling apprehensively on your bottom lip.

“I actually—,” you pause, like you’re unsure of how to continue, “I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

“Sure,” he says, rubbing his hands over the black shorts covering his thighs. “Go ahead.”

“It might be kind of weird,” you warn. “Don’t laugh at me.”

He shakes his head, blinking solemnly. “I won’t.”

“Would you—,” you begin, and your fingers come up to play with the pendant resting at the base of your throat, “—teach me how to box?”

“I—,” Harry recoils slightly, taken aback by your question. “What?”

“Would you teach me how to box?” you repeat, though your voice is significantly smaller. “I want to learn how to defend myself.”

“Against what?” he asks, his brows knitting together in concern. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine.” You wave away his worries with an inattentive flick of your hand. Harry’s eyes narrow as he studies your face. You refuse to meet his gaze.

You’re lying, he realises, straight through your pretty teeth. But it would be impolite of him to pry, wouldn’t it? And this is the first time that the two of you have ever been really, truly alone; he doesn’t want to fuck it up.

“Okay,” he says slowly, even though he doesn’t believe your guarantee.

He pulls at the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it up and wiping his face with the fabric. When he fixes his gaze on you once more, he thinks he catches your eyes drifting across his torso. Cocking one eyebrow curiously, he climbs to his feet.

“What do you want to learn?” he asks, reaching for his phone and pausing the music streaming from the device.

“Anything,” you say breathlessly. “Everything.”

His lips twitch.

“I—,” he scratches at his nose with two fingers, “—I don’t really have a set schedule, you know, between practice and actual matches.”

“I know.” You nod understandingly.

“And I know you have school,” he continues, tilting his head to the side. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Positive,” you tell him. There’s something strong burning in your eyes; he can’t quite figure out what it is. “I want to train. Just…don’t tell my dad, okay?”

“Okay,” he repeats. He swallows heavily, offering his phone to you. “Put your number in, yeah? I’ll text you on the nights I’m free, and if you’re not too busy, we can meet up here.”

“Alright,” you concede softly. You take the device from him, and he pretends not to notice just how badly your hands are shaking. Your nails tap quietly against the screen, and before you know it, you’re passing the phone back to him with your information saved under a new contact.

“Alright,” Harry echoes.

The two of you stare at each other for a long, silent moment. The spell is broken, however, when you finally take a step back, clearing your throat and tucking a strand of damp hair behind your ear.

“I should go,” you say. “For real, this time.”

“For real.” Harry nods.

“You’ll lock up, right?” you ask, retreating toward the exit.

“Yup,” he says, popping the last letter instinctively. At that, you smile, your mouth curling up into a soft, inviting crescent.

“Okay,” you murmur, placing one hand on the door. “Goodnight, Harry.”

He watches you go with forlorn eyes and empty lungs. “Goodnight.”

~*~

PART II: Cross

PART III: Hook

PART IV: Uppercut

if you’re enjoying this series so far, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

[tothemeadow]

hi!! um, since you're open for requests, could i maybe ask for some spicy nsfw for akaza and an f!reader with marechi? preferably one who'd actually be willing to give a little blood? i'd love to see how he reacts to the temptation, considering his reservations with women >v>;; i hope that's ok! if not i totally understand, and thank you regardless for your lovely writing, i've been really enjoying reading through your work <3

Alright, so this request really caught my attention. Back before the Mugen Train hit theatres, I was thirsting over Akaza with somebody and I had this idea of an Akaza dry humping scenario stuck in my head ever since. 

This was my excuse to finally write it 👀

‘the taste of marechi’ / Akaza x Reader

warnings: NSFW, semi-public sex, blood drinking, dry humping/grinding, slight impregnation kink

words: 2,349

-

The marechi. The most delicious, powerful blood a human can have. It’s the forbidden fruit that only so few demons are blessed to have a taste of.

It’s what flows through your veins.

But of course you don’t know, since you’re a lowlife human. Your lifespan is short, your life itself dull. You aren’t aware of the sweet, sweet, liquid gold flowing in your body. You don’t how much demons want you, to taste you.

To devour you.

Now, some demons are utter heathens like the others. Some have standards. Take Akaza, for instance; as he watches you trek through the nighttime streets, he could easily jump you, rip your heart out with his teeth. Why you’re walking alone at night is a mysterious unbeknownst to him. You should certainly know better – there’s more predators than just demons that stalk the night.

It’s a simple rule of his not to eat women. There’s no way for you to defend yourself, for one, and the fact that his food supply comes from women is another point entirely. He tells himself he should just walk away and let you be. That’s what he should do, but his body refuses to leave.

In the distance, he sees a shrouded figure stagger onto the same street you’re walking on. Perched on the sloping roof of a nearby house, he’s essentially able to the entirety of the small town. As the figure draws closer, he can tell that it’s a middle-aged man. His clunky movements tell Akaza that he is clearly drunk. Akaza scoffs at that; oh, to be a pathetic human, having to rely substances to feel a single damn thing.

“Hey, doll!” the man suddenly calls out. Akaza curses under his breath – he must’ve seen you.

Glancing up, you see a strange man walking in your direction. Even from where Akaza sits, he can see your body tense up. Alright, that’s enough for him to spring into action.

Jumping from the roof to another, Akaza draws closer, his eyes locked on the creepy man. He’s already dangerously close to you, a drunken slur of compliments and suggestions spilling from his gross mouth. You slink away, trying not to make any sudden movements. The man follows right after you, his hands extended before him; you screech as he grabs onto your arms, a scowl crossing his face as you struggle in his hold.

A growl rips itself out of Akaza’s throat as he lands on the ground. A cloud of dust kicks up around him from the sheer force. He watches as you squirm in the man’s hold, struggling to break free. The man promptly slaps a meaty hand over your mouth and curses loudly when you bite down on his palm.

Akaza’s on him in seconds; he rips the man off of you, a snarl cracking his face. The man cries out as Akaza throws him like he’s nothing more than a rag doll. He grunts as his back collides with the siding of a building, a sickening snap filling the night air. Akaza turns to your trembling form. You stare at him, eyes wide, your hands clamped over your mouth.

“He was going to take advantage of you,” Akaza grunts. “Come on; I’ll take you home.” Quickly taking your hand in his, he drags you away from the unconscious – maybe even dead – man.

“Hang on!” you yelp.

It’s the first time he’s hearing your voice, but Akaza immediately decides he already likes the sound of it. He complies to your request and comes to a complete stop.

You yank your hand out of his grip. “Who are you? And what did you-“ You cut yourself off as Akaza turns around, golden irises and blue sclera rendering you speechless. Your eyes dart over the dark blue markings of his face, follow them down his body. You audibly swallow. “What are you…?”

Akaza scoffs. “Somebody who just saved you from some creep, obviously.” He rolls his eyes. “Damn weaklings. You’re lucky you’re a woman.”

You gawk at him. “And what’s that supposed to mean? One moment you’re saving me from some stranger, and then the next you’re ridiculing me. I didn’t ask for your help.”

“So you were just going to let him have his way with you?” Akaza quirks an eyebrow. You frown in return but don’t say anything. “That’s what I thought.”

You tongue the inside of your cheek in irritation. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Akaza doesn’t miss the way you stare at his muscled arms as he crosses them over his chest. “I’m a demon, sweetheart.” He cocks his head, his pink eyelashes fluttering. “Or do I have to spell it out?”

A demon? Seriously? But those were only a myth!

Your eyes trail of his markings once more. Everything about him seems inhuman: the markings, the colors of his eyes, his hair. The sheer amount of strength he holds is a different matter entirely.

“Do you have a name?” you croak.

Okay, now that takes Akaza by surprise. Normally, he’d only tell people his name after he’s deemed them worthy. You’re nowhere as strong as him, and from your reaction alone he can tell you’re not a part of the corps committed to taking his head.

“Why do you want to know?” His eyes lock onto the way you bite onto your bottom lip.

“…So I can thank you.”

Akaza’s eyes dart back up to yours. “You want to thank me?”

Slowly, you nod. “You saved me for a reason, right? You could’ve easily killed us both…” You wring your hands, your brows knitting together.

Akaza realizes that you’re right. He could kill you at any moment he wished, but he chose not to. He still doesn’t want to. Your words roll around in his head; he genuinely doesn’t know what to say. With every minute that passes, you visibly grow more nervous. Your fingers clutch onto the fabric of your yukata, and your teeth mindlessly gnaw on your lip.

It shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. He’s ready to tell you to stop. Only pathetically weak people act like this. And he’s ready to tell you off, he really is, but then that smell smacks him right in the face. It’s rich and sweet, just like the world’s finest wine. His mouth waters as it fills his nostrils, makes his head spin.

Marechi.

His stare is intense as you release your bottom lip, tiny droplets of blood sticking to the plump flesh. Heat stirs in the bottom of his abdomen. He stands rigid, his breathing turning heavy.

“Akaza?” you ask, voice gentle. You sound concerned. Your pink tongue flicks out, wipes away the blood.

No, Akaza wants to roar. It’s mine.

Without fully realizing it, he frantically grabs onto your hand. Opening your mouth in a silent question, a surprised yelp escapes instead as Akaza drags you between two houses and away from any possible prying eyes. You grunt as your back meets a wall.

“Akaza, what’s wrong-“

Swooping in, Akaza promptly presses his sturdy body against yours as he captures your lips. Your eyes shoot wide in surprise, but then they quickly fall shut as he does wonders with your mouth. He eagerly sucks on your bottom lip, moaning as more droplets of your blood break the surface and meet his tongue. With one hand on your hip and the other pressed against the wall behind you, Akaza kisses you hungrily, passionately. Your hands scramble to clutch onto his bare shoulders, desperate for something to hang onto.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Akaza pants as he forces himself to break away. You stare after him, a dazed expression on your face. Your lips are swollen, tinted red from both your blood and the force of his kiss. He moans at the sight, a familiar flame sparking in his abdomen.

“Akaza,” you breathe. You yank on his haori, urging him to come closer. His kiss is intoxicating, leaving you drunk and craving for more. Guiding his lips back on yours, you clutch on the short strands of his hair. Furiously, he sucks on your bottom lip, drawing more of your delicious blood.

A nagging voice in the back of his head tells him that he should stop. It’s against his morals to hurt women. But he’s not really hurting you, is he? He’s only drinking your blood, nothing more. He takes back the comment about humans having to rely on substances to feel anything. Your blood is doing things to him; his own blood is spiking in temperature, his heart is thrumming against his ribs, and – oh gods­ – that heavy feeling lying at the bottom of his guts.

His hips buck on their own, his growing arousal nudging your hip. He groans at the friction, the sound deep and husky. You swallow it entirely, your fingernails scratching his scalp. A frustrated keen slips from your lips as he pulls away again; this time, though, he’s frantically yanking the material of your yukata up.

Are you seriously going to do this? You don’t even know the guy! Hell, you’re positive he killed somebody! Yet you can’t deny your own heavy breathing nor the slick gathering between your thighs. And the look he gives you is so sinful, his strange eyes shining with lust. You let him do what he wants, bunching the bottom half of your yukata up to your hips. You moan as his cock grinds against your quivering pussy.

Slathering open-mouthed kisses all over your neck, his hips keep up their relentless pace, his cock practically fucking you through his pants. Your undergarments are completely soaked through; you’re probably getting the front of his pants wet, but you don’t care. You follow his pace, grinding your pussy desperately against his cock.

You’re so dizzy, high off the pleasure he’s giving you. His teeth skim the surface of your skin, but you can feel the hesitation in his movements. You whimper in need, wishing he’d just do it already. “Bite me,” you murmur. “Fuck, Akaza, bite me.”

Akaza openly pants into your neck. “I can’t,” he grunts. His cock kicks in his pants. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

“Akaza,” you whine. “Gods, please, bite me, bite me, devour me.”

A growl emits from the depths of his chest as he gives into his carnal desire; heat bursts in your neck along with the sharp pierce of his teeth. He’s careful only to break the surface of your skin, but fuck it’s enough to have your delicious blood flowing into his waiting mouth.

Desperately clawing at his back and shoulders, you shamelessly grind against him even faster. Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head from it all. Throaty little moans leave his mouth as he drinks your blood, his hands grabbing onto your thighs and hauling you upwards. You quickly snake your legs around his lithe hips, the head of his cock straining against the fabric of his pants.

“So good, Akaza, oh my gods,” you babble.

“Gods dammit,” Akaza snarls as he yanks himself away from your neck. He holds you up with a single hand as the other pushes his pants down, his cock kicking up and smacking against his stomach. Like the rest of him, his cock is covered in dark blue markings. You don’t get much time to appreciate it, though; pushing your undergarments to the side, he slips his cock into you with one brutal thrust.

He bounces you on his cock, his mouth finding its spot on your neck. You moan loudly at his ministrations, the head of his cock reaching far and hitting against the sweet spongy area. Your nails tear into the skin of his shoulders; if it weren’t for that, you’re sure you’d float away. His cock is deliciously thick, fills you up so good every time your velvety walls suck him in.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he growls. You answer him in a fit of stuttering. “Your pussy is as good as your blood,” he says into your ear. “Shit, you’re so fucking tight.” He ravages your body, your slick emitting sinfully wet noises with each stroke of his cock. “I’d fuck a baby into you if I could.”

Throwing your head back, you moan loudly. Your walls quiver around him, your orgasm coming closer and closer. As if sensing your growing need, Akaza drops a hand between the two of you, his fingers seeking out your clit. He rubs harsh circles into the nub, pinches it between his fingers. You clench down around his cock, a mantra of his name echoing into the night.

“More, Akaza, more!” you beg.

Akaza’s hips are bound to leave bruises on you if the force of his thrusts is anything to go by. You convulse around him, your toes curling as you cry his name out. You cum around his cock, your slick going everywhere. The front of his pants and your thighs are completely soaked.

“Fuck, did you just squirt?” Akaza groans. Sinking his teeth into you once more, he grunts as he shoots his load into you. Warmth floods your system, and the head of Akaza’s cock pushes it further into you yet. A mixture of slick and cum drips between your legs, soils his pants and the ground below.

He’s breathing raggedly as he finally halts his thrusting motions. You shake from sensitivity, your thighs trembling from the strain of clinging onto his hips. Akaza helps you down and immediately pulls his small haori off; crouching onto the ground, he slings one of your legs over his shoulder. He curses as he takes in the sight of your puffy lips covered in white.

“Fuck, that’s the best thank you gift I’ve ever received,” he tells you as he gently cleans you up.

You sigh at the feeling of his fingers against your slit. “I can do a lot more than that.”

Golden irises focus on you. “Is that a statement or an invitation?”

You flash him a tiny smile. “Take me home and I’ll show you.”

[fullconstellationalt]

You Weren’t My Mission: Ch. 1

Chapter One – A Second Encounter

TW: alcohol, implied violence

Note: Hello! All chapters will have warnings at the beginning of their content and possible triggers. If you find that I miss any triggers, please let me know and I will add them to the chapter warnings as soon as possible. Thank you! <3

Series masterpost

Also available on Wattpad and AO3

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

His eyes were fixed on yours, gaze intense despite the physical distance between you. If the sight of his metal hand hadn’t confirmed that it was him, then his face solidified it. You’d seen this exact glare in your nightmares for years now. Although nearly a decade had passed since the last time you saw him, you had never been able to shake the memory. It was him, and you were sure of it. ･:*:･ﾟ☆

Your thumb swept around the surface your glass, collecting the droplets of condensation that had begun building up. With one final swig you downed the remainder of your gin and tonic, eyeing the entryway on the lookout for any newcomers.

“You all done for the night, y/n?” Vincent wandered over, dish towel in hand, to collect your glass that was now only filled with ice and a slice of lime. He knew your routine by now — you only ever came by for a single drink after work, people-watching as you unwound before heading home to your quiet apartment. While you hadn’t ever told him that last part, he figured that if you had somewhere urgent to be that you wouldn’t be here every night, although he’d never ask.

“I’ll have another, actually,” you declared, voice unsteady as you weren’t sure in your choice. Typically you’d have one drink and leave, occasionally staying around a bit longer to sip on some water if you really didn’t want to go home that night. But the week had been long and it was only Wednesday; you wanted — no, needed that second drink.

“Sure ‘bout that?”

“Yea, I’m gonna hang around a bit longer tonight.” Vincent’s eyebrows raised as he did a slight nod, reaching below the counter for a new glass, to which you let out a playful scoff. “Don’t act so surprised,” you teased, “I mix it up sometimes.” While you rarely talked, you and Vincent had become more comfortable with your banter over the past year or so. Even the most guarded of patrons like you couldn’t avoid small talk with the bartender — especially not if you were a regular.

As you waited for your drink you scanned your surroundings, looking to see if anybody new had come in for a drink. Weeknights tended to be slower, but there were a few couples and groups of friends scattered throughout the room. You and a man no younger than 50 were the only ones seated at the bar, him closer to the entrance while you sat furthest away at the seat you knew had the best view of the place. Almost every night you were in this exact spot, sipping slowly on whatever drink you’d ordered, checking your phone for the occasional text message or work email, and people-watching. It was pretty rare for you to spend more than an hour there in one evening, but tonight it had been nearly an hour and here you were ordering a second drink.

You jumped when Vincent placed the new glass in front of you, your mind focused on the other people scattered throughout the room. He let out a light chuckle as he turned around, walking towards the other side of the bar; he was pretty used to your skittishness by now. Hand wrapped around your new drink, you brought your focus back to your surroundings. A couple seated at a small table to your right engaged in small talk, exchanging pleasantries in-between awkward sips of their drinks. Definitely a first date, you thought. A burst of laughter from a booth further away caught your attention, where a group of men in suits sat meeting for a drink after work. Aside from that, there was little commotion in the bar tonight. While commotion made for fun people-watching, you preferred the gentle hum of casual conversations on slower nights, the occasional clinking of glasses from Vincent’s cleaning or a new table being served.

Realizing a few minutes had passed, you grabbed for your drink and took a sip, eyes skirting over the rim of the glass as you spotted movement in the entryway.

Suddenly, you wished you hadn’t ordered that second drink.

A tall figure entered the bar, shoulders swaying with each step. When he came to a stop you finally took him in, eyes scanning over the black leather jacket that spanned his broad frame and running down to his hands. Dressed in all black, the flesh tone of his hand stood out. Which made the metallic black of his left hand all the more apparent, confirming what you had hoped was just another instance of unnecessary panic.

The brooding figure wasn’t foreign to you.

Your eyes glossed over as you remembered the last time you’d seen him all those years ago. While the nightmares weren’t as frequent and you were able to go days at a time without thinking about it, you were still able to vividly remember the moment. The way his eyes had met yours, menacing and unforgiving as you held back a wail of pain from the pressure of debris pressing on, or into, your torso. The fear that ripped through you when you registered the M4A1 in his tight grip, barrel pointed in your direction. The way you laid there, shaking and ears ringing, wishing that he, whoever he was, would keep moving past you, that he would leave you be. He had done just that, only pausing for a moment to assess your helpless position before lowering the barrel of his gun and trudging onward in his search for his true target.

So many times since then you thought you’d seen him again, only to sigh with relief when you saw the two flesh hands of whoever had startled you.

But this wasn’t one of those moments, and the sight of his metal hand confirmed it. It wasn’t silver like the one in your memory, but there were only so many guys out there with bionic left arms.

You came out of your trance to find that his eyes were fixed on yours, gaze intense despite the physical distance between you. If the sight of his metal hand hadn’t confirmed that it was him, then his face solidified it. You’d seen this exact glare in your nightmares for years now. Although nearly a decade had passed since the last time you saw him, you had never been able to shake the memory. It was him, and you were sure of it.

With a slight roll of his shoulders and a subtle nod, he dropped his gaze to the floor and began his slow descent towards the bar.

The sip of gin and tonic you had taken still sat on your tongue as you finally lowered the glass, letting the liquid slide down your throat and feeling the tingling sensation travel down to your chest. Your breath was shallow as your hands started to shake, to which you began fidgeting with the closest thing in front of you — the paper napkin that had been under your glass. As you ran your fingers along its corners and kept your eyes glued to the bar top, you felt his presence near yours, confirmed by the sound of heavy footsteps that approached.

The scent of fresh balsam and a bit of mint flooded your senses as you noticed him standing to your side, giving you a moment to take in his presence before sliding into the seat to your right. Having kept your eyes trained on the napkin at your fingertips, you subtly glanced over, noting the metal arm that was closest to you. It’s really him, you confirmed. Instead of a reflective silver like the arm you remembered, this one was much darker, a black metal with hints of gold in between the plates. You couldn’t see further up than his wrist, the rest of his arm concealed by the jacket.

It took everything in you to refrain from bouncing your leg against your barstool. Maybe if I stay as still as possible, you thought to yourself, I’ll make it out of here alive. You had no clue what he wanted and it terrified you.

The desire to fidget became all the more intense as you felt him shifting his upper body to face you while in his seat. Your breath hitched when his flesh hand came into view, extended for a greeting in your direction. He let out a low sigh as you shifted your gaze slightly, glancing at his hand before sheepishly making eye contact with the man who had once both threatened and spared your life. You watched as he slightly parted his lips, allowing for a gentle smile to form at the corner of his lips.

“Long time, no see, Miss y/n. I’m James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, and you’re a part of my efforts to make amends.”

Next Chapter (Chapter 2 – Making Amends)

A/N: Thank you for reading the first chapter of this story! I'm currently drafting up what will come next, but am in the end of a semester so it may be a few days until I have something ready to publish. This is my first longer work and I'm looking forward to the journey. Stay tuned for updates, and please let me know if you have any comments or questions!

[goddamnitdazai]

Little Promises {S&S} | Chuuya

Part of the Salt & Sugar Series | N.SFW | 5K words [9:30] Chuu <3: I’m going to be a little late baby. Order that bottle of wine for us? Rarely did a date start off without one of those texts from Chuuya. He made reservations in the ‘earlier’ (according to mafia time) hours of the night to avoid a situation like this. In what he called the ‘perfect sweet spot’ between him getting off normal work hours and before having to deal with anything that would come up later in the evening as most of the real mafia business did. Lately, more attacks have been occurring directly against the Port Mafia rather than an assault against Yokohama. Nothing that the Black Lizard couldn't handle but Chuuya wasn’t one to sit out of a good fight. He’d gone with Hirotsu to go handle..something, someone most likely, but assured you he’d be finished in time for dinner.

Five or ten minutes wasn’t a big deal. Annoying, yes. But you knew what you signed up for. Being with Chuuya made the irritation worthwhile. Just his smile was enough to erode any negative feelings weighing on you from the day. Sighing quietly you order a bottle of his favorite wine and watch the stars twinkle through the glass. The restaurant itself was gorgeous. Brand new on the eightieth floor with a deck spread out around the entire outside. Chuuya was able to get a table in a heartbeat. The best one in the restaurant. Secluded right next to an expansive window showcasing Yokohama’s glittering amber skyline. Your reflection stares back at you in the window, restless fingers tapping on the newly filled glass of wine. Waiting. [9:45] Chuu <3: On my way back to the office, Boss needs something. Wait for me at the bar? We can sit outside instead. For a man who couldn’t hold that much liquor the wine Chuuya liked was strong. Your head was already buzzing even with the bits of spicy edamame you’d popped in your mouth as a distraction. Your posture deflates further when you read the text flashing on your screen. Deep scarlet liquid sloshes in the glass before passing through your lips to etch a burning pathway down your throat. The dress Chuuya had bought you fit perfectly against your curves. Silk. Red--his color.  A sign you were his. The diamond choker he bought for your birthday suddenly feels too tight around your neck. You hated eating alone. [10:15] Chuu <3: Shit, I’m sorry baby Boss needs me to go take care of something. I’m really sorry, I’ll try to make it quick. Half the bottle churns with a sickly heat in the base of your belly. His chair was still empty. You whip your phone from it’s idled place on the table and tap out a response. [10:17] Chuuya? It’s been over an hour. Where are you? [10:45] You’re not coming are you? [10:50] I charged a bottle of wine to your card. I’m going home. Your shoes land somewhere in your apartment with a loud thump. Keys are next missing the wooden end table meant for them and your purse. Fuck, you were slightly more drunk than you realized. Overpowering vehemention towards the man supposed to be treating you to a nice dinner was the only reason you hadn’t stumbled out of the cab. If you had any type of superhuman strength your heels would have stomped four inch holes into the pavement. Your hand clumsily fumbles for the light switch as you make your way into your apartment muttering curses on Chuuya’s name the entire walk from your door to the kitchen. Compared to Chuuya’s two story penthouse your place was small but cozy. More decorated and homey-- Chuuya liked that about it, he said. Most of his walls were barren except a few pieces of expensive art he purchased on a whim. Chuuya preferred sleeping here over going home when he was out working late and you were already beneath the covers. Coming home to his lover was a treat sweeter than wine according to him. Your shoulders slump. It had been a few weeks since Chuuya had taken you on an actual date. Executives didn’t exactly have frequent pockets of unoccupied time. Leisure was more of a luxury to Chuuya than the most expensive wine in his collection. But, at least in the past few months, he’d been trying to spend more time with you the way a normal couple would. However his promises were falling shorter than you anticipated and at a much higher frequency than expected. There was nothing normal about your situation.. but god damn having a nice dinner with your boyfriend maybe once a month didn’t sound unreasonable. You drag your hand down your face and trudge to the fridge flinging the door open unceremoniously. There wasn’t much in here other than the few healthy snacks Chuuya left.  Your diet mainly consisted of take out or to-go meals from the convenient store down the street. Chuuya hated it and usually preferred places that offered healthy meals, but the man rarely got home before ten at night and was exhausted the moment he crossed the threshold. Hence the dinner date. Your frown deepens. At some point you’d grabbed a water bottle but you weren’t even in the mood to open it. The fridge shuts with a harsh echoing click as you spin on your heel and head towards your bedroom. Between steps your bra ends up on the standing lamp and the matching panties get lost in the shadows. It took an hour to pick out that lingerie. Chuuya tore everything in his haste unless it was something he wanted to see you in more than once--he would have loved that little set. “Fucking asshole.” You snap to the empty bedroom, falling face first into the mess of pillows and blankets. It smelled like him. Unintentionally you inhale deeply cherishing the familiar scent of his shampoo and cologne mingling together. His lingering warmth contrasted the cold emptiness of the bedroom for a few moments bringing a comforting elation, and then the realization that you were in fact without him knocked you right back down. Chuuya was a workaholic. You knew that from the beginning. Working parallel with him exposed his dedication within the first week. A tiny bit of you (that was beginning to grow larger) had begun to truly resent Chuuya’s workaholic tendencies. The Port Mafia was important to him, you got that, but..weren’t you important too? You flip on your side to stop your head from spinning in rapid circles. The wine wasn’t sitting well on an empty stomach but at this point you were too tired and upset to get up and eat. Nothing sounded good anyway. Chuuya’s shirt you often slept in felt like a weight in your hand. “Fucker.” You hiss, throwing it onto the small chair in the corner of your bedroom. Fine. If you weren’t important enough to have fucking dinner with then you wouldn’t bother texting him again. This was pathetic. You try to focus on the wobbling lights of the city through your bedroom window. Gold and neon flecks blur like water droplets against a deep navy sky. A heavy melancholic silence fills up the apartment. Between the wine sloshing in your stomach and the pounding of your head sleep would most likely evade you tonight. Welled up vexation had suddenly melted to pure sorrow, choking you quietly as you lay curled up in the blankets. Finally, little sobs part your lips bringing a few tears in tow. This was stupid, it was just dinner. Chuuya didn’t do it on purpose but why the hell did it feel like a knife twisting in your heart? “Fucker..” you repeat, squeezing your eyes shut forcefully. You’d deal with it tomorrow. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++ At some point you’d passed out holding Chuuya’s pillow tightly in your arms. Unfortunately the thing to awaken you wasn’t the gentle kiss of sunrise or your lover’s tight embrace. The wine you’d downed had resurrected with a vengeance that had you sprinting to the bathroom. From the darkness still drenching the apartment morning hadn’t come quite yet. Your stomach heaves all the contents in a burning violent wrench that barely makes it into the toilet bowl. There’d be bruises from how hard your knees hit the tile but at least it caught all the mess. “Sh-shit..ow.” You mutter, spitting the rest out before wiping your mouth with a piece of toilet paper. “______?” Chuuya’s voice resonates from the living room. “_____? I’m really sorry. Baby...I’ll make it up to you..” Chuuya speaks softly, almost deflated. His voice hits you like a ton of bricks. A miniscule burst of energy helps you stand with aid from the sink at your side. The sudden rush of blood sends your head sloshing in a circle again nearly pushing you back down to the floor. With a deep inhale you force yourself to stand straight again and splash water on your face before looking up at the mirror. Make-up, it had smeared all down your cheeks and beneath your eyes from crying and rubbing against the pillow. You groan at your appearance and grab the mouth wash. Chuuya’s ears perk. “Baby? You okay?” His footsteps are light and quick until they reach the bathroom. “Baby! Are you alright!?” He’s at your side in an instant wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you to face him. “Don’t---” You press your hand to your forehead, “dizzy. Wine.” You mumble leaning back against the sink. Chuuya’s expression changes from worry to soft concern melded with guilt. His hands steady you with a gentle grip, coaxing you forward with unnecessary slowness (though it was appreciated by your stomach and head). All the crying had caused your eyes to swell enough that the details of the apartment, especially in the dark, were hard to see. If Chuuya hadn’t been guiding you back to your bedroom there’s a good chance you would have ended up face first on the floor. “____…” the guilt in his voice just made you feel worse. “I’m sorry.” He repeats, gentle ungloved fingers reaching for a tissue from the box on your night stand. Your vision was, at the least, bleary but the striking sunset tendrils framing his face stood out beautifully against the low light coming from the bathroom. “Hold on..” Chuuya murmurs, rising to his feet in quick steps. You sit in silence sniffling a bit and trying to keep the bile in your throat. Your eyes flutter shut to keep the light out. The blankets beneath you had bunched uncomfortably at the edge of the bed leaving you lopsided from sitting in the center of the mattress. Any attempt to shift could send whatever was left in your stomach flying, so you wait. Something creaks. Floorboards, then the mattress. Chuuya’s touches are two steps above gentle. Whatever it is, it’s cold. Something soft and cold in his hand over your eyes. It takes a few seconds for it to register. He’s cleaning the smudged make up off your face. Acts like this were the reason it was so hard to stay mad at the man. His gestures were sweet and honest. Showing you love in the only ways he really knew how to. Physical touch, gifts and sweet words after being gone for too long or bailing last minute. Your throat clenches as your fingers grip the loose sheets by your thighs. “Baby, I’m sorry.” Chuuya says it again. Your teeth cinch the inside of your lip. “You promised.” Chuuya’s shoulders sag but his hands keep working the smudged mascara off your face. His other hand nimbly massages the back of your neck finding the pressure point to relieve your headache. “I know.” What else could he say? “I don’t have a different excuse. Boss needed me. It was important. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. We can have dinner tomorrow or another night. I swear.” Chuuya tries to coax your eyes open with a soft rub of his thumb on your cheekbone. He knew all your spots and that’s what made it hurt the most. “But you promised.” You repeat, almost childlike in the inflection of your voice, but your eyes open. Immediately you’re mesmerized by the expression change on his features. Chuuya, when overcome with too much, tended to drop his head in defeat allowing his bangs to hide him from the shame he felt. Your fingers on his chin keep him from succeeding. “It’s…” you swallow the dry lump in your throat, “I need to be as important too. I’m not asking you to drop whatever Boss has you do when I want attention and I know you’re going to have to leave sometimes when shit comes up unexpectedly... but fuck...you need to give me something.  Anything.” You set your hand timidly on his. “Unless the fucking world is collapsing...I need a promise I know you’re going to keep, Chuuya.” His eyes widen a bit, soft blue glimmering and reflecting bits of your distorted face in their tides. Chuuya stays silent for a moment but moves closer on the bed shifting you carefully until you’re on his lap, legs draped over either side of his thighs. His arms come around your waist (where they belong) to pull your torso flush with his. The hum of his ability tickles your skin as he leans himself back until his head hits the pillow. “Give me a little time to come up with something?” He finally breaks the silence. Hope diminishes and the swelling in your chest grows into a thick knot. “Okay.” You reply against his neck. There wasn’t a chance in hell Chuuya didn’t catch the desolation in your tone, but he says nothing. His fingers begin to detangle your messy hair in feather-soft strokes. Chuuya tended to melt into you without trying. Curl up around you keeping you comfortable enough to fall asleep in any environment. This position draws your face to the crook of his neck magnetically. A place molded to fit your head perfectly. Often, it was the only place that properly hid you from your thoughts and exhaustion when the world became too much at once. You inhale; his skin pebbles. He always smelled like sea salt and vanilla. He swears he puts cologne on but after working so much his natural scent clings to his skin and it’s much more intoxicating. His left hand slithers up and down your back drawing nonsensical patterns in your skin. Down your shoulder to the valley both blades create, following your spine lazily, methodically.  His dexterous fingers spread open to reach the skin that encases your rib cage touching light enough it’s almost a tease. Chuuya’s gestures come from the depths of his emotions that so often tumble beneath the surface. Trained in the art of persuasion and deception he’s better at hiding what he’s thinking than he lets on. It’s all a matter of if he cares enough to do so or not. You tangle your legs together with his, thankful you’d forgone wearing anything to bed. Summer heat tended to creep into your bedroom despite the air conditioning, and the man beside you could melt chocolate with his touch. With Chuuya's skin constantly overheating (Arahabaki in the shadows) it was surprising his layers didn’t bother him. On cold winter mornings it was magnificent against your chilled face. In the summer he’d laze about in only his underwear with the air conditioning blowing, keeping you just cold enough to need the warmth from his skin. (He claims it’s not on purpose but you like to think it is).  Heat had begun to spread the moment he pressed you up against him and held you like you’d disappear if he loosened his grip. Right now the little crook beneath his ear that curved down his neck forming a broad muscular shoulder happened to be the perfect temperature to soothe your headache. Chuuya cuddles you closer when he notices the tension dissipating. His head turns slightly to rest against your forehead, the soft ghost of his breath trails over the shell of your ear each time he exhales.  Whatever alcohol remained in your system had slowly begun to recede with Chuuya’s presence. Falling asleep rather than passing out cold seemed to aid in the depletion of your headache, and truthfully, being with him cured every part of you. Scientifically correct or not--it always worked even when you were pissed at him. Chuuya’s chest softly begins to vibrate as your eyes flutter shut. A gentle tempo that remains tranquil but familiar.. Chuuya’s humming finally settles the ball of nerves tied up in your stomach. The last remaining irritation of the night quietly begins to melt away at the edges leaving your heart frayed and tender. Pure exhaustion was overpowering your will to stay awake and wait for Chuuya’s answer. Against your own command your eyelids droop and soak your environment in black. ++++++++++++++ Fuck that wine. From the moment you peeled your eyes open it felt like someone nestled their way into your skull to continuously pound it with a ball peen hammer. Your legs twist in the sheets as you try to get comfortable again and turn away from the sunlight sneaking through the window. Your arm smacks against the mattress, it felt strikingly cold. “Chuuya?”. The only response you receive is a small rustling from outside the bedroom door. A soft hum. Music? Something. You flop onto your back and force your eyes open. Thankfully the dizziness subsided permanently, unfortunately it’s counterpart (a killer migraine) still throbbed to the point that you were halfway convinced your eyeballs were physically pounding. “Chuu?” You call again, twisting on the bed until your bare feet hit the hardwood.  Chuuya’s shirt fits comfortably over your head. Instinctively you inhale sharply holding the collar close to your nose before it settles and the smell of eggs draws you out of the bedroom. Normally you’d walk out completely naked but you felt beyond shitty. Lazily you tug up a pair of sweatpants and meander out into the kitchen in search of your boyfriend. Chuuya turns over a shoulder and gives you a soft smile. His back muscles were getting bigger, or perhaps the way he was holding the pan made them bulge. Regardless he looked damn good cooking you breakfast in a tight shirt bathed in morning light. “Good morning baby. Hungry?” Your stomach growls loud enough to echo down the street. Chuuya laughs and sets two plates down at your small table. Omurice, toast, and a few strips of bacon he’d picked up from some fancy market in Tokyo the last time he went. “Good. You need the protein after throwing everything up last night.” Chuuya pads over to you arms immediately wrapping around your waist snuggling you close against his bare chest. “I’m sorry baby.” He says for at least the fifth time. Two soft kisses to your forehead, one on your nose and a final on your lips. You slump against him letting your arms remain limp at your sides. “I figured out what I can do for you though. What you deserve.” “Oh?” Your arms find themselves around his waist, fingers spreading out to feel the rigid muscles in his lower back flex beneath your touch. Chuuya nods forehead now resting against yours. Sunlight funnels through the window scattering amber over the floor. Cresting Chuuya’s right side and across to the middle of his throat bathing him in light. The man truly emulated warmth and fuck he was more gorgeous than the sunrise itself. “Breakfast together. Every morning. Some days I’ll cook for you. Some days we’ll go out before work, and some days…” Chuuya begins to trail soft kisses down the side of your throat. Catching your breath suddenly becomes much harder with his mouth tasting your skin, “we’ll have breakfast in bed. I’ll eat you...and then we can eat together.” He chuckles darkly, waiting for the words to unfold in your head. “How can I turn that offer down?” Your fingers glide up the back of his neck carding through his hair. Chuuya sighs into your touch but continues the lazy, deliberately gentle line of kisses over the curve of your shoulder then backwards until he reaches your collarbone. “My place---” you gasp sharply, Chuuya loved to bite that spot on your neck, “or yours?”. Chuuya hums in thought hands now trailing down your curves around to the swell of your ass. “Whoever gets off work last goes to the other’s place. So, probably here a lot.” Chuuya squeezes, low growls emitting from his throat when you jolt into him. “Means you gotta actually buy food for me to cook.” You rise up on your toes moving closer and away from his grip on your ass. You couldn’t give in easy just yet, where was the fun in that? “Mmmm..but what if I like starting off the day with your cock?” You muse, teasingly dragging the sharp edges of your nails down his shoulder blades. Even through his shirt Chuuya’s shoulders were overly sensitive. Another set of animalistic growls erupts from him. He squeezes harder and nips at the center of your throat. “Guess I’ll have to give you what you want then, won’t I?” He smirks crookedly. You yelp when his hands dip between your thighs splitting them open to lift you up and onto the counter. “But first,” he murmurs, thumbs digging circles against your inner thighs, “I get my breakfast.” Chuuya leans into you, hips slotted between your trembling thighs so he can kiss you until you’re dizzy. Your hands wind up back in his hair holding him close. You inhale him greedily, savoring the taste of him in your mouth. Your sweatpants join Chuuya’s shirt on the floor in a puddle of fabric. The heat from his body sweeps you up into the clouds. You weren’t sure if it was the hangover, the speed in which Chuuya had you spread open on the kitchen counter or a combination of them both but your head was already fogged. Chuuya’s breath along your thigh keeps you lucid enough to feel every movement he makes. The tickle of his hair on your leg, the gentle prodding of his thumb spreading open your wet lip and the oh so lewd sweep of his tongue up your pussy. “Fuck!” You gasp, hair tugging roughly at the bundle of red hair between your fingers. Chuuya’s chuckle vibrates up your core. His tongue expertly flattens against your pussy, long strokes beginning at your entrance ensuring to taste every inch of your folds all the way up to your clit. The edge of his tongue flicks over the swelling bud once or twice before descending through your lips again. Chuuya moans into you, muttering praises of your taste between licks and prods of his tongue deep inside you. “Ch-Chuu!” The knot in your stomach was near ready to snap. “Do it baby. Right on my fucking tongue.” Chuuya commands, looking up at you from between your legs momentarily before returning to his work. Chuuya’s two fingers hold your pussy open for his tongue to explore. Dipping in and out, traveling up to tease and suck on your clit until stars burst behind your eyes and you’re moaning incoherently. Chuuya doesn’t waste a drop. “So good..” his praises are saturated with lust, “fuck you taste so good.” Arousal smears across his cheeks and lips as he cleans the mess between your legs. Gentle licks and motions, just enough to begin overstimulation to carry over into what would come next. You curl over him trying not to fall off the counter. Chuuya gets to his feet, hands remaining on your shoulders to give you leverage as he discards his sweatpants revealing his fat hard cock red and dripping pre-cum. You lick your lips and reach for him, pumping it a few times in an off-beat rhythm. “Already fucked out baby?” He taunts playfully, lips still glistening with your cum. You pout at him and jerk him forward by the hair. Chuuya laughs, using the motion to line his cock up with your weeping entrance. “Yeah? You want it that bad?” Your hips jerk forward when the head rubs up against your clit. “Chuuya!” You huff, switching tactics. His eyes widen to saucers moan loud and deep enough it rattles in your chest. Your fingers tweak and tug at his pebbled nipples egging him on to submit. Or piss him off. Regardless, the outcome would be the same. “Do you want it that bad? Just one touch..” you mimic his teasing tone. Chuuya’s eyes narrow, chest still puffed out towards your hands. “I always want you.” He replies, punctuating the last word with a jerk of his hips. Your head lolls back in surprise, the burn of his cock stretching you out to the hilt makes your toes curl. “Ohfuck!” You choke on air; Chuuya is quick to grip your hips and bite down on your throat. His pace is relentless. Needy. Sticky, hot and slick. You keep one arm wrapped around his neck the other slanted back on the counter for balance. Chuuya buries his face in the crook of your neck as he fucks your hard and deep. Your knees end up by his ribs allowing you to cross your ankles behind him. The angle change makes Chuuya moan deep against your skin. Somehow, his speed picks up sending you bouncing up and down on his cock. Every stroke inside you hits that sweet bundle of nerves that keeps you moaning his praises. “Fuck--” he grits his teeth and slides one hand down to hold you up by your ass lifting you off the counter. He grunts again, moving in just a few steps into the center of the kitchen. Chuuya drops to his knees with the aid of his ability and places you on your back, hips following the natural path of gravity to push his cock deeper inside you. “Fuck..there..” he murmurs, shifting his hands to your thighs pressing them back until your knees reach your shoulders. “Just like that baby..fuck you’re so god damn beautiful..” His eyes glisten, gemstone blue clouded in the haze of arousal and pleasure. This position was so lewd and fuck it turned you on knowing Chuuya was watching you like this. Vulnerable and split open by his throbbing cock. Chuuya tilts his chin down mesmerized by the view of his cock pistoning in and out of your wet pussy. Cum and slick squirting against him with every harsh thrust forward. Your back arcs off the floor; the head of his cock relentlessly slams into your g spot until you’re cumming again. “G-goodgirl!” Chuuya sputters out, pounding into you three more times before he’s spilling inside of you gasping your name in a sultry, silky voice only you get to hear. Chuuya rolls his hips a few more times in rhythmless sputters before collapsing (gently) on top of you. Sweat matting his bangs left and right, skin a rosy pink and body taut. You wrap a shaky arm around his back, eyes fluttering closed. “Mm..you doin’ okay?” He asks, pushing himself up with one elbow to look at you. “Yeah…fuck..” you couldn’t even think straight let alone articulate just how good you were feeling now. Chuuya smiles--the rest of the world doesn’t compare to the brightness of it, you think. “You’re forgiven.” You finally say, long exhale following. Chuuya beams and kisses your nose. “I am sorry baby. And I promise we’re going to eat breakfast together every morning.” Chuuya rolls to his side bringing you with him. Your leg ends up thrown over his hip and his arm pulls you flush to his chest. “I love you ______. I love you so fuckin’ much.” Chuuya drops kisses along your cheek as he speaks. “I love you too, Chuu.”

[abyssnessmage]

Broken Promises

ZhongChi/ChiLi angst one-shot (zhongli’s banner)

word count: 1.6K

Watching from a distance, the starry night hat of the astrologist flickered warily as she stared at the falling stars shining in front of her. Her eyes subconsciously counted the passing stones: 22, 25, 40, 53 and so on. As the numbers increased, the more anxious she felt.

Turning to the figure that sat a few feet from her, she pursed her lip and sighed, "They're calling for you, you know?" 

The broad shoulders of the figure moved slightly, but no response was heard. Heaving a louder sigh from her chest, she stepped closer to him. 

"Zhongli-Laoshi, the wishes have reached 70," she tried emphasizing the number in hopes to stir up alarm in the geo archon, but he was still as stone. 

"It's not my time," he responded softly, neither turning to look at the astronomer or lifting his head in the direction of the falling stars 

"Not your time?" She scoffed in disbelief, "If you haven't noticed, your time is running out and access to the mortal world will become even more strained." 

"Since you seem very unsettled about this, Mona, perhaps you should answer their calls before they continue to waste their resources," he whispered sternly. 

Taken back, Mona made her way to stand in front of the geo archon, heels clicking impatiently as she walked. Anger boiled in her veins, "If I go down there, do you expect them to forgive you for this? Do you expect him to forgive you?" 

Hearing "him" being mentioned, Zhongli lifted his eyes until it met hers and she was suddenly hit with a wave of guilt. Without another word, she sighed and nodded. 

"I don't expect their forgiveness," he said solemnly, "I brought this misfortune on myself and I intend to bear the consequences of my actions in exile." 

Mona nodded again in full understanding. If there was one thing she learned from the geo archon, it was that he never let's a broken promise go unpunished. His contracts made up who he is as an archon. 

Feeling defeated, Mona made her way to the open sky that led to the mortal world. Turning her head to look at the Laoshi one last time, she caught a ride on an incoming star. Her presence transformed the blue shade into an illuminated golden hue and she made her way down to earth. 

*Lumine's POV*

"There! Look! Lumine, it's a gold wish!" 

The excited, child-like shout came from her recent team member, Tartaglia "Childe," and she watched him jump from a nearby rock he sat at. Beidou and Kaeya jumped to their feet as well as they watched the golden star make its way down. 

Without hesitation, Childe began running in the direction where the star would hit, his other team members trailing behind him in excitement. With a bright burst, a figure stepped out of the illuminated star and slowly made their way to meet the group. 

Just as Lumine caught up to Childe, he stopped in his tracks and stared at the newcomer. Confused, Lumine turned her attention to the person. It was not Zhongli that had come down, but Mona, the famous and powerful astrologist.

"Who the hell are you?" 

Lumine flinched at the anger that laced the 11th Harbinger's voice. She lifted her head to meet his eyes and gasped. His dull blue eyes were filled with rage and the curve of his lip twitched slightly. Heavy breathing was heard and Childe's gloved hands were balled into fists, almost ready to strike the newcomer in the face. 

"I'm not who you wished for," Mona replied, her eyes mirrored the same sympathy Lumine felt and she could see the regret painted on her face. Lumine could see how much she wanted to go back. To not be there and to have someone in her place. Someone that everyone was hoping to see. 

"This is a mistake," Childe snarled, "Do you have any idea how long we called for you? How long we waited?" 

Lumine realized he was no longer talking to Mona, but his gaze was fixed at the blue sky. 

"Is this a compensation? A sorry gift for your selfish choice?!" The tone in his voice began to increase and water started to pool around his feet. Electricity followed and Lumine could see his inner power beginning his Harbinger transformation. 

"Calm down," Mona firmly stated, "You out of all people should understand-" 

"Don't you dare finish that," he sneered, "He promised me he'll come back. He made me promise-!" 

"And who do you think had to pay for the broken promise?!" Mona shouted over the waves of fury beginning to swirl around them, "Or are you not aware of how contracts work?" 

"You take that back!" 

Suddenly, Lumine surged forward, wrapping her arms around his waist to hold him back from doing something he would regret. 

"Let go of me!" He wrestled in her grasp, causing Kaeya and Beidou to reached for his hands to hold him down, "Let me go!" 

Lumine shook her head, holding as tight as she could. Pressing her chest on his back and gripping the cloth of his jacket, she whispered calmly to him to stop fighting. 

"This is for the best and you know it," Mona replied sternly, "There's nothing you can do." 

"Bullshit!" A wave of force surged from his palms, pushing the three team members off of his body. Lumine cried out in pain, but immediately went back to grabbing his waist to which Childe responded with more force to push her back.

"Childe, please. Stop. You're hurting yourself," Lumine cried, smelling the metallic scent of blood coming from his hands. She tried to use her anemo to blow the liquid away, but more kept pouring. 

"I've been hurting," he whispered and the sound of his voice shattered Lumine's heart. She never heard him this broken before. She never heard this much pain. 

Gripping tightly to his clothes, Lumine continued to withstand the sudden bursts of water no matter how painful it was. In the corner of her eye, Mona stood watching his unstable figure, shouting and crying to the sky. She tilted her hat downwards, covering her glassy eyes and turned away. 

After a few moments of constant power bursts, the force subsided and Lumine was left hugging a huddled figure in her arms. Childe's figure shook in grief as he clawed the demolished grass beneath them. Tears sprinkled the back of his hands and Lumine could hear the exhaustion echoing through his labored breathing. 

"Why?" He whispered, slowly lifting his head once more to the sky. The now thundering and rain filled abyss, "Is this what you want?" 

Lips quivering and eyes blurring with tears, he brushed his orange bangs out of his face. Never before in his life has he felt so abandoned. So left behind. 

Lumine lightly rested her head on his shoulder, "He'll come back. I promise." 

His chest heaved and released what sounded like a coughing fit, but was actually an empty laugh from a broken soul. 

"He'll come back," he echoed, "but I won't promise I'll be here waiting." 

Lumine's eyes widened and she was gently pushed aside by the tall man. Watching him walk away, she could see droplets of blood leave his torn, gloved hands as he made his way back to Liyue. 

Extra:

Hearing the anguished sounds of shouting and cursing echo from below, Zhongli squeezed his eyes shut, begging for it to stop. The sound of Childe's broken voice rang through his mind and his chest ached to quiet the painful sounds of his beloved. With a heavy heart, he stiffly moved as far away from the source of the noise as possible. Anything that will distance himself from hearing his name constantly being cried out. 

But, no matter how far he walked, the voice kept returning, more painful and rage driven than the last. He wanted to hide. To shut himself away and never have the ability to hear again. 

Though he also wanted to scream back. To shout in response and tell him that he was there. That he will return. That he didn't abandon him. The desire and desperation to follow a star down to the mortal world was overwhelming to the point he wishes he could chain himself back. 

But the promise they made echoed in his mind and held him back from doing anything more. The broken promise that separated them and the consequences he must face alone. The consequences that Childe was spared so that he won't have to suffer. The only one who will, would be him.  

Deep down, however, they were both equally suffering. The distance was too much to bear already and with the added years to his sentence, he wished death would knock on his door. 

But he was immortal. He couldn't die and which was why he chose to bear the consequences himself and take responsibility so Childe wouldn't have to. 

This was for the best. He kept telling himself over and over. Desperately trying to drown out the continuous screams he heard from Childe. Desperately trying to break free from his force and desperately trying to forget. 

But he knew he couldn't. Hands reached to his face and he screamed in helpless rage. hearing more cries pour into his ears. Hearing his name being shouted over and over again and hearing the break in his voice when no one responded. 

In all the 6,000 years he's been alive, Zhongli never felt pain like this before. These emotions of anguish and utter devastation consumed his whole heart and he let the tears fall from his eyes, welcoming the coldness of grief and embracing it. 

"My beloved and dearest, Ajax," he whispered into the tear stained palm of his hands, "I will see you again." 

[offaeandcreation]

Metanoia

Summary: 

Metanoia: a transformative change of heart.Wen Ruohan wakes up in the body of a young man by the name of He Su within an ominous array. Two orders mark his arm with bloody gashes: destroy Xue Yang and Jin Guangyao. Xue Yang was easy. He was already dying, a simple stab to the neck while he was occupied did the trick. The latter though, slightly trickier.

Warning: Mild Gore 

Part of the MDZS/CQL Rarepairs Lightning Round: February 2021

For: @ehyde 

AO3

Rain pitter-pattered on the rice paper umbrella, dripping down in rivets off its edges. Lightning flashed in the sky, outlining the temple in jagged black lines. Wen Ruohan remained just outside the entrance, boots already soaked through and shivers raked at his spine.

Stupidly weak body.

Not for the first time such words echoed in his mind, nor the last. One moment he was in his throne room, a cry caught in his throat as Meng Yao sliced his neck, the next he lay in a pit wearing hemp rags, surrounded by an ominous array and a note. A sharp prick on his wrist forced his gaze downward. He freed his pinky of his busy hand to slowly peel back the grey hemp sleeve. Even in the dark, fragmented by the roar of heaven’s whip, the dark oozing gash contrasted with pale skin. Dried blood wrapped around his wrist like a shackle. The original gash, one of the two remaining. It had grown several cun since the last hour. And so to have its brothers.

Dammit.

Wen Ruohan sighed—it took several months just to track down the first name on the brief list left by the summoner, and he killed him. Sort of. And now the second name, the last on the list, awaited within the very temple before him. Recently, Yu Ziyuan’s brat came gallivanting with that purple Zidian of his. All said brat needed was a subtle gesture towards the temple and the requirement would consider the kill Wen Ruohan. Truly it would have been far better if the outcome ended how he hoped—the gashes would disappear and he wouldn’t have to raise a hand, risk this new weak body of his against every cultivator inside that damn temple. Now he had no choice. Just like the summoner commanded.

He waited a moment, or two, counted up and down from twenty, before approaching.

As he approached, Meng Yao’s–no Jin Guangyao’s soft, sorrowful voice emitted from the temple, spoke as if he tore every word out of his throat. So earnest, almost begging in every capacity.

How cute.

In Nightless City, Meng Yao never spoke in such a ridiculous tone. Softly yes, but even at their first meeting, when Meng Yao lay face-first on the floor in a deep kow-tow, Jin uniform caked in brown dried blood, his voice held strength, forged from steel itself. The memory wrapped its fingers around Wen Ruohan’s throat, pinching much like the metal string did before cutting his head clean off. Wen Ruohan bit his tongue.

“DON’T MOVE!” Jin Guangyao cried out. No. Commanded.

Ah, there it is.

If appropriate, Wen Ruohan would clap his hands with glee.

What a spectacular performance! Tone so tearful and regretful, almost as if you were really sorry!

Jiang Wanyin roared, receiving a curt reply that Jin Guangyao hid his weapon in his own body.  

Wen Ruohan grinned. Clever. Very, very clever. In Nightless City, he would reward such genius. Anything Meng Yao asked, as Sect Leader he would deliver. Personally.

His wrist throbbed.

It’s time.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

His shoes squished against the wet floors, oozing water. The noise proved to be enough for every member inside to look towards him. Well, at least it wouldn’t force him to come up with a stupid one liner. Jiang Wanyin glared in his direction, a red bloodstain on his chest more than enough to explain why he had failed. The Twin Jades, both with their blades out, stared at him with owlish eyes—only differentiated by the different headpieces. A few others stood in different parts of the room, an obvious Nie-robed child lying uselessly on one side and an unfamiliar man holding down one of Jin Guangyao’s “friends.” And the man himself, standing right in the center of the chaos, red string wrapped around the neck of his own nephew who stood a few paces to the side.

Wen Ruohan lifted his chin high, forcing his lips from so much as twitching. He would much prefer Jin Guangyao to be the one in red.

“Sect Leader He?” Jin Guangyao asked, one eyebrow rising, “You-?” he sighed, molten gold eyes glazed with fatigue, “The letter was your doing, I presume.”

The others gaped at him. Mixture of surprise and even wariness in their gazes.

Wen Ruohan ignored the comment, closing his umbrella before shaking extra droplets over the dark floors in its own miniature storm. Silence hung between them, silk strings pulled taut, ready for snapping by a sharp fingernail.

“So that’s the name of this body,” Wen Ruohan replied, keeping his voice light, “and a Sect Leader no less.”

He couldn’t help the snicker that bubbled in his chest as Jin Guangyao’s eyes widened. Almost comedic. Like a newborn goldfish, all eyes and nobody.

“Then who are you?” The man holding Jin Guangyao’s friend interrupted, “Your words just now signal Sect Leader He summoned you, like myself, and you’re focused on Jin Guangyao and not on anyone else. What ‘demon’ has Sect Leader He summoned to seek revenge?”

All eyes slid back on him. Quite a few tilted their heads as if trying to figure out who he was.

“What does it matter?” Wen Ruohan stiffened, glaring at the two men, “I am simply doing what he requested.”

The unknown man narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

Wen Ruohan took a step forward.

Jin Guangyao’s hand on the gold thread twitched. The Jin child whined.

“Jin Ling!” Several cried out.

“Not another step.” Jin Guangyao warned, intricate muscles in his hand trembling under the light.

Wen Ruohan made the gesture to look at the child. Big watery eyes. Reaching out to Jiang Wanyin, but neither was in any position to close the distance. Poor thing.

His arm throbbed a warning. He grasped the hilt of his summoner’s sword.

“He means nothing to me. Your threat is useless.” Wen Ruohan replied, gazing back at Jin Guangyao.

Jin Guangyao’s mouth slacked before pinching it shut, “A-Ling means a lot to the surrounding people. Aren’t you concerned what they will do if you threaten his livelihood.”

Wen Ruohan bared his teeth, a growl deep in his throat, “So be it.” The moment he ended his sentence, he yanked out his blade, running at Jin Guangyao–

A powerful arm wrapped around his waist. He barely made one step.

DAMN THIS SLOW STUPID BODY-

“I will not allow you to endanger Young Master Jin Ling, no matter your purpose,” Lan Xichen pulled him back, body-blocking him from his target.

Flames licked the back of his neck. His entire face as if on fire. If he was in his old body- if he had even just a smidge of his old cultivation base, this pathetic excuse of a Lan wouldn’t have been able to blink before Jin Guangyao was a stain on the wall.  

Lan Xichen glared down at him, looking more like Lan Qiren than anything else, “Jin Guangyao will face trial for his crimes, and be judged accordingly.”

“If he doesn’t escape first,” Jiang Wanyin muttered.  

A roar tore itself out of Wen Ruohan’s throat, like a shattering sword. The edges of his vision turned red.

“He has you by the ropes. There is no way he is not escaping! And even if he somehow failed, what do you really know about Meng Yao to charge him? What can you say is true and false about him? About what he did? I bet you don’t know the extent of them!”

Lan Xichen had the gall to not even flinch, the only sign of any distress was the tightness around his eyes and the painful squeeze Wen Ruohan’s shoulders suffered, right against the ever-growing gashes no less.

“So you have some stones to throw then?” The unknown man replied.

Wen Ruohan’s throat burned like he drank liquid metal, “I never said I didn’t.”

“Regardless of your personal feelings, refer to Jin Guangyao with his proper name.” Lan Xichen cut in, voice stupidly steady and even, “he will be charged no more or less than deserved,” as if repeating that, Jin Guangyao somehow would fall into their hands even with their precious Jin Ling.

Wen Ruohan laughed. His voice cracked as if he ate sand, “Is that so?” He smiled, his cheeks throbbed from all the gnashing and bared teeth, “I have one question for you then. I heard Jin Guangyao kept…” Wen Ruohan trailed off, momentarily cutting himself out before accidentally directly revealing himself, “Wen Ruohan’s torture devices. Was there one metal instrument, eight teeth, with screws on each handle?”

“Er-Ge!” Jin Guangyao cried out, “Thats-!”

“Answer the question!” Wen Ruohan snarled at Lan Xichen, roaring over Jin Guangyao, “What did he tell you about it? How was it made?”

Lan Xichen’s face paled.

“It’s Wen Ruohan! He Su summoned Wen Ruohan!” Jin Guangyao shouted louder.

Several people cried out. Clatter of swords being unsheathed drummed in his ears. Wen Ruohan felt the tip of metal dig his neck.

“Let me guess,” Wen Ruohan continued, ignoring the prick of the sword’s point, “oh the terrible Wen Ruohan forced me. I had to complete the commission! It was the only way to get close!” He paused, staring at Lan Xichen, “sound about right?”

Not that his answer mattered. Not that Meng Yao didn’t complete commissions; that’s how he garnered Wen Ruohan’s attention.

Creative, pushing the human body to the limit in ways previously inconceivable.

This one, however…

They both had worked on it. Tinkering with the prototype. Leaning over the table so late in the night it might as well have been morning, under the light of a single candle, exchanging ideas, experiment notes, and kisses. Both of their geniuses birthed something so terribly beautiful.

How could Wen Ruohan forget the wide excited smile Meng Yao wore the day the glittered steel slotted perfectly between the prisoner’s rib cage? Even now, the smile wouldn’t leave him.  

“Well? Ask. Ask him to tell the story how that tool came to be. Right now.” Wen Ruohan hissed.

Lan Xichen turned slightly, facing Jin Guangyao. The man stared between his ‘Er-ge’ and Wen Ruohan, mouth opening before shutting, eyes slipping close.

“Is this what you chose?” Wen Ruohan glared at his former aide. Being forcibly held in place, there was little he could do but that.

Purple bags underlined Jin Guangyao’s eyes. Long lashes like staccatos of black against them.

“You chose someone who rejected you.”

How much weight did you carry all these years with Nie Mingjue breathing down your neck?

“and someone you never can show your full self?”

How much time did you spend hiding knives behind your back from your dear ‘er-ge’?

“You chose a father who already proved he would never love you?”

How much time did you spend slaving over thankless work? Talent unappreciated? Company insulted?

“Was it worth it?!”

You chose them over me?

His mouth promptly sealed. Any thoughts or comments cut off.

Lan Xichen’s brother, Lan Wangji if Wen Ruohan recalled, held his hand up as if just finishing the Silencing seal.

“Enough.” He said.

If the edges of Wen Ruohan’s vision watered, it was his own business.

“I’ll only ask this once.” Lan Xichen said, visibly angry, wrenching the blade out of Wen Ruohan’s hand, far stronger than the body he now lived in, “You will sit down and remain so until we finish with our business or we won’t hesitate to kill you.”

“Why not just kill the bastard now? Might as well.” Jiang Wanyin snarled. Jin Ling curled in his arms, eyes narrowed at him. It appears Wen Ruohan had distracted Jin Guangyao enough for the child to escape.

But in doing so, he himself failed.

The sword poking into his neck forced Wen Ruohan onto his knees. Everything throbbed. His sleeves and collar stained in blooming red Spider Lilies. Like little knives, the wounds borrowed into his skin. Much like the device they created together, tearing him from the inside without cracking a single bone.

What a sorry, deserving end. Would he keel over here, soul torn into pieces as He Su threatened?

Thunder shook at the entrance, shaking the entire foundation of the temple. The residents froze in place, all eyes landing to the front, the way which Wen Ruohan last entered through. The door bulged as more crashes followed.

Three.

Four.  

The wood shattered. A figure flew into the room, crashing into the floor. Lan Wangji and the unknown person ran to the figure.

“Wen Ning?!”

Wait, Wen Ning?

The thought stuttered to a stop as a dark silhouette loomed in the doorway.

“Brother!” the Nie child cried out.

Of course... Great timing…

The fierce corpse stepped in. The lantern light illuminated a scowling face, frozen in time.

Nie Mingjue.

All attention on him. Swords changing directions towards the fierce corpse.

Wen Ruohan’s eyes landed on Jin Guangyao. His face several shades lighter, figure trembling.

Great timing.

Nie Mingjue snarled, charging into the room. Wen Ruohan leaped, kicking Lan Xichen at the fierce corpse as he passed by.

“No-” Lan Xichen cried out, but forced to remain put to block an attack, sword barely stopping a hand from plunging into his chest.

Jin Guangyao turned to him, gold eyes recognizing, realizing-

“Too slow!” Wen Ruohan grabbed Jin Guangyao’s arm before he could wrap the damn string around his neck. His free hand flew to his neck.  

How it should end.

Wring his neck like how Jin Guangyao cut him.

An ironic and the only probable outcome between them-

His hand froze before so much as brushing Jin Guangyao’s skin.

Early morning teas shared over a text of ghost stories. Boring, filled with moralistic lessons meant for children. Except when Meng Yao told his own spin.

It wouldn’t move.

Private conversation over a single candle, paperwork stacked around them like a rice paper cage.

The gashes sting, claw like a loud buzz, demanding he finish the job-

The prisoner’s screams were only the drizzle. The tools Meng Yao gifted, or the ones they started making together, far more fun.

His hand doesn’t move. Twitch.

The thought of wrapping his hand around Meng Yao- Jin Guangyao’s delicate neck, pale skin changing to blue and purple...

His mind stuttered to a halt.

I love you.

A simple tap to the back of the head knocked Jin Guangyao out. The chaos brought upon by Nie Mingjue more than enough to easily sneak out. Wen Ruohan stumbled into the rain, soaked through instantly, and his gashes stung.

Tears poured down his cheeks.

A matter of time before he would return to nothingness again.

    This time for eternity.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

—————————————————————————

Jin Guangyao shivered in the cold. The rocky walls dug into his back. The hemp robes an almost nostalgic reminder of the fabric he wore in his youth. Back with his mother at the brothel, and after.

The guards would change shift about now. Silent. Forbidden to make conversation. Jin Guangyao blew into his hands. His golden core could keep him from freezing, but not much else. Perhaps when Er-ge–Lan Xichen returned, he would ask for blankets. Though Nie Huaisang might keep him busy, make the last living moments on this mortal plane as dreadful as possible. If he weren’t on the other end of Nie Huaisang’s revenge, he would have applauded. If still alive, Nie Mingjue wouldn’t have been pleased. Angry. Rightfully so. Why else would Huaisang need to go down this path if not against Jin Guangyao himself?

And Wen Ruohan. Summoned for revenge. The perfect opponent He Su could have possibly selected. Who but him would have the anger, the debt, to repay? And he almost did. Ran at Jin Guangyao with the full intention of snapping his neck. Then he stopped. Dark eyes, He Su’s, yet so his own in that broken expression of his. The same one he wore the moment Jin Guangyao pulled the string. Wide red eyes, brows pinched in shock.

The image creeps on him in quiet moments, when Jin Guangyao sleeps, when he works, a low gnaw and ache that never went away.

Wen Ruohan stopped.

Why?

A loud thunk echoed in the quiet chamber.

Jin Guangyao looked up. One guard shouted before going quiet.

Ah, so Huaisang sent an assassin then?

A figure approached the prison, footsteps clicking on the stone floor with the beat of an invisible drum. Jin Guangyao forced himself to his feet, knees trembling from disuse. If he died, he will die with some smidge of dignity.

The light from a sorry excuse of a window revealed the to-be assassin’s face.

Wen Ruohan.

“Are you here to finish me off?” Jin Guangyao couldn’t help the smile.

Wen Ruohan shoved a key into the door, the metal groaned as he yanked it open, “you would be dead already if I was planning on killing you.” No bite or venom. Just matter-of-fact.

Jin Guangyao blinked as Wen Ruohan shoved a robe at him.

“You can either come with me and leave this place behind, or stay and die,” Wen Ruohan said.  

He didn’t take the robe. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

Wen Ruohan snorted, “You won.”

Jin Guangyao narrowed his eyes, “Won?”

How in the world had I won?

Wen Ruohan’s expression the moment he reached for his neck. The anger. Or lack of it. So close to fulfilling He Su’s request. Yet, just when about to. He stopped. His eyes... not the same before he died. No. Too soft. Could it be…

Wen Ruohan smirked, eyes flashing with amusement, “So you figured it out?”

Oh.

But if the request remains incomplete, then-

Jin Guangyao tilted his head, “You intend to die after freeing me? I didn’t take you for a sentimental man, Wen Ruohan.”

Laughter. The same one that always burst out from him when it was just the two of them, deep in his chest. Unbridled and earnest. Wen Ruohan grabbed the edge of the wall to balance himself as he wheezed.

“Not quite,” He managed to say, “The requests were to destroy Jin Guangyao and Xue Yang,” Wen Ruohan recounted, “I killed one and you…” He closed his eyes. Lashes not as long as his old body’s, face not quite his, “I was ready to die and yet, after the temple, the marks disappeared,” He shrugged, “perhaps in all technicalities ‘Jin Guangyao’ is dead.”  

Interesting.

His eyes met Wen Ruohan’s. Already he missed how the red would change colors with different emotions: glinting with mirth, darkening with desire. These black eyes merely swallowed everything whole.

Looking over his shoulder into the dark hallway, Wen Ruohan warned, “We have little time. Someone is bound to notice the guards. Do me the favor and use that clever mind of yours to decide.” He held up the plain grey robe.

Jin Guangyao snorted, “Do you have a plan?”

“Does running count?”

So no plan. If they escape, they would both be fugitives. They may have a chance to run to Dongying. Leave the cultivation world. But it all was too quick. Would Wen Ruohan turn on him? He says he can’t hurt him now, but…?

“Do you still hate liars?”

Wen Ruohan snorted, smile glinting off the few rays of light that slipped through the hole above, “nothing I hate more.”

“Then?” Jin Guangyao offered.

“I’m willing to trust you.”

Jin Guangyao nearly stumbled back a step, jaw dropping, “Even after I-”

“Yes.” Wen Ruohan said. The mirth fell away; his expression neutral, that of Qishan Wen’s Sect Leader.

“Why?”

“You have nothing to hide nor to lose. Neither do I. I’ve seen you at your worst, and you’ve seen me.”

Not once had he lied.

“You aren’t under any obligation to stick with me once we leave,” Wen Ruohan continued, “If you feel safer going our separate ways, I will follow. If you want us to stay together…” A pause. His eyes fluttered close, throat visibly moving, “I would like that.”

Huh…

Wen Ruohan watched. Even with the occasional backward glances, he did not repeat his past warning. Hard to gauge his expression with the unfamiliar features. Perhaps it was a matter of getting to know him again.

“Dying was never my strong suit” Meng Yao accepted the robe with a flourish.

[sombreboy]

Mused obsession (2)

Written by @sombreboy​ as Jungkook & @chimoona​​​ as Jimin Banner by @carly-bean-blog​​​

[ masterlist ]

⇢Explicit (18+) ⇢Pairing: Jungkook & Jimin ⇢Genre: yandere, smut, mxm ⇢Word count: 5.4k ⇢Ch.warnings: Alcohol consumption, profanity, jealous jk, so much sexual tension, bending the overwatch rules for the sake of the story don’t come at me lmao, also this is the last chapter without any filth so buckle up honey

Industry famous Jeon Jungkook of GJK photography takes an interest in a model and up-and-coming fashion designer, Park Jimin. After an opportunity to study the man behind his trusty lens, he thinks he may have just found his new muse.

Jimin’s mind kept wandering to the young artist even when he was bustling backstage. He delegates tasks to a couple crew members and walks over to a standing mirror to check his appearance. He’s ethereal, dressed in a soft white shirt, wrapping high around his neck and tied with a loose bow. On top of that is a fitted jacket with large black lapels, covered entirely in dark gold accents. He wanted to be seen, and this would definitely do the trick. His guests haven’t even arrived and he’s already getting looks from the backstage crew and hired models. He adjusts his tight pants to hug comfortably, drawing just the right amount of attention to his toned legs and small waist.

“Park, it’s time.” His stage manager approaches with a waitlist in-hand. “Follow me to the entryway. It’s time to greet our guests.”

Guests trail in one by one, or in groups, filling up the venue. However, Jungkook is still on his way, in no rush.  He hates to be in the middle of a cramped crowd. Although he knows he would most likely be allowed to pass through the line, he prefers to simply arrive a little later than everybody else. It gives him a grand entrance, in some type of way — always drawing the eyes of people, shocked that he actually would show up. He knows the game.

“We’ve arrived, Jeon.” The chauffeur announces as they park in front of the building. Jungkook’s slick black car is turning the heads of   those curious to see who would show up late. With his type of car, surely it’s somebody of importance. Jungkook wonders if Jimin is anxious to see him, or maybe even a tad bit worried about whether he would show up or not.

Inside, Jimin floats from person to person as they arrive, thanking them for coming and receiving compliments in return. He was right about his choice in clothing as he began to attract a lot of attention, especially from his agency mate Taehyung.

Tae is best known for his work in accessory modelling, using his smooth hands, tapered wrists and long neck to his advantage. His physical assets are a prized commodity when displaying very luxe pieces of jewellery. His ads often display on Cartier and Rolex storefronts, in case you didn’t know. Like he’d ever let you forget. Being managed by the same company often meant Tae got the chance to work alongside Jimin, always taking the opportunity to shamelessly flirt.

“You should have asked me to model for you, Jimin.” He places his hand on the small of Jimin’s back and toys with the sequins there. He leans close to Jimin’s ear and breathes gently, tickling his cuff—“You know I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Jimin clears his throat, trying to maintain his composure. “I’ll keep that in mind, Tae. Thank you for offering.” Taehyung cracks a sly smile and begins to walk away, turning to look over his shoulder, making sure Jimin watches. “Congratulations on the collection, by the way. Can’t wait to see how Jeon pulled off the promo shots.”

Jimin smiles back and nods as Tae leaves to greet their manager, then releases a sigh and looks around the room for Jungkook, wondering if he’d ever show up.

Jungkook steps out of the car as his chauffeur holds the door open, then heads towards the venue’s front door and is immediately allowed to pass by the small queue waiting to enter. Perks of being a celebrity, supposedly. As expected, he’s greeted with smiles, almost flocked by other celebrities trying to make a connection — mostly for business, others for personal reasons. He doesn’t smile, however. He simply excuses himself as he moves further, eyes searching for the one blonde he came for in the first place. Unsuccessful in his mission, he opts for alcohol, heading towards the bar area to lean against the counter. He orders a large pint of beer, never truly understanding those able to drink whiskey. As he chugs down a few gulps, his eyes finally spot the man he was looking for. Only question is... who’s that whispering in his ear?

Jungkook’s eyes spark in recognition when the mystery man pulls away to leave. Ah, Kim Taehyung. Another model that has been up his ass for quite a while to have his photo taken. Well, he just blew his chance on that one... The younger remains at his spot, halfway done with his drink and eyes fixated on the blonde. He’s fascinated by his effortless beauty, simply socializing with others. He quickly remembers he brought a small camera, just as high quality as his larger ones, but much more subtle for places like this. He places the beer back on the counter before aiming his camera at Jimin, snapping a few secret shots.

Absolutely angelic.

Jimin taps his foot to the music, leaning against the bar at the back of the room while he waits for his cocktail to arrive. He has no shame in ordering a cosmopolitan, loving the blushed pink color and sweet taste. He was craving something sweet after his photo shoot yesterday—banana milk still ripe on his tongue. He finds himself wondering if he should order something for Jungkook, pleading to make the impression of a courteous host, but decides he’d rather wait to see the man first.  Drink in hand, he sways his hips to the music, combing through the crowd, shaking hands and kissing other fellow agency members on the cheek as he brushes past them. Now on his second cosmo, he’s feeling loose and a little impatient. His lips curl delicately around the rim of the glass to sip down the last of the pink liquid. He thumbs a stray droplet from his bottom lip and decides it’s time to head backstage and check in.

Jungkook keeps his eyes fixed on the elder the entire time, enjoying the opportunity to observe how Jimin acts when he isn’t aware of the younger's eyes. A cosmopolitan, huh? Jimin would order such a drink. Kook wants to taste for himself — having never tried one before. He normally goes for beer, which he finishes off and sets down on the counter with a clonk. He’s still watching Jimin, the social butterfly that he is. A beautiful, gorgeous butterfly...the way his plush lips curl around the rim of the glass — mesmerizing. What’s even more devastating is the subtle swipe of his thumb across his lower lip.

“Park Jimin, you are dangerous...” Jungkook mutters to himself as his cautious eyes follow the man.  He glances down at his watch, knowing it was almost showtime. He decides to announce his presence beforehand, sauntering over, keeping his gaze on Jimin until he’s next to him. He gives his arm a light nudge with his own.

“Hey.”

It takes Jimin a couple seconds to register that the nudge was coming from Jungkook, then stops dead in his tracks by the man’s dark suit and styled hair. He can smell a woodsy musk coming from him, enchanting his senses. Jimin is so impressed by how well Jungkook has cleaned up that he can barely take his eyes off him.

“Hey, you,” Jimin smiles and wraps him in a friendly hug—perhaps a little too friendly given his liquid courage. “You look great,” he gushes and gives the man a light kiss on the cheek like he did with his friends — just a little longer than the rest. “Decided to finally show up, huh? Fashionably late—I get it.” The model teases, enjoying how wide Jungkook’s eyes get when he doesn’t treat him like a big-shot. “Let’s get you settled in, Jeon.” Jimin loops his arm into the younger’s and leads him to the bar to buy a new round of cosmos. “The show is about to begin. I saved you a seat at the front.”

Jungkook is no stranger to friendly kisses on the cheek from acquaintances, but this was the first time when coming from another man — that it made a shiver run down his spine. Jimin’s lips are soft, plushy, and feel like a kiss from an angel itself. It is, unfortunately, addicting . A part of him can’t help but wonder how they’d feel on his own lips... Jungkook shrugs off his continuous thoughts; there are more important things to think about than kissing the man holding him close... right?   He lets the smaller man guide him towards the bar, eyes immediately falling on the sweet drink and licking his lips at the sight. It looks delicious, so he decides to get one as well, then picks it up and tilts his head back, tasting it with a larger gulp than one normally would . T he sweetness coats his tongue and leaves a small layer of liquid on his lower lip.

“I’m technically not late...the show hasn't started yet.” He smiles, the mix of beer and cosmo slowly hitting his system. Kook glances up at Jimin. “Shall we go, then?”

Arm in arm, Jimin guides Jungkook towards the runway. He holds him close to navigate through the dense crowd. Heads turn as the two of them enter the room, some trying their best to network with the photographer as he passes by. “You’re getting more attention than me,” Jimin comments over the sound of bustling gossip. “If I was smart I would have offered to dress you in a suit from my collection. You’d fit right in with the models.”

“That would have been a smart choice,” Jungkook jokes, eyes continuously falling back to where Jimin holds his bicep close, and where their bodies pressed together. He barely notices the passing words of others and they completely go over his head. His focus is solely on Jimin’s sweet tone, trying to keep his eyes up to look around. He isn’t usually comfortable in crowded areas, so he’s grateful to the model for keeping him grounded. “Maybe I would’ve accepted.”

“Then it’s settled,” Jimin says with a squeeze to his arm, noting how the tall handsome man melts into his touch. “And it’s not going to be just any suit, obviously. It has to be custom .” He leads Jungkook close to the stage and takes a seat next to him, keeping his body close for comfort in the hectic bustle of celebrities. “Think of it as a tip for your hard work these past few days,” he adds.

...Or an excuse to run his hands over more of the photographer’s toned body as he takes measurements. Either way, it would give him another opportunity to have the man alone.

“I wouldn’t expect anything but custom,” Jungkook scrunches his nose as he smiles, joking on his own expense. “That, or I wouldn’t be Jeon Jungkook.” He slumps down on the chair as Jimin follows to take a seat next to him. Their sides are still pressed together tightly — not that the younger has anything against it. Rather the opposite. He enjoys the close proximity. His gaze continously steals glances at the elders flawless profile. He knew he was admiring the man already, but up close...it’s next level. Jungkook’s eyes travel down the soft slope of Jimin’s nose until they land on the plush, tinted lips that are blessed with a natural pout. ...it should be illegal.

Jimin may not have noticed Jungkook’s covert photos earlier, but he’s not blind to the man’s roaming stare as it fixates on every facet of his face. Jimin sneaks a few glances for himself, or rather, unabashedly eye-fucks him. Everything about the guy is alluring—the long dark hair, the sharp jawline and slightly exposed chest under his low-cut black shirt. Jimin almost salivates at the thought of claiming his mouth in front of all these strangers.  It must be the third cosmo in his system. He’s feeling loose and uninhibited, even more now that he knows his interests aren’t misplaced. If Jungkook keeps staring, Jimin might have to fast-track that personal fitting.

The lights dim to indicate that the show was about to begin.

“Excuse me,” Jimin leans close to whisper, purposefully pressing his glossy pout against Jungkook’s ear, anxious to see how it affects him, “I’ve got a speech to give.” He then stands and gracefully floats to stage to find his footing in front of the microphone.

Jungkook forces himself to tightly swallow down the groan threatening to escape his lips when he feels Jimin’s breath fan over his ear. The scent of alcohol mixed with the elders sweet perfume is intoxicating. One turn of his head and his lips could’ve been on Jimin’s. The thought was awfully tempting, but before he was able to react in any way, the blonde withdrew himself to stride towards the stage.  Jimin’s ring-clad fingers delicately wrap around the microphone stand, and the younger straightens his posture — gaze still fixed on the gorgeous angel before him. He reaches down his pocket, fingers gripping around his camera. He really wants to capture the moment.

“I thank each and every one of you for attending, what I hope to be, the very beginning of a successful launch.”

Cameras flash from the crowd—a few media sources, fashion bloggers and excited industry mates document the moment. Jimin gulps down a small wave of nerves and continues on. He’s a professional. He can do this.

“My team and I are excited to share a first look at the ‘Be Your Light’ collection, created to evoke confidence and empower those who wear it to show their true selves.”  He clasps his hands together in thanks and gives a small bow to the crowd. “Enjoy the show and please look forward to more in the coming weeks...” He looks over to Jungkook, as if speaking directly to the man as he delivers his finishing statement — “...there’s much more yet to come.”

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate to lift his own camera along with everybody else, snapping a few closeup shots of this big moment. It’s huge, and Kook can’t help but smile with pride. He’s gonna go so far, especially with his assistance. As soon as their eyes meet, Jungkook lowers his camera to truly see Jimin as he finishes on stage. His heart flutters — excitement evident as he flashes the gorgeous angel a toothy grin followed with a nod of approval. There surely is much more to come. And, hopefully, more projects together.

Jimin can’t wipe the smile from his face. The applause of the room carries on as he walks back to his seat. But barely there, he’s tugged to the side by a familiar pair of smooth hands.

“Loved the speech,” Taehyung slurs, urging the model to sit beside him instead. The scent of dark rum is heavy on his breath. He was never very good at staying composed during events like this. Deep bass thunders from the rafters as the first model hits the runway.

“Thanks Tae, but I’ve got to—“ Jimin is silenced by the man as he grips his face and tries to kiss him roughly, missing by an inch.

“You’re such a TEASE tonight,” Tae snarls. “Come home with me.”

His proposition is blunt as per usual. Jimin politely shakes his head and smiles as if nothing happened, trying to reduce the amount of attention they’re already drawing. To his relief, their manager intervenes and coaxes Tae to sit back in his seat, allowing Jimin enough time to slip back to his rightful spot beside Jungkook.

Jungkook saw everything. Watching Taehyung attempt to kiss Jimin was probably one of the most frustrating feelings he had ever felt. That’s when he knew he didn’t want anybody else to have a chance with the blonde. It also meant...Jungkook really has an interest in the man. It’s obvious, but he wouldn’t acknowledge it — not until he saw Jimin almost kiss somebody who wasn’t him. The very moment Jimin sat down next to him, his tongue continuously prodded the inside of his cheek in annoyance. One arm quickly wraps around the elders shoulders, pulling him closer to talk to through the loud music.  “What the hell was that?”

“Nothing,” Jimin mumbles, crossing his legs. He and Tae have unfinished business but his fashion show is far from the appropriate venue to address it.  In the past, Tae’s everlasting propositions would often bring him to his knees and he knew it well. Behind the curtain of a runway, to the filthy floor of a club bathroom. But that was the past. Jungkook probably doesn’t need to know that part, not when he’s already so annoyed.  “He just had too much to drink,” Jimin clarifies, “it’s fine.”

Jungkook doesn’t even attempt to hide the way he scrunches his nose in annoyance. Maybe it’s due to the alcohol, but he presses Jimin closer to himself and fans his breath over the elders ear as he speaks. “You’re not required to stay any longer, right? You did your speech...”

Jimin leans his small body tight to Jungkook, needing to be closer as well, blood warming to his dominant aura. He still feels the white hot stares of neighbouring attendees after the little stunt Taehyung pulled. His stage manager is more than capable of handling the rest of the show, he’s sure of that. If he wants the attention back on the garments and the rest of the show to be a success, it’s best he slips out.

He keeps his voice low enough for only Jungkook to hear — “Get me out of here.”

The words roll off Jimin’s lips, and they’re more than enough for Jungkook to spring into action. A smirk curls on his lips as he stands up, grabbing the elders hand shamelessly.

 “Let’s go, then.”

He tugs the blonde along, scuffing through the crowd. On the way out, his eyes meet Taehyung’s sharp gaze as it flickers between the two men hand in hand. Jungkook flashes him a shit eating grin, knowing Tae would simply have nothing to argue about, especially if he ever wants a slight chance to work with the photographer in the future.

He could forget about it, Kook muses to himself.

He leads Jimin to his car, already on cue to leave at Jungkook's say so. He holds the back door open for his company, letting him get seated before joining inside.

Jimin settles in close as the driver begins to take them away. He’s not sure where they’re going and doesn’t care to ask, content as long as it’s far from prying eyes. He slips his hand under Jungkook’s as he misses the feeling of skin on skin, then looks up at the younger with a small smile on his pouty lips. “Thank you,” he says, mentally musing over the many ways he’d like to show him his gratitude. The way Jungkook took command of that situation wrecks Jimin, to say the least. He can’t blink away the image of Jungkook’s jaw tightening, nose scrunching, or how hot his breath felt like fire against his neck as he asked about Taehyung.

Jungkook shrugs lightly, a small smile on his lips at the simple words of gratitude. It’s cute, the way Jimin suddenly seems to shrink beside him when they’re alone. Apparently an audience makes him cocky, but the one-on-one moments together make him look almost... innocent . The duality is exactly why Jungkook feels such a strong pull towards him. The car slowly pulls through a large gated area, turning into a driveway next to a grand mansion. Kook doesn’t wait for the chauffeur to open the door and simply does so himself without a word, waiting for the elder to follow. He hasn’t bothered asking Jimin if he wants to go with him to his home. Then again, Jungkook often does whatever he pleases.

Jimin follows him obediently, noting that perhaps chivalry isn’t dead. He hasn’t had a man open a door for him unless he was paid or obligated to do so. He nods in thanks and marvels at the house he’s about to step into. Just from the outside, it’s beautiful and meticulously landscaped.

“Is this all yours?” Jimin asks, mouth slightly parted in awe. He’s considered himself to be well off for his age, but the younger man takes it to the next level.

Jungkook cranes his neck to observe his house, giving a light nod before he strolls towards the grand front door, fumbling in his pockets to fish out the keys. “All mine.” His lips twitch in a smile, glancing over the shoulder at the blonde.  Kook remembers buying his house — the excitement back then was comparable to that of a child on christmas. However, with time, material things grew worthless. In a sense, he’s used to it all, but seeing Jimin’s admiration sparks a pride — an appreciation for his own wealth, perhaps. “Wanna come inside?” he asks cheekily, as if that wasn’t already the plan.

Jimin nods again and follows him in. It isn’t normal by any stretch to have as much self-built notoriety and materialistic gain before the age of 30... or any age, really. It makes him even more curious to know the young photographer. It’s not the fame or fortune that draws him in; it’s the reminder that Jeon Jungkook, GJK-branded icon, photographer to the stars, is also the milk-sipping boy with manners and a childlike glimmer in his eye. What a conundrum, Jimin thinks. His eyes flick to Jungkook’s ass as he walks through the grand doors, noting for the first time just how toned it is. A very...alluring conundrum.  

Tonight may be the night he discovers even more about the semi-mysterious younger man. He’s almost jittery with anticipation, wondering what he has in store for their evening together.

The doors automatically close behind them — the loud click of the lock echoes in the hallway as Jungkook slowly saunters towards the open space of the living room, gesturing towards the couch to offer Jimin a seat. Kook paces through the room to reach the open kitchen, stepping behind the only thing separating the two rooms — a large marbled counter, which frames the space deemed a kitchen. He opens the fridge and scans his various beverages with a hum.

Yes, he has a fridge solemnly dedicated to drinks...

“Want something to drink? I have alcohol, soda, energy drinks...even bananamilk. You liked that, right?” Kook’s oddball mind almost craves to mix alcohol with his favorite sweet drink. It could be the best of both worlds, as a kids show once told him.

Already three cosmos into the night, Jimin decides to stray from the sweet side of the flavor spectrum, at least until he’s a little more drunk.

“I did like the banana milk...” he’s almost tempted to take him up on the offer just knowing how pleased Jungkook would be by the decision, but no, he needs something that will make him a little more... uninhibited . He taps his fingers against his chin in thought, taking a seat on the big couch. “I’ll take a glass of wine. Red, if you have it.”

Jungkook hums as he crouches to the bottom of the fridge. His stack of unopened wine bottles is finally coming to use as he doesn’t normally drink wine too often himself. He supposes he can indulge in some as well. “Does the brand matter?” Kook asks, but not really waiting for an answer before he picks one that he remembers getting as a gift from... well , he doesn’t remember. All he knows is it’s of decent quality. Pricey, to say the least.  The bottles clonk together as he grabs the one he thinks fits Jimin best, forgetting about his craving for the milk as he returns to the couch with the large bottle and two glasses in hand. “If you want anything specific I can always have it delivered.” He murmurs as he places the glasses down and pulls up his sleeves to open the bottle with a pop. Pop is also an accurate description of what the veins in his hands did as he works the cork out of the bottle neck.

Jimin cannot help the gravitational pull he has towards hands, especially those that do hard work and reflect the fruits of their labor. When Jungkook raises his sleeves, it’s the first time Jimin gets a look at the tattoos that wrap around one arm and down his long fingers. He watches as Jungkook uncorks the bottle and swipes his tongue across his lips to wet them. “Thanks for the offer,” he says quietly, too engrossed in the task at hand. “I’m sure we have everything we need right here.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows tightly draw together as he focuses on pouring the drink into each glass, having no care for the etiquette of ‘filling halfway.’ No, Jungkook fills the glasses until the transparent material is completely red, seeing no reason in being stingy with the drink. When satisfied, he places the bottle on the table and sits down to hand Jimin his overfilled glass while treating himself to the same. He wastes no time in taking a large gulp as he’s not the kind to ‘savor the taste.’

Jimin watched the process and throughout and thought how cute it was that he didn't know how to pour wine. It was just another moment Jimin savoured as unexpected yet endearing.  He follows Jungkook’s lead and greedily gulps down a mouthful of the dry merlot. He can tell it’s expensive because it drinks like water and bursts with fruity flavour. He takes another gulp and already feels his alcohol levels rise.

“What do you do around here for fun?” Jimin asks, looking around the room.

Jungkook’s eyes twinkle with excitement at the question, quickly pointing towards the large TV hanging on the wall. “I like video games…” He takes another gulp of his wine, already having downed most of it. He feels the alcohol loosening him up a bit with cheeks a hue of red, puffing up with a smile. “Do you play?”

Jimin swivels to look at the TV and surveys the gaming setup. There’s no doubt the photographer likes to indulge his interests given he owns every console imaginable.  He stands with his wine, drinking it steadily as he walks over to the selection of games.

“I’ve played Overwatch before,” he notes, plucking the game and walking it back to Jungkook. “But I won’t go easy on you, Jeon.” He smirks, holding eye contact. He wraps his full lips around the rim of the glass to polish off the rest of his wine, even braver than he was a second ago. “In fact, let’s make this interesting.” His confidence is back in full swing. “Weaker player has to do whatever the other wants, no questions asked.”

Jungkook’s fingers curl around the gamecase — the small pull on his lips quickly turn into a playful smirk at the elders' words. “You won’t go easy on me ?” His smirk morphs, surprised by Jimin’s challenge. He quickly closes his mouth, processing his words as the alcohol amplifies his curiosity about all the possible outcomes of when he wins. Because, obviously, there’s no way Jimin could beat him in overwatch. “Oh... really? ” Jungkook purrs as he stands up, stepping closer to the blonde until their chests merely graze together. His warm breath fans Jimin’s face as he waves the game in the air. “Deal...no questions asked.”

Jungkook quirks an eyebrow and wastes no time in turning the game on, then returns to the couch with two controllers and hands one to Jimin. He’s confident, however, a part of him wonders what Jimin would come up with if he did win…

“D-deal,” Jimin repeats softly, blushing. He grips the controller to focus on something tangible. His heart thunders in his chest as Jungkook’s warm breath still lingers on his flesh. “Before we get started,” he slightly slurs and waves his empty glass in the air, feeling loose. “...Refill time?” Overwatch isn’t necessarily the model’s forte but perhaps he can get the upper hand if Jungkook is just a little more inebriated. Not that he’s trying to take advantage…or maybe he is. The opportunity to do whatever he wants with the man, no questions asked? He doesn’t even know where he would start. He almost feels lightheaded by the thought of guiding Jungkook’s tattooed hand to wrap around his throat, punishing him for being indecisive.

Jungkook’s eyes land on the empty glass in Jimin’s hand. …He wants more? One bottle down, and even the younger man can feel that he’s leaning way past tipsy. But , he thinks, what the hell . It’s a night of celebration, after all. Besides, he may not get another chance like this, alone with the gorgeous blonde. There’s no use in wasting it.

“Okay.” He stands up once more to grab another bottle, returning to fill the glasses up to the brim. There isn’t a single bone in Jungkook that can be described as stingy. He’s very generous. “Don’t blame the wine if you lose though,” he slurs out the words and slumps down on the couch. His fingers tightly grip the controller with one hand as he tilts his head back to chug more of his beverage ; throat muscles flexing as he does so.

Who is he kidding? Jimin has never played the game before. Knocking back a large gulp of his drink, he sets the glass aside to focus. It’s already starting; Jungkook eagerly bounces in his seat to kick his ass. Jimin has already accepted defeat—his drunken mind circling the various shenanigans a man like Jungkook could be interested in. He combs a hand through his styled hair and ruffles it, relaxing into the couch.

“Let’s get it,” he smiles, biting down on his lip.

Jungkook’s nose scrunches up in a snort at Jimin’s words, repeating them himself in a breathy laugh — “Let’s get it!”

After not long at all , t he younger isn’t surprised to see that Jimin has no fucking idea what he’s doing. His cocky attitude was simply for show. Kook barely has to try, half-focused on glancing over at the blonde’s reactions and attempts to figure out the game. A small crease forms between Jimin’s eyebrows, so endearing. The pout on his rosey lips is... alluring . With the bet in mind, Jungkook’s mind wanders…

As the game continues on, it becomes very apparent that the blonde is going to lose his own bet. He keeps running into walls and firing at trees. With a frustrated sigh, he releases the controller and lets it flop pathetically in his lap. “The tree moved, I swear!”  To think, he did it to himself. What a fool —he should have chosen something more his speed like Katamari Damacy. He scrambles to pick the controller back up, steadfast in upholding his air of perfection, but it’s too late. …it's time for his punishment.

Jungkook’s toothy smile grows, moreso at the reactions he draws out of the man next to him rather than the actual victory of the game.

“What a dumb tree, huh?” He snickers, putting the controller on the table before turning his whole body towards Jimin, swirling the wine glass in hand. Jungkook rests one arm behind Jimin and leans in real close. “Now, who lost the bet?” He clearly knows, but he really craves hearing it. Call it an ego boost, but hearing the blonde accept his loss in a flustered manner is an incredibly amusing sight.

Swallowing his pride, perhaps a little too easily, Jimin concedes with a light pink blush adorning his cheeks.

“You won, Jeon.” He finishes off the rest of his wine glass and enjoys the floaty euphoric feeling of being out of control but still very present. “Fair and square,” he breathes, inching forward, resting his hands in his lap obediently. “You hold all the power. What would you like me to do?”

‘You hold all the power.’ The words made a shiver run down Jungkook’s spine. It could be innocent, but with the tension between them, that was highly unlikely.

Jungkook’s mind wanders further as his senses amplify and unhinge by the amount of alcohol running through his system. He places his wine glass on the table, now daring to settle his free hand on Jimin’s thigh to give it a soft squeeze. His eyes never waver from the blonde as he tries to draw more reactions from him.

“No questions asked...right?”

© sombreboy 2020. Do not repost, edit or translate.

[harrykilledmoi]

Silence + Noise | Part One

1985. Manhattan, New York.

Noise, a live fast, die young, wild child living in the Chelsea Hotel, meets Harry, a newly immigrated, struggling, young poet in search of inspiration.

This is a story about life. A life so loud it’s quiet, and so quiet it’s silent. Fast and fleeting. It's about music and poetry and art in the filthy dwellings of its creators in New York City.

Rated: M (for language) Word Count: 5.3K Themes:  AU, angst, 80s!Harry, Poetrry, love at first sight??? Pairing: Harry Styles x OFC Warnings: drug use + addiction, smoking

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Harry remembers the exact date and time that he first saw her.

June 30th, 1985.

10:34pm.

Although it could've been 10:36 as he was still unsure if his wristwatch was still running two minutes too slow. He does, however, vividly remember the weather.

The last remnants of spring were being washed away with the droplets that cascaded from the heavens that night. He'd thought he'd been lucky enough to leave the rain behind when he moved to New York, but like his writer's block, it seems the heavy clouds followed him across the pond as well. He was in search of inspiration and his small English county could no longer provide that for him. He'd only been in the city for a week but had still yet to find his footing, his place. It was the very words of Ginsberg that brought him to the seedy, down-at-the-heels boroughs of New York City, that propelled him to get on that plane, that brought him to her. Whatever the poets of Gotham were smoking, he wanted in.

He'd been walking down Canal Street that night, the rain lightly kissing the tops of his cheeks, puddles flooding around the soles of his loafers. Why he'd decided to wear the dark leather footwear on a night like that night was beyond him. It was his first official night out in the city, so it could be said that he subconsciously wanted to look his best. He'd spent his first week in the city holed up in his apartment. A corner walk up in an old hotel that rented rooms by the month.

The Hotel Chelsea.

The heartbeat of the city located in its underbelly.

He knew it from literature, from music, from art. He was told it was where artists are conceived, born, and died in a never ending forest fire of pathos, ethos, and on very rare occasions, logos. Swimming in a pool of their own shit and only their own shit, and then somehow making it glitter like gold. He was told it was where the muses lived. Every single one, from every myth and every legend. He was just waiting to meet his own.

He ducks into a dimly lit concrete stairwell when the rain begins to pick up. Soaking through the unbuttoned-at-the-top shirt he'd been gifted by a friend before leaving home. He stands under the small coverage provided by the building above him. Watching as bright yellow taxi cabs wiz by, distorting the already distorted refraction of soft warm light that spilled from the street lamps above. He watches a couple kiss in the rain before departing and going their separate ways and yet, although he was in the presence of such a magnificent amount of pulchritude, Harry was still unable to string words together into a verse that would do it justice.

A muffled cheer sounds from behind a door he hadn't realized led to anything, catching his attention. He turns, peaking into the frosted glass window located in the center of the old wooden door, leaning so close his nose flattens against it and his breath fogs the glass beyond its frost. He squints, trying to get a peek inside when the door swings open. He steps back swiftly, heart pounding, lungs heaving for air, hand pressed to his chest. The culprit, standing in the doorway eyeing him. Platinum blonde hair is the first thing he sees, then a sharply arched eyebrow over icy blue irises, and a cigarette, pressed between two lips painted in a maraschino cherry hue.

Harry struggles to collects himself when she side steps and gestures for him to enter or leave, either way, the purpose was to get him out of her way. His eyes are still locked on hers, swimming the in whirlpool of her energy, feet about to touch the sandy bottom of the frozen ocean within her eyes.

A snap of her fingers in the space between them pulls him out of his liquid dream like a buoy pulling a drowning boy to safety.

"Move it or lose it, I haven't got all day."

Her voice is unlike anything Harry had ever heard before. Although she looked lithe and delicate, her voice held grit and power. With an edge Harry could only imagine the sharpness of.

He squeezes past her through the door, their chest brushing as he scuttles. He dwindles when he catches a whiff of her. Whiskey and cigarettes and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on. Vanilla? Sandalwood? Whatever it was, he wanted more of it.

She scoffs as she pushes past him into the evening downpour, forcing him further than he'd planned on going. He turns quickly and watches her ascend the drenched concrete steps as the door closes, her tall, chunky heeled boots slapping against them like duck wings on water.

He stands there, staring through the small rectangular window at her blurred silhouette. It isn't until he's shoved lightly to the side, and then back, further into the bar by people trying to exit, that he realizes just how long he'd been standing there. In the process he loses sight of her.

The door opens again and Harry is pulled further into the small bar by a wayward group of people. He concedes in that moment, walking through the dive on at his own accord. His mind still spinning with a looped triptych of the encounter.

This was a new experience for Harry, the momentary loss of self in a stranger, specifically supernal, a particularly peculiar case of sonder. He'd had the luxury of knowing everyone in his small town and therefore had not been afforded the company of fresh faces and anomalous auras for the majority of his adult years of life. This was a feeling Harry wanted to relish in, to drink and be drunk on and its catalyst had just walked out the door to indulge in her nicotine laced vice, and in all probability, to not to be seen by him again. New York is a big city. All big, blinding lights and an even bigger populace.

That, however, didn't stop him from nursing an inaudible prayer on his lips as he ambles carefully through the bar, hoping, while trying to keep hold of realistic expectations, to catch a glimpse of the fair-haired sparkler one more time before he, himself, burned out.

The room, puzzlingly humid, dimly lit, and thick with people, carried the stench of old beer and rotting wood. A heavy cloud of cigarette smoke floats up from the crowd and threads through the dank wooden beams of the ceiling. The walls, covered in a deep red, are peeling and fading into a grimy brown, reminding Harry of the rust that sat on his neighbour's old chevy back in Cheshire. The floor, beer soaked wood that Harry was sure could give out at any moment if they weren't below street level.

Everyone in the room was gathered around a small stage made of old skids in the middle of the small space. A woman, small in stature with tousled brown hair tucked under a dark gray pageboy cap and black, thick rimmed glasses, stands on the stage in front of a microphone.

Harry heads to what he assumes could only be the bar. As if the rows of liquor bottles located behind a very well groomed young man hadn't been a clear enough indicator. His look, a stark contrast to the dwellers in the bar. A crisp white short sleeve button up, tucked into a pair of sharp black trousers, held in place with a black belt, silver buckle.

"What can I get you?"

Harry looks up at the bartender, then over to the bottles of liquor on the wall. A decent sized plank of driftwood sits snug in the center of the middle row of bottles. 'The Sick Rose' it read in a delicate, hand-painted cursive, the same red that dressed the walls.

He looks back over at the bartender who is watching him, waiting patiently for his answer.

"Whiskey, neat."

The bartender smiles before turning to grab the bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind him. He grabs a glass from under the bar top and place it in front of Harry before pouring.

Harry watches him intently, taking in every detail. From the way his brows furrow when the liquor splashes up against the side of the cup and onto the bar to the 'nectar of the gods' glisten of the liquid in the glass.

With a tight but genuine smile, the bartender pushes the glass towards him. Harry reaches into his pants and takes out a balled up fiver. He flattens it out on the bar top, a light, embarrassed chuckle leaves his lips before he hands it over, returning the smile with a curt nod.

Feedback bleeds momentarily over the sound of soft conversation drawing Harry's attention. He picks up his drink and turns his attention to the stage.

She's seated on a high stool, the woman on stage, and has a cigarette pressed between her middle and index fingers, the smoke cascading up to join the rest of the crowd's. In her other hand, an old, black and white school jotter with several coloured post-it notes sticking out of every side.

She gets off the stool and steps towards the mic, poised with her book open and resting on her forearm, against her chest. She speaks with candor. Her tone rhythmic, almost musical.

She pauses and the verse rings in Harry's ears. A dull ache pulses through his chest. The tips of his fingers tingle. There's an itch trickling up from under his skin that grows with every word, every pause, every breath.

This is what he'd been looking for. What he had come to New York for. To live and exist as the wordsmiths before him. In a dark dingy basement bar, last legs, glass of whiskey in hand, cigarette smoke clinging to every space. No more thicker than the voltaic energy that has the hair on his arms standing at attention. The baring of souls in stanza, in verse, in caesura, in rhyme. A chorus of pain and lust and life, oh to live a life like this. And now it was his.

He rubs his arm but knows that that isn't what will satiate his craving.

That the only cure lies within the keys of his typewriter and alabaster sheet of 8 ½ by 11.

Harry takes another generous sip of his drink with peeled ears and attentive heart. Hoping that the ability to write something, anything, would strike him like the lightning that had been streaking the sky that night.

He'd almost forgotten about her in the hurricane of poems and poets that swept on and off stage throughout the night. But when he sees her again, hours later, the initial rush of titillation he had felt returns like an unexpected punch to the gut.

He's three glasses of cheap whiskey deep, leaning against the small bar top. The crowd in the bar had gotten boisterous, rowdier, and now instead of poets baring their souls to the patrons, there's a louder than hell band on stage. He's sure they have no idea how to play their instruments but the magnanimity of their outrageous on stage antics made them entertaining enough to watch. The lead singer had broken a bottle over his head and made out with three different women on stage within the span of ten minutes and yet, once Harry had caught sight of the platinum stick of dynamite, he couldn't take his eyes off her.

She's seated in a worn leather booth at the far end of the room. And although there were copious amounts of intoxicated people standing between them, Harry had managed to maintain a clear and direct line of view.

The first thing he noticed was the smug smirk that never seemed to leave her lips. It was as if she was holding onto a secret that no one, not even herself, knew. The second was that she wasn't alone.

Next to her in the booth sat two people, a man, neck full of tattoos and decked out in leather. His dark, shoulder length hair looked as if it hadn't seen a wash in weeks but Harry could admit that the man was quite handsome, in a dangerous, "I'd steal your car" kind of way. The other, a woman, wild curly hair, tucked under a black beret. Her dark skin shown against the dim lighting in the bar and was a stark contrast to the bright red, latex dress she had on. The outfit was soaked in intimidation but the smile she had affixed on her face as she whispered to the object of Harry's full attention, was soft and genuine.

The blonde head of hair whipped around in Harry's direction and their eyes catch each other's.

In a movement too swift for him to register himself, he turns to face the bar, an embarrassing warmth making its way up his neck. He orders another drink even though he already has a full one in his hand. He throws it back, finishing it before the bartender could put the new one in front of him. Harry takes in a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves before turning back to catch one more glimpse of the blonde matchstick before calling it a night, but just like before she'd disappeared. In fact, the only person sitting there was her female friend, the male compatriot had disappeared as well.

Harry can't help but wonder. Had she gone out for a cigarette, or had she decided to take the brooding tattooed man back to hers. Maybe she'll be back. Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she was still here.

He scans the room before his body propels him forward, a heart over head start of an active search, removing him from the bar and into the crowd on people. Popping up every now and then to see over the sea of heads.

When he finally does spot her again, she and neck tattoos are wedged in the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. Their chests pressed together as they speak in hushed, harsh voices.

"Neck Tattoos" holds a small plastic bag above her head, a frown etched deeply in the curve of his brow and the edges of his lips. Harry watches as she attempts to grab the bag back from the man but fails, falling into him, her head turning and immediate locking eyes with Harry's curiously impeding stare. Her eyebrows furrow and her lips pucker. Her gaze is intense, hard but it sends a neon jolt of electricity through Harry's body.

She looks away, pushing herself away from "Neck Tattoos'" chest, as she makes another attempt to grab the baggy from him by propping herself up onto her toes. His large tattooed hand wraps itself around her wrist tightly and her eyebrows furrow in pain as he leans closer to her. Harry's body jerks forward as her eyes drift back over to his. His legs move to carry him closer but halts momentarily to size up the situation.

He'd always been someone who thought about actions and their consequences before making rash decisions. Logical and reliable were words that could be said to be synonymous with Harry Styles.

Heck! The most impulsive thing he'd ever done was what had brought him into this very situation. He didn't think a bar fight would be in the cards for him, ever. But he figures there's a first time for everything.

Harry makes his way over to them as quickly as he can, bobbing and weaving through the crowd, trying to keep an eye on the situation all the while trying to figure out how he was going to incapacitate "Neck Tattoos", who looked to be about a whole head taller than him.

The crowd seems to be fighting against him, trying to keep him away but he fights against it anyway. In that moment, Harry likens himself to salmon swimming upstream in the frigid autumn waters. A dangerous journey but to give up would go against their nature. Fight, however, was not in his nature but he thought himself fiercely passionate and empathetic which could be the same, he thinks. Harry finally breaks through the crowd and is within spitting distance of the two just as the snowy haired firecracker winds up and socks "Neck Tattoos" square in the nose.

Harry's eyes widen as "Neck Tattoos" falls, landing at his feet. He stares at the man on the floor before trailing his sights up to the woman who'd mystified him the short time they had been aware of the other's existence.

Her hand whips up and down as if shaking it will rid it of the throbbing that had begun to consume the limb. She bends down over "Neck Tattoos", retrieving the reason for the abruptly violent situation that oddly enough, no one else in the small bar acknowledged. She pats him on the shoulder comfortingly, her smirk returning to its place between her lips.

"Probably should get that checked out John. Broken nose wouldn't do that pretty face any favours."

Her words are firm but underneath it, there was a hint of something that told Harry that she actually was friends with "Neck Tattoos". That she cared about him, although her actions seemed to say otherwise.

She stands, and in the process notices one of her bruised knuckles bleeding. She brings it to her mouth, and it's all Harry can stare at, eyes still as wide as a deer in headlights.

Her icy blue orbs move up from the floor to Harry's face and he melts.

"Thanks for all the help man."

Her blood stained lips spit the sarcastic benediction with the prick of a sharp dagger.

Harry blinks. He opens his mouth and finds it hard to form words with the amount of indescribable feelings rushing through his blood stream, or maybe it was just the alcohol.

She sighs, rolling her eyes, and pushes past him, stepping over "Neck Tattoos", to a door adjacent to them. Harry twists his head to follow her, in a daze. It isn't until a loud clang sounds, the door closing, that he snaps out of it.

The spinning in his head comes to a standstill but the bubbling in his veins is far from subsiding.

His body is moving towards the door before his head can even fathom it. The pull is so magnetic. It's as if his soul had left his body and is pulling him along by hand, it's celestial.

He moves quickly, almost a blur, as he jogs out of the bar and into a dark lit alley. The rain had stopped and had left behind tiny reflective orbs of liquid on every surface that sparkled even in the darkness. He spins to his left, then his right in search of a halo of bleached tresses but comes up short.

A weight lands on his chest and trickles down to the pit of his stomach.

Regret, maybe. Nausea, definitely.

Should've said something.

He spins on the heels of his now drenched loafers with the intention of heading back inside to grab one more drink and quell his overstimulated mind and heart. He reaches for the large metal handle, when something catches his eye. A spark, several. Flickering and flashing to an off kilter beat. Small but bright in the darkness of the alley.

He closes his eyes and takes in a breath before letting go of the door handle. He takes a step away from the door, relieving his filled lungs with an aggressive puff. He's already been reckless thus far tonight, what's one more ill informed decision.

He opens his eyes and takes a few cautious steps towards the continuous tiny combustion. Slowly, hands curled in tight fists in case something or someone jumped out at him. In case he met one of those colossal rodents that New York was so famous for.

When he gets closer and his eyes adjust to the low light, he sees her. Leaning up against the grimy, graffiti filled, brick wall of the bar, cigarette between her lips, lighter in her bruised hand, pint glass filled with beer in the other. A brisk breeze flows through the wind tunnel alley way as she struggles with the lighter. A slick curse passes her lips every time the lighter goes out without lighting the cigarette.

Harry walks up to her, still cautious but fists unclenched.

"Need help?"

Harry chokes out the words but it's enough to cause her eyes to flick up, landing on the smile he struggles to keep soft. He doesn't wait for an answer, instead he steps forwards, cupping his hands around the lighter when she tries to flick it again. This time, the cigarette lights and she breathes out an audible sigh that dances around the smoke as it leaves her lips and Harry finally finds his voice.

"Y'alright?"

His eyes trace the lines of her face that are faintly illuminated by the end of her cigarette. Her soft lines a stark contrast to her hard glare. The corner of her lips fixed in a subtle scowl.

"Could be better."

Harry nods. He racks his brain for something to say. Anything to hold her attention for just a little while. Anything to keep this energy, au courant, from fizzling out.

If words came easier to him he wouldn't be in this alley. He'd be back in Holmes Chapel, in his makeshift cave of books and trinkets and old wood. With candles that smelt of Christmas and full body warmth, and his family would be just a quick jaunt away.

"You like poetry?"

Idiot.

He mentally curses his inability to come up with something less benign but stops when she lets out a loud, choking laugh. Her head tossed back in sweet amusement.

"Do I like poetry?"

She forces out through her chuckles.

"Is that a line?"

Her eyebrow peaks as she takes another drag of her cigarette then blows the smoke in Harry's direction. He blinks rapidly, the smoke causing his eyes to gloss over.

"You don't have to try so hard. If you wanted to take me home then all you had to do is ask. You're pretty and honestly I'm not picky."

Harry's eyes widen as he shakes his head, his eyes darting to a piece of soaked garbage on the cement, a candy wrapper.

Never had he met a woman so forward, so unapologetically crass and yet, still so enthralling.

"S'not what I want," he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. His front teeth press down so heavily he thinks he might've drawn blood.

"Really?"

She flicks the ash of her cigarette and brings it back up to her lips. A crooked smile cause the smoke to exit her mouth from the side rather than in Harry's face. He nods, it's subtle, but she acknowledges his answer.

"Doesn't seem like it. You've been watching me all night and when people do that it usually means one of two things. One, you want to fuck them or two," she take another drag, "you're a perverted stalker."

Harry's attention snaps back at her.

"M'not a stalker."

She steps closer to him, her body flush with his.

"I believe you," her voice is soft as her hand runs down Harry's shirt collar, fingers hovering just above where his exposed skin starts and not stopping its descent, "and that's sad because I'm sure we would've had a good time. Never done it with one of the Queen's sons before. Guess I won't be crossing that off my bucket list tonight."

She steps away from him and flicks her cigarette. It hits the wall causing the cherry to burst and glowing ash to trickle down like fireworks on the fourth of July. She walks past him towards the door but pauses before opening it. Looking over her shoulder at him, she shakes her head and laughs before disappearing into the building.

Harry stands alone in the alley. His body quivers with shock, with fear, with sheer excitement.

His heart was beating in his ears. His head, a spinny, dizzying top, unrelenting in its momentum.

He attempts to steady his breathing as he leaves the alley, stepping onto the sidewalk. The streets no longer bare as the patrons of bars and clubs alike pour out, where they'd follow the call of the rest of their night. An after party here, a quick, regrettable in the morning fuck there.

Harry bobs and weaves through people, still high off of the sheer aura of the woman. Missing a step and nearly eating shit as he descends down the stairs into Canal Street station.

He dawdles through the station, stopping to take a look at some of the musings of urban philosophers in permanent marker on the walls. Declarations of love and lust, names of places and people, numbers if you're in need of a good time.

"I'm sure we would've had a good time."

He checks his pockets for his wallet or some change when he gets to the pay toll but comes up short. He throws his head back and sends a curse out to the universe.

A chime sounds and Harry double times his pace, looking left and right before hopping over the turnstile. All but flying down the steps, he glides into the train just as the doors begin to close, narrowly missing his torso.

He catches his breath as he looks around the near empty train car for a seat. An elderly woman with a small buggy filled to the brim with groceries offers him a soft smile to which he returns as her makes his way to the far end of the car.

He takes a seat, his back to the window. He clasps his hands together as the train enters the tunnel. His body shakes and rumbles with the movements of the vehicle as a loud, low whistle fills the space around him.

He leans back, resting his head against the glass with eyes closed. Words bloom behind his eyelids like spring flowers but refusing to link together like a daisy chain to create anything worth writing down. His lips part as a heavy sigh floats past them. The train comes to a halt as his eyes open with the door.

His eyes shift to the doors as the elderly woman makes her way slowly off the train.

She passes and when she's clear of his line of view, a glimmer of pale blonde catches his eye.

A few blinks and a double take help clear his vision.

There she is. Sitting at the other end of the train, head bobbing back and forth to the tempo of whatever tune is floating through the headphones that are snug around her ears. A bright red portable cassette player rests on her lap, legs clad in houndstooth.

Although she was quite a distance away from him, he could see her now. Really see her. Her hair glows in the fluorescent subway lights and Harry is like a moth to a flame.

When she stands to get off the train, he does as well. Stepping out of the train a few doors down from her. On the wall, in mosaic tile is the name of the station, his stop. He heads towards the stairs, staggering his pace to stay a few feet behind her.

She walks with purpose, with power. A strut that says stay the fuck out of my way.

When they make all the same turns Harry chalks it up to more than coincidence.

Divine intervention maybe? Not likely.

As they both close in on the hotel, Harry decides that he's going to say something. But when she stops abruptly in her tracks, it throws him for a loop. His legs, not quite registering what was happening, continue to bring him forward and closer to her than he'd planned. She spins around quickly, her eyes landing directly on his as he stops a few steps away from her.

"Are you following me?"

She points a sharply manicured finger at him. Harry steps back, shaking his head. He holds up his hands in surrender.

"M'not. I swear, it's just a-"

"Pervy stalker," a sing-song lilt carries the accusation from her mouth to Harry's ears.

Harry's eyebrows furrow.

"I live here?" It's a question more than a statement. He points to the building.

"You sure? You don't seem so sure."

Harry clears his throat as his hands fall to his sides.

"I do, I live here."

She raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Where's your key?"

Harry sighs, defeated.

"Was in my wallet, but I lost it."

"Your key?"

"My wallet."

She hums, nodding slowly. Her eyes narrow as she leans forward. She steps back and turns on her heel.

"Sucks."

She approaches the front door of the hotel, putting her key in the lock. She pulls it open with brute force before looking over at Harry, who's standing in the middle of the sidewalk, alone.

"Well are you coming or what?"

He nods quickly as he breaks into a light jog. Slipping past her through the door she'd holding open with her back.

As they begin their ascent up the main square spiral staircase Harry can't help but let his mind wander. Questions bounce around his mind and on to his tongue like a diving board. A deep dive, cannonball wave pool displaces his quietness.

"What's your name?"

It's soft but she hears him.

"Noise."

Her voice echoes off the walls, stinging like a sour note.

"Noise? Your parents couldn't have possibly-"

"They didn't," she cuts him off with an over shoulder smirk so devious Harry could swear for a split second he'd seen the devil himself. Afraid to ask anymore questions he stays quiet.

They reach the 4th floor and she stops, turning around the face him.

"This is me," she points to a bright teal door, the number 412 affixed to the center in bold brass.

Harry nods.

"Where're you headed?" She asks.

"512," his answer is curt as he keeps his eyes on the ground.

"Not sure how you're gonna get in without a key. You might just have to sleep in the hallway until maintenance comes in the next few hours."

Harry groans but nods, wishing her a goodnight, frustrated that he wouldn't he able to sleep in his own bed tonight.

He turns and begins to continue up the stairs.

"Hey 512," Noise calls out. Harry stops mid step and turns around to a mound of black leather being tossed in his direction. He fumbles when it hits his chest but catches it, his wallet.

"Welcome to New York."

Harry watches as she slides through her front door. His eyes narrow but the corner of his mouth lifts as he jogs the rest of the way to his apartment.

[kaetastic]

The Prince, The Bastard, The Lady

pairing: Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand x F!Reader

summary: With the filled in visit for the sick Prince Doran, he sent his brother to meet the future King. Wherever Oberyn Martell goes, he brings his lovers. Soon to walk upon the shitland of King’s Landing was a bastard ‘Sand’ and a Lady ‘Dunner’. The latter being the sole reason a battle had been written in books. The latter being a battle Oberyn had proudly claimed he fought for- all for a lover.

word count: 8.2k+

warning: oral (f receiving), language, fluff, angst, detailed scenes of season 4 episode 1, mention of blood, mention of violence, mention of death, death of joffrey, cersei’s sharp tongue, no smut ? but touchy reader

note: For the sake of the straining tension between Tywin and the reader (one of the scenes in my head that inspired me to write this because I crave for protective!Oberyn), I created a new ‘settlement’ named Mendners, it is located between the Highgarden and Sunspear. Also, here’s sort of how the dress looks like. P.S, this has like an underwhelming plot because all of the scenes are taken from the show, i just added the touchy reader :) This was my first ever Oberyn Martell writing, please do give me a feedback for I’m not sure how to feel about it haha

Despite the grand windows where the grills had been merciful to the entry of the painful kiss of light, the thin fabric of red which overlapped one another stood at the front line, denying such entrance. Trickles of the rays managed to graze upon the ground, while the rest had been consumed by the curtains. The room was smeared of yellow, adorned by mischievous orange, and a hint of gold. A figure whose body was wrapped in the comforting colour of his homeland strutted around the line of three women. With his arm extended out to brush against the swell of their ass, their skin protected by the sheer fabric which was able to sing a cry with a single slit of a knife, the Prince of Dorne had not realized their muscles were not able to stabilize itself. The three whores stood in suppressed quivers. No matter their effort at trying to hide their fear of the infamous Red Viper, their untameable thoughts had betrayed the souls by fleeing behind the opaque wall.

The corners of Y/N’s lips curled up as the Prince made way to the first one, well, the first to her left. As the silky liquid, the man dressed in conspiring colours of yellow had brought all the way from his land trickled down the hollow column of her throat, she couldn’t help but feel slightly homesick. It had only been two weeks since they had left Dorne, a sudden change of plans due to the sickness that had weakened Oberyn’s older brother, Doran. Once she could not taste a droplet of the drink on her tongue, she rested it back on the bedside table quite gracefully, not even a squeak had been emitted. Just as she was thought. So, why had the eyes of the pale boy who contrasted the vibrant blue of his outfit met hers? With an uncalled wink from the woman, specks of red crept up his neck to smudge his cheeks. The paleness of his skin had abandoned the secrecy of what had been playing in his head. A faint giggle fell of Y/N’s lips at the sight of the man whose gaze had fallen onto the Prince, his cheeks lingering the crimson blood. 

Now that she realized, there was barely any noise. Pushing aside the chaotic sound of the street, and the Prince’s shuffling off feet against the rough floor, the closest thing she could hear was the gentle caressing of Ellaria’s orange cloth. The Sand had not bothered to throw a glance at the body who had pushed themselves against her back, their fingers grazing across her so softly as if she was a fragile heirloom, for she knew who it was. While the Prince stood beside the first whore, Y/N’s lips pricked against the smooth skin of the woman. The starting of her known personality had been blurred out by the resting bastard. Ellaria had paid no mind. However, just like Oberyn’s claim of her knowing when to trigger her wits, it had suddenly intervened Ellaria’s observation of the women. Y/N’s eyes twinkled playfully. She knew, without even having to utter a syllable- Ellaria would understand. The familiar, too familiar expression the other two of the relationship had been accustomed to seeing, look fell upon an amused face. The aching feeling of Y/N’s teeth slightly piercing into her skin had faded, although, it had lingered a slight sting, a temporary mark that would rise back once the day ends.

“Look at this one,” The Prince of Dorne announced, his index fingers gently hooked under the whore’s chin, yanking her gaze away from the floor. Y/N pressed her lips against Ellaria’s bare arms, her right hand dancing up of the bastard’s thigh. A clench played in between the thighs of the two women who took the comfort of the bed. The tainting thought that within one nudge of the fingers sauntering up to her raised knees could land onto the warmth of her cunt plagued their minds. “How lovely is she?”

Y/N’s head ran of thoughts as it always is, the muscles cladded around her fingers worked parallel, having a mind of its own, “Beautiful,” Ellaria commented, the exact words Y/N had echoed in her mind. Taking the sight of the brunette, she couldn’t help but notice the contrast of the Prince’s skin to the whore. Years under the ruling and the smiling of the sun had littered kisses across Prince Oberyn. Years of his exploration across the great land had left his skin golden, the same skin the women would plaster the markings of their love across. They were each other’s canvas while painting one another simultaneously. “But pale.” 

A low chuckle vibrated into Ellaria’s arm before it transformed into petite kisses once again, “They like them pale in the capital. Shows they don’t work the fields,” As Oberyn reasoned to the bleaching of the whore’s skin, his fingers made quick yet as always- gentle removal of the sheer clothing. Within a nudge, half of the fabric pooled in front of the figure, only singing was cut short by the fallen clothing. With the other half of the cloth was caught in his grip, he inquired at the woman who had not met his gaze, “Do I frighten you?” Despite her shaking her head, Y/N knew that there was fear that grew out of rumours and truths. The truth being the Prince of Dorne was a viper. It only made a person true, if they feared being at the end of his blade. Blade or anything he could get his hands on that was capable of murdering. “You like?” His gaze fell upon his paramours, his head gesturing towards the whore.

Ellaria’s throat echoed a hum as if she had pondered at the question, almost as if she had tried her best to cover her words without offence or meaningless jabs, “Timid. Timid bores me.” The Prince hummed at the opinion before averting his eyes from Ellaria who took a sip from her goblet to the silent woman. Quirking an eyebrow at the one who usually wouldn’t find herself in such tranquillity as it had always been Y/N to whine about the offered choices, Oberyn could feel the air dancing around the two graze his fingers despite the distance between the two parties. It was uneasy, which had only meant one thing.

“And you?” Her bottom lip was caught between the battle of her teeth at the abrupt question. Not having much of an opinion or a thought at the woman who had been labelled timid by Ellaria, she quirked her shoulders. In the corner of her eyes, the blurry fog of the man in blue rested his eyes once again upon her figure. 

“I want that one.” All necks craned to follow the path set by her index finger that stood in the air, lingering longer than it should- making sure everyone was on the same page as her. The Prince hummed at her choice, a voice in his head agreeing with her decision once his attention was set on the crimson, red-faced man. Although a chuckle fell off Ellaria’s lips from amusement and entertainment at the expected actions of her paramour- always choosing things that were off-limits, the chuckle that trickled from the pale man had been from shock. Surely, this was a joke. His lips parted to question if she had been joking, body stiffened at the request he thought was just a joke; however, was cut off from the Prince. And no one would cut off the Prince’s words.

“You’re a bit of mischief, aren’t you?” Oberyn asked, his eyes taking in her face. The sound of the first whore pulling her fabric back up to cover herself from the barely existing warm breeze. “I think she likes you.” The chuckled words echoed into the air, one of the reasons why Y/N had worn a slight pout. She couldn’t help but notice the whore’s head stopped at his shoulders. There was something about the man in blue that had intrigued her. Was it innocence? She banged on her own head that the male had worked for and associated himself with Littlefinger, the owner of the brothel. The chances of him landing a virgin had to be rare.

“She has good taste.” Y/N couldn’t hold it in, she chuckled at the self-praising words of Ellaria. With the removal of the whore’s outfit, all of the green in her head evaporated. The sight of her pink nipples sent ripples down her legs. Without having to even glance at Ellaria’s face, Y/N knew that the woman had felt the same.

“You’re not timid are you?” Oberyn’s husky voice caressed the pale skin of the redhead, his calloused fingers brushing against the swell of her ass. He took in the way her smooth skin danced in waves against his rough ones. They had been rough from many reasons, but that is a story for another time. Y/N’s tongue poked her inner cheek, her arm that had been resting against the mattress pushed her body up to take in the view. Swaying her lips slightly to pass the royalty, and into the faint light from the window, the woman had proven the Prince’s words right. With her feet held high in the air, Y/N wished it was her in Oberyn’s position. Oh, to see her cunt. The endless thoughts of her unbreakable gaze with the whore’s round breasts had been cut by the Prince’s face. He knew what she was thinking. It had always been like that. 

Oberyn could taste the air, feel the air of his paramours as if a scribble of writing. It was quite easy. And the Prince knew, Y/N would’ve scurried to his side to see the view he had bee taking in. So, he sent it through a wordless communication of a smirk. To which Y/N could only faintly pout at. Ellaria half-chuckled and half-wheezed, “Not timid.” Ellaria pushed herself to the edge of the bed to get closer to the woman, not knowing what it had done to Y/N once her perked ass prodded Y/N’s pelvis.

“Do you like women?” The Prince inquired, finding himself a seat at the edge of the bed, his arm thrown over Ellaria’s waist to grope Y/N’s ass. While he littered noisily kisses, the sound screeching into their ears, on her arm, his fingers trailed down the swell of his paramour’s ass. 

“When they look like them, my lord.” Y/N bit her lip at the light feeling of his index fingers tracing down her covered thighs, his eyes beaming into hers.

“This one will do nicely,” Ellaria added her opinion, her soft index fingers caressing the skin under the pebbly nipple of the whore, which was either from the air or the thrill of knowing she was to enter the bed with the Prince of Dorne.

“Very good, my lady.” The man in blue stated. Although it should’ve caught Ellaria’s attention first, Y/N’s neck snapped into his direction at the first syllable that fell off his lips. The wordless conversation between the Prince and his other paramour had been smoothly mumbled between their heads. A connection like no other. 

“Oh, I’m not a lady.” 

Although he was placed at a situation he could only squeeze through to succeed, he had managed to pull his strings, “A term of courtesy in this establishment.” Y/N could feel her eyes roll at the way he had worded his words. The way the sentence brushed the exterior of his lips.

However, Ellaria was insistent on winning the argument, “A lie anywhere,” The Prince pulled himself away from the exposed arm of the Sand, the corners of his lips curled up at the arousing way she proudly defended her title. While Ellaria busied herself with the man in blue, he pulled Y/N by her neck, their lips interlocking without a moment of hesitation. “Why not use the right words? I’m a bastard. She is a whore. And you’re a what?” With the sloppy noise of the Prince’s saliva swirling with Y/N’s trickling in the quiet air, the blond man couldn’t help but gulp. There had been a tightening in his pants, the way the tips of Oberyn’s fingers grazed over her cheeks; the way she shifted closer towards the royalty had sparked a fire of thoughts. Thoughts he shouldn’t be having. “A procurer.” A chuckle plunged down Oberyn’s throat. Ellaria was not wrong, but the intelligent woman had found an answer without a single help. 

“Any of the others?” Prince Oberyn finally pulled away from the enticing lips which had slightly been harder to peel himself away from as always, something he had to venture through his life with his paramours. There was something about Y/N’s lips he could not point out, it had always left a lingering residue of desperate need on his own. Ellaria could confirm the accusation, finding the need to pull her swollen lips from the woman was indeed... a challenge. Ellaria made a face to the Prince. Without having her to utter a word, he had understood. Age had definitely fallen onto the man. A subject that could only be brought up by his paramours, a topic frequently mentioned in or out of the comfort of a bed. Y/N always liked jabbing the Prince, not with a dagger or a weapon even though it had felt like one to Oberyn every time she would glide the ageing card onto the table. Most of the times, it was on the lines of, old man or aching backbone. The Prince of Dorne would always reclaim his victory since it had been him who had silenced her at the end of the day. Oberyn let out a huff as he pushed himself out of bed to make way to the table near a window.

“The two girls can leave,” Oberyn answered. With a snap of his fingers, the whores understood the procurer’s signal to leave the room. “You stay.” The grin Y/N wore from joy at her request to Oberyn could be seen all the way from Essos. 

“I’m afraid I’m not an offer, my lord.” Despite Y/N’s lightly grazing fingers dancing and twirling with oh, so gracious steps over the orange fabric of her paramour, and her lips finally locking with the whore after Ellaria had a turn, her ears had been opened to the blond man. Her eyes narrowed onto the two masculine figures, the fallen light through the dull mosaic glass panes smeared against the side of their body, leaving the ones in the shadow to be engulfed by darkness.

“Everyone who works for Littlefinger is an offer,” The woman in yellow would’ve stayed in the softness of the pillows brushing her skin while the paramours made work of the chosen whore. The unseen tug around her to approach the procurer, much more immense than that of her to the whore. He reminded her of an untouchable tapestry her family have had on the walls of their home longer than it should’ve. Untouchable. It was their mistake for mentioning the word to a young child who had been nothing but curious. So, she did what her youth desires told her to. Even though she had proved that the tapestry was indeed touchable, it had also been the reason for a tiring following day of set chores and lessons. “Take off your clothes. We’ll be here a while.”

The smooth skin of her glistening lips grazed the prickling facial hair of the Prince. It nuzzled between the soft yet invisible ridges of her lips, sending surges of shivers down her spine. Oberyn’s arms snaked around to pull her chest onto his, the adept muscles of slithered in a graceful slip-in. The rapid sound of their fabric slicing against one another vanished into the air. No different to a dagger being pulled out of its protective casing. Olyvar watched as their lips moulded one another, a rhythm falling into place within seconds. The intermittent, faint tugging from one side to another as they tucked onto each other’s warm skin, did not quiver a break. As if a spell had bound them. Despite the said-spell that had been cast onto the two, they somehow managed to pull apart. Chest heaving with parted lips, Y/N averted her gaze to the blond man, “Well? Won’t you listen to the Prince?”

“My lady, my lord.” The Prince hastily interjects, cutting off Olyvar.

“I am a prince, boy,” Y/N chewed on her bottom lip at Oberyn’s choice of words. The way the single syllable word rolled off his tongue plastered amusement on the woman. Moans from the occupied women caught her ears, well, mostly eyes. The sight of the pale mounds of the whore was out in the open, exposed underneath the victory-claiming rays of light. “Have you ever been with a prince?” 

A second flew by, and a realization struck Olyvar in the head, “Can’t say I have,” The corners of Y/N’s lips crept up. Ushered closer to the procurer with his arm still around her waist, Oberyn halted in front of the blond man. “I’m wildly expensive.” The slightly amused noise falling from Oberyn’s lips were overlapped, forgotten by the slightly amplified pitch of Y/N’s chuckling. Because she knew, she knew that no matter how expensive, the Prince will get what he desires, one way or another.

“Take off your clothes.” His pale palms caressed the elegant blue fabric of his clothing, the branching vines of gold sparkled underneath the dim light; although, it grazed upon his fingers like silk. The shyness of the man rose to the surface, the narrow reveal of his chest had caused the Prince to nudge off one side, the cloth hanging onto whatever it could. The woman poured another cup for her, despite her other one still half-full. Eyes raking in the chiselled body of the man, Y/N felt the warmth between her thighs climb its temperature. The way the Prince glided his hands down in a swerve of silk had only caused scenarios in her head to play. Scenarios that were, without a doubt, very possible happening. 

“Which way do you like it?” The snarky comment was thrown out of the window as Oberyn’s quick fingers moved to grope Olyvar’s crotch. Eyes glinting of amusement, Y/N took a sip of the wine at the abrupt silence from the procurer, clearly enjoying the situation.

“My way.”

“And so he spoke, and so he spoke,” The strings stretching out her muscles around her fingers loosened, nearly going flaccid at the familiar line of lyrics. The song that placed a golden crown upon the Lannister’s banner. Eyes meeting on a quivering line, Ellaria and Y/N pulled away from the blanket of lust that had drowned on them. Oberyn was much faster. He knew the rage within him had not risen to the surface in appearance for others to gaze upon for that was in his nature. However, the Prince knew that his paramours could not only feel what seethed under his skin, he knew they could feel what was to come. “That Lord of Castamere. And now the rains...” 

“Oberyn,” The two women called out, although, Y/N’s now empty hands lightly grasped onto his tunic in hopes of stopping him. She had not yanked him. She had urged him with sweet mumblings to pull him out of the trance that would only lead to a much more... undesirable consequence. There was no stopping the Red Viper. “Oberyn, don’t.”

“Weep o'er his hall, with no one there to hear...”

Scurrying after the man who followed the path of the blood he will tear onto the ground, the frantic women tried all their attempts at halting him. The darkness that fell upon the eyes of the Prince could not be wiped by a mere consultation. It was darkness that required blood. And that, he shall happily provide. Oberyn Martell had vanished from their sight, his gait stomping puffs of dust from the brothel’s ground. Yet, with the boisterous sounds of the floor creaking, the two lost lovers of the Prince needed aid- a guide from Olyvar to show them the way. They hadn’t even been given a tour around the place they would stay. Somehow, Oberyn’s sensitive ears had drawn a clear line towards the weeping lions. Corners, mixed with left and rights- the Prince had reached to the source of the song before the other three could follow after him. With Oberyn out of sight from the interconnecting hallways of the brothel, there was only 

“Yes, not the rains weep o'er his hall. And not a soul to hear.”

A slight relief poured into the vessel of her heart when the echoing surges of Oberyn’s voice slammed into the walls of the brothel, right into their ears, “We don’t like the smell.” A laugh followed his statement. The laugh that would cause Y/N to dance above the puffs of clouds. This time, it had not been gentle mist... but daggers coated with poison to the edge. 

“Come with me, lover.” Ellaria urged, palms lightly hovering over his chest.

“Shall we not rest first, my love?” Y/N grinned sweetly, eyes not sparing a glance at the two men with whores on their lap. If she didn’t acknowledge their presence, maybe she wouldn’t be seething with the same rage that roared in Oberyn. Her fingers softly gripped his, pads brushing over the ridges of calloused skin. “The journey had indeed been exhausting. You had also complained about those aches in your back, I’m sure rest will be its best remedy.”

The Prince had not pulled his gaze away from the Lannisters, his eyes set upon them like vulnerable sheeps. The meat was there for him to slide his dagger into. Oberyn didn’t even glimpse. 

“Gods, looks at this one.” It took everything in Y/N not to avert her eyes towards the King’s guard, yet, it took so little for her to crane her neck. 

Olyvar sensed the tightening tension of the room, spoke up, not wanting any chaos and issues in the brothel, “Sirs, if you follow me, I'll arrange for a private room.” Except, his interjection for peace had been overlapped, thrown into the forgotten abyss.

“Why are you wasting a woman like this on a Dornishman? Bring him a shaved goat and a bottle of olive oil.” 

While hearty laughs were exchanged between the two Kingsguard members, their eyes curving at the amusing joke, Y/N felt her fingers clutch on Ellaria’s arm. A doubtful glance clashed between the two lovers of the Prince, “Hmm. Do you know why all the world hates a Lannister?” The soft trudging of Oberyn’s feet against the floor had been the cause of her heart racing at an undeniably rapid pace. The warmth that radiated from his skin had been filled with cold air. Ellaria was quick to wrap her hands around Y/N, the two knowing very well to what will happen. The Bastard raised the woman’s hands to splay out gentle kisses, a reminder that she was there. The two whores that had occupied the laps of the Kingsguards had fled away from the scene as even they could feel the tension of the room intensifying. “You think your gold and your lions and your gold lions make you better than everyone. May I tell you a secret? You're not a golden lion. You're just a pink little man who is far too slow on the draw.”

Head already craned away from the lingering second, Y/N’s lungs expanded for another intake of breath, waiting for it to happen. Even though she had expected it coming sooner or later, she flinched despite her preparation. It was an overlapping mess of noises. Oberyn’s dagger had prodded into the wooden table, followed by the agonizing cry from the Kingsguard who deserved every spill of blood, and the screeching of the longsword pulled out of the other Kingsguard. 

“Longsword is a bad option in close quarters,” Ellaria didn’t pull her eyes away from her lover, too enticed by the way he had remained composed and calm despite his weapon practically dug through flesh and stabbed onto the table. “When I pull my blade, your friend starts bleeding. Quite a lot, I'm afraid. So many veins in the wrist.” Y/N toes curled at the cries, not liking it one bit. If it hadn’t been Ellaria’s presence or their fingers intertwined, Y/N was sure she would’ve been scrambling away from the brothel. “He'll live if you get him help straightaway. So, decisions.” 

Distant footsteps echoed into the room. What a perfect intervention, almost as if coincidental, “Prince Oberyn, forgive the intrusion. We heard there might be...,” Y/N’s eyes squeezed tighter at the spring-like noise of the weapon pulled from the table. Though, the man’s screaming and the squirting gush of blood had sounded worse. “...trouble.

Her eyes fluttered shut as a soft pull from Ellaria’s grasp guided her to the Prince. The creaking cry from the grand door- the leave of the Kingsguard, had been more than a relief. A relief since no more damage could be inflicted, “Apologies, my loves,” With both of his arms wrapped around his paramours, his lips fit with Ellaria’s as if perfect. The rhythm was soon found before the Prince pulled away to face his other lover. “Have I scared you, my lover?” All of his anger for the Kingsguards who dared to be present under the same building as he vanished when Y/N slightly nodded, shying away from the truth. “I am sorry you had to see it.” It wasn’t hard to forgive Oberyn. Y/N never found herself doubting in giving him a second chance. She hadn’t yet placed her finger on it, but there was a charm the Prince had that no other men had. 

Ellaria watched as her two other loves pull themselves in a heated session, the corners of her lips curling up at the staggering moan that mewled like a baby kitten. Oberyn could sense eyes trailing over him, yet, he didn’t bother running his palm down to grope the swell of Y/N’s ass. A gasp escaped her lips, her hands resting on his chest at the sudden action, “I'm here to welcome you to the capital.”

Before the Prince had the chance to smother Y/N’s lips, a hand stopped his body from curling towards his lover. He quirked an eyebrow at Ellaria who only responded with a twitch of her lips, “Ellaria Sand and Y/N Dunner, my paramours. The King's own Uncle Imp, Tyrion, son of Tywin Lannister.”

Tyrion couldn’t help the slight widening of his eye at the familiar name. Dunner. 

“If there's anything I can do to make your stay at Kingslanding...” 

The Prince didn’t waste his time to cut the Lannister off, “What are you? His hired killer?” Ellaria averted her gaze to the hand that trailed kisses from her fingertips to her arm. Y/N shot her eyes. All the bastard could do was let out a sigh, it was not peculiar for the woman to be... touchy. Y/N was known for that title in the relationship.

“It started that way, aye. Now I'm a knight.”

“How did that come to pass?” 

“Killed the right people, I suppose,” The surges of his laughter trickled into her ears in a series of joy, the sound she had loved. Y/N nudged Ellaria’s so she faced her, even though she had been caught off guard, the two soon fell into a gentle caress of their tongues. The supposed Knight who had accompanied The Imp couldn’t quiver his eyes away from the tangling sight of the two women.

“We'll need a few more girls. Girls, yes?” Bronn nodded, lips pressed while Tyrion shook his head. Oberyn grazed his palm on their waists, running his hands up and down before pulling them away. If they were to continue, he would have to do things despite guests interrupting their time. “You don't partake?” 

“Oh, I partook. Now I'm married,” While the Prince busied himself with the Lannister, Y/N and Ellaria pressed their lips against his bronze skin in hopes of distracting him. The day seemed to be full of surprises. “Prince Oberyn, if I may, a word in private?” Ellaria knew her place and walked away. Y/N wouldn’t leave without leaving a mark.

“I hope you don’t take long, we’re going to be real busy...” The whisper fell into his ears in a trickle of gold, taunting him as bait. Oberyn couldn’t help but let out a chuckle at her words. Oh, it would’ve left a mark of imagination in his head. Imagination that he needed to come true as soon as possible. 

Everything had been red and golden. The two mixture of colours complimented one another as if they were meant for each other. No matter where your neck cranes, you will only be met with the house colours of the King. Well, a sprinkle of green had been added, though, very sparingly. Almost as if they had to emphasize that they were on King’s landing. A reminder that shouldn’t even have to be plastered on the wall as every a graze of an eye over the scene it offers, they just know it isn’t home. It had started to get on Y/N’s nerves. 

As a child, she had been taught to stay poise, head held high without a whining echoing from her mouth. Years of leaving the shithole she used to call home, the same years of her being claimed as Prince Oberyn’s lover which is unforgettable as it sounds, had only made such memory and teaching to be blurred. The influence of Ellaria and Oberyn had plucked her out of the shell she had been stuffed into. 

There were all sorts of sounds. Irritatingly high-pitched waves of laughter, rhythmic beats on the drum, and booming claps. Y/N had only wished to go back home, Dorne, and cower underneath the golden sun who she had already kneeled under. If Dorne wasn’t available due to the great distance, the brothel provided better comfort compared to where she had been. Oh, the thought of doing nothing but rolling over the sheets and absorbing all the heat of her lovers had been bliss to her head. 

Despite all of the distracting thoughts that seemed to engulf one another, she had remained silent. Something very unusual of her as she had always been the one to talk. However, with all that is displayed in front of her- Y/N took the chance to caress her eyes over the spectrum of people from different lands. Some far from King’s Landing, some from King’s Landing. The latter wasn’t hard to spot as each had their desired fashion. Flowy fabrics of colours that adorned petals; hairs styled which for sure, during the process had pricked a droplet of blood surrounded her in every possible angle. 

Y/N believed the dress she wore had well represented the house she is to forever be grateful to, the house she would lie her loyalty to. The only flag she would drag over fields of war. Forget the flag that had cladded around her head pulling intricate strings to play with her thoughts during her youth. She laid her allegiance with the orange flag with a yellow spear piercing through a burning sun. The dress she had picked out was no other than the colour yellow. The fabric of the dress had been snipped out from the same cloth used to make Ellaria’s. Vibrant and bold to the eye. While the front of Ellaria’s dress had been cut out to display for the world, Y/N’s had only peaked an inch below her breasts. The bastard had exposed her brassiere beautifully, the other lover hadn’t bothered to wear one as overlapped trails of vines had only been merciful to display some skin. Just like her personality, the shoulders of Ellaria’s dress curved upwards. Dauntless. And in bed, feisty. Y/N’s had been short, the growing vines cladded her shoulder. 

“My love, are you feeling fine?” Oberyn quirked up, his face hovered over hers, blocking her the view of the colourful celebration. With his hand warmly resting on hers, his thumb drawing imaginary circles, Y/N pulled back in surprise at the abrupt interruption of her observation. The flutter of his peppered hair had been so sudden, she had nearly flinched back from the bench. If it wasn’t for his palm that splayed on her back, she would’ve been met with the hard ground.

Nodding, she proceeded with the platters of delicacy that sat in front of her, “Yes, I’m quite alright.” The Prince tilted his head, confused to why she hadn’t met his eyes. Her tongue that still lingered a smear of the horrid wine, a distasteful taste that she wished she could’ve wiped off, caressed against the cold pastry. It was most likely cold since she had entertained her time by grazing her eyes over the people. It should’ve been cold, it was- now, it was chilling to her tongue. Another taste that caused her wanting to dip her tongue in anything but what sat in front of her. 

Oberyn ran his tongue over his bottom lip, “Feed me,” Neck pulling away from her plate, the woman’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I said feed me.” Her eyes averted to his mouth widening like a baby bird waiting for its mother to drop the nutrition. Fingers already picking on the cold grape, a small gasp escaped her lips at the pull of her body onto his lap. In a quick swerve- his strength never letting him down. Y/N nudged in the fruit, the warmth of his skin had wrapped around her, hotter than the sun they stood under. His heated exhalation, the puffs from his lips, and his sultry gaze had told a different story. A different tale of desires. 

Oberyn was known to be... surprising. Even though she had known of this trait, just as the word- it kept shocking her every time he did... surprise her. A hopeless cycle. Sometimes, he kept beating his own record, elongating the list of surprises he had caught her off-guard. His teeth grazed her finger, the soft bristles on his tongue caressed her with care, yet, needs. He had pushed the fruit aside to bulge on his cheek, forgetting about the juice it had for him, “Somebody’s eyes are on us, seems more like it’s on you, my Prince.”

Not longer soon, his eyes met with Ser Loras who had only nodded his head in acknowledgement of the royal’s presence, “He looks fun.” The Prince chuckled at the woman who sat on his lap, his hand rested on her lap comfortably. 

“You say that to everyone, my love.”

“Everyone has different triggers, my Prince, everyone can be fun.”

Finally, the lovers had step away from the chair that had only been a stubborn hardness. Although, Y/N hadn’t bothered to leave his lap. Something the Prince had demanded. Sometimes, he reminded her of a little boy. With the picked out delicacy completely consumed, the Prince had wanted to retrieve some more. If only they had known they would run into a pair who had gold strands as hair. Though, the other being slightly inching towards silvery white. 

“Your grace, Lord Tywin,” Y/N who had been giggling from an amusing observation she had noticed during their walk under the warm canopy, finally- they had been shielded away from the scorching ray of the Sun, felt the corners of her lips curl down at Oberyn’s voice. Fingers intertwined, Ellaria shot a glance at the woman, her thumb gently drew soothing circles. While the Hand of the King responded with the Prince’s name, Oberyn plucked out a grape from the rest of its branch. “l don't belieνe you haνe met Ellaria. My other lover, Y/N Dunner. This is the Lord Hand Tywin Lannister, and Cersei Lannister, the Queen Regent. l suppose it is former Queen Regent now.” If only they had been sizzling under the sunlight, Y/N could’ve basked in the infuriated expression the former Queen Regent wore on her face. The faint shadow across her face by the canopy had cowered her true reaction to the Prince’s words. As taught when the Lannister was a child- to never tear apart in front of others. “Lord Hand and Lady Cersei, Ellaria Sand and Y/N Dunner.”

“My Lord, My Lady,” Despite the day being warm, Y/N could feel frigid air cladding around her fingers once Ellaria pulled her hand away to curtsey. Too lost in the empty feeling, she hadn’t noticed the glances thrown from the rest. Her eyebrows furrowed before she finally realized. 

“My Lord, My Lady,” Y/N hadn’t bothered to exert much energy- therefore, she had only nodded her head in acknowledgement of their presence. 

“Charmed,” Lord Tywin stated, though his eyes had just trailed away from Ellaria’s glinting eyes. “It is an honour, might I say, to meet you, Lady Y/N. After years of words passing through my ears, what they whisper is now in front of me.”

Y/N wasn’t sure what to say, although, she could feel the abyss feeling filled back in with Ellaria’s fingers slipping back in the original place, “Surely you aren’t a Lady, no longer after such a tragic battle where hundreds lost their lives to... fight for you,” Ellaria’s grip tightened around Y/N. It should’ve been the other way around. “I always thought that fight to be unnecessary and it should’ve not costed that many lives.” The Prince narrowed his eyes at the Lannister that begun to throw spears at his lover. “But, of course, some things happen unexpectedly at points, don’t you think?”

“I would’ve slain through forests of heads to be with her, I still would.” The back of his fingers brushed her cheeks as if he had adored the petals of a flower. Despite the presence of the Lannisters ruining the moment, Oberyn could feel himself plunge into the depth of her eyes. He knew what roared behind those eyes. The words Cersei had thrown had been nothing but cruel and merciless. Just like the treatments of the Lannisters to his late sister. His fingers staggered down.

Before the woman who was drowning in words that stacked up in her throat and the Prince had the chance to raise their voice, the former Queen Regent cut them off, “It is fascinating to hear that you have bravely fought during the battle. There are some things I wish to say, although... I’m to say there are some who have the faintest of hearts.”

Oberyn pressed his lips, “It is only right I end what I started.” Seconds of the surrounding noises seeped in between. That was- until the sly Lannister snatched it first.

“Can't say l'νe eνer met a Sand before.” Ellaria’s lips curled down.

“We are everywhere in Dorne,” The Prince continued to chew on the fruit. Everyone’s gaze had been set on Cersei, only the Hand of the King had averted his eyes to the Prince. “l haνe ten thousand brothers and sisters.” Y/N smiled, recalling the times she would run into Sands back at home.

“Bastards are no different to us,” Although it was difficult, the corners of Y/N’s lips curled up. “I’ve to learn such truth outside the place I used to call home.” 

Prince Oberyn interjected himself, “Bastards are born of passion, aren't they? We don't despise them in Dorne.”

“No? How tolerant of you.” 

Y/N pressed her lips as Oberyn struck his words out with every slice of a dagger in hopes of not letting out a cackle slip out, “l expect it is a relief, Lady Cersei, giνing up your regal responsibilities. Wearing the crown for so many years must haνe left your neck a bit crooked.”

“l suppose you'll neνer know, Prince Oberyn. lt's a shame your older brother couldn't attend the wedding,” She didn’t have to glance at Oberyn to figure out his reaction for they felt the same about the sharp-less words she yanked out.

Tywin Lannister had been enjoying the words hurled back and forth, though, he had to raise his voice before his reckless daughter got a chance to do something so casual of her, “Please giνe him our regards. With any luck, the gout will abate with time and he will be able to walk again.”

“They call it the rich man's disease. A wonder you don't haνe it.” 

“Noblemen in my part of the country don't enjoy the same lifestyle as our counterparts in Dorne.” The lovers of the Prince had the time of their lives basking in the faces of the Lannisters.

“People eνerywhere haνe their differences. ln some places, the highborn frown upon those of low birth. ln other places, the rape and murder of women and children is considered distasteful,” Oberyn averted his gaze from the Hand of the King towards the female Lannister. “What a fortunate thing for you, former Queen Regent, that your daughter Myrcella has been sent to liνe in the latter sort of place.”

Y/N wasn’t sure what the Gods were playing at. With the clinking of a goblet, the King’s called for everyone to return to their seats for the marvellous performance he had prepared with dwarves- his uncle’s height. It was cackling; hands clapping as they enjoyed the skit played by the men. In a blink of an eye, there was thunder that boisterously stomped onto the padded ground. Thunder that was naked to the eye. Thunder that produced no sound, no feeling- yet, only those who still had the spines in their back could feel it. Y/N was one of them. 

Every plate on the table suddenly flipped with the screaming of a mother who held her immovable son in her arms. The same boy who was to be King- poisoned. Streaks of the blood that ran through his veins had trailed down from his nose and eyes, the same blood that had supplied him air to carry out cruel things. Y/N only knew it was poison from Oberyn’s mumbling while his eyes were trained on the corpse of the King, although, Cersei, too, had declared her son was poisoned. Albeit, emotionally.

The Prince’s eyes did not quiver from the former King’s corpse, the gears in his mind churning with thoughts. His other two lovers did not take the sight too easily. Ellaria had glanced once, one too many for Y/N.

The squawking of birds screeched against her ears. A nuisance sound she wished she could’ve yanked her ears out to refrain from hearing another second of it. Y/N somehow adjusted to the noise that felt slightly comforting. As she closed her eyes, she could only hear the presence of the birds and the loopings waves snuggling themselves into the warm bed of sand. It was nothing but her and the world, nature. There was something warm that wrapped around her chest at the sight of the glistening surface of the water in front of the smeared walls of green. It looked like shrubs from such a great distance, to only be towering trees when closer. Until she wasn’t alone any longer. 

“It took me some time to adjust to King’s Landing,” Y/N pressed her lids together, readying herself to listen to the voice of the woman. The day had begun at a normal rise of a foot. It had to be ruined. Just an exhalation of the former Queen Regent would ruin any joyful moment. “Leaving Casterly Rock was a memory I don’t think I would ever forget. Wished I could’ve left every bad memory there.”

Pushing herself up from the grainy floor, Y/N turned to the woman, “Your Grace.”

“Is that something you wished, Lady Y/N? To leave all the horrid memory back home?” 

Y/N craned her neck from her figure to graze her eyes over the horizon of mini stabs of rays towards her, “I used to believe so. If it wasn’t for all the horrid memory, the attached pieces on the sculpture would not stay intact, don’t you think, your Grace?” Cersei said nothing. “All of the chunks matter, every bit, every grain,” Y/N mumbled as she ran her shoes against the ground, the crunching noise of particles rolling under her force was no different to when she would go back home- soles of her feet covered with sand. “As much as I wish to blur out things I wish to not remember, they only made me the woman I am today. Rough edges are to stay for the sculptor to work upon.” 

The woman didn’t even have to throw a glance behind the former Queen Regent to notice that there were guards following her. For a daughter of the powerful man who currently walked on the ground of the world, she needed strenuous security, “You are wise, the tales of your... encounter with Prince Oberyn sounds less of a deer stumbling onto the ground. How were you during your lessons with your Septas?” 

The corners of Y/N’s lips curled up as she rewinded her youthful memory, “I hated the lessons. It was suffocating, to sit and poke my fingers to end up making another flower. Some days, I would not bother to spend a second with the Septa.”

Cersei chuckled, “I would say the same, although, my endurance level are higher than yours. All so that I could be queen,” The wallowing of birds trickled into her dotted lines. “You had the chance to be Queen. Why had you not taken it?”

Almost as if she wasted a whole night without a second of slumber, Y/N responded with a swift swerve, “I did not want to be Queen, I still do not. There’s only power on the throne. Power does not make you immortal.” 

“You seek to be immortal.”

“No. I wish for anything but. Every season should come to an end. I’m sorry your Grace, but I must get going.”

Y/N made steps away from the scene before she was pulled to a halt, her neck never craned to meet Cersei’s, “They were never made clear but as you are here, are you still a Lady?”

The woman swallowed air she didn’t know she was holding in, “Every droplet of my blood. However, drain me of every bucket, I would still be alive for titles make no one.”

Pacing away, Y/N pondered to how the Lannister managed to stay composed despite her son dying in her own arms days ago.

Light moans trickled along the air, nudged around by the littlest poke of a finger. Y/N prodded her nose against Ellaria’s jaw as she purposely exhaled heavy puffs of air to get on the bastard’s nerves. She knew it worked. The familiar comfort of the warm brothel room cast upon the bodies on the bed, doors closed for privacy- although, Y/N didn’t mind if they were to put up a show. 

Fingers coated in Ellaria’s wetness, Y/N had already tried every line in her book. She had already trailed her drowned fingers to fiddle with Ellaria’s nipples. Now, Y/N was just widening Ellaria’s dripping cunt of the saliva from the whores that occupied the space on the bed, her eyes trained on the adept flicking of the dark-haired whore’s tongue against Ellaria’s bundles of nerves. Y/N watched in fascination as Ellaria’s thighs quivered from the high she had been repeatedly been receiving. Pressing her lips in slight distaste to the scene, Y/N got onto her knees before hovering her lips over Ellaria’s cunt. The bastard quirked her eyebrows, although, soon- she wore on her face but half-lidded eyes, and pathetic pants from her lips. The two whores watched as the lovers reacted to one another without any words thrown.

As Ellaria melted into the bed, fingers yanking every strand of her hair, Y/N’s lips soon locked with a whore. She made sure every inch she had licked up had made way into the whore’s mouth, “Go on.” The two whores made no objection as they followed the orders, their tongues caressing a silk war. Her hands travelled down their backs before she grasped the swell of their breasts in her hands. All while they lost themselves in panting kisses. Ellaria couldn’t hold back a chuckle when Y/N pulled the two women for a kiss, all three tongues flicking in need and desperation. She had always been the eager one out of the three.

There was nothing else than trickled into her ears but the crinkling of fabric under the relentless shiftings and grinding of the whores’ cunts against the bed. Something she had encouraged them to do while warm puffs poured into each other’s mouths, “Make sure you fucked your fill before that day.” Was the first thing she heard as she pulled away from the women, Y/N’s lips smirking in delight. 

“Did you?”

“He is a prince of Dorne. Girls and boys will line up to fuck him till the day he dies.” Ellaria uttered while she crawled over Olyvar’s figure to straddle Oberyn’s. 

“They will all haνe to line up behind you and Y/N.” 

The door cried, followed by heavy steps to reveal the Hand of the King, accompanied by guards.

Once again, a Lannister ruined the moment. It seemed to run through their veins to ruin something good.

[stormfall1327]

Find Me Waiting - Chapter 3

Now on AO3! 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28492086/chapters/69830382

V shifted uncomfortably in the front seat of Vik’s car. Her skin was too hot, the air thick and tense between them as he drove them across town to the Kiroshi Optics building. “Mind if I, uh, roll the window down?” she asked. “‘Course not. This suit is damn stuffy, anyway,” he replied, reaching up to tug at the collar of his dress shirt. ‘Why not just take it off then?’ her mind unhelpfully supplied. V gratefully hit the button and rolled her window down, leaning her face out to cool her reddened cheeks. Vik glanced over and watched as a tendril of her hair came loose, skittering across the top of her freckled shoulders.

“So, you, uh, never did tell me what this gig of yours is about,” he supplied, turning his gaze back to the road as he tried to bring back some semblance of normalcy to their interactions. V leaned back into the car, rolling up the window part way and turned to face him. “Eh, it’s nothing much for what I’m getting paid. Client’s concerned about a new Kiroshi rep and wants me to look into ‘em, is all. Chat ‘em up, snoop around their office. You know, the usual stuff. Invited me to this fancy party to give me a better window of opportunity. Top eddies plus free champagne? Couldn’t turn ‘im down.”

“Heh, never did care for the stuff, myself. Tastes like cardboard.” He wrinkled his nose at the memory.

V chuckled. “But it’s free! And besides, I’m sure you’ll find something there you like.” She risked glancing up at his face and her breath caught when she found him staring at her. He cleared his throat and looked back to the road. “Yeah, sure to find something,” he muttered. ‘But nothing compares to what I have here next to me,’ finishing the sentence in his head.

The rest of the ride was quiet, the silence only broken by the rumble of the engine and the quiet sounds of Night City Radio coming through the speakers. As they neared the Kiroshi building, Vik slowed down to make his way into the parking garage. V placed a hand on his arm and motioned to the front of the building where a valet was waiting. Vik’s brow raised in question and V just shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “What? Client paid for this, too.” Vik mumbled something about somebody else touching his car under his breath, but followed V’s direction and pulled up to the curb.

The valet came up to the driver’s side window as Vik rolled it down. Placing a hand on his thigh, V leaned across him to talk to the man and give him her information. Sucking in a breath through clenched teeth, Vik’s body tensed and he struggled to look anywhere but down V’s dress as she leaned across his lap, the low cut giving him a tantalizing view of her tits. The pressure of her hand on his thigh was maddening and he could feel his cock twitch when she sat back down and gave his leg a squeeze before reaching down to grab her purse.

Letting the air out of his lungs in a -whoosh-, he pulled the keys from the ignition and opened his door, subtly adjusting his pants as he stood. He handed the keys off to the valet and gave him a nod before heading around to open V’s door. He held out his hand to her, hoping she’d take it. She grinned up at him through long lashes and placed her small hand in his, allowing him to help her up. The touch was electric. It wasn’t like they’d never had skin contact before. He was her ripper, after all. Hell, V had kissed his cheek just earlier this evening when he agreed to come. But this... this was different. She knew she hadn't imagined the heated glances they shared tonight or the way his muscles twitched under his clothes where she touched him. She let out a small whimper as she stood, the reality of the evening starting to sink in. The sound bounced around in Viktor’s skull as he gripped her hand tighter. They stood there for a moment, hand in hand, staring at each other, breaths slightly quickened and hearts pounding. V pulled away first, turning her head away with a blush before smiling up at him. “Well, then. Shall we?” she asked, voice more than a little breathless. Vik smiled back. “Lead the way.”

Pulling him by the hand, V lead them a little further down the sidewalk before ducking into the nearest alley. She opened her purse and pulled out her Overture, pulling back the slide to ensure it was loaded before tucking it away again. “Expecting trouble?” he rumbled, crossing his arms over his chest, worry seeping into his face. She just winked at him. “It’s me, Vik. I always expect trouble. But seriously, I’m just tryin’ to be prepared. I’ll be in and out before you know it, no one the wiser. Trust me. I’ll be fine.” She reached up to pat him on the cheek, then took his hand again with a quick squeeze and walked confidently to the front door.

By the time they passed through security and made their way to the reception hall, the gala was in full swing. V took a moment to scan the crowd, zeroing in on her client across the room. She nudged Vik’s arm to get his attention. “See the guy over there in the gold suit? That’s my client. Let’s go.” She grabbed his hand again as they walked to the other side of the room.

Vik didn’t miss the way heads turned as she passed, appreciative glances and nods sent her direction by the mingling crowd. A sudden burst of jealously bubbled up in his chest and he reflexively tightened his grip on V's hand. V glanced back at him, giving him a questioning look. He just shook his head and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile as he squeezed her hand before relaxing his grip. He couldn't deny the change in their dynamic tonight. Was it too much to hope that she might want him as much as he wanted her?

As they approached, V’s client turned to greet them. “V! You made it!” he exclaimed, opening his arms and shooting the pair a million-watt smile. “Ah! And I see you didn’t come alone after all! Who’s the lucky man?”

“This is my date, Dr. Viktor Vektor. Best ripper in NC. Vik, this is Devon Marks, Kiroshi Optics rep.” Vik’s heart clenched at her words. Did she just say date?

Vik reached out to shake the man’s hand. “Pleasure to meet ya, Devon. Always appreciated Kiroshi’s ingenuity.”

“Well, what can I say? We’re the best at what we do!” Standard corpo bullshit. Vik fought back the strong desire to roll his eyes and offered the man a small smile. Devon turned to V and motioned to the corner of the room. “There’s your target, V. Just like we agreed. And here. This should get you into her office.” He pressed a security card into her palm. “Thanks, Devon. Be back in a flash. And make sure Vik stays out of trouble for me, will ya?”

Shooting him a wink, she stepped back over to Vik and, using his arm as leverage, leaned up to whisper in his ear. “Be back in 20. Don’t get too lonely without me.” Her hot breath sent a shiver down his spine and as she spun on her heel to leave, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back, the unexpected force sending her careening into his chest. He smirked at her before leaning down to her ear. “Come back to me, V. Don’t make me wait too long.” His voice was low and rough and V could feel the moisture pool between her legs at his words, goose flesh prickling her skin. She stepped back with a wicked grin on her face. “Promise.”

———

V’s mission was a success. After chatting up the target, she made her way silently into the office suites, hacking a couple of cameras and easily bypassing the lock with the card from Devon. The suspicious data was saved to a drive and exactly 20 minutes later, V waltzed into the reception hall. After handing the data over to Devon and receiving her payment, she spotted Vik waiting for her at the bar, nursing a beer.

“So, come here often?” she teased as she took up the stool next to him and ordered herself a whisky on the rocks. Vik glanced at his watch and grinned. “Right on time. You get what you needed?” She took a large sip of her drink, eyes closing in pleasure as the smooth liquid slid down her throat and warmed her belly. She nodded. “Yup. Job’s done, eddies in hand.” She raised her glass in a toast, clinking it against Vik’s bottle. “To fancy parties, easy jobs, and handsome men in suits!” She quickly took another drink, causing a drop of condensation to roll down her throat. Vik watched the droplet with hungry eyes, following it as it disappeared down the front of her dress. “And to stunning women in red dresses,” he added before taking a drink of his own. V’s blush reached her chest. Leaning in closer, she rested her hand on his forearm, eyes searching his face. “What say we get outta here, huh?” He met her gaze and held it. Placing his hand over hers for a brief moment, he moved to stand, bending slightly at the hips, arm extended.

“After you, V.”

[shadowdianne]

Alchemist Lena anyone?

There you go :P @waknatious

I wrote a total of six different scenes for this one but I ended up liking the third one best. And, well, I was also in the middle of tweaking a few details for my campaign so I took some of that as well into this xD

Hope you like it W

The flame of the candle burned bright but the stem was close to its mid-section, where Lena had previously scribbled down a bright black mark if only, she had muttered to herself while surrounded by beakers and metal frames that twinkled in silvers, so she had some resemblance of the passing of time. Fingers curling and then stretching as she tried to alleviate the faint pain on her joints and neck, she glanced at the splash of light that pooled around the candle, its scent not pungent but obvious if she dared to give her any attention.

Despite her trick she couldn’t quite remember how long she had spent glancing at the vial that had been handled to her last time the door of her laboratory -no, not hers, but who cared now for such a concept- had been opened by the man who liked to call her his sister despite the sinister gleam on his eyes and the promise of something far worse than a contract being singed to him about whatever she might find within the liquid’s secrets if she didn’t quite deliver. Standing as she tried to ease her discomfort, she eyed the books and diaries she had been used ever since she had eyed the enclosed vial she had been given: the wax of the seal verdant and unnatural as it now curled and crinkled. The symbol of the ouroboros had greeted her from the seal of course, just like every other vial ever given to her by him: the promise of something eternal that went beyond any family name or resemblance of normalcy that happened to exist beyond the tomb of her own making she now called “home”.

There had been very little on the books as she had soon found out, after her initial assumption that he must have made a mistake since the sloshing droplets had been as red as blood and holding a similar opacity. Because, as she had soon realized, while almost identical, the liquid wasn’t blood but something else.

“Replicate it.” He had said to her through clenched teeth and madman-like eyes and Lena had thought again on the slowly being distilled poison behind her other half-finished works that laid in wait for her to use it.

“I still need to finish with the alkahest recipe…” She had grabbed the vial, however, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to refuse its acceptance. What she had thought could be blood glinted once and she blinked, taken aback but curious.

“Doesn’t matter.” His voice resonated and brought her back to him with the promise of a slowly dragged out pain if she wasn’t fast enough. “This has priority, be fast.”

He had closed the door behind him just as he always did, as if he couldn’t get out of her presence quick enough. With an eye on the candle that had been new then, Lena had seated herself in front of her desk, starting what had become a veritable rabbit hole the longer she studied what, obviously, wasn’t blood at all.

It was the details lost to those who would blink too fast: she had become to understand. The liquid seemed to morph if she didn’t pay attention to it long enough as if changing properties just when she looked elsewhere. There was a chameleonic concept to it, as if willing to morph itself not entirely but good enough for her tests to come up contradicting one another, malleable, unusable. She wondered where he might had been able to get ahold of such substance but the answer came in the form of a memory of last week’s clops against the stone that formed the patio beyond the rooms and the veranda and the wooden details created specifically for the family whose money overflowed so many pockets. She had been looking into a recipe for a tincture at the time, darkness and rouge enveloping her as she liked to think herself as opposed to that dammed verdant green, she had heard the sounds of the horses, the rapid descent of someone else into the maze that grew from the manor on itself, like a fungi that just grew and took without expecting to be asked to give anything in exchange. She had closed her ears to the sound, as she had started to do after so many had lost their lives and had kept on working: glass prickling her skin, opening wounds no one else would be able to see.

If the liquid, she had realized, had seemed like blood and could have been treated as such the possibility that would better link to the theory could only be…

That it had been taken by someone capable of holding it inside, someone whose life-force might be as mutable, as strong, as the liquid itself.

She blinked back to reality and the present, her jaw set, her fingers grasping the back of her chair with force and ire. The droplets of light were beginning to become smaller: she would need to be careful with the flame; it would be hours before she could even think on asking for another one and the fuzzy edges on the corners of her eyes told her that it was the middle of nighttime already: the sun a line and the moon a smiling eye on an otherwise unreachable sky.

Moving closer towards the now open vial she scrambled for some remains of the wax, careful to put the bits into a copper spoon she then approached to the flame: a seal and a nap, a quick one, before he came back or send anyone else in order to know, to interrogate. She halted then, half-movement, as the light of the flame hit the liquid directly rather than in an oblique line as before, the sea of diamonds it created on its wake making it iridescent for a moment before they were gone. As if liquid sundrops, as if gold and lead.

“It reacts to light.”

Well, she thought, grim smile as she sat back up, tiredness and the plausible reality of being engulfed in darkness before the sun rose, that was something else.

And she had become much more curious if Lex’s “guest” was, indeed, human.

[cle1024]

beyond the silver horizon | lfl

member: lee felix 

genre: angst 

summary: everything you told me, the words you whispered into that stinging winter atmosphere, was spoken far too late.  mafia!au 

warnings: violence, death 

a/n: an anon requested mafia angst with felix, i hope this lives up to expectations <3 i got inspiration for this story after listening to seventeen from the heathers and watching a quiet place, i didn’t think a horror movie could make me that sad but i’m also a notorious crier! also i’m very sorry i disappear for such long periods of time i’m in my final year of school and suck at time management anyway love you 

The sky pooled with the blue of faded jeans and snowcloud grey, the abysmal winter taking the common popularity far from the sandy miles and crashing tides. It was at its peak in winter, despite being a beach. It flawlessly transformed from a bustling getaway to a tranquil sanctuary, one you had come to share with another. Felix’s silver hair often matched that of the beyond skyline, the sun’s muted rays being overpowered by cool-toned clouds. Words often went unexchanged in such moments, as the two of you preferred to bask in all the peace and serenity. In those moments, you would feel free—no longer looking over your shoulder with caution, watching your friends walk out of doors they may never walk through again. Instead, it was just waves. Crashing water flowing back and forth, back and forth. They never went away. Felix had never spoken many words while you found yourselves sat on the cold sand together, though the few he aired always stuck in your mind. They were words you’d unknowingly yearned to hear, words that allowed you to escape to a fantasy each night as your eyes closed until the morning. 

“Someday, we’ll go far beyond that silver horizon,” he had promised you, “we’ll leave it all behind for a new beginning.” 

“You really think so?” 

He smiled at you reassuringly as he nodded gently, “I know we will.” 

The day Felix met you wasn’t unusual, nor was it anything special at the time. He couldn’t remember how he found himself caught up in the world of drug lords and shady business, but he remembered exactly when he laid eyes on you — four in the afternoon he witnessed Minho leading you to Chan’s office, neither of you with pleasant facial expressions. Minho looked bored, you looked irritated, he didn’t want to know how Chan looked. As much as he expected to watch you disappear into the confines of his boss’ office and never reappear, at five o’clock he observed you leaving the office with Chan, the man smiling with satisfaction, victorious. Felix could remember watching you navigate your way around the base for a few days before Changbin grew tired of the male’s intense observation, said he looked like he was “trying to turn the damn kid into ice!” 

From what he understood, though never confirmed, you were down on your luck, broke, and made the mistake of robbing Minho—successfully, much to the dismay of the male’s ego. It didn’t take the bright haired male long to track you down and drag you back to base, not with the expectation of grievous punishment, but with the intention of acquiring you a job. Minho was frequently forgiving, unlike most, and considered you lucky to have chosen him instead of someone else—someone much more ruthless, bloodthirsty. Chan wasn’t hesitant in persuading you to join, Minho was one of the most perceptive people he’d ever met; he was observant, strong-minded, soft-spoken and thought in ways he had never once considered. And he was usually right, but Chan didn’t want to inflate his ego too much. 

Three months into the job, as unconventional as it was, you spoke your first words to Felix. They were words he’d heard in countless variations prior, yet something about your voice resonated deep within him, almost as if a ray of moonlight had struck his soul and encased it. 

“Chan said we have business together, can I trust you?” 

“Always.” 

Felix didn’t question you back, despite tradition. Somehow, he knew you’d give the same answer. It was laced in the gentle smile you futilely suppressed. 

Trickling down the glass windows, beads of perspiration and rain water scattered across the window pane. Your eyes watched the droplets slide from their original position on the glass to the bottom, replaced by another splash of crystal liquid. Felix glanced at you momentarily; it was bizarre how things had changed so swiftly. Three months since the first time you spoke — the same amount of time it took the two of you to verbally communicate for the first time — yet it felt as if you were engaged in a three year long friendship. The two of you had found freedom, paradise, in the sandy shores of an unpatrolled beach, no matter how abysmal in appearance. The two of you were yet to experience a beach in nice weather, together at least, instead sticking to the depressing atmosphere of chilled winter days, the scenery a colour scheme suitable to Felix’s ash blonde, white, or silver strands of hair. It was coincidental to begin with, then it became an innocent rendezvous requested in moments of loneliness and exhaustion. The freckled male wished he could take credit for the organisation of such ‘bonding’, so to speak, but it was your proposal, spoken as poetically as ever — “perhaps we should make this our own utopia, hey? Watch the oscillation of murky water plunge into abysmal depths.” Felix wasn’t sure how to respond the first time around, the eloquence of your words stunning him momentarily. All his brain could think was: “yeah, whatever that means.” He had simply nodded instead. Though, truthfully, he didn’t really care what it meant. If it granted him time with you, he would be willing to make it a tradition. 

That beach became your utopia, a hideaway from the consequences of the lifestyle the two of you found yourselves entangled in. Whether you sat under the shelter of Felix’s clunky black buick or amongst the scattered sand grains, the soothing sound of crashing waves washing the shoreline put the two of you at ease. It was escapism at its finest. Even when the topic of your line of work—if it could even be considered a form of employment—was brought up, it felt as if it were a hypothetical scenario. “If you were a part of the mafia, would you want to escape?” rather than “do you think we could ever escape being in the mafia?” You always answered no while Felix maintained hope, but you both seldomly pondered how you could escape a lifestyle that was so omnipresent. 

The pair of you found yourselves sat within the same clean car three weeks later, travelling down a long stretch of smoothly paved highway with obscured chatter being emitted from the silver radio. It wasn’t for a blissful escape this time. Rather, a job—or mission, you still didn’t know how to appropriately refer to the actions you were sent out to perform. Felix knew more of the situation than you knew, mainly because you zoned out halfway through Changbin’s explanation of the whole situation. Then again, you didn’t really care to know the extensive reasoning Changbin had for why certain things had to be done, as long as you got the job done and weren’t fucking murdered for not doing so, you didn’t really care. You’d spent the majority of the four hour car ride staring out the window, watching cars wizz past at illegal speeds, even for a highway, and trees blur into green masses of indistinct leaves and skinny branches. It only became evident that you had reached some form of civilisation when the pine trees evolved into small convenience stores and quaint homes, then towering skyscrapers and elegant apartments. The buzz of the radio, a sound you’d become accustomed to over the hours, was intercepted by Felix’s deep voice, “we’ll have to leave for the museum at six tomorrow evening. I’ll explain the situation on the way, I know you weren’t listening,” he teased cheekily. 

You smiled mildly with a roll of your eyes, “you’re the boss—oh, wait.” 

Felix scoffed and smacked your shoulder lightly, “get out of my car before I throw you out and leave.” 

“Shut it, Lix’. You love me.” 

A shit-eating grin was spread across your face as you took your gym bag from the boot, turning on your foot to enter the luxurious hotel. Felix smiled fondly at you—shit. Perhaps he did. 

The hotel room was what Changbin would describe as ‘comfortable’, but that chandelier-swinging prick was born into a lengthy ancestry of money—and criminal activity, though you supposed that was irrelevant. It wasn’t really, but it was a four-hour presentation you didn’t want to mentally sit through. Instead, you took in the opulent hotel room with awe and appreciation. White marble tiles spread along the floor, a light gold chandelier adorned with rhinestones dangled over the large dining table. The room was overboard in every possible way, though Chan had brushed it off as “getting into character”. You supposed that it would be more covert to retreat into a hotel equally lavish to the gala the two of you planned to intrude on. That part had almost slipped your mind—the whole criminal part of it. He’d subconsciously experienced the trip as a getaway. It wasn’t a work expense, it was a sumptuous getaway to escape that lifestyle, ignoring the stress of money, drugs, and being tailed by the police. It was freedom—except it wasn’t. It was nothing more than business; everything was just business. Felix, on the other hand, was painfully aware of the situation, in a way that you didn’t know or understand—not yet, at least. The male didn’t hold contempt towards the situation for being ‘just business’, he held contempt for what it should have been. It wasn’t the kind of goodbye he’d wanted to give you, sitting in an over-the-top hotel room preparing for a mission before leaving, for good. He had it all planned out, people who would help him—even Chan knew about the whole plot, for goodness sake, he’d sworn to cover it up as an untimely death. Though, as it drew closer, Felix couldn’t help reject the original plan. It was a solid plan, but it didn’t include you. How could he ever leave without you? 

Felix, foolish as it was, didn’t sleep that night. Tossing and turning around in the silky blue sheets, feeling them twist around his bare torso, felt much more comforting than sleeping—despite the fact he would escape from the thoughts he felt tormented by. At one point he’d left the room entirely, standing on the balcony as the cold air pricked at his exposed skin. It was winter, how fitting. He’d watched you lay peacefully in the sheets for a few moments, the steady rising of your chest putting him at ease momentarily, until those thoughts came creeping in again. In all honesty, he hadn’t even planned on telling you—or anyone. He would just slip away into the night, run as if his life depended on it—it did, he supposed. With a sigh, the male slipped back into the warmth of the hotel room, sliding the glass door closed to forbid the frosty air from plaguing the room and ruining your peaceful slumber. Fuck, he really couldn’t leave you behind. The frosty bathroom tiled stung the soles of his feet as he splashed water on his face, patting the freckled skin dry with the lightest touch possible, as if he would break if too much force was used. Felix had never felt so close to the edge — the edge of what, he wasn’t certain yet, but something told him he’d understand soon enough. 

The sun was steadily disappearing behind the uneven horizon, and you were taking advantage of the last pungent rays of sunlight to prepare for the gala night—you supposed it was better to be early hours before you had to leave instead of minutes. Plus, Felix had encouraged you to do so and he had far more experience than you. He also had ulterior motives in the form of telling you heavy news and a proposal he prayed you wouldn’t reject. Truthfully, he hadn’t even considered how to approach the topic. Did he just spit it out: “I’m leaving”, or was that too harsh? Why did it even matter? It’s not like he would be around to watch the fall out—that didn’t make it any better, though. 

“What time do we leave?” Felix’s thoughts were intruded by your querying voice. His head turned in your direction and, fuck, you looked beautiful. 

“Uh- seven. Weren’t you listening to Chan?” The slight teasing edge of his voice prompted a playful smile to stretch across your face as you raised an eyebrow. 

“When have I ever listened to Chan?” A deep chuckle vibrated in Felix’s chest as he shook his head gently. Of course you hadn’t, you remained as independent as ever, “besides,” you sigh gently as you move to sit next to him on the unmade bed, “the stuff he says just reminds me of the shitty situation I’m in.” 

“What do you mean?” The freckled male raised an eyebrow in question. You laughed bitterly. 

“The fact I’m a dimestore criminal and always will be. The only time it will end is when I’m thrown in prison—and I’d still be bloody miserable,” your words hung heavy in the air as Felix chewed on his plush lower lip. Fuck it. 

“We could leave, together. You know. Start a new life, be happy.” 

A sigh passed your lips, a mix of exasperation and misery, “Felix, you know this isn’t the kind of life you can just run away from.” 

“It’s worth a shot, isn’t it? Don’t you want to be free?” 

“Living in fear isn’t living freely!” with slumped shoulders, a posture of defeat, the exasperation dissipated from your face, “you should know that by now.” 

Mustering up the necessary courage, Felix allowed his deep voice to break through the tense atmosphere, “well—I’m leaving.” 

You visibly froze, shoulders rigid and jaw tense as the news simmered in the air. The silence was thick, Felix could feel it melting through his skin and coating his bones, “I’m leaving tomorrow night,” it was the affirmation you didn’t want to hear. The news that, no, this wasn’t some sick joke, this was real fucking life and Felix was leaving you, “I know some people that can help me out, but—” he sighed with hesitance, “I’ll stay if I’m what you choose.” 

Felix failed to realise it at the time, but from this distance, painfully aware of the emptiness of the grey grains of sand, Felix knew that the sandy shores were never his idea of paradise. It was the person who sat beside him, enduring the cold weather in a comfortable silence. 

It was easier to put on a happy face than either of you had expected. Though, thinking about it, you weren’t sure why you had such little faith in your acting skills—you’d managed to hide your criminal occupation under a law-abiding facade, after all. Felix had briefly run through the plan, meaning he had told you to keep a low profile and follow his lead. You had assumed it was an ordinary job—steal their stash, take out anyone who got in your way, get the fuck out of there. Suffice it to say, you found yourself in awe at the beauty surrounding you. The museum was painted in tones of gold and white, with lush velvet lounges and curtains showcasing the large pristine glass windows. All exhibits were on display, allowing the museum to brag its gorgeous vintage paintings and unique bone collections — you were pretty sure you’d heard Minho brag the same thing, and you were absolutely certain you didn’t let him explain it any further than that. Feeling Felix’s hand brush gently against your arm, you turned your attention to the silver-haired male, suppressing the attraction blooming in your eyes. He looked marvelous. Hair swept back effortlessly with a crisp suit adorning his slim frame. To say he didn’t look intimidating would be a blatant lie, and to act as if you weren’t already immensely attracted to him would be pointless. With an internal reprimand, you raised an eyebrow at Felix, inviting him to proceed with his words. 

“Just mingle for a little bit. Go through that door,” he discretely gestured his head towards a set of large dark oak doors, “about ten minutes after I do. Wait in the hall, and if anyone asks, you needed a break from socialising.” 

Nodding with understanding, you watched as Felix sent a reassuring smile your way before sauntering across the large room, smiling and greeting other primly dressed men he probably didn’t know. An unpleasant thought plagued your mind, one you desperately wanted to push away from contemplation: as soon as this mission was over and you returned to the base you called home, you would have to watch as he walked away once again, a stride towards freedom. It was something he so desperately craved, you couldn’t bring yourself to take that away from him—no matter how much you wanted to. The sound of the ebony wooden grandfather clock was lost in the sound of absent-minded chatter and fake laughter, yet the hands still moved as each second, minute, passed by. Five minutes had passed. What was Felix doing? Six minutes had passed. Why did you have to wait so long? Seven minutes had passed. Was he in danger? Eight minutes had passed. Would you see him again? Nine minutes had passed. Why didn’t you agree to leave with him? Ten minutes had passed. You were tired of this life. The thought struck you as you clandestinely stride towards the large doors Felix had disappeared behind, pacing a few strides down the hall before leaning against the wall, waiting. 

How much time had passed? You weren’t certain, it felt as if time had stopped moving since you leaned against the wallpaper-covered surface. Footsteps alerted you to another’s presence, your head turning in the direction to scope out a potential threat — though your shoulders relaxed as the familiar chocolate eyes of Felix met your own. Fixing your posture, you waited until he was standing beside you, “we happy?” 

Felix smiled gently at your Pulp Fiction reference, “yeah, we’re happy. Now let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

Placing his hand on the small of your back, he prepared to escort you from the grand location, all the while you pondered why Felix needed a partner when he did everything alone. Though, your questions were answered. 

“Not so fast, pal,” you had often feared being murdered by Changbin for not completing a mission, yet for some reason you didn’t fear the potential of being shot in the head by a rival gang. 

“Ah, Mr. Hyunsuk, what a pleasure it is,” the freckled male’s response was short yet polite, a false smile stretched upon his face. How did he still look so angelic in the face of death? 

“Yongbok,” Felix’s smile faltered, “let’s not pretend. Just return whatever you’ve taken from us and everyone will leave here safely.” 

“With all due respect, I believe you’re wrong,” you spoke up — that was your job — “we’ll be keeping our new possessions and leave safely,” to jump in recklessly when things began going sideways. Then, guns were drawn. You can’t recall who drew first, who shot first, but you knew you and Felix had split up to take different vantage points. Peeking from behind the cabinet you crouched behind, you fired a shot towards the muscular bald man shooting in Felix’s direction, who narrowly avoided a bullet between his eyes. How many people had come? You weren’t sure, you weren’t counting. It was pure adrenaline, shooting almost blindly at those who threatened the success of your job. The sound of a gun jamming snapped you out of your daze, forcing you to watch as Felix struggled to identify the problem with his gun. Ah shit, you supposed it was time to do your job. Leaping from behind the bullet-riddled cabinet, you fired towards the moving human targets in rapid succession. One down, two down, a bullet fired into Hyunsuk’s knee, another into his hip. Another gun joined you, Felix’s pistol shooting at the men attempting to pull their boss from the fray. 

The pain shot through you before you could process what was happening. It was searing, a deep burning sensation that had you clutching the spot in agony, struggling to stay on your feet. Vaguely, as if rooms away, you heard Felix’s gunfire halt as a thud echoed from the other side of the hall, then you heard footsteps against the polished floor. Rapid, either rushing to help someone or rushing to take their last breath. A pair of arms snaked around your waist and supported your back as you swayed, disoriented. 

“Hey, what’s going on?” Felix’s gentle hold on you prevented further stumbling on your behalf. The words couldn’t form upon your lips, your eyes glancing around haphazardly, as if blinking more would help you process the situation you were in. His eyes trailed downwards, widening as he finally noticed the hand haphazardly clutching your abdomen. 

“No. No, no, no, no, no,” his speech was rapid, his gravelly voice coming out in a corybantic manner as he struggled to find the right action to take. There was a short period where he struggled, laying you down as he attempted to assess the bloody patch hiding beneath your stained hand. Weakened, you found yourself unable to fight off Felix’s movements as he peeled your hand away delicately, breath quickening at the extent of your wound. If he didn’t get you help in the next minute, he knew you wouldn’t make it, “ah, okay—shit. Just—keep your hand on there, pressure, yeah?” 

There was no effort to move on your behalf, thus Felix’s hand found its way pressing atop your bleeding injury. Though, your fingers wrapped around his wrist as you smiled gently towards him, “don’t.” 

Confusion laced his eyes, “don’t? Y/N, I’m not going to let you bleed out here. I’m not going to let you die!” 

You only nodded slightly, “you are. You have to.” 

His eyesight grew blurry, his stomach twisted in knots, the croaks of sobs were climbing up his throat as he mulled over your words. His voice quivered, “b-but, I can’t let you die. I need you.” 

There were no words to respond to his statement, just a weak and gentle hand caressing his cheek. He could hear footsteps approaching, but he couldn’t find it in him to look away from you—he didn’t care if it was a fatal mistake or not. A deep breath filled your lungs, a stray tear leaking from your eye and sliding down your temple as you mustered up the strength to breathe out the confession you’d been suppressing for years. 

It was gentle, angelic in the other’s ears, the words the both of you wished you’d said earlier, “you’re the one I choose.” 

Not every story has a happy ending, but at least they have an ending. Even if it tore the soul from someone and stomped on it, that sense of finality was necessary. Felix had seen a lot of pain in his life, far too much loss, yet the final chapter of a story involving him—your story—had never felt so… wrong. Out of place, missing. It wasn’t the ending he wanted for you, though who was he to change fate? There was nothing Felix could do to go back to that time, to redo anything and everything to fix the ending. All he could do was think of how much he loved and lost in a matter of moments. 

Sighing as he watched the waves carry your ashes past the skyline, Felix’s voice broke into the crisp air, “one day, I’ll meet you beyond that silver horizon,” he sniffled slightly as the autumn breeze caressed his face, “I know I will.” 

[poc-movie-supremacy]

My Fancy Boy

After a late night at work, Andrew comes home to a sleepy husband and daughter. As they relax, Steven gets Andrew to tell him his favorite story: How they got engaged. 

This is the final instalment of the Hello Sunshine universe. Hope you guys like it!

-----

The apartment was dark when Andrew opened the door. Work at the restaurant ran a little late so Andrew was just happy to be home. He toed off his shoes and hung up his jacket before silently padding his way throughout the house. When he reached the door to the living room, he noticed a dark blue light flooding through from the crack in the door. Andrew smirked and opened the door. 

Ratatouille was playing on the screen to a small audience. Steven was laying on his back on the sofa half asleep. Methodically, he rubbed his hand over his daughter’s back as he watched her sleep. Her hair was mused as she clutched Steven’s necklace in her tiny hand. Andrew’s heart fluttered at the scene. Quickly he bent down to press a feather-light kiss to the top of his husband’s head. 

Steven preened at the touch, smiling up at him. “Hi honey.”

“Hey sweetie, I’m home,” Andrew joked. Steven smiled up at his husband but didn’t say anything. Moments like there were better fit for quiet reverence than sugary sweet compliments. Slowly, as to not disturb the sleeping child, Steven lifted himself up to let Andrew slide in. He quietly settled himself, one hand in Steven’s hair, the other on their daughter’s back. 

“She really likes your engagement necklace, and ring,” Andrew noted. Her grip on the special piece of jewelry was tight. Steven hummed. 

“She likes the clinking sound the ring and the sun make. Multi-purpose gift,” Steven joked. Andrew rubbed a certain spot in Steven’s hair eliciting a happy noise from the lavender haired boy. “Do you remember the day you gave me it?” Steven whispered. 

“Of course, it was the best day of my life.”

“Tell it to me again.” 

A few years ago…

Andrew paced around the room worrying his bottom lip. Niki, Annie, Rie, and Adam watched him curiously waiting to see what was making him so upset. Niki kept shouting out possibilities but Andrew just ignored her. Finally, Adam got fed up and forcefully asked Andrew why he wanted them at his apartment sans Steven.

“Oh my god are you breaking up?! I won’t be apart of this, Steven’s my friend too.” Niki immediately asserted. That got Andrew to stop his pacing and stare confusingly at Niki. 

“No, no, Steven and I are not breaking up. Quite the opposite actually, I wanna propose.” 

“Oh that’s great! Much better than breaking up, this I can help with.” Niki said, relieved. Annie started laughing at Niki’s comments. Rie gave an encouraging smilte to Andrew who was frankly starting to lose his mind. 

“Why do you need our help. He’s your boyfriend, and he did a worth it: lifestyle episode with Kristin about engagement rings so you already know what he likes,” Adam points out. 

“But a proposal is special, he needs to plan out something great for his fancy boy.” Rie contended with Adam.

Niki snorted. “Andrew could be in his boxers telling Steven the worst pun imaginable and feeding him cheese and Steven would be head over heels.” The quartet frowned in various stages of disgust at the image that sentence invoked. “I do mean that, but man do I regret saying it.”

“This isn’t helping.” Andrew groaned into his hands and resumed pacing. 

“Well, Adam is right, you do know him very well. What does Steven like?” Rie gently asks him. 

“Basketball and Video games, he likes period dramas for the yearning, and anything food related. He likes going to the beach right as the sunsets because he swears swimming and walks along the Riviera are best at night. He hates going to parties, preferring to stay inside and perform science experiments. He’ll rarely get drunk, but if he did it’s only on red wine. He’s such a fancy boy.” As Andrew talked a soft hush fell onto the room. The audience quietly listened to Andrew wax poetic about Steven. A light blush tinted Andrew’s cheeks and a small, dopey smile graced his lips. Liquid adoration pooled in his eyes as he thought about his boyfriend. That’s who I wanna spend the rest of my life with, his brain decided, my sunshine boy, my fancy boy. 

The romantic mood was broken when Niki not so quietly whispered to Annie, “Geez and I thought I was a romantic,” which made Annie snort loudly. 

Slowly, Andrew blinked out of his daydream of happy days with Steven lim to the sad kind of Steven less reality. 

Adam gave him an unimpressed look. “Like I said, you already have everything you need.”

---

Two weeks later, Steven and Andrew were walking hand in hand along the beach. As of today, they’ve been dating for two years. Andrew’s special gift was tucked in a nice pouch in his pocket since he, for the life of him, couldn’t come up with an excuse to wear anything baggier to the beach. Nerves quietly ate away at him as Steven rambled beside him. His hands swung around wildly as he told him some long-winded story that happened to Marielle, Ryan, Shane, and Sara.

When they neared the destination, Andrew gently guided Steven onto the beach towards the picnic basket. Thank god no one stole it, there was some expensive wine in there. Steven’s face lit up at the sight before him. “Sunset beach with the good wine! You know me too well, Andy.” Steven gave his boyfriend a kiss on the cheek before plopping down onto the blanket.  

Not well enough to know if you’ll say yes, Andrew anxiously thought. He sat down next to Steven side to side, and asked, “Eat now or swim now?”

“Eat now, nothing like a nighttime dip, Drew.” Steven reasoned. Andrew smiled and set about unpacking the picnic baskets. He made them a plate of lasagna and a loaf of garlic bread. Steven licked his lips excitedly at the sight. They don’t bother with plates, choosing instead to eat straight from the tupperware. 

The sun has finally set and the moon is starting to peak out, bathing them in silvery light. It made Steven seem paler, like a silver statue. Andrew thought that the golden jewelry he picked out would offset him wonderfully. 

He turned up some soft music as they set about eating. They fed each other more than they fed themselves if they were being truthful. Whispered words and light giggles danced around them. When they couldn’t eat anymore, Steven absent-mindedly ran his hands over the planes of Andrew’s body. They waited for their food to digest before they went into the ocean. 

They raced in hand in hand, until Andrew picked up Steven and tossed him into the ocean. Shrikes and giggles filled the air. The water was icy cold and chilling to the bone. Shivers and goosebumps raced over the boys. Steven got back at Andrew by dunking him in the ocean. They swam together for a while until Andrew got too tired. He left the beach to dry off and re-rehearsed his speech. Nerves were shaking him to the core. Steven was sad for him to leave the water, but he was having too much fun swimming to leave as well. 

Andrew watched quietly as Steven trekked back from the ocean. His dark blue, almost royal blue hair was wild, half in a cowlick half matted to his forehead. Water droplets slowly made their way down his bare chest. A big smile shone on Steven’s face, brighter than the moon itself. Andrew’s breath caught in his throat. He knew if he was ever going to do it, now was the time. 

“To celebrate our two year anniversary, I got you something. I know jewelry isn’t your thing, but I thought it suited you.” He got out the necklace from his back pocket and held it in front of Steven. It was glittering gold with a sun hanging at the end. Etched onto it was the words: My Fancy Boy.

Steven’s breath was caught in his throat. Tentatively he ran a finger along the gold chain down to the sun. The rays were thick squiggly lines and the sun was a shiny, smooth ball. “Put it on me?” Steven whispered hoarsely. He turned his back to Andrew and nervously played with his hands. The air around them was tense like a glass sheet. Steven could feel and hear every slight difference to the norm. He felt heat radiate off Andrew as he kneeled above him. His fingers were warm against Steven’s. 

Once the necklace was on, Steven fingered it a little before pouncing on Andrew. The glass tension broke. 

Andrew smiled as Steven deliberately placed loving kisses on his boyfriend’s face. His whole face was concentrated, like this is how he would repay Andrew and he had to do it right. 

“Perfect, wonderful, mine,” Steven almost growled into Andrew’s ear. 

“If you loved this gift,” Andrew said with a laugh, “you’re going to love what else I have for you.” A sense of seriousness washed over Andrew. It made Steven sit up, confused, and sit beside Andrew instead of on top of him.

Andrew sat up and patted his pocket to make sure the ring was still there. Reassured, he softly cupped Steven's cheek. “You are the best thing that’s happened to me. Your giggle is music, the scrunch you do when you're happy could make an atheist believe in god. I’ve lived without you and it’s been torture. Something so awful I never want to experience it again, so” Andrew pulled out the ring and got down on one knee. Steven’s eyes were as wide as saucers and shining. Andrew wondered if he’d stare long enough he would see stars and galaxies. 

“Steven Lim, would you do me the honor of becoming my husband.” It was a simple gold band with a single diamond in the middle and two rubies surrounding it. Steven, usually so energetic, was dead still staring at the ring. Andrew was starting to get nervous, wondering if he’d done this too soon or asked him wrong. 

His grip on the ring was lax, loose enough for Steven to slip it onto his finger. As he silently admired the ring, he whispered, “Steven Ilnyckyj does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” His eyebrow quirk at the pun stirred Andrew out of his self-deprecating thoughts. As fast as a bullet, he picked up Steven and twirled him around. 

“I was worried you were going to say no.” He admitted into the crook of Steven’s neck. 

Steven hummed sympathetically and ran his hands methodically through his fiancé’s hair. His nails were growing out which felt good on Andrew’s skull. 

“I’d never say no, this is all I’ve wanted for a long time. I’m not letting you go, neither will this ring or necklace. I’m a very lucky man Ilnyckyj, to have gotten a boy like you.” Later on, he would take off the ring to put it with his necklace. Taking care of a baby was hard work, having his keys, and ring in the same place was a blessing. Plus the baby loved the jingle it made.

“You tell that story so well honey.” Steven sleepily murmured.

“It’s my favorite story to tell.”

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Disarming Voice

[Tour!verse]

One of, like, three gifts for @the10amongstthese3s because I love them so much and they mean a lot to me and I just 💚💘💙💖💚💖💚💘💙💘💚 I was supposed to wait for their birthday in June but they were sad earlier today and so I gathered the remains of the Adderall in my system and wrote this bad boy

I love you, Duckie!!!!!

also: i couldnt think of a title so i frantically searched up Pokemon moves and now this will be the second fanfic with a title that is a move from Pokemon (the first is Quiver Dance)

Word count: 3175

TW: Blood

———————

Haus of Holbein concluded with kaleidoscope of strobe lights and cacophony of giggles from the eager audience. They watched as the queens pranced over the risers and staircase for the next bit, unbeknownst to a small pop in the back that was deaf to even the Tudor ladies themselves. They just went on with their performance like they always did.

“It’s time for you to choose your bride, your highness!” Aragon declared in her high pitched, Welsh-tinged voice, and that was enough to pop a metaphorical balloon that cut Howard off from saying her next line.

Okay, well, it wasn’t really the metaphorical balloon popping that halted the show, but the sharp cry of pain that came from the upper right.

Joan was hunched over her keyboard, rocking back and forth slight and clutching at one side of her head. The sound of her soft whimpers and keens resonated in the earpieces each of the queen’s wore.

“Joan, what are you doing?” Anne hissed softly. She can hear the audience starting to murmur in confusion behind her.

“Stop the show,” Joan croaked weakly.

“What? We can’t-”

“Please!” Joan cried, her voice cracking. Her head snapped up and the spotlights caught on some kind of fluid running down the side of her face. Anne makes a sickened look and backed away, thinking that it may be blood. Aragon gave her an exasperated expression—how could a woman be afraid of the sight of blood? Or did Anne just pass out every time she had her period?

The golden queen’s internal nitpicking came to an abrupt halt when the director suddenly came on the speakers and announced a momentary intermission. A few people in the audience grumble in annoyance, while others groan, and the majority whispered even louder. A couple of stagehands are leering at Joan from the wings.

“What is going on?” The director suddenly stormed onstage, looking frazzled and aloof at the interruption. He was probably already imagining all the negative reviews and the money they’ll lose from people not wanting to come anymore, which definitely would not happen with how popular the show was. “Why did we stop? Joan, what did you do?”

“My-my ear—” Joan choked out. She’s rocking herself more prominently, as if she thought the movement would comfort her, but it clearly wasn’t working the magic she thought it would.

“You made us stop the show for an EARACHE?” The director barked.

“Hey, get off her ass.” Aragon growled, puffing out her chest to the obnoxious man and gathering herself up to her full size—which was easier taller than the director. And if she didn’t beat him in height, then her muscles and abs surely did, and she made sure to make that known to him.

“N-no, it’s—” Joan winced. “I-it’s—” She was stuttering too much for anyone to understand what she was saying, although nobody was really surprised. It was a habit of hers.

“Woah,” Maggie suddenly piped up. “What’s that on your face?”

Someone called for the main lights to be turned on, and the white-yellow fluid coating one side of Joan’s head is revealed. It was mixing with trails of red—blood. Anne stepped back dizzily and Aragon shot her a ‘get over it’ look over her shoulder before returning her full attention to the injured music director.

She could see that the fluids seemed to be coming from her ear and were dripping all the way down her jawline and onto her chest and shoulders. The droplets disappear against the dark material of her band uniform.

“Ew,” Jane wrinkled her nose and Joan looked dismayed at her reaction, then embarrassment. Pink did not go well with whatever color that liquid was supposed to be.

“What happened?” Cleves asked, incredibly curious. She was looking at the residue as if it were liquid gemstones.

“I-I had an—ear infection.” Joan explained, and each of her words are punctuated with a wince or whimper. “I took—pain killers, but—” She made a miserable, pained sound and clenched tighter.

“Your eardrum might have burst.” Cathy said bluntly.

Joan went very pale, and the fluids suddenly look a lot darker. Or maybe that was just because of the increased sputtering of blood that’s coming out.

Slowly, so slowly, she pulled her hand back, and they all saw the drooling maw that was her left ear. The interior was completely coated in a thick amalgam of water, blood, and something that looked like pus, and the hole seemed to be clogged by the same concoction, although that looked a lot more /red/. It was weeping the foul-smelling liquid; Anne gagged loudly, but Aragon didn’t know if it was because of the sight, the smell, or both.

“Yikes,” Maggie winced. “That looks painful.” At her side, Howard tentatively touched her ear, as if she thought that her eardrum may randomly burst and put her through the same pain the music director was very obviously feeling.

“What do we do?” Aragon asked, waving her head around to everyone.

“Well, if I remember correctly,” Cathy said in her infamous know-it-all voice, “burst eardrums usually heal on their own.”

There was a collective sigh of relief—and then Cathy started talking again.

“However, sometimes surgery is needed. I’ve heard of cauterizing being used as a form of treatment, too.”

Miraculously, Joan’s face managed to get even whiter. If Cathy noticed, she doesn’t relent with her fact-stating.

“And hearing loss is sometimes possible. Which, when working in show biz, doesn’t seem to be a very good th-”

“Thank you, Cathy!” Aragon said loudly, batting her goddaughter away. She set a hand on Joan’s shoulder and her heart broke a little when she felt the girl trembling. Ice blue eyes stare up at her in fear.

“I-I don’t want t-to get my ear cauterized.” Joan stammered. “O-or go deaf!”

“You won’t, honey,” Aragon assured her. I hope. “I’ll take you to the doctor’s.”

“What?” The director squawked. “You can’t leave!” He wheeled around to Joan, bug-eyed and desperate. “You can still perform, can’t you?”

“My EAR is LEAKING!” Joan cried, holding out her pus-soaked hand to the man, who reared away in disgust. Anne gagged again from somewhere further away and Howard begrudgingly leaves the commotion to go comfort her soon-to-be-ill cousin.

Aragon raised her eyebrows with a pleased smile. She didn’t often hear Joan snap at people, but she was always very impressed when she was around for it. It just proved there were thorns under that shell she’s always hiding in.

“Can you walk?” Aragon said softly, then wanted to slap her. She was on the side with the injured ear—Joan probably could barely hear from that side.

“Yeah.” Joan still said, making out the queen’s words. She wobbled to her feet, and although it was her ear that was the part that hurt, her legs were still hindered by the waves of pain and discomfort washing over her.

“Ow,” She whispered, wincing.

“Come on, darling.” Aragon said to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “I won’t let you fall.”

“What about the show?” The director warbled woefully.

“The swings are here, aren’t they?” Aragon said dismissively. “Get one of them to do it!”

There’s a reply, but Aragon was already leading Joan off of the stage, through the wings, and out the back door to the staff parking lot.

“What did it feel like?” Aragon asked as she was driving to the hospital. She glanced at the shuddering form of Joan in the passenger seat. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Um,” Joan looked a little uncomfortable. “Sorta like a water balloon popping? I kinda heard, like, umm—this pop, I guess? And then splitting pain and, ahh—there was stuff—coming out of my ear.”

At least, Aragon thinks that’s what she said. She liked to think she was good at discerning Joan Stutters, but the girl was just stammering so badly that even she was having a hard time understanding what exactly she was saying. She reached one hand off the steering wheel and touched Joan’s shoulder, hoping it may help comfort her.

“It’ll be okay, darling.” She told her.

“P-please focus on the road,” Joan said, glancing anxiously at the hand on her shoulder.

“Right.” Aragon pulled her hand away. She should have known—Joan hated when she didn’t drive with both hands on the wheel.

How was it possible to hold so much anxiety in such a scrawny little body?

They soon arrived at the hospital in a whirl of rhinestones and sparkles, seeing as they were both still in their show costumes. The people in the waiting room were dazzled at the shimmering gold outfit Aragon was stuck in, and one person even recognized her and got up to possibly ask for a picture, but then immediately sat back down when they noticed her determined, ‘do not fuck with me’ expression. If her leotard was breaking some kind of hospital dress code, nobody decided to say something.

Aragon explained to the woman at the reception desk about what they were there for, gesturing vaguely to the coagulated mess on the side of Joan’s head in the process a few times. After getting checked in, they took a seat in the waiting room, much to Aragon’s displeasure. Sure, Joan’s injury was no broken bone or heart attack, but the girl was clearly in a severe amount of pain. If the way she wouldn’t stop shaking didn’t give that away.

“Snowflake?” Aragon gently touched her hand. “Are you alright, baby?”

Joan merely replied with a soft “mmm” and kept her eyes shut. Aragon frowned. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a boy with his parents staring at the mess on Joan’s head and shot him a look that nearly made him keel over dead.

“You’re going to be okay.” Aragon told her girl, keeping her voice warm and soothing. “I promise.”

Joan just nodded this time.

It took almost twenty minutes and an extra squirting of ear water and pus, but Joan was eventually called for examination. Aragon followed her, sliding past the several gazes she got as she went along.

As Cathy predicted, there wasn’t much the doctors could do for something inside of Joan’s head, and they were sure she didn’t want a sudden surgery to repair some pieces of frayed tissue. However, they did clean up her head and ear (which was a painful process when a q-tip was used), and prescribed her some stronger antibiotics since it was clear she was in some discomfort.

On the drive to her apartment, Joan looked terribly guilty.

“What’s wrong, snowball?” Aragon asked, glancing at the sulking girl.

Joan mumbled something. Aragon leaked over slightly.

“A little louder, baby. I can’t hear you.”

“I made you miss the show for nothing.” Joan said. “And then you paid for a pointless doctor visit.” She hunched over in the passenger seat and put her head in her hands. “You wasted so much for me.”

It took all of Aragon’s willpower to not veer the car off the road and start laying into Joan about how she’d give up everything for her, but she kept her cool and continued driving so she wouldn’t freak the girl out even more. Her added car anxiety wouldn’t make anything better.

“Honey, I chose to take you to the doctor’s.” Aragon said. “It was my idea. You didn’t force me. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Joan pulled her head back and nodded slowly. Aragon wished she would smile, or at least stop frowning guiltily like she was. The girl was always too hard on herself, always blaming herself for things she didn’t cause and always losing her mind over the most minor inconveniences. She thought she was to prove herself or live up to the queen’s greatness, Aragon realized awhile ago.

They parked in Joan’s apartment complex and Joan didn’t even try to convince Aragon that she didn’t have to stay like she usually did. She just trudged up the two flights of stairs to her flat- Argaon always wondered how she got all her furniture up there, as she was sure the girl was too shy to ask a moving company for help. The image of her darling snow fox trying to haul an entire wardrobe up the steps was quite funny, albeit a bit pitiful.

Stepping into Joan’s apartment, however, was even more pitiful.

Aragon never got over how barren Joan’s home was. She stumbled through a dark corridor, kicking off her shoes as she does so. She saw Joan turn on a lamp instead of the main lights (they hurt her eyes, she had said before), and the glow it gave off was dim, as though the bulb was about to go out. It was enough to illuminate the bare and cold living room, dining room, and kitchen, which were all empty of decorations. Joan was terrible with money, fearing that buying a simple potted plant would leave her bankrupt. She did have a small cactus in her kitchen, though—its name was Prickle.

Joan grabbed a light blue cup from the sink, the only dish in the basin, and filled it up with some water before swallowing one of the painkillers, despite already having taken one while at the hospital.

“Joan, baby?” Aragon called out gently. “Does it hurt that much?”

She worried about the pain being that severe and the chance that Joan was just taking more pills because she liked how they made her numb. She once said she liked not feeling—it made her forget about her worthlessness and stress.

Joan sorta just shrugged in response, staring ruefully down into the cup. Aragon came over to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“How about we watch a movie?” She suggested. “Or do you want to rest?”

“It’s only lunchtime.” Joan pointed out. “I can’t rest already.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of catnaps?” Aragon poked her in the stomach, which made her giggle and squirm away. It was music to her ears. “Let’s make lunch, then. And THEN watch a movie.”

She detangled herself from Joan and walked over to the fridge. Her eyes widened when she saw what was inside.

“You went grocery shopping!” She spun around to Joan, clasping her hands in her own. “I’m so proud of you!”

She had been so worried to see the fridge empty like so many times before, but this time there was /food/! Sure, it wasn’t much, but it was something! Joan had bought fruit and milk and cheese and eggs and that weird LaCroix drinks she insists are really good but Aragon just thinks they taste like static and a single cherry skittle that’s been dissolved in water for three hours. There was food in the pantry, too—bread and crackers, biscuits and cereal, canned soup and packets of macaroni. Joan had even bought herself ice cream!

Joan blushed shyly, looking away.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” She murmured.

“It is to me!” Aragon whisked her up in her arms, causing Joan to squeak and cling to the ruffs on her shoulders.

“That’s itchy,” Joan said after she was set down, wrinkling her nose at Aragon’s costume.

“Tell me about it,” Aragon laughed. “Do you think any of your clothes will fit me? I’d watch the movie naked like I usually do, but I feel like that wouldn’t be proper guest etiquette.”

“Oh, I actually have—”

Aragon burst into laughter at the double take Joan does.

“Wait. What?!” Joan blinked at her, probably picturing that image in her head and then immediately being horrified when it actually materializes in her brain. “Don’t you— Doesn’t Anna share a room with you?”

“Then I guess I’m the award-winning film she’s watching.” Aragon smirked.

“Ahhh!!” Joan slapped Aragon's arms frantically. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

“What? You don’t like hearing about my-“

“LA LA LA LA LA LA LA!!!” Joan covered her ears, although softly with her injured one. “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!!! MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB, LITTLE LAMB, LITTLE LAMB!!!”

Aragon laughed until her chest hurt. She wiped one of her eyes and set a hand on Joan’s head.

“Okay, snowfall, I’m done.”

Joan carefully removed her hands, peering up at Aragon suspiciously.

“You’re gross.” She poked her.

“Not gross. H-”

Joan slapped her hands back over her ears.

Which was a big mistake.

“You dummy.” Aragon said when Joan keened sharply in pain. “Shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s your fault!” Joan said miserably. She carefully rubbed the space next to her injured ear, but stopped when Aragon started to do it for her, leaning blissfully into her touch. “You’re the reason Maggie likes to tease me about having mommy issues.”

Aragon snorted. “I’m not surprised.” She said. “Now. What were you saying before?”

A blush dusts Joan’s cheeks. “Oh. Right.” She fidgets with a rhinestone on her costume. “I, umm— Well, seeing as you come over a lot— I— I got you some spare clothes.”

Aragon perked up, smiling. “Aww. That’s so sweet of you to do, Joan!”

Joan blushed harder and then scurried off to go change while Aragon started to make their lunch. She changed soon after, and then they sat down on the couch with their grilled cheeses.

“How’s your ear feeling?” Aragon asked as Joan was flipping through Netflix (technically, it was Aragon’s account. Of course Joan wouldn’t by her own—financial anxiety and all. And of course Aragon had to share with the girl!)

“Better,” Joan said, then touched it tentatively. “But it’s kinda, like...ringing.” She curled into Aragon’s side. “I don’t like it.”

“I’m sorry, baby girl,” Aragon wrapped her arms around Joan and she marveled at how perfectly she fit, as if that spot had been shaped by the universe just for the girl. She didn’t think even Mary had fit that well.

It was a sign, she realized: This is where this girl should stay. In your arms. Forever.

Aragon smiled. She liked the sound of that, even if she knew it would definitely be questioned by other people. They wouldn’t be able to wrap their heads around her loving some anxious mess of a music director more than her birth daughter she had fought tooth and nail to be with all those centuries ago. But it was hard to feel a sliver of love towards Mary after hearing about the horrors she’s done—she was just ashamed. Ashamed to be her mother, so she disconnected herself from the bloody ties of her child and went searching for someone who needed her more.

And that’s how she found Joan. Her perfect, weird little moon. Every inch nervous and shy, with so much room to be loved, and everything Mary would never ever be.

Sorry, Mary, Aragon thought with a chuckle, imagining her daughter throwing a fit in her place in hell.

She snuggled Joan closer and set her chin on her head. She felt Joan lean in closer and she smiled lovingly.

“So, what are we watching?”