#this is experimental. i have never done this kind of shading and lighting like this before | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mejomonster · 8 months ago

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Feel free to ignore this. Just little bits of art advice i've found useful over the years in case it helps:

It's okay to use a sketchbook to sketch, to experiment, to practice. It can be messy, look awful, and many pages likely will be full with failed attempts and practice as you learn how to do a technique and improve. If you feel like you can't ruin a sketchbook? Then get looseleaf paper, printer paper, a notebook even, anything and practice on it. You can throw it away later (though i find them useful to look at later to reference how X technique worked successfully or how it failed so I can skip that learning step next time). Better quality paper may be needed for some technique experimentation (such as testing watercolors needing a paper at least durable enough to not rip). You can also write notes along with these experiments. Test out materials you're going to use, sketches of the compositions you want to draw, still lifes and reference drawings to use to figure out how to draw X, color palette tests, notes. It's okay that your test sketches/experiments are not all "perfect" looking.

Learn the color wheel. Learn some basics about color theory like contrasting colors, complimentary colors, primary and secondary colors, lightness to darkness (and shading), saturation, cool and warm tones. Play around with color palette combinations, look up color combinations other people have used, look at art you like and note to yourself the color palettes they used.

Learn shading, line pressure, line variation. Just the basics will do. Can you shade lighter and darker? Can you make thicker or thinner lines? Can you make straight and curvy lines? Again, look at art you like and note to yourself what they do and why you like it or don't.

Warm up exercises. (I skip these cause I'm ToT but if your hand isn't cooperating, they're good to know and do). Big circles, little circles, drawing points and connecting them with straight lines. Drawabox.com has a lot of free lessons and the intro ones include a lot of good drawing exercises.

Fear making mistakes? Again I can't emphazise enough find a paper of some kind you can let yourself draw on and make mistakes. Loose leaf paper if you can't do it to a sketchbook. I personally also like drawing in pen, marker, and highlighter when I'm just sketching. Because I can't erase those, and so I either accept my mistake or move onto the next sketch. (I also like the fine control of a pen as far as it being easier for me to shade with then say a marker). I often found myself becoming overly critical when drawing digitally since I could completely reverse any mistake, making casual practice much more difficult for me. I switched to paper pen sketches for practice and it helped me get more drawing practice actually done so I could make more progress. (Pencil also works fine I just personally liked pen since I'd often be at work or out eith a pen in my bag and printer paper nearby).

Being able to draw what you see: a few things go into this. There's the idea you can draw better things in your mind, the better you can draw things from reference. Not everyone's going to match up to that, but it's been true for me. Learn how to draw from reference, and when I make up a scene I can find references for pose or a landscape or a flower or a hand in X position if I've never drawn it before, or if I need to look at several references to figure out how to compose the picture in my head in a way that makes proportional sense. Learning to draw from reference: fold an image you use as reference (or draw a grid/paste a grid over a digital image), fold a blank paper (or put a grid over a digital blank canvas), attempt to draw what is inside each grid square one at a time. This can help you focus on shading instead of lines if you need to, and help you stop seeing images only in terms of preconcieved symbol (for example in people's mind eyes are often Important and hair is Up High, so often people mess up proportions when imagining what a human face looks like and trying to draw it, but use a grid and you'll be forced to make the hairline lower like its actual position on a head and forced to make the eyes smaller like their actual size). This exercise can be helpful for noticing noses aren't really a curve or a triangle but a bunch of weird bends and shades of color (or that eyes aren't perfect ovals but have folds and dips), as is a lot of stuff. Similar exercise: scrunch up a fabric and draw a still life of it, focusing on shading. Since a scrunched up fabric has no standard shape in your head (versus a folded sheet as a square) you can practice drawing the shapes and curves and light/darkness you're actually seeing. You can also use weird shaped vases and lamps, any interesting shaped items and put them in a pile that overlaps. The grid is to help you break down an image into smaller parts, the still lifes is to help you draw what you see with objects you hopefully have less internal symbols of so you can practice drawing whats actually there. You can do a grid with anything, or turn a reference picture greyscale to focus on learning the shading and how the lighting falls. Look up various things and start getting better at drawing things as they actually appear in the reference image (or in real life in front of you). You may want to focus on real items, photos, things in real life for this part.

Now drawing with symbols? Assuming you've learned to draw what you see in terms of color, shading, actual shape and sizes and proportions? Then learning to break down items into symbols in your head again can be helpful. Such as quickly figuring out a guide for how to draw humans in the manga proportions you want to emulate, so you need to translate real reference images you see into manga style. Or you draw a lot of flowers or faces and want to draw them from memory, so a mental idea of symbolic shapes and proportions will allow that. Drawabox.com also has helpful later lessons that go into how to visually start breaking references down into cubes, cylinders, spheres, pyramids, and other shapes. This can help you get an idea of how to start breaking down reference images in your mind into easy to proportion shapes, a series of easy to draw shapes you can then refine back into more detailed drawings like the actual references later. Learning these shapes will help with coming up with your own poses, translating to less realistic art styles, and coming up with new poses or angles of an object you have various references for. Those "draw 50" art books often have lessons that break down objects this way. The Michaels art books for sale often have guides on breaking down common objects into these shapes. A ton of artists online include these kinds of breakdowns in tutorials (i still have "do a human X heads tall, X heads wide, eyes on X line nose X far down" guides memorized in my head because i rely on those broken down proportions so much). Many portrait drawing books have more specific guidelines written out for humans. But the main thing is: once you can break reference images down by visualizing them yourself into certain shapes, you can make these shape approximation guides yourself. Then you can truly draw anything you can reference: both as a realistic drawing, and tailored to your own art style or perspective or however far your composition needs to be from the reference images you have. And you can start drawing a lot more with less reference as you get used to certain shape approximatipns you draw a lot. Exercises: 1. I greatly recommend drawabox.com for this, and any art tutorial books that focus on objects you draw often. 2. You can take pictures digitally, open them in an art program, and draw the simple shapes over them (cubes, cylinders, spheres etc). You van print pictures and draw the guides shapes. And of course: on you sketch pages (or digital canvas) look at reference images and draw a TON of attempts to make these guide shapes, then refine them into the specific thing youre drawing with its unique curves and details. So again, trying to draw what you see based on reference but this time with guide shapes. Do it a TON. Many will be the wrong size, or look odd, this is fine, note where you misjudged a size or detail and try again. If you plan to draw a lot with few references or in a unique art style thats not particularly realistic, you'll want to do this a TON. For the guide shapes practice: start with trying to draw references from real life like photos or in person. Once you get a feel for it, you can also start using this strategy to draw based on other art references. You can reference varied styles and use your guide shapes approximation to practice learning those style's unique proportions.

You can also try finding a piece of art you like, and attempting to replicate something about it: say you like the way the paint strokes look or blend of color, you practice on your sketch sheets to paint in a way that resembles it. Or you like the way they shade people and have this almost glowing light, so you attempt to create a similar effect on your sketch. If artists you like have tutorials such as painting tutorials, they may have explanations you can read and repeat the steps of to practice the same technique. Following artist tutorials often will include the guide shapes and proportions they used, so you can practice attempting to do the same. At this point, you can draw anything or at the minimum find a Reference and attempt to draw close to how it looks, getting better every time.

Material techniques: part of this is experiment a TON in your sketch pages. The other big advice is: go to youtube for beginner/basic tutorials and then tutorials on how to do specific techniques, or find art tutorial books that go in depth on that for the materials you wish to use. You'll find critical information for beginners such as what paper you need for X material, how that material blends and what it's compatible with, how to achieve shading and color blending with X material successfully. More in depth techniques can be learned through a combination of finding specialized tutorials on youtube/obnline, in books, and identifying art you like and trying to guess what techniques they used so you can look the techniques up. If you get lucky the artist may make their own tutorials that show how to do those techniques. Theres things about colored pencils i didnt even learn until this year. Theres a ton about watercolor im still learning. If your art is looking like a hot mess, and you havent learned basic techniques of that material and what they require (and then practiced it gratuitiously on your sketch pages etc) then this could be a key thing making your art look worse than you meant for it to. A simple pencil, pen, or charcol will accomplish basic shading of light to dark for practicing drawing based on reference images and learning how to draw from reference better. But once youre going beyond that with colors and materials, if things are looking not quite the may you intended then material using techniques may be the culprit. Art classes in like high school tend to use acrylics a lot for assignments, maybe because it mostly mixes the way you assume it will and layers over itself fairly fine (as in if you hate a dark chunk you painted you can usually wait for it to dry and then put white or a lighter color on top). Thats what i practiced with, and i was used to it from painting display ceramics. But theres a ton of materials that can do a ton and work uniquely so you may find through experimenting and preference some materials look way better for your uses.

Theres also stuff like lines of motion, capturing general shapes and movement over realism, which im still working on cause im just another learner too. There are tutorials for these, which is where im at presently.

#art #reference #art reference #this was fueled by me finding a rather good art guide at michaels #but usually quick art tutorial books dont cover the big basics which are: learn to draw from reference and shade FIRST #as those skills are the core of what u need to draw anything #all the rest is just learning new materials or learning color theory or utilizing new references to help you as needed

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lokiondisneyplus · 3 years ago

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In the first episode of Loki, the trickster god of the Marvel Cinematic Universe—last seen escaping in a time-travel snafu during Avengers: Endgame—is captured and taken to a mysterious hinterland that exists outside of time and space and resembles nothing so much as a mushroom-colored 1970s airport. The walls are paneled in wood. The ceiling, covered in hundreds of circular light fixtures, stretches vastly into the distance, its composition pure Kubrick. Against this backdrop, a surly agent tells Loki (played by Tom Hiddleston) to take a ticket and join the line. “There’s only two of us in here,” he replies, chafing at the order. “Take. A. Ticket,” the guard spits.

This claustrophobically bureaucratic place is the Time Variance Authority, a nontemporal zone set up to stamp out any time-travel shenanigans that threaten the integrity of the “sacred timeline.” The MCU has sent its heroes and antiheroes hurtling through space; it’s set them up as gladiators on garbage planets; it’s had them absorb the heat of stars and channel the power of the entire universe. But it has never, even in all of Marvel Studios president Kevin Feige’s most twisted visions, sent them to the DMV. Until now. The setup is darkly funny: The MCU’s most chaotic and arrogant character, the one most resistant to any kind of authority, has found himself condemned to a purgatory of sign-in sheets, plexiglass tyrants, and piped-in Muzak. For Loki, it’s pure hell.

Loki is the third Marvel TV show to debut on Disney+ this year, following the emotive, experimental WandaVision and the earnest-but-uninspiring The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. Early reviews have praised the quirky chemistry between Loki and his TVA handler, Mobius (Owen Wilson), along with the series’s breeziness and sense of humor. But the show’s unmistakably dystopian, sci-fi aesthetic, in which cityscapes fade into nothingness in infinite shades of brown, suggests that the TVA might be more malign than it seems. There are other allusions to autocracy too: In the scene where Loki resentfully accepts his ticket, framed posters on the walls bear graphic eyes that represent an all-seeing police state, and cheerfully menacing slogans: behave or get your clock cleaned. In Loki’s first interaction with a TVA officer, she hits him in the face with a baton and then slows time to one-16th of its normal pace to prolong his pain.

The show’s optical grandeur and sinister bureaucratic elements are products of Kate Herron’s vision. The 32-year-old from southeast London was working as a temp for a fire-extinguisher company when she was hired as a director on the Netflix series Sex Education; Loki is her first major solo project. When she was in talks for the job, she presented bosses at Marvel with what amounted to a lengthy PowerPoint presentation on what she thought the show should be: the architecture of the TVA, the show’s music, even the dynamics of Loki’s character arc over the past 10 years. “I knew I was pitching them something that was stylistically a little bit different to what they’d done before,” she told me over Zoom. The aesthetic she had in mind was partly inspired by the Brutalist architecture in the area where she grew up, which has played a backdrop to dystopian classics including A Clockwork Orange and Children of Men.

📷MARVEL STUDIOS

The greatest challenge, she said, was the question of “how to capture this infinite space that is outside of time,” the alternate realm where the TVA exists. “It’s not a planet. There’s no sun. It’s almost a Vegas-like office city in a sense.” She pulled ideas from Brazil, Terry Gilliam’s 1985 absurdist sci-fi about a man trapped in a bureaucratic dystopia; from the 1927 German expressionist drama Metropolis, set in a futuristic megacity; and from Ridley Scott’s 1982 sci-fi neo-noir, Blade Runner. Loki’s faded monochrome palette instantly sets it apart from other Marvel projects—instead of the technicolor pop of an Avengers movie or the vivid blues and whites of outer space, the series envelops viewers in discordant earth hues, brown on beige on umber. A rare note of color comes when Loki spies handfuls of discarded Infinity Stones in a desk drawer, a visual hint that the way power operates within the TVA is completely alien to how it’s always functioned in the MCU.

The tone is jaunty across the first two episodes, in large part because the character as written by the head writer, Michael Waldron, is so reliably brash and unfazed by any obstacle. But the TVA’s quietly sinister design hints at darker twists ahead. nexus events must be pruned, another poster within the agency reads, referring to time-travel incidents that might cause fractures in time by setting off alternate branches of reality; viewers can only speculate what that “pruning” entails. When Loki tells Agent Mobius that “this place is a nightmare,” Mobius replies, “That’s another department.” The justice system within which Loki is tried is perfunctory and immutable; he stands to either be sentenced to stay forever in this perpetual officescape of retro technology and futuristic torture, or be liquidated for his crimes.

Loki’s distorted understanding of time uncannily captures the mood of the past year or so, and its odd ability to make months feel like eons and weeks like years. Herron left England when she was hired on Loki in 2019 and flew to Los Angeles, then Atlanta, where, to her surprise, she ended up staying for two years, after the pandemic shut filming down. The unexpected extra time left her with more opportunities to dive into scenes that had already been filmed, and to reexamine characters and tone. Loki seems likely to endure his new setting, given the nature of franchises and the fact that the show is named after him. But, Herron said, the world around him is newly unpredictable. “The TVA is a rug pull,” she said. “Everything people thought had power or held power in the MCU is actually very different now. It’s a new playing field.”

#Loki #article #Kate Herron #dystopia

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luffles424 · 4 years ago

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Luminous

☼ Pairing: Jimin x reader

☼ Genre: tentacle monster!Jimin, some fluff, smut, mostly just pwp

☼ Count: 9k

☼ Warnings: 18+, public sex (no ones around but they’re on the beach), tentacles (kind of a given), big dick jimin, manhandling, lots of cum, some cumplay, creampie, cum inflation/belly bulge (not a whole lot, just a small bump) unprotected sex, restraints, choking, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, tit fucking, thigh fucking, oral (m recieving), deep throating, anal, double penatration, minor nipple play, praise kink, mating cycles, slight impreg kink

☼ Summary: The Busan summer festival is your favorite event of the year. You like all the food and things to do, but your favorite part is watching the fireworks at the end of the night, gathered with friends and family. It’s fun and joyous. Except this year you’re spending it without them. So you find a secluded spot on the beach to watch alone. Except... you might not be as alone as you thought you were out here.

☼ a/n: This was written for Sol’s (jamaisjoons) collab event ‘The Summer Bucketlist’ and my prompt was ‘watching fireworks.’ Uhhh this idea was originally very different and then I started thinking about tentacles and now here we are 🥴🥴🥴 Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think! My ask box is always open ~ 💙💙💙💙

☼ Banner made by the absolutely amazing @jamaisjoons (who did such wonderful work on it and I hope the fic lives up to the beautiful banner she made me 💕💕💕)

You let out a small contented sigh as you slip your feet into the water. This is your favorite place in all of Busan, this hidden little jutty of rock just off one of the smaller, less popular beaches, more popular among locals only. You’ve spent more time than you can count out here hanging out with your friends, passing the time and using the salty sea breeze to help combat the heat of summer. You’ve been out here plenty on your own too, just like how you’re out here alone right now.

The sun’s dipping below the horizon, the sky slowly turning an inky black. The perfect backdrop to what’s going to happen soon and the main reason you’re out here at all to begin with rather than at home. The summer festival is happening and once the sun disappears, the sky will be decorated with fireworks, and you and your friends discovered years ago that this is the best spot to watch them, unobstructed and no one around to fight for seats.

You kick your feet idly in the water, enjoying the warmth of it as you lean back on your hands as you watch the last few rays of light slip away. You wished your friends could’ve made it though. But Namjoon was stuck in the city for work and Taehyung was out with his girlfriend at the festival. A brief feeling of sadness overcomes you because you had been planning to go with Taehyung and his girlfriend and your own boyfriend as a double date. Until he dumped you a week ago over text because he’d moved to the otherside of the country and apparently was nothing like the man you met since he didn’t even have the balls to break up in person.

You suspect that there was a lot more than his flimsy excuse of it’s just not working and long distance is hard. It most likely has something to do with the new girl that you’ve been told about that has shown up on his socials.

For what it’s worth, Taehyung and Namjoon both offered you company but you waved them off. Namjoon’s job opportunity is much more important and as much as you love Taehyung and his girlfriend, you didn’t particularly feel like being third wheel to their (normally adorable and heart warming) love.

You think this is better anyway. It’s peaceful out here. The smell of salt being carried by the breeze brings a myriad of memories that all bring a smile to your face and it’s easy to forget about the hard things in this moment. It’s healing to be out here. As much as it sucked that you got dumped, you can’t be too upset. You saw the cracks forming the more he opened his mouth and talked, if he hadn’t done it, you likely would have been doing it soon anyway. You let your head fall back, letting your eyes slip closed as you simply enjoyed this. You should tell the others that you all need to make another trip out here soon.

Plus you’d come much earlier when the sun was still high and swam some. Using the ebb and flow of the ocean to erode your worries and stress. Then you’d sprawled out on your beach towel on your rocky perch and let the sunset dry your skin before you slipped back into your shorts and tank top and allowed the peacefulness to swallow you.

You startle slightly when there’s a loud, echoing boom and color flashes across the sky. You’d been lulled into such calmness and had almost forgotten why you were out here to begin with. You watch the sky passively, watching the occasional flash of color and shapes as the firework people warm themselves and the crowds up. You know the real show won’t start for at least another 45 minutes, knowing the tell by the fact that there’s still the faintest of traces of blue on the horizon.

Your feet continue their idle movements in the water, until something slick brushes the bottom of your foot and you scream on instinct, quickly jerking your foot free from the water. You back up an extra foot from the edge, to the safety of the blanket that you spread across the rocks, just as an extra precaution. You’re sure that whatever touched you was probably just seaweed. Maybe a plastic bag or some other trash that someone carelessly threw into the ocean. But anything touching you in the water when the water is nothing more than an inky black expanse is enough for you to decide that’s enough soaking for the night.

Just as your heart rate is returning to normal, something slips over the edge of the rocks where you’d just been sitting. It gleams in the moonlight, silver, smooth, and shiny, as it makes a cursory probe at the edge, like it’s looking for something. It’s probably no thicker than your thumb and you deliriously wonder if octopi are even capable of coming up on dry land, let alone the reason why one might be coming up right now. Though the longer you stare at it, the more you realize that it’s far too smooth to be from an octopus, completely devoid of the telltale suckers.

You shuffle a little further away. You really don’t want to move too quickly, not if you don’t know what it even is and if it can follow you or how fast whatever it is. But your slight movement only seems to catch it’s attention and to your growing horror, it lashes out almost faster than you can see and wraps itself firmly around your ankle. You scream again, because aside from that, there’s really very little you can do out here all alone with it on you.

Any attempts to free yourself prove futile, the slender appendage is far stronger than you would’ve expected from such a jelly-like creature. It gives its own experimental tug, one that pulls you marginally closer to the water before you once again scramble backwards. It lets you and that just serves to freak you out more.

Then, a few more tentacles appear over the edge of the rock, watering dripping and spreading out around them and then there’s a… hand? You frown as a seemingly human hand, if perhaps a little ashen looking, plants itself on the rock right alongside the tentacles. The fingers flex for a moment before something, somehow even more surprising, appears. A fairly human face, or at least up to the eyes as that’s the furthest it raises, peaks up over the edge, gaze quickly zeroing in on you. Your heart stutters in your chest as your eyes meet and its pale silver eyes gleam like its tentacles. It’s hair is wet and slicked back and, though the locks are currently water logged and a few shades darker, it’s clearly also a similar shade of silver as its tentacles and eyes.

Another hand joins the first along the edge of the rocks and for a moment it doesn’t move at all. You stare at it, you know it’s definitely bigger than an octopus now. You don’t think you could take it. It’s dead silent aside from the gentle lapping of the waves and you’re terrified to move for fear of what it’s going to do to you. It gives the slightest of tugs on your ankle and when you don’t budge it finally lifts itself from the water.

You try to back away again, but it’s grip keeps you in place and you let out a startled scream when another tentacle darts out to wrap itself around your other ankle. The… monster… sits on its knees at the edge for a moment after pulling itself from the water.

It, he?, looks almost perfectly human. Skin a dimmed golden shade, frame small but packed with lean muscle… apparently well endowed in human terms. You jerk your gaze quickly away when you realize just where you're staring. Your life is on the line, now is not the time to to fucking ogle the monster and think about if he can get hard like a human and if it possibly gets bigger. You force yourself back to his face, cheekbones prominent and lips plush as he seems to be looking you over as well, though his gaze continually seems to dart behind you, brows knitting in confusion.

His eyes appear almost human except that it doesn’t seem like he has a pupil, silver swallowing the whole of the iris. It’s slightly disconcerting. His tentacles shift behind him, drawing your attention to them finally. The ones not on you shift behind him restlessly, never seeming to settle. A thin one drapes itself on his shoulder before slithering across his skin to the other side, forming a strange sort of living necklace. It’s hard to pin down an exact number with them constantly moving, but there seems to be a lot and they seem to come in primarily two sizes, thinner ones like the one draped around his throat and wrapped around your ankles and thicker ones easily the width of 3 or 4 fingers, you try very hard not to compare their girth with what you had glimpsed between his legs.

You’re trying to formulate a plan to get away when there’s another boom of a firework, bathing everything pink for a moment. And what you’re certainly not expecting is for the way the monster startles at the sound. The tentacles around your ankles tighten almost painfully and then before you can completely comprehend what’s going on, you’re being pulled closer to him. Once you're close enough, he’s leaning down over you and you squeeze your eyes shut, unsure of what’s about to happen but positive that it’s unlikely to be good.

But nothing happens and as the seconds stretch, you slowly peek an eye open. His face is almost directly above yours, but it’s not you that he’s looking at. Instead, he’s studiously scanning your surroundings, looking tense and on edge. When you glance at the way that he’s leaning over you, you realize that he seems to be almost… protecting you? Which only serves to confuse you more.

Deeming there to be no immediate threat, his gaze turns down to you and you freeze now that you're faced with him this close. He blinks down at you before his lips part and he makes a strange sort of clicking sound, but you’re more focused on the sharp teeth revealed when he makes noise. Definitely sharp enough to tear into you and eat his fill.

“Please don’t eat me,” you squeak out, hands coming up to cover your face.

There’s silence for a moment before a deep chuckle sounds from him. You peek between your fingers at him and there’s a smirk stretching his lips.

“Oh, I have met your kind before.” His voice is soft and surprisingly melodious given the higher pitch the clicking was.

You can’t help the words that slip from your lips. “My kind?”

His lips twitch and he tilts his head. “Humans. Are you not human?” He pushes himself up slightly to inspect you again. “You do not appear to be one of my kind.”

“There’s more of you?”

His gaze darts around. “A few.”

You swallow, about to speak again when another firework goes off. He startles above you and drops closer once more, body pressed firmly to yours as he glares around, trying to discover the source.

You’d laugh at his constant startling if your throat wasn’t suddenly so dry. His chest is every bit as firm as it looked and you can feel every shift and ripple as he looks around. It’s incredibly distracting. Why did the monster have to be hot? You squeeze your eyes shut again. You should not be thinking about how it’d feel to touch the monster with your hands. Or how other parts of him would feel.

He shifts off of you slightly. “It is safe for now.”

You blink your eyes open, frowning at him. “Safe? What are you talking about?”

His head tilts and he reminds you of a confused puppy. “Do you not hear the loud noises?”

A giggle slips out and that seems to perplex him further. “No, no. I do. It’s just… Have you not been around here before?”

“I have always lived here.”

“Have you… been on land before?”

His brows pinch and there’s the slightest of flushes coloring his cheeks a deep blue-gray. “I come up here every year.”

“How have you not heard them before then? They’re just fireworks.” You see the streak of a new one and point to it quickly, drawing his attention to it just before it reaches its peak and explodes in a sparkling cascade of gold. “They’re for entertainment. They’re not dangerous.” You pause. “Okay they are. But not at this distance. The only people who could possibly be in danger would be the ones firing them.”

“Fire… works?” He mumbles, sitting back on his haunches as his face remains tilted towards the sky even though the phosphorus has long since burned out. “Will there be more?”

You slowly push yourself up, cautious of what he might do but his focus remains firmly upwards. “Yeah, they’ll keep shooting some singles off for a little bit longer then they’ll start the big show.”

He says nothing else and you wonder if you can use the time to slip away before you realize that he still has two tentacles wrapped around your ankles. There goes your chance for escape. At least he doesn’t seem interested in eating you. Yet.

Another firework goes and you watch his eyes widen as he follows its trajectory up until it stops in an explosion of color and sound. But you’re far more taken watching the childlike glee on his face and the way the colors gleam on his skin and tentacles. The colors add another level to his already stunning looks, making him look far more ethereal and angelic. He grins as he watches and he looks much less like a terrifying monster. Though you worry what will happen once the fireworks stop and there’s nothing to distract him. Maybe when the real show starts he’ll be so engrossed that you can slip yourself free of the tentacles and make a quick and quiet escape.

You shake your head, looking away and up at the sky too. There’s nothing much you can do right now with their grip on you still too tight, so you might as well also watch the show. The fireworks are slowly starting to increase in frequency and he seems to squirm in excitement the closer together the pops of color come.

“Do you have a name?” You ask suddenly, looking back over at him. Maybe you can text Namjoon or Taehyung and tell them that if you disappear to look for something with that name. Probably Taehyung. He’d be more likely to believe that you’ve been taken by a monster than Namjoon. He’d probably ask if you’ve drank or smoked anything. Get too drunk camping once and claim that bigfoot tried to kidnap you and you never get believed again.

He doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t even seem to acknowledge that you spoke. But then his lips purse and he looks over at you for a moment. “Jimin.”

“Jimin?” He bobs his head and turns back to catch another firework going off. “My name’s Y/n.” You murmur, unsure if he’s even interested.

It hurts a little that he didn’t seem interested in you back, but you suppose that you don’t know whatever his monster customs are. And you really shouldn’t look too deeply into why it hurts that a monster doesn’t seem interested in you. That should be a good thing. It means you have a better chance of getting away.

There’s a long break in the fireworks and Jimin’s lips push out into an adorable pout as he turns to you with sad eyes. “Is it over?”

You laugh and shake your head. “No. It’s actually just getting ready to get started. Now it’s the big show. You thought it was good before. Just wait.”

He gives a simple nod and turns back to the sky, content to wait patiently for the rest. Silence descends on you both and you feel like you should be more worried about the tentacle monster sitting in front of you. But Jimin seems harmless enough, he certainly hasn’t tried to eat you or anything and that’s certainly got to count for something. He seems far more interested in the fireworks than in you now anyway.

You’re just starting to relax when something cool and damp brushes the skin of your lower back. You freeze, back stiff as whatever it is tentatively touches the warm skin before slithering further up your shirt. You bite down on the urge to scream, you don’t want to startle Jimin again. Just because he was protective before, doesn’t mean that a scream coming from you would produce the same result. And before you can twist to see what is crawling up your shirt, the tentacles around your ankles slide a little further up your legs, ends timidly probing along your flesh as they go.

Another tentacle, one of the thicker ones, slides across your arm, wrapping once around your wrist and nestling the tip into your palm. The cool sensation is bizarrely familiar and it takes you only a moment to realize that whatever crawled up your shirt a moment ago is another tentacle. You’re about to speak when a thin tentacle trails up your arm to rest against your shoulder, gently tracing your jaw and neck.

You swallow. “Um, Jimin?” All you get is a hum in response. Does he not realize what’s going on? “Jimin? What’s happening?”

Either your words or tone finally pulls his attention to you and when he sees his tentacles wrapped around you, he flushes a pretty blue. He scoots away, working to encourage them to release you, but this time of year they always have a bit more mind of their own. He makes an irritated clicking noise when they don’t move.

The one in your hand seems to respond to his sound though you’re not sure if it’s the way he wanted it to or not but it tightens around your wrist slightly before becoming… slicker?

You look at it, a weird mix of horror and maybe a little arousal. Maybe you shouldn’t have watched so much hentai when you were younger. You look back up at Jimin, at a complete loss. “Jimin?”

Jimin looks incredibly embarrassed, burying his face in his hands and making more distressed clicking noises. Probing tentacles aside, he looks adorable all flustered like this. A few of his tentacles wrap around his wrists and shoulders, patting his skin soothingly but that only seems to make him more distressed.

The tentacle at your back has reached the tie to your bikini top beneath your shirt and is prodding at the knot with interest. You don’t know what to do to stop the distress you can practically feel coming from Jimin. The tentacle in your hand squirms slightly, drawing your attention back to it. You swallow, sneaking a quick peek at Jimin as you do the only, seemingly illogical, thing you can think of right now and you close your hand around the rowdy tentacle and squeeze.

The result is instantaneous and certainly not what you had expected. Jimin moans. So then even if he’s not in control, he can still feel through them. Interesting to know. Jimin’s mouth hangs open for a moment before his gaze is meeting yours and you suddenly feel like maybe that was the wrong thing to do.

There’s simmering fire in his eyes as he tries to speak as calmly and evenly as possibly. “I told you I come here once a year, correct?” You nod and he continues. “I come here to mate.”

You blink at him, mind completely blanking out. “M-mate?” You hate how high your voice sounds.

He nods, sending a glare at the tentacles touching you. “When I saw you here, I had assumed you were one that I have spent the mating period with before.”

“Fuck, did I ruin your hookup?”

“Hookup?”

Your body heats with embarrassment. Maybe if you ask nicely, Jimin will let you go drown. “Whoever you were supposed to meet here. Did they not show up because I was here?”

He’s quick to shake his head. “I did not have plans. But sometimes if someone is near they will stop by. If they are not, I can take care of myself.”

The image of Jimin splayed out on the rocks by himself, tentacles sliding across his skin, wrapped around his cock, drawing more of those noises from him shoots straight to your core. Your pussy clenches around nothing and your hand accidentally tightens around Jimin’s tentacle again, drawing a gasp from him.

“I apologize for not warning you sooner. The fireworks distracted me but it appears that it did not distract them.” He gestures to his tentacles. “Give me a moment and I should be able to free you so you can leave.”

His eyes slip closed and your gaze drags over him, startling slightly when you realize he’s started to grow hard too. You feel crazy that the first thing you think is how badly you want to touch.

This is such a bad idea, but before you can stop yourself or second guess, you’re speaking. “What if... you didn’t though?”

Jimin freezes, but the tentacles seem to grow more restless at your words. Another thick one stretches the distance between you both to rest against your thigh, slicking your skin wherever it touches.

“You do not know what you are saying.” He grits out.

The tentacle in your hand squirms and you give it a small squeeze, maintaining eye contact with Jimin as you do so you get to fully enjoy the shudder that ripples through him. “I um, think I have a pretty good idea what I’m saying.”

He shakes his head, hair falling over his eyes. You didn’t think it would be so hard to convince a tentacle monster that you wanted him to fuck you. This was by far the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. For all you know, he could eat his partner afterwards. If you live past this encounter, no one would ever let you live it down. If they even believed you. Your gaze drops involuntarily back to his cock and you find that he's fully hard now. And it’s almost a little intimidating how big he is, longer and thicker than anything you’ve ever taken before. You don’t think your fingers would be able to wrap around the girth. But any apprehensions you think you’d feel normally are nowhere to be seen, all you feel is overwhelming want. You want to try to fit him, to feel the burn as he stretches you out. You want to taste and you want him to absolutely ruin you.

Unsure of any other way to convince him that you do want this, you switch tactics. If you can’t convince him with words, you’ll just have to show him what you want. You release the tentacle in your hand, though it keeps itself wrapped around your wrist, and move to remove your shirt. Seeming to know your plan, or maybe just through a stroke of luck, the tentacle that has been exploring your bikini top seems to have discovered how to undo the ties and as your top hits the ground beside you, your top slips to your lap.

His eyes dip to the scrap of fabric in your lap before they trace slowly back up, expression worryingly blank. You belatedly realize that this might not even be a good signal to him that you do want this. You don’t know what others of his kind look like, if any of them look anything like you. For the most part, he looks human enough, you’d think that maybe this was enough, that maybe this is at least sort of familiar to him. You feel suddenly self conscious, this was such a dumb idea. You really shouldn’t let the horny brain lead. You’re just about to cross your arms to cover yourself when the tentacle that had been on your thigh slithers up your stomach to sit between your breasts.

You glance at Jimin and his eyes seem darker, jaw clenched tight. His tentacles seem to grow more agitated behind him and the ones around your ankles tighten to tug you closer, both to your surprise and apparently also Jimin’s. He flushes, staring down at you with wide eyes as your thighs come to rest against his.

The tentacle on your chest squirms and Jimin’s gaze drops to watch. Your gaze drops too, intending to look at the tentacle currently writhing around on your chest and smearing slick there but you only make it halfway. Because Jimin is now fully hard, thick cock curving up towards his belly and the sight of it has you enraptured. He looked big when he was still soft, but now fully hard, or at least what you assume is fully hard, he looks positively massive. The skin of his cock is the same muted tan of the rest of him, the tip almost blue-gray, close to the color his cheeks turned but deeper in color, and it’s leaking more silvery looking fluid. You wonder if it’s the same thing that is leaking from his tentacles.

Jimin shudders and it takes only a moment for you to realize that the reason is because a thin tentacle has wrapped itself around the base of his cock. It makes you want to touch too. So tentatively, you reach out, gaze flicking between his cock and his face to gauge his reaction and giving him more than enough time to pull away.

He watches your fingers brush against the tip, dragging a smear of slick further down the shaft but he makes no move to stop you. He lets out a shaky exhale and, emboldened by the noise, you wrap your fingers around him. Or you at least try your best to because his girth keeps your fingers from meeting.

Jimin makes a rumbling noise and then there are two more tentacles massaging at your thighs, working their way up until they meet the edge of your shorts. They only probe along the fabric for a moment before slipping beneath and continuing their exploration towards the apex of your thighs. They trace the edge of your bikini bottoms before one of them presses against your pussy through the thin fabric.

You gasp and Jimin’s gaze is back on your face, attention wholly focused on you as his tentacles press again, but this time with a little more pressure. One happens to brush past your clit and you jolt, a moan slipping from your lips and the tentacles seem desperate to recreate that reaction as they narrow their focus to your clit.

Jimin groans again and his hands come up to cup your cheeks, his tentacles all stilling for a moment. He waits until you look up at him. “Are you sure? It will be harder to stop once we start. Are you positive you can handle it? I do not mind spending the time alone.”

It’s sweet how concerned he is about you. But now that he’s started, all you can think about is being fucked by him while his tentacles play with every inch of you. You squirm back slightly and he seems to take that as rejection, if the flash of disappointment you catch on his face is anything to go by. You quickly undo your shorts, tugging them down your legs, assisted by his tentacles once they reach your ankles.

He swallows and you watch as the tentacles from your ankles relocate to your thighs to keep you spread wide as the two that had been in your pants resume their work on your clit, now free of the hindrance of cloth. You bring your slick fingers to your mouth and keep eye contact as you lick them clean. It’s salty like the sea, but rather than the bitterness of cum, his has a hint of sweetness to it. It’s slightly addictive.

He stares at you for a moment and then he’s making another clicking noise and the tentacle that had been around your wrist unwraps itself and slips between your legs to join the other two already there, though it bypasses your clit to circle your dripping hole instead.

“Needy.” He coos, though you’re not sure if it’s directed at you or his tentacles. Maybe both.

He shuffles in close again, seemingly content to just watch his tentacles play with you. You whine, you like the feel of his tentacles, but you want him to touch with his hands and lips too. You want more. Maybe the needy was directed at you after all. He glances up at your noise, watching the way your mouth drops open as his tentacle finally wriggles it’s way into your pussy. It’s firmer than you expected from touching it, but still much more malleable than a cock would be. But it’s softer nature allows it greater freedom to explore your walls as it moves slowly in and out of you, certainly a different experience for you but you definitely can’t find it in you to hate it when it can reach all the right spots inside of you easily.

You reach out, grabbing the first part of Jimin you can grab, his arm, and tug him insistently down on top of you. He complies easily, seemingly curious as to what you want. You wonder if he’s ever kissed a partner before, if that’s something that his kind does. You hesitate and Jimin immediately notices, head tilting in curiosity.

“What is wrong?”

You’re gasping before you can formulate your question, the tentacle inside you having quickly found your g-spot and is now making sure to rub it with every thrust, sending waves of pleasure rippling through your body. Jimin’s head dips down and his nose rubs against yours.

“Are you okay? I have never been with a human and so I am unsure of what might hurt or bring pleasure. Please tell me if they are hurting you.”

He looks so sweet and it makes your heart stutter a little. You tilt your head, capturing his plush lips in a kiss. They’re warmer than you expected, giving the cooler temperature of his tentacles. It takes him a moment of inaction before he seems to catch on to how to kiss back. He makes a small noise when your tongue brushes his lips but he easily parts them for you. His sharp teeth skim your lip and it leaves you gasping into his mouth. He seems pleased with the response and he trails his lips across your jaw and down your neck.

“You did not answer my question.” He murmurs, teeth gently teasing the skin of your neck, mindful of their sharpness.

His tentacles are driving you mad, bringing you so close to your orgasm but seeming to know exactly when to slow back down to draw it out even longer. “What… question?” You gasp out.

“Are you okay?”

You’d scoff if the tentacles around your clit hadn’t started circling in tandem, winding the coil in your belly tighter. “So… so okay… Fuck, Jimin, are you sure you’ve never been with a human before?”

He pulls away from your neck enough to look down at you, a pleased smile stretching his lips. “I have not. Am I doing good?”

You nod enthusiastically, hands tangling in his hair to pull him back in for a messy kiss. He makes a pleased sort of clicking noise in the back of his throat and his tentacles speed up. And this time when your orgasm draws near his tentacles keep their speed rather than slowing again and you cum, back arching off the blanket as your pussy convulses around the tentacle. His tentacles continue their ministrations and Jimin pulls away to stare down at where his tentacle disappears inside you with wide eyed wonder.

He groans as he watches with rapt attention. “Does it do this every time?”

You squirm, oversensitivity quickly setting in as his tentacles refuse to let up. The borderline painful feeling robs you of words to tell him to slow down and give you just a moment to breath. The tentacle inside of you swells and then everything grows a little slicker as Jimin chokes on a gasp. You struggle to reach out to grasp any one of the tentacles, to just lessen the sensations ravaging your pussy just a little, but before you can even make contact, another tentacle is wrapping around both wrists and dragging them above your head.

“J-Jimin, please…”

Jimin pays you no mind, tentacles working faster under his focused gaze and it doesn't take long for you to be thrown into a second orgasm, though it feels almost like the first one never ended. You cry out, much too loud even if the beach is seemingly deserted right now. You shudder as your orgasm crests and Jimin’s tentacle seems to stiffen inside you before you feel suddenly wetter and stickier and full. The tentacle slips out of you after a few weaker thrusts and a small gush of thick liquid follows and the tentacle suddenly seems much less enthusiastic than its counterparts. Fuck, did that mean…?

“Jimin,” you whine, waiting until he finally tears his gaze away from your dripping pussy. “Do… do your tentacles cum too?”

His head tilts in confusion. “Come?” He thinks for a moment before realization seems to overcome him. “Ah. Do you mean do my tentacles also release?”

Embarrassment creeps over you. Something so clinical shouldn’t have you aching to be filled again when you just came twice and apparently already filled. You nod shyly.

“Yes. They also release. It is to give the best chance of a successful mating.”

You swallow, eyeing the tentacles behind him wearily. “Do they all have to?”

He shakes his head, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. “They do not. Only the big ones release. And from those, they do not all release every mating.”

You feel equal parts relieved and disappointed, though you know that you should probably question your disappointment. But you’ve already come this far, no reason to start questioning your potentially bad decisions now.

He tilts his head. “Does it bother you? They do not need to do it near you if it makes you uncomfortable.”

You choke, unsure how to respond for a moment. This whole situation should really terrify and appall you. But you only find yourself growing hotter at the idea of being used by his tentacles and covered in their cum. You chew your lip before giving a small nod.

His eyes trace over your face before he seems to light up and he leans down to press a kiss to your lips. “Does the thought of that arouse you, sweet? I must admit, most of my previous partners were less than enthused about that aspect of mating.”

You groan, wanting nothing more than to bury your face in your hands in shame but Jimin’s tentacles keep your hands studiously bound above your head. Even his own kind didn’t like it. Why were you so weird? He giggles, leaning down to brush your nose with his own. His face is set with a kind smile, but his eyes still dance with mirth and lust.

“I find it very arousing that you like it so much. Tell me what you are thinking about, sweet.”

To punctuate his words, another tentacle slips between your legs, rubbing along your sticky slit. You moan and Jimin’s eyes shine with fire. “I… was thinking about you fucking me and filling me up and leaving me all messy.”

He smirks. “I can do that, sweet. Just ask.”

“Jimin, please, fuck me… Fuck, ruin me…”

Jimin’s grin turns positively feral, sharp teeth on display. And for a moment, fear ripples through you as Jimin looks truly like a monster for the first time since he’s surfaced. But then his tentacles shift around him, eager for their chance to touch. Jimin shoos the thick tentacle away from your pussy, the ones around your thighs assisting him in situating you how he wants. He runs the tips of his cock through the mess left there by his tentacle and a pleased chirp leaves him.

“You are already so full. Do you think you can take more?” He purrs.

You nod and his cock presses against your entrance. He presses just the tip in and he stretches your pussy more than the tentacle did. You gasp, breath robbed from you as the stretch borders on too much. But Jimin seems to sense it and pauses with just the tip inside, allowing you all the time to adjust to his massive cock.

Jimin’s hands skim up your thighs, the tentacles resting passively on your clit once again coming to life and the jolt of pleasure has you squirming on Jimin’s cock. His hands rest on your hips, gripping them with bruising strength to keep you from moving. You whimper at the casual display of strength, at the way that he seems to not even be trying to hold you still while his tentacles slowly circle your clit to get you to relax.

Two other tentacles slip up your body, pressing against your breasts and kneading at the flesh experimentally. The sensation is different, while the tentacles don’t have the surface area the way a hand does, they are capable of moving in ways a hand simply can’t. They grope at the flesh, exploring and testing the limits. One brushes past your nipple, causing you to gasp and suddenly both are on the pebbled buds, playing with them to draw even more noises from you. Their motions mimic the motions on your clit and pleasure sparks across your body once again.

The tentacles shift slightly, long bodies draping down the sides of your breasts and then they press the mounds inwards, forcing the flesh together around the tentacle still resting on your sternum. Jimin grunts at the sudden pressure around his tentacle and your gaze drops to watch with fascination as the tentacle starts to thrust into the tight space, silvery tip gleaming with each press through.

Your pussy clenches at the thought of it slipping a little further up and into your mouth, of tasting that salty, sweet slick from the source. A high pitched noise sounds in Jimin’s throat as his hips stutter forward at the feeling of your pussy tightening around him and you moan as he slips a little further into you, stretching you just a little more. Now though, the stretch makes you ache for more, the burn finally passed with the aid of the tentacles playing with your clit and nipples and slowly pulling your pleasure back to the surface.

You really need him to be completely inside of you and when you dig your heels into his ass to try to get him to move, he seems hesitant. His tentacles, however, seem more than thrilled at the idea and more than happy to help you in your pursuit. The ones around your thighs tighten and pull you closer, until Jimin is buried to the hilt in the clutch of your pussy. The noise is filthy, the mess from his tentacle spilling out around his cock to smear on your thighs and drip down your ass.

Jimin goes rigid when he’s fully inside you, eyes trained on where you’re joined. He seems transfixed by the sight of your cunt swallowing down every inch he has. Your whine has his head snapping up to look at your face, drinking in the way you’re moaning. The tentacle between your breasts slips a little further up, tip bumping your chin once before it’s shifting to your lips. Your tongue darts out, swiping through the salty fluid. Jimin shudders, hips flexing where they press into you and you let your mouth fall open for his tentacle to slip in.

Your tongue swirls around the tip and it squirms, pushing in further than you expect and causing you to gag. It pulls itself from your mouth with a pop and you frown at it’s loss before shifting your gaze to Jimin, who seems to be glaring at the tentacle like it did something wrong.

“Jimin?” When he looks at you, you give him an amused smile. “It’s okay. It just takes me a minute.”

His head tilts but the tentacle makes its way tentatively back to your mouth, hovering until you open again for it to slip back in. It goes a lot slower this time, keeping its thrusts shallow. You hum encouragingly, tongue pressing and massaging the underside as it moves and the tentacle slides a little deeper. You gag only slightly this time, much more prepared now, and after a few thrusts you grow used to the intrusion and it can slip just a little bit more down your throat.

Jimin watches for a moment before groaning and then he’s pulling his cock out until just the tip remains before slamming back in. You moan around his tentacle, noise muffled as it delves further down your throat. It stays there for a moment and the lack of oxygen has your head start to spin. Your hands twitch where they’re still bound above your head, but before the real need for oxygen comes and you have to try to alert Jimin that you need to breathe, the tentacle is pulling out, switching to shallow thrusts while you get a quick break to breathe. The sudden rush of oxygen has you feeling nearly euphoric and you can only hope that the tentacle does it again. When you whine around it, it pushes back into your throat and the rest of the whine is muffled by it’s girth.

Jimin’s fingers flex against your hips as he watches and feels how much of his tentacle slips into the waiting warmth of your mouth and with a moan he starts fucking into your pussy with a quick pace. Your hands grab at the tentacle binding you, needing something, anything, to ground yourself as Jimin fucks you senseless. You feel wholly overwhelmed at the way his cock fills you, the way the tentacles swirl around your clit, your nipples and breasts, at the way the one in your mouth begins to stiffen up.

The tentacles shift on your breasts, kneading the soft flesh once again before pinching at your nipples. You moan around the tentacle in your mouth and it gives a shudder before flooding your mouth and throat. You choke slightly, jerking your head slightly at the sheer volume being released into your mouth, far more than you can handle. Spit and cum drip from the corners of your mouth as you struggle to swallow and the tentacle pulls itself from your mouth before it's finished, painting the lower half of your face even more in its silvery essence. Jimin’s eyes gleam at the sight, seeming to become even more frantic with his thrusts.

“J-jimin…” You whine, voice rough from use. You’re not entirely sure what you’d finish that statement with.

“You are doing so well.” He coos and the praise has your mind going fuzzy. “You look so pretty like this.”

He reaches up, sliding a hand through the mess on your cheeks before letting his hand drag the mess back down your body, leaving a shiny trail down your throat, in the valley between your breasts and across your stomach. He slams in particularly hard and you cry out, voice echoing across the empty beach and ocean, much too loud but you no longer care.

Jimin glows golden, the light haloing him and your fucked out mind is sluggish to make sense of the sudden color change. Then you remember why you were out here to begin with and you make the connection just as the resounding boom of the firework follows just after the shower of color. The fireworks show must be finally starting because the next second Jimin is bathed in blue, then pink.

But as quick as your attention was taken by the colorful shadows splashed across Jimin’s beautiful face, it’s taken back as he shifts suddenly, hands leaving your hips to push your thighs together as he continues to fuck you. Your calves come to rest on one shoulder and Jimin uses the new position to fuck you even harder.

Something slick drags along the crease where your thighs are pressed together and a second later a tentacle is pushing into the tight space. Your skin tingles where it presses into your skin and with every thrust it makes through the tight press of your thighs, it bumps the tentacles on your clit. Jimin presses a kiss to your leg and you feel the breath leave him as his tentacle speeds up and he hisses.

The sensations are nearly overwhelming, to the point that you almost miss the new slim tentacle kneading the flesh of your ass. It delivers a pinch to the skin that leaves you gasping and you’re much more aware of it as it runs along the seam of your ass. You squirm, or at least attempt to, because between the tentacles restraining you and Jimin’s firm grip on your thighs, you’re left nearly immobile as you get fucked. The tentacle slips a little further up, gathering some slick before it’s dipping back down to prod at the tight ring of muscle of your hole.

You shudder and if you could move, you’d press down onto the tentacle, force it to fill you because you need it as much as you need Jimin’s cock in you. “Fuck, please, don’t tease…”

Jimin’s face is set in concentration and you don’t think he heard you, except a second later the tentacle breaches your ass. You moan, glad that it was a smaller one to start. It thrusts tentatively, growing bolder as your noises raise in pitch and then a second slim tentacle is joining, slipping past the tight ring of muscle to thrust in counterpoint to the first.

Jimin’s thrusts slow, his head tilting back as he pants. He looks like a sculpture, so beautiful that it aches a little. Something that people should look at and marvel over. A moan slips past his lips as the tentacles in your ass speed up a little, taking some time to also shift apart and spread you open even more.

“You… are endless…” Jimin breaths out. It sounds reverent.

The tentacles slip from you and you have no time to mourn the loss before they’re being replaced by one of the thicker tentacles. The stretch hurts a little, but with so many other things happening to your body at the same time, you’re quickly distracted from the ache. The tentacle stills anyway, allowing you time to adjust to its thick girth.

“You are so full of surprises.” He says, head dropping forward once more to let his gaze rake over your shuddering figure.

The tentacle in your ass thrusts in response to Jimin’s words and when you don’t indicate any pain, both pull out and thrust roughly back in. The tentacle between your thighs and in your ass thrust opposite Jimin, keeping you full and stimulated when Jimin pulls out.

“Please… Jimin please, fill me up, you said you would…” You feel slightly delirious with need, every thrust of his tentacle adds extra pressure to your clit and you feel so close to cumming, teetering on the edge.

Jimin gives you no verbal response, only that of him pressing your thighs together a little harder. A few more thrusts of the tentacle between your thighs has you clamping down on Jimin’s cock and the one in your ass as you cum, body shuddering as the tentacles and Jimin continue to thrust. You squeeze your eyes shut, vision nearly whiting out entirely as your orgasm slams into you. The tentacle between your thighs lasts only a handful more thrusts before its stiffening and releasing, splattering your chest, belly, and thighs in the silver cum. It gives a few weak final spurts before slipping back through your thighs as Jimin parts them once more.

His cock twitches as his gaze falls over you messy form, the normally silvery liquid lighting up in splashes of color with every new explosion that happens above you both. He’s never seen a more beautiful sight. One of his hands lands on your thigh as the other bats his tentacles away from your clit, an action that you're grateful for for only a moment because he quickly replaces them with his fingers. You arch and cry out, jerking your hands with enough force that you seem to startle the binding tentacle and it releases you. Your hands wrap around his wrist, tugging futilely at it to get him to let up.

You moan his name desperately, trying to squirm away from the sensation as his tentacles keep you held close as he continues to fuck you through your overstimulation.

“Can you do that for me one more time? You feel so good when you do that, sweet.”

You whimper. You want to say no, that it hurts a little and that you really don’t think you’re capable of another orgasm. But the pout he wears stops you and you find yourself nodding without even thinking about how you’re going to get past the too much feeling currently overwhelming your body.

Jimin gives you another feral grin, eyes roving over your figure as his fingers work quick circles around your clit. For no experience with a human, he’s an incredibly fast learner. He seems to know your body better than your ex had and the two of you had been together for almost 2 years.

The tentacles on your breasts move to collect some of the slick covering you, smearing it around your nipples as the pinch and play with them, the slick adding a new layer of feeling to the actions.

“Come on, sweet.” Jimin purrs as his cock seems to swell ever more and the tentacle in your ass starts to stiffen.

Another rough thrust and a few twists of his fingers and you’re cumming again with a cry of his name. Your pussy and ass convulses around him and Jimin lets out a series of clicks and chirps as he finally cums, flooding your pussy and ass with more silvery slick. There seems to be a never ending stream from his cock and after a few moments, pressure on your lower stomach makes you look down, groaning at the sight of your slightly distended belly.

Jimin makes a contented noise, rubbing gently over the swell. “You would look so beautiful swollen with my children.”

His cock gives another twitch and a feeble last spurt of cum and Jimin and his tentacles seem to deflate. His chin presses to his chest as he takes in slow, deep breaths. The tentacles all slowly slip from your body and you mourn the slight warmth you lose. Another few moments pass and then Jimin is gingerly pulling his cock from your abuse pussy and gazing over your whole body with almost reverence.

You feel too exhausted to do much more, but you can feel his cum dripping from you, forming a puddle beneath your ass. At least you're next to the ocean for easy clean up. If you had the energy to do that. Maybe in 5 minutes… Or an hour. You can’t even feel your legs right now. You’re pretty sure you’d just drown.

Jimin stretches out beside you, arm coming to wrap around your middle, seemingly unbothered by the fact that it lands in a mess. You blearily realize that his tentacles seem much smaller now too. His head tilts and you realize that he’s watching the fireworks again. Like he didn’t just fuck you within an inch of your life and leave you ruined for anyone who comes after him.

You watch in silence for a while, endeared by Jimin’s ohs and ahs as he discovers new types of fireworks, the different shapes and effects that can happen.

“Jimin.” You call softly. His nose brushes your shoulder in response. “Will… Nevermind. It’s stupid.”

Jimin pushes himself up enough so that he can look down at you, frown marring his pretty face. “What is it?”

You fidget, suddenly hating that you’re naked and still covered in him. You glance over at the water.

“Do you wish to go in, sweet?”

It’s an easy out and you don’t feel strong enough to ask the real question yet, so you give him a simple nod. He grins, scooping you up and gracefully sliding you both into the water, arm wrapped tight around your middle to keep you afloat.

Colors flash around you as you stare into Jimin’s eyes, every color reflected there as well. Before you can second guess yourself, you lean forward and press a kiss to his lips. He lets out a surprised noise and then giggles when you pull away.

“Do you wish to go again?”

Embarrassment fills you and you shake your head. “No. Um…” You take a deep breath. You can do this. “Will I see you again?”

Jimin’s face is unreadable for a painful stretch of time, though you’re sure it’s only a few seconds before he’s grinning. “I find myself quite taken by humans. I could certainly use a guide.”

You grin back, pecking him again. “First lesson, when humans like someone and want to spend time with them and go on dates, they give them kisses.”

He hums, giving you a kiss of his own, just a little deeper than yours. “I think I quite like kisses.” Then he grins and it’s full of mischief. “I think fireworks are my favorite though.”

You snort, prodding him with a finger. “You sure it’s the fireworks you like?”

He makes a thoughtful noise before nodding. “They make you luminous, sweet.”

#bangtanarmynet #btsguild #kwritersworldnet #ksmutclub #magicshopnet #btswriterscollective #bangtanhq #bts x reader #jimin x reader #bts smut #jimin smut #bts fanfic #jimin fanfic #jamaisjoons summer collab #tsb event 2020 #tsb collab 2020 #monster au #tentacle au

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venhedish · 3 years ago

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Ven’s Masterlist of SPN Fic

I write mostly pre-series and early seasons Big Feels™ Wincest fic. There’s a lot of angst and pining here, but plenty of love and devotion mixed in with the darkness.

I always deeply, deeply appreciate likes, kudos, comments, and reblogs!

Wincest Fic

Stand-Alone

Yesterday is a Ghost I Believe In ~4.1k, Teen, Pre-series, Epistolary, Multimedia, Experimental There's an old shoebox under Sam Winchester's bed. It's been there almost as long as he can remember. He doesn't look inside it very often, but when he does, he takes his time. A multimedia collection of letters, journal entries, pictures, and other ephemera from a life on the road. .

That Monster, Love ~2k, Teen, Pre-series, POV Outsider, POV John Winchester, John Finds Out, Angst “You think you’re doing your boys any favors, raisin’ ‘em like this?” .

To Cure My Lonesome Blood ~8.8k, Explicit, Pre-series, Pining Dean, Angst, Bittersweet Ending Dean’s been sick since before either of them was born. The disease is incurable, written into his blood – the same blood he shares with his brother. If he’s not careful, the fever will spread like a fire and consume them both. .

Like Sand, Like Water, Like Sunlight ~1.7k, Gen, Pre-series, Mutual Pining, Angst, Pre-Slash Sea birds circle overhead and Dean wishes he had a camera. Sam looks so young, all of twelve years old, and exhilarated. Dean wants to hold this image in the chambers of his heart, but his pulse just carries it along; time is cruel that way. .

The Space Between Sense and Memory ~4.8k, Teen, Pre-series through Season 1, 5-and-1 Things There are a hundred unwritten rules on all the acceptable ways brothers should touch each other. There are hardly any ways at all to break them. Or; five times they follow the rules and one time they don’t. .

Every Goodbye, all at Once ~900, Teen, Pre-series, Stanford Era, Pining Dean, Angst, Epistolary "Hey, It's Sam. If you're looking for my dad, you can reach him at 866-555-9352. If you're looking for me, leave a message." A series of voicemails Dean leaves at the number Sam left behind. .

Breathe You In (Choke You Down) ~6k, Explicit, Season 01, PWP, Scent Kink, Guilty Dean Winchester Once Sam was gone, Dean missed him in a way that was all-consuming, all the way down – so deep in his bones that he shook with loneliness some nights. And it was the familiar scent of his brother’s hair where it tangled warm against the pillows, his pulse beating under his skin and sending the fear of the hunt wafting off of him in waves that Dean struggled to hold onto the hardest. Dean really likes the way Sam smells.. .

Dawn is Coming (Open Your Eyes) ~5k, Explicit, Season 01, Hurt/Comfort, Getting Back Together In which Sam and Dean suffer new wounds and stitch old ones back together. There’s an awful storm, a dead monster, an injury, and a whole lot of feelings. .

You put the Magic in Me ~9.1k, Explicit, Season 02(ish), Sex Pollen, Porn with Plot, Casefic “This is the weirdest thing we’ve ever done for a case,” Dean says under his breath, leaning into Sam and scouting the crowd gathered around a dozen tables inside the little café. “Dude, relax,” Sam says back, eyebrows raising at his brother’s nervous energy. “I thought this would be, like, your thing.” He gestures vaguely to the women milling around inside. A long, vividly red banner hangs across the open french doors that lead into the space, emblazoned with the words The Oolong Tea Room Presents: Lonely Hearts Club Speed Dating! Feb 11-14th! Or; in which Sam and Dean learn a thing or two about chemistry. .

The Stars are not Wanted Now ~2k, Teen, Season 02, Episode Tag: s02e21 All Hell Breaks Loose, Angst, Death Rituals There was a body on the bed. It had been there long enough that the slanting light of morning crept into the room like an unwelcome invader and washed the world in a dream-shade of palest blue. But there were no dreams here; only death, only memory. The body on the bed was all that remained of Samuel Winchester, who had died in his brother’s arms the night before. .

Demi-Gods and Hungry Ghosts ~5.8k, Explicit, Season 03, Episode Tag: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Dark, Dub-con, Hurt No Comfort This dream-state of living on pause and rewind leads to some interesting avenues of thought that Sam doesn’t mean to travel, but after a certain number of unrelenting Tuesdays, they just become inevitable. If Dean dies every day—if his memories are wiped, or if they never happen at all—what could Sam get away with, if he wanted to? Could he dare to find out? .

In Sanguine Vita Est ~5.2k, Explicit, Season 04, Knifeplay, Dean’s Hell Trauma, Hurt/Comfort Everything was different now. Dean was here—back from the fucking dead—but he was a stranger in his own body. Scars gone, aches from broken bones that hadn’t set right vanished back into the void as if they’d never existed at all. He’d become a stranger to the whole world. He’d become a stranger to Sam. _ Dean asks Sam to help him heal after he returns from Hell. .

All Heartless Spectres, Happiness ~5.7k, Explicit, Season 06, Episode Tag: s06e06 You Can’t Handle the Truth, POV Outsider, Angst, Soulless Sam Lisa Braeden receives an email with the subject line, "You Deserve to Know." It contains a single video file and nothing else. .

The Rungs of Me be Under You ~1.6k, Teen, Gencest, Post-Bunker, 2nd Person POV, Queerplatonic Sam and Dean, Non-Sexual Kink What they share has never been easy to define. Why should this be any different? .

Wincest Series The Top/Bottom Discourse Series (Ongoing) [Each story is canon compliant and listed chronologically, but they can all be read as standalone works.] This series was born originally from a silly meta post I made on Tumblr as a response to some very angry top/bottom discourse I was seeing about how only Sam could truly be A Top™, or how only Dean could truly be A Top™. I personally like to kink and let kink and not drag outdated gender politics into my fandom (Dean can't be a bottom because he's too masculine? Ice cold take, bro), so I wrote a filthy little tongue-in-cheek post about all the ways I think Sam and Dean have fucked each other over the years.

I’m Thinking About Whatever You’re Thinking About ~5.1k, Explicit, Pre-series, PWP, Bratty Sam, Exhibitionism, Fear of Discovery Sam is such a brat, sometimes. .

Shoot to Thrill ~6.7k, Explicit, Season 02, Porn with Plot, Hustling, Getting Back Together It's just like riding a bike. .

Burn Out The Night ~4.9k, Explicit, Season 08, Porn with Plot, Car Sex, Light BDSM, Fluff What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. .

Destiel Fic

Love Made a Martyr of Me ~500, Teen, Season 05, Endverse, Past Sam/Dean, Angst Sam says yes in Detroit, and in the space of a single syllable, there's nothing left in Heaven or on Earth for Dean to love. Cas doesn't seem to care. .

The Sharp Teeth of the One You Love ~2k, Teen, Season 05, Endverse, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Pining “Quit bein’ a baby, Cas.” Dean’s hands were covered in blood, but they were steady as always while he worked to stitch Castiel back together. “I’m sorry,” Cas growled between gritted teeth. “I don’t exactly have a lot of experience feeling pain.” He hissed again when Dean slid the curved needle back through the eight-inch-long gash that ran deep and bloody down Cas’s bicep. Castiel learns something about what it means to be human. .

Wincestiel Fic

Temerate ~700, Teen, Season 05(ish), Past Sam/Dean, 2nd Person POV, First Time Your brother is sitting in the corner of the motel room. His big hands are worrying at each other; he squeezes them together, fingertips white from the pressure of his grip. He meets your eyes and his gaze is like a lightning strike. .

Dean/John Fic

Cruore ~1.1k, Mature, Pre-series, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Blood, Intrusive Thoughts Bites, Dean could deal with – claw marks and broken bones. But this- ... a bullet was a different kind of monster altogether. .

Supernatural RPF

Il Cielo in Una Stanza ~4.4k, Explicit, Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki, Getting Back Together, Prequel-Gate, Polyamory, Non-AU Jared Padalecki receives a present he wasn't expecting at all for his 39th birthday. .

Other Supernatural Fic

Bad Things, Better Reasons ~2k, Explicit, Pre-series, Dean Does Sex Work, Angst, Brotherly Love. Dean does whatever it takes to keep the bills paid while John is gone. The kid waiting for him back at the motel room is all the justification he’ll ever need. .

No Was Her Name ~1.3k, Teen, Season 12, Dean/Mary, Light Angst, First Kiss Mary Winchester was alive. She was solid—made of skin and blood and bone—and she existed in the same world as Dean. It wasn’t a dream; she walked and talked and breathed. She ate, she slept, she wandered the halls of the bunker at odd hours. She was a ghost made flesh, and Dean was haunted by her presence. .

#ven creates #wincest #wincestiel #destiel #J2 #daddycest #spn fic #fic masterlist #my fic #long post #sorry #i just wanna be able to link to it in my bio

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bumirang · 3 years ago

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Turtle, Duck, Dragon, Horse: Ch. 8 excerpt

It’s a chilly afternoon when Bumi sits in on Hana’s worst training session since she arrived at Air Temple Island.

Under Jinora’s supervision, she and six other novitiates were walking the circle in a coordinated effort to create a sphere of solid wind nearly twice her height. Intimidating, but she’d managed it before. She actually wasn’t doing too terribly, until she caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye. Maybe it was excitement or performance anxiety or just the distraction, but that’s when it all went wrong. She immediately fell out of step with the others, but the more she tried to correct for it, the more unstable their formation became, until the sphere was a roiling squall-ball they were struggling just to contain.

Master Jinora stepped forward and summoned a gust with thought alone. “That’s, uh, impressive, but if you’ll slow down and back away, I can safely disper—”

Then it exploded, with a roar like a thunderclap in reverse. Thankfully, they were shielded from the worst of it by a barrier whipped up by their teacher, but it was a close thing.

Hana’s ears are still ringing when she makes in Bumi’s direction, ignoring the accusatory glances from her fellow novitiates. It’s obvious to all of them who messed things up, but they can’t prove anything, so whatever. Bumi, in contrast, just waves happily, absentmindedly petting Bum-Ju on his shoulder.

She stops five feet away from him and plants her hands on her hips. “What’re you doing here?”

“Hi to you, too,” he replies, slightly offended.

“Sorry, that sounded… I mean, did you need me for something?”

“Nope.”

“So, what, you popped by to watch me be a screw-up?”

“Well, I like to get a feel for where the newbies’re at. Didn’t think you’d be out with ‘em.”

She deflates a bit. “You saw how hopeless I am. I’ll be stuck with the newbies forever at this rate.”

“Nooo, no… Your bending’s just, uh, chaotic.” His smile is wide but not very convincing. Oh no. He’s trying to be nice. Her face burns at the realization. Pity is the last thing she wants from him, of all people.

He continues, “Form was great, though. Right, buddy?” He glances at the dragonfly-bunny, who shrugs. “Yeah, he thinks so, too.”

“…Thanks.” She stares past him, at the ground, wishing she were anywhere else. At the same time, Bumi’s easily her favorite person on Air Temple Island, and it’s usually such a treat being the focus of his attention. If only she could be anything other than a pathetic misfit in his eyes.

He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, kid, don’t get hung up on it. We’ll figure it out.” His voice has gone all serious, worried.

“You don’t have to… be nice to me.”

“…Huh?”

“Because you feel sorry for me. I don’t want…” She feels her eyes flood with hot tears. In a panic, she slaps a hand over her face, harder than she intended. “Ow.”

Bumi clears his throat and calls over her head, across the courtyard, “Hey, Jinora, gonna steal Hana for a bit!”

“Oh, we’re all done!” she calls back, sounding less rattled than she probably feels. “No theft required.”

“Great! Seeya at dinner!” His hand slides down to Hana’s arm, sending a wave of goosebumps shivering along her shoulders and neck. She almost jumps when he mutters into her ear, “I know a good place to talk. No lookie-loos.”

Then they’re hurtling through the air, and she forgets about her shame for a sweet thirty seconds. His grip on her arm is firm, but she latches onto him anyway. Just survival instinct, she reminds herself, as she hears him laugh with her ear against his chest. He wraps an arm around her then, and she feels safer than she ever did on the ground.

Bumi sets them down in a little grassy clearing on the eastern edge of the island. It’s not far from one of his favorite places to have class, but without any obvious paths to it, you’d have to survey the island from the air to even know it exists. Or just know its layout like the back of your hand. It’s late afternoon, leaving most of it in the shade from nearby trees. What sunlight there is glows gold on dead grass. Framed by two stunted trees jutting from the cliff’s edge is the skyline of Republic City, painted gold as the grass. Bumi pulls a little ta-dah pose in front of it, which gets a smile out of her.

“That’s more like it,” he says, wearing his own smug grin. “Now what was that about you not wanting me to be nice?”

“I just meant…” She grasps at the air, like the words she needs to complete her thought are buzzing around her. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to go out of your way. For me.” It seems like a moot point now.

“Why not you?”

“I’m not cut out for this. You’re wasting your time.”

He laughs softly to himself and crosses his arms. For a moment, Hana’s terrified that he might be mocking her, but when he looks back up at her, his eyes are kind, and a little sad. “I know how ya feel,” he says with a shrug.

“How could you poss—”

Bumi just raises an eyebrow at her, and she slaps her hand over her face again. It stings worse than the first time, but she figures she deserves that.

“Fu— Nngh! I’m such an—” Hana drops down onto her haunches, holding her throbbing face in both hands. Maybe with enough pressure, she can shove the tears and snot back where they belong. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.”

She hears him sit down across from her. “M’not mad, kid. Like I said, I’ve been where you are. More or less.” She steals a glance at him, seated maybe a foot away and wearing the city itself like his own personal aura. “I see you busting your ass to do what comes so easy to others, and I know what that does to ya. Shame and doubt. Anger. A lot of anger. It can make ya feel worthless…”

She nods and eases into a cross-legged sit, mirroring him.

“S’not true, though. Everyone’s worth something. You’re worth a lot. Trust me, I’ve got an eye for talent.” Bum-Ju, who’s been hovering at a respectful distance, picks that moment to park himself on her head. “See? So does he.”

Hana wipes her runny nose, trying to hide it at first, but Bumi’s expression is so genuinely affable that she feels silly for thinking he might judge her. He’s on her side. A goopy face won’t change that. For lack of better options, she wipes up with a sleeve.

Hands dry, she reaches up, tentatively, to pet the dragonfly-bunny. “Is it okay if I…?”

“That’s up to him.”

The spirit doesn’t flee at her touch. In fact, he leans into it. She gasps as she runs her fingers through his fur, which is easily the softest, silkiest texture she’s ever felt, like yarn spun from cloudstuff. To her surprise, he gives a happy little chirrup and plops into her lap, landing on his back.

“He says to tell you he wants belly rubs.”

“Heh. Okay.” Petting Bum-Ju is supremely soothing, like lemonade on a summer’s day. His quiet little chirps merge and blend into a purr, and she smiles again. How could she not?

“It… It’s humiliating. I knew training wasn’t gonna be easy, but this is like being a little kid all over again.” She runs a finger along the edge of one of the spirit’s strange insectoid wings. Like the fur, it doesn’t feel entirely substantial. “I was supposed to be an earthbender, y’know.”

“Yeah? Says who?”

“…My dad.”

“Hah! Ain’t that always the way?”

“Heh…”

“You don’t give me earthbender vibes at all. You’re too… squishy.”

Her head shoots up to glare at him, and she notices how the sunlight’s shifted since they arrived. Twilight’s creeping up fast. “Did you just call me squishy?”

She’s caught him off-guard, and he blushes at the unflattering implications of such a word choice. “That’s to say… Well, the way rocks aren’t, right? Does that make sense?”

“No…?”

“You’re, I dunno, airy.”

“So I’m squishy like air…?”

Bumi runs a hand through his hair in actual frustration. “Forget I said you were squishy!” He looks relieved when she giggles and clues him into her teasing.

“My point being,” she continues blithely, “I may be the worst airbender here, but I had no earth talent whatsoever. Dad was not pleased. I never even wanted to do it, except to please him.”

“Sorry.”

“I have a little brother, though, and he’s brilliant with earth. Stone, glass, metal. You name it. Guess it worked out for Dad in the end, but I always… Even though it was crazy, I always wanted to fly. Not in an airship, but like the birds do. It never seemed fair.” She winces at how naive that sounds. “After Harmonic Convergence, I thought, y’know, finally. This is who I’m supposed to be.” Sympathy fills the lines around Bumi’s eyes and mouth, and she looks back down at the fuzzy spirit in her lap. She gives him some experimental chin scritches, which seem to go over well. “But it’s been more than three months now, and I’m still… I’m just a screw-up.”

“You’re the best teaching assistant I’ve ever had.”

Hana blinks. “Aren’t I the only one you’ve ever had?”

“Nah, I used to spend summers teaching new recruits arts ‘n’ crafts.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Says somebody who has no idea how boring it can get on a tour of duty! Keeping your hands busy staves off Sea Madness. And fistfights… Well, that is until somebody badmouths another guy’s macramé. I’ve been called as a witness at some crazy court martials, lemme tell ya.”

“I… Wow, okay. I guess you’d know.”

“And before I forget, let’s get one thing clear,” says Bumi, leaning forward and pointing right in her face. “I like being around you. Aren’t we friends?”

What’s the appropriate response to that? “You… friend… with me?” Well, it’s definitely not that. “I guess I didn’t… I thought you were just trying to figure me out. What’s wrong with me, I mean.”

“That, too, but hey! We have fun, right?”

“Yeah?”

“There ya go! Friends!”

She laughs. She can’t help it. Seeing the way Bumi’s face lights up only makes her laugh harder. Bum-Ju launches clear of her lap as she doubles over. Collapsed on the grass, she finally admits, “Okay! We’re friends! I guess!”

“So…” Only when she sees his shoulders relax does Hana realize how tense he’s been this whole time. “You always wanted to fly, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. More than anything. Thought I could grow up to be a bird if I put in the effort, but I was forced to develop an overactive imagination instead.”

“Sounds like a fun story.”

She pushes herself back into a sitting position and picks bits of grass out of her hair. She could do with a trim, now that she’s thinking about it. “Not a whole lot to tell. I was basically a toddler, and I don’t remember much.”

“Yeah?” Bumi’s grinning at her. He grins a lot, to be fair, but he has a different style for every occasion. Goofball, smart-ass, encouraging, nervous, and so on. This is a pure look of amused contentment, just for her. It makes her feel all gooey inside, but in a nice way, no snot involved.

“Hm. Well, okay. Mom did tell me about one time she found me eating worms out of the garden.”

“Hah! What’d it taste like?”

“Slimy dirt, probably? I only know it happened from Mom. Like I said, toddler.”

Bumi scratches his neck and looks off to the side, like he’s debating something with himself, then says, “I jumped off cliffs a lot.”

“Wow. Dark.”

“Into the water! Got pretty good at climbing. Diving, too, but that’s just, y’know, falling with style.”

“Umbrellas.” He looks at her expectantly, eyes glittering like chips of ice. They might be the palest she’s ever seen, and if they aren’t the most beautiful, they’re definitely in the top five. That’s a strange thought. Despite his age, he’s actually quite handsome. In fact, the wrinkles themselves emphasize his features in a way she didn’t realize she appreciated until just now. They tell a story of a life well-lived.

A quirk of his eyebrows reminds her that she’s in the middle of a conversation, during which she’s just said “umbrellas” and stared at him for ten seconds.

“W-well. Um. I saw this character in a storybook who flew around with an umbrella, so I found the biggest one I could and ran down the street, screaming my head off the whole time.” Hana feels herself blush at the admission. “That part seemed important for some reason. I was, like, five.”

“How’d that go?”

“As I recall, I broke the umbrella, and several people called the cops. They thought I was escaping from a murderer or something. Can’t imagine why.”

Bumi just laughs. Hana revels in it until he quiets enough to keep telling him embarrassing things about herself.

“Then there was the time I spent a month collecting loose feathers around my neighborhood and stuffed them all in my shirt,” she says, with a bit of added pantomime. “Was gonna jump out the apartment window, but I chickened out.”

“So… it worked?”

“Shut up. You are horrible, and I hate you now.”

“Minus 57 points for disrespecting your elder.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault they dress me like a giant baby.” She tugs at a corner of the scarlet shawl sewn around the shoulders of her standard-issue Air Nomad pajamas. They both snicker.

Then Bumi sits up straight like he’s been struck by lightning. “I got it!”

“Hm?”

“A wingsuit. Try one on!”

“That’s not really allowed unless you’ve qualified, though.”

“Eh, if you get in trouble, I’ll smooth it over,” he says with a little hand wave. “It could be just the confidence boost you need to get over whatever mental block is tripping you up.” He gestures at his own outfit. “Think about it. The right uniform can totally change how you see yourself. And I should know.”

“That’s a good point, but…” Hana shrugs and makes various non-committal noises. What she doesn’t mention is her discomfort at the snugness of the wingsuit’s fit. As ridiculous as the pajamas look on her, they’re at least loose and comfortable. Squeezing into a skintight flight suit to practice—probably clumsily as ever—is just another humiliation waiting to happen. It does give her an idea, though.

“Remember when I told you how I’ve had a bit of Kyoshi Warrior training?” she asks with a little smirk.

“I remember you not flipping me, even after I asked nicely.”

“Well, I might still have my fan lying around somewhere…”

#text #bumi ii #lok bumi #lok fanfic #fanfic #tddh #oc hana #hana #hanumi #yes i'm shipping bumi with my oc fight me

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welcome-to-afterlife · 4 years ago

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Wannabe Challenge Kpop AU Headcanons

I know that no one requested this, but I had this idea stuck in my head for a while now. It took quite some time to get down, but I'm finally done!

Role: Leader, Main Vocalist, Center

Taehee was the first member of the group to be recruited by ST Entertainment. He had a charismatic yet soft aura that drew all the girls on audition day. Immediately, the entertainment company knew that Taehee would become part of their label.

However, it took him a good 5 years before the company decided that he was ready for debut. It was within this time that he learned how to avoid the entertainment industry's sleazy business practices, develop a strong image, and maintain constant motivation for debut. You could say he subconsciously preparing to he a leader by trying to himself afloat for 5 years.

Once he finally got to debut, Taehee was chosen to be the leader of the group. Although Hansol seemed like the more obvious choice, Hansol thought that Taehee would be a better fit since Taehee already knew a lot about the entertainment industry due to his experience. Besides, he was the only one who was mature and emotionally-equipped to lead a group.

As for Taehee's abilities, his strongest suit is his singing. While he wasn't the strongest singer at the start of his training, he ended up become one of the best vocalists in the company. His voice has a unique color that radiates smoothness with a hint of attitude. He's able to hit high notes, but he's a lot better at belting -- especially when he's feeling emotional.

Perhaps this is the reason that Taehee excels in elegant concepts. His graceful movements along with his princely facial expressions make him the star on the stage. Think of songs such as "I'm in Trouble" by NU'EST, "Blue Flame" by ASTRO, and "Not By the Moon" by GOT7. It's like he belongs on an icy throne in a golden palace.

Surprise, surprise: he gets the most lines in their songs. Usually it's not by a lot, but sometimes ST gives some of Biho's lines to Taehee (much to the everyone's dismay). He's never comfortable singing those lines and tries to negotiate to give Biho more lines, but it doesn't always work. He gets quite the backlash for it, but unfortunately it's out of his control.

When interacting with fans, Taehee is usually very warm and kind. He's constantly asking about everyone's health and well-being, nagging fans to keep themselves at top priority. He doesn't want fans to ruin their lives because of their love for him and his group. He's also very earnest and mature, almost like a guardian angel to his fans. Wherever they go, his heart is always with them.

In the group, he's basically the dad. He's always looking out for the other members (yes, even Yooha). Just like his fans, his members' well-being is top priority. In lives, you'll probably see him in the background cooking food, cleaning dorms, and or scolding the other members for doing dumb things (that last reason is why he's also very likely to appear in crack videos).

However, he appears most often in "sassy moment compilations" because of his reactions. Taehee has even gone viral because he just straight up rolled his eyes at a variety show when they asked him uncomfortable questions and threw not-so-subtle shade. From then on, he's been dubbed as the "sassy king".

For side projects, his main path is acting. Taehee is a really good actor who played the main male lead in a critically acclaimed K-Drama. He played the sly but sweet love interest in a historical drama. The audience are always amazed at his ability to adapt to the time period so accurately.... it's almost as if he's lived there himself?

Role: Main Rapper, Lead Dancer, Vocalist

Originally, Yooha has started off as a model. However, staff from ST Entertainment saw Yooha and thought that his visuals would be perfect for the kpop business. They offered their business card to him and he decided to try out for fun. Fortunately, he nailed his audition and was admitted as a trainee immediately.

Yooha was the last person to join the company and had the shortest training time (1 year). His sudden arrival and decision to debut with the group created a rift between him and the other members. Taehee thought it was unfair that Yooha could debut with minimal training while Hansol was worried that Yooha's addition would affect the group's dynamic (in areas like line distribution, dance formation, etc).

However, he and the other members were forced to resolve their issues when he became Taehee's roommate at their dorm. Since it was Taehee's job to lead the group (including Yooha), the two had no choice but to bond.

Now before y'all yell at me that Yooha isn't main rapper material, just know that I had to give the position to someone. Secondly, Yooha has an alluring and deep voice voice that was perfect for rap. Also, he is really good at rapping in various beats and experiments with different flows. While he can do fast raps, he prefers to make ones that have a distinct rhythm and leave a lasting impact on the audience.

However, Yooha hadn't planned to debut as the group's rapper. His original role being the main dancer, but he jokingly rapped in an pre-debut interview and everyone fell in love with his voice. From that, ST Entertainment thought it would be best to make Yooha the rapper instead.

In fan interactions, Yooha is very slick and flirty. Whether it's in fanmeet, lives, or concerts, Yooha knows exactly how to steal the hearts of his fans. Just one wink is enough to make the entire stadium swoon over him.

However, he's also the crackhead of the group. If you search for the group's "crackhead moment compilations", 80% of the video will involve Yooha somehow. In fact, it's these moments that really boost his popularity within the group and skyrocket him to the 2nd most popular member in the group.

Sometimes, he manages to pull one over Taehee and becomes the most popular member. How does this happen? Well, whenever the group has a "bad boy"/sexy concept comeback, Yooha absolutely dominates the stage. Think of songs such as "Want" by Taemin, "7th Sense" by NCT U, and "Love Killa" by Monsta X. The sexy concept was made for him, so it's no surprise when everyone in the comments section thirsts over him. It's just enough to put him over the edge against Taehee in fan voting.

He also has the most risque outfits. Yooha has an amazing body and he knows it, so why keep it hidden? His wardrobe is filled with experimental pieces that show of his abs, forearms, and everything in between. It's the reason why he's voted "Best Dressed" on every voting app.

Yooha is also a smooth dancer. His fluidity and confidence amplifies his sex appeal on stage, which often causes fans to confuse him as the group's main dancer. He's also has killer facial expressions that maintain his striking stage presence, making it impossible to keep your eyes off of him.

When Yooha isn't rocking the stage, you'll probably see him on magazines and commercial shoots. Photographers just can't get enough of his visuals, so they constantly bring him back for more modeling. He'll even dabble his feet in web dramas, but it doesn't last for long due to the scheduling conflicts between the web dramas and his music career.

Position: Main Dancer, Main Vocalist, Producer, Face of the Group

Hansol started his music journey long before ST Entertainment. He had been creating music as early as elementary school (mainly him bashing wooden sticks on the table and strumming rubber bands). However, he really got to develop his passion on high school-- where he dedicated his time towards music production and music theory.

Thus, Hansol had his own YouTube channel where he created covers of different artists and snippets of songs that he created on his own. From that, he amassed a small following of 25K subscribers. This audience attracted ST Entertainment, who took a liking to his videos and asked him whether he wanted to be a trainee. Hansol gladly took the offer.

Hansol was the 2nd member to join ST and trained for 3 years. Although the company had given him the opportunity to debut immediately, Hansol wanted to wait until he reached his full potential.

While Hansol originally was the leader of the group (since he already had a fairly stable music presence), he had to product all their music. This ate up leadership time, which Hansol was having difficulty in managing. Besides, he thought that Taehee was more mature than him and thought Taehee would do a better job as a leader. Hansol ended up handing the leader role to Taehee before debut.

Hansol's production has been praised by critics, fans, and other producers. His vision for the song helps the group distinguish themselves from the other acts in the entertainment industry and create their own identities as a group. Sometimes he writes songs with Biho (or by himself) to better convey his emotions onto their group's album.

Hansol is the group's ace: he can sing, dance, and even rap. He's equally talented at singing and dancing, so he decided to take main positions for both skills. In his singing, Hansol has a high-pitched voice that makes it easy for him to hit high notes and belt to his heart's content. In fact, many of his lines in the songs are his adlibs (which give the song that extra spice).

Hansol's dancing style is sharp and energetic. There's a lot of power in his movements with playful facial expressions (in contrast to Yooha's powerful, sexy style). This allows him to steal the spotlight when the group has a playful and upbeat comback (think "Energetic" by Wanna One, "Sha La La" by Pentagon, and "BBUSYEO" by ONEUS). His bright grin is enough to light up the entire stadium while keeping fans engaged throughout the performance.

The group's debut turned out pretty successful thanks the Hansol's YouTube fanbase. With his enlarged presence, Hansol is the "Face of the Group"-- the most recognizable member to the general public. While he isn't the most popular within his group's fans, Hansol is the most liked across the general public.

Hansol's personality around fans is very bubbly. He loves playing up his cute, boyish charms to win over the fans (especially when they drool over Yooha). There's a lot of winking, heart signs, pouting, and hugs whenever Hansol interacts with his fans.

Within the group, Hansol is the baby. Although he isn't the youngest, he acts the most immature. He's always nagging the other members and trying to prove his manliness, but it's more like a puppy trying to intimidate a pack of wolves.

For side projects, Hansol would have a solo debut. He'd produce all the music on his album while collaborating with Biho for songwriting. Since it's his solo career, Hansol would have much more creative control-- allowing him to fully explore every corner of his artistry. He plans to continues his solo career long after the group disbands too.

Position: Lead Vocalist, Rapper, Songwriter, Visual, Maknae

Biho was the 3rd member to join ST Entertainment. Out of the 4, he was the only one who submitted a formal audition tape to ST Entertainment and got accepted through the traditional audtion process. What made his audtion special was that he performed his own song-- a love song to his future lover. The judges absolutely loved his vibe and voice, so they couldn't pass this opportunity.

When Biho became a trainee, he always felt insecure about his skills. Even though he was talented, Biho was training with the likes of Taehee and Hansol, who were already experienced and seasoned professionals. Biho thought he'd be holding his group back, but the other members assured him that his presence made a significant impact on the group.

And honestly, it really did because Biho wrote most of their songs. His lyrics were both thought-provoking and poetic. He was never afraid of writing music about the things on his mind (whether it was love, fear, anger, or sadness). However, editing the lyrics took a lot of time as Biho only wanted to make the best content for his fans. Sometimes he lets Hansol write music with him.

Biho's strength lies in his singing (like most of the other members). His voice is soft and breathy, almost like a lullaby wrapping you in a soft blanket. No matter how you're feeling, Biho's voice is guaranteed to calm your nerves and take to your safe place.

Biho is also known for his looks. Although Yooha is the group's top model, Biho's face is the perfect canvas for all types of makeup styles. Although he doesn't realize it, fans love the duality between his soft persona and his darker one. Many are surprised that Biho is able to make the switch for sexier concepts and absolutely die when he does.

However, Biho shines the most with soft boy concepts. It's the image that he's had for the longest and is most comfortable with. Besides, the more thoughtful and heartfelt songs are where his lyrics get to shine through-- making him extra happy. For reference, the best examples of soft boy songs that suits Biho would be "Spring Day" by BTS, "Don't Wanna Cry" by SEVENTEEN, "Blue Hour" by TXT.

In fan interactions, Biho is extremely warm and a tad bit shy. He's always blushing when fans compliment him and showers his fans with a bunch of love in return. He likes to take his fans' hands and sincerely thank them for their support because his group would be nothing without them.

In fact, Biho is the most likely to get emotional while performing. The fact that there are so many people who are willing to listen to his music and his message is something that he could barely dream of. He will be forever indebted to their kindness, which is why he tries go provide his fans with all a lot of content (lives, Q+As, pop-up fansigns).

In the group, Biho isn't much different. In fact, he's the member whose idol persona matches his real personality the most. He's always cheering hisnother members from the side and gushing about how amazing they are. Sometimes he likes to throw an occasional jab at Yooha though (especially when Yooha is feeling himself too much).

For side projects, Biho is working on a book! He already has a collect of poems that was published, which has recieved high praise from critics and other poets. He also spends time writing songs for other groups, especially ones that come from small, poor companies.

#wannabe challenge #kim taehee #yoo hansol #kang biho #wannabe challenge yooha #yooha #wannabe challenge headcanons

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sinner-as-saint · 4 years ago

Text

Another World - 2.

Alien!Bucky x Reader.

Part 2 of Another World series.

Run-through: In a futuristic world – a millennium from now, you and your family rescue and care for stranded and hurt otherworldly beings; who are held captive and kept on Earth against their wills. You save them from the bad guys who exploit them. You help them adjust to your planet’s life, and give them their freedom back. Then one day, while on a rescue mission, you come across a human-like extraterrestrial being in a cryogenic chamber, with a missing arm. And nothing is ever the same again…

Themes throughout the series: alien!bucky, fluff, smut, angst

You woke up the next morning, craving to see Bucky.

But you couldn’t see him all morning because the doctors had him in the lab, trying to decipher him and his background. You had the AIs inform you about everything going on in the labs and so far; the doctors had done a couple of tests and were having trouble figuring out where he came from. At first they thought he was originally from Earth, and that his DNA had been altered due to experimentation. But then, his blood test showed that he might be from somewhere else, but they couldn’t figure out where.

This was not an unusual thing though, given there was countless planets out there and countless life forms out there. It definitely took time to figure out the origin of anyone you rescued. It wouldn’t be surprising if he turns out to be half human either. Interspecies, or human-alien bonds weren’t too rare, nor were they too common. You had heard of them before, many of your friends and those you rescued were often products of that.

But there was a strange fear in you. What if your people found out where he was from, and Bucky ends up wanting to return back to his world? Of course, that would be completely normal. But what surprised you the most was, why didn’t you want him to go back? Why did you wish with your whole heart that he stays?

Bucky was miserable without you. He didn’t get much sleep the previous night, and he kept thinking about you. Something about being in the same building as you made him feel better, however he was miserable because he hadn’t seen you all morning.

Someone knocked on his door this morning, and his heart raced as he hoped that it’d be you. But it turned out to be an older man, who had the same eye shape as you. He figured he must be your dad, given you both had this gentle and caring manner about you.

Bucky was then taken to a lab of some sort, much cleaner and equipped than the ones back where he was kept. Even the doctors here were much more kind and caring and soft-spoken. While they did the tests and asked him some questions, all he kept thinking about was you, and he kept wondering when he’ll see you again.

Meanwhile you tried so hard to focus on training all morning, but then around mid-day, you couldn’t stay away anymore. The need to see him and make sure he was okay grew more and more with each passing second. So you left the gym early, showered and made your way to the labs; hoping your dad wouldn’t be there to question the reason of your visit.

You questioned yourself while you were on the elevator going up. Where was this pressing need to see Bucky coming from? And why? Sure, you had gotten attached to those you rescued before; mainly children or younger extraterrestrial beings, but this was different. This felt like it was natural, this need to always check up on him and make sure he’s alright felt like it had been a habit for years now. When in reality, you only met him yesterday.

The closer you got to the lab, the more you were pining to see him. And when you finally did, you felt as though the world around you came to a halt. Time had stopped and the only thing which made sense was the blue in his eyes; which was much lighter than last night. Almost fluorescent; a few shades deeper than cyan blue, but still lighter than azure. But breathtaking nonetheless.

You noticed that his face lit up the moment he saw you. And you knew yours did too. He looked a little lost; sitting there in the middle of the large lab on what seemed like a dental chair, just wider and seemingly much more comfortable. But the moment he saw you, it was like he had finally found a ray of sunshine on a gloomy day.

He stood up immediately, and only then did you fully realize how large and built, and tall, he actually was.

Damn.

The light blue patient gown they had him wear seemed tight around his biceps and shoulders, which in itself gave away how large his frame was. You were pleasantly surprised.

Seeing there was no one else in the lab at the time, you walked in and without thinking you walked up to him. As you approached him, his heart raced – and you could hear it. Yours was racing too.

Bucky, instinctively, gently extended his arm out in front of him in the hopes that you would walk into his embrace. He didn’t know why, but he needed you as close as possible. And you did too. So you rushed in for a hug, in the middle of the lab, and wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders and hugged him like you two had reunited after years of being apart. When in reality you had only been apart for hours.

He tightened his grip around you, just a little as though testing the waters. And when he noticed that you were fine with his touch, he pushed his face into the crook of your neck and held you close to him. You felt his body heat radiate off him and wrap around you, and suddenly everything was fine in the world.

You didn’t care about who would walk in and see you, or what would they think; being with him and holding him close felt right, and that was the only thing you could focus on – him. His hug was warm, and comfortable. He was strong, you could feel his firm body and the muscles on his back through the hug. You carefully avoided his injured shoulder and tightened your grip around him because you needed him close as well. You felt him nuzzle your neck and you let out a little giggle.

You could feel his heartbeats against your chest, and you could tell they quickened a little when you hugged him a little tighter.

“Where were you?” he asked softly, like a child sulking because you didn’t give him something you promised. I was alone, anxious and I was waiting for you to show up, why didn’t you? He wanted to add, but then chose not to.

Your heart broke at how sad he sounded. You ran your hand down his muscular back and tried to comfort him.

“I’m sorry. I knew you’d be with the doctors all morning, I didn’t want to interrupt them. Then I was caught up with training, and Steve and all of his usual-,”

He cut off your explanation by pulling away to look into your eyes and tightening his grip around your waist. You noticed his eyes weren’t so bright anymore, they were a slightly deeper shade of blue – much like last night when you first met.

“Who’s Steve?” he asked, his voice still soft but with just a hint of annoyance in his tone.

You smiled up at him and your hands immediately reached out to cup his face. This was weirdly comfortable – being here with him, sharing space and being close to him. It felt like you had known him for years, decades. Like your heart knew him since forever.

“He’s one of my oldest friends. He helps me lead the team whenever we go on missions. He’s nice, you’ll like him.” You explained, wondering why it was suddenly important for you that people around you liked Bucky. Not that it would change anything if they didn’t, but you hated the idea of someone treating him with anything other than love and respect.

And you also wondered where was all that protectiveness coming from? You had never been one to get so attached to someone so easily – given the world you lived in. But here Bucky was, making you all crazy, in the best way.

Bucky nodded and wondered if he should lean in for another hug or if that would be too much. You had only met last night, and he was already being so dependent on you that it blew his mind. He wondered why he felt a rush, not entirely a pleasant one, when the name of another man left your lips. Perhaps because he wondered what if you were closer to someone else, and not him? He had never been possessive, not that he could remember much, but this was new.

“Are you okay?” you asked, genuine concern coating your words as you looked up at him and were mesmerized by how his eyes slowly got more and more lighter.

He gave you a faint smile.

“I am now.” he answered. Now that you’re here, he wanted to add but stopped himself before he made it awkward or weird.

And there you were, in the middle of the lab just holding each other and gazing into each other’s eyes, when Tony walked in and found you like that.

He cleared his throat and you immediately took a step back from Bucky, lowering your hands from his face and faced your father sheepishly. You were so busy staring into Bucky’s eyes that not even your senses could pick up your dad’s arrival.

“Hey dad!” you greeted him before the awkward silence could settle in. Bucky lowered his eyes and tried to create as much distance between the two of you as possible.

Tony seemed like his playful self. He just seemed a little more curious.

“Bucky here was, uh, a little nervous. So… hence the hug, you know?” you were aware that you sounded not so convincing.

Tony crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow at you. “I didn’t ask, honey.” Your dad said, looking between you and Bucky constantly.

“No, but you were about to.” You said, stubborn as always and always needing to have the last word. Surprisingly, your dad didn’t sass you or anything, he just smiled and nodded.

“There’s some more tests which need to be done.” Tony said and pointed towards the door. And you caught what he meant.

You nodded, “Right, more tests.” You turned to look at Bucky, finding it awkward to show affection in front of your dad but it would be rude to not say bye to him. “I’ll go. See you later, Bucky.” You were very tempted to lean in for a hug, but then you didn’t.

Bucky smiled and nodded, and watched you turn around and leave while more doctors walked in right after you left. He sighed and got back on the chair; waiting for all this to just be over so he could spend more time with you.

You returned to your room, and did nothing but wait basically. There was not much to do today so you were really looking forward to at least spend the rest of the afternoon with Bucky and make sure he’s well accustomed to the compound.

You had told the AI to notify you if there’s anything wrong in the lab, or with Bucky. You did some reading, then got bored. Then luckily Steve came to check up on you for a little bit, then he had to leave as well because he was the one who handled everything when Tony was taken up with other things.

The loneliness and the boredom gave you some time to think about everything. Well, not everything but rather one person in particular – Bucky.

And you were busy pining some more when the AI announced that there was some commotion going on in the lab.

“What’s going on?” you asked, ready to leave your room and sprint to the lab.

“Mr. Bucky seems extremely agitated and-”

You didn’t even wait for the AI to finish, you just took off. You ran to the lab as fast as you could, and the closer you got the lab, the clearer you could hear Bucky’s screams.

Hang in there, I’m coming.

You ran all the way and rushed into the lab, without even knocking. The sound of Bucky in distress made it hard for you to focus on anything else. And there you found him, being held down by four people while he tried to get away from their grip.

Your dad was in there, as well as Dr. Banner and Dr. Strange and their assistants were the ones holding Bucky down while he struggled with all his might to break free. He was weak, else he would’ve easily done so.

You looked around momentarily, trying to read the situation. You saw surgical tools and a prosthetic arm. But Bucky must’ve misunderstood the situation, given his past, and it must’ve have triggered some dark memory, you figured.

So you rushed to his side. “Stop it!” you yelled at those who were forcing him down on the chair. They stopped. The distress in your voice caught the doctors’ attention immediately, as well as your dad’s.

Bucky was indeed agitated, he was gasping for air and he looked like he was going through a nightmare.

“Bucky, hey it’s okay.” You reached out and cupped his face, bending down to face him. But the minute he looked at you, he visibly calmed down but still remained in that daze of confusion and traumatic memories.

“No please, I’ll be better…” he trailed off, breathless. His voice was strained and he looked hurt and confused more than anything. And your heart broke at his words.

His captors must’ve treated him so terribly to a point where he was still having flashbacks.

“Bucky, it’s okay. We’re not gonna hurt you. No one’s gonna hurt you, I promise.” You tried to calm him down and it seemed to be working. “Look at me, breathe.” You held his hand and placed another hand on his cheek, forcing him to focus on just you.

The moment he looked into your eyes and saw the concern in them, he realized what he had done. But the world around you didn’t matter as his gaze locked with yours. And he took a deep breath and exhaled.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled and leaned into your touch.

“It’s okay. Don’t apologize. It’s alright, Bucky. We’re here to help.” You spoke slowly, making sure he understands. “It’s just a new arm, you won’t feel any pain I promise. When you wake up, it’ll all be done. You’re gonna be okay.”

You noticed the little quiver of his lower lip and the soft look in his eyes, and you wanted nothing more than to take away all his misery, and make sure he never suffers another day of his life.

“Do you trust me?” you asked, and he nodded firmly as his fingers laced with yours and his grip tightened around your hand. “Then let us help you.” you spoke, and gave him a reassuring smile.

He looked up at you and whispered, “Don’t go.” It was barely audible, but you caught it.

“I’m right here. I’ll hold your hand, okay?” you gently urged him to lie down on the table again and you held his hand while they placed the mask on his face.

He looked at you, still a little scared. His eyes had lightened a lot since you first walked into the room. You gave him a little smile. “It’s okay. Just breathe.” And he listened.

By the fourth inhale of the gas, he was out. And his grip around your hand loosened so you carefully placed his arm back on the table and turned around to leave when Dr. Banner called out your name.

“Could you go wait in my office? There’s something we need to talk to you about.” Bruce said and you nodded, carefully avoiding you dad’s eyes because you didn’t understand what was going on between you and Bucky, so you sure as hell wouldn’t be able to explain it to him.

You took one last look at Bucky’s unconscious frame, and then walked out of the lab. You took the elevator up to Dr. Banner’s office, walked in and waited.

You always believed that he had the best view of the lake from up here, so you admired the scenery until he walked in. Accompanied by your dad. And they both seemed a little less chatty than usual. It seemed to you that they were asking themselves the same questions that’s been on your mind since you first saw Bucky.

What was going on between you two?

And you decided to speak up first. “Okay, it’s not what you think. I don’t know what it is, I can’t explain it. I don’t know why but I…” you sighed and looked at your dad, “I don’t know.” you finished talking; rambling rather and waited for their response.

“Well,” Bruce spoke up first. “We might have an explanation about what’s going on. Again, it’s just a probable theory. But I’m beginning to think we might be right.” He removed his glasses and walked past you and over to his desk.

Tony gave you a faint smile. One you couldn’t quite decipher.

“I don’t understand. What is going on?” you asked, to neither in particular. And none of them answered.

“Have a seat.” Bruce pointed to the seat and you walked over and sat down. Tony followed you and sat next to you. Both of them shared a look before Bruce spoke up again.

“We think, that um, Bucky might have formed a deep connection with you. He was in that freezer for a long time probably, and when he got out the first person he saw was you. That might have something to do with it, or it might also have been just his instincts.” Dr. Banner paused, waiting for your reaction.

You stared at his light green frame in pure confusion.

“I didn’t understand a word of what you just said. What connection?” you were utterly confused. Then your father took over.

“Banner here,” he pointed to Bruce, “thinks that the guy back there from the freezer, might have imprinted on you.” Tony spoke, sounding like his usual self, only a little more serious.

Imprint?

“Imprint? Like werewolves in ancient myths? Come on Bruce.” You didn’t believe it, and Tony gave Bruce a ‘what did I tell you’ look.

“I said the exact same thing.” Tony added, leaning back on his seat.

Bruce sighed, pushing a file of some sort towards you.

“It’s not a myth. It’s more common that we think. What do you think Stockholm syndrome is? Think about ducks, and how they immediately get attached to the first moving animal they see? How do human babies differentiate between who’s their mother and who isn’t?” he paused for a moment. “It’s not a myth. Sure, some stories exaggerate it. But it’s very much real, it’s a bunch of chemical reaction in the brain.”

He did have a point, but…

“Okay, but you’re comparing Bucky to species from Earth. He is not from Earth.” You pointed out, although it sounded more like a question.

“No but his kind must be very similar to ours. Humans evolved, otherworldly beings have as well.” Your dad answered, and you turned to look at him. “He can act like humans, one of the features of his kind probably just helps him adapt really quickly in whatever environment he is.”

“Also, we don’t know how long he’s been on Earth, could be decades. He probably learnt human behavior perfectly. He seems extremely intelligent.” Bruce completed.

And you slowly nodded.

“Well, he’s been experimented on, correct? What did they do to him?” you asked, and they both shrugged.

Bruce sighed.

“We can’t figure it out. It seems like he’s been through a lot, which makes the tests tricky to read in itself. Besides, his captors must have altered his DNA while experimenting, trying to humanize or weaponize him, we don’t know but it’s making it nearly impossible to know where he initially came from.” He explained.

And continued. “But despite the alterations, he didn’t completely lose his alien instincts and mannerisms. The way his eyes change color, his super strength despite being frozen for so long, and then the thing with you.”

You urged Bruce to continue.

“See, we have come across otherworldly beings who naturally bond for life with others, and form deep connections with that partner all their lives. And that bond includes dependency, trust, and protection. And of course, love. It won’t be a surprise if that’s what’s going on between the two of you. His DNA was altered, but he managed to keep most of his instincts intact. So, it’s highly probable that that’s just another feature of his kind.”

Love…

Could it be?

“So…” you gave it a quick thought and didn’t find anything wrong with it. “Is that vice versa, or… how does it work?”

You were never one to actually believe that nature could do all that. You had seen it, but you refused to believe that universe just has the power to bring two beings together, because it thinks that they belong together.

Bruce gave you a faint smile. “It depends. How do you feel about him?” he asked, and you could feel your dad’s stare on you but not in a bad way.

You remained quiet for a few seconds. Then Tony spoke up. “Honey, we’re just trying to help him and understand this better. It’s okay.” He said.

So you told them. “I care. I have since I saw him in the cryogenic chamber in that dungeon. I don’t know what it was, but when I went to check up on him the first night, I- something changed. I found myself worrying a lot more about him than I normally do. I care about him. A lot.”

Bruce smiled genuinely, and nodded. Your dad looked at the ground and smiled faintly. Then looked up at Bruce.

“Alright. There you have it then.” Bruce concluded.

You still had so many questions. “But what does that entail?” you asked and you immediately saw Bruce’s mood lighten up now that he was right all along.

He smiled at you. “I’d say-,”

Your dad cut him off with his usual, unfiltered sarcasm – his defense mechanism to deal with slightly stressful situations.

“Oh nothing, you just found yourself an alien boyfriend.” He said, with a straight face and nothing but sarcasm. Bruce rolled his eyes at Tony and sighed.

“Dad!” you tried to make him understand that you were actually being serious.

He raised an eyebrow at you, “What, you don’t like that? Alright how about, space boyfriend?” he sassed again.

“Dad, seriously!” you sighed and couldn’t believe his lack of seriousness in this situation.

“Tony, please.” Bruce warned him.

Tony sighed and scoffed. “Alright. I’ll stop.”

Bruce spoke up again.

“There’s nothing wrong. Human-alien bonds aren’t that rare. Plus, when he heals we could use someone like him on the team. He’s very… strong.” Intimidating was the word Bruce wanted to use, but chose not to.

Bruce receive a call which told him that his presence was needed in one of the labs, so he went away – leaving you and your dad alone in his office.

“Are we good, dad?” you asked, and watched him intently. He had a faint smile on.

“Yeah.” he replied.

You sighed at how hard it was to get him to talk.

“Does any of this bother you?” you asked. And he almost scoffed again as he looked up at you.

“I’m your dad. Any man being too close to you bothers me.” He spoke and stood up, walking over to the floor to ceiling windows and looked over at the lake. “Let alone an alien who imprinted on my daughter.” He muttered under his breath. “But I’ll live. Just don’t think you’re going anywhere alone with him anytime soon.”

You smiled and walked over to stand beside him. “I’m not going anywhere. This is my home.”

“Good.”

“You don’t like Bucky?” you felt that way, so you decided to just ask him about it.

But your dad wasn’t one who opened up quickly.

“Ask him to cut his hair, and then we’ll talk about liking him.” and after some more dose of sarcasm, Tony walked away. You smiled as you watched him leave the room. Your dad was truly, one of a kind.

You were not allowed to see Bucky right after his surgery. They said he needed to rest. And given the recent revelations, Bruce suggested that they assign Bucky his own room on the same floor as you.

“But not too close.” Were your dad’s words when he heard the idea, but agreed to it nonetheless.

And so, Bucky was moved to his room. The doctors said he would wake up the following morning and he’d be good to go with the arm.

By the time they shifted him into his new bedroom, it was late. So all you could do wait until the next morning to see him again.

You were thinking about everything, lying on your bed. Dr. Banner’s words repeated themselves in your ear. And you found yourself smiling at the thought of Bucky being… yours.

Imprint, bond, connection – whatever it was. You sure felt it, now that you knew what it was that you were feeling. And had been feeling since that second you heard his faint heartbeat in that dungeon.

You were lost in your thoughts, when your ears picked something up. A sound of distress, and the sound broke your heart.

---

Another World tag list:

@anqelicstarc

@fafulous

@anarchyandchaos2713

@rogueone0911

@threepupsinapuddle

@ghostofmarvel

@sebastianstas-things

@paranoid-borderline-insane

@cvelarded

@thepastrecedes01

@its--fandom--darling

@missrandomista

@hailmary-yramliah

@booksandlighters

@starstruckpersonearthquake

@tyranneosaurus

@buckys-plums3

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trashmenofmarvel · 4 years ago

Text

Branded - Chapter 27

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: The Soldier wakes up in Hell.

(This is a fan AU of Falling’s Just Another Way to Fly by araniaart . Please check out this incredible series for all of your demon Bucky needs.)

Chapter Warnings: Memory loss, PTSD

AO3

The Soldier gasped, followed by immediate coughing and gagging as if his lungs were being seared from the inside-out. The air was so hot it burned and he wheezed as the dryness of it irritated each breath he took.

Opening his eyes did absolutely nothing to clue him in as to where he was, or assuage his growing panic. The sky was dusty and red along the horizon, but straight above him was a strange nightscape. There were two moons or small planets, close enough that their circumferences were hidden past the horizon.

It was the spattering of stars that made him go still with shock. The Soldier didn’t recognize a single constellation, nor could he tell where the light around him was coming from. Only that there was a circle of darkness that blocked out the stars, as if the sun itself was a void.

He carefully sat up and looked down at himself, finding his uniform was tattered, singed with burn marks and spattered with bullet holes. Even now he could hear the echo of close-range gunfire and the impact of his body being riddled with Soviet slugs. The Soldier lifted his tac vest and traced his hand along his stomach. The skin was smooth and clean, no trace of wounds or blood.

He raised his head to take in his surroundings, confirming what his training told him. He was dead, and this was Hell. A sandy landscape, dotted with jagged outcroppings of rocks, went as far as the eye could see. In the distance was a range of craggy mountains, but he had no way of knowing how far it was or how high the peaks truly rose.

What was most disturbing was the color of this world. From the claylike soil to the volcanic rock, everything was a various shade of red. Rose, crimson, dusky, blood. Even the stars above him seemed to be tinged with the harsh color.

The Soldier coughed again, wincing as the hot wind wiped at his face and stung his eyes with sand. As he rose to his feet he expected to feel sore at best, in agony at worse. Instead, he was… full. Sated with energy in a way he only felt the hours after a feeding. After the healing he’d just done, he should have gone into a severe heat almost immediately.

Instead, he felt… he felt… good. Strong. At least, the parts of him that were truly demonic. The weak human parts, the parts that belonged to the HYDRA soldier who had donated his body to the cause, those parts of him were not meant to survive in a place like this.

You’re in the demon realm.

The Soldier jerked up his head but couldn’t identify the source of the voice. It had been… internal. Coming from within. It wasn’t a voice he recognized.

Sometimes, when the Soldier grew confused, he would sense… an other within himself. His master (he couldn’t remember which, he’d had so many) would grow angry if the Soldier spoke of it.

But this was not the same voice that had spoken. This one was different. Unfamiliar.

You have to move. Find shelter. It isn’t safe here.

The Soldier didn’t know the purpose or agenda of the voice, but it spoke the truth in this instance. He couldn’t sit here in the sand until it covered all trace of him. The Soldier knew how to survive in hostile, unknown terrain.

Step one: find the highest vantage point.

Step two: Establish shelter within walking distance of water.

Step three: Secure the shelter so enemies can be spotted before being alerted to the Soldier’s presence.

Shelter. Water. Safety.

Food was the last priority. He didn’t need to worry about staying in one place for an extraction. No one was coming for the Soldier. Perhaps considering what he had done, that was for the best.

What was it like to kill him? The great Howard Stark?

His fists curled at his side, nostrils flaring as anger flooded his body.

That’s over now, the voice said. Not the low voice of his master. This was the new voice, the one he didn’t know. They can’t hurt you anymore. But things here can. Please, be careful.

The voice was kind. Gentle. Did the Soldier know kindness, once?

You will. One day, I promise, you will.

The Soldier didn’t trust the voice, but chose to ignore it for now. After he had secured a shelter and established a parameter, then he would investigate the source of the strange other.

Expanding his wings, the Soldier flexed them experimentally and found them likewise whole and strong. He gave several test strokes before leaping, taking to the air as naturally as any bird. The wind buffeted him but he easily adjusted, and he couldn’t help but revel in the feeling. The last time he’d gotten to free-fly was to claw out the tire of Stark’s vehicle—

The Soldier shook away the disturbing thoughts. His last mission to retrieve the briefcase and assassinate the Starks had filled him with so many confusing emotions. His fury at the Colonel seemingly came from nowhere, and he decided it was best to put the entire matter out of his mind.

The Soldier spent the better part of an hour flying, scanning the horizon for a location that would provide shelter, and he found it. A large series of hills and boulders that hid an opening, and inside he found a system of caves where he could take refuse from the relentless, dry wind. Once he landed, he explored the weaving tunnels, lit either by openings to the surface or by glowing fungus. Where there was fungus, he knew there was moisture, and he soon found that too.

Underground rivers. The Soldier expected the water to kill him, but it didn’t, and he found he wasn’t very thirsty. The fungus was sustaining, and further in the cave system he found strange shoots that resembled bamboo. The fleshy fibers inside made him believe it was an animal rather than a plant, but it didn’t matter. He ate it raw, and that didn’t kill him either.

At this point, he wasn’t sure if he could die. Or if he did, where would he go, then? Shivering, he pushed out the thought before it could take hold.

Satisfied with a source of food and water, he found a hollow that was hidden from the river but dotted with small holes along the ceiling to let in light. Having nothing but the ragged clothes on his back, he laid down to rest.

Against his will, he dozed off. He didn’t remember sleeping before. Just the cryo-chamber. When the Soldier awoke, still plagued by strange and horrible images of what he knew were nightmares, he decided he didn’t like sleep.

Over the next few days of adjusting to his new life, the Soldier began to remember the missions more clearly now that the Machine no longer burned away his thoughts. With nothing else to do, he reflected on these missions, and especially on the one that changed everything. He still didn’t understand why the name Howard Stark had filled him with such raw agony. Even now, it hurt to recall the memory of killing the human and his mate, staging their death to resemble an alcohol-induced crash.

The Soldier survived. And he waited. He didn’t know what for. He never did find the owner of the voice. It spoke to him often, telling him to be careful, to not give up hope. He ignored it, sometimes to the point where it was only a buzzing in his ear, like an annoying insect.

Eventually, he realized it had stopped talking to him. He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d last heard it speak, and something about that filled him with unease.

“Are you…” He cleared his throat, raw with disuse. “Are you… still there?”

The minutes, according to his internal clock, ticked by. It was six minutes and seven seconds before he got a response.

Yes. I’m here.

“You sound…” He struggled with the word. “Tired.”

I am, it replied with that same soft quietness. It hadn’t been so quiet before. Distant. We’ve been here a while. I’m starting to forget things.

“Things?” The voice said nothing. The Soldier grew frustrated. “What—who are you?”

I can’t tell you that.

The Soldier leaned back against the wall, frowning down at the cave floor as if he could make the voice appear. It did not.

But I can tell you who you are.

The Soldier scoffed, scratching an itch along the back of his neck. It had been a few days since he’d bathed in the river. He’d have to do it again soon.

“I’m a demon. Summoned to serve my masters.”

That’s a lie.

He tilted his head, interest piqued. Not at the words, but at the sudden flare of anger he sensed.

You weren’t always a demon, and HYDRA didn’t summon you. You were born human.

“Now who speaks lies?”

He sensed the wave of anger again, and something about it made his tail flex and his lips twitch upwards. He was… smiling?

Your name, the voice proclaimed, is James Buchanan Barnes.

“What a ridiculous name.”

Blame your mother, not me.

The Soldier snorted and rolled his eyes, but the ghost of a smile remained on his lips.

“If you know so much, then how do I leave this place?”

He could feel its hesitation. It seemed the longer he spoke to the voice, the stronger it became. It was beginning to feel like an actual presence rather than just words in his head.

I don’t… know.

“Then you are useless to me.”

The Soldier stood and walked to its hollow entrance, already stripping off what was left of his uniform to bathe.

Wait! You will escape, eventually, but I just need to figure it out!

The Soldier ignored the voice. He knew if he ignored it for long enough, it would go away again. It seemed to realize this too from the sudden desperation in its tone.

I can prove that you were human! Howard Stark!

The Soldier froze in his tracks, his wings ruffling as the plates on his arm shifted.

You… you knew him. Back during the war. He helped rescue you from HYDRA the first time they captured you. You admired him, idolized him. You even went to the Stark Expo to see him with Steve Rogers—

Pain ripped through his chest and he growled as he bent forward. That name, something about that name. It held power, or it had once. Now, it just hurt.

“Witch,” he hissed, teeth bared. “Sorcerer! Leave me alone!”

No, no, I’m not! Please, listen! the voice in his head cried. HYDRA captured you. Tormented you. Did unspeakable things to you! It’s their fault; they did all of this to you!

He gripped his head, claws digging into his scalp hard enough to sting. His tail lashed and his wings flapped open in a panic, knocking chips off the cave wall.

“Shut up!”

His scream rang hollow against the cave walls, echoing back until fading into silence.

The silence stayed. The voice was gone, and it didn’t return for a very long time. It might have been days, weeks, or months. Time didn’t mean much on this world where the day cycle lasted for eternity.

Or it seemed to. One day, the strange sunless light vanished, and the Soldier was left in the dark to wonder if he would see it again.

The Soldier had been scratching tally marks on the wall, trained to mark the passage of time. He sensed he’d done something similar before, but he didn’t know where. According to his marks, night had finally fallen after the tenth week. He hoped the night didn’t last as long as the day. It was beginning to grow cold.

The Soldier hated the cold.

It was in a moment of weakness, as he lied shivering on the bare floor, that he finally spoke.

“Are you there?”

The voice didn’t answer. He didn’t expect it to. It had been so long since he’d screamed at it to go away. He regretted that now.

“Please…” He gave a harsh shiver and wrapped his wings tighter around his miserable body. “…Please, come back.”

He had nearly accepted that the voice was truly gone, when he heard a faint, I’m here.

The Soldier shuddered in relief. He wasn’t alone.

No, you’re not alone.

Had he said that out loud? He couldn’t remember.

You didn’t. But sometimes, I can hear you anyway. The voice made a noise of amusement, but it was sad too. I don’t think I could leave, even if I wanted to.

It sighed, still sounding too weak. He didn’t like that it sounded that way.

And I don’t want to leave. Not without you.

The Soldier curled his fingers tighter around his wing, seeking warmth and comfort where there was none. He’d never needed it before. What was wrong with him? He was a loyal soldier, an obedient slave, the very Fist of HYDRA. He wasn’t this weak, quivering thing. Huddled on the floor like a beaten mongrel.

And yet, he couldn’t stop talking to the voice once he’d started.

“Why?” he rasped. “Why are you here? Who are you? Where did you come from?”

The voice made the amused sound again. This time, it wasn’t as sorrowful.

So many questions. I’m happy they didn’t kill your curiosity. The voice grew serious. I think I got lost. Or trapped. Or… I don’t know. It doesn’t matter where I came from. Just that I’m not going anywhere without you. Okay?

The voice was growing stronger again. There was warmth there, life. A person?

Yes, it answered.

“What’s your name?”

Can’t say.

The Soldier released a sharp snort, and for a reason he couldn’t identify, the voice laughed. He didn’t remember it ever laughing before.

If everything happens as it should, you’ll find out soon enough, Bucky.

“Bucky?” he asked, brows furrowed. “Who the hell is Bucky?”

Instead of a verbal answer, warmth filled his limbs, effectively chasing away the chill and the shivering wretchedness that had owned him since the light had died.

It felt as if… someone where embracing him, enveloping him in their body heat, but when he opened his eyes he was still alone. He found he no longer minded, and the fear had vanished along with the chill.

That’s you, the voice hummed. You’re Bucky.

It sounded happy. The Soldier was glad for that, he thought. Perhaps the voice could be an ally, a way for him to survive. Whether it spoke the truth about who, and what, he was, that remained to be seen.

But the voice also sounded tired, as if the conversation had been draining, and he could certainly feel it had less energy than it had had before.

The Soldier knew, deep down in a place he dared not look at for too long, that he wouldn’t send away the voice again.

“I’m… Bucky,” he repeated, unsure.

Yes.

The voice said nothing more for the remainder of the night, though with the warm comfort wrapped around his limbs, the Soldier knew it was still with him. By the time the sun rose a few hours later, he had fallen into a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep.

Next Chapter

#bucky barnes x reader #demon!bucky barnes #demon!bucky barnes x reader #demon!bucky x reader #branded #my writing #my fanfiction

119 notes · View notes

janaeekook · 4 years ago

Text

Incapable iii. || {myg}

pairing: assassin!yoongi x reader

word count: 2.5k

warnings: - mafia - depressive thoughts - alcohol

a/n: so sorry this chapter took so long I rewrote it so many times, I hope you enjoy

series masterlist

iii.

The week after Win's death was a blur, it didn't feel real no matter how many times you tried to convince yourself. Convince yourself it wasn't your fault, but it was hard there had been nothing from your new supposed enemy, NCT. It was now 7 o'clock Friday night and you hadn't left your bed, Jungkook had tried his best to cheer you up. You were great full for it, for his kind words of reassurance but even then; Nothing seemed to help, to fill the hole, so you lay there, as your room darkened with the day. You felt gross, dirty, his blood still staining your hands you rolled from your bed forcing yourself to change your clothes— to pretend, at least, that you're alright.

Pretend; You'd guessed you'd done that a lot recently, it became second nature. You didn't want the others to see how truly weak and wounded you were— the emotionally scaring toll that last weeks events had put on you.

Downstairs, Yoongi walked out of the gym, a towel drapped around his neck. The black dri-fit shirt hugged his toned chest and biceps nicely. As he reached the stairs he saw everyone gathered getting ready to go out.

"What's going on?" Yoongi asked with mild confusion.

"We're meeting with SKZ for a trade." Namjoon stated.

"And you didn't think to tell me?" He questioned, everyone's eyes finding another's as they glanced around.

"You're staying and watching y/n." Namjoon stated bluntly before turning to lead the others out the door.

"Why me?" Namjoon stopped and glanced back to Yoongi as the others continued out the door, "Tae's here."

"He's on monitors, suck it up Yoongi, you've delt with worse." Yoongi just rolled his eyes, trudging up the steps, he found your door was cracked open.

His hand raised, ready to knock, but through the crack he saw you. Your bare back facing him as you pulled on an oversized top. He couldn't seem to pull his eyes away from your exposed state no matter how much he wanted to. He watched until you brought your hands to the waistband of your pajama shorts, finally forcing his eyes away not wanting to invade your privacy and see anything more he wasn't meant to.

He could feel his heart pounding insanely in his chest, shaking his head he finally knocked lightly on the wood.

"One minute!" Your voice squeaked in surprise, you quickly pulled on a fresh pair of shorts and hurried to the door. You were surprised to see Yoongi standing at your door, "h-hey, what's up?"

"Uh, Your brother pinned me with watching you." He informed you, his eyes quickly and subtly flicking over your form.

You chuckled, "No need to treat me like a burden."

"Whatever," he looked over you again, only this time you noticed, "What are you doing?"

"I was thinking about watching a movie." You informed him, he pushed past you going deeper into your room, "What are you doing?"

"We're watching a movie aren't we?" You gave him a weird look.

"I guess you can join, I'm going to get water, you want anything?" You asked him, he shook his head as he looked around your room.

You sighed, leaving the room, you stalked down the hall and to the kitchen mindlessly. One might say you were lost in a daze, though in reality it was the sleep deprivation creeping up on you, looming behind your eyes. You hadn't slept beyond three hours the last few nights, not wanting to close your eyes, for fear of the lifeless face of your friend haunting you again.

A chill ran through your body at the thought, grabbing a bottled water from the fridge. You twisted the cap off gulping down a sip in an attempt to swallow the rising lump in your throat. It'd been hard for you to eat, the smell of his blood, thick and irony, it was burned in your nose.

You went back up the steps your footfalls on the polished stone, was all that could be heard. The trance that enraptured your mind however, was quickly broken when you stepped into your bedroom again.

Yoongi was facing you, his features of stone remained stoic but his eyes held amusement. In his hand he held a hot pink object, your face mirroring the shade in embarrassment.

"Tch, frustrated are we?" He joked, pressing the button, a quite vibration emitting from it.

You hurried quickly to him grabbing it and throwing it back in the drawer it belonged, "Min Yoongi you should know better than to go through peoples things." You scolded.

"I can't help my curiosity."

"Just go." You said, the flames in your cheeks never wavering as you pushed him to your door.

"You sure you don't want help?" Yoongi asked as he back up while you pushed him.

"What?!" You asked in horror, stopping to look into his eyes, was he seriously-

"I can hold it for you," his eyes glistened playfully, "While we watch a movie."

You swallowed hard, trying your best to keep your cheeks from blazing any hotter. You quickly and hastily pushed him towards the door.

"You are so crude Min Yoongi." Informing him as you pushed him out into the hall, he gave you a shit eating grin, "I'll be just fine on my own."

The second you shut the door in his face you took in a breath, your heart was pounding in your chest. Thoughts racking through your brain, why had you pushed him out? You like him don't you?

But you guessed it wasn't that simple, your thoughts knew how complicated it would become getting involved with Yoongi. No matter how much your body begged to fall into his tempting grasp you had to restrain. Because the theory of him was what attracted you and so many others, not the cold exterior and troubled heart.

Min Yoongi was complicated, to say the least.

But he was human— the flutter he felt in his chest when you became flustered by merely his words. It confused him not knowing why you filled him with such warmth. But he pushed his thoughts away like any time before.

•

The next afternoon was somber, quiet, as if no one wanted to speak. You were clad in a black dress and flats, the boys in their suits. They all watched you descend the steps for the first time in what felt like ages. You were burying Win today, finally putting his body to rest, a step of 'moving forward and mourning' they'd said though it just broke you more. But you had to pretend, you couldnt let the others see you as weak. You weren't weak.

"You ok?" Your brother asked, and you could only nod to reassure him. For you knew if you tried to speak you would break down, You were greatful he didn't push for a more sufficient answer to the question.

The car ride was rather short, a feeling of dread lingering in your heart. You looked out the window of the car upon the lawn, stones where so many others loved ones names were carved in their remembrance. You tried desperately not to cry, to let out a sob and let the boys around you know you were breaking-- shattering in fact. It shouldn't have been him it should've been you, you wanted it to be you; to know that your bestfriends death wasn't on your hands. Maybe it was selfish, but the aching in your heart was begging for the roles to be reversed.

"-Y/n?" You hadn't even realized Jungkook had opened the door for you, his voice bringing you back to reality. Aware again, that you in fact were the one with breath in your lungs. You didn't say anything just stepped out of the car, and followed the others to the site. It was beautiful, a top a grassy hill that looked out over a large expanse of trees, You knew he would've loved it.

Everyone stood around the grave where the casket was to be lowered. No one spoke, not a word, just stood and looked at the sleek wood that encased Win, or his body rather. The man that stood next to it a bible on hand began to speak, and your eyes drifted to the grey stone.

Kim Seung-Win

April 23rd 1993-March 13th 2020

'The journey doesn't end here;'

"Today, we're here to put a friend to rest, to send his soul home-" The reverend started, but you zoned out, eyes locked on the grass at your feet. You felt numb, How could this be real? Win was supposed to survive to live and be loved, and have an impact everyone he met. Silent tears fell from your eyes, due to both frustration and sorrow. Namjoon noticed from where he stood next to you and pulled you into a hug, holding your head to his chest as your tears soaked his jacket.

"I invite you all forward to put a handful of dirt over casket, you may take this time to say any final words." You let go of Namjoon wiping your cheeks with your hands.

We all moved in a line grabbing a handful of the dirt and taking turns circling to the grave, doing our part. Some taking longer than others to say things aloud or in their heads, everyone who he worked with were left with a positive imprint in their lives due to him. When it was your turn, You looked down to the dirt in your hand before holding your hand over the grave and letting it trickle from your grasp.

"I'm sorry." You whispered, fresh tears brimming your eyes. You turned back to the others, standing next to Yoongi as you watched everyone else. You felt Yoongi's hand brush yours experimentally, before he finally laced your fingers with his. You looked to your hand in his then to his face his eyes those of sympathy and support. Though affection wasn't his strong suit, he wanted you to know he was there. You gave him a weak smile in return

"I give the words said here today, to Seungwin, in hopes they will help his soul move forward. Friends, Death seems cold and dark but it is not extinguishing the light of life. It is putting out the lamp because the dawn has come, and Seungwin lived fully to his dawn."

The final words resonated with you, stuck to your heart. He lived a full life, it may have seemed to be cut short but he was everything anyone could have wished to be. He was great, It should've been me. Your mind invaded with the negative thoughts again a shaky sigh passing your lips as you willed yourself not to cry again, watching the grave workers put the remaining dirt in the grave. The others had started to walk back to the car.

"Y/n, come on." Your brother beckoned quietly, but you shook your head.

"Not yet."

"I'll stay with her." Yoongi's voice sounded from somewhere behind you, You couldn't see it but Namjoon nodded before pressing a feather light kiss to your temple. He was worried, you could feel it radiating off of him, he already had a lot on his plate, the last thing he needed was an emotionally unstable sister.

"Stop blaming yourself," Jen, you went to speak but she waved her hand, "I know you, Y/n, and I know that look."

You looked around finding Yoongi sitting on a bench a few feet away. You turned your attention back to Jen, and you felt the urge to cry again.

"I'm sorry, Jen." Your lip quivered, and tears began to stain your cheeks again.

"There's nothing to be sorry for." With that she reached into the bag that was on her shoulder pulling out a bottle of liquor, "You can only have some if you promise not to cry." You wiped your cheeks quickly.

"I solemly swear!"

•

You hiccupped lightly as you sat on the grass next to Win's freshly made grave, Jen was fully laying down and the empty bottle of alcohol was between the two of you. Chuckling as you thought back to your 20th birthday when Win mixed you all his favorite drinks, you were so hung over the next morning.

"Do you remember my 20th birthday?"

"When you threw up on Win after he got you shit faced? How could I forget?" Jen slurred her words.

"Or when he flipped the table because he was losing in monopoly." You brought up the game nights you'd all have when you were younger.

"Alright you two lets get back home." Yoongi said going to help you up, the sun was setting and he wanted to at least get to the car before it was dark. He helped Jen up next and then guided the two light weight girls to the car.

The whole car ride home Yoongi listened to you and Jen reminisce over your memories of Win. Though even drunk your voice sounded weak and broken as you talked over the good times and Yoongi took notice, him being the only sober one in the car. The wall you'd been keeping up to hide your emotions was crumbling away now that you were drunk, vulnerable.

When Yoongi pulled up Jeonghan was waiting at the doors, ready to take Jen to her room. Jeonghan chuckled lightly as Yoongi told him what happened, before ultimately thanking him for bringing them both home safe. When Jen and Jeonghan walked away Yoongi turned back around to find you sitting down on the gravel drive way.

"Whatcha' doing?" Yoongi asked with a hint of amusement in his tone, though it made a deep pout form on your lips.

"I can’t walk."

"Why not?"

"I'm sad." Your voice broke.

"Ok, You think you can get on my back?" Yoongi asked quietly, you nodded, and so he carried you.

"I miss him." You whispered, which happened to be right in his ear,

"I know."

When he reached your room he set you down on the bed, then going to slip your shoes off your feet. When he looked back to your face though, he saw a tear fall from your eye.

"Its all my fault." You spoke suddenly taking him off guard.

"Hm?"

"Win is dead because of me." You chocked out, "I-I should have saved him." Silent sobs now shook your small frame.

"Y/n, None of what happened was your fault, there was no way to know."

"He blames me- It sh-should've been m-me" You managed to get out as more sobs fell past your lips. You couldn't control it anymore nor hold it in, something and Yoongi's chest ached with each strangled sob you tried to keep quiet in your throat. He picked you up lightly to make room for himself on your bed and he pulled you close to his chest.

"Shhh, No one blames you, Y/n. We cant go back, we can't change what happened, its destined to fate. You don't need to blame yourself anymore."

Not another word was spoke that night, Yoongi held you as you cried yourself into a deep sleep. He stroked your head, as your breathing became less labored with your sobs. His heart ached part of him hated to think that you felt all alone, and made him want to hold you tighter. But the other part wondered, since when did he care?

Taglist;

@agustdiv1ne , @hwaddict , @ahgasearmyfan , @gee-nee , @janeelizabeth1216 , @elliegrace1999tvd , @sunnynxy , @boba-king-iroh , @deathkat657

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t-o-m-hollands · 4 years ago

Text

PARIS PART II of III

Warnings: Swearing, heavy drinking, smut. +18.

SUMMARY: Timmy is an artist living in Paris in the 1950′s. You come to him to model for a painting but you have an unusual demand for the artist.

R E A D P A R T O N E H E R E

1st of October, 1952 - Paris.

It’s Tuesday and Timothée is tired. It’s 1 in the afternoon but his head is still aching from last night. It's been seven months since you left Paris, and somehow, life has gone on.

The sun is shining mercilessly bright and he wishes he was back in his studio, so he could hide from it. But it’s a place he spends as little amount of time as possible in as of late. Instead he’s sitting on a bench just below Sacré-Cœur, wearing last night's clothes, a mess of curls framing his tired face. In one hand a cigarette and in the other a freshly printed copy of the Tatler. On the front page is your face, radiantly beautiful, in a wedding dress and veil, diamonds in your ears and diamonds on your head. Next to you is your Freddie, looking straight at the camera, unnecessarily smug; or so Timothée thinks. Inside the magazine there’s an entire montage in the happy couples’ honor, complete with exclusive pictures from the high-society occasion.

“Dubbed the wedding of the season this intimate affair took place on a drizzly September morning between baron Freddie Fairfax and his blushing new bride. Freddie, who is the son of the 9th Earl of Abington, was overheard by some guest remarking over the beauty of his new bride, who was wearing a bone-white couture gown signed Christian Dior and accessorized with a diadem, an heirloom of the Fairfax family that has been in their possession for generations and borrowed to the bride on this special occasion. The nuptials were exchanged in St Margaret’s Church, gloriously decorated with bunches and bunches of yellow chrysanthemums, aconites and white lilies, in front of an audience including representants from most of the royal households of Europe and the English social elite. The reception took place at the Earls 25,000 acres estate in Oxfordshire and upon arrival the guest were served ice cold”

Timothée stops reading and throws the magazine down on the bench. For a long time he sits there, watching as people climb their way up the stairs to the church, and smoking cigarette after cigarette until his throat feels sore. It’s a fine October day, the air crisp and clean. The leaves on the trees changing from emerald green to vibrant shades of orange and yellow. Some have already fallen to the ground. A melancholic part of him, the majority in fact, can’t help but to think of it as a metaphor of his life. He’d met you and the entire world had seemed in bloom. Now it was rapidly fading.

Someone sits down beside him on the bench, but he ignores them, mind too far away to care.

“You are monsieur Chalamet, I presume”. With a startle he looks at the person next to him. It’s an elderly lady, possibly in her 80’s, with hair in a sophisticated updo, burgundy lips and sparkling eyes. She’s clothed in an expensive fur coat and with diamonds on every finger. He suddenly feels dirty in his unwashed clothes.

“Yes madam, and who are you if I may ask?” he answers politely.

“Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright” she introduces herself, stretching out her heavily bejeweled hand. He shakes the elderly woman’s hand. It feels strangely cold in his.

“And what can I do for you, madam?”

She doesn’t answer at first but looks down on the magazine between them. “Pretty, isn’t she?” she asks. He doesn’t answer at first, doesn’t know what to say to that. “Yes, very pretty” he answers at last.

“It was a terrible wedding” she continues. “Terrible”.

“And how do you know the bride?” He asks, feeling rather uncomfortable

“She’s my grandniece” she says and looks up at him again, studying his face. “She lived with me for a period, here in Paris. I believe you know one another?”

He doesn’t answer her question, knows she already knows the answer to it, instead he asks “and why was the wedding so terrible?”

“Oh” she says and swats with her hand, but there’s a look of worry on her face he can’t look past. “When the bride’s wearing the wrong dress, or the bridesmaids won’t behave, or the food’s terrible, well those are all things one expects at a wedding. But when the bride marries the wrong groom, well, that’s not quite as easily overlooked. Then you find yourself actually praying for an ill-fitted gown instead”.

He stares at her in confusion. “What do you mean, the wrong groom?”

She observers him with shrewd eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Madam, with all due respect, I not sure what you want with me” he says slowly. He finds himself wondering if maybe he’s still asleep and this is a strange dream produced by too much absinthe. If he’ll perhaps wake up in a ditch soon, with a hangover from hell.

“But don’t worry” she says with a kind smile “We can still fix this”.

He wonders if he should leave, for this is not a conversation he wants to have, especially not with a complete stranger. But despite himself he says “there’s nothing to fix”.

Then she takes him by surprise, for she grabs the magazine from the bench and hits his arm with it, not hard, but enough to get a reaction out of him. “Ow!” he bursts out, “what was that for?”

“For you to get a grip of yourself! Don’t be so defeatist, I told you we can fix this. You still love her and she loves you, not that absolute buffoon”.

“It’s too late, she’s already married him. And I'm over it” he lies, trying to keep on to some kind of dignity in this bizarre situation.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t moved on from any of it, I know an idiot in love when I see one, and you’re it”.

“Gee, thanks” he mutters, rubbing the sore spot where she hit him with the magazine.

“Now, what are we going to do? Are you going after her?”

He stares at her in disbelief, “no, she’s married, I told you, it’s too late”.

“Do I need to use this again?” she threatens and holds up the magazine, but there’s a humorous gleam in her eyes that makes him smile.

“Why are you trying to help me?” He asks.

“Well, quite frankly dahling, I'm not trying to help you. But that girl, my dahling niece, is miserable.” There’s sadness now in her old eyes and something twists uncomfortably in Timothée’s chest.

“It’s that bloody women's fault, her mother!” She bursts out, taking him aback. The venom in her voice almost palpable, “She’s whispering ideas of self-sacrifice in her ear. Not that her father’s any better – defeatist! That’s the only word to describe him! Never could fight for himself. To think that my dahling sister could have given birth to such a fool. And now my grandniece...” she trails off, sadness in her voice again.

“Now your grandniece has a title and is married to one of the richest people in England.” He states firmly.

She throws the magazine down on the bench again and swats her hand in front of her, as if to get rid of a particularly annoying fly, and the diamonds on her hand sparkle in the sun. “Yes, but it’s not what she wants. Is it? What she wants is, well, it’s you.”

There’s something so penetrating about her eyes and the way she looks at him. Crinkled and full of wrinkles her face may be but those shrew eyes shine bright as ever. They are very familiar eyes, a strong remembrance to another pair of eyes that haunt his dreams. He looks away,

“But she did decide to marry him, that was her decision. Doesn’t mean I don’t understand it, but there’s where we’re at. There’s nothing to be done.”

“I saw the painting you made of her” She says in a voice that make him think she’s fishing after something and in the corner of his eyes he can see her inspecting him. He lights a new cigarette and avoids her eyes. “The one with yellow tulips?” she adds, making it sound like a question.

“’s just a painting” he mumbles, feigning nonchalance.

She continues to observe him before sighing. Then, she pats him on his arm and in a gentle tone she says “we both know that’s not quite true”.

And suddenly he wants to weep. Weep in a way he hasn’t since he was a child. Without holding back, without grace or shame. Weep, and subject the poison from his body. But he doesn’t. Clenching his hands around the rim of the bench with all of his strength he manages to keep the storm at bay. Only when he feels he has his emotions locked up and under control does he look at her again. Her familiar eyes, full of sympathy, observes him and something inside his chest is screaming.

“Could I paint you, madam?” he asks with a smile, to lighten the mood.

She throws her head back in laughter. “Oh, how sweet of you, but I'm afraid my modelling days are far behind me. But if you ever need something, a listening ear or” and she looks at his dirty clothes “or perhaps a loan, then feel free to keep in touch.”

She gently pats his shoulder, then gets up and leaves.

February 12th, 1953

In a dimly lit club in Pigalle Timothée is writing a letter. Smoke surrounds him and the dim light shining through gives the illusion of a halo around his head. It’s a bad place to conduct letters in. People around him are cheering and talking, singing and howling with laughter while a modern band plays experimental jazz. It is rowdy, and it is wild, and it’s the perfect distraction.

It’s a shabby sort of place, where the floors are sticky with god knows what, the music is loud and the liquor comes cheap. Timothée thinks it’s heaven.

A man sits down next to him in the bar and orders a Gin Rickey.

“Terrible, aren’t they?” He questions in a broad American accent, gesturing toward the band as the bartender hands him his drink. Timothée nods in agreement and gestures with his empty glass to the bartender, implying need of a refill of his whiskey neat. The barman catches his gesture and pour him a new glass of Glenlivet and hands it to him just as the band begin a new tune.

“Hardly Duke Ellington” he says to the stranger and nods to the scene. He folds the unfinished letter and puts it in his pocket for later. The other man snorts in response, “that’s putting it kindly” he says, amusement in his voice. Timothée takes a good look at the stranger. He looks to be about his own age and is wearing a nice grey suit and hat tilted to the side. With a square jaw, a tall stature and piercingly blue eyes he could pass for a movie star. Lighting a cigarette, the man then offers one to Timothée, who gladly accepts the offer in a gratified manner. He’s been running low on his own stash these last few days.

They start talking. Discussing the differences in American and French jazz, the best drinking holes in Paris and who really is the great American writer. Timothée claim it’s Hemingway (“mark my words, he’ll win a Nobel price one of these days) whereas the stranger argues for F. Scott Fitzgerald (“the way he writes about the promise of the American dream, no one can rival Fitzgerald” he proclaims and Timmy wants to argue that surely he writes about the failed promise of the American dream, but they move on to a less dividing topic). The discuss bourbon and whiskey and rum as the bartender refill their glasses and the liquor no longer burns his throat and his eyes have adjusted to the smoke in the room as they mindlessly chat on. Timmy finds out that the strangers name is William and that he’s originally from California though went to boarding school in ‘good ol’ England’ but that he’s spent the last year in New York. Also, that he’s just separated from his wife. Timmy in turn tells him of his own life in broad strokes, his American mother and French father, art school and life as a painter in Paris. A few drinks later still and they get a hold of an old, wooden table at the far back of the room and so they cross the room, avoiding collision with the dancers, all in various states of drunkenness, and they begin a game of cards. The jazz band plays on.

William turns out to be quite the gambler and Timothée, who’s been walking around for months now with a feeling that he has nothing more to lose, can’t help but bet on the few things he has. They laugh and play and share stories of their youth while the jazz band play louder and louder. Perhaps the good company and distracting surroundings goes to his head, because a couple games in and Timmy is indebted to the American. He has had a bad hand overall as of late and he tells his opponent as much. The man in turn laughs and leans back in his chair, his cards in one hand and a cigar in the other. He takes a long drag from it before blowing out smoke across the space between them. Around them people dance to the chaotic music.

“Hell, I’m feeling generous tonight and you’ve been good company. Not many people I can talk to here in France, my French is terrible. So, you’re a painter, how about a painting, then? And I’ll write the whole thing off.” he suggests and smiles broadly.

Timothée hesitates. His apartment has been unusually empty of paintings as of late. The few ones he had he sold just last week in order to meet rent. Inspiration to paint new ones had not been with him. Not since you left. Everything he had managed to paint had come out drained of colour and bleak and he ended up losing interest in it.

He only has one painting left. But he couldn't, could he?

“Alright” Timmy agrees. Because what choice does he have? Maybe it’s time to put this ghost to rest, once and for all. Your gone and no wishful thinking or practices in gratefulness can change that simple fact. You’re married and there’s nothing he can do about it, despite madame Marguerite’s words of your misery ringing in his ears. There’s nothing he can do to save you now. You’ve made your choice, and all there is now is the aftermath. The post mortem. You have to live with that decision and so does he. Even if he doesn’t want to. So, why should he keep the painting? The baron got to keep the real you after all, and the only thing he has is the picture of you. A picture that can’t talk or laugh, can’t smile or play with his hair or touch him or dance to Chopin or lecture him about classical music. A painted image that he has stared himself blind at for these past few months, grieving that he cannot bring it to life, while the baron got the real you.

His unfinished letter burns in his pocket but he ignores it.

And so they leave, on unsteady legs and heads swirling with liquor, and the jazz band plays them out to their worst tune yet as they exchange the smoky club air for a cold night’s breeze.

“Fuck” William mutters as they enter the night. “Fucking freezing” he adds and shivers in his nice suit. “No worry” Timothée slurs “not far”. They stumble their way across the cobblestoned streets. “You damn Frenchmen” the other man mutters after some distance, “always got to fucking walk everywhere, taxis where invented tor a reason, you know!” Timmy snorts and points to a building just a couple of meters away. “Live there, yeah?”

And with a lot of effort they help each other up the stairs to the loft. Once inside William asks if there’s any brandy, for ‘recovery purposes after their hellish journey’ and so, they drink some more. They start discussing politics, a bad idea all around, before venturing into the less dividing topic of French cinema. It’s not long after that they’ve both fallen asleep, William slung on the sofa, his long limbs hanging over the edge, and Timothée’s sprawled out on the carpet, the bottle of brandy clutched firmly in his hand. (For recovery purposes.)

A few hours later and Timmy’s hurling down the toilet. He wants to check his head for bullet holes, that’s how bad it’s aching. After having cleaned up, although there’s nothing to be done about the mess of curls that is his hair, he joins the American in his living room.

William is sitting up on the sofa, but it looks very much as if he’s just woken up, hair a mess and a 5 o'clock shadow, his expensive suit all wrinkles now. The sun is shining mercilessly bright and its rays lights up the room as he rubs his eyes. “Coffee?” he requests in a gruff voice. Timothée nods, before realizing that any movement of the head is a terrible idea as pain shots through it.

“What a fucking night” William mutters some time later as they drink their coffee. “And I’ve got a meeting with the lawyers this afternoon, not the sort of thing one should do hungover.”

“Oh yeah?” is all Timothée manages to get out, head still too sore to put any thoughts together.

“Yeah, divorce proceedings”

“Rotten business” Timmy states and the other man laughs. “Rotten business, indeed” he agrees and cheer him with his mug of coffee. “Still, a necessity that must be endured.” He looks around the loft. “But I’ll have a new painting to hang in my bachelor pad, that’s something to write home about!” he says, more cheerful now.

And fuck, he’d forgotten that part.

Feeling nauseous again he puts down his coffee cup. “Yeah, you’ll have a new painting” he agrees, mostly to fill the silence.

“Haven’t seen any of your work yet though” William considers. “You might be shit. My five-year-old niece might be a better painter, and I’ve just promised to write off your debts to me” he adds and laughs. Timmy gets up, there’s no putting this off. “I’ll go get it and you’ll decide” he says and heads for his bedroom.

The paintings leaned against the wall. He doesn’t turn it, doesn’t want to see it one last time. There’s not enough brandy in the world for that recovery. Something inside his chest is rioting against the very idea of handing the picture over to anyone else, but he pushes down the feeling of nausea and heads back to the living room, canvas clutched firmly in his hands.

“Well” he says and holds it up, so the other man can see. “Here’s your winnings”.

William looks up at it and then, the strangest thing happens. His entire being freezes, his mouth ajar, stuck mid-movement as he had begun to say something before having seemingly been struck by lightning. Bells are ringing alarmingly in Timothée’s head, going off like sirens. Somethings wrong.

He observes Williams glossy eyes taking in the portrait in front of him, mouth still agog in chock. He places to painting on the dingy little table but William still doesn’t take his eyes off it. He gets up slowly and walks over to the painting, as if in a trance, like a man bewitched, and he reaches out a hand to touch the painting and with hesitant fingers he gently touches your cheek. The nude portrait of you, the one Timothée had painted on the day that you left him, posing slung on the very same sofa William’s just slept on.

And it hits him then, like a collision.

That this is William. The William. The man who broke your engagement and sailed across the Atlantic with his new bride. A bride he’s apparently already separated from.

“How, how-” William begins but he seems unable to finish the sentence.

A sudden feeling of being a side character in somebody else’s story settles inside of Timothée. Words like destiny and star-crossed comes to mind as he observes the other man and his wide, wild eyes, the way he looks at the painting in absolute wonder.

“Is, is she still here? Is she still in Paris?” and his voice is weak but full of hope. Slowly Timothée shakes his head. “She’s left.” He confirms, and the crushing disappointment is so clear in the other man’s face that it feels cruel to continue, but he does. “She’s married now. To a baron”.

William’s head snaps away from the painting for the first time since he saw it. “Freddie?” He asks, voice bitter and Timmy nods. “That fucker” he swears “he always was sniffing after her” he adds resentfully. He looks back at the painting and his expression soften, but he looks sadder too.

“That’s why you came here, isn’t?” Timothée asks hesitantly. “To look for her?”

William nods, seemingly unable to look away from the picture. He reaches for it and an overwhelming urge to stop him, to remove the painting from his sight washes over Timothée. To hand this portrait of you away to a stranger had seemed like a sad but unavoidable thing to do. But to give it away in due for his debts to your ex fiancé… It felt dirty and cruel.

But what choice did he have?

And so, he watches William take the painting and watches him leave with the only thing he has left of you.

Because Timothée is 26 and he still hasn’t got any money. And he can’t compete with handsome William, or to Freddie the baron. Because Timothée is 26 and all he’s got to show for it is an apartment he can’t afford anymore and a broken heart.

He runs to the bathroom and hurls in the toilet again, unable to ignore the feeling of nausea and guilt any longer.

That night you come to him in his dreams. Like a vision you appear at the end of his bed, drenched in water. White, wet silk clenching to your body, hair slicked to your face and such a haunted look in your eyes that he involuntarily reaches out for you, to hold you, to help you, to save you. He’s not quite sure. But before he can reach you the scenario changes. Because suddenly – as is the way of dreams, you’re the Tate museum watching John Everett Millais Ophelia. Your standing next to him, water dripping from your drenched body down on the floor. He looks at you, but you keep your eyes on the painting.

And when he looks back at it, it’s no longer a portrait of Ophelia lying dead in the water. It’s you.

He wakes with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air. It feels like he has to force fresh air into his lungs, like he’s been under water for too long. He feels around himself, automatically, to feel for your body, make sure you’re safe.

Bur you are miles away.

February 14th, 1953

Timothée writes a new letter.

It’s 5 am and I'm drunk and I am thinking of you and in a few hours it’ll be 12 am and I'll be drunk and I'll be thinking of you. And so the story goes.

I met your William, charming bloke, shame about his wife. He came here looking for you, you know? Don’t worry, I told him you got married to a baron. Your wedding pictures looked lovely in the Tatler, by the way. Diamonds suits you.

I haven’t painted much since you left. I have no inspiration. For anything.

You know, we've made a beating heart out of my pain. It’s a living, breathing creature and it walks with me everywhere, hidden somewhere under my ribcage. Like a second heart. Where I go it follows. What I feel for you, it’s a Frankenstein's monster kind of grief, bits and pieces cut out from us both, turned into a living creature. Can you hear it beating for you? Can you hear it screaming out for you? Saying ‘where did she go? Where did she go? Why can’t I follow?’ Like a child begging for its mother. Come back, come back and collect your second heart, take it out of my body, remove it from me, I cannot stand its begging. I'd kill the monster, but it’s the only thing I have left of you now. Don’t think I could stomach the loss.

I’m not the same I was before I met you. This love has made a different man out of me. This love has made a bitter man out of me. This love sure feels a lot like drowning. In my dreams you come to me, all Ophelia-esque and suffering, and I want to pull both our bodies out of the water, but you’re determined to sink and I don’t want to let go of your hand and so – we drown.

I know it’ll pass, this longing I have for you. It must. I cannot keep walking these streets wrecked with grief. One day at a time. That’s what I tell myself each morning as a watch the sun rise over Paris, my head and heart pounding in revolt, one day at a time.

There’s a Swedish saying that goes ‘a lot of water shall run under a lot of bridges before I forget you’. What it essentially means is that it’ll take a lot for me to forget you, or the way you made me feel.

But I'm sorry. One mustn’t be morbid. I won’t write you again. I’ve tried to be grateful; I am trying. I hope married life is treating you well. I hope you’ve gotten all you ever wished for. I hope you’re happy. I honestly do. You deserve the best life has to offer. I’m just sad I can’t be the one giving it to you. Being without you is a hard thing to be grateful for.

One day at a time.

Yours,

Timothée

The next morning, he calls the model agency. Later, just as his headache is subsiding, a blonde model named Lucy knocks on his door. She’s chatty and friendly and moves around too much when he paints her. Her laugh is loud but childlike and she keeps the conversation going. He plays a Benny Goodman record and her hips gently swing along to the rhythm almost involuntarily and she sings along in a sweet voice to ‘The Sunny Side of the Street’.

Outside the sun is shining and the whole world seems at rest. It’s not the same – God knows it’s not the same – but for the first time in months it all seems, not alright perhaps, but bearable.

Later that night as he washes himself clean from the yellow paint that’s stained his fingers, he tries to push the feeling of guilt down from where it seems to be stuck in his throat. When that doesn’t work he tries to wash it down with absinth but as he lays down on the livingroom floor, too tired to make it into the bedroom, he watches the golden painting of Lucy gleam even in the dark, he wonders if perhaps absinth is what makes guilt grow.

1st of Mars, 1953

Timothée wakes to sunlight streaming in through the large and unwashed windows. For a long while he lays there completely still, sprawled out on the white linen sheets, curly hair draped over the pillow; trying to force his eyes to get used to the light. His head is pounding, and his body aches, but the sensation feels as familiar as the scent of turpentine and oil paint. Slowly he moves his limbs, first wiggling his toes and his hands; as if to count them all, and then, with monumental strength of character, he gets out of bed. Naked as the day he was born he walks over to the window. Far down on the street Paris is already awake, cars and passer-byers chasing down the streets. Some have changed out of their heavy, winter jackets to lighter coats as the bustle off to their individual destination.

It is the first day of spring.

He turns away from the window, in search for some clothes but stop in his tracks. As if seeing the room with new eyes he takes it in. Around the bed lay bottle after bottle of liquor, the sheets are old and dirty, the room hasn’t been dusted in months, and various pieces of clothing lay scattered everywhere.

He can’t go on like this. It’s time, whether he wants it to be or not. He has to go on.

He pours down the absinthe, the rum, the whiskey and the brandy down the kitchen sink and watches as it disappears. He cleans and wipes the floor, washes his sheets and clothes and then carefully folds them and puts them away in his closet. He finishes his painting of Lucy and then starts on another. He calls his delighted art dealer and informs him of the progress, tells him that he’ll have more ones in no time. He then swallows his pride and calls madam Marguerite, asking for the loan she offered. Pride won’t keep him warm if he loses the apartment due to not paying rent. She too sounds delighted and tells him he can pay her back by coming over for dinner. They both need the company.

And so, he walks to her apartment, a bouquet of daffodils in hand, smelling like clean laundry and with his newly brushed hair it all feel an awful lot like going to church. Upon arriving at Marguerite’s home, a maid opens the door for him and he tries not to smile when she wrinkles her nose and takes his old and patchy coat. The apartment is palace-like in grandeur, white marble everywhere, and decorated with expertise. She leads him into the lounge and announces him.

“Mr. Chalamet, madam”.

“Yes, thank you Louise” Marguerite answers and the maid leaves them.

“A cocktail?” she asks, holding up an empty martini glass. He politely accepts and looks around the room as she prepares it. “Is that a Picasso?” he asks astonished, pointing at a blue portrait of a woman on the wall opposite.

“Yes” she says and hands him a martini.

“How- how?”

She smiles at him indulgently. “I knew him in my youth” she explains and takes a sip from her own drink. He stares at her in amazement. “You know Pablo Picasso?”

She scoffs. “Oh, don’t be jealous of that, man’s an absolute fool”.

And so, they talk, all through drinks and then dinner. About art and music. About both of their childhoods, different though they both may have been. She tells him stories from her long and impressive life. About dahling Humphrey. After dinner, which had been a superb affair of duck confit; served on the finest of porcelain and paired with the finest of wines, they’d gone out on the terrace for drinks and smokes. He sticks to his old Lucky Strikes and she to imported Russian cigarettes, (a habit she’d picked up during the war, she’d told him).

“Darling Humprey would have liked you, he would have rooted for you” she says and leans back in her chair, a Hermès blanket in her lap to keep her warm.

“Oh really? Was he a good gambler?”

“Oh god no, he was terrible better. And a sore loser.” she says and smiles in the fond way she does when she thinks of her late husband.

“How reassuring for me” he says dryly.

“Dahlinh” she begins in a drawl that would have made Betty Davis proud, “what should be reassuring is that I’m fighting in your corner, and I don’t believe in a losing hand”. Then, changing the subject she says “My niece is quite right you know, your knowledge of classical music is subpar, so I'm educating you. Next week, I'll take you to the opera.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, indeed. Gianni Schicchi. I have a spare ticket so feel free to bring someone along with you”.

“Puccini?” he says with a grimace.

“Now boy, I'm fond of you but if you say bad word of Puccini I will throw you of this balcony myself”.

He smiles, but she reminds him so much of her grandniece in this moment and something in his chest is calling out for you

Later that week he calls Lucy and they go out dancing. He doesn’t take her to Pigelle, wants to keep away from its smoke-filled rooms and sticky floors. Escapism isn’t heaven. Not anymore. Instead he takes her to La Noyade, a nice place where nice people go to have fun. And they dance, and she makes him laugh and it’s not world-altering or butterfly-inducing but it’s a good way to pass the time. They mindlessly chat about movies, and music and film stars over glasses of Champagne and they never once wade into personal territories. She wears a nice and tight dress in a sunny color, her golden blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, and as he watches her seductively move her hips to the live band's music, he finds himself thinking ‘why not?’ And when she kisses him with painted-pink lips under a streetlamp he kisses her back. Because why not. And when he takes her to bed that night and fucks her into the mattress, her moans ringing in his ears, and her yellow hair sprawled over his pillows he nearly manages to forget you.

Nearly.

He holds her as she falls asleep and he tries to get used to the unfamiliar scent of her hair, the unfamiliarity of her body next to his. One day at a time.

(In his dreams you come to him, through the haze of a misty beach. You take his hand and guide him into a boat. And there you lay, as the boat drifts away and you watch the stars. You hold him close, and breathing feels easier. The rioting creature inside his chest finally at ease.)

Walking of the stairs of L'Opéra Garnier one can’t help feel anything but small. The supreme grandeur of the palace is designed to make you feel inferior after all. The high ceiling, gloriously painted by Isidore Pils, is enough to knock the breath out of anyone, and then white marble and gold for as far as the eye can see.

Timothée is wearing a tuxedo, the cheap rental kind, and the collar hasn’t been starched properly. It itches, and he fights the urge to scratch at his neck, and so he keeps his hand occupied by taking Lucy’s hand in his, and they make their way forward.

They make their way down the grand foyer. All around them people are dressed up to the nine’s in evening dresses, furs and tuxedos and more diamonds than he’s seen in his entire life, and god, Timothée misses Montmartre. Through the crowd he can see madam Marguerite, fitting her surroundings perfectly.

“Madam” he greets and kisses her cheek.

“Timothée” she responds, and she sounds fond. However, before he can introduce Lucy to her Marguerite looks over his shoulder and excitingly exclaims “Oh, there you are darling!” Without thinking he turns around to look at whomever Marguerite is greeting.

His body reacts before he does and goes completely still and for a moment he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.

It’s you.

With your hair up in an eloquent hairdo, wearing a black velvet gown that he bets costs more than his apartment, and diamonds around your neck, you’re walking towards them. Arm in arm with you walks a man Timothée recognizes from the Tatler, Freddie, with blond hair and upturned nose. He’s certainly not wearing rental wear. “Timothée?” you ask in a weak voice as you reach him. You’re seemingly unable to believe your eyes. “Is it really you?” And with your painted blood-red lips you lean in to kiss his cheek, but they never touch his skin. You pull away and he sees how Freddie’s arm tightens around your waist.

Then you look at Lucy.

“Oh, yes of course, this is Lucy she’s my, uh” he halters.

“Muse” Lucy fills in and Timothée wants to protest, wants to catch the word midair and change it for something else, something less familiar. But he can’t. So, he watches in silence as she stretches out a hand for you to shake, which you elegantly do and even though you’re politely smiling there’s a frozen look on your face that unsettles him. With effortless grace you introduce yourself.

Then, “and this is my husband, Frederic”. You smile up at him and something inside Timothée chest is wreaking havoc. Freddie looks bored.

“Should we move along?” Freddie says in a drawling, posh voice that makes Timmy’s skin prickle in displeasure.

“Of course” Marguerite says, and leads the way, calling out ‘hello’s’ and ‘dahling’s’ to various familiar faces as she goes. Lucy crosses arms with him and they follow the older women's lead, you and your husband at your heel.

Timothée feels disorientated, head swimming with thoughts. There are too many feelings at once inside of him, too many different emotions fighting for dominance. But somehow, he continues to put one foot in front of the other and before he knows it, they’re in the auditorium. They’re in one of the boxes, and Marguerite places herself front row, next to an elderly gentleman she greets with fond familiarity. In the row behind them Freddie guides his wife and then sits down next to her. He and Lucy take the two seats behind them, Timothée ending up in the seat right behind you. He sees how Freddie leans in to whisper something in your ear, but he can’t hear his words. All he can see is that you stiffen, and slowly shake your head.

He looks at you, you’re perfect updo, not a hair out of place, the immaculately painted lips, the swan-like neck and perfect stiff posture. Your face still with that unsettling frozen look, as if you’ve retracted somewhere far inside yourself and he remembers how you used to dance in his studio, unguarded and free. Laughing and dancing while he painted you. A sudden urge to take your hand grabs hold of him. To take your hand and lead you away from all of this, away from the man sitting down beside you. To loosen your hair and limbs. To take you home and play Chopin and make you laugh again. Erase that frozen, still look from your face.

The lighting dims in the auditorium and then the orchestra begin the dramatic first chords of the opera but Timothée finds it hard to concentrate. Lucy has her eyes set on the stage, her hand on his knee. He feels like a trapped animal.

He thanks his lucky star that it’s at least only a one-act opera he tries to focus on the performances, but his eyes keep moving back to your neck. Your dress is backless and if he reaches out his hand, he could touch your skin. But doesn’t. Knows you wouldn’t want him to.

When O Mio Babbino Caro starts playing he sees how you lean forward, mesmerized by the beautiful voice of the soprano and he smiles, for he remembers you telling him it’s your favorite aria. But he sees how Freddie puts a hand on your arm, making you sit straight again.

‘Huh’ Timothée thinks and looks at your husband, ‘so this is what pure hatred feels like’. He digs his nails into his hand, leaving little half-moon shaped marks.

Eventually the wretched thing ends and after having applauded the performers and the orchestra you all rise up to leave. You turn and look at him and he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch your cheek, tell you how beautiful you are, how brave and wise and kind, and how undeserving the man next to you is. But he doesn’t.

Once outside it’s decided that you and your husband are going back to George V with your aunt for drinks. Politely you invite him and Lucy but he reclines with a bad excuse. He observes you, and even with your perfectly polite manners it’ like you’re walking around half-asleep, still with that frozen look in your face that’s beginning to scare him. And Christ, you’re just so guarded. You bid your goodbyes, and kissing her cheek he thanks Marguerite for the tickets, but when he tries to say goodbye to you, he can see Freddie’s arm tighten around your wait again. So instead of leaning into a kiss on the cheek he politely bows his head and you and in a gentle voice he says “goodbye then, it was nice seeing you again”. You smile back, eyes glossy and for a moment he wonders if you’re about to cry but a moment later you’ve pulled yourself together and politely bids goodbye to Lucy. And then you’re walking away, Freddie’s arm still around your waist.

* The next morning he goes to visit madam Marguerite, a book in hand. Louise lets him in, looking down on him as usual. “Would you like me to mend this, monsieur?” she asks, both sarcasm and contempt clear in her voice, as she looks takes his coat, indicating the big tear in one of the sides. “If you wouldn’t mind” he answers cheekily and walks past her.

Marguerite is sitting on the terrace eating breakfast, Le Monde in front of her. He puts down his copy of Jane Austen’s Emma in front of her.

“There” he says and sits down in the chair opposite her “your literary soulmate”.

She scoffs “Mr. Knightley really isn’t my type”

He rolls his eyes, but smiles fondly at her “No I shouldn’t think so. And I meant Emma, not Mr. Knightley. You and Emma are the same”. “Oh what utter nonsense!” She burst out, indignant, “I’ve never meddled a day in my life!”

Timothée stares at her in disbelief.

“Honestly!” she defends herself “I didn’t know they were coming to Paris until the day before and then, well, it seemed unnecessary to tell you”.

“You should have warned me she’d be there” he says sternly. “If nothing else then because then I wouldn’t have invited Lucy”.

She has the decency to look ashamed. “Oh, I dare say I should have warned you. But I was afraid you’d cancel, and I needed you to see it with your own eyes.”

“See what?”

She looks him dead in the eye then, a grave look, “the change in her, of course”.

He stays silent, doesn’t know what to say, drags his hands through his hair in distress.

“So” she says after a few moments of silence, “what do you make of Freddie?”

“The words princeling comes to mind”.

She observes him for a second, a sceptic look on her face, “I’m sure that’s not the only word that comes to mind”. He can’t help but smile at that, because she’s right. “True, but those are not words I'd use in front of a lady. She bursts out in laugher. “Darlinh, I practically invented swearing, no need to hold back in front of me.”

“What do you think of him?" He asks instead.

She huffs. “I prefer Picasso”. *

14th of Mars, 1953

Timothée is painting. Specks of yellow and gold adorn his hands and white shirt. The afternoon sun is lighting up the room and Chopin is playing for the first time in months on the record player. The knock on the door startles him, and since he was in the process of painting the details of Lucy’s eyes a stroke of dark paint ends up on her eyebrow as his hand jerks in surprise at the sudden noise.

“Fuck” he swears, and with a great deal of annoyance does he go to open the door.

You look surprised as he flings the door open.

“Sorry” you say, apologetically. “Is this an inconvenient time?”

He doesn’t answer, can’t seem to find his voice, just steps aside, inviting you to come in. You do, and move into the studio. He walks after you, seemingly in a daze.

“Drink?” he asks eventually, interrupting the pressing silence.

“Yes please” you answer. He looks at you, your hair is elegantly styled and your wearing another expensive looking dress. You’re not looking at him though, but instead at the golden portrait of Lucy he’s in the process of making. You don’t say anything. There’s still that still look on your face and it unsettles him.

He hands her a glass of gin. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” he asks, in a feigned nonchalant manner as he offers you a cigarette. You step closer to him so that he can light it. You’re so close he can smell your familiar perfume, and feel the heat from your skin. He looks down on you as you try to get the end to gleam. He can count your eyelashes from this distance, see every single feature in your face, every crook and corner. In the beginning, when you had first come to this studio, he had felt obsessed by the idea of painting your perfect likeness. But the closer he looked at you, the more impossible it felt. “Freddie is at a business function. I was not required” you answer and steps away from him, blowing out smoke into the room. “And where’s your muse?” you ask, and there’s a certain amount of resentment in your voice that you can’t seem to keep at bay.

“Right here” he answers simply, looking at you.

“And Lucy?”

“I don’t know” he responds truthfully. “I got your letter” you say, calmly.

Ah,

“Sorry” he says. “Shouldn’t have sent that. I was drunk”.

You keep looking at him, seemingly deep in thought. And before he loses all courage he asks, “may I paint you again? One last time?” “In what colour?” “In all your colours, just as you are” he answers, and then “I don’t have rose-colored glasses when I look at you anymore”. The room goes very still for a moment. “Do you still want me?” you ask, voice small. And with sincerity clear in his voice he answers. “More than ever”.

“No” you say and put down your drink, stubbing out your cigarette in the ashtray. “No, I don’t want you to paint me”.

Something twists painfully in his chest.

“That’s not what I want you to do to me” you continue and step closer.

And then you kiss him.

He grabs hold of you and kisses you back, trying to express every ounce of longing he’s felt since you left into the kiss. But he can tell part of you is holding back. “Don’t do that” he says in a low voice, pulling away from you. His eyes are bright and shining. “If you’re with me, you’re with me. Don’t keep foot out the door. If you’re with me; be with me. If you don’t want to be, then you have to leave. I don’t want you half-heartedly. I understand you can’t stay with me longer than today but if you’re with me then don’t keep your mind on him.” You stare at him, taken aback. “Well?” he asks “is this what you want?” Your answer is a red-hot kiss. Your answer is your hands, trying to tear his shirt off of him. Trying desperately to get your hands on his skin and he wants to cry from the sheer relief of feeling you touch him again. Frantically you’re tearing at his clothes. He grips your hands to stop you. “Slowly” he whispers in your ear. He can tell that you’re worked up from your labored breathing, chest rising and falling quickly, your eyes gleaming as you look up at him. The frozen look finally gone. You look alive again. He can tell that all you want right now is for him to lay you down and fuck you as hard and fast as he can. But he doesn’t want to rush this, knows this is all the time he’s going to get. And he feels like a man living on borrowed time. He kisses you, languidly, and your lips taste like gin. He leads you down, so you’re lying on the soft carpet, hovering above you. For ages all you do is kiss, your hands roaming his body, like you can’t stop touching him. Eventually he starts to remove your clothes, the silky material of your dress soft like water in his hands as he takes it off you, sneaking in kisses all over your body as he does so. You in turn help remove his dress shirt and trousers. Until eventually there’s nothing but air separating you. He looks you directly, deep into your eyes “Sure?” he asks, because he must hear it. Couldn’t live with himself if you ended up regretting this. “Yes” you say, voice barely louder than a whisper, but it doesn’t waver. The last rays of golden sunshine lights up the room and maybe it’s his overactive imagination, but he swears the light forms a halo around your head. He’s prowling over you, settled in-between your legs. He thinks you must see, surely you must see, all the wonder in his eyes that he feels when he looks at you. He kisses your sensitive nipples and you shiver in delight. Your hands in his hair and you move up against him, desperate for him to touch more of you. He bites, nips, licks and sucks your breasts, leaving wet traces as he goes and god, he’s missed this; missed you. The taste and feel of your soft skin, your gasps and moans, your hands tugging at his hair. Some part of him, a particularly cynical part of him, thought he’d must have made it up, that in the aftermath of you leaving his brain had beautified the memories of you until you’d reach almost divine proportions. But it was all real.

He grinds his body against yours, fill his hands with your breast, kisses you everywhere he can. He reaches down a hand to the wetness between your legs. “So wet” he murmurs against your skin “have you been thinking about this all day?” He pushes a finger inside you and you buckle up against him in response. “Mon cœur” he continues as he presses wet kisses against your throat, and adds another finger inside you, touching you with expertise in just the way he knows will send sparks of pleasure all down your spine. He remembers exactly how you like to be touched. “I asked you a question”. “Yes” you moan. He looks down on his fingers, moving in and out of you, glistening with your wetness. “Have you missed it?” he asks, voice low, and he speeds up the pace, his thumb moving over your clit. Your head thrown back you let out a deep moan and in a breathless voice you answer “yes, yes, missed it so much”.

Your hair has fallen out of its elegant hairdo, your cheeks flushed and wet and lips swollen from kisses. You look wild and free.

“I’ve been thinking about this, touching you; fucking you, ever since the opera” he leans down and kisses your clit, fingers still moving inside of you. And then he sucks on it and you explode around his fingers, cramping down around them, hips bucking and moans falling freely from your lips.

He strokes your cheek and kisses your face as he lets you catch your breath. Eventually you start kissing him back, softly at first, then ardently. He so hard he feels he could self-combust but as he lines up at your entrance, he looks you in the eye and asks “sure?”

“Never been more certain” you reply, voice like honey, and you wrap your leg around his waist, trying to guide him inside you.

He lets you get used to him, adjust to his size, before he starts moving. Your hands are in his and he can feel your wedding ring against his skin.

You try to incite him to move faster, bucking your hips against him, but he doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t want to go too hard on you.

“I’m not made of porcelain” you hiss, frustrated “you’re not going to hurt me. Fuck me like I'm yours”.

He’s starts fucking you with more force then, grinding where he knows you like it. Your nails are scratching his back, pulling at his hair. Sounds – moans, whimpers and begging's of more – escaping your mouth uninterruptedly. You can’t seem to stop them. He looks down on you and he swears out loud. The good damn sight of you like this, he knows he’ll never get the image out of his head. Knows that in months from now – when you’re back in good old England with your husband and he’s all alone here in this apartment – that he could paint this moment with picture-like perfection. Your glossy eyes filled with bliss, wild hair and flushed skin, lips still painted red and formed in a moan. But he won’t. He’ll let it be a memory, the thought of anyone else seeing that painting too unsettling for words. You come again then, eyes tight shut and head thrown back, mouth wide open in a silent scream. He feels your orgasm, can feel you spasm around him and he swears he’s gone to heaven. And as the final rays of sunlight disappears outside, he calls your name – half prayer half cry– and releases inside you, white hot pleasure racing down his spine, and then the whole room goes dark. The only reasons he knows the world hasn’t ended are your warm and sweaty body beneath him. The only sounds in the whole, wide world are both of your breathless gasps. * After, you put on your clothes in silence, avoiding the others eyes. He feels almost shy. The thing inside his chest is crying, knowing that you’re minutes away from leaving again, that this time it’s forever. How do you do something even though it kills you? “I’m sorry, for everything” you say and it startles him. “For everything?” “Yes. I’m sorry I came back” you avoid his eyes as you speak “well, I’m sorry but I don’t regret that part. And I’m sorry I can’t stay. I’ve never meant to hurt you.” Because it’s the right thing to do.

You are staying with your husband. This is your decision. He can’t force you to leave, or stay. He can’t save you, no matter what Marguerite says. Not when you’re determined to drown. “I’ve loved you wholeheartedly and I have no regrets. I’ve loved you of my own free will. You don’t owe me anything.”

The frozen look is back on your face and your spine straight again, hair fixed in place. You’ve put your armor back on. And like this, you leave.

* 18th of April, 1953

It’s a fine morning in April and Timothée is headed over to madam Marguerite’s apartment, a box of treats from her favourite patisserie in one hand and bouquet of magnolias in the other. Later this week she’s taking him to the opera again, Rossini this time, and he wants to give her something as a thank you.

Outside on the street an ambulance is parked. He walks past it and starts climbing the many stairs to her apartment. When he gets to Marguerite’s floor he’s taken by surprise. The apartment door is wide open and in the doorway stand a sobbing Louise, being comforted by a medic. Dread settles in his stomach.

“What’s going on?” he asks, and he can hear the panic in his own voice. “Where’s madam Marguerite?”

Louise starts sobbing even louder and the kind-looking medic pats her sympathetically on the shoulder.

“She passed away in her sleep last night. This woman here found her this morning”.

Something falls inside Timothée and is lost forever. The ground feels unsteady under his feet and for a second, he waivers. “Have you notified her family?” He asks.

The man shakes his head, “no, not yet”.

“I’ll do it” Timothée says firmly, letting it be known that this isn’t up for discussion.

* “Frederic Fairfax speaking” Freddie’s drawly voice answers when Timothée calls your London address.

“Hello, it’s Timothée Chalamet, could I speak to your wife, it’s urgent”

Silence for ten long seconds.

“No, anything you want to tell her you can tell me” Freddie eventually answers and there’s tension in his voice.

“Is she not in?”

“Yes, she is, but I'd rather you take this with me, Mr. Chalamet”.

“I see” Timmy answers, and he somehow manages to keep the rage he feels out of his voice. “But I have some very distressing and urgent news I have to pass on”.

“Then I suggest you share them with me”

Timothée wants to bang his head against the wall. But he keeps his voice calm. “You see, her greataunt Marguerite has passed away.”

“I see” the other man answers in a cold, unfeeling voice. “Well, if that was all, Mr. Chalamet, good bye.”

And he hangs up.

* May 1st, 1953.

In a red brick building on Chancery Lane, London, Timothée is sitting smoking in an armchair. The solicitor’s office looks like you would imagine a solicitor's office to look like, with oak furniture and cabinets full of files with important documents, outside busy men in suits hustling by and secretaries in pen skirts tapping on their typewriters’.

Madam Marguerite’s solicitor Mr. Lancaster looks on the crowd gathered for the reading of the will.

There’s Timothée, lounging in his chair, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and avoiding looking at you. There’s you, perfectly poised and wearing black, hands clapped in your lap to stop them from shaking. Then there’s your parents, your black-clad mother sniffling into a tissue and your father, with a grave look on his face.

Freddie is nowhere to be seen, and this surprises Timothée.

“Shall we begin?” the solicitor starts, organizing the papers in front of him. There’s a general hum of agreeing from the crown and Mr. Lancaster clears his throat. “Very well then. I had the great fortune of knowing Mrs. Beauchêne-Wright and I considered her a personal friend. She was a remarkable woman” he clears his throat again and Timothée shuffles with his feet, still not understanding why he’s been called to be present at this occasion. “An extraordinary woman” he repeats and look down at the papers in front of him. “Very well then” he says, before beginning to read from the will. “This is the last will of me Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright of 55 Rue de Châteaudun 75009 Paris -”

* It’s raining outside, a gentle but persistent drizzle. TImothée stands under his umbrella and observes as your mother storms off, her husband at her heel, into a taxi. She slams the door and they drive off, water splashing up on the sidewalk. His head feels foggy. The whole situation feels unreal. He’s standing outside the red brick building smoking, trying to get a grip on the situation. In a few hours he has to get back to Victoria station to take the night train back to Paris.

You walk out of the solicitor's office, a dazed look on your face, seemingly not even noticing the rain falling down. You seem him and walk up to him and he lifts his umbrella so you’re under it too.

“Gotta admit, didn’t see that one coming” he states and hands you his cigarette. You take it gratefully and inhale deeply.

“No” you say, some seconds later, “no I didn’t quite see that coming either”. A homourless laugh escapes you. “They’re furious about it” referring to your parents. “Asked if they could contest the will. Mr. Lancaster told them they didn’t have a leg to stand on”. “So” you say and look up at him. “What are you going to do with the money?”

The money. Marguerite’s entire estate divided between him and the woman in front of him. There had been a few smaller bequests to various people and charities, but the absolute majority of the fortune where to be split between you. Even after all the death duties it was by all consideration a fortune.

“Dunno” he answers. ”Haven’t really thought ahead that far”. And then, because he can’t contain his curiosity anymore. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” You’re silent for a moment, avoiding his eyes as you watch the rain create patterns in the puddles. “Freddie’s left.” you say eventually. “He’s seeking for a divorce. God knows he’s got grounds for it.” the cigarette shakes in your trembling hand. “I’ve been a terrible wife all things considered.”

He’s stunned into silence, too much life-altering information having been dropped on him already today. Eventually he gets a hold of himself and states, because he already knows it to be true, “he knows about us, doesn’t he? About what happened in Paris.”

You nod, and two tears fall down your cheeks. “They’re furious with me.”

“Who are?” he asks, confused.

“My family” “Why?”

A grimace, then “doesn’t matter”. Drop the cigarette on the ground and stomp it out. “Mr. Lancaster says we have to go to Nice. Apparently, most of her possessions are there and we need to go through them. He says that since we own the house now, we can live in it while we do so”.

He observes her for a moment. “I have an exhibition in Paris this month, I can’t leave before that’s done.”

You smile, but it’s still devoid of humour. “And I have a divorce to settle.”

The rain keeps falling around them.

“How about this” you say “we’ll go there in July, a summer on the riviera doesn’t sound too bad, and we’ll...” you trail of for a second “and we’ll settle everything then”.

Gently he puts his fingers under your chin and tilts your head up so that you look at him. You look as if you’re bursting at the seams, like you’re at your last straw. “Alright” he says and leans in to gently press a kiss on your forehead. “Alright, sounds like a plan”. And then he looks you in the eyes again “Everything will be alright, you know. Everything will be fine”.

You smile again, and this time it’s more genuine. Then you lean in, and place the softest of kisses on his mouth.

Then you leave. A/N: jesus christ, I spent a good 25 minutes of my life googling the rules of aristocratic titles in England. Freddie’s father is an earl, that makes freddie as the oldest son a baron and his wife a baronet? Right? If that’s not correct then, well, sorry, but those rules are mind boggling.

Other things I've googled a lot is the language of flowers and what different flowers symbolizes.

That ‘Swedish saying’ timmy refers to in his letter is not a saying but in fact from a song by Veronica Maggio called Stopp and very badly translated by me.

Also. I know that timothée’s letter is a bit... disturbing, but the thought of it wouldn't leave my mind so I had to write it.

I am planning on writing the last part, but this story always takes a lot of effort to write so it’ll be a while.

#timothee chalamet #timothee x reader #timothee x you #timothee x y/n #timothee chalamet x reader #timothèe chalamet #timothée x reader #timothée x you #timothée chalamet #timothee imagine #timothee fanfic

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gone-series-orchid · 3 years ago

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hi!!! have u read the monster trilogy?? if so i have some questions

- what are your thoughts on cruz and armo's relationship?

- thoughts on the reappearance of some original characters? (dekka, edilio, sam, diana, astrid)

- thoughts on shade/malik and their relationship?

if you haven't read it just ignor this but i'm almost done with the final book and idk how to feel about it. so yes

hi!!! i haven't read the full trilogy, but i did read the first book! and my thoughts on it are that it's...weird, i guess? i found the mishmash of gone-styled gritty ya dystopia with the more goofy elements of animorphs (don't get me wrong, i've heard it's a surprisingly dark and subversive series, but it's difficult to take the morphs seriously as someone more familiar with grant's slightly more down-to-earth work) to be poorly implemented; it feels like the sequel series takes place in a completely different universe than the original, to an absurd degree. when the weird sci-fi stuff is taking place in a literal bubble, it's easier to take in. when the sci-fi stuff takes place in what was taken for granted to be "our" reality in the first series, and to a way crazier degree? it just undermines my suspension of disbelief.

especially since the tonal dissonance, imo, was also similarly off-putting. mg tries to bring real-world elements like ICE and unethical government experimentation, the destruction of the san francisco bridge, the military killing a young child (though a giant mutant caterpillar-shaped one), even adding rape to drake's slew of crimes, etc., which jars against the silliness of people morphing into super-speedy mantis creatures and cat things and giant starfish. it just never seems real in the same way the original series does; there's too much absurdity there. i just found it too much in all the wrong ways.

it doesn't help that the characters, while written well enough (i think michael grant has an enormous talent for creating instantly likable/understandable characters), didn't feel very engaging to me. it's frustrating because i feel like i should like shade, who imo feels like michael grant's attempt to take an astrid-esque character whose flaws (her coldness and clinical genius intelligence) and spin those qualities in a more heroic light. but i just found shade unsympathetic and hard to understand; her grief over her mother doesn't feel very compelling, and her desire to consume the radioactive rock just feels (ironically) stupid given anyone who read the original series (who make up most of the audience, i think) would recognize how ill-advised that desire is. i found shade kind of alienating rather than compelling. it doesn't help that her intelligence is stressed constantly, but she doesn't think to tell malik to stay far away from the fight with drake during the climax of the story??? i know it's just a setup to ensure that malik consumes the rock like the others, but i just found that silly and insulting.

i did like cruz, though, and her vulnerability. i thought her struggles with gender identity and her admiration of shade rang true and felt very honest. i also liked vincent vu before he became a starfish.

and i also really loved seeing dekka return! i thought she was an excellent addition to the series. i wasn't that excited to read the new characters' perspectives, but whenever dekka popped up? i was legitimately invested!!! i think mg did a great job turning an interesting side character in the original series into a more active character in the sequel. i also loved the diana cameo and the references to the original series, also...except for the one where edilio got deported??? c'mon, mg! (another example of the weird grimdarkness of the sequel series :/)

i was thrilled to hear about sam and astrid returning! i love the sadness of sam being an alcoholic. not thrilled about them being married at 19 (sastrid will never stop being forced to me). i think it's hilarious that astrid turns into a giant golden woman???? that's just funny. it's literally like

also why couldn't orc survive. you can turn astrid into king homer but you can't make orc survive a missile. imagine him meeting golden astrid and realizing that she's taller than him

but i was torn on astrid killing drake. like, drake's whole spiel in light was about him being convinced that everyone, deep down, likes to cause pain. and astrid denies it. but here? she does enjoy killing him! it just proves him right. not that it doesn't feel psychologically plausible for astrid to react that way, given the amount of sheer trauma drake specifically has caused her, but it just feels a little sad and cynical. i don't know. maybe if there was a little adjacent novella that just was about astrid healing from and rejecting drake's influence, i'd be more on board. but it just adds to this weird uneasy balance between cheesiness and cynicism that sours/undermines the ending of the original series (don't get me started on the ending of hero...no spoilers, but according to the wiki, it's a doozy). i dunno. it just doesn't sit right with me.

i did not read enough about shade and malik's relationship (at the end of the first book i think it was heavily implied they still had feelings for each other? maybe they rekindled their relationship? i can't remember), but i like malik okay. not shade, really, but maybe her relationship to him does more to make her more fully dimensional in the other books?

what do you think of the sequel trilogy? tell me all your thoughts!!

#gone series #the gone series #michael grant #the fayz #fayzian #monster trilogy

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mithranqueersmusings · 3 years ago

Text

I Think I'll Love You Too I

Chapter: 1/?

Rating: E

Summary: George and Ringo have been going out officially for a couple of months. Ringo anticipated that dating a stripper would be complicated, but he didn't understand exactly how complicated it would be.

Tags: Modern AU, Smut

Pairing: George Harrison/Ringo Starr (Background McLennon)

AO3 link here / Fic masterlist here

"Are you sure about this?" Ringo asked tentatively, running the strips of leather through his fingers gently.

George gave him a look which needed no further explanation, the severity of his gaze enough to silence Ringo's worries. It hadn't been too long ago that Ringo had fantasised about having George all to himself yet now that dream had become a reality, he was nervous. Nervous about what exactly, Ringo didn't know, but ever since George had decided to reveal his extensive sex toy collection Ringo had been dreading the day he'd actually be required to use any of them. It wasn't that he didn't want to use these array of objects on George - the images they conjured in his mind kept him up late on several occasions - but he worried he wouldn't know how to do it properly. George seemed far more experienced with kinks and toys and everything really.

"We can try something else if you like." George was lying on his bed in nothing but a silk - Ringo couldn't tell whether it was real or not - dressing gown that was a deep shade of blue.

"Like what?" Ringo put the whip he'd been holding down onto the bed gently as though it had a mind of its own then scooted around to peruse through George's box once more.

"How about..." George began, scooting down the bed to get a better view "Wax?"

It took Ringo a few moments before he spotted the candles tucked away in the corner, they were thick and red like ones you might see in a horror film. Candles didn't seem that intimidating, at least compared to some of the other contraptions in here. Ringo wasn't even sure what some of them were called, and he was far too embarrassed to ask in this moment.

"Have you ever done it before?" George asked, his voice soft and sultry.

Ringo shook his head and chuckled "How hard can it be? I mean... It's candles."

"Precisely my thinking." George smiled at Ringo, quieting any anxiety he had.

"So... Uh- how do you wanna do this?" Ringo asked feeling rather helpless, picking up two of the candles from the box and giving them a smell - cherry scented, he guessed.

"Well." George began, the excitement in his voice evident, getting up from the bed and crouching beside the box "We're gonna need these."

These referred to a pair of handcuffs and two pieces of ribbon-like material which were a dark maroon colour. Ringo couldn't help himself from staring at George's face as he concentrated, his dark brows knitting together with his expression serious. Even though they'd been dating for a month or two now, Ringo still couldn't believe his luck that he was able to tie down - no pun intended - someone as stunning as George. Light stubble was brushed along his sharp jaw, only accentuating the bone further, his hair was messy yet still enticing and the paleness of his skin was clear to see as the robe slipped over his skin freely.

"We could do a blindfold too, if you wanted." George lowered his voice in concentration "Maybe some... No, I'm getting carried away."

George laughed to himself and returned back to his full height, clutching the aforementioned items before chucking them onto the bed with little consideration. Then he rummaged through his bedside table for a lighter, there was always one in the bedroom due to the cigarettes they tended to smoke after sex. Successful in his search, George threw the lighter to Ringo without warning but he managed to catch it all the same. Ringo cursed himself for feeling so flustered, but it was difficult knowing what was to come. No matter how many times he slept with George, no matter what kind of depraved acts they got up to, he still felt as anxious as the very first time; that was just the effect George had on him.

"I'm gonna hop in the bath real quick, then we can start. Okay?" George threw off his robe casually, letting the fabric slide from his smooth skin into a pile on the floor.

"Sounds like a plan." Ringo nodded, finally putting the candles down beside the bed.

Ringo watched George with hungry eyes as he sauntered off into the bathroom, the way he swung his hips made it clear to Ringo that he knew he was being looked at. The door shut with a gentle thud, leaving Ringo alone to gather his thoughts and prepare for what was to come.

"Comfortable?" Ringo asked after clicking the handcuffs together, pulling George's slim wrists to the top of the bed.

George nodded with a small smile, wiggling his limbs to test the strength of the restraints then nodded again. This was a small moment of intimacy that occurred every time they ventured into kinky territory, the calm before the storm in many ways. Ringo smiled back then flicked the lights off, leaving nothing but a lamp in the corner to light the suppleness of George's body. Ringo's nerves seemed to dissipate in the relative darkness, his breath steadying as he moved back over to the bed. First, he captured George's soft lips in a gentle kiss that quickly grew heated. George wasn't the most patient when it came to the bedroom, his teeth already pulling at Ringo's bottom lip. It took a great deal of strength for Ringo to pull away, fighting the temptation to forget all about the candles and to start spreading George open.

The candles had already been lit, sitting on the bedside table flickering slightly, and it was now that Ringo made his way over to pick one of them up. The sweet smell of cherry wafted around the room, something usually so innocent now suddenly turned erotic. The look in George's eyes was hungry, his hands were already fiddling with the handcuffs as best they could from the awkward angle, watching Ringo experimentally tilt the candle sideways so that the wax began to drip down. First it fell onto the bed, Ringo didn't want to try it directly onto George's skin at first. How much was this going to hurt? Ringo supposed he didn't really have to know, George knew and more importantly wanted desperately to feel the sensation.

"Come on..." George whined, rattling his handcuffs against the metal bedframe in protest.

Ringo moved his hand further, hovering the candle over George's hairless stomach before tilting it once more. The wax dripped down instantly, burning the soft skin for a moment before solidifying; its rich red colour made it appear almost like blood, a sight which no doubt spurred further depraved fantasies in George's mind.

"More." George demanded, his pupils dilated both from the darkness and his exponentially growing lust "And take your fucking clothes off."

Ringo gulped, unsure as to which command he was meant to follow first. It was difficult to think with this enticing display laid out before him: George's cock was beginning to harden and it made Ringo's mouth water. He decided to carry on with the candle for a few more moments, teasingly tilting the candle back and forth so that the wax never fell when George was expecting it. Ringo slowly began making a pattern which gradually grew closer to George's erection, each drop pulling a sharp hiss from his lips.

"Clothes." George repeated impatiently, it was moments like this that reminded Ringo why he'd been so intimidated by George when they'd first crossed paths.

Ringo didn't wait to be told a third time, even though George was helpless to administer any punishment even if he'd wanted to, undoing his trousers and shirt sloppily and tossing them behind him. He hadn't realised how hard he'd become until his erection sprang free from his boxers, evidently George wasn't the only one enjoying this little experiment. Candle back in hand, Ringo carefully shifted himself onto the bed to straddle George's thighs - careful to ensure they were never close enough for their cocks to brush together, that'd be making things too easy - before he tilted the candle once more. This time Ringo aimed for George's nipples which were hard with the coldness of the room, only missing by an inch or two. The second attempt was successful, landing directly onto the target, leading George to groan breathlessly.

"Feel good?" Ringo asked with a raised eyebrow, his free hand rubbing over the clean nipple.

George nodded "Stop holding back. I can take it."

Ringo smirked, jerking his wrist swiftly to administer another hot drop of wax onto his nipples "You wanna tell me where you want it, baby?"

George growled in response, a noise Ringo only heard every so often "My cock." The word sounding so filthy in George's rough tone, his tongue playing with his sharp teeth.

"You sure?" Ringo asked after a pause, his nervousness returning only slightly.

"Yes, I'm sure." George whined, thrusting his hips upwards as best he could to demonstrate his desperation "Now, do it."

Ringo couldn't deny that George's bossiness was a complete turn on, although he'd never let George know exactly how much of a turn on it truly was. He tried his best to silence the anxious thoughts plaguing his mind. Before committing to George's demand, Ringo wrapped his fingers gently around George's erection which earned him a few soft pants. Now or never, Ringo told himself before tilting the thick candle once more and letting the wax fall onto the hard cock gripped in his hand.

The noise that left George's mouth was something Ringo had never heard before, a mixture between a gasp and a deep moan, though it was certainly one he wanted to hear again (and again, and again...) It was difficult to not admire the strange beauty of the wax trickling down George's erection, which was now rock hard.

"Fuck..." Ringo couldn't keep the words from spilling from his lips, only waiting a moment or two before spilling more hot wax onto the reddening skin.

George let out a grunt, sounding far more in pain than he had previously, and for a moment Ringo worried he'd taken it too far but the look on his face was of pure ecstasy.

"More." George moaned, his wrists struggling in the constraints.

"Now, now." Ringo teased, a sly grin on his lips "There's a nicer way of asking that."

The look George gave Ringo made him very appreciative of the restraints for without them, George might've slapped him. He knew George's aggression wasn't genuine, it was just sexual frustration, but that didn't make it any less terrifying. A few moments passed in which the two of them just looked at each other, George's mouth tight with anger as he waited for Ringo to give up this act and carry on following his orders, but the time never came. Ringo only raised his eyebrows further, tilting the candle just so that it never dropped any wax.

"I'm waiting." Ringo spoke with a lilt, his grin widening.

George rolled his eyes and scoffed, looking like a disgruntled child "Please give me more, Ringo..."

"More of... what?" Ringo pushed his luck, he decided he may as well make use of George being helpless like this for as long as he could.

George's stare was deadly but it melted away when Ringo gave his cock a few loose jerks "Please pour that hot wax on my cock, please. I've been good, haven't I?"

Ringo found it difficult to refuse George whenever he opted for the mock-innocent route, so he decided to stop the teasing and snapped his wrist suddenly which led to three separate droplets of wax falling onto the sensitive skin of George's cock. George practically shrieked, his body jerking upwards but failing to move more than a few inches off the bed.

"Fuuuuck." George breathed, his eyes struggling to focus "Do that again."

For a moment Ringo debated teasing George further, but his own erection was growing uncomfortably hard and he wouldn't be able to ignore it for much longer. In a quick motion Ringo grabbed the second candle, unleashing a shower of wax down onto George. The noises were pained yet still erotic, Ringo couldn't help moaning himself as he watched the pain and pleasure washing over George's face. When George and Ringo's eyes finally met once more, Ringo could tell that George's vision was a little fuzzy.

"Can you use wax as lube?" Ringo asked, his mouth opening before he'd even considered what he was saying.

George's hazy eyes lit up "We can try."

Only now did Ringo realise the commitment he was making with that question, although it would have been foolish to pretend the idea didn't excite him thoroughly. It wasn't the smoothest transition but Ringo managed to undo the restraints on George's legs and get him into a position where the wax could drop directly onto his entrance.

"Are you sure?" Ringo asked cautiously, his free hand running circles up and down George's thigh to soothe him.

"Do it." George ordered once more, biting down on his lip.

Ringo shut off the barrage of voices telling him to stop, that this was taking things too far, and let his wrist flop down. George was incapable of making a sound, his mouth agape with only sharp breaths pouring out. However much it hurt, Ringo was certain he didn't want to know, but it was clear that George approved of whatever it was he was experiencing.

"Jesus." George panted "Feels so fucking good."

"Oh yeah?" Ringo asked, letting another two drops fall onto his hole "Tell me."

"Fuck!" George yelped, his wrists rattling in the handcuffs "Hurts so much... Don't stop."

Ringo tried to ignore the potential contradiction, pressing his finger roughly inside before spilling more wax from above; a drop fell onto Ringo's finger and stung for a moment or two before the pain subsided. George was falling apart before him, sweat dripping from his forehead and sticking his dark hair onto the skin in strands.

"I don't need your fingers." George squirmed "I want your cock, Ringo. Now."

"It's not-" Ringo began but George silenced him with a glare "Alright."

Ringo shifted himself on his knees, pumping his finger a few more times before pulling it out entirely. It didn't take too long for Ringo to learn the telling signs of when George was getting close: his toes would start curling, he'd bite his lip just hard enough to draw a drop or two of blood and his eyes would grow so dark, the pupil engulfing the iris completely.

Even Ringo was getting too frustrated to be overtly considerate, letting the wax fall liberally down onto George's arse, coating his cock and his entrance as a cacophony of moans and shrieks filled the room. It was getting to a point that Ringo was concerned that George might break the handcuffs completely, the skin on his wrists clearly irritated.

"Ringo..." George cooed, it was impossible for Ringo not to be enticed by his own name being said so sweetly "I want you inside me."

No further words were needed, Ringo spit into his hand and lathered up his cock before lining up with George's entrance, now covered with red wax. Fortunately it hadn't solidified completely and Ringo was able to fashion a makeshift lube out of the soft wax and his own spit, it wasn't his most dignified moment but in the heat of the moment all he needed was to feel his cock stretching George out. As the head pushed past the tight ring of muscle George began clawing at the bedframe, sweat dripping from his skin as he moaned at the sensation.

"I swear you get fucking bigger every time." George breathed, his hand gripping the metal frame to expel some tension.

"I'm not getting bigger, you're getting tighter." Ringo groaned, thrusting himself in deeper as the smell of cherries wafted into his nose.

It was difficult to move at first, the lube was hardly effective and without any preparation it was a struggle. More spit was needed and eventually more wax, Ringo was as careful as he could manage to not drop any onto his own cock but it was only possible to a certain extent; the further they went the more he found himself enjoying the burning sensation although he was certain he wouldn't be able to endure as much as George had.

"Not complaining are you?" George cocked an eyebrow and pulling Ringo closer towards him with his legs.

Ringo moaned gruffly "You know I'm not."

"Fuck me harder, then." George began writhing again, desperate for his own cock to be touched.

It was a complete sensory overload: the cherry scent so strong now that Ringo's head was swimming, the wax occasionally catching on his skin which would cause him to suddenly thrust forward into George who was so tight that Ringo wanted to scream. George was practically wailing at this point, his lip smeared with red as he tried to keep his eyes locked on Ringo's as he fucked him deeper.

"I feel like I'm gonna pass out." Ringo admitted, the fuzziness of his mind slurring his speech just slightly.

George looked concerned for a moment, it wasn't often that his sultry persona was shaken but it was difficult to hide; Ringo reassured him with a weak smile, gripping onto George's thigh and quickening his thrusts. He was getting close, George seemed to have been on the edge of orgasm for an impossible amount of time.

"I'm close, I'm close." Ringo repeated, cascading more wax down onto the few areas of George's chest that were still bare before blowing out the candle entirely and chucking it onto the bedside table as accurately as he could manage.

"Touch me." George pleaded, barely able to keep his eyes open.

Ringo wrapped his hand once more around George's coated cock, the wax had started to crumble and create a mess all over the bed but neither of them paid any attention. The intensity of his incoming orgasm almost scared Ringo, he'd never felt anything like it before. George hadn't stopped babbling, whether he was whining for release or muttering incoherent yet clearly filthy things.

"Need your fucking cum." George managed to speak with some clarity "Fuck! Give it to me, give it to me... I want your cum."

Ringo gripped George's leg tighter for some stability, expelling his final burst of energy as he fucked into him roughly and sloppily. Both were groaning, dripping with sweat and wax and desperation. If Ringo had known this experience would be this enjoyable, he would've suggested it sooner.

"Shit, shit." Ringo panted "I'm close."

"Mmmm." George whined, his voice nearly wrecked "Come on, baby, give it to me. I wanna feel your hot cum deep inside me. Please, please, please, make me dirty. I wanna be dirty for you."

"Fuuuucking hell." Ringo's hips stuttered as he chased his orgasm, his eyes shut tight as the ever-familiar sensation began deep in his stomach "You're unbelievable, George."

Then he was coming, the orgasm striking Ringo with such an intensity that he released a noise he didn't even know he was capable of making. With these final shreds of energy Ringo desperately jerked George's cock until he was finishing too, shooting cum all over his wax-covered skin. The climax hit like a huge wave, crashing into the both of them as utter ecstasy washed over their sweaty bodies. It took several moments for the both of them to recover, Ringo hadn't even pulled out while they tried to catch their breath.

When Ringo finally felt capable of opening his eyes and returning to reality, George was looking directly at him with a smug expression.

"What?" Ringo asked, sitting down onto the bed and brushing his sweaty hair away from his forehead.

"Nothing." George replied innocently "I just can't believe you did all that."

"Is it really that surprising?" Ringo leaned over to finally release George's aching wrists from the handcuffs.

"Maybe not." George let his arms flop onto the bed "But if you'll do this, maybe there's some more shit in that box we can try."

"I'm gonna need at least 3-5 working days to recover from this." Ringo huffed, lying himself down beside George "Then we can talk."

#beatles fanfic #beatles fanfiction #the beatles #beatles #george harrison/ringo starr #george harrisonxringo starr #ringo starr/george harrison #starrison #starrison smut

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