#using the books to prop open a window so he can crawl out to go drink and gamble

[lecredo]

i've talked before about the parallels in arno's situation and haytham's, where they were both sons of murdered assassins taken in by templars, but the difference is that haytham came out of it a templar and arno didn't. and we know from the unity novel that de la serre did make some efforts to indoctrinate arno. and i just.

i think the whole reason it didn't work is that arno is not very smart.

[monzamash]

smile you're on camera — lando norris

when miami hits different... lando norris x you (femreader) | 1.8k rating – 18+ (sex, coarse language) masterlist

“That all looked sufficiently cringe.”

Lando’s gruff laugh echoes as he slid the balcony door open for you. You had been watching him for the past half hour filming promotional content for the Miami GP, each one cheesier than the last and you couldn’t help but admire his work ethic – even if it meant watching him make a complete fool of himself in the blistering heat.

A grumbled “you’ve got no idea” paired with a deep sigh in reply was all you were going to get and a sweet kiss pressed to the back of your head.

He helped you collect the book you’d abandoned in lieu of watching him glow in the golden hour and retreat inside from the humidity, still suffocating as the sun set off in the distance. The sweet relief of the air con as you stepped inside provided a little bit of respite while Lando shuffled around the room, closing windows and doors, trapping what cool air you did have inside your hotel room.

“I have something to show you…”

Lando sheepishly declares as you splay out on the hotel bed, grumbling through a jaw splitting yawn, “What is it?” “I stole it.” That got your attention, shooting up from where you were laying down, “But I’ll take it back tomorrow… after we’ve used it.”

Sitting in his hot little hands was a camcorder that had seen better days, scratches on its lens and all. Lando watched your shocked expression fall to one of annoyance as you sat back on your hands, eyebrow quirked and scowl present on your pretty face.

“Absolutely not.”

“Aw come on,” He drawls, holding the camera up to his eye – the other squinted behind the viewfinder, “I swapped in one of my SD cards and I know you’re into this kinky shit. Admit it…”

Lando kept the camera up, the little red light that was on all of those old school recorders flashed in the dark. Your eyes were rolling when his grabby reached out for your hip, “You’re out of your mind.”

“That’s the effect you have on me, baby.”

A soft hum slips from your lips feeling the pads of his fingers tracing down the outside of your thigh, too easily convinced by the man who consumed your every thought; every desire. You missed him when he was gone, the days spent with him slimmer as the season lulled on. So, maybe having something to reference on those cold, lonely nights was excuse enough to indulge the idea. And he was right – you are into this shit.

“Just make sure you can’t see too much,” You whisper into the air, giving the green light.

Lando’s little noise tells you everything. He's excited about this; you can tell by the way he nips and presses a couple of sloppy kisses to your cheek before scurrying off to set up the camera. He was a giggly mess thinking about how fucking lucky he was to be with someone who was up for anything. Equal parts classy and devious – just the way he likes it.

“Hop up on the bed so I can frame you,” He sweetly instructs, eyes trained on the small screen lighting his dark features, ocean eyes a moody blue.

You do as you’re told and crawl up onto the comically large bed, propped up on one elbow with hair a mess. Lando smiles when he shifts focus onto you – the sheer white dress you were wearing flaunting everything he loved about your body. All curves and supple skin, pebbled nipples peaking through – the silverware you had secretly added to them as a surprise for him peaking through under the fabric.

“You are so fucking pretty,” He almost whimpers; a warm flush washing over your sticky skin. It was hot in the room you were in and the way Lando was eyeing you from behind the camera was searing.

“Can you take the dress off for me?” his voice was a lower octave than before, eyes still watching your shadowed body moving across the messy bed.

“Not sure how to make this look sexy but…” You huff, carelessly tearing the thin material over your head and throwing it to the side, “your wish is my command.”

Lando chuckles quietly and strides over to you, no longer able to keep his hands off what was his. He hopes there’s enough space on his card for what he was about to do to you – because in reality, this was selfishly for him to indulge in when you weren’t near, to feel like you were close when you’re a million miles away. You sat on the edge of the bed, eyes following his as he reaches out and presses down your hair, frizzed up by the dress sitting on the floor beside his feet.

“So cute,” He admires, “And somehow even sexier…”

He leans down and meets your craned neck halfway in a tender, reassuring kiss, “If it gets too weird just say, baby.”

His words were just loud enough for you to hear, not for the camera – just you, “Oh, you know I will.”

He laughs into the kiss, knowing that you were in full control of this situation – he was under no illusions when it came to your dynamic. It was laced through your entire relationship, the fair balance of power – of give and take. But tonight, all he wanted was to make you feel good and so he rested between your already shaky thighs and pried them apart, basking in how seduced you are by his little ploy.

“You pretend like this shit doesn’t turn you on but look at you,” He revels, one solitary finger brushing languidly through your folds and earning an impatient growl.

Lando wasn’t in the mood for teasing – the battery life on the camera and your legs wrapping tightly around his head made sure of that. He helps you shuffle back on the bed, hands gripping your hips as he rearranges the shot – you caught a glimpse of the blurry reflection of the two of you naked on the camera lens and it sent a pang of doubt down your spine, chilling.

“I hope we don’t look disgusting when we watch this back.” It was an honest thought – one you hope doesn’t kill the mood.

“You look so unbelievably hot,” Lando hums, kissing the top of your shoulder before pressing his hand to your lower back, “Lay on your front and I’ll fuck you like this…”

You raise a sceptical eyebrow, “From the back? This is getting real porny now.” But of course you do it, positioning yourself on your stomach, backside up with a playful smirk that had the man behind you grinning like an idiot.

“Might as well put on a bit of a show just in case this does get out somehow,” Lando teases, earning a swift round arm to the ribs. He grimaces in pain but you knew behind those flirtatious blue eyes, he loves it.

“Well you better fuck me good, huh? Wouldn’t want people thinking you’re a dud shag…” Now it was your turn to taunt and Lando’s reaction was the exact one you were praying for.

A hasty smack to your ass that had been brushing against his clothed cock for better part of a minute; it wasn’t a hard but it certainly wasn’t timid, either and the moan that slipped from your lips had him itching to rearrange your insides. He smoothed over the reddening mark and pressed a sweet kiss to your spine before pushing down the waistband of his sweatpants, freeing himself between your thighs.

“Don’t hold back those sweet sounds, pretty girl. I wanna hear you, okay? I want everyone to hear you…”

“Same goes for you, handsome.”

Your eyes flutter shut as you surrender to the delicious stretch he gives you. Weakly pushing back but making no head way in adjusting. A whimper falls from your mouth before the squeal when Lando lunges forward, pushing deeper with a sadistic grin lining his bitten lips. He was sweating already – tanned skin glimmering against the darkening sunset while every muscle on his stomach contracted, delving further into your depths.

“That’s it, Lan,” You sputter out, blowing stray hairs out of your face so you can get a good look at your boyfriend, “Move it just like that – yes…”

And he did, rotating your hips tantalisingly slow to begin but gradually building up his long, delectable strokes – the sounds of skin slapping and shallow breathing heightening all of the senses. In the midst of his relentlessness, you manage to slip your hand between your thighs, toying with the sensitive bud begging for your attention. Lando’s strained hum of approval when he felt your back arching sent a rush of blood to your fingertips.

“Tell me how good it feels when you play with yourself?” He asks, hunched over and kissing the nape of your neck when you opened your eyes, giggling at the wispy curls tickling your skin, “Is that how you do it when I’m not around?”

“God, yes… But wish you were always here, baby.”

“Do ya imagine me fucking you like this, huh? Begging for that pussy to come around my cock?” He probes, receiving a moan in response – your brain short-circuiting from the orgasm quickly approaching, easing you over the edge.  

You buried your head at first, shying away from the little red light flashing in your rolling eyes until Lando gently encouraged you to ‘show him your pretty face when you come undone’. It was all whispers and moans and absolute bliss when you resurfaced, pupils blown out from both sides as Lando reached over you and flipped the small preview screen around.

“Look at yourself,” He grunts into your neck, losing control of every single fibre of his being as he pumped into you.

“Fill me up, Lan. Make a mess…”

“If you say shit like that to me, you're gonna make me– fucking… fuck,” He sputters out, chanting your name, and before you can even blink, you feel that familiar twitch inside you.

The one that almost always triggers another high, extremely close to losing yourself to the white hot pleasure all over again.

Lando collapses into your slick back, his warm release pooling as he catches his breath and holds you tightly. You look up at the camera – the red light still flashing as you muster up every ounce of energy remaining and pick it up off the tripod. You hold it stupidly close to his flushed cheeks that are pressed into your skin, eyes closed.

“Any last words before I turn this off?” You ask, Lando slowly lifts his chin up and rests it next to your face. You smile at how equally fucked out and sleepy you both appear, blissfully satisfied by your work. His voice is gravelly when he tries to speak, clearing his throat before trying again.

“Um, yeah so make sure you like the video and subscribe if you haven’t already…”

“Stop!” You shout and smack him in the shoulder – Lando groans with faux pain into your neck as you turn the camera off and wriggle out of his strong grasp.

“You are unbelievable!” You jest, swatting his tickling fingertips away.

“What? I could’ve said stay tuned for part two…”

a/n – happy new years everyone x

[spider-stark]

A BOY'S FIRST PEST

Kaz Brekker x Reader

Summary - Kaz Brekker thinks Per Haskell's daughter is a (very lovely) pest

Warnings - fem!reader, traumatraumatrauma, the woes of troubled youth, light mentions of blood and death, these bitches trauma bonded yo, could deviate some from canon, based more on book!kaz than show, NOT EDITED WE DIE LIKE MEN

Word Count - 2.0k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Everyone knows Kaz Brekker put his own money into fixing up the Slat. 

He hired men to patch the leaky roof (though it still drips during a heavy rain) and put proper insulation in the walls (which keeps the house warm enough, even if it does nothing to muffle the noise of its occupants). He had all the doors fitted with working knobs (but easily picked locks) and ensured the kitchen was capable of making a warm meal (even if seriously doubted any of the Dregs knew how to cook). 

And while he would never admit it aloud, Kaz was also the one who made sure there were always clean linens in every room (albeit the cheapest Ketterdam has to offer) and spare clothes in every closet (sizes ranging from wafer-thin to barrel-chested). In keeping, he also takes it upon himself to keep the bathing room stocked with a steady supply of toiletries (because if someone uses his toothbrush again, he’s going to kill everyone in this place and then himself). 

Because of Kaz Brekker, the Slat was more than just a safe place to hole up. It was a haven, the closest thing many of the Dregs had to a home. 

But it did, of course, have one enduring problem. 

The pests.

Or, namely, the one pest—one that he could never quite exterminate (though the spider privy to the inner-workings of Kaz Brekker’s mind might argue the merit of replacing ‘could never’ with ‘would never’). 

Per Haskell’s very annoying (and very lovely) daughter. 

In the midst of Ketterdam’s hottest season, you find yourself lying sprawled on your back atop the dark sheets, clad in the skimpiest nightclothes you own: a matching set of black silk shorts and flowy, thin-strapped camisole. The air is thick and near stifling in the attic-bedroom, but you don’t mind it. You prefer being hot to cold, if only because the heavy weight of winter clothes makes you feel trapped, eliciting the urge to crawl straight from your skin. 

When the door finally swings open, you eagerly push up onto your elbows. 

Kaz doesn’t so much as spare a glance in your direction. He’s got one hand on his cane, the other shoving the door shut behind him as he limps toward his desk, guided by the bright moonlight spilling in from the muggy window. 

Your shoulders slump, huffing out a breath. “Seriously? You’re not even gonna greet me?” 

With his back turned to you, Kaz removes his hat and places it on the desk. He doesn’t look at you. “You’re in my room.” 

“Yeah—so I was actually thinking something more along the lines of hello,” you drone, lips pursed. “Y’know, that thing normal people say when they see their friends.” 

“We’re not friends.” 

A hand flies to your chest, as if struck by his words. “Um, ouch? Rude. For your sake, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

Kaz tugs off his signature gloves and tosses them next to his hat. “I can always repeat it,” he says, so impassive you can’t tell if it’s a joke. 

Knowing Kaz, you’re pretty sure it’s not. 

You push up the rest of the way, scooting down to sit cross-legged at the end of his bed. It’s so much nicer than yours—the sheets softer, the mattress plusher, the smell so familiar and warm. 

If it were up to you, you’d sleep in here every night. 

And most nights, that’s exactly what you do. 

“Would it kill you to be nice sometimes?” you ask. 

“Not usually, no.” Kaz faces you, his weight leaned back against the desk, his cane propped against it. “But we both know you’re a special case.” 

“Is that a compliment?” 

“Not at all.” 

Your bottom lip juts into a pout. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an asshole?” 

Aside from the subtlest lift of his brows, Kaz’s expression remains vague and disinterested. “Regularly,” he deadpans, looking the image of austere melancholy. 

Your laugh comes so sudden it sounds like a snort. “I should’ve guessed,” you nod, forever unphased by Kaz’s forbidding attitude. 

This is the way things have always been between you. Ever since a surly twelve year old marched head-high into your father’s office to see if the Dregs needed a new grunt, oblivious to the girl beaming up at him from a lonely corner, weaving colorful scraps of thread into bracelets for the friends you’d yet to make. 

Kaz Brekker is dark and foreboding while you’re bright and bubbly; he’s rude and standoffish while you’re sweet and flirtatious. Some may liken your relationship to oil and water, but you prefer thinking of it as a carefully crafted balance—a yin and yang sort of thing. 

Kaz, on the other hand, would simply say you’re a thorn in his side. 

Fortunately for yourself, you’re not an easily offended thorn. 

The rickety floorboards creak as Kaz starts around the desk. His bare fingers trail along the varnished edge for support. His limp is always at its worst by this time of night, so you’re not surprised to see the flicker of relief that slips over him when he finally sinks into the chair. 

“Have you ever considered that maybe you work too hard?” Your voice teeters on the edge of concern, tracing idle shapes against the sheets with your nails. 

His answer is curt, and contradictory to the purple smudges beneath his eyes. “No.” 

Fumbling with his cufflinks—simple, unadorned things—Kaz rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. Afterwards, he flips open the thick ledger laid before him, plucking up a pen and dipping it into an awaiting pot of ink. 

Kaz keeps track of the Dregs expenses in his head—a skill you’ve always found most impressive, since you can hardly do a simple equation without scratch paper. Still, he keeps the physical record for the sake of having something to point to in case someone’s ever stupid enough to claim Dirtyhands flubbed the numbers. 

As he works, boredom quickly becomes a chip on your shoulder. 

Your legs unfurl, bare feet stretching toward the floor as you slip off the edge of the bed. Every step is purposeful, traipsing toward him with a look that’s not so unlike a cat readying to toy with its favorite mouse. 

“Maybe we should take a holiday,” you suggest, your voice a soft trill. 

One part of you expects to be ignored, the other to be shot down. 

He lands somewhere in the middle. 

“And go where? His eyes remain focused on the ledger, dark brows drawn tight in concentration. You envision numbers flashing before him, adding and subtracting at the steady pass of the nib scratching against parchment. 

“I don’t know. Ravka, maybe?” 

“Ravka?” It’s like the word tastes sour on his tongue. “Why?” 

You stop just short of his desk, an answer instantly rapping at your mind. You quickly replace it with one that’s far less tragic. “I wouldn’t mind seeing Nikolai Lantsov with my own eyes,” you drawl. “Nina says he’s quite the looker, y’know.” 

Kaz sits up a little straighter, shoulders pinned with newfound tension. 

“Of course he is.” He seems to press the nib down harder, his disinterested tone bordering close to resentful. “He’s a prince—looking pretty is all they’re good for.” 

Your head tilts. “Well, he’s actually a king now, so…” 

There’s the briefest falter in the smooth motion of his jotting wrist. “I’m not taking you to Ravka so you can seduce the Lantsov bastard.” 

“And why not?” You reach for the tip of his cane, still propped against the desk, skimming a finger over the crow’s head. “You think I can’t do it?” 

The pen keeps on scratching, accented by the dull hum of the Slat’s perpetual motion—doors slamming, voices cackling. Your ego grows larger for every second Kaz stays silent, your satisfaction settling into a feline smirk. 

Simply, yet firmly, Kaz eventually maintains, “We’re not going to Ravka.” 

Your exhale is something over dramatic, laden with feigned disappointment as you huff, “Fine!” Kaz never looks up, continuing with the ledger. 

Abandoning the crow’s head, you swipe one of Kaz’s abandoned gloves off the desk, fiddling with the smooth leather. Still recovering from their civil war, you imagine Ravka isn’t an ideal travel spot right now, anyway. Not unless someone has a morbid desire to tour the sites where Saints met their often-grisly ends, that is… Besides, for all Nina’s praise of the Lantsov king, you’ve never actually had a thing for blondes. 

And yet— 

“I really would like to go someday.” Your voice is hardly a whisper. Your other answer—tragic and rapping—crawls up your throat in a hoarse admission, “My mother was Ravkan.” 

That persistent scratching finally comes to a sudden halt. 

For the first time since he entered the room, Kaz looks up. There’s not a hint of pity in his eyes, though they gleam with solemn understanding. Your lips thin, pressing his glove tight to your chest. 

In the winter of your fourteen birthday, you snuck into your father’s office and stole a full bottle of kvas. Dressed in clothes too light for the frigid weather, you sped up the crooked stairs to Kaz’s attic-bedroom, pleading until he begrudgingly agreed to join you on the moonlit roof. For a boy who claimed such an aversion to you, he was always doing things you asked—even if he’d griped the whole time. You both gagged after the first sip of hard liquor. After an hour or so, the full bottle had dwindled to just a drop, your tongues seeming to move with more freedom. 

Neither of you had been prepared for the way the carbonated joy in your chests fizzled to something stagnant. 

I don’t like being alone, you told him, fiddling with the frayed strings tied around your wrist, the friendship bracelets no one ever wanted. If I’m alone, it means I’m thinking, and if I’m thinking, it means my mother won’t stop dying. 

You told him of the endless montage in your head. How at six years old, a walk along the Stave in your favorite winter coat ended with getting crushed beneath the weight of your mother’s last act of devotion, shielded by a body crumpled and crimson, shorn in the crossfire of unexpected gang violence. When you fell silent, Kaz drained the last drop of kvas and told you about a coffee shop near the Exchange. About a sickboat and a boy named Jordie, about a frosty harbor and an impossible swim that left him unable to bear the touch of another’s skin. 

When neither of you had any soul left to bear, Kaz chucked the bottle off the roof. You don’t remember hearing it shatter, and maybe it never did. Maybe it hit some hapless pigeon and fractured his skull. Maybe it ceased to exist the moment it went over the edge. The bottle didn’t matter. Not to you. Not when Kaz Brekker reached for your wrist, leather-clad fingers gently tugging the bracelets off your wrist. 

Don’t make a thing of this, he told you, stuffing them in his pocket. You’re still a pest.

But it was a thing. A strange, beautiful thing—and both of you knew it. 

“Fine.” Kaz’s voice—the rasp of stone on stone—drags you back to the present. He sits the pen down beside the ledger, a strand of black hair swaying with the subtle shake of his head. “We’ll go to Ravka. You’ll seduce some sorry prince and live happily ever after in a gaudy palace. I’ll make my fortune snagging the Lantsov Emerald and use it to hire a proper bookkeeper. Deal?” 

Your lips twitch, still hugging his glove to your chest. “King,” you correct him. 

His eyes roll, but a flicker of something warm betrays his affection. “Pest,” he calls you, though it doesn’t sound like much of an insult. 

“I imagine the Grand Palace has fine exterminators,” you muse. 

“Then I suppose your marriage will be short-lived.” 

“Will you save me, then?” Your heart leaps with the question, how it slips from your tongue before you can grasp it. 

Kaz hesitates. Then—remarkably—smiles. 

“Maybe.”

a/n - you know what they say. a bottle of kvas is never just a bottle of kvas, amirite

(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞

anyways, i was procrastinating an essay and thought "lets write something with a somewhat ambiguous ending!" and voila, a boy's first pest is the product. now everyone say: lainie, go work on your original writing and stop writing so much fan fiction! (but i'm already thinking of a kaz smut drabble so) anyways, comments and reblogs much appreciated, i cry with joy every time someone actively interacts with my work so THANK YOU

[its-all-papaya]

For the landoscar word prompt: homesick

okay i'm sorry this one took 55 minutes and still like. doesn't rlly end. idk, i couldn't work it out, have some melancholy rambling ig....

It's snowed every winter Lando's been at university, and this is his fourth, so he really should be used to it. It's just. He'd had an exam in the morning that he'd spent all night cramming for, and it hadn't been snowing on his walk back. It had been cold - enough that he'd tugged on a hoodie before crawling back under his covers - but it hadn't been snowing when he'd set his alarm and started his nap.

It's snowing when he wakes up, though. Maybe there's something about opening his eyes and turning his face out from the pillow and seeing it first that way. The sun's about to set; maybe it's the way it glows in the last afternoon light. Whatever it is crawls under his ribs and sits there like a pill he's swallowed the wrong direction, aching every time he swallows and breathes. He's not even fully awake. The memories are half dream when he blinks out the window and sees the ghosts of his little sisters in puffy jackets and his mum calling them back to tug hats on each of them so their ears won't go too pink.

It doesn't even snow much in Bristol. It snows much more here.

The washer is running when Lando pads out into the living room and he hadn't started it himself, which means Oscar is home from his afternoon class. His bedroom door is closed, and Lando really shouldn't bother him, but his stomach is heavy like lead and it feels out-of-sorts in a way that only his mum's tea would fix. He's afraid if he crawls back into bed he might do something silly like cry about it, because it's past ten at home and his parents will be asleep and he's not even sure calling would fix it anyway.

"You can come in," Oscar calls when Lando finally does knock.

He's sat propped against his pillows in bed, paperback folded open on his knee and blinds drawn shut. Lando's fairly sure his lit class is the one Oscar's just come from, but it would be like him to do the homework immediately after.

"You okay?"

Lando realizes a minute late that he's just been standing. Just staring. He swallows around the oblong feeling and pulls his sweatshirt sleeves over his hands so Oscar won't see him worrying them.

"Yeah," he answers eventually, "Just. It's snowing."

Oscar smiles, says, "Is it?"

He can't reach the window from his bed, so Lando crosses the room for him and pulls the curtains back so he can see - so they both can.

It's snowed every winter they've been in university, and this is Oscar's fourth. He really should be used to it, but his smile is just as awed as Lando still remembers it being freshman year, when they were crowded together around their shared bedroom window, tucked in together over the weekend holiday all of their classmates had gone home for.

"Perfect reading weather, then," Oscar says, settling back against his pillows.

Lando should go. He should nurse the weird, sad feeling with a hot shower, or something, and not by bothering his roommate-and-something-more-too when he's trying to study.

"Can I sit with you?" he says instead.

Oscar smiles. His, "of course," comes out like there weren't even other answers he'd considered.

He's warm when Lando curls up at his side. He's still got the book propped open against his knee and he goes easily when Lando nudges up under his arm and props his cheek against the ball of Oscar's shoulder.

"What's your book about?" Lando asks.

"Um," Oscar lifts it to show Lando the cover like that'll help, that plonks it back down like he's realized it won't. "This orphan girl, bit of an outcast. It's like a coming-of-age thing, I think, I'm not too far into it."

His fingers trace absently along the strip of skin where Lando's hoodie has ridden up at his waist, and it makes Lando shiver.

"Will you read it to me?"

"Yeah. You might be a bit lost, though," Oscar thumbs through the pages he's already been through like an explanation.

Lando doesn't say he'd probably be lost even if he'd read those, too. That it's not about the story, really. He thinks Oscar probably knows.

"S'okay," he says.

"Okay." Oscar turns his head enough that his lips brush Lando's forehead. Lando can't tell if it's on purpose.

Oscar's got a nice voice. Lando thinks he could probably fall asleep to it, and he wonders if he'd wake up without the knot in his chest, whether the bittersweet fog over his thoughts would have lifted. Maybe the snow would have stopped by then, even, maybe it'd all be melted.

Lando yawns into Oscar's chest as he flips a page, and Oscar pauses for a second to turn his head again. This time, his lips press more firmly at outside corner of Lando's eye, where he knows he's still got a pillow crease working its way out after his nap.

"Snowy weather is a bit sleepy, innit?" Oscar says, softer than the tone he'd been using to read with, "Peaceful and stuff."

Lando looks back out the window, where it's gotten heavier - big, wet flakes that stick to the glass and leave trails when they slide slowly down towards the frame.

"I think I'll miss it if I move back home after graduation," Oscar continues, voice sounding a bit like Lando's insides feel. Lando doesn't want to think about it.

Oscar goes back to the book. His hand is warm on Lando's hip, voice warm in Lando's ears, and Lando wonders if someday, down the road, Oscar will wake up to snow showers and think of this moment.

from here

[vanillarista]

tiger

cheeky hyunlix teasing their little sub minho~

a treat for those who aren't into feederism hahah

warning: minho gets called kitten and tiger, nipple play, sub minho, mild spanking, whiny minho, recounts of sex toy usage

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒──⚝

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒──⚝

“Hyung!” Hyunjin calls out, cheeky grin spread across his face. Felix was lying on his stomach next to him, chin propped up by his hand with an equally cheeky smile.

Minho glances up from the book he was reading, locking eyes with the blonde. The three of them were the only ones back at the dorm, and they were all gathered in Felix’s room, Hyunjin having pattered over with the complaint that “I’m lonelyyyy!” as his only excuse. 

Now, with soft music playing in the background and Hyunjin and Felix’s hushed talking and giggles, Minho was at peace, relaxing in the company of his boyfriends, but with those mischievous grins on their faces, it was clear that his peace was about to be shattered.

“Yes, Hyunjin ah?” Minho asks. “We were wondering, with how often we fuck you nowadays, how long can you go without cumming?” Felix immediately giggles after Hyunjin finished speaking, and Hyunjin breaks into giggles with him. It was honestly cute, and he would giggle with them if only the question hadn’t sparked a flicker of arousal in him.

How long could he go without cumming? Minho scoffs, deciding to paint on a tough persona. “I could go as long as I want, only reason I can’t is because of your perverted asses fucking me on every possible surface.” He was going to ignore the way his own words licked fire into his abdomen, but with the ways Felix and Hyunjin’s eyes immediately darken, forgetting that heat was going to take a tremendous amount of effort. 

“Yeah? Heard that you liked getting fucked on every possible surface, though,” Hyunjin’s voice takes on a lustful tone as he crawls over to Minho’s perch on the other end of the bed. Minho gulps, the proximity taking him by surprise as the book drops, forgotten. Hyunjin, with the grace of a panther about to pounce on prey, slips between his legs, spreading them with ease as he moves to straddle him. Placing both hands on his cheeks, Hyunjin uses his thumbs to gently tilt Minho’s face up, the rest of his fingers cradling his face, almost. 

“Kitten just likes to get fucked, likes getting used like a whore whenever we want,” Hyunjin smiles sweetly, pushing two fingers into Minho’s mouth, much to the older man’s surprise. “Just likes to please, ‘cause he’s a feisty little tiger that desperately needs cock at the end of the day, isn’t he?” God Fuck, his pride left him through the window when a moan falls from his lips, soft and pleading and disgustingly pornographic even to his own ears.

“So cute, Tiger,” A deep voice growls into his left ear, and he startles and blinks his eyes open — when the Hell did he close them? —- to see Felix leaning onto his left, wide eyes gazing into his, full of love, full of lust. “Are you going to please us again, today? The others are going to be back in three hours, earliest. We’ve got plenty of time to… enjoy ourselves, don’t we?” 

“We do,” Hyunjin pipes up, mischief in his eyes again. He swirls his fingers in Minho’s mouth and Minho gets the hint, immediately sucking on the digits and fluttering his eyelids at the comfort that action gave him. The other two chuckle at that fondly, and there’s a light environment in the room for awhile, the two deciding to let Minho suckle on Hyunjin’s fingers — God, why were they so long? — before he was suddenly pushed down onto the bed, ass up and face squashed against a pillow. It was the pillow Felix was resting on just now, and he belatedly realises that in this position, he was spread at a clear angle for the 2000 liners to look at his ass.

Oh, God.

Hyunjin’s fingers have left his mouth at some point while Minho was coming to that conclusion, and suddenly, his sweatpants were being pulled down just to expose the curve of his ass. There’s two sharp intakes of breath at the realisation that Minho hadn’t even put on underwear. Felix scoffs, before his voice speaks up, “Tiger gets fucked so often in our dorm, he doesn’t even put on underwear anymore, huh?” Minho whines at that, and Felix just laughs. “Such a whore, so good for us — just wants to be ready for us to fuck him any time, hm?” “Like a little sex toy; such a cute little sex toy, aren’t you, Tiger?” Hyunjin adds on, and Minho can only manage a moan in reply, the praise and degradation making him feel weak in his bones, his mind already fogging up in submission. “Haven’t even started and he’s already long gone,” Felix murmurs, and then suddenly, Hyunjin’s finger breaches his rim and the digit is pushed into his ass, the sudden intrusion causing Minho to choke out a moan.

“Fuck, Hyunnie, he’s already fucked open for us,” Felix comments, and Hyunjin hums in agreement. “Who fucked you today, Tiger?” Hyunjin asks. Minho needs a moment to reply, the finger crooking to just almost stroke his prostate. He lets out a shuddery breath, trying to recollect his thoughts, but it’s too late. A hand strikes the soft inner flesh of his thigh, jolting Minho forward with a yelp. 

“Dumb bitch, reply him.” “I- ah-” Hyunjin’s finger presses into his prostate, making Minho jolt again and forcing a whimper from him. “I- I fucked myself?” “Oh, you did?” Hyunjin asks, in a voice that’s light and innocent, as if Minho just told him that he bought some ice cream home. “Tell us some details, kitten.” Minho lets out a long whine again, shudders ripping through his body as Hyunjin’s finger lays slow, even strokes over the rough bundle of nerves in his ass, the stimulation sending bolts of electricity through his veins and Minho can barely think but- but he’s a good boy. Yes, he will reply Hyunjin.

“Mmh- I- I used a vibrator in the shower- ah!” Hyunjin’s finger jabs into his prostate and rubs into it insistently at the revelation, causing Minho to cry out, the pleasure making his arms weak and buckle, making him fall face first into the pillow. He shudders and squirms, trying to get away from the constant rubbing, but Felix is quick to grip his waist in a vice hold, not letting him move. 

“Hyunjinnie-” Minho begs, his voice high pitched and breathless, tears pricking in the corner of his eyes. His fucking finger was just so long and just so happened to be pressing against his fucking prostate, and it was making every single muscle in his body so weak, and his cock was absolutely throbbing in his sweatpants. It hung heavy between his legs, and with the way his hips are involuntarily bucking forward, he feels each drag of his cock against the rough fabric of his pants, sliding through the wet patch of precum in the front. 

“Aw, cute little Tiger is whining for us?” Felix coos, voice dripping with honey. Suddenly, the hands on his waist trail up to his chest, and then there are fingers flicking at his nipples through the soft, thin fabric of his tank top. Minho jerks at the sensation, the sensitivity hitting him all at once, and he whines again, trying to squirm away but neither boy lets him move, gripping his waist and thighs and making him take it. 

Each flick and rub of Felix’s fingers on his nipples sends a wave of arousal straight to his throbbing cock, and they continue like this for awhile. Hyunjin has two fingers in him now, and at some point, he had decided to pour the cold lube directly into his hole, causing loud squelching noises as he ruthlessly continues with his prostate massage and just pressing, rubbing and circling his fingers against the bundle of nerves there, making Minho rut forward into empty air, and Felix rubs at his nipples with no mercy, pinching and tweaking and twisting. Even when he lets go, the fabric scratches against them, his nipples sensitive to every touch and leaving him squeaking and gasping at the little bolts of pleasure that rush through him with every brush of the fabric.

It’s barely a minute or two before they have Minho begging.

“Please, please, plea- ah! Please!” 

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭑─⭒─⭒──⚝

hope you enjoyed! :)

[the-butterfly-blues]

Nightmares

Pairing: Steven Grant x Reader, Marc Spector x Reader, Jake Lockley x Reader Summary: Waking from an overly realistic nightmare, you turn to your boyfriend for help to calm down. Word Count: 780 Masterlist Requests or Prompts you'd like to see are gladly welcome.

Though her eyes are open, she can't bring herself to move just yet. The dream she'd had was terrible and felt so incredibly realistic it takes her a few minutes to discern dream from reality. Once she separates the two, it doesn't make her feel much better as the pit in her stomach only grows. Without thinking, she begins gently shaking the shoulder of the man holding her.

Steven

Without opening his eyes, he hums in questioning, not yet fully awake.

"Steven."

At the sound of her shaky voice, his eyes shoot open and he quickly props himself up on his elbow to look at her. Tears have started streaming down her cheeks. She tries to wipe them away, but it's no use as she sniffles lightly.

"What's wrong? What happened?"

Through broken sobs, she explains her nightmare. It wasn't often she got them, but when she did, they always shook her to her core due to their realism. Even when sleeping, her brain remembers every little aspect of their apartment and even the most recent outfit both of them have worn, only making it worse.

"Oh, love.."

Pulling her close, he lets her bury her face in his chest as she grips tightly onto his nightshirt. He rubs soothing circles on her back while murmuring little nothings against the top of her head.

"It's going to be okay, I promise. How bout we turn on a light, hmm?"

Even though it feels a bit childish, she nods slightly. Without moving too much, he twists to turn on the lamp sitting on his bedside table. It floods the room in soft light, not too bright to prevent sleeping, but just enough to read whenever he brings a book to bed.

"I've got you, love."

Marc

When he doesn't wake, she removes his arms from around her waist and crawls out of bed. Rubbing her hands down her face, she shakily makes her way to the front door. Even though it's already locked, she unlocks and locks it again to try and calm her troubled mind. When it doesn't help, she steps back as tears start running down her cheeks. She was being irrational. It was only a dream.

"Babe?"

She doesn't turn towards him as he sits up in bed to look at her shaking form. Throwing the blankets off, he rushes to her. Since he's helped her through multiple nightmares, he knows what's brought around this odd behavior.

"Is it the door?"

While wrapping her arms tightly around herself, she nods adamantly. Last time it had been the window and the time before that, the bathroom. He doesn't question her further nor does he make fun of her, knowing that this is more than just a childish dream to her. He makes sure that she can see him unlock the door and lock it again before turning back to her. Bringing her into his arms, he sways them both calmly.

"You know if anyone got in, I'd beat their ass, right?"

With a shaky giggle, she nods, earning a small smile. He'd do anything to make sure she never had another nightmare, but he knows that just isn't how it works.

"Come on."

Leading her back to bed, they cuddle closely under the covers. After all the crying, she'd exhausted herself so much that she falls back asleep within minutes.

"I'll always be here for you."

Jake

Instantly awake, he looks at her with a somewhat agitated grunt. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room, but once they do, he's immediately worried and fully awake. He knows this look despite only seeing it once before. It had been ingrained in his mind as he silently vowed to make sure she never felt so terrified again.

"I've got you, cariño."

He pulls her tightly against him, his arms wrapping securely around her as she cries. Nothing frightened her as much as those nightmares did and it breaks his heart seeing her like this. When her small sobs turn into a soft sniffling, he pulls back just enough to look at her again.

"I would never let anything happen to you. Prometo." "I kno- I know."

Pressing a gentle kiss to her lips, she further melts in his arms. She was safe here with him no matter what that nightmare made her believe.

"Do you think you can go back to sleep?"

After a few minutes, she nods and buries her face back into his chest as he further wraps himself around her form. Slowly dozing back off, he stays awake until he's absolutely sure she's sleeping peacefully.

"Haría cualquier cosa por ti, mi alma."

~~~~~~~~~~

Cariño - Dear Prometo - I promise Haría cualquier cosa por ti, mi alma. - I would do anything for you, my soul.

A/N: Every few months, I have an overly realistic nightmare. I just had one the other night and now I know I won't be able to sleep properly for a while. I also have to frequently check to make sure the doors are locked to get even some semblance of security that only lasts for a few hours before I forget if I've locked the doors and start panicking again. Life is great, isn't it?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Laisse tomber les filles 1

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; size kink; age gap; manipulation; tags to be added as story progresses

This is a dark!fic and Lee Bodecker x (short) reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You find yourself ostracized on campus by your shyness, but your reticence won’t deter an unwanted suitor.

Note: Just so you’re aware, this takes place during the mid-60s and Lee is a little older than in the movie :) Just so you’re not confused.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

You felt alone on campus. 

When you got your acceptance, your parents swore it would be the experience of a lifetime, not to mention the value of education. Always the quiet one, withdrawn and wispy, the thought of moving away from home and living among strangers made you nervous. 

Your first day in the dormitory assured you of your doubts and a semester in, you were still the sore thumb among the six girls in your unit. Your lectures were your sole respite from the pressure to make friends and fit in. You were always early and always intent on the professor.

That was what you were there for after all. If you wanted to hold onto your bursary, you had to maintain your average. You couldn’t be like the other students; you didn’t have rich parents or a trust fund, your degree actually had to mean something.

That night, you walked back from the evening book club meeting alone, as usual. You signed up in hopes you might meet someone like yourself, someone who didn’t just want to drink or smoke. While the members weren’t interested in the party life, they made you feel awful stupid as you struggled to pick up on the same themes in your readings and your sharing skills were never strong. 

When it was your turn to talk about the chapter, you stuttered and muttered until you just gave up. You replayed the disastrous meeting in your head, the used copy of Nabakov under your arm as your bag swung against your side. 

The sky turned a deepening azure as you reached Greek row and heard the muffled crackle of a record player and the buzz of voices from the largest of white houses painted with their respective fraternity colours. It was that new kind of music, the kind that made you want to hop, the kind the Christian club lobbied against on campus green.

As you got further down the street, the late winter crisp crawled up your thick stockings and made you shiver. You got closer to the raucous façade and watched as a couple stumbled out in bubbly conversation and quickly embraced against a pillar of the porch. You kept your head down and focused on the sidewalk.

A flash of blue and the ‘wop’ of a siren brought you to a halt. You stopped just at the corner of the frosty yard, the cloudy breath of the co-eds filling the air as they parted. The cruiser door opened and closed loudly and steady footsteps crossed the street. You watched from the shadows as the officer strode up the walk and stopped at the bottom of the stairs, propping his foot up on the lowest plank.

“You kids are bein’ awfully loud,” his voice carried above the din, he had the local accent that lilted his tone so that even the meanest words were dampened.

“Sorry, officer,” the girl pulled away from the boy and came to the top of the steps, “it’s Friday and we were just having fun--”

“Yeah, yeah,” the cop said as he hooked his thumb on his belt, “y’all know I’m here every week… you turn that racket down or maybe I come in and find something that needs confiscatin’.”

“Got it,” the frat boy said as he stood beside the girl, “I’ll tell Leighton.”

“Ain’t fun for me neither,” the officer slid his foot down to the ground, “I don’t like to ruin you kids’ night.”

“Thank you, officer,” the boy said, “I’m goin’ now.”

“Mhmm, I’ll see you next week then,” the cop scoffed as the boy grabbed the girl and dragged her inside. His voice called through the noise of the crowd for the boy Leighton and the music dulled just enough that it was only a subtle hum, “funny kids.”

The officer turned and chuckled as he reached into his jacket. He paused and his eyes wandered over to you as you stood silently by the edge of the yard. He pulled out a small box and tapped out a toothpick as he smiled at you. He replaced the box in his pocket as he stopped short.

“You headin’ in, girl?” he asked as he placed the toothpick between his lips, “looks like you late for the party.”

“Uh, no, I was just… going home,” you slowly urged yourself forward, “didn’t want to get in your way.”

You tapped towards him in your mary janes as you adjusted the book in your hand. He watched you approach as you kept your head down, just wanting to get past and get on to your dorm.

“Hold up,” he said just as you reached him, “you walkin’ home all alone after dark?”

“My dorm is just… just around the corner,” you said as you stopped and kept your eyes on his shoes, “thank you, officer.”

“Now, I don’t care if it’s just right there, you shouldn’t be alone,” he insisted, “how’s bout a ride, hmm? I gotta make a round of the campus anyway.”

“I can make it on my own…” you began and he tutted, “I mean, thank you, I suppose it’s rude to… um…”

“You’re not from these parts, huh?” he asked, “you got that accent. Real fine.”

“Uh uh,” you uttered, “it’s a nice place though.”

“City is, but the rest of the county...” he remarked, “you must be far from home then.”

“A little,” you shrugged.

“Well,” he rubbed his hands together, “let’s get goin’, it’s cold tonight.”

“Thank you, again,” you slowly followed him as he backed away and turned to cross the street.

“Not at all,” he said warmly as he neared the car and pulled open the back door, “one thing, it’s against policy to let passengers in the front seat.”

“Oh?” you blinked and looked into the cruiser, “I can walk, I--”

“Go on,” he waved you in, “probably comfier back there anyhow.”

You gave a tight-lipped smile and slid into the back seat. You swept your bag up into your lap as the door snapped shut and tucked the book under the flap. The car shifted as he got in the front and he looked at you in the wide rear view mirror.

“Mind my manners, I didn’t even introduce myself, Sheriff Bodecker,” he jingled his keys as he spoke, “and you, honey?”

You hesitated at the added pet name. No one ever called you anything but ‘miss’ or ‘young woman’. You cleared your throat and shifted as you tugged nervously at your scarf as it pressed against your chin. It was damp from your hot breath. You gave him your name and shrank back against the leather.

“This your first year?” he asked as he pulled out and tossed his toothpick out the window.

“Yes, sir,” you answered and you saw his head tilt just slightly as he drove slowly.

“You like it?” he continued.

“It’s… new,” you said stiffly, “I don’t know many people but I… I’m learning a lot.”

“Oh, I hear they teach lots of interesting things these days. Lotta red nonsense,” he sighed, “which way am I goin’, honey?”

“Left, sir, the third building on your right with the orange brick,” you replied.

“No parties to go to?” he snickered as he came up to your dormitory and rolled to a stop.

“I… I’m not much for them, sir,” you said as you tried the handle but the door didn’t budge.

“Sorry, forgot about that,” he got out and opened the door from outside, “there ya go.”

You stepped out and your foot slipped on a patch of thin ice. You caught yourself on the door as he grabbed your arm and helped steady you. You laughed nervously and thanked him.

“Careful there,” he said, “hate for you to mess up that face, honey.”

“I’m alright,” you assured him and carefully drew away from him, “thank you for the ride, I really appreciate it.”

“It’s just my job,” he sniffed, “you know, keepin’ the campus safe… when I can.”

“I’m sure you have much more to worry about than some college kids,” you said.

“Eh, you’d be surprised,” he intoned, “I’m around on Fridays, there’s always noise complaints ‘round here.”

You were quiet, unsure what to say or how to detach yourself gracefully. You just wanted to go inside and listen to the radio as you reread the chapter. You smiled nervously and he looked down at you beneath the streetlight.

“I might see you around,” he said, “and don’t mind givin’ ya another ride, ya know? Can’t have you lost in the dark, heh.”

“It’s nice of you, sir, but I’m grown now, I can take care of myself,” you assured him, though you hated how black it got on this side of campus.

“Well, don’t be shy, give me a wave if you see me,” he closed the door as you sidestepped it, “and you have a good night. Get yourself warmed up with some nice tea… though I know you college kids prefer a harder comfort.”

“I don’t drink,” you said awkwardly, “but, uh… good night, officer.”

You went around the back of the car and stepped up onto the curb. You went up to the grated door and fished out your key. You peeked over your shoulder as you unlocked the door and found the Sheriff watching you over the roof of his car. 

His large-brimmed hat shadowed his face and his constant gaze sent a shiver through you, but that could’ve been the nightly chill. You gave a small wave and let yourself in, quickly hiding behind the inner door, happy to be home safe.

[yeojaa]

( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

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

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

pairing.  tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

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

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

wc.  7.6k.

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you take walk-ins?”

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

Still, it never hurt to try, right? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

“You like cats?”

You do.  “She looks like mine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

One breath.  Two. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is it.  Right here.”

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

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

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

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?”  You’d misheard that, right? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that weird?  I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.” 

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

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

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

“I think so too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You like?”  

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

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

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

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

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

“So, what’re you thinking?”  

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

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

“I think so.”

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

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

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

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

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You’d been mistaken.)

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

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

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

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

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

“Wouldn’t I?  I’m leaving anyway.”

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

“Leaving?”  

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

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

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

“Gonna miss me?”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

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

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

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

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

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

“Dibs on what?  Tattooing me?”

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

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

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

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”  

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

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

“That’s what I said!”

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

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

“Don’t be rude!”  

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

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

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

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

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

Were you?  You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

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

“Should I have expected it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Same difference.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, so?”

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

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

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose. 

“Do it again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope.”  

“Sounds good.”

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

You can do this.

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

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

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

“Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You say yes anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​​​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​​​ @snackhobi​​​​ @codeinebelle​ @xjoonchildx​

[fivelakesinwriting]

can you do a barry one where you’re rafe and sarah’s sister and you’ve been sneaking barry into your room every night while you’re home from college bc your friends with benefits but when ward goes to give barry the money that rafe owes him he says something like “why don’t you ask your daughter who’s she’s been sneaking into her room every night. so ward comes home pissed to wake you up and ask you about it so you go to barry’s house and confront him and it leads to smut

Author's Notes: I wrote her as the Littlest Cameron from Ward's first marriage - because I kinda love that idea. All characters are 18+

Warnings: OBX Spoilers - Only for Season 1 (I assume we've all been there done that..) Swearing, Mentions of drugs/ drug debt, Guns, Sexual references - Sexual innuendos, Smutty.

Requested? YES! Requests for OBX are OPEN!

*My work is not to be transferred, copied, translated or reposted to any other sites without my permission. Please see my masterlist for all other works and warnings. Thank you! xoxo

For almost six weeks he had been sneaking into her bedroom at night, completely unseen to anyone. Not even the boy who spent the majority of his days on his couch, passed out or begging for a fix.

This time it was his turn to beg.

He crawled through the window - left open like always for him - and tossed his legs through in to her bedroom. He grunted when her body collided with his in the dark, sending him backwards towards the wall.

"We said 11pm. It's 11:17pm." She mumbled as she pressed on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck.

"Sorry. Got wrapped up in some shit. Thought I forgot?" He smirked as he hitched at the waist to wrap his arms around her, reciprocating her affection.

"Yes." She whispered into his shoulder as her fingertips curled into the material of his coveralls.

Barry only lifted her up in response, always amazed that a girl with a brother the size of Rafe Cameron could be so tiny. He carried her over to her bed and laid her on her back, crawling on top of her to take up the space between her thighs. He placed feather-light kisses down her neck, a smile on his face as she pulled at his coveralls.

"Hey, Tiny. I need to borrow some fucking cash. You don't still have that stupid piggy bank or some shit - what the fuck is this?" Rafe came stomping into her bedroom without knocking and flicked the lights on, his hands pushing all the trinkets and books off her dresser as he searched.

"Rafe, what the fuck! Knock first, asshole!" She screamed as she tossed a decorative pillow off her bed and towards her older brother who stood dumbfounded on the other side of her bedroom.

"The fuck is this? Why is he here?" Rafe questioned as he pointed his index finger at the older man on top of his younger sister.

"What's up, Country Club?" Barry smirked as he turned his face to look at Rafe, as if he weren't on top of his little sister.

"T.C, he has to leave. Now. I'm fucking serious." Rafe grumbled with a stern look, a pinch of his nostrils and then exited her bedroom with a slam of the door.

"T.C?" Barry grinned as he propped himself up on his arms above her and looked down at her embarrassed face.

"Tiny Cameron." She sighed as she pressed one hand to his lower back and the other to her forehead.

"That's cute. Shit's real cute. He take money from you a lot?" Barry asked as he leaned his weight on one forearm to run his fingertips over his top lip.

"Not a lot. Sometimes. Mostly takes it from dad, but he asks for money a lot more often now. I'm assuming it's to pay you." She replied softly.

"Some of it. Your brother got a nice new bike out there and he still runnin' up a tab with me, so..." Barry trailed as he placed his hand back down beside her on the bed.

"Don't get me started on that stupid dirt bike." She sighed as she rolled her head back on the sheets.

"Listen, I'm gonna go. I can hear him pacing outside that fucking door. But don't let him take your money, T.C." Barry winked before he gave her a quick kiss on her lips and pulled himself off the bed, heading back towards the window.

"Fuck you, Barry." She whined with a pout, sitting up on the bed to watch him leave.

"Next time." He grinned, flashing her his gold tooth.

*

It had been close to one week since the night Rafe had caught Barry in his little sister's room, and since then his debt had grown exponentially. Rafe felt overwhelmed and reckless as he entered the combination to his father's wall safe. Perhaps that's why he got caught.

"Dad, I swear I learned my lesson. Okay? Let's not do this. Please." Rafe begged from the front seat of his father's S.U.V as they idled out front of Barry's house.

"Stay in the car." Ward ordered as he unbuckled his seat belt and opened his door.

Ward Cameron walked up the dirt path, lit by the lights of his vehicle and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He saw the young man sitting at the fire pit, a bottle of liquor in his hand.

"Are you Barry?" He called as he opened his wallet and began to count the bills.

"Might be. You lost?" Barry asked as he took a swig of the whiskey in his hand and looked over the clean cut older man standing a few feet in front of him.

"No. My son Rafe owes you money. I'm here to pay his tab." Ward replied with a shake of his head as he pulled out the wad of cash, and folded it in half.

"Big Daddy Cameron, huh?" Barry smirked as he stood up from his chair and took a few steps towards Ward.

"That should cover it. Don't sell my son drugs anymore." Ward growled as he tossed the cash on the ground at Barry's feet and turned to walk away.

"Got no problem not selling drugs to your delinquent son. But it's your daughter who might have a problem staying away from me." Barry replied his stance strong as he watched Ward Cameron stop dead in his tracks, his back rigid.

"Sarah?" Ward asked as he turned around, his eyes wide as he looked the dealer up then down.

"You forget you have more than one daughter, don't you? Talking about the little one. Think Rafe calls her...T.C?" Barry replied as he pushed his hands into his pockets.

Ward Cameron ran a shaky hand over his beard as he continued to stare at Barry. He turned to leave, but changed his mind and stalked back over to him, and stood directly in front of the shorter man.

"Stay away from my family. My son and especially my daughter." Ward growled a finger pressed into Barry's chest before he turned on his heel and stomped back towards the S.U.V.

"Big Daddy Cameron." Barry scoffed with a shake of his head as he crouched down to pick up the bills on the ground. He knew he had just lit a match under the Cameron patriarch, but he was fine with it.

Back at Tannyhill Rafe walked quickly into the house and up the stairs, his head hung low as he blinked back tears. He walked passed each of his sisters' rooms towards his own, stopping at the one of the left.

"T.C, better gear up. Dad knows about Barry. He's coming upstairs. Fire is lit." Rafe grumbled with a sniff and then made his way towards his bedroom with a slam of his door.

"What do you mean dad knows about - Hi, daddy." She mumbled as she scrambled off the bed after her brother, only to be met in the doorway by a livid Ward Cameron.

"How long?" Ward asked as he tried to keep his voice even, despite the way his body shook with pure anger. He had one daughter running around on The Cut, a son stealing from him to pay for his drug habit, and now his other daughter - his baby - was sleeping with that drug dealer.

What had he done wrong?

"Since I got home from school. Rafe introduced us at a party." She replied softly, avoiding her father's gaze.

"Are you snorting that shit like Rafe is?" Ward asked, his voice just a whisper and terrified.

"No, dad. I'm not. I swear. It's not like that with Barry. He likes me. He likes me a lot, and we're just hanging out together." She replied quickly as she reached for her father, her hands on his wrists that hung at his sides.

"But you're sleeping with him." Ward scoffed with a glare down at her. So tiny. Just like her mother. Everything about her reminded him of his first wife.

"I...I mean, yes. We're sleeping together. I go and visit him, and he comes over here sometimes." She nodded with a squeeze of his wrists.

"T.C, he comes here? To my house?" Ward glared down at his daughter.

"Dad, I -"

"I can't look at you right now." Ward grumbled as he pulled his wrists from her grip, rubbed his face and walked out of her bedroom, down the hall to his office.

"Shit." She whispered, pushing her hands through her hair. She walked back into her room, over to her desk and grabbed her bag. She walked over to her window, slid it open as quietly as she could and climbed out.

The knock at Barry's door was a surprise. He was expecting no visitors. He slowly raised his body up from the tattered couch, grabbed his gun from the waistband of his pants and walked cautiously to the front door.

"What you want?" He yelled, gun raised.

"It's me, you ass." Her sad voice sobbed back with a slam of her fist against the door once again.

"Fuck." Barry sighed as he reached for the several locking mechanisms on his door and let her in.

"What the fuck did you say to my dad!" She cried with a push of his strong chest.

Barry stood in the doorway and took each hit to the chest. He knew he may have overstepped a boundary or two that night, telling Ward Cameron he was sleeping with his daughter. But, he didn't like to have people come up to his home uninvited, telling him what to do and who to see. So he bit back.

"Stop. Listen to me. He came over here with your brother in the car, tossed money at me and told me to stop selling to Rafe." Barry muttered as he grabbed her wrists then held them against his chest to keep her close.

"And what did you say?" She struggled in his arms and looked up at him with those eyes that were all Cameron. He wished he didn't like them so much.

"I told him that was fine, but he might have an issue keeping his little girl out of my bed." Barry replied with a slight smirk, his gold tooth taking hold of his bottom lip.

"That isn't funny, Barry." She pouted up at him as she struggled to pull her wrists from his grip.

"It's a little funny."

"My dad is livid, Barry! Rafe is holed up in bedroom doing and thinking who knows what. And I - " She pulled her wrists from his grasp and stepped into his small home, beginning to pace.

"They ain't an issue for you anymore. Rafe's tab is paid, and now Big Daddy Cameron knows about us. So, I don't know what's got your panties in such a twist. But you should take them off if they're bothering you so much." Barry muttered as he ran his fingertips over his top lip, and leaned against the door frame as he watched her.

"No. I'm mad at you." She whispered as she crossed her arms over her chest, looking at him with a furrowed brow.

"Nipples say otherwise." Barry muttered with a point to her chest, pushed up under her forearms.

"Don't!" She whined as she covered her breasts from his view.

She was mad at him. It was the first time in the few weeks they had been dating she had felt angry with him. She scowled as she looked him up then down as he stayed leaned up against the door frame. The both of them challenging the other to make the first move.

"Well, are you staying the night or did you just come to yell at me and flash your nipples in my fucking face?" Barry grunted as he pushed himself off the door frame and slowly made his way towards the back of the house, slipping his gun back in the waistband of his pants.

"They aren't in your face." She mumbled but followed him towards his bedroom with a shuffle of her feet.

Barry sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the gun from the waistband of his pants and placing it delicately on his nightstand. He spread his knees and beckoned her over with a wave of his hand.

"I'm mad at you." She stated with her arms crossed over her chest still, looking him over. She did as instructed, though, walking over to his slowly and stood between his knees.

"Well. I don't wanna be mad at you." Barry replied as he placed his hands on her hips to pull her against his chest.

"You shouldn't have said those things to my dad, Barry." She whispered as she uncrossed her arms and placed her palms on his shoulders.

"I was right, wasn't I? You busted out the house and now you're here with me, ain't you?" Barry grinned up at her as his fingertips pushed up the hem of her shirt to touch her skin, still warm from her bike ride over.

"Well, yeah. But that doesn't mean you have to say it to my dad. Asshole." She pouted as she slapped his chest playfully before she wrapped her arms around his neck.

"I could have said way worse shit to him than that. Like how you liked to be tied up." Barry chuckled as he placed his hands on her backside and raised his eyebrows at her. He grabbed at her elbows, lifting her arms from around his neck and held her arms behind her back.

"Barry." She whined as she dropped her forehead to his.

"Guess I'll save that one for next time." Barry muttered as he kept his grip on her arms behind her back strong, but leaned in to press his lips to hers.

"Be nice to me." She pouted against his lips as she struggled weakly in his grip.

"No. You gotta make up for your dad coming in and fucking up my night." Barry smirked as he held her wrists behind her back with one hand as the other reached to the front of her shirt, pushing it beneath her breasts.

"I knew you had a daddy kink, Barry. But if you wanna fuck my dad that's a deal breaker for me." She grinned as she squirmed in his grip.

"Get on your hands and knees. Tiny Cameron." Barry growled as he let her wrists go and slapped her backside firmly.

"Ow! Fuck you." She whined as she crawled over his lap and onto the bed.

"About time." Barry mumbled as he stood up, turning the face the bed to see her back arched the way liked. He ran his thumb over his top lip and smiled softly to himself.

He wasn't going to stop selling to Rafe Cameron, that was something Rafe had to decide for himself. And he certainly wasn't going to stop seeing or sleeping with the girl currently in his bed, wiggling her ass at him for his attention.

Ward Cameron would have to kill him first.

Hottie List: @starkey-babie @sodasback @fashion-fasting @barrysjumpsuit @beauvibaby @professional-busboy @soph0864 @vinniehcker

*tag list still open if you'd like to be added - just let me know! Please let me know what you think if you have a moment! Thank you so much! xoxo

Requests for OBX ARE OPEN!

[pretendingboyfriends]

A/N: hello baes!! this is a little piece for @tbslenthusiast ‘s dadathon!!! i decided to take a tiny little break from writing dwm to make this, but i hope u enjoy!<3

Warnings: smut, semi public sex, heavy sexual tension, fluffy cute new dad harry, an appearance from anne 

Word count: 4.7k+

Summary: You and Harry are new parents and you finally get a few days alone in the mountains.

“Is she asleep?” You whisper through a yawn as Harry steps through your bedroom door and shuts it quietly behind him.

“I think so,” He sighs, walking over to where you rest on the bed with an open book in your hands. He leans down to press his lips to yours in a brief peck whilst he tugs his large rings off and tosses them onto the bedside table. “M’Surprised it took her so long to tire herself out with all that crying.” 

You chuckle, shaking your head. “She has a lot of power in that tiny body.”

He nods in agreement as he begins to undress at the edge of the bed and you allow your gaze to wander over his figure. He sits himself at the end of the bed with his back facing you as he tugs his shirt off and tosses it onto the floor below. His broad shoulders maneuver and stretch with his movements and you’re tempted to crawl up behind him and wrap your arms around him while pressing your lips to the curve of his jaw. It’s been so long since the two of you were able to have a lasting moment alone and you’re desperate for him. Since the birth of your beloved baby girl nearly three months ago, there’s been no time to do anything but tend to her every need at nearly every moment of every day. Whether she’s crying because she’s hungry, crying because she needs to be changed, or crying because she’s tired, your hands are full. 

You place a bookmark into the spine of your book before closing it and setting it on the bedside table. Through the silence, a heavy blanket of sexual tension fell over the two of you and both of you are itching to lunge at each other. Harry finally pulls the last item of clothing from his body, leaving him in his tight boxer briefs before he’s climbing back onto the bed. He slides beneath the comforter with you and rolls onto his side to face you, propping his head up on his arm.

“Hi,” You hum, turning over to face him as he gazes at you.

He smiles and leans forward, wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you against him. “Hi.” 

Your own arm loops around his neck as he rolls you onto your back so that he can lean over you, pressing his lips to yours in a much longer kiss than before. His lips move against yours slowly and passionately, leaving you breathless and desperate for him. Your fingers bury themselves into his mop of curls, tugging and gripping at the handfuls of tendrils and causing a low moan to emit from the back of his throat. 

“Missed you so much,” You breathe between kisses.

“Darling,” He groans. “You have no idea.”

His hands wander your frame as he kisses you, gripping every plush curve with a gentle but passionate fervor. Your fingernails bury themselves into the muscles of his bare back and his hand slides down to grip your thigh and tug it over his hip so that he can slot himself between your legs. His hand begins to slowly inch towards the elastic of your shorts, building the suspense of his touch. Just as his fingertips tug at the cloth wrapped around your hips, the crackling static of the baby monitor sitting on the bedside table erupts into the silence and slices through the heated moment. Isla’s cries can be heard through the buzzing static and both of you pull away from each other reluctantly. 

“Jesus fucking christ,” Harry mutters, dropping his head to rest against your sternum as he catches his breath. 

You drag your hands down your face with a long sigh, moving from beneath his body and pushing yourself off of the mattress. “I’ll be right back.”

You saunter out into the hallway towards Isla’s bedroom, her cries growing louder with every step you take. As soon as you step into her bedroom, you begin to coo and shush her soothingly, quickly padding over to her crib. She kicks her chubby little legs, hiccupping through her tears as you reach into the crib, scooping her into your arms. 

“Shhhh, it’s alright,” You coo, rocking the small child side to side in your arms. You reach into the crib to find her pacifier tangled beneath her blanket. “Is this what’s got you all fussy, hm?” You ask, turning the rubber nipple over in your hand to make sure there isn’t any lint or fluff on it before gently coaxing it back into her mouth. Her pathetic cries simmer to a few shaky breaths and hiccups as she suckles on the pacifier and you sigh contendedly. 

“Quite the cockblock, isn’t she?” Harry hums quietly from the doorway behind you and you turn your head to look at him with a tired smile. He shuffles over to where you’re standing, gently placing his hand against the small of your back as he gazes over your shoulder at the tiny child in your arms. As you rock her from side to side, her eyelids begin to grow heavier and heavier, sinking into a deep sleep from the warmth of your body. Harry rests his chin against your shoulder and you both watch her drift off to sleep. 

Eventually, you return her back to her crib, making sure not to wake her as the two of you creep back out into the hallway. 

You step back into your bedroom, shutting the door behind the two of you.“I think we should get away.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think we should rent a place out of town and get away for a few days. Just the two of us.”

He frowns a little. “What would we do about bubs?”

“Anne could take her,” You shrug, walking back towards the bed. “I think she would be thrilled to have a few days with her grandbaby.”

“That’s true,” He nods, plopping himself onto the edge of the bed, pulling you to stand in front of him. “We’ve never left her for more than a few hours, though.”

“Yeah, I know,” You sigh. “But I need this–we need this.”

“You’re right,” He chuckles, his large hand coming to caress your bare thigh as you stand in front of him, hands resting on his broad shoulders. “M’surprised we haven’t gone insane by now. Haven’t touched you properly in so long…” He trails off quietly, glancing back up into your eyes.

Your bottom lip slips between your teeth as you make eye contact with him. There’s a lick of fire behind his green eyes for a moment, but it vanishes quickly as he composes himself, clearing his throat quietly and letting his hand fall from your skin. “Where should we go?” 

You stop for a moment, mulling over the possibilities of where the two of you could get away to that wouldn’t cause too much of an uproar. “The mountains?” You suggest as you crawl back into your side of the bed across from him. “I bet we could rent a house out there for a few nights.”

He nods, “S’a good place to get away from the paps,”

You hum in agreement, watching as he moves onto his side of the bed beside you and lies back on his pillow. “It’s also a good place to be as loud as we want…” 

He smirks at you, sliding his arms around your waist and tugging you against his chest, “It’s settled, then. We’ll start looking at places to rent tomorrow.” 

*

Turns out, finding a place to rent in the mountains is a lot easier than you thought it would be and nearly 3 days after your initial conversation, you’re already packed and ready to go, dropping Isla off at her grandmother’s house.

“Alright, we have her diaper bag here-” You pull the bag from your shoulder, handing it to Anne, “and that has all her clothes and toys in it as well. Then this bag has all her milk-” You take the other bag from Harry, handing it over to Anne. “I pumped enough for a few days, but if you run out, there’s some formula in there.” You sigh, glancing around you to make sure you had given her everything. “I think that’s it!” 

Anne smiles, setting the bags to the side. “We’re going to have so much fun, right darling?” She crouches down a little to be face to face with your daughter while she sits on your hip, bringing her hands up to tickle her. Isla giggles animatedly, babbling to her grandmother happily as she tickles her. You smile at the two of them, bouncing the child up and down on your hip to entertain her further. 

A few moments pass as you give Anne a few last minute details and then you’re finally passing Isla over into her arms. You can see the panic in her eyes as she realizes what’s happening and Harry leans in, pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek, “We’ll be back before you know it, bubs, don’t worry.” 

You lean in to give her a kiss as well, pressing one to each cheek, “Be good for mommy, okay?” (of course, Isla has no perception of speech yet, but for your own peace of mind, you speak to her like she can understand every word)

The two of you hug her and Anne one last time before sneaking out the door to ensure Isla doesn’t see you leaving, and then you’re off to the mountains. 

*

The drive to the mountain isn’t too long and the weather is beautiful, so you’re able to drive with all the windows down, blasting your favorite tunes. The majority of the trip is spent that way, blasting music and making humorous conversation as the cool breeze sift through the windows. It’s nice to be alone with him for once. Three months of longing eyes and lingering fingers; nothing more than a few stolen kisses with wandering hands. Being together like this, with the anticipation of what’s to come in the moment you’re truly alone with each other, is killing you. The niggling feeling at the back of your mind–the sexual itch that’s aching to be scratched–is building by the second and you can feel it building for Harry, too.

For a while, his hand is resting on his own thigh–fingers mindlessly tapping against his knee as he drives, but at some point during the trip, it migrates to yours. The heat of his hand against your thigh, burning through the fabric of your jeans, causes you to squirm uncomfortably, so you slide your hand beneath his, lacing your fingers between his own and letting both your hands rest in your lap. He glances at you for a moment, a hint of confusion behind his eyes, but he doesn’t question you verbally. You take a deep breath, brushing your thumb over his cross tattoo gently as you cross one of your legs over the other. The air is growing thicker and thicker, despite the windows being ajar, and you’re finding it harder to breathe.

Finally, after hours of trying to contain your breathing and a short trip to a nearby grocery store, you’re pulling into the steep driveway of the mountain house, slowly creeping up the narrow, cement path to the front of the house. It’s a quaint little house; you can tell it’s nearly 20 years old, but, from what you can see, the owners have repainted the exterior and added quite a few decorations.

As you enter the house, a feeling of comfort washes over you. The interior is also refinished with seemingly brand new furniture, a fresh coat of paint, and minimalistic (but homey) decorations and despite its new smell, it seems like home. 

You scramble into the kitchen after taking a moment to admire the living room, dropping the grocery bags onto the marble countertop that you’d carried inside from the car. Harry is following close behind you with your luggage, carrying both of your bags to the bedroom in the corner of the living room as you stand in the kitchen. 

“How’s the bedroom look?” You call out to him, pulling the refrigerated items from the bags and placing them into the empty fridge. 

“It’s great,” He responds, “There’s a king sized bed and a jacuzzi!” He steps around the corner, entering the kitchen with a smile.

“Sounds great.” You hum, smiling back at him as he approaches you and begins to help unload the rest of the groceries. 

The two of you unload everything within a matter of minutes before wandering out to the balcony. As soon as you step through the sliding glass door, you’re overwhelmed with the breathtaking view of the mountains. They’re so large and tall that their blue tips touch the clouds gently.

“Oh, wow,” You sigh, stepping towards the wooden railing and folding your arms against it.

Harry chuckles in amazement, coming up behind you as you lean against the railing, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing himself against you. You relax into him, allowing your eyes to flutter shut in content. The chill, fall breeze rustles the leaves on the trees that frame the balcony, causing goosebumps to arise along your exposed skin.

The two of you sit there, soaking in one another’s company for what feels like hours before Harry’s thick voice vibrates against you from behind.

“What should we do for dinner tonight?”

Your eyes flicker back open at the sound of his voice,“What do you feel like doing?” 

He sighs, resting his chin on your shoulder. “I’m fine with anything.”

You turn your head to look at him, puckering your lips for a quick kiss that he immediately grants you. He pecks your lips a few more times before finally pulling away and you sigh. “Don’t really feel like making anything tonight,”

He hums, tilting his head to press his hot, plush lips along your neck. “Y’wanna order in?”

Your breathing grows heavier and heavier as your heart rate increases with each press of his lips against your skin. You shake your head, “Don’t think anyone delivers this far out,”

“Mm,” He grunts in response, lips continuing to trail along your jaw. “That’s too bad.”

You turn your body to face him slowly, allowing his arms to rest against the edge of the countertop and cage you in. “M’not really that hungry, anyways.” You breathe, taking his face between both of your hands and messily pressing your lips against his.

His arms snake around your waist, tightening to pull your body into his as close as possible and it feels like you’re finally gasping for air after being held just beneath the surface. Your arms loop around his neck, fingers tangling into his soft curls and tugging gently to coax a low growl from the depths of his throat. His fingers dig into your plush skin from beneath your knitted sweater, grasping every curve and scraping his dull fingernails along your hips. He sinks his teeth into your plump bottom lip, tugging it for a moment as he pulls away and makes eye contact with you again with his forehead resting against yours. 

“God, I’ve missed having you all to myself,” He grunts, pressing you impossibly close to his body. One of your hands drops to his chest, the other arm slung around his neck as the two of you heave from the lack of oxygen. You smirk at him seductively, sliding the hand that’s been resting against his chest down to massage him through his white linen trousers. His cock has already plumped beneath the cloth significantly just from kissing you and a low, boiling groan bubbles up from his throat at the contact. You lean in to kiss his jaw, lips trailing further up towards his ear to nip and suckle at it.

“Want you in my mouth,” You breathe right into his ear and you can feel the shutter that wracks his body as he tightens his grip on you. “Haven’t tasted you in so long…” You trail off, continuing to rub him through his trousers. 

“Y’want me down your throat, hm?” He mutters, pulling away to make eye contact with you again. You bite your lip, gazing at him through hooded eyes with a nod before you slowly sink to your knees in front of him. His hands fall to lean against the railing as he watches you, his breathing heavy and unmeasured with every movement you make.

You begin to unbutton his trousers slowly, pressing your lips against his bulge until you’ve tugged both his trousers and his briefs down his thighs, his thick shaft standing tall in front of you. He hisses at the contact of the chilled breeze on his hot skin and you lean forward, pressing your lips to his tip once, pulling back for a moment and then leaning back in to litter slow, gentle kisses from his head down to his base.

“Fuck me,” He groans, hands grasping the railing until his knuckles are white as you slowly take his head between your plush lips, suckling the warm, pulsing skin. You pop off of him for a moment, spitting on his tip and spreading the slickness down his shaft with your hand, stroking him up and down. You glance up to see him leaning over you with his eyes squeezed shut and his curls flopping gracefully over his face as you stroke him. 

Once he’s slick enough to your liking, you take his head back between your lips, pressing further down his shaft this time and preparing to take him down your throat. Harry is unbelievably hard and he’s finding it difficult not to thrust his hips into your mouth without warning, but he knows it’s been awhile and that you need to take your time. 

Finally, after a bit of stroking him whilst you slowly work him into your mouth, your nose is pressed against his pelvic bone, cock fully sheathed in your throat. He’s choking on a moan, hips thrusting forward at their own accord before you pull your head back and allow him to slide from your mouth for a moment. 

“You alright?” He breathes, dropping a hand from the railing to stroke your hair back. You nod, smiling up at him as you lean forward to take him again without struggling this time.  

Eventually, you’ve set a steady, bobbing pace taking him down your throat over and over again with small, wet gagging sounds that drive him absolutely mad. Your hands are gripping the backs of his thighs as you take him and you can feel the warm dampness building between your kneeling legs that grows with each grunt that leaves his lips. 

It doesn’t take long for Harry to breathe out a struggled warning to let you know he’s close to bursting and that only coaxes you to take him sloppier and faster, despite the tears streaming down your cheeks and spit dripping down your chin. His grunts grow deeper, one hand dropping to rest on the back of your head as you take him. 

Three more sloppy thrusts of his hips and he’s choking out a moan, releasing his thick, hot load right into your mouth. His head falls back on his shoulders and you pull your mouth from him completely, wiping your lips with the sleeve of your sweater before smiling up at him. 

“How was that?”

He chuckles in amazement, pushing his hand through his sweaty curls. “Fuckin’ amazing.”

He helps you up from the ground after you tuck him back into his trousers, immediately wrapping his meaty arms around your waist and pressing you into his body for a kiss. The two of you stay like that for a moment, basking in each other’s embraces before you pull away. 

“Bedroom,” You breathe, pushing him back towards the door. He quickly leads you inside, helping you tug your sweater off and toss it elsewhere as you walk to the bedroom (taking a quick moment to rinse your face and neck). Your back hits the mattress, your hair splayed out beneath you elegantly whilst you help Harry remove your jeans, leaving you in just a pair of panties since you had foregone the bra earlier this morning. His hands are all over you, calloused fingers dancing over every inch of your skin effortlessly. 

You’re reminded of that night, just slightly over a year before; the night your daughter was conceived. It had been gentle and loving, but utterly filthy all the same. He’d laid you out on your bed and taken you in the most passionate way you’d ever experienced. It was the first time the two of you had gone completely bare, hoping to start a family, and you were lucky enough to succeed on the first try, bearing a healthy baby girl just nine months later. Now, as he undresses himself and slots himself between your legs, lips pressed against your own, you feel that same overwhelming passion you’d felt that night. 

You allow him a moment to work himself up again, watching him tug at his cock between your legs with your bottom lip wedged between your teeth. It doesn’t take long for him to be fully hard again and then he’s looking up at you, muttering: “Turn over f’me.”

Smirking, you roll over onto your stomach wagging your ass at him teasingly and coaxing a chuckle from the depths of his throat. He grips your hip with one of his hands, pressing you into the mattress as he tugs your panties off and positions himself against your dripping folds. Your hands grip the crisp, white duvet tightly when he finally pushes into you and bottoms out with a low grunt. 

“Oh, fuck,” You mutter under your breath, dropping your head onto the bed when his hips press against your ass.

“S’that good?” He whispers into your ear, nipping at the lobe gently and you nod, reaching back to thread your fingers between the hair at the nape of his neck. 

He begins thrusting into you at an achingly slow pace, drawing low, breathless moans from your throat as his fingers grip your hips tightly. His agonizing pace is short-lived due to his inability to hold back and soon he’s pounding into you like he has nothing to lose. 

One of his hands moves from your hip, lacing his fingers between yours as he leans over you and gains better leverage, mumbling expletives under his breath at the difference. Your moans are loud and unrelenting with every drill of his hips, the head of his cock slamming directly against your g-spot over and over again. 

“Fuck, Harry- right there,” You whimper, burying your face into the duvet as you push your ass back into him to create more friction. 

He grunts quietly, pressing a large hand onto the small of your back. “S’that it, hm? S’that the spot?” 

You nod weakly through another moan, the sound of his voice sending sparks directly between your legs, which only builds the pooling warmth in your lower belly. His pace is utterly unrelenting and you know you could come undone within moments, but you want to hold off for a little bit longer. 

“Let me on top,” you mutter, turning your head so that he can hear you better. He stops his thrusts as soon as he hears you, smirking and pulling out of you to plop himself onto his back. You shuffle onto your knees, moving to straddle him quickly. His hands immediately fall to your hips as you hover over him, taking his cock into your hand and stroking him before aligning him with your entrance again. Both of you breathe out sighs of relief and pleasure as you bottom out, sitting at his hips for a moment to allow yourself to adjust to the position. 

Soon, you’re lifting your hips to build a steady rhythm against him, gasping his name as your fingernails bury themselves into the skin of his chest. 

“God, you’re so tight like this,” He nearly chokes, hands grasping your hips tightly to pull you down onto him faster. 

The pleasure bubbling in your tummy is building with every slap of skin that can be heard clearly throughout the bedroom and Harry can already feel you start to squeeze and spasm around him, so he drops his hand from your waist to brush his thumb against your clit frantically. Almost immediately after his finger comes in contact with your clit, you begin to climax around him, crying out one last time before collapsing against his body.

He flips the two of you over so your back is against the mattress and continues to fuck into you sloppily, chasing his second climax of the evening as you mutter words of encouragement to him. Then, he’s suddenly bursting inside of you with a sudden, guttural groan of your name laced with a few scattered expletives before he’s relaxing against you and burying his face into the crook of your neck. 

The two of you lie there, catching your breath for what feels like decades, pressing warm lips into sweaty skin, mumbling words of endearment as fingers lace between fingers. There isn’t a moment better than this, wrapped in the warm embrace of your husband, the love of your life, with not a single bit of worry or anxiety. Just you and him.

Eventually, after groans of ‘one more minute’ and ‘just gimme one more kiss’, Harry allows you to pry yourself from his arms and stumble into the bathroom connected to the bedroom so that you can clean yourself up.

*

Nearly an hour later, after a quick shower and change of clothes, the two of you find yourselves in the kitchen preparing a frozen pizza for you to share as Harry’s ‘60s/70s Favorites’ playlist plays quietly in the background.

“Let’s FaceTime Anne,” You suggest, casually tugging his body into yours and wrapping your arms around his waist as you lean against the counter. “I wanna see how bubs is doing.”

He smiles, reaching across the countertop for his phone, swiping and tapping around on it for all of 10 seconds before turning the phone so both of you can see the screen. Within moments, Anne’s face lights up the screen as she smiles and greets the two of you happily. 

“Hi darlings! How’s the mountain house? Did you get there alright?”

You chuckle, leaning your head against Harry’s shoulder, “The house is really nice and the drive was great! How’s Isla doing?”

“Oh, she’s such an angel, hasn’t cried once-” She’s interrupted by the happy babble of your child and you smile. 

“Well, it sounds like she’s having a lot of fun,”

Anne returns to the phone screen that’s propped up on her kitchen counter with Isla in her arms, “Oh, yes! She’s been playing with her toys and crawling around the place like a maniac. Isn’t that right?” She coos, bouncing the small child in her arms.

You glance up at Harry as he chuckles, watching him smile and gaze at her through the screen with sparkling eyes. 

“I guess she’s just been dying to get away from us,” He sighs sarcastically, “She’s been throwin’ fits all week.”

“I guess she just loves Grandma more than us.” You say to him with a feigned sadness and the three of you laugh in unison. 

Eventually, Anne brings the phone in front of Isla so that she can see the two of you and, of course, she’s beyond confused. Grasping clumsily at the phone, accidentally pressing buttons with her clammy little hands, she’s just like her father. 

Suddenly, the oven makes an alarming beep to announce the pizza being done cooking and you step away to pull it from the oven. Focused on not burning yourself, you’re unaware of the little conversation going on between your husband and daughter until you turn around to see him making faces at the phone, little giggles and babbles coming from the speaker. Unbeknownst to him, you’re utterly endeared by him as you watch the interaction, love-filled tears brimming in your eyes. 

It’s perfect. He’s perfect. And you truly believe that in that moment, you’re the luckiest girl alive. 

-

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[live-the-fangirl-life]

Rainy Day Rescuer

Feyre Archeron x Rhysand - OneShot

Feyre gets locked out in the rain and fears she'll have to tough out the storm. That is, until a kind stranger opens his window.

Masterlist | Read on Ao3

Warnings: Language

2130 words

*******

Feyre’s favorite thing about her apartment building wasn't the location or the free parking—although she did love that—it was the rooftop.

She’d lived in the building almost a month before realizing she could access the roof. The padlock on the door was apparently for appearances only, and it easily came off when she pulled on it. She figured out how to rest it back on the door so that when she was out on the roof the door still looked locked to anyone who didn't know better.

So far, she hadn't run into any of her neighbors trying to share the spot, but she knew someone else used it. Normally, she came up here to paint or to think and look at the stars. The view from the roof was lovely; she could see the city center and all the lit-up buildings, and the Sidra river that flowed through it.

The first time she set up her easel, one of her paintbrushes rolled away, and when she tracked it down behind an old broken crate she found a book had been carefully tucked away behind it.

Feyre couldn't help it when she picked up the book to get a better look at it. She glanced around quickly before chiding herself, knowing that no one else was out there with her. She recognized it as some sort of mythology retelling. Feyre flipped through it, trying to find some name or any indication of who it belonged to. All she found was an old receipt from a clothing store being used as a bookmark.

Spotting her runaway paintbrush, she grabbed it and put the book back where she found it.

That wasn't the last time she saw that book, and it certainly wasn't the last time she lost one of her paintbrushes.

In the next few weeks, every time Feyre went out to the roof she looked for the book.

It was always in that same place, hidden away so it wouldn't be noticed. But every time she opened the book the bookmark was moved a little further along.

She also started noticing annotations written in the margins. Feyre tried to imagine what this person must be like. It was odd, but kind of fascinating to follow along with this person’s progress.

She tried to focus on the fascinating part, and not the part that made her feel a bit like a creep for peeping into this person’s thoughts.

Except, when she made her routine book check that night, it was gone.

Feyre tried not to feel too disappointed. Why was she so invested in another person’s book? But it had become a constant that she looked forward to, and now it was gone. She could only hope they would start another one.

She laid out a thin blanket and sat down to look at the stars.

She must have dozed off at some point because she was woken up by raindrops hitting her face. It wasn't heavy yet, but she could tell it was going to start soon.

Ignoring the drizzle, she glanced at her phone. Feyre groaned and sat up, rubbing her face.

“Ugh, okay Fey, let’s call it a night.” She mumbled to herself, sleepy and moving slowly. She packed the blanket in her large tote bag and went to go back inside. Pulling on the door, she stumbled back a step. She was too tired, her grip was already slipping.

Feyre adjusted the bag on her shoulder and pulled the door again.

It didn't move.

She gripped the handle with both hands and pulled, hard.

Nothing happened.

“No, no, no, no, no…”

Feyre was wide awake now. This couldn't be happening. Shit.

She threw her bag down and used all her strength to open the door she ultimately knew wouldn't budge.

Breathing heavily from the exertion, she stepped back from the door.

“Shit.”

The rain was beginning to pick up.

“Really?!”

Lunging for her bag, Feyre dug around until she felt her phone. Gripping it, she unlocked it and was about to find someone to call for help...but she had no service.

How could she not have any service? Oh, gods, she was going to be stuck out on the roof, in the rain, until someone decided to come out there. It could be who-knows-how-long until that happened.

Spinning around, Feyre caught sight of her salvation.

“The fire escape!” Beaming, she grabbed her bag and ran over to it. “You beautiful, fantastic fire escape, help me out.”

Feyre managed to climb down the four stories of stairs and ladders without slipping on the slick metal. Gods, wouldn't that be a sight? She’d slip and come tumbling down the rest of the way, providing free entertainment to whoever walked past the building’s back alley.

When she finally made it to the lowest landing she tried to lower the final ladder that would bring her to the ground.

Only, it wouldn't move.

“Come on,” she muttered, still trying to force it down, “Don’t do this to me. I’m so close!” Feyre looked down to see the drop. Cringing, she admitted it was farther than she trusted herself to jump without breaking something—most likely her.

Thunder boomed and lightning flashed across the sky. Feyre pressed herself against the building as the rain finally poured down.

“Seriously?!” She shouted up into the apparent waterfall above her head.

A knock from behind her startled her enough that she jumped around and let out a loud shriek.

“Um, are you okay?”

A voice came from a window set into the wall that she hadn't noticed before with a man’s face pressed up against it. Through the rain streaming down the glass, she couldn't tell if he looked more concerned or wary at her appearance.

It took her a second to respond.

“No.” She tried to shake the wet hair out of her face. “I’m not.”

“Are you trying to go up or down?”

Ah. He was probably worried she was just some random person who decided to hop up onto his balcony landing.

“Down.” She said, trying not to think of how bizarre it must be for him to look out and see a woman stuck outside his window, sopping wet.

This really wasn't how she wanted to make first impressions with her neighbors.

“I got locked out on the roof and tried to get down the fire escape, but,” she gestured to herself and the now downpouring rain that was making this conversation difficult, “it didn't really work.”

She hoped he would offer before she had to ask the insane request.

Thankfully he did.

His eyebrows shot up and he seemed to finally notice how bad the rain was. Hastily opening the window, he gestured for her to come in.

“Come in, it looks awful out there.”

Before she could think better of accepting the stranger's invitation to literally climb into their apartment, she picked up her soaking bag from the grate at her feet and crawled over the windowsill, quickly closing the window behind her to block the storm.

Maneuvering to a standing position, Feyre took a moment to take a breath and thank whoever was listening for her unexpected savior.

She turned to face him. He was tall, she would have to crane her neck up if stood much closer. And he had vibrant violet eyes that the artist in her wanted to study.

“Hang on a second.” He left her standing in his living room. Feyre looked around at the sofa and tv that took up most of the space, the bookshelf propped against one wall, and pictures of friends on the wall.

The man came back in with a towel in hand.

“Here, try this.” He handed it to her politely.

“Thanks.” She quickly wrapped it around herself, trying to dry off and stop shivering.

“No problem.” He looked like he was going to ask her something when something on the bookshelf caught her eye.

“It was your book?” She gasped, pulling the familiar volume from the shelf. Feyre whirled around to face the dark-haired man who was looking at her warily. “You’re the one who’s been using the roof!”

He stepped closer to her and gently took the book from her hands, casually flipping through it. Flicking his eyes up at her, he asked, “How did you know about my book?”

Feyre could feel her cheeks heating and she could've sworn a smirk made its way across his face.

“I, uh, found it one day.”

“You found it?” he asked skeptically. “I hid it behind some old box, how did you find it?”

At least he just looked curious, and mildly amused, and not disturbed at her snooping. Yeah, maybe it was tucked away, but anyone who tried for more than a minute could’ve found it, so she didn't feel as bad.

Drawing as much pride as she could muster when she was dripping water onto this man’s carpet, she huffed, “It was a crate, not a box.” He grinned and she went on, “and for your information, I dropped a paintbrush and it rolled over there. I found the book when I was chasing my brush. I don't actively seek out other people’s things to snoop.”

His grin widened as she explained and by the end, he was chuckling.

“And here I thought you just really wanted to get to know my reading tastes.”

She scoffed, but hid a grin, “Yeah, sure. I don't even know you.”

As she said it, she realized it was true.

Besides the fact that he lived in her building and was kind enough to let her in from the rain, she had no idea who this man was.

It seemed he remembered the same thing as he gave her a charming smile and held out his hand.

“You can call me Rhys.”

“Rhys?” She raised a brow. She’d never met anyone named Rhys before.

“My full name is Rhysand, but,” he paused to wink at her, “the people I like call me Rhys.”

Feyre rolled her eyes at his not-so-subtle flirting but met his hand with her own.

“Feyre. Just Feyre.” She held his gaze for a few more minutes before they both dropped their hands.

“Well, Just Feyre, I think I have something for you.”

Before she could respond, he vanished into the other room. He had something for her? What? Was this some other lame attempt at flirting?

She’d let him flirt if he wanted to, maybe she was a little interested to see what he’d try.

But he came back out to stand in front of her with one hand behind his back.

“Yes?” She tried to peek around him, but he angled his body away so she couldn't see what he was holding.

Leaning in close to her, Rhys said, “I believe that is yours.” With a flourish, he brought his hand in front of him.

“My paintbrush!” Feyre couldn't believe it. She looked back and forth between the brush and the man holding it, “I’ve been looking for this one. I lost it weeks ago! How do you have it?”

Rhys smiled broadly at her as she took it from his outstretched hand.

“I found it near the back corner one night, it must have just rolled away from you. It looked like it could blend right into the wall.”

Ceasing her inspection of the brush, shocked that she had found it—that Rhys had had it—she looked at him and beamed.

He blinked, almost dazedly, as he watched her smile.

“Thank you!”

Without thinking, she reached up and wrapped her arms around him in a quick hug. Rhys tensed, and at that moment Feyre remembered that she was still soaking wet from the rain. Wincing, she hastily pulled away before he had a chance to return her hug.

“Sorry. I got excited.” She glanced down to see the small puddle on the floor beneath her and cringed. “I should probably go.”

“Hm? Oh.” Rhys cleared his throat and nodded, “Right. You probably want to change into something dry.”

“Yeah.” They both stood there awkwardly staring at each other, not sure what to say next.

“Okay,” Feyre picked up her bag and took a step towards the door. “I’m just gonna...” She trailed off as she and Rhys pivoted around each other so that she was closer to the door.

He walked with her the last few steps, pausing when she opened the door and turned back to him.

“Thank you, Rhys. For the paintbrush, and for not making me stand outside like a drowned cat all night.”

His laugh made Feyre crack a smile.

“Anytime Feyre, darling.”

She smiled.

“Goodnight Rhys.”

He mirrored her smile.

“Goodnight Feyre.”

Maybe getting locked out wasn’t so bad, after all.

***

Taglist:

@allthebooksunderthemoon

@astra-ad-mare

@becarefuloflove

@bisexual-genderfluid-fan

@booklover41802

@charlizeed

@cookiemonsterwholovesbooks

@danibutterr

@doubt-less

@emily-gsh

@enormousbooklover

@foughtconquered

@fromthelibraryofemilyj

@hakunamatatazz

@i-have-but-one-brain-cell

@in-love-with-caramel-macchiato

@jorjy-jo

@lemonade-coolattas

@live-the-fangirl-life

@mariamuses

@mayhemories

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@stardelia

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@swankii-art-teacher

@tomtenadia

@westofmoon

@whimsicallyreading

[kyeomunism]

The Phoenix Ymbryne ||  Millard Nullings

Pairing: Millard Nullings x Fem!Reader

Devil’s Acre Era (includes events in TDODA)

Word Count: 2.3k words

Summary: You are a peculiar who can take the form of a Phoenix. Wights were a constant threat until an invisible boy takes you to your new home. Getting to know him made you realize your purpose and the worth of all you’ve been through.

A/n: this fic includes South-East Asian references and i wrote it in a way you’ll learn easily. so whatever your race is, step inside Y/n’s boots and enjoy this adventure fluff. 

︵‿︵‿︵ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ・༺❀༻・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ︵‿︵‿︵

1900, Manila

The gust of wind rustling the forest almost silenced your pounding heart, but not quite. You transformed into a blazing bird and shoot through the bright sky, searching the brown earthen hues below. Your bird form made you an easy target, knowing that the wights after you have hunting guns; but your bird form also allowed you to scan the forest with your peculiar intuition. You could detect souls and sense their objectives. As you fly towards the outskirts of the woods, you located the two wights running away.

Suddenly, you felt another soul wandering through the thickets. A lone, pure heart, a good aura that you wouldn’t expect right after getting chased by blank-eyed monsters. Driven by curiosity, you roamed above the trees where you felt the presence. It was a floating map. You perched on a branch and watched the huge map turn, as if being held by a person. You looked from another angle at it revealed a floating suit and trousers. Carefully eyeing the subject and its pavement shoes leaving a calculated trail, there was only one word you can fathom: peculiar.

It had been over half a century since you’ve seen another peculiar, and it fascinated you how you couldn’t actually see this one. You continued watching the invisible who seem to be looking for something; a landmark? a person? a girl who can turn into a two-feet-tall fiery bird? If it was the latter, you knew you couldn’t easily trust someone, even if your intuition screamed this person’s good intentions.

You flew towards your house by the river, and judging by the angle of the floating clothes below, you knew you’ve been spotted. The moment you reached your home, you transformed back to your sixteen year-old body and slipped in a floor length skirt, a white sleeved shirt made from pineapple fabrics, and a scarf around your neck. You prepared hot chocolate in case that invisible peculiar pays a visit.

It only took a few minutes until you heard a knock on your door. Reluctantly, you opened it to reveal the same floating clothes that seemed to belong to the western world.

"Who are you?"

"Millard Nullings, at your service." A voice of a teenage boy spoke up. You moved aside to allow him enter your home, saying your name as you lead him to the drawing room. At first, you thought it was going to be painfully awkward, but it immediately changed into a pleasant, curious atmosphere when his body headed straight towards the ancient maps on your walls, as if being pulled by a magnet.

"Thank you, this place is incredibly interesting. For the longest time I thought these maps were never to be found again," Millard said as he took the hot chocolate from your hand while staring at the walls.

"These are from my old ymbryne. She was a real treasure," you said, standing beside him. "It shows hundreds of ancient loops across Asia. I wouldn't have found my current home without these maps. Oh, and Millard... may I ask how did you get here?"

"The wights after you were caught a while ago. This loop is marked empty in A Map of Days, so catching two of Caul's followers in here is intriguing. It wasn't long until I found the entrance after leapfrogging through a parallel loop nearby."

Brushing off more questions in your head, you offered him a seat and took sips of hot chocolate.

"Perplexus wasn't wrong when he marked this loop empty," you said. Millard's head most likely whipped up at the mention of the famous cartographer.

You smiled at this and continued. "When my old loop was raided, my ymbryne suggested this small loop. It was an empty peculiar menagerie. I suspect a dozen peculiar animals used to live here with all the traces I've found. But for over fifty years, I haven't seen any peculiarity in this area." You turn your head towards the window. "Past those Cacao trees is the membrane of the loop. A small provincial village with normal people, normal chickens, and a normal carabao. So seeing you here feels more surreal than it sounds," you admitted.

"What about your bird?" he asked, "that tall phoenix flying around the woods?"

A twinge of realization came over you and you sigh, reluctant to admit your peculiarity.

"That was me," you say finally.

"What! You can turn into a phoenix? You're an ymbryne?" Millard's voice was a mix of astonishment and confusion.

"How else did you think I manage to revive this loop?" You smiled.

"I just thought ymbrynes' bird forms are supposed to be inconspicuous. But you were...incredibly remarkable."

Your cheeks heated up at the comment and you divert your gaze with a soft chuckle.

"That baffled me as well, that's why I only transform in important situations. Locals believed me to be a magical bird, thus driving many hunters' attention. My bird form is known as Adarna. Similar to a phoenix, but distinct in certain features."

"Adarna? I've never heard of that kind of bird before."

"It is a famous folklore bird in the Philippines. There are stories about it, even in the Tales of the Peculiar." You stood and picked up an old children's book on the bookshelf across the room. You handed it to Millard, which you assume, made him smile.

"This is an ancient version indeed. I annotate many of the Tales but I've never seen this before. Would you mind letting me borrow this?" You couldn't bring yourself to say no to him, so you insisted he could keep it. Stating that you didn't need a copy, having memorized it for the longest time.

After minutes of discussion, you noticed how he got so excited in the topic of maps, history and his friends. It felt like you were listening to a teacher who loved his work, and you weren't complaining as you found this adorable. You were both having good laughs with Millard's stories, until he finally said, "I trust you expect a reassurance that the wights wouldn't trouble you anymore, but we can't be certain."

Your eyebrows furrowed at this, "what are you planning?"

"To take you to Devil's Acre."

You were surprised and slightly taken aback. He must've seen the faraway look on your face so he continues, "Y/n, you don't have to go now. I can just leave you a detailed map to help you reach the panloopticon anytime."

You paced around the drawing room. "So you're letting me go there alone?"

“If that's what you like, yes. I don't want to rush you into leaving your home, but I’ll feel much better if you let me take you there myself." His British drawl made your throat dry, you could only nod.

"I'll take my time to think about it, but as soon as the wights come near this area, I'll head to your loop for safety." You decided it's only smart to stay home until real danger emerge, despite how much you'd like to go with Millard. "Why don't you stay here for a while?"

"That can be a problem. You see, my ymbryne left me with strict rules..."

"You weren't supposed to be here, aren't you?"

You both just laughed at this.

A while later, a loud commotion started in the other side of the loop membrane. Villagers were screaming and animals were flocking away.

"Was that a regular noise within your loop?"

"For fifty years of living this exact same day over and over again, I can assure you that was most unnatural." You got up and pocketed an old but sharp dagger as Millard packed the maps and the book you gave him.

"Those are certainly Wights looking for their other comrades. We ought to flee this place now," he said.

You both slipped through the backdoor towards the river, careful not to trip into the mud. When you reach the bamboo raft, he held your hand and made sure you wouldn't lose balance. This gesture, however, made you lose your composure instead.

"You seem nervous, is it the raft? Should I let you cross the river first?"

"No, no, it's safe," you said as you both stood on the either side of the raft, trying not to slip as you crossed the river holding tall pieces of bamboo to keep yourselves steady. "I guess I just feel sad that I'm leaving home for good," you say. It was true, but you couldn't bring yourself to admit that he made you flustered.

"I understand that this loop may close permanently as you leave," he said, "but in the Devil's Acre, you may train with other ymbrynes ang get the chance to create new loops, have wards of your own—"

"Train with other ymbrynes?" You exclaimed as the raft reached the other side of the river.

"Yes, they're rather lovely. Miss Avocet and all the other ymbrynes would love to guide you. I also believe my friends will celebrate your company. Horace will cook feast, Olive and Claire will surely entertain you, oh," he said, clearly excited, "the celebration will never be enough!"

"Are you kidding me?" You laughed soundlessly as you headed towards the forest. "Your presence alone is more than enough."

He did not reply anything for a moment and you bit your lip. Millard lead the way to another loop that was connected to the panloopticon. It was a silent but surprisingly comfortable walk. He told you to watch your steps in some parts of the forest and you give every useful information you had about your homeland.

"There it is, come here, y/n." He spotted the portal door propped amongst the old trenches of the place that was once bloodstained by war.

Shivers crawled down your spine as you paced forward. Millard noticed your uneasy expression and ran circles on your knuckles. "You can tell me if you don't want to come," he whispered gently, "we'll figure out another way if you're ever uncomfortable."

"Thank you, but I really want to go with you. I want to meet your family and read your books." A smile painted its way on your face just thinking about it.

Without another question, he lead you through the door while gripping your hand. You held your breath and let him guide your steps. His fingers traced your forehead and you opened your eyes.

═ ∘◦ ❉ ◦∘ ═

1886, London

"Where are we?" You stare at the plain, unfamiliar bedroom infront of you.

"The third floor of panloopticon," Millard said with a relieved sigh. "We just crossed half the world in a matter of seconds, I trust the kitchen will have something to ease our loop-lag."

Without even thinking about it, you pulled him in a hug. He caught his breath and wrapped his arms around you as you feel tears streaming down your face. You missed your country but don't regret being with this boy at all. "Thank you," you managed to whisper.

It had been less than a week since you first arrived. Millard's friends were the kindest people you have ever met. The first time you saw Miss Peregrine, she was furious at Millard for running off without permission, but her mood changed when she met you and realized you were an ymbryne too. You were immediately recruited in Miss Avocet's academy and made friends with many other people in the Acre. You get along very well with Miss Wren who was interested in your peculiarity and the fact that you lived in a menagerie loop in Asia.

Desolations came and you stayed in the Ditch House with Millard reading books for you. While it was raining blood, bones and ashes outside, you were having the time of your life with your new family.

You stayed in the Academy while the rest of Miss Peregrine's wards take on their adventure to France, giving all your best wishes for Millard.

You fought in the battle of the Devil's Acre and tended to the injured with the other ymbrynes-in-training. When you heard the news that Caul was defeated, you were elated and incredibly happy.

You were one of the ninety-five peculiars who broke loop-bound in Jacob's house. You could finally go anywhere you like without the fear of aging forward rapidly, and Millard promised many trips with you, you could only shut him up with a peck on the cheek.

═ ∘◦ ❉ ◦∘ ═

1940, Cairnholm

So many good things happened to you that week, but nothing could beat the joy you felt when you found out that the ymbrynes-in-training are to live with Miss Cuckoo, and Miss Peregrine and her wards in Cairnholm.

You stare at the dog roses in Fiona's garden, you were filled with mixed emotions and wanted a quiet time. All of them are celebrating inside the house; all except Millard, who was wearing a velvet smoking jacket for the occasion.

"It's beautiful here," you said while watching his clothes head your way, "you must be happy that you're home."

"You are my home," he said sincerely, now standing in front of you.

You couldn't grab any witty reply, in fact, you couldn't find any words at all. You knew you were blushing ferociously by now.    

"Mind if I talk to you about something that's been bothering me for a while?" He broke the silence and you nod at him.

"With everything we went through these past weeks, I found myself hoping to stay alive."

You stifled a laugh. "Isn't that a good thing? Wishing you'd survive?"

"That's the point, I wanted to stay alive, not just because we ought to take surviving as a priority, but because I can't get you out of my mind."

Your face went blank. "What do you mean, Millard?"

"I wish it was a choice, but it wasn't. I fell in love with you, Y/n. I'd love you for as long as time."

"And we have time," you reassured him, "I love you too," and with that, he kissed you.

Both smiling into the kiss, you leaned against each other, swaying in the breeze of the garden and basking in each other's presence forevermore.

[socheckitout-mikey]

Could you do some headcanons or a short story where Dallas meets his soc girlfriend’s parents?

heya birdie! i love dally sm, like whenever i get a request for him i get so hyped. okay, these are kinda bad bc i just got inspired to write them, but i hope you like them! thanks so much for requesting these (': - mae

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Dallas Winston Meets his Soc s/o's Parents for the First Time:

° Lmaoo rip to your parents bc they're about to have a real big storming coming their way. 

° So upon seeing Dallas, they don't really have the best first impression because they're not dumb, they know this kid from the papers because he's always doing rough stuff and getting arrested.

° And they honestly don't want you anywhere near that kind of guy, but your teenage angst filled heart has decided this hood is the one for you. lmaoo you're so dramatic istg! 

° Although Dally is the resident bad boy of Tulsa Oklahoma, he can't deny that he's actually bricking it, because he does really like you and maybe there's that dumb little part of him that might actually want to make a good impression on your folks… just don't go hollering that stuff out at him because it'll just make him mad. 

° For once he shows up at your front door instead of your bedroom window and Dally's wishing he'd swiped another pack of Cools from the corner store back on his side of town because he's all out of cigarettes which has made him feel pretty jumpy and restless.

° Meeting someone's folks just isn't really his style. He couldn't give two shits about what your folks thought of him, but it had been your damn puppy dog eyes that made him cave.

° Lmaoo he's silently cussing you out under his breath as he rings the doorbell.

° And he's just standing there like a bump on a log, totally standing out from the expensive home and possessions outside. He's wearing his best shirt and pair of jeans that weren't stained, and his leather boots had the minimal amount of scuff marks on them, so he was literally trying here. 

° He's kinda sweating it, but his expression is difficult to read as you open the door to let him in. But he takes in your figure and he totally wishes y'all had gone out instead on your lonesome bc boii do you look like a whole snack. 

° "You sure you wanna drag my half dead lookin' ass in when you look like that, babe?" He grinned, dipping in for a kiss but you retracted sheepishly. "What? Too much of a chicken to have your folks see you actually kiss trash like me, huh?" He taunted you. 

° "It ain't like that, dumbass…" 

° "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, sugar?" 

° You just grabbed his hand and yanked him into the hallway, his eyes roaming your figure as he finally got to have a swell look around your home for once. He was just used to your snazzy room.

° His eyes were travelling all over the expensive furniture before he let out a low whistle and that's when your parents saw Dallas Winston.

° Your dad choked on his cigar smoke and your mother choked on her wine lmaooooooo

° "What's he doing here, y/n?!" your mother shrieked. 

° "Yeah, honey, I thought we were meeting your boyfriend?" 

° "This is my boyfriend…" 

° Dally had been expecting this bc ya boii is used to this sort of judgement and he's honestly just in his element, but trying to keep that shit eating grin from plastering itself on his face and a smart ass comment from leaving his mouth is harder than he thought it'd be. You'd smack him upside the head if he did that, and he wasn't itching to get on your bad side.

° So it's safe to say that this is a mega awkward dinner with your father and mother clearing their throat constantly. 

° Lmaoo Dally's just eating his food like he hasn't eaten in 3 days which is probably true. 

° You stomped on his foot bc he'd gotten spaghetti sauce down his chin. 

° "Eat like a normal person, Dal!" you hissed because you knew he was messing with you just to irritate your dad. 

° "Alright, alright!" 

° The onslaught of questions Dallas receives is unnecessary and you're highkey ready to crawl under the floorboards and die. 

° "You been in jail recently?" 

° "Dad!" 

° "Hell yeah I have, I got booked in for-" 

° "Dal!" 

° I think your mum warms up to him first tbh. Like Dallas is charming when he wants to be and he ends up melting her heart for real though! 

° Next thing you know your mum's on Dally's side and has turned on your dad lmaoo. 

° "Can't you just be polite and ask him normal questions? I mean, don't you think you're being tough on him?" lol your mum's highkey savage though. 

° It's safe to say that there's no fancy cigars smoked between your dad and Dallas that evening, although he did steal one for himself when he went to the guest bathroom three hours ago. He's a swiper istg.

° You walk him to your front door and you can hear your mother gushing about how cute he is and you're blushing. 

° "Ugh, I dunno how to tell you this but… I think your mom's got the hots for me."

° "Gross, Dal." You visibly shudder which makes him laugh. 

° "I'll see you later then?" He inquires with the tilt of his head, his eyes blazing with mischief and everything unholy. 

° "Yeah, I'll keep my window unlocked." You smile, pressing a kiss to his mouth. 

° "That's my girl/guy." he grins against your mouth before deepening the kiss. 

° He smoked that cigar in your room that night, I mean props to him for stealing it and all lmaoo. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

please like, share and follow for more! 

requests: open! 

[sundiscus]

wangxian dragon age au: ficlet

[part of a larger au i’ve mapped out + started drafting, but want to post as snippets for now! i’ve taken many liberties with the worldbuilding, and as such i think most can be inferred with context if you’re unfamiliar with dragon age.

part one now here

this snippet: the meet-ugly, ~1.7k]

✨✨✨

When Lan Wangji wakes up, he isn’t alone.

He doesn’t realize it right away. The first thing he notices is that, this time, there are no shackles. He shifts his hands the slightest bit, enough to confirm they are indeed free. The movement pulls at the little cuts on his fingers and forearms from where the shackles shattered apart, already scabbing over—so he has been unconscious long enough for the magebane to burn out of his system, which he confirms, finding his meridians free and clear. He’s lying on his back, something that feels slightly too soft to be a stone floor under him and something that feels slightly too rough to be a blanket draped over him. An odd green light pulses against his eyelids and the only sound is a muted, continuous hiss, like a distant waterfall. Wherever he is, it isn’t the cell from earlier.

It doesn’t matter. He won’t be here long.

He takes one more slow breath, listening closely. There. To his left, a few paces away, he hears a tiny, cut-off inhale. Now he knows where to aim. His eyes fly open as he launches himself upright, summoning his sword into his raised hand, and—

It’s like expecting the ocean and finding only a puddle. His sword flickers into existence for the barest moment, its glow illuminating a circle of stone walls, a pallet beneath him, and then Lan Wangji’s lungs stutter, pressure squeezing his temples, as if all air has been sucked out of the room. Bichen dissipates and Lan Wangji is left gasping, one hand still raised uselessly in the air.

From the shadows, someone says: “Ah, that’s not going to work.”

Lan Wangji is already looking to the side. He sees only a figure at first, because when his sword disappeared so had the strange, omnipresent green glow. The glow returns now, slowly illuminating a young man curled against the opposite wall, his hair a dark, tangled wave over his shoulders, wrists chained together with thick iron manacles. For a moment his eyes, staring right back at Lan Wangji, are the brightest thing in the room.

“What do you mean?” Lan Wangji demands, finding his voice. “Is there a suppression array?” It must be powerful to choke off his magic so finitely. If he can see it, though, he can figure out how to undo it.

The man wrinkles his nose. “Not exactly. But—ah, ah,” he says as Lan Wangji starts to stand, “don’t move too fast, the blowback from that is going to be pretty harsh.”

Lan Wangji understands almost instantly as a wave of vertigo hits him. His knees buckle before he’s halfway to his feet and he collapses back on the pallet, bracing his weight on his elbow to keep from falling entirely. When his ears stop ringing he can hear his own ragged breathing.

Enough, he thinks, and forces himself to even his breaths. To shift focus. Clearly whatever precautions Wen Chao and his soldiers have taken to secure this room go beyond magebane and a simple suppression array. He won’t be able to escape by sheer force like last time, but this will still be no more than a brief detour on his journey. He will make sure of it.

Yesterday—was it yesterday, now? The chamber has no windows, just the eerie green glow emanating from the walls—Lan Wangji had been traveling with a retinue of junior enchanters to retrieve research texts from the Circle in Hedong, where scholars claimed to have promising studies related to fade rifts. They were nearly there when a raven alighted on Lan Wangji’s shoulder, bearing the message: Siege on Gusu Circle. Reconvene to the north. He’d sent the junior enchanters ahead and turned back before the raven even took flight.

(The note had not mentioned his brother, so his brother must be alive. Rumors were already spreading outward from Gusu as he rode, saying Wen Xu had an archdemon, Wen Xu burned the Gusu library to the ground. They did not say Wen Xu killed Zewu-jun, Wen Xu killed a mage with a glowing hand. So his brother must have escaped. Knowing this did not stop Lan Wangji’s heart from racing as he spurred his horse faster, past refugee settlements and Templar camps, toward the distant gash in the sky.)

And then: a poisoned arrow biting into his arm, his horse crumpling on a hardpacked road outside Lingchuan. The Wen soldiers, ready for him. (Not ready enough, when at least six of their bodies fell before Lan Wangji did.) One day in the first cell, his failed escape attempt.

And now: magicless, trapped in a strange room with a strange, sharp-eyed prisoner watching him struggle to sit upright, the slow crawl of time a physical weight on Lan Wangji’s shoulders.

“Honestly, just ride it out,” the prisoner is saying. He has his chained hands up and open, like he’s trying to calm a spooked animal. “You’ll feel better in about an hour. Maybe less, if you’ve had a good meal recently.”

Lan Wangji’s head spins sickeningly. He ignores it, pushing himself up until he can prop himself against the wall, putting himself eye-level with the prisoner, at least.

“Or sit up anyway, I suppose,” the prisoner says. His voice has a ragged edge, as if it’s scraping its way out of his throat. “Sorry, I’d offer you some water, but I drank it all before I knew I’d have company. What are you doing here, anyway?”

If First Enchanter Lan wants his nephew back, he’ll have to lend us a few books, Wen Chao had mocked from outside the first cell. And if he wants you back with all your limbs attached, he’ll have to throw in trading deeds with the eastern lyrium mines for good measure. Do you think he can deliver that before you die here?

Wen Chao wanted demonic texts, Lan Wangji had guessed, the ones hidden deep within the library. No doubt for some dangerous, power-hungry scheme, and no doubt connected to the rifts. From there, it wasn’t hard to piece together that the attack on the Circle was meant to discover which texts were critical enough to be rescued and transported away, and likely steal them in transit. There are protocols for such events, Lan Wangji knows, and his presence here means the raid was unsuccessful, and he will be used as leverage for a second attempt.

If Wen Chao meant to scare Lan Wangji with his demands, he had only succeeded in doing the opposite. Because if all they want from Lan Wangji’s family are books and deeds, it means they don’t know about his brother yet.

Lan Wangji doesn’t share any of this. “Political prisoner,” is all he says.

“Ahh.” The man nods. “I figured, what with the…” He gestures at his own forehead, chains clinking as he does. “You’re obviously a Lan. Someone will pay well to have you back home.”

“They should not have to pay at all,” Lan Wangji bites out. Something about the prisoner’s casual attitude grates at him. The world outside is quite literally falling apart at the seams, and Lan Wangji doesn’t have time to be used as bait in Wen Chao’s small-minded games.

The prisoner shrugs. “Yeah, but there’s not much choice at the moment, is there? For now you’re stuck here with me. I’m—my name is Wei Ying, by the way. What should I call you, while we wait?”

“Do the Wen soldiers enter this cell often?” Lan Wangji says instead of answering. “Is there a chance of overpowering them?”

A grimace. “Often enough. And no, I’ve tried. They’re stupid, but they’re prepared.”

Lan Wangji casts another glance over the man—Wei Ying—and carefully keeps any skepticism out of his expression. Then he looks around properly for the first time. Wei Ying is right—there’s no visible array on the floor, no glyphs on the circular stone walls. The green glow fades as it climbs the wall, leaving the ceiling cloaked in shadow and dizzying to look at, like an endless tunnel. Disturbingly, there isn’t a visible door, either. There isn’t much of anything but the one straw pallet, a lidded pot against the wall, an empty bowl next to Wei Ying, bone-dry, and Wei Ying himself.

“A Lan,” Wei Ying says when Lan Wangji is silent for long enough, pitched low, almost like he’s talking to himself. “I’m surprised Wen Chao would be so bold. He has to know that won’t go over well in the long run, I wonder if his father has any idea? No, he would’ve sent Wen Xu. Maybe Wen Chao thinks that by the time someone comes for you, he’ll have—” Wei Ying cuts himself off. Blinks. “You are real, aren’t you?”

Lan Wangji narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you’re not…” Wei Ying waves a hand at the room around them. “But, ah, why would I dream up a whole Knight-Enchanter? A Lan at that? You felt real enough, when I dragged you onto the pallet, but it’s still hard to tell.” Lan Wangji must have some reaction to that—to knowing this stranger’s hands have been on him, when he was unconscious—because Wei Ying adds, defensive: “What was I supposed to do? They left you on the floor.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t have an answer to that.

Wei Ying tips his head back against the wall. “Well. Your Circle, they have your phylactery, right? They’ll find you. Pay the ransom, or lay siege to Wen Chao’s little fortress here. That would be nice.” He casts his gaze over Lan Wangji again. “Looks like our captors were gentle enough in the meanwhile.”

There’s dried blood tugging at the hair of Lan Wangji’s temple, and he still has the nauseating sense that if he moves too fast he might collapse again. Gentle isn’t how Lan Wangji would describe his treatment so far. But it is also far below the threshold of what he can withstand, so it doesn’t seem like a point worth arguing. “And you?” he hears himself say.

“Uh.” Wei Ying shifts and holds up his shackled hands. “Less gentle, I suppose.”

“I meant—who will be paying your ransom.”

Wei Ying drops his hands into his lap. “Oh. No one.”

“Then,” Lan Wangji says, “why are you here?”

For the first time, Wei Ying flashes a smile. A hooked dagger in the dim light.

“I have something they want.”

[mellowswriting]

Settled - A Sequel to The Future

pairing || Din Djarin x fem!Reader

summary || A glimpse into domestic life with Din. 

word count || 4,238

warnings || soft smut, food consumption, pregnant reader, domestic fluff, Din Djarin is the best dad in the universe but we already knew that, Uncle Paz Vizsla bc I’m shameless

a/n ||  Listen... soft domesticity with Din was something I didn’t realized I needed in life until writing this, so I had so much fun. Thank you to the anons who sent the requests that inspired this! ​

Main Masterlist  |  Join the taglist!

Translations: riduur - spouse buir - parent mesh’la - beautiful kurshi’ika - little tree cyar’ika - darling, sweetheart

It was the kind of morning people wrote poetry about, line after eloquent line about how the sun broke over the trees in brilliant streaks of orange and pink backed by the symphony of cheerful bird chatter, how the steam from your coffee mug curled through the air in a lazy pirouette, how each sip you took as you read by the open window filled you to the brim with a warm peace that rivaled any other. That kind of tranquility was something you had craved, but never thought you could actually have for yourself.

You were never more glad to be wrong.

Every promise Din made to you, he followed through on. Ma’ira was small but beautiful, covered with lush forests and dotted with turquoise colored lakes, and the second you landed on the planet you just knew. Something about it all felt right. It didn’t take long to find the home you now lived in with your riduur, an almost cottage-like home on the outskirts of town, far enough away that Din felt comfortable enough to strip away his armor more often than not.

It had been a strange adjustment. Din wasn’t used to the possibility of being so open. You weren’t used to the possibility of staying put. But the biggest adjustment of all was the swell of your stomach when you first moved into the house that the two of you had turned into a warm, happy home. Din, being the overachiever of the century, somehow managed to knock you up right on the first try. To say that the both of you were surprised would be an understatement. You expected to have more time, to be able to spend however long it took to find the absolute perfect place to settle down.

In more ways than one, you were beyond glad that your lover was such an overachiever. You would have overthought it all; which planet was the best to settle down on, whether or not the house you chose was the right one, if your town was safe enough. The kiddo growing in your belly like a weed forced you both to make a decision in a timely manner and now you had an incredible husband, a perfect daughter, and another warrior growing strong in your belly.

At two years old, Willow was a bright, vibrant little girl who also managed to create mischief anywhere her little feet could carry her. And with all of that endless bounty of toddler energy? Yeah, you needed those calm mornings as a reprieve from her energy, as much as you loved her

It was the rumble of her bare feet on the wood floors that drew you from the novel in your hands, her wild mess of brown hair the first thing you saw as she clambered in your lap. Her arms wound around your neck as she pulled you into a bear hug, practically choking the life out of you in her excitement.

“Good morning, Willow,” You said as you shifted her weight away from the swell of your belly before brushing her curls out of her face. “How about we go wake up your buir, huh? I think he’s gotten to sleep in enough this morning.”

Willow’s eyes lit up at the mention of her father and she nodded emphatically, already ready to poke at her father until he woke up like she did every morning. You made your way into your bedroom with her on your hip and you couldn’t help but smile at the sight your husband made. Din was still dead asleep, his face buried in the crook of his elbow, the stark contrast of his tan skin against the white sheets made even more striking by the sunlight flooding through the windows. Just like his daughter, his hair was a curly mess atop his head.

You gingerly set Willow down next to Din and she crawled over to kneel at his side and pry his arm away from his face. It woke him up immediately, you could tell by the slight curve of his lips despite his still closed eyes - a game he played almost every morning with his daughter. Next came the poking at his cheeks, then his eyebrows, and then his lips - where Din grabbed her hand and pretended to gobble her up.

“Papa!” Willow squealed, devolving into a fit of giggles as she tried to squirm away. “Mama, help!”

The second you leaned over to try to scoop her up, Din pulled you down onto the bed on top of him and pressed a kiss to your lips, always careful not to put pressure on your stomach. You shifted to lay next to him, propping your baby bump on his side to relieve the tension. Sat there in that bed, your husband rubbing your belly with one warm hand and your toddler jumping and tumbling around the pillows, her peals of laughter echoing off of your bedroom walls… well, it brought you more peace than any early morning sunrise or good book could ever bring you.

“Good morning, mesh’la.” Din murmured against your temple where he pressed a kiss, his voice rumbling low and sleepy. “How’s the book?”

“About halfway through, it’s a good one.” You loved the interest he took in your little hobbies. The newest book in particular was the fourth in a series Din had gotten for you. He knew you liked to read while you breastfed and was more than happy to provide you with as many books as possible. “The little one is kicking up a storm, though. He’s killing my bladder.”

Din hummed as he slid down to speak right into your belly. “Be good to your mama, little one.”

He kissed your baby bump, leaned up to kiss your lips, and then stood to stretch his arms high above his head with a strained groan. “Come on, kurshi’ika, let’s get your hair fixed.”

You smiled at the nickname, watching Din carry his little girl to the bathroom. He may be an intimidating Mandalorian, a big and bad ex-bounty hunter, but he was the softest, sweetest dad you had ever seen. With a low groan, you eased yourself onto your feet and busied yourself with preparing breakfast, and by the time Din emerged from the bathroom with Willow, you had yogurt and a pile of sliced strawberries ready for her.

Sitting down to eat meals together was something you cherished. It felt like a completely different life, back when you and Din would have to sit in separate rooms to eat to protect his creed, back when everything was so complicated. Now Din would share small bites of his own meals with Willow, he talked through mouthfuls of food hidden behind his hand, he cleared the table once all of you were finished. Yet another new side of your soulmate that you had the privilege of seeing.

It didn’t take long for Willow to finish her breakfast and ask to be let down to play. It amazed you how much energy such a small kid managed to contain, watching her zip around the living room without pausing to take a breath. You couldn’t help but laugh as Din tried to keep up with her. Not long ago, you would’ve been right there on the floor with them, but now that pregnancy had shifted your center of gravity and had your back and feet aching constantly, it was too damn hard.

While Willow was lucky to have a dad who had no qualms with crawling around on the floor with her, even he couldn’t rival her energy. Din dropped onto the couch next to you with a long drawn out sigh, watching with raised eyebrows as his daughter shot around the room.

“How does she do it?” He chuckled, shaking his head. You hummed in lieu of an answer and leaned your head against his shoulder. Just like with your first pregnancy, you were tired more often than not and Din’s warmth was like a heavy blanket that could only lure you closer to sleep. Din pulled you closer to rub your belly. “How are we going to do it? With two?”

“If we can handle bounty hunting, we can handle two kids, my love.” You murmured, your eyes falling closed as you relaxed against him.

“Bounty hunting was less scary.” Din said with a huffed laugh and yeah, he wasn’t exactly wrong. But as terrifying as parenthood could be, watching Willow grow and learn made everything worth it. You could see pieces of both of you in her; she had Din’s hair and your eyes. She had her father’s attitude and your perfected puppy-dog eyes. She had her father’s grumpy face and your laugh.

Even so, she was becoming her own person the more she grew. Every annoyed huff, every little pout, every time she jumped out from behind the couch or bed to ‘scare’ one of you, it became more glaringly obvious just how lucky you both were. The little one growing strong in your belly would only add to that luck, you just knew it. Even when your bladder was being used as a trampoline, when the exhaustion got so bad you had to nap in the middle of the day, when the nausea overwhelmed you, there was an underlying tone of luckiness.

Three quick knocks had you easing yourself off of the couch despite Din insisting he could get it. If you stayed on that couch curled up next to him any longer, you would fall asleep and you knew it. A warm rush of air flooded against you when you opened the door and you smiled brightly at the man in front of you.

“Paz! It’s good to see you!” You said as you pulled him in for a hug. “Come on in.”

The second Willow saw him, an excited cry of “Uncle Paz!” echoed through the living room as she scrambled to give him a bear hug. Paz was the one who made you realize that your husband wasn’t an anomaly among Mandalorians - you knew they cherished children, that raising them to be strong and healthy was the foundation of their culture, but you hadn’t realized just how gentle they were with the littlest ones. If anyone had told you before all of this that you would see Din Djarin and Paz Vizsla sitting on the floor and happily playing along with a tea party for a two year old and her stuffed bunnies, you would’ve laughed at the very idea.

But now it was a weekly occurrence, one that you would cherish the memories of for the rest of your life, and you couldn’t imagine life any other way.

“Are you sure she’s ready, cyar’ika?” Din murmured as he watched Willow debate which stuffed animal she should bring with her.

“I definitely think she is. Besides, Jaina and Paz are only a few miles away. If she changes her mind, we’ll go pick her up.” You rubbed his arm reassuringly. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Just nervous.” He grunted.

Willow’s first overnight away was something you both agreed on, but that didn’t mean neither of you were anxious about it. Paz and his wife were the only ones you trusted enough and Maker knows that they didn’t mind helping. You were all family, after all.

“She’s going to be with them while I’m in labor, she needs to be comfortable if she has to stay overnight. But we can put this off a bit longer if you want.” You offered, but he shook his head. No matter when Willow went to spend the night with her Uncle, it was going to be nerve wracking and you both knew it.

You knelt next to Willow and helped her zip up the bag she had stuffed full of toys. “Okay, Willow. Are you excited to stay with Uncle Paz and Aunt Jaina?”

Willow nodded emphatically, bouncing on her toes and struggling to keep her attention on you in her excitement, especially when she saw her dad walking over to crouch down next to her as well.

“Be a good listener for Paz, okay kurshi’ika?” Din reminded her gently and Willow nodded again before hugging him tightly. The worry on his face eased as he held her close.

“Bye, Papa.” Willow chirped before turning to hug you as well. “Bye, Mama. Bye, Baby.”

The kiss she popped against your belly choked you up and you almost wanted to wrap her up in your arms and never let her go. Oh, your sweet, precious little girl. So excited to be a big sister, already so loving to a sibling that wasn’t even born yet.

You watched her hop along after Paz and as he strapped her into the seat of his speeder, always overly cautious about the strap placement of her harness, but Paz was a quick learner. All it took was that one time of showing him exactly where the chest clip was meant to be and stressing the importance of it, and the man had it down expertly.

You expected the house to feel smaller, empty without Willow’s high peals of laughter and exhaustive energy, and while that thread of nervousness at being away from your child still held true, the idea of getting to relax with your husband without any real obligations was… nice. Different, but nice. You sat down heavily on the couch, that heavy exhaustion creeping over you to weigh down your eyelids the moment you met the cushions.

It was the feeling of Din’s hands rubbing the tension from your feet that woke you sometime later. His attention was on the television across the room, some rerun of a trashy holodrama playing at a low volume. You smiled sleepily at him. So handsome with his fluffy, unkempt hair and the stubble he hadn’t bothered shaving in the past few days. You reached out to graze his arm with your fingertips and Din smiled before he even looked away from the screen.

“How was your nap?” He asked quietly, a soft fondness on his face.

“Good,” Your voice was rough with sleep. You wiggled your toes against his hand. “This is better, though.”

Din chuckled but complied, those strong fingers of his digging into the arch of your foot and pulling a pleased hum deep from your chest. The man had hands like magic. It was something he loved to do, taking care of your body aches and tense muscles, especially when you were pregnant. He was the one who put you in that state after all. He felt it was his responsibility to take care of you, however you needed.

The tightness of your muscles slowly relaxed with each kneading pass of his fingers, his hands slowly making their way up past your ankles, working through your calves and your knees. He pressed feather light kisses to your calves as he worked his hands, shifting so he could lean over you and slowly work himself up your body. Din knew exactly what he was doing, could tell by the way your contented little hums morphed into pleasured moans.

A grin found your lips when your heady whine was met with a low, needy groan. Din nipped your inner thigh playfully and looked up at you with those bright eyes. “What do you need, Din?”

“You.” He leaned up to press his forehead to yours. “Just you.”

“You have me.” You whispered, your heart pattering faster in your chest. It had been far too long since you could just let loose with him and enjoy each other without having to think about anything other than the feel of each other’s bodies. “You always have me.”

Din kissed you, one hand propping himself up next to you and the other gripping your chin to tip your head back. A shudder rocked through you at the feeling of his tongue dipping to lick at your lips. You pulled away to pat his cheek, a breathless laugh falling from your lips.

“Not on the couch,” You said. “Take me to bed, riduur.”

Your husband helped you to your feet, ushering you ahead of him with one big hand smacking and grabbing at your ass as you laughed at his antics. Before you were showing, Din would’ve had no issue shoving you down on the bed and going to town on you, and while his touch was still firm, he was gentle. Beyond careful.

He had you stripped in no time, your shirt and shorts flung somewhere unknown and uncared for. The warmth of his hand at your waist made you shiver and press closer; the skin on skin of his chest pressed against your back was addictive, left you keening for more, for any other gentle touch he would grace you with. It was a kiss to your neck that came next, followed almost immediately by the drag of his teeth against your pulse. His fingers knotted in your hair, angling your head to give him better access to the corded muscle of your neck that he loved sinking his teeth into.

The stuttered cries he managed to pull from you were like music to Din’s ears. Every single sound you made for him… fuck, they were just as pretty as you. He pressed you forward onto your hands and knees, grinning at the way your fingers immediately curled into the sheets, and ground his clothed cock against your ass in a slow circle, relishing in the desperate cant of your hips in your search for more friction.

“So needy, cyar’ika.” Din murmured as he leaned down to kiss and lick and bite at your shoulder blades, his hand coming down to cradle your belly, feeling his child close and safe inside of you. “Such a good girl, huh? Always so good for me.”

“Please…” You arched against him with a whine, seeking his touch where you really, desperately needed it. The look you tossed at him over your shoulder was almost enough to break him. “I need you.”

Din popped the hems of his briefs with how quickly he ripped them off. He moved to kneel at the edge of the bed, ready to open you up for him, spread you out with his tongue and his fingers and let your pretty little moans soak into his ego and stroke his pride. Your foot shot out to stop him, damn near catching him in the ribs.

“Fuck, Din, I’m ready. I promise, I just need you, please -”

He eased your desperation with a hand at the base of your spine, shuddering at how much you needed him, his touch, his cock buried as deep as possible in your wet little cunt. Din’s fingers brushed your core gently, barely touching you to hear that needy whine one more time, before tracing your clit in practiced circles.

The arch of your hips deepened as you relished in the pleasure your husband sparked through your body, unable to curb the needy sounds you made. Sex with Din was always a good time, but sex with Din while you were pregnant was next fucking level. The doctor had told you it was because of higher blood flow and blah, blah, blah, but you had a sneaking suspicion that he was also just that good. You didn’t even realize you were begging at first, crying out a high, ‘please, please, please’ until you felt Din’s cock notch at your entrance, the hand he had at the base of your spine sliding down to grasp firm at your neck.

He pushed into you in one smooth, devastating stroke, not stopping until his pelvis was flush against. The groan he gave was one you heard time and time again, his voice reverent as if you were the goddess to absolve him of all of his sins, the one to save him and bring him to salvation. It broke you down and built you up in the same second, pride swelling in your chest at the pleasure you brought him, at the pleasure he brought you. Just the full feeling of his cock stretching you was enough to have you trembling beneath him, so that first slow stroke, the roll of his hips as he pulled away only to push back into you, it was devastating.

“Fuck…” Din’s head tipped back, his hips setting a steady, slow pace that still had you almost too full but still needing more. “So fucking wet for me, so ti-ight.”

You wanted to praise him, to tell him how good he felt inside of you, how his thick cock made you quiver around him, but your voice had disappeared, fizzled out with that first thrust. But you could show him. You pushed back against him to meet his thrusts, a cock drunk grin spreading across your face when Din’s pace stuttered at your enthusiasm. The muscles in your thighs and back were starting to ache with the effort of holding yourself up, but before you could find your voice well enough to tell him, he was pulling out of you despite your whined protest.

“Hush, sweet girl,” Din said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he eased you onto your side and settled behind you. “I’ve got you.”

Your leg was lifted to brace against his hip and then Din was thrusting back into you, his bare chest pressed firmly to your back. You leaned your head back against his shoulder as he slid his hand up your thigh and over your hip, desperate for the electric feeling of his practiced fingers against your clit. Instead, those teasing fingers trailed over your belly and up your ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake to flush across your sensitive skin.

“Din…” You whined, sounding every bit like the needy, debauched little thing you felt. Din’s hand snatched yours up when you reached between your legs, only making you whine more.

“Use your words, cyar’ika.” Din murmured low in your ear. He didn’t miss the way his voice made shivers dance down your spine. “Tell me what you need.”

“T-touch me,” You managed to stutter out as you arched against him, angling your hips so that he hit even deeper and the head of his cock pressed against your g-spot. That tension ratcheted tighter in your belly and drug your desperation higher with it. “Fuck, please!”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Din teased and finally dipped his hand between your thighs, his fingers spreading you open and gathering up your slick to circle your clit.

A loud cry ripped from your chest, your orgasm quickly approaching under Din’s touch, combined with the stuttering breaths coming from your lover. He wasn’t lost on the pleasure he brought you, the feeling of your already tight cunt tensing around him, growing more wet to ease the way for him.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” You huffed, hovering on the edge of ecstasy only driven higher with each stroke.

Din captured your ear lobe between his teeth and hissed one word. “Cum.”

You broke. Keened and trembled and gasped as he rocked you through your orgasm, only shoving his hand away when it became too much for your sensitive nerves. Three more thrusts into you and Din’s pace stuttered, his hand coming up to brace against your hip and hold you in place to bury his seed as deep as your body would allow him. You let out an exhausted, breathless chuckle - if he hadn’t already had knocked you up, that certainly would’ve done it.

The two of you took a moment. Soaked each other in as you caught your breath. Din barely moved, only shifting slightly to pull out as you whined at the loss, but he peppered lazy kisses on your shoulder in apology. In those moments, those hazy post-sex moments where you were both sweaty and sated and beyond in love, your hands wandered as did Din’s. It was almost instinctual, a need to check each other over and soothe any aches, any bites that were a tad too rough.

Din pulled at you with insistent hands, guiding you to roll over and face him so you could use his side to rest your belly on. As much as that helped to ease the ache your growing baby put on your back, it was just as much for him as it was for you. He loved supporting you, feeling you relax against his side, running his palm over your belly and tracing the stretch marks that signified all you did for him, for the children you bore and nurtured both as they grew inside of you and at your breast after their birth.

“Shower?” Din asked after an eternity of peaceful silence.

You hummed your agreement, shivering at the idea of those strong hands massaging your scalp and aching muscles. “In a minute. Just wanna feel you.”

And feel him you did. Din wasn’t the only one who loved to aimlessly trace his lover’s skin. His muscles twitched under your gentle touch, something that never failed to make you smile; he was so strong, so firm, yet a single caress was enough to have him shivering with a small delighted smile on his face.

The shower could wait. The rest of the word could wait. All you needed was Din.

[honestlyfrance]

It Rains Every April 10th

ship: sam/bucky

warning: grief, depression, mcd, hurt/comfort

summary:

"I love you, baby," Sam had spoken, three words so sweetly spoken, an angel could've said it, and Bucky wouldn't mind if that meant that he had crossed to the other side and reached heaven, because it was Sam Wilson.

Bucky had twirled Sam once, the two of them sharing a laugh before he pulled the man closer by the waist. "I love you too, honey," he replied, making sure to put in much eye contact, to let his own eyes send the message his heart failed to say.

OR

A sneak peek in the life of Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson to know the real reason why they think April 10 was a bad date.

—■—■—

Depression hits like a wave on a cliffside — sometimes you see it coming, sometimes you didn’t see it, and sometimes you just let it happen. It sometimes gnaws at your skin, always there, but more of a ghostly hand hovering over you; there’s that presence but you think you don’t have enough proof to prove it existed. Times like these you try your best to move but you become unmotivated, absolutely immobile except for the moments your body decides to exhaust itself for unrelated things you shouldn’t be doing. It takes a toll on you you wouldn’t even realize, and even then, who else realized it? You’re just tired. You don’t cry. You’re just tired. 

It’s moments before dawn that the rain began to pick up, basking the entire scenery in a state of loneliness and tranquility, and it made everything more silent than before. Birds weren’t chirping, and all anyone could hear was the deafening downpour outside their windows. The bedroom is blanketed in blue lighting from the grey clouds outside, and the rain slips down the French windows and the slanting skylight. Bucky Barnes laid in bed, staring solemnly towards his windows with disdain, buried under his duvets. There are bags under his eyes, but they’re almost faint, and there’s a red tinge to his eyes, but he doesn’t feel discomfort from it; he felt as if whole, if anything. He’s just tired.

Bucky lets his eyes flutter shut, grunting as he buried himself deeper into the sheets, pulling his pillows to envelop every side of his body: his back, his chest, his head, his feet. He wanted warmth. It was too early to wake up.  The faint smell of something icky wafted through the cold air and suddenly, all Bucky could think of was how slow time had passed by — he woke up before two in the morning, but his body felt as if it was midnight. It was dawn now, and he still hasn’t sat up. He rose and went, his consciousness blanking ever so often, and all he could think of was how numbed he was to the point that he couldn’t remember how many times he slept and woke up.

Bucky sat down in his tub, the cool but refreshing water pouring from the faucet. The bathroom was dim-lit and the orange lights bounced off of every reflective surface in the room. Here he sighed, watching the excess water go into the side drain, setting his head on the side of the tub. All he could ever hear was the sound of gushing water and the ache of his own heart, and there's that dread of going downstairs and actually living.

His dog suddenly pitter-pattered through the open door, suddenly sitting by the side of the tub. Bucky lazily looked back at the golden retriever. His eyes were barely opened as he spoke, “Roger, go back outside…” His voice was gruff and worn down, like a path down memory lane; so distant and faded that even the memory couldn’t recognize itself.

Bucky turned his head back towards the ceiling, and with a heavy sigh, he grabbed the tub by the side with his one hand and slid himself with a strong push, he lowered himself under the water, and there he felt free. There was nothing waiting for him down there and there was nothing worried for him down there. All he had in that tub was himself and his thoughts, and all his thoughts said to him was, “It’s April 10. You need to wake up.”

He needed to wake up. 

Breakfast was quiet, and with every long drawn-out bite of his cereal was a much longer painful dread in Bucky’s chest, one that swallowed in itself for centuries before and centuries more. It’s a sickening twist to the plot and there’s nothing more emptying than feeling drowsy from one’s own solemn adventure. The outdoor lights filtered through the drawn open blinds and there they go, dancing on tabletops and the clean dishes left on the open sink like ballerinas, and there’s a piece of accompanying music that was dulled to a filtered flute of wind by the rain; water dripped against the windows and made the room look bluer than before, and the white walls seem to close in on Bucky, but he just kept on eating in his bathrobe, his one leg propped up on another chair as Roger sat on his hind legs beside him.

Bucky sighed with his mouth full as he waved his dog off. Roger goes dashing through the open doorway and into the other which led to the expansive library. Bucky didn’t want to look out into the window and see how beautiful the morning was, now that there was something so elegant to see when the whole world just drained itself out of color, and it all seemed unfair — a misuse of justice. Roger brought in a book, and Bucky couldn’t even look at the cover. The Masque Of The Red Death. His hands gripped the pocketbook, his mind fuming and his lips searing at the seams; he fumbled with the book and his muffled sobs, and he suddenly thrashed — he threw the book across the room, successfully breaking another picture frame that was hung on the opposite wall. Roger whimpered and set his head on Bucky's stomach, pawing at his hands until all Bucky gripped was the dog’s coat, gently and softly, feeling his heart squeezed out of life but he’s lightheaded. He’s not better now, but he feels like he could be. 

Bucky whispered something to Roger's ear and he pets him, even gave him an extra treat. 

It’s an unmistakable kind of brokenness that is almost like a “tell,” you know something is wrong, but they don’t fess up to it. Ending up with a game of cat and mouse, and both of you are chasing each other's tail, not knowing who is the culprit and the victim; both of you victimized yourselves because it was the only solution left. You weep at the mess you’ve made and that’s all that you can do. It’s all anyone’s ever done these days, and you shouldn’t apologize for it.

People should start screaming from the top of their rooftops and get that anger out of them, find a victim to mesmerize, and leave them for dead or nothing. Bucky wanted to drive off to the nearest cliff and scream his guts out, vomit his spine out, and just gouge his eyes out, because in a world where the skies seem bleaker — it wasn’t a world. It sounded like a page ripped off of the book of legends, burnt to a crisp, never to be seen again, and Bucky had hoped he would never see it, but then again, here he lies, almost dead and unhinged, mesmerized by the beauty of death to the point that he’d let her sleep in his room for the night.

Bucky would let death spend the night and pick at his skin, peeling it off of him like some sadist, wear his skin, even — let him have a bit of life, even if he was a puppet. There’s nothing more shameful than thinking of such atrocities, yet what other choice does he have? He couldn’t handle it anymore. He was pained, mourning, and helpless. If an angel went down from the skies and told him to jump off a cliff, Bucky would jump off a bridge; if a second angel came down and told him to get lost at sea, Bucky would get lost in a swamp; if a third angel came down for him and told him to suck a dick, Bucky would suck a shoe. Bucky thought he didn’t deserve the gentleness of suffering, so he let himself hurt worse than what was anticipated. So, he lost his leg, had another prosthetic, then he’d lost his sanity. 

Out on the couch at the back porch that overlooked the vast fields of his property, he could feel the tiniest of pinpricks of rain whipping him in his face if it was not for the wall of crawling vines dangling from his rooftop. He set his foot on the coffee table, and right beside him was Roger, resting his head on Bucky’s lap. Bucky’s hand ran through his dog’s fur as he read another random chapter of Pride and Prejudice. He couldn’t say. He didn’t even notice. He’s been so out of it, he wouldn’t even realize the title of the book until he’d put it back into the bookshelf. Bucky’s mind had been empty except for anxious thoughts that he had become numb with the idea of surprises. He left his phone buried in the backyard because he didn’t want any unexpected calls. 

His hands were calloused over the years of stressful work, eventually leaving him with thin and rugged fingers that feel pinpricks almost every second. His hands were once a thing of beauty, and ever since the accident, he couldn’t think much of it. All Bucky now wanted was to decay faster, to lie down on the grass, and feel moss crawl on his skin and declare himself one with the earth. Now that would be a thing of beauty. 

His breath was slow and steady, turning into nothingness a few seconds here and then. Holding onto his breath was the only thing he knew he could hold onto and never let go of. It was the only thing he remembered to be tangible. It didn't use to be like this. Then again, April 10 didn't exist back then.

Sam Wilson would walk into the back porch right now, holding two mugs of hot chocolate, because he adored the rain with his whole heart, and as much he loved nature, that's how much he loved Bucky Barnes. Sam would now then sit right beside his husband and they'll stay snuggled together, bare legs intertwined together, and they'd be giggling like children at the warmth in their chests.

"Look, baby," Sam had said, pecking a quick kiss on Bucky's lips. Bucky's eyes would be overcome with stars that he'd become dizzy at the sensation, "Rain. Do you think it'll rain all day? The weatherman said only a 30% chance,"

Bucky had hummed into Sam's cheek, feeling the way Sam's skin tasted right on his lips. Bucky's mouth would trace the edges of Sam's jaw and the man would let him do more. "Maybe. Perhaps," he had breathed out, "Do you want to stay like this forever?"

Sam had laughed into Bucky's mouth, leaving another kiss that lasted a second longer now. It was sweet, and there were stars dispersing in their hearts. "What else am I going to do all day?"

They had spent the whole day like this: sneaking kisses like teenagers and sipping on hot chocolate like children. Their hearts grew as the rain poured stronger. The pitter-patter of downpour had drummed against their roof like bullets and all they could feel is how safe they were in the war with each other's arms wrapped around each other. It was their own kind of shield, and it was perfect .

That kind of day was now replaced with Bucky and Roger. Bucky would read a random book as Roger would look out into the backyard, longing to run around the rain, but Bucky needed Roger right beside him, and that's what the dog shall do.

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