#warm slate time

[lucabyte]

Different standards

[skunkes]

[bright-cloud]

🖤Midnight Crusader🖤

My newest BG3 character: Artorias! A Paladin of Shar 🖤

[sweater-equestrian]

no more heating issues w my lizard please

[moonstandardtime]

writing the isat botw au and its. a little revealing. that i just know the entirety of the great plateau by heart.

[dandelion-wings]

I was going to work on entirely different things today, but then Shit Happened and by the time I sat down I had less than an hour to write in and just wanted to be entirely self-indulgent. This continues, more or less, off the intro to this AU....

---

ETA: Now available on AO3.

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Bennett refuses to let go of Kaeya for almost a week.

The first two days after he wakes up Kaeya spends in bed, and the boy sits practically on top of him, introducing him proudly to everyone who comes in and out of the room. Most of the older adventurers are "Dad."

A few aren't, and Kaeya isn't quite sure what makes the difference, except for the only one Bennett introduces with a title in front of his name. Master Cyrus is a friendly, booming presence that Kaeya tries not to shrink from as he claps a hand on Kaeya's shoulder, peering down at him through his monocle.

"Feeling better, kiddo? You looked half-drowned when Meinhard dragged you in here."

"Much better, thank you," Kaeya says. He's not sure whether pretending confidence and trying to look hale and healthy will be more attractive to this man who leads adventurers, or if seeming sickly will win him more sympathy.

"Glad to hear it!" Cyrus smiles at him. "I heard Bennett here has been keeping you warm."

"He has," Kaeya agrees. Cyrus sounds fond when he says that, so clearly Bennett has his approval. Kaeya will have to watch him to see how he appeals to the adults here. In the meantime, seeming admiring of him might work as a strategy--it was what he was supposed to do with the Ragnvindr boy, after all. "He's been very kind."

"That's our Benny," Cyrus says, ruffling Bennett's hair.

The boy beams up at him, bright-eyed and unafraid. "I'm introducing Kaeya to the Guild!"

"I'm sure he appreciates it." Cyrus turns to Kaeya before he can do more to open his mouth to affirm that he does, and his expression grows more serious. "I've heard what Meinhard and his team had to say about finding you, but I'd like to hear more about that straight from the source. You were waiting for your father outside of the Dawn Winery, you said?"

Kaeya looks up at that solemn expression and feels a chill of fear. Friendly as he may be to Bennett, there's no question this is the man in charge. It's on his word that Kaeya will either be kept or tossed out. It's possible the latter could be better for the plan, but Kaeya thinks of being out on his own on the surface again, the cold wind and rain he's seen beating against the windows the past few days and the way it felt on his own skin, and his stomach clenches at the thought. Better to stay with people willing to take care of him and work out how to correct his mistakes from here. Which means he has to please Master Cyrus with his answers.

"I was," he says, doing his best to meet the man's eyes. "He left me by the sign that afternoon and said he was going to buy grape juice, but he spent so long there that it got dark. Then the storm started, and I tried to reach the Winery for shelter, but I must have gone the wrong way."

"You certainly did. If you'd kept going that way, you'd have stumbled into Old Mondstadt, if you hadn't frozen first. You're not from Mondstadt, are you?"

"No, sir. My parents were from Sumeru."

"I thought so! You have the look. Eremites, were they? I've been to Sumeru a few times in my adventures myself."

That sends another cold rush of fear through Kaeya. He tries frantically to dredge up his mother's stories of Sumeru, the sun-soaked desert that had seemed so fantastic and impossible until the day his father had brought him up into the light. So few of them remain.

"I- my mother was, but my father...." Can't be a scholar, not if Master Cyrus has been there. Kaeya tries to remember the places they'd passed through so briefly on their way here, the brief stretches of land between Abyss portals and ancient underground ruins, and finally settles on, in desperation, "My father was a traveling merchant. Mother left the desert to travel with him. We wandered quite a bit, but... I've never had a real home."

He's proud of that line, the way it makes Cyrus look even more solemn and a little sad, even more so the way Bennett's face crumples up and he blurts out, "The Guild can be your home, too!"

"Could it?" Kaeya asks him, looking down, away from Cyrus, and trying his best to look wide-eyed and hopeful and like it's something he desperately wants. It *is* something he wants, after all. A place within Mondstadt.

"We'll see," Master Cyrus says, reaching down to pat them both on the shoulder now. He looks pensive, but not wary or opposed. "The Knights are looking for your father, but what about your mother? Is she still about?"

"No." Kaeya swallows hard, not even having to fake the way he ducks his head. He tries not to think too much about her, or about *that*--he can't, shouldn't, cry for her, and it's hard not to, so better not to run the risk at all. "She's- she's not."

"I'm sorry, kiddo. How long ago was that?"

"Three years." Kaeya isn't entirely certain of that, but he thinks it's right.

"And you've been traveling with your father since? What brought him to Mondstadt?"

"The... Wine-les-fest? He said it was a good business opportunity." Or rather, Kaeya has heard a few of the adventurers keeping vigil in his room mention it, so it's something that happened recently, and it seems to have involved stalls and buying things. A merchant would be interested in that.

Master Cyrus frowns. "That was over two weeks ago. You'd have missed it."

"Oh." Kaeya isn't sure whether that's good or bad for the tale he's spinning. They were supposed to believe his father had left him; his father had told them to let them decide why, but he has no idea what's going on in Cyrus' head. Whether what he's saying sounds like a lie, and whether adding more details will make it more convincing or reveal it as false. He hesitates to say anything at all.

"I'm sure he found that out when he stopped in at the Dawn Winery. They make a quarter of their profits during the Weinlesefest." Master Cyrus' frown deepens. "How long were you waiting for him?"

"A few hours."

"And you didn't go looking for him?"

"I thought... the winery was a business, and maybe he was making a deal. That's why he came. He... really wanted to make good deals here. I was afraid of messing that up."

"Did he.... How was trade going for him, do you know?"

Master Cyrus' voice is starting to go gentle, and while he still looks solemn, it's more pitying than suspicious. Kaeya swallows down the urge to bristle against that pity. It's valuable to the role he's trying to play.

"He wouldn't tell me, but... I don't think it was going well. We hadn't been sleeping in inns, and he was doing a lot of hunting."

"Ah. So he came here for the Weinlesefest, found out he'd arrived too late, and...." Master Cyrus trails off. "The Knights will keep looking, and I'll keep that description you gave Liam tacked on the board and make sure everyone in the Guild keeps an eye out."

"Thank you, sir." Kaeya looks up at him, trying to let a little of his worry show on his face without exposing the depth of the fear eating at him--the twin terrors of ruining the plan further, or of having to survive on the surface on his own. "Mister Meinhard said that if no one finds him, I could stay here?"

"Of course," Master Cyrus says. "Bennett's right. Unless- *until* your father pops back up, there's no reason the Guild can't be your home."

"You can share my room!" Bennett grabs his arm, grinning at him. "And my dads! They're all great. And once they find your dad, he can come and be an adventurer too!"

"Thank you," Kaeya says again, smiling down at Bennett and watching out of the corner of his eye as Master Cyrus smiles, too Only then does he let himself relax, just a little. Bennett is obviously the key to the Guild. Now that knows that, he can start figuring out how to fit in himself.

[scobbe]

Tiny grill works!

[satoruan]

COMING DOWN w/Jujutsu Kaisen

( TW ) BDSM (Sukuna's only), master!Sukuna, punishment, spanking, pussy job, cream pie, praise, fingering, explicit content  

FEATURING: Ryomen Sukuna, Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, and Nanami Kento 

Author’s note: I fear I can only write stern Sukuna, also the way word deleted this and I had the spend my morning rewriting it…

☾ GOJO SATORU 

“Mm–fuck, oh fuck angel, I’m cumming!” Gojo whines, shooting his load into your abused cunt. You arch your back deeper, shoving your face into the pillow. “Fuck, princess—fuck—feel s’good,” He collapses onto you, heaving. 

You whine at his weight unable to stay up. Satoru falls with you. 

“S’ so good princess, you’re always s’good to me.” Satoru spills, drunk on you. You whimper, tilting your head to kiss his cheek. He nuzzles into you, murmuring out incoherent praise.  

“Toru, you’re too heavy, get off.” You try and fail to shrug him off.  

“Mm—don’t wanna, so comfy.” He slurs, and you know if he doesn’t get up within the next five minutes you both are going to fall asleep covered in sweat, tears, and cum. 

“We gotta wash up ‘Ro. C’mon the quicker we clean up the quicker we can cuddle and watch the next episode of our show.” Satoru protest for a several minutes before kissing the side of your face a few times and lifting himself, his cock slipping out. You gasp, suddenly feeling empty. Your pussy clenched in attempt to keep him cum in. You turn to watch a naked Satoru walk over to grab the baby wipes on the dresser. 

“C’mere baby, lemme clean you up.” 

☾ RYOMEN SUKUNA 

“One more, little girl.” Sukuna grunts, his heavy hand on your back rubbing soothing circles. He brings the belt down again. You gasp, voice hoarse for all the screaming and crying you’ve already done. 

“All done, now c’mere.” Sukuna orders you up from your position across his lap, manhandling you until you wrap around him. 

“M’sorry, m’sorry, won’t do it again I promise, I'll be good now.” You cry into the crock of his neck, overwhelmed with emotions. You feel embarrassed, guilty, and cared for all at once. Only Sukuna can make you feel such contradictory emotions. 

“Shush, it’s okay little girl, I know, you took your punishment like a good girl you know that?” He gently grabs the side of your head, forcing you to look up at him. You have to blink a few times before you can see his face. “Proud of you.” He smiles, leaning down to kiss your lips—swollen from biting down so hard. 

Your heart flutters at the praise, you may not like getting punished but the soft moments after when Sukuna whispers sweet nothings to you will always make it better.  

“I love–” You hiccup. “L-love you Ryo.”  You rub your cheek on his warm palm, ready to fall asleep and start the new day on a clean slate. 

“I love you too little one, you know what to say.” He shakes your head with his hand, the other starting to rub soothing circles on your thighs. “Thank you for my punishment master, I understand why you did it and I appreciate you for correcting me.” 

“Good girl, now lay down on your stomach while I rub this cream on your ass alright?” 

☾ NANAMI KENTO  

“K-Kento—” You moan, wrapping your arms tighter around his shoulders. 

“Shush, it’s okay love, let it happen, you’re alright.” He whispers into your ear, jackhammering his fingers into your wet cunt. You cry into his now-drenched shoulder, as Nanami finger fucks you to another orgasm. He whispers sweet nothing as you come down from another high, and collapse on his chest.  

“That’s right Love–jus’ relax for me.” he says, as he pulls his fingers out of your pussy and wraps his strong arms around your waist.  

“You relaxed now sweetheart?” 

“Mhm, thank you, Ken.” 

“You gonna tell me what happened?” He rubs your back, patiently waiting for you to tell him what caused you to come home on the verge of a breakdown. 

“I-I don’t wanna. It’s embarrassing.” You mumble ashamed that you let your co-workers get to you. 

“Nothin’ you say will ever make me judge you sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.” He reassures. 

“I know Kento, thank you for always bein’ there for me.” 

“I love you, sweetheart. That means I'll always will there whenever you need me to be—in any way you need me to.” 

“I love you too Kento. Do you think we can go get some ice-cream then I can tell you what happened?” 

“Of course we can Love.” 

☾ GETO SUGURU 

“That’s it sweet girl–mm fuck–that’s it.” Geto grunts, sliding your pussy over his cock before lifting you and releasing his load on your thighs. You gasp at the sight of your boyfriend cumming on your naked thighs. Suguru sighs, the grip on your hips softening after several seconds. 

“Suguru—” 

“I know baby, I know.”  He reassures, bringing his hands underneath the hoodie you’re wearing. He caresses his hands up and down your sides. You blink sleepily about to fall into Suguru’s big chest before you remember the sticky mess between your tights. 

“Sugu, ‘m dirty.” You pout. He grins up at you. 

“The prettiest dirty girl I’ve ever seen.” 

“Suguru!” You slap his chest. He laughs ever harder, grabbing your hand to sprinkle kisses on your knuckles.  You smile down at him. He looks like the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen. Long black hair sprawled against the white pillow. Intense brown eyes that look up at you like you’re the only girl in the world worth his time.  

“Let’s get clean up dirty girl–C’mon, up we go.” Suguru picks you up by the waist and carries you to the bathroom. He sets you down on the counter before he grabs a clean rag.  

“Thank you, baby.” You whisper as you wash him clean your thighs. 

“No, thank you for bein’ so good to me sweet girl.” He stands up to kiss you sweetly. “Never thought I’d get so lucky—you’re the best girl, my best girl. Love you s’much.” 

[sweetteainthesummerx]

|◁ II ▷| down bad ! |◁ II ▷|

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

nhl masterlist !

pairing: quinn hughes x famous singer! reader

warnings: fluff, smut is implied but not graphic!! use of y/n.

summary: your sister sends you an article of you and quinn being absolutely down bad for each other...

word count: 2.4 k

notes: saw one too many edits of my handsome boy on TikTok and this is the consequence :) also, this is sort of based off of taylor swift and travis kelce. enjoy!

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

you're finishing up in the studio, just done tweaking one of your last songs on your new album when your phone dings! with a notification.

it's your sister, who sends a trail of emojis that don't really make sense and a link.

you press on it, confused and assuming it's something she wants for her birthday that's coming up soon.

instead it's an article that reads, TOP TEN FAN FAVOURITE MOMENTS OF NHL AND THE MUSIC INDUSTRY'S ROYAL COUPLE.

you laugh, because the cover photo is one of you and quinn from last year when you took him as your plus one to the grammy's. you have to admit, you both look really good, and so, so in love.

so you nestle into your chair to read it.

TOP TEN FAN FAVOURITE MOMENTS OF NHL AND THE MUSIC INDUSTRY'S ROYAL COUPLE

one of Hollywood's up and comings, y/n l/n and quinn hughes of canucks and nhl fame have been dating for over three years, and have been public for two. we have complied a list of fan favourite moments of the couple over the span of their relationship that show their deep (and public) affection and love for each other

10. 2023 Grammy's Award Ceremony

picture: you are wearing a light blue floor length gown, hair loose and curled. your makeup is simple and glowy. quinn stands next to you, in a clean, slate grey suit with a hand wrapped around your hip, fingers nestled in the dip of your hipbone.

the award ceremony for the grammy's - where y/n won best album for the second year in a row - was when the famous couple first went public officially, not counting the many paparazzi pictures taken in both vancouver and Los Angeles.

sources show that the two could hardly keep their hands off of each other. they were seen kissing multiple times through out the night.

it was true, quinn had been extra handsy that night, and had all but ripped that dress off of you when you got back to the hotel. you sigh at the memory, stomach warm and a little achy. you can't wait for him to come back from the roadie he left for only two days ago.

9. y/n's tiktoks

despite their massive success in their respective industries, it is easy to forget that they are also part of gen z. y/n's TikTok page features fashion, her music and most popular of all, her boyfriend. here are only some of her most viewed and liked videos:

video one: you smile into the camera, fluffing your hair in a close shot. the subtitles read: fit check with my bf! quinn pulls you against him by your waist, kissing your face over and over as you laugh, pushing at his chest. over the song, you tell him to let go so you can show your outfits. he lets go reluctantly but holds your hand, spinning you around to show off your sundress. then he grabs you and dips you low, hands dangerously close to your ass, as you giggle into his cheek.

video two: the video is taken by one of your friends who took your phone. she's on the couch and you and quinn are in the kitchen cooking for the small get together in your vancouver apartment. you lean up to smile at him, and he bumps his nose with yours. some trending love song plays in the back.

you flush at the comments gushing about how he looks at you, the height difference and how cute you guys are. there's something so sweet at seeing the two of you from an outsiders perspective.

8. quinn knowing y/n's entire discography

during media days, one interview has elias petterson and quinn hughes guessing songs and the artists. the journalist managed to sneak at least four of y/n's songs in, quinn getting all four correct, with the full name of the song, name of artist and then album, all under 10 seconds of the song playing. now that's a supportive boyfriend!

you watch the video linked, your boyfriend sweaty and hair wet. the media person is impressed, and quinn just shrugs bashfully and offers a crooked smile. you look at the time stamp and bite a grin: it's from before you guys went public. no wonder all of your fans say you guys were obvious.

7. quinn hughes: nhl player and personal bodyguard

fame in hollywood forces many in the industry to have body guards, and y/n is not exempt. for many years before she started dating the canuck's defensemen, she's had many bodyguards following her around. now, it seems like her boyfriend has taken over that job.

video: your body guard, john moves to open the limo door as you and quinn arrive to an event, but your boyfriend crosses from his side of the car to open it himself, patting john on the shoulder and gently pushing him from the entrance and helping you out himself. he helps you balance on your heels as you stand and wave at the cameras, one hand on your waist as he maneuvers you to the other side of the sidewalk so he can block you from the cars. he keeps your hand cradled in his, his other arm around your waist as he shoulders through the paparazzi.

quinn looks so attractive and so masculine in this video. you've never had boyfriends who took princess treatment so seriously, but quinn has always been a defender, on ice and off. it was a little awkward and it took a long a while for him to get you, but ever since he had you, he's made sure he tried his very best to keep and protect you.

6. getaway in hawaii

although the couple hasn't had any announcement of engagement yet, early last year they were sighted in hawaii on a trip eerily like a honeymoon: here are some pictures.

picture one: you're in a tiny pink bikini and he's in board shorts. he's taken off his hat to give to you, and you're pressing on a pair of your too-small sunglasses onto his face while both of you laugh.

picture two: the two of you are standing in the water up to your calves. he's got his fingers tangled in the strings of your bikini bottoms, and yours are on his chest as the two of you look into the horizon.

picture three: quinn has you balanced on his shoulder, smiling as you clutch at his back. one of his forearms is possessively covering your ass from the camera, and his other hand is wrapped fully around your ankle to give you a semblance of balance.

you still smile every time you think of that trip, afternoons playing in the water, romantic dinners and nights with his head between your legs, your fingers tangled in his hair. you silently remind yourself to book a vacation back there the next time both of you are free.

5. the NHL award ceremony

the recent NHL award ceremony when quinn hughes received the James Norris award for his skills as a defenceman gave us another peek into y/n's relationship with hughes family.

video one: you're sitting between quinn and luke in your pretty dark blue gown. your hair is pulled back from your face the way quinn likes. he's got an arm thrown over the back of the seat, fingers rubbing your shoulder as you talk to Luke about his hair routine. quinn murmurs something the camera can't catch into your ear and you laugh, tucking your hand into the his that's resting on his lap. he leans back, stretching his legs as you absentmindedly rub his knee, leaning over his brothers to talk to his mom.

video two: his name is called, and you stand with him, clapping loudly. he hugs you first, and you press a kiss into the corner of his lip, but he plants a firm, real one on yours. your manicured, white nails contrast against the black expanse of his suit and broad back. you push him gently towards luke. when he's finished hugging everyone and comes back down the aisle, you quickly fix his tie and smooth down his lapels. he kisses your cheek again and goes down to the stage.

photo three: the trophy is in the middle, the whole family wrapped together. you're tucked between ellen, the older woman has an arm around your waist and your boyfriend's got is arm slung across you shoulders on you other side, everyone smiling big for the camera.

you still remember ellen and jim insisting that you get in the photo, because "you're practically family anyways," and "it's any day now" that their son proposes to you. the photo is on their fridge, to this day.

4. quinn's y/n shirt

another video from y/n's tiktok. during the christmas season, she spent the holidays with the hughes family. her future brother in law (hopefully), jack hughes got quinn a pretty special present.

video: jack is holding the camera, and it pans to you and quinn. your holding a giant sushi stuffed toy (long story) from luke on your lap as you sit next to your boyfriend.

"here," he extends a hand holding a bag to his older brother.

Quinn smiles in thanks and digs into it, retrieving shirt. but it's no ordinary shirt. it's one of those old, retro looking ones with your face blown out all over it.

pictures from red carpets, your album covers, and in gaudy, shadowy text, it reads: IF LOST, RETURN TO Y/N L/N.

Luke cackles as you bury your face in quinn's shoulder. he's letting out a deep, belly laugh as his parents smile and take pictures of it when he holds it out.

he immediately pulls off his sweatshirt and tugs the shirt on. it fits a little tight.

"merry christmas!" jack yells as he gives you a high-five.

he still wears that stupid shirt around the apartment, just because he knows you like the fit and your face plastered all over his chest.

3. y/n's songs about her boyfriend

through many new releases, we have determined a list of songs about quinn from her new album, lover.

sweet nothing

paper rings

lover

daylight

I think he knows

afterglow

good looking

wow, you think. these people must not have lives if they're rummaging through your digital footprint and media presence with your boyfriend just to link them with your songs.

2. quinn's interview

since the couple has gone public, y/n has been seen at Canuck's games with family and friends. since she's from vancouver, born and raised, she is passionate about hockey and fits right in.

video one: the jumbotron flashes your face an name; you're wearing quinn's canucks jersey, hair loose. you smile and flutter your fingers at the crowd that's going crazy. one the ice, quinn's teammates jostle and holler at him, and you blow him a kiss. he pretends to catch it, and the screaming in the stadium reaches a new level as the screen pans to him: he's pink and all smiley.

video two: the ref makes a call and you stand, throwing your hands up in the air, exasperated. you huff, sitting back down with your head in your hands. your friends watch on with disappointment, and the three of you let out complains.

video three: quinn grins while looking off camera in the middle of an interview, and the journalist laughs.

"your girl?" he asks, and quinn nods shyly.

"yeah, it's real nice to see her here supporting. I mean, she's really busy too with her tours, but it's nice to have her on my turf."

"I saw! she got really riled up for the penalty during the second period. she's wearing your jersey as well."

"yeah," he scratches his neck, scrunching his nose to hide the big ass smile on his face, "she looks great, eh?"

"glad to see her in her hometown, too."

"right. yeah, I love her so much."

you snicker at how love sick he looks, because early on in the relationship he followed you around like a clingy, lost puppy. he still does sometimes after a roadie or one of your tours. you love it.

1. karma is the guy on the rink, coming straight home to me

the internet broke when y/n changed one of the songs on her song list for her tour last year at rogers arena in vancouver: instead of "karma is the guy on the screen, coming straight home to me", which is a reference to her ex, she changes it to better fix her new romance.

video: you dance through the song, your backup dancers clueless as you reach the line.

"karma is the guy on the rink, comin' straight home to me!" your voice breaks a little in a giggle at the end, your dancers shocked laughter and gasps visible from their faces that even an iPhone camera from 25 meters away can catch.

video two: quinn's in the tent with your parents and some of his teammates and their girlfriends, all of them are vibing to the music and dancing, most holding drinks in their hands.

when the line hits the speakers, everyone is screaming so loud and filming him, and he blushes so red that it spreads to his ears and neck, even in the dim light. his boys are slapping his back, and your dad gives him a high-five. he just smiles at you, dopey and deliriously happy in his shirt of your face and the 20 friendship bracelets your fans had made for him.

you remember that show perfectly, and the night after even better. you barely got any sleep because of his attentions, and your makeup artists spent nearly half an hour covering up the bruises on your neck and chest the next morning.

all in all, we can come to the conclusion that quinn hughes and y/n l/n are completely down bad for each other, like she teased in the song list of her unreleased album. we only hope for good things in the future for this famous couple!

you smile at the closing statement, sending it to quinn to read later in his hotel room.

he facetimes you that night, hair wet and eyes sleepy.

"that article was absolutely right. I am so down bad for you." he tells you seriously, with the promise of lots of love when he comes straight home to you.

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

© sweetteainthesummerx.tumblr. all rights reserved. unauthorized copying, translation, or claiming of my writing or any works as your own is strictly prohibited.

[thetriumphantpanda]

be my Venus of the stars | general marcus acacius

Summary | He's been visiting you for months, fresh off the battlefield, to be cleaned and reborn, but this time, something is different, this time, he might finally touch you back.

Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Word Count | 2.8K

Warnings | Set in a bath-house, it is suggested that reader is a sex worker, The General™️ is dirty and needs a bath, as historically accurate as I could make it, use of Latin terms of endearment, explicit smut, handjob, fingering, oral sex (f), unprotected PiV, creampie, marking during sex, mention of ancient roman methods of.... not getting pregnant, no use of y/n, reader is a blank slate but does wear a dress.

Authors Note | Listen, I know we know literally nothing about this man, but what I do know is that he looks like a needs a bath and a nice lady to help him destress... so here we are. Leave it to the archaeologist to fall head over heels for the roman general, right? Whilst my ancient archaeological interest has always been Greece, you best believe this is right up my street. We won't talk about the amount of academic papers I read to make this as historically accurate as possible. I hope you love this, and if you do, please consider reblogging, commenting and screaming with me in my ask box!

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Divider by the ever wonderful @saradika

He’s weary, his body drooped from the weight of his armour, but you suspect there are other things that are weighing him down too.

He’s been gone a while, sent away to some far-fought battle, never knowing if the view of his back when he leaves will be the last you ever see of him or not.

As he always does, he drops a coin purse onto the table, sliding it across to the bathhouse owner, before he turns, eyes scanning the room until they land on you. Always you, only you, he’s never paid attention to anyone else in this damned place and he never will. His face is covered in dust, dirt and grime, his clothes in no better shape - you know you have your work cut out for you, but you find that when it’s him, you don’t mind at all.

It’s a familiar dance, how he follows a few steps behind you, the clinking of armour filling the hallway as you lead him to the private bath. You do as you always do, and open the door, letting him move inside as you let the door click shut behind you.

The hour is late, candles the only source of light, the sounds from the street below filling the silence as you ready the water for him. Warmed already, you drop a few rose petals into the water and pick out the oil you know he likes. It strikes you then that he’s not undressing, something he normally does himself. Instead, he stands at the window, staring out into the darkness.

“It is ready, sir.” You speak softly, motioning your hand to the bath when he turns around.

“Come,” he all but whispers, “Help me.”

You step closer, following his lead as he starts to undo whatever straps keep his heavy armour in place, dropping his hands when he knows you’ve got the hang of it. You take it off, piece by piece, setting it gently on the ground until he’s just in the under layers he wears.

Night is falling, and the candles in the room and the orange light from outside bathe him in gold as he motions for you to do the rest. Your hands, trailing up his body, lifting the tunic he’s wearing under his armour, over his head. There’s a hiss of pain as he lifts his arm, then a sigh of relief his tunic is gone, and it’s at this moment, that you realise he hasn’t stopped looking at you.

This man, born and bred for the fight, with brown eyes softer than you’ve ever seen staring down at you as you undress him.

“You can touch me.” You offer.

You look at him, eyes through eyelashes, as his roam across your body, draped in cotton and pinned in just the right place to accentuate every inch of you - it was a gift from a wealthy customer many years ago, a traveller who had taken to you, promised to take you with him but left you with nothing but a nice dress.

He goes to reach out, but stops short of touching the material, “It is such a pretty dress,” he muses, stepping back from you to let the final garment he’s wearing drop to the floor, “I must bathe first.’

You aren’t shy in the way you look at him, you’ve seen him without clothes more times than you care to admit, you’ve touched him, made him sigh, made him cum more than once, but he’s never once reached out to you. But there’s something different tonight, something charged, and as he walks towards the bath, muscles in his back rippling as he does, you wonder if tonight might be the night you finally know what it is to be touched by him.

He lowers himself into the warm water, groaning as he settles his back against the metal, warm from the water and from the fire lit to keep it that way.

You do as always and kneel beside it, picking up the small bowl on the table next to you. You scoop some water into it and let it drain across his curls, his head tipped back because he knows this dance. Fingers run through his wet hair, freeing his locks from the weeks of dirt and sand and blood and fight, until the water runs clear.

Then, you move onto his body. It’s arguably your favourite part, letting your hands run across his skin. He rests his arms on the lip of the bath, a well-rehearsed dance now, and lets your pour the scented oil onto his skin. You massage it in, thumbs digging in where his armour has left marks, easing weeks of tension with firm presses. You use the strigel to scrape the oil and the dirt off until his skin is clean.

Only once you have used your hands to rinse him off do you consider moving lower. You always do, run oil soaked hands up and down his legs under the water, feel his muscles tighten when you drag them higher, which is how it always ends up with your firm hand wrapped around his cock. Your fingers dip below the water but his strong fingers grip at your wrist as they go to drift lower to his legs.

You let him guide your hand, your eyes meeting his own chocolate-brown orbs, which are blown wide and dark, as he shows you what he really wants. No preamble this time, as your fingers meet the skin of his semi-hard length.

“I haven’t finished.” You purr at him, letting your fingers close around him anyway.

“I find I don’t care,” He speaks back, tone low, “I have been gone for weeks, this is all I want.”

You watch as his head tips back and his body lowers into the water when you start the languid pumps of your hand up and down his cock, gripping tighter when you reach the tip, loosening when you move down. You’ve seen him for years, you know how he likes it, slow to start with, faster to bring him over the edge.

There’s something different this time though, of all the years he’s seen you, he’s never once touched you, only ever a tight grip on your arm as he comes, or a drag of his thumb across your cheek when he leaves. His grip tightens around your wrist enough to still your movements, then, he’s dragging your hand away. You wonder for a moment if you’ve done something wrong, until he shifts and stands.

You’ve seen him without his clothes enough times to know every dip of his body, ever mark and scar that he’s accumulated, but as he stands now, water dripping from his skin, cock hard and heavy in front of you, he looks nothing short of God-like. All the statues in all of Rome could never compare to this man in front of you.

Standing from your place on your knees, you watch as he steps from the bath, water pooling on the floor as he walks towards you. He lets a hand drape across your waist, palm flat against your back as he pulls your body to his own, wet skin against dry garments, head dipped so his mouth is a whisper away from your own.

“Tell me I can,” He asks, “I want to kiss you.”

You let your hands entwine at the back of his neck, wet curls locked between fingers, so you can drag him closer to you. When his lips finally meet yours, all the years of wondering what it was like prove worth it. They’re chapped, dry from whatever battlefield he’s been within, but it’s perfect, as they slant across yours and he pulls your body tighter to his own. He’s gentle, unlike other men, his tongue is tentative as it drags across your bottom lip, mouth opening against your own as his tongue melds with yours behind your teeth.

There is movement that you only register at the last moment, when the backs of your knees hit the bed in the corner of your room. You tumble down upon it, lying and watching as he watches you, fist tight around his own cock as you start to undrape your dress from your skin. His eyes rove across your body when you finally reveal yourself to him, spreading your legs for him, letting your hands cup your breasts.

“You do this for everyone?” He asks quietly, settling himself between your open legs, his cock resting against your mound.

“Maybe,” You respond, “But you’re the only person I want to do this for.”

“Do they treat you well?” He murmurs, laying his body across your own, the weight on him on top of you making your cunt pulse.

“Some do, some don’t.” You shrug, cupping his face with your hands.

“Any of them make you come?”

You shake your head against the bed, “They come here for their own pleasure, sir.”

“My pleasure is your pleasure,” He whispers against your ear, “Tell me, has anyone ever kissed you here?”

One of his hands drags down your body, his hips lifted enough to let his hand cover your cunt.

“N-no,” You choke, the heat of his hand stifling against you, “They h-haven’t.”

“Would you let me?”

You nod, words failing you, as he lets his mouth drag down the naked skin of your body until his broad shoulders are settled between your thighs, pushing them apart, spreading you obscenely wide for himself.

His mouth is hot as it kisses the skin of your pussy, soft feather-light touches to every inch of skin. His thumbs pull your folds apart, baring every intimate inch of you to him, and then it’s all ecstasy as that wonderful mouth clasps around the bundle of nerves that you know so intimately of yourself, but others seem to forget.

It makes you buck your hips into his mouth, pressing further into the feeling of absolute bliss as the tip of his tongue flicks fast and then slow across it in undeterminable patterns. One of his hands splays across your stomach to keep you still, as he switches from the tip of his tongue to the flat. You can hear the slurping from between your legs, can feel your slick leaking from your cunt at his ministrations, the moans he lets out when his tongue dips lower to taste you - he’s enjoying this just as much as you are, a man committed to making you feel good before anything else.

There a knots twisting in your stomach, a fire that you know only from your own hand spreading across your lower body, you’re close, and you think he knows it too.

He brings his mouth back to your clit, lips enveloping it whole as he sucks it into his mouth, rolling his tongue across it as you feel two of his fingers slip inside your wet cunt, curling upwards almost immediately.

“Gods,” you breathe out, letting fingers tangle in his quickly drying hair, “I’m- oh fuck - so close.”

He continues just as he is as your body starts to convulse. Your eyes clamped shut, sweat pooling in crevices you didn’t know you had, until his tongue flicks just right and you’re snapping, coming undone. Body arched into his mouth as your cunt clamps tight around his fingers, as pleasure bursts across every inch of your skin. His tongue doesn’t let up until you whimper quietly that it’s too much, chest heaving and vision blurry.

His body clambers atop yours once more, hot skin against hot skin, his lips at your neck as he fumbles between your bodies, hand guiding his heavy, hard cock to nudge at your leaking centre.

“Tell me it’s okay,” he breathes against your skin, “Tell me I can have you like this.”

You moan, hips moving upwards into his own, heavy arms wrapping around his neck, “I’ve wanted this for so long,” you whine, feeling the tip of his cock right where you want it, “Please,” you beg, “Please, put me out of my misery.”

One of his hands grips your chin, turns your face to his. He’s so close, his eyes burning with lust you’ve never seen before, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Look at me,” he begs, shaking your head a little when you close your eyes at the feeling of him starting to push inside, “I want to see you when I do this.”

So you do, eyes open and boring into his own as he slips his cock into you. He’s big, bigger than you think you’ve had before, your mouth drops open as he slowly feeds every inch of himself into your cunt, stilling and sucking in his breath when he can go no further.

“I have dreamt of this,” he speaks softly as he drags himself out of you, “Wondered what you would feel like,” then he pushes back in, all at once this time, “It is nothing like I imagined.”

His face is buried in the crook of your neck now, his hips pulling back only to push back in again, tip of his cock brushing against that spot inside you that makes you keen, fingernails digging into his arms as you hold on.

“Is it better, General?” You ask in his ear, “Am I all your dreams come true?”

He answers with a hard thrust of his cock, causing a shrill shriek from your throat as the tip bruises at the very depths of you.

“It is everything I wanted and more, carrisima.”

He pushes himself back from you, cock still buried deep, and gathers your legs, hooking them over his arms before he presses forward again, bending your body in a way you know will make you ache tomorrow.

His hips pull back, before the slam back into you, his heavy balls slapping against your ass, as he sets a pace that you’re not even sure the God’s could keep up with. The room filled with nothing but the sounds of his skin slapping against yours, the wet squelch of your cunt sucking him in on every thrust, and the hot pants and moans from the two of you.

You let your arms reach around, palms against the toned muscles of his ass. You squeeze and dig fingernails into skin on each bruising thrust, head thrown back to let him press forward enough to suck at your neck, teeth nipping and tongue soothing. No-one but him would get away with marking you.

“I’m close,” he manages to choke out, “Tell me I can fill you.”

You’ve waited too long to feel him like this to deny him. You would go to the healer in the morning for a cyreniac balm, but all you wanted right now was to feel him claim you, to make you his in every possible sense.

“Fill me, General,” you moan, “Let me feel you, please.”

It does take long, his hips faltering, stilling into your on one final thrust. He growls into the night air, his cock throbbing within you, the feeling of his seed painting your walls makes you hungry for more. He collapses on top of you, softening cock still deep inside you, as you wrap your arms around him, run comforting fingers through his hair as he recovers his breath.

Finally, he slips himself from your heat and rolls onto his back, dragging you with him to drape across his chest, one hand on your lower back, the other placed atop yours on his chest.

“I go back to war soon,” he speaks quietly, mouth pressed to your forehead, “I-“ he stutters for a moment, “I’m not sure I will make it back this time.”

You lean up and press a soft kiss to his jaw, “You are lucky, Sir,” you speak, “I think the Gods look upon you.”

“I feel a premonition,” he explains, “I couldn’t go back without knowing what it was to have you.”

You move the hand you have on his chest to entwine your fingers with his own, “You must come back, I cannot live without you now I know you like this.”

He smiles a little, shifts the two of you so you are both led on your sides looking at each other. His big palm traces down your side, resting at your hip.

“I will try, mea columba,” he whispers, kissing the tip of your nose, “But for now,” he rolls you gently to your back, fingers trailing back through your folds, slipping inside you, gathering his come and your slick on his fingers, dragging it up to circle your clit softly, “We must make the most of the time we have left together.”

[bi-writes]

still wakes the deep au | soap x f!reader

Installment 2/?: Warning Signs

prompt: You're an environmental scientist conducting research on an off-shore oil rig with only a few days left before you're slated to leave. The eldritch creature they accidentally awaken throws a wrench in the works. masterlist

Being alone feels different when there’s nowhere to run. Every wall looks the same, and the stench of must permeates in every room–the carpet must hold it in. Everything drips; the taste of salt won’t go away, and it makes your eyes dry out every time you close them and open them again. There are other people around you, men that are the cause of the knocks against the rig, but they are as alien as what lies beneath you. Every time you feel as if it’s too foreign, you remind yourself that there is nowhere to go.

The only way out of this place is by doing your job; but even that scares you all of the sudden.

Your bed is lumpy. The mattress feels dry, stiff, and it barely gives as you lay in it. You stare up at the bottom of the top bunk, trying not to think about the sound of sea water pelting your window like a threatening knock while you try to sleep.

Your mind barely gives. You keep the lamp that sits on your makeshift desk turned on. Without it, the black of nothingness from outside bleeds through the walls, and you swear you can see a thousand different shapes that claw their way out of the moonlight towards you. The rig doesn’t shake, but it breathes. It lives, somehow, deep legs connected to the seafloor to keep it from drifting off, from separating, from taking you with it, from suffocating you until your breaths are filled with water and your body is too cold to–

You jump when the lamp bursts. A jolt of electricity shatters the bulb, and you sit up in bed, clutching the sheets as you watch the lamp glow slightly before fizzling out. The room blankets into the dark, and you move shakily off your bed and pat around for your flashlight before clicking it on. The small circle of yellow light doesn’t do what you hoped; instead, it makes the shadows of every object longer and seem further away, and they start to move as your hand shakes, so much so that you cannot tell if something is coming towards you or if your mind is still convincing you of some sort of seasickness. One lodged into your brain, one that doesn’t make you nauseous but makes you paranoid that some hole in the ocean will open up and take you with it.

The thought of drowning is not as terrifying as finding out what lies beneath the surface of the water.

When you used to think of the ocean, it used to soothe you. When you closed your eyes, all you could see was crystal clear blue and tropical fish. You thought about running your fingers through warm water and kicking your feet as you watched dolphins fly beside you. When the sun penetrated the light, it shined until it showed the seafloor, where little creatures burrowed beneath bright sand, making it sparkle.

The ocean you know now is anything like it. You understand what they mean when they say “mother nature,” because only a woman scorned could eat the world the way she does. Waves touching taller than buildings. Animals so large, they would swallow you whole and let the acid of their insides quiet your screams for nutrition. An endless void, reaching miles towards the center of earth, a vast unknown that crushes heavy metals and defies physics the further and further you drop. She’s unforgiving. Mean. A terrifying, wonderful thing, and you are cheating death. You know it. She screams at you from just outside your thin walls, and you are pretending not to hear her. She’s telling you something, but you bury your nose in your books.

If it’s a warning she’s trying to give, you won’t know it until it’s too late.

The rig groans in the middle of the night. You can hear the pipes expanding, the water moving aggressively outside your window, the sounds of cranes and metal creaking that rattle off around you. Your hand shakes a little as you try and find your shoes, slipping them on as you open your door in search of a new source of light.

It’s the middle of the night, but there’s still a skeleton crew around, moving between their night shifts. You make your way down the hall, clicking off your flashlight, and you find yourself in the rec room in search of light bulbs in the utility closet there. You hear the doors swing open behind you, and you try to ignore the rowdy voices of men as you stand on your tiptoes and rummage the hundredth box for what you need. You try not to think about the whisps of something delicate you feel grazing your fingertips (because spiders wouldn’t be this far out from land, right?).

“Looks like ye need a little help, bonnie.”

You startle yourself nearly out of your skin. You trip off the ledge you’re standing on, trying to hold your hands out to brace yourself, but you never hit the ground. Strong hands grip you around the middle, breaking your fall and getting you back onto your feet, nice and steady. You spin around, clutching your flashlight to your chest, panting like an anxious puppy. You can make out his blue eyes even in the dark, bright and seemingly concerned as Soap tries to get a grip on you to keep you from swaying.

“‘S alright, lass, ‘s just me! Soap, it’s Soap.”

You put a hand over your chest, trying to calm your breathing, You shake your head, closing your eyes as you try and repeat the mantra you’ve been telling yourself since you got on this stupid rig.

Your feet are on solid ground. Your feet are on solid ground. Your feet are on solid ground.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I…”

“What are ye doin’ up?” He asks, clicking his tongue. “‘S the middle of the night! Reckon ye need yer beauty sleep.”

You smile a bit, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You do it to placate him. Men don’t always respond well to sharp teeth, and you haven’t decided how you feel about this one yet. He’s too comfortable. His hands are still around your arms, thumbs smoothing too easily over the bone of your shoulders. He’s too close; he steps just nearer to you, tongue sliding over that top row of teeth, and you try not to think about the way his pupils dilate at the terrified look on your face, the one your smile cannot hide. When he tilts his head to the side, you think he means to look curious, but you think it closer to prey playing with its food. The curls of his growing mohawk fall over his forehead, drawing a dark shadow over his eyes, and you can no longer try to see what might give him away in his gaze.

“The light in my…room. I need a new one, I–” You shake your head. “It’s stupid, but I just…I can’t sleep.”

“We’ll get ye all right fer bed, love,” Soap chuckles. “What’s broken, ye ken what kind ye need?”

You blink, biting your lip, thinking. He’s still touching you; he still has his hands around your arms, but now they’ve settled around your elbow, calloused fingers curled over where they rest.

��I’m not sure. The lamp on my desk, it’s–”

“Ach, those are hidin’, I’m sure o’ it,” he lets you go, reaching up and hoisting down a few boxes before reaching for what lies behind them. He carries them on his shoulder before dropping them onto the floor, and you try not to think about watching him work. He’s a large man. Strong, that much is evident, but there’s something off. You think his physical appearance hides what lies inside. He’s pretty, in a way that shouldn’t be allowed. Straight teeth, a killer smile, arms that do not give once they’re taut with use. Even the uniform he wears does nothing to hide thicker thighs and a solid middle; but you try not to let it distract you from what really remains. If he wasn’t so gorgeous, you don’t think he’d get away with that tick that must exist in his brain. The one that allows him to crowd your space without much resistance. The one that lets him smile like that, like he’s won something, like he’s gotten what he wanted not because he fought for it, but because it is what he is owed. 

He bends over and picks up a bulb that looks good enough and hands it to you. When he straightens his back, you try to catch that look in his eyes again. Maybe he knows you’re looking for it, and now he’s hiding it. Maybe he’s cooing in his own head about what a clever girl you are and trying to decide how he’ll play his game differently.

“Can walk ye back, put it in fer ye.”

You take it from him, drawing a shaky breath. You want to say no. You want to tell him you can do it all on your own, that you’re fine, but then the closet door swings open, and a group of tired-looking crew stare at the two of you as they snicker and nudge each other.

“Wot ye doin’, Soap, seven minutes in heaven with the fuckin’ feds?”

“Och–shut the fuck up, the lot o’ ye,” Soap bites back. “Just doin’ her fuckin’ job, just like the rest o’ ye, so get the fuck out the way. Middle of the night, bunch of gobshites.”

Soap puts a hand around the small of your back, guiding you past the group and out into the hallway. He follows you wordlessly back to accommodations, stopping in front of your door. Your name isn’t on it, but you don’t comment about how he knew this was yours. He waits for you to open the door for him before following you inside.

“A right mess, luvvie.”

He doesn’t let you help. He kicks your bin under the desk, carefully discarding of the pieces of glass that are scattered across your desk. He grumbles under his breath about it being too sharp and how he will do it better and how he can take care of ye. 

When the lamp clicks back on, it paints the room in that comforting orange light, and you relax as you take a seat on your bed, clutching the sheets to dry your clammy palms. He still invades your space, but somehow, with the light, it dampens the sentiment. He scares you just a little less, but if you give him just that much, how much will he use it to his advantage?

“Ye need anythin’, I’m…just down there,” Soap says finally. He points behind him, down the north end of the hallway, and all you can do is nod. “Don’t listen to the lot, bonnie,” Soap adds. “Bunch o’ old, tired bastards. Mean no harm. But if they do, ye come ta me, ye hear?”

“Uhm…Soap?” You call out as he’s leaving. You don’t know why you stop him. You don’t know why you’re talking to him; you’re certain he’s not a stranger to telling a good lie. He turns to face you, leaning against the doorway, and you clear your throat. No one should look this good on just a few hours of sleep, but he’s still blinking awake, unsettlingly calm. “This place…it’s safe, right? I mean…safe as it ought to be?”

Soap smiles, but it’s not like his other smiles. It feels unnatural. His teeth are duller. Lips drier. Maybe he’s just tired.

“It’s safe, love. Swear it. Got me on those rivets.”

You don’t know why, but when he comes close to you, you let him. You let him touch your face, thick fingers smoothing down your jaw just a little too rough, big thumb along your bottom lip rubbing just a little too hard. You hear his door shut nearby once he goes.

The ocean screams. You can hear her again now that his voice is no longer around. You fall asleep knowing he’s close, and you pretend not to notice her. Just like always.

[revasserium]

roronoa zoro; 21,051 words (not including epilogue), fluff and angst, ENEMIES!!! to lovers, the slowest of slow burns, canon-normal violence, on-page description of injury, excessive use of flashbacks, some banter, healing from trauma, baroque works!reader to strawhat!reader, no "y/n", emotionally constipated!zoro, hurt and comfort, angst with a happy ending; (epilogue tags will be posted separately)

summary: in which neither you nor zoro are the children you remember each other to be.

update: new chapters will be posted on @shouyuus!!!

a/n: IT'S FINALLY HERE!!! i honestly cannot believe i actually finished writing this lmfao. but anyway, this post will act as a table of contents/masterlist of sorts, and i will update links to the separate chapters as they go up. chapters will be posted every few days (but they are all done! except for the epilogue LOL). i've tagged everyone who has req-ed to be tagged in this series so far on this prologue post, but if you wish to be tagged for the upcoming chapters and you're not already on this fics specific taglist, please comment below to be added! and without further ado -- here we go!

TABLE OF CONTENTS ━

prologue: someone, somewhere

chapter one: a shadow of the past

chapter two: tell no tales

chapter three: sleep of the living, dreams of the dead

chapter four: another life

chapter five: true love's kiss

epilogue: la petite mort (nsfw)

prologue: someone, somewhere

He remembers you most as a child, in halcyon images and gold-limned flashes of his own childhood memories, the edges blurring watercolor soft, but the center (always you) carved in knife-sharp relief.

You were one of the few children that lived in Shimotsuki Village who hadn’t come from the doujou — one of the few children he knew that (at least to the best of his knowledge) had a thing called family. A mother to braid your hair, a father to chase the darkness away, a warm bed and a kitchen that always smelled of freshly made rice. And perhaps it was jealousy, or some other more complicated emotion that had been then too big to name with one single word, but he’d never gone out of his way to befriend you like the other kids from the doujou did — fascinated as they were by your soft hands and round cheeks and the bright, glittering array of homemade sweets you’d bring with you once every couple of weeks.

He’d learn later on that it was because Shimotsuki-sensei had saved your father’s life at some point in time; the story now lost to the annals of legend and withering memory, but back then, he’d only assumed it was the natural way of things. Of waking up for kata practice and then settling in for lunch, and then maybe, if it was to be a good day, you, with your basket of sweets and your blue-bell laughter.

And perhaps this is why, years later, when he meets you again in a dark, nameless village tavern, he doesn’t recognize you — not at first. Because you’d looked so different. Gone was the roundness in your cheeks, or the natural star-bright light in your eyes. Gone, too, were the bright braids that your hair had always been set in — he remembers so clearly, watching the other boys from the doujou jab their fingers into the rings of your pinned up braids, pulling down just to hear you squeak. He hadn’t said anything then, stupidly thinking him above it all, watching as you tried to jerk away, but laughing when the boys finally relented with half-hearted apologies.

You always threatened to take their sweets away; you never did, in the end.

But there, then, in that tiny tavern, you’d been thin, your hair dark as an oil spill, loose and inky as it cascades over your shoulders, your eyes lightless as the windows to an abandoned house — the hollowness made all the more visceral by the light he knew once inhabited them. The way loneliness is always more potent when coming back to it, the second time around.

He wanders up to the bar, slates you a glance before rapping his knuckles on the worn wood to catch the bartender’s attention.

“I’ll have beer and a refill of whatever the lady’s having.”

You shift slightly, shoulders hunching towards your ears.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” you say, shifting to shield your face from his gaze.

Zoro cocks his head, tossing a few Berry towards the bartender as they set down a stein of beer and a champagne flute to replace the one in front of you.

“Can’t a guy buy a girl a drink?” Zoro asks, rolling his shoulders as he reaches out for his beer. You eye him warily.

“Not for a guy that’s been tracking me for three weeks straight.”

Zoro hums, thumb poised on the hilt of his swords.

“We just happened to be going in the same direction.”

You reach out to run a forefinger along the rim of the thin champagne flute before swirling it once by the base. You watch the bubbles fizzle before leaning in to take a dainty sip.

“And they say chivalry is dead…” you murmur, almost too softly for him to hear. Zoro scoffs, allowing himself a twinge of a smirk before his mouth falls flat.

“You let me track you for three whole weeks.”

There’s no question in his words, only a harsh, accusatory certainty.

You lick your lips, leaning back in your stool, tugging your glass of champagne with you.

“Maybe I wanted the company.”

“Or maybe… you wanted me to follow you here.”

Every muscle in his body is tense, drawn taut as a tightrope, coiled tight as a spring.

You sigh, twisting a single lock of your hair around a finger, examining the ends as if looking for split hairs.

Then, quick as a flash, you’re at each other’s throats — him with a sword poised at your jugular, you with a knife pressed against his stomach.

“One move —” you warn, digging the knife slightly further into his skin. Distinctly, Zoro feels the pressure slice through his thick linen shirt, the cool kiss of the blade against his abdomen. And he’s killed enough by now to know that you’ve picked a major artery — one that would hurt, and take minutes for him bleed out. Just long enough for him to suffer, but not enough to get help.

The edge of his mouth ticks upward — not bad.

It’s then, in the infinitesimal flicker of your eyes meeting his, that he realizes who you are.

He nearly topples back, jerking away slightly with the revelation. Your eyes go wide, jolted by his sudden movement. But he’s quick enough to evade the sharp jab of your knife and a second later, you’re on either ends of the tavern, drawn blades and bared teeth.

“Y-you!” the word rips from Zoro like an unripe scab, thick and hard and still bloody underneath.

You lick your lips, eyes narrowing to slits beneath your long, lanky hair.

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

“The hell you don’t.”

“Oi! No fighting in the bar!” the barkeep’s voice is gruff and loud, and for a second, Zoro wonders if you’ll listen. The next, the sharp clang of metal on metal stuns him backwards a few steps as you wrest your knives from between two of his katanas, snarling.

“If you’re so much of a gentleman — let’s take this outside.”

“Ladies first,” Zoro spits out as he whips both swords through the air before sheathing them. He makes a show of holding the tavern door for you as you stalk out in front of him, your hackles raised, your knives jutting out from your belt like so many pairs of sharpened claws.

“What do you want?” you ask, as soon as you’re both out of the bar and standing in the moonlit street outside, the wharf to your left, the strip of small, rundown taverns to your right.

The air twangs with the metallic smell of fish and the thick, oppressive sweetness of rotting wood.

“An explanation,” Zoro says, crossing his arms and planting his feet.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

Zoro nods, “Sure. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wanna know.”

You lick your lips, glaring at him for a second longer before turning and marching down the rickety boardwalk. A moment later, Zoro levels himself with you as you round a corner onto a small stretch of beach, pillowed against a backdrop of sharp, unrelenting rocks, the tips bleached white by the round, silver moon.

“There was a beach just like this,” you say, stepping onto the tide-soaked sand, leaning down to pick up a fragment of a broken seashell, washed ashore by an errant wave.

It takes Zoro a second to realize you’re talking about Shimotsuki village, and the tiny little beach on the other side of the dense, cedar wood.

“Yeah. A bunch of us used to play there — see who can throw rocks out the furthest.”

“You were always the best at that,” you say, your voice softer than he’d heard all night.

“Yeah, well…” Zoro shrugs, leaning down to pick up a piece of rock, weighing it in his palm a few times before whipping his arm back to snap it into the gentle, shushing waves. You both watch as the rock skids out over the water before plunking into the sea, “Guess I’ve always been kind of a show-off.”

The sound of your laughter sends summertime sparklers racing up his spine.

The quiet pools between you like spilt blood, rank and dripping.

“So. You go by Ms. Double Nines now, I heard,” Zoro says, in a flagging attempt to be casual as he turns to glance at you, both his hands resting on the hilt of his swords.

You stand next to him, your eyes focused on a point far out on the horizon, still as statue.

“What’s it to you?”

Zoro sighs, looking down. In the pale, cool moonlight, his earrings glint like baring teeth.

“What happened?”

You suck in a breath.

"Life happened,” you say, turning back towards him with a steely glint in your eyes. Zoro stiffens, his grip tightening on his swords as he sizes you up. He does the mental calculations — you’re just far enough for him to defend against an attack, but close enough where if things were to go south entirely, he’d have a hard time getting back to safety.

You grin, seemingly noticing his rough internal calculations.

“Do yourself a favor, Roronoa — and don’t ask questions you don’t wanna know the answers to,” you say, flicking out one of your blades and tossing it up into the air, only to catch it around your finger, swinging it round and round, the sharp edge of the blade nicking the air just shy of your cheekbone.

“Who said I didn’t want to know?” Zoro presses, bracing himself for a fight.

You chuckle, the sound harsh and mirthless.

“If you’d wanted to fight me properly, you wouldn’t have waited till I got you onto this stretch of deserted beach.”

“Maybe I just wanted a quiet place to kill you.”

“Or maybe…” your voice is so low Zoro almost doesn’t catch the stomach-wrenching longing in your words, “I just wanted a quiet place to die.”

The sharp shink of blades being drawn is heart-rendingly familiar, but the bone-rattling clash of metal on metal still shakes him to the roots of his teeth. Zoro grunts as he parries a blow from either side, before crossing his swords to catch your assault down the center.

You’re fast, he’ll give you that, your body smaller and quicker. You slip through the shadows with the comfort of a person who knows nothing but and he can’t help wondering at the life you’ve led that had pushed you to this point.

To having a mark on your back, a bounty on your head.

You’re a good fighter — this much, he acknowledges. But good isn’t usually good enough to best him. This much, he also knows. Yet somehow, you’re keeping up, somehow, you’re pushing him back, forcing him to retreat one step and then another. It’s not until you duck beneath one of his pin-wheeling blades and force yourself into a knife’s-breath of his space that he realizes — it isn’t that you’re good, it’s that you’re reckless.

Reckless with your own body in a way that makes him stumble back at the realization. Reckless, in the way you charge forward and thrust your body into spaces where he’d easily be able to slip a blade between your ribs — and later, when he’s wiping his swords clean of your oxidizing blood, he’d wonder why he didn’t.

Still, there’s something terrifying in the way you barely flinch when he knicks your arm, drawing a dark line of blood through your clothes, or how you jerk yourself forward when the tip of his sword catches your stomach, almost as if daring him to impale you in one fell swoop.

“You — you used to be… someone else,” he says, panting as he steadies himself against a sharp jut of moonlit rocks. Behind you, the ocean churns, dark and foaming as it throws itself onto the jagged reefs.

You lick your lips, wiping a smear of blood from your cheek. Your chest heaves with the exertion, but there’s a pale, flickering ache behind your eyes that sets Zoro’s whole body on edge.

He shivers as you grin, savage and unrecognizable as the tiny girl with mochi-round cheeks who had once upon a time offered him sweets in a hand-woven basket.

“Yeah? Well — so did you.”

TAGLIST: @brairslair @msheds0519 @yunabelless @lynndt-chocolate @lostonthrillerbark @stunies @tsumu-senpai @phroggii @ssailormoonnn @breathinginyoursmoke @guridoodles @kyllium @naomihatake @itoshiexx @mythicallystupid @mars-mizuko @astroniii @crispynutella @enhastolemyheart @fanficwriter101 @jamesbparker @dira333 @weirdowithaphone @ink-perfect

[peachesofteal]

Single mother with Simon as neighbour au? Yeaaah in love with them.

Light on - single mom/neighbor fic Simon Riley/female reader

Simon hasn’t seen you in a few days.

He hasn’t seen you in the hall, or on the roof. Hasn’t seen you on your little balcony, like he did the other day when you were sitting on the little rickety metal chair, sipping a hot cup of something, too big sweater wrapped around your shoulders.

“Good morning.” You called to him, somehow keeping your voice light and soft, warm. He managed a response, serrated and off key, as he stubbed his cigarette out and slipped his mask from his pocket to his face.

He wonders if you’re alone. He never hears anyone else with you except little Emmaline, no man’s voice. No woman’s. He hears you, though. He hears you leave in the mornings, off to somewhere he’s not aware of. Hears you come home in the afternoons, your voice carrying down the hall while you talk to the baby, words muffled and tone light. Hears Emmaline, crying in the mornings and at night. Hears her screaming sometimes, angry about something, the raw pitch of her displeasure filtering through the paper-thin walls, her screeching and wailing probably loud enough to wake the entire floor. He hears you sing to her, just the lightest sounds of a muffled lullaby, coming from the room that’s opposite his bedroom, and he wonders if that’s where your bedroom is too.

He thinks about you being alone, doing everything by yourself, taking care of the baby, taking care of yourself. Who makes sure you’re okay? Who’s watching out for you?

He gets his answer, two days later, six hours before he’s slated to leave for the next op, when he stumbles upon you in the pouring rain, nearly in tears, Emmaline in a cloth wrap pressed to your chest, paper grocery bags in your arms, standing outside the building’s front door, one free hand frantically searching for what he automatically assumes must be your keys. As soon as he spots you, he increases his pace, legs stretching out in front of him and closing the distance between the three of you in record time.

“I know, I know.” He hears you trying to comfort her as he gets closer, your usual sweet voice edged in a frantic, viscous tone that has his fists clenching. “I’m here, baby. It’s okay.”

“Need some help?” He calls, and you turn with wide, nervous eyes. When you see him, when you realize it’s him, you relax, and blurt out hurriedly:

“Oh my god, do you have a key?” He pulls his own from his pocket, sliding it into the lock and then holds the door open, your body pressing against his when you brush by. “They usually don’t lock this door during the daytime.” He knows. He doesn’t tell you, but he had a strongly worded conversation with the building manager two days ago, when he came across the bloke in the lobby. He terrified the man, but he’s not sorry at all, and he feels certain that the front door will remain locked from now on. Leaving the bleedin’ front door unlocked, for anyone to walk in here. Not anymore.

“It should be locked.” He says flatly, and you purse your lips like you’re going to argue, setting down the grocery bags and then fidgeting with the wrap that has Emmaline sitting snugly against your chest.

“Shhh. I know, I know. You don’t like the rain.” He eyes you curiously, watching you unwrap the long pieces of linen slowly. He’s never seen that before, never seen someone carry a baby around like that, Beth always…

Beth. His skin slicks cool with sweat when the thought rips across his mind, old, buried memories gnawing at where he’s put them away, where’s he’s kept them hidden. Beth. Joseph. Tommy. Tommy holding his son, Joseph as a baby, little boy with blonde curls and happy smile, Tommy and his mom-

“Simon?” you say his name softly, tilting your head, and he blinks, snapping his focus back to the present, back to the now, with you, with Emmaline. “You okay?”

“Yeah, alright.” He points to the brown bags. “Need a hand?” He offers, and you reward it with a gracious smile that shines like a bright light that he can’t look away from. Fucking hell.

[aemondwhoresworld]

STRANGER TO LOVERS

pairing: mafia!cregan stark x reader

summary: after eight months of being in an arrange marriage, mafia boss of the city of winterfell finally confessed his true feelings for his wife, y/n

word count: 1,5k

warning: english is not my first language. modern au, arrange marriage (?), angst to fluff, use of y/n.

masterlist | ADD YOURSELFT TO MY TAGLIST

The city of Winterfell was a frigid, unforgiving place, but it was also the heartbeat of Cregan Stark’s empire. A dynasty of power and shadow, the Stark family had ruled the city’s underworld for generations. Cregan was no exception, standing at the helm of the family’s criminal syndicate. Despite the harshness of his world, Cregan ruled with a code—one that valued loyalty above all. He was feared, respected, and rarely challenged.

But within the icy walls of Stark Manor, a different battle raged. It wasn’t over territory or power but something far more complicated—his feelings for you, his wife of eight months.

Their marriage had been an arrangement, forged not from love but from necessity. Cregan needed an alliance to secure his hold on Winterfell, and your family had deep ties in the South. The union had been strategic, coldly calculated like everything else in his life. Or at least, that’s what Cregan had convinced himself.

You are beautiful, intelligent, and fiercely independent. From the moment he’d first laid eyes on you, Cregan had felt something shift inside him—something he’d never felt before. But he was a Stark, and Starks didn’t show weakness, especially not to their wives. He’d kept his distance, playing the role of the detached husband, leaving you to the sprawling mansion while he handled business.

But over time, that cold detachment had begun to melt. He found himself seeking you out more often, stealing glances when you wasn’t looking, lingering in conversations that had nothing to do with the business. Yet, he remained silent, trapped by his pride and the fear that you could never feel the same.

It was a cold winter evening when everything changed.

The night was quiet, too quiet for Winterfell. The snowfall outside had turned the city into a white, silent expanse. Inside Stark Manor, a fire crackled in the grand fireplace, casting long shadows across the walls. You curled up on one of the leather armchairs in the living room, a book resting in your lap. You’d found solace in reading since moving to Winterfell, a way to escape the loneliness that often crept in when Cregan was away.

Tonight, however, you couldn’t focus on the words. Your mind was elsewhere—on your husband.

Cregan Stark was a mystery to you, a man of few words and even fewer emotions. Their marriage had been more of a business transaction than anything else, a way to strengthen ties between their families. But despite his cold exterior, you had seen glimpses of something more—something tender hidden beneath the surface. You just didn’t know how to reach it.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway, pulling you from your thoughts. You looked up as Cregan entered the room, his presence commanding as always. He was dressed in a dark suit, the fabric tailored to perfection, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. His icy blue eyes met yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

“Y/n,” he greeted you, his voice deep and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Cregan,” you replied, closing your book and placing it on the table beside you. “I didn’t expect you to be home so early.”

He walked over to the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the flames. “There’s nothing more to be done tonight,” he said, almost as if he were talking to himself. “And I wanted to see you.”

The admission caught you off guard. He rarely said anything so direct, so… vulnerable. You studied him, trying to read the expression on his face, but as usual, it was a blank slate. You stood up and walked over to him, your heart pounding in your chest. The heat from the fire warmed you as you stood beside him, close enough to feel the tension radiating from his body.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, searching his eyes for answers.

He turned to look at you, his gaze intense. “Do you regret it?”

You frowned, confused. “Regret what?”

“This,” he gestured between them. “Our marriage. Do you regret marrying me?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and loaded with emotion. You blinked, taken aback by the sudden vulnerability in his voice. You had never expected him to ask something so personal, so raw.

“No,” you said after a moment, your voice steady. “I don’t regret it.”

Cregan’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but there was still a storm brewing behind his eyes. “Why not?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts. “Because I’ve come to care for you, Cregan. Despite everything—despite how we started—I care for you more than I ever thought I could.”

His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of deception, but he found none. You were telling the truth, and it shook him to his core. He had always assumed you was with him out of duty, out of obligation. But to hear that you actually cared for him? That was something he hadn’t been prepared for.

He looked away, his jaw clenched. “You deserve more than what I’ve given you,” he said, his voice tight with emotion. “I’ve kept you at a distance, thinking it was what was best. But the truth is… I don’t know how to be a husband. I don’t know how to love.”

You reached out, placing your hand on his arm. “You do love, Cregan,” you said gently.

“You show it in the way you protect your family, in the way you’ve built this empire to keep us safe. You may not say it, but your actions speak louder than words.”

He looked down at your hand, feeling the warmth of your touch seep through his suit jacket. For so long, he had convinced himself that he was incapable of love, that his heart had frozen over in the bitter cold of Winterfell. But you had been slowly thawing it, chipping away at the ice until he could feel again.

“I’ve been a fool,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’ve been a fool to keep you at arm’s length.”

You stepped closer, your heart aching for the man before you. “It’s not too late, Cregan,” you said softly. “We can still make this work. But you have to let me in.”

He looked into your eyes, seeing the sincerity and love reflected back at him. For the first time in a long time, Cregan felt hope. He placed his hand over your, pulling you closer.

“I love you, Y/n,” he confessed, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you, but I was too afraid to admit it. Too afraid to lose control.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, your heart swelling with emotion. “I love you too, Cregan,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumb gently brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek. “I promise I’ll do better,” he vowed, his voice steady. “I’ll be the husband you deserve.”

You smiled through your tears, leaning into his touch. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Cregan leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss, one that spoke of all the love and longing he had kept buried for so long. You melted into his embrace, wrapping your arms around his neck as you kissed him back, pouring all of your love into that one moment.

When they finally pulled away, Cregan rested his forehead against your, his breathing ragged. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice filled with gratitude. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”

You smiled, your heart filled with love and hope for the future. “We’ll figure this out together,” you promised, your voice steady and sure.

They stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, the warmth of the fire and their newfound love surrounding them. The city outside may have been cold and ruthless, but inside Stark Manor, there was nothing but warmth and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

The next few weeks passed in a blur of emotions and newfound closeness. Cregan made good on his promise to be a better husband, spending more time with you and opening up to you in ways he never had before. He shared the burdens of his empire with you, letting you into his world and showing you the man behind the mask.

You, in turn, supported him every step of the way. You became his confidante, his partner, and his anchor in the storm. The more they shared, the stronger their bond grew, until the walls that had once separated them were nothing more than a distant memory.

But life in Winterfell was never simple. The Stark empire was powerful, but it was also constantly under threat. Rivals from the South, old enemies of the Stark family, were always looking for a weakness, a way to bring them down. And now that Cregan had let you into his heart, you had become his greatest vulnerability.

It was a crisp winter morning when that vulnerability was put to the test.

Cregan had been in meetings all day, discussing the latest threats to their territory. You had spent the morning in the study, catching up on some reading and preparing for a charity event they were hosting that evening. You were just finishing up when the phone rang, the shrill sound breaking

like, reblog if you enjoy this fic, thank you!!

TAGLIST: @r-3dlips

[starzgaze]

LOVESICK POTENTIAL: sung jinwoo

pairing: yandere!sjw/reader

UNFINISHED incoherent drabble brainrot on yandere!sjw hahaha... this is so unfinished but it fried my brain so badly all i can do is draw this out later because i cant write for long periods of time 😒 also english isn't my first language so this is really ERRR not good also no proofreading we die raw

tw: froth and nothing much

BEFORE THE DUNGEON EVENT:

This era of jinwoo was so cute he looked so squishy I'm biting my bedsheets. This time is the perfect moment where jinwoo gets his reasons on why he's a little cuckoo over [y.name].

Jinwoo always came home covered in bruises and maybe with a dent in his mental health. I mean not only you face life threatening monsters but you also face the words of your fellow hunters that consists of demeaning and degrading your whole existence does horriblewonders to Jinwoo's mental health! After when his mother came out of the picture by falling ill to the Eternal Slumber, Jinwoo had to face the expectations on becoming the breadwinner and help to keep his family a float.

Jinwoo doesn't have ambitions or anything during this time, not when he's too focused on trying to feed Jinah and pay the bills. He's a blank pitiful slate who's being driven by desperation and the promise he made to his mother to take care of his sister. He doesn't have anyone to turn to and he can't tell what he's experiencing to his sister because that'll make her worry for him! Jinwoo doesn't want his sister to flunk her studies because he made her worry for him... so he's basically alone.

Until you come in to the picture. [y.name] one of the few people who saw him as a person instead of some weak pitiful excuse of a hunter. It doesn't really matter how you meet Jinwoo, whether it be through connections, after a dungeon raid, or you randomly meeting him on the street, what matters is how you perceive him as a person and how you turn his miserable world upside down.

When [y.name] entered his life, it felt like a ball of light entered his dim world but not as if [y.name] was extremely energetic or what not. It was more like that [y.name] ignited something within Jinwoo. [y.name] would stop by and talk to Jinwoo, solidifying his self as a person. They would talk about ideals and goals and even encourage Jinwoo to maybe create his own when they found out that he didn't had any of his own. Jinwoo felt so warm inside whenever he'd spent time with [y.name]. He felt so inexplicably happy.

Jinwoo decided that [y.name] is his goal and the driving force of his ambitions.

Jinwoo limped a bit as he walked towards his small apartment he shared with his sister. It was what remained when his mother was sent to the hospital for falling ill. He groaned silently as he clenched his arm that was throbbing in pain. Even after being recently healed by Joohee, he could still feel the pain of his arm being battered to smithereens.

He wondered how many dungeon raids left till he'll perish by the hands of some low ranking monster.

The young man approached his door before suddenly being called out by a familiar voice. Jinwoo turned around and his bleak mood was changed into a more joyful one.

"Jinwoo! I caught 'ya this time!" [y.name] giggled as they skipped over to Jinwoo, a small mischievous smile plastered on their features. Jinwoo chuckled at [y.name]'s words as he admired [y.name]. He wondered what did he do in his life to meet [y.name]

Jinwoo hoped that the next dungeon raid isn't the one where he'll perish by the hands of a monster.

AFTER THE DUNGEON EVENT:

Jinwoo would probably avoid contacting [y.name]. After realizing he has a new opportunity to get stronger. His mental health before wasn't the best, he often thought he was pulling [y.name] back and has this mindset that he didn't deserve any of the kindness he was receiving from anyone especially from [y.name]

But now? he has now the chance to pay them all back by becoming stronger and become someone they can all rely on. So randomly... he'll just disappear from [y.name]'s life randomly. Jinwoo feels horrible but he isn't ready to face [y.name] again but he promises to himself that he'll meet his darling[y.name] soon.

Jinwoo would admire [y.name] from afar and sometimes do this just for the sake of answering to his personal question of: "I wonder how are they doing now?". Jinwoo is aware how much it hurts to [y.name] that he randomly disappeared from their life without a word especially how worried they were for him.

When Jinwoo finally deems he's prepared and worthy enough to face [y.name] he almost forgotten how different he looked when he last met [y.name]. Jinwoo almost scared [y.name] away when a devilishly handsome tall young man approached them with a bouquet of flowers in hand. Thankfully, [y.name] recognized the man from the slightly meek demeanor he showed.

Maybe after a few more meetups and catch ups, [y.name] would notice the many changes on Jinwoo's overall.. being? like aside from the fact he's now built like a sculpture made by the gods, he's more confident and charming?.. Jinwoo of course didn't miss the way how [y.name] would quiet down and stare at Jinwoo, taking note every little different detail on Jinwoo. This fed the hunter's ego and was proud how his hardwork paid off.

While [y.name] was admiring Jinwoo, they didn't notice how Jinwoo added a few of his shadows into [y.name]'s shadow. His love for [y.name] during their absence has doubled a thousand fold and the lengths he'd go for [y.name] is now boundless. Jinwoo's goal of achieving [y.name] might not be impossible anymore if he pushed himself a bit more just like what [y.name] says.

After meeting up with Jinwoo, [y.name] bid the hunter goodbye as they exited the cafe. [y.name] was pleasantly joyful that Jinwoo didn't forgotten about them and met up with them again after a few years but this still didn't made [y.name] pissed off over the fact he basically ghosted them for a few years too!

[y.name] walked down the cold street that was dimly lit up by the lamp posts around the area. They shivered a bit as they tried to warm up their hands by shoving one of them in their trenchcoat's pocket. [y.name] was on their phone when they suddenly bumped into a man by accident.

"ow.. oh? I'm sorry I didn't notice you there I'm really sorr—" [y.name] stammered out as they bowed their head in apology but then they felt a hand pushing them hard enough to be stumble back into a lamp pole, hitting their back pretty hard. The man reached out to [y.name]'s trenchcoat's pocket and pulling out their purse then he ran away with their purse in hand.

"agh! what the- my purse?!" [y.name] yelled as they rubbed their back to ease the throbbing pain as they tried to run after the robber.

Unfortunately for [y.name] he was fast on his feet and after for a while they lost him. [y.name] panted as they decided to not give up yet and looked around the now lightless and eerie street, it seems like the robber ran into a more abandoned side of the city.

[y.name] roamed around the street and would peak occasionally inside of alleyways hoping to catch the man but much to their dismay, they haven't seen any glimpses or hints. They mindlessly walked around, slowly losing hope until they heard a quick shriek then a hard thump from a nearby alleyway. A cold sweat went down their neck as they froze in place... Did something happen?

[y.name]'s eyes narrowed down on the alleyway where they assumed the sound originated from. They contemplated for a bit whether they should check it out before they decided to see what it was, clinging on the possibility it might be their purse. [y.name] slowly peeked their head in the alleyway and immediately gasped at the sight.

The man who stole their purse on floor, wriggling in pain before a dark figure. Froth was coming out of his mouth as dark inky shadows circled around his throat. His ankles looked twisted but in a very unnatural degree that it looked grotesque.[y.name]'s eyes shakily looked at the soon to be a corpse then up to the figure who was holding their purse. They blinked blankly at the figure.. [y.name] recognized him?!

"Jin..woo?..." [y.name] murmured underneath their breath as the figure looked up to see [y.name] who was pretty shaken up. The light finally hits the figure's and it revealed it was indeed Jinwoo... but he had this soulless glint in his eyes that suddenly brighten up at the sight of [y.name]

"ah. [y.name]" He called out as he walked past the struggling man and approached [y.name] who took a step back away from Jinwoo. This made his heart wrench.

"don't. don't move away. it's dangerous at this time, you shouldn't be alone" Jinwoo continued as he was finally in front of a terrified [y.name]

"you shouldve accepted my offer walking you home"

[jezebelblues]

old records on the shelf | h.s

summary: y/n and harry are holed up in a record store due to inclement weather.

cw: unedited - none (?)

word count: approx 2.5k

super short blurb i wrote during lunch break

masterlist

The rain had been relentless all day. the kind of downpour that turns cities into rivers, umbrellas were useless and the sky never shifts from a slate grey gloom. the storm drains even started to clog ever so slightly, and the ground was just one big shallow puddle. Y/n ducked into the record store just in time as a roar of thunder boomed. Her clothes were damp despite her best efforts, drops of rain still clinging to her sweater and hair. The bell above the door chimed softly as she stepped inside, the warm, dimly lit space a stark contrast to the growing chaos outside.

The store was almost vacant, almost. it was a lofted, building, which allowed her eyes to drift up to a man standing on the second floor with his hoodie pulled over his head, looking at different records front to back. There was also a shorter old man who sat at the front desk, flipping through a quaint book after greeting Y/n with a smile. She hadn’t planned on staying long, but the rain had other ideas. The droplets pelted the glass a bit harder, and if it wasn’t the end of summer she’d assume it was sleet. She maneuvered around the dusty aisles, floorboards creaking with each step as her fingertips feathered across the different records sleeves. She had just moved into a studio after years of saving up for a move to New York, and she desperately wanted all her favorite vinyl albums littered about.

Not finding the genre she wanted labeled on the wooden shelves, she ventured up the spiral stairwell to the second floor, hand barely grasping the handrail. Her sneakers squelched against the metal, a sound she’s grown to hate. Gazing around, her eyes met an oddly familiar seafoam green pair. Their glance was fleeting, but she would recognize this man anywhere. Was she a gigantic fan? No, but she enjoyed his music - and it’s hard to not know who Harry Styles was; given his decade long reign in the spotlight. A baggy grey hoodie hung from his frame, stained with raindrops. his hoodie was pulled up over his head, but he wore a baseball cap underneath - most likely an effort to hide his face, maybe? The tattoo on his knee was visible, and his once pristine white vans were speckled with mud.

She had made a sharp right to the shelves beside her, breaking eye contact first. They were both hiding from the downpour, and she didn’t want to make the atmosphere even more unsettling by gawking. After all, he’s just a human. A low rumble of thunder bellowed, the windows fogging up from the heat inside. Y/n strolled through the aisle, wanting to dry off a bit and make a beeline straight out of the shop. She tried her very best to keep her eyes only on the items around her, but she couldn’t help but sneak a few glances at the brunette. He looked as stranded as she felt, pausing now and then to look out the rain streaked-windows before turning back to the shelves. The soft hum of jazz flowing through the speakers buzzes between the walls, a coziness settling in the air.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windows, and the shopkeeper looked up from his book, frowning at the droplets that pelted down harder. After a beat, he bends the corner of a page and closes the book, clearing his throat. He stepped out from behind the counter, craning his neck upward at the two who stood on the second floor. “Sorry, folks.” He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Closin’ up early. Weathers gettin’ worse, radio said subways flooded - complete mess out there. You can wait he for a while if ya like. Ain’t nobody getting anywhere in that storm.” He informed, his accent thick. “Let me know ‘fore I lock the door.”

Harry’s brow furrowed slightly as his words sunk in, nodding at the old man below them. He shot a slow glance back toward the girl on the other side of the room, trying to decipher if it was a smart decision or not. He looked for any inkling of her being a jittery bundle of nerves, a fan that could make being trapped a bit more claustrophobic. He’d like to think he was good at reading people, and when he found a gaze that seemed as uncertain as he was, he felt his shoulders relax. The city was grinding to a halt outside, and there was no escaping the storm outside. Y/n hesitated before crossing the room, standing next to a window that was closer to Harry than she was. She sighed quietly, her breath fogging the glass.

“Well,” Harry broke the silence, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Seems like we’re stuck.”

She turned her head toward him, managing a small smile. “Guess so.”

He shifted on his feet, glancing back down at the pile of records he’d been browsing. A lopsided grin formed his lips. “Could be worse. Least we got good music to keep us company.”

The shop owner muttered something about going to the back and disappeared, leaving Y/n and Harry by themselves. The jazz played on, mingling with the constant drumming of the rain. The dim lights overhead flickered briefly as the wind stared to pick up. “So,” Y/n paused, hoping conversation could distract her from the mess outside. “Looking for anything specific?” She asked as she took a soft step to continue down the aisle, fingers absentmindedly finding their way back to the spine of the albums.

Harry shrugged, following behind her, mirroring her slow pace. “Jus’ browning, really.” He mumbled, watching her fingers. “Thought I could wait out the rain, suppose not.” He let out a breathy chuckle, which earned a small glance from Y/n. “Are you big on vinyl?”

“A little.” She admitted, sneaking a peek of him through the corner of her eye. “I like coming here to clear my head.”

“Yeah?” His grin widened slightly as he leaned against the shelf behind them. “Sorry for takin’ your spot then.”

The conversation flowed easily after that. They gazed over the rows of shelves together, occasionally pulling out an album and showing their favorite artist. Harry shared small anecdotes about certain records that held sentiment. She would do the same, and she felt surprisingly comfortable in his presence despite the strangeness of their situation.

Harry found himself wandering toward a record player on the first floor toward the back, eyeing the old turntable. “Y’mind?” He asked, nodding toward the table as he held up an album she didn’t immediately recognize. Y/n shook her head, curious to what it sounded like. She watched as he carefully pulled the record from its sleeve, placing it on the turntable, his fingers brushing the edge of it with ease. There was a low crackle as the needle hit the grooves, followed by the smooth voice of Otis Redding.

A familiar melody filled the room while Harry leaned back against the counter, arms folded over his chest as he listened, a smile spread across his lips. “Not bad for a stormy night, eh?”

She laughed, nodding. “Could be worse.” She echoed, repeating his earlier words. The record continued to spin as the mood shifted into something quieter, Harry humming a line here and there. His voice was honey. They stood side by side, an unspoken understanding settling between them as they soaked in the moment.

Their hips would occasionally bump into each other if a beat of the song was repetitive enough, and goofy smiled pasted itself on both their lips each time. It felt easy, like the sun shone in the record store alone. “S’like time slowed down.” Harry mumbles, his voice smooth and quiet - almost harmonizing with the music.

She turned to look at him, eyebrows raising slighting in agreement. She hummed, nodding her head before gently bumping her hip into his again - which earned a smile from Harry. “City won’t let you catch your breath unless it forces you to.”

He laughed under his breath, absentmindedly fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie. “Y’right. S’like everything moves so fast, but when it stops…” He paused, gesturing around them. “It’s kind of nice.”

Y/n’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. There was something calming about his presence, an easy charm that floated around him like an aura. They were just two strangers, trapped by circumstance.

The shop owner shuffled back in, glancing at the two of them before nodding in approval to the music playing. He didn’t say much - just grunted and went back to his book, leaving them to stay in their bubble a bit longer.

The fourth song on the album stated to fade into its end, and the girl tilted her head toward the records they browsed earlier. “What else have you got?” She asked playfully, her gaze gentle.

He grinned, eyes twinkling. “Plenty.” He paused, rummaging through the nearby stack, fingers moving swiftly as he flipped through the albums. He chuckled to himself as he pulled out a pink cover, Harry’s back front and center on it as he flipped it over to show her. His smile was contagious as he held up his first album next to his head, simple poking through. “Thoughts?”

She couldn’t help but mirror his smile, recognizing the cover as his own. She feigned a confused look, eyebrows furrowed as she sent him a shrug. “Heard of him.”

He laughed, shaking his head and putting the album back down with the rest. “Looks like a wanker.” He smiled, accent thicker than before. He finally settled on Stevie Knicks, letting the needle settle over it and crackle into a song. The notes were soft, her rasp entrancing. “Dance with me?” His voice resembled cotton candy, an edge of anxiety to it.

She raised her eyebrows, smiling at him. “Do you even know my name?”

His lips press into a flat line as he pulled his hood down, adjusting the ballcap that sat on his curls. His cheeks flushed a shade of pink as he smiled, “Tell me your name.”

“Y/n”

The brunette rolled his sleeves up ever so slightly, stepping aside and extending his hand out to her. “Dance with me, Y/n.” Her name rolled effortlessly off his tongue, and a part of him hoped it wouldn’t be the last time he could say it. Her face scrunches, a mix of confusion and amusement as she places her hand into his much larger one. His movements are slow and calculated, pulling her close but not too close, swaying with the melancholic rhythm. She exhaled, soft and gentle, the tips of her shoes touching Harry’s as she inched closer. He smelt of lavender, and the rain on his hoodie only made the scent of laundry detergent radiate from him. It was quiet, comfortable and Harry swore he hadn’t felt so transfixed on someone so quick before.

“You ever get tired of it?” She thought out loud, leaning her head back a bit to fall into his gaze. It was delicate, and his features fluttered into an expression to urge her to continue. A stubble peppered the top of his lip, a crease in his forehead and a lock of hair dangling from the corner of his cap. He could be cut and molded from marble. “Of the attention, I mean.”

Harry blinked, his movements stalling as he thought about her question. He lowered his hand to her waist - barely. His touch was a whisper, fingertips only grazing the fabric of her sweater, his palm hovering over the curve of her hip. “It can be overwhelming.” He whispered, his breath a cold peppermint. He bit the inside of his lip as his eyes narrowed, taking in every line and angle of her pretty face. “But it’s worth it. ‘specially in-between the spotlight where I can enjoy moments like these.”

Y/n nodded, understanding the measure of his words. She parted her lips to speak, but Harry let out a small giggle, “The calm between the storms.”

She laughed, and Harry could hear her sincerity even though it was a bad joke altogether, but maybe that was the humor she found in it. Her fingers wriggled in his light grasp, brushing her hands up his arms to lazily wrap behind his neck. Goosebumps appeared on his skin, and he internally cursed at whatever God there was for letting the rain ease up. It faded into a drizzle, and the darkened sky started to lighten into a grey. A pang of disappointment hit them both as they realized the storm couldn’t last forever, and their bubble was meant to burst eventually. She slowly pealed herself from him, a sheepish grin on her lips as she looked back outside. For a moment, they stood there, locked in the reality that this was a fleeting moment - an unexpected connection - was about to slip away as easily as the droplets did. “Don’t think we’re stuck anymore.”

Harry nodded, a sigh falling from his lips as he removed the record from the turntable and placed it back into its sleeve, organizing the pile to sit neatly. He could hear the floor creak as she began to move, and his words fell from his lips before he could stop himself. “Do this again with me?”

Her heart skipped a beat, surprised and hopeful. She smiled, turning around to face him. His expression reminded her that of a schoolboy, and she couldn’t help but giggle. “Are you asking me out, Harry Styles?” Her voice held a lightness despite a familiar flutter in her belly.

He chuckled, the tension easing from his shoulders. “If you’ll let me.” A smile spread upon his lips. “Maybe next time we can plan for better weather - though I won’t complain if it rains again.”

She felt a warmth spread through her, pins and needles in the tips of her fingers. “I’d like that.” She nodded, smile matching his.

He nodded toward the shopkeeper as they ambled out the door, holding the door open for the pretty girl behind him. His lip tucked between his teeth, the breeze light and airy as he pulled the hood over his head. “Um-“ He mumbled nervously, reaching his hand into his pocket and unlocking his phone. But Y/n already took one of his hands into hers, palm upward as she delved into her tote with the other hand, pulling out a pen that’s been in there for god knows how long. She scribbles her number onto his palm, ending it with a smiley face.

His hand still tingled, and his eyes crinkled from the smile he couldn’t wipe off. “What if it smudges?” He calls out, Y/n already beginning to walk the direction back to her apartment.

She turns, her grin almost as wide as Harry’s as she continues her trek, but backwards and slower than before. “You’ll know where to find me!”