#THE MERE THOUGHT OF HIM MAKING POTTERY >>>>>>>>>>>

[gyuswhore]

Sit Down

anniversary event [closed]

kim mingyu x reader

prompt(s): getting aroused by the other's jealousy/obsession with them, "Could he/she/they do it like this?”, “you're sexy when you're angry”

word count: 5.1k

warnings: smut (MINORS DNI), fluff, potter!mingyu, they're married, reader discovers jealousy, oral (m.rec), penetration (unprotected!!!), kissing, breast play, clit stimulation, they're nasty as hell idk what to tell you

synopsis: It isn't your fault that you feel this way, especially as you watch her hands trace over your husband's own.

It isn't your fault that you can barely go on with your day with that cursed image replaying in your mind like a broken record.

And it certainly isn't your fault that you find yourself completely naked on your husband's lap while his clay-clad hands cannot touch you.

[a/n]: @highvern at the scene of the crime as always, we all have to thank her for her service as she betas for me and encourages my tomfoolery. enjoy this and let me know your thoughts in the rbs, comments or send me an ask!!!!!

masterlist

The grip you have on the file is proving to be detrimental to the cheap plastic covering. Not that you could blame yourself as you watch your husband through the window of his pottery studio, leaning over to help a student with her discombobulated salad bowl. 

It was a beautiful morning, the beach across from the boardwalk sparingly occupied with delighted tanners and swimmers, the low buzz of waves reaching the shore sending a calming draft across the area. Envious as you were of Mingyu and his impeccable real estate choices, especially right now as your heel clad feet ache to take a dip in the waters, you couldn’t help but feel all the more irked that this was the background the image inside the studio was sitting against. 

Through the large glass windows, Mingyu is pressing his foot over top of his very pretty student’s on the pedal to force the pottery wheel to spin, hands over her own as he guides her fingers to put pressure on the wet clay. A spiteful part of you pushes a thought in your mind, that your husband was attempting to fix a lost cause, especially when his student seemed quite insistent in her soft smiles and keeping her gaze on the fingers that cover her own, rather than actually fixing the abomination on the pottery wheel. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there by the time he’s done, straightening his back to turn his attention to the other students that make their attempts at their half done projects. Mingyu catches your figure through the window and immediately breaks into a big smile, clay covered hand coming to wave at you. 

Taking it as your cue to walk into the studio, you return neither his gorgeous smile or his occupied wave as you strut through the glass doors. Your husband meets you on the other side of the open space, hands now washed clean as he leans over to place a kiss on your cheek. 

“Hey, you,” he says in greeting, hands drying on a towel. 

All you can think about is if that salad bowl girl can see you, and you thank goodness you wore your nice top today. 

“Here.” You merely push the slightly crumpled file of documents to his chest, jaw set and lips tight. 

“Oh, thanks,” he comments as he grabs the papers pushed towards him, smile dropping a little at your abrupt attitude. “Is everything alright?” 

“Hm? ‘Course,” you answer, adjust the strap of your bag. “I have to get back to work. Be careful about your paperwork next time, I can’t keep making trips across town for this.”

You bite your tongue as soon as you say it, the words tumbling out before you can help it. Can’t keep making trips across town for this? Last time you checked, you were looking for passive excuses to make the trip to your husband’s studio just to see him during the day. 

“Oh.” His brows are furrowed, the frown apparent on his face. “I–I didn’t think you’d be too busy today, you said you’d be done early so—I—nevermind. I’m sorry I pulled you out of work for this, I’ll be careful next time.”

There’s a pang in your heart as you hear him apologise, immediately mad at yourself for going on and ruining his mood. What were you annoyed at? That he was doing his job? 

Your gaze lands behind him where most of his students are occupied with their projects, but just one whose eyes dart between you and Mingyu. 

Taking a step back, you’re about to walk out before you feel him grab your wrist. “D’you wanna have dinner at the new restaurant down the pier after work? We can watch the sunset too, haven’t done that in a while.”

You want to scream yes. Of course you want to watch a beach sunset with your husband. Of course you want to eat at the restaurant you’ve been waiting eagerly for with your husband. And you aren’t entirely sure if this reaction is simply because you’ve been stressed lately, but the sticky feeling is pushing you to make your claim in some way, somehow. 

Biting back another strangely snarky reply, you make an attempt to fix your stoic face and walk back to Mingyu. Leaning up, you kiss the corner of his mouth in what you hope is slightly reassuring. 

“I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Kicking off your heels is the first thing you do once you make it back to your desk, taking no time to punch the power on button on your computer. You pull a file from the stack next to you, one that sits at the bottom, with a harder than necessary yank. Bad idea, because as you scramble to stop the pile from tipping over entirely, you can only think of other ways your day could get worse. 

Before the worst of it can hit the floor, you find a second set of hands catching the strewing papers. 

“Thanks, Han,” you say as you attempt to reorganise the documents, taking the extra ones off his hands. 

“Have the laws of physics forsaken you? Or do you just like reorganising paperwork?” Hansol asks, sipping on something from the stupid horse mug Mingyu had made for him in light of his promotion. 

Huffing, you only haphazardly stuff the files to the corner to be done with it, opening the file you need as your computer finally boots up. “Don’t you have manager stuff to do?” 

“Being a manager means I can put off doing manager stuff,” he states. “Besides, I’m taking care of my peers, can you imagine the catastrophe that could’ve been if I didn’t swoop in to save you?”

“Papers on the floor? How catastrophic indeed,” you monotone as you click away at trying to find a particular excel sheet. 

“How was Mingyu?”

Stiffening, you want to curse Hansol at reminding you of the very thing you did not want to think of right now. 

“He was fine.”

“You were back earlier than usual, thought you would’ve had lunch with him.”

That was your plan, but clearly the universe had other ways for you to go about your day. Like thinking about an overly flirty student and her all too oblivious teacher. 

“He…he had a workshop today,” you simply comment. 

“Okay, Elsa, who shoved an ice cube up your ass?” You can hear the sneer in his voice, the judgmental stare. 

Groaning loudly, you can only slam your forehead onto your desk in an all too dramatic fashion. “Can you drop it? Please?”

“Ah,” he drags. “Trouble in paradise. Understood. I will be at my desk if you want to complain about your husband like Margaret from Finance.”

Margaret from Finance. The woman who’s entire catalogue of marital issues would be solved if she and her husband simply spoke to each other once in a while. Perhaps even held hands on occasion. 

You wince as you envision yourself becoming as stuck up and miserable as that, Hansol’s harmless comparison sending you into yet another spiral. It wasn’t that serious, this was all because your brain was stressed, horny and in love. The fact that your husband looked like how he did wasn’t really helping either. 

With a little more aggression than you usually would’ve done with, you attempt to skim through the files as quickly as humanly possible, flicking through the useless filler pages to get to the ones that actually required your attention. 

You send a passive aggressive email to Hansol entailing his job to keep things precise. 

Shoving forkfuls of salad into your mouth, your mouse clicks louder than anyone else in the area, having gone back to change your cursor speed about thrice since you turned your computer on. 

Your phone dings. Closing your eyes, you count to ten before turning to look at the illuminated screen beside you. 

[Gyu <3]: did u have lunch?

[Gyu <3]: i wanted us to get sum together but u zoomed off : (((

[Gyu <3]: im done with my classes for the day. The students were asking ab you earlier when u came in heh

[Gyu <3]: cant wait to see u tonight i looooooveee u <333

God, he makes it hard to stay mad at him. 

Snapping your head back to your monitor, you close your eyes once again as you question the war in your head and chest. Why were you mad at him? There was nothing to be mad about. Did you expect him to go about his day covered in plastic wrap and a neon ‘OFF LIMITS’ sign all day? The ring on his finger was supposed to do the job just fine. 

You sigh as you force yourself to text him back something that wasn’t entirely passive aggressive. Typing and erasing, and typing again and erasing again. A smiley face to seal it into something you were not feeling, and send. 

It’s late in the afternoon by the time you’re done, the sun less blaring as it pours through the office windows. You flick the last file shut, power off your computer and spring up to your feet, immediately gathering your things. Phone, ID, keys, and the last plastic file in your hands, you stalk towards Hansol’s desk and slam the papers next to his computer. 

He nearly chokes on his pocky stick as you spit out your final notes in rapid fire, not caring if you were indecipherable in the slightest. Hansol’s eyebrows remain in the air by the time you’re done, spinning on your heels and walking straight towards the elevators. 

“See you, Monday!” you finally hear him call out and you don’t turn to return his goodbye. Something that might have given you a strike but you could threaten him to take it off all the same. 

Besides, you had somewhere to be, and the idea churning in your brain didn’t seem like it wanted to wait. 

The sun is setting by the time you get to the beach boardwalk, climbing the steps to the line of establishments that overlook the significantly more occupied shore. Everything is perfect. Warm just the right amount, the sunlight forcing everything in its path into an incandescent glow. 

What you would’ve given for a nice lie on one of the beach chairs to release an entire day’s worth of tense muscles. But alas, you trudge straight down the boardwalk and walk the way to Mingyu’s studio. When you’re nearly there, you see the glass door of the studio open from a distance, immediately recognising the part timer leaving for the day. 

You cross paths as he walks towards you in the opposite direction, lighting up as he recognises you through your work attire. 

“Oh, hi!” Chan chirps, arm raised in a half wave. 

“Hi! Clocking out?” you ask as you stop to greet him. 

“Uh—yeah, Mingyu let me go early.” He’s grinning. 

“Good to hear. You enjoy the rest of your night, alright?” 

“Yeah–uh, you too!” he stutters once again as he continues to smile wide. You think nothing of it and continue your short walk to where the studio doors were. 

Coming round, you find the large glass door and walls have been blocked out with the blinds, the blaring CLOSED sign right at the entrance. 

You stand there in front of the door like a fool, taking a deep breath, eyes closed as you gain your bearings. Grabbing the shiny handle, you push the unlocked glass open. 

The bell at the top jingles, signalling a customer, and you watch your husband sitting at one of the turntables, clearly occupied. The studio is completely empty except for him, the whirr of the spinning table coming to a halt as he turns to tell whoever came in that they were closed for the day. 

It’s revolting. He’s wearing his usual black tee, stained with months of splattered clay, his hair tousled like he’d run his hands through it before he started his project. The sun seeps in through the neglected edges of the top of the glass walls, past the blinds that cover most of them, casting him in an unbelievable light. It’s revolting, he’s done nothing and it’s making your head reel; revolting. 

“We’re—oh, you’re early!” There it is, that stupid smile he can’t help but flash at every last person he sees, directed straight at you laced with nothing but love. 

Reaching behind you, you push the metal lock on the door to click it shut, locking the both of you inside, and the rest of the beach and boardwalk out. Right after, you begin to kick off your heels. 

“I already made the reservations for an hour from now, let me change and wash up so we can go to the beach till—”

“Sit down.”

He was halfway out of his seat as he was talking, ready to leave his half done work on the turntable to leave with you. Your words come out firm, a strange tone like you were giving him a command. 

It works, and the shock has him immediately falling back into his chair. The force pushes the chair away from the turn tables, now half facing you.  

Dropping your bag, you shuck your long coat off and leave it on the floor. Eyeing his hands, they’re covered in wet clay, suspended away from his body so as to not ruin his clothes more than they already are, speckled with dried clay and paint. 

He recovers quickly, confused as he watches you fiddle with the buttons on your bottoms, rising out of his chair once again. 

“What are you—” 

“I said,'' you grunt as you finally push your bottoms down so they hit the floor. “Sit down.” 

The shift in his face makes it obvious it has clicked in his head, staring at you as you walk towards him in just your blouse as the situation escalates faster than he can keep up with. 

“Right now? Can you at least let me—”

Through his blabbering you’ve reached him and swung a leg over his lap, seating yourself on his clothed thighs as he moves his hands away, making sure not to get clay all over your blouse. 

His hands may be occupied in a different sense, but you choose to busy yours in other ways. Taking his face in your hands, you lock your mouths in an open mouthed kiss, rendering him speechless. 

Taking no time to think, nor to let him think, you push your hips down to meet his own in a deep grind, panty clad pussy making contact with the rough of his jeans right over his bulge. The feeling is so sudden, spiking throughout your system as you hear him take a sharp inhale still pressed into your mouth.

That was you. That was you getting that reaction out of him, no matter how small it was. The thought has you gripping the back of his head, fingers making home in the short strands of his hair as you let go from the kiss. 

Wasting no time, you push his head back and stick your tongue out, licking a stripe from the base of his throat right up to his jaw. He shivers beneath you, and it only muddles your mind even more. 

You can feel his bulge beneath you growing larger and larger by the second, pressing into your inner thigh as his breathing grows exponentially heavier in your ear. Locking eyes with him, you trail your other hand down to graze over the front of his shirt, pressing into the bumps and ridges that lie beneath.

Reaching his buckle, you hook your finger underneath the gap and pull at the metal. As you let go, it snaps back into place with a resounding cling! Keeping the eye contact, you drift even lower, your fingers find the growing tent in his jeans as you cup the bulge. Moving your hands in the way you know he likes it, you curb your speed to drag out the feeling for him. 

“Fuck,” you hear him curse lowly. 

It’s becoming impossible for him to keep his composure, especially to keep his hands away from your body that sits on him. He gets close, fingers brushing the white of your blouse in a moment of confusion, instant brown on the surface as his wet, clay hands ruin your shirt. 

“If you really can’t keep your hands to yourself,” you say, halting your movements on his crotch. “I guess this’ll have to go too.”

Not bothering to undo all the buttons, you tug the first couple ones unfastened and pull your blouse over your head, throwing it somewhere behind his head. Quickly, you reach behind and unclasp your bra, flinging it away in the same general area. You’re now almost entirely naked while he remains clothed head to toe. 

Your nipples harden as they meet the air in the studio, Mingyu’s eyes set on your mounds as he takes them in. 

Before he has the opportunity to do anything, you slip off of your seat in his lap, knees slamming the floors in your haste as you kneel before him. Hands flying, you tug at the buckle of his belt, undoing it despite your hurried motions. 

“You’ve been off today, are you sure everything’s alright?” Mingyu asks from, still wide eyed as he watches helplessly as you yank his jeans enough to reveal the final layer of his underwear. It doesn’t take you long to take his entire length out of there too, needing him in front of you.

“Do not ask me about my feelings when I’m trying to fuck you.”

“What on earth–shit!”

You’ve taken his now fully hard length into your hand, licking a strip from the base of his cock up to the bulbous head. The tip of your tongue teases the head ever so lightly, and Mingyu watches as his head and your tongue match in their reds. He watches the way your tongue dips into the pooling white of his precum, pushing into his slit as the tip of your tongue wiggles slightly. 

The fact that he cannot touch only heightens the effects of your teasing, clayed hands balling into fists just to feel something on his fingertips. 

Soon, your lips have wrapped around the head of cock as you let it rub against the beginnings of the inside of your soft mouth. Letting go, you take him in again, this time running your tongue over his slit, feeling his hips twitch beneath you as you continue to take him in and out, only to take him back in again. 

In one motion, you sink your mouth lower onto his dick, feeling the head of his cock run against the roof of your mouth. Mingyu hisses audibly amidst his very loud and heavy breathing. 

When you feel him hit the beginnings of your throat, you pull back, bringing your hand to curve around the base to cover what you couldn’t fit, pumping him up and down as you continue to pull his member in and out of your mouth. 

He’s moaning loud, the echoes resonating off the walls as you hear your name slip from his mouth over, and over, and over again. It only encourages you as you move down deeper, his cock touching the back of your throat in more familiarity than before. 

Everything is wet; the spit and precum turning into a shiny gleam on his cock and on the lower half of your face, the heat between your legs that makes you feel oh so empty. Clenching around nothing, you resist the urge to bring a hand down to relieve yourself. 

“Are you ovulating or something, why are you suddenly…suddenly, fucking hell I don’t know.” 

Releasing him from your mouth with a loud pop, you rear your head to look up at him, the lower half of your face covered in a wet glisten. Your hand continues to pump him as you watch his face remain contorted in pleasure.

In a daze, you don’t realise what you’re saying as you blab. “Could she do it like this?”

“What?”

“Could she do it like this?” you repeat like a mantra, needing to hear his answer. “Could she make you feel like this?”

“What are you talking about?” It’s taking Mingyu every bit of his soul to form coherent words. 

In one swift motion, you’ve hoisted yourself back on your feet, nails digging into his thighs through his pants. 

Hovering over his lap, you take his shaft once again, but this time you push your panties aside with your hand and bring it close to your heat, brushing the head of his cock over your wet folds, using him to feel the pleasure that builds. 

“God, you’re so wet,” he blabs as he throws his head back at the feeling. “I wanna touch you, fuck I need to get this clay off, I need to touch you.”

He’s brought his mouth to latch onto your nipple, evoking a loud gasp from you as feel him circle your nub with his tongue before sucking. Letting go, he sticks his tongue out as his only weapon, flicking it repeatedly as you continue to rub his wet cock over your equally wet cunt. 

Lining him up with your entrance, you sink onto his head as you let out a loud moan, feeling the tip stretch you out in the familiar way you’ve been craving all day. It’s like your brain is buffering as you recover from the bout of pleasure, barely registering that he’s continued to assault your other nipple now. 

Your free hand comes to toy with your relieved tit, twisting your spit covered nipple between your fingers as his dick pushes further and further inside you. 

Fully sheathed, you pull your husband’s face away from your breast as you bring his lips to your own, kissing him deep as you clench around his hard cock.

“Don’t. Do that,” he hisses against your lips, hands suddenly closing in your waist, so close before he realises he can’t. “‘M gonna fucking come, I’m so serious.”

The news is enlightening, especially as it encourages you to lift your hips ever so slightly, and curl back back down in an initial thrust. Again, and again, and again till you’re moving your hips at a swift pace, striking down on his length as you both moan into each other's mouths.

The feeling is electrifying, and the borderline pornographic noises your husband is making is only making it all the more easier to gush around his member, to move your hips faster as you feel the knot in your abdomen tighten and loosen. 

“You feel amazing, so fucking good,” he grunts as he mouths the column of your throat. “My baby, my darling, my wife.”

And when the burn in your thighs becomes more than just a mental battle, your hips slowing despite the mind boggling feeling and the choked sobs that come out of you, you feel Mingyu’s hips lift from the chair he’d been trapped in, pushing into you instead. 

His still dirty hands have taken hold of the top of the back legs of the chair, helping himself push off his seat to thrust into you rapidly. 

“Touch yourself, baby,” he says. “Rub your clit for me.”

Who are you to deny him, one hand on one of his broad shoulders while the other flies down to the mess that’s becoming of your cunt. Rubbing two fingers over your clit, you throw your head back in a loud moan as you feel yourself beginning to close in.

Mingyu is watching the apex of your thighs; the way your fingers work against your swollen clit, the way his dick disappears inside you, a ring of sinful white foaming at the base of his cock. He twitches inside you, a clear indication that he was also close. 

Your breasts are a sight to behold, and the scene before him is enough to make him bust entirely. Bouncing tits that he cannot touch, perfectly red, puffed pussy he cannot touch, the beautiful curves and dips of your waist and thigh, barely illuminated by the setting sun, that he cannot touch. He curses the wretched idea to make a last minute thing on the turntable before you arrived, curses the fact that he should be able to feel all of you. 

He might lose his mind, and he does when your walls clamp down on him like a trap, your moans so loud he’s sure he’ll be hearing them in his ears for weeks. 

“G–Gyu, I’m cumming,” you whimper through the pure brain fog. 

Mingyu fucks you through your orgasm, finally letting himself release his own load into you when he simply can’t take it anymore, dick spasming as he shoots white hot cum into your hole. The added slick makes it easier to slip in and out faster as his orgasm holds out far longer than it usually does, both of your hips twitching like you’d been zapped as you come down from your highs. 

It’s become near impossible to hold up your own weight, slumping against his large frame as you unclench every pinched muscle and joint. Forehead on his shoulder, you take pleasure in the afterglow, breathing in his scent with your nose pressed into the sliver of skin that reveals past his shirt. Sweat, the earthy odour of clay, and the calm familiarity of him.

“I don’t know what I did to have you acting like this,” he breathes into your ear. “But whatever it is, I need to do it more often.”

Sluggishly, you lift your head to look at him. His head is leaned back on the chair, face glowing as you stare into the eyes you fell in love with so long ago. 

“You haven’t done anything,” you sigh. “It was…stupid.”

“That’s the worst thing you could say to me right now.”

You whine, rolling your neck. “What do you want me to tell you?”

He stares. “Who do I need to thank for creating this monster?”

It was a joke, clearly, but you couldn’t help but feel the little pool of pride swell within you anyway. 

“Salad bowl girl.”

“And I’m supposed to know what that means? Do you want a salad bowl? I can make you one.”

“No. The girl in your class this morning with that god awful salad bowl,” you huff. “It looked offensive, she was too busy burning holes into you.”

“Oh no,” he whispers, eyes wide, mouth turning it the beginnings of a hysterical laugh. “My pretty little wife is jealous.”

“If you’re gonna rub it in, I'm getting off.” You try to remove yourself from his lap, slipping his now soft member out of you. 

You’re stopped when you feel the two points of his elbows locking you at the waist, pushing you down. He’s grinning like a fool. “You’re sexy when you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry—”

“Your hello was my dick in your mouth.”

“So you didn’t like it?”

“I’d fire myself in the kiln before I ever say that.” He locks his elbows harder, pulling you closer. “Besides, I think this means I’ve won.”

“Won what?”

“Like you’ve never noticed Chan looking at you like…like he’s got some puppy dog crush on you. I’ve won the battle of composure.” 

You guffaw, “What are you—stop it, he does not!”

He merely leans forward and kisses you, “I don’t blame him. My wife is the most gorgeous thing anyone could ever see.” 

Grabbing him by the elbows, you break free of his hold and get off of his lap, attempting to gather the clothes you’ve scattered across the studio. 

“Can you at least help me put my dick back inside my pants, these are my cleaner jeans!”

Snapping the elastic of your bra back on, pantied adjusted, you walk back to him. He’s looking at you with those stupid stars in his eyes and it makes it hard to focus on readjusting his jeans for him. 

Leaning down, you take in your hands his still wet cock, smothered in your spit and arousal, complete with his own release. You can’t help it when you dip further to take his head into your mouth, the groan coming from above you near automatic. 

“Oh, you’re evil.”

You grin as you wrap your mouth in a harsher suck, feeling him harden slowly, still quicker than you’d thought. Giving him a few more generous sucks, you run your tongue over his slit before moving back. 

He’s breathing heavily, leaning close as you pull his waistband up. “You know, they say you should lay down afterwards if you want to be successful. I think we might have to go again later on a real bed to do the trick.”

“You can stay horny, I’m getting dressed for some real food.” 

“I think we kinda need to be horny to do what we’re trying to do,” he lowtones, moving his face back and forth to meet your drifting eyes. 

You sigh once again, “Why can’t just getting off birth control be enough?”

“Are you not having fun?”

“I’m literally buttoning your pants for you, it was fun until now.”

Mingyu raises his hands in both surrender and pointed regard, the clay now dried and cracking over his hands and forearms. “I digress.”

 It annoys you that he’s right, so you lean in to give him a kiss as a distraction. It works. 

“It’s alright,” he smiles into your kiss. “This is the one thing I won’t mind breaking my back for.”

The giggle escapes you before you can help it, and you feel him kiss at your cheeks, placing one last one on the tip of your nose.

“Now, if my lovely wife will let me wash my hands…?”

“Go,” you chuckle.

“We should name our baby Salad Bowl in this honour.” He’s way at the handwash station by now, water running as he scrubs off all the dried up clay.

“So sad our baby will have to grow up without a father.”

 “I love you,” he yells. 

“I’ll be sure to tell our child.” 

“You’re insufferable,” he says, suddenly behind you as you pull on your blouse. Wet hands grasp your waist and you squeal at the feeling. 

“Mingyu!” 

“I love you,” he drags, spinning you around to face him. 

“I thought I was insufferable.”

Your husband groans, simply pulling you into him with his own two hands to kiss you. 

“I think we’re late for our reservation.”

“You’d better hurry then.” You eye his clay speckled shirt.

“Don’t miss me.” He turns around to find his cleaner shirt, all while you drift over to see the incomplete project still on his table.

A mug still clay-brown and half done, but one that looks suspiciously similar to your favourite one you broke last week. 

[cherry-flavoured-thot]

☽ ◦ ◦ ◦ ✩ Cute Moments With Them (HSR) ✩ ◦ ◦ ◦ ☾

✩ March wants the very best photo of the two of you to be her lockscreen. She takes it very seriously. She mulls over what's in her camera roll in contemplation to consider what could be. You ask her to show you what photos were in the running. When she puts her phone to you, showing you some of the cuter photos you've both taken together, you take the opportunity to dart off in the other direction with her phone. She chases after you, and you take a picture of you running with her all blurry behind you. You make it her lockscreen before handing the phone back. You're laughing the whole time, while she pouts at you for taking her phone. "I'm keeping this as my lockscreen to remind you of how mean you are!"

✩ Natasha looks very stern when she spots the cut running down your leg. To the point where you're already apologising before she even says a word. She sighs with the shake of her head. "I shouldn't be surprised these days, go on sit." She works in swift movements of cleaning the blood of the cut and wrapping the wound in bandages. "There all done, I'd tell you to be careful but I'm honestly starting to wonder if you get hurt just to come see me." You laugh sheepishly at her comment, and while she should give you another stern look she merely shakes her head again but this time with a smile.

✩ "Sweetheart, you're a bit heavy handed with your pour." Gallagher doesn't let anyone behind his bar to pour their own drinks. But you're the exception, as much as Siobhan teases him about it. Sometimes he hears her laugh from around the other side, when you give him your best doe eyes and sweetest voice to let you behind the bar. He doesn't mind, you don't do it often, and most of the time you're doing it wanting to make him a drink. But you seem to be a bit too free with your measurements, sometimes one drink has even him feeling a bit buzzed. He still drinks it everytime as long as you promise to let him lean on you all the way home.

✩ Topaz has been looking all over the place for you and Numby. She wasn't overly concerned, as she thinks that if both of you are missing it's clear that you've wandered off somewhere together. She just wasn't expecting you both to come back with a bag full of treasure and Numby draped in random shiny gems you'd both found along the way. She bursts out laughing, a noise that causes Numby to jump in delight. "Hold still I need to get a photo of this!" The photo she takes on her phone is one that always makes her grin when she sees it.

✩ "I don't think pottery is your talent." Aventurine had considered lying about the disfigured mug you had made, but you seemed very aware of how ugly it was when you showed it to him. But miracalously it still ends up serving it's purpose, as you find out several mornings later seeing him drink coffee out of it. As you stare at him puzzled that he's even drinking from the mug that he almost burst out laughing at how strange it looked. "It has it's endearing qualities. I won't have it openly out on display, ever. But it's still useable." By endearing qualities, he means the thought of you attempting to make the mug only for it to turn out like this but you don't need to know that.

✩ Jing Yuan encourages you to come visit him on slower days. Not because he's looking for a chance to slip away, well okay, that's part of it. But because he takes any chance he can to spend time with you. He hadn't intended to doze off before you'd arrived, but alas sleep had sunken its claws into him. He stirs slightly upon hearing the closing of doors and you saying his name. Curiously, he keeps his eyes shut to see what you'll do while thinking he's asleep. You call his name again, footsteps growing closer until your right by his side. He doesn't expect you to attempt to rouse him by running your fingers through his hair. But you also don't expect him to move so that he's pressing his face into your hands.

[angelickisscs]

first chances ~ blurb ‧₊˚

୨ ୧ ˚₊ pairing ~ jude bellingham x reader

summary: Jude having a conversation with his friends leads you to make a heart-breaking revelation

TEARS FOUGHT FOR first place in destroying your carefully completed eye makeup. You couldn’t help but feel there was a bet going on inside of you as to what would get you to break first, the competition lying between anger or sadness.

“I really just don’t understand.” Jude’s words were hesitant to form a sentence. They treated you as though you were a delicate piece of pottery. One that he had just thrown onto the ground.

Folding your lips into one another, you were careful with your next move. The last thing you wanted to do right then was embarrass yourself any more than you already had.

“You are playing the innocence card, perfect.” You mumbled the words under your breath forcing him to lean in so he could catch the last of their appearance.

“I didn’t know I had any other cards to play.” He was quick in his response, leaving no time for the tension to settle in. “But if you told me what I have done to make you upset, maybe I would be able to choose between them more wisely.”

With a scoff, you averted your gaze from him to somewhere far simpler. The confusion that was repelling from his body getting to be too much.

Your hands were dancing with another arrhythmically in a desperate attempt to stop your furious emotions from taking control over you. They were a distraction gifted to you on a silver platter. But they only lasted so long before his thinking was over.

“Come on, tell me. Then I can make it right.”

The harsh wind blew in from your side, shouting down upon your unprepared shoulders as the light fog of summers frozen breath descended from the sky.

You took a final deep breath before you allowed the words to slip over from your now chapped lips. “I heard you and your friends talking, wasn’t trying to eavesdrop but the conversation managed to get interesting.”

Tension began its reign. The look of shock mixing with horror like it was the easiest made cocktail formed on his face. Words attempted at an explanation but all failed, freezing up just as they made their way onto the stage.

There was nothing you could do but stand and watch, your stomach yet to pick itself off the dirtied floor.

Jude tried multiple different routes of explanation, but none made the cut against his harsh criticism. “I didn’t think it would ever go this far.”

What he had opted for did little to console you. It built a new wave of embarrassment to wash you away with though this time acceptance had managed to talk its way into being able to take its place.

“What because you are a more decent guy than that?” Laughter bubbled over from your overwhelmed body. “The fact is that you were willing to do this to someone you had never met. For what? A slap on the back from your mates?”

His head began to vigorously shake, denying all your accusations with haste. He knew they were true; he knew you knew they were true, but he was desperate.

“It was just to go on a date and-.” The explanation he was trying to get across to you didn’t make it long.

“I don’t care.” You began as you finally looked back in his direction. “What was this going to cause except from hurt? Even if it was the slightest bit.”

He closed his eyes, bringing up his hands so he could capture his hair in them. There was nothing more that you had ever desired than to walk up to him and tell him an apology was all you needed because you knew he would give you that. But somewhere in you refused to accept that, fighting onwards.

“Tell me what I can do to make it up to you and I will do ten times that.” Jude pleaded whilst he allowed you to see his tear-stained face. You took it in, staring with a harshness that you never thought you could give.

“Give me a second chance so I can make sure you don’t regret giving me the first.”

Your body was beginning to give in, your knees aching at the possibility of taking a mere two steps so you could be in his arms once again.

That part of you however still managed to hold out. “I do regret it though. You didn’t even want it in the first place, I was nothing but a bet to you!”

Jude took a step forward, but you were quick in taking one back, forming a boundary that he had to listen to.

“Don’t reduce yourself to that. You were always so much more to me than-.” He paused at the end. As though he was in denial to say what he had done.

“A bet. You may as well say it, you did it.” Your snappiness was beginning to form a bite on it. One that had him flinching.

The exit you had formed for yourself since the start was beginning to come in handy, small, calculated steps beginning to form a distance between the two of you. A similar one to which you had thought you would never have to set in place.

“I’m not an idiot and I have self-respect. It’s no one’s fault but your own that you are in this situation, so you need to accept that.” Desperation reached down the back of your throat, clawing its way down with no remorse.

“Let me fix this.” He tried once again but noticed that lack of dents he was forming in the wall you had built.

“Goodbye Jude.”

The gap was like one formed between two separate continents and neither of you were strong swimmers. So, he watched in slow motion as your figure retreated, the calls of his friends echoing beside him. Not even a hand firmly shaking his shoulder could break his eyes from you.

Although you no longer stood there, your location now being something he didn’t have the right to know.

[smallraindrops-blog]

Like a Moth to a Flame

Pairing: Male reader x Hades 2 Prometheus

Word count: 2.9

Warnings: Angst, abusive parent, war, implied sexual intimacy, inaccurate pottery information, Hades 2 spoilers no beta.

Summary:

When clay is placed into fire, it undergoes a chemical reaction. 

This is an irreversible process.

Notes:

Trying something new to break writer’s block, normally I write my readers fic in second POV but wanted to try first person style out. Wrote this in a haze, so hopefully this fic makes sense. 

Spoilers ahead!

Enjoy!

My fingers were stained by the red clay just as my Father and older brothers were. 

‘Prized dirt.’ Father would scoff, sweat beaded his brow as he eyed the loaded wagon with distaste. 

Father was a simple man, only understood what his own father taught him. My older brothers would chuckle, agreeing every time as they urged the overwork mules to pull.

I never responded, lest I get the sharp sting of a disapproving hand against my cheek. 

Again.

~

It was always told late in the night. Whispered with hurried words, laced with awe like a poisoned dagger, as if the storyteller feared even speaking of the old tale would bring a similar fate upon their weak moral flesh.

Yet even as we all feared the wrath of the gods, we all still huddled around the hearth, our eyes locked on the seductive dance of the flames. Red, orange and yellow, little embers flying out as if calling to our clay forms.

The Titian was named Prometheus and he loved us mere morals. His hands had crafted the moral forms, he alone gave us fire so we might live as the gods did.

When I dreamt, I was as the earth once was. Dark and cool and peaceful. Clay had no thoughts, no feelings.

Yet. 

I felt the ghostly touch of fingers against my flesh. Of promises woven bone deep, all the possibles felt in the flutter of my heart.

And… 

I longed for the flames.

~

By pure happenstance, my Father had acquired a pottery wheel when I was a child. One of his merchants was going to toss it away and instead gifted it to Father.

He grunted as he tossed it to the side of the pitifully small house that was my childhood home, his words almost lost among the noises.  ‘giving me trash. I don’t need this. I need money.’ 

I waited until he went inside, safe in the twilight darkness. Once I was sure it was safe I went to carefully gather up the scattered pieces. I only ever caught glimpses of this tool during deliveries, a world unknowable to me. One just as out of reach as the stars themselves. 

Or so I thought.

I hid the pottery wheel away, and waited sleepless in my bed for the sunrise. Ideas unfurled from my mind, of the ways my hands might shape the red clay of my homeland. 

Vases, cups and bowls. Maybe I could find some black paint, recreate the myths that bards sung, the flickering embers of the bonfire giving their stories life.

My fingers tightened into the blankets, and I exhaled. It felt like the whole world was at my fingertips. Nothing was impossible in the face of creation itself.

~

It was in the war torn city of Ephyra that I first laid eyes on him.

Damnation and ruin had come for the gods and for their followers alike.

And the lines between the dead and the living were so blurred, I sometimes was convinced I had been dead all along with no one polite enough to inform me of the fact.

This nightmare of ruined souls was for the promise of a new Golden Age, where morals ruled over gods, one where we no longer feared their rage for ours were just as great, if not more so.

The strange city on the mountain was wealthy, imposing statues and the stone smooth under my feet. I never saw such a place, far too used to the pastoral lands of my home.

Now it lay in ruins, rotting sheep flesh everywhere and shades lingering over torn apart morals bodies. Some weeping as they watched homes were robbed. Screams echoed then cut off suddenly as the cyclop tried to fill his forever empty belly

There was no leader here and many of the devoted morals were running like madmen through every building, stealing anything that gleamed in the firelight. Slaughtering anyone that stood in their way, Father Time’s promise lingering in their ears.

I didn’t join the men, keeping my head low as I ducked into one of the ransacked building. The harsh scent of copper followed me, making my stomach turn sour. 

I never developed the bloodlust needed for war. In the past as a child, I would get nauseated at the sight of slaughtered animals, their blood pooling on the ground even though I knew their flesh would be cooked and seasoned for my own hunger later.

So I went to hide in the dark like a coward.

Only to come face to face with a titan.

I stilled, my feet rooted on the ground as I tried to force my body to breathe. 

Even hunched over a pottery wheel, the Titan of Foresight was a giant, his hands alone could easily crush large golden chariots, his shoulders broad as the mountain we stood upon.

The fire that burned in the hearth behind him looked dim in comparison to the overwhelming heat and light that his presence of blue fire brought upon the humble home. 

His gloved fingers ran along the wheel, his expression hidden from me. 

I took a step back with a bow, intending to leave. Only for his eyes to snap up to me, his mouth in a hard line. 

I tried to speak, to look away but I couldn’t. My body was no longer my own, I was caught in his gaze like an animal in a hunter net. They were like the sun itself, red with shifting orange and amber as his unnatural hair swayed with the tilt of his head.

Clay. Fire. Moral. Deity.

The harsh shadows of his face shifted, the line of his mouth softened into thoughtfulness. 

“You’re one of mine.” The great Prometheus stated in a voice that rumbled like an earthquake in my head, his fingers still on the pottery wheel. “I had a premonition of this moment so very long ago. Maybe even before you or your parents were ever born. Now, here you are before me. Clay that had come to life.”

What did one say to a god? To the one that created me and every single moral?

I swallowed, fingers numb. 

“Here I am, great titan. At your service.” I whispered.

With that, Prometheus spun the wheel.

~

Much like the eagle that still picked at his liver, Prometheus had decided to keep me by his side. Others casted me looks of narrowed eyes jealousy, my presence no longer welcomed at the nightly bonfires as it once was.

One of my comrades asked me why once, why did the Titan pick me of all people. I was no clever prince, no great warrior and I only could shrug, trying to act like I was fine with my own blind ignorance. 

After all, I was used to fumbling in the dark, as a child from my father and his brutal hands and now to a Titan that created morals entirely. 

I never asked. Did the ground ask why it only rains when the skies wish for it? Or did the birds question the wind where it came from? 

No, of course not. 

Prometheus’ reasons were his own, for he never told me why. I suspected he never told anyone. Not even his fellow titans. Not to the eagle. No one. 

In the rare moments I was allowed near, his fire that kept me warm from the harsh touch of the goddess Demeter, the deadly, pale fingers of winter sharp against my skin. I longed for my own home, to feel the gentle sunshine on my face, to clay cool against my skin.

I told no one.

I tended to him, bringing him plates of food stolen from the endless tables of the Olympians, long left behind as they hid at the top of the mountain. Baring cups of fresh water, so pure that when I scooped the water into the cup, I saw every single colorful river stone on the bottom. 

Once I had found honeyed wine, rich and dark as the seas. The bottle was hidden under thick layers of snow. It must have been left behind by Dionysus during the early days of the war. 

I wanted a sip, for I knew I would never taste anything like it again but resisted. This would be a perfect offering to Prometheus.

However, instead of pleasing the great titan, he had taken the bottle from my hands and threw it off the mountain with a twisted sneer. I stared into the dark in genuine shock, the clacking of the eagle’s beak echoed in the snowy landscape.

Was the bird laughing? 

I flinched at the sound, dropping down to my knees. My eyes snapped shut, humiliation digging into my ribcage. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know my own foolishness. Forgive me, Master Prometheus!”

Prometheus was silent, but I felt his stare on me, I always felt the scorching heat of his gaze. How could I not? I felt something cold land on my cheeks, blinking as I realized that fresh snow was falling.

“Aeros. Leave us.” His voice was a shock, breaking the stillness of the snowfall. The Eagle’s wings flapped, once, twice then took off. I followed the golden form as it took flight, sun-bright against the night skies. 

It was only when I saw that Prometheus was still staring at me that I dropped my eyes. 

“I had seen many things that destroyed the moral forms. Foul sickness of the body and mind. Of them tearing each other apart like wild beasts.” Prometheus spoke quietly, his breath white in the chilly air. 

“Master?” I asked, not sure where he was going with this. 

Prometheus sighed, steam flowing upward from his mouth. He looked like one of those terrifying dracon, capable of great destruction. 

He was one of those things, greater than them in fact. More than the gods, or his fellow titans. Perhaps only Father time and chaos itself were greater than the morals creator. But I doubted that.

“Yet those horrible things were nothing in comparison of the deadly siren call of wine. Morals and gods alike flock to it like a moth to a flame. It ruins them just as well.” Prometheus smiled down at me, the curve of his lips rueful. “I don’t want that foul elixir near me.”

Then his smile dropped. “Nor do I want it near you.”

My head bowed in easy acceptance. “Yes, I won’t touch it.” 

His hand, the one enveloped in living blue flames, beckoned me to follow as he began moving again. I sighed quietly as I hurried to join by his side, bumps forming on my skin in response as the welcomed warmth.

The blue flames danced along his muscular forearm, the blacked flesh didn’t hide the sinew and power in his form. I knew if I reached out, it would burn me alive.

My fingers twitched. 

~

My first, childish attempt at a vase was a failure, the smooth clay collapsing under my fingers, even as I tried to hold it like a parent desperately grabbing a drowning child.

My foot stilled on the peddle, the wheel slowing until it stopped completely.  

I stared down at my fallen creation in muted disappointment, not at the almost vase but at myself. 

So I tried again and again. They both failed so I spun the wheel again and again and again-

It wasn’t until hours later, my fingernails caked in red and my back aching from my hunched position that I finally gave up. I made a frustrated cry, tears forming in my eyes, ready to toss the potter’s wheel into the fire. 

I didn’t. Barely.

Instead, I sat in the darkness, staring at the wheel. I was alone in a cave of my own making and I had no light. I had nothing but dirt and the dying ember of hope in my chest.

Later after countless failures, I realized I should have taken my time. I should slow down and let the clay speak to me, not to mindlessly command it to take whatever form pleased me. 

That night, with marked fingers, I gathered the red clay and tried again and again.

~

Sometimes, Prometheus did tell me secrets.

Even when he was on his knees, he was still imposing like the mountain itself, far taller than any moral could hoped to be. 

He spoke of the world before the gods ruled, a world that sounded impossible to me. I had never existed in such a world and even with Titan of Time’s promises, I still had my doubts.

I would sit there, watching in quiet awe as he took clay and carefully worked it with one large hand. The gentle flex of his chest dawned my eyes to the ragged scar, the healed wound a deep pink. 

His creations always came out perfect, ready to fulfill their purpose. Was this what it was like when he first crafted morals? So effortlessly and with such great care?

The cup came forward out of the clay, a perfect circle and smooth without finger marks. It looked ridiculously small and I bit back a smile. 

He lifted the blacked hand, the fire growing stronger, the flames almost white as he held the cup in his hand, fingers curled over it. 

“When I first tried my creations just fell apart on me every single time.” I offered during a moment of quiet fire crackling. “I think it took me a month before I was able to produce a lopsided bowl.”

I laughed at the memory, I had been so proud of the damn thing even though it was completely useless for anything. Prometheus didn’t laugh, it was rare for him to even smile. 

I didn’t mind. I was just happy to be allowed near his presence.

“I remember when I first tried to make humans.” He said finally. “I gave you shape and souls. The goddess Athena breathed life into you, cleverness and all.”

The breath, the one that Athena had blessed me with, was sucked out me, my eyes large as his words sunk in. I was torn between begging for more information or to stay quiet and hoped he would continue without my encouragement.

Prometheus shifted, his eyes flickered over me. My cheeks flushed as his gaze lingered on me. “I think the final results have proved satisfactory.”

My lips parted but no words came out. I once again found myself speechless. 

His finger unfurled from the bowl and he gave a pleased nod once he inspected it, He placed the little cup down into an unused kiln, then he shifted until his large form was looming over me. He ducked his head low, his breath a warm puff against my skin.

I swallowed, my heart drumming against my chest as I felt a dark flower uncoiled in my core, the petals spurn out into a deep heat. 

“I know If I tell you this, you will never speak of it again.” He whispered, “Yet I find myself wishing to hear you promise me you will keep my secret anyway.”

I lifted my head up just enough to meet his eyes. “I promise I shall keep your secret. Beyond the grave even.” 

That made him smile, genuinely so and it was so beautiful I wanted to weep. He leaned in, his mouth almost against my shoulder. My eyes dropped shut as I tried to keep my breathing steady.

“Morals gained something that I nor Athena could have imagined. I planned for greatness for all morals, clever and strong.” He intoned, sounding amazed and a touch wishful. “But they gained something we deathless never really could have.” 

I gasped quietly, as his large fingers pressed into my back, the other one, the one fire devoured, held safely away from me. 

“Hope.” He finished. “That's what I saw when I first laid eyes on you.”

“Prometheus.” I whispered like a prayer. It might as well be. 

He sighed my name.

All I ever was and ever will be, was mere clay placed into the kiln by gentle hands and low murmured promises. 

 ~

They called her Princess Melionë.

Prometheus called her an agent of change. 

I called her a problem. 

I cursed under my breath as I watched her tear through Hephaestus’ creations like a hot knife through butter. Ducking away from the battle, I hurried through the hidden paths of the mountain,  not paying heed to the footprints I left behind.

Prometheus would be waiting for her, he always knew when she would be successful making it up to the mountain. Yet I felt the urge to run to my beloved Master and warn him anyway.

I flinched as I saw more black smoke that spilled from the battle. Something was different this time about Princess Melionë. Although she was a creature of moonlight and shadows, she burned a fire of her own.

When I finally reached my Master, he held up a hand before I could speak. With a wordless flicker of his hand, I obeyed and stayed out of sight, all I could do was watch.

Countless times, I had seen Prometheus fought the princess with an ease that perhaps even the greatest warriors would had envied. He knew everything about the Princess and she knew nothing.

Not this time. 

I held my breath, horrified as Prometheus took another hit. Aeros flew through the air, a blazing comet that cried out and swoop down into the battle, his swift form lost to my moral eyes. 

In the end, Prometheus won.

As he always did.

Any whispering doubts of any other outcome in my mind, I pushed aside. Prometheus saw far more than anyone else. 

He would not fail.

[gwenie-creates]

Petals Of Death

A Landoscar FBI Au

TW - this story will contain mentions of r@pe, SA, descriptions of violence, and hinted at past abusive relationships

Chapter Four

After a few tense moments of awkward silence, Lando’s stomach began to loudly grumble. 

Cringing, Lando tried to sink lower into his seat while George and Alex just laughed from the front of the car. 

George turned to look at Lando laughing, 

“Well clearly someone’s hungry,” he said with a smirk. 

Alex reached over to slap George’s head. 

“Don’t be an arse George, I’m starving too,” Alex said, giving Lando a reassuring look through the rearview mirror. 

George just rolled his eyes before suggesting, “Why don’t we eat at that diner you love, Lando?” 

Alex nodded, “Yeah, and that way we can see Danny Ric too.” 

Lando smiled; he loved the Springwood’s Diner. 

And seeing Daniel was always a plus. 

Daniel had been begging Lando to come to the diner next time he visits anyway. 

And who was he to deny him the “privilege” of being in Lando’s presence?

Lando snorted at his own thoughts imagining the faces his mates would pull if they heard them. 

‘Yeah because you’re definitely a privilege to be around.’ Alex would probably say with a roll of his eyes. 

George would probably only give him a look of disbelief before coming up with a snarky reply. 

Speaking of his mates they were currently giving him an odd look. 

“Sorry,” Lando said, meeting their confused eyes, “Just imagining Danny’s face when he sees my new hair.” Lando pointed towards his head of curls that were styled in a messy but controlled mullet. 

It had been something he tried after his breakup with Michael. 

He couldn’t bear to look in the mirror with his old hairstyle. 

Not when Michael had always commented on how perfect and pretty it made him look. 

Just thinking about Michale’s hands in his hair, on his body, made him shudder. 

Deciding it was too dangerous to go down that road again, thinking of all the times Lando had tried to push Michael’s hands away, he asked Alex to turn up the radio. 

When nothing but commercials and talk shows played, Lando took out his phone, deciding to just put on his own playlist. 

 The sounds of Kendrick Lamar filled the car as they made their way to the diner. 

***

“Do my eyes deceive me or is that really ‘Little Lando Norris?” An Australian voice exclaimed. 

Lando’s head shot up as he froze in the doorway of the diner. 

A few feet away stood Daniel, standing in front of a table where he was supposed to be taking some customer’s orders. 

Alex and George were gently shoving Lando forward, enjoying his embarrassment. 

Clearing his throat Lando replied with a shy smile, “Yeah it’s me, Danny.” 

***

Alex and George nearly lost it as Daniel raked his eyes over Lando in astonishment before quickly making his way over to them and wrapping Lando in a tight hug. 

Lando squirmed, “You're making a scene Danny.” he said, voice whiny and a blush heavily coating his cheeks. 

 Daniel only tightened his grip, gently rocking them side to side.  

“Let me go, I'm starving,” Lando mumbled into Daniel's chest, punctuating his sentence with a weak shove. 

“Alright, alright.” Daniel raised his hands in mock surrender before letting Lando go. 

“It’s just you’ve been gone for sooooo long,” he said with a playful pout. 

Lando merely rolled his eyes before looking around the diner noticing multiple people staring at them. 

He felt his chest seize with anxiety before relaxing. 

He knew all these people, half of them either went to school with him or were frequent customers at his mum’s pottery shop. 

They were all used to Daniel’s antics and quickly went back to minding their own business. 

Lando looked behind himself to see Daniel finishing hugging George. 

“So… are you going to seat us or not?” Lando asked with an eyebrow raised. 

“Oh of course your majesty, right this way.” Daniel playfully responded, making a ‘right this way’ gesture and pointing to a booth across from a group of people in what looked to be police jackets. 

Huh, that’s odd. Lando thought. 

The jackets didn’t look like the local deputy’s usual uniform jackets but maybe they had changed them up while Lando had been gone. 

As he got closer he realized the jackets had something on the back that definitely didn’t say ‘Police’. 

Instead, the letters F…B…I… were written on them. 

Wait FBI!?? 

What the fuck? 

Before Lando could get a closer look one of the agents (?) had turned in his direction. 

They made direct eye contact and Lando quickly ducked his head. 

Ok, what the fuck!? 

Not only are the FBI for some reason investigating Lando's small hometown but the agent he just made eye contact with also happens to be one of the hottest guys Lando has ever seen. 

Lando slowly chances a look again and sees the agent guy has thankfully looked away. 

But now the man next to him is also looking at Lando. 

Fuck do they know something?? 

Did they somehow figure out what happened to Lando when he was five? 

No, there’s no way they could have. 

He made sure to tell no one. 

He made sure no one would ever know. 

Panic races through Lando’s body. 

His chest constricting and his breathing becoming shallow. 

Trying to distract himself, Lando quickly turns towards his friends hoping they didn’t notice his panicked expression. 

Lando forces himself to refocus on the conversation between Alex and George. 

They’re currently gossiping about one of the guys they used to go to school with who George had seen on their way to the diner. 

“--his ugly ass jacket that looks like tin foil.” Is the first thing Lando hears. 

“Wait… what?” Lando asked, bewildered. 

“George was just telling me about Trevor’s new jacket.” Alex explained, “He saw him as we were driving here and said it looked like he was wearing tin foil.” 

Lando felt confusion cloud his expression so George took out his phone. 

On the screen was a picture of Trevor, a guy who they went to high school with who swore he would become a famous model one day. 

Trevor was wearing a jacket that was easily two sizes too big. 

“He really does look like he’s wearing tin foil,” Lando says with a giggle. 

Before he knows it giggles are pouring out of his lips as George and Alex continuously insult Trevor's “sense” of fashion. 

The feeling of eyes staring at him makes Lando look up again. 

He sees the hot FBI agent looking at him once more. 

But when he realizes Lando’s noticed him, he quickly looks away. 

Lando feels conflicted, on one hand, he definitely wants to get to know this guy. 

Who knows maybe he’s the guy Alex and George have been telling Lando will come along. 

But on the other hand, Lando's worried that the agent knows. 

He promised himself no one would ever know. 

And he has to keep that promise. 

Even if it means possibly giving up on his “true love” or whatever people call it. 

Lando can’t explain why but something about this guy just feels so right. 

Like he’s the one. 

Pushing the thoughts of the mystery FBI agent from his head, Lando focuses back on his friends. 

No matter how badly he wants to, he can't risk it. 

Not if they know something. 

Not when Lando’s put so much effort into making sure no one would ever find out. 

His secret has to stay a secret. 

No matter the cost. 

Thank you to @l-vroomvroom for offering to beta for me I really appreciate it 🧡

[rjthirsty]

Kintsugi

Kintsugi is an ancient Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. The gold creates visible seams where the cracks once were. This celebrates the imperfections of the pottery rather than hiding it.

I received this fanfic from @wistfulwanderingone as a Secret Santa gift, and when I tell you that I teared up several times, I'm not joking. She has given me permission to post and name the fic, and Kintsugi was what I thought of at the end of the story. That's how this fic makes me feel. Like Clavis is piecing me back together with gold to celebrate everything I try to hide.

I'm chronically ill, as some of you might know. Wist knows. She is also aware that I'm bed bound often. Sometimes for days at a time. It's hard to be seen as more than my disability, especially when my illness controls so much of my life. But, while it is part of me, it is not all I am. It has been hard to accept that this year, but I'm working on it. And I know Clavis (and Wist, and all my friends) are behind me to remind me that I'm still wonderful even with my imperfections.

Thank you, Wist, for the beautiful gift. It was so personal and thoughtful and I was literally just complaining about how hard it is being sick during the holidays. And then you gave me this. And it's perfect.

The room is quiet except for the faint crackle of the fireplace, casting warm shadows on the walls. Snow blankets the palace grounds outside, muffling the world in a soft hush. You sit nestled in a pile of blankets, your body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that refuses to lift. Your gaze lingers on the window, where frost has painted delicate patterns on the glass, and you wonder what it would feel like to be part of the life outside those frosted windows—free, light, unburdened.

It’s been days since you left this room, the weight of your chronic illness pinning you down like a cage. The days have blurred together into a slow, muted haze, a rhythm of stillness you’ve almost grown used to. Almost. A sigh escapes your lips, soft and wistful, filling the quiet. You’re so lost in thought that you barely notice the door creak open—until his unmistakable voice breaks the stillness.

“Ah, my poor, suffering muse,” Clavis exclaims, sweeping into the room with all the flair of a traveling performer. “Still sulking in here, I see. I was starting to fear you’d been devoured by this cocoon of blankets. Shall I prepare a eulogy?”

The tension in your chest loosens, almost imperceptibly, as you glance over at him. A faint smile tugs at your lips, unbidden but welcome. “I’m not sulking. I’m just…tired.”

Clavis crosses the room in a few long strides, his golden eyes soften as they sweep over you, taking in the weariness you can never quite hide from him. It’s a look that makes you feel seen—truly seen—in a way that isn’t suffocating or pitying. “Sulking, tragically fatigued—semantics. Worry not, for your savior has arrived.”

You raise a skeptical eyebrow, already fighting the pull of a smile. “Clavis, I don’t need saving. I just need rest.”

“Rest?” He clutches his chest as though your words have mortally wounded him. “Oh no, no, no. Rest is for mere mortals, and you, my dear, are anything but mortal. You’re practically divine.”

The corners of your mouth quirk up despite yourself. You roll your eyes, pretending to dismiss him, but already you feel something shift in the room—the heaviness inside you loosening, just a little. “What are you even doing here?”

“I’ve come with a mission,” he declares, dragging a chair to your bedside and plopping into it with far more drama than necessary. “I’m going to make you laugh.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. No one else bothers with this—this effort to distract you from the heaviness that fills the room. “Clavis, I’m fine. You don’t have to—”

“Oh, but I do,” he interrupts, his tone shifting to something more serious beneath the playful lilt. “You see, your laughter is my favorite sound in the world. And the fact that I haven’t heard it in a whole day? Why, that’s a travesty. A true tragedy of epic proportions.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “As if that’s a travesty. Do I need to buy you a proper dictionary?”

“As if I’d read something that boring.” Clavis shakes his head, tutting like a disappointed teacher. “And let’s not deflect, my love. Full disclosure: I’m not here for a polite chuckle. No, I demand the real thing—the uncontrollable kind of laughter that leaves you gasping for air. The kind that makes you wonder if you’ll survive the sheer joy of it.”

Your heart warms, despite your exhaustion. He’s ridiculous—insufferably so—but there’s something in the way he speaks, in the light in his eyes, that makes you feel like you’re more than this room, more than this illness. Like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

True to his word, Clavis dives into his antics with the enthusiasm of a man on a mission. He recounts exaggerated tales of palace mishaps, complete with elaborate gestures and voices for every person in the palace. His impersonation of Chevalier—smirking and sly, his voice an octave too high—nearly makes you choke on a giggle.

“And then,” he continues, launching into a pantomimed escape, “I, ever the hero, evaded Chev’s villainous clutches with unparalleled grace and daring!” He stumbles over the rug, nearly losing his balance, then bows with a flourish. “Ah-ha! And thus, a legend was born.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, trying to stifle the laugh threatening to escape. It doesn’t work. The sound bursts free, light and unrestrained, and you feel the smallest weight lift from your chest.

“Ah-ha!” he exclaims, pointing at you as though you’ve just confessed a great secret. “But no, that won’t do. A giggle? My dearest darling, I demand full-blown, uncontrollable laughter. The kind that could summon Chevalier himself, just to tell us to keep it down.”

You roll your eyes, though your smile widens. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re radiant,” he replies smoothly, leaning in closer. His words send warmth blooming across your cheeks. “But I digress. Back to the mission at hand.”

He pulls a small, poorly wrapped package from his coat pocket, holding it out to you with a flourish. “A gift for my one and only.”

You hesitate, your brow furrowing. “You brought me a present?”

Of course,” he says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “But beware—it’s no ordinary gift. This one is…revolutionary.”

Curious, you unwrap it to reveal a snow globe. Inside, a miniature replica of the palace gardens sits encased in glass, complete with tiny skaters gliding on a frozen pond. You shake it gently, and glittering snow swirls inside. It’s beautiful—breathtaking, even—but before you can say as much, Clavis leans closer.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, touched.

“Ah, but you haven’t discovered its true charm,” he states, his voice low with mock suspense. “Turn the little lever at the bottom.”

You do, and the melody that follows is anything but elegant. The tinny, off-key tune crescendos into a jumbled cacophony of squeaks and clangs, pure absurdity. Your eyes widen, and before you can stop yourself, laughter spills from your lips. It’s loud and genuine, the kind of laughter you haven’t felt in weeks.

“There it is!” Clavis exclaims triumphantly, pointing at you like he’s just won a grand prize. “The fortress is breached!”

“It’s awful!” you gasp, shaking the globe again as the absurd tune restarts. “Who thought this was a good idea?”

“Clearly a genius,” Clavis replies, looking utterly pleased with himself. “I made it specifically for you. A one-of-a-kind masterpiece, for my one-of-a-kind love.”

You laugh again, your body lighter than it’s felt in days. His antics are absurd, yes, but they’re more than that. They’re a reminder that you’re still here, still capable of joy. And when he looks at you—his golden eyes warm and bright—you feel seen in a way you haven’t in a long time. Not as someone to pity, but as someone worth every ounce of his energy.

“Clavis, this is—”

“Brilliant?” he interrupts, tilting his head like a smug cat. “Oh, I agree. But don’t let me sway your opinion. Go ahead, laugh some more. It’s my favorite part.”

The hours slip by, each moment brimming with more of Clavis’s relentless antics. He begins with an over-the-top reenactment of how he supposedly triumphed over Leon in an epic snowball fight, claiming victory not just with skill but with the “tactical brilliance of a true general.” His makeshift cape—a blanket he pilfered from your bed—is tied dramatically around his shoulders, fluttering with every exaggerated gesture. In his hand, a sugar cube serves as his noble weapon.

“And then,” Clavis declares, leaping atop the nearest chair with the grace of a performer on stage, “when all seemed lost, when the forces of nature turned against me, I made a daring move! A single, decisive strike!” He hurls the sugar cube onto the bedside table, where it lands with an unimpressive plink. “And just like that, Leon fell before me. And I? A hero crowned by destiny!”

This time when the laughter bubbles over, it doesn’t feel so foreign anymore. Each laugh feels more natural than the last, weaving itself into the fabric of the evening, no longer leaving room for the shadows that usually cling to you. Your cheeks ache from smiling, and you revel in the feeling. “I don’t think Leon would agree with your version of events,” you manage, your voice tinged with amusement.

“Ah, but history belongs to the storytellers, my dear,” Clavis replies with a wink, his grin sharper than the frost on the windowpane. “And fortunately for the world, I have an exceptional gift for embellishment. It’s a heavy burden, being this remarkable, but someone must bear it.”

As if to punctuate his words, he picks up another sugar cube, examining it with mock seriousness. “But wait,” he says, his golden eyes narrowing conspiratorially. “This is no ordinary cube of sweetness. This, fancy fiancée, is a weapon of unparalleled power, forged in the icy winds of battle. A true artifact of destruction.”

You shake your head, still smiling. The weight on your chest feels a little lighter, the tight grip of exhaustion momentarily loosening. “You’re impossible,” you say, though your tone holds no real rebuke—just warmth.

Clavis gasps, clutching the edge of his blanket-cape as though you’ve mortally wounded him. “Impossible? My dear, I am legendary.” He straightens with a dramatic flair, his makeshift cape sweeping the floor as he strikes a pose. “A true visionary never limits himself to what is merely possible. Why settle for reality when imagination is so much more thrilling?”

The absurdity of his words pulls another laugh from you, one that shakes the remnants of the fog you’ve been drowning in. For a moment, you’re not the sickly figure confined to a room—you’re just you, laughing at his ridiculous antics.

But Clavis isn’t finished. In an unexpected move, he drags a chair toward the window and flings it open, letting in a gust of icy air that sends the curtains billowing. You shiver instinctively, clutching your blankets closer as the cold nips at your skin.

“Behold!” Clavis exclaims, pointing dramatically to the snow-covered gardens below. His golden eyes glitter with excitement as he straightens his posture, looking every bit the theatrical knight he imagines himself to be. “The battlefield of legends! Where courage is tested and heroes are made! But fear not, my love—I shall defend your honor!”

Before you can stop him, he flicks a sugar cube out the window. You track its arc through the air, and to your horror (and slight amusement), it lands squarely on Prince Gilbert’s shoulder as he strolls below.

“Clavis!” you gasp, caught between laughter and panic.

Gilbert pauses mid-step, slowly brushing the sugar dust from his shoulder. Even from this distance, the chill of his predatory smile sends a shiver down your spine.

Clavis freezes for half a heartbeat before shutting the window with a flourish, leaning casually against the sill as if nothing happened. “Well, that was unfortunate,” he remarks, the slightest twitch of his lips betraying his amusement.

“Unfortunate?” you hiss. “You just sugar-bombed Prince Gilbert! Do you have a death wish?”

Clavis turns to you with a grin that’s far too relaxed for the gravity of the situation. “Darling, life without a little danger is simply dull. Besides,” he adds, with a conspiratorial wink, “I’ve always been curious about his sweet tooth. Consider it an experiment in diplomacy. I’m practically doing Chevalier a favor.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands, but even then, you can’t stop the laughter that spills out, bright and uncontainable. It fills the room, a sound that feels out of place after so many days of silence. The world outside your window is still heavy and cold, but in this room, warmth floods in. 

“You’re going to get us both killed,” you manage between breaths, your voice tinged with exasperation.

Clavis wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth. The gesture feels grounding, safe.  “Don’t worry, my love. If it comes to that, I’ll charm my way out of it. Or…” He pauses, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’ll say it was your idea.”

You swat at him, your laughter spilling over again, but this time it’s not just his words that fuel it. It’s the way he looks at you, like you’re the center of his universe. The way he knows exactly how to lift the crushing weight you carry without making you feel small. His devotion cuts through the haze of your illness in a way nothing else has.

Clavis watches you, a look of unguarded affection softening his features, and you realize his joy isn’t just in hearing your laughter—it’s in knowing he’s helped you reclaim it.

“There it is,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. “That’s the sound I love most.”

Your laughter fades into something softer, more fragile. “Clavis…”

“Do you know what your laughter does to me?” he asks, leaning closer. His golden eyes are warm, searching yours. “It’s the most perfect sound in the world. Joyful, bright, and just a little bit mischievous—just like you. It makes me believe there’s magic in this world after all. And trust me, I don’t say that lightly.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion. Your cheeks flush, and you glance down at the blankets covering your lap. “You’re being dramatic again.”

“No,” he says firmly, his voice gentler than you’ve ever heard it. “Not about this.” He sits beside you, placing a gloved hand over his heart. 

For a moment, the world feels impossibly quiet. Clavis reaches out, brushing his gloved fingers against your cheek in a rare gesture of tenderness.

“You’ve been through so much,” he says softly, his grin fading into something more serious. “And yet, you still laugh. You still shine. That’s what I love about you. And I swear, I’ll keep giving you reasons to laugh as long as I’m breathing.”

The weight on your chest doesn’t feel quite as heavy anymore. The room feels lighter, brighter, infused with his warmth and presence. You lean into his touch, letting the moment wrap around you like a balm.

The day fades into evening, the golden light of the fireplace softening the edges of the room. The warmth flickers across Clavis’s features, painting him in shades of amber that seem almost otherworldly. You’re tired—bone-tired in a way that feels insurmountable—but your heart feels lighter, buoyed by the warmth of his presence. The ache in your limbs is still there, the heaviness of your illness lingering like a shadow, but for the first time in days, it feels bearable.

Clavis lingers by your bedside, his golden eyes scanning your face with an intensity that makes you feel exposed, but not in a way that stings. It’s a gentle kind of scrutiny, one that doesn’t search for flaws but treasures. No one has ever looked at you like that before, as if you’re more than just the sum of your weakness and weariness. His gaze sees you—not the fragile shell you feel like most days, but the person you’ve almost forgotten you are.

“Rest, my lovely lover,” he says softly, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. The warmth of his lips lingers like a promise, grounding you in the moment. His voice is low, coaxing, as if he’s whispering a secret meant only for you. “And when you wake, I’ll be here to make you laugh all over again.”

The corners of your mouth lift into a faint smile, and for once, it doesn’t feel like a strain. Clavis’s devotion is a strange thing—intense, unwavering, and entirely consuming. He doesn’t just want to ease your pain; he wants to rewrite it entirely, to fill the cracks in your world with light and laughter until there’s no room for the darkness to creep back in.

As your eyelids grow heavy, you feel the edges of your mind soften, the weight of your body giving way to the pull of sleep. The warmth of the blankets surrounds you, but it’s his words that linger, wrapping around your heart like the coziest of comforts.

You realize, in that hazy space between waking and dreaming, that you believe him. You believe in his promise to stay, to bring you laughter when you feel like you’ll never smile again. You believe in the joy he carries, the way it spills into your life like sunlight breaking through clouds.

With Clavis, there will always be laughter—unpredictable, unrelenting, and healing. There will always be joy in the smallest moments, like the off-key melody of a snow globe or the glint in his eye when he’s plotting his next ridiculous scheme. And, most importantly, there will always be love—the kind that sees every broken part of you and holds it close, never letting go.

You drift into sleep with that certainty nestled deep in your chest. The world outside is still cold and quiet, but here, with him, there’s warmth that promises to last.

[gallamy]

One-shot: Smith goes to a pottery class (idea credit: @otto-von-gay)

Smith has no idea why he was in this confounded, inane little pottery class. Well, that was a bit of a lie. The Mainframe had instituted very specific directives for the Agents: data collection via human experience.

In human terms, it was essentially: “Go do human shit and report back so we machines know more about these little sheep in order to better control them, to improve upon the code of the Matrix so as to subjugate them more effectively.”

Smith resists the urge to shoot everyone in the room.

He walks in, and the room falls silent. It’s approximately a 70-30 split between females and males. He takes a seat, notably away from all the rest of the group of humans. He doesn’t wish to get closer than what is absolutely necessary. He can feel their little idiotic eyes on him. It seems as though this group knows each other already from prior classes; thus, his presence is instantly noticeable. He ignores them.

The class begins. A male – the teacher, Smith presumes – walks to the front of the class, a sickening grin on his face.

“Are we ready for POTTERY!” Exclaims the male teacher, and the class murmurs in excitement (except Smith, of course.) The male is far too enthusiastic, Smith thinks, like an old-time human cartoon. Smith’s forehead vein bulges in irritation. Had he been human, his blood pressure would already be heightened to a stroke risk.

The male teacher directs the class to start molding their clay which was already supplied in front of them. Smith attempts to access the Matrix database on how to engage with pottery-making; however, the Mainframe denies his request.

Mainframe: Agent Smith (I.D. code 10000271) must use his own skills to execute the prior directive regarding human interaction.

Translation: “The Mainframe won’t help you become a master pottery-maker in the blink of an eye. You’re on your own to blend in.”

Smith feels anger but wills his face to stay neutral. It seems that he just actually learn this skill - pottery-making, that is. How irritating. Reluctantly, he starts working with clay as it spins on the pottery wheel.

He hates the texture of the wet clay. It’s slimy and unpleasant. His hands move awkwardly like a child, clearly unaccustomed to the act of molding such a malleable material. He grimaces.

The male teacher informs the class that they may sculpt whatever they want. Smith ponders what exactly he should construct. He settles with a plant pot. It seems the easiest, the overall shape being less complex than a vase or other such shapes.

The pottery clay is unexpectedly hard to handle, even the slightest pressure causing the sides to collapse inward. He feels the irritation rising within him, and he imagines flipping the table. The thought amuses him, but he maintains a scowl, his eyebrows furrowed as he slowly gets the hang of molding the clay into what resembles…something like a plant pot.

When his project is completed, Smith notices that the plant pot is a bit misshapen. Perhaps more than a bit. Nonetheless, the irritating male teacher comes over, clapping Smith on the back – a sign of comradery, much to Smith’s chagrin.

“Excellent job, friend!” The male teacher says, his voice seemingly sincere and warm. “Come by in a couple of days, and the pot will be ready for planting!”

Smith merely nods. He doesn’t want to spend any more time in this awful place than needed, so he informs the male of his departure. Smith walks out of the room but can’t help but to ponder what plant he shall plant within the pot.

In a way, he understands the appeal of pottery to the stupid humans. It’s creative and practical, almost a small way of being God, if there was such a thing.

[sorenphelps]

🦕 emergency🦖

a comic with very sloppy colouring which happens right after this ficlet, and right before this one, both written by @goldenlionprince for The Bodyguard AU. I originally wanted to add a second page, but it's mostly dialogue, so I attempted to write it instead. It's about 500 words, and should be read after the above comic page. Thanks for the beta @neverenoughmarauders. Also tagging @lovelymasks & @diamondmeadow.

“It is real and I just can't keep it under control anymore, okay? Yesterday he kissed me and I let him! I should be focused on his safety, but I... If he hadn't stopped I don't think I would have... I mean, I slept with my gun out of reach, damnit! What if someone attacked us?! And it's not just that I'm overworked and underfucked, it’s more like I actually... I want a relationship?... But I can't... You know me, I'm just not cut out for this, I shouldn’t...” Sirius says desperately without taking a single breath.  Remus is still a little angry at him for making him so worried and rush to the museum, but his friend asks for his help so he will try his best. Sirius looks quite concerned after all. “Okay, take a breath and calm down. You know that having emotions is normal human behaviour, right? And contrary to popular belief, you are also just a mere human.” “Oh yeah, thank you for reminding me that he’s way out of my league!” Sirius snaps at him. “Oh, come on, we all know that’s not true!” Remus snaps back. “If you are so worried about your feelings, maybe you should just find yourself a hobby instead? Ever thought about doing pottery?”  Remus knows he’s acting like a little shit, but you can’t deny a man his pleasures. Plus it is sure to anger Sirius. Ironically, anger can clear his mind better than logical reasoning in stressful situations. “That is precisely all I am doing! Come on, Remus, haven’t you paid any attention to what I’ve been saying?!”  Sirius runs his fingers through his hair nervously, notices the familiarity of the movement, and again, starts thinking about James. He really is a goner. He lets out a frustrated grunt. “Look, I’m sorry for using the dino code, but I really need your help.” “All right. How can I help you though? If you want an emotional support plushie, I’m afraid you have to buy that yourself, but I promise I won’t tell the cashier that it is not actually a gift for your imaginary 5-years-old nephew. I can’t really make you fall out of love, but I can make you another emergency package with some books about love and a few packs of condoms. I can also talk you through it, or just silently let you figure it out yourself, while we look at some fossils. Or you can come home with me and help me finish folding the laundry.” “That's what you had to abandon? Wow, Lupin, I almost felt bad for a moment for interrupting your schedule of very important tasks with my problem.”  He looks a little less stressed, but it only lasts until they cover the possibility of a relationship again. “I really want this, Remus, but… How do I not fuck this up so badly that he ends up running away to marry my cousin?!..” “Don’t be dramatic, you already ran out of available cousins to marry.” “Marry my brother then…” “Don’t be ridiculous, they haven't even spoken a word to each other, besides the only thing they have in common is you… Calm down, and use that big brain of yours to figure out what you really want. Then we can think about how to make that happen, okay?”

[ominouslywritinginmyhead]

iwaizumi hajime x reader; fluff/angst, feudal au

inspired by Philippa Gregory’s The Lady of the Rivers

wc: 998

The fire crackles in the hearth by the time Hajime returns home.

It has been a long, yet well-spent day: the bears are retreating into the mountains for the rest of the autumn, and Lord Oikawa will have a nice new bearskin pelt to show off when he visits the royal court next spring. All in all, a productive hunt. And the hunter is now hungry.

Your face glows from flickering orange flames as you prepare supper: a simple fare of rice, soup, and tofu with bonito shavings. A far cry from the meals you were once used to, but the contentment in your eyes is enough to make Hajime hope you don’t regret coming here.

Hana, the only maidservant brave enough to follow you to this out-of-the-way province, guides you in preparing the meals. “Yes, I think that’s enough, my lady,” she says patiently. “Just let it simmer for a few minutes, and it’ll be ready to eat.”

“Thank you,” you tell her softly. Your sweet yet measured voice brings the freshness of spring into the house despite it being a cold autumn night. The gods must favour him above all others, Hajime thinks, for why else would he be able to come home to such a beautiful, lovely wife?

Mere weeks ago, Hajime thought he was fortunate to escape with his life, never mind his bride and the small plot of land you two now call home. But as he settles into his fifth month of marriage, he finds that this shabby little estate is more blessed than any other place in the world. For this land, this house…they now hold the woman he loves the most. They hold his whole world.

You raise your head, and see him standing in the corner, watching you with the smallest of smiles on his lips. “Welcome back, danna-sama,” you greet, bowing deeply.

Hajime wishes you wouldn’t be so formal with him. This is not a royal marriage. The two of you can live as easily and freely as birds in the sky.

But even he knows the gods cannot grant him everything.

“I’m home,” he replies.

“Supper is almost ready,” you tell him. “Once you’ve eaten, I can prepare the bath. You must have had a tiring day.”

“I did,” he admits, joining you at the hearth. The warmth soothes him after a day out in the cold. A single brown leaf falls from his hair and onto the rough floor underneath. The house is old, and was hardly used before you and he arrived, but there’s nothing a few tools can’t fix. Hajime’s already made sure the roof and walls are ready to withstand the upcoming winter. He had better check on the firewood supply soon.

You dismiss Hana, who gives Hajime a friendly wink. He has known her a long time - ever since she was a lowly maidservant at the royal palace and he was a humble soldier pining for the young Emperor’s cousin. He wouldn’t even have known you loved him back had she not whispered it to him in passing on that beautiful spring morning.

“How did you spend your day?” Hajime asks, watching the soup bubble in the pot.

You think for a moment. “After you left, I checked the tools we’ll need to harvest the vegetables tomorrow,” you say. “Once I finished that, Hana and I brought in some water from the well. Then…oh, we went to the market to sell some pottery.”

“Pottery?” Hajime repeats. Then he remembers.

The delicate vases Hana packed so carefully as your exile was announced at court. The painted pots you had arranged so beautifully in your old rooms. The long-necked pot that was a gift from your father - the son of an Emperor himself.

Gone. All gone.

Along with the illusion he’s held in his mind all these months.

“We got a good price,” you continue, not noticing the drooping of his firm shoulders; the fact that you and Hana were able to drive a hard bargain has you lost in another world. “Danna-sama, you should have heard what they were offering us at first! Goodness me, if it hadn’t been for Hana, we might have been robbed! What would I do without her?”

Hajime thought he could provide you with a good life. He could scoff now at his naïveté: how is this a ‘good’ life when you have to sell the few possessions you were allowed to bring here? How is it a good life when you now reside in a shabby, worn-down wooden house, far away from the royal luxuries you called your own? How is it a good life when the former saiō of Ise Shrine, one of the most eligible royal brides in the country, is now living as the wife of a humble soldier, banished from court for making such an outrageous marriage? You and he were lucky to leave the court alive.

The night of your wedding, Hajime promised to keep you happy and safe. He’s already come close to breaking that promise.

He’s already failed as a husband.

“She chose you,” Lord Oikawa once told him, in the early days of the exile. “She could have had the riches of the court, but this is the life she chose. Don’t underestimate her: she knew what she was getting into.”

As your cousin (and now, unfortunately, Hajime’s cousin by marriage), Lord Oikawa knows you well, so perhaps he spoke the truth. Even so, Hajime’s heart twists into a painful knot as he watches your delicate hands - having known little beyond conducting rituals and writing poetry - stir the bubbling soup one final time before pouring some into a wooden bowl.

You gave up everything for him. You chose to give up everything for him.

The miso soup is saltier than Hajime is used to. But does it come as a surprise? No, not really.

At least you’ve turned back to the hearth - that way, you won’t see his tears.

Tagging @anonimusunnoaniswriting for funsies and because we’ve discussed this au in the past 😇

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Blessed Heir of the Abyss (Abyssal Prince Childe x Reader) Part 5

Synopsis: After centuries of conflict, Teyvat and the Abyss are attempting to make peace with one another. To solidify new alliances and let go of past grudges, the Abyssal Prince Tartaglia will choose a spouse from the people above to rule over the Abyss with him.

That spouse happens to be you, an ordinary, Visionless citizen of Liyue.

Chapter Four: Of Stone and Scales

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Warnings: Descriptions of illness and pain, allusions to crying and fevers, coughing, SLOW BURN

~ * ~ “What a conundrum this is…” Through the haze and smoke of your fever comes a gentle press against your forehead, the touch of soft and delicate hands ghosting over your skin like a butterfly’s wings. They’re cold- too cold, at first, and you flinch away- but the chill turns soothing against the heat of your sickness, and you let out an instinctive sigh of relief as the neverending pain recedes, even just slightly. The same careful touch holds the back of your head and lifts it upwards, prompting you to sip from a small ceramic bowl. You comply without a thought, barely tasting the sharp bitterness of the liquid as it slides down your throat, and those wonderfully gentle hands settle your head back down onto a plush pillow before pulling away. Your brow furrows as panic rises in your chest, wanting desperately to reach for and take hold of this singular moment of comfort, to bask in its sunshine forever. Please, stay. “Honestly, what were they thinking, bringing a mortal from Teyvat to the Abyss? The elemental whiplash…” A steady voice cuts through your distress like a knife, and the knot in your stomach unravels. Just barely you can place the sound of footsteps on wood, delicate clinks of glass and pottery, and dried leaves being crushed together. “…It’s enough to make an Adeptus seriously ill, much less a human.” In the sludge of your consciousness you open your mouth to speak, only to fail and let out a few awful, wracking coughs. Fail… yes. That’s all you seem to do now. The murmurings pause, soft taps of shoes growing a bit louder, and a cool hand rests on your arm, now speaking directly to you, “Rest, my friend… you’ll need your strength.” They squeeze your arm; once, twice, and what little vision you have fades as you drift down into a murky ocean of silence. A child laughs, her swing creaking, and a tiny green flower blooms from your fingertips. Everything blurs together as you return to nothingness. It’s the light that you sense first, shining through your closed eyes and filling the void with colors. You groan, shifting and pulling the covers over your ears in an earnest attempt to snatch a few more minutes of sleep, the bed cushioning your sore, aching joints. But the light merely shines brighter, birds twittering and giggling at your plight, and with a hiss of annoyance you relent to their joyous whims. Your eyes crack open and stare into the morning Harbor sun. With a gasp you fling yourself into a sitting position, only to double over as you cough and hack, tears springing to your eyes from the force, breath coming out as sharp wheezes. “Ah, you’re awake- Oh dear.” Someone hurries into the room to sit beside you, pressing a hand to your back and rubbing it up and down. “Let it out, my friend, you’ll feel much better afterwards.”

You take the advice in stride, coughing and coughing until your head spins and your shoulders shake and you’re absolutely sure that you’re going to faint- but you don’t, and slowly the coughs fade away until you can breathe, gratefully inhaling a lungful of air. “There… how do you feel?” You turn and blink in surprise for what seems like the hundredth time this week, gaze landing on a familiar, green-haired figure. “D… Dr. Baizhu?” His snakeish eyes shine with delight, golden and amber and fire-colored, “Ah, you remember me! Good, that means your mental faculties are intact, at the very least.” “How couldn’t I?” You let out a laugh, hoarse but happy. “You’re the best pharmacist in Liyue! Zhongli talks about you all the time- he always recommends your herbal remedies if I have a sore throat.” Baizhu chuckles quietly, “He does, does he? Well, I certainly won’t disagree with him on that.” The jewels hanging from his glasses glimmer, and you have to stifle the urge to reach out and bat at them like a cat. There’s a squeaky yawn from a table across the room, and Baizhu glances towards the sound with a smile, “Ah, Changsheng.” He walks to the table, picking up a scaly white bundle in his arms. “I don’t think you two have met. This is Changsheng, my treasured companion- Changsheng, say hello to our guest.” The sleepy little snake raises her head, and you give her a small, hesitant wave. “Ah,” You jump slightly at her voice, her tongue flicking towards your hand. “This one is sick, aren’t they?” Baizhu nods, eyes darkening, “Yes, they are.” He sits beside you again, Changsheng slithering up to his shoulders and peering at you curiously. “Your mind seems to be undamaged, but…” he sighs. “…I am uncertain about the rest of you.” You stiffen, fingers weakly curling into your blanket, “Dr. Baizhu… What exactly happened to me? Why am I in Liyue? And why-” You’re abruptly cut off by a cough, and Baizhu hurriedly pats your back. 

“The short story is that the energy and atmosphere of the Abyss caused you to fall ill,” he explains carefully. “Mortals of Teyvat and the Abyss do not mix- it’s an entirely foreign land to us, and the sudden change between above and below was too much for your body.” Baizhu’s expression turns grim, “The stress of your particular situation also did nothing to help.” “Oh,” You swallow thickly, your throat like sandpaper, then straighten your back with some effort. “What’s the cure, doctor?” “Rest, mostly. Preferably somewhere familiar and nonthreatening.” Baizhu smiles, a small pair of fangs peeking over his lips. “And please, call me Baizhu.” He sighs, quietly, “You’re quite lucky that you were only down there for a few days, my dear. Give it a week, and I likely wouldn’t have been able to save you.” You glance up curiously, “That reminds me, er- how did I get back to Liyue, exactly? Did someone have to drag my unconscious body up here?” “Ah, well-” “Your Highness!” The door bursts open, and Enjou ducks his head to float into the room. “Are you alright?! I apologize for not coming to your aid sooner, I fell asleep.” “Enjou?!” Your mouth hangs open in shock, then you burst into laughter that quickly devolves into coughing. “You- ahem- you brought me here?” “That he did.” Baizhu nods, holding you as you hack out a lung. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting to see an Abyss Lector at my door, especially not at 1 AM.” “I am sorry about that.” Enjou bows his head. “It was an urgent matter, doctor.” “My dear sir, there’s no need to apologize! I’m very glad you got here when you did.” Enjou nods, hovering beside Baizhu, a bit awkward and out of place. He’s still wearing his glasses, you notice, and take a few quick glances between the Lector and the pharmacist. They almost mirror each other, in a way, with their glasses and elegance and worry for you.

“So, when do you think I can take them back to the Abyss?” Enjou breaks the silence after a few moments, and Changsheng lets out a low hiss. Baizhu clicks his tongue and shakes his head, gently stroking Changsheng’s scales, “Not for a while, I’m afraid. This whole situation is, frankly, a mess.” He gives Enjou a stern look over the top of his glasses. “They will need at least a couple of weeks to recuperate, and no less.” The Lector nods silently, his warm glow filling the room, “I will… see what I can do. The others of the Court are not going to like this.” “Enjou,” your voice is soft and scratchy. “I don’t want to die.” His tear-shaped eyes gleam kindly, and he delicately pats your shoulder with his claws, “You won’t, I’ll make sure of it. I’ll talk to the other members of the Court- they might be old fools, but they’re not entirely unreasonable.” You scoff, rolling your eyes, “I’ll agree with the old fool part.” Suddenly there’s a few quick knocks on the pharmacy door, and Baizhu tilts his head over his shoulder, “Ah, I might know who that is…” His quiet footsteps trail away, leaving you and Enjou in the bright, sunlit room, and you stare at the beams of light filtering through the windows. You’ve forgotten how beautiful it is, to see the dust float in the sun, casting patterns onto the floor, the comfort of being home warming your aching bones. The room smells of sweet flowers and bitter herbs and mint, and your eyes slide shut as you inhale, just barely able to catch the scent of rain and lilies from outside, splashes of bright colors dancing and swirling about. Familiarity washes over you, and you smile. “I should apologize for earlier,” Enjou’s voice pulls you out of your daydream, and you look up at him curiously. “I called you “Your Highness” in my panic over your state. I am sorry.” The Lector bows to you deeply as he speaks, somehow making himself seem smaller despite being twice your height. “Oh, it’s okay! To be honest, I was too busy choking to notice.” You smile tiredly. “Thank you… thank you for remembering, though. And for bringing me here. And for being nice to me.” Your thoughts spill from your mouth, one by one, a swift current rushing down a river.

“But of course! It is my honor to assist you, truly.” Enjou’s aura flares a bit brighter at your words. “And if it is of any help, I also apologize for my colleagues’ behavior so far. Including the Prince’s.” His voice lowers to a hiss. “He despises this as much as you do, but that is no excuse to treat you so poorly.” You feel your cheeks grow warm- warmer than they already are- and quickly cast your gaze to the blanket, thoughts tangled and muddled together, “Thanks, Enjou.” is all you can mumble, the thought of Tartaglia sending a fresh stab of fear and anger into your heart, your fists tightening around the fabric of your covers. “My dear,” Baizhu calls from the hallway, poking his head in with a satisfied smile, and the harsh fire in your chest dies down to an ember. “You have visitors.” As soon as he speaks a brown and crimson blur rushes towards you, dashing past Enjou and leaping onto your bed, “YOU NINCOMPOOP!!!” Hu Tao throws her familiar arms around you, already bawling her eyes out. “The first time I let you go somewhere without me and you almost end up dead! I may be a funeral parlor director, but your funeral isn't one I want to plan anytime soon!” Her grip tightens as she sobs into your shoulder, signature hat tumbling to the ground. “I didn’t exactly plan it!” You gasp through her stifling squeezes. “It just sort of… happened.” Your own hug feels weak and frail in comparison to hers, even more so than usual, and Hu Tao slaps her hands onto your shoulders, shaking you back and forth. “That is no excuse! Swear to me that you won’t die! Promise! Pinkie promise!” “Okay, okay! I promise!” Your head spins as she abruptly stops shaking you to look you right in the eyes, her fiery pupils filled with flowers and tears. “Good! And you better keep that promise, or else I won’t have anyone to sample my cooking or watch me destroy Xingqiu in poetry!” Hu Tao grins at you, but her eyes are dead serious, and you gulp nervously and nod. “And YOU!” Her head snaps towards Enjou. “You’re one of those creeps that took my best friend away! Why, I ought to lock you in a coffin and-” “Hu Tao!” You grab her arm, half coughing and half giggling. “He’s a friend, too, I swear!”

“Really?” She observes Enjou up and down, from the tips of his crown-like horns to his feet hovering off the ground. “Hmph, if you say so… but I’m keeping an eye on you!” Enjou raises his hands helplessly as she glares, glancing from you to Hu Tao and back again pleadingly, and you muffle a snicker. “She’s not the only one,” A deep, smooth voice emits from the doorway and you perk up, a wide smile spreading across your face as you meet Zhongli’s gaze, his presence casting a blanket of calm serenity over the room. “I will also be watching you closely, Lector.” Enjou straightens his back and bows, “Ah, hello Mor-” “Zhongli. Just Zhongli.” The man in question strides over, sitting in a chair by your bedside, long legs elegantly crossed. “I’m glad to see you are alright, little one,” Zhongli murmurs. “Well, mostly alright.” “It’s nice to see you too, Zhongli,” you whisper, and his gloved hands brush over yours to hold them firmly, heavy and comforting like the stones of Liyue Harbor. The corners of his lips are just barely turned up, but his draconic eyes glitter with warmth- for a moment, he almost appears tearful, but it quickly settles into pride and relief. “Gah, quit hogging, old man!” Hu Tao quickly latches onto your other arm, plopping her chin onto your shoulder with a pout. “You’ll have plenty of time to catch up with them while I’m busy helping our clients!” “He will?” You crane your head towards Hu Tao, blinking in confusion. “Of course, silly-billy! Baizhu says that you have to stay and recover for at least a few weeks- right, doc?” She glances up as the bespectacled pharmacist moves to stand beside Zhongli, and both he and Changsheng nod. “It’d be best for your health, my dear.” “Oh,” you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, feeling lighter than air. “That’s good, then.” Like the flick of a switch you fall back into a familiar routine, Hu Tao launching into a detailed play-by-play of what you missed while you were withering away in the Abyss, including her rap battle with Xingqiu and Captain Beidou taking everyone out for a joyride on the Alcor- not that it was very joyful without you, she insists. You bite your tongue to stifle a laugh when she goes off on a tangent about how Yanfei dropped her enormous law book on her foot when she received news of your departure- “Nothing broke, but it sure felt like something did!”- and Zhongli lets out a low chuckle at the funeral parlor director’s antics, a hand on your back in case you start coughing again. At some point Enjou tilts his head and excuses himself, bowing once to you and once more to the rest of the room before floating away like crackling fire.

Hu Tao sticks her tongue out as he leaves, and you flick her on the forehead, movements still clumsy from sickness. “Oh, and you have to come to Wuwang Hill with me and Chongyun! I’ve heard that there are some departed souls still hanging around, so I want to-” “Director,” Zhongli’s calming voice breaks through her chatter. “It may be best to wait until they’re feeling a little bit better.” You nod sheepishly, “Sorry, Hu Tao. I don’t think I could make it to the Harbor entrance right now, much less Wuwang Hill.” “Aww.” Hu Tao looks sulky, tugging at the ends of her long pigtails. “But the city’s sooo boring! I’m sure we can work something out-” “Excuse me.” Enjou hurries back into the room, and Hu Tao puffs out her cheeks, annoyed at being interrupted again. “I know this is most likely a bad time, but…” The Lector hesitates, and you frown in concern. “But what, Enjou?” He sighs and meets your gaze, reluctant and apologetic, “His Highness is here. He wishes to speak with his spouse.”

[toomuchracket]

yes d wird girly mother’s day blurb 🙏🏼

matty INTENDS to let you have a long lie, but he makes the rookie error of popping back into your room with lyla after she's woken up and fed, just to check on you, and she gets so excited to see you that he really has no choice but to sit down on his side of the bed and let the baby crawl all over you to wake you up lol; he's really apologetic about it, bless him, but waking up to their adorable smiley faces (she's starting to look a bit more like matty when she smiles and it's SO cute) is actually the best thing ever, and matty gets a cute little vid of you and lyla giggling away (that he is under strict instruction NOT to show anyone because "jesus christ look how messy my hair is"). you're hinting at breakfast in bed, but matty hate hate HATES even the mere thought of getting crumbs on the sheets, so you all head down to the kitchen and you and lyla sit and share some fruit (she's old enough to have some now) and let matty do the cooking and bottle prep - after breakfast, it's time for presents, and after you're done welling up at the card "signed" by lyla and her as-yet-unborn baby sibling ("the bump"), you're reduced to TEARS by the vase and flowers matty presents you with. i think when you were pregnant with lyla you did that pottery thing where you squish a clay-formed vase against the bump to dent it, and as a continuation matty's taken her to make a vase with her little handprints in 🥺🥺 you get a bunch of your favourite flowers in it AND one in the bump vase, a massive bottle of your favourite perfume, and a lovely little pair of stud earrings with lyla's birthstones (emeralds) in them, so basically you're totally spoiled. lyla gets a big thank you cuddle, and when she's engrossed watching bluey you do drag her dad into the hall to thank him with a makeout session too lol - he's like "couldn't not spoil you, darling, you're the best. the babies - and me - are so lucky to have you, y'know. we love you", bless him, and ok yeah you sneak another kiss or two before you have to start getting ready to go for lunch with your and matty's mothers. yours is lowkey suspicious when you tell her you're not drinking (because it's still too early to tell them you're pregnant again), but a combination of you being like "on antibiotics. uti, not fun" and lyla doing something cutesy distracts everyone, and it just turns out to be a really lovely afternoon; denise starts reminiscing about her mum, and she squeezes your hand and says "she would've loved you, you know. lyla too, of course, but god, she would've thought you were incredible, the way you take everything in your stride", and matty just leans over and kisses your head like "s'true. she'd be ripping into me for not proposing, though", and your mum smirks like "her gran would be doing the same", and matty's like "would she have liked me, though, d'you think?", and you ruffle his hair like "yeah. she did tell me to go for someone older than me when i eventually settled down" lol. there's a lot of laughs, a lot of good food, and just a lot of love - really, a perfect day, which is exactly what matty wanted for you. he loves you so much!! <3

[wildxard]

Summer Sun, Cast My Shadow

fierrochase content for the soul.............. My bad if either is out of character, it's my first time writing for these two.

If there was one thing Alex hated the most, it was perfection. To him, it just never made any sense. It wasn't because of the fact that Alex was well accustomed to the imperfect, but because of the fact that it just never clicked.

Alex's hands curved smoothly around wet clay, forming it and shaping it with practiced ease. The clay spun rapidly, quickly shifting into various shapes and sizes at his own whims. Cool air hit his muddied hands, smooth yet still scarred.

To be perfect was to remain unchanging. To be at the pinnacle of everything without imperfections, without failure. The ideal image of what should be right. To be the best without competition.

It never felt right. To listen to things be referred to as perfect. There's always somewhere to improve, and nothing ever stays the same forever. Besides, people were free to change. To define themselves. Why be held down by the fake ideals of what everybody else wants you to be?

Alex loved ceramics, that much was obvious, if you couldn't tell by the stacks of bags of clay laying around in his room, or the massive kiln consistently firing away in the corner. It wasn't complicated, and you could shape it however you pleased.

His hands dug into the sides of the wet clay, curving it upwards until it finally formed something resembling a vase.

There was nothing perfect about ceramics. It was simply forming, changing, shaping, and bringing what you wanted into reality. Shaping and defining art in your own terms.

To him, that's what made sense. That's what he understood.

A sudden knock on Alex's door reverberated throughout his room, and his hand slipped. Dipping into the sides of the vase and deforming it immediately.

His eyes narrowed, glaring at the clay as if it had wronged him, even though he was the one who made the mistake. It was fine. He could always fix it.

"Come in." He called out.

The door opened smoothly, with Magnus standing in the doorway. He looked rather disheveled, his normally wild blonde hair sticking out in directions it shouldn't be, his jacket loosely hanging around his shoulders.

Magnus glances from Alex, to what he was working on. His brows furrowing as he tried to register if Alex was upset with him or not. He was praying that wasn't the case. Sometimes an angry Alex ended up in another death.

"..I didn't mess anything up, did I?" He asks, carefully making his way into the messy, crowded room. Pots were scattered about, some finished, others broken into pieces out of frustration. Like Alex had made his own personal rage room, and was using his own art for things to destroy.

Alex shook his head, turning his attention back to his clay. He couldn't take his eyes off of it for too long. If he abandoned focus now, the clay would dry up. The plastic-like, easy to mold state it was in now would become a more leather-like, stiff state if he wasn't careful.

"No, I was just... Just working on something. Can't seem to get it right, and it's been eating away at me for a while."

He admitted, running his thumb smoothly along the edges of the pot, softening the edges into a more smooth curve. His hands were cold, and dry from the clay taking the moisture out of them.

Magnus didn't seem to mind, though. He leaned closer, studying the vase. He thought it was perfectly fine. Though, he was never good with pottery like Alex or his cousin Annabeth.

He let his eyes linger on the work for a mere second, before returning their focus to Alex. He was always the center of his days. No matter if Alex was identifying as a female, or like today, a male. It didn't matter to Magnus.

All that mattered to him was that it was Alex.

"Do you even know what you're going for? Or are you just mindlessly fumbling with clay?"

Alex paused. What was he even going for? He's been sitting here throwing out random ideas and yet, there hasn't been a single solid plan for this thing ever since he's started making it.

"...I don't know.."

Magnus snorted, looking at the sad heap of mud and grime that was the clay. Alex had curved his hands too far inwards, and had flattened it into a pancake. "You've been here for hours, how have you not figured anything out?"

Alex huffed, rolling his eyes before trying to reshape the clay, but failing miserably. He couldn't focus. "Shut up. I'm trying, okay. I've got an idea, I just need more time—"

"We have plenty." He answered simply, reaching a hand out and resting it on top of his. He was warm, unlike Alex, who remained a freezing cold. Even dead, Magnus still remained warm. Must've been some Son of Frey thing.

Alex's hands relaxed against the clay. Right, infinite time. Like that in itself wasn't terrifying. Alex looked back to Magnus, who didn't seem to be in a rush. Unlike himself. He looked less rushed, and more lax. As if telling him that the clay could always come later.

Alex retracted his hands from the clay, his hands muddied and dirtied. Magnus didn't seem to care that the mud had gotten all over his own hands either.

A shiver ran down his spine. The room was frigid, encasing the both of them like a cocoon of ice. Sometimes when the cold got too bad, it reminded him of Niflheim. Sailing through the endless, freezing seas.

There was one constant between then and now. One thing that never seemed to change, no matter how much he challenged, provoked, teased, sneered, or shoved him away. Magnus had always stayed.

Alex reached out once more, bringing Magnus into his awaiting arms. For a moment, Magnus was stiff. Tensing up nervously almost instinctively. He couldn't blame him. He was aware Magnus wasn't too big into touch.

But even despite that, he relaxed. Sinking into Alex's arms as the two sat on the hard floors. His head rested on top of Alex's, arms loosely hung around his back.

"You're warm." Alex muttered, the words softly spoken in a way that it was almost too soft to hear.

"And you're freezing." Magnus replied, huffing as Alex tried to bring him closer. As if closer was possible. He was cold. Freezing, and still malnourished. It wasn't as bad as when they were sailing across Niflheim, but he would still be less worried if he'd actually eat something.

The two sat there for a while, Alex trying to steal what warmth Magnus could provide. After a minute or two of getting nowhere, Magnus sighed, bringing forth some of his frey-power in hopes of making things a bit better.

He began to glow. Not in the blinding sense, like how he would be whenever using the peace-of-frey. Or any other high powered move. It was soft. Like a lantern amidst the shadows.

The temperature in the room began to slowly get warmer. The frigid, unwelcoming atmosphere melted into a gentle, warm and cozy safe space. It was a little scary, how fast Magnus could take a space from deadly and terrifying to sweet and gentle.

Alex held onto Magnus, his grasp on him slowly having loosened up. He still kept him close, his head under his chin as he leaned against his chest. He never understood it. He hated it, in fact.

He hated how perfect Magnus seemed to be. How wherever he walked, nature followed. How the sun would shine down on him like he was an angel, kissing his skin with the utmost care. He didn't understand it.

How something so imperfect as him could have gotten something so perfect as Magnus Chase.

Sure he was a dork. A bit of an idiot here and there. But that's what made him loveable. That's what made him, him. These moments, where he could reach out to him on his own terms. The days were Magnus always miraculously knew what he was going by. Whether it was she/her, or he/him. How either way, he wasn't deterred or disgusted by him.

"...You suck." Alex muttered out, frustration lacing every edge of his voice.

"...What did I do..?"

"Everything."

[houndsofcorduff]

Writing Patterns Tag Game

I was tagged by @aalinaaaaaa to do this game where I list the first lines of the last 20 or so stories I've written, identify some patterns, choose a favorite line, and then tag others! Ooh interesting! I don't have 20 stories as mine tend to be full length, but I'll post the first lines from my long list of WIPs, including Hounds of Corduff.

Hounds of Corduff Book 1: Stray

Hayes was on his hands and knees. The black bangs that framed his face brushed the dirt-colored tile floor.

Retrospection

Death is muscular. I know because when I first saw him he was wearing only swimming trunks.

Otherworld

Prologue: A lazy darkness hung in the trees of the Night Forest; 500 years of being trapped here had made the darkness apathetic. First Chapter: Maxine Devlin habitually woke up at 3AM every morning to check on her family in their beds.

Shadow Monsters

I will admit, I don’t study enough. Never have, probably never will, even when it lands me in a spot where I’m at a severe disadvantage because of my lack of information.

Heartwood

Prologue: Morfesa, the Great Prophet and guardian of many dimensions on behalf of Destiny, was a mere 2500 years old, though she looked only 30. First Chapter: Janina Heartwood is my name, and I am writing for the core reason of writing. Not because I’m bored, but because I’m scared. Terrified, actually, because monsters are real and they’re after my brother.

Bring Me a Dream

The young McNeil boys and their father were spending their Saturday, their “Man’s Day”, doing what their mother thought was a very unmanly thing. Painting pottery.

Among Infinities

The boy watched the snow fall from his room, though “jail cell” was a better name term for it.

God of Smoke

Prologue: Brief light illuminated the room. A single narrow bed lifted off a blue and gray tiled floor, a tall wardrobe made of wood too light in shade to be from this world, and a desk made of cut glass where books and papers were placed neatly around the sides. First Chapter: Em’het pretended that the tingle in his skin was just his excitement.

The Peculiar Adventures of Michael Mallory

Michael Mallory had many brothers and sisters.

Crescent Unbound

Prologue: Chunks of a building smashed across her face. A wave of energy followed and pushed her to the ground. First Chapter: Astrid awoke with a jolt and a gasp of air as she often did.

Okay, so it appears I only have 10 WIPs. I really feel like I have more WIPs, but that's really the list. So, for some of these, I decided to draw a distinction between the prologue and the first chapter.

Seeing everything laid out like this, I think it's clear that a lot of my first lines start in motion or with some really strong voice to ground the reader into the story immediately. Or at least that's what I'm trying to do; whether it's working or not isn't really up to me, I suppose. I love blending the epic and a personal pov. Although that's obvious to me from each of these lines because I know the story that follows, it may not be as obvious to others.

My favorite opening is from Retrospection; this image will never not make me laugh. I love having funny narrators - I promise Janina is funny, she's just stressed out in that first line.

ETA: Although obviously this blog is mainly a Hounds of Corduff centered blog, I will still talk endlessly about any of these WIPs and their characters if these opening lines pique your interest. Also almost all my work is connected in the same universe (different dimensions) except for God of Smoke, The Peculiar Adventures of Michael Mallory, and Crescent Unbound

Tagging: @nightmaricwriter, @kingragnarok-writes, and anyone else who wants to join! (I need to find more writeblrs to tag)

[dramioneasks]

Hi. I'm looking for any fics that have dity talk in classes, during dinners etc. Basically any places Draco should keep his thoughts to himself. Can you recommend any?

Touch by In_Dreams - E, one-shot - Looking only satisfies the tension between them for so long before she wants to touch. Dramione PWP.

Lust & Loathing - sweetestsorrows (katschako) - E, 3 chapters - When Hermione begins working out at the same gym as Draco, he quickly decides that she’s insufferable. Thus, there’s only one thing to do: drive her out. The plan is simple. First, he ogles her, purposefully making her uncomfortable. After that doesn’t work, he takes to interrupting her workouts in every annoying way he can manage. Except, that fails, too. That’s when he decides to fuck her out of his system. It’ll just be a one time thing, then he can simply ignore that she even exists.

Masks and Mirrors by Megan_P_Cook - E, one-shot - Draco almost choked on a sip of wine during dinner with Hermione. The pristine white table cloth almost tarnished crimson. He gently thumped himself on the chest and coughed, regaining his composure. “You want me to do what?!” The pitch of his voice rose and he almost sounded offended. Draco reached for his napkin which was neatly placed across his lap and patted the corners of his mouth, folding it haphazardly he placed it on the table next to his half eaten meal. He leant himself back in his chair and eyed her from across the table. “You can’t be serious? Do I need to check you into St. Mungos?” He played with the edge of the napkin, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger in contemplation. He tucked his chin towards his chest and looked at her through his eyelashes. Draco scanned her face, looking for some sort of sign that this was a joke, that she was just messing with him to see how he would react. But her features never faltered, she continued to look at him straight faced and collected. She reached for her goblet and rolled the base across the table, swirling the merlot coloured liquid around the glass. “I’m being serious, Draco.”

Porcelain by Pia_Bartolini - E, 5 chapters - NOW COMPLETE! His body enveloped hers in a column of heat mere inches from her back. Draco’s hands settled on the splash pan and he cleared his throat. Hermione swore that when he spoke his voice sounded huskier, a resonant rumble at her left ear—the ear, she thought with a shiver, that faced away from everyone else in the studio. Or, the one where Hermione Granger watches her sexy, untouchable TA and he, quite literally, takes matters into his own hands. It’s the pottery!porn AU nobody asked for.

A Very Happy Accident - rockthecasbah18 - E, one-shot - Hermione has a potions accident that lands her in St. Mungo’s and in the hands of none other than Healer Draco Malfoy. How will he possibly help her predicament?

-Lisa

[erabundus]

@shathyar &&. said... “  i did what i had to do.  ” ( hello! from ei. )

he's  not  sure  why  he  bothered  trying  to  speak  with  his creator  to  begin  with.  it's  impossible  for  her  to  remember  what  he's  become  —  EVEN  GODS  are  subject  to  irminsul's  sway.  the  wanderer  has  freely  acknowledged  in  the  past  that  he's  beyond  the  point  of  CLOSURE.  if  by  some  miracle,  his  mother  could  recall  everything  (  hidden  away  inside  her  perfect magnum  opus  )  —  what  would  that  change?  a  piece  of  pottery  can  never  be  perfectly  whole  again  once  it's  been  well  and  truly  shattered;  he  is  no  different.  a  vase,  a  bowl,  the  cracks  littering  his  artificial  form  filled  with  liquid  gold.  he  will  never  be  that  pristine,  innocent  creation  —  he  is  merely  the  creature  that  stumbled  out  from  the  puppet's  ashes.  his  entire  existence  is  predicated  on  a  foundation  of  BETRAYAL,  built  by  her  inaction.  her  unwillingness  to  take  responsibility  for  the  creation,  weapon,  son  she  brought  into  this  world.  there  is  nothing  that  can  be  said  or  done  to  fix  that.

his  fingers  are  clenched  around  the  GOLDEN  FEATHER  that  he  wears,  so  tight  that  it  hurts.  he  wonders  why  he  continues  to  keep  it  with  him,  even  if  he's  accepted  reconciliation  is  out  of  the  picture.  perhaps  some  part  of  him  has  always  feebly  hoped  that  she  would  recognize  it  —  recognize  him,  and  swoop  in  to  save  him  from  the  PERILS  of  this  world.  it's  such  a  childish  desire,  he  feels  embarrassed  to  even  entertain  the  idea.

❝  by  ABANDONING  me?  ❞  he  wants  to  sound  HATEFUL  —  and  it's  so  infuriating,  because  in  spite  of  everything,  the  wanderer  still  cannot  find  it  in  himself  to  despise  her.  anger  is  a  useful  emotion;  he  would  love  nothing  more  than  to  submerge  himself  within  it  until  the  mere  thought  of  his mother  is  but  an  unpleasant  echo.  yet  he  can't,  and  the  self-disgust  ren  feels  as  a  direct  result  is  so  potent  it  makes  him  feel  sick.   ❝  maybe  you  would  feel  differently  if  you  could  actually  remember  A  THING.  ❞   he  continues  aloud.  that's  a  lie,  a  voice  in  the  back  of  his  head  whispers.  (  an  unwanted  contrarian;  it  sounds  like  the  balladeer.  )  if  she  actually  cared,  she  would  have  done  something  a  long  time  ago.  she  didn't  even  intervene  when  you  became  a  god.  and  that  is  true,  as  much  as  he  hates  to  admit  it.  he  thinks  that  selfish,  attention-hungry  part  of  him  hoped  that  she  would  —  if  only  to  eliminate  the  problem  she  CREATED.

❝  you  should  have  destroyed  me  when  you  had  the  chance.  ❞  before  he  knew  anything  about  this  world.  before  this  world  knew  anything  about  him.  ❝  that  would  have  been  the  SMART  thing  to  do.  but  you  didn't ...  you  disguised  cowardice  as  mercy,  and  because  of  your  decisions,  everyone  suffered.  ❞  myself  included.  he  TIGHTENS  his  grip  even  further.  knuckles  go  pale  and  bloodless.  the  edge  of  the  feather  digs  harshly  into  his  palm,  too  dull  to  rend  flesh. ❝  did  what  you  had  to  do?  don't  make  me  LAUGH.  ❞ it's too late for that; a tiny laugh ( unsteady and humorless ) spills from grit teeth before ren can think to smother it.

❝  you  did  NOTHING ...  and  that's  the  problem.  ❞

MISC SENTENCE STARTERS

[rasshase]

The comforting chill sprawled over Inaba for the season. Trees naked across every path, everyone in town lending a helping hand to clean it all up.

The yellows, oranges, browns, and some red were present, too, in the forest of people’s hearts. Looking out and over it all as a whole made it appear as an impressionist painting, why, appropriate as it sounds.

Two figures sat lazily in front of a TV, their legs as cozily within a kotatsu.

“Mushrooms up on sale again. Would the kids like a hot-pot?.. Would they be here for a hot-pot..?” the man in glasses sighed as he saw the ad play on screen. He popped a chocolate in his mouth from a decorative box.

“Hm… how ironic,” a wispy haired individual hummed. Their face rested against their hand as they watched TV with a drowsy stare.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s quite a perfect day to laze about, and here you are thinking of a hot-pot.”

“Anything wrong with that?”

“No,” they smiled gently, “I’m happy to hear you say that.”

Adachi laughed through his nose, reciprocating the same type of gentle happiness his partner had. As they yawned, he quickly planted a chocolate on their tongue, to which they retreated into their mouth and chewed with teary eyes. The situation was so charming, the two couldn’t help but laugh again. Oh, would that bear love to see a sight like this.

TV chatter and warm, airy laughter filled the air that cold afternoon. Adachi continued making his commentary at whatever was on screen, while the albino simply sank lower and lower to the table as they listened to him.

The box of chocolates was labeled with a cute, loopy handwriting that read “from: Rise ♥”. The lovely girl had given these chocolates and other gifts to Marie, for herself and the whole family. There seemed to be an “extra” box of chocolate Adachi was too modest in accepting, physically pushing it away from himself as the idiot who was bringing it up to his face. They simply opened the box and left it on a table, then the rest was history.

That box was almost empty now. The variety show segment of people going through a pottery workshop had also just ended.

Adachi mindlessly planted his hand into the box and felt the last piece of chocolate. “Ah,” he went as he noticed it. “Here,” he said, having picked it up and held it in front of his partner’s face.

The pale haired fellow opened their mouth again, fang just peeking out from their upper lip, for Adachi to shoot the chocolate back into their mouth. They chewed quietly as Adachi merely played with the plastic bits and flowers from another box of candy they both finished just before the chocolates.

The TV chatter melted into the background as the atmosphere just got lazier and lazier. The albino sat up and adjusted themself from resting their head on the table. Flyaways sprang up from one side of their hair, while their silhouette would begin going back to normal with the help of gravity. They rested their head back on their hand, resetting their position just as before. Only, no longer staring at the TV, but simply across themself with even less thought than the moments prior.

Adachi gave a big yawn this time around, his gums showing from under his lips and tears showing up on his eyes. His cheeks moved his glasses out of place, but before he could fix it himself, he could see his partner rise from their own position. Blurry as it was, he saw them raise an arm, a hand reached to his face.

They gently wiped the sleepy tears from his face and adjusted his glasses. Adachi had felt their calloused thumbs on his eyelids touch him with care. As he opened his eyes, the albino sat a little closer and started playing with his bangs. He was only a little startled, but he didn’t mind quite as much with this idiot.

“What are you doing?” he asked, not demandingly, but more out of instinct, as one does.

They did not respond. They only hummed as the smile they wore had stretched gently across their face.

They rubbed the short, albeit choppy, locks between their fingers. Adachi became a little sleepy as they hummed a little song. Like a little bird tweeted inside his chest, he felt light and his heartbeat relaxed with careful hands inspecting his hair. They swept his bangs to one side, and with the way it brushed against forehead, he snickered at the sensation.

The other giggled in return. Every action was contagious between the two.

Adachi furrowed his brows lightly, and jokingly demanded, “Oh, come here!” He shot up his arms that knocked the one holding his bangs out of place, then he held the moron by the shoulders to turn them around.

The other complied, of course, lifting their legs off the floor and swiveled on their butt, still giggling the whole way.

Adachi himself fixed the way he sat down, his whole body now facing the curiosity in front of him. The TV he would now hear through one ear, and the leaves from outside rustled behind him. To the other side was the couch, and in front of him was a giggling mess whose foot tapped against the tatami.

He sighed through a smile, then dove his hands into their wispy hair. It was chilly, as it always was… a sensation he’d always seek. These locks had gotten a lot longer the last he actually felt it, trying to tousle the ends which went past their shoulder blades this time around.

From the fit of little laughter, his partner returned to humming, to which Adachi hummed along with. Some sort of melody he didn’t try to harmonize with, but rather continue in the silences left from every albino’s breath to the best of his musical ability. It was a peculiar song, as if the wind made the trees sway in the same time of the waltz the two decided.

Adachi combed through the long locks of hair, enjoying its softness and breeziness. He’d twirl it around his own finger with ease, then it would uncoil from his hand when he would release any tension that had kept it together, like a lazy little snake bored of its prey.

At this point, he would bunch much of it together and rest his face inside, like putting his face against bear fur. Except this time, he gathered much near their eyes that they snickered a bit as his fingers passed their ears, before twirling locks together and made them stay with a messy knot of hair. He reached for the table and pushed away the box of chocolates, then went for the plastic bits he had been playing with earlier.

Flowers and hearts and butterflies and the like. They were all clean from candy, sugar, and saliva, of course, then he stuck these trinkets in the more taught parts of the hair he put together.

“…There,” Adachi announced warmly, retreating his hands as he’d finished his work.

Their hair was speckled in colorful bits of plastic, as Adachi could see from afar. It felt as whimsical as those little clips Marie once bought from a boutique in the other city.

With their humming dying down as if their song were coming to an end, the albino turned around. “So?” they asked curiously, seeing their own partner with a little smirk.

Then he laughed. “You got a little something,” he said through a snort.

Adachi lifted his hand and reached out for their face. There, his hand hovered over their cheek and he wiped a smidge of chocolate off their lip. “There, you messy eater.”

At that moment, the little fool’s eyes squinted tenderly as they smiled. Adachi saw their face washed with pink, which gave him the urge to hold them with the hand he held over their face. The other obliged, sinking into his hand as it cupped around them, closing their eyes.

It was a warm and pleasant sensation, much different from their wispy hair. Adachi could tangibly feel their happiness from the bump of their cheek as they smiled. He would like to rub it gently, but he still had the chocolate smidge on his thumb. So he merely sat there and held them, feeling them sink into his hand like a cat.

As Adachi looked at his partner with all the love in the world, he felt his own hand held by theirs. So characteristically calloused, like a hard worker of many aspects. Unlike his admittedly delicate ones in comparison, save for a few scratches here and there.

A calloused palm held him and he couldn’t help but feel more relaxed. His expression began melting so much he squinted until his eyes were ablur. Adachi felt the albino open their eyes, as he felt their eyelids move and their lashes move the air around his fingers.

Then he felt their whole face move into his hand. Their nose brushed his palm, and he felt their soft lips on it. Just as his heart was racing from what he knew what could happen, they kissed his palm as he held them.

Soft lips pressed into Adachi’s hand and their pale eyelashes swept across his fingers. As much as this would tickle him, it tickled his heart more. He still couldn’t help but laugh, and his laughs fluttered out of his mouth like butterflies wanted to escape his lungs. “…You idiot…” he managed to croak.

“…My love,” he heard, spoken into his palm before they continued kissing it again, now reaching his fingertips as they covered the whole area of his hand.

Adachi’s heart swelled at this fleeting remark. His vision tunneling into their face further than it already had. He would be a puddle seeping into the cushions and tatami if he started melting literally.

Just as his posture was faltering, he felt a much warmer sensation engulf his thumb. His eyes focused again to see what was going on. There, he saw the moron put his thumb in their mouth. Before he could protest, he felt them lick off the chocolate before releasing his finger and showing off a little smirk.

“Why you..!” Adachi yelled as he threw his hand behind their head and pulled him towards his face where their foreheads touched. But he couldn’t stay mad, it felt just the same when Kumori licked his thumb when he just finished preparing tomatoes. Just a lot less scratchy, and this time, he didn’t let the culprit get away.

He didn’t say anything more. The distance just closed between them, and they spent their time breathing until they were in sync.

The albino looked at their love through his lenses that couldn’t be any more fake. “My dear…”

“I—… No, no…” Adachi began, “what was that other thing you said?”

“Why’s that?”

“I ‘unno… the last one rolls off the tongue better,”

“But if I say it too much, you’ll get used to it…” they said, with a smirk across their face.

Adachi only grumbled, “Mmm…”

“Hmhm…” they laughed through a hum. They thought he was adorable.

As the two had been talking, Adachi propped his legs around the other’s hip, while they held his waist in return. He held his partner's face with both of his hands now, staring intently into each other’s eyes. Still sitting there in indecisive and patient silence.

Adachi rubbed the face in his hands with both thumbs. He would have imagined them purring at this point.

He carefully tilted his head and closed his eyes, but they creaked back open as he felt his lips tremble, still. At that moment, his partner pressed their own lips against his.

He made a little startled sound, but quickly melted into the moment, closing his own eyes and indulging himself as they kissed.

Adachi’s posture began to falter again, and he started leaning backwards despite the support from his waist.

His idiot merely followed suit and gently laid him down on the tatami, their lips still never leaving each other.

From the gravity, Adachi felt their hair on his hands. He felt the coolness and the simulated breeze as the locks brushed against him, as well as the little bits that knocked into his knuckles.

And they sank deeper and deeper into one another. Adachi never missing the chance to brush against their canine with his tongue, now tasting the half of the box he fed them. Like he tasted mint which he stopped himself from recoiling from, and nougat that hadn’t disintegrated yet.

They pulled away from each other to breathe, Adachi still considerably panting, as embarrassed as he feels about it.

The albino tucked their hair behind one ear as they rose. “…White chocolate,” they answered, “I thought you never liked white chocolate?”

“I don’t…” Adachi replied. “You can have the rest of it.”

“But what about the almond?”

“Think of it as a topping.”

They hummed with a smile at his answer and raised a hand from holding his waist. They gently brushed against his warm cheeks, almost in a tease, then took his eyeglasses off carefully from the bridge. It was almost as if they mouthed, “It’s not like you’ve needed this right now,” as they put it aside, never breaking their gaze on the other.

And it was true. The scarlet in their eyes still glistened like a tempting red as what their partner had been perceiving, while the blush on Adachi’s face looked even more obvious than just previously. The albino even felt his hands tremble on their face begging for them to come back. And so they complied, fixing the smile on their face back into gentle, closed lips and kissed him again. Their face still held with so much want.

They felt Adachi wrap his leg around theirs when they gently bit his lip once. All the moaning coming from him, to which they chimed along rhythmically like a harmony. Especially as they burrowed their hands into his shirt, rubbing the sides of his waist and gently massaging his abdomen, earning a hitch in his breathing with every movement. His hands curled over their ears at this point, entangling in their hair trying to pull them even closer than they already are, like he yearned to get lost in it all spiritually. Thorough enough until the taste of chocolate was gone, left as a lingering memory in the full embrace of the flavor of the other.

They gradually slowed their rhythm to pull away and whisper, “…Tohru,” their nose nuzzling him.

“Hm?” Adachi asked, opening his eyes gently, a breath slipping through his mouth.

“I love you.”

Adachi laid silent at the proclamation, and still held the albino in his hands. “Hm…” he hummed, “I love you, too.”

They both smiled sincerely and kissed each other quietly.

Adachi’s love began to trail kisses down from the corner of his lip to his jawline, down to his neck where they nestled their face into. They laid next to him, one arm in his shirt, enjoying this intimate warmth. Now in tranquil rest, Adachi sunk his hand into their hair, tousling the ends of it while admiring the wave across their body, speckled in pinks, blues, and yellows.