#fish freckles you are everything to me...

[sushirrrry]

clean || harry styles x you one-shot.

saw this picture, had to write something immediately — hot off the press, just for you hehe enjoy <3

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

You’re brushing your teeth beside him again.

It’s not the first time that you've done that—far from it, but something about this particular night makes the moment feel worthy of being remembered.

Harry’s standing next to you in the tiny bathroom of your rental villa, his skin still golden from the sun and his hair wild with salt and humidity; his curls starting to emerge at the root from the exposure to the heat.

He’s got a toothbrush dangling from his lips, foam threatening to escape the corners of his mouth as he tries not to smile too much at himself in the mirror. You hold your phone up, capturing the scene out of instinct.

Click.

He playfully rolls his eyes when the shutter sound goes off.

“Hope you’re not sending that to anyone. That’s top-tier blackmail, that is.”

You glance at the screen. The photo’s perfect; he's photogenic in a way that you merely can't describe.

His perfectly fitting t-shirt is rumpled from where he threw it on after his shower, damp at the collar, and a little crooked on one side. The linen pants sitting around his hips are low and loose, and there’s something sweetly disheveled about all of it as you prepare for dinner together.

“I’ll sell it to the press,” you say with a shrug, trying to keep a straight face as you rinse your mouth.

He chuckles, swiping at a bit of toothpaste foam with the back of his hand from it, then leaning in just enough to nudge your arm. “Can’t take me anywhere.”

“You’re in your own house.”

“Exactly. Even worse.”

You both laugh, and it’s a warm sound. Familiar, the happiness that is bursting around the small, tiled bathroom. It smells like mint and coconut conditioner and leftover sea breeze, like the beach never really left your skin even though you rinsed it off.

The villa had been a last-minute decision—his idea, of course. He’d shown you the listing one rainy Thursday in London, scrolling through photos of wide windows, string lights, and hammocks that swung over white sand.

“Let’s disappear for a week,” he’d said, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “No work, no stress. Just you, me, and the ocean.”

You’d said yes because saying no to Harry was almost impossible. And now, four days in, your skin is freckled and your hair’s gone a bit wild and you haven’t worn real clothes since Tuesday. Only bikinis and linen shirts that you kept getting mixed with his in your pile of clothes that surrounded your suitcases.

He spits into the sink, grimacing dramatically— he was known for dramatics. "I think I got sand in my molars.”

You laugh, wiping your mouth with a towel. “Is that even possible?”

“Dunno. But everything tastes like sunscreen and fish and chips.”

You lean your hip against the counter, tilting your head as you watch him rinse. His profile’s soft in the low light; you notice that his nose is slightly sun-kissed, jaw shadowed with a bit of stubble from the lack of shaving the last few days.

There’s a tiny patch of peeling skin at the tip of his ear from where he’d missed with the sunscreen, and his forearm is still faintly striped from the crocheted bracelets he’d refused to take off in the water.

He catches you staring and raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” you murmur, pouting out your lip as you give him eyes that seem to gleam in his presence. “Just… you.”

That earns you a lopsided grin and a little shake of his head. The dimple expresses itself and makes you feel warmer than usual. He steps closer, resting his wet toothbrush on the side of the sink.

“You like me like this, don’t you?” he teases, voice low and teasing and full of cheekiness. “All brown and beachy. Bit feral.”

You scrunch your nose at him. “You’re not feral.”

“I’m practically wild.” He leans in until his forehead brushes yours, his voice nothing more than a whisper now, hands pressed to your waist that practically burn. “You should see what happens when I run out of moisturizer— I'm an animal.”

You snort, but you don’t pull away. You stay pressed forehead to forehead, his breath warm and minty and his hands, a bit damp from rinsing. sliding over your hips in that easy, familiar way that makes your stomach flutter.

“Mm,” he hums, tilting his head slightly. “Got all soft on me these last few days. Used to take you ages to relax.”

“You’re imagining that.” You press your hands to his chest, leaning back a bit in his arms.

Harry shakes his head. "I’m not. First day here you still checked your emails on the beach.”

“Once.” You argue.

“Twice.”

You roll your eyes, "Okay, twice.”

He grins in triumph, then brushes a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Now look at you. Barefoot. Sun-drunk. Smiling in your sleep," Harry cocks his head, "All those cheeky bikini bottoms you're flaunting are really turning you into someone else."

You pull back a little to look at him properly. “That’s ‘cause I have good company.”

Harry’s smile softens at that. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He sighs, dramatic again, and rests his chin on your shoulder. “Gonna be hard to leave.”

“I know.”

Neither of you say anything for a moment. The quiet isn’t heavy—it’s full, though. The kind of silence that stretches and wraps around you like warm sheets, thick with shared memories of late-night swims, sand between your toes, and early-morning pancakes eaten straight from the pan because neither of you could find a plate in the villa.

“I took a picture,” you say after a while.

“I know. Saw you.”

“Want me to send it to you?”

He perks up. “Only if you caption it with something flattering. Like, ‘my gorgeous man brushing his teeth with the grace of a tanned Grecian god.’”

“More like, ‘Bigfoot sighting.’”

He gasps, mock-hurt as he grasps at his chest. “Cruel. After everything I’ve done for you today—carried your beach tote, bought you three different kinds of ice cream, let you win at Uno—”

“You didn’t let me win.” You fight back, shaking your head.

Harry smirks, “I might’ve— could've played two Draw Fours in a row, but I spared you."

You both grin again, loving the ease of the moment. Then he grabs your phone, taps around, and pulls up the photo. His eyes linger on it longer than you expect.

“You really like it?” you ask, craning your neck to look.

He nods, smiling down at it. "Yeah. Looks like us.”

You step behind him and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back. His skin is still warm from the shower, his muscles relaxed under your hold.

The familiarity of the muscles makes your stomach twist at all the time spent between the sheets this weekend alone .

“You make me feel like this could be easy,” you say quietly, wondering if he can hear you properly.

He twists slightly to glance at you. “What d’you mean?”

“Like all of it. Loving someone, living with someone. You make it feel… calm. I used to think I wasn’t the kind of person who could do that."

You didn't know you could be loved this way, which makes it harder for him to accept your self-doubt. But you start to see how easy it is, and everything becomes... different.

His expression shifts—soft, sincere. “That’s ‘cause no one’s done it right yet. ‘Til me.”

You chuckle, kissing between his shoulder blades. “So humble.”

He turns, arms slipping around you now, pressing you to his chest as he leans against the bathroom counter.

"I’m serious,” he says, kissing your hair. “Don’t care how messy it gets. I want all of it.”

“Even the part where I use your towel without asking and get it all wet?”

He groans, still smiling beneath it. “You do that again and I’ll break up with you on the spot.”

You grin into his shoulder. “That’s fair.”

Another beat of silence. This time, it’s him who breaks it.

“Stay,” he says.

You hum into his chest, knowing you're not moving for a moment.

“I am staying.”

There's a pause before you feel him shake his head.

“No, I mean… after. When we go back. Don’t go to your place. Just come to mine. Bring your stupid frog mug collection and your sexy little bathrobe and take over my bathroom counter with your serums and your tangled necklaces and just… stay.”

Your heart trips a little at his confession, your eyes leaning up to meet his.

“You mean that?” you whisper, a bit confused by the sudden intimacy of the moment.

He pulls back enough to look you in the eye, the cheeky grin faded into something gentler. “I do. I want all the days with you. All the brushing teeth and stealing towels and waking up tangled up and going to sleep to your snoring—”

“I don’t snore.”

“Sure.” He bites his lip.

You kiss him before he can say more, pressing your smile into his mouth. And he kisses you back like he’s already won, like it was always going to be you.

Later, you’ll crawl into bed with your legs still cool from the evening walk on the beach to grab sharks teeth, and his arms pulling you close before you’ve even settled. You’ll fall asleep with the hum of ocean waves in the distance and his breath steady at the back of your neck as you lay tangled in between his tanned limbs and skin.

But for now, you stand in the bathroom, his toothpaste-smeared grin fading into something real, and think: this is it.

This is love. Sun-kissed with hints of mint and ocean breeze.

[monserelates]

Clueless Idiots ; James Potter.

⇨f!reader x james potter

⇨summary: Just Y/N and James being clueless little cuties.

⇨warnings/notes: fluff fluff fluff fluffy fluff, use of y/n, reader is female, she and james are really oblivious

⇨a/n: once again with my favorite trope 🥹, I just love writing about James and writing fluff. If you guys have any requests you can definitely share them i’d be really grateful! Hope you enjoy <3

There were very few constants at Hogwarts.

One: Filch’s cat was always watching.

Two: The fourth step on the Charms staircase would always try to eat your foot.

And three: James Potter and Y/N Y/L/N were practically glued at the hip.

It wasn’t official. Of course not. Because nothing was ever that easy with the two of them. They were best friends, partners-in-crime, even, and the subject of at least two weekly betting pools run by both the Gryffindor Common Room and the Hogwarts staff lounge.

“Oh, come on,” McGonnagall muttered behind her teacup one morning as the pair entered the Great Hall, James slinging his arm over Y/N’s shoulder, Y/N stealing a bit of toast from his plate without blinking. “If he tucks her hair behind her ear one more time, I’m raising my bet to ten Galleons.”

Dumbledore sipped his coffee, smiling fondly. “They remind me of a young Lily and James.”

“They are James and—never mind.”

“Minerva,” Sprout said gently, “they’re teenagers. You can’t force these things.”

“I’m not forcing anything. I’m simply pointing out that if they don’t confess by Valentine’s Day, I’m deducting points for excessive obliviousness.”

Meanwhile, back at the Gryffindor table:

“Do you think I’d look good with a moustache?” James asked, munching on bacon.

Y/N wrinkled her nose. “What kind of question is that?”

“You didn’t say no.”

“I’m saying absolutely not. You’d look like an undercover Auror going through a midlife crisis.”

James grinned. “So… no moustache.”

“Not if you want me to keep sitting next to you.”

He paused for half a second—half a second too long—and then laughed.

She didn’t notice. Or at least she pretended not to.

Sirius, sitting across from them, rolled his eyes so hard he nearly fell off the bench. “You two are unbearable.”

Remus didn’t look up from his book. “It’s like watching two penguins try to flirt by throwing fish at each other.”

“Penguins?”

“Very monogamous creatures,” Remus said. “Mate for life.”

Y/N blinked. “That’s oddly sweet.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

James reached for more toast and brushed her hand accidentally. Their eyes locked for one second too long.

Sirius groaned into his pumpkin juice.

⸻

Later that day, the pair was in the library, sharing one textbook, their knees brushing under the table. Y/N didn’t flinch. James did. Barely. Just enough to notice.

“Did you finish your Potions essay?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he lied.

“You’re lying.”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

She snorted. “Come on, Potter, focus.”

“You said my last one was ‘shockingly decent.’ That’s high praise.”

“I meant its like a shocked cat watching fireworks, but sure.”

He grinned.

They were so close, heads bent together, she could see the tiny freckle beneath his left eye. He smelled like broomstick polish and cinnamon.

She looked away first.

⸻

That weekend, they sat together at the Ravenclaw versus Slytherin quidditch match, they had bet 10 galleons that Ravenclaw will win—James with one arm slung lazily around the back of her seat, Y/N leaning into his side to shout over the noise.

“Ten more points and we win!”

“I’ll take you to Honeydukes if we do!”

“You always take me to Honeydukes!”

“Then I’ll buy you everything in the front window.”

“Even the sugar quills?”

“Especially the sugar quills.”

Lily leaned over to Marlene. “Do you think they know they’re flirting?”

Marlene raised an eyebrow. “Do you think Hogsmeade knows they’re flirting?”

⸻

Later, as the Gryffindors spilled back into the common room, James and Y/N flopped onto the couch together. James didn’t hesitate before pulling her legs into his lap.

“Oi, Y/N,” he said, grinning, “you ever going to tell me your type?”

She sipped her butterbeer. “I don’t have one.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, fine. I like boys who are funny. And brave. And maybe a little too loyal for their own good.”

His smile faltered for half a second.

“And,” she added, “he’d have to care a lot. Like… secretly-loves-dogs, picks-flowers-he-won’t-admit-to, remembers-how-I-take-my-tea kind of caring.”

He blinked.

“Oh.”

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

Remus, passing behind the couch, muttered, “I swear to Merlin, if one of you doesn’t kiss the other in the next forty-eight hours, I’m hexing both of you into next week.”

"What's that, moony?" You asked, oblivious.

"Oh, nothing. I was just talking to myself,"

⸻

Back in the staff lounge, the betting board had been updated:

“Confession before Halloween – 3 Galleons”

“Caught kissing in a broom closet – 5 Galleons”

“They still don’t know they’re in love – priceless”

“I’m changing my bet,” Sprout said cheerfully. “Two Galleons on Y/N realizing first.”

“I say it’s Potter,” said Slughorn. “He’s been writing her name in his notes for months.”

McGonagall smirked. “I’ll double it if it’s her who kisses him.”

⸻

That night, as the fire crackled low and the common room emptied out, James stretched.

“I should go to bed.”

Y/N didn’t move. “’Night, James.”

But he didn’t go.

Instead, he leaned down slowly, close enough for her to see the freckles on his nose and the look in his eyes.

“Goodnight, Y/N.

She blinked.

For a second, she thought he was going to kiss her.

For a second, she almost let him.

But then—

He straightened up, ruffled her hair, and walked off to the boys’ dorms.

And she sat there, heart thudding, cursing the universe and every stupid bet McGonagall was definitely winning.

[clarii]

Always Near

Summary: You’ve always been there for JJ, but when he pushes you away, everything changes. With time and distance, the weight of unspoken feelings grows heavier for both of you. Can broken bonds be mended, or will the past stay in the way?

Pairings: JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, tension, hurt/comfort, and a soft, heartfelt ending.

Author’s Note: This is my first published story, and I’m so excited to share it with you! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it. Feedback is always welcome! Also, I hope you guys had a great holiday!

The summer heat was unrelenting on the Outer Banks, but the Pogues were used to it by now. Sunburns and sweat were part of the deal, as was the endless chatter among the group. You were nestled into your usual spot on the HMS Pogue, sitting across from JJ Maybank. His sun-bleached hair glinted in the sunlight, and you couldn’t help but grin as he tried—and failed—to tie a fishing knot properly.

“Need help, pretty boy?” you teased, your voice light, even though your heart felt heavy with unspoken feelings.

“Got it,” he replied, flashing you that mischievous smirk that never failed to make your stomach flutter.

Everyone knew about your feelings for JJ. It was as obvious as the freckles on his sun-kissed face. You made no attempt to hide it, either. Why would you? From the matching bracelets you had made for the two of you to the way you always called him nicknames, it was clear you adored him. JJ was your world, even if he didn’t see it that way.

The Pogues teased you mercilessly for it, though never in a mean-spirited way. Even JJ seemed to tolerate your affection, brushing it off with jokes or lighthearted jabs. But deep down, you couldn’t help but wonder if he ever thought of you the way you thought of him.

The incident with Barry changed everything.

Tensions were high after the fight to get JJ’s stolen money back. Bruised and angry, JJ lashed out at anyone who got too close. You’d followed him after he stormed off from the group, wanting to make sure he was okay.

“JJ, wait,” you called, jogging after him. “You can’t just run off like this.”

He whipped around, his blue eyes blazing with frustration. “Why not? What do you care?”

Your heart sank, but you tried to push through his anger. “Of course I care. You’re—”

“Enough!” he snapped, his voice cutting through you like a knife. “Stop trying so hard, okay? Stop always being near me, always fussing over me. It’s suffocating.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and cruel. You stared at him, feeling the tears prick your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “Fine,” you whispered. “I’ll stop.”

And you did.

After his outburst, you’d done what he asked. You pulled away. Stopped calling him nicknames. Stopped showing up at the chateau with snacks or little gifts. And JJ didn’t come after you, at least not at first.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t bother him.

“Something’s wrong with you,” John B said one night as they sat on the porch, watching the stars.

“I’m fine,” JJ replied, fiddling with the bracelet you’d made him.

John B raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been off for weeks. You’re not yourself.”

JJ hesitated, staring at the worn beads on his wrist. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s Y/N, isn’t it?” John B pressed. “You miss her.”

JJ sighed, leaning back against the railing. “Of course I miss her. But it’s not like I can just fix it. I screwed up.”

“So, apologize,” John B said simply.

“It’s not that easy,” JJ muttered.

“Sure, it is,” John B shot back. “Stop being a coward and tell her how you feel. You’re miserable without her, JJ. Everyone can see it.”

JJ didn’t respond, but that night, as he lay in bed, John B’s words echoed in his mind.

It wasn’t easy to get you to talk to him again.

The first time he tried, you brushed him off.

“Can we talk?” he’d asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

You didn’t even look at him. “I don’t think we have anything to talk about.”

“Please, Y/N.”

You hesitated for a moment, your eyes flicking to the bracelet still on his wrist, but then you shook your head. “No, JJ. You told me to stop, so I did. Now you have to live with it.”

Weeks later, after that conversation you found yourself back on the beach with the Pogues. The tension had eased slightly, but things between you and JJ were still strained.

As the group sat around the fire, JJ caught your eye from across the circle. This time, he didn’t ask for permission. He just stood up and walked toward you, his expression more serious than you’d ever seen it.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, “can we talk? Please?”

You sighed but stood up, letting him lead you a little way down the beach.

“What do you want, JJ?” you asked, your voice tired.

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed on the sand. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you asked, crossing your arms. “For telling me to stop trying? For making me feel like I wasn’t enough?”

JJ winced. “For all of it. For being an idiot. For pushing you away when all you were trying to do was help.”

You blinked, taken aback by his honesty.

“I didn’t mean any of it,” he continued, his voice cracking. “I was angry, and I took it out on you. And when you left, it made everything worse. I didn’t realize how much I needed you until you were gone.”

“JJ…” you started, but he cut you off.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he said, stepping closer. “But I need you to know that I’m sorry. And I—I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, but I was too scared to say it. Too scared to admit that you’re the best thing in my life.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “You love me?”

JJ nodded, his blue eyes shining with emotion. “Yeah, I do. And I know I don’t deserve another chance, but if you give me one, I promise I’ll never take you for granted again.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, your heart pounding. Then, slowly, you reached out, your fingers brushing against the bracelet on his wrist.

“I loved you then,” you said softly. “And I love you now. But if you screw this up again, Maybank, I’m done.”

JJ’s face lit up with relief, a grin spreading across his lips. “I won’t. I swear, sunshine.”

And as he pulled you into his arms, the sound of the waves crashing behind you, everything felt right again.

[gimmethatagustd]

wanna fuck on camera | kth

You’re so tired of Kim Taehyung’s hipster, wannabe-photographer ass. You’re so tired of Kim Taehyung’s stupid smile and stupid jokes and stupid way of getting under your skin and sticking in your brain.

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: Frenemies to lovers, smut, humor probably

Word Count: 3,360

Content Warning: Vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, Taehyung is annoying, I guess that's it honestly pls idk

A/N: The way this fic turned into a mini-series needs to be studied. I literally cannot reread it without cringing jhsdkfs.

Soundtrack: Camera - DJ Drama, 1st FKI, Post Malone, Lil Uzi Vert, Mac Miller

the wannabe-photographer chronicles: part one

If Kim Taehyung placed his grimy hands on the small of your back one more time you were quite literally going to rip them off. 

“Babe, we didn’t take a picture together yet.” Before you could react, there was a bright flash of light that formed black holes in your vision. A sleek film camera was the culprit. Not unfamiliar, you’d fallen victim to Taehyung’s “artistic endeavors” on more than one occasion. 

“Babe?” 

Your spotty eyes grew wide as you quickly turned back to the large man stuck in between you and Taehyung. You’d caged him into the corner of the living room away from the rest of the bustling bodies crowding the apartment you shared with Hoseok. From the moment your roommate introduced you to Namjoon at the start of the party, you were on a mission to get a good grip of his head in between your thighs. 

“No, no, no,” you shook your head, waving your arms in an “X” to ward off Taehyung’s evil. “We are not like that, at all. Gross, no. I don’t even know why he’s over here.” You hissed that last part with gritted teeth and shoved an elbow into Taehyung’s ribs. 

“We came to this party together, babe. What are you talking about?” Taehyung’s mouth morphed into a deep pout. Your’s, on the other hand, hung open like a fish. 

“Excuse me? This is my fucking apartment!”

You watched with growing frustration as Taehyung’s pout curved into a sweet smile. He was an abscess aching your teeth.  “Babe, you’re so cute when you joke around.” 

“Ummm… I think I’m going to go.” 

You both turned to look at the large man stuck in between you. He avoided both of your gazes; instead, his gentle eyes searched the depths of the room, looking for a way out. 

“Namjoon, wait,” You reached out to grab his forearm, “Just ignore him, he’s an idiot.” 

Namjoon gave you a soft, tight smile. “It’s okay, I don’t want to bother you.” He didn’t give you a second glance once he disappeared deeper into the apartment. 

You spun around on your heel and jabbed your finger against Taehyung’s chest. “Listen here, TaTa. If you don’t stop cockblocking me all fucking night, I swear to God.” 

“You swear to God what? What are you going to do?” Taehyung cocked his head to one side and you hated how hot it was to watch his bottom lip disappear between his teeth. He raised his eyebrows at you, tilting his head back a bit so he looked at you down the sharp bridge of his cute little freckled nose. 

He knew you wouldn’t do anything. There was nothing for you to do. 

He was such a piece of shit. 

“Why did Hobi invite you,” you muttered, pushing past Taehyung. You made very little ground before he was snatching your wrist in his large hands. “Can you please leave me alone? I’m not drunk enough for your shit right now.” 

“Let me get my beautiful model a drink, then.” 

“You are the most arrogant, conceited, cockiest person I have ever met in my entire life.” The grin that bloomed across his face was the exact opposite of what you wanted to see, but everything your body was being pulled towards. 

“Thank you.” 

With a huff, you shook your hand from Taehyung’s grip and continued swimming your way through the sea of people trashing your apartment. Leave it to Hobi to throw a massive party to celebrate “the beginning of his birthday month” without bothering to ask you. When he knew you hated most of his friends, Kim Taehyung in particular. How he’d managed to wiggle his way into your friend group was beyond you. Probably because he was hot, and hot people could get away with everything. 

Well, you didn’t think he was hot, obviously. Other people did. Not you. Nope. 

“Do not follow me.” You threw the command over your shoulder, praying to the lord that he would grow a brain and listen to you. Breaking free of the last throng of people, you walked the hallway until you got to your bedroom, Taehyung hot on your heels. You tried to slam your bedroom door shut but Taehyung had the toe of his boot wedged in the doorframe. He wrapped a hand around the edge of the door and pried it open just enough to slip his lithe body inside. The click of him locking the door made your spine shudder. 

“You’re so fucking stupid, Kim. Why don’t you go find someone to suck your dick and keep your nose out of my business? I’ll even let you use my bathroom.” Arms crossed against your chest. Chin jutted out. 

Taehyung snickered, keeping his focus on wiping away a smudge mark on the surface of his camera lens. “Bothering you gives me infinite more pleasure, believe it or not.” He looked up to meet your gaze. “And you know how much I love chasing pleasure.” 

By this point your anger was hardly well-contained. As you flipped through every scenario in your head you were finding fewer options to get him out of here. Murder may have been the only option, actually. 

“God I love how hot you look when you’re pissed.” Taehyung had the audacity to sit down on the edge of your bed, his long legs spreading like the space-hogging man that he was. 

“Take a fucking picture then. It’ll last longer.” 

“Ooh, you’re so clever, so edgy.” Despite his taunts, he did what you said, quickly snapping another picture of you. You flipped him off. “Glad you’ve finally agreed to model for me. How do you feel about nudes?” 

“Get the fuck out of here.” 

“Not even just a topless one?” 

“I would never, in a million years, even if my life depended on it, get any amount of naked in front of you.” 

“That sounds like a fun challenge, doesn’t it?” He got up from your bed, leaving the camera to rest on your fluffy comforter. His amber eyes dropped to watch your lips, the edges of his own lips curling slightly when you backed up against your dresser. A bottle of hair product tipped over and rolled off the dresser, thudding against the floor. 

“It’s not a challenge, Taehyung. It’s merely a fact.” 

“Look at what you’re wearing. You’re already halfway there.” Taehyung shrugged. He ran his index finger along the skin of your midriff exposed by your crop top. Reaching your belly button, he dragged his finger downwards until he landed on the zipper of your shorts. “Don’t act like you’re not desperate. The way you were hanging all over that guy said enough.” 

“Fuck off,” you said in an exhale. You made no effort to push him out of the way; this was one of many mistakes. 

“Hmm…” You practically felt the baritone vibration of Taehyung contemplating your comment, the hum rumbling from his throat. “Okay.” He took a step back and sunk onto your bed with his camera resting beside him. 

“What do you mean, okay?” You closed the gap he’d created and stared down at him with your hands on your hips. “You can’t just say okay.” 

The tiniest of smirks lifted the corner of Taehyung’s mouth, but he held it in as best he could. Controlling his eyes was another thing; he let his gaze travel the length of your body. “Am I not giving you what you wanted?” 

“Well, yes.” 

“Then what’s the problem?” 

You opened your mouth, but immediately snapped it shut. Taehyung leaned back on his palms with his broad chest on display and his legs spread. How had you ended up standing between them? He tilted his head up slightly jutting his chin out at you while his eyes continued to examine you. Dissect you. His gaze felt razor sharp on your searing skin. 

“Just admit it. You want me. It’s obvious how I affect you.” You felt your stomach flip as Taehyung ran his fingers through his hair, though a few curls decided to bounce back over his forehead. “One simple kiss and you’d be begging for me.” 

You absolutely did not want him. Had you thought about what those piercing eyes would look like from between your thighs? Maybe. But who hadn’t?! It was a natural consequence of being “friends” with Taehyung.

“You’re an idiot.” Another glare was shot his way when the stupid smirk returned. 

“Prove it then. Prove you don’t care.” 

If there was anything you hated more than this idiot, it was being doubted. Fuck this guy for wasting your time, invading your space, and then insulting you in your own house. 

“If you tell anyone about this I’ll cut your balls off,” you hissed. 

“I’m so scared,” Taehyung said with a lick of his lips. You wanted to smack that mischievous glint out of his eyes. Hell, you should have. But instead you were determined to knock him off his high horse. If you weren’t going to get into a physical altercation, you were going to fuck up his ego. 

Shoving Taehyung backwards so he was once again leaning on his palms, you climbed into his lap with your hands gripping his shoulders. Before he could say anything else stupid, you brought your lips to his and tried not think about how many things had been in his mouth. 

It was clear that Taehyung was trying to prove a point because he immediately began to devour you. His hands flew up to grip your ass to pull you tight against him, making your hands slide forward so you now had your arms wrapped around his shoulders. Biting down on your bottom lip he coaxed your mouth open to slip his tongue inside. You shivered at the taste of him, sweet like the grapefruit soju he’d been drinking. Distracted by him licking at your mouth, you gasped when you felt Taehyung buck into you. He forced your hips to rock against him and spread your thighs even further apart as you straddled him. 

Eventually Taehyung broke the kiss and you welcomed the opportunity to breathe. His lips ghosted yours, the two of you panting heavily against each other’s mouths. He kept a firm hold of your ass while he guided you to continue grinding against the growing bulge in his jeans. Every drag of his zipper against your core provided enough friction to alert you that you were soaked through your underwear. All because of a guy you’d swore you weren’t affected by. 

The reminder of why this was even fucking happening made you let go of Taehyung’s shoulders and lean back slightly. What the fuck. 

“You did that way too eagerly,” he snickered once you pulled away.

“Shut up.” You reached up and grabbed a handful of his hair to tug it out of annoyance because apparently Taehyung tore down your maturity level to that of an elementary student. The moan that came out of his mouth made you freeze. He stared into your eyes with his soft lips parted and all you could hear was his erratic breathing and the pounding of your heart in your head. “Looks like you’re affected by me.”

As if you weren’t an absolute mess in your pants right now. But he didn’t need to know that. 

“I never said I wasn’t.” The intensity of his gaze was too much for you, but looking away felt like surrendering. “Are you going to admit defeat now?” 

“You’re insane,” you scoffed, determined to hold his gaze. 

Taehyung broke first. He let go of your waist and brought his hand forward to press his thumb hard against your clit through your shorts. You instinctively tightened your hold on his hair, tugging slightly. The action pulled another moan out of Taehyung and it was impossible for you to hide the way you grinded against his hand. 

“You want me. Just admit it.” 

“No,” you snapped. Taehyung raised his eyebrows as though he was shocked by your determination. You were not giving in, no matter what your body wanted. 

Even if he pulled down the zipper of your shorts. Even if he tugged on the waistband of your underwear. Even if he squeezed his hand inside your underwear to drag his fingers through your arousal. 

“Admit it.” 

Your breath hitched when you heard the wet squelch of Taehyung teasing your entrance and rolling his fingers against your clit. You couldn’t speak for fear a moan instead of words might fall out of your mouth, so you merely shook your head. 

Wrapping his other arm around your waist, Taehyung bucked into you at the same time he slipped two fingers inside of you. The force with which you bit your bottom lip to keep quiet was enough to shoot pain through your nerves. Seeing you like that and feeling your thighs tremble against his told Taehyung everything he needed to know. 

But he wanted you to say it. 

“Come on, Y/N,” he cooed a soft whisper in your ear. He curled his fingers, pressing your front wall until he found the spot that made you dig your nails into his biceps. “Just admit it and I’ll give you what you want.” 

He quickened his pace, pumping his fingers in and out of you with enough force to rock you back and forth in his lap, all the while his dark eyes locked on yours. 

“You’re a piece of shit,” you attempted to hiss but your voice broke into a loud whimper. Taehyung grinned and gave you one final thrust into your g-spot before he watched you arch into him, eyes closed and head thrown back as you moaned his name. He leaned back slightly to give him the perfect angle to snatch up his camera. You thought the bright light was probably the most intense orgasm you’ve ever felt in your life quite literally making you blind, but your pleasure quickly turned into a pterodactyl screech. 

“KIM TAEHYUNG WHAT THE FUCK!” You lunged for the camera, but he held it above your head and your legs were still too shaky to do much of anything. “Did you just fucking take a picture of me while I… while I…” You beat against his chest. 

“You looked too good not to immortalize the moment,” Satan himself said with a laugh, absorbing your punches with the cockiness of the most horrible person in the world. “If you want to try for a better shot, I still have five photos left on this film.” 

“I’m going to fucking murder you.” 

“Sure, you can murder me. I’ll die happy now.” You felt weak in the knees once again when Taehyung popped his fingers, wet with your cum, into his mouth to suck clean. “Or you could admit that you want me and I’ll split you open the way you deserve.” 

Fuck. 

You were in big trouble. 

Taehyung’s cocky grin disappeared as you eased back down into his lap, replaced with a look of determined lust that clouded his lidded eyes. At this point, it wasn’t about admitting that he turned you on or that you wanted him. At this point, you needed him. 

“Say it and I’m yours,” he whispered. Goosebumps bloomed across your skin as he ran his hands up your sides, pushing your crop top up as he went. You lifted your arms to allow him to pull it off of you. He sucked his teeth when he realized you weren’t wearing a bra and immediately brought his mouth to your nipple. You let out a soft moan when Taehyung flicked his tongue against it, swirling a circle until it was erect and he was satisfied enough to move to the other. 

“Fuck you, Taehyung.” You clawed at his t-shirt, less gentle in your approach as you ripped it over his head. Next your fingers flew to unbutton his jeans. “I admit it, okay? Are you happy now?” Frustration made your movements frantic and you tugged Taehyung’s pants down as hard as you could, barely giving him time to maneuver around you to lift his hips. 

“Admit what?” He planted a hot kiss against your throat to muffle the deep moan that rumbled in his throat when you finally held his cock in your hand. 

“I need you, fuck!” You shimmied out of your shorts and shoved Taehyung onto his back. “Why are you such a fucking dick?” 

You grabbed his cock a bit too aggressively and Taehyung briefly watched his life flash before his eyes. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed you so hard. Though he quickly got over it, hips bucking into your hand while he watched you spit on the tip and let it run down his shaft, slow and sweet. 

“Took you long enou-” Taehyung gasped when you rubbed his cock along your pussy, quickly coating him so you could sink onto his cock until your clit rubbed against his abdomen when you leaned forward. The stretch was enough that you probably should have eased yourself onto him a bit slower to avoid the head of his cock piercing your cervix the way it had, but at this point you were too pissed off to give a shit. He lifted his head to watch you roll your hips on him, the twisting sensation making his cock pulse inside you. 

“Holy fuck.” Taehyung dropped his head back onto the mattress and dug his fingers into the sheets as you began to fuck yourself on him. Sure, he’d promised to fuck you good, but you had absolutely no patience for whatever he was willing to give you. You picked up the pace, one hand squeezing his shoulder for support while the other dragged your nails down the length of his chest. You may have dug into him a bit deeper than you needed to, but the red streaks you left on his skin were more than satisfying. 

“Don’t even think about taking a picture of this,” you muttered through clenched teeth. That sweet, hot buildup of pleasure rippling through your abdomen was starting to get more and more unbearable, but you needed to know that the little creep wasn’t going to ruin a good orgasm for you by playing paparazzi again. 

Taehyung whimpered, shaking his head frantically. “I swear, oh fuck. I s-swear I won’t.” 

His babbling was both pathetic and cute, and you prayed he didn’t bust a nut before you got to. To have Kim Taehyung writhing beneath you with that tight little waist and bulging biceps, all to have him cum first?? No fucking way. 

“Good boy,” you snickered and Taehyung practically lost it right there. 

“You’re insane,” he huffed, closing his eyes once he felt you tighten around him. “Fucking insane.” 

You wanted to bitch him out some more because you definitely weren’t the insane one here, as if he hadn’t toyed with you only to immediately give in once you gave him a taste of his own medicine. But you let it go as you felt that sweet buildup in you finally snap. “Fuck, Taehyung,” you moaned, feeling his hands come up to grab your waist to guide you on top of him as he fucked you through your orgasm and your movements began to falter. Thankfully, it didn’t take him long to finally reach his release; you weren’t interested in overstimulation after the sweaty, horny mess he’d made of you. 

Leaning your forehead into his shoulder, you let your body go limp on top of Taehyung as the two of you caught your breath. 

“Don’t fuck with me anymore,” you threatened, though the post-orgasm shakiness of your voice didn’t make you sound very convincing. 

“I can fuck you again, though, right?” 

You lifted your head to see that fucking grin again and groaned, dropping your face into his neck again. “Maybe.” 

“Are you down for nudes next time?” 

“Don’t fucking push your luck, dickhead.” Your body jiggled as Taehyung laughed. There was the cocky Taehyung once again, the one you oh so loved. Something told you if there was a next time you wouldn’t have it so easy. 

[jacaeryslover]

KING OF MY HEART: a jacaerys targaryen one-shot.

SUMMARY: jace sits the iron throne, his children want to play with him but he's busy being a good king! reader explains and plays with them.

the ends of your deep blue dress slips against the cold floor of the red keep, you are looking for two little brown haired heads, your children. when you finally arrive to the nursing room, you see lydia trying to play with your eldest son, lucerys, she seems like she's trying really hard to make him feel better.

today is that day of the week, jace is supposed to spend some quality time with his heir, they use that time to play, read or even have lectures about the importance of his father's job, and in the future, it will also be his.

"luke, is everything alright?" you ask tenderly, you knew what happened, but you wanted your own son to tell you, or at least his sweet sister.

lucerys was a lot like you, he was bold but sweet, he had a strong sense of duty. his hair was brown like his father and his cheeks and nose were adorned with tainted freckles, your daughter rhaegan on the other hand was just like her father, she was sweet and caring.

"yes" he mutters quietly, almost like a whisper, but it was enough for you to hear it. his eyes dancing between the wooden carved horses and fishes that lydia swung in the air, in the attempt of making the child play with her.

rhaegan on the other hand, was busy drawing. she had a taste of drawing every type of things, bugs, spiders, castles, and people. she once said that portraits were her specialty.

"rhaegan, do you care to tell me why your brother is sulking?"

the quiet girl finally speaks, lifting her head from her drawing to look at her mother's sweet eyes. "he is sad because father couldn't play with him".

jacaerys never missed the opportunities to play with his children, everyone knew that. so something important had to come up for him to do so.

"well, luke. your father must be very busy, you know he loves to play with you" you say, trying to make your son a little bit happier.

"you know your father works very hard for the people of the realm, his job is of very importance"

"i know, but i miss him" luke says, and it breaks your heart. you knew it was going to be hard, balancing family and the realms duties, but it has to be done nonetheless. and you were proud of your husbands work so far.

and just as he appeared in your thoughts, he stepped into the room with a big smile, ready to dedicate the rest of the day with his children. his apologetic look did not go unnoticed by you.

"i'm sorry, my children. i had some important business to attent to. it will not happen again" he said, taking a place next to you, catching his son's hard gaze "i'm sorry luke, please forgive me" his soft voice directed just to his older son, while bringing his right hand to play with luke's brown hair. a mirage of his own brother.

okay i apologize for this, it's awful but it's been sitting in my drafts for months now and im just letting it go

[thedelicatearcher]

finnick odair steps through the door after a long day of fishing, and he’s welcomed by the sight of you curled up on the loveseat, reading calmly as you were clearly waiting for him to return. 

you look up the moment he enters, your eyes lighting up. “finn,” you call out excitedly, abandoning your book on the old coffee table to go straight to his arms. 

as soon as you reach your lover, he engulfs you in his arms and squeezes you tightly without hesitation. his warm, sweaty body relaxes under your touch with a quiet sigh, and his chin comes to rest comfortably on top of your head. 

“i missed you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice slightly muffled as he turns to press a  tender kiss to your hair. “wish you’d come with me to the port. everything feels brighter when you’re near.”

you suppress a small groan. you have never enjoyed spending hours under the scorching sun, just waiting for some fish to finally take finnick’s bait. still, a flutter of excitement always stirs in your chest at the thought of spending an entire day with him. just picturing the gentle way he patiently would explain to you how to use the bait, the playful teasing, and the almost childlike competition you'd inevitably have over who catches the bigger fish, is enough to make you look forward to it.

life is short and fragile, especially alongside finnick. you never know when some tribute might push too far, giving president snow the perfect excuse to retaliate against all the victors, including your finnick. the two of you share an unspoken understanding. that snow was probably just waiting for the right moment to get rid of him without sparking a riot in his name. if anything ever happened to him, what you'd remember about that day would be the way finnick smiled enormously with pride after catching a big fish, not the mosquito bites or the sunburnt skin.

“i’ll join you next time, i promise,” you say softly, with no traces of dishonesty. you can’t help but cup his cheeks, gently admiring his adorable, sun-kissed face. his cheeks squishing in your hands are pink from hours spent outside. he probably skipped sunscreen again. later, he'll no doubt ask you to soothe his skin with ointment. his nose, just as pink as his cheeks, looks like it's silently asking to be kissed by you. his freckles adorning his face make you want to forget everything else and spend the rest of your days pressing soft kisses on every single one of them.

but it is his eyes that draw you in more than anything else. he has trained himself to maintain a facade, hiding any true feelings, because even the slightest flicker of disgust in the capitol could land him in serious trouble. but here, at home, not just in district four, but in your arms, is where he feels safe enough to let his emotions show openly. so when you look straight into his eyes, you see the pure adoration and deep devotion he holds for you. the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and his pupils dilate makes you feel giddy, leaving you to wonder if you look just as enamored as he does right now. 

finally, you press a soft kiss to finnick’s lips for the first time since he walked through the door, and he melts in your hands. you don’t care about the strong smell of the fish he brought home, nor are you bothered by the sweatiness of his body. all you notice is the way his entire body relaxes, how his hands travel to your hips and pull you impossibly closer. his lips taste like comfort, like the peace you find in the ever-moving sea waves. his hand travels up and caresses your back soothingly, and it feels better than any sweet treat the capitol could ever offer. and his breath on your face leaves you dizzy in the best way.

when he finally pulls away, he lets out a quiet chuckle at the lovesick look on your face, teasing you playfully even though his own expression mirrors yours. “i love you,” he murmurs, his voice low. he then picks up the cooler he brought in and heads toward the kitchen, but not before you say it back. 

in the kitchen, you take charge of seasoning the fish while finnick gets the grill going. the conversation is endless, drifting from his complaints about being the tastiest meal for mosquitoes at the port to lighthearted bickering over what'd you name your imaginary family restaurant. that's when mags shows up for dinner like she always does, and finnick immediately ropes her into settling the debate. with a giggly smile, she disapproves of both names before pointing to the grill, where the fish are starting to burn. as the three of you sit down to devour the ones that didn't get burnt, you hum in satisfaction, savoring the precious moment as you quietly bury the unease growing in your chest about the approaching third quarter quell announcement.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part fifteen —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3.7k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Pearly sunlight weaves through the trees, casting freckles across the calm current of the creak. Somewhere, a raven bleats loudly, but your ears block out the sound. The skin between your brows wrinkles with concentration as you tightly grip the wooden makeshift spear, its carved point hovering just above the water.

Numerous fish writhe below you, and your eyes dart between them studiously before finally settling on the meatiest one. With a quick stab, your spear pierces the water's surface, but all it hits is the mucky bottom of the creak. The fish startles with a splash and swims off downstream. 

"Fuck me," you huff, standing up from your squatting position on the rock to soothe the growing ache in your thighs.

Fishing shouldn't be much different than hunting, yet, it's been hours and all you have to show for it is a small chub the size of your palm. With a sigh, you decide your craving for fish isn't worth all this effort and leap off the rock, carrying your measly catch in one hand and spear in the other. Maybe the still waters of the pond could be an easier spot to try someday.

You chose the creak over the pond because it's a greater distance from camp. The longer walk allows you to fixate on the emerald green leaves fluttering in the breeze and the soft chatter of swallows that are returning after their winter migration. Everything is starting to turn into Blue's favorite color. For the first time, you departed the cabin without a jacket, opting for only the long-sleeve tee from Ghost. You had the sleeves rolled to your elbows while fishing, but as you trek back through the wild grasses, you push them down and allow the fabric to brush your knuckles. 

There are hardly any flowers left on the Pink Sorrel after all your foraging. It's a shame they taste so good because the petals are a beautiful fuschia. Arriving at camp, you amble over the plucked stems, bound across the trench with ease, and spot Blue on the other side of the gate offering Grim a wad of grass.

The moment you returned yesterday, she had asked how training with Ghost went. That was quick, she'd observed. Weasling past the rules of your friendship, you gave her a half-lie: He went easy on me this first time. She didn't seem fully convinced that Ghost and 'going easy' belonged in the same sentence together.

"Hey," you greet. "Open the gate for me?"

Grim is given a pet across his back before she leaps up to undo the locks. 

“Hey. How’d it go?” She looks at your near-empty hand. "Fucking noodles. That's it? I thought there were lots of fish there."

"There are. I just suck at catching them."

She gives you an apologetic smile. "Oh— Ghost was looking for you, by the way."

It takes you a moment to respond. "He was?"

"Not sure what for." Her brows furrow. "I'm also not sure where he went. He was here, and then—" Her blue eyes glimmer like water in the sunlight as they shift to something in the distance. "Oh, there he is."

The very person you'd spent hours of alone time trying not to think about arrives as a shadow, lugging what appears to be—you squint—a fucking corpse behind him. Upon closer inspection, it is certainly a body, and with how wonky the limbs look as they drag against the ground, it must be a Grey. That's a little more reassuring, and a lot less bothersome, than if it were a human corpse. 

He drops the corpse in front of the trench, rubs his gloved hands together, and then passes through the parted gate. 

"Is that what you wanted Twix for?" Blue asks, nodding to the Grey.

Ghost explains himself in an even more gruff baritone than usual. "Knew I smelled something." He speaks at you. "I wanted you to check south while I checked north."

"Oh. Sorry," you say lamely and hold up the small chub. "I was, uh, fishing. Looks like you found the source, though. Just one?"

He nods. "Only found one. Could be others so we'll keep an eye out."

"Why did you bring it here?" you ask curiously. 

Blue is the one to answer. "To burn it. Sometimes it seems like they attract each other, haven't you noticed?"

"Right," you grimace. "Blood and rot. Their favorites."

Setting down the catch and spear, you help Ghost gather some wood from the modest pyramid stacked beside the cabin. He nudges the Grey with a booted foot, making it tumble limply into the trench. Starting the fire in there should keep the flames contained.

As you silently place the wood and some kindling over the carcass, your mind is in two places at once. With Ghost right next to you, it's impossible to not think about yesterday; how it felt to be grabbed by him, how he questioned you again about the ammo trip, and how you can't help but detest the thought of him looking at you in pity like he once he did. 

You also think about how much you fucking hate Greys. Christ, they are disgusting. Your fingers accidentally brush against the paper-thin skin that hangs off the bones and a shudder travels up your spine.

Ghost starts the fire with a match and the two of you watch the flames catch, quietly at first— then, they roar through the corpse, quickly turning it black. Bitter smoke intermingles with the crisp spring air and the smell has you coughing into your arm.

Blue has taken it upon herself to avoid the fire, making an audible gagging sound before scooping up Grim. In her absence, you shift from foot to foot, stealing a glance at Ghost. He watches the ash build up and the flames tamper down in mild interest. 

Your fingers curl up into balls, fisting the excess fabric. "Are you worried about more?" you ask him.

It's the first thing you've said to him - actually said to him - since cutting your training short. He loosens a breath and slightly shrugs his broad shoulders. "No. I told you. We never see more than a few at a time." You weren't worried, but if you were, his dismissal of the subject would reassure you. "You should be careful until I finish your bow, though. Unless you're good at throwing knives."

"I'm not," you almost snort, voice no louder than it needs to be. "But Blue is quite good at it. She's been killing squirrels for me."

He hums his response, a low sound that gets lost in the crackle of embers, and you wonder if that's him showing a lack of interest in this kind of conversation with you. With a deep inhale, you change the subject to one you can't ignore.

"Ghost— I want to apologize," you turn to face him, straightening your shoulders. "I wasted your time yesterday. It won't happen again. If we could... give it another try, I would like that."

The smoke is starting to fade. Ghost breaks his gaze from it to study you. You try not to shrink away, wondering what he's thinking. If he feels pity, it's impossible to detect in the dark irises set behind his mask, though, you've never been able to find much of anything in them. 

"You didn't waste my time, Twix. I have an interest in your capabilities." 

"What?" 

"If you're going to be staying here," he elaborates, "—then your strength is of value to me. I'd like to know that if I ask you to do something, you can do it. That if shit happens again, I can rely on you."

"You can," you breathe out. "I am... capable."

"You are," he agrees, looking away. "You're good with a bow. You think quick. But you're still weak, and you doubt yourself." The blunt comments make your brows lower, but you can't help but feel satisfied with the glimpses of approval. "Yesterday was my fault. You weren't ready for it and I should've known that."

"I am ready," you protest, lips parting as you shake your head. "Let me try again. I don't want to be coddled."

"I'm not going to coddle you," he replies in a firm drawl. "I want you stronger first. Let's start there."

“Okay.”

A hand.

There's a hand on your shoulder, heavy and firm, offering a slight shake. With a gasp, your eyes fly open to darkness, only the white of a skull visible above you, illuminated by a sliver of moonlight. 

"What the hell?" are the first words you sputter, voice harsh and raw from sleep. You grip your throat to clear it. 

He scans your face. "Get up. Come on."

"What? What... what fucking time is it?"

"Almost dawn. Let's go."

It takes a few deep breaths to calm the rush of adrenaline ignited by his abrupt wake-up call. Go where? you think to ask, but instead, you slick a hand through your hair, warily rubbing your eyes to adjust to the lack of light.

Somehow you end up outside, wading through the sprawled-out fog as you follow behind his silhouette, the morning so early and quiet that it would've felt like a dream if not for your crunching footsteps. You braid your into a single, tight braid along the way. With such shitty sleep, you're too out of it to even scowl at his backside, wondering how getting up at this hour will in any way make you stronger. 

The answer is in the two axes he carries and the towering oak tree he stops in front of, your eyes climbing up the height of it before landing back down on Ghost. Your hands are forced out of your coat pockets when an axe is offered to you, fingers curling around the handle and abs tightening from the surprising weight of it.

Confusion rolls around in your gut. Slowly, you ask, "Um. You... want me to cut this thing down?"

"We need more wood after yesterday." He inclines his head and gives a tap of his own axe to the thick trunk. "Good size for you to start with."

"It's huge," you mutter under your breath. "Why do we have to do this so early?"

If there's any reasoning to it at all, he doesn't bother sharing. Rather, he stalks over to another tree about ten meters away. The calm air is soon shattered by the rough sound of metal biting wood as he starts effortlessly cutting the trunk. A large part of you considers dropping the axe and leaving without a word, but you ignore it.

"Alright then," you whisper to yourself. 

It's not the first time you've chopped down a tree. You used to help Paul with it, and truthfully, you're surprised Ghost has never asked you to do chores like this sooner. It's certainly bigger than the skinny, young trees you used to go for, evident in how little of a dent you make with the first swing.

Either you're as weak as Ghost claims, or this axe of his is heavier than the one Paul had because your biceps feel strained by the third hit.

"Have you never done this before?"

The voice at your back nearly makes you drop the axe. Whirling around, you face the colossal presence of him and wonder how you didn't notice it sooner.

"I have." You rest the thick blade on the ground, grumbling. "Do you have a thing for sneaking up on people?"

"Be more aware of your surroundings." His tone teeters towards admonishing, and he looks you over before ticking up a brow. "And fix your stance before you throw your bloody back out."

He nudges the toe of his boot against yours, forcing you to spread your feet further apart. Your lips roll together as he grunts in approval. "Try again now."

When he takes a step back, you face the tree again, bending your elbows before extending them sharply. The blade cuts deeper this time, if only by a little.

"You're focusing too much on your arms," he remarks behind your shoulder. 

Your eyebrow twitches. "I'm... I'm holding the axe with my arms. Why would I not focus on them?"

"When you're shooting arrows, what muscles do you use the most?"

Thinking back to those lessons from Paul, you answer almost immediately. "My back." It's always the part that gets most sore. "And my... my shoulders, I guess."

"Focus more on those."

His advice helps. The next swing deals considerable damage to the bark. You turn to see his response, but he's already gone back to his tree.

The next few days involve so much chopping and sawing that you think you might be starting to hate wood and all of its forms. After the trees are down, you have to cut them into sizeable logs. The back-and-forth motion leaves your arm numb. You quickly realize why Ghost is making you get up early for this work— once the sun is out, it becomes miserable, cold sweat cascading down your back and temples. 

Blue decides this is not the kind of training she's interested in watching. You don't see much of her except during dinner where she offers to cook the squirrels she's caught for you. You don't object. You pick the meat apart down to the needly bones, wiggle your sore toes of their confinements, and knock out earlier than either of them. Fatigue goes back to claiming you swift and heavy, like a current that pulls you down, down, down. The dreams sit behind a dark wall, blocked for now. 

It goes on like this for a whole week, and somewhere along the way, you stop hating it. The grunts that leave your mouth are laced with exertion and focus. Your arms don't hurt as much. You split the logs apart as your mind fills with thoughts of everything you hate. Greys. Death. Pity. You imagine breaking all those things into a hundred, rotten pieces. It feels... good.

One morning, you awaken to sunlight already bleeding through the plywood, and confusion sits you up. You look around, wondering why Ghost didn't get you up sooner, only to find Blue lying belly-down on the raggedy rug, flipping through one of her new magazines.

"Where's Ghost?" 

"Good morning to you, too," she sings. Her chin inclines from where it rests in her palm. "I decided you need a different kind of training today. He's setting it up."

"You... you decided that, huh?"

She hums. "I made you breakfast. Go eat." She waves her hand. "I'm sure he'll be done soon."

You have no idea what she's talking about, but your stomach guides you to the cooked meat calling your name. She points out things in the magazine, like old celebrities and ridiculous perfume ads, cute boys and yummy sweets she wishes she could try; you nod along as you eat.

When he returns, she perks up. Practically tugs on your arm. You have to remind her that you're still barefoot. She impatiently groans the entire time you are lacing up your boots, taking your sweet time on purpose. 

The pond is where she leads you. That place where you first saw her.

Except today, there is a thin log stretched across one end to the other. A bridge.

"We have got to work on your balance, my student," Blue announces, hands on her hips. A gentle, warm breeze tousles her hair and she swipes it from her face. "We can't have a repeat of you-know-what."

Your brows shoot up and a chuff of breath leaves your nose. "Are you trying to say I have no sense of balance?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. Come on, now."

You almost forgot Ghost followed the two of you out here until he sits on a tree stump with his carving knife and the bow he's making. He's been working on it for a few hours every day. Today, when you steal a glance as Blue clasps your hand and leads you to the homemade bridge, it almost looks like a bow, finally taking on a curved shape. You can't see much of it, though, because soon you are being instructed to cross the log.

"Without falling," Blue adds. 

"Easy," you tease, shrugging. 

"Prove it."

The log is about the width of the metal beam, but much shorter. You cross over it, arms outstretched at your sides and boots hovering a few feet above glistening water that is teeming with fish. When you step down on the other side, you shoot Blue a grin.

She rubs her chin. "Not bad, not bad. Again."

You do it again with ease, even though your muscles are still stiff from your morning workouts. 

"Okay, this time, we're going to make it more realistic." 

By realistic, she means baring her teeth in a growl and sticking her arms out like a Grey. All of a sudden, you are being chased across the log, Blue running behind you. Explicatives leave your lips until your boot misses a step and you fall into the water. This time, the shallow pond offers a comfortable temperature that doesn't send your body into panic mode. You break the surface, able to stand up on the rocky bottom, and throw your wet hair out of your face as laughter bubbles up your throat on its own accord.

You look up at Blue, playfully glaring. She smirks.

"Come here, Grey," you say.

You grab her by the ankle and pull her down into the water with you. She gasps and giggles, thrashing around in her soaked clothes as you splash water in her face. 

"Or," you taunt, "Should I say Amelia?"

Her eyes widen. "How did you—" 

Then, she's leaping at you, pushing your head under the water. "Don't ever call me that."

"Or what?" You tease and swim away, scaly fish brushing against your ankles as the wide legs of your jeans ride up. "You'll kill me?"

"Might have to!"

You're not sure how long the two of you swim in there. Minutes. Maybe an hour. Until your fingertips are pruney like how they used to get when you used to swim in the pool with your sister.

You hoist yourself out of the pond and sit by the water's edge, drenched shirt clinging to your breasts uncomfortably, but you don't care. You've felt far more uncomfortable things. The buttery sunlight kisses your exposed cheeks as you wring out your hair, Blue sitting beside you to do the same thing.

She peels off her wet jeans, probably uncomfortable in them. You would do the same if you were eleven and didn't care. On her thigh, the thick scar from her bullet wound blemishes the soft, pale skin.

"I'm a better teacher than Ghost, huh?" she says.

"So far," you nod, glancing at him. When you do, his eyes meet yours across the short distance. Only for a second. Before they flicker back down to the bow.

"He hates swimming, you know."

You look at her. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. He never really goes in with me." She shrugs and buries her fingers in the grass. "Hey. Look. There are those violets I told you about."

You follow the direction of her eyes and sure enough, a patch of wild violets decorate the ground, gently bent in the breeze. As your clothes dry, the two of you pluck them. They are beautiful. Dark purple petals. You braid them into her hair. She tries to do the same for you, but her braiding skills need some work. It's a nice break from the past week you've had, your sore limbs sprawled against the grass to dry.

It's when the sun starts to lower that Blue puts her jeans back on. Your clothes are still wet, and the wind is starting to pick up, spreading gooseflesh across your skin. 

"Here."

The familiar low voice announces his presence. Tucking your wet hair behind your ears, you look up at Ghost. The two of you haven't exchanged many words except for his occasional correction of your form while cutting wood. 

He stands against the sun. You take the finished bow from him in quiet awe. It's even nicer up close, the smoothed oak caressing your palms as you glide them up and down the length of this new weapon. The first one he gave you was made for a child, but this one is larger, the perfect size for you. Your index finger gives a pluck to the string, feeling the hum of vibrations. He must have just added that. 

"Thank you," you tell him honestly. Whatever uncertainty or irritation you might feel about him doesn't change the swell of gratitude you feel in this moment. It’s a tangible thing that sits in your chest. “It's... great, really."

"Might take some getting used to,” he says gruffly.

You shrug. "That's alright."

You glance to your left where Blue is still changing. With a swallow, you hold the bow tight to your chest. "Do you think I'm ready to try more tomorrow? Not just the wood. I feel like... I feel like I've been getting stronger from it already."

He gives a short nod. "Tomorrow, then."

[rafeys-sweetie]

𝐋𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

The dock creaked beneath you as you leaned back on your palms, salt in your hair, the smell of sun and sea still clinging to your skin. The sun was setting behind the marsh trees, turning the sky into a watercolor mess of orange and pink. You had sand in your shorts, probably a sunburn on your shoulders, and absolutely no regrets.

JJ plopped down beside you with a dramatic sigh, tossing his damp shirt across the boards. His blond curls were still dripping from the impromptu swim he took after daring John B to a cannonball contest and promptly belly flopping instead.

“Okay, I know you saw that,” he said, pointing a finger at you like he was calling out a witness in court. “That was not a belly flop. That was a calculated dive.”

You snorted. “JJ, your body hit the water so flat I think the fish are still recovering from the sonic boom.”

He looked offended, clutching his chest like you’d just insulted his entire lineage. “Wow. That’s rich, coming from the same girl who nearly decapitated Pope with a frisbee earlier. And what did I say? Did I clown you? No, ma’am. I said, and I quote: ‘That’s my girl, she’s got a canon for an arm and the heart of a warrior.’”

You bit your lip to hold back your laugh, but he caught it and grinned like he’d won a prize.

JJ Maybank was ridiculous. Loud, messy, unpredictable. The kind of guy who jumped before he looked, talked before he thought, and loved like it was the only thing he knew how to do. He was also, somehow, the best boyfriend you’d ever had. And possibly the worst liar especially when it came to playing things cool.

“You know,” he added, settling beside you, “I’ve been thinking.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s dangerous.”

“Right?” He nodded solemnly. “Almost gave myself a nosebleed. But listen hear me out. I’ve come to the conclusion that you are, in fact, the best girlfriend in the entire solar system.”

You gave him a dry look. “Oh really? The whole solar system?”

JJ nodded, dead serious. “Confirmed. I’ve consulted the data. Ran the simulations. Even asked Kiara. She said, and I quote, ‘She’s too good for you.’ So. Science backs me.”

You shook your head, laughing as he slid an arm around your shoulders and pulled you into his side. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know, right?” he said, resting his chin on your head. “But also, like, mad lucky. You could’ve picked anyone. Some dude with a boat and a trust fund and a working ac unit. But instead, you picked the guy who can’t legally rent a car and thinks Hot Cheetos count as a food group.”

You leaned into him, warmth blooming in your chest. “Yeah, well. I like broken things with big hearts.”

“Ouch.” He placed a hand over his chest. “Was that a compliment or a roast?”

“Both.”

He laughed and kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then your cheek each one louder and sloppier than the last until you were squirming and telling him to quit it.

JJ didn’t quit it.

He kissed you again, softer this time, and when he pulled back, the grin was still there but something else flickered behind it. That quiet vulnerability he tried to hide under jokes and bravado.

“I know I joke around a lot,” he said, voice lower now, more real, “but I mean it. You’re… you’re the best thing I’ve got, babe. Like, straight up. You’re it.”

You looked at him, really looked at him sunlight in his hair, freckles across his nose, heart on his sleeve, always and said, simply, “I know.”

JJ smiled, just a little. And that was the thing about him. For all the chaos, all the noise, JJ Maybank loved loud but in the quiet moments, it was the way he looked at you that said everything.

And you’d never want it any other way.

[carlislefiles]

penpal | itadori yuuji ╰►it's just one summer. but...it's not just one summer. it's a whole three months, thirteen weeks, away from you. he finally has you, and now he's gonna give you up. but he finds that being away from you, while miserable and lonely and awful, does have its appeals. like the lovely, heartfelt letters you write him, and the sweet, knowing packages you mail him. the facetime calls that go on for hours. missing you is awful, but it's a bittersweet kind of ache. one he feels thankful to have. 5.4k words

a/n: this has been sitting pretty in my drafts for a while now. I like it a lot, but for some reason I've convinced myself it's not that good. not fishing for compliments, just genuinely don't know how I feel about it, so I hope you guys like it. and thank you to the anon who requested a yuuji fic, you inspired me to finally post this bad boy. semi-canon compliant, but I don't think the students actually get a dedicated summer break, so just pretend with me here :] I was lowkey shitting on megumi in parts of this fic...was not my intention, but it kinda comes off that way my bad. warnings/what to expect: fluff, kissing, cussing.

yuuji had known you for two years. he’d been in love with you for most of them, though he only got to call you his about a year in. you came to jujutsu tech like some serene little storm—not loud or messy like him, but quiet in your devastation. you weren’t flashy, but you were competent. focused. what you lacked in raw cursed energy, you made up for with an almost religious discipline. the way you trained—morning runs before class, late nights on the field until your knuckles bled, the way your hands shook from exhaustion but you never stopped—he’d never seen anything like it.

you volunteered for every mission. you never hesitated. you were the first out the door and often the last one back. gojo sent you on solo missions all the time, which made yuuji anxious in the beginning, until he saw just how capable you really were. it wasn’t jealousy, not really. that wasn’t his nature. he didn’t burn with envy—he just brimmed with admiration. reverence. he wanted to take care of you, not because he thought you needed it, but because he needed to do it. you were the kind of person who made him want to be more than he was.

he’d probably had a crush on you since the moment you met. and now, a year into dating you, he could still hardly believe his luck. he could talk for hours about how beautiful he thinks you are. write novels about the freckles scattered across your cheeks and shoulders like constellations. sonatas on the softness of your skin, especially in late spring when the uniform sleeves rolled up and your skin went golden and red from the sun. you made his heart ache in the most devastating, beautiful way. and he told you that. often.

he liked to joke about how he “tricked” you into falling for him, as if it hadn’t been the most careful, patient, sincere pursuit of his life. it started small—compliments slipped in between classes, during missions, after sparring. he always noticed when you styled your hair differently, or wore a new outfit when you and kugisaki went shopping. he was subtle, at first. quiet about it. you didn’t pick up on his feelings, not right away. you were too practical. too oblivious. you brushed off his compliments. squinted at him suspiciously when he offered to carry your training gear. tilted your head like a confused puppy when he gushed about you to gojo-sensei.

yuuji was nothing if not persistent. fushiguro, predictably, had no patience for any of it. “just tell her how you feel,” he’d grumble, usually while icing some injury he got in sparring. which was rich, coming from fushiguro—who’d been nursing an epic crush on a certain second-year for much longer than he’d ever admit.

but yuuji knew better. you didn’t like surprises. public affection made you uncomfortable. if he told you everything all at once, you’d fold into yourself and pull away. so instead, he built his love for you slowly. brick by brick. invited you to movie nights. asked you to study in his dorm (after cleaning it obsessively first). stayed up just to wait for you to come home from missions and pretend he was “just grabbing a snack,” ramen packet already boiling. he became your shadow. your biggest fan. a lovesick puppy who knew exactly who he wanted. and eventually, something shifted. his compliments didn’t go over your head anymore—they landed. you started to smile at him longer. laugh at his jokes. sit next to him without prompting. share an airpod on walks. choose his dorm to study in, instead of kugisaki’s or your own. you opened up like a sunrise—slow and soft, but radiant.

your dorm became his favorite place on earth. to anyone else, it might’ve looked boring—neutral tones, soft blankets, piles of books. but to yuuji, it was like stepping into your chest and hearing your heart beat. quiet. warm. steady. he saw you in it. the small comforts you clung to in a world that had given you so few. the little signs of a person trying to build something gentle, even when the world kept asking for violence. he wanted to be that place for you. and slowly, you started letting him.  you let him brush your hair from your face after training. let him curl around you like a shield after a long, bruising mission. let him rest his head in your lap while you read to him, your voice soft and low, stumbling over the occasional word, especially when he stared up at you with that look in his eyes.

you never had a moment. no confessions. no breathless declarations in the rain. it just...shifted. somewhere along the way, you stopped pulling away from his affection. started leaning in. started trying. not because you felt like you had to, but because something in your chest cracked open and yuuji had rushed in to fill it like sunlight.

it wasn’t easy. it didn’t come naturally. love never had, not for you. not like it did for him. where yuuji loved in color—bright, bold, full-bodied—you loved in grayscale. yours was a quieter thing. but no less real. it made you feel naked, sometimes, the way he looked at you. the way he touched you without hesitation, like he was sure you wouldn’t break. the way he praised you without wanting anything in return. affection still made your skin prickle some days. made your chest tighten like your body couldn’t quite accept that this was safe. that he was safe.

but you gave it anyway. a hand on his shoulder. a thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. a quiet I missed you when he returned from missions. you couldn’t mirror his joy, his ease with the language of love—but you found your own dialect. one he understood perfectly. you let him into your space. your life. your rituals. he learned to love your quiet. you learned to love his noise. and somewhere in the middle, you fell for him. not in a rush, not in a whirlwind. but in soft, unshakable steps. one foot after the other. you showed up. that was your way of loving. not loud. not immediate. but steady. enduring. the kind of love that doesn't shout—but never leaves. yuuji never asked you to be anyone else. and that’s what made it so easy to try.

now, with the sun climbing higher and the days stretching long and hot, summer has arrived. and for the first time, he won’t be spending it with you. not a week or two apart. a whole summer. you’re headed home to see family. yuuji’s staying in tokyo with gojo and fushiguro. he’ll finally get to see this mansion fushiguro’s always grumbling about. you’ll be on opposite ends of the country. no surprise movie nights. no dorm room reading. no you. last summer, you’d stayed at the school for the summer. your family wasn’t the sentimental type. they’d sent you off to become a better sorcerer. but yaga had set up renovations to take place over the summer. so going home was just the sensible decision. fushiguro had annoyedly claimed the offer was open, but kugisaki wasn’t going. so you politely declined, you didn’t want to impose. 

you seem unbothered, serene as always, just like you are before missions. you promise to call, and he knows you mean it, despite the fact that he knows you don’t like phone calls. but that doesn’t stop the dread in his chest. the hollowness behind his smile. he tries to act like it’s fine. that he’s fine. but god, he’s gonna miss you. 

the train ride out to gojo’s house—sorry, gojo’s mansion—is quick. he lives just on the other side of tokyo, far enough out that everything slows down, quiets, turns rural. but you're taking a bullet train across the country. practically a world away. yuuji knows you’ll be fine. he’s seen you pin grade 1 sorcerers in a matter of seconds. watched you exorcise curses blindfolded and bound just for the challenge. he’s seen you survive things that should’ve left scars, and still come home with that same calm steadiness, as if you’d just run errands instead of dancing with death. but he worries anyway. he can’t help it. he downloads an audiobook on his phone—something dense, something you’d picked. the same one you’re listening to on your train ride. he texts you when something happens in the plot that grabs him, and you respond, just wait. it gets even better.

he asks where you’re sitting. back of the train, you text. he facetimes immediately, hopeful the quiet section means you won’t be overheard. you’ve got earbuds in and you speak soft and low, barely above the hum of the train. he misses you already, and he says so. he tells you about his short trip to gojo’s. how fushiguro ignored him the entire way there. you smile faintly—your relationship with fushiguro is... testy at best. there’s mutual respect, no question. you’re both composed, private, precise. but the difference is: you love yuuji without shame. quiet, but complete. fushiguro... well. he loves like it’s a secret. like it's something to be embarrassed about. you never talk about it. but it's there. yuuji pretends not to notice. you’re his two best friends, and you make it work.

he asks what your plans are when you get home. he wants to know about your family. your town. where you come from. a little coastal village outside of okinawa. you tell him it’s small—fields instead of skyscrapers. you grew up with dirt under your nails and windburn on your cheeks. your family isn’t loud. not physically affectionate. but the love’s there. just in your language. small, quiet, hard to spot unless you know what you're looking for.

your mother makes your favorite dinner the night you return. your sisters insist on sleeping in your room, one on either side. they barely touch you, but they’re close, and that’s enough. they want to hear everything about yuuji. all about him. you show them pictures. tell them about how he leaves little notes in your textbook margins, how he walks you to class even when it’s out of his way. about how he makes you laugh, really laugh. the kind you feel in your ribs. “he sounds so nice,” one of them says. 

“he is,” you reply. you miss him, too. you just don’t say it out loud.

the next morning, you wake to three texts from yuuji. you reply to each one individually. he responds immediately. he’s up early—he knew you’d be awake. your conversations trickle in all day, a stream of consciousness that stretches like a string between you, humming with tension and sweetness. each message is a little love letter to the long, hot summer you’re spending apart. you keep busy—your days are full. chores. catching up with family. reading. card games at the kitchen table. you blink, and a week is gone. one down. twelve to go.

on the final night of the week, you sit at the small desk in your room. you pull out a blank sheet of paper and pick up your pen. and you begin to write. you write about everything. the pink tulips you repotted and set on the windowsill—they reminded me of your hair. the tabby cat you see every morning on your run around the property. the summer storm that rolled through the second night, drenching the ground and leaving everything smelling new. the dumplings you made with your mom, how you got flour in your hair and on your nose and she laughed, really laughed, for the first time in a while. you write about the paintings you did with your little sister—hers a pink unicorn, yours the sky, both ridiculous and beautiful in their own way. the two books you’ve already finished. how you miss him. how you even miss fushiguro’s grumbling. how you miss the taste of his overcooked ramen and the crooked grin he gives you when he tries to flirt and fails spectacularly. the two scars he lets you kiss each night before bed. his beautiful, expressive eyes. you’re not desperate enough to say you miss gojo-sensei. not yet. but you’re getting there.

you print out photos with your polaroid camera. one of the cat. one of the dumplings. the flowers. your paintings. the books. and finally—inevitably—a photo of yourself. you in his favorite red hoodie, the one that’s soft and stretched out and smells like him no matter how many times you wash it. it’s yours now. he saw you in it once and never asked for it back. you slip the pictures and the four-page letter into a thick yellow envelope. the next morning, you stop by the tiny convenience store in town. you find some spicy nori snacks, a box of matcha pocky. add them in. seal it. you drop it off at the post office without ceremony and go on with your day. 

that night, you facetime. you don’t say anything about the package. he tells you how pretty you look. how lovely you are in his hoodie, flushed from a day in the garden. his voice is soft, reverent, like he’s seeing a dream and doesn’t want to wake up. you threaten to hang up the call. he grins and moves on. tells you about the new bruise on his arm—courtesy of gojo’s bright idea to use a basketball during baseball practice. he swung, connected, and got flattened by the rebound. you shake your head. you miss him. but honestly, you're glad you’re not at gojo’s house. a couple of days later, a package arrives on gojo’s doorstep. 

it hits him like summer sun on bare skin—sudden, bright, and a little overwhelming. the package shows up one lazy afternoon, thick air curling through the open windows of gojo’s place. the cicadas are loud. there’s something sweet in the air, like peaches or sun-warmed grass. gojo drops it on the kitchen counter like it weighs nothing, flipping through a magazine as he says, offhandedly, “hey. something came in from okinawa.”

fushiguro, halfway through slicing into a watermelon, raises an eyebrow. “who do you know from there?” but yuuji’s already moving—no, tripping over the side of the couch like it’s trying to keep him from the counter. a graceless tumble. he doesn’t care. because he knows. you. it’s from you. that’s who he knows in okinawa. that’s who he’s been thinking about every minute of every day since you left.

the package is plain. no stickers, no doodles. you’re not sentimental like that. but yuuji opens it like it’s made of glass, like the contents inside are too precious for fast hands. his fingers shake a little. inside, a few things sit nestled gently together, and suddenly his throat is tight. spicy nori. he’s never had it, but you must’ve remembered that. he’d mentioned it once—months ago, maybe. a craving, a curiosity. you remembered. matcha pocky. his favorite. he stares at it for a moment, like maybe if he looks long enough, it’ll explain how you know him so well it makes his chest ache.

and then photos. they look random. but he knows they’re not. they’re fragments of your days. slivers of moments he wasn’t there for. a garden. a messy dumpling attempt. a painting. a cat. he doesn’t need the stories behind them. it’s enough that you sent them. that you wanted him to see. and then—the one that knocks the wind out of him. you. at your desk. wearing his red hoodie and your pajama pants. your hair down, natural, soft the way he always tells you he loves it. you're making a little face at the camera—cheeky, just barely a smirk. like you knew if you didn’t include a photo of yourself, he’d pout about it for a week. and you were right. he would’ve. but now you’ve gone and outsmarted him again. now he’s staring down at this picture like it holds the answer to every question he’s ever asked about love.

finally—finally—he notices the letter. four pages, all in your handwriting. folded with a kind of neatness that’s distinctly you. he reads it too fast the first time, eyes skipping, hungry for everything. has to go back, start again, slow down. some of it he’s heard before, through facetime. little updates. passing mentions. but there’s so much more here. so much softness. so much you. he laughs out loud when you mention watching human earthworm 3 with your sisters. “they hated it,” you wrote. "I loved every second.” he presses a hand to his chest. god, he wishes he’d been there. you write about listening to his favorite song during one of your runs. you say it felt like he was there with you. and he can’t even handle how his stomach flips at that—like the laws of space and time bend for a second just to let him be close to you.

you mention your hair again. how when you’re not constantly out on missions, you can finally take the time to wash it and let it do its thing. he’d noticed, of course. could tell from the photo. but the fact that you thought to explain it to him? that you wanted him to know? he has to stop reading for a second. his vision’s gone a little blurry. because this letter—it’s not flowery. it’s not full of declarations or clichés. it’s not romantic in the way some people would call romantic. but it’s a love letter. god, it is. it’s so you. attentive. specific. steady. you miss him, and you say so. but more than that—you see him. you know him. and you care. deeply. completely. without needing to shout it. he reads the last line three times over before he can breathe again. "I love you, yuuji ♡”

he presses the letter to his chest and lets his head fall back against the couch. he’s quiet for a long moment. the summer breeze ruffles the corner of the letter. someone says something in the other room—maybe gojo, maybe fushiguro—but yuuji doesn’t hear it. his whole world, right now, is inside that envelope. and you’re not even trying. that’s the thing that wrecks him. you’re just being yourself.

he calls you immediately—eyes still suspiciously glassy, voice slightly too upbeat.

"umm, what is thisss?" he says, holding the opened package up to the camera like you might not recognize it. “you’re way too nice, baby. this is literally the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

you blink at him, chewing a piece of ice absentmindedly. "what is?"

"this!" he rattles the package, then points dramatically to the letter like it’s a handwritten declaration of sainthood.

"oh. that?” you say, frowning. “that was nothing.”

you’d honestly forgotten you sent it.

it had taken you half an hour to throw together. less than 1000 yen. you’d picked up the snacks while buying shampoo. you’d stuck in the letter because the envelope felt too light. you’d printed the picture because you figured he’d whine otherwise. it wasn’t much.

but he’s gushing. twenty whole minutes. you can barely get a word in. he’s complimenting your handwriting like it’s calligraphy. he’s pointing out specific phrases from the letter and repeating them back to you in a dreamy voice. he’s asking if the cat from your run has a name yet.

eventually you settle into your usual facetime routine—quiet, warm, full of long pauses that don’t feel empty. your mother calls you down for dinner. normally, you’d say goodbye and hang up.

but tonight, you don’t.

you just…carry him with you. down the stairs, to the kitchen. your sisters have already eaten. your plate is waiting for you under cling wrap in the fridge. you heat it up, sit at the counter, and start eating with the phone propped against the sugar canister.

you barely say anything for the first five minutes. just the soft clinking of utensils, the occasional sigh.

“do you want me to leave you be?” yuuji asks gently.

you look up, surprised. “no. I don’t want to eat by myself.”

it’s not a big declaration. you say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

but to yuuji, it might as well be a marriage proposal.

because he remembers you two years ago. the girl who used to apologize for having freckles. who stiffened at compliments. who lived curled up in the corners of her dorm like a ghost. and now you want to share your dinner with him across two time zones.

he doesn’t say any of that. he just smiles and goes to grab his own food. he makes fushiguro come eat too, plates already lukewarm from gojo’s microwave. he sets the phone in the center of the table like a centerpiece.

you ask megumi how he’s doing. if he’s ready to kill gojo yet.

"I am always ready to kill gojo,” he deadpans. but it’s half-hearted. you all know the truth.

you talk about what you want to do when you’re back on campus. yuuji lights up.

“let’s add kugisaki to the call!”

you do. she’s annoyed at first, claims she’s busy. but she stays. and suddenly it feels like another night in the dorms. like you're not scattered across japan, separated by obligation and summer heat. for a little while, it just feels like home.

—

the next day, yuuji sets out to write you back. he opens to the first page with the same energy he once reserved for exam questions or curse exorcism strategies. serious business. except…he struggles. a lot. your letter was perfect. it had felt effortless. this? this is like trying to write a poem in a thunderstorm.

but once he stops trying to match you, and starts writing like himself, everything spills out. he writes about the baseball-basketball hybrid gojo invented. (“it’s dumb. I'm obsessed. we play everyday.”) he tells you how he and megumi tried to cook that soup recipe you mentioned. he describes the exact moment the fire alarms went off and how gojo’s first words when walking into the smoky mess were “you guys better not be cooking something healthy.” he tells you about the kyoto girl megumi is clearly in love with, and how you need to help orchestrate something. “maybe he can trick her into dating him. worked for me.” he thanks you for the spicy nori. “it was amazing. buy some more. facetime me when you try it!” he compliments your hair. rants about it, really. summer humidity is a miracle, and your hair is living proof. he asks for pictures of the ocean. says you must be able to see it from your family’s house, or at least on your morning run. says he wants more pictures of your paintings—especially the pink unicorn one your sister did, which he describes as “abstract and terrifying and amazing.” he asks for more pictures of you, too. “one is a total disservice. I deserve at least five. maybe ten.”

and then, because it feels right, he says it. over and over again. I love you. I love you. I love you. the words tumble out. not in some neat little line, but smeared across paragraphs, tucked between snack reviews and bad doodles. they’re everywhere. just like he is. just like you are, in his world. the letter is a mess. his handwriting is a disaster. ink is smudged. words are misspelled. there are crossed-out sentences and strange margin notes. he’s doodled a weird little version of you in his hoodie with stars around your head. he’s drawn a cat that looks more like a potato. he loves it. he knows you’ll love it too.

he doesn’t have a polaroid, which is tragic. he makes a note to buy one. but he still manages to include something tangible—a couple bags of tea from gojo’s pantry that he’s pretty sure you’ll like. (if not, you’ll bully him, and he’s fine with that.) he puts hearts all over the envelope. big ones. lopsided ones. he considers sealing it with a kiss, then decides that’s weird, then does it anyway. he sends it off the next morning. and with it, he sends the part of him that hasn’t stopped missing you since the second you left.

it spirals, gloriously, hilariously, heart-wrenchingly from there. the rest of the summer becomes an exchange of laughter folded into letters, fingerprints smudged onto snack packages, love woven into bubble wrap and twine. you trade days the way people trade baseball cards. one sweet little offering at a time.

yuuji sends you candy bars from the corner store with scribbled notes like “tastes weird. tell me if I'm crazy.” he includes half-baked recipes clipped from magazines, fully aware he’ll never pull them off. you try them. you lie and say they’re amazing. (“don’t worry, I didn’t burn the soup. unlike some people.”) you send him a miniature basketball plushie because he will not shut up about gojo’s cursed frankenstein sport. he opens the package like it’s a sacred relic, then immediately facetimes you to introduce it to the world. “this is mikey. he’s our son now.” he gives it a place of honor on his pillow. fushiguro scoffs and sighs for a full ten minutes. you make matching bracelets. twine and a little metal charm you found at a beach stand. you keep one. mail the other. he acts like he made it, flashing it dramatically on every facetime call. “check out this artisan craftsmanship.” you let him have it.

one afternoon, you call and he’s asleep. megumi answers, caught somewhere between suspicion and resignation. the air between you two is awkward, delicate. you don’t say much. until you grin and say, “go get a permanent marker.” megumi blinks. then smirks. yuuji wakes up to a full mural on his cheek and something profane scrawled across his forehead. he groans, squinting into the camera. but you're cackling. megumi’s barely holding it together. he can’t be mad. not even a little. he receives more pictures from you. candid, sleepy, sunlit. some with your sisters, some with your fingers half-covering the lens. one of you holding a seashell to your ear like a dork. he sets them on his nightstand in the guest room like they’re family heirlooms. sometimes he looks at them before bed and just whispers, “you’re so cool,” like a man cursed by affection.

he makes you explain your hair routine in painstaking detail. wants brand names. ratios. “like, how wet is your hair when you use the curl cream?” he’s convinced that if he studies your methods, his hair will someday be as majestic. you’re losing your mind. he’s so serious about it. it’s infuriating. you love it. he sends you postcards from tokyo with captions like “wish you were here (i mean you practically live here but still)”. you keep them all in a shoebox under your bed. there’s already too many to count. you start watching movies “together.” he’ll call, and you’ll sync up your streaming services like you’re detonating a bomb. “3...2...1...play.” the audio never lines up perfectly. the subtitles sometimes glitch. but it doesn’t matter. you talk through the whole thing anyway.

and it’s...gross. sickening, even. soft and sappy and too gentle for a world that rarely is. but it’s yours. built slowly, lovingly, from nothing more than stamps and signal bars and the occasional haunted snack box. and it matters. because you didn't used to believe in this kind of thing. and yuuji—yuuji believed in you even when you didn't believe in yourself. he made room for you. made space for this. for love. for warmth. for something that doesn’t sting when it touches you.

he still misses you, of course. but it’s different now. not aching and hollow. it’s…sweet. soft around the edges. like the kind of longing you get for a favorite song, or the smell of your mom’s cooking when you’re away. he thinks about you every morning. every night. every time he passes that stupid unicorn drawing or tightens the bracelet on his wrist. he misses you. but he’s grateful to miss you. because missing you means he has you. and that is the best thing that's ever happened to him.

—

he’s jittery. he’s always jittery, sure, but this is different. yuuji’s not just bouncing his leg—he’s halfway to vibrating out of his skin. the entire bullet train ride he’s cracking knuckles, chewing on the corner of his lip, refreshing your last text like it might suddenly change and say “surprise! I'm here early! come get me now!” it doesn’t. you said your train left at 3:00am. brutal. typical you—always the cheap ticket, always the one who makes do without complaint. you don’t mind early mornings or sore backs. he minds for you. his ride is short. unfairly so. which means he gets to be alone in his dorm for a few hours with all this energy and nowhere to put it. he bugs kugisaki within twenty minutes of unpacking. fushiguro? emotionally exhausted, allegedly. but yuuji knows better. fushiguro loved hanging out with him this summer. he’ll never say it, but he’ll miss yuuji’s endless talking, his stupid pool games, his bad movie taste. they’ll both pretend otherwise.

yuuji’s a livewire. can’t sit still. he finally channels it into decorating, if you can call it that. every picture you mailed him gets stuck on the wall in a wild, crooked constellation—no rhyme or reason, just instinct and affection. the letter drawer gets a place of honor in his nightstand, already worn from being opened and reread too many times. then he gets mischievous. he grabs mikey, the plush basketball, and heads to your dorm. he’s plotting. you’ll come in later and find the plush sitting on your pillow, possibly with a dramatic note about “co-parenting.”

he knocks, ready to annoy kugisaki into letting him in. but the door swings open—and it’s you. you, with that sly, soft look on your face, like you know exactly what you’ve done. "I was waiting for you to come up here,” you say. “wasn’t sure you would.” liar. your train hadn’t left at 3:00am. you’d found a late-night deal, and you took it.  you’d been here since last night.

and yuuji? he short-circuits. he doesn’t freeze—yuuji itadori never freezes—but he ignites. he barrels through the doorway like a storm surge, lifts you off your feet, spins you around like some cheesy k-drama protagonist who’s waited thirteen weeks for this moment. (which he has.) he tucks his face into your neck and inhales. he missed this—your perfume, your shampoo, your skin. he missed you. his lips find every freckle like they’re dots on a map he’s finally coming home to. he squishes your cheeks in his palms and baby-talks at you like he’s trying to imprint your face onto his soul. which, to be fair, he probably is.

you endure it with only mild suffering. arms loose around his shoulders. a soft grumble of, “okay, okay, yuuji…” but you don’t pull away. when he finally sets you down, your hands come up—gentle—and you press your lips to the matching scars on either side of his eyes. a habit now. something quiet and reverent, like you’re acknowledging everything he’s been through without saying a word. then you look at him. just…look. wide, steady eyes. hair undone. that calm, quiet sort of smile that he’s never been able to resist. "I missed you too, yuuji.” 

and that’s it. that’s the sentence that breaks the dam. he’s kissing you again, not even properly—just barely-there little pecks over your cheeks, your temple, your hands, your eyelids, whispering things like “you’re so pretty, holy crap,” and “I'm so lucky, I'm so stupid lucky,” and "I love you, I love you, I love you.”

you’re calm. he doesn’t know how. he’s been vibrating with anticipation for thirteen weeks and you’re just…serenely unpacking, like he didn’t just get metaphorically hit by a train. but that’s who you are. steady. quiet. warm in a way that sneaks up on him. he decides, right then, next summer he’s going with you. nakijin or bust. you don’t argue. you just nod. he wraps around you like ivy as you organize your desk. follows you like a puppy while you reset your dorm. it’s not hot—there’s a breeze drifting through the cracked window, and a hint of fall in the air. soon there will be class schedules and curfews and missions and real life.

but for now, it’s this. just this. warmth and laughter and the smell of your perfume on his shirt. and sometimes—just sometimes—when things settle again and days start to pass like normal, yuuji finds himself missing what it felt like to miss you. because even that was beautiful. even that was yours.

[bonesy-doodles]

TELL US ALL OF YOUR GHOUL HEADCANONS ‼️🙏💕

I mean, you asked for this!!! This is probably not all of my headcanons, just the ones I could remember off the top of my head, as this is all still a work in progress for me!

I will also include the Ghouls pictures again so people can refer back their designs cause I do touch on design choices for them as they, to me, are included in headcanons as every makes their ghouls unique on some way.

Okay, first up!

DEWDROP!!

There’s a lot for this man. So, Dewdrop used to be a water ghoul, however he’s not a multighoul like Swiss, Sunshine and Aurora because his element was transmuted during the binding ritual when he was passed from Terzo to Copia. So, my brain thought “what is water-like fire” and it landed on magma! So that’s why he looks volcanic. His gills closed over and became lava cracks, his fish scales became reptilian, and now he runs hot like a furnace. His ears are pointed like fire ghouls, but have points kinda like fish fins still. Dew also has fire manipulation and can essentially ignite fires (commits minor arson constantly) but that’s how he lights his cigarettes. He still has retained a great lung capacity and can hold his breath long enough to almost rival Rain’s infinite breath. The biggest trouble maker of the Ghouls and the worst influence on newer ghouls (i.e Phantom). He’s the shortest of the dudes, but makes up for it by setting you on fire if you make short jokes.

Also!!! I am a defender of the dark-hair Dewdrop design!! I know it’s very common for him to have blonde or white hair, but it was just not giving for this design. I tried, I promise! (I’m glad I’ve been seeing people love it though! My agenda is spreading!)

For fire ghoul visuals, I definitely focused on emulating glowing flame visuals, using red, orange, yellow, and white to give that effect with browns and blacks to make them look crispy. Scales and long pointed ears that go upward are also common for fire ghouls.

PHANTOM

Quintessence Ghouls are basically space and/or ghostly types of ghouls, as quintessence to me is everything between the elements and makes up everything (like stardust!!) Phantom, as a Quintessence ghoul can “see beyond the elements” with what I call aura reading at the moment, like seeing vibes and emotions. They can also float! Or slow their falls essentially. Not really fly like air ghouls. Phantom is actually, to me, one of the three most chaotic ghouls, alongside Dew and Swiss, and causes a lot of chaos at the Ministry. My favorite joke with my two wives who I discuss all this lore with often is that Phantom once pissed in the Unholy Water Bowl in the West Chapel right before a midnight mass, which caused a lot of problems for the Ghoul Den Overseer. Just to illustrate the shit Phantom pulls at the Ministry.

But specifically for Phantoms visuals, he reminds me of the moon, the tone of gray, his swirling vitiligo-esc patches. He has really dark eyes which is not very common for Quintessence ghouls.

AETHER

The second tallest and most beefiest of all the Ghouls. I mean, have you seen the arms on that man!!!! Like Phantom, Aether has the aura reading ability and is the expert at floating and slowing his falls (it’s how he achieves all the wild jumps on stage, like dude gets air time). His freckles actually form constellations, and on his shoulder you can see the Big Dipper cause he’s a big guy (yes that’s the joke, that’s why I gave him the Big Dipper). Aether acts as one of the minders of the Ghoul Den, kind of like the exasperated dad of the group. Tries his best to fix the chaos the other Ghouls cause to lessen the work of the Ghoul Den Overseer, put out Dew’s fires, etc. Also a fuzzy guy, which is uncommon for Quintessence ghouls, like he’s so soft somehow.

For Quintessence Ghoul designs, I really wanted to focus on the space aspect. All of them have space freckles, and their horns all swirl in some way (Phantom and Auroras swirling physically, and Aethers have swirling grooves/markings on them). Also, their ears are bovine-like in someways, cause I’ve always categorized Aether as like a space cow in my head. Their color palettes usually veer towards magenta, purple, and indigo (cause those are my favorite colors and Quintessence ghouls are my favorite).

RAIN

As a water ghoul, Rain has gills, fins on various parts of his body, and webbed fingers and toes (it’s a bit freaky). Also, serrated teeth like a piranha. If you’ve ever touched a fish, that wet feeling of their scales is how it feels to touch him. He can breathe underwater with his gills and will often be found in the lakes on the Ministry’s grounds when he needs to chill. His tail is a bit thick than other ghouls, as well as finned to help with swimming. Also water manipulation abilities! (It’s giving Cleo from H2O). He’s also bioluminescent! His scales and the lighter markings on him all glow

He does participate in problem causing sometimes, but is also exasperated mom of the group (cue his disappointed mom pose of hands on hips). Aether and Rain are the duo that hold Dew up by his arms while he’s trying to sprint towards trouble. Rain often has his hair pulled back in pony tails, or braided as he has a lot of hair, and it’s gets in the way while he’s swimming.

Water ghouls in general have everything above that I’ve already mentioned for Rain, all the fish like aspects. They tend to be blue toned and have a variety of scale coloration, often green, blue and purple in tones (duochrome, iridescent, pearlescent, etc).

MOUNTAIN

Biggest of the Ghouls and third beefiest! He’s also fuzzy! Mountain has a connection with the earth (duh, all earth ghouls do), which allows them to feel the “heartbeat of the earth”, gives them that killer rhythm on the drums. He’s big into growing plants and taking care of the Ministry’s gardens, which he excels in as Earth ghouls also can affect plant growth as well as other earth things like soil. The flowers behind his ear in the art are actually Belladonna, also known as Deadly Nightshade!

Mountain also has two ways to shift himself, one being normal legs and his most natural ghoul state is hoofed/goat legs, which is why he doesn’t like wearing shoes (it’s a weird feeling). His horns are gigantic as Earth ghoul horns tend to be, and have a cracked earth/clay patterning (his very first design iteration had cracked clay skin, but I did not like how it looked). His coloration and markings are very deer like, along with his ears. Mountain is very quiet compared to the rest of the Ghouls, he gives cryptid energy while at the Ministry.

Earth ghouls in general tend to lean towards more green and brown tones, with the previously mentioned giant horns. They can also have a variety of mammal like variations to them, but the most common is forest animals like deer, beer, wolves, coyotes, etc. They tend to be the fluffiest of the ghouls, and also the biggest. It’s just natural for them to be tall.

SWISS

Being a multighoul of all elements, he basically is a shadow ghoul (mix all paint colors and you get dark brown/black was my idea). He’s the third tallest and the second beefiest ghoul. Swiss has shadow manipulation abilities and can kinda merge into the shadows, which he uses to sneak around, cause problems and prank people. Also as a multighoul of all elements, he can kind of emulate abilities of other elements, like him being able to hold his breathe underwater longer than natural, his singing voice is siren-like similar to air ghouls, etc. He’s also fuzzy!!

Also, Swiss is the biggest accessorizer and has the most piercings of all the ghouls. He likes how it gives him some pizzazz. Also has gifted every ghoul at least one set of jewelry they are ornamented with (thought it was funny to get Dew the upside cross earrings).

And Satanas, the shit this man gets up to. There is a reason he’s on his stage of shame most of the time. Swiss enables all of Dew’s chaos with a giant smile on his face. It’s like winding up a toy and letting it spin.

Little side note about Multighouls, there are only two all element Multighouls in the Ministry, one being Swiss, the other actually being Phil! The Special Ghoul! He was once seen playing several instruments, signifying his elemental range, but tends to keep to himself compared to Swiss.

AURORA

The newest multighoul, and second multighoulette! Aurora is dual elemental, Air and Quintessence which together makes her embody an Aurora Borealis (her name sake). With her two elements, she gets her skin coloration and patterning, eyes, and swirling horn from her Quintessence aspect. Her space freckles are a bit more on the bluer side due to the air aspect however, as well as her second set of horns as air ghouls often have two sets of horns or two pronged horns. Her ears are bovine and bat-like. She has smaller wings compared to a full air ghoul, but her floating ability also helps. It’s a very interesting combo to watch. Also, her hair is just naturally like that, no hair dye involved. Don’t ask her how it changes color as it grows, she doesn’t know.

Aurora is probably the most energetic of the Ghoulettes, and is besties with Swiss. Is constantly helping him get into shit. In general is an accomplice to Swiss and the Ghoulettes. She loves being involved in the shit they all pull. And despite her stature, as the shortest of all the Ghouls, she will body a bitch (the shorter you are the closer to hell you get)!

CUMULUS

The biggest, fluffiest hair. It’s so long and so much and it’s her pride and joy! It’s how she got the name Cumulus because of how much it reminded Copia of cumulus clouds. As an Air ghoul, Cumulus has large bat-like wings that allow her to fly. They can be folded and retracted if need be as they can get in the way. In the Ghoul Den, the Air Ghouls have a loft only accessible to those with wings, or if you tempt fate and get someone to throw you. Cumulus’s air ghoul horns formed in the shape of crescents, so she doesn’t have two sets, instead is categorized as two pronged.

As previously mentioned, Air ghouls have siren-like voices (referencing Greek myth sirens being bird women) and Cumulus is the epitome of this ability. Can get people to do her bidding just by whispering sweet words into their ears.

Cumulus and Cirrus are a duo, as they were summoned together and bonded over being Air Ghoulettes, if you see one of them, the other is not far away or far behind.

CIRRUS

The tallest of the Ghoulettes and somehow the chillest comparative to the others. She’s still a ghoul though, so the chaos scale is broken anyway. As previously mentioned, she is Cumulus’s other half and visually is opposite of her on many ways. Darker, straight hair which is uncommon for Air ghouls, along with darker eyes. She also has the biggest wing span of all the Air Ghouls, and is the fastest with Sunshine a close second. Her vocals are second to Cumulus’s however. Not nearly at the level of controlling, but she can still bring anyone to their knees if need be.

Truly, Cumulus and Cirrus are a power couple amongst the Ghouls because their siren abilities affect Ghouls as well, just to a lesser degree, so if need be (with a good enough bribe) they can put a pause on the chaos if it gets too out of hand. The bribe has to be really good like, they like watching shit get crazy.

SUNSHINE

Finally, Sunshine. The first multighoulette summoned, and her dual elements are Air and Fire. Her fire like appearance veered away from volcanic like Dew to being like Sun Spots (areas on the sun that are darker than the rest of it) and that’s why her scales are rounded compared to Dew’s. Her wings are also smaller like Aurora’s, still bat-like but also gives dragon because of the reptilian aspect of Fire ghouls. She does have two sets of horns which she likes to ornament like Swiss.

Sunshine and Aurora bond over being air based multighoulettes and also have joined the multighoul secret club with Swiss and Phil. What do they do there? Well, it’s a secret of course. It wouldn’t be a secret club otherwise!

Also, there have been several cases of arson that have been committed that were blamed on Dewdrop, but were actually done by Sunshine, but she’s a great liar and loves getting Dew in trouble. She like orchestrates that shit.

Now that I’ve touched upon all of the air ghouls, basically, air ghouls tend to be either teal or yellow in tone, usually with cloud like markings (however Aurora and Sunshine’s dual elements change that). Their ears tend to be bat shaped, along with them sporting the large bat wings that give them the ability to fly. There have been cases, however, that air ghouls have feathered wings, the only known case being the first summoned keyboardist, aptly named Air. No one knows why he’s the only one, he just claims it’s cause he’s cool like that. Also mentioned the siren like voices, it’s not a universal Air ghoul ability, some more attuned with it than others, but it’s quite common seeing as all four Ghoulettes along with Swiss possess the ability to some degree (Air does not because he’s not cool like that).

GHOULS IN GENERAL

Kind of wanted to go into some general stuff for the ghouls within the Ministry and the Summoning process.

When a Ghoul is summoned by a Papa (the only person really sanctioned to summon ghouls with some exceptions of course), they are bound to that Papa, with some sort of mark to signify this binding. For the Papas, they each use their individual grucifixes as this marking (Copia’s ghouls were for a while marked with the basic Grucifix because he was initially a Cardinal. Technically, during that Era, the Ghouls should have been bound to Nihil, however Sister Imperator pulled the exception card for her little Cardi. Once Copia became Papa, the binding ritual was redone to remark them with his new grucifix). All of the ghouls do have grucifixes essentially tattooed onto their body in different locations, but there’s a lot of development for that and some still undecided so that can’t wait until I’ve drawn full bodies for all the ghouls.

Also, mentioned a few times in this was the Ghoul Den Overseer, who is actually a Sibling of Sin character of mine (because I over indulge myself and this is my lore interpretation anyway, I do what I want). Their “confirmation” name (christened? Sataned?) is Rigoria/Rigorian, last name Mortuous. Yes, it’s a play on Rigor Mortis but my name is literally Bones. I will be drawing them as well at some point so I can show you guys my interpretation of the Siblings of Sins in different Papal Eras.

[sweetheartfaist]

NOW PLAYING ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. summerboy — lady gaga

summerboy!art, who keeps a disposable camera in his back pocket specifically to take blurry, overexposed photos of you when you're not looking—you squinting into the sun with a slurpee mustache, you mid-laugh with sand stuck to your wet shoulder, you asleep in the passenger seat of patrick's uncle's beat-up civic with your mouth open and your hair a disaster. he gets them developed at the cvs and hides the packet under his mattress like they're contraband. patrick finds them once and art tackles him so hard they both go through the screen door. "she's gonna think you're a creep," patrick wheezes, but art just snatches the photos back and mutters "shut up" while his ears turn red. later that night he slips his favorite one—you in your striped bikini, mid-cannonball, arms spread like wings—into his wallet behind his lifeguard certification card.

summerboy!patrick, who steals your cherry chapstick and then pretends he doesn't know where it went, even though you can literally see the waxy red smudge on his bottom lip when he's talking to you. he'll lean against the boardwalk railing, all cocky and sun-drunk, going "maybe you left it at the beach house?" while actively licking his lips. art calls him out every time—"dude, it's literally on your mouth"—and patrick just shrugs like he's been caught shoplifting candy. "tastes better on her anyway," he says, and then tosses the tube back to you with this shit-eating grin. you want to be mad but he looks so stupidly pleased with himself, hair bleached almost white from the salt water, freckles multiplying across his nose like connect-the-dots.

summerboy!art, who gets genuinely upset when you and patrick team up against him in the pool, even though it happens every single time. he'll surface, sputtering and indignant, pointing between you two like he's filing a formal complaint. "that's not fair! you can't both dunk me!" meanwhile you're clinging to patrick's shoulders, both of you cackling, and patrick's got this arm around your waist that lingers just a beat too long after you've stopped trying to drown art. art notices everything—the way patrick's thumb traces the tie of your bikini bottom, how you press your face into patrick's neck when you're laughing too hard to breathe. later, when you're all sprawled on pool floats, art "accidentally" tips patrick into the water and then offers you his raft with the kind of courteous sweetness that makes patrick roll his eyes so hard you can hear it.

summerboy!patrick, who absolutely loses his mind when you wear his Red Sox cap backward while driving his uncle's boat, even though you have no idea what you're doing and nearly crash into the dock twice. something about you in his hat, squinting against the sun with your hair whipping around your face, makes him forget how to form sentences. art has to grab the wheel because patrick's just standing there staring at you like you've grown a second head. "earth to patrick," art mutters, but patrick's already fishing his phone out of his swim trunks to take a picture. the photo's terrible—blurry and overexposed—but he sets it as his wallpaper anyway and then gets weirdly possessive about his phone for the rest of the summer.

summerboy!art, who memorizes your dunkin order (medium iced coffee, oat milk, two sugars, extra shot) and places it for you every morning without being asked, even though patrick always makes fun of him for being "whipped" and you insist you can order for yourself. he just shrugs it off, sliding the plastic cup across the sticky table of whatever diner you've invaded that day, still in your wrinkled hoodies and yesterday's swimsuits, sunglasses pushed up on your heads, trying to look less high than you obviously are. the waitress always gives you dirty looks—three teenagers in various stages of undress, reeking of chlorine and weed, giggling over shared pancakes at 2pm—but art tips her extra anyway because his mom raised him right.

summerboy!patrick, who gets irrationally jealous when the lifeguard at the public beach (some college guy with a perfect tan and a whistle he actually uses) asks for your number, even though you very obviously shut him down. patrick spends the rest of the day making increasingly ridiculous comments about "whistle boy"—how his tan is definitely fake, how he probably can't even swim that well, how his sunglasses are stupid expensive and probably don't even have uv protection. art tries to change the subject but patrick's on a roll, practicing his own lifeguard poses and asking if you think he'd look good in red shorts. "you already look good," you say without thinking, and patrick goes quiet for exactly three seconds before grinning so wide you think his face might crack.

summerboy!art, who always insists on being the one to put sunscreen on your back, even though his hands shake a little when he touches you and he takes way longer than necessary, fingers tracing the line of your shoulder blades like he's memorizing the geography of your skin. patrick watches from his beach chair, pretending to read some trashy paperback he found in his uncle's basement, but you can feel his eyes on you over the top of the pages. art's touch is gentle, reverent almost, smoothing the lotion in careful circles while you try not to shiver despite the ninety-degree heat. "you burn easy," he murmurs, but his voice sounds rougher than usual. patrick clears his throat loudly and art's hands still for a moment before he caps the bottle and hands it over. "your turn," art says, but patrick just smirks and says he doesn't burn, even though you've all seen him lobster-red after forgetting to reapply.

summerboy!patrick, who has absolutely no filter when he's stoned, which is most of the time, and says things that make art kick him under the table at whatever greasy spoon you've stumbled into after hours of swimming and sun. you'll be sitting in a corner booth, your hoodie strings pulled so tight only your eyes are visible, sharing a plate of cheese fries and trying not to look as obviously baked as you are, when patrick will just blurt out something like "you have really nice collarbones" or "your laugh makes my chest feel weird." art goes red and starts aggressively stirring his milkshake while you blink at patrick from inside your hoodie cave. "what?" patrick says, genuinely confused by the sudden tension. "it's true." the waitress refills your water glasses and pretends not to notice when you all dissolve into hysterical giggles.

summerboy!art, who starts leaving little gifts in your beach bag when you're not looking—a perfect seashell, a smooth piece of sea glass, those stupid temporary tattoos from the boardwalk prize counter that you mentioned liking once. you never see him do it, but you know it's him because patrick would just hand you stuff directly, probably while making some joke about how you owe him. art's gifts are always tucked between your towel and sunscreen like secrets, and when you thank him he just ducks his head and mumbles something about how he "saw it and thought of you." patrick rolls his eyes but there's something soft in his expression when he watches art watch you peel a dolphin tattoo off its backing and press it to your ankle.

summerboy!patrick, who gets weirdly competitive about the dumbest things when you're around—who can hold their breath longest underwater, who can shotgun a beer faster, who can do a better backflip off the pier—and then gets sulky when art inevitably wins because art actually played sports in school while patrick's main hobby is smoking weed behind the tennis courts. you always compliment patrick's attempt anyway, tell him his form was better or his technique was more creative, and he lights up like you've just told him he's won an olympic medal. art notices the way patrick preens under your attention and starts letting him win sometimes, which patrick absolutely does not catch onto but makes him insufferably smug for the rest of the day.

summerboy!art, who gets so worried about you when you're swimming in the ocean that he hovers like an anxious lifeguard, staying close enough to grab you if a wave looks too big or the current seems too strong. patrick makes fun of him for being a "mother hen" but secretly thinks it's sweet, how art's eyes never leave you when you're in the water, how he counts the seconds when you dive under and visibly relaxes when you surface. "she's not gonna drown in three feet of water," patrick says, but he doesn't move any farther from shore either. when you finally trudge back to your towel, hair dripping and skin gritty with sand, they both look at you like you've returned from some dangerous expedition instead of just bodysurfing for twenty minutes.

summerboy!patrick, who steals sips of your drinks constantly—your slurpee, your iced coffee, your water bottle, whatever—and always does it with a ridiculous grin like he's the cleverest guy alive. art groans every time and makes exaggerated gagging noises, but you know patrick's just doing it to get a reaction out of both of you. when you finally catch him mid-sip, you glare and he shrugs, saying "can't help it. tastes better when it's yours." later he tries to be sneaky and swipes a fry off your plate but art catches him and calls him out, so patrick dramatically pretends to drop the fry on the floor and mourns its loss like a tragic hero. you laugh so hard your sides hurt.

summerboy!art, who falls asleep on the beach every single day, sunbaked and exhausted, with the faint scent of coconut sunscreen and sea salt in his hair. patrick teases him for it, saying art looks like a baby seal wrapped in a beach towel, but art doesn't care. sometimes you lie down next to him and both of you just stare up at the sky until the clouds change shapes and the world feels quiet and small. patrick joins in sometimes, but he always complains when he has to stop talking. art just smiles and closes his eyes, the weight of the summer settling into his bones like a secret promise.

summerboy!patrick, who insists on taking you to the boardwalk arcade at least once a week, even though you hate the noise and the sticky floors and the way the lights make your head spin. he drags you from game to game, laughing when you accidentally win tickets on the claw machine or beat him at skee-ball, crowing like a little kid when he finally nails the timing on the basketball toss. art watches from the sidelines, arms crossed but clearly amused, occasionally stepping in to show off his own skills and steal some tickets for you. patrick ends up with a ridiculous pile of plastic prizes that he insists are "for you," even though half of them end up in his backpack and art is secretly amused by the whole ridiculousness.

summerboy!art, who texts you pictures of the sky at sunset—pinks and purples and oranges melting into one another—when you're not with him, sometimes with a simple message: "wish u were here." patrick sees the texts and rolls his eyes but you can tell it means something. when you finally meet up again, art pulls you aside and presses a cool hand to your forehead, smiling softly and saying, "you look like you need the ocean." and you do, more than you realize, because the sun is warm on your skin and the waves sound like home and art's hand is the only steady thing you can hold onto.

summerboy!patrick, who never actually learns how to surf properly but is always first to volunteer when the surf instructor calls for volunteers. he tries his best, falling off the board more times than you can count, face-planting into the water with a splash and a groan. art laughs but never mocks, instead cheering patrick on and helping him get back on the board. patrick gets this ridiculous look of determination on his face whenever he finally manages to stand up for even a second, like he's just conquered the world. you grin and take a million pictures because it's the most earnest, adorable thing you've ever seen.

summerboy!art, who gets shy when you catch him staring but then quickly tries to act cool, pushing his sunglasses up his nose and running a hand through his damp hair. patrick always calls him out, making some snarky comment about "sunscreen smudges on the lenses" or "the way his lip twitches when he sees u," and art just groans, burying his face in his towel. but you see it—the way his eyes light up, the way his whole body relaxes when you're near. it's like the sun breaks through the clouds just for you two.

summerboy!patrick, who sneaks off to the ice cream stand and buys you a double scoop cone of your favorite flavor when he thinks no one is looking. he hands it to you with a goofy grin and says, "don't tell art, or he'll make me share." you pretend to scold him but really you're thrilled, because nobody knows the way to your heart better than patrick does—even if his methods are a little childish. art just shakes his head but you catch a flash of something tender in his gaze when he watches you lick the ice cream, sticky and sun-kissed and perfectly happy.

summerboy!art, who always has a book in his backpack, usually something heavy and dusty that he reads by the water while the sun sets. he reads poetry mostly, or old stories about the sea, and sometimes he recites lines quietly to you, voice low and intimate like he's sharing a secret. patrick sometimes tries to join in, making exaggerated gestures and goofy voices, but art just smiles and rolls his eyes, happy to have you both there even if it's ridiculous. these quiet moments, with the ocean roaring behind you and the sky turning violet, feel like the only place you really belong.

summerboy!patrick, who laughs way too loud at his own jokes, which are usually terrible puns about the ocean or summer or your messy hair after swimming. art groans and buries his face in his hands, but you just shake your head and smile because patrick's laugh is contagious and it makes everything feel lighter, like the sun is always shining even when the sky is gray. when he looks at you with those bright eyes and that goofy grin, it's like the whole world is nothing but endless summer and possibilities.

summerboy!art, who stays up late with you on the roof of patrick's uncle's beach house, watching the stars blink awake over the dark ocean. you lie side by side on a threadbare blanket, shoulders touching, and art points out constellations he's learned from his grandfather. sometimes you talk quietly about the future—college, moving away, whether the summer will end or if you can somehow keep it alive forever. patrick joins you sometimes but mostly just listens, letting you two have your moments while he fiddles with his camera or scrolls through his phone. the night smells like salt and jasmine and promise.

summerboy!patrick, who accidentally calls you by art's name once during a kiss, and then immediately apologizes like he's confessed a sin. art just laughs and tells him to chill, saying "as long as you don't call me patrick, we're good." you roll your eyes but you can tell it means something, this tangled mess of affection and confusion and longing that makes the summer so unforgettable. and somehow, even with all the awkwardness and sunburns and endless teasing, you wouldn't trade a single second of it.

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Sunsweet Prunes

Ray Bradbury: submitted for the approval of the midnight society, i call this the tale of the lazy summer of youth Bradbury: long days down by the river, fishing in miller's pond, afternoons at the soda shop, ice cream sundaes with fabulous unicorn worlds built of whipped cream, nickels for a dime Bradbury: and becky miller's freckled-face kisses Bradbury: sweeter than sunsweet prunes

Bradbury: sunsweet prunes, i tell you Bradbury: the only prune that's sweeter than a nostalgic midwestern childhood Bradbury: and they come in these little individually wrapped plastic packs too King: Poe: Barker: Koontz: Lovecraft: Bradbury: I just think they're neat

Bradbury: according to my stories, in the far distant future of 2001 Bradbury: we shall travel in tubes Bradbury: we'll have flying cars Bradbury: and we'll all be eating our sunsweet prunes out of individually wrapped plastic packs Poe: wait you never said that in your stories Bradbury: i wish i had Bradbury: i would have been 1 for 3 at least

Bradbury: look, they individually wrap these sunsweet prunes in plastic Bradbury: what a world! Bradbury: its like living in the not too distant future Poe: doesn't that create a lot of waste Bradbury:

Bradbury: tearing open this individually wrapped snack pack reminds me of tearing open presents on christmas morning, snow on the ground, ma and pa taking the day off from working the farm, the whole family arriving in a caravan of automobiles, aunts and uncles and cousins by the dozen, oh my! oh my! uncles a little too loud after three egg nogs, cousins playing cops & robbers in the hay loft

Bradbury: and the feasting, the jollity! too many voices all at once, raised in laughter, in song. the twinkle in dad's eye, the red roses in mom's cheeks, grandpa's baritone chuckle. falling asleep to the sounds of bing crosby on the tombstone radio, surrounded by the warm glow of early evening King: wow these prunes sound pretty incredible King: i'm sold! Koontz: [tearing open sunsweet prune container] guys Koontz: i think my prunes are broken Koontz: i didn't feel any of that stuff ray said

Poe: ray are they paying you to advertise for prunes Bradbury: no no of course not! Bradbury: i would never accept money to tell you about the incredible health benefits of america's favorite prunes, sunsweet Bradbury: full of 12 different antioxidents King: can i buy them with my american express card

Neil Gaiman: but ray! Gaiman: using the limitless vista of your inpirational mind to advertise a mere consumer good Gaiman: such a tawdry use of the gift of imagination! Gaiman: it cheapens us as writers just as the low low prices of chipotle cheapens organic rice and GMO-free beans to bring wholesome healthy Mexican inspired fusion cuisine to the masses

Gaiman: you can't leash the phoenix of creativity to the millstone of commerce! Gaiman: she must fly free! Gaiman: free like the secret dragon sauce available now at now extra charge at your local chipotle King: neil's right! Poe: about chipotle? King: about everything!!

[sandra-vu]

The Sims 3 MODS LIST

this is basically a list of everything i have in my game right now (minus custom content). i'm very satisfied with this setup and i hope you can find something you'll find useful. everything is sorted in alpabetical order, because i love alphabetical order lol read mod descriptions before downloading and don't forget to thank the creators for their hard work! :)

ESSENTIAL / PERFORMANCE / SETTINGS x Add Any Lot Size x Catalog search x Gameplay Core Mod (tweaked to my liking, might show you my settings sometime if you'd like) x Interact on sloped terrain x New CAS and CAP animation options (posehum_posepets version) x No Camera Fade for Sims x No Foot Tapping While Waiting For Clear Route! x No Route Fail Tantrum Animations! x NRaas (Error trap, Go here, Master controller, Overwatch, Register) x Pregnancy Progress Controller (No Non Pregnant version) x Reduce/Remove Lag caused by Houseboats x Remove stencils/overlays from Build/Buy/CAS objects x Shimrod's Camera Lowlevel (edited by BrntWaffles) (Drift version) x Smooth patch

TWEAKS / FIXES x Anach tweaks (bouncer bribe x10, burglar tweaks, celebrity difficulty, celeb sue paparazzi, club closing times (5 am), donation amount, higher bills, longer eating, no auto pet wake up, party tweaks, wash hands chance) x Annoyances disabler x Cross eye fix x No "Mod scripts found" x No auto venue placement (reupload found here) x No build sparkles x No gloves w outerwear x No intro x Pick up toddler fix x Pigtail glitch fix x Random sim fixes x Set hour cheat x Slower cars, taxis, and bikes x Toddler routing fix

GAMEPLAY x 75% Chance per day elder will die x Acne & Skincare (tweaked – only teens) x Adults can play peekaboo and hug toddlers x Almost all TheSweetSimmer's mods (family gameplay must haves!) x Auto lights overhaul x Burglar hate x Burglars steal simoleons too x Cancel time off x Children can series (almost all of them) x Easy variety attraction x Energy drinks V2 x Faster gardening 50% x Fridge mod (no fridge shopping) x Get drunk x Hang out interaction (2t3) (all ages) x Layoff mod x Let me take a selfie x Lot population (reduced) x Meals anytime + some desserts x No autonomous homework x No imaginary friends x No mutated hair or eyes x No social groups (uni only) x Random genetics x Retirement home & elder care x Shorter Uni (3 credit hours) x Sims can skate on smaller ponds x Skating is fun x Take practice shots (photography) x Tooth fairy mod x User-directed scolding + other punishment tweaks x Wider TV viewing angle x Yoga mod

SLIDERS x AWT - Hat sliders x OEM – Eyeball size

DEFAULT REPLACEMENTS (MISC) x Apple Sauce Baby food (4t3) x Better ingredient thumbnails x Clean UI (BETA) x Facial Expressions (ALT) (TSM to TS3) x Fish mod x HD thought bubbles x Loading Screen Overhaul x Modern cursors x Modern map tags x Nectar glass replacer x New dishes (BOWL & MUG) (4t3) x TV Channels (4t3) x Walk cycle edits

DEFAULT REPLACEMENTS (CAS) x 2t3 plantsim body vines x Beards and eyebrows x Beetle eyes for cats and dogs x Beetle eyes for horses x Beetle eyes for humans (i also use these contacts for occults) x Blush baby skin (infant) x CAS background (steel blue) x ChazyBazzy hair defaults (pretty and still very maxis match textures, EA meshes) x Eye colors (presets) x Eyeball replacements – PU-CU / TU-EU x Freckles and moles x - x Makeup replacements x Skin - Satellites (DEF & NON-DEF)

DEFAULT REPLACEMENTS (ENVIRONMENT) x Better sun x Moon x Perfect Day – RH water with Gelina’s lighting tweaks x Reworked & Improved EA Lights x Skyrim Star Field (1024x1024) x Windows Lite Overrides

[azen13]

Hello

might I request the grass ring for purchase?

A Promise To Keep

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Grass Ring: A small, shoddily-woven ring made from dead grass, containing echoes of childhood promises uttered in a land of frost. Maybe the ring’s maker, after disappearing from the world for three months before returning, acted on those vows.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

CW: Yandere Themes, Kidnapping, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Implied Murder, Blood

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Snezhnayan summers are always brief and fleeting. For only a few weeks a year, gray skies part like curtains to let the smiling sun gaze over every mile of the land of frost. Withered fields of grass sway with new vigor, trees awaken from their winter slumber, and flowers bloom in all sorts of stunning shades and hues. It’s also one of the few respites you have from aiding your father and siblings in tending to the house. With the icy waters bordering Morepesok rapidly thawing, the ship your mother sails has finally docked; with her return comes both the occasional small sack of Mora sneakily smuggled from her pocket to yours, as well as a gentle push to go and enjoy the fair weather while it lasts.

With windmilling limbs, you scramble out the front door into the bustling streets of town, and head off to your favorite place. It’s a little past where the dirt path ends: over a fallen tree, down a ravine, back up the other side, and just to the right of the raspberry bushes. Making your way through the last few trees, you find yourself in a quaint clearing. For a moment, you think the world is frozen in amber–both from the tranquility you feel, and how everything from the tallest tree to the smallest fern is bathed in a gilded glow.

“Hi there!”

A squeaky voice shatters the illusion of permanence and manages to make you stumble backwards until you slam into a sturdy spruce tree trunk. Looking into the tall grass, you manage to spot a single sapphire blue eye, then another. With a rustle, a flame of ginger hair and a grin that could span the whole of Teyvat pops out from the brush, framed by a speckling of freckles. “Who are you? What are you doing here? My name’s Ajax, what’s yours?” The boy practically pelts you with a myriad of questions, eyes sparkling with interest.

You mumble your name in response, eyes falling down in fear and disappointment. You had hoped to enjoy some time soaking in the solitude of this little slice of paradise, but the journey seems to have been all for naught. 

You quickly learn the entire life story of Ajax, who follows you home after you tell him you had gotten lost in the woods. He lives in Morepesok with his large family, he likes adventuring, and he likes fishing with his father. Also, he likes you, evidenced by the fact that he won’t leave you alone.

Tailing from behind, still rambling incoherently about all sorts of things, Ajax doesn’t seem to take the obvious hints that you want to be left alone. “...and the fish we caught was THIS big! A-and me and my dad brought it home, and my little sis–I told you about Tonia, right? She’s my younger sister, she’s about this tall and she really likes…” His mouth is a never-ending river of words that only ceases when you slam the door to your home shut.

Hopefully you can go tomorrow and enjoy the warm summer sun before the chill of winter returns once more.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

He’s there when you come tomorrow again. And the next day. And the day after that, until eventually, summer’s brief stint has faded away, only to return in a year. At least, you think, you won’t have to ever see Ajax until.

How wrong you are.

It seems the boy is practically camped outside of your house, watching your every move. If you’re carrying groceries, he’s quick to sidle next to you and take them into his own hands. He must think he’s being chivalrous, but you disagree. You try to fight the constant barrage, but find yourself crumbling under it after a while. You start answering his questions, asking some of your own, even. He’s not horrible, just a little overeager.

Soon, you’re happy to call Ajax a friend.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The promise is made on a brisk fall evening, snow and leaves blanketing the ground like a patchwork quilt of white and orange. The two of you sit in a small clearing surrounded by tall grass; you’re reading a book while Ajax breaks blades of grass and fiddles with them in his hands.

“We should get married.”

You frown and close your book. “Why?

“Why not?”

“Because we’re thirteen, your dad doesn’t like me, and my parents think you’re a weirdo,” you say.

Ajax huffs and crosses his arms. He’s pouting, but you can tell it’s just to cover his amusement. You’d both gotten good at that–reading each other like books, able to point out your favorite chapters and lines. “Well we could do it in secret. Or even do it when we’re older,” he says. An epiphanic look flashes on his face, and he snatches a few more blades of grass. Tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, you watch as he weaves and contorts the grass until they form a small ring. 

With eyes full of starlight, he presents the ring to you. “C’mon, please? Just promise me.”

You sigh and hold your hand out. “Okay, okay, fine. If you’ll stop being so annoying, sure.” Immediately, he slides the ring on your finger, boyish glee dancing in ocean-blue eyes. “Pinky promise?” He demands, holding his pinky finger out expectantly.

Of course Ajax would ask to pinky swear on it. The boy always kept his promises.

“Fine.” You loop your pinky around his for a moment, before letting go. “Now let me get back to reading.”

Ajax only laughs, though his eyes stay glued on you.

You didn’t realize that this was both the last time you would ever see Ajax again, and the moment your fate in life was sealed.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Days later, you receive the news. Ajax is missing. Supposedly he had gotten lost in the woods. You spent the next few days in a perpetual state of distress, constantly tearing through branches and brambles, desperate to find your friend.

It didn’t take long until he’s found, though not by you. The moment you hear, you race over to his house and knock on the door. Ajax’s dad, however, is the one to greet you. He’s a tall, lanky man with scars that cut through his face and a permanent scowl marring his cracked lips. At the sight of you standing outside his door, his ire only deepens. “Ajax isn’t here. He’s with the Fatui.” 

With that, he swings the door shut and lets it slam only inches from your face.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Time moves on,  and you let your life take its course. You take up a job planning shipping routes for merchants, and find yourself falling in half-hearted love with a sailor. 

He’s a good man. But he is not the man you love.

Soon enough, encouraged by family and friends, a ring is slid on your finger. It’s a simple band of silver, yet it feels like a chain around your heart.

You accept your life for what it is. That is, until one morning, you wake up to still air beside you instead of a warm body. Unknowing of what has actually happened, you get up quietly and begin getting ready for the day. 

After putting on some clothes, you go to the small foyer of your little home, ready to go down to the docks and start working. But when you swing open the door, dull blue eyes as deep as the sea meet yours, a monstrous grin splitting a stranger’s face open. “Aw, it’s been so long! It’s so good to see you.” The man walks past you into your home as though he’s lived there his whole life. As he walks, you notice he’s trailing something in behind you.

Blood. It’s blood. When he turns back to face you, you notice droplets of blood speckled on his cheeks like freckles. He’s still smiling.

“Get out of my house,” you say.

“Or what?”

You hesitate. It’s not like Morepesok has an official police, or even anything close to a militia. “Or I’ll scream.”

The stranger’s smile melts away like snow under the sun, and he steps closer to you. “Don’t you remember who I am?” He asks. 

At the sight of you shaking your head, and you taking another step away from him, the stranger tsks and stalks forwards. A hand moves forward, so fast all you can see is a blur of motion before it captures your jaw, claims it. Its fingers force your face forwards, straight into those storming eyes. “What a shame,” the man sighs, his other hand slinking behind your back. “We made a promise, darling.”

His words shoot like icicles into your heart, rendering you speechless for a moment. “A-Ajax?” You murmur, body beginning to fall limp. The only thing holding you upright are his hands, firm against your skin.

Ajax smiles, but it isn’t a sweet smile of summer innocence. His smile is jagged and icy, full of frost. “It’s me,” he confirms. You can vaguely see mirth swimming in his eyes, as though he thinks you’re so shocked to see him, so elated to know he’s still here. But in truth, you’re terrified. After all, it’s not exactly a challenge to make the connection between the blood on Ajax’s cheek and your missing husband.

“Did…did you?”

“Come on, darling,” Ajax responds, sweeping you off your feet into a bridal carry. “We made a promise, didn’t we? And you know how the saying goes.” The man chuckles quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We made a promise. And you broke it.” For a moment, you feel fear unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. “But don’t worry. I know that you didn’t want to marry him. You were waiting all those years for me, weren’t you?” He presses another kiss to your head, holding you closer.

You try to speak, but Ajax shushes you. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you what real love looks like.” With a steady gait, he begins walking outside, looping around your home to where a carriage is waiting. Gently, he brings you inside and deposits you on a bench. His eyes are full of hunger.

“That’s a promise.”

[cheollipop]

move

navi | taglist

pairing: pole dancer!choi san x club owner!reader (fem)

w.c.: 3.3k

tags: smut, ft. pimp!woo

song rec: 'move' by taemin

with his toned thighs wrapped around the pole, sweat glistening under the changing lights, you felt the urge to wipe the cocky smirk off the new hire's lips. but little did you know, choi san loved performing for a crowd.

warnings: this —in white— is san's outfit for reference (except tighter, cheaper-looking and with a different chain), mentioned mxm, reader has one drink but everything is consensual, switch!san (shorty give me whip-whiplash), mean!reader, she's a badass though, public sex, unprotected sex (👎), san has a nipple piercing, some nipple play (m), multiple orgasms (m), multiple creampies, some edging, overstimulation, a hint of breeding/impreg kink, voyeurism/exhibitionism, degradation, so much dirty talk, nicknames (sannie, pretty boy; miss, darling), I think that's all (?)

A/N: this is for my lovely, pretty, gorgeous, insanely kind, amazing, genius, and beautiful alyssa (@kitten4sannie) <3 I'm sorry this took over a month to get to ;; I really hope the wait was worth it though!! happy reading~ ^^

nsfw under the cut—minors dni!! 🔞

Scrunching your nose at the rancid odour of sewage, your heeled boots clacked against the pavement leading to the guarded club entrance, digging into your coat pocket and fishing out a stack of bills to lay gently in front of the homeless man’s sleeping bag. You passed by him every night, his yellow grin a stark contrast to his surroundings—fetid air driving everyone in the area to hold their breath, disease-ridden rodents and pretentious high school dropouts with one too many stacks of their daddy’s money crawling around in the vicinity.

You walked past the burly guard at the front, watching his ninety-degree bow from the corner of your eye as you stepped into the club. It wasn’t the best area to run such business, but you got enough loyal customers—mostly rich men lying to their wives—to pay the bills. You supposed you should be thankful to your father for that, the wretched bastard leaving his only daughter to run this shithole.

You walked down the short hallway and into wide room, blues and purples illuminating the shiny tile and peeling walls as you carried yourself to the bar near the entrance. The rusted stool creaked as you rested your body weight down on it, ignoring the young bartender as she scrambled to make your usual drink, drops of expensive liquor flying over the bench before she dropped a decorated glass in front of you. Giving her a tight-lipped smile, you wrapped your fingers around the cup and allowed the bitterness to sink into your taste buds.

Sitting sideways at the bar, forearm flat on the surface with the drink loosely held in your hand, you focused your eyes on the man to your left, moving his body around the pole anchored in the middle of the room. Cheap, glittery fabric pressed into the skin of his toned chest, stretching around his biceps until a peak of his warm skin tone shone through the white. His thighs wrapped around the pole, the muscles bulging as he held himself up and rolled his body around the metal rod, a dainty belly chain loose around his narrow waist, head rolled backwards to stretch out the column of his freckled throat. You could tell he was trying to show off his rounded backside, but his movements carried a certain stiffness that made you scoff. The customers spread out on the seats surrounding the stage—a mix of older, unhappily married men, and younger, broke college students who couldn’t afford a fancier club—didn’t seem to mind as much, taking in his lousy attempt of an arch and the prominent bulge pressing against the thin material of his shimmering bottoms, ogling eyes zeroing in on the metal bar piercing his nipple as it occasionally brushed against the pole.

He lowered himself down onto the LED flooring on his tiptoes, maintaining the graceful stance as the song came to an end, feline eyes flitting upwards to bore into yours. He oozed confidence, the air around him almost unbreachable, and for a reason you couldn’t place your finger on, the cocky curl of his lips irked you, your eyebrow twitching in irritation at the shameless show of brashness.

Veiny arms circled your shoulders, a familiar rasp in your ear, “that’s the new hire I was telling you about. Pretty neat, don’t you think?” His dark brown locks tickled your temple, curved nose nuzzling into your hair.

You hummed in agreement, “Mm, good job, Woo. He’s pretty.”

“And tight, ‘tried him out myself,” you could hear the smirk in his voice, proud of his take on a job interview.

You reached back to smack his shoulder, a faint smile on your lips. “He’s a little too confident for someone who can’t even arch properly, though,” you critiqued, narrowing your eyes at the man now bent over in front of the small crowd, thick fingers wrapped around the pole while he attempted to move his stiff muscles.

“He’s not that bad,” Wooyoung rolled his eyes, tracing over the man’s plump ass with his eyes as he played back the events from the previous night in his mind, the throaty moans and whimpers still fresh in his ears.

“Even you can do a better job than him, and that’s saying a lot.”

Two fingers pinched your upper arm through the blazer covering it, Wooyoung’s unamused huff blowing over the shell of your ear. “If you’re so displeased by his performance, why don’t you teach him how to do it yourself?” He pushed back the image of the man’s narrow waist and puckered hole, replacing it with the memory of the private show you’d put on for him the week before.

While Wooyoung was too busy fighting off the sudden tightness in his pants, you contemplated his words—despite knowing he’d spoken them humorously. Tightening your hand around your drink, you brought it up to your lips and gulped down the rest of it, pushing Wooyoung off you and standing up. He scrambled to find his footing, caught off guard by your brassy stride towards the center of the room, aiming towards the occupied chair right across the stage.

With a hand on the college freshman’s shoulder, you pulled him off the worn-down leather, sitting down in his place and watching him scurry away with a hand halfway down his pants. Redirecting your attention towards the handsome man in front of you, his gaze instantly locked with yours, and something in his eyes gave away that he knew who you were. His hips swayed with more finesse—still not up to your standards—and his expression contorted to mimic a state of ecstasy. He was trying to impress you.

You watched for a few seconds, until he bent down lower, the pathetic arch of his spine pushing the words off your tongue, “Choi San, was it?” your voice cut through the music. “It seems like Wooyoung may have spoken too highly of you. I’m a little disappointed,” you took pleasure in the slow erasure of his cocky smirk, his movements faltering as he took in your words, hints of discontent evident in your tone. “Stand up straight, pretty boy.” You leaned forward in your seat, resting your elbows over your thighs as you watched him hesitantly part from the pole to straighten up.  A smirk—a sign of power, perhaps—found its way onto your lips, “why don’t you grind on that pole for me? Since you seem so confident in yourself.”

Red tinted the shell of his ears, and you wondered how a few words could have affected a man like him so easily, as though he wasn’t standing in a room full of people ogling at his body, two pieces of glimmering fabric hiding him from their deviant gaze.

You could almost see the thoughts churning in his pretty head, dubiously reaching for the pole once again, standing behind it and beginning his decent into a full squat. Firm muscle bulged out of his thighs, oiled, tan skin reflecting the moving lights shining over his figure, his clothed bulge trapped between the metal and his abdomen. His hands remained above his head as he sunk lower, the cropped material of his shirt riding up to reveal more of his flushed chest. You watched him wordlessly, eying the deliberate brush of his nipple piercing over the pole, a muted ‘clink’ drowned under the music. Your eyes moved back to his face, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and his eyebrows drawn in, and when you trailed down his body, your lips only curled further: his half-hard length pressing against the scratchy fabric, a wet patch spreading through the material and shimmering alongside the glitter. You may be starting to understand Wooyoung’s strange infatuation with the man.

You pushed off the creaky leather, smoothing down your suit before taking a few steps onto the round LED flooring, standing next to the crouched man and watching him twist his head to look up at you.

It was known rule everywhere that the dancers were not to be touched, and you figured your next move would probably be setting a bad example in front of your customers, but your clientele consisted mostly of regulars, people who knew you to be the boss. People who knew you made the rules.

You reached down to grab his face, fingers digging into his jaw and angling it further upwards, “you’re too stiff.” Your lips curved at his attempt at pushing away, nose scrunched up in defiance.

“’m not stiff,” he retorted weakly, words muffled through the tight squeeze of your fingers around his face.

“What’s the matter, Sannie, did Youngie fuck you too hard last night? Can’t even arch your back properly?” You gave his head a firm shake with every rhetorical question, pouting your lips in faux sympathy. His cheeks heated up under your touch, the pretty pink bleeding down his neck and chest as your aired out his nightly endeavors.

“I can arch my back-”

“My club is gonna run out of business if you keep running your mouth instead of doing your job properly, pretty boy. My old man would be rolling in his grave if that ever happened. We don’t want that now, do we?” You watched panic seep into his features when you spoke your next words, “how will you pay off your debt then, hm?”

“I-I’ll learn how to do it, please just-” his fingers release around the pole and wrap around your calves instead, his knees falling to the floor by your feet while he pleaded. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

His touch wasn’t unpleasant, rough fingertips brushing over your clothed skin, squeezing gently while he squirmed under you. Your fingers eased around his jaw but didn’t let go, pleased to have a man of his stature in the palm of your hand, yours to maneuver and handle however you wished. “And what will you do until then? Learning takes time, and we’re short-staffed, you know.”

A dangerous glimmer lit up San’s dark eyes, a sense of danger churning in your gut. Skilled hands slid up your legs, past your knees and thighs to settle on the curve of your hips, nuzzling his face into your palm before speaking. For a reason you couldn’t exactly pinpoint, you allowed him to do as he pleased, as though you suddenly had your own personal, human-sized cat, brimming with affection it didn’t know how to express. Siren eyes blinked up at you, a smile loaded with playfulness and mischief directed at you.

“I’ll just make sure to put on a performance they’ll never forget.”

--

Antsy hands pushed open your unbuttoned blouse to slide over the heated skin, your dress pants tossed and abandoned over the chair you’d been sitting in, lace panties dangling off the ankle resting on San’s shoulder. His glitzy top scratched against your skin, forming a blister you were too busy to care about as San’s body pressed against yours with his belly chain forming indents into your navel, his cock pounding into you to the steady beat of the music blasting through the decrepit speakers, a distant whirring disrupting the audio.

You slapped his hand off your chest, a warning look in your eyes and a pathetically despondent one in his, reaching for your hand and guiding it to his own chest, a silent ‘touch me instead.’ It was fascinating how quickly San’s cocky persona vanished once he got his dick wet, his face contorting—eyebrows furrowed and his eyes lidded—while you pulled on his piercing, rolling his nipple under your thumb and reveling in the tight moans rolling off his tongue.

“Fuck, ‘m close,” he mumbled, readjusting on his knees, the tight material of his bottoms low on his thighs restricting the movement.

“Already?” you teased, sucking in a sudden breath at the new angle, his cock curving into your g-spot through his relentless thrusts, his previous rhythm lost in his overflowing lust. “What a waste of a pretty cock, can’t even last long enough to make me cum.”

You noted the rose bleeding into his ears once again, his hips stuttering and a throaty moan leaving his lips as he emptied inside you, his hot seed spreading warmth through your lower belly. You laughed as he lowered himself onto you, hovering over your torso while he rolled his hips into your cunt, riding out his orgasm with airy moans and tightly-shut eyes. Paper bills fluttered in the air, some sticking to the sweat beaded on San’s back while the majority landed around your tangled bodies.

You were about to get up, words of beration forming on your tongue, but San took a few breaths and drove his cock further into you, grinding his length between your dripping walls until it chubbed up once again. It caught you off guard, his eagerness to perform, to prove himself to you, to fuck you dumb in front of all your customers.

The slow pace he adopted wasn’t enough, but the deliberate drag of his cock over your g-spot nearly sent you spiraling, the leg perched up on his shoulder shaking with every thrust. “Ngh, do you like being watched, pretty boy?”

San’s bashfulness was nowhere to be found, replaced with a pleased smile and a quick nod to his head, “Mm, I do,” his fingers kneaded the flesh of your thigh, his other hand pushing down your right leg to further open you up for him, driving his cock into you twice before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “what about you, Miss? You’re the same, aren’t you? I can feel your cunt squeezing around me every time you look at the perverts watching us.”

Your limbs felt heavy, something in your stomach convulsing at his words. “Watch your mouth-”

Calloused fingers slipped under you to tangle in the hair at your nape, tugging sharply until your neck craned at the force, your next words dying on your tongue as he began pistoning his cock into your needy cunt, a broken cry ripping through your chest as his cockhead pressed into your sweet spot repeatedly.

“You want them to watch how I’m gonna fuck you full? I’ll give you all I have, Miss, every last drop, until you’re all swollen with my cum,” he rambled, soft lips pressed against your temple while he hammered into you, sending you barreling towards the edge.

A tingle spread through your limbs, the edges of your vision darkening, and you prepared to freefall into a numbing orgasm, but San’s hips suddenly slowed to a languid grind, his lips stretching menacingly against your skin.

“No- fuck, I was so close-”

San interrupted your complaints, “tell me you want it.”

Your eyebrow twitched in annoyance. It was as though he was holding your orgasm for ransom. “Don’t be a fucking asshole, I’m still your boss-”

“-and I’m the one fucking you stupid,” he retorted, that vexing smirk on his face once again, and you wanted to punch it away. You’d assume abusing an employee would bring bad rep to your club, though, and you couldn’t afford to lose any customers. So you settled on glaring at him, attempting to roll your hips but huffing when San’s hands anchored you down to the floor.

“C’mon, just say you want it. I’ll give you whatever you want, Miss.” He lowered his voice down to a whisper, “all of it, just for you.”

The deep baritone of his voice, the words flowing smoothly off his tongue, warm hands splayed over your hips, occasionally squeezing at the flesh at the end of every sentence, his musky perfume mixed in with the tangy scent of his sweat engulfing your senses. Your walls pulsed around his cock, sitting  thick and heavy inside you while you squirmed under him, the skin of your cheeks heated under his gaze as he awaited the words he wanted to hear. After a few minutes of his relentless stare-down, cat-like eyes boring into yours with incessant demand, you gave in, muttering the words under your breath and breaking eye contact.

Just when you thought you could breathe again, his deep chuckle echoed in your ear, the pleasant sound preferable over the music playing in the background, but his words sent a wave of cold sweat seeping out of your pores, “No, no. Say it louder for me, darling.”

You huffed in exasperation, the smell of alcohol swimming in the air between you. Shutting your eyes to relieve yourself of the sight of San's sharp jawline and arched eyebrow, you missed the way his gaze flitted upwards to meet with Wooyoung’s—the man now sat in the chair to the left of the stage, palming at the obvious tent in his pants.

San gave a harsh thrust to egg you on, the shot of pleasure shooting up your spine at the gesture enough to push the words off your tongue, “just fucking give me your cum already, ‘want it all inside,” you slurred, voice breathy with hints of desperation.

San didn’t waste any time before picking up his pace, pounding into your heat with urgent want, as though he was a starved man at a banquet. It was as though he’d lit your nerves on fire, the pleasure so intense your mind went numb, nails digging into San’s biceps as he pulled moan after moan out of you. “Hnnngh! L-like that, yeah-”

There was no build-up to your orgasm, and you found yourself tumbling down a steep cliff into a valley of ecstasy, lips forming an ‘o’ while San guided you through it. With your back arched off the ground, your blouse damp and stuck to your slick back, you clung to the fluid drag of San’s throbbing cock between your fluttering walls, the sound of skin-on-skin following the beat vibrating through the speakers.

San’s fingers dented your skin with enough force to promise blossoming bruises, his breath laboured as he began to chase his own high after you’d ridden out yours, fucking into you like a madman, “’m almost there, Miss, ‘gonna make sure you’re nice and full of me,” He groaned near your ear, the sound melting away the tinges of overstimulation jolting you away from him, his tight grip keeping you in place to buck his hips into your used hole. “So full you might get pregnant- ngh!”

Driven to completion by his own words, San’s throaty moans drowned out the melody strumming in the background, spurts of hot cum adding to the white painting your walls as he milked himself of every last drop. It seemed like you were the one who had fucked him stupid, barely-coherent, babbled praise flowing into your ear as he tucked his head into the crook of your neck.

Your knee dug into your chest, and you stared at the lace still hanging off your ankle where it sat on San’s shoulder, pins and needles pricking at your muscles from the prolonged position. But you didn’t complain, simply basking in the afterglow while San’s chest rose and fell into yours. You could see the flutter of paper bills in your peripherals—more than you’d ever seen before on a slow, Thursday night—barely any of them reaching you as the men tossing them had their dominant hands preoccupied. Your eyes moved sideways, meeting Wooyoung’s, already staring back at you with a knowing smirk on his pouty lips.

Through the thick haze of the orgasm still clouding your mind, your muscles twitching with its remnants as San’s cock spasmed pathetically between your flooded walls, two loads streaming out of your stretched cunt, you realised just how much Choi San enjoyed performing for a crowd.

And just how much you could profit off that.

reblogs/feedback are greatly appreciated!! ^^ apply for my tag list here (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

[no-face-no-shame]

River Run Wild

I never write fanfics, but had this cute idea inspired by the awkward way in which I blush. It turned out kinda long but idc

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Charles Smith

Tags: Fluff; boys being boys and fishing; Arthur is insecure about his appearance

‘Everything alright there, Mr Morgan?’ Charles called over his shoulder.

‘Yeah, except for that one damn fish that just bit me!’

‘Bit?’

‘Well, more like nibbled. Nasty creature.’

The two men stood in a shallow river, submerged up their thighs. The day was young but the sun was already harsh. Arthur sighed and shook his head.

            ‘Regretting coming along?’ Charles asked.

            ‘Not at all. Just the damned heat… I ain’t built for this climate. Days be pretty now, but the temperature is killin’ me.’

            ‘I’m not that bothered. Guess it’s the matter of being used to it. Though today is hot, I won’t lie. I asked John to come too, but he refused.’

            ‘Might be for the better. He’d scare the damned fishes off with his ugly mug.’

            Something moved next to Arthur’s leg and he plunged his spear into the water, then cursed.

            ‘I’m too slow for this. Though I got nasty scratches in places where there should be none, so it’s already better when I stand cause sittin’ ain’t much of an option right now.’

            Charles chuckled, scanning the water for any signs of fish nearby.

            ‘What happened?’

            ‘I bought new chaps but they a bit stiff. And tight. Say, did I get fat? John told me so, and Javier.’

            It seemed that Arthur himself was already certain of the answer. He moved uncomfortably, keeping his eyes down but not truly focused.

            ‘I wouldn’t say “fat”,’ Charles said carefully. ‘You just look like you’ve been eating better lately.’

            ‘Oh, I’ll be damned. “Eating better”. Well said.’

            They both laughed, likely scaring away the few fish remaining in the area.

The sun was right above them. Away from the road, they had the comfort of solitude, and planned on staying away from the camp all day long. The river was wide but shallow, with plenty of fish right next to the stony shore.

Sweat was running down their backs. Arthur’s shirt looked as if he had taken a proper swim already. He began to play with one of the buttons, keeping the makeshift spear high in case of another fish trying to devour him. He was clearly hesitating, and Charles decided to make the decision easier for him – with a swift gesture he pulled his shirt off.

‘It’ll be better for a while, but we can’t stay in the sun like that for too long. We better catch something soon.’

Arthur hesitated once more, then took his shirt off and slung it over his shoulder. Charles was turned away from him, but took a quick glance back. Arthur’s back was wide and muscular as always, but there was a bit of new softness around his waist. He positioned himself in a way that hid his stomach and awkwardly coughed.

‘Say, why do you always come hunting with me?’ Charles asked to break the silence. ‘Others hunt together, but you usually go either alone or just with me.’

‘Well, you’re the best hunter we have. I stick with winners.’

As if to confirm Arthur’s words, Charles plunged his spear into the water and lifted it with a grin, showing off the sturgeon impaled on it. Arthur looked around and was about to say something, but instead he froze with his mouth slightly ajar. His eyes ran down Charles’ arm and towards his chest, and the strangest thing happened.

Within a few seconds, the skin on Arthur’s whole upper body turned from the regular tan to bright red, red worthy of a northern cardinal. It seemed like an explosion, bringing up all the freckles and beauty marks on his back and shoulders. It was so rapid that at first Charles couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He nearly dropped the spear with the fish.

‘I-is everything alright, Arthur?’

‘Uh, yes, why?’ Arthur’s eyes began to dart around.

He fully turned to Charles, which revealed that his chest was one of the most brightly red points of his body. Charles fished a piece of a broken mirror out of his pocket and held it up. Arthur’s eyes went wide when he saw his reflection. He looked down with fear and confusion.

‘I, uh, I might be havin’ a stroke,’ he said after a moment of consideration.

‘Are you feeling dizzy? Like you’re drunk?’

‘Not really. But the sun is doin’ me no good.’

Charles made his way through the water and touched Arthur’s forehead. The gesture had a double purpose – not only to check his companion’s temperature, but also to test a certain theory. It was a perfect guess. At the very moment Charles approached, Arthur’s skin underwent a second explosion of redness. This time it seemed that he felt it happen – he stepped back and looked away. His hand reflexively went towards his belt, a familiar gesture that made Charles smile.

‘Cool yourself a bit,’ Charles said and splashed a bit of water at him.

Arthur scoffed, then bent down and began to wash himself. The river was quite chilly, especially compared with the heat on the shore. Charles made a small splash again, trying to read Arthur’s mood. Arthur hesitated, then laughed awkwardly and splashed back. Forgetting about the fishing, they began to play like children.

Soon the game turned to wrestling. They were equally strong, but Arthur seemed distracted and clumsy. Charles managed to make him fall over, in the process bringing himself down as well, landing in Arthur’s arms. They stared at each other in silence. From up close, Arthur’s eyes seemed to shine like opals, a myriad of glimmers trapped somewhere between blue and green. His body felt hot despite the cold water surrounding it.

Charles slowly put his hand against Arthur’s chest, feeling the fast heartbeat under the soft tissue. Arthur breathed out unsteadily.

‘I think we done scared the fishes away for good,’ he said quietly.

Charles wrapped his arms around Arthur’s waist and helped him up. They both scratched themselves against the rocks, but didn’t feel any pain. They stood in the middle of the river, embracing each other.

‘Not every day is good for fishing.’

Arthur chuckled and nodded. Then, in a sudden surge of affection, he rested his head on Charles’ shoulder and closed his eyes. They remained like that until the voices of Sean, Javier and John could be heard in the distance.

‘Damn it,’ Arthur rasped and the spell was broken. He looked around for his shirt and saw that it was long gone, taken away by the running river. Charles had been smarter, having thrown his one back onto the shore. The discovery made Arthur even angrier – he clearly searched for a way to cover himself. Charles cut his suffering short by giving him his own shirt.

‘I don’t get sunburnt easily,’ he laughed.

Arthur finally smiled again.

‘Must be handy in the summer.’

‘Sure is.’

They remained in the river, waiting for the company. Charles tried to squeeze water out of his hair, but at the same time he watched Arthur from the corner of his eye. Right before the rest joined them, he cleared his throat.

‘I think you look just right.’

Arthur froze, then chuckled and looked away. To Charles’ great amusement, the third wave of scarlet spilled all over his body, though this time Charles’ shirt helped with covering it.

The day was still young, and it promised a good time and even better company.