#this is still like..a wip for something else just brace yourself...

[sseunbean]

hands of blessing and curse

[therogueflame]

Below the Surface

Hi my little cherubs,

here is a piece based on this request. ik i said i'd make it POC focused, but that got really hard really fast and i found it easier to make it ambiguous. and i tried to make it visceral but i feel like..I FEEL LIKE THIS IS BAD IM SORRY pls dont be mad. i literally wrote this in one day if you hate it ill cry. bye love you.

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Summary: In the warmth of a bath drawn by your own hands, he lets you touch what the world was never meant to see. Beneath scar and silence, something softer begins to surface.

WC: 5.8k

Warnings: 18+, angst, smuff, sex (p in v), fem!reader, scars, comfort, hurt i guess, idk what else

Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Reader

You draw the bath yourself. No servants. No one to bear witness. Just your hands on the brass tap, the weight of the basin warming slowly beneath your palms as steam begins to rise. The scent moves first — rich and heady, thick with crushed clove and sandalwood, something floral underneath that never quite settles. You tilt a vial of oil into the surface, watch it spiral and shimmer before vanishing into the heat. It clings to your skin. It soaks into your sleeves. It fills the room until the walls themselves feel steeped in it.

The fire crackles in the hearth, steady and low. Shadows stretch across the stone like they’ve been waiting too. You sit for a while beside the tub, one hand resting on the edge, the other trailing through the surface. The water is scalding. You don’t pull away.

You leave the door unlatched.

He doesn’t come right away. He never does. You don’t call for him. You don’t go looking. He’s still coming down from whatever place he’s been, the battlefield or something worse. The kind of place that leaves blood crusted in the creases of his hands and silence thick on his tongue. You imagine the weight of it on his shoulders as he moves through the halls. Imagine the stiffness in his fingers, the sharp edge of whatever’s still clinging to him. It always lingers. You don’t try to chase it away.

You just wait.

When the door finally shifts open, it doesn’t creak. It doesn’t slam. Just the soft sound of it catching the latch before falling back into place again. You don’t turn to greet him. You don’t rise. You can feel him behind you anyway. The drag of his gaze across your shoulders, the pause in his breath, the way the air seems to bend slightly around him.

You rise slowly. He hasn’t said a word. He never has to.

He’s still wearing his armor. Dark and dusted with ash, one shoulder dented, the hem of his cloak frayed and clinging with dried mud. There’s something on his jaw — maybe blood, maybe just dirt — and a shadow beneath his left eye that hadn’t been there before. He holds himself like he’s still bracing for something. Like he hasn’t decided if it’s over yet.

You move toward him and begin with the clasp at his collar. Your fingers find the cool metal and linger. He doesn’t flinch, but you feel the twitch of restraint in his posture, the way his jaw ticks when you press a little closer. You unfasten the first buckle. Then the next. The cloak slips from his shoulders and falls behind him, pooling silently at his feet.

You work your way down.

Leather, chain, the plates of his breastplate. It’s all familiar now, this ritual, this undressing. Not a task. Not a duty. A reverence. You unlace, unfasten, peel the layers away like sheaths of armor carved into flesh. Beneath the steel, his tunic is damp with sweat. The cloth clings to his skin, and when you tug it free, it catches along a scabbed-over cut beneath his ribs. He exhales, sharp and quiet. You don’t apologize. You touch it with your fingers, tracing the edge where healing has already begun. He does not look away.

His hands stay at his sides.

You reach for his belt and work it loose, then push the fabric of his trousers down over his hips. He steps out of them without a word. The scar on his thigh is still pink from whatever nearly split him open weeks ago. You run your knuckles along it and feel him shift, just slightly. His breathing changes. But he still doesn’t speak.

There’s nothing left between you now.

You stand back just enough to see him fully, lit by firelight and the flickering glow of candle stubs burning low in the corners. His body is all muscle and ruin. Every line of him shaped by survival. Scars like constellations across his chest, his shoulders, the sharp ridge of his stomach. You know them. You’ve counted them. You’ve kissed them all. Still, you look at him like it’s the first time.

And he lets you.

He watches you with that look — the one that says he’d let you take a blade to him if you asked, the one that says he’d still reach for you with blood on his hands. There’s something in his eyes that doesn’t soften, not really, but you don’t need softness. You need this. You need him like this. Bare. Waiting. Still breathing.

The water waits too.

You lift your hand and hold it out for his. He doesn’t take it right away. Not because he doubts. Because the gesture is too quiet. Too tender. Because it’s always easier for him to kill a man than to be held by someone who sees through every bone-deep wound.

But then his hand finds yours. Rough, warm, calloused from blade and bridle.

You lead him into the steam.

He follows you, silent as a shadow, heavy as the weight he never puts down. You lead him in slowly, one step at a time, until the heat laps at his thighs and he sinks lower, knees bending as he braces one hand against the edge of the tub. His breath stutters when it hits the surface. You don't let go.

When he finally settles, chest rising above the waterline, arms loose at his sides, you kneel beside him. His eyes are closed. The tension has not left him.

In this light, you can see everything.

The burn scars cover his entire right shoulder, thick and brutal and deep. Twisting bands of healed flesh stretch from the ridge of his collarbone down across his pectoral and back along the blade of his shoulder. The skin is ridged and warped, no longer smooth, no longer even. It speaks of fire — not flame from a torch or battlefield blaze, but dragonfire. Pure, ancient, merciless. You can almost feel the heat of it still lingering in the way he carries that shoulder slightly lower, how he favors his left side even in rest. The pain never really left. It just became familiar.

You don’t look away.

Your hand reaches for him again, and this time it lands directly on the edge of the burn. His skin is tough there, uneven, but still warm beneath your touch. You smooth your palm over it with care, as if your hands could ease something even time hasn’t soothed. His breath catches. His eyes stay shut.

There are other scars too. A narrow one just beneath his ribs, pale and thin, from a blade you never saw. Another on the inside of his left forearm, sloppily stitched. One above his knee. One along the curve of his hip that vanishes into the water. Ghosts of battles. Warnings etched into flesh. You’ve seen them before, but never all at once like this. Never with so much quiet between you.

“You don’t have to look at them,” he says, low and quiet, like he’s offering you a way out. Like he expects you to take it.

“I want to.”

You say it simply. You mean it.

You run your fingers down his chest, letting your knuckles drag softly over the old wound near his heart, then up along his collarbone until your palm fits again over the ruined shoulder. You stay there. His chest rises, uneven. He’s waiting for you to flinch. You don’t.

Instead, you lean forward and kiss the very edge of the burn.

He doesn’t move.

Your lips press gently to the seam where fire met flesh, then the curve just below it. You kiss along the rough texture, across the skin that puckers and pulls in strange directions, and then over the bone beneath where it starts to smooth again. It’s not soft. It was never meant to be. You kiss it anyway.

Your mouth lingers longer than it should, but you don’t apologize. His hands are gripping the porcelain edge. You glance down and see the whiteness of his knuckles.

You pull back just enough to look at him again. He’s watching you now, jaw tight, but his eyes have lost their usual sharpness. There’s something vulnerable there. Something open. Something almost afraid.

You pick up the cloth beside the tub and soak it in the water, wringing it out slowly until it drips between your fingers. Then you bring it to his chest and begin to wash him. You start at the center, moving in small, circular motions, letting the heat soak into his skin. Then upward, toward his shoulder.

You do not avoid the scar.

When the cloth reaches the burn, you go slower. He sucks in a breath through his teeth but doesn’t stop you. You wipe gently along the ridges, careful not to drag too hard. The water beads over the rough surface and rolls down his side.

You move in silence, washing each part of him with the same steady care. Across his throat. Down the slope of his ribs. Along the length of his arms. Every mark you find, you tend to. Every old wound is a story you don’t ask him to tell. You already know enough.

He breathes deeper now. Slower. His body has begun to settle. Not relaxed, not fully, but something close. Something like surrender.

You dip the cloth again and bring it to the side of his neck, your free hand resting lightly on his jaw. His eyes flutter closed. You’re close enough to feel his breath against your wrist.

You move slowly, your hands steady, your breath calm even as your heart begins to press harder behind your ribs. The cloth slips from your fingers and sinks into the water, forgotten. You reach instead for the small vial beside the basin, uncork it with a quiet twist, and let a few drops of oil fall into your palm. The scent rises instantly — something dark, resinous, touched with smoke. You warm it between your hands, then slide them over his shoulders.

He tenses beneath you. Not with resistance. Just instinct. Just the old memory of pain and what came after.

You smooth the oil into his skin.

The burn scar on his right side is thick beneath your touch. The flesh rises in ridges and dips, uneven and rough, but warm now from the bath. You start there. You don’t rush. You spread your palms wide and press into the edges of it, coaxing the oil across the twisted surface. The heat of the water and the heat of your hands work in tandem. You feel the slight tremor that goes through him. His eyes stay closed. He doesn’t speak.

You trail lower, across his shoulder blades, then down along his spine. His skin is damp and slick beneath your palms, but still coarse in places, the marks of healed-over lashes or blades or burns you’ve never asked about. Some wounds don’t come with stories. They don’t need to. You’ve learned them by feel. You’ve memorized the terrain of him with your hands in silence.

You rinse your hands and move back up, this time to his chest. You sit on the edge of the tub now, half-kneeling beside him as he leans back against the curved wall. His neck is tilted toward you, throat exposed, jaw tight. You pour more oil into your hands and work it into his skin — over his collarbones, the slope of his chest, the scattered scars that mark the space beneath his ribs. Your thumbs press gently into the space above his sternum. He exhales through his nose. It sounds like surrender.

You lean down and kiss the scar closest to his heart.

Not with hunger. Not with pity. Just presence.

The skin there is thin and pale, almost white. You kiss it once, then again, slower the second time. Then you drag your mouth a little lower and breathe into the place where the scar curves toward his ribs. The water sloshes softly around him when he shifts.

You feel his hand rise beneath the surface and brush lightly against your thigh. Not a grip. Not a request. Just contact. Just proof that he is still here.

Your mouth moves to the old wound at his side, the one you know came from someone who meant to kill him. You kiss it, then speak into it.

“This one saved your life.”

Your voice is barely there, more breath than sound, but you know he hears you. His hand tightens slightly, then loosens again. You look up at him and his eyes are open now, heavy-lidded, watching you like you’re doing something sacrilegious and holy all at once.

You reach for the cloth again and dip it in the water, then lift his arm with care and begin to clean it. His bicep, his forearm, the space just beneath his elbow where the skin is softer. You move to the other side and do the same. You soap your hands and return to his back, working the lather into his shoulders with gentle pressure, then rinsing it with fresh water from a waiting pitcher. The sound of it pours soft between you, trailing down his spine and into the bath.

When you’re finished there, you slide into the tub behind him.

You pull him back into you slowly, his shoulders fitting against your chest, his head resting beneath your chin. His body is heavy with heat now. Not limp, but loose. Not completely at peace, but close enough to pass for it. You let your hands glide over his chest again, lathering soap into his skin, careful not to move too fast, careful not to break the spell.

You press another kiss to his temple, then to his jaw. Then lower, to the burn at his shoulder. This one you linger on the longest.

“You came back to me.”

You say it into the scar. Into the silence. Into the water that holds you both.

The bath has gone quieter somehow, though nothing has changed. The fire still crackles in the hearth, the water still laps gently against the sides of the tub with each shift of your bodies. But the silence feels different now. It feels heavy. Thick with all the things he has not said, all the weight he refuses to set down. You can feel it in the way he breathes — shallow, steady, careful. Like he’s afraid of making a sound that might undo him.

Your hands are still moving across his chest, slow and deliberate. You’ve washed every scar, kissed each one like a vow. You’ve spoken softly, not for comfort, but for truth. You’ve asked for nothing in return. You’ve let him be held.

You feel his body tighten.

Not in tension. In restraint. In the kind of quiet bracing that comes before something breaks.

Your fingers slide down, one last pass over the ragged burn that scars his shoulder, and this time his breath catches. It doesn’t fully release. It stays trapped there, just behind his teeth, and you feel it tremble through him like a low shudder.

Then his hand finds yours beneath the water.

It’s sudden, not rough, but urgent. His fingers close over yours and hold. Too tightly. The pressure is unmistakable. You pause.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look at you. He just grips your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the surface, like if he lets go he might drown. And maybe he would. Maybe this is what drowning feels like to him. Not war. Not fire. Not blood.

This.

Being seen.

He doesn’t know how to do this. He knows how to fight. How to burn. How to fuck. But this is something else entirely. There is no armor for this. No sword to swing. There is just your hand in his and the steam rising around you and the unbearable stillness of being touched with reverence instead of want.

You let him hold on.

You do not pull away. You don’t even move. You let the moment stretch until the tightness in his grip softens, just barely. Until his thumb brushes over the back of your hand like he means to memorize it. Like he’s sorry for the pressure, but can’t stop.

You can feel it in him. The way everything in him coils tight to resist the thing rising to the surface. You can feel the ache of it in his bones, the rawness in the way his jaw stays clenched, the faintest tremor in his exhale when your other hand moves to rest over his heart.

Still, he says nothing.

But something in him changes.

Not all at once. Just a flicker. A tilt of his head against your shoulder, the weight of it heavier than before. The slow release of breath that leaves him like he’s giving something away. The slight turn of his fingers so they fit between yours more easily now, not a grip, not a hold — just contact. Just trust.

You glance down at him and his eyes are closed again, but not the way they were before. Not guarded. Not braced. Just closed.

You stay where you are.

You don’t speak. You don’t try to ease it or label it. You just let him feel it, whatever it is. The ache, the quiet, the grief he never let anyone see, the fear stitched into his bones that he would never be more than the worst things he’s done. You let him have it. You let him fall apart in the smallest way a man like him ever could.

He is still Daemon.

He is still danger and fire and chaos wrapped in silk and blood.

But right now, in your arms, in the water, in this silence that holds the shape of something sacred, he is just a man.

You don’t know how long you sit like that, the water cooling slightly around you, his weight settled into your chest like a second heartbeat. The scent of oil still clings to your skin, warm and spiced and heavy. Your hands have stopped moving but remain on him, one still resting over his heart, the other cradled gently between his fingers beneath the surface. Neither of you speaks. There is no need.

The silence is thick, but not heavy anymore. Just full.

Then slowly, he lifts your hand from where it rests against his ribs. He brings it to his mouth, kisses the inside of your wrist, then your palm. It’s the smallest thing, but it undoes you.

He turns.

He shifts in the water and faces you for the first time, knees brushing yours. He doesn’t speak, but you can see it in his face — the permission, the question, the hope he hasn’t dared name. His hands rise to your waist, tentative, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s asking.

And you move with him.

You reach for his face, fingers curling along the rough stubble at his jaw, and lean in until your lips find his. It’s not rushed. It’s not hungry. It’s slow, steady, certain. The kind of kiss that doesn’t demand anything. The kind that simply says I’m here. He kisses you back like he means to stay. Like he’s already staying. Like there is nothing left in the world but this moment and the shape of you in front of him.

The water shifts around you when you rise slightly, adjusting your position, and he follows your movement without hesitation. His hands find your hips and hold you there, not tightly, just present. His mouth moves to your jaw, then your neck, not rushed, not desperate — just reverent. Your shift is soaked, translucent and useless, clinging to your skin in a way that makes him pause. You feel his breath catch. His eyes sweep down over you like he’s seeing something sacred.

You reach for the hem and lift it slowly over your head. It lands somewhere behind you with a soft sound, forgotten the moment it’s gone. You are bare before him now, firelight catching the water on your skin, steam curling around your shoulders. You don’t cover yourself. You don’t move to hide. You just look at him. Let him see you. All of you.

And he does.

He watches you like you are something he never thought he’d be allowed to have. Like he still doesn’t believe you’re real. He doesn’t reach for you right away. He just looks. His eyes are darker now, the line of his mouth softened, parted slightly as if he’s still holding something back.

You step into his lap, straddling him slowly, one knee at a time, and he receives you like he’s been waiting forever. His hands come back to your hips, his touch steady this time. His eyes lift to yours and stay there. You settle against him and press your forehead to his.

The kiss that follows is deeper. More certain. Still gentle, but full of heat that’s been waiting beneath the surface. You feel it in the way his fingers slide up your spine. You feel it in the way he breathes you in like he needs to memorize you. You let your hands find his shoulders, the curve of his neck, the back of his head. His body is solid beneath you, heat and muscle and memory.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand rising to cup your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw with unexpected tenderness. In his eyes, you see a question—not of desire, but of worth. Even now, he wonders if he deserves this. If he deserves you.

You answer without words, pressing into his touch, closing the space between you once more. This time when your lips meet his, something shifts. The careful restraint that's held him together begins to unravel. His arms encircle you completely, pulling you flush against him, water lapping at the edges of the tub as your bodies align.

The heat builds between you, slow and inevitable. His hands map your skin with reverence, following the curve of your waist, the arch of your spine, the hollow at the base of your throat. He touches you like he's memorizing you, like each inch of your flesh is sacred. Every touch is deliberate, patient, a quiet worship in the language only your bodies speak.

You feel him harden against you, his desire unmistakable now beneath the water. But there's no rush in his movements, no demand in his touch. His lips trace the curve of your shoulder, then the hollow of your throat, lingering at the pulse point where your heartbeat quickens against his mouth. Your fingers thread through his hair, still damp, curling slightly at the ends where it's grown longer than he usually permits.

"I saw it," he says suddenly, the words so quiet you almost miss them. His voice is rough, raw with something he's been holding back. "When I was out there. In the darkness. I saw this."

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still cradling his face. The vulnerability in his expression nearly breaks you. You understand what he means without asking. Out there, in whatever battlefield or nightmare he's returned from, when death was close and darkness closer—he saw this moment. This tub. This room. Your hands on his skin. The quiet between you. It was the thing he held onto. The thing that brought him back.

You press your palm to his chest, right over his heart, and feel it beating strong and sure beneath your touch.

"I'm here," you whisper, the words barely audible above the gentle lapping of water. "I'm always here."

He catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it again, then pulls you closer until there's no space left between you. The water rises around your bodies as you shift against him. His mouth finds yours again, hungrier now but still achingly tender. You feel the restraint in him breaking, not all at once but in small, deliberate surrenders.

When he lifts you slightly, adjusting your weight against him, the motion sends a ripple through the water that echoes the shudder passing through your body. His hands slide beneath your thighs, supporting you as you rise above him, poised at the edge of something inevitable. Your eyes meet his in the firelight, and for once, there is no shadow there, no darkness lurking. Just hunger and reverence and something deeper that neither of you has dared to name.

You sink down onto him slowly, taking him into your body with a soft gasp that he catches with his mouth. The fullness of him inside you draws a tremor from deep within. His hands tighten on your hips, not guiding, just steadying, as if he fears you might disappear if he doesn't hold on.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You stay joined, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, as the world narrows to nothing but sensation and shared breath. Then, with deliberate slowness, you begin to move.

The water ripples around you, lapping gently against the sides of the tub as you rise and fall. Each movement is unhurried, almost reverent. His hands slide up your back, one cradling your spine, the other tangling in your hair. His mouth traces the column of your throat, then returns to your lips with renewed hunger.

You move together like this is a prayer, like this is absolution. For all the blood on his hands, for all the fire in his past, for all the darkness that still clings to him when he returns—here, in this moment, he is clean. He is whole. He is yours.

His breathing grows ragged against your skin. You feel the tension building in his muscles, the way his fingers press more firmly into your flesh, the slight tremble that runs through him as he fights to maintain control. You can feel him holding back, even now, afraid to let go completely. Afraid of what might happen if he surrenders entirely to this moment, to you, to the vulnerability that terrifies him more than any battlefield.

You cup his face between your palms, bring his gaze to yours. In the flickering light, his eyes are almost black, pupils blown wide with desire, but there's something else there—a question, an uncertainty. You answer it with a roll of your hips that draws a low sound from his throat, something between a groan and a plea.

"Let go," you whisper against his mouth. Not a command. A permission.

His hands tighten on your waist, and for a moment, you think he might refuse. Then something breaks in him—not with violence, but with relief. His arms encircle you completely, and he buries his face against your throat as he thrusts upward with new urgency. The water sloshes around you, spilling over the edges of the tub as the rhythm between you deepens. His breath comes hot against your skin, punctuated by sounds he never makes outside this room—soft, broken groans that vibrate through your body.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, one palm pressed against the burn scar, claiming even the parts of him he considers ruined. His mouth finds yours again, and this time the kiss is raw, unguarded. He tastes of salt and smoke and something uniquely him. You drink him in, feeling the tremors building in your own body as he shifts the angle of his hips, hitting something deep inside that makes your vision blur.

You cry out, a soft, broken sound that echoes in the chamber as pleasure crashes through you in waves. He holds you tighter, his rhythm faltering as your body tightens around him. You feel the exact moment he surrenders—his shoulders tensing, his breath catching, his hands gripping you like you're the only solid thing in a world gone liquid. He breathes your name against your skin like a confession, like something sacred he's been holding back.

The aftermath finds you still entwined, water cooling around your bodies, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His breathing gradually slows, matching yours until you can't tell where your exhale ends and his begins. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you needs to.

When he finally lifts his head to look at you, there's something in his eyes you've never seen before—not vulnerability, exactly, but openness. The walls haven't fallen completely, but a window has been opened. Just enough to let you in. Just enough to let him breathe.

You brush the damp hair from his forehead, a simple gesture that feels more intimate than what your bodies just shared. His eyes flutter closed briefly at your touch, then open again with a clarity that wasn't there before. The water ripples around you when he shifts, pulling you closer, his arms encircling your waist as if he can't bear the thought of letting go just yet.

"The water's getting cold," you murmur, though neither of you moves to leave.

His thumb traces the curve of your cheek, follows the line of your jaw. "I don't feel it."

His voice is still rough, but there's something else in it now. Something softer. Something like peace.

You lean forward and rest your forehead against his, your fingers tracing idle patterns across his shoulders. The scent of the oils has settled into your skin, marking you both with the same earthy fragrance. It mingles with the smell of him—smoke and iron and something uniquely his own that you've come to recognize even in darkness.

"We should move to the bed," you say, though you make no effort to rise.

He nods, his hands still wandering along your spine as if he can't quite stop touching you. When he finally moves, it's with reluctance. He helps you stand, water cascading from your bodies as you rise from the cooling bath. The air feels sharp against your damp skin, but before you can shiver, he's wrapping a heavy linen around your shoulders, his own still draped loosely around his hips. His movements are unhurried, deliberate, as he guides you toward the bed across the chamber.

The sheets are cool against your heated skin. He settles beside you, one arm sliding beneath your head, the other coming to rest at your waist. His body is a line of warmth against yours, solid and present. The fire still burns low in the hearth, casting long shadows that dance across his features. In this light, with the water still beading on his skin, he looks almost peaceful—the hard edges of him temporarily softened.

You trace the scar near his heart with your fingertip, feeling the slight ridge of healed flesh beneath your touch. He watches you without speaking, his eyes half-lidded but alert. You've seen him like this only a handful of times—the warrior at rest, the dragon momentarily tamed. Not conquered,never broken, but willing to lay down his blade for just this one night.

His hand catches yours, brings it to his lips. He kisses each fingertip with deliberate care, then your palm, then the inside of your wrist where your pulse still thrums quick and steady. You feel the rasp of his stubble against your skin, the warmth of his breath, the slight press of teeth that sends a shiver down your spine despite the lingering heat from the bath.

"Sleep," you murmur, though you know he rarely does. Not deeply. Not without dreams that leave him gasping in the darkness, reaching for weapons that aren't there.

He shakes his head slightly, eyes still fixed on yours. "Not yet."

There's something in his voice—not desire, though that's there too, banked like coals beneath ash. It's something else. Something almost like fear, as if sleep might steal this moment from him. As if whatever peace he's found in your arms might vanish with the dawn.

You understand without words. You've learned to read him in the spaces between what he says, in the things his body tells you when his voice cannot. You shift closer, your leg sliding between his, your head finding the hollow of his shoulder where it fits perfectly. His arm tightens around you, his hand splaying across your back, spanning the width of your spine.

"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper against his skin.

His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. You feel the slight catch in his breath, the way his fingers flex against your back. He doesn't answer, but his body relaxes by degrees, tension seeping out of him like water through stone.

The fire pops, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind has picked up,whistling through the eaves like a distant wail. The sound makes him tense briefly, some old instinct still alert for danger, before he settles again beneath your touch.

You lie together in the growing quiet, your bodies cooling, breath syncing until you can't tell where yours ends and his begins. His fingers trace idle patterns across your shoulder, following no particular design, just touching for the sake of contact. It's these moments—not the passion, not the fire—that reveal the most about him. The way he holds you when no one is watching. The way his guard lowers inch by inch until something almost vulnerable peeks through.

You feel the exact moment he finally surrenders to sleep. His breathing deepens, his hand goes slack against your skin, and the tension that never fully leaves his body ebbs like a tide pulling away from shore. In this unguarded state, he looks almost peaceful—the furrow between his brows smoothed, the hard line of his mouth softened. You've rarely seen him like this, vulnerable in a way he would never allow himself to be if conscious.

You stay awake a while longer, watching the play of firelight across his features, memorizing the moment because you know how fleeting it is. How rare. Your fingers trace the edge of the burn scar on his shoulder, feeling the uneven texture beneath your touch. Even in sleep, he stirs slightly at the contact, though he doesn't wake.

The night deepens around you. The fire burns lower, casting the room in amber shadows. Outside, the wind has died down, leaving only the occasional whisper against the stones. It's in this perfect stillness that you feel the weight of what's happened between you tonight—not just the physical joining, but something deeper. Something unnamed that flowed between you like the water in the bath, washing away the barriers he's spent a lifetime building.

You don't name it. You don't need to. It exists in the space between heartbeats, in the way his body curves protectively around yours even in sleep, in the slight furrow that appears between his brows when you shift away briefly to pull the covers higher.

His hand finds yours in his sleep, fingers brushing blindly across the sheets until they close around yours. Even in rest, he reaches for you. Even without thought, some part of him remembers you're there. The knowing settles deep in your chest, warm and heavy and impossibly tender. You hold on.

[aperrywilliams]

Just Something - SR

This is just a taste of a WIP series I’m writing these days—SR series, of course. Several chapters have already been plotted, and some have been written too. I don’t know about dates, but well, time will tell.

Another reminder: requests are open, too.

--------------

When you’re removing your makeup in the bathroom, you hear the entrance door opens and then shut. The unmistakable sound of Spencer’s footsteps fills the wooden floor of your shared apartment.

‘Shared’ as a way to put it. It's Spencer’s, but you've live there since your lease ended and Spencer asked you to move in five months ago. Maybe the right word is ‘offered’ and not ‘asked’ since you sometimes feel he did it kind of obligated, even if he has insisted that’s not the case.

“Babe?”

You don’t respond. It’s unnecessary since you are clearly there. The lights are on, who else can be?

Spencer tries again anyway. “Babe? Are you home?” His steps follow down the hall to your room, and the ensuite, where you are still cleaning your face.

You know Spencer wants to hear you respond so he can gauge your anger level. He knows what he did, and he’s bracing himself for the argument you sure will have.

When he sees you, a lump goes down his throat. There you are, mid-pajama changed, clean face, tired expression, and your body screams defensiveness.

“I’m so sorry I couldn't make it because -”

“Save it.” You cut him off. Not loud. Not angry. Just fed up. Spencer’s brow creases.

“I’m trying to explain,” he says, like is what it’s needed, like it's what you need—a reason.

“I don't want you to explain yourself. I wanted you there.” It's simple and complicated at the same time.

“I know. I wanted that too. But things at work got messy, and I couldn't call-”

“Did you? Did you really?” You cut him off again.

“What?” Spencer asks, confused about what you mean.

“Did you really want to be there? Like last week? Like last month? Because if you did, the world is confabulating pretty hard against you,” you scoff. Spencer can feel the sarcasm, but he knows there is more than that.

“Of course I wanted to be there! It's just-” He trails off. How to say something without sounding like he’s running in circles.

“The job. I know. The thing is, Spencer, how do we fix it? The non-dates, the time we can’t spend together, how?”

Even if your body tells you how exhausted you are, it's difficult not to show your upset, more so when Spencer doesn't seem to understand your frustration.

“We try again! That's what we do!”

Spencer’s voice rises an octave. You shake your head.

“I think ‘we’ sounds like a lot of people! I’m trying, Spencer. I have been for months! And have you? Uh?”

The answer is ‘no,’ but Spencer isn’t ready to see how neglected your relationship has been and how much responsibility he has for it. So he does what he knows to do when he feels cornered: put up his walls.

“I don’t get why you’re so mad at me. You know how my job is. I can be called to work at any moment.”

“Oh, believe me. I noticed. But it doesn't mean you can ditch me every single time, Spencer!”

You are yelling at this point. How can Spencer be so clueless?

“Don’t be dramatic! I don’t ‘ditch on you.’ You say it like I don’t care about you.”

That's a lie, he thinks, of course, he cares about you. He loves you.

“Do you?”

Your question throws him off, because you really think he doesn't care about you or love you.

--------------

[wttcsms]

excerpts;

i have over 100k+ words in unfinished drafts/wips in my google docs. yikes.

in an attempt to gauge general interest + also to motivate myself in attempting to at least finish half of the projects i've started, i'm going to share some of the fics i think y'all will be most interested in 🤍 (and also because these are my usual first rough draft attempts, so these are just the best of the worst LOL)

as always, lmk what you think, what you're most excited for, and i'm always open to chatting about any of my concepts in depth 🤭

featuring keiji akaashi, atsumu miya, sae itoshi, tobio kageyama, naoya zenin, satoru gojo, + a plot that's still open for any character so tell me why ur fave deserves it (all with fem reader)

— brace for impact, keiji akaashi elevator pitch: rich college girl with daddy issues is roommates/put under the care of old-time family friend, 20-something y/o keiji akaashi

“I just don’t want you to waste your life away.” He answers, which is the truth. He really hates picking you up when you’re drunk off your ass, unable to defend yourself against the swarms of sleazy college guys that are attending the same party as you. He hates the fact that you’ve been raised — if the dozen father-daughter interactions you had with your dad counts as him “raising” you — to believe that money can solve all your problems. Because, sure, having money has gotten you out of many tight spots, but it wasn’t money that drove to a college on the other side of the city to pick you up, it was him. He has to stand here and watch you push the universe’s boundaries, trying to test your luck, to see if there’s a problem or a bad situation that you can’t get out of this time. You’re reckless and privileged and insecure and rich — the deadliest combination for any college age girl to be. You’re going to ruin your life before it even fully begins. It’s like your default mode is self destruction. 

“Not this speech again.” You sigh, shifting your body so that your knees are turned towards the door instead of him. “Y’know, Akaashi, you’re not my dad.” 

“Yeah, because unlike him, I actually care about you.”

You’re silent now, still staring out the window. He’s usually better at keeping his mouth shut, but it’s hard to do whenever you’re constantly pushing and pushing and testing his patience and he’s just so—

“—sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” His knuckles are white from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel. It’s a wonder how the words leave his mouth; you think the way he’s clenching his teeth acts as a formidable enough boundary. 

Actually, you think, it’s entirely justifiable. You’re coy, not dumb. You know when you’ve pushed Akaashi too far, and this is one of those times. And, really, you kind of — scratch that — you do deserve it. All of it. And then some. You’re irresponsible, and you drag him out to the other side of the city so he can act as your guardian, your protector, even though that is most certainly not the role he planned on playing. Honestly, you’re just surprised that he hasn’t left you out to rot like everyone else, and you’re thankful, you really are. But what are you supposed to say? That? The truth? Probably. 

You don’t, though. You just mutter some weak ass retort that sounds an awful lot like “you need to get laid” before staring out the window for the rest of the ride. 

— devil on my shoulder tellin' me i'll die soon (i don't really want that to impact you), atsumu miya elevator pitch: yakuza au but a healthy amount of porn and plot. sequel to this.

The first time Osamu Miya meets you, you’re unconscious, and he has a feeling you’d be grateful about this fact considering the state you’re in. 

Atsumu’s carrying you bridal style, and even in your sleep, you still cling to him. The sight would be almost sweet, but Osamu’s not an idiot. There can never be anything sweet in his dear older brother’s life. Even in the pale moonlight, Osamu can see the bruises and hickeys lining your neck, a trail of them that seem to disappear underneath your clothes (he wouldn’t be shocked if there’s a map of hickeys littering your skin). Your hair is sticking up at odd angles, your lips are swollen, and you are knocked out in every sense of the word. 

If the situation wasn’t serious (even without verbal confirmation, he’s well aware of how dire this situation is right now; Atsumu wouldn’t have visited him if it weren’t), Osamu thinks he would have made a comment about his brother’s rough handling. 

(He doesn’t, though, because Osamu knows all about just how rough his brother can get — after all, they both had the same upbringing.) 

“‘Samu,” Atsumu says, and his voice makes him sound like he’s worse for wear. He sounds like when he was fourteen and had his first taste of initiation, when a group of the strongest men would beat him relentlessly for thirty seconds and he wasn’t allowed to fight back. The crack in his voice is subtle, and even though Osamu rarely speaks to his brother anymore, he’s still a master at reading him. 

“Who’s the girl?” Osamu nods to your sleeping form, trying not to focus on the purple and red marks. God, he can’t tell if he, Atsumu, you, or all three of you are lucky it’s so dark. Osamu can’t really believe it’s possible to go out in public after a night with his brother; not without being on the receiving end of a few concerned looks. 

“I need a favor.” Atsumu ignores his question, which is typical behavior for him, so Osamu’s not entirely too surprised or annoyed. “She’s in danger, and it’s—” 

Atsumu grimaces like the next words he’s about to say are going to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. And maybe it’s because that’s his brother and they grew up together, or maybe it’s because ‘Tsumu’s always been a little predictable (or has Osamu just always been good at predicting?), but Osamu can almost mouth what his brother’s about to say.

“—my fault.” 

So, you must be someone awfully important to his brother then. Important enough that Atsumu would finally visit him in person after all these years (with barely any warning beforehand, too). Important enough that Atsumu would treat you so roughly (if the marks on your body are any indication of what you’ve been through) and still care about you so deeply. Important enough that he’s finally taking accountability, finally taking the blame for his actions.

He didn’t think it was possible, but Atsumu’s left him genuinely speechless for a moment. 

“Please, ‘Samu.” Atsumu Miya is not the type of person who breaks down easily. He does not beg, he commands. But right now, Atsumu sounds like he’s this close to getting down on his knees and clasping his hands together if that’s what it’ll take to get Osamu to help him. “You told me you would owe me after what I did for you. Consider this your repayment.” 

Apparently, you’re someone so important to Atsumu, he’s cashing in a favor that’s worth his life just to ensure your safety. Osamu can’t tell if that’s true idiocy or true love — then again, there’s hardly a difference between the two, is there? 

“Idiot. I would have helped ya regardless, y’know.” He means it. Every word. 

“I know.” And Atsumu means it, too. Because even if they’ve went years with little to no contact, even though they both belong to two completely different worlds, they’re still brothers. Which means that they also know each other as well as they know themselves, and Atsumu knows that Osamu can never truly be at peace until he feels like the completely imaginary debt he owes is paid back in full. 

The universe must have a taste for irony, though, because Atsumu thought that ensuring your safety and bringing his brother peace would make him feel good. Instead, transferring you to his brother’s arms allows the weight of the world to rest more comfortably on his shoulders. 

Osamu takes one last look at his older brother, and he’s not entirely surprised to see that his attention is on you, dark eyes staring so intensely at your sleeping figure, he wonders if he’s trying to commit your face to his memory. He’s worried about Atsumu. Sure, he’s got a whole entire gang on his side, a rather powerful one too, but ‘Tsumu’s never been the greatest at being left alone to his devices, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. 

But then Atsumu looks up at him, and Osamu feels like they’re both fourteen again. Trapped, vulnerable, in immense pain… But not alone, never alone. 

“Thanks, ‘Samu.” 

“Any time, ‘Tsumu.” 

(It’s the same words exchanged by their teenage selves years ago, whenever Osamu would help him clean his cuts and sloppily stitch him up.

To them, it was another way of saying “I love you”.)

— it always leads to you [chapter one], sae itoshi elevator pitch: literally the long ass, long awaited start to this series. if you listened to taylor's new album (ttpd)... yeah, that's basically the new soundtrack for this fic. do what u will with that info <3

A hard pill to swallow is that people never get over their first loves. 

It’s like, scientifically proven, or something. There’s been studies, you think. Not to mention that you belong to the group of people who have never gotten over their first loves. 

You’re aware that it’s probably embarrassing and should be something that brings you shame, but when Sae comes knocking on your door, infrequent, surprise visits that always catch you off-guard, you find yourself opening the door for him. 

(He has a key. He can let himself in any time he wants. You think he must forget.)

This time, he’s not knocking on your door, but he is waiting in the stairwell near the entrance to the floor of your apartment. He’s got a baseball cap on and a dark sweatshirt, and you want to tell him that everyone who lives here is most definitely getting shitfaced at the college bar you just left (the one whose only redeeming qualities are that it’s by campus and the drinks are cheap). He doesn’t have to worry about hiding his identity. 

You frown when he approaches you. 

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” you pout and complain about this halfheartedly, but it’s all for nothing. Sae never tells you when he’s coming; it’s almost like you’re just a spur-of-the-moment decision to him, which doesn’t feel right since the Sae you grew up with was always meticulous and purposeful with his actions. Granted, the Sae you grew up with left on a plane to an entirely different continent four years ago, and the one you have standing next to you now sometimes feels more like a doppelganger than your ex-boyfriend. 

He doesn’t answer, because of course he fucking wouldn’t. He waits for you to fumble with your keys; if you knew he was coming, you wouldn’t have let Akane convince you to take as many shots as you did. Now everything is kind of blurry and hazy, and your hands shake despite the lack of coldness you’re feeling. 

You delude yourself into thinking that there’s something of the old Sae left inside of him as he gently pries the keys from your fumbling fingers and unlocks the door to your apartment himself. 

Entering your apartment feels like traveling in a time machine, only instead of traveling back in time or to the future, Sae is entering a present-day parallel universe. This apartment, with its best (and only) amenity being a short distance from campus, could have been his. Could have been shared by the two of you, even. 

If he had stayed, that is.

Sometimes Sae ponders what his life would be like if he stuck around. If he had never had the ego or the audacity to want to see more of the world. You know better than to ask him why he never visits you when you’re on a holiday break from school, and he thinks it’s because you still know him the best out of anybody, even Rin. The truth is, Sae is too uncomfortable to come crawling back to his childhood home that he grew up in, the one he’s spent years determined to grow out of. He only comes back home when absolutely necessary — out of eldest son/family obligation. 

This college apartment, seeing remnants of a life you’re living that he doesn’t know much about (even though all he has to do is ask, and you would gladly tell), feels wrongly nostalgic. Like, the sweatshirt lying haphazardly on the couch displaying a big, fat Tokyo U logo on its front could have been his instead of your roommate’s. He could have played college ball instead of trying to get recruited directly to the big leagues. Sae’s good enough to get a scholarship. Even received a letter informing him that Tokyo U would be more than glad to have him, full-ride. 

(The letter resides in the back of his closet, crumpled up but never forgotten.) 

And, most importantly, you wouldn’t be looking at him like this. 

Even drunk off of cheap alcohol, you sober up startlingly fast when you see him. You shouldn’t give him so much power over your life, but he’d be a damn liar if he said he didn’t relish in the overwhelming relief that you still love him just the same. Nothing ever changes back home, and he says this with disdain, but when it comes to your unshifting affection for him, he figures staying the same can’t be all bad.

“Y’know, it always feels like you’re judging me when you just stand there and look at everything.” An intoxicated you is an honest you. If he wasn’t so determined to mask everything about himself, he would have smiled at your admittance. 

He doesn’t smile, though. He just continues to let his cold eyes roam across the entirety of your cramped, college apartment.

— an indentation in the shape of you, tobio kageyama elevator pitch: idol!reader who goes into hiding after a major scandal despite being the victim x pro!tobio who's been hopelessly pining after you since forever. now you're in hiding, but also living in the apartment right across from his.

SEARCH NEWS: [NAME] [SURNAME] > TOP RESULTS (SORTED FROM MOST TO LEAST RECENT)

WHERE DID [NAME] [SURNAME] GO? *INCLUDES EXCLUSIVE PHOTO OF HER MOST RECENT SIGHTING!*Posted on March 10, 2019

[NAME]’S SOCIAL MEDIA ACCOUNTS HAVE BEEN TAKEN DOWN, IDOL HAS NOT BEEN SPOTTED IN A WEEK Posted on January 4, 2019   BREAKING: [NAME] [SURNAME] GOES SOLO! LEAVES IDOL GROUP TO START HER OWN CAREER! Posted November 6, 2018

KENTARO TANAKA NOW DATING J-POP IDOL AYAME MATSUMOTO, [NAME]’S FELLOW GIRL GROUP MEMBER!Posted on November 1, 2018

AFTER RECEIVING BACKLASH FROM ANNOUNCEMENT OF HER RELATIONSHIP, [NAME] [SURNAME] ISSUES AN APOLOGY ON ALL SOCIAL MEDIA ACCOUNTS Posted on September 3, 2018

NEW COUPLE ALERT! IDOL [NAME] AND HER RECORD LABEL’S EXECUTIVE, KENTARO TANAKA, SPARK DATING RUMORS Posted on August 16, 2018

When you spend most of your adolescent and young adult years standing in front of a camera, constantly served on a platter for the masses to scrutinize during your most formative years, you get used to being seen. People’s eyes locked in on you isn’t a comfortable feeling, but it’s one you’re very well acquainted with. Watchful, judging gazes cling to you like a second skin. 

It comes with the job is what your personal manager, Fumiko Gima, tells you, right before she tells you to toughen up. You had been fifteen at the time and saw a blogger discussing how you were the least attractive cast member on the children’s ensemble show you starred in. 

All eyes are on you from this point forward. You really going to let them see you cry? Fumiko is not a nice person, but she is incredibly kind, in her own way. She’s the type of person who believes in tough love, all while claiming that she doesn’t even think love exists. 

You think about the disapproving frown on her face when you revealed your relationship with Kentaro Tanaka. 

“You think you’re in love with him?” Sometimes it’s hard to believe that Fumiko is barely seven years older than you. Her youth is evident in her flawless skin and shiny hair (both of which are maintained by very meticulous routines), but the flat expression she wears on her face makes her seem like a woman who found out the hard way that her thirties are not going the way she planned. You’re eighteen when she asks you this question, and you don’t know how a twenty-five year old woman can have such an intimidating aura, but you think that only adds to her beauty. 

“He told me he loves me.” 

“People like him and I don’t believe in love.” Fumiko makes a face; sometimes, she lets her poker face drop in favor of making a face of disgust, annoyance, irritation, or extreme smugness. Right now, she looks disgusted. “Well, I wouldn’t normally place myself in the same group as him, but our industries are pretty much the same. You don’t get to where we’re at because of love, that’s for damn certain.” 

At this point in time, you’re adamant that it’s love because that’s what he says it is, and you’ve never been in love before, but you know that it’s something great. You’re eighteen, and insecure, and he’s in such a powerful position — he could have anyone he wants, and he loves you, so he picks you. Maybe Fumiko is just bitter because no one’s ever chosen her. 

— angel of the morning, atsumu miya elevator pitch: historical, ambiguous war au ft. soldier!atsumu x the civilian sweetheart reader who nurses him back to health

It’s the thunder that wakes you first. 

Lately, you’ve been a light sleeper. Paranoia is a good companion whenever you’re a young, pitifully unmarried lady who lives alone. You keep a chair propped under the knob of the front door, and you no longer open any windows, scared that you’ll forget to lock them at night. 

Normally, it’s the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer, or the creaks that come and interrupt the silence of the night (your parents used to swear that old houses just make those noises) that keeps you up. Sometimes it’s the neighbors next door; they like to get into screaming matches that seem to be so loud, they shake the walls of your home. 

It’s not your neighbors’ arguing that rattles the walls tonight. It’s the thunderstorm that the sweet old man at the farmer’s market warned you about. You be safe out, miss. Take some extra apples. It might be too flooded for you to go out like you normally do. 

You pull your blanket over your head, enveloping yourself in darkness but doing very little to block out the noise outside. The thunder seems to only grow louder, each boom punctuating the lightning that you’re certain is striking through the sky. It’s too loud. 

And rhythmic. 

You listen closer… Three booms in succession. A pause. Three more booms. After a minute of this pattern, the sound only comes more rapidly — louder than before, too. 

The loud booms — it’s not from the storm, then. 

There’s someone knocking at your door. 

You debate hiding under the blanket forever. Maybe this stranger will go away and leave once they realize that no one is going to answer the door. Besides, no one trustworthy is roaming the area at this time of night, right? What possible explanation could there be for someone to be stranded outside at midnight during a major thunderstorm? 

But the knocking persists. Whoever this stranger is, they don’t know when to quit. You’d be annoyed if you weren’t so paralyzed with fear. 

“Open up!” A muffled voice still manages to cut through the front door, traveling all the way to your bedroom. It only serves to make you more afraid; what sort of monster is waiting for you outside? The storm rages on, and the knocking won’t stop. 

What happens if this person is in genuine trouble? Would a murderer truly be going through such lengths to kill someone? A thief? 

Well, you rationalize, it’s not as if you have many items worth stealing. Besides, you have no family, no marriage prospects, and a dwindling stash of money with no means to make more. You’re just existing at this point, and you’re surviving on limited time.

So you make your way to the front door, cringing as one section of the floor creaks as you tiptoe through the darkness of your home. You highly doubt the stranger outside can hear you, but you still hold your breath as you peek through the curtains. It’s too dark inside and out for anyone to notice the movement, and all you can make out is a large figure. There’s a knapsack by their feet and hanging off their shoulder is a gun. 

The knocks shouldn’t catch you off guard by now, but one particular hard bang against the door has you jumping in surprise, away from the window. 

This stranger must be a soldier. 

There’s not a lot of fighting to be done down here. The southern towns have mostly been unaffected. Most of the war is being fought up north. All the southern soldiers write back home, telling stories about the cities they visited, careful not to mention the red that runs through the streets and the way the citizens will have to update the population count on the sign outside their City Hall. 

But still, you know what everyone knows — when a soldier, especially one from your side, shows up on your front step, you better let him know that this home is now his. 

You slide the deadbolt with shaky hands, turn the lock on the doorknob, and only hesitate for a few seconds before removing the chair that serves as your last barrier. He’s a soldier, you remind yourself, hoping that you’re not wrong. The least you can do for him is offer him a hot bath for leaving him outside for so long. 

You open the door, revealing a blond-haired soldier weighed down from the weight of his sopping wet uniform, his hair sticking to his forehead because his face is also covered in rainwater, and it’s now that you notice that he’s got one arm wrapped around his abdomen. His hand is pressing down on his side, and you don’t think the dark liquid coating his fingers is water. 

“Finally.” He says. “I’m First Lieutenant Miya, and I fight for the south. I am seeking temporary refuge in your home, and I require only what you can afford to give me. I–“ Before he can finish rattling off what he’s been forced to memorize for times like these, First Lieutenant Miya falls forward, his body crashing into yours. 

It’s been a rough day. 

A rough week. 

A rough month.

A rough life, really, but Atsumu Miya’s long past the days of whining and complaining about things he can’t control. For example, he no longer dwells on his father abandoning his mother right before she gave birth to him and Osamu. There’s still a bitter taste that gets left on his tongue when he mentions dear old pa, which is why, for the most part, he chooses not to discuss him at all. He can’t control the way the north and the south view each other; sure, the mandatory draft isn’t his definition of a fun time, but he honestly didn’t have many plans after school, anyway. He probably would’ve joined the cause, regardless of the law or not. It’s just… A choice is nice to have, y’know? 

Like, if he had it his way, he wouldn’t have gotten caught up in some ambush tonight. If only he weren’t just a lieutenant. If only his captain weren’t such a dumbass.

If he had a group to command, Atsumu’s certain that he wouldn’t lead his men into obvious traps, unlike some captains. But newly promoted Brigadier General Kita isn’t here to force people to listen to what Atsumu has to say. Kita has bigger problems to worry about, bigger troops to organize. 

Atsumu’s morning starts off bright and early with a five mile trek in the woods. The sky is overcast, and anyone with eyes is capable of predicting the storm that’s coming. Atsumu suggests building temporary shelter before the rain makes it too hard to walk; it’s already hard enough to navigate now, but Atsumu’s visited this town before, when he was a little boy. It floods easily, too easily. 

His captain doesn’t listen. Typical.

Around noon, they take a short break to eat. Rations are getting lower. Atsumu suggests that two or three soldiers turn around and head towards town to get supplies. His captain argues that their group is already small enough and sneers that Atsumu must be a northie lover since he’s trying so hard to sabotage this plan. 

The plan is shit, by the way. The captain swears his intel is good, that he’s just oh so certain that a troop of northern soldiers are planning to invade a series of small southern towns. They’re supposedly cutting through the woods to be discreet, and they plan on striking at night.

Atsumu thinks that the captain is just falling into their trap (spoiler: he’s right). There’s no way anyone would bother capturing small towns, just like there’s no way people ever want to listen to someone who’s just a lieutenant. Nobody thinks they have anything to offer, so it’s not worth the time to even pretend to care. These towns aren’t loaded with resources. They aren’t located in any coveted areas. There are only a couple of farms, but even then, they’re not big enough to justify wasting troops to terrorize the townspeople. 

But First Lieutenant Miya follows his orders anyway because what else is he supposed to do? Unfortunately, talking back comes to bite him in the ass because as nighttime starts to settle and the first drops of rain start to fall, his captain gives him a slimy smile before telling him, “Since you have such great ideas, Lieutenant, why don’t you go ahead and turn back into town to get us some of those supplies we needed?”

Well, Atsumu has a few choice words in reply, none of which will get him back into his captain’s good graces (not like he cares to be anyway). Atsumu can argue that it’s dark out, and no one in their right mind is going to be up at night. Atsumu can throw back his captain’s words and remind him that their measly team is already lacking in numbers. He can make the captain look dumb and ask him where the supposed enemy troops are at, since apparently they’re supposed to be capturing the town right about now. He can abandon the men, go back home, and enjoy a homecooked meal from ma. She wouldn’t care enough to scold him for being a dirty deserter; the lecture will come, surely, but she wouldn’t be too harsh with him. Atsumu misses home. He misses his brother, who belongs to a different troop. He misses Shinsuke, his former captain. He misses his mom. 

What he does end up doing, though, is biting back his tongue. He barely nods, clenches his teeth as he reluctantly says yes, sir, and treks off on his own. 

He’s about three miles in when the bullets start flying. 

Isn’t this just a lovely way to finish off the night, he thinks, before sprinting through the trees, weaving between them, trying to ignore how loud and how close the shots sound. He thinks he’ll probably go deaf by the time this damn war is over. A bullet narrowly misses his face, and then he starts to think he’ll probably be dead before then.

He can’t see. If he can’t see, he doubts the enemies can, either. That’s when he gets an idea. His legs are sore, he’s thirsty, and every step he takes is punctuated by a sloshing sound because the area is flooding, just like he predicted it would.

(Sometimes it’s a pain being right all the time.)

The shots are still coming at him in rapid succession, and he believes maybe it’s because they still think they have to shoot at him. If they think they got him, maybe they’ll leave him alone. It didn’t sound like anyone was bothering to chase after him, meaning they’re all probably perched in trees or hiding in bushes, shooting blindly into the night, hoping to land a lucky shot on a target. 

Before he can pretend to be hit, though, some bastard does get a lucky shot on him.

“Fuck!” He can’t help but yell out, the bullet piercing the side of his abdomen. A burning sensation begins to form on the spot where the bullet decided to make its happy home, and Atsumu can’t help but fall to the ground, clutching at the bottom half of his body. 

A minute goes by with no more shooting, and he’s glad he’s in enough pain not to realize that had he thought of his little plan of pretending to be shot sooner, he probably wouldn’t be in this predicament right now. 

It’d be so easy just to lie down and die. It’d be a slow death, sure. Painful, very much so. But no more fighting. No more captains belittling him. 

But if you die, a tiny voice in his head reminds him, it wouldn’t just be you that dies. It’d kill ma. It would ruin Osamu. Don’t be a selfish bastard. 

He allows himself only one more minute to stay absolutely still. He thinks the adrenaline pumping in his system helps to numb the pain, which is saying a lot, considering the fact that death would be preferable over this excruciating sensation. When he’s certain the coast is clear, he struggles to stand and keep himself steady.

He cannot die like this. 

Atsumu Miya knows better than to get upset at things he can’t control. He can’t control flying bullets aimed at him. He can’t control enemy soldiers; hell, he doesn’t even have soldiers he can control, enemy or ally. He can’t control a lot of shitty things that seem to happen to him, but as long as his heart is still beating, Atsumu Miya controls his own fate. He decides what happens next. 

It’s only a matter of putting one foot in front of the other, he rationalizes. He walks all the time. It’s not such a hard task. The storm continues to rage on, and Atsumu pretends he doesn’t even mind the water. He pretends that he’s not freezing. He pretends that he doesn’t care that his uniform is sticking to his body, making the dirty fabric cling onto him as if to act as a second skin. 

There’s a white flag in his knapsack. During training, they said to use it as a last resort. Die before you wave it, or something like that. 

He knows the intended use for it, but right now, he needs it as a tourniquet. He tightens the flag around his waist, using all his diminishing strength to get it as tight as possible. He can trick himself into thinking it’ll stop the flow of blood leaving his body, but at least it’ll slow it down. It’ll grant him enough time to make it into town and get help. 

He doesn’t choose the first house he sees; he chooses the one he likes the best. It’s nothing all too impressive — certainly not the biggest, but from what he can make out in the dark, it looks quaint. It reminds him of home, almost. There’s a porch with a bench outside and flowers on a window sill. It seems to glow in the darkness of the town, its paint a much brighter shade than the surrounding houses. A nice family must live here then. 

He knocks on the door, and there is no answer. Atsumu Miya did not walk this far with his life literally draining out of him to only make it this far. He knocks and knocks, and because he is too stubborn, even to the very end, he doesn’t quit. Someone must answer the door. It doesn’t cross his mind that perhaps this lovely family he’s envisioning might not even be home. It feels like ages since he first started banging on this door, and he thinks this might be it.

And then the door swings open, revealing a young lady with a certain glow about her. Maybe it’s the blood loss talking, but right now, you look like an absolute angel. His bright beacon of hope. 

“Finally.” He swallows hard, trying to remember what he’s supposed to tell you. The proper words are evading him right now. Honestly, even standing is a struggle now. He thinks he does a good enough job, but then he blinks, and his eyes don’t open back up after that.

— to the victor belong the spoils, naoya zenin elevator pitch: the dark longfic i mentioned abt borderline yandere naoya + how he basically slaughtered your whole entire clan and is going to force you to marry him because you have a cursed technique that will basically grant him invincibility

“Who did this?” You’ve seen Naoya so angry that his words seemed to shake the very interior of the room he was shouting in. You’ve seen Naoya so furious that he had everyone in his vicinity cowering in fear, scared to face his merciless wrath. Never have you seen him so enraged that he can hardly speak, the sentence coming out from between bared teeth; they’re discernible growls more than they are words, but his message doesn’t need to be understood in order to know his intent. 

Naoya Zenin is out for blood. 

“Tell me who did this.” He demands, hand gripping your chin, forcing you to tilt your head up and stare him directly in the eyes. You know why he does this; he can read you like a fucking book. He’ll know if you’re lying before you can even finish whatever fabricated story you’ve spent forever formulating. There’s no point in trying to trick him because it’ll cause him to get angrier, and then what? Then, you’ll have the whole entire room’s blood on your hands. A massacre dedicated just for you. 

You hadn’t cried when he had taken you from your home. You hadn’t cried when you were about to be killed by that curse. You hadn’t shed a single tear despite the unfamiliarity of the Zenin Estate, despite the fact that you were forced into a marriage with a man you did not know, despite the fact that you’ve never been this far from home, suffering silently in feelings of isolation and despair. You hadn’t cried after all of that, yet now you’re sobbing? Now you’re here, struggling to stand on your own, clutching onto the material of his shirt as if he’s your only lifeline, dangerously close to burying your face in his chest and crying your little eyes out. He’s been angry more times than he’s ever felt any other emotion. He’s numb to the feeling of his blood rising, of his vision being tainted with red, of having nothing but sick thoughts and vivid memories of torn flesh and severed limbs surrounding him. This emotion isn’t foreign to him; it’s a part ofhim. And he’s angry, yes, but there’s something else that he feels when he looks down and sees you making yourself smaller, as if trying to use him as your own personal shield.

— balancing act [chapter one], satoru gojo elevator pitch: the first month of your bet will you and gojo inevitably get together <3 the start of this series.

You have what you order down to a T. You first started your tried and true method of restaurant ordering when you were but a wee little intern, too shy to go to town on a rack of ribs in front of your peers and bosses. Once you entered the city’s dating scene (which is actually Dante’s tenth circle of hell — it’s just never discussed because that’s truly how vile trying to find a good man in a big city is), you realized that there’s not much difference between lunch dates and client lunches. 

You have the obligatory greeting exchanges (“hi,” “hello,” “how are you,” etc.), the awkward smiles, the mental countdown going off in your head as you wait for the perfect moment to get right into business (“what do you expect to gain from this partnership?” — a line surprisingly used more often in your meetings with potential investors and clients). There’s the pained professionalism, the tight-lipped smiles, the napkin resting in your lap, the battle to maintain constant eye-contact. When you sit across from someone at a table, date or client, you don’t see the person; you see a goal. 

And you’re good at working towards a goal. It’s why you’ve always been the analyst your managers rely on, why you’ve morphed into the senior associate that all your juniors look up to at G&G Capital, and why you automatically figure that if you set your sights on a man only to have him end things, it’s not you who was at fault. It has to be him. You’ve charmed the toughest clients and built fantastic working relationships with the most well-connected M&A lawyers; if you’re this good at professional relationships, why wouldn’t you also be fan-fucking-tastic at a romantic one? 

All the men who have taken you out on dates before wanted to sweep you off your feet. An ex-boyfriend once admitted to you that you appeared so unimpressed at everything, it had become this fun, twisted competition with himself to see what he had to do to get a look of amazement on your face. 

“I can tell by the look on your face that you’re impressed.” Gojo says gleefully, holding open the dirty glass door so you and Utahime can walk in. 

Utahime looks like Gojo just slid open the backdoor to a white van and told her to get in. There’s shock with a hint of disgust evident on her pretty, doll-like features, and you know you’ve got a similar expression, too. 

The floors inside this restaurant — if the dingy, dimly lit shack crammed with small tables and rickety chairs can even be considered a restaurant — are sticky with decades’ worth of mystery liquids that have congealed into the half-inch thick residue that coats the floorboards. You have to purposely think about moving one foot in front of the other in order to walk because actual pressure needs to be applied if you don’t want your heels to become glued to the floor. You’re walking in front of Utahime and Gojo, and you end up choosing a table in the far back; it looks the cleanest. Briefly, you wonder if you’re allowed to be here, then think better of it as Utahime takes the seat next to you, and Gojo takes the one across. You highly doubt there’s a hostess here that’s dictating where the customers sit.

Especially since, upon one glance of the whole place, you realize that it’s empty save for you three. 

“Gojo, if we get killed, I hope they murder you in front of us first,” Utahime hisses. Her family’s so rich (and traditional), she’s never willingly been to a restaurant that doesn’t have a Michelin star. Before college, she’s never even eaten out at a chain restaurant. Being caught in a place like this has Utahime mentally spiraling towards rock bottom. 

“I hope they would, too. I don’t think I have the stomach to watch you meet your grisly end.” Gojo says serenely. Usually, he says things loudly, teasingly, gets all up in your face. When it comes to Utahime, he likes to play at being nonchalant. He’s been doing this to her for over a decade now, and it still grates her. 

Before Utahime can reply, the shaky voice of an older woman is exclaiming, “Oh! Welcome in! Have you gotten a chance to look over the menu?” The voice belongs to a short, plump woman with gray hair, a wrinkly face, but a kind smile that reveals yellowing teeth. She’s got a slight hunch to her back and nails with overgrown cuticles. You try to do a mental calculation of what you could buy this building for, to ensure that this sweet old lady never has to work a day in her life ever again. 

“You know what I want, Mrs. Kimura.” Gojo is giving her one of his signature dazzling smiles. “You can just double the portions today since my friend Utahime here eats enough for a family of five.” 

Mrs. Kimura lets out a throaty laugh. Utahime kicks Gojo in the shin from underneath the table. You’re wondering what Gojo orders from this place, and why does he order here so often to the point of them memorizing his meals? 

“I’m glad you brought friends with you today, Satoru. Meals always taste better when shared with loved ones!” She directs a warm smile in your direction, and you feel bad for returning it with your normal polite one. Tiny and brief. It’s more muscle memory than born from any real emotion. She’s shuffling away to the kitchen before you can try to summon a genuine smile for her, and Utahime’s phone is ringing, filling this near empty space with the tinny, anxiety-inducing sound of an iPhone ringer. 

She doesn’t excuse herself; just looks down at the glowing screen, grabs her phone, and heads outside to take the call.

Which leaves you sitting across from Gojo. Just the two of you. Just the two of you in a dingy restaurant seemingly run by only one old woman. The table looks older than you. The chair you’re sitting on makes a weird squeaky noise with any slight movement of your body. There’s no decor on the walls, no windows either. Nothing to distract you, nothing for you to feign interest in as you wait for Utahime to come back. 

You straighten your posture, try to discreetly look out the front door to gauge how close Utahime is to wrapping up her conversation, and find yourself with no choice but to look in front of you. All you see is Gojo.

He’s tall, you know that. Broad shoulders. Definitely not hideous, you can give him that much. You just feel shocked at how much space he takes up, how it feels like your eyes have to stretch to try to accommodate all of him. 

You don’t know why you feel so awkward, almost like a teenager going on her very first date with a boy she barely knows but still, for some inexplicable reason, wants so badly to impress. You can’t remember the last time you’ve ever felt this way, and you definitely don’t like this feeling at all. 

“How’d you find this place?” You ask him.

“I like to support small businesses.” He’s not teasing you, but Gojo has this bad habit of always adding a playful inflection to his words. 

“I hope you tip well. You look like their only supporter.” It’s not meant to be an insult to the painfully empty restaurant. You know how much Gojo is worth; when Itadori Googled “Satoru Gojo net worth” and showed the results to everyone, Gojo caught him in the act, looked at the top result, and threw his head back in laughter as he told Itadori to “add an extra zero and triple the number.” You think back to your calculation and assessment of the place. “Might as well buy the business.” 

“You make capitalism so cute.” He has to be teasing you now. You scowl. 

(He means it.)

— i wish to know the fatal flaw that makes you long to be magnificently cursed, satoru gojo elevator pitch: yandere gojo, royal au, nanny!reader... yeah idk what happened to this fic either, just that it was depraved and i wish i wrote more to share LOL

You’re acutely aware of the noise you’re making, every huff and small, desperate gasp for breath only further betraying your location, but you can’t find it in you to care.

You know, deep inside your pounding, frightened heart, that it doesn’t really matter how fast or how far you run. 

I will always find you.

Just the mere thought of him is enough for you to ignore the ache in your legs and push forward. If you can find the exit, if you can just see the daylight, surely you’d be able to—

You stop in your tracks.

There are two paths: one right, one wrong. Left or right? Freedom or imprisonment? 

There’s no time to waste, but you can’t make a choice. Which decision would be the right one? Surely either route would still be able to lead you to the exit, right? The sharp snap! of a branch being trampled on leaves you even more frightened. Without thinking, you take a left.

— i think you're too divine for my human mind, undecided elevator pitch: rough around the edges but w a heart of gold underground fighter!character x ring girl!reader. i think this was gonna be for bakugo LMAO but i do not have bnha brain rot so maybe a bllk or jjk or hq boy... NO ONE SAY ATSUMU I DON'T WANNA GIVE IT TO ATSUMU

The couch seems to shift with his weight, and you swallow hard, staring straight ahead at the same cement wall you’ve been staring at for the last ten minutes because you’re still too much of a fucking wimp to navigate this area by yourself. 

Despite the two of you sitting at opposite ends of the couch, there’s only about one foot of space separating his knee from yours. You suppose that he gets away with the manspreading since he probably has no qualms with punching anyone who voices their offense. After witnessing just how brutal the infamous [ring name nickname] can get, you know that you’re definitely not going to be the one to say shit to him. You can’t even look at him.

Where the fuck is your sister? You have your arms crossed, covering your torso, and you think you must have subconsciously pressed yourself as far back into the couch as you possibly could. Everything about you must scream out “she wants to disappear!!!”, and the worst part of it all would be the fact that it’s the truth. You knew coming down here would be a bad idea, and the sinking feeling of regret is practically solidifying itself into your stomach. You think you could throw up. 

“Hey,” a voice — a deep voice, scratchy and low and so scarily close to you — breaks the silence. “You must be…”

Of course, you’re used to it by now. Always being referred to as “Akemi’s little sister” no matter the situation, the person, the setting. It makes sense, you rationalize. Everyone knows Akemi. And so, by extension, they must know you — her shadow, her little sister. 

“...helped out Sakura.” 

“What?” You don’t know anyone named Sakura, but you finally turn your head to properly look at him as you answer. He’s got on a white shirt now, incredibly form-fitting, and he’s staring right back at you. You're quick to meet his eyes before getting too nervous and focusing on the space just below his eyes. Then, that becomes too close to eye contact for comfort, so you settle for staring at his jaw. It’s a nice jaw. Sharp. He could probably cut you with it if you contradict any of his statements, so maybe you should pretend to know this Sakura girl. 

“You must be the girl that helped out Sakura.” He repeats. He says it slow and almost carefully, like he thinks you must be some sort of idiot who can’t comprehend the most basic of statements. “Gave her your jacket.” He clarifies, and it makes sense. The girl with the hot pink colored hair must have been Sakura. 

“Yeah.” You nod. 

“So why are you here?” 

“Huh?”

“Y’know… Pretty girls like you don’t normally end up here without a reason. So what’s your reason?”

He says it so casually, throwing it out there as easily as a punch. He probably means nothing deep by it, probably doesn’t even realize the fact that it is a compliment. 

He called you pretty.

“My sister.” You answer, finally looking away at him to look down at your hands that have settled nicely into your lap. Your cheeks feel a lot warmer than they did a second ago. You decide to blame this as a result of too many sweaty people in one basement. 

“She a ring girl?” 

“She’s dating a fighter here.”

“And you?”

“What about me?” 

“Are you dating a fighter here, too?” 

You look him properly in his face after that comment, almost resisting the urge to laugh. Fear that he’ll get offended and smack you into the floor stops that reaction. Instead, you stare at him, slightly surprised, lips almost curled up into an amused smile at just how unbelievable it would be for you to date anyone like him. 

“You finally did it.” 

“Did what?” 

“Look at me.” He holds eye contact, almost as if he’s trying to challenge you into looking away. “I don’t bite, y’know.” He smiles, showing off a surprisingly straight row of white teeth, not a single tooth missing despite the nature of his… job. “It’s against the rules.”

Yeah. Because [character], the fucking [ring name nickname], looks like the type of man who follows the rules.

[velarisdusk]

i missed wip wednesday but i wanna share and am too impatient to wait another week so have thwip thursday. this wip thursday. yeah.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The bartender slides a drink your way before you can even remember ordering one. You catch it on instinct, fingers curling around the chilled glass just as the condensation begins to bead. It slicks your grip slightly, grounding you in the present—the weight of the glass, the sting of alcohol, the echo of Azriel’s touch still humming beneath your skin.

You barely have time to take a sip before an arm braces beside yours on the counter—long, inked, and annoyingly familiar. Then the rest of Rhysand follows—tall, rakish, and far too smug for someone clearly on the brink of losing his balance.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, voice syrupy and just loose enough at the edges to toe the line between charming and concerning. “If it isn’t our little heartbreaker.”

You blink at him over the rim of your glass, your mouth still parted mid-sip. “How drunk are you?”

“Moderate,” he says, with the blind confidence of a man absolutely not moderate. Then, solemnly: “I think I just tried to winnow to the moon. Cass said no.”

A laugh bursts out of you, sharp and surprised, catching you off guard. “You were supposed to be the responsible one tonight.”

Rhys makes a sweeping gesture with one hand that nearly sends a nearby cocktail crashing to the floor. “Fuck responsible. Do you know how hard it is to stay sober when everyone around you is glowing and half-delirious? Mor and Feyre have been spinning like drunk ballerinas for the last twenty minutes. Cassian challenged a table of strangers to an arm-wrestle for ‘honor and glory.’ And Azriel—”

He cuts off, lips twitching. That grin, slow and sly, curls like smoke.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he sing-songs, turning away to steal a sip from someone else’s drink before grimacing and abandoning it.

Gods, you’ve never seen him like this. Loose. Unfiltered. Unbothered by image or control. You make a mental note to corner Cassian and Azriel as soon as possible, if only to demand every humiliating story they’ve ever collected on him.

“You were going to say something,” you groan, watching him closely.

Rhys gives you a beatific smile that practically screams I’m lying. “Me? Never.”

You take another slow sip of your drink, trying—failing—to will the heat from your cheeks. But Rhys, of course, is infuriatingly perceptive. Even through a haze of liquor, he clocks you immediately.

“Oh no,” he breathes, voice gone delighted and a little too loud. “Oh no, it’s happening.”

You arch a brow. “What is?”

“You’re falling in love with my shadowsinger.”

The words land like a match dropped in dry grass.

You choke, spluttering into your drink. “I’m not—”

“Sure, sure,” he says, cutting you off with a patronizing pat to your arm. “And neither is he. You two are just dry-humping in the dark, panting like—like you’re seconds away from devouring each other. All very normal friend behavior, I’m sure.”

You groan and let your head fall forward, forehead thunking against the bar top. The cool wood offers no relief from the mortification burning behind your eyes.

“Go away.”

Rhys props his chin on his palm, utterly content. “Can’t. Too drunk to move.”

You turn your head just enough to peer at him, face still pressed to the bar. “Do I need to find Feyre?”

His expression shifts to something like panic. “Please… do not.”

“Right.” You sigh, dragging a hand down your face and letting it rest there. “You’re impossible.”

Rhys smiles lazily, lashes low and smug. “And you’re glowing. All flushed and starry-eyed. It’s disgusting.”

You flip him off without looking.

That’s when the night starts to blur.

At some point, you find yourself curled under Cassian’s arm, both of you howling over a story he refuses to finish because he keeps laughing too hard. He smells like sweat and cologne and a bad idea—not that you haven’t entertained the thought once or twice. When you reach for your drink, he snatches it just out of reach with a devilish grin.

“You’ve had enough,” he slurs—then immediately downs his own.

You wait until he’s distracted, then snatch your drink back and down it in one go.

Across the room, Mor is spinning Azriel in a slow, ridiculous waltz to music that’s far too fast. Her head is thrown back in laughter, one heel discarded, and Azriel’s grinning wide and unrestrained as she twirls herself dramatically beneath his arm. One of his shadows retrieves her fallen shoe and dutifully returns it. He pretends not to notice.

Rhys, for some reason, decides the entire bar needs another round—again. He’s at the bar holding up fingers in rapid succession—four, five, seven—gesturing to absolutely no one. When the bartender ignores him, he levitates a bottle of amber liquor off the shelf with a flourish and begins personally pouring shots into the mouths of nearby patrons like some deranged, drunken Father Solstice.

Cassian finds Azriel in the crowd and immediately throws an arm around his neck, dragging him close with a sloppy grin. “My brother,” he declares, far too loud, smacking a kiss to Azriel’s temple before pulling him into a one-armed hug that rattles both of them. “Do you know—do you know—how much I love you?”

Azriel just blinks. “Unfortunately.”

“Shut up,” Cassian slurs, already halfway into his next declaration. “You’re the best of us. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Except me. Sometimes. But even then—”

“I’m going to kill you,” Azriel says—quiet and deadly. But he doesn’t move to escape. If anything, he leans into it.

Later, you, Feyre, and Mor vanish into the bathroom, which starts as a mission of necessity and ends in chaos. The line’s too long. The floor’s sticky. You all start yelling about how no one cleans the stalls in this place. And somehow, ten minutes later, Mor’s knees are on the tile while you and Feyre crouch beside her, holding her hair back and cackling as she curses Rhysand’s name for “making” her take that last glowing green shot.

“You’ll live,” Feyre says, patting her back with the resigned affection of someone who’s done this before.

“Probably,” you add.

Eventually, the three of you stagger back to the booth—giggling, disheveled, makeup slightly smeared but still beautiful. Because drunk girls in packs always are.

[aylish91]

I don’t know if you’ve answered an ask like this before, so sorry if you have, but what does your writing process look like? Is there a certain space you like to write in? A time? Music? Do you have an outline that you follow or do you write more according to your mood? Do you have to plan to write or do you jot things down as they come to your mind?

I’ve found that I need to like write out a bunch of garbage - like at least three chapter’s worth - and sit on it for a bit before I tear into it and rearrange it and I’m just wondering how writing looks for other people.

Thanks in advance, I really admire your writing and how lovely your descriptions always are :)

Thank you so much for the ask and for liking my writing!!! It really means a lot!

Brace yourself, it’s a bit of a long one. It’s got some peeks of things though~

~~~

I have two places that I like to write at the most: Shoved in the corner at the table with my laptop and in the corner at my computer desk on the desktop. (I like to have notebooks or paper around to write down random thoughts. Hehe.) Time of day usually doesn’t matter, just whenever I am not desperately busy.

Unfortunately, my brain gets distracted remarkably easily. I cannot have music on while I am writing, otherwise, I find myself unable to think about what I’m writing and only about the song. It also gets me sucked into YouTube or doomscrolling.

As for my writing process… It really depends on what I am doing or writing.

For example, a lot of the requests I have written have been “in the moment” type of things. I get an overall sense of what I want it to look like, start typing, and see where the words take me. These take a lot of, what I like to call, “daydream time”. The story stews and rolls around in my brain in bits and pieces until the right combinations make their way into one coherent piece. As you can imagine, the amount of time that takes varies. Sometimes I can crank it out after thinking about it, within a day or two. Sometimes what my mind wants doesn’t end up working in the document and it takes several chunks written, sliced, and completely redone before it starts to form properly. (All versions or thoughts I don’t want to forget or that I might still use, get put at the end of the document.)

*** A tip I have been implementing a lot more lately is: It is perfectly okay to start over. It could be a scene, an opening, or an entire document. Sometimes what you want, is not necessarily what it needs. If it’s not working, don’t force it. It never turns out to your “standards” and just ends up wasting a lot of your time. If you need to, work on the next part or something else until your mind settles enough to figure it out. ***

For other projects or WIPs, my imaginings fester long enough or hit hard enough that I write down everything I can about it so I will remember. It is all chaotic. More serious works get vague chapter outlines or fully paraphrased if I have more in-depth musings. My favorites even get background information for future chapters~ (There are even times I write a whole scene on paper.)

Now, keep in mind that I am all over the place and very disorganized. My notes can and have been done on random bits of paper, written in a document or notebook, or scribbled on anything I can physically get my hands on. Many a quote has been put on random doodle pages because I didn’t want it to disappear once my squirrel mind flitted away. Guardians of the Deep was paraphrased on an old stained paper on my nightstand/dresser at 3:00 in the morning because I refused to let the dreamed inspiration leave me…

With all the information I store, I eventually write based on the information and what the visions have left me. I only get about a chapter or one short done before I too am leaving it for a bit. Depending on how fast I want to get it out or how busy I am, it might be for several hours or a couple of days. I find that time helps me spot things that could be better, fixed, or that I have missed (After all, all first drafts are going to be a little bit awful and I still manage to miss stuff after the go throughs… Sigh. Hahaha!). It also helps get my mind out of it’s tunnel vision. After that, I simply try to edit the best I can and post.

It’s wonky and all over the place, but it seems to work for me.

[ssa-dado]

hey so the latest wip has me going insane!! i need to be sedated, i can’t wait.

on that note (pun intended), tonka bean fits hotch so well. he does give sweet, warm and woodsy cologne (kinda like cinnamon and almonds, idk if this makes sense). do you think he’d have like a little collection or just one signature scent ? or like maybe a winter scent and a summer one ? (maybe something more fruity and fresh in the summer ? like linen/fresh laundry and citrus or something like that) does he spray it strategically on his clothes or just his skin ? oh my god can you imagine him dabbing a little on his neck, right on his pulse point…. behind his ears… and the wrist placement is just … WHORE WHORE WHORE!!!! -y

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOF Y DARLING my perfume hyperfixation from 2 years ago is so ready for this… (I'm pretty clueless about men's perfumes, but I'll try my best to give a believable profile)

Long ass post, sooooo brace yourself :))

So. I’m 96% convinced Hotch has a signature scent. It’s woodsy. Warm. Think tonka bean and a whisper of vanilla, but only detectable if you’re close... like, collarbone-close. That kind of sweetness doesn’t announce itself right away byt hides beneath the surface, only blooming when his skin heats up under you pressure, yes... profiling. Ah, such a stressful job.

Anyways, that sweetness is buried under leather, smokey tobacco (the ghost of a bad habit he quit years ago but the memory lingers just like everything else he refuses to talk about and it's part of his personal identity.).

I’m thinking hard about Herod by Parfums de Marly (rich, spicey, smoldering) which somehow didn’t drop until 2012, meaning it’s now canonically (for yours truly) his s7 widowed man trying to get some scent.

Or, fine, maybe it’s TF’s Tobacco Vanille... not because it’s subtle (it isn’t) or rare (it’s not), but because the brand's American and smells like overpriced patriotism and shitty vanilla (sorry. I hate TF... love the fact that this one's unisex, though.)

And because he’s a loser, I fear for him his actual signature scent is niche, expensive, and ofc discontinued. (Which explains the storage unit with Haley mentioned in the s11 finale. “Why do you pay $70/month for this space?”Just 17 backup bottles of a French eau de parfum last seen on the black market in 2009 [He sees it as insurance. Jack will inherit them.])

OOOOO also, Hotch is a seasonal bitch 100%. Everyone at the BAU knows summer has arrived when Hotch starts walking past with a hint of neroli and citrus instead of that cold-smoke-warm-thigh aura.

Again, thinking of some TF Neroli Portofino (classic, unisex, coastal, prolly makes Spencer gag) for some bald eagle reasons...

...but in my ideal world he wears YSL L'Homme (within his winter scent family but lighter)

I also thought about his special occasion scent (aka slut mode activated) and the first one that came to my my mind is MFKP's Grand Soir (Amber. Labdanum. Vanilla. LAVANDER!!!) A silk tie being loosened at 11:47PM. The kind of scent that sticks to you the next morning and makes you want to text him something stupid like “good morning” and delete it twice

Talking about his collection - he has probably 10 bottles max, all stored upright in their original boxes, away from sunlight. Curated. Seasonal. Occasion-based. He probably rotates them (????)

And yes. Of course he sprays on skin only. This is a man who wants the scent to blend, not sit on top. It’s about alchemy: the way it melts into his pulse points, mingles with his body heat, chemistry, Hotch juices and turns into something that smells less like perfume and more like... him??

And if it’s TF, he goes full slut: scented body oil first, then fragrance. Maybe a touch of extra vanilla rubbed low on his collarbone if he’s feeling particularly filthy (MAYBEEEE some kind of night where the tie’s still on, but the morals aren’t ;))))))))

You might catch the same scent on a paper strip and think, “Huh. That’s nice.” But on him? DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYUM. It smells like something unrecoverable. Like you’re not supposed to want something that badly.

That’s why he’s so nitpicky. Why he tests every fragrance on his wrist and waits for the drydown. If it doesn’t work with his skin? It’s out. No matter how rare, no matter how expensive. It’s not enough for it to smell good in theory it has to smell like the idea he has (or he wants you to have) of him.

He’s extremely particular about how it interacts with fabric, too. He worries about oil stains. Which is why, if he ever applies it to clothes, it’s on a tie. Just one. His “off-duty” tie. The fuck-me tie. You’ll never know which one it is until your knees give out lmaooooo.

Some spritz placement ritual thingy:

Wrists (dabs, never rubs!!! THAT'S A SINNNNNN)

Neckline (One single spray, center chest)

Behind the ears (subtle. Intimate. For the kiss that almost happens.)

Back of the neck (4 hauntings)

Behind the knees (he will never confess to this. But he does it every time. It’s the sleeper hit of application zones. Whore.)

I think he also modulates for context:

At work: Just enough to make you lean in. Never enough to choke someone in a conference room. It’s respectful. Controlled. Like the whole ass Hotch persona.

Out in the wild? The gloves come off. The cologne goes on. Still never overpowering, because Aaron is the type who just wants to disappear... but if he wants to be noticed?! Good luck.

[silvery-bluish]

27 or 35 for the touching prompts, please. Whichever one speaks to you more

this has been sitting in my inbox AND my wips for far too long. whoops. but hey, I did both of them! they have ENTIRELY different moods.

Wordcount: 452 + 375

Contents: 27- post-reveal, mid-some sort of Catfiend fight. Flystep adjacent, but not resolved. Don't worry about the context I don't know what it is.

35- Chargeflystep. Nebulous don't worry about it future. Soft and sleepy. Just scars no bruises but I think it still counts.

27. pulling the other one towards them

It’s impulse, reaction, motion without thought and you never move without thought except--

Okay. One thought. One fallback. No— and grab for Daniel’s arm and yank, pull him directly into you for lack of anywhere else to go, claws and limbs and mind too-caustic too-sticky to get a good bead on, but you can see the edges of it and the way it’s headed, and it turns too quick for Daniel to read so--

Armor’s not the kindest thing to collide with, but it’s less sharp than the Catastrofiend’s blades. He winces, flinches back from you, more muscle spasm than actually fleeing but only because he caught the impulse and that feels like a blade, too. Slipped right between your ribs, deserved and welcome. 

You fire your jumpjets at the same time, he’s light in your hands, no real extra weight for the jumpjets, and you can’t afford to think about the fear-terror-anger that blares against your mind like a goddamned klaxon.

Blades catch the edge of your cape, slice through fabric like butter— too sharp, unnatural, Mortum doesn’t go in for cheap polyester— but you’re clear, for a few seconds. Balanced on a knife’s edge less literal than the Catastrofiend’s. 

Because as convenient as the jumpjets are for getting away, they’re not built to maintain altitude. A split second of free fall before Daniel — Herald he’s Herald remember that — catches the both of you. Hero reflexes, even now. Even with you. 

He doesn’t drop you. Arms flailing, briefly, to get a good grip, but gravity doesn’t yank you back. You’re torn between being-- so relieved that he didn’t drop you and so, so scared that he’s still trying to save you.

You still trying to save him was never even a question, to you. He’s got every reason to let you drop right back into those glinting blades, and you’ve never stopped caring for anything truly important in your life. At least you’re aware of how stupid your loyalty is, even if he deserves it. Even if he deserves so much fucking more than it.

No time for that now. You’ve got more immediate problems that need your full attention. 

“Going down,” he warns you, aloud, and you brace for the intensifying of the freefall drop, but it’s— measured, still, no stone’s fall to the ground here. 

There still no time for niceties, even if he wanted them, your face obscured by your helmet and his by his goggles, both of you persona and not person except Herald’s part of him in a different way than Anathema is a part of you. 

You refuse to let yourself hang onto him. He doesn’t let you go until you’re both on the ground. 

35. kissing their bruises and scars

There’s pressure to the side of your nose, warm, the sensation of something fuzzy brushing the space between your eyebrows. Open your eyes, find Ricardo on the exit, and you sigh, eyelids heavy but you want to see. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, voice hushed, and Daniel’s shifting now too, bleary blinking sleep out of his eyes where he’s curled around your arm. It’s too early, you think, and a vague glance towards the alarm clock says-- yeah, too early. Early enough the resident morning person is just as asleep as you.

You catch Ricardo’s hand, bring it to your face, sleep-hazy press of it to your lips. You know where the scars there are, where his mods meet skin, as well as he knows where to find your scars in the dark. “You’re up early.”

“Things to do, people to see,” vague, annoyingly so, but you’re not awake enough to want to push right now. “Go back to sleep, Ars.” Daniel’s already taken the cue— or, not quite, but he’s shut his eyes again and is just listening. 

“Don’t get yourself hurt, idiot,” you say, but you can’t muster any of the bite you want in the tone. He laughs, steps closer again to kiss your lips and drops one to Daniel’s forehead, in convenient reach.

“No promises.” 

“Don’t end up in the hospital again,” Daniel, chiming in and on your side, even if he’s still groggy, too. 

“I’m just meeting a contact. She keeps weird hours, it’s fine, both of you.” Exasperated now, but fond. 

You start pulling yourself more awake, moving as if to untangle yourself from Daniel, “Do you want—“

“I want you to go back to sleep,” Ricardo says, laughing, pulling the blanket further around your shoulders and pressing another kiss to your cheek. Along the scar under your eye. “Ars, really. It’s fine. I’ll be back for breakfast.”

“You’d better be,” muttered, and he laughs. You’re sure you aren’t very— intimidating right now, sleep-mussed and disgruntled, but that’s alright. 

Ricardo doesn’t close the door all the way behind him, leaving a thin slice of hallway light falling into the room. Daniel tucks his cheek closer into your shoulder to block his eyes, and you settle back in. 

[i-love-you-all]

Sneak peak

aka I promise I'm not afk from writing. I'm just working on original stories and playing video games while bracing myself for In Remembrance. FWIW, i've been occasionally publishing a Cypher centric story with Cypher/Nora as the main pair, or if you'd be interested, I have a bunch of original stories in progress atm (you'd have to msg me for those tho)

This chapter is from an idea I've had and hoarded for a bit. After this, it will go back into the pile of WIPs. It was gonna be a cheesy mentor and apprentice esque film as we see Jett develop her skills in the protocol. This will be somewhat of a crossover with R6S, but mostly just Glaz and Kapkan :)) Hope you enjoy :))

~1.4k Words Under the keep reading.

An artist and a sniper had many things in common.

Aleksander remembered watching his mentor as he painted the scenery in front of them. While Sasha was cleaning his sniper rifle, he let his thoughts drift to the training. He spent hours in one of those watch towers, practice rifle in hand with his orange paintball ammo to the side. He looked for what his mentor described. The details. A shape out of position, a bit of colour where there should be none, a shadow that was not where it was supposed to be. In the end, he shot three times. Only one landed.

“When will you learn to take your time?” Finally, something to break the silence that was gnawing away at Sasha’s gut.

Glaz put his paintbrush down and turned to face Sasha with a sigh. “Sasha, I cannot keep giving you more chances.”

“I will do better.” I must.

But in some cruel twist, it was Alexander’s drive to be perfect that was shortening his abilities. He was an excellent hunter, able to track, hunt, and then shoot his prey. But the role of a sniper was very different compared to a hunt. He was not someone on a prowl. It was an organized procedure that placed him on overwatch, looking out for his team. He was a scout without moving an inch. And he was not thriving in this role. His scores on the ground were much higher. His reputation was of a silent stalker, able to find the threat and neutralize them without the target even realizing. But to make it through the selection process, he would need to be a sniper, a tactician, a fighter - everything, as easy as that sounded...

“No. You will not. You will not because you focus too much on the result. Not enough on yourself.”

The words hurt. He couldn’t deny that, but a pout wasn’t going to help him succeed. Work, practice, and study would.

“Practicing in a range will not help. You can aim. Everyone knows that. Your problem on the field is that you can’t focus on what stands out. You only focus on the fact that you can’t miss.”

“I cannot miss, or else—”

“You cannot miss. That is the only correct thing you’ve said so far in this room. You do not often miss. But as a sniper – as the overwatch – you miss because you aim to hit the wrong things.”

Then, Glaz beckoned Sasha over to his side. He was hesitant in getting closer right now. He had not earned praise, and while he was not Maxim, Glaz was an intimidating presence, especially when he was as frustrated as he was now.

“Come and look at this painting. I have been painting this room for the past hour.”

Sasha looked over and saw part of the room in this piece. Just the window outside and the bookshelf next to it. It looked just like the real-life counterparts. He looked over at his mentor. Glaz’s eyes did a sweep of the canvas and then of the reference portion of the room.

“Do you see anything wrong with it?”

“No.” Sasha was genuine in his answer. It was a beautiful start to what would surely be a masterful painting.

“Wrong.” Glaz put down his paintbrush and with his finger just barely hovering above the still-drying paint, he pointed at a part in the upper corner of the room in the painting. “See here? The shades around the window do not match. The light above us casts a much longer shadow than what I’ve drawn.”

Ah. So this was the game today. Sasha narrowed his eyes and tried to compare the shapes. It was indeed a little shorter in the painting, but not enough so that it was noticeable right away. But if that was a purposeful mistake…

“The books on the shelf are much darker in this picture than in real life.”

“Correct. I’ve used darker colours in the painting. What else?”

Sasha furrowed his eyebrows. He could feel his mentors gaze watching him steadily as he studied the colours and shapes. With every passing second, he could feel himself losing focus. He was thinking about how disappointed Glaz must’ve been just waiting there for an answer that was not coming up. But not just that, he needed to prove that he was good enough. He had never failed anything before he got here for special training. And though he had high scores in many tests, his sniper training was dragging him down. If he couldn’t prove to Glaz that he was good enough to be here – that he could keep up with other and earn his spot—

“Sasha!”

His head snapped over to Glaz, who had just clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Stop thinking about me or the scores or anything else that happened today. This painting is your world.”

He took a deep breath, only now aware of how his lungs were burning for air. Perhaps he was in his head too much – maybe he was his own obstacle, and if that were the case, how was he supposed to overcome himself? Stop. Again, he had to reign in his thoughts. Focus. Shades of colour out of place, shadows that looked different to how they should, textures that shouldn’t be there…

“You added texture and lines to the wooden floor. Dark enough so that it’s hard to see.”

“What else?”

Sasha looked again. “The shutters have light behind them in this painting but it is dark outside right now.”

“More.”

Now that he was focused solely on the colours and what should or should not be there, it was easier. Sasha found that answers were coming to him as if he were reading a book. “There’s a corner folded on the book in real life, not in the painting. The shadows and how they meet the floor right here is a little too tall. The colour of the wall right next to the window is too light in this one spot.”

He felt Glaz clap him on the shoulder again, only this time, he was shaking him frantically and with excitement. “Good! Good! So you are not blind. You only need to do this exercise on the practice field, and you will be everything you want to be. Go rest. I will paint more and we will try again tomorrow.”

The levity in his chest made it easy to trudge his tired feet and legs back to his room. It was like a part of his brain was unlocked, and now, he couldn’t wait to see what else he noticed on the field.

For now, it started with a perfect score on the sniper exercises and a small smile on Glaz’s face.

*

Sova couldn’t help it. He was actually quite excited at the thought of mentoring a newer agent to the protocol. He’s had the ability to work with various people throughout his life, and he’s been the apprentice before, but this would be something completely new.

“Captain, I wanted to say again that I am grateful for the chance to train the newest agent.” He didn’t mention the part that he was a little hurt that Sage was put in front of him for this job because of her Radiant powers. Phoenix had to learn to control his radiant abilities, yes, but about battlefield tactics, he was certain that his experience trumped Sage’s. 

“A bit of advice?” Brimstone said as he turned to look over his shoulder at Sova. “Don’t expect it to be easy. Every recruit is different in how learn. How they respond to a situation, how they see a battlefield, they will take steps you find stupid or reckless. She’s going to drive you up a wall before you get through to her, but don’t let that get to you. All rookies are like that.”

Sova chuckled. That was certainly true, even for someone as accomplished and experienced as himself. He remembered the various looks of anger and frustration on Maxim’s face once upon a time, or the cold patience in Glaz’s eyes the first month or so when Sova started training under his wing. But he learned so much from both of them, even outside of the battlefield, that he wasn’t sure he could ever pay them back. But perhaps he could pay it forward.

“Meet our newest agent,” Brimstone said as he opened up the door to the office. “This is Jett.”

[kelpiemomma]

🥤 ⇢ recommend an author or fanfic you love

🕯️ ⇢ on a scale from 1 to 10, how much do you enjoy editing? why is that?

💌 ⇢ how many unread emails do you have right now

🍦 ⇢ name three good things about a character you hate

🪲 ⇢ add 50 words to your current wip and share the paragraph here

🥤 ⇢ recommend an author or fanfic you love

Observe When I Am Dead by Augment on AO3

It's one piece fanfic but god. It's so genuinely beautiful to me. Something about sacrificing yourself despite the pain, trying to keep it from the one you adore, the one you want to protect. Luffy waking up and finding Zoro at the end... I have read it many nights when I want a solid finisher to my AO3 browsing. I can never follow it up with anything.

🕯️ ⇢ on a scale from 1 to 10, how much do you enjoy editing? why is that?

I edit as I write so I guess 5? I don't mind it, but I'm definitely not the person who finishes their writing and then goes through and re-edits. I don't have the attention span for that. The only time I went through and re-editing anything was for the original ending of Lifetime Guarantee, but that was a full-on rewrite because I didn't like the ending.

💌 ⇢ how many unread emails do you have right now

Entirely too many over 4 different email addresses. A few thousand, mostly spam.

🍦 ⇢ name three good things about a character you hate

I feel put on the spot. I can't think of any characters I hate off the top of my head. If someone can point out a character I've said I've hated please do and I'll try to list 3 things about them?

🪲 ⇢ add 50 words to your current wip and share the paragraph here

I have two wips I'm working concurrently on right now so-

AO - Ch 3

"While Dawn and Johanna’s home remained firmly in Twinleaf Town, Cynthia’s family home - and most of her research - was settled in Celestic Town. Cynthia spent most of her time with her wife and stepdaughter, but upon learning that they were researching the Lake Trio she had offered to meet them at her old home instead. There had been a discussion on which lake to visit first before they decided to hit Lake Acuity, as it was out of the way, before traveling down to Lake Valor, and then heading back to Twinleaf Town and Lake Verity. Dawn would be able to visit her home and, if all went well, they would have a safe place to regroup and discuss their findings."

PiaP Series - "Twins"

"“My daughter? She’s four. She’s lovely. Someone… well. She’s adopted. But I adore her, I love my daughter immensely. She’s brave and has always known what she wants; maybe I spoil her a bit too much, but there isn’t much I can offer her… she seems to prefer my company to anyone else’s, apart from perhaps my pokemon, and trying to convince her to go on her first sleepover was a challenge. She had thought I would be coming with her. Ah, do you know what a sleepover is? It’s an activity where you-” Glancing up and finding that the Sneasel was still looking at him with interest, and therefore sufficiently distracted from her leg, Ingo quickly twisted and pushed the limb back into its correct position and placement. The Sneasel shrieked in surprise and, just in case, Ingo braced himself for the sting of claws cutting into him. Instead he received what could only be described as scolding chatter. He leaned back and raised his hands."

[direwombat]

tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton on this wip wednesday 💕

tagging @adelaidedrubman, @detectivelokis, @strangefable, @strafethesesinners, @fourlittleseedlings, @deputyash, @harmonyowl, @kittiofdoom, @baldurrs, @poetikat, @aceghosts, @confidentandgood, @purplehairsecretlair, @inafieldofdaisies, @vampireninjabunnies-blog, @roofgeese, @passinoutpieces, @gaeadene, and anyone else wanting to share something they've made! No pressure as always and if we're moots and I didn't tag you 1) I'm so sorry and 2) please consider yourself tagged as well lemme see what you're working on

Anyway, been knee deep in plotting kneeling at the crossroads recently so i haven't really written much, but here's a recycled bit from fragile creatures chapter 8 (pay no mind that ch 6 still isnt finished and neither is ch 7) that i posted last week (but not as a wip wednesday) ♻️♻️♻️

Slowly, Jacob lifts his hands and turns around to face his attacker. She stands only a few yards away, her rifle trained on him. “Tell me, Deputy,” he drawls, not bothering to hide the way his eyes rake over her form, and enjoying just how good she looks wearing his jacket. Her posture is tense, as if bracing for the shot she hasn’t even fired yet. But her finger is on the guard, not the trigger. She isn’t going to shoot him, “Was it luck or skill that you found me?”

The Deputy’s face twitches, her nose scrunching in a way that might have been cute on anyone else. She keeps her rifle pointed at his chest. “What’s it matter,” she sneers. “You’re the one in my crosshairs.”

“It matters,” he starts, taking a single step towards her. Testing. Taunting. Her feet remain planted where they are, but she flinches and curls back, ever so slightly. Barely perceptible, but just enough to get a smile to stretch across his lips. “Because luck runs out.” 

He takes another step forward, this time more confidently. And just as he thought, she takes one step back to maintain her distance. 

Unfortunately for her, the log she’s in front of doesn’t move with her. Her calf makes contact with it and her eyes go wide. But at that point, it’s too late. Her upper body keeps moving backwards. Then down. She falls back, and just before gravity finishes the job, Jacob surges forward, snatching the gun from her hands. 

She lands gracelessly on her back amidst the pine and fallen leaves. The wind is pushed from her lungs in an audible “oof” that’s followed by a creaking wheeze. 

And just to pour a little more salt in the wound, Jacob points the barrel of her own gun in her face. “Skill doesn’t.”

If she had put an ounce of effort into applying the murderous look reddening her face, he’d be dead a thousand times over. His smile widens.

Lowering the weapon, he extends his arm, holding out his right hand for her. 

The Deputy stares at it for a long moment, her jaw clenching and lips twitching. “What the Hell are you playing at?” she asks suspiciously. 

“I was enjoying a nice hunt,” he says. “You were the one who came in wanting to play games.”

She rolls her eyes. “Can’t imagine what that’s like,” she deadpans. 

“There ain’t nothing nice about how you hunt, sweetheart,” Jacob snorts. He curls his fingers beckoningly. “C’mon. Get up.”

The Deputy makes a low sound in her throat, something akin to a growl, but it isn’t directed at him. Her hand thrusts out to grasp his, and for just a moment he braces himself in case she tries to get clever and drag him down to her. 

But she doesn’t. 

Her hand wraps around his own, gripping it far more firmly than he had anticipated. He helps haul her to her feet, and she looks pissed off about it the entire time. 

She takes a moment to brush herself off, pointedly not looking at him while she does. “I suppose it’d be too much to ask for my gun back,” she says, glaring up at him. 

He looks thoughtfully at the rifle, making a show of considering a decision he’s already made. With a shrug, he holds her weapon out. “I’ve already got one,” he says, adjusting the shoulder strap of his MBP .50. Then, more seriously, he adds, “You really need to clean that thing.”

“You’re a dick,” she mutters, snatching her gun from his hands. 

[beyourownanchor6]

WIP wednesday

thanks for the tag lovley @imsupposedtobewritting 💙💖

—this is my newest wip that may or may not be the guardian au (aka coastguard au)😁🛟🏊🏼🏊🏽‍♂️🌊

“Captain, Airman Buckley. I just have one question.” He pointed over to the board, waiting until the captain’s eyes followed his. “That guy who holds all those records….is he still alive?”

The Captain gave a raise of his brow, turning back to face Evan. “Why do you ask?”

Evan all but puffed his chest out, giving off his cockiest tone as he hitched his thumb toward the list. “I just thought you ought to let him know that I’m about to knock his name off that board.”

The Captain gave a simple nod of his head. “Really. Well, why don’t you let him know yourself; he’s standing right behind you.”

Buck turned, following everyone’s line of sight to a man that was stood at the back, no nonsense written over his face.

“Class turn around and greet Senior Chief Bobby Nash. He’ll be your lead instructor for the next eighteen weeks. Senior Nash is one of the most decorated rescue swimmers in the history of the US Coast Guard.”

Well shit.

Evan didn’t turn away, determined not to let himself be intimidated. So, this guy had set a few records and was the most decorated rescue swimmer; big deal.

As they exited the building, told things would be taking off in the morning, Buck found himself next to Chimney, the woman with the nametag ‘Wilson’ introducing herself. “I’m Henrietta, but please, call me Hen.”

Evan smiled right back to her, leaning in when she reached out for a hug. Hen’s brace was so warm and inviting, reminding him of all the ones he’d shared with his big sister Maddie.

Hen and Chimney looked to each other, then over to Evan, brows raised in curiosity. “So,” Hen started, “what should we call you?”

“I uh, I mean, I don’t really have a cool nickname like you guys do.”

Chimney hitched his thumb to the side, Evan just catching sight of the one guy he’d been hoping to avoid the rest of the day. “Well, he just goes by Eddie. No cool nickname there.”

Eddie huh?

“What, is that short for Eduardo or something?”

Eddie stepped up to join them, Buck bristling a little when Eddie came too close, their arms just barely brushing together.

“Edmundo, actually.”

This guy wasn’t going to give Buck an inch, was he?

“Should we just call you Buckley?” Hen asked with a point toward his nametag.

“No, that’s-that’s too long.”

He wanted something unique, something that defined himself from the rest of his name. They stood there for a moment in silence, Evan all but ready to give up and give them some sort of fake name when Eddie’s voice suddenly cut into his thoughts.

“How about Buck?”

He jerked his head toward Eddie, furrowing his brows together. He was not letting ‘Mr. Perfect’ pick his nickname out, thank you very much.

“Buck, I like that,” Hen said as she tried it out. Chimney chimed in with, “Yea, and we can always call you Buckaroo if we wanna get real fancy!”

He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face, though it quickly dissipated when he caught sight of Eddie’s eyes. They were a rich golden brown with flecks of green, Evan easily getting lost in them. Eddie gave a tilt of his head, those big browns of his almost pleading.

“Yea, I uh, I don’t hate that name.”

—tagging: @swiftiediaz @mansikkaomenabanaani @confetti-cupcake @constructiononqueersunset @justsmilestuffhappens @djdangerlove @acediaz @chimneymistergayhan @onward--upward @annabethwrites @blaidddrwg1982 and anyone else who wants to share what they’re working on!!

[chibipsycho-v3]

I want something with trapper/trader but I don't know what... Um. angst, maybe? Angst-fluff? idk

Okay so. A few things! [1] I'm running with an AU in this one (it's still a WIP but basically think board game = real?) [2] I tend to write the Trapper and Trader as two separate characters than as one...? So like- I'm sorry if this is not what you meant, friend. Lemme know if you want a rewrite? I hope you enjoy, though!

Trapper and Trader x GN!Reader

You were scared in an unfamiliar place, lost and assaulted by any number of beasts and people you'd met along the way. You had your animal companions but other than that, you were alone. Every movement you questioned, every noise you prepared for a fight.

The only friendly faces that you'd encountered was the Trapper and the Trader. The gruff older man offered you pelts for the golden teeth you'd found and the strange woman offered the fealty of stronger beasts for the pelts. They were the only ones you'd relied on with even a hint of trust, daring to even regard them as allies, somewhat.

…So when they both appeared and turned on you in the harsh snowy landscape, you were devastated. The battle was fierce and your animals were slaughtered for pelts- at least you had peace of mind they'd be back again- and once the Trapper had fallen, the Trader did as she always did, offered you creatures for your pelts in the midst of battle.

Soon the battle was over and you'd won, sporting fresh injuries from their traps and beasts. But- despite your wounds and the ache in your chest, that harsh feeling of betrayal… You couldn't stop yourself from offering aid.

The Trapper had been hurt the longest, bright red against white snow. So you pulled out a first-aid kit you'd scavenged out of a pack along the way and began quickly bandaging the older man's arm. He tried to swat you away blindly, but you were undeterred. You found another gash higher up, so you set to fixing it. You had to work quickly, stopping for yourself was not an option.

You turned your attention to the Trader once the majority of the Trapper's wounds had been taken care of, working to patch up a nasty bite on her leg. Your hands shook from adrenaline, cold, and nerves.

"Why?" It was the Trader that spoke, her voice soft and confused, "Why… are you helping us when…?"

Many answers swirled in your mind, but your thoughts were preoccupied right now. You cinched the bandage, pausing now as the Trapper managed to work himself upright. Slowly, the words left you.

"Because… you both were… the only ones that helped me. I just… wanted to repay that kindness somehow. Even after…" You shook your head, leaving their betrayal unsaid. "You… must have your reasons. I just…" You placed some gauze over a slash on the Trader's arm, taping it down idly. You let your words trail off, unsure what else to say.

The Trapped huffed into his beard. "Nothin's stoppin' us from finishin' what we started," he spoke with a dangerous edge.

You hesitated at that, turning your eyes on him cautiously. His words may have been rough, but his posture showed no change. Was he bluffing, or trying to intimidate…?

The Trader placed her hand on her companion's arm. "They have won. We have lost," she replied, "Let us honor their mercy."

The Trapper seemed to lose that sharpness, softening as his shoulders slumped. With your work done, they took no time to work themselves to their feet. The Trapper braced his good arm around the Trader to take the weight from her injured leg. Finally he spoke with just a hint of fondness. "Then… thanks, kid."

And off they went, making their way into the treeline and disappearing like they always did. You stared after them, wondering and worrying whether they would truly be okay. But… the one thing you were sure of was that you'd done what was right by you.

[bigtimetired]

Cangse-Sanren and the case of scientific curiosity- mark 2

what up, here have a more polished and refined wip of a previous post. finished fic will hopefully appear on my ao3 sometime before the next decade but we make no promises here

The first invitation to Gusu comes approximately one summer, two months, and three days after Cangse-Sanren left her master’s mountain. Not that she’s been keeping track. Not on purpose, anyway.

Cangse is in Yueyang, poking and prodding at the rather dubious-looking congee the inn serves for breakfast. She’s starting to regret splashing the money to stay here rather than out in the wilds, to be honest. It’s raining though, and Cangse has gotten absolutely drenched every single evening for the better part of a week now. It’s starting to lose its charm.

Cangse is in Yueyang, frowning at her breakfast, when a throat is cleared. Just a high and youthful little hem-hem.

Cangse pokes the congee with the back of her spoon again and really doesn’t like the noise it makes. Congee doesn’t usually make noises like that.

The throat is cleared again. Ahem, this time.

Cangse braces herself and scoops up a spoonful. Some of it glops right off the spoon and back into the bowl. Ugh.

However, one does not study under Baoshan-Sanren of all people without developing a fair amount of bravery, so Cangse pushes through the horror of it all and tastes it.

Very bland, very watery. Awful, abominable, texture. Is this even congee? Perhaps it was meant to be something else. That would make a lot of sense.

Edible though.

Cangse swallows and looks the young man, who’s been hovering beside her table for the last while, in the eye.

“Hello?”

The boy clears his throat once more. It must be a nervous habit.

“Pardon this one for asking, guniang, but might you be Cangse-sanren?”

Cangse wrinkles her nose. Guniang.

“Sanren or daoren will do,” she tells the boy, eyeing him. His clothes are clean and decent quality, but he carries no visible weapons and gives no hum of qi. Not a cultivator. In his hand he holds a scroll, the wax seal a pale blue. Cangse thinks it might be pattered with clouds.

She stirs her (still a little horrible, to be perfectly honest) congee again, before it gets any ideas and considers coagulating. She wouldn’t be surprised at this point.

Cangse smiles at the boy, trying to seem mature and reliable and all of those good things. She’s not always very good at that.

“What can I do for you, didi?”

The boy flushes violently at this, and thrusts the scroll at her. “This one has been asked to deliver this missive from Gusu Lan to Cangse-sanren.”

Cangse blinks. What on earth could Gusu Lan want with her?

She takes the scroll, obviously, because she isn’t a monster, and fishes a piece of silver out of her too-light purse.

“Here you go, didi. Get yourself something nice, hmm?”

The boy flushes even darker. It’s a little impressive.

“No, no, this one couldn’t take payment from Cangse-sanren. He has already been compensated by Gusu Lan, though he thanks daoren for her generosity.”

Now that just won’t do.

Cangse reaches over and grabs the boy’s hand. He squeaks.

“What-- what are you--”

Cangse peels open his fingers, puts the silver into the palm of his hand, and presses his fist shut around it again.

She pats the back of his hand, trying to reassure. “No, no. Be a good boy and just take jiejie’s silver, alright? Consider it an extra reward for being so polite.”

The boy looks slightly ill. “If...if jie- sanren! If Cangse-sanren is sure...”

Cangse nods, resolute. Shizun was very clear about rewarding those who do well, especially the young, and Cangse is a lot of things but a bad student is not one of them.

The boy bows to her, a little too deep but that’s alright. We all make mistakes and manners are hard.

Cangse smiles at him again. “See you around, didi!”

“This one, um, thanks Cangse-sanren? And wishes her, uh, well?”

Cangse wants to squeeze his little cheeks. He’s nearly as cute as her smallest shidi was before she left.

“You too,” she says warmly, and watches him depart with a fond feeling in her chest. Ah, to be young.

This leaves Cangse alone with her mysterious missive and her... breakfast.

Cangse looks between the two.

It’s hardly a fair competition.

Poor breakfast.

Cangse breaks the blue wax seal and unfurls the scroll.

Gusu Lan extend their warmest greetings and salutations to the cultivator called ‘Cangse-sanren’ and hope...

The missive goes on like that for far too long, in Cangse’s humble opinion. It would be one thing, she supposes, if she actually knew any Lan disciples, but this long-winded train of greetings and well-wishes is a bit much on its own.

Bravely, she presses on, and eventually comes to the crux of the message.

Gusu Lan are extending an invitation to attend their upcoming lectures, to her.

Cangse snorts, unladylike as it is. (No one saw, it’s fine.)

Her!

Cangse has heard of Gusu Lan, obviously. Who hasn’t? They’re righteous and brave and upright and honest... and have nearly three thousand rules on how to live. They protect Gusu and its surrounding area in Jiangnan fiercely, and do it all with expressions that would make a rock look cheerful and outgoing.

(They have a huge library, though. An absolutely enormous library. A gigantic library. Cangse hasn’t sat down and poked through a collection of books and manuscripts in forever.)

Cangse has only ever seen Lan disciples in passing, has only ever heard of them through rumours, but the rumours are similar enough and pervasive enough that there has to be a least a smidgen of truth to them, right?

Gusu Lan are righteous and polite and up-tight and bastions of self-discipline and Cangse... is Cangse.

Idly she wonders what they even do to unruly guests, and decides she probably doesn’t want to know.

Cangse rolls the scroll back up, slips it into her sleeve, and looks down at her breakfast once more. It seems to be looking back at her.

(They probably don’t have congee in danger of developing sentience in the Cloud Recesses.)

Cangse sighs to herself and gets back to it.

A year later, Cangse-sanren is staying in another inn with dubious-looking breakfasts. In Hejian, this time, for all that it matters.

Inns all look the same, after a while.

The night-hunts don’t, thankfully.

Again, a nervous youth stumbles over to her on legs like a newborn deer, and again Cangse finds herself insisting on pressing silver into his hand. Kids these days.

Once again, Cangse finds herself skimming through far too many pleasantries before reaching the part where she is invited to attend lectures at the Cloud Recesses.

Shizun was always very clear on the dangers and difficulties of sect politics. Cangse knows that for all that this may be a learning opportunity, it’s also (for all the little sect heirs and younger siblings and cousins and perhaps a handful of head disciples) a bit of politics. A way to build connections and do all that smiling with your mouth but not your eyes, and giving gifts with catches stuff that sects seem to do.

But Cangse has never actually been to Gusu. It’s supposed to be very nice. And the Lan sect, it cannot be understated, have a massive library. Absolutely gargantuan. Capacious. Commodious. Whatever-ious.

In the end, curiosity wins out.

[ddaehyeon]

。✧ hyacinth; park serim + reader

— pairing: fashion designer!park serim + photographer!reader

— genre: angst, slight fluff, exes au, post-breakup, slightly suggestive (one scene only!)

— word count: 7.1k

— warning: arguments, heartbreak, mentions of anxiety and emptiness

— summary: years had passed since you broke up with serim; life had been continuously patching up ever since. his name had marked several clothing lines, while your studio was well-known in the small city you lived in. who would’ve known that a sight of him on a bus stop would be enough to bring back wounds you thought had long ago healed?

— navi: playlist | video teaser | cravity masterlist

— a/n: my wips suffered from a major slump and this is quite an overdue fic (i also have another overdue fic help) but i hope someone would still at least read this though >< the first ver of this didn't satisfy me and though this ver didn't satisfy me that much, i feel like after rewriting almost half of the fic, this one's better. i'll do my best to pull something better soon!

autumn must be the most magical part of the year. the leaves experiencing a color alteration, scarlets and golds carpeting the ground— a yearly harvest of the earth where everything was gradually being taken away. long gone was the heat of the summer; the chilly evening breeze sure was much friendlier than of winter. the season served as a comforting quilt. it was such a great time for warm drinks that could lift up the mood even for the wariest.

you let go of a breath as you stared at the window, the sun was setting. the color fleshed out in the sky golden, jiving well with the surrounding that was already of the same palette. with an indoor shoot for a seasonal issue of a magazine, it sure was a tiring day. the sound of camera clicks still ringing in your head, along with the hushed talks and chitchats coming from the staff members and the models.

at first, you were hesitant to accept the project. afraid that you’d bump by one of the renowned fashion designers in your region, park serim. but then, you couldn’t just chicken out when a hefty sum was to be paid. the relief you had when you saw that his name wasn’t on the list of designers was almost the same kind of relief you'd have after preventing big trouble from occurring.

“i finished placing back the props in the room.” hyeongjun’s voice was still as bright as it was this morning as if not touched by any fatigue. he was one of the photographers you hired in your studio, offering only fine shots. “i’ll be going home early, just send me a message about what time tomorrow’s shoot will be!”

“thank you, junie.” a smile was on your brim as you nodded on his words, watching him pack his camera and leave afterward.

silence melted in the room as soon as hyeongjun stepped out. alone in your photography studio, you sat on a stool used earlier by one of the models. the room was dimly lit with only one of the umbrella lights open. it was only by then that you realized your thighs were already stiff from the nonstop work earlier. you wanted to go home and just be in the comforts of your bed.

pulling out your phone, you dialed your brother’s number, frowning when it took him quite a while to pick up. was he busy or did he just forget that he was supposed to pick you up tonight?

jungmo would always fetch you by your studio after his working hours concluded. with the two of you living together in the same house, your brother just found it ideal— bringing you to your work every morning and giving you a drive home every evening. it might seem like he was babying you, but it was a gesture you grew fond of.

“y/n?” jungmo gasped on the other line. it seemed like he was outside, music playing in the background which mingled well with the peals of laughter. “shit, i forgot to tell you.”

you raised a brow, questioning his words. “what’s the matter?”

“can’t fetch you today.” you can already envision the pout he had on his lips. “i’m at a party with allen and woobin, catching up with my colleagues. i’ll make it up to you tomorrow, i promise!”

“alright. i’ll just ride the bus then.” it was your turn to purse your lips. you can’t bring yourself to complain about it though. “have fun! just stay in woobin’s apartment tonight, don’t drive!”

“i will, i will,” jungmo replied, a call of his name following. his friends might’ve been looking for him already. “text me alright? get home safely, y/nie.”

at the end of the phone call came another sigh from you. a tightlipped smile braced your lips as you stood to turn off the remaining lights. you retrieved your camera and placed it back in one of the drawers. making sure everything was back to its place, secured; you gave the place one final look. something you’d do every single day before going home. a reminder of the thing you loved the most. a reminder of what could have been.

the sidewalk wasn’t as empty as you imagined it to be, maybe you weren’t used to walking to the bus stop anymore. strangers of different day occurrences exchanged various looks that shared one same element, tiredness.

when the wind blew, fallen leaves danced along with it. the slight coldness making you tuck your hands inside the pocket of the cardigan you were wearing. you loved the cool breeze, but not when you knew you had to stay out on an open shed with it as your companion. cold weather could be your friend, a company for a better evening sleep. but rather a harsh fellow when you had to be alone, when loneliness can easily be injected to your senses.

tracing the path, a memory went to play in your head. way back in college, this was the same sidewalk you’d walk in with your ex-lover. a camera on your hand while he had a roll of satin in his arms. it was such a usual view for the two of you as you talked about how the day went, ranting about the monotonous lectures, gushing over how you missed each other’s company and how you wished that the two of you could get back to your shared apartment as soon just so you can snuggle on the couch.

you glanced at the sky, the cloud hiding the few scattered twinkling stars. a faint smile spread upon your lips, only to disappear when your gaze went back to the bus stop. the male that passed by in a form of fleeting memory earlier was standing right in front of you as if fleshed out from your mind. a lavender-colored paper bag was hanging on his arm, the logo of his product line delicately stamped on the middle. his phone was resting on his other hand, if he was scrolling through sns or texting someone, you weren’t sure.

the magical feeling he used to offer long gone, your stomach twisting into several knots. a cold sensation went down in your spine as a familiar tug came to pull your heartstring. he’s back? what is he doing here? he lives here again?

your thoughts were loud in your head, but none of it was pulled out loud. each word ending up as a lump in your throat. the air was thickening, your heart beating fast, not out of excitement, but out of the clashing thoughts that left you so nervous and confused. it had been years, how come a single sight of him made you feel like all your resolutions are gone? how did a single sight of him become enough to shatter the glass that protected you from the ache that night had caused you?

it was cold. but no, it was no longer because of the autumn breeze.

“serim?” the name was uttered in the same way you would before everything came crashing, yet it held a much weaker tone. you can’t even remember the last time your voice came to wrap around the syllables of his name.

the male turned his head to look at you, a brow raised as he stared at you. no obvious emotion, his eyes held no recognition.

and his reply? it sent a shiver down your spine, your stomach flipping in a horrendous manner.

“who are you?”

for a moment, the air caused such a nauseous feeling— thin and hard to inhale. it was only three words, yet it was powerful enough to serve as a punch in the gut.

how can he forget?

how can he forget how the two of you first met?

not that it was a very momentous event, just a regular struggle faced by two college students that needed someone else to accomplish a project for a major subject. there were no butterflies involved, nor did sparks fly the moment you met. regardless, up until now, that day burned fresh in your mind.

“i know someone from that department,” woobin said without even looking at you, his eyes focused on his book. though you weren’t sure if he was really paying attention to the words written there as he kept on diving in the conversation every now and then.

“and who might that be?” the dreadful task of having to pair up with the design department had been inhabiting your mind ever since it was given to you. pressure rising as you saw your other blockmates having no hard time getting themselves out there and communicating with the department they weren’t really accustomed to. you still have a month and a half, you were sure you can still make it. it was just a photoshoot anyway, featuring your partner’s designs.

“park serim,” woobin finally answered as if he had to think hard of the person’s name. “i think no one had asked him to become their partner, he’d be available to do it.”

desperate to get over with the task, later that day, you found yourself by the catwalk the design students would take. it was a path that connected their building to the main gate directly. your building wasn’t exactly far away from theirs, but still of a different building. with their building equipped with supplies and machineries for final products, yours were of computers, lightings, and screens.

you stared at your phone, his instagram profile opened. earlier, you already took the pleasure of checking his works out and without much filtering, him as well. he sure does love taking pictures of himself; something that could work perfectly with him being your subject. once satisfied, you left him a dm that was probably one of the most awkward sentences you had ever typed in the entirety of your life.

a notification popped out as you look at your screen, which was shortly followed by another. it was only of common courtesy to follow him before asking him for a favor right? you did that before messaging him and now he followed you back and replied to your dm. unlike you, he didn’t spend much time wandering in your profile. well, as if he had so much to look unto aside from the sceneries and some stories posted.

‘you were the person woobin was talking about? i’ll be out in two minutes. see you in the catwalk.’

it wasn’t too long of a duration, you allowed yourself to simply jump from a social media to another, mindlessly scrolling and liking some post every now and then. only lifting your head up when a wave of students began getting out of the establishment. most were holding mannequins with unfinished clothing attached to them, some were holding rolls of fabrics you weren’t sure what to call.

with squinted eyes, you tried to look for him among the crowds. woobin said that serim was a fashion design major, so he’d probably be holding the same thing as the other students that came out.

and he was.

leaning on his shoulder was a mannequin, asymmetrically dressed in silk. it wasn’t sewn yet, only supported by sewing pins. an arm wrapped around a roll of what seemed to be linen of pastel blue color. there was also a paper bag hanging on his arm which seemed to have some extra fabric and maybe some other supplies.

you walked towards him with a wave to which he gave you a confused look at first, the frown melting away when he realized that you were the one who messaged him not even an hour ago.

“you’re y/n?” he asked, merely to confirm.

you nodded your head and offered a hand in carrying the paper bag. something he didn’t refuse to. “so…” unsure of how to bring up the means of meeting with him after his class, your voice trailed.

“what do you need anyway?” he supported your words as he traced the path of the sidewalk. “take pictures of me or take pictures of the clothes i make?”

“both.” a chuckle left your lips, laced with nothing but sheer abashment, at the same time mentally cursing this project. you were okay with taking pictures, but the negotiation that comes with it wasn’t a task you were so used to doing.

serim hummed, saying an almost inaudible ‘i see’ before taking a big step and stopping in front of you to do a curt observation. his gaze trailing from toes up to your shoulder. “i’ll agree to do it, if you’ll model for me for a project.”

blinking your eyes multiple times, a baffled frown came to mask your countenance. “what?”

“i need a model that will wear the dress i’m doing by the end of the semester,” serim uttered nonchalantly, proceeding to turn his back to you and resume walking. “that would be quits.”

“i’ll do it,” you said, despite still being hesitant. having close to zero knowledge about how such a presentation would work, you were so close to disagreeing. but then again, it would only be a good way to repay him, right? and perhaps the other fashion design students would ask you of the same thing if you try to team up with them.

turning to look at you, there was a curve that formed on his brim. “that’s a deal then.”

how can he forget how the two of you confessed to each other?

two months. it took two months of random meet ups, daily conversations, and occasional hanging out to get to know each other. the awkward messages of checking up on each other’s side of the project turned to asking about each other’s day, sharing rants about academic life or life in general. the occasional hanging out turning to planned dates and spontaneous ones when the two of you both have the time to spare.

you’d usually stay in his unit as he worked on the dress for his project, a clothing that perfectly suits your figure. late night talks induced by the slightest energy given by coffee the two of you had clung into in hopes of being able to finish what was due.

it seemed like time flew by and before you knew it, you were in the backstage. serim was pacing back and forth, more nervous than you were. he wasn’t the one that was going to the stage, but sure his body was restless.

“are you alright?” you asked him once the two of you were left alone in the dressing room.

this was enough for serim’s movement to come to a halt. even when his eyes landed on you, it was obvious that his mind was floating. in fact, it even took him hot seconds before he was able to commit to a verbal response. “i am.”

“you are?” a smile broke out of your countenance which was eventually followed by a chuckle. “are you sure with that?”

your laughter was adequate to ease his nerves a little, a curve appearing on his lips. “i am.”

one of his classmates who was in charge of the flow came knocking to the door, signalling that you should be on standby.

“i’ll do my best,” you said, walking toward the door. it would be a definite lie to say that you were not at all nervous. a deep breath taken before twisting the knob, stopping when serim called you. it was covered with a bit, yet noticeable hesitation that it made you cock a brow for a moment.

“good luck.” it was all that he uttered, along with a gesticulation of him raising both fists. though serim’s mind spoke of different words, words he had little courage to let go of. at least not yet at that moment.

you gave him a smile, nodding your head afterward. “thank you.”

and off you go.

roaring crowds and camera clicks; the auditorium set up for the use of the fashion design students as they exhibit their works through their chosen models. formerly, you’d find yourself among the crowds, snapping pictures and admiring the clothes done by the other students. but this time, you found yourself clothed in a floral print silk-blend asymmetrical dress designed by serim himself.

the lights were blinding, being always part of the photographers, you were quite accustomed with how you were part of the persons behind the camera lense. serim was in the dressing room, watching the runway from the screen that displayed the live broadcast. some of your friends were among the crowds, your older brother even telling you before the show started that he’d be sure to take pictures of you.

fortunately, the few days of practice didn’t go to waste, no major mistakes happened when you modeled serim’s design. perhaps the only problem was you were a little stiff, something too trivial for some audience to notice.

as soon as you stepped by the backstage, serim’s proud smile welcomed you. unable to rest in the dressing room once he saw you getting out of the stage, he practically ran to meet you behind the curtains.

his eyes were filled with adoration, not just for the dress he finished making, but for the overall beauty you radiated. without much thought, he walked closer to you, soon wrapping you in an embrace. tight, yet gentle.

“you did well, y/n,” serim whispered, not letting go.

a soft chuckle was heard from you, your cheeks burning. “you did well,” you corrected. “please, it’s your design.”

“thank you.” releasing you, a smile lingered on his visage. “i’ll make you a better dress in the future.”

“you don’t have to, but thanks,” you replied before the two of you sunk into silence. regardless of how the surrounding was of heavy music and cheers, peace had found its way to emanate in the dimmed part of the area.

no words spoken, yet feelings poured when serim leaned closer. his lips easily capturing yours enough to make your heart pound in your chest, louder than it did while you were in the catwalk.

serim broke the kiss, his lips still close with yours. his eyes were of another glow when he uttered a set of words, familiar yet foreign. “i love you.”

once again, you were under his spell. soft kiss turning into a sloppy one once he guided you to a more secluded area. it would be such a waste to rip the dress off given that it was an original design, yet as the person who sewn each part of the clothing you were wearing, serim had his way to resolve the small dilemma.

the surrounding was silenced, your body frail under each of his touch, breath taken away, chest heaving. sure, it was a night you won’t be able to forget.

how can he forget about how the two of you practically lived with each other for years?

the exuberance exuded while the two of you carried several boxes into an empty unit you called home. maybe it wasn’t really about the place, but it was who you were with. his arms served as a shelter. his hand caught tears of both happiness and sadness. his lips pressed affection that no one else could offer. everywhere with serim was of comfort, of tranquility— a home.

living with another person, being under a single roof wasn’t exactly the easiest thing to adjust to. throughout the first few months of living together, your head was filled with memories of sheer trial and error as the two of you tried to learn the curves. this included adjusting for each other or at least compromising for what the other likes that the other doesn’t. silly mistakes became such a fond memory.

the smell of burnt food that wafted in the air when the two of you decided to stay on the balcony while cooking dinner. astonished by the stars and the almost endless stories that passed on both lips the meal you were preparing was left neglected. that night, the two of you shared bitter food of dark exterior, quite hard to swallow. but the laughter that filled the house after the incident lifted up each other’s mood. despite the bad-tasting meal, it was probably one of the best dinners you had in that apartment.

it didn’t end there. who would forget about the laundry disaster that rendered one of serim’s white long sleeves saturated with colors you weren’t sure what to call. the mixture of forget-me-not blue and azalea pink stood as the most distinguishable pigment along with the other colors. serim only let out of a chuckle at what occurred, even joking that maybe the two of you could start a business of dying white clothing in such a way.

the best memory thus far was a late-night run by the convenience store when the two of you were chasing a morning deadline. a grumbling stomach that broke the mutual silence the two of you exchanged, along with a suspecting look that ended up with laughter.

“let’s buy some food,” serim suggested, removing the tape measure from his shoulder and settling it to the mannequin.

you hit save on your laptop, the editing could wait for a few minutes.

pulling yourself off the chair, you gazed at him with a smile. it wasn’t a surprise that he had the same beam, as bright as the morning, regardless of how the evening was already crawling onto the whole city. sometimes, you wondered how a simple smile could give you so much energy. what kind of magic does a beam flashed by the person you love hold?

a few snacks picked up by the convenience store; a bag in his hand, your hand on the other as the two of you walked back to your unit. the evening sky and the soft gush of wind amplifying the peacefulness provided by the city. no words were exchanged, yet the silence was enough of a word.

deadlines momentarily escaping the mind as you allowed yourself to be engulfed by his presence. his soft voice breaking the silence, the phrase that left his lips drew a curve on your lips. “i love you, y/n.” you weren’t looking at him, but you could perceive the smile he had. “so much.”

“i know,” you replied.

serim’s steps became slower as he looked at you, waiting for the actual response. with a tilted head and shining eyes that reflected your figure and the street lights, his gaze didn’t waver.

a chuckle left your lips, finding yourself lost in his eyes for a moment. “i love you too, serim.” you squeezed his hand, cueing him to continue walking. “so much.”

sighing out of content, a radiant smile decorated his lips.

at that moment, the two of you wished nothing more but just to be next to each other for as long as life would grant you.

how can he forget about your first anniversary?

it wasn’t grand, just the two of you sitting by the balcony. the bouquet he bought abandoned on the dinner table as the two of you gushed over plans you were sure were realistic enough to be achieved. your eyes twinkling with mirth, a lifetime with him sure was the ideal one you’d want to spend.

“y/n,” despite being just beside you, serim called.

you looked at him with a brow raised, catching his eyes on yours. “mhm?”

a smile simply spread onto his lips before he broke the gaze. his hand seeking for an item inside the pocket of his hoodie, a small box retrieved afterward. there, a necklace sat. the pendant was of a ring that was not entirely decorated with fancy stones, rather a lone blue sapphire stone was on it.

“the pendant is a promise ring,” serim explained before scooting closer to you. his hand reached for the back of your head while the necklace rested on your skin. he locked the jewelry on your neck, pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead after.

you were silent the whole time, not because you didn’t like the gesture. but because you were sure words wouldn’t be enough to express the satisfaction and light feeling that was blanketing your heart.

serim had a faint smile as he admired the necklace for a moment. just like you, his heart was in an ocean of peaceful joy. lifting his head to look at you directly, he gave your lips a light peck. “i’ll buy you a better one once we’re ready for it.”

“thank you.” your countenance mirrored the same expression serim had— of joy and serenity. “i love you so much.”

“i love you too.” serim leaned in for another quick kiss, swift yet lingering. “i can’t wait to spend a lifetime with you.”

the evening droned on and on with the two of you staying by the balcony, exchanging conversations about the future. two hearts in one home, seemingly able to find the path where both can hold each other’s hand. minds filled with dreams where the other can also be spotted. a considerably spacious studio apartment became the foundation of your plans and dreams.

aspirations that soon became the neglected cause of why your relationship with him gradually crumbled down.

how can he forget about your very first fight?

gazes that held no definite emotion, silence that cut through the air— it was all an unfamiliar experience, hard to swallow. something that you weren’t able to forget easily as it was the first time you’ve ever seen serim with such a cold expression.

the coaster of shows on the television had long passed, a few recaps played. something that wasn’t really able to get a hold of your attention. your mind drifting elsewhere and the few notifications appearing on your phone were the only ones that managed to pull you out of your daze momentarily.

“where’s serim?” for the nth time that day, you asked. the room was quiet with only a few chatters from the screen in front of you. the evening was growing older and older, but you haven’t received any message about serim's whereabouts. neither had he sent you a message the whole afternoon.

worried, you opted to stay up and wait for him. even prepared a meal that can be easily heated so he can have something to eat once he arrives in case he hasn’t eaten anything yet.

with the door clicking, you were quick to get off the couch. the faint footsteps signaling you right away.

“you’re finally home,” you said, a smile easily located on your brim. only for it to melt away at the sight of serim’s stern look. his gaze piercing through, enough for chills to trace your spine.

he walked past you, not even offering you the regular hugs and kisses he would do every time he’d arrive. all that was left were cold stares. something you attempted to break. and heck did you regret doing so.

“why haven’t you been answering your phone? have you already eaten?” the worry you had accumulated coming through in waves of questions.

a sigh was emitted out of his mouth as he went to get himself a drink. it seemed like a verbal response was not an option for him since he continued to ignore your questions. at this point, it was as if there was no one else in the room. it was like you weren’t there.

“did something happen, serim?”

a minute. it was all it took for the entirety of your relationship to come to an unknown turn. the curve strange, it crawled to the skin with such a frigid touch enough for your stomach to flip horribly.

“can you give me a break?” serim hissed, a glare shoot in your direction. his voice growing power word after word. your breath was taken away, how can words suffice to make you feel so small? he placed his glass on the sink, the item almost meeting its demise. he turned to look at you once again. “can’t you see, i’m tired?”

“i waited for you.” the words spilled out of your lips, disappointment hugging your tone.

“who told you to wait for me?” serim snarled and before you knew it, you were already standing on the same page. similar expression, different cause. yours were anchored in concern, while his were of fatigue from the whole day of heavy workload. those seemed to have lulled both of your senses, blinding each other.

“oh well, i was just worried about you because you didn’t send me a message the whole afternoon up to this point.”

“do i really need to report my actions to you?”

“no, but you have to at least tell me if you’re going home late.” your voice gradually softened, a tear held back.

no, you can’t cry. no, not in front of him. no.

“i was worried,” you broke out. but it wasn’t enough for his fumes to dissolve. like gasoline poured into flames, each of your replies only intensified the exasperation boiling in his stomach.

“i’m going to rest.” serim sigh was audible as he stormed off to your room, leaving you with tears in your eyes.

a minute.

it only took half a minute for everything to fall out of its order. that fight wasn’t the last one and each passing day, the unit you once called home was stuck with unfamiliarity.

it was no longer a home.

how can he forget about that night?

cold meals by the table had your eyes fixated on them. the date encircled in red, a supposedly special day that turned bitter. different from how you used to spend it before—of laughter and warm touches— serim wasn’t there. he was far too involved with projects that your shared unit only became a short shelter. words were barely exchanged, yet alone gazes. you still sleep on the same bed as him, but no warmth was offered.

you weren’t sure which was better, to continue living with him even if it felt like you weren’t living with him or to have him gone in your life for real. regardless of the turns that occurred, the continuous erosion of your relationship, you couldn’t find it to yourself to let go. still tied by your attachment to the former serim.

a sigh left your lips, desolated gaze trailing on the table. you tried. but it seemed like those attempts were futile. it takes two people’s efforts. you can’t revive a relationship alone.

switching place, you went to the living room and sat by the couch. the place dimly lit by a lone lampshade. the city lights filtering through the window. the air gradually thickened around you, it held your throat in a vice grip. the photographs displayed by the shelves were foreign to you, despite how it was simply you and serim. it was like you were staring at completely different people. smiles had long been taken away, touches had melted, flutters subsided— all that was left was a terrible feeling of helplessness. something that seemed to guide you to nowhere. you were lost.

before, you were sure of how the story was to be written. how the chapters were to unfold. but right now, you weren’t even certain what would be on the next page. it was like the next ones were torn from the spine, gone. oh hell, you weren’t even sure what page you were on right now or if the story was bound to be written in the first place.

serim’s arrival went unnoticed at first. only until you heard the clink of the glass meeting the sink did you turn in his direction. an empty gaze was earned and for some reason you found yourself offering him a faint smile. a small gesture packed in pain that was quick to course through your senses.

sighing had become his way of greeting. dark circles under his eyes and the disheveled look emanated how his work had been weighing him. but your mouth was closed regardless of how you wanted to speak of reassurance and praise. it was strange, the inability to speak of warm words around him. why were you so held by fear?

“serim,” you called, breaking the floating silence.

he looked at you, eyes deep like he was examining a piece of fabric. it was enough for your stomach to churn. the stillness continued after your call. you weren’t sure how to continue it; it was as if his name was unnatural in your tongue. not only was your breath sucked, but also all the possible words had dissipated.

yet again another sigh as he tore his gaze away, stepping towards the bedroom. “i’m so tired, y/n,” he uttered, setting a line for you to not cross onto. “very tired.”

resurfacing on your brim was a smile. your eyes weren’t exactly skillful of lying though as tears soon gathered on it. heart hollowed in emptiness as if a scream would echo on its wall. likewise, your voice decided to betray you— shaking. “serim, i’m getting tired too.”

for a swift moment, serim tried to come up with an answer. but just like you, comforting words seemed to be an unfamiliar language. even aware of how a look would be inadequate, he only stared at you. his eyes don’t speak of words nor radiated comfort— it was vacant. lowering his head, he carded his fingers on his hair before letting go of a breath.

serim finally stepped inside the bedroom.

and that was how the two of you parted ways.

how can he forget about you?

it went on and on in your head, the question continuously striking.

a gush of autumn breeze pulled you out of your daze. serim was still looking at you, his eyes slowly lightening with recognition. a few blinks and he spoke. “oh, wait.” he tilted his head to the side. “y/n?”

you weren’t exactly sure what kind of answer to give, but you gave it your best to offer a faint smile. “yes.”

still— despite how other people were walking on the sidewalk and how vehicles passed by the road, the surrounding seemed to come to a stillness you didn’t ask for. denying and pushing away the feelings you’ve long ago tried to bury and made yourself believe that you’ve healed from only brought a new wave of pain. as if you were its child, sadness came to hug you.

just in time, the bus arrived as if to save you from further drowning in emotions you didn’t wish to engulf you in. to your surprise, serim also boarded in. while you chose to sit somewhere just nearby the driver, he went to the last row.

usually, your rides on the way home were the most relaxing ones. a time to just stare at the window and watch the night spread into the city. it will always be accustomed by jungmo asking you on and on about how your day went and also sharing about how his day went. but your brother wasn’t around for that kind of support right now. and you can’t blame him for it. you can’t blame anyone for this unexpected meeting with the person you never knew you’d ever meet again.

the ride was sickeningly slow, all you wished was to get home and allow your voice to echo in your room. to release the emptiness if it was even possible to empty something that was already vacant. the sky held no comfort. its color dissipated and all that was left was an empty canvas that like a broken record, played memories. it was silly how despite those quick memories popping in and out of your mind, questions still managed to penetrate.

serim was living in another city, why did he ride the same bus? was he to meet his new lover? maybe to meet an old friend?

or did he perhaps mean to meet you? this was a guess you despised. the hope it brought that maybe an answer for all the questions formed that night were to be given tasted bitter in your mouth and offered restlessness in the heart.

an urge to talk to him surfaced, but then you asked yourself why. why would you want to talk to him? for what?

despite being curious about the reason why he left that night, a certain fear crawled onto your senses. the fear of knowing.

what could knowing his reasons possibly bring you?

the time when the two of you loved each other wasn’t of the best timing. two newly graduates seeking career growth, wanting nothing but to achieve various goals. those were dreams drawn with the other person placed as a part of it. however, during the process of achieving those, that same person where the aspiration was rooted gradually disappeared from the mind. the path the two of you promised to take together came at crossroads and you ended up taking something different from what he preferred to go to.

at first, there was a powerful yearning that made the two of you grow more fond of each other. but it was slowly replaced by numbness towards it, making love such a foreign word.

you understood. but it wasn’t something you had fully accepted.

a familiar shed came to flash on the window, your stop nearing. and when the vehicle finally came to a halt, you gave serim a final glance. he was looking at you, not moving from his seat. dismissing the contact, you walked down the bus and began tracing the sidewalk with heavy steps.

disappointment curled into your stomach when you arrived near your house, realizing that the recurring questions will not be answered. however, fate played its game. anxiousness arose when once again you heard your name wrapped around serim’s voice.

you turned to look at him, his lips hesitant to let go of a word.

serim was also in deep thoughts, mind all over the place despite how he already had the resolution to talk to you, not to explain and justify himself, but to apologize for the damage done.

“i’m sorry for that night,” serim began, the initial words already clinging into his chest, weighing down. “i should’ve been more honest with you and trusted you more with my struggles.”

there was nothing serim wanted but to prove himself worthy of you. achieve things that could make you be proud of him and deem him as someone who deserves you. working up to late hours, diving into designs in order to perfect his craft. the thing was, he forgot that you already loved him even when he was simply that serim. that you loved him as park serim.

blinded by the goal, the mean diminished. as he was too caught up with it, he was no longer striding towards it for you, but for himself.

“it was selfish of me to decide for something we both should be deciding for. i left that night thinking it was better that way without even considering how you will feel,” serim continued, his voice weakening. he lifted his hand as if to hold you, but stopped midway. it fell to his side as he breathed in. “i’m sorry. i’m really sorry.”

“i was hurt, but you were probably hurt as well.” the way those words left your lips ever so calmly surprised you. “it wasn’t the most pleasant experience, but i hope we both learned from it.” a smile became evident on your visage. “promise me one thing serim, do not make the same mistake with your future lover.”

“i will not,” serim replied.

both of you never really imagined the end of your relationship and as the page of it was torn years ago, an ending was deemed impossible to earn. closing a book would never be that easy, but some stories were meant to end— yours included.

“also, this is for you.” serim handed you the paper bag he was holding. “i told you years ago that i’ll make you a better dress, and here it is. i figured that i wouldn’t be able to keep the promise laced on the ring i gave you before but i at least want to have one of my promises kept.”

you looked at the item for a moment before turning to serim once again. “thank you.”

“i also want you to know that i truly loved you.”

never at once did you doubt serim’s love for you. the thing about it is that people will grow and know love from a better perspective. know how to best keep it. know how to best show it. but it will not change the fact that back then, you felt that it was love.

serim had a single flaw and that was to hold everything to himself to the point that those created a wide gap between the two of you. the distance far enough that reaching his hand became impossible despite how you wanted to hold him.

and maybe during that time, parting was the best solution. and up to this point, it was too.

“it’s nice seeing you again, serim.”

“likewise, y/n.” a genuine smile crossed his lips. “goodbye?”

“goodbye.”

tonight, you gave him a piece of your heart. it was his, to begin with. whatever he was to do with it— keep it, throw it, crush it— it was a decision for him to make. keeping something that shouldn’t be there would only bring further destruction, it’s way better to have an empty spot in your heart rather than keep a damaged one.

the breeze embraced you. the goodbyes uttered were to serve as a beginning. there were new questions that formed and you knew there were tears that were yet to be spilled. but it was a start. opening a buried wound would never be pleasant, but it was way better to open it yourself than have it bare you.

staring at the newly planted hyacinth in the neighboring flower bed, you let go of a sigh. they will bloom in the spring. and you hoped that you would experience the same.

[butterysalt]

A Silent Fate | John Watson x Mute!Reader (Pt 1)

Pairing: John Watson x mute!reader (gender neutral)

Summary: On one’s 18th birthday in this world, a message appears on their forearm, reading their soulmate’s first words to them... You were never one to worry too much about the laws of the universe until after what seems to be a devastating accident at the art studio, you find that fate had much more different and rewarding plans for that day.

Contains: big crash/impact

Word Count: 1,203

A/N: I had this fic idea for a while but am now getting around to polishing it a bit! This will be a multi-part oneshot so look out for more updates! :)

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Part 2 (WIP)

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You walked around the art studio, watching all the students sculpt and shape their mounds of clay into unique busts. It was a comfortable silence among the brightly lit workspace. Nothing but the shuffling sounds of crusted aprons and the soft plops of scraped clay.

Descending the modern steps of the upstairs studio, you entered the main room again on the ground floor. In your arms, you carefully held a tall plant. Downstairs, the owner of the art studio, Mr. Fell, acknowledged your entrance and his eyes lit up.

“Y/n! Ah, thank you dear for moving the plants around up there. I’ve been meaning to redecorate the place with a more floral touch,” he explains with a light-hearted chuckle. You smiled kindly at the older man’s delight. He appointed you to the collection of plants and bouquets outside of the building. It was mainly just leafy decor and old sculptures or easels to be donated.

Even with the gloomy London weather, there was just something that made your day more magical when you were surrounded by the arts and creative environment. It was the closest thing to a dream job for you.

You placed the old plant beside the outdated sculptures and moved around some decorations. While you were separating and sorting the materials, you sensed a commotion coming up behind you.

Leaving you with no time to react properly, there was a shout and a huge black blur tumbling right past you. The force of the giant mass sent you falling back onto the materials and into the wall. You let out a soundless scream as you curled up protectively, squeezing your eyes shut and bracing from the impact.

Thick smoke billowed up into the air, hiding the building from everything else. The sound of a blaring engine and tire screeches grew smaller and smaller as the blurry vehicle seemed to drive away.

“....Y/n! Y/N!” The owner of the art studio shouted for you. He coughed in the midst of the dust clouds, waving away and looking for you. The old man huffed a sound of relief when he found you in your defensive state. Certainly shaken up, but safe.

“Oh, good heavens!” He kicked away scraps of baked clay shards and stray leaves as he pulled you out of the rubble. You didn’t even realize you were still deathly clutching onto that plant with your dear life. Standing up on your feet again felt like a foreign action. Is this air safe to breathe? It’s making me dizzy...

What once was the gorgeous glass studio with the clean display of student creations and painted masterpieces was now a hot heap of shattered glass wreckage and broken materials that drilled holes into the buildings strong walls. It felt like a part of your heart had been nicked at.

The longer your eyes roamed around the broken infrastructure and busted clay pots you felt your stomach sink lower and lower. Blast that bloody devil hound’s vehicle from hell for bustling its way over to your studio. Grief was quickly dissolved into fury bubbling underneath your skin.

You quickly snapped your eyes shut and grimaced. It barely felt like you were even alive after such a close hit. Take a deep breath… it’s more important to process everything first and figure out the next rational thing to do. Then worry about grievances.

A pair of padding footsteps grew louder but you couldn’t see much through the smoke that still lingered. The dirty cloud eventually split apart to reveal two men racing through the scene of the accident, seemingly chasing after something.

One of the men, a dark mop of curls atop his head and a flitting black coat trailing behind him as he zipped past the entrance of the art studio in a rush. The second, a dirty blonde and shorter of the two, took the time to glance within the building, locking with your eyes. His run came to an abrupt stop as he panted heavily, catching his breath.

He hobbled over to you, flipping out a pocket-sized notebook from his jacket. He paused in front of you, bowing over to take a deep breath.

“So sorry about all this! How much for the damages?” The man huffed out in sections with an apologetically British voice. You felt your entire body stiffen.

Maybe it was because of the soreness and stinging from being blasted in the accident or because you felt a specific force of intimidation from his peculiar charisma. But your best bet was probably the way that those familiar words sent a sharp pain through your chest.

No, it wasn’t exactly the painful sharpness that made you want to scream in pain. This sharpness was the kind that caused the cogs in your brain to halt and go blank. It was the kind that made the skin on your forearm tingle and burn in an unfamiliar way that felt borderline intrusive. This sharpness tickled your heart daringly, making it dance and leap within you.

Your jaw dropped at this quick realization and you tried to utter something to this man, but of course, to no avail. The adrenaline that was now rushing through your veins made you forget that you were holding the plant as you attempted to sign in BSL.

The blonde man swiftly lunged forward to catch the plant as well as Mr. Fell who helped stop the plant from shattering onto the ground. “Y/n! Careful, now!” A part of your brain stopped, shocked that you did something so ridiculous. Thank goodness the new guy had sharp reflexes.

You cursed yourself mentally and pressed the pot closer to yourself, desperately locking eyes with these very special blue ones in front of you in hopes of communicating something to him that way. The man opened his mouth to say something back to you except he was quickly interrupted by his previous running partner with the dark curly hair.

“Come on, John!! God’s sake- we have a runaway car to catch!” The tall man yelled briefly before disappearing into the smoke again. “John” hissed impatiently, muttering angrily under his breath as he scribbled something messily on his notebook then ripped the page out.

“Ah- this is our contact information. You can send us the fines and we’ll cover everything, alright? Uhh m-make sure to go to a hospital too in case there are any serious injuries! Sorry- I really must go,” the shorter man promptly explained then ran off after his friend again.

He had stuffed the paper between your fingers, sending an electrical jolt through your body. You shivered and wondered if he had felt the same sensation when your hands brushed against one another.

John. So that was his name if you had heard it correctly. You needed to find him again. God knows how many men named “John” there were in this city. Mr. Fell took the plant from you and suggested that you sit down somewhere safe. Your eyes followed the shrinking figures of John and his partner. Somehow, you needed to figure out how to find the man that fate intended for you to meet again. You had finally found your soulmate.